#remembering when i burnt sage for the first time and having to sit in front of my mum the second time

[unsettlingcreature]

my issue with incense that's meant to smell like white sage is that it smells too clean. where is that smell that's just close enough to weed to make parents suspicious. i can't get that from incense cones.

[chasingpj]

𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞

"Bye, for now, puddles."

pairing: percy jackson x child of hecate!reader

words: 6,220

warnings: a little angst, missing a meal, death of a parent, i believe that is all.

timeline: post sea of monsters

if you want to be tagged every time I update this story, click here

a/n: hi hi! I'm so excited to finally get this chapter to you guys. I'm sorry this literally took a month. i was taking two writing-intensive courses this summer and i was just burnt out. i hope you enjoy it!

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten

A grunt escapes you; your contorted body weighs down the top of your suitcase as your damp fingers slip off the metal zipper. The unforgivingly humid weather provokes the heat of your efforts, adding to your discomfort. There’s urgency in your fingers, your frustration growing at each failed attempt to close your suitcase.

“Y/n! Hurry up!” Atticus shouts from outside of the Hermes cabin. As the zipper slips out of your grasp once again, you throw your head back in annoyance, hand coming up to push away wisps of hair that fall on your face. A familiar chuckle comes from the corner of the room, grabbing your attention from the wooden ceiling. Connor sits on the side of his bed; his comic book forgotten beside him as you fussing over your suitcase seems to be more interesting to him.

“It’s not funny,” you grumble, sitting onto your heels.

Connor rises from his bed, shrugging his shoulders with a smirk. He kneels by your suitcase, “It’s kinda funny.”

The corners of your mouth almost curve up, but you stop yourself, opting for a roll of your eyes instead.

“What the hades do you have in here?” The tips of his fingers turn white as he pulls on the little piece of metal. You shift your weight to the corner he works on, but it helps him as much as it helped you earlier.

“My brother’s left a bunch of books behind, so Lou Ellen and I split them up. She’s taking half, and I take the rest. We’ll study them and then exchange notes.” A hum of acknowledgment comes from Connor’s lips as he inches the suitcase closed.

“You guys are a bunch of nerds.” You squint at the other with a playful offense, and he laughs at your hardened features. “I bet you guys study more than the Athena Kids,” he teases.

“There’s a lot to learn,” you say simply, watching as he brings the zipper to the end. He leans back on his heels, and you move to take in the half-empty cabin.

The sight of the Hermes cabin being this tidy was foreign. There aren’t any sleeping bags on the floor; the belongings of your many cabin mates didn’t clutter the walls or the corners of the room as they usually do. It’s funny. There are always complaints of the cabin being too small, but it appears bigger without the mess.

“Will you and Atticus visit throughout the year?” Connor’s expression is hopeful. As the last day of camp approached, Connor’s wishes of a full cabin all year round became more apparent. The shift from a max-capacity cabin to a half-empty one must be a tough transition for social people like Stoll Brothers. If it were you, you’d be counting down the days of everyone’s departure.

You ruffle his brown locks, “we’ll probably stop by for, maybe, spring break?” Connor’s hopefulness begins to sag, and you frown. Spring break is pretty far from now, huh? “Depending on how mortal life treats us. You know, we might be back soon,” you add on quickly, hoping to lift his smile.

Though you wish to go home, you’re dreading all the supernatural activity you’ll have to deal with once you leave. Your father works tirelessly to protect the house, but entities always manage to get in. And if they can’t, they don’t mind hanging outside.

The hopefulness that faded from Connor’s face restores, and he gives you that famous mischievous smirk. “Well, I hope the ghosts bother you guys enough to come to visit early.” His tone is playful, but you can tell he meant some of his words. You laugh hesitantly and nod, rising from your suitcase.

“I’m glad you’re that eager to see us again.”

You thank him as he leans down, lifting the heavy suitcase from the ground for you.

“Y/n!”

“I’m coming!” You tug on the handle, glancing at Connor. “The year will go by fast, and soon this cabin will be bursting at the nails with new unclaimed people. Atticus, Lou, and I included. Anyways, you have your brother. You guys will find something to entertain yourselves.” You nudge him as you make your way outside.

“Yeah, you’re right. You will write to me, yeah?” Connor asks.

“Of course. I’ll send you snacks that you can’t buy at the gas station.” Connor’s arm pumps back to his side, hand in a fist as he hisses a “yes.”

The corners up your mouth hesitantly pull up as you push open the cabin door, finding Atticus and Travis talking on the porch. For the past week, the anticipation of your departure was killing you, but now that it was time to leave, you feel gloomy.

You knew the cause of your heavy heart was the uneasy tone of your going. Living day by day with the intention of moving on was hard. Because every time you look at their newly occupied beds, the sinking feeling in your chest returns. Every time you find yourself wandering in the forest, the memories of your often chaotic magic lessons flood your mind. You remember when Alice misaimed her wind spell, shooting Alabaster far into the trees. While you all rushed to check on him, Alice burst into tears because she was convinced she killed him only to approach a laughing Alabaster who shouted, “Right on!”

Every time you were in the Arts and Crafts center, you remember how you, Sage, and Lou would do Tarot Readings for the campers and how you would argue with the Apollo kids when they insisted your tarot cards are as honest as fortune cookies.

At the armory, you remember how Ambrose ran into James so hard, he stumbled and knocked down half of the shelves of weapons.

In the courtyard, you remember how Ernest, horrified by heights, produced the highest pitch scream he possibly could as he rode a pegasus for the first time under the persuasion of Alabaster.

All these memories, whether hilarious like your spell mishaps or bittersweet like when you and your sibling’s group hugged around Sage when she cried about her abusive stepmother, held a special place in your heart. Because the times where you laughed and cried together reminded you of the genuine bond, the family that was ripped away from you overnight.

“We'll see you guys soon. We should go. Argus will leave without us," Atticus says, relieved that Argus is still waiting for you on top of Half-Blood Hill.

“Have a safe trip, guys,” Travis says, patting Atticus’s shoulder before reaching out his arm and giving you a short side hug. You grab your things, hastily saying a final goodbye, and soon, you and Atticus are trudging up the hill.

Your free hand pats the pocket of your shorts, calming your worry of forgetting the necklace at the cabin. What rests in your pocket is a raw tourmaline crystal, now smooth with the help of Beckendorf, encased in a silver spiral cage.

You and Atticus carry protection crystals all the time, and they help with staying out of the radar of monsters and entities. After hearing Percy’s many stories of monsters bothering him, you figured he couldn’t be too cautious. Then after finding a spell in Alabaster’s many books that can dim down a demigod scent for a while, you decided to make him an enchanted necklace to wear.

You pack into the truck with Atticus right on time. Atticus sits in front of you, chatting away with Cecil as you make yourself comfortable in the back row with Ambrose. You frown; among the three other campers in the van with you, Percy isn’t one of them. Argus peeks into the back, doing a rough headcount. Great, now you’ll have to wait until next summer to give it to him.

Right, when you were going to chastise yourself for not giving him the necklace yesterday when you were done with it, a distant voice shouts, "wait!"

Argus halts in the middle of closing the sliding down and turns around. He shakes his head with disapproval while opening the door all the way, revealing out of breath Percy.

A smile widens across your face as he gets into the back seat with you, and you nudge Atticus’s seat.

"See, I told you we wouldn't be the last ones here.” You side-eye Percy, seeing the corners of his mouth pull up in amusement.

“Some people just don’t know how to get to places on time, huh?” Atticus says, and his eyes flicker to Percy before giving you a wide grin.

“Didn’t sleep in today, firefly?” There is a playfulness in Percy’s voice, and you smile proudly,

“Nope, not today.”

“It’s a miracle,” Percy mutters, loud enough for you to hear, and you scoff. Atticus snickers and nods in agreement.

“We were supposed to gang up on him, not you two on me.” You stick your tongue out at Atticus, and he returns the action.

“It’s more fun making fun of you,” Atticus teases.

“Rude,” you mumble with a slight smile on your face. The two boys chuckle, Atticus turning more into his seat to tell Percy something about a new Marvel movie. Excited voices fill the van as the other boys join in the conversation, and soon they are debating if Batman is really a superhero or just a rich guy in a suit.

You had to admit, as the conversation became more passionate, you were pretty entertained, but as you catch sight of Camp Half-Blood growing farther in the distance, you’re reminded of the ache in your chest. It’s only a temporary leave, but when you return, things will never be the same, and the false hope of your siblings returning has been proven to be foolish.

☆’.･.･:★:･.･.’☆

Following a ghost dog while weaving through the hustle and bustle of Grand Central is almost impossible. Atticus’s hand is latched to the straps of your bookbag as you move through people, trying not to roll your eyes at the way Ambrose turns to bark as if he was reprimanding you for being too slow. Easy for him to say when he can walk through walls and people.

“Track 28,” Atticus reminds you as your eyes find the number written on the tan bricks of the high walls. You make a sharp left towards the entrance of another hallway, ignoring the groans of a grouchy bystander that you may have cut off. The next hallway you enter is a lot less crowded than the main floor, and you slow down your pace.

“Where do you guys live again?” Percy asks as he jogs up beside you. He had insisted on walking you guys since his train departs in the same station.

“Sleepy Hollow.” Percy scrunches his face as if he recalls something, and you smile, waiting for the question everyone asks when you say you live there.

“Have you seen the headless horsemen?” Percy asks, half-joking. A snort leaves your throat, and you look at Atticus, who’s equally amused.

“Oh yeah, plenty of times.”

“Really?” Percy asks, his eyes wide with surprise, and you laugh.

“No.” Your response makes his face drop comedically fast, and Atticus bursts into laughter. “It’s just a story, but there’s a lot of history there, so the place is crawling with ghosts. We’ve met the guy who wrote the story, though,” you mention.

“No way,” Percy squints his eyes in disbelief.

“I’m serious! Atticus and I take walks in the cemetery sometimes. We leave drachmas on the graves of newly passed people, so their venture into the underworld is smooth, but some people like to wander.” You shrug. “Washington Irving is one of those people.”

“Cool,” Percy says with such enthusiasm that it makes you smile. Ambrose turns around and barks again, standing at the golden entrance that leads to the grey tunnel lit with fluorescent white lights where your train waits beside the concrete platform.

“He always rushes us,” Atticus complains, and Harvey lets out a coo that sounded close to a groan as if he agreed with him.

The marble floors turn to concrete as you enter the tunnel. The blue and silver train on your left hums as it sits dormant in its station. Ambrose trots ahead, peaking into the doors and windows to find an empty cart to occupy.

As you follow a few feet behind him, your fingers fiddle with the necklace resting in your pocket. You’re regretting not giving it to Percy earlier because, for some reason, the idea of giving it to him now was more intimidating than if you had done it earlier on the bus.

Ambrose decides on a cart, and Harvey jumps off Atticus’s shoulder, squealing happily as he follows the hound while completely ignoring a worried Atticus trailing close behind.

"I, uh, made this for you," you sputter, the words coming out fast like vomit. Your fingers pull out the crystal necklace abruptly, and you put it in the palm of his hand. "It's black tourmaline. It has protective qualities; good at keeping negative energy, negative auras, things like that. I put a spell on it to dim down your demigod scent for a while, so you catch a little bit of a break. It'll last for a few weeks, maybe a month or two if the spell caught on well."

You bite your lip as Percy studies the necklace resting in his hand. "Wow, really? Thank you, Y/n. This is great.”

Nervous, you shift on your feet under his bright, smiling orbs. "It's no problem. After everything that happened at camp, I think it’ll be good for you to have one.”

Percy nods, his features softening all of a sudden, and he shifts. “Thanks for protecting me,” he says, and you feel heat rush to your cheeks. “Getting rid of that thing became more than you expected. I felt bad that I couldn’t help. Swords aren’t really useful when it comes to demons, huh?”

A small laugh of agreement leaves your lips. “It was nothing. I wasn’t going to let you be tormented by that thing if I could help it.”

An announcement echoes in the hall, reporting the departure of your train in a few minutes. You glance over, catching Atticus, Ambrose, and Harvey with their noses practically pressed against the window as they witness your interaction with Percy. The amused smirk on Atticus’s face makes you roll your eyes; he’s definitely going to tease you when you get on the train.

"I should go.” You face Percy again, catching him securing the necklace around his neck. The stone rests a few inches under his camp half-blood necklace. "Thanks for walking us here. Be careful getting home."

"You too…” he trails off, noticing your brother looking out the window. For a second, he seems as embarrassed as you do and a nervous chuckle leaves his lips. “Your brother is waiting."

“He’s so annoying,” you complain, and Percy’s next chuckle doesn’t sound as hesitant this time. "Well, uh, bye, for now, puddles,” you tease, butterflies dancing in your stomach.

"Bye, for now, firefly."

You both awkwardly wave at each other before you turn around, getting on the train with Atticus. With your gaze fixed on the floor, you plop into the seat next to him. You don’t even need to look to know he is smiling teasingly at you.

"How cute,” he teases, nudging your shoulder repeatedly with his own.

"Ew, shut up.” You shove at his shoulder, your nose scrunching as he flails his arms against yours as if you were fighting. Atticus chuckles and a string of sounds come from your familiars as they join in to tease you, and you couldn’t help but laugh too.

☆’.･.･:★:･.･.’☆

The suburban streets of your neighborhood are filled with the chirps of birds and bugs and the sounds of cars that pass every once in a while. There isn’t much conversation between you and Atticus as you trudge up the hill leading to your dead-end street.

“Gods, I hope we can get inside without being seen,” you manage to say through your heavy breaths, lazily holding on to the handle of your suitcase as it rolls behind you. Ambrose’s nose nudges the back of your knees as if to encourage you, but it’s more cute than helpful.

“There’s no way that we are. Janie and Celia are always sitting on the neighbor’s porch.” You grunt in acknowledgment, knowing that Atticus is right. The neighborhood ghosts are friendly enough, but their company can be annoying.

As if on cue, you hear a delighted squeal from ahead the moment you reach the top of the hill. Two ladies wave their handkerchiefs in the air a handful of houses away.

Celia, the tallest of the two, wears a steel blue dress with a high neckline and a big bow tied on the base of her neck. She has a jacket button closed over her corset with a frill at the end of her sleeves. Her skirt is floor-length and complete, with ruffles cascading down its entirety. And, of course, no one can miss the high-crowned hat decorated with fake flowers, bows, and crimped fabric as it all sits on top of her blonde hair in an intricate updo. Janie, her sister, wears the same style of dress and headpiece only in a burgundy red. The resemblance between the two makes it clear that they’re siblings close in age. They have the same high pinched noses that jut in the air; both of their faces are regal like those in renaissance paintings.

You’ve seen them around for as long as you can remember. They were two sisters who died of scarlet fever a year before their first courting season, which was a big deal according to their constant moaning and groaning about it.

You look ahead, your expression blank as if their high-pitched voices didn’t fill the streets and they weren't racing toward you with their skirts in their hands.

“My word! It’s the end of summer already?”

“Atticus, you’ve grown taller!”

“What a handsome boy! Y/n, your shorts are too short, don’t you think?”

“It’s quite bizarre how such clothing is acceptable these days.”

“How beautiful you’d look in a gown like ours!”

“Where’s Alabaster?” Janie asks, attempting to circle her arm around Atticus’s, but he raises his arm to push back his damp hair to avoid the contact. She scoffs at his rejection and sighs.

“Alabaster was sweeter to us than you guys!” Celia pouts. Your heart sinks a little at the mention of him. Of course, they’d ask about him, and of course, your father will ask too.

Gods! Your father will ask about him.

You had forgotten you’d have to break the news today. These past few weeks, you debated whether or not you should do it by letter, but it felt wrong. It was only right that he’d find out in person.

“We know you can hear us,” Janie huffs.

“I hope dad doesn’t work late tonight. Do you think Grandma will be waiting for us?” You ask. As annoying as it was having spirits follow you, it was a little fun ignoring them when convenient for you. Atticus nods,

“Probably-”

“No one’s home,” Celia cuts in, and Atticus pretends to shoo a bug away to conceal that he paused from her interruption.

“But I don’t think dad is going to take long. He said his last lecture ended at three,” Atticus continues, and you nod.

‘I hope grandma came by to visit. I missed her.”

“I just said no one’s home.” Celia snaps, and you press your lips together to hide your smile.

Atticus sighs. “I know, I’m dying for those moon cookies she makes us.” At the mention of those cookies, your stomach grumbles. You hope Celia was wrong because you’re suddenly craving your grandmother’s cooking and her company. Her funny stories and voice that’s always a little too loud for the indoors never fails to cheer you up. As short and frail as she is, her voice and personality could fill a room.

“Me too,” you say shortly.

“Hello?!” Celia waves her handkerchief in your face, and you persisted in ignoring her. Suddenly, a sound of disgust comes from Janie as she brushes off her skirt.

“Y/n, retrieve this monster of yours!” She squeals as Ambrose bites the fabric of her dress, tugging on it with a growl.

“Damn this dog,” Celia shouts, attempting to shoo him away, but yelps in surprise as Ambrose snaps his jaw shut near her hand. “Get this thing under control! Y/n!”

Your hand comes up to cover your smile even though the two are shuffling behind you and a stifled chuckle comes from Atticus. The sound of Janie’s heels on the concrete becomes louder as she rushes beside Atticus again, and your smiles drop. The sight of your house comes into view, and you tilt your head confused; your father’s car is parked in the driveway.

“You said no one was home?” You say out loud, and Celia gasps beside you,

“Now you speak to me?” She snaps, halting as you approach the fence. She stands tall, hands folded in front of her elegantly as Janie’s expression is gleaming like a child on Christmas. “Your father requested to keep it a secret, so I obliged his wishes. He canceled his last lecture today to make you both a meal. What a lovely man.”

Your hand finds the latch for the white picket fence as you smile at the familiar narrow victorian-style house ahead of you. A path of cobblestone leads you to the brick steps of the small porch.

Your home sticks out from the more modern American houses that surround the area. It’s an antique, a snippet of history, as your father likes to say. The house is a russet brown only because the bricks are so old they’ve darkened in color. The house accents such as the window trims, porch overhang, and columns are copper, and the hipped roof has brown tiles that look like fish scales. Beside the porch, the bay windows from both stories stack on top of each other, and above the porch roof is the dormer that’s a part of your bedroom.

Gods, you’re yearning to be in your room. You just want to pull out your Murphy bed from the wall and bury yourself in your sheets. The idea of being in bed puts a pep in your step, and you are careful to avoid the salt ring that surrounds your house.

A butterfly passes by your face, flying to the bunchberry bushes your father has planted in the front garden. Among the grass, there are various flowers and herbs that your father grows in the summer. You’ve inherited many things from your father, but his green thumb isn’t one of them. He takes his gardening seriously while you can barely keep the cacti in your room alive.

“Enjoy your meal! Come talk to us one of these days. We missed you two!” Janie shouts after you as you make your way up the stairs. You turn around, Atticus smiling at them.

“We missed you, girls, too,” he says as if he didn’t want to admit it. Janie squeals something about how handsome his smile is, and you scoff, amused as you grab the doorknob.

Once you push the door open, you're hit with a rush of deja vu. The history channel plays faintly in the next room as you take in the home you’ve missed dearly.

There are two bookshelves against the wall on your right, a wide ledge with pillows under the bay windows. A messy coffee table filled with letters and stacked with books sits in front of the comfy reading nook, letting you know that your father was recently hanging out there.

There is a brown mahogany staircase that ascends upstairs to your left, and right beside it is the altar for your mother. A statue of her rests in the middle of the rectangle table covered in a black table cloth. On top of it lies the many offerings for your mom. Herb-dressed candles burn beside bowls of fruit, bouquets, a crystal enamel wine glass filled with alcohol, feathers, and other things. You ignore the altar as you put down your stuff beside the door, following Atticus as he takes off his shoes.

“Kids?” You hear your father call enthusiastically from beyond the foyer, and you persist forward into the entryway ahead of you.

“We’re home!” Atticus announces as he enters beside you. Ambrose barks making a beeline to the right and behind the kitchen counter. He jumps on your father with so much force he stumbles back.

“Gods! Why does he look even bigger?” Your father exclaims through a laugh, fixing the round glasses that threaten to slip off his nose as his other hand grips Ambrose’s paw. He yelps in surprise as Harvey's claws rest on top of his head, clinging to his hair to steady himself.

The warmth and smell of home fill your senses as you catch your dad’s gaze. “Well, come here! Are you going to hug your pops or what?”

You rush over with Atticus. Both of you hug your dad tightly on either side of him, and you smile as he presses a kiss on your temples. “I missed you guys so much!”

“We missed you too!” The smile on your face falters as he looks up, scanning the archway as if he was waiting for someone else. You shift, not ready to be faced with the question, and you peer around his body to look at the food on the stove behind him.

Your father notices your interest, and he chuckles. “Come on, let’s eat. You guys came right on time.”

You shuffle through the kitchen with Atticus, making your way to the rounded table at the end of the kitchen.

“Dad, what have you been up to?” Atticus asks teasingly, and your father perks up.

“I've done a lot of things to keep me busy. I volunteered to teach summer classes while you were gone. I’m reading this book with a fascinating perspective of the shift from Paganism to Christianity in Rome. It’s an amazing read; I highly recommend it. Though, I don’t quite agree with it.” Your father hums thoughtfully. “Oh! And I bought gnomes for our garden! And the thrift store had this little house and this old lady figurine! I put it on the porch. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but she’s the official guard of the door," he declares proudly. "And…” He twists and turns before heading to the bookshelves in the living room area. He grabs something from the shelf then he showcases a cartoon Dobby bobblehead with wide arms. A high-pitched cackle leaves his lips. “It completes our collection!”

“Woah! Where did you get it? We went to three different places for it, and we couldn’t find it.” Atticus matches your father’s excitement, and you snort at the two.

“I went to a mythology convention in Boston a few weeks ago. There was a game stop across the street from the center, and I thought, ‘why not?’ I went in, and I saw this little guy by the register.” Your father is giddy as he nudges the head and watches it jiggle in his hands.

You think of what your grandmother’s reaction would be if she saw all the things he bought on his trip to the thrift store. She’d definitely complain. She always said that even growing up, your father had a liking for knickknacks. On your shelves and counters, there are always little trinkets lying around. It even extends to the walls, a variety of paintings and diagrams are neatly hung beside each other. From the state of your house, it’s clear your father is a maximalist in its purest definition.

“Wow! That’s awesome!” Atticus reaches out his hand for it as your father brings over his entire collection of Harry Potter bobbleheads, the toys huddled in his chest before he places them on the dining table. “The whole gang can hang out with us for dinner.”

“I hope they like pasta,” Atticus comments, lining them up as your dad retrieves the pan of food.

Your stomach grumbles at the sight, and you’re quick to serve yourself as Atticus and your Dad talk about anything and everything. You guys discuss what your grandmother has been up to, how your father’s classes were going, which led your father to ramble so much he formed a tangent on top of another. The conversation was going so well that you were sure he wouldn’t ask about your summer, but you had assumed too soon.

“So enough about me! How was Camp?” Your father chirps, and you shift in your seat.

You smile with confidence to hide the wariness you felt. “It was great!” You figured if you keep your answer short, you could move past it quickly.

“Yeah, the usual. Fun as always,” Atticus adds.

Your father’s eyes flicker between the two of you, and the first thing he notices is the way your smiles don’t reach the rest of your face.

The clanging of metal utensils on glass plates fills the room as the both of you fixate on your food but neither take a bite. The camp was never a touchy subject. The sudden unwillingness to speak about it makes his eyebrow cock up in suspicion. His eye averts to the empty dining chair beside you and the dinner place settings that remained untouched. Alabaster was supposed to join your return home. At least, that’s what he had assumed.

“Did Alabaster decide to stay at his foster home?” There’s caution in his tone, and he’s taken aback at how both you and Atticus tense up. The clings of metal halt abruptly, and slowly, you move to glance at your father.

“Dad, something happened at camp this summer.” Now, it was your turn to have a tone laced with caution. Alabaster lived with you for months and quickly became a part of the family. Your father saw him as his second son, and you were afraid to break the news that he may never see him again.

“What happened? Did he get into trouble?” You frown at the sudden edge in his voice. Atticus shifts beside you,

“He took the others to go fight for the Titan Lord.”

“What?”

“Mother came to speak to him and told him that it was best to fight for the other side since their chances are better,” you say slowly. “They left at the end of July. Only Atticus, Lou Ellen, and I stayed at camp.”

Your father’s expression darkens, grief written all over his face. “And you haven’t seen them since?”

You shake your head, not wanting to delve into the details. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing them again in a while and not in the best circumstances.” Your father nods, understanding the implication in your words. “Mother promised that she’d take care of them if they fight for the other side. I didn’t want to go; it wasn’t right.”

“That must be why everything is rotting,” your father mutters more to himself. You furrow your eyebrows.

“Rotting? What’s rotting?”

“Our offerings to your mother,” he clarifies. “All the fruit I leave on her altar goes bad in a few days. The flowers wither quickly too. The garden, in general, hasn’t been doing well either. I didn’t understand why.”

Your focus returns to your plate. Suddenly, you weren’t that hungry anymore.

She must be angry, you think to yourself. A part of you wanted a sign from her to let you know if she was bothered you didn’t join. When the sign didn’t come, you assumed she didn’t care; that, in a way, you were dead to her. It didn’t dawn on you to ask how the altar or the garden your father dedicated to her was doing.

“Can I be excused?” You strain, your face a little hot, and you’re not sure if it was from your anger or from the tears you’re blinking away.

“Of course.” The warm smile on your father’s face fails to budge the dread you’re feeling. “You can be excused as well, Atticus.”

You miss the way your father and Atticus exchange looks as you stood up. There wasn’t a verbal agreement, but Atticus stands up tall, determined to make you feel better. He trails behind you, and suddenly, he slings his arm across your shoulders. “You know what’s one of the things I missed at camp?”

“What?” You ask, trying to ignore the heavy feeling in your chest.

“Beating you at Tekken,” Atticus teases. Your lips curve slightly; his playful nature manages to brighten up your mood a little bit. “Let’s play. I’ll go easy on you, but I’m sure you’ll still lose regardless.”

“You’re on,” you nudge him, and Atticus chuckles, walking ahead of you and up the stairs. Your hand grips the railing, and you walk up a few steps before halting, and your eyes find the front door.

“You don’t get it!”

“I don’t.” You shrugged, amused at the way Atticus’s eyebrows knitted in disbelief. He ignored you, grabbed the remote, and played the Star Wars movie again. You groaned, seeing the slanted letters move up the TV screen. “Atticus! I can’t watch this!”

“Why not?!”

“Well, first off, my dyslexia won’t let me read that quickly, and if a physically written prologue is needed before a movie… it’s not a good movie!”

“How dare you!” You threw your head back as a laugh bubbled in your throat. The exasperated look on his face was too funny. You had no desire to watch these movies, and you figured if you bothered him enough, he’d give up trying to show them to you. The shrug of your shoulders made him scoff. “Just watch it!”

A huff left your lips, and unwillingly, you returned your gaze to the screen. Suddenly, a hollow knock came from the front door.

“It’s late,” you said, but Atticus was too caught up in the beginning battle of the movie to pay any mind to you. Rarely did you get visitors, definitely not past midnight on a Friday. Cautiously, you rose from the couch and moved toward the door.

Rain erratically hit against your curtain-covered windows; the wind and cold made the walls around you creak as they adjusted. Whatever waited for you at the door, you just wished it was a person, not a weird ghost or monster. Your finger latched on the side of the curtain, allowing you to peek through the glass of your front door.

A gasp left your lips. Alabaster, soaked from the ruthless rain outside, was the last person you expected to see. But even though you didn’t expect him, you had an inkling as to why he was here.

Hastily, you unlocked the door and flung it open. “Al?” You sputtered; his green orbs were surrounded by tired eyes and puffy skin.

“He died this morning,” he strained. Your expression softened, and before you could say anything, Alabaster stepped forward and hugged your shoulders tightly. The raggedness of his breath, the shutter of his body, sent your chest a weight of sorrow. You couldn’t imagine being in his shoes and losing your father to a long battle with cancer at 14. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes; the person you looked up to the most was breaking down. You never thought he would need your help for anything, but it seems that you were wrong. “I’m sorry. You guys live the closest to me, and I didn’t know where to go-”

“It’s okay,” you interrupted. “Oh, Al, I’m so sorry,” your voice cracked, hands rubbed his back as a sob left his lips. A creak of a floorboard caught your attention, and you turned to see a confused Atticus emerging from the living room. With a sad look, he understood what happened, and soon his expression was mimicking yours.

“I’ll wake dad and get clothes,” he said, then rushed upstairs.

Your father didn’t even hesitate to help Alabaster, opening the doors of your house to him. In his greatest time of need, the three of you stood beside him, and overnight, he had a place in your home and in your heart. The three of you spent so much time playing video games, getting into trouble around town, learning magic. All the good times you and Atticus shared with him, were they really worth throwing away to fight with Kronos? You realize now that his departure was never only a betrayal to the camp but to you, Atticus, and your father, and you couldn’t help but think perhaps, you guys didn’t mean as much to him as he meant to you.

A shaky sigh leaves your mouth at the thoughts persistent to ruin your mood. The desire to leave camp was to avoid all the things that reminded you of your siblings, but now that you returned home, you realize that running away isn’t as easy as you thought.

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[kingexpl0sionmurder]

What Happens When You Dream? - Bakugou Katsuki - Smut

Author: @kingexpl0sionmurder​ Rating: NSFW 18+ Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki/F!Reader (Implied Kaminari Denki/Shinsou Hitoshi), Aged up (College), Quirkless AU. Words: 8,624 Warnings: swearing, oral (male receiving), ghosts, hauntings, brief mention of violence, horror movie references, witchy things, Bakugou bad mouths the occult and witches but I do not share his views on the matter. This is probably unnecessary but it should go without saying that seances are no joke and you shouldn’t preform one unless you know what you’re doing (which I certainly do NOT). I pulled what is said off of a damn WikiHow so don’t try this at home. AN: Another collab piece for the BNHarem server! Have some Halloween Bakugou! This came out softer than I imagined it would but I just enjoy writing him as a sarcastic grump. Also, I didn’t mean to put in the Shinkami but it happened so we’re rolling with it.  I honestly don’t know what this is but I hope you enjoy it! Please check out the Masterlist for this collab HERE My Masterlist is HERE Buy me a KoFi HERE --

Every night, you dream at least ten dreams a night Do you remember the dreams? If you do, you're well on your way To having some fantastic times when you close your eyes. - Bring Me The Horizon - Steal Something

Bakugou lugged the last box up the porch steps and into the house, bypassing the living area and depositing it on the kitchen counter. Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he surveyed the mess around him.

God, he hated moving.

“That’s the last of it?” Kirishima asked as he entered the kitchen behind him. “I’m so tired already.”

Bakugou just grunted in response, turning around to walk back outside and close up the moving truck. It was still early in the day, so they had plenty of time to start unpacking and get the house into some sense of livability before they needed to return the vehicle, and he wanted to get as much done as he could while he still had the energy.

Kirishima was on the phone when he came back inside, chattering happily as he leaned against the counter. When he hung up, he grinned. “The squad is going to come by and help!”

Ignoring the stupid nickname they’d adopted for their friend group, Bakugou shot the redhead a look. “You mean they’re going to come here and fucking distract you.”

“No! Mina hasn’t seen the place yet, and Denki promised to bring food. They want to help us unpack!”

Bakugou snorted. “Sure. Whatever. Just tell them to stay out of my way.” He walked over to a box labeled “dishes” and got to work, unwrapping the newspaper from around them and placing them on the counter.

Kirishima left him alone to move the furniture around in the living room and, presumably, hook up the TV. He let his mind wander, thinking about how they’d ended up finding this place. It was in a little suburban neighborhood, a park across the street with an excellent path for his morning runs, a convenience store around the corner for Kirishima’s late-night beef jerky cravings, a short walk to the train station, and three stops away from their university. 

Rooming with Kirishima was a given, too. He was the only one Bakugou could tolerate for long periods, and he knew how to handle Bakugou’s erratic moods. He didn’t push too hard, gave him space when he needed it, and was moderately neat. Bakugou knew if he’d roomed with someone like Kaminari, he’d spend the rest of his life in a jail cell, so Kirishima was the safe option.

It helped that they were going to the same school, even though they had completely opposite majors. Bakugou was studying physics, and Kirishima was going for sports education. Sometimes he pictured Kirishima as a school gym teacher, and it made him roll his eyes. He’d be perfect for something like that. 

One day Bakugou would be a nuclear physicist and win a Nobel prize. That was the goal, anyway. Number one in his field, his face on the cover of Time magazine, everyone would know his name some day. Nothing was going to stop him from reaching the top.

He had nearly finished unpacking the dishes when Sero walked into the kitchen carrying bags of snacks and soda. Kaminari followed behind him and dropped three pizza boxes on the island in the middle of the room and shot Bakugou a funny look. “Mina is scared to come inside.”

Snorting, he raised his eyebrow. “What?”

“She says she’s got a bad vibe, dude. I don’t know.” Sero shrugged. “You’re the most logical one, maybe you can get her to come in. Kiri’s trying and failing, man.”

Grumbling under his breath, wondering why he even bothered with these idiots, Bakugou stomped out of the room to see Kirishima leaning in the frame of the front door and talking to someone out on the porch.

“...been here all day, Mina. Nothing weird has happened.” 

“Oi, Raccoon Eyes, what’s your problem?” He shoved Kirishima out of the way to get a look at the girl, his eyebrows furrowed.

She looked nervous, her eyes flitting to the windows up on the second floor, her hands clasped in front of her. “I don’t know, Bakugou. Something just doesn’t feel right. I can’t explain it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared her down. “What are you even talking about?”

“Mina’s always been sensitive to energies and stuff, Bakubro,” Sero said from somewhere behind him. “She burned sage at my apartment when I moved in because she said something felt off.”

He vaguely remembered that Ashido had always been into some weird shit; Ouiji boards and hypnosis, tarot cards and reading people’s auras. Bakugou didn’t believe in that hippy dippy shit, especially being a man of science, but if it ended this dumb standoff on his front porch, he’d let her do whatever. 

Wrinkling his nose, he sighed. “If I let you burn that nasty shit in here, will you come inside?” 

“It might help…” trailing off, she stepped back. “I can just tell that something bad happened here. You don’t feel anything?”

“Fuck no.” 

“It just feels...sad.” Mina shivered, frowning.

“That’s because I haven’t hung up my Crimson Riot posters yet.” Kiri gave Mina a placating smile, stepping forward and placing his hand on her shoulder. “Let me take you to the store to get what you need, huh? We can talk about it in the car.”

Mina looked like she wanted to get as far away from the house as possible as quickly as possible, so she nodded.

Sero handed Kirishima his keys, since he was parked behind Kiri’s dumb ass truck, and the two of them headed out. Bakugou went back inside to finish the rest of his unpacking, slightly annoyed by the whole situation.

“What do you think it is?” Kaminari asked, opening the top pizza box and grabbing a slice. “I’ve never seen her like that before.”

“Maybe there’s a ghost here or something.” Sero chuckled. “Maybe you’ll open up a closet door somewhere upstairs and there will be a portal to the other side.” He wiggled his fingers at Kaminari, laughing. “Carol Ann, go into the light!”

“Idiots. There’s no such thing as ghosts.” Bakugou slammed the cabinet shut after he’d loaded in the last of the glasses. “She’s just being weird, as usual.”

“Hey, man. Don’t be like that.” Licking grease off his thumb (like a heathen, Bakugou thought), Kaminari fixed him with a look. “She looked genuinely terrified. It’s nice of you to let her burn the sage though. It’ll give her peace of mind.”

“Smells awful, though. But she says it worked at my place.” Sero added.

