#so many twists n turns and little details and SO MUCH symbolism

[akingdomscrypt]

perfect 🔥🔥😎

Yesyesyes. Some of those poor brits are gonna get some deep southern type boys , as they rightfully should 🙏🙏

[peeterparkr]

perennial;tom holland|eighteen.

chapter eighteen: yellow pansy ↳ flower meanings:  thinking of you.

chapter summary: you left a journal in his top drawer. pairing: tom holland x y/n warnings: haha you’re going to HATE ME word count: 11.5K

previous chapter next chapter   perennial masterlist.

perfidy  ( series masterlist)

it took me ages write this, my writersblock was awful BUT IT’S HERE ! We are missing one more chapter but here it is! I hope you don’t hate me as much as I think you will, I split the ending in two chapters because it was LONG, so expect the final chapter in these days

Please help me out reblogging tags havent been working for me and I know this will flop but I’m really happy I got back into writing

You kept a journal. With flowers printed on them. Each and every single one was given by him. You had recently remembered it, wondering where in your room it could be. Hidden behind some other lost forgotten memories or some other unforgettable mysteries. You wondered if the flowers had kept their color. Most of them hadn’t.

“Well, here goes to the happily ever after,” you said as you smiled, even when the notebook was still roaming your mind.

Tim offered a gentle smile, watching carefully, as the white dress fell down.

When it comes to love stories, happy endings are what we wish for. Life, unfortunately, isn’t like that. But often we are bombarded with stories that are just too good to be true, enough for us to believe this. With them down the sunset on a white horse. With prince charming being charming enough.

With Mister Darcy as the sun is rising telling Elizabeth “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.”

With Donna and Sam getting married, and a bunch of friends singing Abba songs.

With Noah and Ally peacefully drifting off, hand in hand.

With Baby and Johnny Castle dancing together.

Characters that are but a reflection of our deepest dreams. Ones that are kept secret and shut for the world. With stories that make us believe we are happy.

It’s fine to shield in. But it’s no good to dwell on them.

We often don’t get what we wish for when we shield in a dream.

You wondered, what about Valerie and William?

Or… Tom and Y/n?

Your own story was supposed to be kept a secret, yet it ended up being a script and then a movie that would be seen by thousands. Your story transformed into a story people could shield on. A story that had been merely sentiments, then words and a very bad misunderstanding and… then a film.

Seeing yourself on someone else might have been what helped you understand it. Transforming your story into characters and trying to portray a love story that was born out of hatred… had probably been the first mistake.

If we can say it was ever a mistake. How big of a mistake can it be when it brings you so much joy?

Your luck hadn’t been enough for your own faith. But you always wondered, what happens after the happily ever after? Is it truly the outcome? When two souls find each other? Isn’t it only the beginning?

Valerie and William hadn’t had it.

The story ended with Valerie and Robbie getting together, it fit. That’s how the story had been driven. Tom and you had discussed it over and over, the story was written for Valerie to end up with Robbie.

“This is a story, y/n, it’s not us.” He had assured you. “We need to disconnect from it.”

And it wasn’t. It wasn’t you. But how much had those characters stolen from you?

How disappointing, but you made the decision along with them.

It had been painful to relive some things, and the changes to the script had been made to soothe the pain.

But they had a happily ever after. Separate ways.

Who would’ve thought you’d be so right?

Films and stories often end when marriage comes, or when the couple finally gets together, the happily ever after. You barely believed it was the ending.

Because the real journey began with it. Doesn’t it? Isn't the true adventure when they find each other?

When something goes wrong, though, it means the journey isn’t over. The happily ever after is the ending isn’t it? Isn’t the story over until after they’re happily ever after?

Love, though it might be one of the most precious things, often comes with a heartbreak. A tragedy. It didn't hurt this time, though.

But love, when it’s real, doesn’t seem like a loss even if it ends. Because, isn’t it the ending when they finally are together? If we follow that rule, that the ending is when they’re together then it wasn’t the ending.

Or was it?

You couldn’t help but wonder, however…What if you lived a lie? Just a fairy tale that wasn’t supposed to have a happily ever after.

Though the script was far from reality, you felt like your own story was twisted. Why weren’t you in your ‘happily ever after’?

