#sick of my walls being barren too. i have like three things i can hang up tbh

[oysterie]

Entire current room set up is a mess tbh. I need wall shelves to house my trinkets and items at this point 😭😭

Ohhh do I start moving stuff around on my shelves at 10:48 at night :s

[slasherholic]

(psst... did someone say Mikey whump? guys I think someone said Mikey whump…) 

Frisky February Prompt: Electricity~ (yes it’s 15 days too early shush)  @slashthedice

synopsis: Michael gets served up some nasty, nasty revenge by someone who really, really has it out for him.

warnings: torture in a medical setting, sexual assault, mikey has a bad time ok

foreword: the opinions expressed here by the POV character about certain sensitive topics in no way reflect my own beliefs <3

No Faith in Medicine | Michael Myers x Reader | NSFW

The hospital corridor is long and grey and stretches onward toward a single bolted door, labeled by the rectangular sign hanging above it as Therapy Theater No. 5.

This deep within the bowels of the sanitarium, below the patient wards and the enrichment centers and the checkered courtyard, there is hardly any of the familiar clamour; so as you stride closer to the door the clack of your bootheels over the beige linoleum carries like thunder.

Smith’s Grove was never the sort of place you had pictured yourself ending up during all those sleepless nights studying for your Ph.D, and truthfully, you can’t stand it here. The deliberate blandness of the hospital, with its color palettes limited to inoffensive whites and blues and greys—meticulously designed so as not to provoke its residents—wears on you more than anything else.

You feel like you’re suffocating here; but it doesn’t matter.

This job was never about you to begin with. It was never about some commendable interest in the healing of troubled minds, either; oh-no. There are two-hundred-and-forty-nine permanent patients living inside these sound-proof walls, and while it may not be a very doctorly thing to admit, you don’t give a rat’s ass about two-hundred-and-forty-eight of them.

...and as for that last “troubled mind,” well…

The breezy summer afternoon that Michael Myers was sentenced to life imprisonment exists in your head as vividly as a snapshot picture.

Almost as vivid is your memory of the Halloween that a policeman had come knocking at your front door to inform you in a strictly-business-voice that your sister was found dead in her kitchen, her throat slit open from ear to ear.

You remember watching from your couch as the gavel came down and the judge ruled the man who had taken your sister’s life away as criminally insane—and not responsible for his actions on that fateful October night—and therefor not legally a candidate for the death penalty.

You remember the burning, frustrated tears streaming down your face, the shatter of glass as you hurled the remote at the television screen, and then sinking down in a heap on the floor and screaming until your lungs were raw and your voice was in tatters, because it wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair.

So when the news came out that Myers was to be transferred back to Smith’s Grove—hardly a forty minute commute from your own house—you had been out the door that very same day, speeding in your car down the highway, ready to accept any available position the Sanitarium would offer you for your credentials.

It had been your one shot at revenge on the sick, evil fucker who had ruined your happiness; and you were prepared to move heaven and earth just to bring Myers hell.

It had taken eight months before you even laid eyes on the man for the first time.

You’d landed yourself a patient therapy position, but only had the clearance to treat patients who fell under the “medium” and “high-risk” categories. In the entire hospital there were only two patients who fell under the third and final category: a spitting lunatic of a man, who couldn’t be safely approached without first being drugged half-asleep with antipsychotics...

...and Myers.

You had possessed the patience of a saint, climbing through promotion after promotion.

And the very minute that you were handed back a fresh copy of your I.D, now with a little red stamp at the bottom, the stamp that meant you were cleared to work with Myers, you had raced down to the front desk to file your recommendation for treatment.

Three days later, after hours of debriefing by Dr. Ashton, Myers’ new court-assigned psychiatrist, you came face to face with the worst criminal the sanitarium had ever known.

You had seen Myers’ face pictured in black and white on newspaper articles and in fuzzy low-definition on T.V. 

And absolutely none of that could have prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh.

The thing that had startled you most when you were led by Dr. Ashton into Michael’s barren, cramped room—the thing that practically had you reeling when your eyes fell on the motionless figure sitting on the cot in the corner, chained at the wrists and ankles by a metal link fastened to the floor—the thing you still despise yourself for thinking—

—is that Myers was jaw-droppingly, stunningly handsome.

His were the kind of ethereal good looks that you might expect to find in some renaissance painting, or a Grecian statue, or a fantasy book.

You had stood staring across the room at the motionless young man, drinking in all the features of his vacant, pretty face; overcome by complete and total disbelief that this was actually the person responsible for all your grief.

And the very next second, that disbelief was shattered like a dropped vase; when you looked into Myers’ stare.

It brought down the temperature in the room like a cold-snap. It was not directed at you, only at the floor, yet it had you shuddering anyway, had all the hairs on your arms standing straight up. It was not a lights-on-but-nobody-home sort of gaze, the kind you were expecting from how Myers had been described by his former psychiatrist. His face was blank, yes; that was accurate enough.

But his eyes, they were the furthest thing from it. 

Michael Myers had the eyes of a ruthless, calculating, viciously deliberate predator.

The longer you had stood there, gawking at Myers as if he were a tiger in a cage, hardly listening to Dr. Ashton’s rambling about his admiration of your interest in his patient’s treatment, the more you became aware of the charge crackling in the air; like the moment in a thunderstorm just before lightning rips through the sky. It was as if every fiber in your body could sense the danger radiating from this man; you could all but see and smell the invisible blood staining his hands.

It had turned your vision into a seething cloud of red. 

Here was a murderer—the worst kind of murderer, who was perfectly, undoubtedly aware of his crimes, a fact you could tell from just his eyes—who carried in his heart not a single shred of remorse for the lives he’d ripped away. Who, when he was unable to kill, had resigned himself to sitting and anticipating the day when he might once again have his hands around a warm throat, the day when he would pick right back up where he left off and take another life as carelessly and thoughtlessly as one snuffing out a candle.

And this man had been allowed to keep breathing.

You think of all these things as you reach the end of the corridor and swipe your I.D card on the door to Therapy Theater No.5. Hidden locking mechanisms whirr and click open.

You place your hand around the cool metal handle. For a moment, you just stand there. Feeling your pounding heart in your chest.

It pounds not because you are fearful; you don’t care if you get caught because of what you are about to do. You don’t care if you get fired, or if you get your license taken away, or even if you go to jail. Those are the most trivial, unimportant things in the world. No. Your heart does not pound for those reasons.

It pounds because, finally, there will be justice.

Finally, the evil son-of-a-bitch who slaughtered your sister is getting what he deserved all along.

And you get to be the one to flip the switch.

You turn the door handle and step into the room.

Therapy Theater No.5 is bathed in bright fluorescent light and smells strongly of antiseptic and sterilization. Three people are already in the room: two armed guards, who nod in acknowledgment at you when you enter.

And laid out at the center across a white padded table, dressed in a pale blue hospital gown, strapped tightly down at the wrists and ankles by hospital-grade cuffs, looking up at the ceiling as if utterly uncaring, motionless save for the rise and fall of his ribs—Myers.

A nurse had come in before you to prepare the room for treatment. The therapy you’re meant to be administering is simple and painless: electrodes are fixed to the patient’s body and a weak electrical current is passed through, stimulating choice muscle groups—and in more recent cases, even parts of the brain.

You had emphasized that part specifically in your pitch of the therapy to Dr. Ashton, referencing a study which showed how violent tendencies could be soothed in patients who underwent the treatment.

And no, you’d reassured him, it was nothing like electroconvulsive therapy.

The electrical current used in E.S.T is never strong enough to induce seizures. The only thing the subject feels is a mild, if not pleasant, buzz...

·…or at least that’s how it’s meant to be administered.

Tampering with the wattage of the machine had turned out to be laughably easy. A few snipped wires here, a few crunched numbers there, and now the bulky device sitting atop the roll-around table beside your “patient” can deliver a shock nastier than a taser with every throw of the switch.

It’s not strong enough to stop a human heart (god, you wish.) But it is enough to make Myers hurt.

Enough to make him writhe on that table.

Maybe even enough to make the heartless bastard feel something for a change.

You thank the guards before dismissing them. They leave the room but you know they won’t go far; no further than right outside in the hall, waiting through the entire session with their hands on their batons in case Myers gets out of hand.

Their security would be a welcome thing, if you were actually about to /treat/ Myers instead of torturing the living daylights out of him. But now, the guards are just another problem in need of a solution.

Though you are almost confident that Myers will retain his silence throughout the ordeal—that he’ll uphold his veil of distance and aloofness and total lack of care with the stubbornness of an ass—you’re not about to bet your shot at justice on it.

That’s what the ball gag in your coat pocket is for.

Reaching down to check that it is still there, excitement swells in your belly as your fingers graze the black silicone.

On the table, Myers is still motionless. He doesn’t tilt his head to regard you. He pays you no attention at all, in fact, as if you aren’t even there to begin with. Never do his steely eyes move from their fixed place on the ceiling light hanging above him.

As you walk up to the roll-around table, plucking a pair of latex gloves from a box stashed on the shelf beneath before snapping them curtly on, for a reason that you can’t put into words, you find yourself hesitating to look Myers in the face.

It doesn’t matter that he’s restrained; it doesn’t matter that there are two armed and capable guards standing watch right outside. Despite both these things, that vitriolic, charged aura you had felt in his cell still surrounds him now, polluting the room, hanging like a storm cloud over your head. 

It’s as if some submissive animal instinct has gripped your brain and now screams warnings at you: Predator. Danger. Don’t look it in the eye. Don’t provoke it.

You do your damndest to dismiss the feeling as nerves.

In a little white tray next to the E.S.T machine sits a filled syringe; a sedative. Dr. Ashton has insisted on it to better ensure your safety, as well as Myers’ cooperation. In the psychiatrist’s exact words:

“These days Michael is, ah, fussier about this kind of treatment—you know, the kind they gotta bring in the guards for, the needles, the cuffs, the whole nine-yards. 

It’s a theory of mine that, after living with the sort of power Michael did, the loss of his own control doesn’t sit as nicely anymore. He doesn’t like it. And he’s not afraid to let us know just how much he doesn’t like it.”

Fussy. That was the word Ashton had used to describe Myers. 

It had taken every shred of self-control you possessed not to scoff in the Doctor’s face at that; as if the man laid out before you now were some sort of stubborn, overgrown toddler, and not a remorseless, murderous psychopath.

You don’t spare the sedative a second glance as you unravel the bundle of wires and nodes connected to the E.S.T machine; Myers is going to be awake to feel every goddamned second of what you do to him.

Only after you’re finished with him will you finally send him under.

You can picture the conversation with Ashton now: Yes sir, the sedative worked like a charm, he was out like a light the entire time; no sir, no complications at all.

You take your time setting up the machine because you’re still hesitant to even look at Myers, let alone touch him. But when the wires are all connected, the red power button flashing idly in standby, there is nothing left to do except attach the electrodes.

You force yourself to look him in the face as you approach. You should not be afraid of this man; you should resent him, should despise him, but should not fear him. He doesn’t deserve to hold that sort of power over you, or anyone else, ever again.

So you look.

Michael is still watching the ceiling. According to his eyes, he does not acknowledge you.

But just from how the hair on your nape stands on end you know you’re being watched.

Myers is regarding you coolly in his periphery with the curiosity of a feline, feigning detachment and disinterest; but the weight and pressure of that penetrating gaze could not be more obvious if it were a ton of bricks coming right down on your head.

With a deep breath to rein in your resolve, you reach down, your fingers working to undo the first knot on Myers’ hospital gown.

Quickly, you discover that it is one thing to look at Myers; to feel for yourself his ruthless awareness, the raw intensity of his presence.

But to touch him is another thing altogether.

He draws a breath of his own as you fidget with his gown, his strong rib cage expanding beneath your fingers. You shudder at the sudden pressure of his body; whether out of disgust, or anger, or some fucked up fascination, you aren’t sure.

After undoing the ties on both sides, you lift the front of his gown up and off—

—and find that Myers is totally naked underneath.

Standard hospital procedure for a therapy like this one. Nothing new.

But it’s different when the patient looks like this.

You hate yourself for ogling him. You detest the way your eyes rove across Myers’ body, lingering on all the features that your lizard-brain decides it likes; from the stark tendons in his neck to his sharp and angular collarbones, from his broad, rounded shoulders to the beautiful definition in his abdomen, and down even further than that before you can stop yourself.

To the V of his obliques—to the trail of curly brown pubic hair on his pelvis—and all the way down to his flaccid penis.

You snatch a towel from the roll-around and drape it hurriedly over his hips. Not for the sake of his modesty; just so you don’t have to worry about your eyes straying down to the cock of the man who murdered your sister.

As far as the placement of the electrodes on his body, you honestly haven’t given it much thought. It seemed like the sort of thing that would come to you like an epiphany, as if suddenly, in the moment, you would know exactly where to hit Myers to really make him suffer.

But no such epiphany comes. Oh well; you have an hour to experiment.

Grabbing the two nodes off their holders, you run the wires across his chest and press the little round circles down flat against his pectorals.

When your gloved fingers graze Myers’ skin you nearly jerk back your hand, startled. The man is hot like a stove.

Your medical fascination is instantly piqued—Myers must have the hottest resting body temperature you’ve ever encountered. You have to force away intrusive thoughts of sticking a thermometer in his mouth to see that number for yourself.

Focus.

Tugging up on the wires, you test the integrity of the node’s suction. They don’t budge from his chest, lifting his skin with them as you pull. Perfect; It’s nearly time. 

Now for the gag.

You just have to cross your fingers and pray that you can actually get it in his mouth.

Looking Myers in the face a third time proves to be no less jarring than it had been the second or the first. You’re just relieved that even after all your poking and prodding he is still pretending not to be interested in you, or in the things you’re doing to his body.

You clear your throat before speaking to him because you don’t trust it enough not to crack.

“Open up,” you command him, mustering every authoritative bone in your body and sounding very official even to your own ears.

Removing the gag from your pocket, you hold it up as if to show him, taking care to conceal the black silicone ball with your hand.

“Mouthguard.”

You doubt that Myers has seen this sort of gag before. Or that he even knows what a gag is. Still, you’re not taking that risk. If this doesn’t work then you’re going to have to drug him just to get the damn thing in place, then wait for him to sober up again—a colossal waste of time.

For a tense second, Myers does not respond to your command. He just lays there on the table, inhaling and exhaling, looking incredibly bored with you, with his nakedness, with the electrodes strapped to his chest.

Your jaw goes tense. You nearly repeat yourself.

But then, he opens up his mouth.

Beneath the harsh overhead lighting his teeth gleam wetly. You suspect immediately that he’s going to try and bite your fingers off the second you get too close.

Game on, fucker. 

From the shelf below the roll-around you snatch up a small blotting rag. Walking around to stand at the head of the table, you gaze down at Myers again.

“The strap goes underneath.” You inform him. “I need you to lift your head up.”

He does.

And you strike. Faster than you had thought yourself capable.

You drape the rag over his eyes so that he can’t see what’s coming. Thrusting the gag hard into his open mouth, you wedge it firmly between his teeth. In the corner of the room, Myers’ heart monitor spikes suddenly, the electronic beeping speeding up momentarily—a sound that has you beaming with pride.

You’ve actually managed to startle him.

As you clip the strap into place around the back of his head, a strange sense of accomplishment floods your body—you’ve done it. You’ve actually done it. Everything is ready. 

Every sacrifice you’ve made in these past eight months, every hour spent in this godforsaken hellhole, it was all worth it just to bring about this single moment.

The moment is made only sweeter when you rip the rag away from Myers’ face.

Oh. Now you have his attention.

Those pale eyes are looking straight up at you. Considering you with the cutting gaze of a hawk. Working out the situation. 

You glare right back down at him. You stare deep into his eyes, the triumphant fire now raging in your chest burning hotter than the ice in his stare, more furiously than all the danger—and you find that you are not afraid of him anymore. Like this, Myers is nothing. He’s not a boogeyman. Not a phantom. He’s just a man—stripped of all his mysticism. Strapped to a table. Naked. Gagged.

Powerless.

Just as powerless to stop what you’re about to do to him as each and every one of the people whose lives he took away.

“Hello, Michael.” You hold his fierce eye-contact as you speak. “Ten months ago you broke into my sister’s house and murdered her.”

Myers doesn’t blink. But neither do you.

“When they tried you, you were supposed to leave that courtroom a dead man walking; you were supposed to die. That's how our justice system works—when you do the things you did, you don’t get to keep on living.”

Nothing changes on Myers’ face as you speak. Nothing changes in his eyes. Not one molecule in his body has an atom of care to give about the words you’re saying. He breathes around the gag, his heart monitor beeping slow and steady.

“I don’t give a single fuck about what that judge said,” You continue. “And I don’t care how sick in the head you really are. You knew exactly what you were doing that night. I can see it in your eyes, Myers—you loved every fucking second of it. And that’s the only thing that matters.”

You draw a long breath. One that you hold in your lungs before letting slowly out again.

“You’re the evilest son-of-a-bitch on this entire fucking planet; and you deserve to die.”

Walking over to the E.S.T machine, fighting back with tooth and claw against furious tears now threatening your eyes, you place your finger over the power switch.

Myers watches you; and you notice something flicker to life in his glacial eyes. Not an emotion. Just a realization.

Good. He understands now. He understands what you’re about to do to him.

“Someone has to make you pay. Someone has to.”

Michael just stares. Watching you. Watching your finger on the switch. His pulse on the monitor ticks as leisurely as if he were about to fall asleep.

“And guess what, you sick fuck?”

Still staring—not blinking—breaths coming slowly.

“I’m so fucking happy that it’s me.”

You throw the switch—

—the wires crackle with live electricity—

—and all of Myers’ deliberate, calculated control is shattered like a dropped glass.

His body seizes. His eyes snap shut. His fingers curl into fists that turn his knuckles whiter than the table beneath him. The tendons in his neck and forearms jump out, straining beneath his skin. His heart monitor beats erratically, the little green line on the screen spiking sharply, racing out of control.