Bakugou had had enough of the conversation, so he just grunted in response, turning and leaving the room. 

He figured it was time to set up his bedroom, that way he didn’t have to worry about it later that night. Plus, it would get him away from dumb and dumber and Kaminari’s inability to use a napkin like a normal human being.

--

Later on, after Mina made the entire house smell like burnt ass, Kirishima took Kaminari with him to return the moving truck, Sero following behind him in his car. Mina stayed with Bakugou in his room as he put together his bookshelf, sitting quietly and making herself useful by unpacking his books and stacking them by author so he could arrange them when he was done. He wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but her silence was irking him. She was never this quiet.

“What’s your problem?” He asked gruffly, frowning at the allen key in his hand as he twisted a screw into the base of the bookshelf.

He glanced up when she sighed, her body moving to lean against the bed, her head falling back so her gaze was fixed on the ceiling. “Nothing. I just feel like the sage didn’t work.” 

Bakugou clicked his tongue. “Why should it? That stuff isn’t real anyway.”

“It is so!” He saw her glare at him from his peripheral. “You shouldn’t dismiss it so quickly.”

“I’m a science major, idiot.” He didn’t feel the need to elaborate further.

“So?”

“So, what? Science can explain away all of the so called phenomena that people like to believe are ghosts. There is no scientific proof that ghosts exist. All of the things that people attribute to hauntings are hallucinations are tricks that your mind plays on you. It’s all in your head.” He stood up, lifting the finished bookshelf to stand beside him. “Besides, you’ve been here all day and nothing bad has happened, has it?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Mina bit her bottom lip. “Well, no. It’s just...it feels anxious and sad in here? So it’s not that I expect anything bad to happen, really. It’s just uncomfortable.” 

Choosing not to comment further, Bakugou pushed the bookcase up against the wall, picking up the drill nearby so he could anchor it into the sheetrock.

When he was done drilling, she continued. “You shouldn’t shit all over my beliefs, either. It’s not nice.”

“Since when have you ever known me to be nice?” He pointed at one of her stacks. “Give me the A’s.”

“Fair point.” Mina stood, picking up a few books from the first stack and handing them to him. “Just do me a favor and be careful. If anything weird happens, let me know, okay?”

Bakugou bit back a groan. “Will it shut you up about it if I agree?” She nodded. “Fine. I’ll let you know if you need to call an old priest and a young priest to perform an exorcism, okay?”

Mina snorted at that, handing him another set of books. “Okay, good.”

--

Bakugou blinked sleepy, pressing his face into his pillow and breathing deeply. Waking up in a new room was disorienting, the light from the window hitting his face in a way he wasn’t used to. He sighed, closing his eyes again, annoyed that he’d woken before his alarm went off. 

He was just convincing himself to go back to sleep until it was time to get up when a soft groan from beside him made him pause, his eyes flying open at the sound. Turning his head, his mouth went dry at the sight of you laying beside him, your hair strewn over the pillow next to his, bare shoulders peeking out from underneath the covers.

Mind racing, he tried to remember who you were and what had led to you sleeping in his bed beside him. The last thing he could recall was shuffling off to bed early as usual, leaving his friends in the living room, the group of them laying haphazardly across the couches as they watched a movie. 

He hadn’t gone out or drank anything, so there was no way he could have met you at a bar. It’d be easier to explain that way, because he was no stranger to drunken one night stands. 

Opening his mouth to ask you what the fuck you were doing in his bed, the words were stuck in his throat when you turned around to gaze sleepily at him.

You were pretty, even with the sleep in your eyes and your unruly bedhead. Your smile was what made him pause, heart stopping and beautiful.

“Morning, Katsu.” You sighed, burrowing your face into his chest.

“What the fuck?” He managed, scooting away and frowning. “Who are you?”

“Ah, the million dollar question.” Giggling, you sat up, one arm moving to keep the sheet covering your obviously bare chest. “Normally I’d be offended that you don’t know it, but, it’s par for the course.” 

“How did you-”

“Get here? Through the front door, just like anyone else.” Shaking your head, you used your free hand to rub at your eyes. “I’m not really sure how this works, honestly. Maybe we just need to try again later.” You frowned, shrugging your shoulders and changing the subject. “You’re very warm, you know that?”

Frustration bubbled up in his chest. Why couldn’t you just answer his questions the way he meant them?

Before he could press further, you yawned, turning and shuffling to the edge of the bed. He watched in silence as you stood, his gaze lingering on your naked backside as you pulled on a pair of panties. He was quiet as you dressed, watching your movements and racking his brain, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Turning to look over at him again, you smiled. “Well, guess I should get out of your hair.”

Your cryptic words left him floundering, his eyes widening as you headed for the bedroom door. “Where the fuck are you going?”

Pausing, you turned to speak to him over your shoulder. “Time’s up. Your alarm is about to go off.”

Eyebrows furrowed, he watched as you opened the door and walked over the threshold. 

The blaring of his alarm startled him into a sitting position, his chest tight as he gasped for breath. What the fuck?

“A dream.” He grumbled, lying back down, his arm reaching out to smack the snooze button on the top of his clock. 

Rubbing his face tiredly, he groaned. It was very rare that he dreamt anything at all, so the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He had no idea who you were, he couldn’t remember ever seeing your face before, so he wasn’t sure why his mind had conjured you up to be the one in his bed.

He remembered reading an article once about dreams, and how it was impossible for your brain to make up people’s faces. It was believed that faces you have seen in passing in a crowd, even those you didn’t consciously look at, were stored somewhere in your memory, and could be brought forth in your mind in a dream. Maybe that’s where you’d come from.

He sighed, shifting in bed until his feet were on the floor, turning off his alarm for good and standing up. Stretching, he decided to forget all about you, focusing on the day ahead. He didn’t have time to dwell on dumb shit like dreams. He blamed it on his mind trying to get used to being in a new place, and left it behind him. 

--

“We really have to stop meeting like this, handsome.”

Bakugou opened his eyes, squinting over at you as you lay beside him, your head propped up on your hand. This was the fourth day in a row, and he was getting tired of it already.

“Again? What the fuck.” He slumped back onto the pillow below him. “Why the hell do I keep dreaming about you? I don’t even know you.”

You giggled, shrugging. “Kirishima sleeps like the dead, so you were my only option.”

“What does that mean? I’m getting tired of your cryptic bullshit, shitty woman.”

“Hey, you don’t need to call me names, Katsu.”

Growling, he sat up. “Well, you won’t tell me your real one, so I have to be creative.” He paused. “And how do you know my name? I don’t even let my hair for brains roommate call me that, and we’ve known each other since we were 16.”

“I figured you wouldn’t mind. I can just call you Bakugou if it makes you more comfortable.” 

“None of this makes me comfortable, you idiot. I don’t even understand what’s going on here.” He was tired. Ever since he’d started dreaming of you he woke up feeling like he’d barely gotten any rest, and it was grating on his nerves. “Why can’t you ever just be straight with me?”

Shrugging, you made yourself more comfortable in his blankets. He jolted when he felt your cold toes press against his calf. “It’s more fun this way, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, maybe for you.” He let himself lay back beside you, folding his arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling. “Have we met before?”

Humming thoughtfully, you snuggled up against him again, your fingers ghosting patterns across his bare chest. “Nope. Kind of wish we had though. You’re pretty cute.”

Huffing through his nose, he ignored the fact that he didn’t shy away from your touch like he usually did. “I’m not fucking cute.” Secretly, he liked the praise.

“Would you rather me tell you that you’re hot?” You peered up at him, smirking. 

“Fuck you.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Hm. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

The thought had crossed his mind once or twice. The fact that he always woke up in these dreams naked next to you wasn’t helping the matter. “You wish.”

The grin you shot him was almost sinister, and he felt his cock stir beneath the blankets.

What the ever loving fuck.

Almost as if you knew what he was thinking, you pressed against him, your lips brushing against his ear. “Wish we had more time, Katsuki, but your alarm is about to go off again.”

Bakugou shot up in bed, his heart racing and skin damp with sweat, a shiver racing down his spine. He could still feel your warm breath on his ear, like you’d just pulled away. 

When he looked over, he was alone. 

—

“You been sleeping okay, Bakubro?” Kirishima asked him from the doorway to the kitchen, his ridiculously bulky arms crossed over his equally ridiculous chest. 

Bakugou looked up from his toast, his head aching. “Like fuck I have.” 

His friend raised an eyebrow at him. “You look like hell, dude. And I mean that in the nicest way possible.”

“Fuck you.” Sighing, he dropped his toast on his plate, wiping his hand on his napkin and hunching over. “I keep having these weird dreams.” He paused, turning to look at the redhead. “What about you?”

“Me?” Kirishima pushed off the door and walked to the fridge, wrenching open the door and pulling out a carton of orange juice. “I’ve been sleeping fine. Best sleep I’ve had in a while actually. It’s nice not having all the campus noises around and stuff, you know?”

“Kirishima sleeps like the dead, so you were my only option.” Your words rattled around in his brain, and he frowned. 

“I don’t know, dude. I think you’re overworking yourself.”

Bakugou growled. “I’m trying to land that internship. I don’t have time to be a lazy asshole.”

“Hey, I’m not lazy!”

“I didn’t say you were. Guilty conscience?” He couldn’t help the smirk that curled onto his face.

Kirishima took a sip of juice straight from the carton, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done. “Shut up.” He grinned, his shark teeth on display. “You should take a day off, maybe. Or just, don’t study all day on Saturday and hang out with me! The squad is coming by for a barbeque. Maybe it’ll help if you just relax.”

He made a disgusted face when Kirishima put the carton of orange juice back in the fridge, making a mental note to buy a new one. Gross. “Being around you idiots will just stress me out some more.” He finished his toast, standing up to put his dish in the sink. “I’ve got a late lab tonight, so order some takeout.”

“You got it, man.” Kirishima grabbed his shoulder as he passed him. “Hey, think about Saturday, okay? I’m kinda worried about you.”

Shrugging him off, Bakugou nodded. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll think about it.”

—

Things progressed in mostly the same way for the remainder of the week. He got up, went to school, stayed late in the lab working on his project for the internship interview, and collapsed into bed when he got home. 

When he closed his eyes, he was back in that dream with you by his side. 

He liked to make you laugh, and it didn’t seem hard to do. You got a kick out of his shitty attitude for some reason, and you liked to listen to stories about his dumb friends. You seemed particularly fond of Kaminari, mentioning you knew someone that would probably like him. You seemed more morose than usual when you talked about your friend, and when he asked why, you just shrugged and said you hadn’t seen him in a while.

“So you aren’t just a figment of my imagination?” Bakugou asked, folding his arms behind his head.

You shook your head, your hair brushing his chin as you laid on his chest. He’d gotten used to the cuddling, and though he enjoyed it, he’d never mention that out loud.

“Of course I’m not, Katsu.” Sighing, you tilted your head to look up at him. “Man, you’re taking way too long to figure this out.”

“You’re not very forthcoming with information about yourself, idiot.” He grumbled, annoyed. “What’s your friend’s name, anyway?”

“Shinsou Hitoshi.” You grinned, a faraway look in your eyes. “He’s my best friend. I kind of miss him.”

“Why don’t you call him?”

“Can’t. It’s fine though.” You sat up further, hovering over him. “Maybe you could get him to meet Kaminari. He needs a little sunshine in his life. He used to work at that cat café over by the university. Bet he’s still there.”

“Cat café?” Bakugou wracked his brain. “Next to that udon place?”

“That’s the one. He’s got purple hair, you literally can’t miss him.” 

Bakugou snorted. He didn’t give two shits about his blonde friend and his love life. But if this Shinsou guy knew you, maybe he could get some answers. 

—

“Since when do you like cats?” Kaminari asked, falling into step beside him.

Bakugou was regretting his entire existence as he walked, wishing he didn’t give enough of a shit to find out more about you. Kaminari had been chattering beside him non-stop the entire train ride over, wondering why Bakugou was insisting on visiting the café and why he had to be the one to accompany him.

“I’ve always liked cats. Just shut up, dunceface.” Huffing, he shoved his hands in his pockets. He was unsure how he was even going to talk to this Shinsou guy, what he was going to say. “Hi, you don’t know me but I think I’m having dreams about your friend?”

“Mauhaus Cat Café?” Kaminari giggled, breaking Bakugou out of his thoughts. “If this place isn’t full of hot goth boys I don’t want any part of it.”

Rolling his eyes, Bakugou opened the door and let Kaminari walk in first. Standing behind the counter looking half asleep and thoroughly done with life stood a man with purple hair. 

“Oh, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” Kaminari stopped and stared, and Bakugou nearly walked into his back.

“Oi, idiot, come on.” Grumbling about his friend under his breath, he pushed him further inside, neck craning back to read the neat chalkboard menu over the coffee machines. 

Kaminari, on the other hand, shook his head and waltzed up to the counter, a bright smile on his face. “Hey there, tall, dark, and handsome.”

Amethyst eyes gazed at Kaminari, his facial expression flat. “Oh joy, a loud blonde.”

Bakugou snorted. “Are you Shinsou Hitoshi?”

The man stood up straighter and covered his nametag with his hand. “That depends on who’s asking.”

Kaminari, being Kaminari, grinned a little wider. “I’m Kaminari Denki, and I think I love you.”

Shinsou blinked at him, his eyes alight with amusement. “Oh yeah?” Bakugou saw him glance down at the leather choker on Kaminari’s neck, before his eyes flicked back up to his face.

They’d known each other for two seconds and they were already eye fucking. Wonderful.

“Trust me on this, dude. You and I are going to get along great.” Kaminari turned to Bakugou. “Why have you been hiding this gorgeous boy from me, Bakugou? I thought we were friends.”

“We’re not. Now go away.” He pointed to a brindle colored cat sitting on a table on the far side of the room. “Go pet a cat or something.”

“Oh! Look how pretty!” Kaminari wandered away, not before throwing Shinsou a wink over his shoulder and biting his lip in a way he probably thought was sultry.

Shinsou seemed to be eating it up, but he was a bit more subtle. Bakugou almost felt bad for the guy, before he remembered that he didn’t care.

“How do you know my name?” Shinsou asked, tearing his eyes away from Kaminari. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”

Nodding, he shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. “No, we’ve never met. A friend of yours told me about you, and I just...I wanted to ask you something.” Frowning, he pushed on, knowing how weird he was about to sound. “She said you were her best friend.”

Shinsou snorted. “I don’t really have any friends, man. Who was it?”

“That’s just it...I don’t know her name.”

“Okay, but she told you mine? That doesn’t really add up.” Shinsou’s eyes narrowed. “What does she look like?”

Bakugou described you, cutting himself off when he noticed how pale Shinsou suddenly looked. The slight look of horror on his face turned to anger so fast that Bakugou got whiplash.

“Do you think this is funny or something, asshole?” Shinsou’s voice was low and dangerous. “Get the fuck out of my shop before I kick the shit out of you.”

“What? What the fuck is your problem?” Bakugou was always quick to anger, but he especially didn’t like being threatened. 

Kaminari must have sensed that things were about to go south, because he appeared at Bakugou’s side a moment later. “Is everything okay?”

“You think this is some kind of joke? Like I don’t miss her and think about her every day? Like I don’t blame myself for what happened?” Shinsou’s deep voice cracked slightly at the end of his question, and Bakugou was horrified to see tears starting to gather in his eyes.

“What are you even talking about? Who is she?” He was starting to get really frustrated.

Shinsou moved to round the counter. “Fuck you, man. Get the fuck-” 

“Bakugou, who are you talking about?” Kaminari turned to Shinsou, his palm pressing gently to his chest to stop him from reaching Bakugou. “What’s going on?”

“Your friend here thinks it’s funny to come into my shop and rub my best friend’s death in my face.”

Bakugou choked on his own spit. “Death?”

Kaminari looked between the two of them in confusion. “Bakugou?”

He didn’t want to do this in front of Kaminari, but he had no choice. “I’ve been having dreams! Ever since we moved into the house…” Trailing off, he stared at Shinsou. “I didn’t know she - how is this even possible?”

“So, Shinsou’s best friend has been visiting your dreams, and she’s...no longer with us. She told you about Shinsou, so you came here to find out more?” Kaminari summarized, letting his hand drop from Shinsou’s chest when he noticed he wasn’t struggling anymore.

Bakugou just nodded, his fists clenched at his sides. 

“What house?” Shinsou asked. “Is she…”

Bakugou told him the address and Shinsou practically crumpled in on himself, his breath coming out in short pants. Kaminari had enough sense to guide him over to a nearby table and sit him down on a chair. Bakugou was glad the shop was empty.

Somehow completely level headed in this brief moment of crisis, Kaminari went around the shop counter and came back with a cup of water for Shinsou. He then pushed Bakugou, who was still standing frozen in front of the register, into the chair across from Shinsou, and then pulled up his own chair. “Shinsou, hey. Can you tell us about her?”

--

Heart pounding, Bakugou woke up in a dream. 

This was different.

Instead of waking up to you lying beside him, looking disheveled but beautiful as you teased him and held the blankets over your naked chest…

He was sweating, breath coming in short pants, his fingers tangled in someone’s hair, wet heat surrounding his cock.

Bakugou’s eyes flew open, taking in the white ceiling of his bedroom. He let his gaze travel down, the dark comforter on his bed hiding the identity of the person between his legs.

He didn’t need to see them to know who it was.

You hummed around him and his toes curled. He should definitely be freaking out right now, kicking you off of him and flying from the bed to the other side of the room, hiding his modesty as he screeched at you.

But then you did this thing with your tongue that he couldn’t even begin to describe and his eyes rolled back. It had been a while, he reasoned. He was too preoccupied with school and moving and not sleeping right to take care of it himself. 

Letting his fingers card through your hair, he tugged, reveling in the groan that left your throat and shot right through him. He rocked his hips in time with your bobbing mouth, biting down on his bottom lip to hold back his moans.

He felt himself getting close, eyes fluttering shut again as he let himself get lost in the moment. Later, he would contemplate how easily he accepted what you were doing, but for now, he was going to enjoy every second of it.

“Y/N…” He groaned, pushing his head back into the pillows. 

All at once, your mouth was off of him, and he felt the blanket fly off of his body, exposing his hard and aching cock to the cool air.

“What!?” Your voice was wrecked, but he was too keyed up to pay much attention.

Popping his eyes open, he groaned and sat up on his elbows. “What the fuck, shitty woman? I was about to come.”

“How do you know my name?”

Suddenly, everything came rushing back to him. He remembered where he was, who you were, what you were. “Fuck. What the fuck?”

“Learn another word, Katsuki. Jesus Christ.” You were still kneeling between his legs, your hand resting on his thigh. “How did you find out my name?”

Flopping back against the pillow again, he rubbed his hands tiredly over his face. “I met Shinsou today.” His dick was still so hard that it hurt, but he had a feeling you wouldn’t be helping him take care of the problem anymore.

You were quiet, so he peeked through his fingers, frowning. You were crying silently, tears sliding down your cheeks. “He told you?”

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” He said finally, letting his hands drop from his face. He didn’t know why he was being so nice. Usually he’d tell someone who cried in front of him to suck it up, but it felt wrong to give you a hard time. Sighing, he threw his arm out to the side. “Come here.”

You sniffled again, climbing over his leg and settling on the bed beside him, your head resting on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you. “I’m sorry, Katsuki.”

“For what? Don’t apologize.” He grunted. “But later we’re going to have a conversation about what was going on when I got here.”

“That’s the first time you were you during it, I think.” Your voice was rough, and you sniffled loudly when you were done speaking.

“What does that even mean?” His brow furrowed in confusion. “Wait, that’s happened more than once? What the hell?”

Giggling, you nodded. “What, do you think I just get naked and climb into bed with you every time?” He huffed, and you continued. “It’s like...it’s you of course, but it’s like all of a sudden something clicks.” You snapped your fingers. “I’m not sure if I’m just tapping into your fantasies or what…”

He could feel the blush heating up his cheeks and he hated it, so he chose not to comment. 

“Usually I come in and you’re waiting for me, we get naked, then we fuck, then we cuddle, and that’s when you get here.”

“Tch. No way. I don’t cuddle.” Scoffing, he tightened his grip around you. 

This time you snorted a laugh, your hand sliding over his stomach as you got more comfortable. “Oh? You do with me, teddy bear.”

“Shut the fuck up! Don’t call me that.” He shivered. “That’s the worst pet name I’ve ever heard.”

“I’ll try to be more creative next time.” You shifted again, pulling the blanket over both of your legs. “And, if you don’t cuddle, then what are we doing right now?”

“Having a conversation.” 

“About?” You moved to look at him, raising your eyebrow.

Fighting hard not to smirk, he rolled his eyes. “Not cuddling.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re annoying.”  He hissed when you pinched his side. “Ow! What the hell?”

“Shut up and go back to sleep, Katsu.”

--

Bakugou Katsuki did NOT ask for help. The word help was not in his vocabulary. He could do everything and figure everything out on his own, thank you. However, he thought maybe, just this once, he was in over his head. 

He didn’t know shit about ghosts or spirits or hauntings or whatever the fuck this was. Mina, as Kaminari had pointed out to him after they’d left Mauhaus, was practically an expert. He was dreading the moment when she rubbed it in his face that she had been right about the house all along, but his annoyance over it paled in comparison to the need he had for a night of uninterrupted sleep.

Not that he minded, really, because he got to spend time with you.

The sudden affection that he had for you was unnerving. Because, besides the whole not asking for help thing, the other constant in his life was that Bakugou Katsuki did not catch feelings. Feelings were unnecessary. He hated them. He hated being fond of people, the weird ache in his chest made him want to puke. The only person he felt any kind of warmth for was Kirishima, and that was because he was his best friend. He tolerated everyone else to a degree, but he didn’t feel anything for them.

But then there was you, who he’d known for an entire two weeks. (He wasn’t even going to unpack the fact that you were literally haunting his dreams in which he was apparently fucking you.) Somehow, through the brief interactions you’d had, whether they were real or not, he’d managed to care about you. You were funny, and you didn’t put up with his shit.

It would figure that the only girl he’d ever had feelings for was dead.

He had come to terms with that fact now. His next course of action was to find out why you were coming to him. Mina was the only one he knew who could help him find some answers. (He didn’t really trust the internet.) The problem was getting her alone without the rest of the idiot brigade around. Kaminari knew, obviously, but he just wanted to talk to Mina.

His chance came on Saturday, when everyone came to his and Kirishima’s house for the barbeque. 

Bakugou was slicing vegetables in the kitchen when Mina came inside, offering to help. He grunted, pointing at a bowl of spinach. “Finish making the salad, raccoon eyes.” 

Mina rolled her eyes and stood beside him, taking the tomatoes he’d chopped and adding them to the bowl. “So, how’s the house-”

“What do you know about ghosts?” He blurted. Well, that was one way to ask.

She stiffened beside him. “Did you see something?”

Huffing through his nose, he picked up a cucumber and began slicing it a little harder than necessary to mask his discomfort. “Maybe.”

“Bakugou, what happened?” She grabbed his shirt sleeve, tugging on it. “Is it bad? Do we have to set up surveillance cameras or something?”

He snorted. “No, this isn’t a dumb horror movie.” Shrugging her off of his arm, he pushed the cucumbers towards her. “I’ve been having dreams-“

“How do you know it’s a ghost?” She interrupted, turning back to the salad.

Bakugou decided to be as vague as possible. “It’s the same dream every night, the same person. She never told me her name, but I was able to figure out who she is. She used to live here...” Swallowing thickly, he turned to look at her. “I just don’t know why she’s visiting me.”

“Well, most of the time ghosts are spirits that are still tied to this world in some way. People believe they have unfinished business, something they need to do before they can pass on.” Mina looked thoughtful for a moment. “Maybe she has regrets?”

Grunting, he went back to chopping. “I don’t know, it’s weird. She said she picked me because she tried Kirishima and she couldn’t reach him or whatever.”

“Maybe she thinks you're cute, Bakubabe.” Mina teased him.

“Fuck you.”

“Okay, alright, sorry!” Mina held up her hands in surrender. “So, she’s here somewhere, huh? I wonder why she hasn’t appeared to you outside of your dreams.”

“No idea. I wish she would though, I haven’t slept right since we moved in.”

“Do you know what happened to her?” 

Bakugou stopped chopping, thinking back to the other day at the cat cafe.

“I was working the late shift that night, and Y/N was home alone.” Shinsou rubbed his face, leaning back in his chair. “There had been a bunch of break ins in the area, so I told her to lock the door and leave the light and the TV on in the living room, that way it looked like someone was up. They must have been watching the house though, because it didn’t deter them.”

Bakugou swallowed thickly, his eyes glued to Shinsou as he stared down at the cup of water Kaminari had gotten him. He felt rage bubbling up in his chest, and he had to talk himself out of going to find whoever did this to you and making them pay. 

“Oh no, Shinsou, I’m so sorry.” Kaminari put his hand on his shoulder. “Did they catch who did it?”

Nodding, Shinsou finally looked up, eyes meeting Bakugou’s. “It was two guys. One of them turned themselves in, and the police were able to catch the other that way. They apparently had never agreed on killing anyone, they were just supposed to be looting. Not like they would have gotten a lot from us anyway, unless they had a thing for Siouxsie and the Banshees records and Funko Pops.”

“How-” Bakugou said suddenly, before closing his mouth and shaking his head. He didn’t really want to know.

“Shot her.” Shinsou said stiffly. 

“Fuck.” Kaminari breathed. 

“What does she say to you.” Bakugou blinked at the purple-haired man, realizing he was speaking to him. 

“Mostly she makes fun of me.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he sat back in the chair. “She was telling me how she missed you, wanted me to introduce you to Pikachu over here.” He nodded his chin at Kaminari. “Said you needed some sunshine or some shit.”

Snorting, Shinsou’s lip curled into a half smile. “Sounds like her.”

“So what now?” Kaminari asked. “Why is she visiting you?”

“Hell if I know. She mentioned this place and you and I kind of just wanted to see if I was making it all up in my head or something.”

“It’s kind of hard to believe. I don’t really know what to make of it.” Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Shinsou sighed. “I know you’re telling me the truth, though. Sorry for yelling at you.”

“Tch. It’s fine.” Bakugou didn’t blame the guy, honestly. 

“I think you should talk to Mina,” Kaminari said suddenly. “She knows a lot about this kind of stuff for some reason. She tried burning that sage, remember?”

“She told me she didn’t think it worked.”

“Sage is used for cleansing. It’s supposed to ward off evil. I don’t think Y/N fits the description.” Shinsou hummed. “She’s a soft hearted nerd.”

Mina gasped, eyes wide. “That’s so awful. That’s why this place feels so sad.” She turned back to the salad in front of her. “We should have a séance.”

Bakugou made a face, picturing that scene from Beetlejuice. “No one is going to be singing that god damn Banana Boat song at my kitchen table, fuck that.”

Snorting, Mina rolled her eyes. “You watch too many movies.” 

When the vegetables were chopped, he moved to the sink to wash his hands. “What will that do?”

“A séance? It’s a way to communicate with the dead. Maybe we can get her to come forward and speak to us, we can try to find out what she wants.”

Bakugou couldn’t explain the flash of panic that he felt suddenly. “Is that...going to get rid of her?”

His pink-haired friend blinked at him owlishly. “You don’t want her to go, do you?” 

He didn’t really have an answer to that, his ears burning hot. He shifted uncomfortably and snapped his mouth closed.

“You like her.” 

It was just a statement, and he couldn’t form the words to deny it. His embarrassment turned quickly to fury when he saw the look of pity in her eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, Katsuki.” She reached out to touch his shoulder and he jerked away. “You can’t-”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t fucking do.” He seethed. “And don’t call me that.”

“She’s dead, Bakugou.”

“You think I don’t know that already? Do I look stupid?” He was trying to keep from lashing out, his hands forming into fists at his side. He could feel himself shaking.

“What is going on here?” Kirishima asked from the doorway, brows furrowed. He looked between his two friends, arms crossed across his chest.

Bakugou shot Mina a pleading look. She quirked her brow in confusion, until she finally caught on. “You didn’t tell him? Bakugou, he lives here too, he has a right to know.”

“Shut up! I know that! I just...haven’t gotten around to it.”

“Tell me what?” Kirishima looked even more confused.

Kaminari chose that moment to waltz into the kitchen, bypassing everyone and plucking a piece of cucumber from the salad on the counter. He shoved it in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Everyone watched him, Bakugou more wary than the rest, until he spun around and shot finger guns at Kirishima. “Your house is haunted, my friend.”

--

Bakugou opened the front door to see Shinsou standing on his front porch, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

The ash blonde shared the sentiment.

Mina was in the dining area, draping a black tablecloth over the table and setting up candles. Kaminari was bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet, relaxing infinitesimally when Shinsou walked in the room behind Bakugou.

“Hey, Hitoshi.”

Oh, they were on a first name basis already.

It had been a week since the barbeque, and his forced confession to Kirishima about what had been going on since they’d moved into the house.

Kirishima had taken the news way better than he’d expected.

“Oh, you’ve seen her too?”

“What?” Bakugou froze, his eyebrows disappearing into his hair.

“I mean, I keep seeing shit out of the corner of my eye, and I thought I was going crazy or something.” He shrugged, helping Sero set the plates on the table. “I’d blink and she’d be gone. I guess I kind of got used to it after a while. I never felt scared or anything like that, and she never bothered me. It was like she was just watching.”

“She thinks you’re nice,” Bakugou mumbled, slumping into a chair.

Kirishima chuckled. “I am nice, bro.”

The rest of the evening had consisted of everyone bothering him with questions, and Mina preparing everyone for tonight’s séance. Kaminari had insisted that Shinsou should participate, and Mina had agreed, saying it would help to have someone close to her in the room. She had decided to drop the subject of Bakugou’s other admission, the one only she had heard.

He was kind of in love with you. 

It was selfish, wasn’t it? You didn’t belong here anymore, and he couldn’t have a relationship with you. He would drive himself crazy if he tried to keep going the way he had been, running on little to no sleep and burying himself in his textbooks, spending his free time researching the paranormal and diving into the dark recesses of the web. When he caught himself on a questionable website that talked about resurrection and spells he knew he’d taken a turn down a road he didn’t want to travel. 

He wanted to go back in time, to meet you before your death. Maybe you would have dated him, and you wouldn’t have lived in this house with Shinsou. You wouldn’t have been here when those assholes broke in. You’d still be alive.

Kirishima’s warm hand resting on his shoulder shook him from his thoughts. “You alright, man?”

He shrugged his friend’s hand away. “Peachy. Can we get this over with?”

Shinsou hummed in agreement. “It feels really weird to be in this house with other people’s stuff.” He didn’t need to mention how uncomfortable it felt to be in this place with everything that happened, but he didn’t have to. It was written all over his face.

Mina was lighting candles and calling everyone to the table, her normally bright and cheery expression gone, replaced with a serious and forlorn look. Kaminari introduced Shinsou to all their friends as they all took their seats, Mina at one end of the table and Bakugou at the other.

“Did you bring something of hers?” Mina asked Shinsou.

The purple-haired man nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small battered book. “Her notebook. She carried it around with her and wrote down things to remember, stupid poems, little doodles.” He handed it to Kaminari, who passed it to Mina. “Also, I have this photo, I don’t know if it helps.”

He turned it to show it to Bakugou, and he felt his chest ache. You were smiling, wearing a ridiculous maid’s outfit, your hair frizzed out with a little white bonnet pinned to it. Shinsou stood beside you, wearing a plague doctor’s mask and a button up coat. 

“Halloween a few years ago. She was Magenta from Rocky Horror, and I refused to wear fishnets and heels to be her Dr. Frank-N-Furter.” A small smile appeared on his face. “She was a riot.” He leaned forward and placed the photo next to the notebook in the center of the table.

“That’s perfect, Shinsou, thank you.” Mina said quietly. “Okay everyone, phones off. When you’re ready, take the hand of the person next to you. It’s very important that we keep the circle closed until we’re done, so don’t let go.”

Bakugou grumbled, switching his phone off. He rubbed his sweaty palms on the leg of his pants, and then held his hands out. Shinsou took his hand on his right, Kirishima on his left.

Mina situated the Ouija board in front of herself, and then took Sero and Kaminari’s hands in hers. “Close your eyes and clear your minds. We want to think about our purpose, of contacting Y/N. I’ll say an opening prayer and we’ll wait. I’ll repeat it until we get an answer. Make sure you remember your questions for her.”

Trying to clear his mind and ignore how stupid he felt at that moment, Bakugou let out a breath and closed his eyes. He thought about contacting you this way, wondered if he’d be able to see you.

“Together we ask the spirits this night, to send us only the blessed and bright, we claim protection for everyone here, and no evil beings can come near.” She took a deep breath and continued. “We are reaching out to Y/N. Please join us in our circle tonight when you’re ready.”

Nothing happened for several minutes, so Mina repeated her greeting. 

And that’s when Bakugou felt it. It was like fingers on the back of his neck, blunt nails scraping over his skin and tickling him, warm breath on his ear. “Y/N?”

He felt Kirishima tense beside him, a soft laugh leaving him. “Is that her?”

“What’s she doing?” Mina asked quietly.

“Playing with my hair.” he audibly swallowed. “It’s kind of nice.”

On his other side, Shinsou jerked his arm. “She just pinched me. Typical.” He snorted, chuckling fondly.

Kaminari squeaked, saying it felt like she kissed his cheek. Mina felt her squeeze her shoulder. Sero felt her tug on the ends of his hair.

Shinsou hummed. “She probably thinks you need a haircut. She used to do that to me a lot, too.”

“Y/N, are you with us?” Mina’s voice rang out into the room.

Bakugou opened his eyes, watching as Mina leaned over the board in front of her, a surprised expression on her face as the planchette began to wiggle. 

“She says yes.” Her head snapped up, smiling at all of them. “Okay, who has the first question?”

“I’ll go!” Kirishima said cheerfully. Clearing his throat nervously, he smiled that shark toothed grin of his. “Hey, Y/N. Uh, have you been hanging around and watching me work out?”

Scoffing, Bakugou turned his attention back to Mina. She watched the planchette move, snorting when it stopped moving. “She said ‘sick gains’.” 

Kirishima blushed the color of his hair. “She noticed!”

“Shut up, shitty hair. Who’s next?” Bakugou tried to tamp down the spike of jealousy he felt knowing you had been spying on his best friend.

“My turn!” Kaminari grinned. “I was going to just feed you a pickup line, but Shinsou said no, so I just wanted to thank you for helping me find him. He’s pretty great.”

The planchette wiggled again. “She said ‘notebook’.”

Shinsou sighed. “She wrote down pickup lines in it all the time. I think she wants you to look at them.”

“Yes! Oh man, so cool. Thank you Y/N!”

“She said ‘be happy’. Aw, that’s so nice!” Mina looked at Shinsou. “You want to go?”

Nodding, Shinsou closed his eyes. “Do you forgive me?”

“‘Not your fault.’” Mina read.

“But it is! If I would have been home-” He stopped when the table shook slightly. 

“She moved it to the ‘no’, Shinsou. She doesn’t blame you. I think that’s a good sign you should stop blaming yourself.”

The purple-haired man’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He seemed to look a little less haunted, like he was finally going to accept it.

Sero cleared his throat. “Hi Y/N, we don’t know each other, but I wanted to say I’m sorry for what happened to you. I’ve heard some nice things, I think you would have been a great addition to the squad.”

“It says…” Mina took a minute to follow the rapidly moving heart shaped piece of wood. “‘Beat you at Mario Kart’.”

The whole table laughed, except for Bakugou. He was too busy thinking about his question, his gut wrenching and heart squeezing in his chest. 

“Bakugou?”

Clearing his throat, he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing would come out. He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, and he knew it was because you were near. “Why are you still here? Don’t you want to move on?” He hated asking. He didn’t want the answer.

