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simba-bonfamille-lyons · 7 years

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A Christmas Carol /./ [Simades]

In which Simba visits Christmases Past, Present, and Future, with a very special tour guide...

@trip-downtheriverstyx

Best Line: the whole things srsly everyone read this /unashamed promotion

[tw -- panic attack, mentions of alcohol abuse]

STAVE ONE: CHRISTMAS EVE, JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT – Swynlake, England 2017

SIMBA: Christmas Eve was lonely, the house quiet except Simba and the sloshing of whiskey in his bottle. He sat in the living room, in the dark—except for the red, blue, and green lights of the Christmas tree. He hadn’t had the heart to not let Kiara put one up, and now, he stared at it, watching the lights change colors his eyes focusing and unfocusing—turning them into bursts of light over and over again. If you were quiet enough, which he was, he could hear the click of the lights changing.

He had sent Kiara away, because he didn’t want her to see him drinking, but more than that. He didn’t want her to have a terrible Christmas, again, because of him. Last year, he’d gotten his appendix out, the year before, she hadn’t spoken to him the whole day because she’d found out about Mufasa’s death. This year, he was too heartbroken to smile and pretend like everything was alright. Even for her. So, he’d packed her up and sent her to Nala’s, despite her protests and her assurances that it could just be them. He’d hugged her close, though, before she left, and he kissed her head and told her he loved her. That her presents from him were already under the tree she’d set up with Nala at Nala’s apartment.

Now, he sat on the couch, watching the hand on the clock tick closer and closer to midnight. Watching the bottle of whiskey get lower and lower as he sucked it down and down. He contemplated how much he would have to drink to shut his liver down. How much of it would it take to drown.

The only thing that kept him from testing that particular question was Bowie asleep on his bed near the fireplace, and the picture of Kiara on the mantle—the two of them in ugly Christmas sweaters from their first Christmas.

Eventually, somewhere before midnight—was it 9? 10? 11:59?, he didn’t know—Simba had fallen asleep. He awoke to the sounds of Bowie’s muffled bark. Bowie never barked unless something was happening that warranted barking—a knock on the door, deer on the property, someone inside the house (he had caught Kiara sneaking in late once or twice.) It jolted Simba awake, and, even though he was half drunk, he was awake and on his feet in an instant.

A shiver crawled up his spine.

There was a sound coming from the Christmas tree and Simba looked towards it—stomach lurching as he took a step back, knocking into the table and sprawling back into one of the arm chairs. “Taka?” he hissed, voice sharp. His body felt frozen stone cold with fear.

He heard a rattling sigh and the figure stepped further into the light of the Christmas tree.

Simba blinked and leaned forwards.

“Grandpa?” he asked, shaking his head slightly in confusion.

“Simba,” came his grandfather’s unmistakable voice. It had the same tone and texture as Mufasa’s and Taka’s—and Simba’s too. It was a voice that commanded the attention of an entire room. It was a voice that could be soft and gentle or hard and fierce.

“W-what—what are you…” Simba stood up, taking a few steps forwards.

He could see the lights of the Christmas tree reflecting through Geoffrey Lyons, who was broader than Mufasa and Simba had been, his skin much darker too. He looked like a shadow, but it was his grandfather. He knew for certain.

“Am I—dreaming?” he asked, his voice quiet. Ghosts didn’t look like this, he knew. It would take a very powerful one to appear like this.

“Somewhat,” Geoffery explained vaguely. “Simba, listen to me, and listen well. Tonight, you will be visited by another spectre this eve. You must go with them. Let them guide you, listen to their teachings. And, most importantly, follow your heart.” He touched Simba’s chest. It felt warm, and then it felt like it was on fire, and then, Simba felt himself falling backwards.

When he awoke the second time, he jerked awake to the sound of haunting bells, chiming midnight. They rang loud and deep through the house.

“What the f—”

“What the fuck?!” Simba said, whirling around to see none other than— “HADES? What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

STAVE TWO: CHRISTMAS EVE, MIDNIGHT – SWYNLAKE, ENGLAND 2017

HADES: It was a good question that Hades was asking himself.

But first, let’s back up:

Hades had not thought about Christmas in-- well, honestly, ever. Last year he’d been stricken with grief and the day passed like all other days: slowly, painfully, everything too cold. Before that he and Seph regarded it very little. They’d been forced to go to Christmas Mass when they were both much younger, their grandfather-- a pious man if only in what he preached more than his actions-- believing it might have some positive effect on his grandchildren’s devil-infected souls. With their mother there had been cookie-decorating and a Christmas tree, yes, but she never lied to them about Santa, never talked much of Jesus either.

But this year, Belle had flipped open to a page in one of their ancient tomes, pointed to a spell that involved catching a star, and looked at him like she’d already caught two-- one in each of her bright eyes. You’ll be home for Christmas, she’d said excitedly as though it were her Christmas wish. He’d touched her hair and he’d smiled back at her. Yeah, he’d agreed.

But the star was nothing but dust now. Belle’s wish had fizzled with it. They’d gone to the Christmas Tree Lighting, where last year Hades had sobbed into the snow, his blistered hands shoved into ice-- he had hoped to make up for that this year. But a melancholy sadness settled over the two of them instead, like another blanket of snow. They tried to have a good time, to drink cider and look at the lights and be, well, normal, he supposed.

But he knew what Belle was thinking. That come Christmas day, as silly as a holiday like that was (and they tried to pass it off as silly, the two of them), Belle would spend it alone and Hades would too. They would be separated by the Fates. Sure, Hades would catch the tail end of it. Sure, it shouldn’t matter but--

It was Belle’s Christmas Wish, wasn’t it?

So he’d gone to the Fates. And he asked a favour.

“A favour?” repeated Clotho. She laughed at once. “Didn’t we already do you a favour? When we bent our rules and let you save her--”

“So spoiled, so greedy--” tsked Lachesis

“So naughty, so needy--” sneered Atrophos.

“C’mon,” Hades snapped over top of them. He glared. “Isn’t there something I can do? Go get you-- some-- stupid pendant in some obscure part of the Underworld or-- I dunno, give you a year of my life or something--”

“Fate is not a bargain deal, Hades Acheron,” Clotho talked over him, her tone brisk. “You cannot purchase a day with a coupon.”

“Oh bloody hell--”

“But you can earn it.” And Clotho’s eyes gleamed.

Hades knew that look. It flickered between all the sisters now, Atrophos snickering as she snipped the air with her scissors. He looked from one to the other, took a deep breath to settle his own impatience. “I can earn it,” he repeated. They nodded, that gleam now a spark. Brighter, even more mischievous. “Alright. Tell me how.”

And so they guided him into the spinning room and brought forth an intricately woven tapestry of golds, reds, and blues. It was longer than many he had seen, so long in fact he looked toward one end and saw it disappear under the shelves and into the shadows. Usually it was royalty who had tapestries like this one, their stories preserved and extended. They were beautiful, complicated things. It also meant that oftentimes a hero did not have a tapestry of their own; it was shared.

His eyes flicked over it. Many of the swirling symbols and patterns meant little to his mortal eyes; they were illustrated in the language of the Fates. But there was one thing he did recognize. A statue. A statue-- in Swynlake. In fact-- there was townsquare. And he looked to the left, down the tapestry and saw Swynlake over time, streets growing, stores popping up…

“This is Swynlake’s tapestry?” he asked with his brow furrowed.

“Good guess, my friend, but no-- look again,” whispered Lachesis.

And he did. And he saw.

“The Lyons Tapestry.”

And it was then that his mission was revealed to him, in painstaking couplet form no less. But Hades agreed, shaking the hands of each of the Fates. Clotho rolled the tapestry all the way up and pressed it into his palm. The deal, then, finally struck.

On Christmas Eve, he walked into the house and drew Belle into his arms as he had every night before. The house had been warm, a fire in the fireplace, cider cooking on the stove. They shut the cold out and after dinner cozied up by the fire, Belle in two pairs of socks. They read and drank wine until Belle’s cheeks were nearly as red as the drink, and then Hades had scooped her up into his arms in a dramatic fashion to make her laugh, and he kissed her all the way up the stairs to his bedroom. He kissed her so she wouldn’t be sad, kissed her so she wouldn’t think, kissed her to keep her warm and make her sigh until her toes were curling against his leg and she held onto him so tightly, he didn’t think the Fates could take him away if they tried.