Maybe the side story was yours. Because you were not the princess about to walk into the sunset.

“I really love the dress,” Tim commented.

You did too, but it had you wondering about happily ever after?

What happens to them after the credit rolls? What happens to the characters when the last page ends? Are those characters strong enough to keep together? Are their stories just dried out? Like flowers. Easily forgotten in a journal hidden in your room.

A bouquet that once served as a beautiful symbol now was scattered on top of the shelf, as a few petals fell down.

Flowers dry out.

“Yes, magnificent,” you answered.

The dress made you remember the day you thought it would last forever. That Tom and you would have that ever after. That it wouldn’t dry out.

Tom had only looked up at you, sitting finally on a director chair and he had smiled. Gently. Caring.

And that thought came to your mind. “I hope this lasts forever.”

And for a moment you thought it could. Maybe it was the endless smiles or the constant yellow flowers adorning your room that would end up on your journal.

But nothing ever does last forever. Not the good things. Not pancakes, or ice cream, or street hot dogs. Moments don’t last forever, that’s why you have to grasp to them.

And there was a point at which you knew, you knew it wouldn’t last forever. Because the film continues.

However, you liked to think that love was like a flower. One that grows. Not one that is cut to be given. A perennial one. One that blooms, and continues to bloom when it’s taken care of. But perennial flowers don’t bloom all the time.

A flower can’t bloom for eternity. And a cut flower will not preserve.

In stories and films, we know detail by detail. From the very first word, to the last breath. But when it comes to your own, you often forget what is important. We barely stop to see, and suddenly, life escapes from your hands and you’re stuck in a moment and you can’t get out.

Before you know it, all you’re left with is a script and a movie you can’t bear to watch because it brings too many memories. But good ones, that is. Mostly good.

Before you know it, you have a box with his stuff, and you’re texting to see when you have to drop them off. And before you know it, he is standing there, and you’re hoping he will beg for one last time because you will give it, but he never does, and stays quiet. Too quiet.

Not every love is perennial. Not every love is meant to bloom again.

Perennial flowers, when they bloom, are the most wonderful. But when they’re away, the skies are gray.

But somehow, we go through it. At least you tried to.

The ‘what if’ comes as something complicated. No pillow talks would’ve helped your case, it seemed like any smiles were now hidden under the bed.

It’s needless to say and regard the multiple emotions that had gone by in the relationship, that week it started or that month it finished. That year, if we are honest. That whole year of your relationship. And you had to look back at it. For it all started in a breakup, that had opened the door to be with the love of your life. It all started with a revenge.

It was weird to see it. How a year before you dated Tom, you would have gone with Tim. How you had expected it, how you thought Tim was the endgame. How that year Harry had asked if you would marry Tim and you’d answered that maybe you would.

How at some point you had considered it again. How you even considered Harry. But Tim.

Had Tim waited for a little bit longer, maybe things would’ve turned out quite different. You were thankful he hadn’t. Tim and you were a lesson to each other. Tim had shown you you can be loved and you had shown Tim he can love. Tim and you were fine now, he had found a girl. Lily. Her name was Lily. Purity. Rebirth.

Because, although it had seemed that Tim had died a little with your last conversation before officially letting him go, he had seen himself shine again. How surprising, her name was Lily. Such a coincidence.

Lily, a girl that could easily be passed by. Yet Tim had stopped to see her.

Tim and you would never share what you both said in that conversation. The last flower he had given you was a daisy. A secret between two friends.

Cherry and you went back to what you were before, strangers to each other. But she’d found a girl, by luck. Heather. She was happy now. Happiest.

A year had gone by. Many things had changed. Mostly you, and though you would look back to your past self and warn her that another heartbreak by Tom would be coming, you wouldn’t change it.

A breakup had opened many doors.

Maybe this one would too.

It was bound to come. How on earth were you supposed to grow flowers on a battlefield? But you’d built it together.

And you had. And everything was good, with sunsets and polaroids, and flowers. And fights that would cycle and cyle. But end up cuddling watching reruns of an old 80’s tv show that you barely watched because you were too busy staring into his eyes.

With old fights that would resurface and other secrets that kept chasing you both. But it was good, when you were trying to get the garden back into place, to try and forget the battlefield. Loving him had come so easily, though. Waking up by his side was taken for granted.