He felt you move away, his body relaxing slightly, his eyes trained on the board. He couldn’t read it from here, but he could see the planchette move. 

“‘I’m not ready.’”

“Why?” Bakugou heard himself asking.

The entire room was quiet, everyone waiting with bated breath. 

“‘I’m waiting for you, Katsu.’”

[e-milieeee]

the stars know (you and i are meant to be)—ladynoir

Summary: Between akumas and school, Ladybug and Chat Noir find some time in between to sit back, have a picnic, and stargaze. And perhaps learn a little more about each other. 

Notes: happy birthday @edendaphne! your art was some of the first i saw when i joined the fandom and i love it sm (this oneshot is based off of this). i hope you have a great day <3 

written for day 2: stargazing and day 17: future for @ladynoirjuly2020.

Her mother tells her that preparing a meal for someone is an intimate gesture.

Marinette begs to differ. It’s just a meal, after all. There are three meals a day, and she finds it pointless to assign some sort of underlying worth to all of them.

But now, painstakingly arranging the bento boxes she’d made for Chat Noir, she begrudgingly understands what her mother means. She wraps them in picnic cloth, shouldering her bag full of supplies, and then drops out from her balcony to meet Chat.

They find each other halfway; Ladybug spots a familiar streak of black darting between rooftops. She knows he sees her: he always does.

Sure enough, Chat Noir turns up behind her in the span of five seconds and shoots her his usual blinding grin. “Good evening, m’lady!”

His smile is contagious, and Ladybug doesn’t even try to contain her own. “Hungry?” she asks him as they start to move again, racing over buildings at a breakneck speed. “You better not have eaten dinner before this, because I cooked a lot.”

Chat feigns offence. “I can’t believe you would even suggest I’d do such a thing. I’d eat the food you cooked me even if it’s burnt and cold, you know that.” He pauses, a contemplative look crossing his face. “Though I am expecting some world class cooking.”

Ladybug thinks back to the five hours she spent cooking their dinner, and the careful arranging she’d done of the bento boxes and the wide array of food she’d made sure to cook. It’s a fusion of both Japanese and Chinese cuisine—Chat’s favourites. Preparing a meal for someone is an intimate gesture.

Perhaps her mother is right, but it’s still just an intimate gesture between friends. Yeah, that’s what it is.

“World class cooking pales in comparison to mine,” Ladybug jokes, although she also feels obligated to add on, “don’t raise your expectations too high.”

“With you, my expectations are always high.”

She shoves him just for that comment, inciting nothing but a slight falter in his movements and a large grin. With a shake of her head, Ladybug moves on, if only to hide her own smile. 

***

They set up their picnic on top of a hill.

It’s secluded, and that’s the best part of the location. Ladybug unpacks her bag to start tugging out the blankets she packed: some to sit on, others to huddle under when the night starts getting chilly. Then, even more carefully, she begins to lay their dinner bit by bit in front of them, until she finally spreads the feast out in front of Chat.

His mouth drops open, and he does not even attempt to close it. Saucer-plate eyes blink at her.

“For me?” Chat finally manages after at least thirty seconds of gaping. “I mean… you made all of this for me?”

Ladybug has to admit she’s pleased by his reaction, and even more so pleased by the fact that their slightly rough journey hadn’t ruined the aesthetic appeal of most of her dishes.

“Well, for me as well,” she teases, reaching over to tap on his bell.

He’s undeterred. “This is unbelievable,” he whispers, more to himself than her. “M’lady, I can’t believe you made this to eat with me.”

Something about his tone tugs at her heart. In an attempt to snap him out of it, Ladybug points out, “It’s kitty themed.”

“I know.” His voice wobbles slightly. “Are those cat cookies supposed to be me?”

“Yeah. They turned out kind of ugly, though.”

“No, they’re beautiful. I wish I could look like that.”

“Chat, you don’t have a nose in those cookies. You really don’t.”

He sniffles once more, and Ladybug realizes belated that he has teared up. “Chat,” she tries, this time in a gentler tone. “Are you… crying?”

He rubs his eyes rather violently. “No.”

“Kitty…”

“Fine, yes. I’m just very happy. These are happy tears. It’s okay.” With one last painful looking scrub over his face, Chat Noir lowers his hands. “You can introduce the dishes and we’ll eat.”

Knowing better to push, she obliges the request, even if Ladybug has her doubts on happy tears. There’s a certain melancholy in his words, the sort that carries an old sort of pain. So instead, sitting side by side, their knees touching and sitting just close enough that she feels the warmth radiating off him, Ladybug starts to name the dishes.

“These are the appetizers,” she tells Chat, who listens attentively. “Those are pork potstickers—they might not be as hot as they were before, though. That one’s called… um, lang… liang ni?” The words don’t sound like how her mother says them, but her Chinese is lacking in more ways than one and Ladybug can’t remember the name of the dish for the life of her. “Honestly, I have no clue what it’s called. I think it roughly translates into cold noodles.”

Chat leans over to scrutinize the dish. “It looks familiar.”

“The noodles are store-bought, but I made the sauce. There’s carrots, beansprouts, and cucumbers. And those tofu things. It’s also spicy, but I put the sauce in a container so if you can’t handle spice, you don’t need to add it.”

Never one to admit defeat, he folds his arms. “I can handle spicy food easily.”

“Okay, tough guy, I’ll take you up on that later. Anyway, I made us both bento boxes for the main meal, and…” She opens the box, and Chat’s eyes practically bulge out of his head.

“Cats?” he demands. “Rice cats? Oh my god, Ladybug, you’re unbelievable.”

Cats, indeed. She’d spent an hour shaping them: sticky rice balls shaped into little kitten heads, with ears sticking out at the side. There’s one made from white rice and another from purple rice, and the faces are styled from carefully cut pieces of dried seaweed, then sprinkled with sesame seeds. Ladybug’s certain that beneath the suit, her hands still smell like the seasoning she’d rolled the rice with because of the sheer amount of time she had spent on them.

“I made both Taiwanese fried chicken and teriyaki salmon for meat, then fried some vegetables. For health reasons. And kimchi, because we had some in our fridge and I thought, why not?” With that, she sets his bento box into his lap and gestures at the cookies. “Dessert. And something else afterwards, if you’re still hungry.”

“Something afterwards…?”

“You’ll see later,” she mumbles. “Anyway, dig in before it gets cold.”

Ladybug’s never been that great at accepting compliments, and Chat doesn’t lay off on them today either. He picks up the chopsticks with care and carefully picks up a piece of Taiwanese fried chicken. He pops it into his mouth, chews thoughtfully, then swallows.

Ladybug is never not in awe of how Chat’s eyes can literally light up.

“You weren’t lying,” he gushes. “This is world class cooking.”

“You’re laying it on a little too thick there,” she laughs.

“I speak only the truth, m’lady. This is amazing. Just like you.”

“Chat…”

“Okay, okay!” He’s still smiling as he moves to the rice ball. “I almost don’t want to eat them. They’re too perfect.”

Ladybug reaches over with her own chopsticks, stabbing one of his rice balls to split it in half, also tearing off one of the seaweed-eyes in the process. “There you go,” she declares sagely. “Ready to eat.”

Chat’s mouth drops open. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“I-I didn’t even get a picture!”

Ladybug pats his back. “Life is full of disappointments, isn’t it, chaton?”

He stabs her rice ball just for the hell of it before returning to his meal.

***

By the time she and Chat have practically cleaned out all the food (how he’d eaten nine cookies after the meal is beyond Ladybug), she’s so full that any slight movement hurts.

“Oh my god,” Chat is saying, tilting his head back. “I don’t think I’ve eaten so much for years.”

“I feel like I’m going to die,” Ladybug agrees. She’s lying back on the picnic blanket, staring at the sky. The sun had set twenty minutes ago, but traces of its light still peek out at the edge of the horizon, dyeing the sky a lovely indigo colour. Only the brightest stars are visible right now, but the others start to blink into existence one by one as day rests and night awakens.

“I feel like I’m going to die too.” He props his chin on his hand. “But it’s the good sort of dying. How privileged I am to be able to die next to you.”

Laughing hurts, but she can’t help but do so anyway. “Drama queen.”

He bats his eyelashes at her. “Only for you, Bugaboo.”

Ladybug wrinkles her nose at him in mock disgust, but a laugh is threatening to spill yet again and she’s not in the mood for another stomachache. Instead, she turns her attention back to the stars. The breeze that breathes over them is soothing.

They don’t do much for the next couple of minutes, simply gazing at the stars, wrapped up in a thick blanket of companionable silence. It’s easy like this, next to Chat Noir: Ladybug doesn’t have to read into these gaps of quiet, instead settling into them—because with him, they’re simply natural.

When the dark settles in completely and the sky alights into a patchwork of stars, Chat speaks up.

“Ladybug,” he says quietly.

She doesn’t turn away from the sky. “Mm.”

“Isn’t it funny that we’re here because of Hawkmoth?”

She pauses her stargazing to look at her partner instead. “What do you mean?”

Chat gives a little shrug, slightly sheepish. “If this… if none of this happened, or if Master Fu ended up choosing somebody else, or a million other possibilities, would we have met? Maybe we’ve passed each other on the street a thousand times and never knew who the other was. That thought has always bothered me, but I’m just… I’m just so thankful right now I can sit with you like this, even with the masks between us. I’m thankful that every time I transform, I know that I’ll see you again. I hate Hawkmoth as much as any other Parisian, but perhaps I have him to thank, for letting me meet you like this. And I hope that no matter what my future will bring, you’ll still be there in it.”

Ladybug can handle the flirtatious remarks, the casual confessions he peppers her with. But this—this is much more intimate, something she can’t help but cradle close to her heart. “Chat—”

“I know you don’t feel the same,” he replies. “And that’s okay. But for so long, no one’s really cared about me like you have, m’lady, and you mean everything to me and I hope you know that.”

Words evade her for a couple of moments. Then Ladybug extends her hand to him, and Chat’s fingers slip around hers, interlocking. It feels right—it always feels right with him.

“Me too, chaton,” she whispers into the sky. “I’m so glad I met you, and I hope that you’ll be there too, in my future.”

She can see his smile in her periphery.

***

Her mother tells her that preparing a meal for someone is an intimate gesture.

Ladybug is inclined to agree, but she thinks that sharing that meal together (and what happens afterwards) is what really makes it so.

Notes: Fics masterlist here! 

[crystalas]

Blazing Blue part 2

Chapter 2: So, it’s not a play date?

Pigsy was closing up shop when MK stuck his head around the door sheepishly.

“There you are! I was getting worried, did things with Monkey King run late or something?” he asked gruffly as he put away the last of the cooking pots for the day.

“Well, no…but I got held up by something…hey do we have any leftover noodles?” MK asked trying his best to be nonchalant, Pigsy glanced at him and gestured to the fridge.

“I know how hungry you get after your training sessions” Pigsy exclaimed, and raised an eyebrow at MK who was smiling a bit too broadly and looking…twitchy which was never a good sign. “Ok what is it?” he sighed.

“Well… I have a someone who needs to crash somewhere for a while so I was hoping…just for tonight?” MK said ever so sweetly and Pigsy face palmed.

“Ok I really don’t want to ask but I feel I need to, who is it?”

“…Red Son?”

Pigsy stared at him, gave a growl of frustration before rubbing the bridge of his snout to try and elevate the stress headache he can already feel coming on.

“Kid…times like this I really wish this wasn’t based on a children’s cartoon, because what I really want to say to that is not allowed for a kid audience!”

“Oh, but this is a fanfic written by an adult, who really needs to get out more.” MK offered.

“It is? Oh good” Pigsy took a deep breath and then said as calmly as possible “Fuck no!”

“Com’on, he’s is in a bit of a rough spot and needs somewhere to stay! We’re even truce buddies!”

“I never agreed to that term!” Red Son called from outside, MK reached out the door and dragged him in.

“He’s a demon? He is the son of one of your enemies? He tried to turn you into ash countless times? Need I continue to list reason why this is a bad idea??!” Pigsy shouted angrily.

“Look, I know where I’m not wanted, I shall take my leave!” Red Son growled and began to walk back out when MK grabbed his sleeve. “This is pointless he’s isn’t going to let me stay!”

“Damn right I’m not!” Pigsy retorted.

“Last time I checked I own the apartment above the noodle shop so really…” MK said slyly and Pigsy put a hand in front of his face.

“I rent it to you, so don’t even give me that nonsense that you have a say!”

“UGH fine!” MK growled and lead Red Son out of the Noodle shop, only for him to drag him behind the alleyway and use his staff to leap up to his apartment window, gesturing for Red Son to follow.

“You’re seriously going behind your friend’s back for me?” Red Son asked as he leapt up and through the window. MK walked in and started to tidy up the apartment to a more acceptable level of messy as Red Son looked around, last time he was in here he had burnt a lot of stuff. MK must have had to replace many belongings… so why was he this willing to help him?

“Pigsy just needs time to get to know you” MK explained as he got out a spare blanket and laid it out on the sofa. “Umm…is this, okay? I mean I’ve only got the one bed…”

“I may be a demon but even I have good manners when it comes to being a guest” Red Son declared loftily, besides he thought to himself as he sat down, I’ve been sleeping on the floor of our destroyed home for the last few weeks. This is heaven compared to that.

“Don’t worry we’ll find you somewhere tomorrow” MK said as he took off his jacket to get ready for bed and noticed that Red Son had not moved. “Umm…wanna take off your coat and get comfortable?”

Red Son gripped his coat and glanced away.

“Kind of hard to get comfortable in the home of an enemy…” he muttered.

“Now none of that! Remember we are Truce Buddies, I’m not so underhanded that I’d attack you in your sleep” MK declared confidently.

He might though MK suddenly thought to himself as it dawned on him that this could go wrong very quickly.

“Look, do you demons have anything to …I don’t know swear by? Because I’ve just realised this might be a long con or something to lure me into a false sense of security.” MK asked, Red Son sighed and looked up at him.

“It took you this long to think of that scenario? Noodle Boy are you really that naïve?” he demanded angrily but stood up anyway, “Normally I would have sworn on my family name but…given certain circumstances that’s not an option. So, I’ll swear on my flame that I will not do anything to intentionally endanger you or your friends so long as you swear on The Monkey Staff that you do the same!” he held out his hand and a small fire ball appeared and held out the other to shake with, MK took out his staff and took Red Son’s hand and shook it in agreement.

“Right, we are officially Truce Buddies!” MK beamed happily.

“I didn’t agree to that name!” Red Son snapped.

 The next morning Tang walked in to grab his noodles for lunch, Pigsy was dicing up the vegetables to make the first batch for the day but had a fire extinguisher strapped to his back …and Red Son was sitting at a table looking grumpier than usual and also that he looked like he had fought a car wash and lost.

“Ok I feel like I missed something?” Tang declared.

“MK thought it would be a brilliant idea to sneak Demon Boy in for a sleep over, but didn’t take into consideration that fire alarms exist!” Pigsy exclaimed angrily “Now MK is on kitchen clean up duty for eternity for going behind my back and NEARLY SETTING FIRE TO MY BUILDING!!”

“In my defence” Red Son announced “I only sneezed.”

“I ain’t taking any chances Demon boy! You try anything and I’mma hosing you down!”

Tang sat down keeping Red Son in his peripherals and saw MK mopping the floor with an embarrassed look of defeat on his face.

“So, just to acknowledge the elephant in the room…why is Red Son here?” he asked gently.

“Because MK wanted a pet!”

“RED SON IS NO ONE’S PET!” Red Son shouted flaring up as he did so and got a face full of extinguisher foam in his face for his troubles. “WILL YOU STOP THAT??!”

“Okay…and the real reason MK?” Tang inquired as MK came out to mop up the foam for the third time that morning.

“We kind of have a Truce going on.” He said simply.

“That seems…fair I guess?”

“Yeah, well he can go home now cos I don’t want him here disturbing my business!” Pigsy growled and Red Son suddenly hunched over and glared at the wall angrily.

“If this is how you treat your patrons then maybe I’m not the problem!” he growled under this breath. Pigsy gave him a look and then turned back to his stove, he tried to turn it on but…nothing. He tried again and again for a few minutes but still nothing happened.

“Com’on! Com’on you piece of junk!” Pigsy muttered under his breath.

“I keep telling you need a new stove” Tang exclaimed.

“Last time I checked they don’t give them out for free! The freaking lighters are dead I’ll have to…” Pigsy said but stopped as a small fire ball flit past both of them and lit the stove top. They both spun around to see Red Son putting his hand down.

“Uhm…thanks?”

“Don’t read too much into it, I’m just hungry” he said quietly.

Pigsy shrugged and got to work and soon he brought out two bowls of noodle soup and placed one of them gingerly near Red Son, who took it and ate it quietly. After a few minutes Pigsy looked up to see Red Son smiling softly.

“What are you so happy about?” he demanded gruffly.

“Family recipe?” Red Son asked.

“Handed down through the generations. Why?” Pigsy replied cautiously.

“They remind me of this noodle stand I used to go to a lot when I was a child, it was my favourite place to eat back then. I suppose the taste makes me nostalgic” Red Son explained, Pigsy looked at him warily and then back at his photo wall.

“Pull the other one kid, my family started this business on a noodle stand but that belong to my great, great grandfather. You’re not even old enough to be around when this shop opened!”

“I’m a lot older than I look, don’t forget demons count their lifespans in decades not years…in fact if I remember correctly back then photographs were only just becoming a thing and I was there when they took the photo. The guy looked proud as anything of his little noodle stall”

Pigsy spun around and scanned his photo wall, and sure enough there was the photo that was handed down along with the recipes. It was tattered and faded over the years but it still showed the look of absolute pride that Noodle chief had of his livelihood not knowing of what a family business he was about to create. And in the background was a kid with flaming spikey hair sitting at the stall while holding a bowl.

“Wait…that’s you?!”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“And the flavour just as good as Great, Great Grand pappy’s?”

“Even better I’d say”

Tang slammed down his bowl and ran up to Red Son.

“WAIT A SECOND!” He cried in ecstatic glee “You’re immortal??!”

“No…demons can age and die we just live longer. Think of it as reverse dog years” Red Son said a bit put off by this sudden attention of the quiet book worm.

“Then you’ve must have seen a lot in your time!” Tang squealed “I bet you’ve even met some of the other legends throughout the ages!”

Red Son gave a cocky smile and gestured confidently.

“Why yes, I have, though I’ve never spoke to them I have seen many historical figures come and go not to mention the rise and fall of emperors and kings, to be honest it gets a bit boring after a while!” he declared smugly, now enjoying the fact that Tang was practically frothing at the mouth at the idea of questioning a being that probably lived through most of his text books.

“Have you met any of the sages…I mean besides Monkey King?” Tang asked eagerly Red Son’s cocky smile evaporated for a second and his hand wandered up to his neck before shrugging.

“I guess so, but I was very little when that happened…” he said dismissively.

“What were they like?” Tang kept on.

“… …scary” Red Son whispered. “I remember them being very scary.”

“Pardon? I didn’t quite catch that?”

“They were pompous jerks who picked on a little kid, whose only crime was being born okay??” he snapped angrily and stood up. MK who had been watching this from the kitchen walked up quickly to the angry demon before Pigsy had to get the fire extinguisher again.

“Ok maybe we should talk to Sandy about that problem now hey? Pigsy? can I take off now?” the three looked up at Pigsy who was still standing there with a look of blissful glee.

“Good as Great, Great Grand pappy’s” he sighed happily before snapping out of it. “Uh yeah sure seeing as Demon boy didn’t burn down my shop and helped out a little, I guess I can be lenient…but don’t try anything like this again got it??!”

MK saluted and Red Son wiped off the last of the foam from his hair as they left.

“So now what?” Red Son asked.

“We see if Sandy has a spare bed for you…hey were you serious about Pigsy’s family stall thing?”

“Like I said I had no need to lie about it.”

“And you’re seriously like…really, really old?”

“I’m still a child compared to others of my kind but yes”

“Why do you look human?”

“What’s with all the questions?”

“It’s just, except for your mom and you every other demon I met looked…I don’t know weird.”

“And seriously how often do we get to question a person like you? It’s like interviewing a keshin!” Tang interjected as he walked in between them causing both boys to leap out of their skins and glare at him.

“You will have to excuse me if I don’t want to expose all my family secrets in one sitting with the people who are considered my enemies!” Red Son growled; MK opened his mouth but before he could say anything Red Son held up a hand to him. “Yes, yes ‘Truce Buddies’ I know but just because I am on that agreement doesn’t mean my family is!”

“So, let’s hope we don’t run into Demon Bull King huh?” Tang declared. “Because that would be super awkward for all parties, wouldn’t it?”

“Trust me I doubt my father even notices…and wasn’t the whole point of this ‘Truce Buddies’ thing was to FORGET about my family and your mentor, to just enjoy the day, have fun or whatever happy go lucky idea you suggested?!” Red Son exclaimed angrily “Quizzing me on my family history seems to be a bit off the mark wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh right, right” MK mumbled and rubbed the back of his head.

“Wait…you two agreed to a play date?” Tang asked.

“ITS NOT A PLAY DATE!”  both boys screamed in horror.

As they headed to Sandy’s ship MK was on his phone texting Mai.

“Okay so Mai knows what’s going on and she’s going to meet us at Sandy’s. Also, she’s bringing snacks and her favourite video games so she can … ‘Show red boy how to have a good time, hero style’…” he said as he read the text out. Red Son gave a weary sigh remembering that massive hero speech she had given him while they were getting the peach of immortality. Then to hint at his father with all the subtly of a cannon launched brick through a glass window that he had done “Good hero work” …it took him forever to get over that humiliation.

As he contemplated the fact, he now has to endure her company and she probably will take this “Truce Buddies” agreement as a sign that he is going to become a hero and won’t shut up about it, his train of thought was destroyed as something smacked him on the back sending him stumbling and nearly hitting the pavement.

“HEY!” he shouted looked back, fire ball in hand ready to roast whoever responsible. “HOW DARE YOU TRY TO TRIP UP RED SON??!” but no one was there to enact his rage on.

“You okay Red?” Tang asked.

“…fine I’m fine…must have tripped or something…” he growled. As they walked on, they didn’t see the shadows following them purple eyes grinning in the darkness.

“This got a lot more fun…” Macaque sniggered.

[5lazarus]

Cages: an post-canon ATLA fic

Mai visits Azula. It is not easy. Read on Archive of Our Own here.

They’ve left her in the care of chi-blockers less merciful than Ty Lee. Mai takes the palanquin to the barge and then another carriage to a small palace in the tea mountains. She is tired by the time she arrives, sick from the jostling of man and sea and horse, but determined to put a brave face on it all.

Katara said she’d come with her, since Ty Lee won’t; she doesn’t have to go alone. She didn’t have to go at all, in fact, and Mai worries leaving Izumi alone through the dizzying journey up the tea mountains, though she consoles herself knowing that Zuko is a more than capable parent. But in the long years since Zuko’s coronation, no one has been to seen Azula. Zuko is too busy, though he wants to go. Ursa, or whatever she calls herself, refuses. Mai goes, not out of mercy, but for her own need. She does not want Azula to remain a mystery, not for her, and certainly not for Izumi.

“Take me to my sister,” she tells the palace guard, a dead-faced burly woman with bandages wrapped tightly around her neck. That is what Azula is and has always been—her sister, more blood shared and shed than her own little brother. Izumi is her niece. They have the same dragon eyes. Azula is her sister.

The guard bows and says, “She’s been sedated for the high sun, my lady. The doctors advise we wait ’til night before rousing her.”

Mai says, “I’ve dealt with her in a temper during a comet. I can handle her at noon.”

The palace is not made of wood, that is the first thing Mai notices. Its walls protrude from the limestone cliffs almost like an Air Temple terrace. The household has been carved into the mountains themselves. The walls are richly painted, of course, and there is some charming animal sculpture, made of stone. Mai stops at a meditation garden made of sand and stares at the center, a piece of blasted obsidian.

The guard says, “My lady, be careful. It’s hot to the touch.”

Mai almost smiles, and follows the guard into the caves. In the anteroom of the princess’ personal rooms one of Ty Lee’s sisters stands guard, carrying a fire-proof robe. She bows. Mai inclines her head.

Ty Wu says, “It gets colder in here. For her own good. Wear this, just in case.” The guard shifts uneasily. Mai sniffs. She smells aloe vera, calendula, gotu kola. It’s familiar, Ty Lee’s own herbal remedy for Azula’s temper tantrums. She had always been careful not to leave scars; the ointment was always enough to make sure the burns didn’t fester.

Mai says, “Thank you,” and puts on the robe. She can still get her throwing knives, if need be.

Azula is kept in the dark in the brightest time of the day, away from the sun. The manmade cave is cool. Water beads through the limestone walls; Mai pauses and studies a dying fresco in the hall. A figure with long hair, profile partially obliterated, balances on a ball, hand in a teaching pose. With a start she realizes why this place looks like an Air Temple-style terrace: it was one. She reaches with her finger and touches where the master’s arrow should be. It seems appropriate that Sozen’s granddaughter should be kept in a prison of the Fire Nation’s own crimes. Doubtless Aang would disagree. She wonders who this is: Yangchen? Or another Air Temple sage, whose name has been burnt away?

Grimly she turns away from the wall. There is one more door, a heavy stone specially imported by the Earth Kingdom: cold granite, which could not be blasted as easily as the Fire Nation’s limestone. Ty Wu and Mai relax into a fighting posture. The guard, grunting, pushes the stone away.

At the center of the room, in the darkness, Azula drowses in her sedated sleep. They’ve dressed her in white—morbid, she looks like the corpse Katara should have left her. Mai wishes she had taken Karata up on her offer, to accompany her here, but she does has her pride, and Zuko would be upset that she brought her rather than him. But Zuko should not see his sister like this; what his mother did is bad enough. Mai can carry this for both of them.

Ty Wu says flatly, “I don’t recommend waking her. You should’ve waited ’til night. She’s safer then.”

Mai says, “Why did you dress her up like a corpse?”

Ty Wu shrugs.

Mai steps into the room. Azula opens one lazy dragon’s eye and says, “I’m not dead yet. And if I were, I’d have better taste than to haunt you.”

Involuntarily Mai smiles. Azula undulates, twisting herself into a sitting position. Mai fingers her knife. They’ve cut Azula’s hair short, but according to the reports that cross her desk before the Fire Lord’s, she asked for it to be done. She wants to look less like her mother. She cannot stop seeing Ursa in the mirror, and it was either that or a face tattoo.

Mai says, “It’s been a long time.”

“Oh yes,” Azula says. “Yes. So they tell me. You’ve settled in nicely as Fire Lady, I’ve heard. Newsletter from the capital.” She smiles sword-sharp. Ozai’s faction briefly attempted to rally around Azula’s legitimate claim, but they have been thoroughly discredited. Mai knows, she had the most stringent voice assassinated last week. They have not been in communication with the mad princess. No one is. Azula says, voice rising, “Well? Aren’t you going to sit?”

Mai waits for her eyes to adjust to the dark. A table hewn from stone sits before Azula’s bedroll. There are few decorations.

Azula says, “Oh, this is just where I sleep. Away from the light, like a badgermole. But I haven’t gone blind yet.”

Mai sighs. “How boring,” she says. She sits down and withdraws one of her knives. “You talk the same. Everything’s a threat, with you. Shame you can’t back it up.”

Azula says, “And you came here to gloat. How kind of you. Does my brother know? Tell little Zuzu I know his tricks. Sending you to…check on me isn’t going to work. I’m not like our mother. I’m not weak. I know who I am, and I’m never going to ask to take that away from me.”

Mai says, “I’ve heard Iroh came to visit. Did he make you tea?”

Azula scowls. “He brought his own. Chilled. I threw it in his face!”

Mai thinks, good for you. Drily she says, “He really does push those redemption narratives.”

“No,” Azula says. “He thinks I should be put down like a dog, and told me so. He’s stronger than Zuzu. He should’ve let that waterbender bitch do it, if he couldn’t do it himself. Or you.” She looks at Mai expectantly. “Have you finally come to put me out of my misery?”

“You don’t seem that miserable to me,” Mai says. “I’ll wait until you beg. And then, maybe.” She smiles as Azula begins to laugh. “Maybe, if you’re nice to me.”

Azula says peremptorily, “Where’s Ty Lee?”

“Far away from you,” Ty Wu says behind them. Mai shoots her a warning glance but she looks unrepentant, staring at Azula with an ugly look on her face. When Mai told Ty Lee she was visiting Azula, Ty Lee did not even respond. She just continued to chatter on about the tea Iron had sent the Kyoshi Warriors, which they had ceremoniously burned in front of the statue of the Avatar as a sign that they will never submit to Fire Nation flattery. Even though they had taken Ty Lee in.

Mai says, “I had a daughter. Your mother refused to see her, of course, and I won’t bring a baby to see you. But when she’s old enough to travel and think for herself, I’m going to bring her to look at you. To remember what the Fire Nation did to you. And I’m going to bring Katara too.”

Azula says, “Oh, now who’s talking threats? How good for you. What do I care about some mewling brat—I take it Zuko brought her to our father, too? I hope he spat on her! He was the runt of the litter and all he can produce is runts, he is leading our nation to ruin and you—“ She lunges at Mai, but Ty Wu darts in and stabs at her sixteen different chakra points. Azula’s face twists in anguish.

The guard says, “Ty Wu!” She rushes to catch Azula before she falls over the stone table, and places her back on the bedroll.

Mai has not even moved. Face stoney, she stares down at Azula, paralyzed in the dark.

Ty Wu says, “You should have waited ’til night to see her, my lady. She gets nasty in the afternoon.”

Mai says, “Oh, I know.” Pale she stares down at her. She says, “You don’t have any hold on me anymore, you get that? And your ghost isn’t going to haunt my daughter. What Ozai did—what Ursa did—it ends here. I won’t let this family fuck up my daughter the way they fucked up you.”

Azula’s eyes widen but she cannot move her mouth. Ty Wu grabs her roughly and leans her against the wall, and shoves a cloth into her mouth.

“So she won’t choke,” she says. “Or bite her own tongue. Not like she ever showed Ty Lee the same kindness.”

Mai snaps, “Be kind anyway.” She pivots, leaving Azula with that silent scream in her throat, and walks into the heavy sun.

[emmerrr]

Possible prompt if you’re interested could be Declan finally seeing one of the portraits Jordan does of him! Alternatively, jordeclan moving in together and creating a space where neither of them has to hide themself in an attic

i can’t resist a moving in fic and i’m sorry this took so long

-

It’s late afternoon when the final box is removed from the moving van, and just for a moment, the excitement is overshadowed by the overwhelming task of unpacking that lies ahead.

Boxes, boxes, everywhere. Declan closes the front door and follows a trail of them to the bedroom where he finds Jordan, curled up on top of the bed they’ve not long finished making. Her eyes are shut, her breathing even, but Declan isn’t fooled.

He crosses his arms and leans nonchalantly against the doorframe. “Faker.”

Jordan affects a snore which makes Declan laugh, and she opens an eye, that wicked grin that stole his heart spreading across her face. She pats the empty space beside her. “You know you want to.”

He really, really does. He kicks off his shoes and crawls up beside her, his feet instantly grateful for the reprieve. He groans happily, sinking his face into the softest pillow in the world. He feels Jordan press her face into his arm and turns his head, and for a moment they just watch each other.

“We have so much unpacking to do,” Declan finally says.

Jordan nods. “We do. Don’t worry, it’s not going anywhere.” She lifts Declan’s arm and tucks herself underneath, then kisses his collarbone.

He sighs, happily resigned to his fate. The house is still a mess of boxes, they need some more furniture, and the whole thing is still too new and alien for it to quite feel like home. But with Jordan in his arms, nodding off to sleep in the bed they now share in the place that’s just theirs, it’s the closest to home Declan’s ever felt.

-

“What do you think?”

“It’s hideous.”

“Isn’t it?” Jordan says dreamily. “Sit on it.”

Declan eyes the armchair dubiously. It’s some kind of paisley print in the most garish of colour schemes; bright pink and orange, smatterings of yellow and turquoise. “It won’t go with the rest of the living room furniture,” he tries.

“Your doubts are duly noted,” Jordan says sagely. “Sit.”

“...This feels like a trap.”

“Sit.”

Declan sits.

It’s the most comfortable chair he’s ever had the pleasure of sitting on, and he does everything he can not to let his face give that fact away. He shrugs. “It’s alright.”

Jordan grins the grin of the triumphant, and Declan knows they’re getting it.

He tries to imagine it in their space, and suddenly finds that he can. He can picture where it will go; at an angle, equidistant from the fireplace and the TV. He can picture them in the winter, him and Jordan cuddled up together, blanket tossed over them, snow falling outside, the light of the fire covering the whole room in a cozy glow.

He thinks he might be going soft, and he thinks that might be okay.

“I told you we’d find something in a thrift store,” Jordan says, her fingers twined through his as she leads him to the checkout counter.

He pulls her hand to his mouth, kisses it gently. “So you did.”

-

The furniture is pulled back from the walls and newspaper covers the floor as Jordan and Declan stand, paint rollers in hand, transforming their bedroom walls from a bland and safe off-white to a lovely deep forest-green.

Jordan’s phone is playing music through wireless speakers, a playlist that seems to jump from Rihanna to Metallica to Taylor Swift to Arcade Fire to some K-pop band Declan doesn’t know the name of, and so on, in no discernable pattern that he can follow.

“What playlist is this?”

Jordan smiles wryly. “It’s all songs that Hennessy hates.”

Declan thinks about that, and about all the canvases in the spare room that Jordan has set up as her art studio, original pieces that she started and then aborted.

“Is there still a part of you,” he says carefully, “that thinks everything you like, or create, or choose, is really just some facet of Hennessy’s personality and not truly your own?”

Jordan’s expression hardens, and he knows he’s hit a nerve. “That depends,” she says evenly. “Is there still a part of you that thinks this is doomed? You and me?”

It’s Declan’s turn for a wry smile. “Touché.”

Their love story is a unique one, and Declan can’t deny he’s had his moments of thinking that it’s all going to end in flames. But through it all he also knows that he’d still be here, even if they were heading towards their inevitable end. He wants this, for as long as he can have it.

It’s hard to stop constantly thinking about worst case scenarios, because it’s so ingrained in Declan to do just that. But Jordan quiets that part of his brain with a touch, or even a look. Just being in her presence is a balm to his heart and his mind.

They’re happy. And maybe they’ll be okay. Who’s to say?

“For the record,” he says at last, “I don’t think this is doomed.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “No. And also, you are your own person, independent of Hennessy.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

Jordan puts down her roller, and cups Declan’s face, bringing it down to hers as she kisses him. She’s probably getting paint on his face, but he doesn’t care; not now, not ever.

“For what it’s worth, you are the best choice I ever made,” she says fiercely, her forehead pressed to his.

He kisses her again, soft. “It’s worth everything.”

-

“When are you going to put your paintings up?”

It’s a fair question. They’ve been here almost four months now, and everything from Declan’s attic in the D.C. house is still leaning up against the wall in Jordan’s art studio, covered over.

“There’s no attic here.”

“Ha, ha,” Jordan says sarcastically.

The truth is, he doesn’t know quite why he hasn’t gotten around to it. At first it was for practical reasons; they had painting and other repair work to do in several rooms, so it made sense to wait until that was all finished.

But it is finished now, and it has been for weeks, and other art pieces and photographs have gone up; some of it Jordan’s own work, some that she bought (or stole) once upon a time, some that they bought together. But nothing from his own collection, nothing that he had kept locked up for his eyes only until Jordan had shown up and gently prised the key from his hand.

His silence drags for so long that Jordan drops the sarcasm. She puts her hand on his chest. “This is our place. Yours and mine. You don’t have to hide here.”