Your eyes are glued to the grisly scene. You devour each and every involuntary reaction, relishing in the complete and utter breakdown of his control.

Fifteen gorgeous seconds pass before you remember that you were supposed to be counting to ten. Whoops. You might be frying his brain into an unfeeling stupor at this point. You flip the switch off in an instant because you need him awake, aware.

Myers’ back falls flat against the table, the current cutting off as abruptly as it began. The muscles in his chest continue to contract and seize beneath his skin long after the electricity is gone; you count the spasms as they tear through his pectorals like sets of waves.

When the spasming stops, his chest heaves up and down, winded. His breaths around the gag come heavily. His eyes are still shut; but no longer are they /squeezed/ shut.

For a moment, you really think that he’s passed out.

Then his eyes twitch beneath their lids and flutter open again. Blinking. Focusing—

—flitting right back on your face. Right back to the spot where he had left them before the current forced them shut.

Myers’ eyes are devoid of care. He is entirely unperturbed by what has just happened to him; entirely unthreatened. But now, that murderous intent—the charge which until now you’d only felt in the air around him—is written in his stare as plain as day.

I am going to kill you, says Michael’s gaze, as nonchalant as if he were stating some trivial fact about the universe, like water is wet, or the sky is blue.

It makes your blood boil.

Adding insult to injury, the speed at which Myers regains control of his body is nothing short of infuriating. You fume as you watch the way his breaths level out again, the beeping from his heart monitor falling back into the former slow, rhythmic pace.

You feel as though you should say something to him; like you should retaliate to this defiance in some way that isn’t staring, because you’ve already lost that battle; you cannot possibly hope to match the severity of Myers’ gaze.

But you don’t.

In your heart of hearts you know that your words will go right through his skull, unheard. There is only one language that Myers understands; only one language that he can comprehend down to his marrow. So you’ll speak it to him.

Without wasting another breath, your fingers find the power switch again. And those defiant eyes of his snap shut a second time.

When you shut the current off the results are the same as before; Myers is heaving on the table. But he takes back his control just as quickly, his stoicism prevailing.

By the third time however, his breaths have begun to linger in their heaviness—

—by the fourth he draws them as shallow as a winded sprinter running a race—

—by the fifth, the intervals between the violent seizing-up of his body are too brief for him to catch his breath—

—and the way he now gasps around the obstructing gag, fighting and failing to suck in air past its silicone, his nostrils flaring rapidly to compensate, is the most beautiful display of desperation that you have ever witnessed.

The sixth time you throw the switch, Myers actually does pass out.

When the current stops his body loses its tension with the abruptness of a cut wire. You wait impatiently for him to open his eyes again with your finger lingering over the switch, preparing to meet that steely gaze with another brutal jolt of electricity.

You wait; and Myers’ heart monitor chugs away like a freight train going up a hill.

Still waiting… waiting...

...and nothing happens. Myers is out cold.

The contentment now pulsing through your veins is what you imagine a shot of heroin feels like. Snapping on a fresh pair of gloves, you walk up to the side of the table to admire your work.

The first thing you notice is the sweat. Myers’ body is drenched in it. It beads up on his chest and clavicle, on his biceps and shoulders, on his brow and cheeks, the skin there flushing a shade of stark, exhausted pink. Gorgeous.

Your eyes travel down his body to continue the examination; you stop at his hands.

Myers’ hands are bloody.

Crescent-shaped cuts litter the skin of his palms, marking the place where his own blunt fingernails had dug in uncontrollably, over and over and over again. The fresh blood streaks in little rivulets down his hands and pools on the white padding of the table beneath. 

You chew the inside of your lip as you stare at the mess; these cuts might be tricky to explain away. You’ll have to gauze them and tell Dr. Ashton that his patient did it to himself; maybe recommend that he be switched to a higher Thorazine dosage to really sell the lie.

Luckily, that’s a problem for the future. As for right now, you’re rather enjoying the irony of Myers’ own blood staining his hands for a change.

The inspection continues. Further down his body, you finally notice it; the bulge beneath the towel strewn across his pelvis. 

Oh my god, he isn’t. You think, lifting the side of the towel for a peek.

And oh my god, he is.

Rather frustratingly, just like the rest of him, Myers is pretty down here, too. Pretty and big. Which is not a compliment, you reassure yourself. Just a medical observation. You let yourself stare this time, because you’re not ashamed anymore. You’re not threatened by the notion of admiring Myers’ physiology anymore.

Not when he’s so completely at your mercy.

Somehow, Myers doesn’t seem to be the masochistic type, so you highly doubt that actual arousal is responsible for this. Sheer adrenaline coupled with his frantically pumping heart are probably to blame, his brain mixing and misinterpreting the signals, resulting in this little accident.

The longer you stare down at the “accident,” the more you find yourself wondering what Myers would look like fully-erect.

You cannot rip the electrodes off his chest fast enough. Plucking the towel from waist and discarding it on the floor, you stick the two nodes down flat against his obliques, then hurry to rig up a third. That one you plant just above his penis; as close to its base as the curly dark hair will allow.

You stand with your finger ready on the go-button again, opting to let Myers’ still-racing pulse dip out of the red before you pull the trigger and plunge him back into hell. Bloodied hands you can explain away, but cardiac arrest? Not so much.

The beeping slows. The green lines on the monitor settle. You throw the switch.

Myers’ pelvis bucks uncontrollably up from the table—

—and he grunts.

The sound makes your heart sing. It is muffled by the gag, low and reverberating, not very loud to begin with. Most definitely not on purpose; just a reaction that’s managed to slip through while his barriers are down.

Myers’ groin is still quivering when you cut the current off. His cock stands upright, stiff and swollen, totally erect. A line of saliva now dribbles down the side of his mouth, trickling between the gag, collecting in a shimmering mess on his shoulder. He blinks sluggishly up at the ceiling light as if transfixed; still dazed, you would guess.

Something twisted occurs to you as you drink in the scene. Something that you can’t deny.

Seeing Myers like this—fighting for his very consciousness, struggling to retain some sliver of control—is the single most arousing thing you have ever witnessed. You want nothing more in the entire world than to climb onto this dangerous, wounded man’s hips and claim him. 

You want nothing more than to give him a taste of what true powerlessness feels like.

It’s a lovely fantasy, a beautiful temptation, and a real shame that it can’t happen. You don’t feel like getting knocked up with the child of your sister’s murderer today; or ever, for that matter. Instead, you think you’ll make a game out of guessing how many more shocks will have Myers coming on his own thighs.

Striding up to the head of the table again, you plant your arms on either side of his shoulders, leaning over him, hardly ten inches from his face.

“Looks painful Myers.” You jest. “How about I make you a deal?”

Michael looks up at you. Unfocused. Blinking slowly.

“I flip the switch,” you continue,

“—and I keep it flipped until you’re covered in your own semen, and after that I jam a needle in your arm, pump you full of drugs, and you get to live out your next eight hours as an unfeeling fucking vegetable. Fair?”

You wait for Myers to do something. For your words to register in his brain. For some flicker of a response to let you know that he’s even still in there.

To your immense disappointment, Myers does nothing. Absolutely nothing. He just...

...well, you can’t even call it staring anymore.

He doesn’t seem able to manage that sort of focus, you realize, inspecting his face closer. His eyes are alarmingly barren; there really isn’t much of anything there, now. None of the ruthlessness, none of that predatory awareness, none of the murder.

You’ve actually shocked the bastard totally, one-hundred-percent out of it.

Whoops.

Back at the roll-around, you snatch up a hand light. Returning to the table, you shine it in his eyes, assessing the damage. His functioning pupil is slow to dilate. Worryingly slow. You click the light off with a contemplative frown.

Half of your mind begs whatever force might be listening that this isn’t a passing affliction, that whatever damage that’s done is done. If the courts insist on keeping Myers alive, then maybe reducing his brains to soup is what it takes to keep him docile. To keep him from hurting another living thing ever again. You can only hope.

As much as you’d love to do so, electrocuting the living daylights out of him some more isn’t likely to bring Myers back to awareness; and the session is supposed to be over soon.

You glance at the clock on the wall—

—Shit. Very soon.

You need to find out right the fuck now if you’ve just rendered Dr. Ashton’s patient catatonic.

Walking around the side of the table, you take Myers’ swollen cock in your gloved hand—trying not to think about the fact that you’re jacking off a condemned murderer—and pump hard, stroking him all the way from the shaft to the swollen tip, squeezing the head, massaging your thumb over it, rubbing all the way back down again.

“Come on, asshole,” you spit. “That can’t be all the fight you’ve got.”

Myers’ hips jerk slightly up from the table as you touch him. Probably just an involuntary reaction. You’ll need him to do better than that. Stroking him faster, squeezing even harder, you pray that the friction of your latex glove against his cock feels just about as pleasant as a rug burn.

As you watch his vacant face like a hawk you see him begin to blink harder, his eyes squeezing shut, twitching beneath their lids, staying closed for a beat before opening up again, like he’s struggling to wake from a deep sleep. A much more deliberate motion; he’s coming back to it.

“Can you feel that? Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it?”

He breathes hard around the gag. His knees lurch up from the table, the cuffs around his ankles straining, holding him in place.

You give his cock another hard squeeze.

“Forget where you are Myers?”

His jaw goes absolutely rigid with tension.

Ah. He heard you that time. He’s back.

How unfortunate that his brain isn’t fried after all.

You can see it all coming back now as his eyes flit down, locking on your face, rebooting within him like a program on a script; the chilling intensity, the sharpness, all the things that had made your skin crawl in the days past. Despite the torture, nothing at all about Myers’ demeanor has changed.

“Welcome back.” You state dryly. “We aren’t done yet.”

As if to make your blood boil on purpose—as if the battered state of his body means less to him than dirt, as if he hasn’t spent the better part of the hour being brutally, mercilessly tortured by you—

—Myers just watches you. Damning you with his eyes alone to the same grisly demise as before.

An odd sense of something, not quite admiration, sparks in your gut. Looking into Myers’ eyes, there is one single thing that you are willing to give this monster credit for:

What sits before you is a creature that cannot be broken. One that will never be dissuaded from its primal, violent nature. To try it is an impossible task. You suspect that you could stand in this room for days, flipping the same switch, delivering the same current, knocking him to and from consciousness, and into all the states in-between.

And the result would never change. Not ever.

He’d still be looking at you with that same deadly stare. A stare as cold and sharp as the blade of a carving knife.

And it would only get more piercing.

And what a relief it is that your goal in the first place was never to break Myers,

just to bring the gates of hell down on his pretty, curly head.

And you have. You can hear it in every breath he takes; he’s struggling. Although he draws his inhales slowly, with mechanical control, the ragged wheezing in his chest is no longer possible for him to hide. Myers is hurting—he’s hurting bad.

As much as you would love to stay and twist the knife in even deeper, it's time to wrap things up. You’re all out of time.

Pulling the electrodes from his groin and thighs with one hand, you let two of the nodes dangle freely off the side of the table.

The third you stick against his cock.

“Count your lucky fucking stars that not everyone in the world is as heartless as you are.” You tell him, walking back around to the E.S.T machine.

Myers follows you with eyes the entire way, stone-faced, impassive. Like the fact that you’ve just fastened a live wire to his dick is about as boring to him as watching paint dry.

Flick goes the switch.

His back arches off the table like a bent bow. He scrunches his eyes shut, breathing hard around the gag, tugging furiously at the cuffs, the muscles in his calves and biceps straining dangerously, pulling upwards with a brutish force that has table whining beneath him.

You’re transfixed as Michael comes. His mess shoots out in thick ropes, reaching further than you thought possible, coating the table, getting on his legs. The sheer power of his body is a stunning thing to witness. You keep the current running to milk him down to the very last drop.

When he stops coming, you power off the machine.

The node comes away from Michael’s skin in a “pop” that is all-too satisfying. Bundling all the wires and electrodes back into place on the machine you listen to the only measurable signs of the man’s distress; the tortured intake of his breaths, the elevated beeping of his heart monitor.

Then, picking up the needle from the little white tray, you cross back to Myers’ side.

The vein in his forearm is thick and pronounced and the needle slips in beautifully. You press slowly down on the plunger, grateful when he doesn’t try to yank his arm away, relieved when he accepts the drug without a struggle. He must be exhausted.

The sedative works its magic quickly. You pull up a stool and sit down beside him to watch.

The vitriol in his eyes begins to melt and soften. One by one his strained muscles are allowed to relax again, the tension ebbing away; from his jaw, his shoulders, his abdomen, his legs. The electronic beeping on the monitor slows and slows until its powerful rhythm beats steadily again.

Evidently, Michael has decided he isn’t ready to go under just yet. Though sleep pools in his eyelids he blinks it away, clinging in a death grip to his consciousness.

Just to leer at you. Just to picture in his mind the day he will have his hands around your throat; as if it is already set in stone. As if it is just a matter of when.

Then, Michael’s eyelids flutter—

—fighting to stay open, still staring—

—closing, for just a beat too long—

—lingering shut—

—staying shut.

You move to clean him up quickly. The gag comes out first. Lifting his head to unbuckle the strap, you tug out the black ball, letting his strained jaw fall shut again for the first time in an hour; then carelessly drop his head. It thunks satisfyingly as it comes down hard against the table. Glancing at the gag’s silicone, you notice the deep markings worn into it, perfect impressions of Myers’ top and bottom teeth. You almost shudder; a bite from him would have been nasty.

You blot away the drool dribbling down his chin and shoulder with a rag, and then move on.

The last thing you expect as you begin to clean Michael’s bloodied hands is the tears that spring to your eyes. Even with your fear of the man gone and buried, you wish that you didn’t have to touch these awful hands; let alone treat them, bandage them, heal them.

You wipe away the tears on your sleeve as you gather your supplies together on the roll-around.

Grabbing each of his wrists just above the restraint cuffs and turning them so that his palm is facing upward on the table, you hastily swab him down with alcohol pads, wiping up the clotting blood from his skin, squeezing out a blob of antiseptic from a tube to smear across his cuts. As you wrap Michael’s palms tightly in gauze you try your hardest to snuff out that invasive thought when it comes searing like a bullet through your skull—

—these are the hands that killed my sister.

You simply can’t afford to linger on those thoughts right now. Maybe when you’re at home tonight, alone in your bed, you will let yourself cry; but not now. Not while you still need to clean up after Myers’ unfortunate mishap.

Toweling him down from his forehead to his calves, you soak away the sweat. And the semen. Then, you fasten back up the front of his hospital gown, knotting each and every tie.

And just like that, the job is done.

You knock on the door. The guards come in and wheel Myers’ unconscious body out of the room.

The next day, you have a debriefing session with Dr. Ashton. You feed him your meticulously rehearsed lie: that the therapy went without a hiccup, that you firmly believe this treatment could be the key to alleviating Michael’s tendencies for violence.

The moron laps up your every word.

Ashton ends the session with a delightful little surprise; he’s pulled some strings to allow for Michael’s therapy to be carried out bi-weekly. He is so impressed by your drive to treat his patient that he’s offering you a position as Michael’s secondary caretaker. He only hopes that you’ll accept.

The smile you give him is bright and sincere, one that beams from ear to ear.

“Doctor, believe me when I say that nothing in the world would make me happier.”

[hms-chill]

The Two Princes

Summary: An AU based on the podcast The Two Princes. When Prince Henry sets out to break the mysterious curse that’s destroying his kingdom, he’s ready to face whatever dastardly villain or vile monster stands in his way. What he isn’t prepared for are the bewildering new emotions he feels when he meets the handsome Alex, a rival prince on a quest to save his own realm. Forced to team up, the two princes soon discover that the only thing more difficult than saving their kingdoms is following their hearts.

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Chapter 1: Once Upon a Time

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Chapter 2: Prince and Thief

The next morning finds Henry beating his way through trees with Shaan’s sword, tired and hungry and scratched all over. What sleep he’d managed to get was interrupted by falling branches and a rustling that never stopped, not once, and had him jolting awake every time his eyes closed. He is just so sick of this forest, and its stupid trees, and its stupider vines. It’s just trees, and trees, and more trees, and they all look the bloody same. He hacks through a final vine and stumbles into a clearing, and suddenly, there’s something vaguely familiar. He digs through his bag for a minute and pulls out the map Shaan gave him, and it clicks. If that oak tree in front of him, with branches shaped like a skull, is the same skull tree as the one on his map, then he knows where he is. Sort of. If he can figure out which direction is north. Then he’ll just--

There’s a cracking nearby, and Henry pulls out Shaan’s sword, turning toward it. “Hello? What was that? Is someone out there? If so, I warn you, I’m armed!”

There’s nothing there, but he holds the stance for a breath. Two. Three. He sighs eventually, then sheathes the sword. It’s probably nothing. Just because everyone back home thinks the forest is full of monsters doesn’t mean it’s actually haunted. He’s just decided that there can’t be anything too much worse than what he’d have dealt with at home when a massive wasp dives straight for his head.

He lets out a decidedly unprincely squawk, diving away with his hands over his head as it turns to hover in front of him. Its buzzing fills the clearing, and when he gets a full look at it, it’s enormous. He’s just starting to wonder about how it stays airborne, and what it eats, and how something like this can have lived so close to the Kingdom of the West when it dives again, and he’s sent scrambling out of its way. It turns again, and he draws the sword.

“Okay, look. I don’t believe in violence, but the last twenty four hours have been an exhausting combination of the last seventeen years. So if you want to fight, let’s fight. I’m done being Mr. Nice Prince.”

The wasp gives no indication that it understands his words, diving again, stinger forward. Henry blocks it with his sword, shoving it back. It comes again, and he swings wildly, not sure what else to do. It squeaks and chitters, and he slashes at it again, then again, dodging its stinger and letting his instincts take over until one particularly hefty thrust is met with a squishing sound he never wants to hear anything like again.