You had thought loving him would be a buzzing street, with crowds bustling as the rain is about to begin. You thought loving him would be a Friday night waiting for someone to show up but never did.

You were wrong.

Loving him was walking through a flower field, and taking a Polaroid of the most beautiful sunset. Loving him meant holding his hand and kissing over and over again.

But loving him meant that the sun eventually would set.

And maybe the heartbreak that had come with this one hadn’t been an actual heartbreak and maybe that’s why it hurt. Because it didn’t.

Maybe you’d forged a heartbreak or a relationship. Maybe that had been it, conning yourselves into believing you were fine when you were far from it.

Looking back maybe it was because of Rome, New York, and eventually LA. Cities that you once said you wouldn’t dare to go back to. But now you are willing to visit. Happily, it’s better to walk in a city full of memories rather than one pointless illusion of the memories you could’ve had.

He had gone to New York, and still took his Polaroid everywhere. A habit you loved about him, it seemed he became an expert on holding onto memories.

The breakup had come after James’ wedding. Lovely wedding, by the way. Fairytale full of wonder. A year ago, shortly after the film had premiered, a year after it finished filming.

It was supposed to come. Because when your own brother was finding his way, you had lost yours.

But what happened? When did life slip in? When did it start ending?

Before you knew it, you had packed your stuff without you being aware of it. You had packed everything up, except your own heart. You left your heart right there, right next to that stupid journal, in his upper drawer, right next to his bed. Had he opened that drawer ever since or had he forgotten about it?

There was your journal, not in your room. In his. And he hadn’t given it back.That’s why you felt lost. Your heart was imprinted there and he hadn’t given it back.

But you had packed everything else, with him not even trying to stop you. Just watching you circle around.

Was it fear? Maybe it had been fear, from both. You supposed that’s how life was. Loving was not a duty.

You only had one request for him, one last request: “Remember me, I was the one to love you, and I was the one to call in the middle of the night when you couldn’t sleep. Just remember me when we’re no longer here.”

Because it hadn’t been your fault, your life just slipped in. Distance. No time for calls. Your job getting too much recognition, his job getting even more. Fights that were only to push each other away so it wouldn’t hurt when you both were away. Maybe being enemies had come useful when it was supposed to end.

Fight, and more fights in the end. Yet you were gripping each other. And life had just slipped in. Like it always does.

And it wasn’t him. And it wasn’t you.

“Tell me you actually want it to end,” he had asked when you had the final box.

You didn’t. But there wasn’t much you could do, expect walk out the doors.

Or was there? But even if it was a breakup, you both agreed to remain friends, and then it transformed into little excuses to see each other.

Because it didn’t end up badly. It had been life slipping in. With barely having any time for something that needed too much time to build on.

Filming initially had helped you, how beautiful it was creating it, what a beautiful outcome it had been out of your heartbreak. With music, and fights and everything that was splendid.

Maybe the film wasn’t a huge success, but it had been enough for you both to try and mend it after.

But when filming had ended and you had to go back, that’s when the problems started. His job, your new one. Him there, you here. When you were together, it was amazing, worth it. But then you barely could. And you could barely grip each other.

Then you were too different. Then you were just the same, so stubborn and stupid.

Then it was old arguments, and new ones.

When was it gone? Had he stopped loving you?

He had asked you, near the end. “Do you still love me? Are we still enough?”

“I do love you.” But you hadn’t answered the second question. And what was it? Why wasn’t it? “Why wouldn’t we?” you had questioned.

“Dunno, it’s delicate.”

It was.

Maybe it had been James’ words for Clark. About how love shouldn’t be forced, how love should be simple and love shouldn’t be hurt. About how they built it together. How it wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t complicated.

And then Clark had said it, too. How he loved being with someone that he enjoyed silence with. How love was more than passion. How love was more than a kiss. Seeing how simple it had been for them, was a bit disappointing for you both. Your relationship was anything but simple.

And it wasn't now because you didn’t trust each other, or because you wanted to fight. No, it simply was life telling you, you shouldn’t be together. And maybe it was also the fact that you both thought you worked because you had never experienced silence together. Always a wreck. Always a mess. Always so passionate. But… was it only that? Maybe it was the passion of the moment.

