#she never wears trousers or any skirt/dress that extends below the knee

[reallyhardydraws]

casual / club / wedding / gig

[allycryz]

Apodyopis for Nerys and Thancred? (Or for Nerys and Haurche if that fits better for you)

Set during the Astral Era quests, probably some time between Ramuh and Leviathan

PG-13 for sexual thoughts/implications and an implied foursome; brief food mention

WoL x Thancred

--

It takes the better part of an hour to end up perched on Ahtstahl's lap with Greinswyf seated beside them.

Contrary to rumor, being Warrior of Light does not lead to a flood of eager would-be lovers. It leads to some, she won’t lie. But most respond with deference, caution, careful handling. As if at any point someone else will notice and they shall be in trouble.

What helps is that she knows these two somewhat. They have all worked together on settlement construction efforts, trapping creatures for meat and parts, being invited to the same revels in the pub. There is the easy familiarity of those who have seen each other often without deeper intimacy, save appreciative glances between her and the couple.

Nerys now leans against Ahtstahl's broad chest, watching the circle of dancers about the aetheryte. A breeze whispers cold into her bare arms, causing the fine hairs to stand up on end. The combined warmth of her companions helps some against the chill.

It isn't correct to call it unseasonal for a Spring Festival. The last calamity changed Mor Dhona to where it’s possible to experience all the climates in a single day.

Ahtstahl runs the backs of his large sage-colored hands over her arms. “And where is your coat, Warrior of Light?” His tone is light, caressing around the syllables of the title.

“What need have I of a coat?” She asks, smirking. “With two such fine companions to keep me warm.”

Greinswyf laughs, low and throaty. She gathers the end of one of the pink ribbons streaming from Nerys’ flower crown, wrapping it about her index finger. “Smoothly done.”

The merriment produces her own chuckle. “I thought so. I haven’t lost my touch?”

“Not as far as I can tell. Though I would be convinced if you buy the next round of mulled wine…”

“Absolutely not,” says Ahtstahl, his voice rumbling through his chest and into Nerys. “Don’t let her guilt you, Nerys-”

“Damn.” The Roegadyn woman grins at them both. “You two shall not let me have any fun.”

“-because,” he continues as if his partner hasn’t interjected. “I plan on her buying us breakfast.”

They all break into laughter. Three pairs of hands slide upon each other, finding palms and skin to fit against.  Nothing too indiscreet, as they sit on one of the benches dragged out in front of The Seventh Heaven. Not that the dancers or onlookers pay them much mind. The glances her way are more likely to be curiosity about the Slayer of Primals than anything else.

A pleasing, scandalous thrill goes through her all the same as Grienswyf rubs a gentle circle into her knee.

“Do you two dance?” She asks. “Not that I am inclined to get up any time soon.”

“Only to welcome the King,” Ahtstahl says. One of his hands wanders to smooth against her hip over the fluttery linen dress she bought for the occasion. The warmth of his palm is steady and strong against the layers of pink fabric and white petticoats

“...Beg pardon?” Nerys glances about the gathered crowd, at the mingling throng up near the markets. Most decked in their best clothes with crowns of flowers or leaves upon their heads. A fine assortment of shining faces but no King among them. As the only King I know is Moogle Mog XII, surely they don’t mean…

“The King of Spring,” says Greinswyf. “They pick someone every year to usher in the season and lead us all in dance. And if he, she, or they pick you as their first dance partner; your year shall be a blessed one.”

“Oh.” ‘Tis not at all like the equinox festivities in the Shroud, given to somber offerings during the day and a raucous bacchanal during the night. There is no figurehead or even a singular master of ceremonies.

There is a masked committee of twelve Gridanians who watch over the festivities. They ensure no ill comes to anyone celebrating as the frenzy of liquor and dance reaches its zenith. Usually they are Wood Wallers or high-ranking Lancer’s Guild members.

“Who is it this year?”