When Belle fell asleep, he stroked her hair and waited just a few minutes more. But the clock was creeping toward midnight. And he had a mission. He leaned forward and let his lips linger on Belle’s forehead right before the digital clock struck 12--

And then -- whoosh! Christmas fuckin’ miracle. He was in Simba Lyons’ house.

“Oi, cool it, cool it, I was sent by--” he grabbed the tapestry out of the back pocket, unrolling just the top of it. “Geoffrey. And the Fates.” He rolled it back up and couldn’t help but smirk, his eyebrows quirking up. “Congratulations, Simba, I’m your very own Christmas Ghost. And we’re gonna-- I dunno, save your soul or somethin’.”

SIMBA: Simba’s heart rate was still ticked up with surprise. He had a state of the art alarm system, you know, had it installed after Kiara had gone missing, his paranoia getting the better of him. It had been a good thing, though, it gave them all a certain peace of mind, especially after the whole Taka business. So, yeah, seeing Hades standing there silhouetted by the Christmas tree was a bit of a shock, and made him want to lash out, protect his home—at first.

But, his shoulders eventually dropped somewhat, though his hand was clenched in a fist and he’d taken a step forwards, ready to toss Hades out into the snow if it came down to it, even if he was the only one here, even if there was nothing to protect.

(Though, in the back of his mind, he was really wondering what the fuck Hades was doing in his house on a purely confused level—not even worried.)

Hades spoke and Simba couldn’t help but let out a bark of a laugh—it was not an amused sound, it was dry and sharp and he shook his head. He was still wary, but, he didn’t really think Hades was going to hurt him as the adrenaline ebbed away. He had no motive, not really. He wasn’t a murderous uncle bent on taking over InterPride—Hades was not a fan of the corporate world, Simba had figured that much out after the past few weeks of working together. Though, hey, maybe there was some motive Simba didn’t know about—he hadn’t thought Taka was a murderer. He had loved him.

Besides, what did it matter, yeah? If he died—

“Save my soul?” Simba deadpanned back at Hades after a moment, and he shook his head—snorting another laugh. “And who do you think you are, Allah? He’s the only one who can do that, and I’m afraid it’s too late anyway, by about four years, mate. Your time is better spent elsewhere.”

HADES: Hades was trying to be a good sport about all this.

When the Fates had told him what he had to do-- i.e. guide a lost soul through the past, present, and future to find his way-- he’d barked a loud laugh that echoed throughout the chamber. When they told him it was going to be Simba Lyons--

“HAH, no,” he had said at once. “No. No way. That bloke is hopeless, you kidding me? I already dragged him off the floor of Belle’s bathroom--”

But the Fates had just stared at him, stared until he shut up and grumped and seethed and accepted it. Though he had pressed on why. There were so many lost souls, weren’t there, people who made a bigger splash in the cosmic pond, certainly. He’d guide a general, he’d guide a president or prime minister, he’d guide-- hell-- a Magick like himself, who was overwhelmed, buried by the weight of their power. Why did it have to be Simba Lyons?

The Fates were not clear on this. Something like he knew Simba and Simba knew him and it was the kinda crossroads that would determine where the tapestry was gonna go. And so it was Simba, or no one. Simba, or he’d be decking the halls of the Underworld with Lachesis trying to squirrel him away under the mistletoe.

So here he was, and his brow twitched at Simba’s comment. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy (he’d been warned)-- but already? Hades rolled his eyes.

“Right, you don’t have a choice,” he said. “And neither do I. Look, I’m not-- thrilled, okay. You think I want to be guiding you around on my Christmas Eve? No. But-- I, ah, have to if I’m going to spend Christmas with Belle. You are my ticket. So you either behave yourself or I’m gonna drag your arse kickin’ and screamin’ to where we need to go.”

SIMBA: You don’t have a choice.

Those words made Simba bristle more than anything, his head snapping back with his own scoff on his lips, like a bull in a pen that had just been prodded. He didn’t like being told he didn’t have a choice—that was what had gotten him such a mess in the first place. He had been told his entire life that he didn’t have a choice. It was InterPride or it was nothing at all—no family, no duty, no honor. InterPride or nothing. That had been the choice and it wasn’t a choice, because Simba could never discard his family like that. The one time he’d tried it had almost killed him and that had been for a good reason—not just because he didn’t want to.

So, Simba didn’t have a choice with InterPride and InterPride made all of his choices for him—who he would be able to date and marry. What his life was going to look like. What subject he took in school, the people he met, the places he went. InterPride made all of those choices. Simba didn’t have choices.

But he could choose whether or not he was going to go with this asshole.

Except—he couldn’t. As soon as Hades mentioned Belle, Simba’s shoulders dropped and he turned his head, looking down into the fire embers burning low in the fireplace. His jaw muscle rippled and it was silent for a few moments. Then, he looked back at Hades and watched him carefully for a few seconds—trying to determine if he was lying, if this was some—trick. But, Hades held his gaze steady and Simba knew he wasn’t lying.

He just wanted to spend Christmas with the person he loved. Simba could understand that.

“Fine,” he said, “but no promises anything is going to change. I don’t know what it is you could possibly show me or do that would—save my soul?” he scoffed again.

HADES: Hades did not know either. He’d done his best, following along with the Fates and their obscure couplet instructions but there were holes in those rhymes, put there he imagined on purpose because these things could never be straightforward. No, straightforward would mean the Fates weren’t having fun and wouldn’t have anything to laugh at. Couldn’t have that-- what would the sadistic Hot Topic employees from Hell do in all that spare time?

So Hades was on this journey as much as Simba was. If anything, he was a messenger-- like Hermes, carrying his package (Simba’s tapestry) up from the Underworld. It was this tapestry, which looked like nothin’ more than a scroll clutched in Hades’ hand, that would be the map.

That part, at least, Hades understood. Otherwise? Well, he was the ambassador: envoy of the dead, the dying, the departed. He supposed that could apply to memories. So he’d wing it.

At least he’d gotten this far. Mentioning Belle was a good move (but he knew that; Simba was a sorry sap in love, wasn’t that why he was here?)

“Good, keep those expectations nice and low,” snarked Hades right back, though his lip twitched. If Simba was closer, maybe he’d see the triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Now c’mere. Got a present for you, Lyons.”

As Simba approached, Hades lifted the tapestry again, giving it a wiggle. “See this? It’s your-- tapestry. Everything that’s ever happened to you, everything happening now, the threads intertwined with yours--it’s all here. Take look” He held it toward Simba, hearing the chorus of the Fates--

With your hand on one end, let him touch the scroll

Then upon the midnight hour’s final toll.

Through the Christmas of his past will you take your stroll…

Simba’s hand wrapped around the end, but Hades did not let go. Then: the sound of a bell and a flash--

STAVE THREE: CHRISTMAS EVE, DAYTIME – NAIROBI, KENYA 2000

SIMBA: Simba hesitated again when Hades offered up the scroll to him. He stood in the center of his living room and eyed it. He knew whatever it was was magic—powerful magic, that was the only way Geoffery could’ve been summoned, and Hades too, breaking into someone’s home was hard, even with magic, if it was imbibed with magic itself—which Simba’s was, would be stupid to live in a town like this without magical protection. Could, quite possibly, all be a trap—even if Hades wasn’t involved with it. Maybe whomever had given Hades that tapestry were the ones who wanted to wish him harm.

He sounded like a paranoid fool and he knew it. But, could you blame him? After finding out his uncle had killed his father and tried to kill him—and having been unaware of it the entire time?

Still, Simba was just drunk enough to ignore his father’s voice in his head, telling him to be cautious, to be careful, there were people who loved him. (Which there was, but the thing about that was: none of them needed him.) He stepped up to Hades, a defiant gleam in his eyes to match Hades’ triumphant one.