The buzzing stops, and the forest is quiet. Henry looks down at the sword to see the body of the wasp impaled on it, limp. He shakes it off quickly, then brushes the sword in the grass, trying desperately to get all the bug guts off it before the reality of what he’s done sinks in, and a grin creeps over his face.

He’s just defeated his first monster. He is amazing. Sure, it was more bug than monster, but still. He’s faced a monster from the cursed forest, and he came out on top, because he’s an amazing prince, and he is more than ready to face anything this forest has to throw at him. He’s turning out to be quite the natural hero.

That is, until the buzzing starts up again, louder than before. Henry turns to the bug, but it’s still there, dead as ever with a black ooze seeping from the cut in its abdomen. Then he turns to look behind him, and there are more wasps than he can count, and suddenly, Henry remembers that wasps build nests. Nests that house up to 10,000 wasps. And even if he’s sure he’s a great hero, every great hero he’s ever read about knew to pick their battles, and this doesn’t seem like one that it would be particularly wise to pick. So he starts to back away, debating if it’s wiser to try to run but turn his back on the bugs or just back away slowly. His decision is made for him when the first bug swoops down, and he has to bat it away with his sword.

“I’m sorry I killed your friend, but in my defense, he totally deserved it,” Henry tells the bugs, swatting at them frantically. “I really am the biggest nature lover; you can ask anyone back in the West and they’ll--” He takes another step back, and his foot goes straight through whatever foliage covers the forest floor. It’s too late to stop himself as he goes tumbling backward, a scream following him down.

He lands in a pile of leaves and mushrooms, and after a minute to get his bearings and make sure he’s all in one piece, he realizes he’s surrounded by the worst stench he’s ever smelled. It smells like it might be rotting cabbage, or maybe David’s chamber pot. Whatever it is, it’s foul, and he realizes that the mushrooms he’s landed in are sticky, and if that isn’t just the tip of the iceberg of what an awful day this has been he’s not sure what is. He is going to need a bath, and probably to sleep for the next year when he gets back home.

Still, as he gets up and tries to brush whatever mushroom gunk he can off of himself, he realizes that it’s not as bad as he’d thought. The scent is less rank now, almost pleasant, something closer to a garden than he’d have thought. He’s somehow unsure what he was complaining about as a lightness spreads over him, and he looks around at the flowers spreading out before him with a bit of a laugh. Maybe he’ll build a house down here, and he’ll live in this nice floaty feeling. Maybe he should invite the wasps-- the wasps seem to have disappeared, but before he can process that, there’s a woman’s sing-song voice echoing around him.

“Oh Darling,” it calls, and Henry turns to notice a tunnel lined with flowers.

“What? Who, but… who said that?” Words are harder to string together now, but he finds them eventually, because he is a brave, heroic prince.

“I did. Is that you, my darling?” The voice calls, and Henry feels a dopey grin spread across his face.

“Maybe, I mean, yeah, I could be someone’s darling.”

“Where are you, darling?”

“I’m… at the bottom of a pit,” Henry says, just now realizing that he might not know the best way to reach whoever this is, “where are you?”

“I’m here too. Further down. Come find me, darling.” He might be imagining it, but Henry could swear the vines in front of him seem to part and shift, beaconing him down the tunnel before him. “I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry. Wh-- How do I… How do I find you?”

“Just follow my voice, darling! Then we will be together forever.” The vines in front of him shift a bit more, and he realizes her voice is coming from there.

“Mmm, together. That sounds nice.” And it does. It would be nice to be with someone; he’s spent quite a lot of time alone, and having a friend to spend time with sounds good. So he follows the vines and her voice, the smile still on his face as she starts to sing.

“This is the song that I sing to my love Aren’t I lucky you fell from above When we’re together, my cute little pup I’ll hold you and squeeze you and gobble you up.”

Something about that feels wrong, and after a minute, Henry says, “wait, gobble me up?”

“Metaphorically speaking,” she says, and his whole body relaxes again, the nice peaceful joy retaking his brain.

“Oh, well, that’s okay, then.”

“Life without love, like a life without food Is empty and barren and terribly crude But you came along dear, to fill up my heart And also my stomach--”

“What?”

“Forget that last part.”

“Hey, I think I see a light up ahead. Is that you, Lady Voice?” It’s a beautiful light, a nice warm green that seems ready to fold him into a nice, safe hug and protect him from the forest’s monsters.

“That’s me, darling, keep walking. You’re almost there, just a few more--” And then he’s pushing aside a curtain of vines and he’s in a cavern, and he interrupts with sounds of awe.

It is the most incredible place he could have ever imagined. Flowers cover every surface, vines creeping up the walls and shorter plants carpeting the floor. “This place is incredible; I’ve never seen so many flowers. Where am I?”

The voice is closer now. “Where you’ve always been headed, and where you’ve always wanted to be. The Garden of Delights!”

“The Garden of Delights? Well that sounds… delightful!” He says it with a little giggle, and she giggles, too, but there’s still something nagging at the back of his head. He frowns, trying to concentrate, trying to pull the pieces of what he remembers through the fog of his brain as he says, “but I actually think I was headed somewhere else… Somewhere called the… the Hollow of… You know what, I can’t actually remember. Why can’t I remember?”

“Don’t worry about it. In fact, you don’t need to worry about anything else ever again.” The woman in front of him seems to have just appeared, stepping out from between the vines as naturally as if she’d grown there. The green of her dress shimmers as she smiles at him, reaching out a hand

“Who are you?” He asks, trying to take her all in.

“I’m Flora, of course. The goddess of love.”

“Wow. You are… really beautiful.”

“I am. And what’s your name, Darling?” She croons, and Henry has to stop for a second.

“Oh, I’m… I’m uh… Hang on, I know this. I totally know this. I’m um, um, uh, Hen.. Hen… Henry. Yeah, I’m Henry. That’s who I am. Henry.”

“I’m so pleased to meet you, Henry. But won’t you come a little closer?” she asks, reaching out both arms to him. “You’re still so far away.”

“Oh, sure. Although, I feel like I should let you know, I’m not looking for anything romantic right now, I just wanted to be up front about where I’m at emotionally, just so there are no hurt feelings--”

She shushes him with a sound like wind through the trees, and Henry shuts his mouth, all but floating toward her outstretched arms. “All I want to do is sooth your troubled brow and lift the weight of the world from your weary shoulders,” she croons. Vines start to snake out from the walls behind her, and Henry takes a step back in alarm.

“What are those?”

“Those are my tendrils of love. Don’t be frightened, darling, they only want to caress you,” she reassures him. They curl around him, nice at first, then pulling tighter, squeezing him in.

“Yeah, they’re… they’re actually a little constricting?” He tells her, trying to pull himself out. She laughs.

“Only because you’re struggling.”

“Um, look, could we take a pause for a moment? You’re really nice, but I think I need some fresh air,” Henry says, suddenly realizing how long it’s been since he took a deep breath. “It’s kind of hard to breathe down here, and hard to think, it’s the smell, it’s just, there’s something about it, it’s--”

“Full of love?”

“No, it’s just… it’s too sweet, I can’t… I can’t focus…” He tries to think back to how he got here, to where he is, and how and why he ever left home.

“You’ll feel better soon, I promise, just come a little closer,” Flora croons. The vines pull him forward despite his struggles, squeezing tighter and tighter.

“No, something’s not right, I should go…”

“But darling, no one ever leaves the garden of delights.”

“Please, tell your tendrils to let go of me!” He’s begging now, trying harder and harder to get air into his lungs that’s not tinged with the awful sickly-sweet smell of flowers.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Yes you can, now let go of me!”

He’s finally getting some of the tendrils off when Flora rears back, suddenly blocking the light from above and plunging the cavern into an emerald darkness as she roars, “stop fighting me, mortal! I told you, no one ever leaves the garden of delights! Now, come closer.”

“What are you?! You’re not a goddess,” Henry fights back the scream, but the mouth in front of him cracks into a wide smile, one lined with thorns, and he doesn’t want to find out if they’re as sharp as they look.”

“No, I am a very hungry plant, and it’s been ages since I’ve had a meal as big and scrumptious as you.” Her laughter echoes around him as he struggles, clinging to whatever plant matter doesn’t seem to be connected to her as she pulls him to her mouth.

“No, let me go! Please, somebody help me! Help!” His scream echoes around the room, but he knows that no one is coming. The forest is forbidden; no one comes here. It’s a death trap, and he’d known that, and he’d wandered blindly in anyway. He’s just wishing he’d told his mother where he was going, or given David a last pat, when a voice rings out around him.

“That’s enough, monster!” There’s the sound of an arrow being let loose, and the plant drops Henry to the ground, screaming.

“My eye!” She’s shrunk down enough to let light filter in through her leaves, and in the false twilight, Henry sees another figure in the room with them.

“Who are you?”

The man turns to him, but instead of a greeting or explanation, he gets, “head back the way you came; you’ll find a rope you can climb to the surface. I’m going to take care of this overgrown fly trap. Now, go.” The other man draws his sword as the plant rears back up, a sickly looking flower growing over where her eye used to be.

“I’m going to tear you limb from limb, you filthy, stinking human,” she fumes, and the other man just laughs.

“Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.” He shoves Henry toward the door, and Henry runs, followed by the sounds of sword on vine. He’s halfway up the rope when it starts to move below him, and he looks down to see the other man climbing, too. They clamber to the top together, and Henry flops onto safe ground, overwhelmingly glad to be able to see the sky.

“That was intense. What was that thing?” He asks, still trying to get his breath back. The other man stands up beside him, brushing his hands off and pulling up the rope.

“I don’t know what they’re called, but the forest is full of them.”

“Wow, I’m really glad you came along, thank you.” The other man holds out a hand to help him up, and Henry sees him in full for the first time. He’s not wearing a helmet, but he is shorter than Henry, so the first thing he notices is the tousled hair, a sort of effortless beauty to it even as it’s full of leaves and twigs. Then he sees the other man’s face, and he is, undeniably, the most beautiful thing Henry has ever seen. His brain is telling him to ignore it, but the command gets muddled somewhere on his way to his mouth, because Henry just keeps talking through his realization. “Thank you for rescuing me, and for… for being so beautiful.”

“What?” he’s turned his attention to coiling the rope, but the other man looks up at being called beautiful, and Henry’s brain finally processes what his mouth said. He has to fix it.

“I mean brave. Thank you for being so brave, not beautiful. Sorry, that was weird, I don’t know why I said that. I think some of those toxins must still be messing with my head, making me say crazy things. I don’t think you’re beautiful.” The other man frowns, and Henry rushes to correct himself. “I mean, not that you’re ugly. Obviously you’re not ugly. I just mean if I had to choose, you know? If you put a sword to my head and said ‘am I attractive or ugly, pick one’ I’d have to say attractive because objectively that’s just a fact, but it’s not like you’re so attractive I can’t stop looking at you.” He is so attractive Henry can’t stop looking at him, but that’s the point where his brain finally catches up with his mouth enough to ask, “am I talking a lot? I feel like I’m talking a lot.”

“You are.” The other man is now thoroughly unimpressed, and Henry sighs.

“So, anyway, what I meant to say was, thank you. Thank you for… saving my life. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.” He’s studying his boots, just noticing how stained they’ve gotten after just a day in the forest.

“Then it’s a good thing I’ve been following you.” That gets Henry’s attention, even if the other man is still busy doing something with his rope.

“What? You’ve been following me?”

“For the last hour.” He says it like it’s something Henry should have noticed, so Henry nods.

“Ah, I thought someone was watching me.” Then he realizes a point where his plan to play along falls apart, and he asks, “wait, why were you following me? Also, what’s with the lasso?”

“I have some questions, and since I don’t know or trust you, I feel like you’ll be more inclined to answer them if I tie you up and dangle you from a tree.”

It sounds like a good plan, and Henry’s nodding and agreeing that it makes sense before he realizes what he’s saying enough to be scared. By that point, the rope is already around his legs, and they’re already being pulled out from under him, leaving him to dangle upside down from the nearest tree. “Hey, no, let me down from here, I thought we were friends! This is so not necessary.”

“Now then, who are you, and what are you doing in this forest?” The other man asks, ignoring Henry’s pleas.

“Me? I’m no one; no one at all. I’m literally just passing through.”

The other man just circles him, studying him closely. When he speaks, it sounds like it’s more to himself than to Henry. “Your clothes are filthy, but clearly Western, and your sword is… engraved with royal insignia.” He draws his own sword, holding it under Henry’s chin to ask, “do you work for the royal family?”

“What? No, no, no, definitely not. I definitely do not work for the royal family.” Because, technically, he reasons with himself, he doesn't.

“So you’re alone then? No one from the royal family is with you?” The other man demands, and Henry nods as best he can.

“Yeah, no, yeah, totally alone, no one from the royal family, I swear.”

He puts his sword back, and Henry takes a deep breath as he says, “sorry, can’t be too careful in this forest.”

“Yeah, no, no, no, totally understand.”

“My name is Alex,” he continues, apparently not having heard Henry’s agreement. “Prince of the East; no doubt you’ve heard of me?”

“Uh… not really.”

“I’m the son of Queen Ellen, Heir to the Eagle Throne, Defender of the Stonewalled Realm...” He turns to Henry, who just shakes his head.

“Sorry.”

“Hero of the Unstained Blade. Protector of the Rainbow Flame, Champion of Justice for All.”

“Wait, what was that last one?”

“Champion of Justice for All.” He’s dropped the presentory tone, and Henry pretends to take a second to think before shaking his head.

“Yeah, no.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sorry, we don’t really get much news about you guys in the West. We weren’t even sure there was anyone left in the East to be totally honest; we thought maybe the forest had finished you off.”

“Oh.” Alex’s shoulders seem to slump a little, and even if he’s just imagining it, Henry can’t have that. Especially not when Alex still has him hung from a tree.

“But, it’s so great to meet you! I’ve never met anyone from the East before, and now that I have, I’m like… woah, you people are awesome. I don’t know why we ever went to war with you, so can you maybe like… let me down now?”

Alex’s princely persona is back, and he steps closer to Henry. “You haven’t told me who you are or what you’re really doing in this forest.”

“Me? Um, I’m… my name is… David.” It’s the first thing he can think of, and the minute it’s out of his mouth he wants to cringe, but Alex is nodding.

“David?”

“Yeah, everybody calls me David.” Shit, he’s just told Alex he’s alone. “Not that I know many people, because I live here. By myself. Just… totally alone.”

“You live in the forbidden forest?” There’s a hint of genuine curiosity to Alex’s tone, and Henry nods.

“Yeah. I’m on the run, you see, from the royal family of the West. Whom we both hate.” That’s true, too, even if he wishes it weren’t. Alex nods, then frowns.

“Why are you on the run?”

“That is a… great question.” One for which he has no answer. “I am on the run because I… am a thief.” Which, again, technically true.

“A thief?”

Henry finds himself nodding. Now that he’s committed to the story, he has to stick with it. “Yeah, uh huh, I’m a thief! I mean, how do you think I got that sword? I mean, not to brag, but I’m basically the greatest thief in all the West.” He’s pretty proud of his lie, and Alex nods along, then frowns.

“Great. Just what I need. A vagabond with no concept of honor! Oh well; the forest can deal with you.” He stands up, and Henry starts to struggle again.

“Wait, what? Where are you going; you can’t leave me like this!” he protests, but Alex shakes his head. Every bit of personality Henry got a glimpse of is gone, Alex’s chin out, his chest up.

“I also can’t have a confessed criminal running around this forest.”

There’s a steady stream of swear words running through Henry’s head, but he finds another lie somewhere between them. “No no no; you don’t understand. When I said a thief, I meant like… a Robin Hood situation, steal from the rich, give to the poor. That’s why the royal family hates me! I’m too good. I mean, where I’m from, I’m basically a hero--”

“A hero?”

“In… the loosest sense of the word.”

“How long have you lived in this forest?” Alex is dropping bits of his princeliness now, leaning in to get a closer look at Henry. Henry hopes Alex can’t see any of his stress about lying.

“Uh… years. What, well, like… forever.”

Alex processes that, then says, “and yet, you nearly got eaten by a talking plant less than ten minutes ago because you wandered blindly into her lair.” Henry just nods, still trying to think.

“Yes. But, that’s the first time something like that has ever happened to me in all the many years I’ve lived here. So in terms of navigating the dangers of this forest, that’s actually a point in my favor.”

Alex hums, then pulls his sword out again, slicing through the ropes holding Henry up. Henry tumbles, groaning as he sits up and rubs his head. “Thanks, but next time? Give a guy a little warning before you cut him down.”

“I’ll make you a deal, Thief.”

“You can call me David,” Henry offers, getting to his feet, but Alex doesn’t acknowledge him.

“My first night in this forest, my horse got spooked and ran off with my map. Since then, I’ve been--”

“Hopelessly lost?”

“In need of directions.”

“Ah.” Of course; a perfect prince with a million titles like Alex could never be lost.

“If you can take me where I need to go,” he says, “I promise I’ll spare your life and set you free when my quest is over.”

“Uh, sure, yeah, okay. Where do you want to go?” Henry’s not sure how good of a guide he’ll be, but he has his map, and at this point, he’ll do anything to get down and he can move from there.

“The Hollow of the Kings.”

“The Hollow?” The Hollow Henry’s trying to get to, too? The one at the center of the forest; the Hollow of legend?

“You know it?”

“Uh, yeah, of course, but why do you want to go there?”

“That’s none of your business. All you need to know is that it’s imperative I get to the Hollow as soon as possible. Now, do we have a deal, or should I get my rope?” Of course he won’t say anything. But still, Henry’s going to the Hollow anyway, and he’d love to stay out of a tree.

“No! I mean, yes, yes, I’d love to take you to the Hollow.”

“Good, then it’s a deal.”

“Absolutely. Shake on it?” Alex just huffs, looking personally offended at Henry’s outstretched hand.