“We find out together. I had my money on your Minfilia, but I see that is not to be.” Greinswyf gestures to one of the stalls set-up along the walkway between aetheryte and market. Minfilia–resplendent in an artfully draped blue gown and matching blooms in her hair–peruses the wares. Beside her, Papalymo speaks with emphatic hand gestures. He wears his usual mode of dress, but she can just make out a red flower pinned to his collar.

Between duties, she had been somewhat aware of the residents descending upon the wilds for the last moon. Bringing back as many flowers as they could find. Demand fast outpaced supply, though.

Her own carnations and lilacs are from the Weaver’s Guild, created in Ul’dah before arriving here. She has Yda to thank for it, one day rousing everyone at dawn to stumble to the market and make their reservations. Not really understanding what was happening, Nerys had gone along for the chance to buy some pretty. 

Hm. Perhaps it’s her? I haven’t seen her all day.

“There’s so much activity,” says Nerys. “I cannot tell yet who is missing and not just out of view near Rowena’s.”

“And the King has a court, to keep people guessing. Money rides on it, of course.”

Soon as the words leave Greinswyf, the musicians ease their song to an end. The dancing slows with it, the concentric circles of linked hands shifting into a teeming mass. From her vantage point, Nerys sees the pan flute player set down his instrument. Up he stands, picking up a large, curling ram’s horn. It gleams in the sunlight, ivy twined about it.

He raises it to his lips. What emerges are notes so clear and strong and loud, they ring out across the settlement. A hush settles over the crowds. The only sounds, the horn and the steps of festival-goers answering the summons; descending from the upper markets to join the rest.

“There,” Ahtstahl says, nudging her chin to look at the North Silvertear entrance.

A procession marches in, the crowds parting to give space and everyone else a better view. Nerys hears snatches of conversation as eight attendants lead the way. The court then, their presence ruining several bets placed on the King’s identity. Both Yda and Hoary Boulder are among them (she in scarlet and white, he in black and gold), their linked hands swinging merrily. 

Two yellow Chocobos enter, bridles festooned with ribbon and ivy. Behind them, they pull a cart upon which is a magnificently carved chair. It looks like it was hewn directly from an ancient tree, the branches of its back reaching into the heavens. And upon it-

“Knew it,” says Ahtstahl.

Thancred lounges upon the chair, one leg thrown over an arm. An elegant crown of bare twigs and verdant ivy perches upon his white hair, an apt combination representing the meeting of winter and spring. As they near the aetheryte, he sits up and gets to his feet in front of the throne.

Oh.

Nerys has seen Thancred naked a dozen times now. She saw him so yesterday. She has near memorized every ilm of his body. And yet. And yet.

Unlike the loose clothes he favors, his emerald tunic conforms to the line of his chest and nips in at the waist. The high collar brushes the ends of his hair and opens enough to show off throat and collarbone. He turns and the umber trousers could better be called a second skin for the way they fit him, showing off the pert curve of his rump and the muscles of his thighs. The fawn-colored boots cannot mold to his calves but they do whatever the closest thing is.

Her mouth goes dry. She cannot look away. Cannot do anything but imagine sliding her hands between the tight fit of cloth and abdomen. Peeling down those trousers and baring the curve of hip, pressing her mouth against it.

“You as well?” Ahtstahl murmurs. “The way that man attracts all eligible persons is downright uncanny.”

“You are one to talk,” says Greinswyf. 

“I did not say it was a bad thing.”

Nerys is somewhat aware of the world moving around her, of three hands clasping her waist and keeping her balance. Only when her feet touch the ground, does she realise her companions have stood and brought her up with them.

Thancred’s gaze turns, catching her just as she loses herself again in the tantalizing skin over his pulse. His smirk turns knowing, and he winks. She shall never hear the end of this. (If he promises to wear this outfit often and let her imagine doing all sorts of things to him in it...he may tease her for the rest of time.)

“Go,” Ahtstahl touches her shoulder. “See if you might claim a dance.”

She turns to them, mortified. “I’m not about to drop the two of you.”