He put his hand on the scroll and there was a bright flash of light which made him squeeze his eyes shut—

When he opened them, he had to blink a few times—the sun was baking bright against the dry, cracked ground. He knew, before he could fully see, that they were in Kenya. The sun felt different in Kenya, like it was closer, bright and sweltering, even in the winter—which is what this was. He could tell, because there was garland wrapped around the front porch of his Kenyan home. It was odd—because he could not feel the heat, or the gentle breeze that rustled the garland—which an antelope was chewing on, its shoulder shuddering as flies buzzed around it.

“Kenya,” Simba said, a little breathless, but by way of explanation to Hades, who was looking around with a bit of a crease in his brow.

Simba stood, like he was standing in the pages of a story book, before he climbed the creaking stairs—except, they didn’t creak as he put his weight on them. He couldn’t feel the warm wood of the porch underneath his palm. But, he kept walking, around the side of the large house, searching for—

Ah, there he was.

His Uncle Goodie’s warm, rich, smooth voice:

“So, they journeyed but never found the Lion; He had taken hold of sword and dagger…”

They rounded the corner, and there was his uncle, in the rocking chair in the corner of the porch, beneath the window. Around his feet was Chidi, Masamba, Oyibo, and Desta. Anan was sitting on the railing of the porch, arm wrapped around one of the poles, his feet swinging. Little Katlego sat in his lap, her head on his shoulder, half asleep.

“They returned home together with one accord To tell the King Mringwari, ‘Liyongo cannot be overcome, he is like fire! He is not mortal, that one, he is fire!”

“This is my favorite story,” Simba told Hades from where he had taken to leaning against the side of the house, arms crossed, a little smile on his face. “It’s about this warrior, Liyongo, he’s kinda—like Robin Hood, ‘cept he’s a prince, and better with a bow…”

He trailed off and pushed up from the wall. “Er, right—where am I?” he asked, more to himself than anything.

As soon as he thought it, he blinked and they were in the kitchen. He was sitting on the counter, a mixing bowl in his lap, but he was staring out the window.

His mother had flour on her arms as she rolled out dough. “What are you looking at, mwana?”

“I’m not,” little Simba grumped, “I’m waiting.”

“For your father?”

Little Simba nodded his head, but he was looking down at the bowl that he was most definitely not stirring as he was supposed to be. His mother sighed and put a little flour on his nose. Simba popped his elbow up to knock his mother’s hand away, not laughing like he usually would. He wiggled a little farther down the counter, away from her.

“You will see him when you get home.”

HADES: The flash of light blinded Hades and left a ring around his iris when at last it cleared. He blinked-- clutched harder at that scroll, feeling like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. Then everything rushed in:

Hot air, the smell of-- grass and dirt? The sound of a voice he did not know. Green, brown, the creak of a wooden step.

He blinked again and saw it all, glancing toward Simba because this was not from Hades’ life. It was from Simba’s. The recognition sparked in his eye at once and he moved forward, leaving Hades standing rather dumbly for a moment before he snapped to attention. Hades then shoved the scroll back in his back pocket and followed on, climbing the steps of the porch. They did not creak because, of course, Hades was not really here. He was visiting, both of them hovering as ghosts would, looking over the shoulder of these memories of the past.

Wasn’t that what Seph had once said? That ghosts, really, were memory. And memory, really, was a type of ghost.

Stories too, thought Hades to himself-- and to his own memory of Seph-- as he listened in on this story. He glanced toward Simba as he talked about it. Was this story important then, was that why they were here?

He was answered a moment later as they dissipated and reappeared in the kitchen within the house, as though this was the real place they’d materialized in the first place. Once again Hades looked around. Nothing familiar to him, nothing but-- the affection in the woman’s voice. That reminded him of Opal.

That was Simba’s mother.

He let Simba wander closer and he, he stayed back. He ducked his head and pretended to be enchanted with a bowl of oranges. He reached for not, knowing full well he couldn’t touch it--

He knocked off the top orange anyway, because, fuck, right, ghost hands. It rolled from the pile, falling with a barely-there noise on the wooden floor. “Whoops, shit--” Hades said sheepishly though Little Simba and his mother hadn’t even noticed. He pushed it under the lip of the counter with his heel best he could. “Sorry.”

SIMBA: Simba’s heart had started pounding hard and tight in his chest at the mention of his father, and just like Little Simba, he had turned to look out the window with a hopeful gaze. He knew he was lucky, to get these extra moments with his father—like he had in the Underworld, and he treasured all of them. Moreso than even the real Simba, who was sitting on the kitchen counter top obviously missing his father so badly, would.

He knew this because—

“I don’t remember this,” he said out loud in his confusion, taking a step closer.

They spent several holidays in Kenya, of course. It was really only Aunt Miriam and Uncle Riley who celebrated Christmas, but it was as good of a time as any to get the whole family together—especially since half of them lived in the very Christian England. His father had always gone with him—or so Simba had remembered. He always did everything he could to come to Kenya, even if he had to come a day late, or leave a day early, or sometimes both. He was always there—

“It’s been two whole days!” Little Simba whined, kicking his feet against the kitchen cabinets.

“Yes, I know, it’s been two whole days of you being a brat,” Sarabi said, a hand on her hip—though her voice wasn’t unkind…perhaps just a bit exasperated, or exhausted.

Little Simba’s feet stopped kicking and he looked down into the mixing bowl, a deep frown on his face. Simba took another step closer, like he could reach out and comfort his younger self—though, he didn’t know what he would say, he could feel the disappointment burning in his own chest as he realized that he wasn’t going to get to see his father, even a past-version of him. A version of Mufasa alive and happy.

“Well, he’s supposed to be here,” Simba whined again, though his voice trembled even more. There was a long beat where Simba sniffled and Sarabi sighed. “I miss him.”

“I know you do, habibah,” Sarabi said gently, taking the mixing bowl from Simba’s hands and setting it down on the counter so that she could scoop up her gangly nine-year-old in her arms. Simba wrapped his arms and legs around his mama like a little baboon and Sarabi carried him over to the kitchen table, sitting down in the chair there, older Simba turning slowly until he was facing this new scene his brow furrowed.

“I miss grandpa too,” Simba hiccupped.

“I know, cub,” Sarabi said, stroking the back of his head gently. “Your father isn’t dead, though,” she reminded him with a bit of a chuckle, kissing the side of his head before Simba pulled back from where his head was resting on his mother’s shoulder.

“I know that,” he said brattily, tears on his face. “Grandpa is though.”

“Yes, and you’re father has had to take over, just like you will someday.”

“When Daddy dies?”

Sarabi chuckled again. Ghost Simba let out a wet little chuckle of his own, shaking his head and glancing down as his heart squeezed.

“No, when he gets too old.”

If only, thought Simba.

Little Simba fiddled with a tassel on his mother’s sarong and all was quiet in the kitchen. Outside the open window, Uncle Goodie’s strong voice could be heard:

“I am a young lion, I have instilled the wish to die in my heart; I fear nothing but disgrace if my enemies see my back. But both my feet are in shackles, And around my neck an iron ring has been forged…”

“This is right after my grandfather died,” Simba said, mostly to himself, realizing it in that quiet moment. “My father had only been CEO for a few months. I guess he…didn’t come with us this time.” There was a long pause where Simba stared at his mother rocking him in her arms. He missed that. He missed being small enough to curl up on her like that. He missed his father too.

HADES: Let it be known: Hades really couldn’t believe this was how he was spending his Christmas Eve, watching Simba Lyons get teary-eyed over Simba Lyons Junior who was getting teary-eyed over a father missing-in-action-- only he wasn’t, was he, he’d just not shown up.

Boo hoo hoo. Hades crossed his arms, looking down at that orange he’d tried to subtly kick away from prying curious eyes, so he wouldn’t roll his eyes and insult his ward for the night.

And look, Hades could have empathy for it all, he supposed, if it wasn’t history repeating itself. You’d think a kid would remember something like this and maybe make a change. What was Hades doin’ when he was nine years old on Christmas Eve? He remembered that, actually, too clearly, because it was the last year his mum was alive. There had been a fire in the fireplace and they’d all baked all day together, so they’d be ready for tomorrow. Hades smashed cranberries, Persephone helped with the potatoes, their mum did all the cutting. They’d baked sugar cookies, getting flour all over the place, then decorated them all. Or, well, Sephy did. Hades remembered distinctly only making two cookies, egged on by Sephy-- one for her, and one for their mother.