You knew Tom still played the conversation with Tim over and over in his head. How by the end he said he felt guilty by it all.

You too, you were both driven by guilt and guilt eventually snaps you.

So it ended.

“Is it too soon to end this?” You had asked him.

Tom had shrugged. “Would you rather it be late?”

But that didn’t mean you… had to stop seeing each other. Or did it? So you based your new relationship on excuses. And the excuses had grown. ‘I need to give you this hoodie’, ‘I forgot my charger at your place’ ‘I need someone to drive me to do errands’, ‘I need help running lines’, ‘I need a date for this party.’

And then they didn’t even make sense. ‘I can’t open a jar’ ‘I can’t watch this movie alone’ ‘I need to rant about the ending of this series’ ‘I sneezed and no one blessed me’. Stupid things. And then it was the truth ‘I need to listen to your voice’. ‘I miss you’. ‘I want to see you’.

But it was only seeing each other, with no… relationship. No kissing, no anything. Only excuses. A… friendship.

True friendship, for the first time ever. And you could talk for hours with him until the sun came out, and you could laugh with him.

Maybe it hurt that it wasn’t more, but maybe it was never meant to be like that. But you were in a good place. In the best place you had been. The strongest you had both been, too. How civil you were with clothes on. And how many times had you stopped your will to undress him.

Your lips searched for his but they never got what they wanted, your hands hurt from keeping them to yourself, and your heart would only ache a bit.

From both sides.

Seemed that both of you knew what you had to build up on. And maybe you both knew the risk that would come if you were willing to give it a try without having something to settle on.

Maybe that’s why it didn’t hurt. Because it would bloom again, right? Maybe you were preparing the dirt to plant it in. Not loose flowers now. Have seeds.

Or that’s the idea you built yourself into. Because honestly. Had you ever been more than enemies with benefits?

But now, you were friends. Good friends. Maybe you were in love with him, and grown fonder of him now. Really, really in love. But friends. Friends who stared a little bit too much into each other’s eyes, or friends who would easily recognize each other’s laughter. Friends who would have their feet up the headboard and talk about life. Friends who instinctively would give the other a bite of their food or offer a sip of their drink.

Friends who would take a deep breath each time the other walked into the room, and friends who avoided getting too close that it would be mistaken for something else. Secret moments. Standing on the other sides of the room, turning your head away each time your eyes met.

Maybe you didn’t get the happy ending you wished for, or not the one you had expected to.

But you were happy. And it had ended. Those things were unrelated.

But a lot had changed.

Ay first, you had to fight the urge to undress him. Now you had to fight the urge to stare too long into his smile.

Really, a lot had changed.

Tom had started dating someone else, you didn’t know how long that lasted. You had pretended not to care, although you did.

You went out on dates, too. Didn’t inform him, either. Not explicitly. Though he did know.

Because you were friends. That was the happy ending you deserved.

A lot had changed.

And you were currently helping a bride tie that bow in her dress as she stared at her reflection. Her hair hung to her shoulders and half of it was tied with perfect braids. She was finally having her happy ending.

“Are you ready for the veil?” Timmy asked, as he watched the reflection of the bride.

“Can you give me a bloody second, Timothée?” Emma snapped with her usual tone. “I’m fucking busy right now, the veil can wait, don’t be a dick.”

You only held your laughter eyeing Tim. Tim and you had stopped looking at each other like you felt guilty for a while now. Tom’s jealousy had not exactly been driven away, you guessed it never would go.

But surprisingly enough, they became...friends. Or they could stand each other now after James had talked to both of them.

James and the married life that seemed to suit him. His wedding had been very small, but charming nonetheless. You wondered if you would’ve had something like that, very personal.

Quite a different story from Emma and Harry now. Whose love had conquered. And they had had a rough patch but how difficult can it be when you find your soulmate?

Maybe Harry and Emma had Tom and you doubting too. Tom and you had seen several times that you were not meant to be. Your coincidences in life had not been so, rarely coincidences but the both of you fighting for something. Too stubborn to admit that life was getting in the way.

Tom and you had all the odds in your favor and the ones to fuck it up were you both.

While Harry and Emma always had everything against them and they managed to work it out.