“And you shan’t.” Greinswyf leans in to kiss her cheek. “Should you not make it back, we shall have you for breakfast some other time. I promise.” 

Nerys walks towards the cart, guilt lingering. But their smiles are so encouraging and she does not doubt their sincerity and...yes, she does want to dance with the King. This King with his insouciant smirk and arrogant lift to his chin. This King who looks at her now in a way that says of course I shall be rewarded with a dance from you. Such is my due.

He jumps down from the cart and strides towards her. She fixes her resolute gaze on the blinding beauty of his visage rather than the temptations below his chin. She must look too determined because his shoulders shake with barely suppressed laughter.

“Your majesty,” she says, curtsying before him. Her skirts and petticoats swish about her knees.

“Fair warrior,” he purrs, extending a hand. “Will you usher in spring with me?”

“I am honored.” She takes his hand and he pulls her close, his other arm curling about her waist. It is the cue the musicians need and there is a scramble as pairs and groups form, trying to make room for each other while also watching the King and his partner.

It is all a bit chaotic, more teeming mass than field of dancers. For a long while they hover confined to one spot, her close against him, The velveteen of his tunic soft against her arm. Nerys recognizes the song, that the musicians are tripling the verse’s length. Likely aware that no one shall be ready to dance before the song’s usual end.

“Well,” Thancred says, looking up at her. “You have not told me how well I look.”

Nerys clears her throat. “Green suits you, and the crown is quite nice. I think you make a handsome King.”

His brown eyes dance. “Somehow that does not match the molten heat of your gaze when you first beheld me. Tell me, what was your initial reaction?”

“I have not seen you in clothes so well tailored before.” If he is going to tease her, she will tease back. One cannot be bullied, even when speaking to royalty. “My compliments to your weaver.”

Space opens at last, allowing his highness to begin the dance in earnest, as is his duty. They whirl around the aetheryte, him leading her in a complicated figure she did not know herself capable of. There is an art to guiding your partner when they are unfamiliar with the steps. Whoever taught him should be proud.

He spins her away and catches her again, hands about her waist and sliding north and his knees bending just so. She follows his cue and hops straight upward, helping him lift her twirling into the air. Down she comes, wrapping her arms about his shoulders.

“Are my clothes why,” he says, touching her cheek to tilt her face down while he rises up on tiptoe. “You were imagining all sorts of wicked things when you saw me? Don’t deny it. All this time, I only needed to wear such garments to stir such naughty thoughts.” 

“I wasn’t-I didn’t-” She sputters. Drops her voice to a whisper “I have told you far naughtier things. I have done far naughtier things-”

“I know.” He kisses her cheek and spins her again. Catches her again. “But never so publicly. I rather like it.”

Nerys laughs, shaking her head. “His majesty is wicked. But I find I don’t mind, even when he tries to fluster me in public.”

“Your highness is glad.” The music, stretched out as long as possible, winds down. Thancred bends over her hand, kissing the air above it. Drops his voice. “My duties call me away. Wickedly, I like the idea of leaving you in suspense.”

“Cruel, cruel king.” And he is not far off, because she would like to pull him into some dark corner or into their rooms to pay private homage to his royal beauty. That she cannot is maddening. “What shall I do?”

He steps back and bows. “You still have your eyes and imagination. I hope this helps.”

The King of Spring walks away in such a manner that brings attention to legs and rump, molded so perfectly by his clothing. She is not the only appreciative glance. Ahtstahl is correct: it truly is uncanny how easily he can attract all and sundry.

The trick is, deciding just how she will pay him back.

--

The door is unlocked when she returns, arms full of a morning feast fit for an army. She finds Ahtstahl and Grienswyf in their kitchen, blearily watching a kettle boil. Neither have dressed beyond pants. 

It's a lovely sight.

"I recognize those bags," Ahtstahl says, gesturing. The blue paper bags are streaked with grease and she quickly places them upon the table. Yael’s foodstuffs cost double anyone else’s and require waiting in a long line. But it has always, always been worth it.