It snowed as it did most years. He remembered that too.

There had been no one to wait for, of course. Grandfather was far far away, even if it would just take a ride on the tram-- he did not come to Christmas. Hades’ father was a myth; he only knew he had one, somewhere, because all kids must. There were no people gathered on Hades’ porch; he did not even have a porch.

But still, Hades had a good Christmas and remembered it because it was so good. Because he’d had all the people who he needed.

He lifted his head at Simba’s voice, hearing him slowly start to remember (had he just pushed it away because it’d been sad?) Hades arched a brow and then wandered toward him, stopping by his side. Did the Fates expect Hades to comfort him? He hoped not. Instructions had been vague there too. He was just supposed to-- make Simba see the truth.

Well, Hades knew a thing or two about telling the truth.

“Guess he decided he had somewhere more important to be,” quipped Hades. He glanced sideways at him, remembering the empty house he’d stumbled into-- the sad, abandoned fire, the bottle of whiskey, the lifeless air. “Like father, like son.”

SIMBA: Simba was pulled from his musings as Hades came towards him. It was odd—having him here. Simba didn’t know how he felt about it. On one hand, he was glad he wasn’t reliving this memory alone, but he could hardly turn to Hades for support, so really—he might as well be going through it alone. He knew who he really wanted. He wanted his mother. He wanted his father. He wanted Berlioz. Even—Kiara.

Hades spoke, and Simba frowned.

He wanted to be angry. He felt the anger in his chest and he shot Hades a look but—he knew he couldn’t be, because it was true. The guilt covered the anger like a blanket, dampening it, putting it out before it could spread to his tongue. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and looked out over the window beyond his mother’s head, where the plains stretched out for miles and miles. There was no one else here. There was no one coming. He would be spending his vacation alone, because not even his family could fill the hole left by his father’s absence.

For a brief moment, as he stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, he wondered if that was how—someone felt about him. He didn’t think so. He didn’t have a child who was waiting on him. He didn’t have a wife—or even a husband—or anyone at all. He knew he had quite successfully pushed everyone away. Maybe that made him better than his father, because, at least, he didn’t set up expectations. He’d just—been awful from the start.

It was easier that way, he supposed.

Though, he was also—disturbed…if that was the right word—that he…didn’t remember this. How could he not? His father never missed any of his games, never missed holidays, or birthdays—or…did he? Simba scoured back through his memories, but there were too many games, too many birthdays, too many holidays to remember properly.

“He got better,” Simba defended, but his voice was small and uncertain now. Had he? Or—because Simba had been sent away, he didn’t see it. How many date nights had Mufasa missed with Sarabi? How many of her birthdays?

“Let’s go,” he said abruptly, feeling his skin begin to crawl as it felt like his entire childhood was being rewritten, etched into his skin. “How do we leave?”

STAVE FOUR: CHRISTMAS EVE, EVENING -- Swynlake, England, 2017

HADES: If there was one thing Hades knew about Simba, it was he had fight in him. More than Hades, more than practically anyone-- there was a fire that caught easily and quickly if you knew how to spark it and it wasn’t that hard to figure that out either because Simba wore that heart of on his sleeve-- if he wasn’t just giving it out to people. Hades had felt the brunt force of Simba’s fight before. He’d bruised that heart with just a couple of choice sneered words and Simba pummeled him with his fist enough times to bloody Hades’ nose and blacken his eye. There wasn’t much that Hades admired about Simba-- but if he were gonna pick something, it would maybe be the fight. Even when it was stupid, all whiplash and bravado and wounded pride. Hades preferred the proud to the meek.

But here, right now? There was no fight. He’d expected more than a half-hearted defense for the dead daddy Simba so idolized (and if you’ll recall, Hades had seen Simba blubbering about Mufasa when they’d been in prison in Hell so-- yeah, he was familiar). But that was all he got. Barely more than a twitch of his jaw and a brief glare that had no actual fire.

Simba’s fire was-- elsewhere. Soaked in whiskey? Suffocating in a suit and tie? Shoved in the empty spaces of his closet where his beloved Bonfamille had once been?

Hades didn’t know but he rose his eyebrows all the same at the pathetic comeback. This was maybe what he was supposed to be doing for Simba-- helping him fight. At least...Hades certainly liked that mission more than memory lane bingo.

“Cool your heels, mate, got all the time in the palm of my hand-- literally,” Hades quipped. He got out the tapestry again though and pushed off the counter to cross toward Simba. Their eyes met. Hades moved his brows up, as if he was gonna say something.

He could. Could say a lot of things. Could say, y’know, this isn’t really about if your father got better. It’s about you.

Didn’t though. Instead he offered the scroll to Simba and as soon as Simba’s hand wrapped around the end, the light flashed through again…

...and as they blinked through it, they were away from Kenya, the air now thick with the scent of oranges, cinnamon, and wine cooking on the stove. Hades’ eyes darted around the rather nice-sized flat. There was a medium Christmas tree in the corner, all decked out in lights and baubles. And when he looked toward the kitchen, Hades blinked in recognition. Because yeah, that was Nala Calame at the stove, stirring the big pot of mulled wine. There was another woman in the kitchen with her-- ah, an older version of Sarabi, now he saw, the woman from the kitchen in Kenya now older, with more laugh lines on her forehead and crinkles near her eyes, but the same woman all the same.

“Oh shit,” exclaimed a third voice. Hades turned and saw little Kiara Lyons sitting cross-legged at the christmas tree. “Shit, I -- snagged Simba’s gift when I brought yours over!”

Nala glanced toward her. “Oh, well, we can bring it over tomorrow afternoon--”

“No, it’s supposed to be under the tree for him!” Kiara sighed. She snatched up the box and scrambled up, walking toward the counter. “Do you think-- maybe, if I-- you know, I tell him, and invite him over for Christmas Eve he could bring it back with him…”

Nala sighed this time. “I dunno Kiara, you’ve already called twice--”

“Okay but I-- there’s a reason now!” She exclaimed and plopped the wrapped box on the bar before slipping onto the stool. “Besides he wants to come, I know he does, I just have to-- you know, ask enough. He wants to be here.”

Hades crossed his arms and glanced at Simba. “Well. Welcome to your Christmas Present.”

SIMBA: Simba did not find Hades quip amusing, as he could not grab hold of that cloth fast enough. He wanted to be very far away from the disappointed little boy at his back. Far from the uncomfortable truths that were beginning to take root in his brain. It is a hard thing, growing up and learning your parents were not as wonderful as you thought they were. Especially when said parent had been taken from you before you could—learn that through them, and then grow with them, embrace them as a person and not a figure to idolize.

Simba would never get that opportunity. To—be friends with his father.

He squeezed his eyes tight and grabbed the tapestry, feeling a tug in his gut. The smell was the first thing that hit him, the mulled wine but also—Nala. Her house. He knew it before he even opened his eyes, just like he’d known the plains of Kenya. He almost didn’t want to open his eyes, because he knew what he’d see—a Christmas tree with presents underneath. He’d sent his own along with Kiara when she’d left, even though she’d protested that he wouldn’t see her opening them. I already know what I got you, plus, I know you’ll like it because I’m just that good, he’d tried to joke, but he hadn’t really smiled as he kissed her on the forehead and sent her along.

He knew he’d see his mother at the stove, cooking, and Nala in her comfortable, festive pajamas. All of them cozy and warm and smiling. Without him.

His eyes sprung open of their own accord at the sound of Kiara’s voice and his eyes went to her immediately, watching her sitting there with a pout eerily similar to his own. His own mouth twitched down in an imitation without even thinking about it. He tracked her across the room, his arms crossing over his chest as his frown deepened, watching the scene play out in front of him. He didn’t want to get to close, like he was afraid to shatter it.

There was nothing about the conversation that surprised him. His heart tugged in his chest, but it was a dull thing. This was what the whiskey was for. He knew he’d made the right decision, sending Kiara off. What would she be doing at home, if he had let her stay? Bothering Simba with offers of Christmas cookie baking and Christmas movie watching and hot cocoa making until Simba snapped at her and then they got in a fight? Merry fucking Christmas.