Because he has been hiding away, for years, so much so that it’s habit more than anything that seemingly forbade him from doing anything that wasn’t cookie-cutter.

But Jordan sees him, she knows him; the real him behind the slick, designer veneer, and that’s the part she loves.

The part that wears fancy shoes.

“Come on, then,” he says, taking her hand. “You can help me decide where they should go.”

“I’m so glad you said that because actually I already have some ideas,” she says, and that's how they spend the afternoon.

They take Declan out of the attic, one piece at a time.

-

It’s quiet when Declan gets home. He takes his shoes off by the door and hangs his coat up, then makes his way through the house, peeking in each of the rooms in search of Jordan.

She’s not in the living room, where Declan’s favourite hideous armchair now lives. Matthew fell asleep in it on New Year’s Eve, and Ronan drew a monocle and handlebar moustache on his face. It had been a quiet one; they’d played games most of the evening, almost all of which were won by Adam, and at midnight Ronan and Hennessy had been in charge of the dream fireworks they set off outside.

The kitchen is also empty when Declan scans it, his eyes lingering on the slight chip in one of the floorboards from where Jordan had dropped the admittedly ridiculously heavy cast-iron skillet when they were unpacking. He remembers accidentally flipping a pancake right out of the pan and onto the burner. He remembers burnt toast and spilt coffee and broken crockery, and various other messes, but most of all he remembers the laughter that went along with all of it. The dancing in the kitchen at 2am, the doing the dishes in companionable silence, the domesticity in helping each other prepare a meal.

These are the things Declan now thinks about when he thinks about the concept of home. Maybe it’s a place where the good memories you make outweigh the ones that hurt. Maybe home is what you make of it, the stamp you put on it to make it your own. Maybe home is a person. 

Maybe it’s a combination of all of those things.

Declan finds Jordan, inevitably, in her studio. She has headphones on which explains the quiet, and she’s working on a painting, the canvas almost as tall as she is. There’s no reference that Declan can see, and it’s not a copy. She’s painting just for the sake of it, a complete original.

He moves carefully around until he’s in Jordan’s eyeline, and the laser focus in her eyes shifts to a smile of delight when she spots him. There’s paint splattered on her overalls, specks of it on her face and in her hair, but she never looks more radiant than when she looks at Declan like this.

“You’re home!” she exclaims, pulling her headphones down.

“I am,” he agrees, warmth settling in his chest.

“I’d kiss you but I’m all painty.”

“I don’t care,” Declan says, and he closes the gap between them, sweeping her up into his arms as he kisses her, swallowing up her delighted little “oh!”

“You’re in a good mood,” she says with a laugh when he puts her down.

“Just happy to be home.” It’s so strange to finally be able to say that, and to really mean it. He’s home with Jordan, where he belongs. “You about ready to take a break? I was going to make coffee.”

“I’ll be out in a minute. Make me a latte?”

Declan smiles. “For you? Anything.”

[societybabylon]

Across from her, Harry’s eyes glittered dangerously. He looked tired but wild, like there was something lurking under his skin that only revealed itself in the dark.  

It was at that moment that she realized how little she knew him.  

“I remember waking up on that day, the day of your birthday,” Harry said, still cast in darkness. “I remember seeing the tattoo for the first time. I was terrified and angry, but I wondered…what if? What if we didn’t deny the bond?”

Lifelong enemies Allie and Harry are devastated when they learn they are soulmates, so they form a pact to never act on their bond. Unfortunately, fate has other plans for them.

[read on ao3 here]

“Do you want to know your fate?”

Allie watched the old man place a crystal ball on the table in front of him. The bauble was unassuming and slightly dirty. Honestly, Allie wouldn’t have been surprised if it were made of plastic. It, like everything else in the cluttered store, looked cheap and fake. But then again, what did she know about the world of psychics? That’s why she was here, after all: she wanted answers about her future.

It was the day before Allie’s thirteenth birthday, and she was at a fortuneteller’s shop. Her friend Becca had insisted they come here to celebrate her impending soulmate reveal. Perhaps, Becca said, they could get a little insight into who she would be paired with.  

Allie’s world revolved around soulmates. When two people were ideally matched, an unbreakable soul bond tied the pair together. And two rules applied to all soulmates:

First, the bond was manifested in a tattoo. Everybody had their partner’s name written on their body somewhere. These tattoos didn’t require needles or ink; they showed up on their own, as if by magic.

Second, the tattooed names didn’t appear until the thirteenth birthday of the younger person in each couple. On that day, both soulmates would wake up to find themselves marked with their other half’s name.  

Assuming Allie’s soulmate was older than she was, there was only one day left until she learned who she was bonded to.  

Allie gazed at the crystal ball. Behind the fortuneteller, a pink neon sign buzzed an electric tune. The lights cast a dim glow throughout the small store.  

The psychic seemed over-the-top to her, not that she would ever tell Becca that. The man sitting across from her seemed more like a crackpot than a sage. His greasy hair hung in his face, so long that it nearly obscured his eyes. He reeked of licorice and burnt lavender. But they had already paid the man his fee, so they might as well hear what predictions he could conjure up for them.

“Do you want to know your fate?” he repeated. “Once you learn it, you can’t go back.”

“Yes,” Allie said. “I’m ready.”

The fortuneteller muttered a few unintelligible words and stared deeply into the crystal ball. “Hmm...it’s foggy, but some images are starting to come into focus. Ah, yes. I can see it now.”

To Allie, the crystal ball looked exactly as it did before.  

“I see money stained with blood. Tears and white bedsheets. Two bodies, submerged in water. A cellphone is ringing, but no one is picking up.”

“Okay,” Allie tried to figure out how to respond to this prophecy. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but she certainly hadn’t thought he would list such unpleasant images. “But what does that mean?”

“These images foretell rejection and denial. You will learn who your soulmate is tomorrow, but you will be unhappy when you learn who you have been paired with. This bond will confuse you and bring you unhappiness. Yes, I definitely sense rejection and denial.”

Allie was stunned. “Do you see anything else? Like, happiness and love, maybe?”

“I cannot see specifics,” he responded with contempt. “That is not how my gift works.”

Of course the fraud fortuneteller wouldn’t be able to see specifics. She had shelled out good money for him to ruin her day. She protested, “But—”

The man cut her off with a dismissive wave. “Do not disrespect my craft. Just because you demand answers of me doesn’t mean that I’ll give them to you. I only see what the universe shows me.”

Allie glanced back at the crystal ball, which was still maddeningly clear. There were no bloodied dollar bills, no ringing cellphones. The fortuneteller could have invented any story he wanted. He could have reported that he had seen her in a happy relationship and with a successful career. And yet he deliberately chose to give her a bad fortune.  

“You must see something good in the crystal ball, right?” Becca murmured. She had been quietly listening in on the conversation between Allie and the psychic for the last fifteen minutes, mostly content to observe. “I mean, it can’t all be bad.”

“Actually, it can,” the man snapped. “I do not control your future. I merely pass on the messages that the universe sends me.”

“So you’re saying that rejection is my fate, and there’s nothing I can do to change that?” Allie said.

The man nodded eagerly, as if glad that she was finally catching on. “Precisely.”

“And why should I believe that?” Allie usually wasn’t so confrontational, especially with adults, but this fortuneteller was an exception. What did he know about her soulmate? Nothing.

The man scrutinized her frowning face. His lips went thin with irritation. “I think we are done here. I’ve told you what I saw. It’s not my problem if you don’t like the truth.”

Allie nearly scoffed. He read tea leaves and tarot cards for a living. He probably got pleasure out of ruining his customers’ days. Staring into a crystal ball and mumbling about dark visions wasn’t the truth, it was a cruel joke.

At least, she hoped it was a joke. There was a part of her (a part she tried to ignore) that worried that his predictions might come to pass. She pictured the images the man had mentioned—blood, tears, bodies in water—and she saw death. She shivered at the thought.

“Thanks for the crystal ball reading,” Becca cut in before Allie could offend the fortuneteller even more. “Well, we should probably go. My mom’s waiting for us outside.”

The fortuneteller wasn’t even listening. His attention had strayed to a stained, crumpled box of cigarettes that sat by his side. He picked one cigarette from the pack and sparked it with a pink lighter from his pocket.

Allie felt anger on her tongue, ready to be sharpened into spiteful words, but she could see that Becca was anxious to leave. She smothered her fury for her friend’s sake. “Yeah, thanks for the fortune.”

She stood up and walked out of the store with Becca. As the wooden door swung shut behind her, she turned around to give the fortuneteller one last glance. Thick smoke swirled around his head. His eyes were closed as if he had already forgotten that they were there.  

What did a man like that know about her fate?

+

The next day, Allie woke up at five in the morning. She was too giddy to go back to sleep. Despite how horribly the visit to the fortuneteller had gone, she was still excited by the potential of finding out who she was bonded to. She’d been waiting her entire life to see her soulmate’s name tattooed on her.  

She checked her wrists, a common spot for soulmate marks. They were blank. Her arms and legs, too, were bare. In fact, every visible inch of skin was unmarked.

Don’t worry, she reminded herself. It’s probably just hidden under some clothing.

She lifted the edge of her pajama shirt and walked to her mirror to get a closer look at herself. As she scanned over the planes of her stomach and saw more blank skin, she felt growing disappointment. It seemed that she hadn’t gotten her tattoo after all. Her soulmate was probably younger than she was, which meant she would have to wait until his thirteenth birthday to find out who he was.

But then she spotted a scribble of black near her waist. The writing was scrawled across her left hipbone in messy, boyish letters. She bent down to get a closer look at the words.  

Harry Bingham.

She gasped.  

Harry Bingham? No, it wasn’t possible. Harry had been her sister’s sworn enemy since preschool, which meant that by default, she and Harry were also enemies. Almost every time they had a conversation (a misfortune she did her best to avoid), he was arrogant and entitled and cruel.  

“No, no, no,” Allie said to herself. “This can’t be real.”

She paced her room, trying to rationalize why she was paired with Harry. She and Harry were nothing alike. It should have been impossible for them to be soulmates.  

Maybe this was some sort of cosmic joke, or the universe’s revenge for the times she’d been a bad person. Or maybe, while she had been sleeping, her sister decided to write Harry’s name on her as a prank. All those explanations were more logical than the thought that she might actually soulmates with Harry Bingham.

“This can’t be real,” she repeated.

But the ink was underneath her skin. As much as she wished that she could blink and watch the tattoo vanish before her eyes, she knew the mark was permanent. It would stay on her body forever, reminding her of the boy she’d been chained to.

When she took her shower later that morning, Allie tried, in a half-crazed stupor, to wash the name from her body. She scrubbed with her loofa until her skin was raw and red. But Harry’s name was still printed on her hipbone.  

After the shower, Allie dressed hastily, as if covering the mark would mean that it no longer existed. She even considered stealing a bottle of concealer from her sister’s room and smearing the makeup over her hip, but she feared that Cassandra would catch her in the act. Her mind was racing for solutions, and yet she was paralyzed by inaction.  

She curled up on her covers, her hair still damp. She was too stunned to cry. Instead, she just stared at the walls, trying to decode the mess she had landed in.  

By ten, Allie knew she could not hide in her room any longer. She crept downstairs to the kitchen, where her dad was flipping pancakes and humming along to a pop song. Cassandra and her mom were setting the table for breakfast. They had even put out a vase filled with her favorite peonies.  

“Morning, birthday girl,” her mom said.  

“Morning,” Allie replied, faking a grin. Her lower lip trembled from her anxiety.  

“I’m surprised you woke up late,” her dad said. “I remember waking up at the crack of dawn on my thirteenth birthday. I was so anxious I almost got sick. And then it turned out that there wasn’t even a tattoo on me!”  

“Sorry, dad, but even my birthday isn’t enough to get me to wake up early.” Lie. 

“You ready for breakfast?”

“Of course.” Another lie. Truthfully, she was terrified. She knew her family would use breakfast as an opportunity to spring the dreaded question: do you know who your soulmate is?

Her dad plated the golden pancakes and coated them with pats of butter and gooey, sugary syrup. He brought the food to the table, and they all sat down to eat.  

Allie shoved pieces of pancake into her mouth as if she were Joey Chestnut on steroids. She hoped that if her cheeks were stuffed with food, her family would let her eat her breakfast in peace instead of poking her for information.  

Across from Allie, Cassandra was only on her second bite of breakfast. She had cut her pancakes into delicate, precise slices and had taken care to ensure the syrup was evenly distributed. Even when taking sips from her orange juice, she was polished.

Perfect Cassandra, Allie thought. She would never be bound to someone as awful as Harry.  

“I remember my thirteenth birthday,” Allie’s mom said in between bites of pancake, seemingly clueless to the turmoil tearing her daughter apart. “I woke up and saw your dad’s name on the inside of my arm. But I had no clue who he was! Your generation is lucky to have the internet. You can Google your soulmate’s name and immediately find out who they are. We were in the dark about our soulmates until we met them in person.”

“Unless you knew your soulmate before you turned thirteen,” Cassandra pointed out. “Like, if you were paired up with someone that went to elementary school with you. Then you wouldn’t need the internet to help find them.”

Allie almost choked on her juice. That comment was uncomfortably close to her reality.

“I suppose that’s true,” her mom said. “That’s very rare, though. Your dad and I met when we were twenty-two, and we met earlier than most.”

“Well, I think it’s better not to use the internet to find your soulmate,” Cassandra declared. She said this frequently, especially when she was asked why she didn’t have social media. “I think you should meet your soulmate naturally, as you were supposed to.”

“So, Allie,” her mom turned to look at her. “Do you have any news for us yet?”

Allie went red. This conversation felt intensely wrong. Worse than the “sex talk” her parents had given her when she was eight. Although she had never considered it before, she wondered why her family felt like they were entitled to this information about her body and her future. Their society had bought into the idea that everyone should wear their soulmate tattoos like a badge of honor—but shouldn’t people be allowed to keep this information private?  

Allie was ashamed of her mark. She didn’t want to admit that she had been paired with West Ham’s most obnoxious idiot.  

“I don’t have a tattoo yet,” Allie lied, desperately hoping that her family would buy her act. “Guess he must be younger than me.”  

“Oh,” her mom said, clearly a little surprised. Her mom and her dad shared a look. “Well, that’s okay, honey. I’m sure you’ll find out who he is soon enough. Your thirteenth birthday doesn’t have to be all about finding your soulmate. You’re so young! You can worry about that later. Today’s still going to be a great day. ”

Allie almost laughed. Her parents thought she would be upset because she hadn’t gotten her tattoo. If they knew the truth...

“Yeah,” Allie said, grateful that her family didn’t prod further. And then she told her greatest lie of the morning. “I don’t really care about soulmates, anyway.”  

+

After breakfast, while her parents washed the dishes, Allie went back to hiding in her bedroom. She buried her head in the covers of her bed and let her emotions swallow her.

Harry Bingham, she thought again. How on Earth could I have been paired with Harry Bingham? We’re nothing alike.

She startled at the sound of her door swinging open. It was her sister. Cassandra wore a small, close-lipped smile that set Allie’s nerves on fire. Allie realized immediately that despite escaping the breakfast interrogation, she hadn’t escaped her sister.  

Cassandra sat down on the bed.

“You know you can knock, right?” Allie asked sharply.

“Sorry,” Cassandra said, entirely unapologetic. “So, who is it?”  

It was unlike Cassandra to be so upfront. Usually, she was the more reserved one, always telling Allie to calm down or be more patient.  

“It’s nobody. I told you, I didn’t find a tattoo on my body.”

“I know you’re lying,” Cassandra said. “I can hear it in your voice. You can fool mom and dad, but you can’t fool me.”

Anxiety shot through Allie. She thought that her performance at breakfast was Oscar-worthy, but as always, Cassandra saw through her lies. “I don’t want to tell you, okay? It’s none of your business.”

“I told you the second I found out who mine was.” Cassandra emphasized her point by sticking her wrist, which was encircled with blank ink, in Allie’s face.  

Allie could feel her panic growing. Her sister had a point, but Allie couldn’t possibly tell her the truth. How could she?

Allie imagined speaking Harry’s name aloud. She pictured her sister’s reaction, her mouth gaping wide and her eyebrows raised in shock. Cassandra would stutter out a kind response. She would try to make her congratulations sound convincing. Yet no matter what was said, they would both know the truth: Cassandra hated Harry, truly hated him. And that would never change.  

No, Allie could not tell the truth.  

“Just tell me.” Cassandra pushed. “I’m your sister. You can trust me.”

Allie’s eyes filled with stinging tears. “I do trust you, I promise. But I can’t tell you. Please, Cassandra, please just take my word for it. Please.”

Her sister looked bewildered. Allie knew Cassandra had never seen her beg like this before.  

“Fine.” Allie could hear the hurt in her sister’s voice. “You have to tell me one day, though. A soulmate’s not the kind of secret you can hide forever.”

Maybe not, Allie thought. But I can try.

+

When Allie arrived at school the next day, she was determined to corner Harry and confront him about the tattoo.  

As it turned out, she didn’t need to search for him. While she was walking down the hallway, a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her behind the lockers into a tight nook. It was Harry. Anger blazed in his eyes. He held up a cautious finger to his lips, shushing her. “Don’t say a word.”

Allie nodded. He stared at her suspiciously, as if he was worried that she would start screaming.  

“I think you probably know why I wanted to talk. I’m guessing it was your thirteenth birthday yesterday, Pressman. I don’t know what else could explain the tattoo I woke up with. And to think that I thought I would have a soulmate I liked.” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. “You probably prayed every night that you would end up with someone like me, huh?”

He was infuriating. She couldn’t believe that he had the audacity to think that she would ever be interested in him.

“You think you’re so special, don’t you?” Allie said. “Harry, you’re pretty much the last person I’d want to be bonded to.”

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual. You think I want to be part of your shitty family?”  

That was one step too far. She was half considering throwing a punch at him. She could do it if she wanted; in this nook, they were hidden from the eyes of their teachers and classmates.

“You’re an asshole,” she spat.

“Bitch.”

Allie wished she could vaporize him on the spot. How could she have been chained to such a callous jerk?  

She thought of clever retorts she could say to him, insults that would permanently puncture his inflated pride. Though Cassandra was usually in the spotlight for her intelligence, no one could beat Allie’s wit. She could trade barbs with the best.

Allie considered those rumors that she had overheard about his parents’ loveless marriage. Yes, that would be a fertile site for insults.  

She opened her mouth, prepared to escalate the argument. But she stopped herself before she could say anything.  

What good would fighting with Harry do? At the end of the day, she would still have his name written on her hip.  

Looking at him, she found that he, too, appeared to be at a loss for words. Though he still wore an angry sneer, his eyes were sad. It seemed that they both came to the same realization: they could hurl nasty words at each other for hours, but it wouldn’t fix their situation. If they wanted to overcome their bond, they’d have to work together.

“We’re stuck with each other until we die, aren’t we?” Harry let out a deep sigh. His furious mask cracked, and Allie glimpsed genuine misery and anxiety on his face.  

For a moment, neither of them said anything.  

Then, a brilliant thought struck Allie. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. “We don’t have to be stuck with each other. There are plenty of soulmates who reject the bond.”  

“I guess.” Harry scrutinized her. She could tell he was considering her suggestion. “But how would we make sure that we’ve rejected it permanently? I wouldn’t want you falling in love with me five years from now, Pressman.”

Allie rolled her eyes. “Harry, it’s us. There’s literally no way we’re ever going to be friends, much less…well, you know.”

He nodded. “Okay. So what are you thinking?”

In her mind, a plan started to fall into place. A simple, perfect plan. “We both have to promise that we’ll never speak of this…this bond to anyone else. Ever. We have to keep it a secret until the day we die.”

“Like a pact?” Harry asked.  

“Yes, a pact. Except a pact isn’t enough. We have to do more than that. Before we turn twenty, we both have to agree to get our marks covered up.”

Harry seemed much less certain about this suggestion. Covering up soulmate tattoos was technically illegal. Most tattoo artists outright refused to do it, and those who were caught in the act could face up to a year in jail time. Eventually, however, he conceded, “Okay, fine. I can agree to that. But you need to swear on your life that you’re going to get yours covered up, too. This is a two-way street, Pressman. If I’m going to jail, so are you.”

“I swear on my life I’ll...,” Allie paused, considering her words. “You know, I feel like we should have some official pledge or something. For example, I, Allie Pressman, swear on my life that I will never mention that my soulmate is Harry Bingham. I will do everything in my power to keep my tattoo hidden.”  

Harry snorted. “Who do you think you are? The queen? Let’s just shake on it and call it a day.”

Allie glared at him. “Just say the damn words, will you?”

“Fine. I, Harry Bingham, swear on my life that I will never mention my soulmate is Allie Pressman. I will do everything I can to keep my tattoo hidden. Yada yada yada, you get the gist. Can I go now?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were the one who pulled me behind these lockers in the first place.”

“Touché.”

Just like that, it was settled. Their soulmate marks were a secret that they alone would keep. And they would never, ever act on their bond.  

+

For two years after that, neither Harry nor Allie spoke about the curse they shared. They didn’t interact in the hallway or the classroom. They both pretended that the other didn’t exist, and they were both happy with this arrangement.  

While her classmates celebrated their budding relationships or dreamed of the day they met their other half, Allie fantasized about getting a new, large tattoo to cover up the one on her hip. She was fifteen now; there were only a few more years until she could write Harry off as a memory.

Sometimes, she heard murmurs about him in the hallway. Sometimes, it seemed all of West Ham High School wanted to know his soulmate’s identity. Between his looks and his wealth, Harry was considered an ideal match. But no one was ever able to discover whose name was on his body.

Harry was hardly a factor in her life, much less her soulmate. He was a problem that she had solved, and she was content to let him stay that way.  

+

Mid-October during her sophomore year of high school, Allie planned a trip to Manhattan. Her aunt, who lived in Virginia, was having a weekend getaway to the city, and she had invited both Allie and Cassandra to join for the last day of her vacation.  

A week before the trip, Allie reminded Cassandra (who was swamped with homework as always) about their aunt’s visit. “Do you want to come?”

“What day are you going?” her sister replied.

“This Sunday.”

Cassandra frowned. “I can’t. I have to study for a math test that day. My grade is on the edge right now, and if I do poorly on the exam, I’ll get a B+ in the class. I can’t risk it. Trust me, I would go if I could.”

Allie understood. She knew her sister wanted to go to Yale, and she had seen the statistics. The admissions rate was around six percent. Even for the best of students, Yale was a reach. Allie was a bit sad—the city was always more fun with Cassandra by her side—but she wasn’t a child anymore, and she didn’t need her sister to accompany her everywhere.

“It’s no problem,” Allie reassured. “Just let me know if there’s anything that you want me to buy for you while I’m down there.”

+

Allie went to the city alone, bringing only her black purse and her cell phone with her. She arrived at Penn Station in the early morning. Aunt Carly, decked out in her characteristic prints and bold colors, was waiting for her.  

“Allie!” her aunt hollered. Her obnoxiously bright orange-red lip gloss matched the color of her handbag perfectly. “It’s been so long since I last saw you. You look taller—have you grown?”

Allie gave her aunt a tight hug and laughed. “Since August? No, I don’t think so. Same height as always.”

“Any boys?” Her aunt asked with a wink.

Allie’s chest tightened. She hated that question, truly hated it. “Nope, no one yet. But I’m happy being single.”

Luckily, Aunt Carly dropped the subject, and moved on to talking about a list of all the clothes and books and trinkets the two of them would be splurging on throughout the day. There was no budget, it seemed; Aunt Carly acted as though her pockets were bottomless.

They spent the first part of the day shopping on Fifth Avenue and hopping into trendy boutiques. Aunt Carly bought dozens of clothes with dizzyingly high prices. By the time they went to eat lunch, her aunt had seven large shopping bags in her arms. Allie was more frugal; she had bought one bag’s worth of clothes.

After lunch, they spent their time exploring Manhattan. They meandered through the streets, grabbing snacks in between people watching. Allie loved the vibrancy and anonymity of urban life.  Here, she shed the labels that followed her in West Ham.  

After ending the day with burgers and fries at the Shake Shack in Grand Central Station, her aunt prepared to board her train back to Virginia. Her tiny frame was dwarfed by the assortment of large bags and suitcases she carried with her.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay walking back to Penn Station?” Aunt Carly asked. “I wish we had arranged a train for you from here. The walk is so far.”

“I’ll be fine,” Allie promised. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Actually, you know what?” Aunt Carly pulled her green wallet out of her purse and grabbed a couple of twenty-dollar bills from its folds. “I just don’t feel comfortable with you walking all that way. Take this money and take a cab. Please, do it for my peace of mind. I would feel much safer if you did.”

“Okay, I will,” Allie said, knowing full well that she was lying. “Have a safe trip home!”

Allie watched as her aunt took her bags and boarded the train. As soon as Carly was out of sight, she pocketed the money for herself. That money could be useful for another day. And, she thought, there was something kind of peaceful about a solitary night walk.

She left Grand Central and pulled up the directions to Penn Station on her phone. It was dark outside, but the way was straightforward enough, so she put away the phone and let herself fully absorb the city. She was mesmerized by the myriad of people who surrounded her. It was truly electric.

Allie peered into clubs where the night was only beginning, and where men and women knocked back liquor like it was water. She walked by a row of cramped food trucks, where the heavy scent of spices soaked in through her lungs and warmed her to the core. Compared to West Ham, New York City might as well have been another planet—a wondrous, delightful alien world.  

She must have taken a wrong turn, because she realized she had walked halfway down an alleyway she didn’t recognize. The near-omnipresent city crowd had disappeared. The only sounds were the quiet hum of cars on busy streets and the plinking sound of water dripping from a drainpipe onto the street.  

Allie suddenly felt very, very small.

She couldn’t have gone too far from a main street. So she told herself that she shouldn’t be worrying, really. All she had to do was walk through to the other end of the alley. Once she was back on a major road, she could pull out her phone again and check for directions.

Allie walked down the narrow street, thinking, for the first time, that maybe she should have taken that cab after all. In polluted Manhattan, there were no stars to light her way. The drainpipe’s dripping water drummed an eerie rhythm—plink, plink, plink.

Behind her, slow footsteps made squishing sounds on the wet pavement. She glanced over her shoulder quickly. It was a man, tall and blonde, strolling nonchalantly toward her. He seemed to have emerged fully formed from shadow. His eyes traced over her with feigned disinterest, only to light up when he set his sights on her purse and shopping bag.  

She picked up her pace. The footsteps behind her sped up to match her strides.  

That couldn’t be a coincidence. A host of horrible nightmares burst into her head. Assault, murder, robbery...

She needed to walk faster.

Allie started scurrying down the street.  

So did he.  

When Allie glanced over her shoulder again, she could see the man closing in on her. Terrified, she broke into a sprint. But just as before, he mirrored her actions, and from the sound of it, he was a faster runner than she.  

A cold hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked her back mid-run. Allie tripped and went tumbling to the ground. The palm of her left hand scraped across gritty gravel, tearing her skin open. Blood oozed out from the cut and dribbled onto the street.

Allie stared up at the man with wide, stunned eyes. He whipped out a black glock from the pocket of his oversized jacket. His hands shook as if he had never pointed a killing weapon at another person before. Up close, he looked young, perhaps only one or two years older than her.  

Adrenaline jolted through her body, waking her up from her dreamy wandering. The pain of her injury receded as she focused on the weapon in front of her. This could be life or death, she realized. She had taken one wrong turn and ended up against the barrel of a gun.

“Give me your bags,” the man demanded.  

“What?”

“Did I fucking stutter?” And indeed, though his hands shook, his voice was calm.

The man jerked his gun in the direction of her purse and shopping bag as if his threat hadn’t been clear enough.  

“Okay, okay,” Allie said in rushed breaths.  

She took off her bags with her wounded hand and held them out to him. She stifled a cry as her purse’s handle bit into her skin. Her blood smeared over the metal, streaking it with red.

In a swift move, he snatched her belongings from her fingers. It amazed her how deftly he could move while still managing to point his gun at her.  

He quickly pulled her wallet out of her purse and rifled through paper bills quickly, including the money that her aunt had given her for a taxi. In the dim light of the alley, she could see her blood glistening on his fingertips, marking up every paper bill he touched.

He shut the wallet with a snap. His eyes darted nervously to each side of the alleyway, presumably checking to ensure no one had seen him rob her.  

“Now, close your eyes and count to thirty,” he ordered. For added intimidation, he waved his gun at her again. “And count slowly.”

Allie nearly whimpered with fear, but did as he said. She let her vision go dark. Without her sight, she couldn’t help but imagine his finger on the trigger, ready to kill her. She wasn’t putting up a fight. It would be an easy crime.  

“One. Two. Three…” she counted.  

But the shot never came. She heard the muffled thunk of fabric meeting heavy plastic, and then the squish of his feet as he sprinted down the alleyway. In seconds, she could no longer hear him at all. The city had swallowed him up. She was alone again.  

Allie opened her eyes and slowly rose from the ground. She winced as she plucked jagged pieces of gravel from her hands. She could still feel cold fear curling in her chest, although that emotion was quickly being replaced by the panicked realization that she had just lost her money and her ticket back home.

She was lucky about one thing: he hadn’t asked her to empty her pockets. Her phone was still tucked snuggly in the back pocket of her jeans.

+

Allie dialed Cassandra’s number. It was past midnight, so there was a high likelihood that her sister would already be asleep, especially since she had a test the next day. Her parents, notorious for going to bed early, would certainly already have dozed off.  

The line rang and rang, but Cassandra didn’t pick up. Then: Hi, you’ve reached Cassandra Pressman. Leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.

Since her sister’s phone had gone straight to voicemail, she would have to rely on someone else. She went through her contact list one by one, praying that at least one of her friends would pick up. Will, Becca, Gordie, Bean: none of them answered her calls.

The blood on her left hand had started to clot. Her cell was rapidly running out of battery. She needed someone to pick up.  

She scrolled through her contacts again, calling people she barely knew. She even called Elle Tomkins, who she had spoken maybe a total of three words to. Over and over, she was met with disappointment when no one picked up.

Allie was quickly running out of options when she came across a person she had tried to push to the corners of her mind. Her finger hovered over his name in her contact list. 

Harry Bingham.  

It seemed wrong to call him. Wrong, when he was constantly at Cassandra’s throat. Wrong, when they had done everything possible to ignore each other since she turned thirteen.  

You know what? Allie thought to herself. Fuck it.  

Before she could stop herself, she called him.  

He picked up on the second ring. “Hello?” His voice was thick with sleep.

“Hey. It’s Allie.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s the twenty-first century. I have caller I.D. What do you want?”

Ugh. Though his rudeness was no surprise, it still irked her. But at this point, it seemed like he was her only hope, so she tried to suppress her irritation. “Can I ask you a favor? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I have no one else to turn to and I’m scared and I don’t know what else to do.”

“Shit, Allie. Just spit it out.”

“I’m stuck in New York City. A man mugged me and took all my money and my ticket back home. I wouldn’t have called you, except I’ve already tried my family and all my friends. Can you come get me?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. In her head, she pictured him lying in bed, half-asleep and sneering at her. She imagined that he was hovering his finger over the red button on his phone, ready to end the call at any moment. Knowing Harry, he would probably hang up on her and go right back to sleep, and in the morning he’d forget that she’d ever called him.  

“Hello?” she said, breaking the silence. “Harry? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.” He sighed. “You’re going to owe me for this, Pressman.”

Relief rushed over her. “So you’ll do it?”

“Yeah, I will. Might be a couple of hours before I can get to you, though. I’m going to have to take an Amtrak or something, because my dad will get pissed if I start racking up miles on my car.” The trains from West Ham to Penn Station took an hour and a half minimum, and since fewer trains ran at night, the next train to the city probably wouldn’t be for a while. “Do you have somewhere safe to stay until then?”

“Um, I was just planning on waiting around at the train station.”

“Jesus Christ.” He cursed under his breath. “You so owe me for this. Alright, walk to the Waterwhite Hotel. It’s only two blocks from the station. Tell the person at the front desk that you’re a friend of the Bingham family. They’ll let you wait in the lobby until I show up.”

A cool rush of relief flooded her. “Harry? Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it. Like, seriously. Don’t mention this to anyone.”  

+

Harry arrived at the Waterwhite a little over two hours later. His shirt was rumpled and he looked like he desperately needed two shots of espresso. Allie had never seen him look so disheveled. He must have come immediately after she called him.  

Allie was waiting for him on a modern, dark blue couch in the hotel lobby. She watched as he walked over to the tall brunette working the reception desk. He smiled and said something to the woman. Her previously bored expression turned happy, and she pointed to where Allie was sitting. Allie could see him thanking her with one of his classic Bingham smiles before walking over to where she was waiting. Even bedraggled, he still somehow managed to charm.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. If he noticed her state of distress—her grimy shoes, her still-bloody hand, her tired red eyes—he did not comment on it.  

She nodded. “Thank you, again, Harry. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”  

He didn’t respond. They walked to the train station in near silence. The clacking of her shoes on the pavement was the only sound either of them made on the way there.

When they reached Penn Station, Harry paid for her Amtrak ticket back to West Ham in cash. This, too, was a near-wordless exchange. She thanked him. He merely grunted in response.

After waiting for thirty minutes, their train arrived. Unlike most trains out of the city, this one was near empty, occupied only by sleep-deprived workers commuting to their morning shift and a few odd stragglers.

Allie slid into a seat near the front of a car. Rather than sliding into the seat next to her, Harry spread himself out on the row of seats across from her. He rested his back against the window, stretched his legs across the seats, and let his feet dangle into the aisle.

Allie pulled out her phone to check the time. 3:23 a.m. was etched in glowing lights.  

The train rolled to a start. Harry closed his eyes and slouched in his seat as if he hoped to resume the sleep he had been enjoying before she had called. When he stretched his arms behind his head, his shirt rose to expose a sliver of skin by his hip.  

She could see the start of her name, inked on him in her penmanship. Allie Pressman. She had never seen it before. It pained her to look at it, although there was an almost beautiful quality to the tattoo. Unlike tattoos done by hand, a soulmate mark would never fade or need touch-ups.

He dropped his arms. The tattoo vanished under a cascade of black fabric.  

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” He was looking at her with half-shut eyes. So, he’d caught her staring after all.

Maybe it was sheer curiosity, or maybe her tiredness had made her weak, but she wanted to see those words on his skin.  

Without responding, Allie lifted the edge of her top and nudged down one side of her jeans so that his name was fully revealed. The tattoo was the same as always, stark black ink against pale skin. It felt strange to have her mark exposed to the world. No one had ever seen it but her.  

Harry followed her lead. He lifted the edge of his shirt, showing his tattoo to her once more. This time, she could see the entirety of her signature, like a claiming brand on a boy who despised her.  

They sat in silence, examining each other’s inked skin with fascination.  

“It’s weird, isn’t it? Seeing your name on someone else’s body,” she said.

“Yeah, very weird.” Harry tore his eyes away from her skin. Then, with a wry smirk, he said, “Almost as weird as having to cross state lines at three in the morning to pick up your enemy’s little sister.”

“Why did you help me?” she asked, genuinely curious.  

He looked surprised at her question. “Allie, I know what you and your sister think of me, but I’m not a bad person. I wasn’t going to leave you stranded in New York.”

Allie didn’t quite know what to say to that. Harry was right—she and Cassandra thought he was all West Ham’s worst traits distilled into one human being. Could it really be that after years of hating him, he was worth redeeming?

The train swayed hypnotically on the tracks. The cabin was quiet except for a man snoring three rows away from them. She and Harry stared at each other silently, truly seeing each other for the first time.  

He seemed different in this setting, she noticed. Away from his callous friends and his detached parents, he seemed lost and sad and beautiful and kind.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” she finally said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? And what exactly do you think of me? I know you don’t like me, so don’t even try to deny it.”