Grienswyf sets to work pulling the crimped pastries bursting with egg and cheese from the bags and putting them on plates. As the aromas flood the kitchen, she moans aloud in delight.

"Now that, dear Grienswyf, is a sound I shall never tire of..."

Thancred steps out of the bedroom, hair damp from a shower. He has redonned his royal garments and they are just as delectable now as they were yesterday. Perhaps moreso. Until last evening, he did not have bite marks decorating his throat and clavicle.

The sight of them is near enough to reawaken her desires, even after the night’s exertions.

Thancred smirks. "Poor Nerys, running errands to satiate our hunger while she looks at us ravenous."

"I can scarce believe it," Ahtstahl says, wandering over to Thancred. Rubbing his hip. The Hyur man leans into the touch. "After all the ways she had you screaming last night, Thancred, and still ready to go."

"One must give the king his due," Nerys says, unable to keep from smirking. Very aware of Greinswyf herding her towards the others. "Wait, won't the food get cold?"

"Let it get cold," says Thancred. "You danced with me, you are meant to have a blessed year. We must start it off right." 

Far be it from me to defy a king, she thinks, submitting to his will as he tugs her down to his mouth. 

Breakfast can wait.

[daisyannewinchester]

The End of All Things

Another picture prompt from this post. This is a sad!fic Geraskefer style. Be warned. It made me cry even just to write it. TW for blood and death.

The fic is under the cut! Enjoy!! 

It’s a bright sunny day as Yennefer strolls down the moss and algae covered path. She sighs and lets the humid air leave her lungs, hiking the skirt of her dress up to stay out of the moss. As she strolls, soulful singing reaches her ears. She follows the sound around the bend of moss covered trees and stops at the edge of a bridge. Violet eyes peer over the edge and down into the dark waters below. The building towers above her, moss covered and weathered. The singing seems to weave in and out of the windows, carrying into the daylight on humid air. Cliffs climb even further than the tower, allowing little light and loads of shadows to be cast over the scene. It is sinister and eerie, but she doesn’t deter, stepping out on the bridge without fear. It is the only bridge that allows access to the building, the rest surrounded by what she guesses is a hundred-foot drop. It creaks under her but holds without fail all the way across.

She steps into the cool air of the building and the crooning grows in volume. The words are mournful, and the lilt is familiar, she cocks her head as she follows it.

“Jaskier?” She calls. “Is that you?”

The singing stops for a moment, echoing of the empty stone walls. The rooms are barren, letting in a little musty light through the arched windows. Her skirt stirs up dust as she walks. She peers into room after room, trying to find the voice. The voice doesn’t respond but she doesn’t need him to, she knows it’s Jaskier. What’s confusing is why he’s here, in an abandoned building, supposedly alone, singing.

“Bard, this place is disgusting. What in Melitele’s hell are you doing here?” She stares around the empty cobwebbed rooms, lip curled in distaste.

“Waiting” is the resonating one-word response she receives. Yennefer still cannot pinpoint where he is. She extends her hand and places it on the dusty wall, willing the walls to speak to her. They tell her no one is here. Yennefer is more confused than ever.

She climbs up the stairs, talking to Jaskier all the while. “What are you waiting for? You alright?”

“I’m alright, Yennefer.” His voice is serene, carrying none of the snark he usually has.

“Where is Geralt then?” She peeks into rooms as she talks. As she goes down the hall a stench fills her nose. She cringes. It smells like dead animal.

“Gone.” Simple. Strange. Yennefer is sufficiently worried.

“What do you-,” her words get stuck in her throat as she enters one of the rooms, violet eyes widening as they settle on the figure in the windowsill. It’s certainly Jaskier.