“That may be true,” Sarabi said from the stove, half-turning to look at her niece, “but you also know he won’t say yes. Don’t let him ruin your Christmas with his bullshit.”

“Hey!” Simba said, taking a step forwards—snorting indignantly.

“It’s not bullshit,” he grumped in Hades’ direction, side-eyeing him since he was—the only one there to hear it. “M’heart’s broke. Should have a bit more sympathy.” He cast his eyes down and then up and around the room, squeezing his biceps tighter. “I’m not exactly the best person to be around anyways. They’re better off. So, if you’re tryina make me feel guilty—it’s not working.” He looked back at Hades defiantly.

HADES: “It’s not bullshit,” echoed Kiara, though she said it with a sigh. She fingered the ribbon of her present idly, looking at it, not at Sarabi or Nala. The two women exchanged glances with each other though.

Hades looked at Simba. “Hey, I’m not doin’ anything, mate. Just along for the ride. Looks like you’re the one who’s making history repeat itself--”

Then Kiara’s voice rose above Hades’ own:

“He’s just--lonely and sad and needs us. And I need him. That’s what family does, we’re there for each other--”

“Kiara,” broke in Nala. It wasn’t mean, though. She turned toward the bar and slid her hand over it, grasping Kiara’s wrist with her hand. Her smile was kind, almost maternal. Which was good; Hades flicked his gaze to Sarabi and did not see the same kindness there. He did not know what to see. She was not as open, at least, as Nala was, who was a woman who had always worn her emotions plain to see.

Nala squeezed Kiara’s wrist. “Hey, I miss him too. You know I miss him. I swear, if I thought kicking down his door and dragging him here would make everything better, I would. But he wants to be alone.”

“No one wants to be alone, not really,” Kiara argued to that, though she was talking out-- to the universe, maybe? Hades raised his eyebrows. “Like, I know-- what he says he wants, but he doesn’t want to be alone--”

“Well maybe he needs it,” said Nala, her hand slipping off Kiara’s wrist. She turned back to the fridge, opening it so she could get out, yup, eggnog. She headed toward the cabinet next as she talked. “Maybe he needs to have this horrible Christmas all alone-- to punish himself or whatever it is he thinks he is doing-- and then-- well, next year will be better.” She sighed. “Just try to forget about him, Kiara. He’s not coming.”

Kiara blinked furiously, ducking her head as she rubbed at her eye.

“Ah. Makin’ your cousin cry, always an excellent Christmas gift,” commented Hades with a snort. He looked at Simba. “She look better off to you?”

SIMBA: Making history repeat itself…

Simba cut his gaze away for a second, his jaw ticking. That unpleasant feeling was back in his chest. The one that felt like a clock ticking backwards, or—not in the right direction at all, forwards and backwards and side to side with no rhyme or reason. It made him a little woozy, but he just shook his head and gritted his teeth, holding himself tightly and staring steadily ahead at the scene in front of him.

I need him.

No, you don’t, Simba wanted to say at once. Obviously, Kiara didn’t. She was the one who had ran away from her abuse. She had saved herself. She was stronger than Simba was, much stronger. He’d told her that several times. She didn’t need him, no one did. Even Ber was fine without him—sad, yes, but better off. With his family, who loved him, and Lou—who would keep an eye on him and protect him properly.

His frown deepened at Nala and Kiara’s exchanging, while his mother stood silently at the stove, her eyes hard. He’d seen that look before—Sarabi hated when people were made upset by those they loved. Unless it was Simba apparently. Simba had to suffer in silence, because he had the weight of InterPride to shoulder instead.

He looked away, his gaze cutting sharp to Hades as his heart twisted.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled at him, but his voice cracked and didn’t sound very threatening at all. He turned his head away again. Shaking it.

“I’ve seen enough, let’s go,” he said, voice hard. He held out his hand for the tapestry. “Let’s get this bullshit future over with.”

HADES: Hades raised his eyebrows, jerking the tapestry away from Simba. “Not so fast, mate,” he said-- and then the room filled with light. The ground shifted, the smell of the wine and spices evaporating fast as though they had never been there.

Then the light cleared and they were standing in a much different room, door shut, blinds drawn, a single desk light on. Downstairs, there was music playing-- beautiful classical music that drifted through this large house and got into the walls.

Hades knew this house. He knew that music, he knew that smell-- which could only be described as clean.

And there at the desk was Simba’s Berlioz. He had leaned back in the chair, pushing it onto his back legs. He was staring at his phone, chewing over his nail.

Under the light of the lamp glinted a crystal vial, filled with what a clear liquid. Hades rose his eyebrows. He could feel the magic emanating off it, and it reminded him of the little vials that Belle brought home from Howl.

“He’s your family too, isn’t he?” Hades said as they stood in the silent tomb of a room. “Let’s see what Berlioz is up to…” he leaned over the boy’s shoulder to look at the text on the screen...

Simba’s name. Ah.

Simba, i’ve been thinking and i know what i said and i know you hate me now and i deserve that but i

His finger deleted the words, all the way back to Simba.

Simba, i’m sorry for

Delete delete delete.

I really shouldn’t be texting you but i don’t want to leave everything that way. I was upset because of star wars and i just...overreacted though i know its over and this doesn’t change that but i

Delete delete delete. Berlioz blinked furiously, then breathed in sharp, looking up at the ceiling the way people did when they wanted to stop crying. He rubbed at his chest, then closed his eyes.

There was a drop of water. It was a small sound. Hades looked at the vial and saw the liquid in it ripple.

“BERLIOZ!” came a shrill from all the way downstairs.

Ber started there in the chair, nearly falling back, but catching the lip of his desk. He rocked back onto four legs.

“BERLIOZ. COME DOWNSTAIRS. NOW,” yelled the unmistakable voice of Adelaide, the Bonfamille matriarch, from what Hades knew.

“I-- Coming!” Berlioz called. But he did not move. He looked back at his phone, texting--

Simba.

Deleting Simba.

“Well, this is pathetic,” said Hades.

SIMBA: The light flashed and—

They were in Berlioz’s room. It took Simba a moment to recognize it, especially considering how dark it was. He’d hardly ever been here. He knew Ber hated it. That Ber hadn’t picked out the furniture or the paint or the comforter on the bed, the drapes on the window. You would think Simba would be able to pick out his boyfriend’s—ex-boyfriend’s—bedroom as fast as lightning. But, this had never really been Ber’s space. He knew that. He’d known that since the first time he’d stood in this room, Berlioz standing in the center of it, looking—out of place as his gaze skirted around the room and he spoke with a detached voice.

There where his clothes, still on the floor, spilling out of boxes he hadn’t unpacked yet.

He hadn’t unpacked the boxes.

His eyes flicked towards Hades the same moment that thought struck him. They weren’t in the future. They were still in the present. This was his Berlioz, sitting in his chair at his desk.

His family as Hades said. He felt his throat tighten.

He crossed the room quickly, his shoulder jostling Hades’ as he leaned over Berlioz. His nose brushed Ber’s hair for a moment, though the scent of it seemed—far away. Eventually, he dropped his eyes towards his phone, watching the words type out, delete, type out, delete. His heart clenched with every one, and subconsciously, he reached for his own phone in his pocket. He wondered if he pulled it out and opened Ber’s contact, if he’d see the little bubbles.

Sometimes, he could catch Ber writing, before. They’d both reach for their phones at the same time, and Simba watched those little bubbles stop and start, stop and start. He always texted first if he saw that happening. Every time.

Adelaide’s voice called up from downstairs and Simba jumped just as Berlioz did. That woman was a nightmare, in Simba’s opinion.

He looked back at Ber—whose face was drawn, looking like he was about to cry. His head ducked again and he typed something else out. Deleted it.

Simba blinked and a tear slipped out of his own eye. He went to reach out for Ber. He wanted to touch his cheek, his hair, hold his hand. Let him know that he was there, that he loved him, because he did. He didn’t hate him. He could never. He thought Berlioz knew that.

Fuck me for loving you.

“Shut the fuck up,” Simba said to Hades. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! I swear to Allah—”

Ber stood up from his seat at the desk, pocketing his phone—no text message sent. He looked right at Simba.