Who’re the soulmates here?

“What a lovely thing the blushing bride is, eh?” Tim rolled his eyes.

Emma had been… quite the bride. Everything had to be perfect, which was not likely for Emma to be that way. But she did say it, since she was marrying the love of her life it had to be big enough. In a rustic hotel, full of books and vintage furniture. A very cottage-like wedding. Very Emma and Harry. Unique.

It was perfect.

It had to, honestly. After the crossroads… everything had changed for them.

How Emma and Harry got back together was no mystery, Harry had been brave enough to go for her. When two souls are meant to be even the rockiest path will be easy to travel by.

It was the opposite of what you and Tom used to have. Emma and Harry had all the friendship, relationship settled, they just missed… the passion.

And so when they found each other, and were like two horny teenagers running around, it became...so effortless. Because they had something built upon.

As if life was rewarding them for their patience. For the love they shared. For each and every smile.

Both wild flowers, Often disregarded, had found each other, and created the most beautiful bouquet.

You only chuckled at Tim’s remark. “Splendid bride.”

While you and Tom had never been friends. Only too driven by the other, and passion and… when it ended? What were you? Were you merely nightly romance?

Tim groaned. “Emma—“he raised the veil. “I’m not trying to—I just think you should be wearing this already.”

“Shut up,” Emma granted. “I will but right now I’m—“

“Staring at your reflection?” Tim challenged. Because Emma was actually just doing that. Staring at the perfect dress she was wearing. Shining brightly like a diamond against the sun, her skin perfectly sparkled.

Emma looked for your glance in the mirror,”y/n, love.”

“Yes?”

“As my maid of honor, what are you willing to do?”

You offered her a grin, “Anything.”

Emma stared into your eyes. “Kill Timothée.”

You chuckled, “Almost anything, you should’ve asked earlier. I don’t want to get blood in my dress.”

Tim was surprised by your words. “So you would’ve?”

“Possibly, I don’t want to encounter a bridezilla Emma.”

Timmy threw his hands in the air. “I just want to help.”

“Well, don’t,” Emma and you said at the same time.

“I’m going to check on the guys, I am one hundredth percent sure they’re still in their pj’s drinking beer,” You commented.

The hotel room for the boy’s was only a floor below. It was everything Harry and Emma had probably wished for. An outdoor wedding that was planned to the very perfection. Very fairytale like. Lights hanging from trees, flower petals covering the aisle, daisies as the centerpieces, and daisies in Emma’s hands. Emma’s dream had always been an outdoor wedding.

When speaking with Emma and Harry both had stated that they made the decision not to give up. Always leaving you to wonder.

There was a part of you that was blinded by desirous thoughts. Had it been a mistake? To conclude a relationship that you had fought so long for?

Lately it had been.

You made your way to the elevator and as it opened you found a familiar face. He seemed uneasy, though.

“Y/N!” His voice was only a confirmation to his precarious state.

Your cheeks furrowed as you smiled, “Clark, hi!”

“Y/N,” he greeted you with a hug, a very nervous hug. as you stepped into the elevator. “Fuck, you look stunning. Loving the flowers on the hair.”

The dress was absolutely stunning, you had to give in that Emma’s taste was remarkable. Sky blue had been her color choice, to match with the flowers. Daisies and hydrangeas. Innocence and beauty.

It was ironic, a bit. You’d helped her with the flowers, and initially she had like sunflowers. As if it had been sntached from you. Maybe it was destiny laughing in your face. Yet she’d gone for the delicate hydrangeas.

“Thanks, Emma’s idea,” you grinned. “Where are you—“

“Oh eh, with the other boys,” he said as you pressed the button. He was shaking.

“So, what’s got you all flustered?” You questioned.

You could see Clark sweating. “Hm?”

“What’s got you all flustered?” You questioned, again.

He didn’t give you an answer. “Clark?”

Clark bit his lip. It was never usual for Clark to be anxious or to hide thoughts for himself. The man was always certain of his thoughts and actions. There was probably a calamity waiting for you.

“I—I am only the messenger,” he said, “I was actually looking for—Tim but—“

There it was. “But?”

“I think you might be of more help,” Clark admitted.