Allie rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t know, Harry. I think you’re richer than I’ll ever be. I think you’re smart but overconfident. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t think about you much at all.”

Harry smiled at her. Had she ever gotten a genuine smile from him before? She didn’t think so. She was used to his cold glares and bitter frowns, so this unfamiliar expression sent a shock of warmth through her.  

“Don’t think about me at all, huh?” he said. “I’m hurt. Here I was, thinking I’d been in your dreams since thirteen.”

“Haunting my nightmares, maybe,” she retorted.  

“Ouch.” He turned away from her to look out the window.  

Guilt flared up in Allie, although she wasn’t quite sure why. “As if you care what I think of you.”

He turned back to face her. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Why would you think I don’t care?” He sounded surprisingly genuine, completely dropping the teasing tone he’d previously used with her.  

Allie suddenly felt anxious. She was trapped on a train with Harry Bingham, and he kept subverting her expectations. Without the judgment of West Ham hanging over her head, she didn’t know how to behave around him.  

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I think that because of a conversation from many years ago, when we both agreed to pretend that there was nothing between us.”

The train’s fluorescent lights flickered out above them. For a moment, they were plunged into the dark. The only light was the blue glow of the city outside, which bounced brilliantly off Allie’s white sneakers.  

Across from her, Harry’s eyes glittered dangerously. He looked tired but wild, like there was something lurking under his skin that only revealed itself in the dark.  

It was at that moment that she realized how little she knew him.  

“I remember waking up on that day, the day of your birthday,” Harry said, still cast in darkness. “I remember seeing the tattoo for the first time. I was terrified and angry, but I wondered…what if? What if we didn’t deny the bond?”

Allie could feel her whole body tense up with renewed stress. She was grateful that the lights had gone out—hopefully, he couldn’t see her blushing.  

Why was he divulging this to her?

Harry laughed. The sound was sharp. When he spoke again, his voice was newly guarded. “I never wanted to be bonded with you. I still don’t. But when I look at the ink on my skin, I think of you. Always. So yes, Pressman, I do care what you think of me.”

The train’s lights startled back on. In the full light, Harry studied her for one more moment. His gaze was so intense it felt like it was burning her. She searched for the words to respond to him, but they kept getting stuck on the way to her tongue.  

Before she could come up with anything, he pulled a pair of earbuds from his pocket and shoved them in his ears. He closed his eyes, too, blocking out the sight of her. And just like that, he was back to ignoring her.

+

They arrived at the West Ham train station at five in the morning. The sun had not yet risen, and the dark sky was speckled with tiny stars. Just a short train ride had separated her from the everlasting citylight of New York. Her shopping spree and mugging almost felt as if they were figments of her imagination, although her scraped hands and the missing weight of her purse were painful reminders that the past twenty-four hours had been real.  

“Need a ride home?” Harry asked.  

“If you don’t mind.” She felt guilty for asking so much of him. She hadn’t even expected him to answer her call, and he had ended up coming all the way to New York to get her.  

“It’s whatever,” he said. He rubbed his tired eyes and took out the keys to his Maserati.  

Harry had parked next to the station. They got into the car like phantoms, sucked of all their energy.

Five minutes later, they turned onto Allie’s street. Harry made sure to pull over three houses before hers. That way, her family wouldn’t hear the purr of his engine or see her coming from his car.

“This is just between you and me, right?” Allie asked. “Just like before?”

Harry jerked his chin in response—a drowsy, clumsy attempt at a nod, she assumed. After a beat, he said, “Right. Just like before.”

There was nothing left for her to say to him. So she just said thanks, and then she exited the car.  

He zoomed off the second her door shut behind her. As she watched the silhouette of his Maserati drive out of sight, she was struck once more by what a wild night it had been. She had been saved by her worst enemy. She had sat by him on an old train and in a luxury vehicle. She had shown her mark to him. How out of character—perhaps she had been seized by a bout of insanity after she was mugged.  

She was thankful for his help. She was also ready to go back to forgetting that Harry even existed. With any luck, their relationship would return to the exact state it had been in before: nonexistent.  

[elderkale]

do you see me now? i’m right here, behind the mirror.

tell me we’ll never get used to it - do you see me now? i’m right here, behind the mirror.

His childhood stood out to him in the forefront of his mind, vivid and still, like a series of photos laid out neatly in an album, or an oil painting of roadkill three days old. What was that they said about time slowing before a disaster?

Something like that, except for a decade of his life.

“Troubled child.” That’s what they’d called him. “Ill. Unwell.” No specific terms—they’d thought him too young—but he had an idea of what they were saying behind the door. He was a doctor, after all.

There was irony in that, he thought. No, not irony—wrong word. Incongruous? Not him being troubled, the other thing.

He’d come to school late, by almost three months—an eternity, back then. What he’d give to have that back.

He remembered the crunch of gravel beneath tires, the chill of the car window when he pressed his forehead against it, the sting in his palms when the edges of the seatbelt dug into his skin.

Be good, he remembered them saying. Play nice. Do well. Yada yada yada. A hug, stiff and awkward, a firm hand on his shoulder that was just a bit too heavy and sent him stumbling. The rumble of a motor, and they were gone, a speck in the distance leaving nothing but a trail of smoke behind.

And him.

He hadn’t gone to class—no point, not on the first day. The woman at the front desk, with the long dress and dangling jewelry, and a smile so bright and stretched so wide it had scared him, offered to stay, to lead him to the library, to show him the grounds. He’d nodded, politely, meekly. The moment she glanced away, he’d turned and bolted, charging down the halls on little legs that hadn’t grown nearly as much as he’d hoped since then.

He’d thought about that day a lot through the years. Strange, the way things happen. What would have happened, back then and afterwards and now, if he’d gone another way. If he’d turned left instead of right, gone up the stairs or out the doors instead of down the hall. If he’d paid a little more attention to where he’d been going instead of glancing over his shoulder so much.

If he hadn’t crashed into her.

A loud yelp, a squeaking, skidding noise, and he was on his back, head throbbing, palms burning. She’d winced as she clambered to her feet, her knees skinned an angry, pinkish red.

For a moment, they’d just stared at each other.

Funny, how long a second can last.

And then she’d grabbed him, thin, pale fingers gripping his wrist tightly enough to cut off circulation, and dragged him into an alcove.

“Hey!” he’d protested, which he thought had been fair of him.

She’d already been on the ground, arranging her skirt over neatly folded legs. Begrudgingly, he’d slid down the wall and slumped onto the ground to face her. Such was the way of children.

“What are you running away from?” she’d asked.

“What makes you think I’m running away from anything?” he’d asked. The alcove had been small, an empty space beneath the stairs you wouldn’t have spotted unless you were looking, really looking. Cobwebs had hung from the slanted ceiling, brushing the tops of their heads, and they were practically squished against each other, but, back then, it had felt like the biggest place in the world. Like a secret cave.

“Well,” she’d said, the perfect picture of reason, “you’re running, and now you’re hiding. Most people don’t do that for fun.”

“You’re doing it,” he’d said. “Sort of.”

“Yeah, but I’m not most people.” She’d tilted her chin up pompously, and he’d felt like hitting her.

“Oh, yeah?” he’d sneered. “What makes you so special?”

“I’m very smart,” she’d said, clearly and plainly, like she was stating a fact.

“That’s stupid,” he’d said bluntly.

She’d nodded sagely. “Sounds like something a smart person would say.” There’d been a band-aid across her nose, and her hair had been a burnt reddish-brown, tangled into two ponytails that bore striking resemblances to the heads of mops. She’d looked about his age and, seriously, what lunatic had thought it was a good idea to lock a bunch of eight-year-olds up in a castle in the middle of nowhere? It was a catastrophe waiting to happen.

(Hardee-har-har.)

“Are you new too?” he’d asked.

“No,” she’d said. “Why, are you?”

“Obviously,” he’d said with a sniff, looking down his nose at her with disdain. Sometimes, back home, when he’d felt well enough to get out of bed, he’d sneak around the house and listen to his parents, the programs they’d left playing all day on the telly, the phone calls that always left his father either strutting around the house, pleased as punch, or sour-faced and growling and snarling at anyone who came near. He’d gotten used to imitating their haughty tones.

“How old are you?” she’d demanded.

“Eight,” he’d said.

“Oh.” She’d beamed—she’d cycled through emotions like they were pairs of socks, back then. Still did, it seemed. It used to send him reeling. “Me too!”

“Okay,” he’d said. Not the starting point one would expect, but a starting point nonetheless. He wasn’t very nice to her, but she wasn’t very nice to him, either, so he supposed it balanced out.

He wondered when it had all gone to shit.

*

“What,” Koschei had said one cold December night.

Theta had grinned, hair fluttering in the breeze. “Hiya!”

“What,” Koschei had repeated.

Theta had gestured at him to move over and, after a brief scramble, grabbed the edges of the windowsill and swung into his room. Koschei had leapt backwards, wrinkling his nose, as chunks of dirty snow tumbled in along with her, landing on the carpet.

“Vansell’s at home this week,” Theta had said in way of explanation, patting her hands dry against her coat. He’d wrinkled his nose at the wet brown stains she’d left and took a quick step out of arm’s reach.

“I know,” Koschei had said, watching her shrug out of her soiled coat (big and bulky and a shocking shade of highlighter yellow that he had no doubt she’d picked out herself) and kick off her boots.

She’d made a humming noise and flopped onto the armchair into the corner of the room. “The roof is nice,” she’d said. “You should come with me, sometime.”

He’d craned his neck to look up at the ceiling. “Is it cold?” he’d asked.

“Mhm.” Theta had been fiddling with the afghan Vansell had left slung across the back of the chair, twisting the fringe between her fingers.

“You’re stupid,” he’d informed her, as was custom at that point. She’d scrunched her face up in his direction, and he’d stuck out his tongue in retaliation. He’d flopped back down onto his bed and picked up the book he’d been flipping idly through when he’d heard the knock on the window. “Are you gonna stay there?”

“Yep,” she’d said, popping the P and pulling the afghan around her shoulders. She’d looked ridiculous, he’d thought, sitting there in pajamas that looked like they’d been through a shredder (knowing her, they probably had), feet not quite touching the ground.

He’d drifted off at some point, lulled to sleep by the rustle of frost-covered branches outside and the mind-numbingly dull plot of his book, her chatter fading into calming background noise.

When he’d woken up, she’d been gone, along with the biscuits he’d hidden in his desk.

*

Koschei supposed that, to some, he would have been considered a bully. It certainly was what he’d fancied himself, at the time. Theta too—partners in crime, in a sense. But only to a few. To most, they were just another duo of wandering weirdos. The nutter who never went to class and the serious one that coughed a lot, he once heard a janitor say.

They’d left a lot of messes.

They’d been close, she hadn’t lied about that. Maybe not him to her in the sense that she wanted, or her to him in the sense that he wanted, but close. Very close.

Predictably, this hadn’t been much help to either of them in their social pursuits.

Scuffles in the hallway were normal, expected, even, and if Koschei had a penny for every jibe and sneer that had made his stomach twist—their friendship, Theta’s family, his condition—he wouldn’t have had to stay at all. Yet, somehow, they were still the ones who’d get into trouble when they’d retaliate.

He remembered the glare that had been on Theta’s face as she’d watched Torvic, in all four and a half feet of compressed smugness and meanness, saunter out of the office, blameless, for the upteenth time. “‘M gonna kill ‘im,” she’d muttered around her puffy lip, and he’d nodded fervently.

He missed those days.

*

Oh, right. That’s when it had started veering off to hell.

*

Theta had grown bolder as time passed, and so had he. Sneaking across the roof of the dorms was, as Theta had declared, with all the smugness of the cat that had gotten the cream, “child’s play.”

“We are children,” Koschei had pointed out.

“Yeah, but we’re better.”

There was scarcely a day when they weren’t clambering over the roof or down the walls, or even through the gap in the gate and into the fields and woods beyond. Koschei hadn’t been foolish enough to believe that nobody knew, or that they were the only ones, though he suspected Theta might have been. He’d just counted himself lucky that nobody had phoned home.

Was it luck, he sometimes found himself thinking sometimes, or the opposite that had led him to follow them that night? Had it been the greatest thing to ever happen to them, or the worst? Philosophical and never-ending, and with more answers than he could shake a stick at, and not a single one of them clearer than a solid wall. Infuriating to no end. Sometimes he thought he’d chosen the wrong profession.

“When do you suppose the aliens are going to come?” Theta had asked. She’d taken her shoes off, despite the lingering chill, and was splashing her feet absent-mindedly in the river. It had been a big river, or big enough, and, sometimes, after the longest autumn storms, they would have to shout to hear each other over the rush of white water.

Not that night, though. That night, the water had been as gentle as a brook or a light spring breeze, breaking around Theta’s ankles and the smooth, worn stones in little ripples that Koschei had loved to drag his fingers through.

He’d contemplated the question for a moment, wrinkling his forehead and staring at the leaf he’d been shredding as if he might find the answer written in the veins. “Soon, I imagine,” he’d decided.

“I think they should hurry, don’t you?” Theta had said. “Earth’s boring. This part of Earth, at least.” She’d flopped back onto the bank, mindless of the pebbles digging into her back, kicking her legs and splashing water all over the both of them. “I’m dying down here!”

He never did learn the full story of what had happened that night. It wasn’t like they could have asked.

All he knew was that, one moment, he’d been sat on the bank, watching her braid a twig into her hair, and, in the next, he’d been knocked to the ground. The ensuing scuffle was but a blur in his memory, something he’d curse until the end of time because fuck.

He’d ended up losing (or what had constituted losing at the moment), and being kicked across the rocks. He still had the scar—a barely-there line, thin and white, across his shoulder—to prove it. There had been shouting, he remembered, and someone had been screaming—him or Theta or Torvic or all three of them, or maybe that had just been the noise in his head.

And then the water.

Theta had maintained that it had been purposeful. Koschei still believed he hadn’t had the faintest clue what he was doing. Not that it mattered.

The whole affair had been ridiculous, something more than clear to him now, looking back. A scuffle on the bank. But he could still appreciate what he’d felt at the time, which had been fear. Fear, and panic, and not much else. Desperation, too, and adrenaline. Very primal of him.

He could have drowned. He probably would have. Or maybe not. Who was he to know what had been going through the other boy’s head?

(Or maybe he knew too well. Not at the time, though. Not enough.)

And then—

And then—

He’d remember that moment for the rest of his life.

He hadn’t realized what had happened, not immediately. But Torvic’s weight had vanished, and he’d hauled himself out of the water, gagging and sputtering and spitting and shivering. It hadn’t been an instantaneous reaction, or one of horror or shock, like he’d seen described in stories. He’d scrubbed at his face with wet hands, rubbing at the sand and grit in his eyes, and it had taken him a few moments more to figure out why the water running down his arms was warm, and what that obnoxious fucking banging was.

It wouldn’t have taken a genius to see he was dead. Theta had still been swinging. Down and down and down and down. Splatters of blood had rained across her chest, her arms, her face, her hair, and he hadn’t been able to see her face.

“Theta,” he’d rasped, then coughed, more water spilling down his chin. “Theta,” he repeated. “Thete!”

A final swing and she’d stumbled back, stumbling on the rocky bank. Koschei had forced himself to his feet and staggered forwards. His legs had been shaking, though whether that had been from almost drowning (he’d regarded everything with a calmness that had almost been hysterical) or the body at his feet he hadn’t known. Still didn’t.

All in all, it had probably happened in a few seconds. But who could blame him for feeling like it had been an eternity?

He’d heard a thud, and the rattling of stones against each other. “I didn’t—” A breath like a death rattle, shaking hands reaching forwards. “He—”

Koschei had stepped over the body and kicked the bloody rock into the river. It had hit the water with a plop, and the droplets from the splash had been cold against his skin. “Theta,” he’d repeated, not for any particular reason—or one that he could think of, at least. Reassurance?

A hand on his sleeve, and he’d pulled her to her feet. How long had they stood there? His hair had been dry and his teeth chattering by the time she’d spoken again.

She’d cleared her throat, and her fingers twitched around his. “Water,” she’d whispered, voice hoarse.

She’d let go of him and crouched, grabbing his (its?) arms. “Water,” she’d repeated, voice stronger, dragging him (it) towards the bank. “Koschei!” she’d snapped when he didn’t move. “Help me.”

He’d heard somewhere, maybe in a film, that the body lost weight after death—the soul leaving the body. Or maybe that was just the water.

It had taken almost ten minutes to wade away from the rocky area by the shore, delayed slightly by Theta slipping and getting her foot stuck between two boulders, and another one to maneuver the body and push it away into the stronger currents.

And then they’d just stood there, waist-deep in a river neither of them were sure they had the strength to pull themselves or each other out of, watching the moonlight break against the water.

She’d never brought it up again, and neither had he.

*

It was almost laughable how desperate they’d been to make everything seem normal. They hadn’t needed to at all.

Not that nobody had noticed—it’s always rather difficult to overlook a missing child. He’d seen maybe one or two police officers on the first day, overheard a phone call on the third, and then nothing. He’d expected them to forget about him, but the speed at which everything had blown over had been astounding—nothing to spoil their good reputation, he supposed. Better to say a troubled child had run away then admit to having lost a perfectly normal one.

Troubled child. That’s what they’d started calling him.

They’d found the body a week later, bloated and rotted almost beyond recognition (or so he’d heard), caught on an overhanging branch a few miles down the River Irvine. Slipped and fell. How sad. This is why you have curfew. Their condolences. Please file all paperwork to a third-party outsource.

Torvic haunted the halls the way a graveyard haunts a highway, which is to say he didn’t. His room was cleaned, his name wiped from lists and his projects sorted neatly into files that vanished into cabinets that would never open again. There wasn’t anywhere a ghost could linger.

Nobody had even looked in their direction, and he’d felt his first stirs of what he’d later learn was called vindication.

*

If Koschei were more poetic, he’d have described their relationship as waves against a shore.

He didn’t want poetry. That had always been her.

There would be weeks where the most he’d see of her would be a flash of russet hair in the corridor, and she’d once gone a month skipping every class they’d shared (Which was, unfortunately, most of them. He’d ended up tracking her down in the art studio a week into the latest session of her silent treatment, and ended up with a tub of paste upended over his head for his troubles). Never for any reason he was privy to, and always coming back on her own terms. Never apologizing, either, or offering explanations; just sliding into the seat next to him or kicking his window open in the dead of night, regardless of time or roommates.

“It’s an asylum,” she’d stated one night, as blunt and self-assured as their very first conversation where she’d proclaimed her own cleverness, after a week of leaving every time he entered a room. She’d been lying upside-down on Vansell’s bed, hair brushing the floor and feet kicked up against the wall. Her heels had left scuffs on his posters that the other boy hadn’t stopped bitching about for weeks. “Clearly.” She’d hit another growth spurt recently, and her limbs had been long and gangly, like those of a newborn foal. She’d relished towering over him.

“Obviously,” he’d agreed, scratching out a word in his essay.

That wasn’t to say that he’d been entirely blameless, though. Fine, maybe he’d made a snide comment or three, and maybe his methods of retaliation were a bit cruel, and maybe throwing her bag out the window after finding her kissing Vansell (ugh) in their bathroom had been a bit much.

In his defence, he wasn’t the only one with a tendency to overreact. No matter what he’d said, the soup in his lap had definitely been unnecessary.

*

He wondered why anybody had been surprised when she started running away.

Not that she’d ever gotten far. Clever though she was, very few people were willing to pick up a hitchhiker in a dirty school uniform in the dead of night, and even she couldn’t walk all the way to Glasgow (though that hadn’t stopped her from trying).

“What the hell are you even trying to do?” he’d asked one night after she’d been dragged back, disgruntled and smelling like hot garbage, by an officer who’d worn on his face the weariness of a man who’d done a job a hundred times, and knew he’d have to do it another hundred times more. “No, don’t answer that,” he’d said, cutting her off. “Seriously, what are you doing?”

She’d shrugged, looking put-together in a way he’d never have expected from someone who’d reportedly been caught chasing a fox into an alley. “The tea’s better in Darvel,” she’d said primly.

He’d stared at her. “We have an exam tomorrow,” was all he’d managed to say.

“I know.”

“And you were in Darvel.”

“Newmilns, actually,” she’d said cheerfully. “Charming couple on the road, they gave me a lift.”

“No, they didn’t.”

“Well, they were going to.” She’d rolled her eyes, and Koschei had considered screaming. “But then the police caught up.”

“Fuck’s sake.” He’d felt faint.

“What?”

“You—” He’d scrubbed his hands down his face. His face had been prickly with the beginnings of stubble that she’d teased him mercilessly for (she’d pretended to sand a block of wood against his jaw at one point, and he’d hidden Ushas’s keys and told her Theta had been the one to take them. The fallout had been extraordinary). “You can’t just walk around Scotland.”

“Why not?” she’d asked. “I’ve been doing it, haven’t I?”

“You’re going to get expelled, at this rate,” he’d said, irritated.

“Don’t care,” she’d said.

“Yes, you do,” he snapped.

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, you should.”

“Why?”

“What are you even trying to do?” he’d asked again.

“There’s a pub in Drumclog I think you’ll like,” she’d said. “The Thursday night barman lets me in after happy hour.”

“Where would you even go?”

“The botanical gardens, I think. Or Loch Ness. We could find Nessie! Ooh, what about the Science Centre? I heard—”

“Theta.”

She’d shrugged. “Does it matter?” she’d asked.

“Yes, actually.”

And, just like that, her face had shuttered and she’d stood. “No.”

The door had slammed behind her.

*

He wishes he remembered the last time he saw her better. ‘Course, he hadn’t known it would be the last time. Still.

He’d never been particularly fond of Christmas, as a concept or in general. He’d liked the presents when he was younger, but even those had lost their shine as he’d gotten older. And that was to say nothing of the whole family aspect. He counts himself lucky that the endless list of uncles and aunties and cousins from his mother’s side hadn’t driven him insane.

He’d gotten into an argument with someone (Cousin? Grandparent? Family friend that wandered in for cake twenty years ago and kept showing up ever since? He didn’t remember, and he didn’t care), and gone to his room to brood (he did not, no matter what Drax said, sulk).

(It had been a spacious room, he remembered. Not the largest in the house, but far from the smallest. He hadn’t been back in years, not since his father’s funeral. He couldn’t say he missed it.)

He’d have been reading a book, probably, or something. Playing the drums, maybe, just to annoy his family, if he’d been really peeved.

He’d heard a knock at his window, and, suddenly, he’d been eight years old again. Snow had piled on his rug and he’d squinted against the blast of chill air as she clambered in.

“What are you doing here?” She’d been shaking, he remembered, and he’d chalked it up to nothing but the cold. She’d been shoeless, socks soaked through.

She’d shaken her head, dragging trembling fingers through tangled, stringy hair. She’d opened her mouth, then closed it again. “See you,” she finally managed. Her cheeks were red with cold, and her lips were tinged a blue that was almost black.

Something worth crossing the country in the middle of the night for, apparently.

He hadn’t noticed the red under her fingernails.

She hadn’t spoken for the rest of the night, something Koschei never would have thought possible before. He hadn’t asked, no matter how much he’d wanted to, and he doubted she’d have told him, anyways, even under normal circumstances. So he’d sat there, next to Theta, trembling in her cocoon of blankets and jackets. They’d fallen asleep like that, and, when he woken up, she’d been gone, along with his jumper.

It had been, in a way, he supposed one could argue, his fault. For not stopping her, for encouraging her, for being a co-conspirator, or an influence (good or bad, he didn’t know—it was up for debate), or whatever they’d deemed to call him.

“I told you that girl was no good,” his grandfather had said during breakfast, eyes on him as he shouted to the whole table. “I told you, didn’t I? Nothing good can come from someone like her, I told you. Told you to drop her, didn’t I? That girl’s no good, I told you, didn’t I? You remember, don’t you, I told you, nothing good comes from hanging around—”

He’d nodded mutely, thumbing the corner of the newspaper with his thumb.

It hadn’t been the most flattering thing, the mugshot. At least they’d spelt her name right.

*

He’d watched him through the window. He’d looked entirely too pleased with himself, nodding in mute delight and false thanks and basking in the shower of simpering sympathy. The bandage plastered on his face had been a stark, sterile white against the muted reds and browns of the rest of him, and he’d shivered at the sight of the mottled green and purple bruising stretching out around it. Atta girl, he’d almost muttered.

It had taken all of his inconsiderable self-control to not barge through the doors and finish the job for her.

(Which he had, of course. Eventually.)

It was almost a shame, he’d thought later as he’d peered over the crumbling edge of the cliff. The polish and shine of the twisted tires had gleamed under the moonlight, crushed beneath the crumpled shell of the stolen car.

He’d have liked to take off the bandage. Her handiwork deserved to be seen.

He’d dusted off his jeans, then turned and began the long walk back home.

*

He’s never been good at forgetting.

[yeojaa]

SUGAR HIGH, chapter viii. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary.  You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing.  jeon jungkook.  mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags.  angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional baggage, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating.  general (for now?)

word count.  ~2000

chapter 8.  Boy With Luv

You find yourself stepping out of your shell, stopping to smell the roses again.  Has life always been this sweet?

“Who are you and what’ve you done with the Soomi I know?”

You know he’s only teasing but somehow, you’re blushing scarlet, apples of your cheeks turning as red as their namesake.

“‘You need to get out more,’” you answer verbatim, even adopting the low rasp of Yejin’s. You realize you sound more like Batman but run with it anyway, small hand shielding your mouth in some sort of makeshift voice changer. “‘You’re going to keep mopping around until you put yourself out there. And I don’t mean with the boys.’”

Hoseok is scandalized, his expression morphing into one that screams ‘how dare she!’ and ‘what the hell!’ in equal parts.

“Yah - you tell her to respect her elders!”

The way he says it makes you think Seokjin’s been parroting the same phrase around the apartment and it’s now drilled into the dancer’s brain.

“She’ll tell you off.” Spoken sagely and yet so very matter-of-fact. It didn’t matter that he was beloved by millions or her older - Yejin mocked him like he was her little brother. No one was spared.

Something about growing up in America, she’d say.

“Whatever,” he huffs before the sound is descending into a laugh, feet shifting until he’s knocking into your hip. “If it got you here, then I don’t mind.”

Here being a dance studio. A place he’d normally never catch you, unless dragged along by your over eager best friend or as a patient observer.

This time, you were here of your own accord. You’d even cracked a joke about inheriting Hoseok’s dance skills by osmosis, asking for a good luck sweatband.

(You’d tried not to cringe when he’d slipped it over your head, only marginally relieved when he insisted it was new.)

“You’ll have fun. I promise.” You don’t lock pinkies and you don’t press kisses to your thumbs, sealing it in forever, but you still believe him. He would never lead you astray, that much you knew. He’d maybe make you trip over your own two feet or blow a lung from exhaustion, but you’d be giggling the whole time.

You try to shake the nerves, will them away from the tips of your fingers. It’s hard when there’s a handful of people around you, all eagerly drawn by the chance to dance with Jung Hoseok.

Honestly, you probably owe him a flat of Sprite after this. And a jar of your dad’s kkakdugi.

"Okay, now that everyone is warmed up, let's get ready to begin."  You've never heard him like this, authoritative yet gentle, his words a warm reassurance as he settles beside you.  "We'll be going through the chorus of ON.  We'll be jumping right in on count eight and land on one." 

The way he moves should be illegal, the grace with how he runs through the motions a god-given gift.  Even the simple act of bracing arms over one another - right above left - and jumping, feet spread wide, is done with a practiced ease you could never manage.  The rotation of his arms is hypnotizing, a forelock of slate grey catching beneath the light as he readjusts in a single, fluid motion.  You're not quite sure if his eyes are even open or if this is as easy as breathing.

He'd been guiding your group so easily that you'd nearly forgotten he was speaking.  "Soomi-ya, you need to do it too,"  he chides sweetly, breaking the spell. 

"Oh, right.  Sorry."   

"It's fine, just relax.  Pretend it's just us."

So you do, doing your best to memorize the patterns he taps out and the direction of his arms.  It's harder than you remember, but maybe that's your nerves.  Still, you try, apologizing around laughter when you accidentally drag yourself in the opposite direction, swinging your arms into the crags of Hoseok's shoulders. 

You let the warmth radiate through your body and when your lungs are on fire, you push harder (and remind yourself to do some more goddamn cardio).

You're dying.  You have to be.  There's no other explanation for the way you're laying on the floor, what used to be your legs but you're sure are now just jelly sprawled out beneath you.  Your head is swimming and your chest is heaving but you feel oddly light, as if the air's filling you and lifting you above the immobile shape of your body.

"Stop being so dramatic."  God, he sounds like he hasn't even broken a sweat.  He doesn't even look bothered.  

You gulp once, twice, and try to speak but it comes out like a half-whine, half-groan.  "Can't.  Dying."

"Do you need water?"

If you'd been paying attention, you might've noticed the change in tone, the distinctly different voice.  

But instead, you're barely alive and reaching for the shadow of the water bottle.  Hands scramble across the surface, all but yanking the offering from a loose grip.  You manage a polite 'thank you!' before you're chugging the contents, all semblance of civility temporarily forgotten.

"Thank you, Wooram-ssi."

Your head snaps up.  Who was Hoseok speaking to?

"No problem.  I don't think a heart attack in class would go over well."  You'd laugh if you weren't so mortified.

You gape up at him for a second longer before you're throwing yourself up, ignoring the way your right knee begs to give out and steadying yourself with the help of your friend's arm.  You're certain you look like a complete mess - in fact, you can see it reflected back at you in the mirrors of the dance studio.

Baby hairs wild, ponytail no longer deserving of the name.  Pink sits on your cheeks, seemingly permanently burnt there. 

"I'm Kim Wooram."  The stranger is offering a hand and a grin.  You don't know him but you feel immediately at ease when he lays that smile on you.  He has kind eyes and a soft face, the angle of his jaw and the slope of his nose working to harden the otherwise baby-faced contours.  The piercings in his ear reflect the incandescent lights, gleaming as his head cocks to the side in curiosity.  You wonder how old he is to have been speaking to Hoseok so casually.

It takes you a moment to respond but when you do, you're quite proud of how level your voice is.  "Park Soomi."

Your hands meet and you swear you hear bells.

( 6:13pm )  paksom:  sorry i missed your call!

( 6:13pm )  paksom:  everything okay?

It hadn't been bells but the dinging of your phone, nestled into your bag and forgotten.  

( 6:15pm )  jeon jungkook:  come over?

( 6:15pm )  jeon jungkook:  we're cooking tonight

( 6:16pm )  jeon jungkook:  samgyupsal!!!!

You can practically hear his excitement through the little device, a sticker of his BT21 character popping across your screen.  

"Hobiiii."  The way you're singing his voice catches his attention and Hoseok's at your side in an instant, peering down at your phone expectantly.  "We're cooking tonight!  Let's go pick up some extra stuff on the way back."

You've definitely bought too much.  Between the two of you, you're carrying five bags or rather, he's struggling with four and you're happily trailing behind with one.  Not that you hadn't offered - you had, arguing in front of the store before you'd thrown your hands up in exasperation. 

"Can you open the door?"  He's sidestepping, allowing you access to the door handle.  The keys in your hands jingle, little acrylic KAWS figure swinging from the small set.  You turn the lock carefully before edging in, the welcome aromas of fat and spice wrapping you in a warm hug before you're consumed in real, physical heat, the smallest member somehow engulfing you.

"Hi, Jiminie."  The greeting is lost in the collar of his sweater as he squeezes you.  "You should help Hobi-oppa with the groceries."

All at once, you're able to breathe again, Jimin having released you in favour of taking two bags off his hyung's hands.  So eager to help, you think.  "What did you get?

Scratch that.  Just hungry.

"A bunch of random stuff we thought everyone might like.  I bought squid for osam-bulgogi, since you like seafood now, right?"  He'd mentioned it in a V Live recently but he's still surprised, the biggest smile stretching his perfect lips.  You can't help but return the expression of joy, proud in being able to bring such delight to one of your favourite people.  "I also brought a bunch of banchan I made earlier this week.  And soju and makgeolli!"

"And kkakdugi, but that's mine!"  It's a booming proclamation as the three of you shuffle into the kitchen, goodies dropped unceremoniously on the kitchen counter and everyone's attention now caught.

"You didn't have to bring so much stuff!"  Seokjin, flabbergasted as snacks spill out and a glossy green bottle nearly rolls off the edge of the island.

"Welcome back."  Namjoon, from his seat, headphones around his neck as he taps away at his laptop.

"Yes, I did!  A guest can't come empty-handed."  Both of you know you're right but neither you nor Seokjin relent, huffing adorably at each other.  He breaks first, turning his attention to the things he needs to immediately start preparing and instructing Jimin to put away anything else.  Watching them, it truly is like being among family.  It makes you feel fuzzy inside as you take a seat beside Bangtan's leader, dragging your attention from the now-bickering members - something about 'that's not the right place!'  - to survey the apartment.  "I saw you guys last week."

Namjoon doesn't even look up when he answers, "No, you saw us on Wednesday.  It's now Saturday of the following week."  

You almost snort, giving him a heavy dose of side-eye.  "Joonie-oppa, are you my abeoji?"  

It's clear he isn't expecting that when he nearly knocks his headphones off with the force in which he turns to you.  "Yah!  It's not me.  Jungkook--"

And then there are hands on his shoulders, long fingers tensing and pressing perhaps a little too hard.  The maknae has appeared out of nowhere, seemingly conjured by the sound of his name.  His hair's still wet, water droplets darkening the grey of his tee shirt and dripping down the curve of his ear.

"Yes, hyung?"

"You can't just sneak up on people like that."

"I heard you say my name so I thought you were calling for me."

"No, I was telling--"

There's that subtle flex of fingers again.  You're watching the two of them like some weird tennis game, attention bouncing from one face to the other's.

"You guys are being weird."

Even weirder is the way they're refusing to meet your eyes, instead boring holes into each other's like they're going to find gold buried somewhere.  

When Namjoon finally relents, he goes back to his computer like nothing's happened and Jungkook's transferring his weight to you, arms locked comfortably around your shoulders.  You can feel the moisture from his hair sliding down your cheek and you resist the urge to pull away once it's seeping into the cotton of your top.

"Hello to you, too."  You muse, twisting your neck to meet his stare. 

"How was dance class with Hobi-hyung?" 

The chance to answer is torn from you as the man in question appears across the island, flicking the faucet on to wash his hands and assist with dinner.  He's got a great big grin on his face, cheeks puffed out like the literal cat ate the canary. 

"She did really well, though I think I'm going to be bruised from where she stepped on my foot."  A tongue wagging at you.  Had you thought he was going to give a compliment without wrapping it in mockery?  "Wooram-ssi saved her from dying at the end."

He's wiping his hands before returning to his spot, taking up the easy task of chopping carrots.  He seems so focused that you think he's done speaking, about to resume your conversation with your best friend.

"He asked for your number, by the way." 

You're not sure whether it's you or Jungkook when you tense.  What?

notes.  hahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahaha.  that's all I can say.  

this was a super fun chapter to write so i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did.

[glass-crayon]

Finally, a sequel: Me, an Orthodox Jew with 12+ years of Day School Education and a healthy sense of humor, explains the Haggadah

Kadesh: depending on whether it’s the first night or the second night, you’re either super hyped or thinking “Please god let this one not last till 1 am”. You drink your first cup of wine (or grape juice if you’re a lil wimp- actually who am I to talk I get drunk on Bartenurah) and get a healthy level of tipsy. 

Urchatz: The first sign that tonight is not, indeed, like all other nights. You feel like a king/queen when you get your mom to wash your hands for you, because yasss, peasants. Clean my hands. I should not have to pick up this shmucky cup by myself, that is below me.