“Ber, I—”

Ber walked right through him. He’d been looking right through him too—because this was some…bullshit magic and only Hades could fucking touch anything.

“Do something!” he snapped in Hades’ direction, shoving his shoulder towards the door. He didn’t know what Hades was supposed to be able to do—but he had come on this trip for some fucking reason. Maybe this was it.

HADES: Disclaimer: Hades didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about.

He also wasn’t sure he was supposed to. He was playing every stave of this by ear, so if he was supposed to be some grand maestro of Simba’s fate, well-- well, he could only do his best and this, mind you, this was Hades best.

He was starting to think that was the point though. Really, after two of these and now here on his third, dealing with a tired Simba and now a damn near fiery one-- the fight back in his eye-- he was thinking maybe he was supposed to piss Simba off.

Because Simba wasn’t going anywhere, was just unspooling his own goddamn tapestry as he sat and drank whiskey and wasted his precious, precious hours, hours that Hades would kill for.

So Hades was supposed to make Simba fight. That’s why he, of all people, had to guide Simba. Not to mollycoddle the self-pitying bastard. But to shove his face in his mistakes and make Simba realize that-- yeah, he cared. He wanted to be with his family.

He wanted that boy, for whatever reason, maybe most of all.

So Hades just scoffed at Simba. Chuckled, laughed at him. “Oh, and what do you want me to do? I’m not who he wants-- I’m not the one he’s in love with. There’s nothing I can do to stop him from bein’ miserable. Soon that won’t even be in your hands anymore, mate, and there will be nothing you can do either. Though don’t take my word for it--”

He held up the scroll. “See for yourself.”

STAVE FIVE: CHRISTMAS EVE, LATE AT NIGHT -- Paris, France, 2021

SIMBA: Simba could punch Hades in the face. He really could. His hand clenched and unclenched at his side as he watched Berlioz pull the door open to his room and shut it again behind him. The only thing that stopped him was—

He didn’t know what. Maybe his own self-pity.

It’d feel too good to punch that smug fucker in the face (Simba would know, he’d done it already, hadn’t he?) Simba didn’t deserve to get what he wanted. Not right now. Not after watching Berlioz torture himself. Berlioz, who was so sad. Berlioz, who Simba had hurt worse than anything, because a broken heart was worse than a punch in the face. Because there was nothing you could do about it. No ice to help it heal. Even whiskey just dulled the senses.

Hades’ words echoed in Simba’s brain like a dull throbbing headache, like something had been wedged in between the bone and the soft tissue. Something that didn’t belong there. Or, maybe, it wasn’t what Simba wanted. A literal hard truth shoved into his brain.

Soon that won’t even be in your hands anymore, mate, and there will be nothing you can do either.

Simba whirled on him, his eyes dark and suspicious. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he snarled again, though, his voice was—slightly more…confused, suspicious, unsure. The thought roiled in his stomach. That there—wasn’t anything he was going to be able to do to fix it. That it was never going to be him that made Berlioz happy. It was all he wanted. More than InterPride. More than, even, being a teacher. He just—wanted to be the thing that made Berlioz smile.

He hesitated, this time, like he had the very first time, to grab the scroll. But, eventually, his curiosity—morbid curiosity, perhaps—won out. He reached out to touch it.

The light flashed—

When he blinked open his eyes they were at a—party. At a venue Simba didn’t recognize. Outside the big, beautiful windows was not a skyline he immediately recognized either—it was a city, which certainly wasn’t Swynlake. The decorations were obviously Christmas, with tinsel and holly hung with care. He spun on his heel, taking in all dazzling outfits, the din of the crowd, the chime of champagne flutes, with his brow furrowed.

“Where are—” he started, glancing at Hades, but then he caught sight of a familiar face—

Berlioz was standing a few feet away, in the middle of the crowd. Simba’s heart clenched. He looked—different, somehow, though Simba couldn’t pin point exactly what it was. Maybe it was just—how uncomfortable he looked, standing there with a glass of champagne, his expression blank. Simba knew that look—Ber was hardly breathing.

“What the fuck,” he said, casting another glare at Hades—like this was all his fault (which, it kind of was)—before he stalked quickly in Ber’s direction, his eyes scouring over his figure, wondering if there was anything he could do to help.

HADES: Now they stood in a large ballroom, not unlike town hall but-- much, much nicer. Hades glanced up at the high ceilings, glimpsed the marble columns. He knew where they were this time if only because the Fates had let him read ahead, following the two different threads this future concerned with his finger. He’d have to know, just in case Simba had questions and this particular scene did not answer them. It was the only time, really, that there was an exception to the rule about such things. For once, Simba got to know.

Nifty, wasn’t it?

And so Hades knew why Berlioz was here, standing awkwardly in the middle of a milling crowd, his face too flushed. He knew, in rough swaths, the different moves that had gotten him here. He knew unlike Simba that Berlioz did not live in Swynlake anymore, that he was not a music producer, that he had only recently moved out of his parents’ home to a quiet apartment all his own.

He knew about the boy headed Berlioz’s way. Not Simba-- the other boy, who appeared at Berlioz’s side before Simba got there, two champagne flutes in his hands and an easy smile, showing off his perfectly straight teeth. He swooped in to Ber’s side and Ber’s eyes snapped toward him.

“Berlioz--! Here he is. Berlioz, you’ve met Camille Delon, yes?” said the boy-- his name was Guy Binoche. Hades knew that too. He brought with him a beautiful blonde woman, hair perfectly curled and falling over one shoulder.

“Oh I-- er, no, I don’t think…”

“Ah, he doesn’t remember,” said Camille with a little laugh. Berlioz blanched. “Guy, your boyfriend does not remember me!”

Guy laughed too. “Ah, you must forgive him, he’s too in his head like always, aren’t you?” Guy smiled at him. “It is why I brought you more champagne, mon biquet. Drink up, relax!”

Like a dog obeying the command, Berlioz drank his champagne flute. Just a sip--

“Ah, more, c’mon Berlioz,” said Guy and then he looked back at Camille. “Anyway-- you must remember Camille, she works with me at your father’s office. She is on the public relations team.”

“I just wanted to say a quick hello to the Senator’s son,” said Camille. She smiled again, her eyes crinkling. “I hope you are having a good night?”

“Y-yeah, yeah, it’s… this is lovely,” Berlioz uttered, lifting his free hand to gesture at the decorations.

“I am sorry for keeping Guy so long near the drinks,” tittered Camille. “But I’ve returned him now. Here, I should let you enjoy yourselves!” She reached forward and squeezed Guy’s arm, then leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Happy holidays, you two. Guy, I’ll see you after the New Year!” And then she turned and flocked off.

Immediately, Guy’s smile dropped and he looked at Berlioz. “You couldn’t even pretend to know her? I have introduced her to you at least twice now. C’mon, mamour,” he tsked, reaching forward to tug on Berlioz’s suit coat lapel. “You said you were going to try tonight.”

“I am,” said Berlioz, quietly.

“Are you? Because you’re acting like a bitchy ex-lover of mine. You can’t be jealous of all my friends, Berlioz.”

“Wh--I-- I’m not.” Berlioz’s eyes widened. “I--I’m sorry.”

“Don’t start that.” Guy rolled his eyes, sucking his teeth a little. There was a beat, then his eyes flicked to Berlioz again. “Come, drink. You’re much sweeter when you are drunk-- not nearly as jealous.”

“I wasn’t--” Berlioz started but Guy scoffed at him, cutting off the end of his sentence. His mouth closed.

Hades raised his eyebrows.

Another second later, Berlioz stepped a little closer, his voice lower. “I wasn’t jealous. I’m sorry, I’m-- in my head, you’re right. You’re right. I’m sorry. Please, I don’t wanna fight--”

“Alright, calm down,” said Guy. “Now will you drink please and try to have some fun?”

“I am having fun--”

“Drink, Berlioz.” He leaned in-- and his whisper would be lost in the party but the magic of the Fates and this spell amplified it, somehow. Hades could feel the whisper in his own ear. “And if you’re very good, I’ll let you suck my cock tonight. See? No reason to be jealous.”

Berlioz blushed bright red, ducking his head. Guy laughed, nudged him. “Drink!” he said again and Berlioz obeyed, downing the rest of the drink and then letting Guy put the second flute in his hand. Guy knocked their glasses together, then took a sip himself, his eyes lingering on Berlioz’s flushed face as they drank.