The bard stands at the window, staring out of it with his back to the witch. He’s wearing a light green doublet left open to reveal a white chemise tucked into green high waisted trousers with dark green detailing around the hem and the poufs of his shoulders. From behind she can see a pool of red staining the seat of his trousers and down the inside of his legs. He turns to her and smiles, grim and forlorn. Her eyes widen as she looks up his body from his feet to his face. He’s covered in blood, it oozes from every hole in his body, dried in his ears, under his nose, out the corners of his mouth. He’s cried blood, tear tracks pronounced on his cheeks. There’s droplets of blood dotting his forehead where sweat would usually gather. His skin is pale and gaunt, round cheeks hollowed out. Horror shivers through her and she starts toward the bard.

“Jaskier! What happened?!”

She reaches for him but when she goes to grab his shoulder, her hand passes straight through his form. He shimmers. If she concentrates hard enough, she can faintly see the window ledge and the cliff face beyond through his translucent body. She reels back and stares at him, ice cold terror a foreign presence in her body.

“Jaskier,” she whispers like the slightest breath will blow him away. “What…” She trails off, unsure where to even begin.

He smiles at her fondly, seemingly unperturbed by all the blood. “I’m glad you’re here Yenn. Geralt already left a few… well. I can’t remember if its been weeks or months. I’m ready to follow him but I just can’t seem to leave.” He laughs to himself, shaking his head and turning back to the window.

“What… what happened, Jaskier?”

“We were on a hunt. A banshee. Geralt took the brunt of it. He’s in the other room.” The bard waves his hand in the direction of the room he is talking about. A few steps and Yennefer can see through the doorway. All she sees is red. She whips around, turning her back to what she now knows is the source of the smell. Her heart is heavy with dread, it races quicker than ever. It weighs her to the floor, and she melts to the ground. Jaskier sits crisscross next to her, seeming eerily unfazed.

“He was protecting me, told me to stay away. I told him it wouldn’t be a big deal if I came along, it was just a banshee. But this one… this one was different. She was so loud. So awful. It was so painful. I’ve never felt anything like it. It was like I was melting from the inside. And Geralt… he just… she screamed and he,” He made a hand gesture of something exploding, “everything. Everywhere. There was nothing left for me to hold. No pendant or sword or any bit of skin or hair.”

Hot tears run down her face, her whole frame shivers as she cries.

“And now he’s waiting for me and I couldn’t go to him.”

Yennefer looks up at his thought blurry violet eyes, “Why not?”

Jaskier gestures to the corner of the room. She looks over to see his lute, broken and streaked with blood, the two pieces only connected by the strings. Jaskier’s empty corpse lies collapsed next to it. His hands are stretched out as if reaching for the lute with his last efforts, blank eyes staring lifelessly ahead.

“I’m tied to it. Some form of elven magic, I’m guessing. I tried to destroy it as I was dying but I perished before I could finish. But you’re here now. You can send me on. Please Yennefer. I can feel him waiting for me.” Jaskier rises to his knees, pleading.

Yennefer bows her head. Her hair falls in a curtain around her face, allowing her the private reprieve to wipe the tears from her face and gather herself together. She sniffs and stands up crossing to the lute. She gathers the shards in her hands and, with one final smile to Jaskier, whispers her curse.

  Nothing happens.

 She frowns, staring down at the instrument in surprise. Focusing her powers, she studies the wood, finding strong magic surrounding the elven wood. Realization dawns with cold dread. She turns to Jaskier.

“This is elder magic, Jaskier. Your lute is protected by very old magic. It cannot be destroyed with common sorcery or by setting it on fire.”

His face falls but he nods grimly.

“It’s alright Yenn. Thank you for trying.”

“There,” she takes a deep breath, “There is something. I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t have the proper conduits and it’s supposed to be performed by a group of elders.”

Jaskier gets up and stands in front of her, grasping her shoulders. She startles. It’s like cold air gripping her skin and she shivers involuntarily.

“Please Yennefer. Please try.” His voice is raw with emotion, a lover’s misery.

She nods, “Of course.” She never wants to deny the bard anything.

Jaskier presses cold faint lips to her cheek and steps back.

She lets he breath slowly slip from her lungs, trying to loosen the muscles in her body. She holds the lute out in front of her and begins her chant. Nothing happens at first and she slows down, about to stop.