“Clark?” Your brows furrowed as the elevator door opened. He only offered a nervous smile as he licked his lips.

You saw Tom at the end of the hallway, on a call, shirt buttoned half way, his other hand running through his hair, he looked troubled. You were hoping his eyes would meet yours. Ever since the wedding was approaching he had been inattentive. Maybe the wedding hurt as much. It had been so hard for him to switch from lovers to friends. Did he ever stop and wonder if you guys could’ve had one? Did Tom also hindered with painful thoughts of how everything had so carelessly ended?

Lately it was all you had in your mind, how you felt ready. Or maybe it was the pressure that the wedding was giving you. And just as you started getting closer, Tom had backed away without a warning.

James was just getting out of the room, mid hallway. Your brother seemed to be as stressed. The tie around his neck barely covering it, his hair was scrunched. James’ eyes crossed with yours and then went straight to his husband’s.

“You brought y/n?” James pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ah, fuck it,” he looked at his watch. “Yes, you might be more helpful,” James said as he gestured with his hand to come over.

There was clearly something going on. You eyed Tom, who still was not aware you were there.

“I—Sam, no, no, I’ll—I can’t stay here, fuck I have his phone here—“You heard him say before James had dragged you into the room.

You approached your brother. “What is going on?”

“We—couldn’t find Harry’s tie,” James explained.

A tie? This was all of it? This whole catastrophe was for a tie?

“Can't any of you give him yours?” You frowned. It was no surprise that they hadn’t come up with a solution to such a simple problem, you could not expect less from men.

James rolled his eyes. “So he went to search for it about an hour ago but he fucking left his phone here and—“

Then you understood what was going on. “Where’s Harry?” You closed your eyes.

James gulped. “That’s—the thing.”

“Where is Harry?” You questioned, again.

Clark cleared his throat. “We don’t—know.”

Oh, so you were fucked. “Whose stupid idea was—?”

“Well, Dad told me he left home about 40 minutes ago and he didn’t see him at home, Sam hasn’t found him—Their fucking twin telepathy thing is broken, I guess—“Tom had walked in staring at his phone, loudly explaining his previous conversation. “Oh—hi, y/n.”

“Hi.” It was rutinary, for both of you. To just—stop when the other walked into a room. You blushed. Only noticing until then how handsome he looked. Seemed you hadn’t realized how badly you wanted him. In the most innocent way, in the way that you only wanted to offer him your heart. In the way that you only wanted the sole confirmation that he still loved you. In the way you wanted to be the reason for his smile.

You wanted to ask him, if it was okay he was still on your mind. Was it wrong? Would he be chill with him visiting your dreams?

Because that had been the hardest part of it all. At some point you had both decided you needed to move on… Because both of you at the beginning were trying to get back together and after a long conversation that almost led to one kiss, you both decided it wasn’t appropriate. So pretending you didn’t love each other was the way you’d keep him, for whatever it was worth.

Tom had said it once, hadn’t he? How everytime you both stated your feelings… it hurt. So now that you weren’t stating them, you were supposed to not hurt. Why did it, then?

“You look—stunning,” he eyed you up and down, and licked his lips, “I—I’m sorry I didn’t-uh-call this morning-I was—“

“You look pretty, too,” you interrupted. Knowing that the missed call would be a subject for James’ interest. The short story was—you had probably had a few more drinks than you should’ve with him at the hotel bar with Clark and James and Tom had walked you to your room, only walking, not even a kiss on the cheek as much as you had wanted it, but he had promised to call in the morning after you had claimed he had been ignoring you. He hadn’t called.

And was aware of it, which meant he hadn’t forgotten. It meant he had avoided you, again.

It had seemed that from one morning to another Tom had decided that the word friends meant strangers.

Maybe he wouldn’t pay a visit to your dreams.

He reached for your hair, “I like the flowers—”

“Can you both leave your ‘in love but not together’ bullshit for later?” James snapped you both out of the trance. “The wedding is in two hours and the fucking groom is no where in sight.”

Both Tom and you turned to him, travelling back to reality. “Well it’s not my fault! Who—sent him? Why didn’t you guys offer to go for the stupid tie?” You snapped back at your brother.

Tom looked away.

Of course. You watched him. “Tom? How do you plead?”