“Hey,” he said. “I love you.” He said it like he was expecting an answer.

He got one. Berlioz parroted it back to him. “I-- I love you too.”

“Guy!” came a voice and Hades looked toward the sound-- seeing a man approach them this time, a woman on her arm. He was tall, blonde, around the same age, his girlfriend blonde too. They fell into conversation with them, once again Guy taking the lead. He slipped an arm around Berlioz, made a joke-- And this is Berlioz. Forgive him if he doesn’t say much, he’s had too much to drink tonight-- and the couple giggled and Berlioz stood there, a pained smile on his face. And the conversation wound on, loud and fast, and Hades watched as Berlioz nodded and nodded and nodded…

Even Hades felt his stomach twist in pity. He knew that look; he’d seen it on Belle’s face when the crowds were simply too much.

“Excuse me,” said Berlioz at one point, blurting over the man in the middle of a sentence. “I ah-- I’ll just…be a moment. Need to-- just erm, go to the bathroom.”

He got about four steps away before Guy’s hand clamped on his arm and stopped him. “Berlioz, really?” hissed Guy.

“I-- I’m just-- going to the bathroom, I, I promise.”

“You could have waited for a break in the conversation. You’re making me look like a fool.”

“I-- I’m sorry. I’ll be right back,” pled Berlioz. “I’m sorry.”

Guy’s hand slipped from his arm. “At least bring back more drinks?” He scoffed again, shaking his head, and then returned to the couple with a laugh as though nothing had happened.

Then Berlioz bolted, knocking into someone on accident, barely apologizing before he kept going. Simba started after him at once, but Hades just-- blinked. And the scene changed.

They were in the bathroom now, shoved into a tiny stall with Berlioz. He had untied his bowtie, unbuttoned his shirt two buttons down. He was sat on the toilet, the palms of his hands shoved into his eyes as he dragged in rough, uneven breaths into his lungs.

Hades stood there and he crossed his arms, uncertain what else to do.

SIMBA: Simba stopped in his tracks when some man appeared at Ber’s side. He glanced over his shoulder uncertainly at Hades. It was—so hard to remember he was invisible—not really there—when Berlioz was right there. He felt like he could reach through the veil and touch him. He wanted to believe if he did that, Ber would feel it. He’d know Simba was with him.

Where was Simba?

He got closer, stopping right on Ber’s other side, his eyes scouring over his face—he looked different, somehow, older maybe, little lines by his eyes and his jaw sharper than ever. He looked handsome. Simba’s heart ached and it was hard to tear his eyes away from him to follow what was going on.

He didn’t really need to—because he knew this scene well, didn’t he? He had been that other man before, dragging Ber to parties that he hated. What was this supposed to show him? That Ber would never get out of this life anyway? It didn’t matter? That was some bullshit—Ber hated this life, why would he be in it still without Simba?

Either way—he hated this man. He hated him for laughing at Berlioz. For telling him to drink. For drawing attention to the fact that Berlioz was—not good at this sort of thing. His eyes narrowed slightly and he felt the urge to put his arm around Ber and draw him close. Protect him.

You said you were going to try. Simba’s jaw ticked and he looked away, those words familiar too.

His eyes cut back at what the man said next, his heart clenching in his chest. It felt like whiplash—guilt and anger waging a war inside of his chest. All those apologies used to be for Simba—and there were always reassurances that followed, even if they were a little rough and annoyed, Simba did always mean them. He knew that these things were hard for Berlioz.

He kept flashing back to that fateful night, his stomach curling and making him feel sick. His jaw muscle twitched. His hand clenched into a fist. His head snapping back and a scoff of disbelief leaving his own lips at that—what even was it—a bribe? I’ll let you suck my cock. Sexual favors weren’t supposed to be a trade for good behavior. That was—controlling. Awful.

Berlioz knew better. Berlioz, you know better, Simba wanted to say.

I love you. I love you too.

“You don’t—mean that,” Simba said, close enough to have whispered it in Ber’s ear. He didn’t, Simba knew. He knew what Ber sounded like when he told someone he loved him. It wasn’t like that, not like a—call and response. Ber’s love was a gift, and he spoke it like a present, a medal, a trophy, every time.

Simba wanted to punch this Guy in the face. His heart clenched tighter and tighter as he watched Ber grow pale, watched his eyes dart, his lips press close together until they were almost white. Don’t you see what’s happening! he wanted to scream at Guy, shaking him by the shoulders.

When Ber made a break for it and Guy grabbed his arm, Simba actually reached out like he could pull his hand way—but he just went right through, which made him growl in annoyance. He didn’t waste a moment before turning and weaving through the crowd after Berlioz, right on his heel, like Guy should be doing. He shouldn’t be alone, he shouldn’t be alone. He’s having a panic attack. He shouldn’t be alone. Simba’s brain kept repeating the words, his own chest tight as Berlioz barged into the bathroom. Simba slipped right through the door and knelt down in front of the toilet Berlioz had perched himself on.

There were tears in his own eyes as he tried to touch Ber’s shoulder, his knee, his hand, his hair. He just kept going through him every time. He blinked and let out a harsh breath, a few tears rolling down his own cheeks as he tried in vain to soothe Ber.

“Hey, shh,” he said softly, “hey, it’s alright, it’s alright. It’ll pass. It’ll—it’ll go away. Just—breathe. Ber, please. Please, hear me.”

Simba turned to Hades, looking up at him with a scowl on his face, remembering the orange all the way back in Kenya.

“Do something!” he pleaded again, just like he had back in the present. “Help him, he’s—he’s having a panic attack. Please. He—he shouldn’t be alone.” He looked back at Ber and tried to touch his knee again.

HADES: There was nothing Hades could do.

Just like just moments before-- and four years ago-- when Berlioz had sat alone in the room, unable to send a text, Hades could not fix his present, could not ease his heartbreak or change this future. He had followed the silver thread of Berlioz Bonfamille once it had broken off from the Lyons Tapestry, because it had, of course-- frayed, became a loose end that would never resolve. He ended up here. He ended up in some version of here: in France, with his parents, with some boy or another.

There were other boys before Guy. There was even a girl or two. And he was sure if he had kept reading, Hades would see more.

Because yeah, that fucker wasn’t his-- true love, his destiny. Didn’t need to have a magic future-telling tapestry to tell you that. Just had to see what they saw now: Berlioz, shuddering on the toilet seat, trying to strangle his own sobs even if that just made it worse. It didn’t matter what Simba did, what he said, how hard he tried to reach through space, time, dimension. Even Hades-- he might be able to reach out and make Berlioz feel a tickle on the cheek, a brush of something in his hair. But Berlioz would keep crying. He was alone.

So Hades looked up at Simba, pity in his eyes-- though he tried not to feel it, it soaked in every part of him. “Sorry, you...you know I can’t.”

Berlioz trembled, whimpered low. His sobs had turned into keening.

“He’s not a music producer, you know,” Hades added in the empty space between. “He plays in an orchestra. Mum got him the audition.”

Berlioz wiped his palms on his trousers, letting out another breath that rattled his whole body.

“He didn’t finish the degree at Pride University. He moves back to France this upcoming summer. No reason to stay in Swynlake.”

Berlioz breathed in, deeper. He mumbled something. If you listened very closely, you could hear it: stop thinking about it, don’t be stupid, stop it, stop stop stop--

“He’s about to get a text.”

Berlioz’s phone buzzed. He reached for it at once, plucking it from his pocket with a hand still shaking. Was Guy, and there were two words only-- Hurry up.

Berlioz sucked in another breath, but his face screwed up. He leaned back and looked up, but his eyes were squeezed shut as if it could stop the tears from slipping down his face.

Hades pulled out the scroll. “We should go.”

SIMBA: As Hades listed off Berlioz’s future—not a music producer, not in Swynlake, Adelaide getting him a job, didn’t finish school, dating some asshole—Simba felt his heart sink and sink and sink.

He knew that Berlioz wasn’t destined to this, he was destined for so much more. He would eventually get out of this relationship—Lou would not let this go on if he knew, Simba was sure of that. He could maybe find someone nice, someone he liked. Someone gentle and good. But—would he be happy?