Don’t stop.” Jaskier breathes.

She looks up at him and he’s smiling. Color is returning to his face.

She refocuses and channels more power into her words. The wood warms in her hands, burning fiery hot. It sears her palms, but she grits her teeth to the pain and continues. She starts to tremble. The air around her electrifies, the hairs on her arms stand on end and every nerve sings. A glance in Jaskier’s direction shows him healthier, blood drawing back into his skin, face not as gaunt, soft round cheeks making their return with rosy vigor. Instead of looking elated he looks terrified, eyes fixated on the cracks in the concrete under her feet. He looks up to meet her eyes and she smiles at him reassuringly.

Blood drips from her nose. She is sweaty with exertion. It is no longer she that is trembling but the very building around them, stone rains down from the ceiling. The strings burn and melt, dripping to the floor. Yennefer is exhausted. She sways on her feet, eyes blinking long and slow.

Cool, calloused fingertips grip her cheeks and lips press to hers. She kisses Jaskier and pushes out one final surge of power with a scream to the heavens. Stone slabs crack under her. She stumbles but strong muscular arms loop around her waist, pulling her free of the falling floor. She watches her body fall with the crumbling building, twisting and cracking off slabs as it falls. Great plumes of dust rise up to greet them.

She tears her eyes away when Jaskier crows in delight, reaching over her shoulder to pull Geralt down into a kiss. Geralt kisses him like a starved man and pulls away, smiling down at them both. He is scar free and youthful; any signs of aging and stress gone. His eyes are blue with flecks of brown, shining with happiness. His hair is tied back in his signature style, dark brown strands brushing his shoulders. Yennefer’s hands reach up to feel her face and the hump of her shoulder. She is a mix of emotions: regret, shame, fear, dread. Before she can, two sets of hands, one thin and gentle, the other firm and strong, guide hers away. Kind blue eyes peer into scared violet ones.

Jaskier smiles sweetly, nothing but love and adoration in his gaze, “Beautiful, my darling.”

“Stunning,” Geralt rumbles in her ear, still hugging her from behind. He kisses her jawline. She smiles and her worries diminish. For the first time in her life, she finds that that is something that she could believe eventually. With time. She is beautiful.

Geralt offers her his arm and she links them together, reaching out for Jaskier’s hand. Lute calloused fingers link with hers. In between them, she is invincible, prepared to conquer whatever trial the afterlife may throw at them.

[atomic-r0x]

Atlas, Part Ten | All of the things that I offer you, and all of the shit that we harbour

There was no need to knock on the door. She knew perfectly well where to find him, that the door would be unlocked, and he’d be dressed in that exact white shirt with the sleeves carelessly rolled up, shit room service gin in a fake crystal glass.

When Atlas walked into Beaufort’s only hotel, the lightbulbs behind its three stars were flickering, a dry buzzing sound letting everyone passing by know it had been ages since the last electricity check. Stepping inside the entrance hallway felt like time travel, paintings of long dead owners adorning the walls, and Atlas fantasized about having Henry and hers portrait done after the wedding. Tennis skirt, matching white polo shirts and his veiny hands slid inside the pockets of his perfectly ironed trousers. Henry’s characteristic quizzing frown, a signature of his cool.

She dismissed the concierge with a polite nod of her head and headed straight to the elevators, flats sinking in the overly puffy carpets, probably the only things in the whole building justifying the hotel’s ranking. Floor four, room four hundred and four. The same room they briefly lived in back in Italy, while their diplomatic accommodation was being refurnished to suit the young couple’s taste.

Atlas had been walking with confidence and determination towards her destinations, she had all the right words and all the perfect lines ordered in her brain like the script of an actor getting ready for the big show, but the moment her feet dragged her out of the shaky elevator, her stomach turned into a void. There were roughly three feet separating her from the inside of his room and yet it felt like hours of walking were ahead of her. Maybe this was the kind of terror people kept romanticizing in love songs on the radio. Maybe she could finally relate.