Karpas: Now, at this time of night I am, let me tell you, STARVING. I think this step was invented sorely to torment us, because I can survive without eating anything for hours with no problem, but as soon as you open those floodgates by letting in a tiny piece of slightly salty potato, lemme tell you, it is torture. But it is a mitzvah I guess so whatever. ooh also the background behind this one is fun- why do we do it? So the children will ask! What a Jewish answer. I love it.

Maggid: This step’s length solely depends on whether you live alone and can speed read Hebrew on your own, or you live in a house with lots of children who all a) have a dvar torah on every phrase and b) need to be constantly entertained. If you’re lucky like me, you get both!!! This step features-

extremely loud, hyper children who suddenly get stage fright and hold up the seder for 10 minutes while you try to coerce them into mumbling the mah nishtana

One of my favorite passages, about Rabbi Eliezer ben azaryah from the talmud who woke up one morning to find out that BAM he looked like a 70 year old man (with beard to match!) because he was extremely well educated. There is something utterly hilarous about a Rabbi going ful Fred and George in the goblet of fire with no warning whatsoever.

The whole sons thing, which is where I personally think JK Rowling got the Harry Potter houses. Don’t believe me? Watch: 

Chacham: Ravenclaw

Rasha: Slytherin

Tam: Has to be Gryffindor. Theyre so goddarn stupid

SheEino Yodea Lishol: Hufflepuff- i have an immense hatred for Hufflepuff so here it is. You’re all babies who don’t even merit to understand why you went out of Egypt. bam roasted.

Vayehi SheAmda: I cannot get through this without invariably thinking of that one Mark Twain passage. GO JEWS!!

Then, we enter a section of maggid I like to call: We just said this passuk but now let’s be rashi and go into detail on every word. Need I say more?

Now, let’s talk about how funny the concept of spilling out a little bit of wine is for every plague. First of all, where the heck does it come from. Why? It makes no sense. Who looked around the table and thought the way to pay tribute to the miraculous plagues was to dip your grimy finger that’s been flipping through pages of a 20 year old hagaddah and drop it onto a plate? I just wanna talk.

And what about that whole section afterwards that’s basically just RABBI SHOWDOWN. Oh you think you know how many plagues there were? did you count the ones at the sea? What about accounting for the finger instead of the hand? Idiots.

K now onto Dayenu. This whole thing is also ridiculous because some of the stanzas don’t even make sense. It would have been enough to leave you by the sea but not split it? Um no then you would be attacked by the Egyptians. And splitting it but not leading you through it on dry land? helloooooo this is ancient times in the desert. They don’t know how to swim. Extra props to Nachshon now that I’m thinking about it because as far as he knew, he just drowned himself.

andddd finally maggid concludes with the second cup! Just so you can get a lil bit full before giving yourself major matzah constipation.

Rachtzah: Normal hand washing with a bracha but with that nice princely element of not having to pick up the cup yourself again.

Motzi/Matzah: Time to take that empty stomach and stuff it with burnt, crumbly and messy cardboard! This one sucks because it’s like, oh, only an egg’s worth? No problem! (This step is exacerbated by the fact that you gotta stuff it in your mouth in 2 minutes like it’s the end of the world- that’s why super religious guys full on chipmunk their pieces.) AND THEN YOU FIND OUT THAT’S IN WEIGHT AND YOU HAVE TO EAT A FULL SHEET OF PAPERS WORTH. and all of the sudden it’s a freaking olympics race to consume that against the ticking clocks.

Maror: Oh, you’re full? Too bad! Have some bitter lettuce (or, if you have a truly psycho family, horseradish. I pray for yall). You don’t even taste the charoses. It’s disgraceful

Korech: What’s that? You really can’t eat anymore? Time for the worst sandwich you’ll have all year! Consisting of this is definitely not bread and more bitter lettuce! (Seriously tho, this would have slapped in the times of the temple when there was lamb in the middle.)

The backstory behind this step is also hilarious. Everyone agreed you had to eat Pesach, matzah, and maror seperate except for renowned sage hillel, who thought you had to eat it in a sandwich. He was clearly wrong, but everyone just went “whatever, we’ll do both I guess, for your honor”. Freaking awesome- just imagine being so famous that people do stuff even though youre wrong.

Shulchan Orech: THE MEAL AT LONG LAST.

Tzafun: Oh now you really can’t take another bite? Have another half-sheet of papers worth of matzah that youve gotta compete against the clock for again. But no! Not so fast! First you have to find it. :) We love the rabbis! This step is another excuse for spoiled children who are somehow still awake at 12 am to demand presents.

Barech: Ya bentch. Not much to it. 

BUT, at the end you do the absolutely wonderful paragraph of shfoch chamatcha with your third cup of wine. What is that, you ask? Well, it translates to an extremely hostile call to god to annihilate the other nations, which you have to say with your front door open. Now, my family takes this a step further, because we’re psychopaths. We full out yell it on our porch for all of our non Jewish neighbors to hear, and be undoubtedly terrified. This year cuz of quarantine absolutely nobody was outside, so when my brother yelled it, you could hear it echoing from hundreds of feet away across the street. It was SPLENDID and we fully thought wed be arrested.

Third cup- all alcohol is disgusting and I hate life.

Hallel: Pretty standard, until you get up to what is usually the last bracha and find out nope they put in an extra 600 word paragraph as a treat! Did I mention I love the rabbis? What sadistic monsters thought this up?

And don’t forget the fourth cup so you can become sufficiently tired of grape juice that’s been sitting out for 4 hours!

Nirtzah: I can see the finish line. Now, my family has more fun traditions including saying the first long stanza (may it be “It came to pass at midnight” or “this is the feast of passover”) in spooky voices to spice stuff up because we all TIRED. 

Then, we enter a stage called I speed read everything for my family until we get up to who knows one, another favorite pesach tradition. Here, you have to say your stanza in one breath. It’s always good, especially when my brother gets 13 2 nights in a row and we all get to watch him insist he can get it for 5 minutes straight of failed takes. 

How bizzare is chad gadya also? We decide to end the seder with a horrific parable of everyone dying except for god who reigns supreme? Who made that one up?

And thus concludes the seder, where youre dead tired before you remember that you still have to clean up the table and surrounding areas, which by now are coated in a thiccccc layer of matzah crumbs because that stuff is THE DEVIL.

[maikatc]

Black Sun Tale | Dearest

i feel like this chapter has a lot. huh. i’m the the lot is some great content though.

remember that this is a first draft with only minor edits, but enjoy! comments and reception is always appreciated.

-

A snore crept out of one of the two, gentle albeit messy… What a distracting noise, yet that of comfortable nostalgia from being bothered by such a thing, even if both were asleep. 

Though regardless, the spring sunrise shined from the window. Its rays focusing on the room and gleaming on the third-grade textbooks, barely finished, or the piles of papers and utensils on the floor. The conundrum of a mess bustling itself with scribbles of drawings and poetry and leftover clothing picked out after shopping with assumedly-stolen money. Sheet music notes and lesson-charts sat comfortably on the side, piling itself and waiting for when it can scatter around the room with the rest. A ukulele shined from next to the bed and the bookshelf left ignored from the wavering sun whilst a switchblade was left hidden and ignored in the closet for the first time in ages. And with such a sight from the young boys’ room, the loving chaos still hid from outsiders that never knew of one of the two. 

Those two however, shined beyond the rest. From one taking up majority of the bed, and the other almost fighting back with the blankets, they tangled up together in comfort of one another. Their breathing calmed with both of their touch from an earlier embrace and the mere knowledge of the other’s presence lifted one’s fears.  

In the light, one awoke, bothered by it. His mixed eyes pinched with the rising sun, and in the matter of seconds, he realized their tangled position. Despite the oddity, he chuckled silently at the normality. With careful arms, he unraveled Oliver’s arms over his and attempted his best at rolling off again. 

“You aren’t leaving him, are you,” she asked.

“Of course, not,” he whispered back. Away from the bed, his mind wandered to what item in the room to pick up first. For one, the instrument was off limits for the time being after almost breaking a string. Secondly, a sad burnout began erupting for him towards his sketchbook, as Oliver explained prior. Silence was always a rule for the night by Ayu’s standards, from when he snuck across rooms to be rid of his mother’s bottles, to even then to not possibly wake another mother. 

He would have winced at the last choice of the textbook, however in his luck, Oliver stirred. Stirring always meant his soft waking in Ayu’s head. In the anticipation of the new day, Ayu lofted his head at the bed again, waiting for Oliver’s stirring to end, and his eyes to flutter up. 

Oliver met his innocent eyes when he first awoke, shining brightly with those colors of blue and grey, no red in sight. His hands clasped empty, with the person he hugged in the night sitting on the floor next to him. Groggy, he sat up, pulling the blankets that fell over back into the bed. “Can you fix the blankets today?” 

“Yeah.” Oliver rolled out of bed himself with the reply from Ayu. “If you let me skip the math questions today,” he smiled. 

“Ayu, you can’t avoid long division for a week.” Oliver picked up some leftover papers from last night on the floor, forming yet another pile. “It isn’t even that hard to figure out.”

“Says the one who never struggled in school.” He grabbed a paper off of Oliver’s hands. “Besides, aren’t I getting a lesson from Eilwen today?”

“Yeah, but you haven’t seen her in a few months,” he took away the drawing. In it held a simple portrait of outside the window frame. Oliver smiled at the simplicity but continued, “And you haven’t been in school for almost five years. There’s a difference.” 

Ayu pouted, to Oliver’s pity.

“To make up for it, I’ll make whatever you’d like in the fridge,” Oliver said. 

He however retorted, “Isn’t that just the usual deal?”

That was actually a fair point surprisingly. “Well, yeah– but it’s better than nothing, isn’t it? Can’t do much when I’m eleven.”

“… I’ll take it.”

Ayu still sat on the floor with a paper and book on his lap; Oliver lied around in the freshened bed relaxing himself from finished work. Though, Ayu reached out the paper, pointing at a section of the notes, and asked, “Ollie, what’s the fraction remainder of this one?” 

“Two-thirds.” 

*

Eilwen sat by the edge of her candlelit room, darkened from the lack of light. Her head balanced crookedly to the rest of her body with her hands placed justly underneath. The pocket-watch seemed nowhere in sight but in front of her bestowed multiple items. 

Ayu stood by the door, thoughts curating on what sort of lesson he would experience today. His nose tickled and ran from the odd scent of the room. And his eyes burned for no apparent reason. However; remained quiet without much of a complaint.

“Ayu, you do know your eyes are bright red at the moment, correct?” 

In the question and the realization, he blinked and shook his head. “No, not really… But it doesn’t happen that much. Why does it smell funny in here?” 

She answered the second question as a brush off. “I burnt some sage here before you arrived to see effects on you. But, you’re saying your eyes are something of occasion,” she asked. 

“… I guess?” 

The tension grew from Eilwen’s end. She breathed out. “I didn’t call you here for a lesson,” she said, “You’re here so I can test you.”

“What?” The word test frightened Ayu from Oliver’s past mentions of it. “Why do you want to–”

“Your associations with Akeldama are rather peculiar, are they not?” She stood up, holding the first item up against her gloves. Despite the covered cloth, the item steamed in her hands. 

Ayu nodded, backing away in the process. 

“I want to understand why Akeldama has such affiliations with you from what Alice had told me… What your connection with him is, in a sense.” Her eyes tilted towards the other items behind them then. “I assume you heal quickly like Oliver?” 

The question rang worry. “Why are you asking?” 

“I won’t if you don’t abide to it, but I hoped to see at least some blood samples from you to be frank.” The item still steamed in her hand, but her face showed no reaction. 

The sight brought Ayu to ignore her answer. “Isn’t that thing painful?” 

She finally held it in the sight of Ayu; it was a cross. “Why, yes it’s supposed to from our contracts with Akeldama. But I’ve held one enough times for my hands to be null void.” Her eyes blinked into a pause. “It’s safe to assume that this may hurt, and you may run off if you like.”

But the door already left them. 

“Are you willing to help me run these tests?” 

With hesitance, but curiosity, Ayu nodded. 

“Thank you.” 

Soon enough, Ayu was seated in a chair placed near the table, oddly ready for any testing.

Kneeling closer to him, she asked, “Where would you want this placed if it stings?” 

He gestured at his legs, not as boney as their prior meeting, but enough for Eilwen to comment, “You seem to have harmed this place already…”

“Just get it over with,” he said. 

With an eye at him, she replied, “Alright. Please don’t kick if it does hurt. I’ve heard of your strength before.”

And with the comment, she placed the cross down on his shin in the slowest of pace. From the tip of the metal to the mass of the shape, a burning sensation kicked instantly. 

His urge to jolt attacked him with the pain, but instead of doing as such, he hissed instead for her favor, “Stop, stop, stop–”

She herself jolted from the command, and pulled back with a stern expression. Her eyes studied the shin it was placed in, “Oh dear.” 

The recovery from the pain still lasted, up to his stomach’s own urge to somehow vomit. “What?” 

“It seemed to have left a mark.” 

“It what?!” 

“Do you have a pain tolerance?” She asked. “Because it seems to be very harmful.” 

The surprise made Ayu fluster, “How bad is it?” 

“Close to blistering it appears,” she turned to him, “but it looks bad enough that you should have screamed…”

The scent of the room did not help with the minor pain that left regardless. “I can’t compare how bad it was… I don’t think I’ve been hit by someone before. I’ve only hit… others, and myself.” 

Her staring froze. “Is that where these bruises are from?” 

“Yeah,” he answered, “I’m dumb aren’t I?” 

“Idiotic.” A hand grabbed bandages from the side and wrapped both injuries. “Let’s see what’s next.”

She pricked deep enough into his finger for a decent amount in her sample vile. The color of his blood strained darker than most other shades he had seen. 

“What are you gonna do with that anyways?”

She answered, “Test it with everything else. The plant will be the more interesting subject considering how an iblis’ blood can be poisonous if found.”

“How poisonous is the monster blood?” It was a strange idea to Ayu, considering he had never seen the blood of the monsters before.

She scoffed, “You can turn into one of them yourself if you indulge in it, though it takes a couple of pints.” She grabbed the cursed cross again, “Let’s try it here first.” 

On top of a wooden plate, the experimenter tipped the vile ever so slightly. With time, the dark blood crept down on into the cross, and at the first touch, the blood burnt off.  

A click nipped from her lips. “Uncommon attributes in your blood I see.” 

Throughout the entire procedures, her hands never wrote notes onto anything, to Ayu’s notice. Her calculations all occurred in her head with little analysis, and the methods all formally played out in her assumptions. In curiosity of these readings, he asked her, “How do you know all this stuff?” 

Already, her focus faced the plant in the very corner. Its stems stuck up in thickness and lines whilst the leaves made no focus for themselves, leaving the stems to wander up and about around the vase. “I know most of these through experience. However, Alice did teach me of basic human study after her days in home remedy.”

Another drop formed from the vile into the plant, and after a mere second effects arose. 

Eilwen stepped back from the reaction, as the stems that stretched so lively began to wilt and grow black. All the parts of the plant dove down from its previous ways and lied dead on its vase with the dark colors quickly proceeding. 

“This…” Eilwen held her breath, only to Ayu’s wonder for the plant. 

Despite its obvious death, once the black corroded through the being, it dissolved back into the vase. Then abruptly sprouted again into snapping little creatures. The creatures almost hissed in wails, seeping out the tiniest bits of liquid, but soon enough a flame was put through it. 

The flame, brought upon by Eilwen and her candle, also died down relatively quickly with the monster. 

Without Ayu even realizing, Eilwen huffed from assumedly her held breath. “That…” She placed her candle down. “I wouldn’t have guessed.” 

The door appeared once again. 

“You may leave,” she said, “I believe I have enough of what I need… Be wary of what’s to come soon.”

*

Oliver left himself in his ‘I give up’ stance again, lying down in the grass field after ages of exhausting himself over shapeshifting. 

Into the sky, he groaned, “You think it’s supposed to be easier after making a fucking cup disappear but now you’re warping your physical form.” And the frustration leading his hands to pull his face. 

With the sky, he stared at it for far too long. Enough for his focus to trance into the abyss of his blank thoughts. But after another blink, a pair of eyes stared down at him. 

“What’re you doing,” Ayu asked. 

The suddenness of his appearance bolted Oliver up, knocking their foreheads together evenly. “Holy shit,” Oliver hissed while getting up, “where did you come from?”

“I just walked up here!”

“But I didn’t even–” He paused. “Is this how it feels to get invisible-pranked?”

In reaction and quick recovery form the hit, Ayu only blinked. “I don’t know.”

“Great response.” Oliver brought himself up again from Ayu’s arrival. “How come you’re here so early.”

A shrug rolled from his shoulders, “Eilwen let me off just now so I came to watch you practice.”

The new pressure of the hour claimed itself to Oliver. Now with his widened eyes and his lazy state, he waited for Ayu to add. 

“I’ll be quiet support,” he cheered with jazz hands, to the other’s adoration. “But… what are you doing?”

The topic, in which Oliver never wanted to try again, needed to be explained yet again by his sigh, “I got introduced to shapeshifting today.” 

“Oh, my God,” Ayu jumped in his seat, “You’re doing it for once?”

“Yeah,” the excitement rolled Oliver’s eyes over. “But, I have to figure out how to deteriorate my body first!”

And with just those words, Ayu’s expression changed and his head tipped over. 

“… I’ll turn into a black abyss then I can turn into things.”

“Oh!” The idea finally clicked. “That… Okay I get why that’s hard now.” 

Oliver nodded along with him, and sat back down with him. “Today I’m just trying to get my hand to warp.” He placed his hand into front attention, and both him and Ayu stared into it. 

“… Is anything gonna happen?”

“Nope.”

The issue brought some struggles into the table for Ayu’s day, as thought was required. Though luckily, ideas already crept through his mind during the conversation. “Did you try… turn your hand invisible.” 

The command baffled Oliver at first. “What? Okay.” But the command was simple by this point. Within a few seconds, his hand vanished between the two of them. “Now what?” 

He needed to think up of the words. “Pretend like that hand that should be there, belongs to someone else?” 

“Like whose?” 

“I don’t know.” Some digging dove in his mind. “Let’s say Faustus to make fun of him.” 

Oliver chuckled. 

“Faustus wants his hand back,” he said. “But you’re hiding that hand from him.”

“Through invisibility?” 

“No,” he replied. “From making it not exist for him.”

With his foreign words, Oliver followed what Ayu said with hesitance. “Now what?” 

“Turn off the invisible stuff.”

And from those silly words, Oliver did just that. His hand slowly revealed itself, to both of their dismay to see the typical brown. However, soon enough the tips of his fingers appeared, and one was missing.” 

For a few seconds, they both stared. Then Oliver spoke out, “What the fuck?” 

A bend of the hand later, the piece is still gone. He pulled it over and inside the missing piece of limb was a void of nothingness inside the hand. Eyes widened, Oliver shook it back and forth, and then poked himself with the finger. The piece literally was not present. 

Disheveled, Oliver confirmed, “Okay, so I think it worked, but how do I undo it?”

“Uh,” Ayu panicked after realizing even he never knew what he was saying. His own limbs shook in thinking. “Just think it exists again?” 

“I don’t think that’s enough description, Ayu!” 

“Do you think I know what description is,” he barked. “I don’t know, bite your finger?”

“Ayu,” Oliver stated, “My pain tolerance is nonexistent; I’ll bite my finger off if I do that.”

“Fuck you’re right,” he agreed. “And I don’t want to punch you again…”

“Why are all your backup options involving me getting beat up?” 

 Ayu answered back, “Because those are the ones I was always taught!”

“Well, that’s another thing that’s concerning but we’ll talk about that later,” he exclaimed. But it turned out that after their small argument, they looked back at the issue and it already returned. 

They both took a minute, but sighed in relief once they hit the ground. 

“… You really resort to punching?” 

Ayu reminded himself of the comment. After a few shuffles, he said, “I guess so.” He went on, “I ask what to do and it’s pretty much always fighting back… and hit yourself to make you stop. All that stuff.” 

A tense grew in Oliver. “Ayu, that’s really not a good thing?” He rolled over towards Ayu, leaning himself on one arm. “That’s just bad for your wellbeing, and makes you a dick. Besides, it’s cooler to use your wits nowadays.”

Ayu replied, “But I’m not smart, I’m just dumb.” 

And at that moment all the insults Oliver threw months before clicked back to him. Oh shit. “You can be smart, like just now. You were able to figure out deterioration before I could.” 

“I guessed though. I didn’t even know what I was saying.”

“But it worked.” 

“Even though I couldn’t help you get rid of it…” His body turned around, away from Oliver. 

A small frown packed Oliver’s face, obvious of Ayu’s growing discomfort. A new strategy had to be formed, quickly at that. He stood up from their lazy states. “You know what? I think I know what we could do while we’re here.”

“What?”

And Oliver turned invisible. 

“Really,” Ayu complained. 

However, it was all in Oliver’s plans of new fun. Backing up, he set himself to charge at Ayu and run away of impact. Luckily, he gained some speed through his dieting, and the abilities helped. After a decent distance, enough to only view Ayu as a well-sized blob, he ran towards him. Swiftly, the breeze grazed his hair and face at the charge, and with nifty hands, he patted Ayu’s head. 

“Tag,” he yelped while appearing again, only to hide himself once more. 

“Oh,” Ayu got up as well. “Oh, you little fuck,” he smiled. A jump and a kick off later, and he busted running in his speeds.

The speed itself flinched Oliver for its arrival, but he laughed and continued running nonetheless. 

For Ayu, however, was a different story. Despite Oliver’s own advantage of his invisibility, the crunches he formed onto the grass still paved his path everywhere he ran. Then lurking in his ears, Ayu heard those footsteps and all the twists Oliver made in his own escape, an experience he already faced prior. But regardless, he played along with Oliver’s sense of superiority in the game. 

“Come on, Ayu! I’m pretty sure out of anyone, you can catch me,” Oliver cheered. 

Oh, is that what he’s going for? Ayu sighed in his head, but figured Oliver was already putting all his efforts in anyways. Suppose he just wanted to lift his spirits, in fact, he was, but the comment already seemed forced. Regardless, he determined himself to take advantage of the moment. “Alright, guess I will.” 

Tracking Oliver’s running patterns seemed easy enough. His turns, after a good bit of fake-running and waiting, finally made to where Ayu could catch him. And at that time and curve, Ayu ran for the win. 

With Oliver’s breeze of a run, he turned his head to check Ayu’s whereabouts, ready for the next tease. However, he did not expect Ayu to run directly at him in the side, then tackling him with the yell of a, “Tag!” 

The momentum of the tackle left both of them falling and rolling together on the grass in recoil. Through the rolling and tumbling with grass sticking to their clothes, it ultimately ended up with Ayu pinning Oliver underneath him in winning fashion. They stared into each other, but the rolling pains hit them both as Oliver laughed, “Okay, I think I lost.”

Ayu, blinking for a second, laughed back and let go of the position, returning to lie down next to him. 

They giggled off a little more for the childish game, disregarding them still being children.

“The tackle didn’t do anything, did it?” 

“No,” Oliver reassured, “The rolls just cracked my bones a bit much.”

“No breaking?”

“Pretty sure not.”

The new silent peace brought upon Oliver to add on to it. “… How long has it been since we’ve met?”

Ayu said, “We met in October, so that’d make it seven months, right?”

“Good math.”

“Thanks.”

Oliver continued after his compliment. “A lot happened after that, didn’t it?”

“Mainly because of coincidences but fair point.” The grass itched Ayu’s skin but in a comforting manner. “Honestly, the monsters have been gone long enough that I can relax a little more.”

“Yeah, now I’m the only one you have to deal with.”

“Don’t say that!” 

Oliver giggled at his retort, “Okay I’m exaggerating; we haven’t seen the wolf in forever, I know. But you have to admit, I still have monstrous tendencies even if we doubt it.”

“Don’t we all?”

“… Yeah everyone here’s a little fucked up apparently.” 

A calming ambiance chilled them over while they gazed at the sky together. However, for Oliver, the topics that he hid from himself and Ayu rushed back in his mind through the silence. The time was perfect for him to ruin it, but everything always ruined everything, so he pushed ahead. 

“Ayu… How are you feeling right now?” 

Ayu tilted his head towards him. “Good? This is kinda nice, you can say.” 

“No, I don’t mean that,” Oliver said. “I mean, it’s good that you’re feeling good right now but–. How are you feeling about life? With how you got here, and the wishes, or your dreams?”

Ayu gripped his hair. “Isn’t that a little much to ask?” 

“I just want you to let out whatever’s in your mind for once,” Oliver said. “Since I don’t think you’ve ever gotten much of that.”

“Yes, I have,” he argued. 

But it was all invalid with, “Ayu, you told me you were taught to cope by beating stuff up six minutes ago.” 

The counter jabbed Ayu a bit with his own prior words. He blinked a few times, then breathed out. “Okay, but there’s not much to say.” 

“That’s fine, just let it out.” 

Thinking forced Ayu to sit up. “… Where do I start?”

“Anywhere, I assume. And I’ll ask as you go on probably.” 

That help reached Ayu as if nothing touched him. “Okay… I guess let’s start with my dreams?” 

No reply. 

“There’s nothing that bad with my dreams; actually, I think I like them,” he began. “Uhm, I like them because they’re good for my stories. But, they usually add more to it than needed from what people told me, and it makes everything too confusing for them to like. My stories are trashy, compared to how I wanted them to be since… I never told anyone this before, but…”

“But what,” Oliver asked. 

For some reason, Ayu could never control his grin at the motive. “I’m making my comics for somebody; I want them to be proud of me after I worked so hard.”

A smile crept from Oliver. “That’s pretty sweet.” 

However, the tone died after breaking innocence. “They don’t like how I made it, though. It’s disappointing… They said nobody would ever bother to read it… That’s one of the ways I’m kinda incompetent, really incompetent.” 

“Ayu, you’re not–”

“Shut up,” he exclaimed, “you already told me that a million times.”

His tone brought Oliver to fear in his tangent. Had he ever heard the boy tell him something like that?

“I’m an incompetent, dumbass kid,” he said. “I’m that dumbass who killed so many people because I asked without thinking. I was eight sure but can I do anything about it now? No; because I’m too fucking weak to do anything about it despite every step I take and I’m hurting people somehow.”

His words picked up in volume, and his speeds brought his monologue into rambling. The more he spoke, the more he pulled his hair as well. 

“Everybody is suffering because of me and my stupid, selfish wishes. I wanted to be a hero; I wanted to have friends, but I didn’t know what that meant. And I can’t stop it! I have to rely on everybody and sit around with only comics at my side and even that is terrible! I do nothing and I practically am nothing; pretty much nobody knows I exist anymore anyways. And none of this would have happened if I was a bitch and–”

With all of his huffs and drive, he stopped. Gasps for air came his way for his held breath. But soon, his breathing crumbled, along with his voice. 

“Why did I run…?”

All of his venting shook Oliver in his core. The pieces of this conclusion seemed as something that laid right in front of him for ages. Yet, only now did he see them pieced together. And that, processed poorly. “Ayu, what–”

Ayu propped himself up and his feet moved with his mouth. “Fuck this.” 

Oliver’s processing unit somehow slowed from its increasing malfunction. But once Ayu continued walking farther, he himself propped up into a quick run. “Ayu, wait.” He grabbed his hand, grasping it and holding it steady. Denying words could never work again, he figured. So, basic assurance seemed as the only thing of help. “It’s going to be okay.”

“How?!” 

He gulped, “I’m here… and we’ll fix it all together. One step at a time.” Lacing their fingers together, Ayu’s shaking, Oliver brought to him a smile. The same peaceful smile he raised up to his mom for so many years, all to preserve life behind the dread. 

Despite his efforts, Ayu did not turn and eye into it. Instead, he froze with the shaking hand, and clenched his grip. 

“Ayu,” he cried, “that–” but he stopped the rest of the sentence. Another trigger would ruin the moment, so he endured the pressure. 

And afterwards, Ayu chuckled with the smallest sound. “You’re a lot nicer than before. You know that?”

Ignoring the pain, he replied, “I’ve always been nice; it’s just that I think I forgot how to care for a while until you came along.”

“I’m just that much, aren’t I?” He yanked out of the hand-holding, much to Oliver’s lost balance. “We should go back to Alice. It’s been a while hanging out here.”

Regaining balance, Oliver stared at the now calm Ayu in disbelief, as it seemed he copied his own style of emotion recovery and avoidance. Well, not entirely, but similarly in nature. “Uh… Yeah I guess we should.”

As they arrived, Alice stood by the porch table, setting the final touches to what appeared as Oliver’s proper meal of the week. The faint scent already hit his nose as he waited for the satisfying dish. 

With a quick glance, Alice jeered out, “Oliver! How is your progress now?” 

“It’s okay,” he yelled back. “What’s the food today?” 

“An average roast. I didn’t have many ideas in mind today.” 

“Well, it still smells good,” he added. Once he reached to Alice’s spot, he took over the seat. 

“Wait a moment, Oliver, I still need to fetch a utensil.” However, right as she began entering back into the cottage, her eyes glanced at an Ayu standing by the side. “Oh, you can sit along with him. I prepared a meal for you too.”

“You did?” 

“Yes,” she nodded. “I knew of Eilwen calling you over for something so I figured you should have something else for the occasion.” 

“Huh,” he said. Hopping from the steps to the porch floor, he replied, “Thank you,” as he sat by Oliver, ready for their first time dining together. 

***

“Alice, why are you taking us inside?” 

“Because,” she led them inside her cottage and the surprisingly various rooms inside. “It’s been some time since you asked me for that gift you mentioned, and I’ve finally gotten what I needed to give it to you.” 

One final turn interrupted Oliver. “Wait, do you mean– oh, my God!” He ran towards the present in astonishment around his face. 

Ayu watched in confusion. What Oliver gushed over in awe appeared to be a piano, but one of old browns and rust. He figured the boy would never be impressed by the quality. Though, the rustic nature had an appeal. 

“Alice, how did you find this?” He squeaked at the press of an out-of-tune key. “This is an antique!” 

He studied the features of the metals and the wood cuts around it all as Alice spoke. “Well, I went and talked to Akeldama about you wanting the instrument, and he happened to have a lot lying around according to him.”

The name rang a bell for both of them, and they both questioned, “Akeldama had this?” 

“Why, yes. He has many items in his pocket dimension.” 

Ayu asked, “And what’s that?” 

“His storage space.”

Oliver cracked up at the fact, but Ayu stood baffled at the idea of Akeldama giving such a gift to Oliver. 

In playfulness, Oliver played a few chords to test. “I wonder how old this is from the lack of tuning… Did Akeldama not care?” 

“He may have not been interested in this one specifically, but it may have been the best he had. And if it needs adjustments, he may still know a thing or two.” 

The offer seemed promising, but Oliver shrugged it off. “Nah, I think this is fine. It fits the old-ness in a way.”

The chords built themselves off more and more, but they all played choppily. And after a few more notes he knew from his own signature instrument, his mind paused. … I don’t know how to play this thing. Through a simple yet rushed transition, he set aside his playing. “I’ll need some practice but honestly, this is great,” he laughed. “Hey Ayu, why don’t you try a little?”

Ayu, staring by the side, whipped his mind awake and asked, “What?”

“Come on a play,” he repeated. 

“Why would I play it? It’s yours…” 

He beamed at him. “Because, it sounds funny. Plus, it’d be nice for you to just try it out since I don’t know much either.”

That smile intimidated Ayu somehow, enough to give in. And he sat beside him on the piano seat. Once some moments of silence set in, he knew Oliver would not guide him yet. Thus, he prodded his fingers onto the keys, one by one, pressing at random. No melody formed, nor did a tempo, or a key, or anything of substance. This went on for multiple seconds to a few minutes. 

The stiffness bothered Oliver to no end, in reality, as his patience stabbed him in the gut for letting Ayu play in such a way. However, an alternative was found to save himself from such experimentation. “Here, let’s teach you a chord.” 

He guided one of Ayu’s hands to the beginning of an octave, and slowly adjusted his fingers to the right keys. Once they aligned correctly, he gently pressed for him to play. 

“That’s what should be a C major chord.” He patted Ayu in the achievement. “And I think you can make up your own now, can you?” 

For a moment, Ayu glared at the keys, carefully placing his fingers over new ones and pressing. 

“Interesting… That’s a suspended chord.”

“You know I won’t remember anything you’re telling me, right,” he asked deadpanned.

Oh no, the attitude is back. “Probably.”

“Oh,” Alice said while in the background. “Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

“I assume you’re about to leave, correct?”

Oliver nodded while playing with Ayu. 

“There’s something else I’ve been saving for when you do leave,” she said.

Curious, Oliver turned and stood from his seat towards her. “What is it?” 

Opening her book, she summoned a flat-looking bag in front of them. “When I asked for the piano, Akeldama said to also give you this along with it.” 

She handed it off to him, and both him and Ayu looked at the small bag in confusion whilst the inside felt hollow. ���Why’d he give me this?”

She shook her head, “I do not know, but you may open it.”

From the bag, Ayu gathered next to Oliver as well. The strangeness of the gift increased most definitely for both of them, but what was inside still mystified the air. 

Reluctantly, Oliver opened the bag to find the hollow item, and even then, was there more confusion. 

***

Huh, Oliver stared at the gift after his research in his room. From its sheen wood surface that plated itself with small metal keys, it was a confirmed kalimba, or thumb piano as the internet sometimes called it.

Such a strange item, he studied. Its keys played gently of that of a music box for a lullaby, which it technically could be accounted for both literally and purposefully. Sure, it was mix-matched, and the pretty keys were jagged from age, but the sound made up for it all. Melodies formed easily and gracefully even if played choppy from his infers. Honestly, it seemed of some use for his style of music and covers. 

While studying he joked, “Ayu, you can probably master this thing, its super simple.”

But Ayu’s reply was nothing. 

Despite the silence, Oliver continued. So, Akeldama first gives me a switchblade and now a nice, aesthetic instrument? We need to look more into him nowadays. – 

“Hey, Ollie,” Ayu called out from the bedside.

“What is it?”

“Come over here.”

A lopsided look was given to him, but light only illuminated in Oliver’s corner of the room, so Ayu’s expression hid in the darkness. Regardless, Oliver stepped onto the bed by Ayu’s side and asked, “What’s up?” 

And only in the matter of seconds did Ayu tackle him again, only onto the bed and in a shaking hug. He grasped and clung to Oliver as tight as ever, yet the grip was weak and shivering. 

Soon whilst lying down, a sniffle covered the room’s sound, then another, until cries rang onto Oliver’s ears. 

“I,” Ayu trembled in his words, “I’m sorry… I can’t do anything.” 

He continued crying into Oliver’s chest, rubbing his tears all over his sweater. Oliver looked down upon what was occurring, but instead of any surprise or panic, he knew something would arise from that conversation. More than he initially expected. 

He hugged back, cradling the boy’s head in his arms and brushing the tuffs of his hair. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered, “I’m here for you, remember?” 

With every comb, his hands faintly touched Ayu’s shaking body. He gasped for the air out of his cries and wailed in choking up. 

“Here, let’s…” Oliver glanced over from their position, in which they were stuck in the middle of the bed, and all of Ayu’s weight hefted onto him. “Let’s get a little bit more comfortable…”

He moved them into the pillows and under the blankets, where Ayu still hung on Oliver under his head.  

“Ayu,” Oliver began, “you’re a good person. I know that for sure.” 

He remained silent, much to Oliver’s incline. 

“You’re probably the best person I’ve ever met. A best friend if you will. We’re best friends, right?” 

He felt a nod underneath him. 