“A prince, shake hands with a thief?” Henry pulls his hand back automatically, trying to disguise his offer of a handshake with trying to rub his arm.

“Okay, or not. Not shaking also works.”

“Good, then let’s get started. Now that you work for me, you’ll carry my things.” Alex tosses a bag at Henry, and he catches it just before it hits the ground.

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, sure, okay, no problem buddy.”

“Don’t call me ‘buddy’.”

“Okay, no problem, Boss.”

“Your Royal Highness is fine.”

“Got it.”

“Also, from now on, please only speak when spoken to. You talk a lot, and your accent’s giving me a headache.” Alex is already on the move, though Henry’s not sure where he’s going if Henry’s supposed to be his guide. So he hurries after him.

“Oh. Really? We could be walking for a while, and not talking could make it hard to get to know each other.”

“Exactly. Also--”

“Ugh, how many rules do you have?” Henry asks, but Alex turns to look directly at him for the first time since they’ve met.

“If I find out you’re lying to me, about anything, I’ll feed you to the nearest plant. Got it?”

“Got it,” Henry says, swallowing a lump bigger than the multitude of lies he’s told in the past two minutes.

“Great. Well then, what are you waiting for? Lead me to the Hollow!” Alex claps Henry on the shoulder, the closest thing they’ve had to camaraderie yet. And Henry pulls out the map, hoping he hasn’t gotten himself into something he won’t be able to get out of.

--

On AO3

--

Notes:

And we meet Alex! And watch Henry be a mess!

--

Want to support the Hannah Makes Art Fund? You can tip me in ko-fi here!

[percywinchester27]

About a boy (Part-11)

Word count: 2.8K

Warning: Suspense, feels, physical abuse, child-trafficking, kidnapping, child-violence, bullying.

Characters: Dean, Cas, Gabriel, Benny, Michael, OCs and… Sam?

Summary: Dean Winchester has a secret. A secret that could really land him in trouble. He never expected to connect with anyone when he walked into the ‘Blue Stone Orphanage for Boys,’ but even then, the walls he has put up are slowly coming down. Now, a series of strange events are threatening to expose him. When everything starts falling apart around him, will he still be able to save the one person that matters the most?

A/N: Okay, I really hope you all like this chapter! <3

Thanks to my lovelies @thing-you-do-with-that-thing​​​​​​​ and @deanssweetheart23​​​​​​​ for beta reading this story <3

About a boy masterlist

“You know what would help? Lightsabers!” Will proclaimed.

Dean laughed and Cas gave Will an amused look.

“You guys think it’s funny, but we sneaked a Star Wars tape last year- you remember that, don’t you, Cas?- and those sabers could light up the whole place,” he reasoned.

“You know Lightsabers aren’t real,” Cas said patiently.

Will rolled his eyes at that. “Of course they aren’t real. I know that! But they must be using something similar during the filming. That’s what we need. We could light this whole place up. No need for dumb flashlights that give out in the middle of creepy staircases.”

Dean smiled indulgently. “That was one time.”

“And one time was enough,” Will said decidedly, his tone effectively dismissing the matter.

It sure had been a struggle, sneaking each night into the record room without letting anyone know. Even more, it was a task to smuggle and return Will from and back to the 4th floor. But if Dean was honest, Will kept them going. He had the sort of brightness and enthusiasm that never gave out… even on the dullest of nights.

It had taken Will a few days to come back to himself, but after that, Will was the driving force behind the ‘Sam search mission.’ In fact, he seemed too bright sometimes. Dean worried if somehow Will was overcompensating, thinking that it was his job to find Sam before he left with his adoptive parents at the end of the month. That was another thing- No one was to bring the adoption up. Dean wasn’t sure it was denial. It appeared more like Will was pushing it deep, deep down. His anxieties only surfaced sometimes in the dark when it was just him and Dean, with their backs to the grill. He would suddenly go quiet and Dean would just know.

“Found another!” Cas announced. “Matt Wilcox. It says he was transferred to Missouri, but no paperwork to prove it.”

“We have twenty-three now,” Dean said, grimly.

They hadn’t found many leads on Sam. Will had suggested that they go by the law of omissions. Eliminate those files that had no chance of being Sam’s. Like all kids who hadn’t been admitted around the age of 6 months, or whose physical descriptions were way off. It was time consuming, but it was still something. Meanwhile, Dean used the same idea to look into Stynes. In the past three weeks since Dean had actually started investigating the matter seriously, they had come across multiple instances of paperwork that wasn’t just shoddy but didn’t make any sense. Most of these were kids who had been abruptly displaced. Dean didn’t know if bad paperwork or a complete lack of follow-up would be good enough for Jody to make a case out of it, but if they found enough files, maybe some other link could be found.

It was serious work, and Will’s periodic complaints about the lack of good flashlights- which had become an essential commodity at this point- was the only entertainment.

Dean stashed his files away and checked his watch. It was just past 4 am.

“We should get back,” he suggested. “You don’t want to fall asleep in the class again, Cas.”

“It’s what the English Lit class is meant for,” said Cas, getting up anyway and stretching his arms. Beside him, Will nodded in agreement.

Dean smiled fondly at him. 

Quietly, they made their way back to the left wing under the light of a single flashlight. It was little help, but too much light could attract attention. It was vexing to crossover from the barren left wing each night, but it was much better than risking being sighted.

Just as they landed on the fourth floor, a weird creaking noise came from the further left part.

“What the hell?” Dean scowled, pointing the flashlight. There was nothing there. Acting on an instinct, he shut the light off completely, gesturing with his hands for his other companions to stay put. 

As if on point, a dark figure emerged at the very end of the corridor. Dean’s breath hitched; behind him, there were similar gasps of shock. 

“Shhh…” he said, pushing them back into a deeper corner. The figure at the end was well-built and tall, and was looking straight at them in the darkness, as if suspecting their presence. After a few moments that stretched too long, the figure disappeared into the hallway ahead. 

They stayed put like that afterwards for what seemed like ages just to make sure that they weren’t caught; then at Dean’s signal, took another flight of stairs and reached the 5th floor, opening the door and crossing over to the dorm side of the building.

Cas sagged against the rusted iron door, with his hand over his chest. “What. The. Hell was that?” he gasped, breathing heavily. Will was looking wide eyed, completely silently now, waiting for Dean to answer the question.

“I don’t know,” Dean finally said. “Whoever it was, wasn’t scared of being found, that’s for sure.”

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking?” Cas asked, brow sweaty and furrowed. Both Dean and Will nodded.

Neither of them said it out loud, but if whoever it was didn’t care about being spotted, it was because they thought they had the upper hand. Almost like… they owned the place. 

The Stynes.

“Tomorrow,” Dean said. “We find out what the hell is happening there tomorrow.”

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

All through the day Dean couldn’t concentrate. It didn’t help that Cas kept falling asleep in every class. Maybe it was the complacency from staying in a place as dangerous as the bellstone orphanage for so long, but Cas was taking their impending adventure in stride. He was behaving ordinarily. In fact , he had even prayed like he usually did in the morning. 

Cas’s calm energy gradually caught up with Dean and by the time they got back from school, his nervousness was almost ebbed. It was ticking in the back of his mind that Will and Barry hadn’t joined up with them after school as they usually did, but he didn’t pay much heed to it. Lately, the school was conducting weird psych analysis on Will to determine if he was all set for the adoption and subsequently the move to New York. 

Dean couldn’t think about it without feeling a punch to his gut, so he pushed the thought out of his head.

“Hey,” Cas whispered as they reached the entrance of the boys home. “I’m going to go see if I can pick some more flashlights out of Garth’s supply closet. Meet you in the dorm room later?”

“Alright.”

They had put their heads together and deduced that there was no way Garth was involved in any of the stuff going around here. As Dean made his way to the shower room, he thought to himself that it may very well be possible that Garth was completely unaware. He lived down in the town, a good five miles away from the orphanage, and rode on his decrepit motorcycle every alternate day to do the essential maintenance or janitorial stuff that boys in the home couldn’t take care of. On occasions, he had stayed over late, but it was plausible that he didn’t know that there was something sinister going on here. Besides, anyone who had met Garth knew him to be absentminded. Good, but lost in his own tune.

Somehow the thought was uplifting for Dean. Not everyone in the staff was horrible. He hadn’t given the cook and the two henchmen like dudes that seemed to hang around with Andy the benefit of the doubt yet.

The shower did its work and Dean felt alert as he made his way back to the dorm room. As he reached the 5th floor main corridor, he saw Will.

Will was white. His forehead was clammy with sweat and his eyes were wide in horror.

Every thought abandoned Dean except for a nameless alarm over Will’s horror. Was he hurt? 

Before Dean could utter another word, Will came barreling forward, almost tripping over his own shoes.

“Dean!” Will said, the name falling out of his lips like both a call for help and a prayer of relief.

“What happened?” Dean asked dreading the reply

Tears Swam in Will’s eyes. Tears of helplessness and fear. “They took him, Dean,” he sobbed. “They took Barry.”

With that, he collapsed on the floor, his knees completely giving out beneath him.

Dean rushed to him, falling on his own knees. “Barry?”

Will’s lips were quivering, but his voice was surprisingly strong. “I saw him at school in the morning, but he said he was feeling sick, so they let him go early. I-I just had a bad feeling about this so I skipped the class and came back here, but Barry was just gone.”

“Hey, maybe he’s just hanging around somewhere,” Dean tried to rationalise. “Maybe he went into town instead. It’s just 6 in the evening. You don’t know that he’s decided to play hooky and be somewhere else.”

“No-no,” Will shook his head. “Barry isn’t like that. You know him! I’m his only friend and he always sticks by me. Besides, I asked this other kid who had stayed back from school today, and he said Barry had definitely come back.”

“We need to ask Andy,” Dean said. “He’ll-...”

“I asked already!” Will cried. “He said Barry was transferred.”

Shit!

“I- I,” Will said, looking around wildly. “We need to go to the left wing. I know that’s where they are keeping him. They have to be!”

Dean didn’t think it was possible to be more horrified… but somehow he did.

“Will!” Dean shook his friend by the shoulders to get him to snap out of it. “Listen to me! We will find Barry. We will go there tonight and bring him back, okay?”

Will’s eyes stilled, the black pupils were so dark they overpowered the hazel around it.

“You promise?” 

Dean cursed internally, but outside, he said, “I promise.”

So fast that Dean didn’t have time to react, Will flung his arms around Dean’s middle and hugged him hard. Dean’s own hand instinctively came to rest over Will’s head, his fingers weaving into the soft brown. He could feel Will’s sobs wracking his own body, the tears staining his shirt, but Dean held on, tightening his grip on the boy, as if by sheer willpower he could fix everything that was wrong.

A part of him did not want to let go. Something deep inside was just screaming at Dean to hold on to Will and make a run for it. Leave everything behind to just protect this kid. But there were lives at stake here. He could picture Barry’s crying face when that bully at school had raised his arm at him, then the absolute faithfulness with which he looked at Will. 

Dean ran his hand over Will’s shoulders, over and over till his heaves subsided.

He moved back ever so lightly to look Will in his tear stained, anguished eyes. “You listen to me now, Will. Go back to your room and wait for us to signal you at night, okay?”

Will nodded,with implicit trust in his eyes and Dean wanted to kick himself for lying.

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

Dean sprinted all the way back from Will’s room, after having walked him down there, and skidded to a halt in his dorm room, almost banging into Benny. He let out a yelp of surprise at the intrusion but then gave Dean a brief, hesitant smile. Benny had been trying to be nice after his blow out almost a month ago. Sometimes Dean could see he was struggling to say the words, to make it okay, but hadn’t been able to.

Today, he actually tried. “Hey, Dean-,” he started to say but Dean cut it off quickly.

“Where’s Cas?”

“He’s not back yet.”

Dean turned around and kicked the foot of his bed. “Damn it!” he yelled.

“Dean!”

Behind him, Cas had just entered the room, slightly sweaty and breathless, two flashlights clutched to his chest. 

“Barry-” 

“I know!” Cas said, forehead crumpling. “A couple of kids were talking about it.”

Dean gave another frustrated yell.

“What? What happened?” Benny asked, vigilant now, all awkwardness gone.

Hurriedly, in a low voice, Dean repeated everything that had happened with Will. When he was done, both Cas’s and Benny’s faces were identical masks of horror.

“We have to go to the west wing, Dean!” Cas said decidedly, his voice grim.

“Yes,” Benny agreed. 

Dean sank down on his bed with a thud. “You can’t come with us, Benny.”

“What? Why-” Benny started to protest but Dean cut him off. Again.

“You can’t come with us, because I want you here, standing by the door, making sure no one knows or follows us.”

“I don’t see the need,” Benny reasoned. “No one will be up at night.”

Dean exhaled, slowly. “We are not going to wait for nightfall. We’re doing it now, in an hour.”

“But Will? You just said that you promised him we’ll go after the lights go out...” Cas trailed off.

“This is because of Will,” Dean said through his teeth. “I lied to him. He’s just a kid. Sneaking into the record room at night is one thing, but dragging him into this? When even I don’t know what’s waiting there? I can’t do it. Better for him to be angry with me tomorrow than risk his life. Besides, he is in no shape to go anywhere. He’s scared out of his mind for Barry.”

Dean knew everything he was saying made sense, but the real reason behind lying to Will was that Dean knew he'd be himself paralysed with fear for Will, if he was to go anywhere near whatever crap was happening in the west wing. The mere thought of Will being in danger made Dean’s knees give out.

“In fact, Cas,” Dean said slowly, “I can’t ask you to risk your life for this either.”

“Oh, shut up, Dean!” Cas sais, exasperated. “How old do you think I am? 12? I can make my own decisions and I’m coming with you.”

Dean felt his body loosen slightly with relief. While thinking of Will in a dangerous situation filled him with dread, knowing that Cas was going to be with him, made him feel relieved. Friendship was unpredictable like that… you couldn’t guess how it would make you feel.

“Alright, then,” Dean said, “This is how we do it.”

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

It was as dark as it always was in the west wing, despite it being just over 7 o clock, and the lights in the compound still on. Both Dean and Cas had their flashlights throwing lights into the far end of the corridor as they made their way through the stinking, grimy passageway. Benny had deftly taken his place next to the door, without any hesitation. Dean had handed him the set of keys and decided on a certain knocking rhythm so he would know it was them when they returned and opened the door for them. The door opened easily from the outside, and unlike the long nights, today Dean didn’t have the luxury of trying all the keys in the dark till the right one fit.

With precise coordination that only came after weeks and weeks of sneaking around in dark decrepit places, Dean and Cas moved along the decaying wall towards the end of the corridor. From what Dean knew of the building footprint, having extensively inspected the form from the outside, the corridor should lead into something of a hallway. Even as they rounded the corner, a sense of foreboding gripped Dean. In all of their nightly excursions, they had never ventured this far into the west wing. The hallway opened up into another short corridor that swiftly made a left turn, blocking all view.

Dean quickly exchanged a look with Cas, confirming that they both agreed upon continuing further ahead. The swift left turn wasn’t in fact a turn, but a narrow, crooked staircase. What was more? There was light emanating from the bottom of the stairwell. It was dim and threatening, but there was definitely something going on there. With another cautious look, Dean started descending the staircase, now switching off the flashlight. Behind him, Cas did the same. Together they climbed down, clutching the wall for support.

The staircase led all the way down till what would be the first floor. The passageway ahead was lit with less wattage bulbs emitting a dull reddish light. It was menacing. The floor itself was like the dormitory wing he slept in. Rooms on one side, next to each other, all connected by a single, small passage. But unlike the dorm, the wall opposite the rooms didn’t have a line of windows; it was blank and solid. 

Suddenly there was a banging noise. Without thinking, Dean dashed ahead, passing small rooms with grilled iron doors. His peripheral vision caught something and he came to a skittering halt.

One of the rooms was unlocked and the rusted, the metal door swaying off his hinges. Inside, hanging from the ceiling were long chains that ended in shackles. What was worse? There were dark splashes on the wall- dark brown in colour- of what suspiciously looked like blood.

Dean’s stomach turned and he looked away. If there had been anything in his stomach, it would have come out now.

“Is that… is that…” Cas was too disgusted to even complete the sentence.

The banging echoed again and Dean rushed towards the door it was coming from. That particular room was in darkness as the light within had been turned off. However, there was movement in the shadowed corner.

“Dean?”

The voice was muted and hopeless… but it was definitely Barry’s.

Dean banged against the door. “Barry! Oh thank God you’re okay.”

But he had said it too quickly. For Barry’s small figure dragged its way across the small room towards the door, and in the little light reflecting from the bulbs above, Dean could see the dark wetness of blood against his face. Barry’s spectacles weren’t on him, and his leg was twisted in a way that was anything but natural.

“My God,” Cas whispered, and fell against the grill, trying to shove his hand between the rod to get to him. “Barry!”

Barry broke down completely. His face was bloodied and bruised but the most horrifying thing was the hopelessness in Barry’s eyes. He had given up.

“Barry!” Dean reached out so the tips of his fingers touched Barry’s brown hair. “I’m gonna get you out of here.”

Barry just shook his head. “They’re coming for me, Dean. I heard them, the car is right outside,” he cried, in a dead voice. “You can’t help me.”

“I’m not giving up, Damn it!” Dean said fiercely. “I’m going to get out of here and inform the police. I have a pager stashed under my clothes. They’ll free you.”

They had to free him.

“Cas,” Dean said, “Stay here and raise a riot if you see any movement or hear anything, okay? I’m gonna head up and contact Jody.”

Cas’s chin jerked up in quick acknowledgement and he shuffled closer to the grill.

Dean turned to Barry, his eyes stinging at the corners. “You hold on, Barry. Cas is right here with you. I’ll be back in a moment.” 