“Guilty,” he admitted.

You took a deep breath. This was definitely not the scenario you wanted to find yourself in. Had… Harry escaped? It was… not likely to escape but then again, you’d learned not to expect anything.

It was reason enough to worry.

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Tom said.

James sighed. “He took my car and—“

“You gave him your car to escape—!” You snapped. “Your car always stops working!”

“No,to go for his tie, not to escape,” Tom snapped his fingers with a smile defending your brother. “We-”

“Thomas oh my god, I am not even- All of you, you all thought it was a good idea?” You were furious now. Whose stupid idea was it to-Of course it had been Tom’s. You were going to jump to conclusions. “To send the groom when any of you could have gone-?”

You didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

You really didn’t, however it was ineluctable. Not because Harry didn’t love Emma, but because Harry was… scared. You didn’t blame him. True love comes barely once in a thousand lifetimes and when we finally get to it, it might be too much for us to handle. However after your conversations with Harry this cataclystic outcome had not been foreseen.

“My dad is around the hotel trying to find him,” Tom quickly answered.

You took a deep breath. You perfectly knew Harry.

Harry and you were close as you had once been, in a way, Harry and you were well apprised of the other. Harry was reasonable enough not to leave his wedding.

“He offered to go,” James explained.

Harry wouldn’t have offered that unless he needed to go away. And you only needed one confirmation, there was no way Harry would’ve forgotten his tie. Harry would’ve never forgotten it, unless it had been self sabotaged.

You were conveyed to the drawers, opened each one carefully, fearing you’d find it, and your gut had been right. there it was. The tie in all of its splendor. “And you let him go?” You asked, taking the tie and swinging it to them. “To search for this tie?”

“Yes,” James closed his eyes. “Fuck. We should’ve known.”

Your eyes crossed with Tom’s and then you then realized it, Tom seemed calm. Tom wasn’t freaking out. Not externally. You weren’t sure if he really wasn’t or if it was the usual wall you both build around the other. Incomprehensible it seemed now. Always keeping it cool, So many things you’ve lived and you had let them go oh so easily?

But you were flawed. You had been. But not now, what was stopping you both? Wasn’t he still the one holding your broken heart in the palm of his hand? Had he not borrowed it?

You were still trying to hold his.

But your mind shouldn’t be worried about your relationship with Tom when the groom was nowhere to be found. When he had lied that he lost his tie and it was right in that drawer.

Yet, you somehow knew there was something… Something there.

“He was supposed to go home then?” You questioned Tom.

Tom was getting anxious by the second. “Yes, so we can go look for him.”

“The two of you?” James interrupted.

“Yes the two of us, we could split and look for him but...” Tom said. “Someone has to stay here.”

James was slightly annoyed, you could tell. But James was often annoyed at you and Tom. James had been the most disappointed about the resulting relationship. Honestly, everybody was disappointed. Had you been cowards for giving up?

So much drama and for what?

“Of course you’d think splitting up is a good idea,” James snapped with poison. James was annoyed because he always pointed it out to you, how much you’d fought to have him and how easily you’d walked out.

Walking out had not been easy. Walking out had to be the most painful decision you’ve ever made. And you remembered that night you had, the city was asleep, the night was quiet, and you were the only one standing on that street, under that streetlight. Alone. He hadn’t gone to you. You’d looked back to his window, expecting him to be there, and then the door had remained closed.

You cleared your throat. “I might know where Harry is,” you lied. You were at a loss of your mind at the moment. Maybe it was shock. Not maybe, it certainly was shock. The sole thought of Harry not appearing at his own wedding had not ever crossed your mind. You’d thought Emma would’ve. Would’ve been in character, but how stupid do you have to be to run from your wedding on your wedding day?

Tom directed a glance. “I think I might know where he is, too.”

Did he? Or was he only trying to prove a point?

Though the friendship was afloat, some habits could never wear out. Especially when it came to challenging the other. After the breakup it had become a sort of competition of who was dealing better with it.

Neither of you were coping well, but you wouldn’t admit it.

How disappointing, isn’t it? A whole story to end just in a few words. A whole journey to be plucked off your hands. So quickly, so easily.

How ironic it seemed that after such a long time, it was this breaking up bullshit.