Berlioz was always so worried about happiness. Having too little. Having too much.

But, more than anyone Simba knew, he deserved happiness.

Simba wanted to give it to him.

He felt something shift inside of his chest, watching Berlioz cry quietly—not being able to comfort the way he knew that he could, the way he wanted, the way he should.

He needed to go to him. Needed to convince him, no matter how long it took—to come back to him.

So, when Hades said it was time to go, Simba nodded firmly and stood up, grabbing the tapestry in his hand, ready to fix everything—

They weren’t in his house.

He whirled around, brow furrowed. What the fuck.

“What the fuck?” he said, just as a nurse—was that a nurse? Walked through him to bring coffee to another nurse who was standing behind the nurse’s station watching—himself. Looking out the window. Simba only recognized it was him because of Bowie at his side, his head in Simba’s lap. Simba was—skinny, though. Even from here, Simba could see the grey streaking through his hair and the yellow tinged around the corner of his eyes.

“No one came?” she asked, looking at the clock. It was 9:30.

“No,” the other nurse sighed. “Poor thing, he’s been sitting there all day watching the window.”

“Not a single person? But it’s Christmas! Isn’t his family some big name around here?”

“That’s the former CEO of InterPride, Eloise,” the second nurse said, rolling her eyes at Eloise.

“What? The one who had the nervous breakdown?”

“Yes, how do you think he wound up in here? Don’t you read files?”

“Only for my patients. And he’s not one of yours.”

“I read all the cute ones files.”

“Mary!”

“What? He’s handsome.”

“Maybe he used to be,” Eloise scoffed, “before he had a nervous breakdown and got himself checked into rehab, lost his job, and apparently all his friends.”

“Don’t be mean, Eloise.” Mary hit her with the folder she was holding.

“Should we say something?” Eloise asked after her laughter subsided.

“Yes,” Simba, real Simba said, his heart all twisted up in his chest. He felt like he was going to throw up. Even stumbled a bit like he’d suddenly forgotten how to stand.

“No,” Mary sighed, the laughter slipping away from her too, “just leave him be.”

Simba blinked and a tear, and then another slipped down his cheeks. “There’s still time, right?” Simba asked, turning to look at Hades. “Someone could—still come?”

HADES: They weren’t done yet.

He knew Simba thought they were by the steel in his eye, which had not been there before they had started all this. He’d been a zombie-person then, damn annoying in his apathy and self-pity. It was actually good to hear him snap at Hades or try in vain to reach out to Berlioz. It made Hades think this was all working.

But the scene they saw was not Simba’s future. That was what happened to Berlioz. There was another frayed thread on the Lyons Tapestry, another Meanwhile--

The scroll took them to meanwhile, whipping them through space, away from France and the baubles on the walls. They appeared instead in a dark, near empty rec room. Their were Christmas decorations, but if there had been a party here, it had happened a long time ago, and now no one was left-- no one but Simba sitting all alone.

And this was the true irony of Simba Lyons’ future.

There are many kinds of deaths in a life-- Hades had learned them all since he was small. There were deaths that happened little by little, that came in tiny white capsules slipped into the mouth or in bottles of whiskey coddled in place of a lover. There were deaths that happened long before the body broke down and the spirit could escape. That kind of death, the body was a prison. You could only sit and rot and wait.

This Simba had died a little more with every person he shoved away for he was a boy born into a beautiful, long tapestry with many threads. With those other threads, there were ups and downs, milestones, holidays, vacations and celebrations. But he did not do any of these things alone. In fact, Simba was not supposed to do anything alone; his story was one of family.

InterPride was not synonymous with his family the way that Simba thought not as he insisted it was all for the Lyons’ legacy, pushing forward despite what his heart wanted, what his heart called him to do. That was the warning from this future. Hades had read ahead and he had seen for himself.

He met Simba’s desperate, horrified gaze, felt that sick taste in his mouth-- the pity. He felt uncomfortable and he wanted to look away. But that was not the job of the ghost of Christmas Future-- who had always been Death.

So here was Simba’s little death.

“No,” he said, quietly and simply to Simba. He could tell Simba that Nala was running InterPride now and that he had missed the birth of her baby-- that Kiara was spending her break from school with Sarabi and all his cousins in Kenya-- that long before Simba had sat in this chair, he had had one, two, four, eight, twelve, one hundred chances to try to fix things and he had chosen not to, becoming a drunk instead of a friend, a cousin, or a leader.

He could say all of this but it would not matter, really. What mattered was this simple truth: “No, no one is coming.”

SIMBA: No one is coming.

“You’re lying,” Simba accused at once, his throat tight, tears burning on his cheeks. In his heart, though, he knew Hades was telling the truth.

In this future, Simba had no one to spend the holiday with. He had lost his job, the one thing he had probably pushed everyone away for. He had still failed. Was that his destiny then? Simply to—fail. To ruin his family legacy, to disappoint his father, his grandfather. He supposed he shouldn’t be that surprised—there was only so much he could do if his heart was not in his work. It had already started eating him from the inside out. He could feel the despair like a piece of black coal lodged between his ribcage. He could feel it every time he drew a breath, and every day, it got a little bit bigger and a little bit bigger.

One day, yeah—it was probably going to consume him.

Simba hadn’t really thought that far ahead. He knew, maybe subconsciously that down the road, this was what awaited him. Or, maybe he’d fooled himself into thinking what it was he told everyone else: that one day, he’d grow into it. That he’d love it. That everything would calm down, and maybe he wouldn’t love it, but he would—appreciate it, at least. He would…like what he did, perhaps.

But, at the end of the day, this was the end of the road.

Berlioz had been smart to get out, and he was just the first.

Nala would probably be second. She didn’t tolerate Simba’s bullshit for long. His mother was not soon after. Kiara would’ve been last at all. She would’ve tried and tried and tried. Simba could only imagine what it would be that would set her off, have her—give up on him too. It made his heart twist and he felt woozy again. There was a physical ache inside of his chest for home. For his family—Kiara and Nala and his mother and Berlioz.

He wanted to go home.

He didn’t want his life—not the one that he was living now. He didn’t want this future. He wanted—to be happy. Finally, finally be happy. It had been so long. Five years, almost, of misery.

How was he supposed to reconcile that misery with his family legacy though?

I can’t give up InterPride.

But you won’t be happy there, you’ll end up here, a voice in his head argued.

I’ll make myself like it.

If InterPride is in your life, this is where you end up.

InterPride was the thing that sealed this fate. Nothing else. Simba knew that. Of course, he wanted Berlioz back more than anything. He wanted him back so much every breath he took away from him hurt. But, he also just—wanted to be happy. He wanted to help people, but not at the cost of his family.

Wouldn’t InterPride cost his family?

His head hurt, his heart burned and he just wanted to go home. He wanted to hug Kiara and kiss her cheeks and the top of her head and watch her smile as she opened presents. He wanted to argue with Nala in the kitchen over the proper way to make eggnog. He wanted to sit with his mum by the fire and keep her fingers warm and let her tell him stories about his father, just the two of them in the near dark. And he wanted Berlioz to snuggle up to under the covers after a long day of food and family and laughter and joy and love—all the things the Christmas carols were about.

“I want to go home,” Simba said quietly, his voice still choked, his heart bruising in his chest. He turned from the sad sight of a future he had not chosen for himself. He wanted to choose. For too long, he’d been a pawn of his father and his uncle.

Simba just wanted—to be himself.

“I know what I have to do,” he told Hades, finally sliding his eyes over to meet his gaze, giving him a small little smile. Maybe he should feel embarrassed, but he didn’t. Instead he felt—

“Thank you,” he said, reaching out to squeeze Hades’ shoulder, nodding his head a little. “You’re saving my life.”

A beat.

“Bit sorry I punched you, now.” He let out a breath of a laugh. “Tell Belle I said Happy Christmas.” His hand slipped from Hades’ shoulder and he reached out for the tapestry.

And there was a flash of white light—

And Simba was home.

#bdrphades #simades #featuring geoffery #featuring sarabi #simara #simala #a christmas carol #aka #the best thing i've ever done

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