She wasn’t surprised to see him sitting on the floor, back against the bed frame, elbows flat on kneecaps. Nor did it surprise her to see the dark circles underneath his eyes, or the way he turned his head towards the balcony to avoid eye contact. Nor the way his shaking stomach gave away the fact that he was crying.

It felt as if she’d always been right there, next to him, on that puffy carpeted floor, when she kneeled down to press her cheek against his, Henry’s unsteady breath brushing the sensitive skin in the crook of her neck. “I’m here,” she whispered, low enough for only he to hear, although really there was nobody else to listen, and her hands found his and his face nuzzled in her hair and their lips crashed together and suddenly he wasn’t wearing his shirt anymore, and she wasn’t beside him now, but on top, back resting against his folded knees as his mouth discovered new dimensions across the pale skin on her chest.

There was a reinvigorated strength in the way Henry’s hands wrapped around her torso, despite the delicacy with which he maneuvered her around, like a precious china doll he’d inherited from an eccentric Bolshevik great-grandmother. She was having trouble breathing normally now, but more so was overwhelmed by the unpreceded feeling of equilibrium and the whole universe falling into place as she bounced and gasped, hands clawing at his back leaving catlike red marks, eventually referring to the bedsheets when flesh wasn’t satisfying enough to tear apart. A scream, a groan, a simultaneous I love you.

Two pairs of bare feet on the tiled balcony floor, the hum of late afternoon dripping like thick honey. Atlas was wrapped in his white shirt now, and Henry’s trousers were back on, and the ridiculously well-preserved line on his pants might have had the chance to succeed in tricking any beholder they were perfectly fine had there not been the luscious messiness to themselves that gave away her lack of clothing was not just a fashion statement, and that his messy hair was not, technically, bed head.

“Thought you said you were off cigarettes, huh?” Atlas’s voice was barely audible, yet loud enough for the intimacy of the scene, hand stealing the stick from between his lips to take a long drag herself, bright red polish starting to chip at the tips of her nails.

This might have well been the summer of 2012, when they’d just moved in together and couldn’t spend longer than roughly five seconds apart from each other. The familiar way with which their hips crashed together like clinked glasses when his arm pulled her close to him, the way her head rested perfectly in the crook of his neck, the way her toes accidentally stepped on his toes and neither of them would care.

Henry was walking backwards now, and Atlas’s giggles were filling the room, her eyes darting every now and then from his mouth to the way to the bed, screaming childishly when he was about to run into something, the thrill of damaging things without it actually meaning more than a couple bucks extra on the checkout bill. Her back hit the mattress and a falsely offended groan escaped her lips, although her mind was too preoccupied with the sight of him above her to care about the ridiculously hard bed, and how it felt like the carpet might have been a more comfortable place to do the deed. And then the phone started ringing.

They shrugged it off and decided it would eventually stop, but it kept going. From the pocket of her hot pants thrown across the room during the previous heat, her ringtone refused to let them have a second longer of intimacy, until Henry finally rolled aside and Atlas crawled towards the source of disruption, halfheartedly gathering the sheets around her bare body. “Hello?”

.         .          .          .

Atlas could think of less annoying things than the cold, green-hued light flooding the sterile hallways, her eyes trying to find refuge in the ground below her feet, although it proved not to be of much help either. Why do they always have shiny sparkly floors in hospitals?

She’d been pacing back and forth for a while before the doors slid open and Henry came through, extending his arm to wrap around her shoulders, before leading the way like a protective shield. There was moaning and sighs of pain, muffled cries flattened by the dry hard bite at alcohol-scented pillows. Runny noses of grieving relatives and the repetitive stern beeping of heartbeat tracking equipment working in simultaneity throughout the ward.

“Miss Collins,” the doctor began once Henry pushed the blinds around her father’s bed, exposing a weakness Atlas had never seen in him. “Mr. Collins is stable now, fortunately his body was strong enough to overcome the stroke. He’ll be needing a lot of rest these following days, but I’m confident he can go back home as early as tomorrow” his voice was hushed, her father sound asleep, Henry’s hand holding her own tightly, as if waiting to see if she needed help with standing up on her own two feet.