At long last, Barry nodded, a small light of hope in his pained eyes. With one last look, Dean bolted back towards the hallway, and up through the staircase. Nothing seemed real to him anymore. He banged three times as they had decided, and within seconds the door opened. Dean stumbled out and onto the floor.

Benny was next to him in a flash. Maybe it was the look on Dean’s face or Cas’s absence, but Benny stiffened. 

“I- I need to get to the pager,” Dean heaved breathlessly.

Benny didn’t ask for an explanation or even what had happened. He moved quickly and helped Dean to his feet which were starting to feel like the bones were beginning to melt. Somehow, Dean managed to stand straight and reach his room. Once there, he hauled his duffel bag from under the bed and yanked the zipper, frantically digging into the base of the bag to find the rolled up wad of socks in which he had hid the pager.

Soon, his hand wrapped around the small plastic object and he pulled it free of the clothes. He hurriedly turned it on. It seemed like an eternity before the pager beeped to life and the small line blinked on. With shaking hands Dean typed-

EMERGENCY. COME NOW.

He hit send and the pager tumbled out of his shivering hands. It would take Jody at least an hour and a half to get here. And Barry had said that the car was already here to take him. Till then Dean had to do all he could stall them. 

“Get a grip!” Benny said, laying a hand on Dean’s shoulder. His voice was gruff, but kind. Dean felt a welling gratefulness towards Benny.

“Benny,” Dean said, getting to his feet. “We have to hurry, but there is one more thing I have to do.”

“What?”

“Hide Will here!”

There was a sick feeling in his stomach that refused to go away, and it only multiplied whenever he thought of Will. “I’m going down to fetch him, and then we’ll lock him in our room. I know it sounds stupid but I just… I…”

“You don’t need to explain, brother,” Benny said. “I understand how you feel. I would have done the same for Jaime. I’ll go find Castiel in the west wing, you find Will.”

Dean quickly explained the location of Cas and Barry, and then Dean was running again. It was dinner time so he rushed to the dinning hall first, but in all the crowd, he couldn’t spot Will’s particular mop of brown hair. With rising alarm he looked in the library, the game room, even the godforsaken record room, but his friend wasn’t to be found anywhere. Finally, almost on the verge of nausea, Dean reached Will’s room. His sandy haired roommate was sitting on the bunk bed, shuffling through laundry clothes.

“Will?” Dean asked, throat parched. “Where’s Will?”

The kid gave Dean an odd look. “He’s not here,” he said. “Left with Andy a while ago.”

The blood in  Dean’s veins seemed to go cold.

“Andy?”

“Yeah,” the kid shrugged. “Andy said his adoptive parents were here for him, for some urgent formality. That their car was waiting outside. Will wanted to say goodbye to you, but Andy said he could say it when he came back.”

The car was waiting outside.

Blood thundered in Dean’s ears, and without his mind directing, his body moved, taking him upstairs in a desperate numbness. 

Outside, his body collided with Cas’s. 

Castiel was crying. There was a thin stream of blood trickling down the side of his face, along his ear and neck.

“Barry is gone,” he said, voice completely hollow. “I was waiting there, but something hit me hard on the head and I clocked out. When I came to, Benny was standing over me and Barry w- was... gone.

From the grounds, there was a sharp sound of an engine revving, and all three of them turned to watch through the north windows as two cars drove away from the fence… their tail lights becoming pinpoints as they disappeared into the night.

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

A/N 2: Man, I am soooo sorry for the cliffy! If it helps, the next chapter is written. I’ll post it within the week! 

Please do tell me what you thought of the chapter? I live for comments!

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[agentkgent]

Fic: If You Want It Back

Read on AO3

13-year-old Richie/Eddie fluff because my heart needs it (apparently my boys taking care of each other is my favorite thing in the world??); This is probably a multi-chapter slowburn deal that I may or may not have the patience to complete; We’ll see!

Pros: Intimate medical care, sleepy cuteness, innocent sleepovers

Cons (Warnings): Mild blood, profanity, nightmares, sexual humor dialogue

- - -

Eddie | 13

“Would you stop being so fuckin loud? It doesn’t take much for her to check on me,” Eddie whisper-shouts.

Richie yanks his momentarily-stuck leg past the threshold of the window seal. “Dude, she’s used to me sneaking into the house late at night,” he smirks. “She’ll just be jealous-”

“Shut up, Richie.”

It’s dark - at least 11 o’clock at night in the shithole that is Derry. Fall is coming and nighttime is colder than it’s been for months.

He had been waiting up for Richie in his second-floor bedroom, gently lit by an old desk lamp. While his room had always been pristine and prepared for a Sonia Kaspbrak inspection, it’s fallen into a slightly less-than-perfect state the past few days while he preoccupied himself taking every possible moment to join the Losers in their final days with Beverly; final days of their summer vacation.

A few items of clothing lay on the floor near the bed, a jacket strewn across the corner of the bedspread. Socks hanging inside-out on top of a pair of Converse sneakers near the door.

Richie stands upright and tugs his hooded sweatshirt gently, fixing the zipped sides. Without pause, strides across the room to Eddie’s closet and pulls out his (well, not really his , but no one else uses it) comforter and pillow. “Move your shit, Eds.”

He scoffs. “Don’t fucking act like your room isn’t a pigstye.” And starts to grab clothing from the floor and throw it to a vacant corner, avoiding using his cast-covered limb.

“You couldn’t clean up for company?” Richie teases while he tosses the pillow onto the floor near the bed and unfolds the comforter.

“Yeah, well,” He begins, annoyed. “I’ve been distracted by the giant festering garbage wound on my hand, thanks to Bill. It’s freaking disgusting. He just fucking picked up a piece of glass and started cutting us with it. What the hell were we thinking? We’re all gonna get tetanus and shit.” He’s speaking faster, the horror setting in again. “What if the infection spreads to my arm? What if one of us has AIDS? Now we all have AIDS because Bill wanted to make a stupid fucking blood oath. Why couldn’t we have just created a secret handshake-”

“Shhh!” Richie throws his index finger over his mouth.

Eddie swats a hand over his own mouth in alert, realizing his own volume. The two wait a moment in silence, listening for a reaction, eyeing the bedroom door. They wait to hear footsteps in the hall or creaking on wood floors.

Nothing. He exhales in relief and continues, a bit calmer. “I don’t think there’s enough penicillin in the world to prevent me from getting an infection from that fucking piece of glass he used.” He watches Richie de-shevel his hoodie and kick off his sneakers. “Did you clean up your hand?”

Richie half-shrugs. “Yeah, I’m good. I washed my hands after I took a piss.”

His jaw drops. He thinks he might literally scream. “WHAT THE HELL, RICHIE?” He quietly shouts, his voice squeaking.

He can’t tell if Richie’s joking or not but he definitely DIDN’T see any kind of bandage over the moron’s hand, so he scrambles urgently to his desk’s designated medical drawer and digs out all the necessities. Fucking Trashmouth WOULD bring infection and sickness into his bedroom, goddamn it. Alcohol, gauze pads, antibiotic cream, yep. Medical tape, gauze wrap, rubber gloves...

“Jesus Christ, chill out,” Richie protests, a shit eating grin on his face from Eddie’s urgency. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

“No!” He points a finger at his stupid friend. “You are not gonna touch my stuff and leave blood and puss and infection and whatever-the-fuck-else in my bedroom.” He crudely dumps his First Aid supplies across his bed and yanks Richie to sit next to him. He leans back down towards the floor next to the head of his bed, grabs a flashlight, flicks it on, and slams it into Richie’s un-injured hand. “Hold this so I can see, idiot.”

It’d been a significant moment, the seven of them holding hands; committing to each other and to keeping It from hurting more people. Although they laughed off the tension at Stanley’s “I hate you,” and lightly talked about plans for the following day, something about the situation made it feel melancholy. The weight of their promise had also felt… a little suffocating, to be honest.

He needed to hug his best friend. It sprouted from deep in his gut and drove his movement. Almost instinctively, Richie opened his arms for a hug and patted Eddie’s back affectionately.

He finally took wide steps across the weeds-covered ground to head home, and turned to wave goodbye to his Losers. His attention landed on Richie, though. And Richie’s expression was… dopey? His huge eyes were fixed on Eddie, but it looked like he was far away. He was sort-of smiling? But wasn’t entirely focused behind his thick glasses. Eddie didn’t read into it too much. It was a heavy day.

Two hours later, the Kaspbrak residence phone rang. “Hello?” He answered.

“Spuhgett!” A poor Italian impression came through the line. “Come over and stay the night!”

“Richie, really?”

“Yeah man, let’s dive into some new issues of Hustler and howl into the night! Ow OW!”

He held the phone down in shock, the asshole’s howling audible from the handset. He flung his head to either side, looking for his mother, and then hissed into the phone. “You can’t say shit like that on the phone, asshole! My mom could be listening! She’s been on me nonstop.”

“Dude, that’s some kinky incest shit. But pretty hot.”

At this point, Eddie was confident his mother wasn’t listening on the line. That would have been her opportunity to shut down the conversation. “You’re fucking disgusting. I’m hanging up.”

“Come on! I’ve got some comics I need to catch up on, let’s hang out!”

He sighed. “Rich, my mom’s basically put me on house arrest.”

“I can come over there, if that’s easier.”

“How is that easier?”

“I’ll climb up to your room from the gate.”

“Wow. Genius.” Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Thank you, I agree.”

“Dude, I’m tired.”

“Alright then, you can fuckin’ sleep, I’ll entertain myself.”

“So then why don’t you just stay home?”

A quiet moment, and then, “Eddieeeee!” Richie faked a whine.

He closed his eyes in defeat. “Fine. But I’m not staying up late. And you need to get out before my mom’s up tomorrow.” He remembered the most important part. “HEY AND you need to wait until it’s been dark for a while or she’ll still be watching TV.”

“Edward, I’m quite familiar with my lady’s nighttime habits. She watches porn ‘til 10 p.m., then I come over, then we do a couple lines, and after you’ve gone to sleep, she sucks my-”

Eddie slammed the phone back on the cradle.

Richie’s hand is now clean and covered, at least until the bandages need to be replaced. Eddie had only gagged once (maybe twice) while cleaning the Trashmouth’s palm. He inspects his handiwork one more time before closing the container of gauze. He takes the flashlight from Richie into his arm along with the impromptu First Aid kit.

“Do you think Bev will come back and see us? Like, visit from Portland?” Richie asks suddenly, looking at his cared-for hand.

Eddie pads across the room. He looks back towards Richie. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

“Come back for more quickies down by the Barrens, probably,” Richie sneers. “Maybe if we’re lucky she’ll let us watch.”

“Ew, dude, what?” He asks. He knows Richie doesn’t mean it, they all genuinely like Beverly. She’s cool and funny and treats them like normal people, which is more than they could say for other girls at school. But who-?

Richie knows what Eddie’s asking. “She and Bill sucked face after we left,” He wiggles his eyebrows.

He isn’t really surprised, he supposes. “Oh,” he says after a moment.

He turns off the desk lamp and walks back towards the bed. Richie scoots carefully until his back is against the wall, and Eddie plops his weight onto the bed, shifting until he’s next to him. They sit quietly for a whole three seconds before Richie continues with his gratuitous humor.

“Or maybe Bill will go see her .” And Richie starts with a dramatic tone of voice. “She might leave her bedroom window open at night for Big Bill, her dear auntie not knowing about the debauchery taking place in their home-”

He shakes his head slightly and ignores Richie. “Do you think Bev remembers Ben kissing her?”

Richie considers the question for a moment.

Everything that transpired in the filthy, dark tunnels beneath Derry had been something of a blur, but they all remembered that moment clearly. They found Beverly in the sewers, floating and white-eyed. She wouldn’t wake up. Ben was terrified. “What’s wrong with her?!” He looked at the others for answers, but no one knew what to do. Then he made a decision. Ben cupped Beverly’s face with both hands, and pressed their lips together, to everyone’s confusion. What the hell was that? ...And then Beverly woke up. Why did it work? Who knows. But it did. Bev mumbled something about ‘January embers’ and was back to normal.

“I don’t know, dude?” Richie dismisses, snatching the flashlight from Eddie’s hand and flicking it off. The whole room becomes immediately darker, only lit by the slightest bit of moonlight coming through the window. “Ben’s a nerd, anyway. Bev may be a Loser, but she’s still hot. And she and Bill like each other.”

“Poor Ben,” Eddie concludes.

“Plenty of fish in the sea, my dear Eds! Benjamin will be just fine,” Richie proclaims.

“Don’t call me ‘Eds.’”

“You love it.” Richie smirks.

“I don’t. And Ben will probably be fine, but YOU sure won’t. No one wants to kiss a Trashmouth.”

“If you only knew, shorty. Half of Derry has tasted my tonsils.”

Eddie smiles widely, preparing to call Richie’s bluff. “Bullshit. You haven’t kissed anyone.”

Richie’s smile drops. He looks into Eddie’s eyes. “Eddie…”

Eddie’s smile drops, too.

Richie continues, leaning in closer. “When are you going to face reality? Your mom and I care about each other very much. The woman has the most talented tongue-”

“Shut UP, Richie!” Eddie swats Richie with a pillow, landing with a muffled whack . Richie laughs quietly to himself.

Another quiet moment, and they’re both looking down at their hands in their laps.

He presses the question. “Rich, really. Have you kissed anyone before?”

It’s a risky question. They talk about girls all the time, but it’s always been something of a distant topic: jokes and celebrity crushes and their classmates. Bill, Stanley, Ben, and Mike always kept things PG. They’d each mentioned having crushes. Of course, Bill talked about kissing Beverly in the 3rd grade school play, something Richie taunted him about ruthlessly. Eddie kept quiet while the others discussed. He’d laugh when they joked or look when they shared photos from magazines, but he stayed away from the subject, afraid to reveal how little experience he had interacting with the opposite sex. Or, interest, honestly.

Richie, on the other hand, basked in loudly telling about his fictional sexual conquests with every female he’d supposedly ever encountered. At every opportunity. No one believed it, but no one bothered to dispute it.

But this was new territory for Eddie. Talking seriously about this stuff. Girls and kissing and feelings. Or rather, Eddie’s complete lack of anything to do with girls and kissing and feelings.

And with Richie, of all people?

But something about the events of the summer of 1989 made their friendship feel less… adolescent.

Richie slides onto his comforter on the floor. Without looking at Eddie, he answers. “No.” He takes off his glasses and tosses them recklessly onto Eddie’s desk.

Eddie expects a follow-up or a joke, but doesn’t hear one. “Me neither.”

“Yeah, that I know, Eddie-bear.”

“Fucking-”

- - -

Eddie dreams of Beverly, alone in the darkness.

He recognizes the horrible place that they’re back in. He’d hoped to never be back there ever again, smelling the piss and shit of Derry, mixed into a nice concoction with blood and remains of Pennywise’s victims.

Bev is a couple feet in front of him, eyes wide open. They’re solid white, no irises or pupils. She’s in the trance again.

Eddie places a hand on either of Bev’s shoulders, shaking her gently. “Shit, Bev! Bev! Beverly! Come on! You can snap out of it again, Bev!” Eddie yells. T hen shaking her with a little more force. She is slack-jawed and unresponsive, facing him blindly. “Guys! Guys, it’s Bev!” He looks around frantically for the other Losers. “She’s zonked out again, what do we do?!”  But they are alone. Matter of fact, he can’t make out any of the terrain around them, either. No water, no drainage pipes, no pile of murder trophies. No ‘new kid’ to wake her up.

Eddie swallows and looks back towards the damsel in distress. If it worked for Ben, maybe it’ll work… for him?  He places a hand on each side of Beverly’s face, squeezes his eyes closed, and gently pulls her towards him, pressing their lips together.

‘Please wake up, please wake up!’ He thinks, trying not to panic about what he’s doing.  And Eddie releases the kiss, letting himself move back a few inches, and opens his eyes.

He’s holding Richie’s face, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, lips slightly pursed and shiny.  Richie’s white eyes fly open, wide and horrified.

“WHAT the fu-” Eddie wakes with a heaving chest.

He’s confused and flustered and about to have a fucking asthma attack. He reaches behind his head to his nightstand and grabs his inhaler, placebo be damned. As he puffs and takes deep breaths, he looks around quickly, reminding his brain that he’s safe in his clean, non-sewer bedroom.

It’s still dark outside, and a little cold. He’s only been asleep for a couple hours. And he’s moved around so much in his nightmare that his comforter has slid onto the floor, ...and is starting to move on its own? Wha-

The comforter folds back. “Eddie?” Richie mumbles, half-asleep.

Eddie yelps and slams his back against the bedroom wall with a thud. Richie tries to shush him and continues, “Whoa! What the fuck?”

He dramatically clutches at his chest and uses his inhaler again. He examines Richie’s alerted expression, making sure his eyes have irises and pupils. Then his eyes glance at Richie’s lips, which are so-slightly parted. And maybe looks a little too long.

“Eddie, are you okay?” Richie climbs onto the bed and places a hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

He resettles in reality. Right. Richie stayed the night. He’s actually here. “No, I didn’t- I forgot you were here.” He covers his face with both hands and exhales deeply, embarrassed. “It was a stupid nightmare.”

Maybe another time, Richie would seize the opportunity to make an ‘erotic nightmare’ joke, but he leaves it be. “Well, breathe, dummy.”

Eddie focuses on his breathing for a few moments. He drops his hands into his lap. There’s something wet on his face, but maybe it’s just sweat? Richie’s brow furrows. And that’s when he comes to terms with a sharp pain in his hand.

“Eds, your hand!” Richie whispers urgently. “Shit, you got blood all over your face!”

He can’t even process what’s happening before Richie flies across the room to fetch the medical stash and his glasses.

“Oh my god,” Eddie squeaks. His hand is still bandaged, but it’s bleeding and has soaked through, running down his arm. He can feel the panic and terror bubbling in his throat at the utter level of unsanitary , but Richie’s back and holding his arms.