Oliver smiled. “I’m glad… Out of anyone, I think I was the selfish brat at first, but then I met you, as dumb as the introductions were,” He chuckled at his speech. “You changed my life, and helped me realize that I wasn’t going to be alone forever and…” Even he began to choke up at his words. 

“And what,” Ayu croaked. 

“You aren’t going to leave me.” Despite the emotions, Oliver set it aside from Ayu’s turn. “That was my fear, I guess. But you disproved that and you haven’t left me alone since; and, you’re wonderful to be around.”

Only those sniffles were left to handle. 

“You’re more…” Damn, compliments are trickier like this. “You have this stubborn bravery to you that I like. And your simple thinking’s actually calming for me since I overthink half the time… Simple’s the best way to put it; you answer everything as you see it and I think it works for a duo like you and me. Despite everything you’ve been through, you still want to stand with your goals since you know that’s right… That’s what I love about you; you have hope. You had enough hope to give me a chance, to tell me that everything will be better just like I’m telling you right now. I would’ve given up, Ayu, so long ago, and right now I’m stopping you from going down the path I could’ve gone to.”

He hugged Ayu back as tight as he did. 

“I’m sorry if I ever said or did anything to hurt you. I didn’t know what I was saying. You’ve gone through just as much as I have… That’s something else I realized.”

With his words, Ayu kept silent. But finally, he said, “Thank you.” Then asked, “… Can you keep on talking? Just about anything. I want to listen to you.”

He nodded back. “Alright. Anything?” 

“Yeah…” 

Memories of his own request flurried back in Oliver’s mind in his understanding of that need of comfort. “I can talk about how my day was with you, then,” and the words fluttered in Ayu’s ears as he calmed from his stuttered breathing.  

“Oh yeah, there was this thought I had for a while.”

Ayu nuzzled in from the cuddling, still listening to Oliver’s words as it started to dry out from speaking. He listened to his day, his thoughts, his imaginations, ideas, epiphanies, everything that whisked him away somehow. They all expressed mindfulness in each word, and he could not have enough. “What is it?”

“I started thinking about this scenario,” Oliver rasped, “about if the world ended.” 

His own voice drowned in a drowsy state, eyes burning from all the crying and exhaustion. “That doesn’t sound like a nice thought.”

“Obviously not,” he huffed. “But, I was wondering what people would do… and what would I do in that scenario. If the world was dying, and it was only a matter of time for me, or you, or anybody to be next.”

“…And?”

“There wasn’t much I could think of, since it really does depend on how the world ends, but out of all the routes, there’s only one thing I want to do for all of them.”

The nature of the conversation rang dangerous bells for Ayu, yet he continued it with, “What would that be?”

He said, “I would never want to go to sleep.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because,” he explained, “you can die at any point when it’s all over. So, if I’m asleep, I can die in my sleep, and I would never have the chance to goodbye… to anybody.”

His answer spoke to Ayu, and remained as words for him to remember always. However, with his tired mind and recovering state, he replied, “Makes sense… Ollie, can you sing for me?”

He looked down upon him. “Is there a particular reason why?”

“The world’s not ending, so I think I’m ready to sleep right now.”

He chuckled a little, combing his hair once more. “Okay. I’m guessing you want an original.”

“I never heard one so,” Ayu snuggled in with his own smile, “obviously.”

Oliver’s face warmed, but without any embarrassment. “Okay, Ayu.”

And with lyrics for the occasion, he quietly sang a piece from those nights of new beginnings.

“My dearest, 

all the shadows that have followed us have come 

and gone. 

My dearest, 

all the darkest that had weighed me down

is far and long evermore.

My dearest, 

you have come to greet me in a light 

that shines across us every night…

My dearest,

We will roll along again.”

Oliver’s eyes drifted, with his last view being Ayu sleeping by him, his tears gone and his breathing cooled. He smiled as he closed that view, uttering the last words. 

“My dearest, 

We will roll along again.” 

-

Ten Dollars | Bread and Water | Red Eye | Crimson Capture | November 1st | A Mother | A Demon | A Child | The Wolf | Bloody Fingers | A Monochrome World | The Pocketwatch | I’ll Have My Day | Two Weeks | Monsters | Sleepover | First Meal

[paellaplease]

Firebird | Chap.4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Chapter 4: Seeker 

Look for the truth where the past has buried it.

*

  After exchanging a few more words with Kamori about her extended stay, the meeting concluded. Maiya bowed politely, bidding the two Ritos goodbye. Before she left, Kamori stopped her at the door, pressing an envelope to her hand. “Follow the address in this letter, my dear. The innkeeper there will take care of the rest. Winds be fair to you, hoo.” 

Maiya returned his smile, touched at his grandfatherly kindness. Her eyes briefly lingered on Revali's burnt feather before she turned away, the guilt she felt at indirectly hurting him still caught in her throat. 

She avoided Talako’s wary gaze as she stepped out of the hut, not wasting any time in making a hasty exit. One foot after another, careful not to trip, she descended the many village stairs. 

The young Enchanter released the breath she was holding as she cleared two levels. “So that happened,” She said aloud. The anxiety was creeping back in. Her heart felt like a butcher’s mallet. Thump! Thump! Thump! If her chest was a piece of meat, it would be well tenderised by now.

First order of business. She needed paper and a messenger pigeon-person-thing...Whatever they used in this village. Chief Kamori already assured her that a missive would be sent to her mentor’s private letter box first thing tomorrow morning explaining the whole situation. However, she knew that she needed to write to her mentor separately. Relaying whatever she can in great detail was of utmost importance if she wanted even a smidgen of a chance of surviving the Sheikah’s ire.  

Calm...calm. I am calm. 

Teacher was going to kill her!

Round and down she went, lost in her thoughts but aware enough to dodge around a yellow Rito child that was playing tag along the railing. Opening the note, she followed the address written at the top in Kamori’s cursive. That’s a lot of levels down . Nodding to herself, she increased her walking speed, making her way towards her accomodations for the next few weeks. 

The inn was located only a floor above the village’s main entrance, making it one of the first things travellers would see when they arrived. Like most structures situated around Valoo’s Spire, a flat platform jutted out from its doors, connecting the main arterial staircase to the wooden, circular, double-story building that was Rito Village’s one and only inn.

The building exterior was painted a deep red, with white curtains billowing from its many open windows. Planter boxes were hung up along the railings of the second floor, pink daphnes and other winter blooms peeking from their containers. 

Another staircase, though this time shorter and much more narrow with steps worn from years of use, ran flush along the inn’s side. Maiya theorised that it supposedly gave customers a means of accessing their rooms without having to pass through the reception area. That said, she was unpleasantly surprised to find that whilst most rooms were situated at the building’s second floor, the inn still offered beds on the first. In its lobby. 

...

What?

Eyebrow raised at the arrangement, Maiya tiptoed past sleeping travellers and made her way to the front desk. Tourist season must be in full swing, with most of the beds filled and a small sign above the front desk announcing a limited vacancy. A customer’s snores echoed from the corner. 

This is, um, unpleasant. She thought. But arguably not as bad as when Uncle Rohan had to crash at the forge after he and Teacher had too much to drink. Maiya grimaced at the memory. That Goron blacksmith’s snores were loud enough to wake Death Mountain...but I still wouldn’t complain if this place offers earbuds.

A burgundy Rito with a short side braid and golden hooped earrings smiled sunnily as she approached. “Welcome to Swallow’s Roost,” she whispered. 

Maiya mumbled a shy ‘hello’ back. She set her pack down and fished out her identification papers and coin purse. A leaf flew out of her open wallet. Oh damn. It was then that the Hylian realised, with much embarrassment, just how filthy she was from weeks of travel. The quick wash at the stables that morning took care of most of the grime, but her travel pack was still covered in mud and leaves. From the moment she entered the inn, she was already tracking dirt on the massive blue circular rug that covered most of the wooden flooring. 

I am the queen of good first impressions. 

“I would like to book one of your beds until the Winter Solstice, please.” Maiya said, glancing at an open bed warily, noting the thin divider between it and the traveller sleeping a few steps away. 

“Not a problem, but you won’t be placed in any of the ones down here, that is, unless you really want to,” The innkeeper said. She giggled at Maiya’s confused expression. “My apologies, let me clarify. These beds are reserved for single day travellers.”

From out of nowhere, the innkeeper pulled out a graph. It was framed, hitting the table with a dull thud . She grabbed a piece of charcoal to the side and pointed to a random line. “See here?” Maiya nodded, not sure what she was seeing. “We noticed that many visitors of our village have been on the road for quite a while and simply needed a place to rest for a few hours. By implementing this we’ve Roost Boosted our business by 15%!” The Rito grinned proudly. “It’s our solution for the short-stay traveller without breaking the bank!”

Not one to be rude, Maiya replied. “That makes sense.” So I’m not sleeping in the lobby? Nice.

The innkeeper didn’t even try to hold back an amused laugh at Maiya’s expression. “Ha! Relieved now, aren’t you? You’re adorable. My name is Cheska by the way, owner of this lovely establishment. I’m guessing you’re also on the search for a warm bath and a good meal?”

“And the softest bed you got,” Maiya said, recalling the difficult evening she had the night before.

“You’re at the right place, have you heard of our world famous Rito down-beds? Of course you have. Let’s sort you out!”

 The room was sparsely decorated in a cosy sort of way. The place was free of knick-knacks or paintings, and it soon became obvious that everything there was there for a purpose. 

On the right was a double bed and a wooden chest sitting at its foot- open, unlocked and empty. Opposite this, to the far left of the room, was a small fireplace. Stocked with logs, it was ready to be lit to ward against the later evening chill. 

Maiya pulled the cloth door further, stepping over the threshold. On the wall directly across from her was a window. The surrounding waters of Lake Totori and the leafy green Tabantha forests were visible from within its four corners. To Maiya's relief a writing desk was positioned beneath it, paper, inkwell and quill already supplied. Her mentor wouldn't have to wait too long for a response. 

The place felt untouched, as if frozen in time since the last tenant vacated. She liked it. It smelt like honey and sage. 

“Forgive us for the dust,” she heard Cheska say. The Rito swiped a few feathers on the top of the window sill, frowning at the dirt that came off it. “It has been a while since anyone’s set foot into this room. Would have offered one of our vacant newer ones too, but Chief Kamori suggested in the note that you could stay here.” 

“Where’s the original owner?” Maiya asked. 

“They left many years ago, when I was just a chick. Mama was the innkeeper at that time as I was still too young to learn the ropes.” Cheska tilted her head, earrings glinting. “I can’t really remember their face, but my ma described them as always a bit intense. 'Too many eggs in one basket makes a person go crazy, Ches!’ She would say. Whatever that means.” The Rito wiped her wing on her apron. “Wonder if that’s why they left, huh?” 

Maiya racked her brain for something to say, “Uh…”

“Anywho! Communal baths are a Spire floor up. Complimentary soap from the front desk will be handed out if you remember to cheer 'Swallows Roost Boost!' Oh! And clap twice. Don't forget that. That's very important."

She felt a headache creeping up. "Is it really?"

"Nope." Cheska grinned. "But it’d still be a good idea to have a wash before you knock-out for the day. Sorry to say it, hylianlla , but you stink!"

 The young Enchanter worked quickly to acclimate herself to her new surroundings. Whilst this was the first time she’d travelled so far outside Akkala, she knew it would be smart to be curious and observant. Everyone had their patterns, and the Ritos were no exception to this. Much like it did with enchanting, figuring out how things worked early around these parts was going to do her a lot of good in the long run. And not making a fool of herself by missing simple social cues was always a plus. 

Day one was when Maiya realised that Rito Village rose before the sun. The smell of freshly baked bread and the sounds of haggling at the markets began as early as the crack of dawn. Sitting on the railing just outside her room and picking apart her mandarin, she also found that some fruits tasted better here. 

She swung her feet. The cool mountain breeze and view were enough to brave the drop, and she surprisingly found herself at relative peace as she finished her meagre breakfast. It was a big change from earlier that morning. 

Maiya had awoken before first light, bleary eyed from another nightmare she couldn’t quite remember. Walking outside to catch her breath, she spotted a squadron of warrior Ritos flying overhead in the early twilight. She’d nearly called out and waved to them, doubtful that they would hear her anyway, but thought better of it when she caught the familiar sight of blue amongst their ranks.

The Hylian exhaled, tilting her face to the warming sunlight. Watching the sky now, about three hours afterwards, she saw a dull orange Rito depart from one of the upper floors, flying in the same direction towards the mountains. She wondered if they were a warrior too.

She bit into her fruit, chewing somberly. A warrior. She was supposed to find a worthy warrior. But how could she now when the dagger rejects one of the best fighters this village could offer? 

Perhaps I have to look harder. 

Maiya closed her eyes, the rune on her hand aching. "Where do I even start?"

On the list of tasks to complete whilst she was here, another began to weigh heavily on her mind. She remembered that Teacher said this was her opportunity to gather more information for her studies. Where books on Ancient Weaponry were limited, tomes on Enchanting were extremely rare. Most were burned, buried or lost to time when the Sheikah were subdued 10,000 years ago. 

Enduring information survived in bits and pieces, some being handed down by word-of-mouth through stories and secrets. Whilst this worked to protect knowledge, it made finding consistent techniques difficult. And with all known Enchanters aside from her and Teacher either lost, dead, or in hiding, finding instruction beyond her mentor’s library and her mentor herself felt almost impossible.

Feeling hopeless, Maiya stared at the new glove which covered her left hand, lifting it so that the eye-shaped scar underneath would be at level with her own. The rune was quieter today. She turned her hand, examining the neat seams at its sides and the small tufts of feathers which cushioned her palm. The fit was perfect. She wondered how much study and practice it would take to make something this good. 

A memory of one of her Teacher’s lectures came to mind. 

“Most Enchanters encountered in legend are Sheikah, however this does not mean that they are the only beings with an aptitude to enchant. ” Her mentor’s voice echoed in her head. She could visualise the moment easily, see the tall woman in a dark hood pace the room, her long pendant of a weeping eye lightly swinging.

“In fact, were it not for the Goron People in Eldin and the teachings they kept of their late-Enchanters, I would have never fully mastered the flame for my first weapon. Hence, I would have never become Enchanter were it not for me seeking their guidance. We are nothing without the teachings of others.”

“I am nothing without the teachings of others.” Maiya repeated, words eaten up by the cloudless sky. 

All of Teacher’s old books said that the Hebra Highlands were the original birthplace of ice enchantments. Rito Village, with its close proximity and history of keeping physical records, was her best bet in finding actual information regarding Ice Enchanting or even runes if she were lucky. She needed something , whether it be a book or an old myth. Anything to lead her in the right direction for her research. And she had no idea where to start.

Questions, questions…

“Why so glum, hylianlla? ” 

“Shit!” Maiya jumped, dropping her fruit, she tipped forward, body seconds from falling into the waters below.

“Woops! Hold on there.” A wing reached to grab the collar of her jacket, pulling her backwards.

The young woman fell onto the wooden decking behind her. She groaned, rubbing her back as she rolled and stood up gingerly. Familiar burgundy feathers, braids, and now silver triangular earrings met her gaze. “Good morning Cheska, nice earrings. Please don’t do that again.”

The Rito looked slightly apologetic, tossing her mop’s handle from one wing to another. “I’m sorry for that, you see I was just cleaning out the room next door- terrible stuff really, the man left a smell that you can’t just scrub out- when I saw you sitting here all sad looking and lonesome.” She looked a bit bashful. “I was going to leave you to your thoughts, but then you said something ominous out loud and my curiosity got the best of me.”

Note to self, don’t repeat Teacher’s top ten quotes in public. 

Cheska continued, “Were you thinking hard? I don’t think you blinked once. You looked like you were trying to set something on fire with your eyes.”

Maiya laughed dryly. “Would you believe me if I said you were not the first one to tell me this?” 

The Rito’s curious teal eyes seemed to gleam even brighter. Those apparently were the wrong words to say if she wanted the feathered woman to leave. If she didn’t before, Maiya well and truly had Cheska’s attention now. 

The innkeeper placed the mop she was holding to the side, and with a flap of her wings was over the railing and seated next to Maiya as if she’d been there the whole time. “Alright! What ails you on this fine morning, little traveller?”

Maiya sighed. Might as well . “Is there a place here that stores information?” 

“Depends,” Cheska said, holding up three feathers, lowering them with each suggestion as she ticked off a mental checklist. “Fifth floor we have a library for general stuff. Cookbooks, numeracy and literacy texts, some basic readings on science. The elders use it as a resource in the syllabus for the young’uns.” 

“If you want some political and business advice, or a long winded talk on our current economics, then ask Chief Kamori how his day is going. Don’t get me wrong, I love our fearless leader, but he needs to get out more.” 

“How about old information? Like old history?” Maiya tried. 

“Old history, huh?” Cheska went quiet for a moment, looking at the final feather she held up. “Then you should definitely see Honoka in the Archives. She knows heaps about old teachings. More than anyone else in our little llaqta. Got a whole collection on dead languages and legends not even Old Man Yieni would tell- not that he does much storytelling anymore but I digress!” 

Sounds promising . Maiya smiled. “I think that’s it, Cheska.” 

“Is it really? Oh, I’m happy to have helped. It’s the fourth level from the top by the way! Might be a difficult climb, for a Hylian I mean. A lot of stairs. Don’t get too winded on your way up. Take your time.” She pushed off the railing, flapping her wings and hovering in the air. “You don’t owe me anything by the way. Just maybe let me know if you find something interesting. Actually, definitely let me know if you find something interesting.” 

“You’ll be one of the first,” Maiya said, pushing off from the railing she was leaning on. “Thank you, Cheska. For the help and the directions.” 

“Not to worry, Miss Maiya!” She did a somersault in the air, and dipped down past her sight. A few seconds later she resurfaced, picking up her mop and buckets with her talons. “Oops forgot these! The things a girl would do to get some good gossip around here. Good luck, hylianlla! You’ll need it! ”

Maiya took Cheska’s advice, ascending the spire whilst taking time to enjoy the village with a more wakeful and less anxious mind than the one she had yesterday. A range of colourful shops and little wooden houses were found on every level. It was refreshing to see how open everything was. Doors were mostly long pieces of cloth, rolled up to air out the home and let the wind in. Children ran to and fro, some who were old enough to fly zipping around the clotheslines. There was so much laughter in the air. Their elders sat and gossiped on the front porch, a few leaning out their windows or resting in their rocking chairs. 

It was loud, full of energy, and Maiya loved it. 

There’s an antique store on this level. The pottery is so beautifully shaped! Are those little clay wings?

A jewellry shop. The fine details are so exquisite! I wonder how they got the metal to bend like that without snapping?

A tavern! I’ve never been to a tavern before! 

Distracted by the sights, it took her an extra few minutes to reach her destination.

Meeting the Head-- and only-- Archivist of Rito Village, Master Honoka, was, well for lack of a better word, interesting. A security gate behind the main cloth door rattled and shook as the Rito Elder unlocked it, pulling it back in a single motion. She peered at Maiya through the thick glasses which rested at the top of her beak, cautiously taking in the appearance of the small human woman who awkwardly stood at her doorway. Even whilst leaning on an ornate silver cane, the Rito stood three heads taller, practically towering over her. “Unfortunately, we don’t take walk-ins,” the old woman said. Her voice was intelligent, educated, and extremely tired. 

“I’m not here to sight-see,” Maiya said. “Are you...are you the Archivist?” She shuffled in place, willing herself not to stare at her shoes. “If so, nice to meet you. Do you have any texts on arcane weaponry? Something that mentions blue-energy, or ice magic?” 

Master Honoka expression softened, but her grip on the gate did not waver. “I’m sorry, hylianlla , but the Archives do not welcome tourists anymore. If you wanted to know how to make ice arrows however, I suggest you see the bowyer a level down. Though don’t get his shop mixed up with the blacksmith’s, that bird is a gruff one. Now have a good day.” She shuffled back, pulling the gate to shut her out.

Her rune flashed. “Wait!” Maiya said, unsheathing the flame dagger. Its orange gleam was as bright as ever, catching the morning light. Her hands shook minutely as she presented it in front of her in a nervous hurry. 

Perhaps shoving a knife with little explanation in front of an elderly lady was a bad idea, she thought. Honoka’s eyes widened, a small gasp escaping her beak. She gripped her cane tightly. Maiya’s gloved hand warmed. She panicked, wondering if it was going to hit her. However, as the Elder advanced, her eyes caught the light of the red flame, feeling the radiant heat which ran under the metal of the dagger. The rito stopped, eyes widening in recognition. “Enkantada,” Honoka whispered. 

In an instant, the door was pushed back. Maiya jumped as a wing wrapped around her wrist, quickly pulling her into the hut. 

Immediately, the familiar smell of dust and books filled her senses. Maiya blinked, looking up. All around her, covering the walls and reaching the ceiling, were shelves upon shelves of precious books. 

The collection was massive . 

Maiya gasped. A part of her, the giddy childlike excitement at discovering something new, jumped for joy. It’s like she was standing in the middle of a perfect storm. Some books were hardbound, the titles on many of their spines in languages she’d never heard of before. Others were nothing but just paper and twine, on the verge of falling apart and standing on their last legs. She saw books with paper backs, and books wrapped in animal skins. The top of her banada felt warm, with beams of white, dusty daylight shining from the oculus above her. 

Someone cleared their throat. Maiya whirled around. The elderly rito stood only a few steps away, cane outstretched. The metal stick nudged at the arm which held the dagger, lifting it up higher to the dusty light that filtered in from the glass ceiling. 

“Who are you?” Honoka said, cautious yet not unkind. She reached for a dial at the side of her glasses, turning it. The lenses on her spectacles moved and folded into a focal point, magnifying her vision. She leaned forward, examining the dagger with a critical eye. “An Enchanter? I can’t believe it. I thought there was only one of you left.”

Maiya’s shoulders sank, sinking the dagger back into its sheath. “Two now, actually. I was only given the title a few weeks ago. I’m sorry for the confusion.” 

“It’s no trouble, dear,” Honoka said. “I apologise as well, we’ve had an issue the past few months with thieves. The Yiga Clan have been pretending to be travelling scholars looking for precious, old books in our collection. We’ve lost many in the past month and I didn’t want to take the risk.”

“That sounds terrible.” 

“It is,” Honoka said, looking close to tears. She sniffed, squaring her shoulders. “Nevermind that. What brings you here, Young Enchanter? 

“I’m learning how to enchant Ice Weapons. Someone told me that you’re a collector of old knowledge.”

“I’m a historian and archivist, enkantada. Not an antiquarian. However, yes, I believe I might have something along those lines.  And who was this Rito that directed you here?”

“The innkeeper.”

Master Honoka sighed, taking her glasses off and rubbing her head. “Of course it was Cheska. That girl never has the sense to not stick her beak where it doesn’t belong, especially if she can get a story out of it.”

“Do you know her?”

The old rito hobbled to the middle of the room, cane glinting in the early afternoon light. “She’s my niece.” She tapped her cane to the ground, giving the floor two experimental wacks.

Maiya stood to the side, not quite sure what was going on anymore. “Uh...what are you doing?”

The Archivist raised her cane over the floor once again, stabbing its end into a barely noticeable hole in the planks. She twisted the cane and stepped back, lifting up a long piece of floorboard. It came away easily, nailed-in less tight in comparison to the others. 

Underneath there seemed to be a deep gap in the floor, holding what looked like four mysterious rectangular stacks. 

Maiya bent down to get a better look. The inside was dusty, probably from having not seen the light of day in several years. As she moved closer, she realised that the stacks she saw were actually books, all faded and leather bound. 

“Many years ago,” Honoka said, looking down at the cobweb covered tomes. “I was asked to burn these. Me, being the stubborn woman I was back then, followed my heart and decided to hide them instead.” 

“Why?” 

“Knowledge is never supposed to be destroyed,” she said, looking at Maiya seriously. “We should not fear mistakes nor the things we don’t fully understand. If we did, then we would never learn from our shortcomings and continue making regretful decisions.” She turned away, walking towards a back room. “I will be in my study, the tomes are free for you to peruse. Let me know if you don’t understand anything, I have a few cipher guides you might find useful.”

“Thank you, oh wait!” Maiya couldn't help her curiosity. “Who asked you to burn them all those years ago?” 

Honoka paused before she closed the door. Her back was turned, the intricate weaving and patterns of her multicoloured shawl contrasting with the pale peach-almost white of her feathers. 

“It was the King of Hyrule, young Enchanter.”

[justlightlysedated]

you lift the veil (my eyes are open wide) 1/7

part two of the strangeness and charm series

read it on [AO3]

dedicated to @fraudulentzodiacs 💖💖💖

chapter one: all doors are open to the believer

*

.maria.

Maria doesn't look up when the door opens and shuts loudly. There are only two people who would just walk into the bar without knocking, and only one of them would slam the door afterwards.

Isobel drops a small pouch right in front of her. It hits the counter with a small poof that dispels lilac powder into the air that smells of lavender and chamomile.

Maria looks up at her then.

Isobel looks like she hasn't slept, not that anyone who isn't Maria, Guerin, or Max would be able to tell.

Maria feels a little stab of guilt that she smothers immediately, raising an eyebrow and poking a finger at the pouch making sure it wasn't cursed or anything.

She can feel Isobel rolling her eyes.

“It's to help you sleep,” Isobel says sounding impatient like this is the fifth time she's explaining herself. “You've been keeping me up for the last three days.”

Maria gives her an impassive look, and Isobel just rolls her eyes again and huffs drops down on the bar stool behind her.

Maria crosses her arms over her chest, “We're not open for business.”

“I'm not interested in anything you're selling,” Isobel says leaning her elbows against the bar and tilting her head as her eyes drop down to Maria’s mouth and back up again.

Maria clenches her jaw so she doesn’t do something ridiculous like lick her lips and gives Isobel an unimpressed look.

Isobel sighs and drops her head to her hand, actually looking as tired as she is. “At least let me help then?”

Maria scoffs and picks up the pouch to put it somewhere where it won’t be in the way.

Isobel bristles immediately.

“You know what I can do,” she says voice low and it makes Maria narrow her eyes at her. “I’m more than capable of easing the way so that you can finally get to completion.”

Maria rolls her eyes as she turns away.

Isobel sighs and sits up. “I’m serious. If it doesn’t work then at least I tried everything that I could. I want to sleep some time this week.”

Maria looks back at her.

Isobel leans forward again. “What’s the worse that can happen?”

She rolls her eyes when Maria gives her a look. “Besides the obvious.”

Maria just continues to watch her weighing her options.

“No spells,” Maria says firmly. She has no interest in experiencing the out of control dazed feeling that followed, where everything felt like too much and she couldn’t control the things she said or what she did.

Magic was almost like a drug to non witches, euphoric when you’re right in the middle of a spell, but the come down was a bitch. The stronger the spell, the harder the fall.

And just like a drug the more magic you did the more you wanted to do.

Isobel nods her head and waves her hands in the air, “We’ll hold hands and do it the old fashioned way, I promise.”

Maria rolls her eyes again, but takes a deep breath and walks over to Isobel.

Isobel holds her hands out in front of her, and wiggles her fingers. Bursts of emerald static electricity spark across her fingers as they brush together, and Maria can feel the warmth that is Isobel lighting up in the back of her head.

If Maria closes her eyes, she would be able to see the strands of bright shiny emerald and sandy pale yellow woven together, binding them to each other.

She would also be able to make out the faint impressions of emerald-gold and emerald-sapphire that was Michael and Max, respectively.

Isobel stills her fingers and holds her hands out in front of her.

Maria takes another deep breath and raises her own hands. She holds them in front of Isobel’s just barely touching, and looks at Isobel for a long moment. Isobel looks back, eyes wide not hiding anything.

“Don’t you trust me?” Isobel asks and then wrinkles her nose. “No, trust isn’t the right word. Don’t you believe in me?”

Maria inhales sharply and looks away blinking several times before she inhales shakily.

Maria remembers vividly the last time that she did this with Isobel. The way that her powers heighten Maria’s and make her see more, hear more, feel more.

Maria swallows hard and nods her head once before she presses their palms together.

Isobel gives her a smile and then closes her eyes.

Maria sees as their hands light up, crackles of emerald static and a sunshine yellow glow.

She closes her eyes and exhales and concentrates.

It’s almost like all of her senses dim and narrow down to Isobel, the cadence of her breathing, the way her hands feel against Maria’s soft and warm and tingly, the way the scent of amber and freshly cut grass and freshly burnt sage  fills the air, the way Maria can feel her like strings wrapped around the base of her neck, slowly tugging at her until Maria inhales deeply and focuses on the problem.

Maria usually doesn’t have any trouble receiving her visions. She gets this anxious restless feeling in the pit of her stomach right before she goes to sleep, and wakes up the next morning surrounded in sketches she did while half asleep after being woken up by a vision.

But this time it feels as though something is blocking her.

Isobel immediately spots the problem and nudges.

Maria gasps all the air rushing out of her in an instant, and she feels a little lightheaded as Isobel threads their fingers together, holding on tightly as she nudges again.

Maria whimpers low in her throat as it starts to feel like Isobel is trying to tear her brain apart and tightens her fingers around Isobel’s finding herself swaying forward and bumping into the bar.

It starts to hurt a little too much, and Maria is about to tell her to just stop when the pressure pops like a bubble.

Maria gasps and her fingers hold on even tighter as she gets a flash of Alex dropping to his knees, his face covered in the shadows and the ripples as he does, like smoky black waves in the air throwing everything around him backwards, and as it washes over her the scent of a rushing river and smoke and ash fill her senses and the feeling that Alex isn’t Alex, or isn’t just Alex gets a hold of her.

Before she can dig into it, Isobel is gasping and tearing her hands out of Maria’s hold.

Maria distantly hears a clatter, like a bar stool falling backwards, and Isobel says something sharp and fast, but she’s too busy searching underneath the bar for her sketch pad and a pencil.

She finds them and sets them down on top of the bar and presses the pencil down on the paper a little too hard at first, stark lines outlining the scene.

By the time she’s done, her fingers are smudged in grey, her head aches and her eyes feel gritty, but the restless anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach is still there.

Maria yawns and covers her mouth with the back of her hand before she looks up to tell Isobel thanks for trying, but it’s to see that Isobel is gone.

She frowns for a second before she looks down to the sketch and worries her bottom lip between her teeth.

It’s Alex for sure, and he looks like he’s out in the Turquoise Mines in the middle of a fight which isn’t unusual, her vision could be of Alex fighting of something. It wouldn’t be the first time that it happened.

The problem is with his shadow.

It’s black and huge and looks like a maned wolf with the body of a lion snarling with it’s mouth open wide showing his huge sharp teeth.

She doesn’t understand what it means yet, and maybe she would if she could get a sense of the whole vision, because she has a feeling that whatever is going to happen is going to change everything.

She puts the sketchpad away beneath the bar where it won’t accidentally get wet and tucks the pencil next to the register before heading to the bathroom to wash her hands. She has several more things to do before she needs to get everything ready for opening tonight.

*

.alex.

Alex stares at Michael as he sleeps.

He’s sitting by Michael's feet, a hand wrapped around Michael’s ankle. He'd managed a few hours of sleep, with Michael wrapped around him, but the pain in his leg wakes him up like it always does.

Alex’s eyes dart to his leg, resting alongside Michael’s body, the metal shines blue activating the sigils and an icy cool feeling spreads along the heated pain where the metal is fused to his skin.

The surgeons at the Facility in Munich had told him that it’ll take him some time to get used to it, but sometimes Alex thinks that this is punishment for the protection spell.

Alex is good at taking the pain and compartmentalizing it and setting it aside to be dealt with later, and act like everything is okay in front of everyone else, he’s had a lot of practice growing up, but like with everything else, Michael is the exception.

Around him, Alex feels like he doesn’t have to just take it, that Michael will help him if Alex needs it. And so far, he’s been right.

Alex has learned in the last couple of months that he trained to fight with his new leg how to roll with it when his leg just doesn’t work like he’s used to, but Michael is always reaching out and helping before Alex notices that it’s happened.

Alex’s eyes dart back to Michael.

He doesn’t understand it really. Michael should hate him.

Alex hates himself for what happened to Michael.

If he had just listened to Mimi when she told him to leave the Guerin kid alone, then maybe their lives would’ve been different.

But Alex doesn’t think that there is any force in any dimension that would’ve been able to prevent what had happened and what’s going to happen.

Alex’s eyes fall from Michael to where Andro is staring at him, a pile of shadows right by his shoes, silently judging him.

Alex refuses to be judged by something that isn’t corporeal most of the time.

He looks back to Michael ignoring the tendrils of judgement he can feel coming from Andro and tightens his fingers around his ankle.

Alex's conundrum when it comes to Michael has always been that he wants to be as close to him as possible much more than he wants to stay away to keep him safe.

With an ocean and thousands of miles between them, Alex was able to resist the urge, but everything changed after Munich.

Alex came back to Roswell in a misguided attempt to protect Michael from afar, and maybe try to subvert the Prophecy at the same time. He should’ve known better than to try to mess with Fate.

A phone rings startling Alex, making him let go of Michael.

Michael twitches and then hisses in pain and moves. Alex presses his hand to his shin, but he’s already waking up.

The phone keeps ringing and Alex spots it on the counter. Michael’s phone, an ancient looking landline with a rotary dial that literally looks like it’s going to fall apart the longer it keeps ringing.

Before Alex can decide what to do, Michael is raising his hand in the air and twitching his fingers.

The handset flies into his hand, making the rest of the phone slide along the counter.

“I’m sleeping,” Michael’s voice is croaky and he still sounds tired.

Alex bites down on his lip as the guilt floods him and he darts a look over to his shoes to see that Andro disappeared sometime while Michael was waking up.

Traitor, he thinks at them, and gets a nudge back in acknowledgement that feels like amusement.

Alex looks back to Michael to see that he moved to lie on his back and is staring at him, not paying attention at all to what whoever is on the phone is saying.

Michael’s gaze moves all over him, and touches his tongue to his bottom lip and moves his gaze back to Alex’s.

Alex knows, objectively, that he’s physically fit, given that his job keeps him in shape, and he’s not bad looking, given the comments made from people interested in getting into his pants, but it’s one thing to hear it from strangers he’s barely interested in, and another to see the appreciation for how he looks across Michael’s face.

Michael has a way of looking at him that made Alex feel like the hottest thing on two legs when he was seventeen, and it hasn’t changed.

Alex pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and looks back.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, interrupting the crackling flow of words that Alex can just barely make. “See you when you get here, Iz. But don’t expect me to be dressed.”

He hangs up the phone by tossing it backwards and it lands on the cradle, gently.

Alex is distracted by the mention of Isobel, but Michael’s brain is obviously on one track as he moves fast, and straddles Alex’s lap, pressing back into the plywood headboard.

Alex’s head falls back on a moan as Michael sinks warm and heavy into his lap and leans down pressing his lips to Alex’s neck and dragging his lips up.

The phone starts ringing again.

“Guerin,” Alex says and clears his throat when his voice comes out breathless. “Wait.”

Michael kisses him.

Their lips touch and for one second Alex freezes, feeling like he’s right on the edge of a cliff, the exhilaration and the fear right before he moves, taking the plunge, and kissing Michael back.

Michael makes an approving noise against his mouth, and Alex slides his hands around Michael’s waist and pulls him in even closer until their chest are pressed together, licking into Michael’s mouth and deepening the kiss.

“Michael” Isobel���s voice fills the room, crackling through an old speaker, with a whirring sound in the background and making Alex pull away from Michael.. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. If you’re not dressed, I’m dragging you just like that to Max’s house.”

Michael groans and drops his forehead to Alex’s, sighing.

Alex swallows and tries not to look as panicky as he feels.

Isobel cannot see him here, or at all. Not while he still has Andro’s essence swimming through his blood, not until he tells Michael about the Deal, which was something that he’s going to have to tell him sooner rather than later, but right now in this moment, Alex can’t find the words to explain what happened to himself let alone someone else.