Instead, Atlas simply cleared her throat and nodded, eyes not once leaving her father’s face. “Thank you, doctor” she spoke, and with the caution of a burning floor beneath her feet she stepped closer to the bed, stumbling-sitting on the chair next to it. It took a hot minute to grasp the frailty of it all, the way colour had left Mr Collins’s cheeks completely, how his face was expressionless, but so tired it made one wonder how many years of suffering he’d been through. An experience so close to death was sure to leave its mark on him, but not even once had she ever imagined having to witness the decay of the planet’s strongest man.

When she finally turned around, millions of years later, Henry was no longer beside her, standing at the foot of her father’s bed. Her eyes were stinging from the artificial lightning and her dad, deep in slumber, had turned his back towards her, sighing like he’d just overcome the most difficult obstacle known to man and in a sense, he really had.

It never once occurred to Atlas she could just pull her phone out and call him, so instead she set on a quest to find Henry based on the traces of perfume left behind him, or the longing in her limbs for a pair of arms to fall into, drawing the intuitive map of the hospital with childlike steps. Beds being rushed back and forth, lime green medical garments, loud conversations between PAs on duty, purposeful footsteps.

Beaufort’s hospital was nothing close to an institution of relevant size and yet, Atlas found herself long at crossroads between hallways that led to hallways that looked the same, all identical and sterile and religiously kept quiet, the same duplicate artworks on every corner until the brain tired of finding new exciting things about the place.

“Fucking hell, that bastard” Atlas couldn’t tell if the sudden obscenity or the uncanny similarity with a voice she used to know had stopped her dead in her tracks, body functions on pause until her mind formulated a clear statement regarding the new stimuli. “Bloody junkie, bet he’s done so much he doesn’t fucking know who he is anymore, that piece of trash” there was a chilling hatred behind each word, every syllable pressed hard enough until the sound it produced resembled heated steel on bare skin. Tobacco hissing and a vulgar guttural spit, and Atlas found herself realising her feet had a life of their own, dragging her unwillingly towards the curtains from behind which these words kept pouring, until she was close enough she had to control her breathing from not being caught. “No wonder the whole clan’s gone to shit, huh, with that woman locked up along with all the sick – and what’s Nichols doing, anyway? God damn them all, those bastards.”

Nichols. The name rang inside her brain like a massive gong, letter by letter vibrating inside her skull until the echo faded away completely, and Atlas was left begging, although unwillingly, for the voice to carry on, until her eyes spotted the small tag pinned on the curtains around the ER bed, and her blood turned ice cold. In the bad calligraphy of a person busy saving other people’s lives, `Sherriff Richard’ read across the blank, a brief description of his injury below. Incisions, a black eye and multiple bruising, the type of wounds you’d see in Fight Club, the cool kind of having your ass kicked.

“So, ‘re you plannin’ on filin’ a complain’ against the lad?” a voice she hadn’t heard before spoke from behind the curtains, a lazy southern accent turning each word into a little melody of its own.

“’Gainst Damien?” was all Atlas needed for nausea to fill up her mouth to such extent that she found herself in desperate need of a bathroom or a sink to spit in, the acid burning at her teeth. “They’ve gotten him locked up, all I can do ‘bout it, but hell’s getting that junkhead out.”

Next thing she knew, Atlas was shuffling through the hallways, a new frenzy in her bones, a new need to find Henry and forget about what she’d just heard and maybe call check at the Flamingo if things were all good, but it turned to dust the moment she ran into Henry, and his eyes fell on her. “All good?” he asked and she almost couldn’t stand herself before such grand display of kindness, wanting to shrug it off and replace her frown with a smile but these kinds of tricks had never worked on him anyway, so she just exhaled and took his hands in hers and prayed to heaven and beyond he wouldn’t get it wrong.

“I need to run to the Flamingo and check if things are okay.”