“Shhh, okay, hold on,” Richie tries to calm him. “I’m gonna get something to clean off your face.” And he hurries out of the bedroom, leaving the door open. The water runs in the faucet down the hall and Eddie hears gentle splashing. He looks towards the dark door opening, then back at his hand. His fingernails have blood under them. His cast has a large, rusty-red tint across the inside of his arm.

And Richie’s back, holding his chin carefully and cleaning with a wet cloth. He continues shushing Eddie, sensing his nausea. “It’s okay, you’re okay, don’t barf.” Richie works at his cheeks and brow, and softly wipes at his nose. His attention turns to Eddie’s hand and he looks closer. Seeing someone in that proximity to his injury makes him queasy, but Richie’s hold grounds him. Since when is Richie capable of being so… caring? (Last time Richie tried to help him, he re-broke his goddamn arm and called his mother, who wouldn’t let him leave the house for almost a month.) “Looks like you just squeezed your hand too hard. Probably fucked it up while you were sleeping. I’ll rewrap it. I watched you do mine. Jesus fuck, breathe, Eds. You’re panting like a pornstar.”

Right. Breathe. Where the fuck is his inhaler? He’s starting to feel lightheaded.

“You probably need to take off your shirt.”

“FUCK OFF, Richie!” He spits.

Richie raises his eyebrows. “No, seriously. You got blood all over your shirt, too.”

He blinks and looks down at his- oh. Fuck. Yeah, his favorite night shirt is ruined. It’s covered in blotches of red. He feels like he might pass out.

He pulls it from behind his neck and over his shoulders and head. He almost immediately starts shaking from the cold rush of air. Richie rolls his eyes, leans down to the floor where he slept, scoops his hoodie with one hand, and hands it to Eddie. He quickly pulls it on but leaves his casted arm and hand for Richie to tend to. He mumbles a drowsy, “Thanks.”

“Just try not to bleed on it, please? It’s one of my faves.”

- - -

Eddie doesn’t have any more dreams that night. Actually, he has the best night’s sleep in recent memory. No nightmares.

He also doesn’t remember falling asleep. But the morning light is shining directly into his face now, and he reluctantly comes to consciousness.

The pieces of last night reassemble in his mind, and he quickly looks at his injured hand. It’s wrapped tightly, only a few smudges of dried blood in between his fingers evidence of the late night mess. A tiny bit of dried red on the very edge of the cuff of his sleeve. And poorly written in Sharpie in the center of his bandaged palm, Sweet dreams, Spaghetti ♡

“You really know how to fuck up a nice gesture, huh?” Eddie says quietly to his probably-still-sleeping friend. He didn’t know what time it was or if his mother was lurking around yet.

No blood on his bedding, thank GOD, and no more blood on his- ...wait. What is he wearing?

He leans up on his elbows. He’s warmer than usual. Something hard is scratching at his chest and his neck, but the rest of whatever he’s wearing is so, so soft and very oversized on him.

Its an ash grey zipped-hoodie. It’s Richie’s.

His sense of smell kicks in, and he scrunches his nose at the reek of shitty body spray coming from it. He sits up and unzips the gross, unwashed jacket, pulling on the cuffs at each wrist carefully.

“Rich, come on. It’s morning. You gotta go before my mom wakes up.” He glances over the edge of the bed, but Richie’s not there. The comforter and pillow are wadded up in front of Eddie’s closet, and his sneakers are gone. No glasses on the desk.

Which means... he left already? Eddie’s heart sinks a little. Whatever. He’ll see Rich today, probably.

He looks back at his wrapped palm.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Richie | 13

“Just try not to bleed on it, please? It’s one of my faves.”

Eddie doesn’t laugh or fuss, which is disappointing. Richie needs to keep Eddie’s attention away from the fuckin’ Carrie episode triggered by some nightmare.

He wants to keep things light because he knows, he’s certain , Eddie’s violent nightmare probably has something to do with It. Because he’s been having nightmares about It, too. He dreams of missing posters hanging across Derry with his face on them, with no one looking for him. He dreams of that giant lumberjack trying to stab him to death in the middle of the park, and no one will help him. He dreams of being lost in the sewers, his friends calling to find him, but his mouth is sewn shut. Horrific realities every night. He can’t stay asleep more than a couple hours.

That’s why he’s risking getting caught in the Kaspbrak house. Anymore, he doesn’t feel okay unless he’s with his friends. The Great Richie Tozier is reduced to a sleepless baby, and the only possible remedy is having one of his Losers at arm’s length. And Eddie is his favorite Loser, after all.

And up until Eddie woke him up, it seemed to be working.

He focuses on unwrapping the crimson tide mess of cloth wrapped around an apparently catatonic version of his friend Eddie. It isn’t until he’s gently wiping away fresh blood from the cut that Eddie actually responds again.

Eddie hisses. “Ow.”

“Sorry.” He apologizes softly. “I’m just gonna clean this up, and then… I’ll put some stuff on it?”

He looks up and meets Eddie’s eyes, which are half-lidded and sleepy. He figures the horror has subsided and his firey little friend has worn himself out in his own panic. Or maybe he’s about to pass out? Either way, he’s glad Eddie isn’t making this difficult.

Eddie nods. “Yeah we can jus’ put some triple antibiotic on it.”

He looks over the products he brought to the temporary emergency room that is the bed. Triple… antibionic… ?

“S’the yellow tube,” Eddie mumbles and points lazily. Richie picks it up and uses some across Eddie’s wound. “Don’t use it all, dumb.”

“‘Dumb’ what?” He replaces the cap.

“You’re not qualified to do this.”

“You’re not qualified. I’m qualified as shit.” He’s glad Eddie wants to bicker instead of freak out. He finishes wrapping a first layer of gauze and tape around Eddie’s small hand. Richie risks a glance up at Eddie’s face, only a few inches away. The kid hasn’t fallen back asleep, but his eyes are shut and he’s tilting his head back against the wall.

Richie allows his fingers to gently drag across Eddie’s as he pulls back. He pinches Eddie’s fingertips softly as he lets go. The sensation tingles up his arm and to his center, where it’s growing warmly. (He thought it couldn’t get better than Eddie tending to his hand earlier in the night. He enjoyed the rough way that Eddie yanked his hand into a position easy to clean and bandage, lectured Richie about cleanliness and all the risks involved with not properly taking care of a wound.) There’s a tightness in his chest at how he gets to take care of Eddie like this, totally in control and responsible for his well-being.

He looks over the casted arm, with LOVER written across it and smiles fondly at Eddie’s determination to fight back against that stupid bitch Greta Keene. (He really wishes he could hit a girl.) But even more than that, the fact that Eddie prefers to be thought of as a “lover” makes Richie’s heart pound.

He’s almost done wrapping Eddie’s hand.

“Richie?” Eddie whispers.

“Yes, ‘muh boy?” He whispers back.

“Can I go back ‘ta sleep?” He slurs.

“Hand’s almost done. And then,” He pinches Eddie’s cheek. “We just gotta wrap you in fucking bubble wrap because you can’t fucking manage NOT to hurt yourself every chance!” Eddie is apparently too sleepy to fight back and allows him to hold the freshly bandaged hand in both of his own. “All better, Spaghetti Man.” And he presses his lips to the center of Eddie’s palm in a quick kiss and smiles widely.

Eddie lifts his head and opens his eyes at Richie. He looks down at his hand, and then back to Richie. “Thank you.” His eyelids drop, he quickly tips over, and plops his head onto his pillow, bouncing on the mattress slightly.

Richie has to cover his mouth to stifle his laugh. Eddie muffles something into his pillow. “Pardon me?” He says quietly with a big smile. He can’t help it. This is cute as shit.

Eddie turns his face away from the pillow. “Don’t laugh at me. I’m gonna sleep.”

“Can you sleep without injuring yourself?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. “I dunno but I’m tired.” He shuffles and twists his body around until he’s facing upward and looking at Richie. His hand reaches up and wraps around Richie’s wrist. “You can sleep on the bed too, if you want?”

Richie’s throat closes. He’s not entirely sure how much of this Eddie is actually processing, he seems really out of it. And his wrist feels like it’s on fire from Eddie’s touch.

“I just… Maybe that way if I start hav’ ‘nuther nightmare, you can wake me up. If you don’t wanna, tha’s fine-”

“No it’s fine.” He stops Eddie, taking a breath before continuing. “If you start freaking out again I’ll kick you in the dick until you stop.” He hopes that Eddie believes his nonchalant agreeance.

Eddie, once again, doesn’t laugh or fuss. He scoots to the outer side of the twin mattress and closes his eyes. The oversized hoodie swallowing his tiny form, almost covering his sleep shorts. He leaves space between himself and the wall.

Richie gulps. He can feel his hear pounding in his ears as he steps across the room to turn off the light on the desk, and pick up Eddie’s discarded comforter from the floor. He looks over his patient lying on the bed. His chest is moving gently as he breathes. It’s really cute. Too cute. Dangerously cute.

He can already hear steady breathing coming from the little wad of hypochondria. He’s out.

Richie steps back towards the desk and plucks a Sharpie from next to the lamp. He pads back towards the bed and kneels down close to Eddie’s face. He gently pulls Eddie’s bandaged hand from near his neck. He can feel Eddie’s breath on his fingers and it sends chills down his spine, but he stays focused. He scribbles, Sweet dreams, Spaghetti ♡ into the center of the palm, and replaces it against Eddie’s chest. He knows Eddie won’t think too deeply about it, he’ll just be pissed off and probably want to change the bandages as soon as possible. He hopes, at least.

After he tosses the closed marker onto the floor, he prays to WHATEVER evil God has put him in this position that Eddie won’t feel him shaking as he lays down facing the wall, pulling the cover over them. His ears are ringing, at this point. They’re echoes of blood rushing all over the place, his heart on overdrive. He tries to keep at least a couple inches distance from Eddie’s back, but he’s starting to get a contact high from the proximity and the body heat. His breathing is totally out of rhythm. His body is buzzing with a want to close the gap.

Listening to Eddie’s soft breathing, Richie drifts asleep.

And oh, by the way, it’s been exactly six days, 13 hours, and 12 minutes since he decided he was in completely love with Eddie Kaspbrak. And it fucking sucks.

- - -

“Eddie!” An irritating voice rings from the hallway. “Why is the bathroom light on?”

The sound shakes Richie awake. Looks like the sun has just started coming up, and it’s still a little chilly. He knows right away that Sonia is up and on the move. He’s got to go before she starts jiggling Eddie’s doorknob. By then, she’ll hear him climbing out of the house.

Richie rubs his eyes quickly and touches the top of his head, checking for his glasses, but doesn’t feel them. He tries to lean himself up on his arms, but something is weighing one of them down…

He doesn’t need his glasses to figure out that the blurry figure laying on his arm is Eddie. He can make out the features of Eddie’s nose and eyebrows, and lips… Really close to his own face. His breathing intensifies as he realizes how closely they’re facing each other. Eddie is only a few inches away, weight holding down Richie’s right arm.

He would have loved to stay like this longer… but he can hear the floorboards creaking outside the bedroom.

“Fuck.” Richie mouths to himself.

As gently as possible, he pulls his arm from under the still-sleeping angel next to him. He scoots to the far end, away from Eddie, and worms off the bed, avoiding touching him. He places the comforter back on Eddie and scrambles to clean up the rest of the evidence. He scoops his make-shift bed from the floor and tosses it in front of Eddie’s closet. He clumsily pulls on his sneakers and grabs his glasses from the desk.

He turns towards Eddie, still dead asleep. Must have slept okay?

Man, for that matter, Richie didn’t have any nightmares either. The Great Richie Tozier slept like a sleep-full baby.

“Sorry, Eds, I gotta scram.” Richie whispers affectionately as if to a one night stand, and moves towards the window. Out the window, across the roof to the gate, down onto the fence, then he’ll escape out the back yard. Carefully, he lifts the window and climbs out, focusing on not catching his leg again. He pauses to take one more look inside, towards the bed.

“Eddie!” Mrs. K repeats, from behind the door. “Are you awake this early?”

“Shit!” And he rushes away from the window, out of sight. He’s moving quietly, and he hears the window shut behind him.

[im-a-goner-foryou]

Starker Valentine's Day 2019 for the prompt 'first I love you's ', this is also my first songfic so please go easy on me

Love

/lʌv/

Wise men say only fools rush in

Tony Stark doesn't do love. He's a mechanic, through and through-- he sees things as they are, for their practical uses, views the world through a rational lens, and love is something entirely illogical.

Love, as Tony had been taught all those years ago, is something that if he can't help but feel, at least shouldn't be expressed. To wear your emotions on your sleeve is to admit weakness, as Howard had said-- or rather slurred while waving off Tony's attempt at a goodnight hug in favour of pouring himself another glass of bourbon, and after much more similar occurrences the he eventually took his father's words to heart.

It takes a while for Tony to realise otherwise, to go from instinctively recoiling from the look of concern in Rhodey's eyes as he chides "go to sleep Tones, it's late" or a gentle caress of his head from Pepper, to slowly but surely welcoming those silent acts of love; and it takes longer before he begins to reciprocate. Even then he's hesitant, cautious as he takes his first steps and reverting back to his signature snark at the first sign of apathy, the possibility of being hurt.

Tony loves carefully.

But I can't help falling in love with you

Then he meets Peter Parker-- who loves so openly, so easily. And their differences should frighten Tony, yet inexplicably he finds himself drawn to this boy who's much too young to realise that while falling in love may be easy, love itself certainly isn't. It's... a nice change, being around someone so artlessly candid-- maybe, just maybe-- Tony hopes silently to himself, he won't have to hide behind his usual four walled defences this time against such genuine feelings.

Shall I stay?

The first time Peter raises his voice at him is to cry "if you even cared, you'd actually be here," and just like that Tony's taken back to all those years ago, in his MIT graduation gown and around the same age Peter is now; hand clutched tightly around his phone with Howard on the other end while he stood lonesome among celebrating families. That memory stings like a slap would, leaves Tony feeling almost raw-- and when he steps out of his armour there on the rooftop, he feels more vulnerable than he ever has been.

"I just wanted to be like you," the boy whispers quiet enough for his words to be almost blown away with the wind, and it's like a sucker punch to Tony's stomach.

"I wanted you to be better," Tony simply replies Peter-- and himself.

Would it be a sin

Tony feels the beginnings of a wave of butterflies erupting in his stomach as he watches the boy leave the Avengers compound, and he feels sick. Peter's hazel hair glints gold under the sunlight streaming through the panelled windows and curls sweetly around his ears; and Tony has to resist the sudden and overwhelming urge that overtakes him then to run his fingers through those silky locks.

If I can't help falling in love with you?

Peter is sixteen. Tony starts drinking himself to sleep once more, yet the bottles of liquor lying shattered around him and burning bitter at the back of his throat aren't enough to block out the yearning deep in him for the boy, to hold him close and keep him far away at the same time. Tony thinks of bright eyes that crinkle at the edges with laughter and beautiful chocolate-brown pupils, and then one day he just can't deny the feelings he harbours for his young protégé any longer.

Like a river flows surely to the sea

Darling so it goes

Peter always has been incredibly perceptive; it's likely he found out how Tony felt even before Tony himself. On his seventeenth birthday the man goes all out and is in one of the rare moments in his life grateful for the title 'billionare'-- he flies the both of them out to one of his favourite restaurants in Venice for a comfortable candlelit dinner by the canal; and when Peter dissolves into another one of that giggly laughter at something Tony said, the older man finds himself absolutely enthralled, unable to look away.

He's still staring at those pouty, rosy pink lips and wondering how they would feel against his, when he finds out only seconds later-- Peter makes the first move, leaning forward across their table to press their mouths together so painfully shy and sweet, and Tony--

Some things are meant to be

He kisses back, and feels the last of his fortifications crumble away at the happy little sigh Peter exhales into their joined mouths.

Take my hand, take my whole life too

For I can't help falling in love with you

Tony Stark soon learns about himself that he's really a hopeless fool for love, when it comes to a certain bright boy who easily keeps up with him in the workshop and challenges Tony with his brilliance every day, who reminds him to go to sleep early but also brings him hot chocolate during those particularly dark starless nights and kisses away his tears until they finally fall asleep tangled up together, who's also a dork when it comes to Star Wars and the Avengers, who has a heart filled to the brim and yet still manages to find the capacity, is unafraid to love some more.

It probably was never meant to last, the hurting eight-year-old in Tony reminds him.

Like a river flows surely to the sea

Darling so it goes

Some things are meant to be

"There was no other way," Stephen's parting words hang heavy in the still air; dimly Tony wishes the words were the ones disintegrating instead, his knees buckling underneath his weight even before he hears the soft whimper from behind him. No, no, no.

Not you, too.

Peter wastes his last few moments clutching at him desperately, and Tony just wants to cry because there's nothing he can do, and he's never felt so utterly helpless as he does in this moment. "I don't-- I don't know what's happening," the boy rasps, the usual bright undertones of his voice now longer present and only to be replaced with something raw and hurting; it's now does it finally occur to Tony that maybe he's not the only one who puts on a mask.

"I don't wanna go, I don't wanna go..." Peter begs almost childishly, his extreme youth so incredibly obvious now. Tony grips him by the waist, holds him close and cradles him through it, which is the least he can do-- the only thing he can do. The eerie golden light setting across this strange planet casts shadows on those beautiful eyes, swimming with tears as they look at Tony in a way only the boy could.

"I'm sorry," are the last words Peter whispers--why, why?-- before slipping away from Tony's arms and leaving behind a mere empty shell of a broken man.

Tony realises he's never said those three little words to Peter, even though their months together; he never gasped the significance of "I love you" until he thinks he'll never be able to say it.

Take my hand, take my whole life too

"I'm sorry," are the words that replay like a broken recorder in his dying mind, plauging him the most when Tony sits alone on that barren planet and ignores the warning signals from the spaceship that oxygen levels are running low. I'm sorry, too.