“I was so hoping that I could convince you to fuck me while you were all sleep warm and pliant,” Michael says, a questioning tone to his voice as he moves his hands to slide them down Alex’s arms, and grip his biceps, before he bites down on his bottom lip.

Alex inhales deeply and tries to remind himself that Isobel is going to be here any minute and he can’t afford to get distracted.

“I don’t sleep much these days,” Alex says honestly and moves his right leg beneath Michael so he gets the point. He licks his lips when Michael pulls back to look at him.

“I have to go,” he says when Michael parts his lips to talk.

Michael purses his mouth as he tilts his head and studies Alex for a second.

“Because of Isobel?” he asks raising an eyebrow, body going tense where he’s still settled on Alex’s lap.

Alex licks his lips not sure how to explain himself, but something must show on his face because Michael’s lips thin and he’s moving out of Alex’s lap before Alex can do or say anything.

“Fine. I need a shower anyway,” he walks towards the bathroom, and Alex turns to watch him.

“Gue-” he starts but Michael cuts him off.

“You can see yourself out.”

He steps out of his boxers and moves behind the curtain, drawing it close.

Alex blinks after him for a few silent seconds and then the water turns on, and then he moves.

The dismissal hurts a lot more than he’d been expecting, but it’s better than trying to come up with an excuse as to why he has to leave.

Alex puts on the clothes he’d taken out of Michael’s closet last night since his uniform had been a lost cause. He slides into his boots, not even bothering to tie them and is just reaching for the dagger that he’d turned into the trap for the demon last night when there are wet hands wrapping around his arms right above his elbows, and he can feel Michael’s hair dripping onto the back of his neck as he presses in close.

“I was planning on staying mad at you for at least a day,” Michael says voice low. “But you’re not fighting fair.”

Alex’s eyes fall shut as Michael tugs him back and presses in close against him. “Come back tonight?”

Alex is nodding before he can stop himself and Michael drops a kiss to the back of his neck, right where the collar of his shirt is.

“You can return my clothes then,” Michael says before he’s pushing Alex forward lightly, but not letting go. “Isobel should be here any minute.”

Alex swallows hard, “You should call her and tell her that if she’s actually planning to drag you out of here the protective circle isn’t going to let her through.”

Michael is quiet for a long silent, suspicious moment, but he doesn’t say anything else as he lets Alex go and walks back to his shower.

Alex inhales shakily and grabs the dagger, before he walks out of the door.

*

.liz.

Liz takes a deep breath and opens her eyes.

The bathroom mirror is foggy, and the patch that she had cleared up is already fogging over, but she can make out her blurry reflection.

She slowly lets the breath out and moves, unwrapping the towel from around her chest.

Her reflection is still blurry, but she can make the pale pink scar of the sigil right in the middle of her chest.

Max had called it the Evans Sigil, and had shown her the same mark cut into the palm of his hand. “It's how the spell works.”

Because that was her life now apparently, sigils and spells and other impossible things.

She still doesn't one hundred percent believe that Max is a wizard or whatever, but after last night, it wasn't possible for her to say the same thing about demons.

She looks at the mark on her arm, the one that Max hadn't known what it was, that he had called Michael to check out.

Michael had stared at the mark before turning to Max and saying. “If we die, I'm going to make sure to drag your ass to whatever hell dimension I end up going to.”

Liz found out last night after Michael had left and Max had dropped her home that the mark was how the demon could track her.

She inhales deeply and reminds herself that she is safe. Max's house is protected or so he says, but even if it wasn't, Liz feels much safer knowing that Max is nearby.

She feels a warmth in her chest, right against the mark, and she presses her palm over it, closing her eyes and concentrating on the feeling that she knows is Max.

It sends the warmth spiralling through her and she gasps, eyes flying open.

There is a knock on the door, starling her and making her drop her concentration.

She hears Max clear his throat, before he speaks. “Lunch is ready.”

“I'll be right out,” she responds and waits until she hears him walking to start getting dressed.

She pulls out Rosa's red lipstick from her bag. She'd stuffed it in there on a whim, but looking at the casing now, she can make out a small sigil that resembles the one on her chest, but different, drawn in sharpie right on the base.

She licks her lips and looks at her reflection again before she nods to herself decisively and uncaps the lipstick.

When she walks out into the living room, she finds Max across the room leaning against his desk reading from a thick leather bound book, cradled in his hands. His brow is furrowed and his lips move as he reads along, and Liz feels the warm feeling intensify inside of her at the thought that that’s something about Max Evans that hasn’t changed.

He looks up then straight at her as though he’d felt her, and Liz doesn’t know exactly how to feel about that. She also doesn’t exactly know how to feel about the way a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and how his eyes go soft and warm when he sees her.

“I made pancakes,” he says as he closes the book and sets it behind him pushing away from the desk.

“For lunch?” Liz asks raising an eyebrow.

Max shrugs. “We slept through breakfast.”

“Right,” Liz says remembering why she was here in the first place.

She takes a deep breath and looks at Max seriously. “I have questions.” Max nods his head and takes a step closer before he stops. “I’ll tell you everything that I can, but why don’t we eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” Liz says reaching forward to rest her hands against the back of the couch. “I want to know why there is a demon coming after me.”

Max swallows and nods his head, “Okay.”

He walks forward and sits in the armchair opposite the couch Liz is leaning against. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Liz shakes her head and leans harder against the couch, “I’m good here.”

Max just nods his head and then sighs, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks up at her. “I already told you that I’m a witch.”

“What does that mean exactly? That you can do magic?” Liz asks straightening up and raising her hands in the air wiggling her fingers.

“Something like that,” Max says giving her a small smile. “More like, witches can do magic without needing to study or using special chants and charms and words. Witches can use memories and emotions to power their spells. Witch Hunters can also use magic, but they need help.”

“Witch Hunters?” Liz asks feeling a little incredulous.

Max nods his head. “Kind of like the police of our kind. They monitor magic use and make sure no one is doing magic illegally.”

Liz moves to lean against the arm of the couch, “There are laws?”

Max huffs out a small laugh, “Yeah.”

Liz stares at him for a moment, and then puts her hand to her chest and sees the way he looks down at his hand, fingers clenching close.

“And bringing someone back to life?” she asks because she has to know.

“Breaks several big laws,” Max admits leaning back in his seat. “Would put another black mark on my record, which would cost me my job.”

“That’s why Michael stayed behind,” Liz guesses and moves to sit down on the couch, needing to lean back against something.

“Michael can handle the Witch Hunters,” Max says and leans forward again. “The black mark isn’t the only consequence. Black Level Magic is banned unless the circumstance is extreme and only then on approval of the Council, because it tears open the veil between dimensions.”

Liz narrows her eyes at him, and then blinks them, and opens them a little wide, before she looks away.

“So the demon came through when you saved me,” she says slowly as she looks over at Max's bookshelf.

“Liz,” Max says and her eyes go to him, and he stands up, walking around the coffee table to sit in front of her. “Even if I had known that the demon would come through, I would've done it anyway. It's worth it as long as you're alive.”

Liz looks into his eyes and they're wide and honest.

“Did I ever say thank you?” Liz asks holding her hand out and smiling lightly when Max immediately takes it in his and holds it gently between his hands.

“You don't have to thank me,” Max says quietly.

He brings her hand up to his face and presses a kiss to the back of her hand. “I couldn't not do it. Not after seeing you like that.”

His fingers slide to her wrist, fingertips pressing into her wrist, feeling her pulse.

Liz feels her heart jump in her chest, and Max's eyes widen a little before he turns her hand in his hold and presses a kiss to her palm.

Liz gasps and her fingers twitch in his hold and she scrambles to remember what she was doing.

Which is when the door slams open.

Both Max and Liz turn towards the commotion.

Isobel comes in and stops as she catches sight of them.

She lowers her sunglasses and raises an eyebrow at them before she stumbles a little as Michael walks into her.

He glares at her and then at Max as he heads straight to the dining table, but doesnt say anything as he sits down and starts to eat from one of the plates Max had set.

Isobel snaps her fingers and bright green sparks light up against their hands, sending jolts of static electricity through Liz's fingers.

She hisses in pain and tears her hand out of Max's hold, feeling a jolt in her right ankle.

“Isobel,” Max reprimands.

Isobel shrugs taking her shades off and hitting them against the palm of her hand. “We need to talk.”

“I know,” he says standing up. “I was just explaining to Liz-”

“We have bigger problems than a demon wanting to possess your high school crush,” Isobel says dismissively.

Max darts a look to Liz and then back to Isobel.

Liz takes that little tidbit of information and stores it away to examine later.

“Like what?” Max asks and Liz can feel the apprehension spreading through her as Max crosses his arms over his chest and focuses on Isobel.

“The Hound is in Roswell.”

[shewhowasbornlucky]

the game

Royal Family Week 2019 @idonthatemaiko Day 4: Coming of Age

Lu Ten notices; he is not happpy with the discovery. 

Cherry trees bless the spring, and the young prince drags a long breath – it has always been his favorite scent. More than his father’s tea, more than the ashes from his bending, more than the softest tarts from the kitchens or the breeze of the sea. Perhaps it is the reminder of his childhood, or the perfume her mother preferred, Lu Ten is not sure. The mind stands no chance against time, and memory slipped from the prince’s fingers, no matter how hard he fought. He does not ask simple questions – he has grown out of them. A prince has no time for platitudes, after all. That is a lesson he learned with time, and one he does not take lightly. There will come the day when his nation will need him, and the sleeping dragon needs to be ready.

He feels his uncle’s glance before he sees the man himself, and Lu Ten waits for the inevitable chat that will come out of it. He turns and looks at a pair of golden eyes so alike his own, and for a moment he lets his guard down.

Uncle Ozai is not much older than him. He remembers attending his lessons and doing his chores by his uncle’s side. He remembers hiding at the catacombs, and the ochre smell of it all. Lu Ten needs only to close his eyes, and he is chasing and being chased by a presence he came to like. The young prince remembers being held when he thought he was not going to make it – when his father’s spare thought his life had been equal to Lu Ten’s.

The young prince remembers Azulon’s ill-masked worry as they found their hiding place and the smell of burnt flesh at his father’s feet.

The prince does not remember Ozai’s heated glare as his father and his brother made sure the heir was safe first and foremost. He does not remember the force that the spare used to stand, or the wooden pride he showed when he walked without giving anyone a second look; he does not remember, for even if Ozai walked like a true prince, he was not the one who held power.

Their time together didn’t last; years weighted on him, and the young prince could not keep his young uncle from his duties any longer. As Lu Ten grew brighter, Ozai grew colder. The young prince cannot pinpoint the exact moment their relationship shattered, but he knows that no matter how much he wants to, his uncle may not be the same person he once was.

He went away in a blinking.

“Nervous?” he speaks. His voice has changed, too. There is no longer that awkward timbre Lu Ten remembers from his first years.  He feels no comfort in the regality he now finds in it.

“Should I be?” he answers, and lets his hands fall at his sides. A prince never truly shows what he is feeling. He suspects he can’t let the mask fall even around his family. Azulon does not accept failure and there is nothing worse than weakness.

Ozai laughs, but it lacks the light it once held. The sound echoes around the hall, and the guards seem to play closer attention to their masters, if only to entertain in the court gossip.

“It’s not like you can ruin it,” his uncle says as he idly inspects the ends of his luscious locks. There is venom in his tone, even if Lu Ten cannot see it.

“Will Lady Ursa join us?” The prospect is exciting. He has been looking forward to the day the union is made official and he can call the lovely lady her aunt. He knows Ozai is, too. Lu Ten might be young, but he is not blind. The older prince’s eyes shine whenever she enters a room. Love or lust of power –whatever it might be— is a powerful motivator.

“Who knows,” is his uncle’s uninterested reply. He shrugs, and the action is too natural for it to be true. The young dragon is none the wise.

“You should,” Lu Ten says back, a small teasing smile on his lips. Prince Ozai might be his older, but he is still his nephew – in the future, he will be his king, too. Surely he can spare some time for a joke, Lu Ten muses.

Ozai does not betray his emotions easily; he hasn’t in the past years, but Lu Ten knows where to look. The older prince lifts an eyebrow, and there is the ghost of a smile barely pulling at the corner of his lips, though he fights it with honor. It is with honor that he wins.

The young dragon can’t say he is surprised, even if he can’t understand why a man on his right mind would deny himself of love. Much less when it comes from a creature as lovely as his future aunt.

“I hold no power over the Fire Lord’s guest; He, in all his wisdom, will know where and when to invite her.”

Lu Ten laughs – it is irritable, and childish and so pathetic Ozai actually wants to roll his eyes, but keeps himself from saying so. Only a frown betrays his true feelings.

“The Fire Lord is your father. My grandfather. We are alone – surely we can forget protocol.”

“We could,” Ozai concedes, though half-heartedly. He shakes his head. “You will do well remembering that our glory lies on our greatness, however.” It is now turn for Lu Ten to frown, but the older prince – the uncle he came to call a friend – does not flinch; it seems that his nephew has lost the power he held over him.

Lu Ten does not like the feeling of neglect any better than he likes having no power.

“Make sure the ladies don’t notice the way your voice trembles. No one likes a weak prince,” Ozai says, sparing him a glance. Lu Ten feels himself smile at the prospect of his favorite uncle sharing a piece of advice, but there’s something in the action –the mere act of looking at him –that says he is gracing him with his attention, and Lu Ten loses his ease. His uncle bows at him, though it is hardly with the same respect as his subjects or the sages do. “Good luck, my prince.”

Ozai disappears with no fanfare, leaving Lu Ten guessing if he ever cared for him, before. With a sigh, the young prince stands straighter and curses under his breath. At twelve, he is not a child. He will show his uncle as much. If he does not care for him as a nephew, he will care for him as a king. He will make sure of it.

His father’s footsteps –careful though firm – bring him back to reality. Lu Ten turns to smile at the glowing pride with which Prince Iroh looks at him.

“Nervous?”

“Just a little,” he admits in a small voice.

“You’ll be the greatest prince this nation has ever seen, my son. And they will love you as such,”

his father says in a tone that equals Lu Ten’s. Iroh has no doubt.

The young dragon surprises his father with a long and tight hug that leaves him breathless.  Iroh closes his eyes, and laughs a little. How could someone not love his beautiful boy? He  looks at him and sees nothing but a good prince. An imaginative kid. A dreamer. A little soldier who never gives up; a son who loves with everything he is. The picture of a loyal citizen to the Fire Nation. A true dragon. No one would ever hurt him, that he knows. One must lack a heart to take the light off of his fire-filled eyes.

Feared General Iroh closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the gesture. There will come a day where they will have to part ways. He will march to the front with no promises of coming back, leaving his golden child behind. There will come a day where his little soldier will join him, and he can’t help but look forward to it.

“It is time, prince Lu Ten,” he says over his hair –so soft it reminds him of Lu Ten’s mother.

“Lead the way, father,” his golden child says with the voice of a son and not a prince. Iroh wouldn’t have preferred it other way.

The curtains open, and a baritone’s voice announces his coming. There is applause, and he feels the pride with which his father’s hand rests on his shoulder and Fire Lord Azulon’s calculating eyes fixed on them from across the room, his lips barely curving in a smile. There’s the hint of a smile on his lips that was not there when Ozai was announced, but Lu Ten does not know that.

He could care less.

The hymn starts to play, and Prince Lu Ten walks down the stairs by the Dragon of the West’s side. Nothing could ever be better than that.

Lady Ursa did join them at the party, Lu Ten learns as he sees her from across the room. She smiles that lovely smile of hers, surrounded by a group of young courtiers that pretend to be interested in what Hira’a is like. Lu Ten does not know, but not everyone is as excited as him at the prospect of the Avatar’s blood union to the crown.  

There is no dancing, but the food is exquisite, and the hymns a delight. The Sages murmur into his father’s ears, and the eyes of the Dragon of the West burn the brightest with a father’s love.

“Princes Kumiko would be so proud,” is whispered among the groups and it reaches the prince’s ears. He can’t help but wonder, but he wears the compliment as if it came from the very same Fire Lord. Kumiko has become a shadow, but one he is happy to keep in his heart.

All eyes are on Prince Lu Ten; it is then that Ozai asks for Lady Ursa’s to join him for a walk.

They are gone for a big part of the ceremony, Lu Ten notices with a frown. All eyes are on him, and he is grateful. He only wishes his uncle would be happy for him, though he dares not to admit it to himself. That would suggest he believes his uncle does not care for him at all, and he is not yet ready for that.

Lu Ten is presented for all his country to see, and there is joyful screams and applause. No eyes left for the young spare – the last fruit of Lady Ilah’s womb matters not when compared to the Crown Prince’s heir. Ozai is not there to see it; there is something he wants more than the rights that were taken from him. Ozai is not there, and Lu Ten can’t help but feel it as a slap to his face.

Lu Ten sees not the way Lord Ozai sits with his bride at the foot of a tree near the pond. He sees not the way Ozai struggles to catch his breath and messes his words more times Ursa could count. He does not see, either, the way the turtle ducks spy on the young couple as Lady Ursa offers them bread. He sees not the way Ozai’s eyes seem wounded when she laughs carefree at him. He sees not the way the prince promises the world, lacking the beautiful words he studied or the exquisite manners he vowed to show. Lu Ten is not there to see the way Lady Ursa kisses her prince, pulling him closer to her. His crown falls from her eagerness and her caring hands, but Azulon’s oldest doesn’t care. He finds that forgetting who he is, at least for a moment, is not so bad.

For a moment, nothing matters.

“I will give you a crown of your own,” Ozai promises, and Lu Ten is not there to hear. Not there to see the way Lady Ursa smiles and shuts him with another soft kiss. Promises were never as lovely as those whispered by the pond, under the moon’s softest caress.  

No night can be perfect, and so it comes to an end. Ozai sees Ursa part from his side with her head held high and an elegance that betrays her upbringing. He almost missed his brother’s coming to him.

“You missed the Sages’ speech,” Iroh mutters under his breath, the picture of a collected prince. Ozai has just insulted his lineage, and the Dragon would not allow it.

“Did I?” his brother answers, unbothered. It takes a great deal for Iroh to play it cool, but he reminds himself that his losing control is exactly what Ozai wants. He does not play by his rules; he has never, and he is not to start now.

His Lu Ten, however, is something he can’t help but defend with his all. “He is your nephew, Ozai.”

“Then he will forgive his loving uncle’s misstep.” He looks at him, and does not even bother to hide his annoyance. Iroh purses his lips. Ozai’s eyes gleam, and for the first time in many years, Iroh sees joy in them. It makes his blood boil. “I am sorry, brother of mine,” the young prince continues, and the way his eyes darken tells no niceties even if his tone is sweet as sugar, “but I had to take it out of my chest. I could not live any longer with it,” he breathes, and if Iroh were another he might have fallen for his baby brother’s act. “I am to marry Lady Ursa in the summer. Surely you haven’t forgotten what is like to love another, dear brother?”

Iroh does not answer Ozai’s smile. “Congratulations, Prince Ozai,” he bows his head. “She will make a good wife,” Iroh says, and it falls not on deaf ears the implied meaning behind of his equally sweet tone. Ozai clenches his jaw.  “Do not forget to pay your respects to your Prince. It would do you good to remember your place.”

With that, Iroh is gone. His cape murmurs in the air, and his steps are strong and graceful. Ozai made a promise, and a crown will rest on Lady Ursa’s head one day. Iroh simply does not know it yet.

His smile disappears.

Lu Ten is eighteen when he reaches his mature age. There is a ball to celebrate, and members of the royal houses of the Fire Nation attend with their pretty heirs. Crown Prince Lu Ten, heir of the Dragon Throne will choose a bride once the siege of Ba Sing Se is over, and more than one are eager to occupy the role.

General Iroh enters the room with his son dressed in the finest silks and their hairs in a bun; the style of a warrior. There is no nervousness – it has left the prince a long, long time ago. He is in his element; he has been born to rule over the people inside the room.  Applause erupts and the young prince and his father are welcomed with a war song about the General’s last conquest, and the young dragon’s greatest adventure. Fire Lord Azulon watches with little interest as they move around their guests, pleased with their manners and success.

“Little brother, you are looking nice,” Lady Ursa bows respectfully to the two of them.

“You’re not bad yourself, dear Aunt,” Lu Ten smiles at her, and engulfs her in a hug. “How are the kids? I couldn’t meet them earlier.”

“They are eager to meet with their favorite cousin,” she smiles.

“How was the front?” Ozai asks with a glass in his hand, and Lu Ten’s smile disappears as soon as it came.

“Eventful, Uncle, but the Fire Nation holds its grounds. Soon, Ba Sing Se will be ours,” he has no doubt, how can he?

He knows his father’s reputation was not built in lies. He knows it is his destiny to ride by his father’s side to a conquest that will grant them glory and honor. He will bring the Earth Kingdom to its knees, and he will rebuild it from scratch for the glory of the Fire Nation. Like a Phoenix, his kingdom will reborn, and his father will be there to reign until his dying day.

So was said by the prophecy, and so Lu Ten believes.

“Just as Sozin dreamed,” his uncle says with a small nod, and Lu Ten can’t help but see the way something in Ursa’s eyes flashes. She says nothing; she is too intelligent for that. Sometimes, Lu Ten forgets she is Avatar Roku’s blood.

Sometimes, he thinks she has forgotten.

“But what about you?” she asks after taking a sip of sake. Her sweet tone makes one forget how carefully chosen her words are. “What has filled our dearest prince’s dreams? Have you got your eyes on a woman yet?” Ursa smiles at her nephew, and Lu Ten can’t help but laugh.

“There is no rush, dearest Sister. My father is busy at the siege, and my heart beats for our nation,” he says in his Prince voice, and it takes all his strength for Ozai not to roll his eyes.

“Your nation will need a strong consort, my prince,” says Ursa with a delicate hand on the young prince’s shoulders, “I’m sorry Princess Kumiko is not here to help.”

“She would have wanted me to be happy.”

“She would,” Ozai concedes, but it is too low to study his tone. Lu Ten has giving up on that for quite some time.

“Are you, my prince?” Ursa looks at him with bright eyes and a brighter smile. “Are you happy?”

“More than anything,” he doesn’t even hesitate. How could he? Lu Ten has everything one could ever desire, and then more. He has his father by his side, and what can be any better?

Ozai makes a toast for the young prince long and happy life, and Lu Ten graces it with a small bow.

“Shhh, Zuzu, don’t laugh, they’re going to hear us!” the young girl protests in a voice too loud to be secretive.

“They are going to hear you if you can’t keep your mouth shut!” Zuko says, as annoyed as his age permits allows him.

“I can’t see cousin Lu Ten.” Azula tries, but even standing on her tiptoes she can’t spot the flame crown she knows her cousin must be wearing. In front of them, a sea of nobles extends talking in hushed tones.

“He is right there,” Zuko says in a whisper, suddenly remembering how important it is to stay hidden. They are supposed to be sleeping, after all. Escaping from Li and Lo was never an easy task, but always a pleasure they indulged whenever possible. This time it was particularly harder, and it had resulted in an accident with their bending and them hiding at the salon in their sleepwear. “The one with the bun.”

“I can’t see anything! Your gigantic head takes too much space!” she protests in hushed tones, and Zuko made an exasperated sound that was so alike Ursa Azula couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

“If Father catches us—“

“He won’t do anything,” she says.

“He won’t be happy.”

“Are you afraid, Zuzu?” If Azula wasn’t so tired she would find delight in the way her brother seems to fear their father. If Azula were another, she would have been terrified of it.

“I’m not afraid!” Zuko was always easy to anger. Pouting, he pushed his sister. “It wasn’t my idea, anyway!”

Azula likes not to be handled like a little girl, so she pulls from Zuko’s phoenix tail. “But you’re here, dum dum!”

“That’s because I didn’t want to—!”

“Shut up, they are going to hear us!”

“You shut u--!”

“I cannot wait to see Princess Azula’s presentation,” the two siblings freeze when they listen to their cousin’s voice.

“A princess kissed by fire, after so long. It certainly cannot go uncelebrated,” Ursa says, and for a moment, Azula thinks she hears pride in her words. Her little heart beats too fast, and she can’t help but smile. Princess Ursa goes on through gritted teeth, but her smile does not betray her discomfort. “If only she wasn’t so… temperamental.”

“She will grow out of it, dear Sister. She’s still young.”

Ursa’s answer is a tired sigh that she tries to cover with her bright smile. She would never let her mask slip. She trained well for that. Azula sees her smile, but she sees the way her eyes betray her frustration too, if only for a few seconds. The young princess’ heart no longer seems to flutter in its happiness.

“She is a fast learner,” Ozai says, and it sounds like he is trying to defend her. “And a bending prodigy,” he continues, and the way he says so is filled with pride and an ambition that Ursa does not see. For all of her father’s compliments, Azula has only eyes for the way her mother scoffs. Excellence is expected; a princess cannot be anything but perfect. Approval is needed, but her mother would not give it to her. The princess’ smile disappears just as fast as her mother’s, and she is pretty much tempted to set the curtain on fire just to see a reaction.

Lu Ten, who had watched the two closely, nods. “I heard you are considering sending Zuko to Master Piandao.” The young prince knows when a battle is not his to fight, and so he retires with honor.

“He is really talented with knives!”Ursa’s spirits lighten up when Zuko is mentioned. She does not seem to need to act.

The young prince stands taller and smiles smugly at her sister, who in turn rolls her eyes.

“Your father has suggested it; I am simply following his counsel,” Ozai explains. “Though I can’t say the boy has no talent for the art,” there’s the smallest hint of a smile again, and Zuko understands that is the closest he will get to hear an ‘I love you’ from his father, so he treasures it close to his heart.

“He has the spirit of a warrior; no matter how much it may seem that he fails, he never goes down without a fight,” there it is. The adoration in Ursa’s voice does not go unheard.

“If only he were a better bender,” Ozai muses, and it only takes his frown for Zuko’s smile to shake.

Their children are pawns they use against each other, Lu Ten notices, but does not feel alright with that discovery.

“Perhaps he is in need of a better teacher,” he tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Perhaps,” Ozai nods sharply, and Ursa scoffs quietly.

Azula stays quiet for a long moment. Zuko, as her older brother and the closes thing to an authority right there, and knowing her like he does, is sure it isn’t a good sign. He patiently waits for the outburst. He thinks himself a warrior waiting for his opponent’s attack.

“Let’s get out of here, Zuzu. It smells like old man in here,” she finally says with a scorn, and makes a show of wanting to throw up.

She has yet to learn to lie, but she knows to find an out whenever needed.

“I’d rather be eating a tart,” Zuko says, and looks for her eyes. He can’t stand to listen to what his father truly thinks of him any longer.

“Let’s steal some, dum-dum,” Azula takes his hand, and Zuko lets her lead the way.

Their parent’s words ring on their ears.

The next year, Lu Ten’s birthday goes uncelebrated. Crown Prince Iroh is nowhere to be seen, and Ozai is scheming as Ursa pushes back. Zuko and Azula stand in the middle of their game, proud and strong like the pawns they are.

The air still smells of cherry trees.

[theoddcatlady]

Walter the Ghost

Two months ago we moved into our new place. It’s honestly amazing, huge property, beautiful forests, and an old barn out back that my wife Lydia hoped to remodel into a workshop. She loves wood carving.

We have two sons and a daughter. Elliot is ten, Joey is eight, and Samantha is five. The old house is big enough for the kids to have their own rooms, but Joey gets night terrors still so he bunks up with Elliot. Elliot doesn’t complain, he’s a solid big brother.

Course, no move is without its difficulties. The kids miss all their old friends, they’re still adjusting to a new school, a new schedule. The job I had lined up told me I was no longer needed so things went belly up there. Bills got a little tight.

So that’s why I didn’t bat an eyelash when Samantha started talking about Walter.

Samantha has always had a hell of an imagination. She tended to make up a new ‘friend’ every week. A few weeks before it was Paula, a girl about her age wearing a bright red dress. Before that it was Ruby, Mary, Nick… you get the point. Typical attention span of a little one.

But Walter stuck around. Walter was an ‘old man’, which by Samantha’s standards meant probably around forty or fifty. He lived in the closet and Samantha would leave him strawberry Kool-Aid in plastic cups and saltine crackers. Thankfully I never had to clean it up, Samantha was good about keeping after that. For being five she’s quite tidy.

I blew it off at first. Every kid has imaginary friends. I had them, my wife had them. The stress of the move probably just had her cling onto this one a little longer.

Then Joey started bringing Doritos into the closet.

Doritos were his favorite snack. Cheesy fingerprints typically stain his shorts, it makes laundry a pain but that’s life when you have kids. Joey was never the imaginary friends type though. He maybe had one when he was Samantha’s age, and that phase lasted no more than a week. So this was a little weird.

I decided to ask more about Walter.

I walked into Samantha’s bedroom to see Samantha and Joey kneeling next to the closet, quiet as mice. I cleared my throat and both jumped like they heard a gunshot. Joey instinctively kicked the door shut. “Hi dad!” He said.

I walked in and opened the closet door. Nothing in there except an empty plate with Dorito crumbs and a cup that had spilled a single drop of red juice on the carpet. “So, Walter likes your Doritos, bud?” I said.

Joey nodded. “He likes snacks,” He mumbled.

“What is Walter like?” Satisfied the closet was empty, I closed the door and turned to my kids.

Samantha and Joey brightened up before they both began sharing bits of info with me.

“He’s blonde!”

“He’s starting to go bald, just like Uncle Craig!”

“He wears suspenders!”

“He’s very quiet!”

“He’s got a big ole hole in the side of his head!”

“He’s here to protect us!”

“He really likes Doritos!”

I raised my hand. “Hold on, back the train up. What do you mean protect us?” I wasn’t even going to touch the hole thing.

It was like they knew they said too much. Samantha’s hands flew up to cover her mouth while Joey looked at the ground. Samantha spoke up first.

“… He says there’s something in the forest. Something in the barn… something really, really bad,” She said, barely above a whisper.

The bedroom door slammed shut and I nearly screamed. I walked backwards to the door and slowly opened it back up.

No one in the hall. And today had been too cold to leave the windows open.

I’m probably different than most people in this situation. I actually believe in ghosts. I had some experiences as a teen that turned me into a believer. Lydia laughed out loud when I told her I think our daughter had a ghost in her closet, but I didn’t expect anything different. She’s the skeptic of the two of us.

So I decided to dig into the history of the house.

This place had been tossed around quite a bit, most owners didn’t keep it for over a year. Heck, one couple and their daughter actually moved out after two weeks. I kept digging. And before the house was built I found something.

I found Walter.

His full name was Walter Griggs, he had three kids. He was a widower. He hadn’t remarried. But one day the house was burned down with Walter inside. The kids were never found. The common theory was that Walter killed his kids and then himself when he couldn’t live with the guilt. God knows what he did with the bodies.

I was chilled to the damn bone when I realized my kids were talking to a murderous ghost. I called a family meeting, Lydia was less than impressed but she went with it.

“Guys, we need to stop talking to Walter and giving him snacks.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Kurt...”

“It’s just to be safe. Walter might’ve done some bad things.”

Elliot blurted out, “But he’s nice! He tells stories and talks about the good ole days!” He immediately regretted speaking as he saw my face go pale. Even Lydia looked unsettled.

Elliot was too old for imaginary friends and far too practical. Even as a tiny tot he wrinkled his nose at the idea of having a friend he made up. This only confirmed my theory- Walter was a ghost and the original owner of the property.

Samantha sniffled, her eyes filling with tears. “But… but what if he gets hungry?” She asked.

“And what if the… the folk come around? The ones he warned us about?” Joey shivered.

I sighed. “Guys. I don’t know what Walter really is, but I do believe he’s not something Samantha made up, and I believe he’s not safe. Samantha, we’re going to move you into the other room for now. We’ll start hunting for a new house as soon as we can, but until then, leave Walter alone. Do not talk to him. Do not give him snacks. All right guys?”

Samantha bolted from the room crying. Joey turned into the couch to hide his tears. Elliot was the only one who nodded and said yes, but I knew he was upset too.

I surrounded the closet with a ring of salt, I would’ve burnt sage or whatever you do but I had no idea how to get my hands on some. So salt was the best I could do. Plus, I’d be able to tell if the kids tried to approach the closet this way. I looked up tips on how to make ghosts fuck off, Lydia for once not laughing at my ‘crazed paranoia’.

Samantha was the most resentful of the kids. I caught her at least twice trying to sneak into her old bedroom with a plate of Saltines. Each time she was scolded and I reminded her it wasn’t safe, but I knew she didn’t believe me.

Perhaps she knew more than I did.

Things were finally settling, I got a new job and we were house hunting once again. Samantha still sulked but Joey was over it, running about in the big backyard we had and playing games with a few of the neighbor kids.

Then one night I woke up and there was Walter, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room.

He was as solid as you or me and exactly as the kids described him- middle aged, blonde, balding. Suspenders over his blood spattered shirt. And the ‘hole’ in his head? It looked like half his skull had been blown clean off. One eye had gone with it while the other, a deep blue, stared me down.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even wake up Lydia.

Walter sighed before he got up and motioned for me to stand and follow him. Like pulled on strings, I got up.

Walter’s voice was quiet and hoarse, like he’d had strep and still couldn’t speak. “It’s not too late,” He whispered. “Go, hurry. I lost my children to the Folk, but you can still save yours.”

I ran to the kid’s bedrooms, feeling Walter’s cold breath on the back of my neck. Each bed was empty, the sheets pulled away and their windows open. I almost collapsed but Walter’s ice cold grip dragged me back to my feet. “No time for panic, son. Go,” He said between gasps.

I didn’t even put on my shoes. I ran out into the backyard. The forest was now glowing with bright lights, I could hear the piping of flutes and the pound of drums. I took off running, Walter on my heels.

I pushed through the bushes and nearly tripped on piles of old leaves, following the source of the sound. I stumbled into the clearing which was now bright as day.

My three children were standing around a woman wearing a white gown. She was in every way perfect, beautiful with dark curls cascading down her back. She was tall, taller than me even and I’m no short guy. Her hands were spread out and Samantha was reaching for her.

I heard the scream of a man in agony.

“NOT AGAIN!”

Walter rushed in, growing bigger, bigger, bigger… his essence swallowed the light. The clearing was now ice cold, I could see my breath coming out in puffs in front of me. The woman stumbled backwards, eyes growing in shock as Walter now towered over her.

“These children are not going with you, Fair Folk!” He howled. “Not this time!”

The woman turned and fled, before my very eyes she stepped into a ring of mushrooms and vanished into thin air. Walter shrunk back to the size of a man before he turned to look at me.

I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to apologize. I’d horribly misjudged the ghost of a grieving father who’d lost his children to something otherworldly. And he’d saved my children from the same fate.

Walter smiled crookedly before he vanished. I ran up to my kids. They were still entranced, pupils blown out and they didn’t recognize my voice. I got them back home and rushed them to the emergency room.

The doctor had no explanation. About an hour after they’d been checked in they came to with no ill side effects and no reason why they’d been out of it. Elliot said he’d heard a woman’s voice outside the window and that she was offering treats, but that was the last thing he could remember.

They were in observation for a day before they were released, but by then I’d changed my protection plan. I didn’t put scissors or knives in their beds but my wife did get ahold of some pieces of iron from a friend’s garage and she created small statuettes of our kid’s favorite animals with the iron set inside of it- a tiger for Elliot, a monkey for Joey, and a bunny for Samantha.

I’ve now taken to going up to that old closet with a glass of whiskey and a portion of whatever was for dinner.

I haven’t seen Walter again, but I have caught glimpses of his smile as I’m closing the closet door. I think he was getting a little tired of strawberry Kool-Aid.