But with those oxygen-deprived hallucinations come memories too; of them both dancing in the corner of one of Tony's fancy fundraisers, the boy's arms clinging around his shoulders and head resting on his chest as they sway to the soft music in the background, of Peter falling asleep at the desk after working hard on a particularly difficult assignment and Tony draping a blanket over him, of late drives down the highway in a convertible so Peter's yells of joy fade away into the night, of waking up in the morning to the smell of coffee and the sight of Peter in a flowery pink apron bustling around the kitchen, and Tony walking up to him to whirl him around by a hand on his hip to kiss him soft and sweet.

Through his entire life, there's only one person that Tony's certain he's ever loved the most he could. And now Tony tries his best to bring him back.

It's a long arduous process for sure, but Tony after all, is a mechanic through and through. He fixes the spaceship to send him and Nebula to earth, and he defends it just like he always has-- he fights, mind clinging to thoughts of Peter; just in case he doesn't make it, he wants that endlessly loving gaze to be the last thing he sees.

They win in the end, and bring all the fallen back. Even as Tony stumbles weakly onto his feet he ignores the burning sharp pain at his side, heart racing, eyes already blurring with tears-- though despite them he still manages to catch sight of those chestnut brown wide eyes among the others, and he doesn't hesitate. Tony sprints towards and holds a weeping Peter close to his chest, clutching at him with the intention of never letting go; his heart aches with a feeling that he welcomes readily, croaks into the boy's ear.

"I love you." He fiercely kisses Peter; the boy sobs harder in his arms. "I love you," Tony finally expresses plainly, against the palm pressed reverently against his lips.

For I can't help falling in love with you

And Peter says it back, the way every single part of Tony knew he would. "I love you too."

Love, Tony Stark knows, is illogical. It hurts, and yet people still chase it so eagerly.

But love is worth it.

For I can't help falling in love with you

[aph-oklahoma-46]

Into the Woods AU Drabble

//Note now that the plot and details will not be exactly the same, and neither will the relationships between characters. Also, the relationships in the AU may not accurately reflect canonverse relationships

Once Upon a Time, there was a baker and his husband who lived next to a witch. The baker and his husband wanted a child, but things were going poorly for them in that regard. One day, the witch from next door came over to make a shocking announcement.

“So, Baker, I’ve heard you’ve been having trouble in the child-department. Well, I can tell you why! Years ago, I-,”

“Excuse me, Archer, was it?” Angel, the baker, raised his hand. “Are you gonna sing? ‘Cause it sounds like you’re about to start a whole musical number and we really don’t have time for this right now.” He gestured over to the oven and the table next to it, where bread was being made.

The witch blinked. “My name is Arthur, not Archer, and fine, I’ll make this quick, I guess. Your dad was an ass who stole veggies from my garden, so I cursed his line, aka you, to be forever barren. Which apparently was a waste of good magic, since you didn’t marry someone with a womb.”

Justin, the baker’s husband, spoke up. “Well, we’ve been trying to adopt since we can’t, y’know, conceive, but we haven’t had much luck there, either, so you can take credit for that, if you want.” Angel nodded.

Arthur considered this for a moment, then said, “How generous of you. I will take credit for that. Now, back to the matter at hand! You can break the curse if you get me some ingredients for a magic potion. Oh, I almost forgot! You also have a little sister that I got as reparations, too.”

Angel and his husband, Justin, stared for a minute. “What the fuck? All this for some vegetables?” exclaimed Angel.

“They were very good vegetables; I’ve won multiple fairs and contests with my green thumb. Also, some of the beans your father took were magical, and that got me in trouble with my superiors, so yes. All this for some magical vegetables.”

Angel started to speak, then stopped. He turned to Justin, who’d grabbed a coat off the wall and was currently digging through the pockets. Justin then held out a handful of beans.

“Here, take your beans. Not like we need ‘em.”

Arthur sighed. “Now, that wouldn’t make for a very interesting story, would it? You keep the beans. You didn’t steal them, you can’t return them. What you can do is find me these items-,” here the witch threw forth his arm and conjured an image in the air. “A cow as white as milk, a cloak as green as grass, hair as brown as mud, and shoes as pure as glass!”

“Hey, that rhymed!”

“I don’t think you grasping the full weight of this situation.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well… hey, isn’t the cloak supposed to be red?”

Justin nodded. “Yeah, and the hair’s supposed to be blond.”

Getting impatient, Arthur replied, “Yes, well copyright and all that. Look, just get me the items and I’ll lift your curse, yeah?” Angel and Justin nodded. “Ok, then, glad that’s over. I’ll either be in my garden or following your progress and commenting on your failure if you need me.” And with that, he swept out of the bakery.

When the door shut behind the witch, Justin turned to Angel. “You’re sterile, and you didn’t know?”

“Well, it’s not like I had many opportunities for it to be a problem. Anyway, let’s go check off this insane grocery li- AHH!” Angel jumped back away from the door as Arthur popped his head back in.

“Oh, and you only have until midnight three days from now. Good luck, boys!”

“Well,” Justin said, “that makes this a little harder. Into the woods, I suppose.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once Upon a Time, there was also a young boy named Miles who lived with his mother and loved his friend, Milky White the cow, who was, in fact, milky white. But this cow was old and no longer gave milk, so Miles’ mother told him to take the cow to market and sell her. This made the poor boy very upset, but his mother insisted.

“Miles, you’ve got more cheese in your head than brains! We don’t have enough money for food, and this cow only uses more of what precious little we do have. Now, go on. Take to the marketplace and sell her.”

But- but,” Miles stuttered, bolting up from where he sat by his bovine friend, “she’s my friend! My only one, really.” They didn’t get many visitors.

His mother looked at him sternly. “Miles, a cow is no friend for a young boy. When you’re older, you’ll make plenty of friends and have a proper pet. Now, you know your way to the market, yes? Through the woods?” Miles nodded sullenly. “Good. And when you get there, accept no less than five pounds for her. No less!”

“Yes, Mother.” Miles took the rope hanging off Milky White’s neck and began his trek into the woods.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once Upon a Time, there was a little girl who lived with her mother in the same village as the baker and young boy. Her name was Emily, and one could always spot her in a crowd because of the grass green hood she wore. The cloak had been a gift from her grandmother, whom she was going to visit today. Emily’s grandmother had been sick recently and her mother was sending her to bring the woman some food from the bakery.

Emily dropped her hood once she entered the bakery, just moments after the witch had left. When she entered, she made a beeline for the baker.

Angel saw her enter the building and groaned. “This day just keeps getting better and better.”

Justin rolled his eyes and waved at Emily before going back to the counter to continue with the bread. Emily ran up to Angel and held out her basket.

“Hi Justin! And I guess it’s nice to see you too, Angel. Hey, I need a loaf of bread and some of those little things over there!” She pointed to a basket with pastries in it. “I’m going to my grandma’s house ‘cause she doesn’t feel too good, so I’m bringing her some bread and sweets.”

Angel rubbed his forehead and nodded. “Hello, Grass Stain. Alright then, there’s finished bread over there, and you can buy some of the sweets if you aren’t annoying while you’re here.”

“Aw, Angel, she’s never annoying. Are you, Emily?” Justin smiled, and Emily smiled back, shook her head vigorously.

“No, sir! I’m always as sweet as can be.” Angel rolled his eyes and Justin laughed. Emily moved to the other end of the counter and put the bread in her basket, then went to work packing sweets in with it as she chattered to the two men. Eventually, (when she had snatched nearly half the basket) Angel swiped the sweet basket away from her.

“You can pay for all this, right?”

Emily looked up at him for a moment before saying, “Yeeeesssss?” She dug around in her pocket, withdrawing the coins her mother had given her to buy food with. “Uh… I got this.” She held her hand out to Angel, who sighed and took the coins. She smiled and thanked them before pulling up her hood and running out of the bakery.

Angel ran a hand through his hair and paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. He turned to Justin and asked, “Ok, so we need a muddy cow, white hair, um-,”

“A cow as white as milk, Angel. A cow as white as milk, a cloak as green as grass, hair as brown as mud, and shoes as pure as glass. You can remember all these recipes, but you can’t remember that?”

“I’ve been using these recipes since I was a kid. Anyway, where are we gonna find this stuff. White cows, green cloaks, muddy h- Green cloaks!”

Angel and Justin looked up at each other, dumbstruck, before running outside after Emily.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once Upon a Time (it’s getting old, I know), there was a young man who lived with his father, step-mother, and step-siblings. His family didn’t treat him very well, especially his step-family. His step-mother and siblings often gave him many unreasonable chores and made him sleep by the fire place, which in any other fairy tale would probably lead to a cruel pun for a nickname, but we’re still gonna call him Alex. Don’t @me.

Anyway, Alex had heard that the royal family would be holding a ball and he desperately wanted to go, but his step-mother forbade it. After much begging and negotiating, she consented. Alex could go to the dance if he picked all the lentils out of the fire place in two hours, in addition to all of his other chores.

Alex went right to works, and by the time the deadline came around, he was finished. His step-mother considered him, impressed.

“You can’t go.”

He was taken aback. “But I- I did all you asked. Everything. You gave me your word.”

“Yes, well, this is a royal ball, and well… look at you. You’re dirty, covered in soot and grime, and you have absolutely nothing to wear to the dance. There’s not enough time to find you something and none of your father’s things will fit, so you can’t go.” With that, she gestured to her children and they swept out of the room, leaving Alex standing in the center, crestfallen.

After his family’s carriage pulled away, Alex went to a small tree he’d grown in the backyard by his mother’s grave. Some would say that the tree was grown from his tears and the love and despair he felt for his dead mother, but here in the real world, we grow trees with water and fertilizer, and that’s what Alex used.

He knelt by the grave and sat quietly. He knew there was no one to hear or bother him here, so it was one of his favorite places to go when he was upset. Of course, it reminded him of his mother and how his life used to be, but he could also sit in silence and think of her without being disturbed. Now, he sat and spoke to the tree, as he often did when he needed to think. He told the tree about the dance, and his family and how he wanted to go but was denied for having nothing to wear. As he spoke, he heard rustling from the top of the tree.

Alex looked up at the boughs of the tree and was promptly nailed in the face with fabric. He batted at the material, eventually getting it off of his face and into his hands, holding it out before him. It was a lovely white suit and glass dress shoes, which is a really weird shoe type to be made out of glass but ok.

Extremely weirded out by this seeming gift from the heavens or the nature gods or the keeper of the trees, and also very happy to have been given such a gift, Alex stood and rushed back to the house to change and go to the dance, shouting his thanks as he went.

Soon, Alex was ready, and he headed off into the woods, taking a shorter route than the main walkway.

[mianite-season-3]

Unofficial Mianite Season 3 - Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - Home Sweet Home

For a long time after the two ventured past those signs into the dark area beyond, and even after they surfaced back into the quilted, ruined remains of the house, the only sound Tom was acutely aware of was the fall of Jordan’s footsteps.

The man had a very unique way of walking, and that was how drastically his steps changed depending on his mood. When he was excited, the footfall was light and nearly impossible to hear. Terrified, and he literally dragged his heels.

And nervous, as he was now, Jordan walked hard on the heels of his feet. The steps shook the ground around him as his friend paced back and forth. His head was in his hand, pulling at his straggly hair and he continuously mumbled to himself.

“It’s a coincidence. It’s not possible. This isn’t my house. It’s not. There’s no way.” Tom watched as Jordan stopped pulled at his hair for a moment and turned his wild eyes to him. “Right?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Jordan’s hands fell limp at his sides and he flopped down to sit on a block in the middle of the floor. He took in a breath, shaky and unsteady and unnerving for Tom to hear.

“I want to go home.”

“And where is that?” Tom asked, laughing. “We’ve had a lot of those.”

Jordan remained silent, eyes fixed on his shadow on the floor in front of him. The sunlight, fading slightly, cast his face into darkness.

“Jordan? I was joking. Jardon?” Tom got up and plopped back down next to Jordan, whining the nickname playfully. Jordan looked over at him with a withered glare but otherwise stayed silent.

Tom grabbed his friend’s ankle and shook it forcefully. “Snap out of it, Sparkly-dick! So this world is a little crazier than the other ones we’ve been to.” Jordan turned his head and raised an eyebrow at that. Tom rolled his eyes. “Ok, a lot fucking crazier. But whatever! There’s no rules here! No crazy king who’s gonna throw us out of town for not believing in Mianite. And dude, have you seen how many diamonds there are?” Tom’s eyes glittered greedily.

Jordan stared at him, amazed. “Is that all you think about?” he asked softly. Tom blinked.

“I mean, diamonds are pretty cool, but that’s not all I care about. I like iron and gold too.”

He laughed breathily at Tom’s shit eating grin. “You don’t worry about anything.” Jordan said enviously.

The zombie shrugged. “There’s no reason to. So this house looks like your old place in Mianite. But it’s not.”

“How do you know?”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Well, don’t you remember what we did to your house before we went to the End to save Ianite?”

Jordan took a moment to think, then a smile ghosted onto his lips. “You, Tucker and Sonja blew it up with those stupid cow wands.”

“And there was like, three blocks left. And then you fuckers destroyed mine in revenge.” Tom grinned. “See? This isn’t your house. Never was. Maybe it was this dimension’s version of you who built it, and we’ll meet him and you two will battle it out to be the alpha Sparklez.”

“That sounds like something you would do... Actually, it’s exactly something you’ve done.”

“And I won!”

Jordan rolled his eyes and shoved him away, planting his foot in the center of Tom's chest and pushing him to the ground. Tom barked with laughter and rolled back upright, punching his friend’s shoulder playfully.

“Come on, let’s get out of this stuffy place and explore more of the world!” Tom stood up and bounced on his heels as Jordan laboriously got up as well. Frustrated with how slow his friend’s movements were, Tom pushed him from behind and Jordan stumbled forward towards the door.

The sun was hanging just above the horizon line, just beginning to set the sky on fire in brilliant oranges and reds. The light washed over the mismatched land and made it look more harmonious than normal, as every block glowed warmly. Jordan and Tom edged up to the steep end of the cliff to take in more of the breathtaking view.

“It’s kinda... pretty.” Tom mumbled, breaking the silence with a stray thought. Absently, Jordan nodded. “Fucking weird, but pretty.”

“You had to ruin it.” Jordan took in a deep breath, letting the air escape slowly through his nose. He picked at the flecks of dried blood on his face subconsciously, hissing when his fingernail caught a particularly tender part of the wound. “Ah, shit!”

Tom’s head snapped sideways, relaxing slightly when he realized what had happened. “You good?”

Jordan held his palm to his face, pressing on the skin to dull the pain. “Yeah, I’m fine. Alright, let’s go. Let’s climb this mountain, we can bunker down somewhere inside once the sun sets completely.”

The zombie raised an eyebrow. “But, we have a perfectly good house shape behind us! If we’re planning on setting up camp already, why don’t we just stay in there instead of climbing another mountain?”

Jordan’s eyes went steely and he tensed his jaw. “I am not staying in that place. You can, if you’re really going to complain.” He turned on his heel and headed towards the mushroom-topped mountain.

“J-Jardon! I was kidding! Hold up!” Tom stuttered, running after his friend as he started climbing the natural stairs the mountainside formed.

A little ways up, the stairs started curving into the mountain, and back out the other side. A third of the way up the climb, Jordan leaned against the quilted wall and allowed Tom to catch up, huffing and puffing and not happy with being abandoned. He whined to Jordan about the “betrayal” for the middle third, and finally he closed his mouth and used his remaining oxygen for the last part of the climb.

They made a makeshift camp just below where the branches stuck out from the trunk, building walls against the outside until there was only a two by one doorway leading to the outside. They were silent in their work; Tom because he was still out of breath from the climb, and Jordan because he had too many half-finished thoughts in his head, none of which he could form into words.

He wasn’t normally a strong believer in fate or destiny, but it seemed like there was no way they would have found the patchwork versions of his old house and Jerry’s tree without some other force guiding him. So, following that logic, something wanted him to find them. Something wanted him to be reminded of home, with poor recreations that made him more sad than anything else.

What he had told Tom was true, though he would have preferred to keep it to himself. Jordan wanted to go home. He wasn’t exactly sure where that was, though. He’d had so many homes; what was it that he was longing for? The house on the hill back in Mianite? His spector dimension in Ruxomar? Or perhaps the Fortress of Fury? Or was it something less tangible than a place?

He leaned against the doorway, staring out at the land they’d arrived in. No matter where home actually was for him, he was sure that this wouldn’t be it. It felt too foreign, like someone had tried to recreate a world but forgot how the blocks were supposed to be placed. And beyond that, it was too quiet. He hadn’t seen a single person after escaping from Star, and he had been running around for hours. Nothing like the bustling towns of Dagrun or Urulu, but also not like the tranquility that the land of Mianite had possessed, at least when he’d first arrived.

It was silent; barren, and dead, void of anything Jordan knew. There wasn’t any life, barring the hostile monsters that permeates every dark corner and the animals Star had kept in her miniature paradise. After he’d fallen into the ground, the silence got even louder. It seeped into him, making his skin crawl. He wasn’t normally averse to silence, but the void inside his head pushed away even his own thoughts, leaving nothing but emptiness and a faint uncomfortable tingle.

Mulling over it, Jordan felt an uncharacteristic thrill of excitement at the idea of exploring this new world Sure, it wasn’t home - it never would be - but this would be a fun adventure.

“Jordan!” He spun around at Tom’s shout, blankly looking at him. Tom rolled his eyes. “Glad to see you’re back from dreamland. I called your name five million times!”

“You’re exaggerating.” Jordan told him as he sat down near Tom, facing away from the door.

“Whatever. What were you thinking about?”

“Ah, nothing.” Jordan didn’t meet his friend’s eyes, fixating instead on the hem of his shirt that he decided needed straightening.

Tom didn’t find his answer too convincing. He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t try to hide things from me, boy. You’re a terrible liar.”

The other man looked up. “What was that?”

“Don’t change the subject!”

Jordan raised his arm and pointed at Tom. “No, there is was again! Tom, what’s up with your voice?”

He unconsciously put a hand to his throat. “What do you mean?” He was sure this was a ploy by Jordan to get him to forget about Jordan’s daydreaming, but he sounded so genuinely concerned that he decided to humor his friend.

“It’s... I don’t know. It’ like your voice was coming from behind a wall, or playing from a recording. It was you, but it’s not.”

He rolled his eyes. “Nice try, Jordan. That doesn’t even make sense.”

Jordan stared at him, biting his lip. “And now it’s back to normal... Tom, you’re sure you don’t feel sick or something?”

Tom stood up and brushed off his pants, placing another torch next to the entrance they had made before he filled it with spruce planks. “I’m not, but you are. Go to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

The zombie rolled his eyes and placed down a bed he’d made from the extra planks and some wool he’d picked up while digging Jordan and himself out of their hole. And when Jordan didn’t make a move towards it, Tom walked up behind his friend, took a firm hold of his collar and lifted him like a sack of potatoes, throwing him ungraciously sideways onto the bed.

“What the-- how the hell?!” Jordan spluttered, sucking in a breath when he saw the furious look on Tom’s face.

“Shut up. Close your eyes and pretend to sleep, and keep that mouth closed.” His voice was harsh, scratchy, and when Jordan propped himself up on his elbow, he could have sworn Tom’s eyes were glowing cherry red like hot coals.

Then he refocused, and they went back to their normal void black color.

“Maybe I do need some sleep...” he admitted softly, slipping under the blanket and resting his head on the pillow. He slid his eyes closed, not expecting to be able to sleep no matter what he tried, but within moments he felt his consciousness slip away and his breathing deepened.

Tom let out the breath he realized he was holding. Apparently, getting angry at the stubborn man was the only way to win a fight.

He plopped himself down in front of what would be the door and set to taking inventory, and repairing what he could. His diamond pickaxe served him well, but already he could see the wear and tear on the connection between the head and handle. He needed a real weapon, but judging from the quilted land, there wasn’t anything like the powerful metals and alloys they had had access to in Ruxomar.

Although, it wouldn’t exactly be hard to get good gear, especially with the diamonds he’d stolen from Star. They weren’t actually stolen, he knew, but it made him feel better to think he’d taken them away from her against her will. Tom glanced at the crafting table he’d stupidly placed across the room and decided he was too comfortable to get up and make gear from it tonight.

He decided that by the end of the next day, both he and Jordan would have full diamond gear. He smirked. They’d be decked out and Tucker’ll be running around with a wooden pickaxe again.

Face falling into a neutral expression, he tugged off the leather chestplate he’d looted from the replica of Jordan’s old house. It wasn’t in the best shape either - none of the gear he’d gotten from those chests was new. Lots of small scratches, and one big gash that had cut deep almost all the way through from the left shoulder to right hip.

The stuff he’d found were most likely spares for emergencies, he surmised. Just like when Jordan would put away gear in his basement for easy access during purges.

Tom grinned to himself. Purges in this world would be exciting. So many resources just laying around, and with the amount of mobs that spawn during the night, he’d be able to have level 30 enchants on every piece of armor and weapon he wanted.

Laying aside the chestplate, he picked up the worn iron sword and started doing what he could to repair some of the damage. He heard a zombie groan loudly right behind him, and he jumped. Then he stole a glance at the bed to make sure Jordan didn’t see him get scared by something so small. Well, he wasn’t scared, of course, just startled.

He straightened out his shoulders and went back to his task, ignoring that nagging embarrassment at the back of his mind. The zombie kept moaning and groaning but he soon tuned it out.

Tom’s head began dipping and jerking back up as he fought off sleep. He really should stay awake, this was a new unfamiliar world that didn’t have very friendly inhabitants, but he was just so tired...

When he finally did topple over, the pickaxe he’d been repairing slipped out of his hand and his head landed on the battered chestplate. He curled up in his sleep and dreamed of happy days and a world where they lived free of problems.

[where-ls-my-mlnd]

It's kind of funny, in a way.

When I was younger, I used to love this time of day.

I really did. I don't know what happened, but I swear I did. I used to love it. It was one of the things I loved the most, actually. Hell, I think it might have hit third on the list. Now, I didn't realize I had created this list at the time but it had a very specific order nonetheless; drugs, myself, and nighttime. Those were the three things I used to love more than anything else. I still love the first one a little bit, but I only screw around with downers now, so it's okay, it's less immoral, according to nobody but myself. I loathe the second one, and I don't know how I ever loved it, but I did. But the third one...god. Combine the third with the first and you'll instantly achieve a rush unlike anything else, you'd instantly feel the way I felt, once upon a time. I'm not shitting you. Back in the day, I almost loved the nighttime more than anything else in the world. Almost. Not quite, but it was very fucking close.

Mainly because it excited me, it exhilarated me, it had me pacing around and fidgeting with anything I could find and damn near pulling myself apart at the seams just waiting for the sky to darken and for the people around me to drift off to sleep. I don't know, I...can't explain it. It set off this alarm in my mind, this, like - this audible little pinging noise, the reminder that hey, you're free now. You can do stupid shit now. The consequences have been lifted, the responsibility has been eased off your shoulders. The world is yours. Go explore it.

And god, it really did feel like the world was mine. The world at dusk used to be a world I felt lucky to be a part of, because it always had endless possibilities, it was so damn thrilling in that way. It felt like danger to me, like I was doing something I shouldn't have been. It felt like real freedom. It felt like some secret form of seclusion nobody else but me knew about, it felt like nothing else but the wind in my hair and the adrenaline racing through my veins. The nighttime used to crackle with electricity and roar with noise and sizzle with that stupid, senseless mischief that could only radiate from a strung out rebellious teen like myself. The nighttime used to be glimmering city lights, a full moon in the sky, and a pocketful of promise.

Or, if you're me, it used to be looking up at a starry night sky through a car window and feeling like nothing could get better than that, or hanging around at stupid parties with obnoxious neon lights strung up on the walls that harshly contrasted the blackness outside, or stumbling out onto hotel balconies after a day full of nothing but getting high and nearly plummeting to my death 'cause the last time I checked it was six in the morning and now suddenly the sky was dark and time had slipped right out of my grasp like everything else seemed to those days and I felt like I was gonna go out of my fucking mind.

I'm pretty sure I already had, by that point.

It's kind of funny to think about where the hell my enthusiasm for nighttime went, but it's even funnier to think about why it existed at all. It's so vapid, it was all so vapid, looking back on it now. I felt like hot shit simply for being awake at a time when nobody else was. I felt like hot shit simply for being smart enough to cloak myself in the darkness when I wanted to be invisible, the way literally anybody else would know to do. I felt like hot shit simply for existing, I felt like hot shit simply for the drugs that were burning their way along my veins and the needle in my hand that I knew nobody could take away from me.

But now...

Now it's just...nothing. It means nothing. It is nothing. There's nothing in it. Looking up at this black sky incites nothing but dread in me, and maybe impending doom, but that could just be my paranoia talking. It doesn't feel so special anymore. It's just...a sky. I hate looking at it, I hate looking up at this gloomy, achromatic sky. It feels empty. I feel empty. I feel weak, and defeated, and like I would rather be anywhere else but here, stuck inside my body, imprisoned in my mind, that isn't even spinning with sick terrible thoughts the way it always seems to when I get like this, it's just...static, it's just barren and hollow and like...like a wasteland. It feels like a fucking wasteland, and the world looks like a wasteland, too, through this dark and blurry lens.

This park looks like a wasteland. And I feel so bad for it, 'cause I'm sure it looks just fine during the day, hell, I know it does, I've been here before, for fuck's sake. I used to come here all the time, when I had first moved into my apartment, and I needed somewhere to go that was different, and easy, when I was feeling upset, when I was feeling stressed out, or when I was feeling lonely, when I just needed to be somewhere other than my apartment. I used to see it when the sun would set, and the whole area would become saturated with orange and pink light and the sun would shine through the branches in the trees that were always so full and green and the air would smell cool and fresh and the grass would be bright and soft beneath my sneakers and the flowers would be in full bloom and my hair would blow in the wind and I would be good. It was good. It was my escape. My favorite escape. Well, my favorite physical escape, anyway. It always seemed to calm me down when I was there, and if it didn't, well, at least I was surrounded by pretty things in the meantime. It almost never failed.

But...jesus christ, I don't even fucking recognize it now.

It feels like I'm stuck in some post apocalyptic world. It looks like some post apocalyptic world. I know it could never actually happen, because this is California, where Summer lasts all year round, but the trees may as well be completely bare, the branches may as well be stick thin and dark and sticking out like a sore thumb, sticking out like the sore reminder that this place feels so desolate now because I feel so desolate now. My favorite place isn't so resilient, you know? It changed with me, like seasons. Reflecting my energy the way the moonlight reflects in the puddles on the ground. Poor little park. I never meant to suck the life out of it.

And the sky, once glowing, may as well be completely black, no stars glimmering up above, no rain clouds from last night's downpour. Just empty, dark and lifeless. The moon may as well fall down from the sky, the stars may as well explode, and the clouds may as well just release their contents and rain down upon me and make this really seem like a bad lifetime movie, because wouldn't that just be fitting? Wouldn't it just be oh so fucking poetic if it rained again? I mean, at least it would hydrate the flowers, which may as well have just withered, and collapsed limply into the ground anyway, the ground that's theoretically cracked and hard beneath your feet because the grass shouldn't even be there either, it's too soft, it's too comfortable.

God, it's all wrong. 

It looks like the saddest place in the world. I don't even wanna be here anymore but I have nowhere else to go and J would fucking have my ass if I just up and left after selfishly dragging him here.

And for what?

I mean, he did say he was gonna come but he's still gonna hate me. And why shouldn't he? I mean, what the fuck am I doing? Why did I think that was okay to do? It wasn't - that wasn't okay to do in the slightest, and I don't know what was going through my thought process twenty minutes ago, but I'm just gonna go ahead and blame it on that, I'm just gonna go ahead and blame it on whatever kind of lapse or error in judgment or fucking stroke I had because it's easier to do that than it is to consider the possibility that maybe I'm just stupid. No, I am stupid. For more reasons than one, but right now I'm particularly stupid for pulling that little stunt of mine. I'd say it's worse than the knife thing, but physical damage usually has emotional damage beat, and though I'm sure I'm gonna upset J, I don't reckon he'll be walking away with any trauma this time.

How generous of me.

And how stupid of me. How stupid of me to do this. How stupid of me to text the guy I sell drugs to about my rejection from a girl who I wasn't really with but wasn't really not with either, as if he actually has any reason to give a shit, and then beg him to come all the way out here to this absolutely insidious looking park, to do...what? To do what? What the fuck do I want him to do? What could he do? He doesn't even - I mean, what does he know about this? He only knows what I told him this morning, which was...well, like, everything, but who's to say he was listening? He probably wasn't. Poor fucker just wanted to eat his sandwich, and there I was, rambling on and on about what's up James Dean and wow you look good even though the sun's barely fucking risen above the hills and hey isn't lemon water just so fucking tasty and so there's this girl! Can you believe that I, a 24 year old man, have had relations with a woman before? Holy shit dude! Yeah I know it's pretty crazy but try not to spit out your coffee! Haha! Oh man I just can't describe this girl who I stupidly fucking fell for despite knowing all of her worst flaws, not to mention my now abandoned abstinence! I guess the dry spell was just too fucking insufferable, since I'm out hooking up with people who aren't good for me in the slightest again! Woohoo! Oh and she was crying! Can you believe she was crying?! Yeah and I told her she was a good person or whatever! I really put my all into that one, man. Blah blah blah, Prince Charming, Special Agent Mulder, we had sex, are you shocked, I want you to be shocked since I'm still a twelve year old who thinks sex is a scandalous thing, blah blah, I'm happy, blah blah, tell me about your Saturday.

I'm surprised he didn't deck me.

I'd be even more surprised if he actually heard a word I said. Seriously, I was talking so fast...maybe because I knew it would be over soon, and I just wanted to get it all out while I still had the time. But J doesn't know that. Poor kid, doesn't know much at all. Or at least, I'm betting he doesn't. I almost hope he doesn't..all that information doesn't really mean a thing now, so why should he have to retain it?

But, you know what, let's say he does. Let's say he actually cared and listened to every word I said and memorized every part of the story, let's say the knowledge is still sitting in his mind as fresh as it was this morning. Okay...now what? What's he gonna do about it? What could he possibly want to do about it? I'm sure he'll be laughing in my face once he knows the rest of the story. Hell, he's probably trailing over here to do just that. He's probably resented me this entire time and has just been waiting for me to slip and do something stupid, something horrible to make myself vulnerable, so that he can...do...god, I don't know, a maniacal laugh? A joyous dance? Some - some diabolical plot? Some sort of kidnapping scheme? Some Jeffrey Dahmer shit where he kills me and then keeps my decapitated head in a jar? I don't know! I don't know...I don't know why I think he's coming, maybe I'm thinking too little of him, too little of us; our routine we've had going all Spring. I like it, I do, that's why this terrifies me. I've gotten used to it. It's not normal, I don't think shit will ever be normal with us considering how everything began and what we do, and it's not ride or die or anything, but it does fall somewhere in the bizarro friends-ish realm.

But we're not friends. He doesn't want to be friends, I know he doesn't. He probably has thousands of them anyway, you know, cool ones, normal kids who are actually getting to live out their youth whether it's in a healthy way or not. He doesn't need me. He doesn't want anything to do with me beyond the drugs I keep stored in baggies and the money I lay out on counters so he doesn't have to pay for his own breakfast. He doesn't want to see any more of me than he already has. And that's fine. I'm fine with just sitting in the friends-ish realm. Really.

Besides...even if he was my friend, he wouldn't be for long. He wouldn't like it, observing me up close. He would see how I really am, he would see who I really am, and he would get off-put, and he would leave, 'cause he just doesn't want to put up with somebody as fucked up as I am or as emotional as I am or as weird as I am or as clingy as I am and he just...wouldn't like it. He wouldn't like me. Nobody ever does, once they really get to know me. Or at least that's what my paranoia says.

I've never been able to trust that voice, though. I've never been able to trust myself, either.

So where does that leave me?

Nowhere. It leaves me nowhere. It leaves me tired, tired of staring up at the same sky, tired of listening to the same self deprecating thoughts on repeat, so I look down, and I try to drown them out, staring at this patch of grass that looks like a weird shade of forest green in the dark, and it's kind of close, but it's also nowhere near the same shade of green as Lyd's eyes, and something about that burns going down, when I remember I'll probably never get to stare into them again.

But I'm not supposed to care about that since she was just a wreck and that's all, and the grass doesn't even look like that color anymore, it's obscured, the only thing in front of my eyes being a pair of scuffed up shoes, and when I lift my head up further, an orange flame glowing bright in the dark, emitting from the tip of a cigarette.

Well well well.

It's J.

Like smoke, he appears silently. I wouldn't have even noticed he was there if it weren't for his shoes crunching in the grass, and I still don't fully register his presence, not until he speaks.

"Hi..." J says, and he actually sounds like he feels bad for me. He actually looks like he feels bad for me, when I glance up to face him. It's kind of hard to see anything in the dark, but I can tell he doesn't look as pissed off as I thought he would. Hell, he doesn't look pissed off at all; for a moment there, it looks like he quirks a tiny little half-smile at me. He does quirk a half-smile at me. He smiles at me.

He smiles at me, and I've never been so relieved to see anybody in my entire life, and I know I always call the kid an angel, but god, I really mean it now. It fits him now more than ever; he may not have any wings but I can still see his halo shining bright in the dark. I'd be lost out here if it weren't for it. I swear.

He lingers for a moment there, before he sits himself down beside me, and the burden that had been lifted off my shoulders not more than a few seconds ago resurfaces twice as heavy as it was before, because there's a silence, and I know I should fill it, I know I should thank him for traipsing all the way over here, I know I should acknowledge what an unnecessarily good person he is, or even just say hi, but for some reason, all that comes out of my mouth is "You came."

I say it in a quiet voice, like I can't really believe it, and I don't. J, on the other hand, seems to believe it just fine, seems to have a much better grip on reality than I do. He always does.

“I told you I was an hour ago but okay. Here I am. In the flesh.” He replies, punctuating the last part of the sentence with a strange little awkward gesture, and god, it's weird, but I swear there's a small smile pulling at my lips, and there's a laugh sitting unreleased at the back of my throat, because he just looks so out of place doing it, because he makes it sound like it's something obvious - Of course I came. I told you I was an hour ago. And it never occurred to me like that and I look so stupid all of a sudden and I feel so stupid all of a sudden, and the smile that barely got to form has fallen right off my face and the air feels so heavy again and the guilt is eating away at my insides again, when his words play in my head. Well, I told you I was an hour ago.

Oh god, I'm sorry that you had to.

"I'm sorry." The words force their way out before I can try to stop it, and I mean it, I really do, I really am so sorry for all of this - but it still sounds stupid to say aloud, and besides, just 'cause you say sorry, doesn't mean you're worthy of forgiveness.

"I mean, I'm - maybe I shouldn’t say that again, I’m sorry - shit, I just - I feel bad. For dragging you here. I never meant to...put you out or anything, I mean, god, it’s a Sunday night, you probably just wanna relax, but I...I don’t know. I just didn’t...I just don't feel like being alone. And I already told you everything that happened and for some reason, I thought - you’re the only one that could possibly get it, and before you get on my ass, yes, I know I could have bothered someone else, but...I...felt like bothering you. Aren’t you flattered?” I finish my rant with a little laugh, but there’s no humor in it, and I take another drag, breathing out the smoke in a sigh.

“So, I, uh...well, I’m not gonna say sorry again, but you...you know I am. And I hope the train didn’t suck too terribly. Did it?”