James watched between the both of you. “Do you really?”

“Yes,” Tom and you answered and panicked at the other’s statement.

“Well, I’ll race you there,” you challenged.

Tom squinted, “I don’t have my car, dad gave me a ride.”

“Well, then, you should start running so I don’t beat you there,” you grinned and then walked off the room, decidingly. Only thing left was knowing where exactly Harry had run to.

“This isn’t a fucking game, y/n!” James reminded you. “We need to find Harry.”

“I know, Jamesy!”

Tom had rushed after you, “You have no idea where he is, do you?” He mumbled.

“Not a clue,” you admitted. “You?”

He laughed, “Not a fucking clue, either.”

You both got into the elevator. He dug his hands into his pockets.

“Do you think he escaped?” Tom questioned.

“It’s possible,” you admitted. You sighed, as you pressed the button to the upper floor.

“What are you doing?” Tom asked.

“I need my keys,” You said.

Tom’s eyes widened. “And are you telling Emma?” He was panicking.

“Of course!” You gave him the widest beam. “She’ll be delighted!”

“What?”

You jokingly slapped his head. “Of course not, idiot! How the fuck am I supposed to tell her? What would I even tell her? Hey! We can’t find Harry! He might have run off! No!”

“Right. Then what’s the alibi?” Tom asked. “Just showing up and leaving?”

You sighed, “You, you will be my alibi.”

Tom blinked but followed after you when the elevator door finally left you at your floor, you rushed to the room, but stopped in front of it, buttoning Tom up. He watched you with confusion.

“I thought I was your alibi,” he smirked.

You rolled your eyes, “Not that kind of alibi, dipshit.“

Helaughed, rolling his eyes and avoiding your gaze. “Yeah, it’s been a while since that could be the alibi.”

You decided to ignore the statement, “Now, when I walk in, if you hear Emma question me—just call me and try rushing me.”

“Alright, but I think we need a solid alibi, y/n,” Tom pushed.

You rolled your eyes, “I’ll take care of that,” you confirmed and opened the door where you were welcomed by Timmy, who was about to go out.

“Oh, hey,” Tim greeted and then eyed Tom. “Thomas.”

“Timothée,” Tom nodded his head.

Even when they both presumed to be friends, you knew that Tim and Tom would always have some sort of… disagreement.

“Uh, I was about to… go see Lily,” Tim explained, turning back to you. “Mind staying with Emma-? Her mother is on one last minute arrangements, it might rain so they’re trying to figure out what to do-So if you could—“

“Actually,” you cleared your throat. “An emergency came up, so I need you to stay here, maybe tell Lily to come here?”

Tim frowned. “What emergency?”

“We’re taking care of it,” Tom explained as you rushed in looking for your purse. “We’ll be quick,” he added. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Y/N, babe, you’re back!” Emma commented.

You squinted your eyes closed, “And I’m leaving—sorry, I need to uh—It will be quick I promise there’s an issue with—there’s an emergency—“

Emma was nervous, “y/n? Everything okay? Did something happen to the flowers?”

You couldn’t lie to her, but you could omit the truth. “No, everything okay with the flowers—I promise I’ll be here quickly, I’m just going to—“

“Y/N, darling?” You heard Tom outside. “We need to go, now.”

Emma heard and then she was no longer going to question you. Not right now, at least. “Ah,” Emma said, knowingly as she rolled her eyes. “I see, Tom— an emergency with Tom.”

“I promise it’s not like that,” you assured her. “But everything is okay and— I’ll be here in time.”

“I am freaking out, do you see the sky? It’s grey! Fucking grey! I need to stop the rain!” Emma yelled. “What if it’s a bloody sign? Fuck, I need to talk to Harry, I need him-”

You freaked out by then. “No, Emma, calm down, it’ll be okay, we will figure something out!”

“Y/N! Please!” Tom called in again.

Emma watched you, “I swear to god, y/n, if your emergency is fucking that man I will murder you.” “Trust me, it’s not.”

Emma glared, “Y/N, I’ll only say it one more time. If you’re leaving my wedding to have sex with that hunk, I will kill you.”

You shook your head. “I’m… Trying to figure out what to do with the rain, okay? Leave this ro me! I’ll see you in a bit, Emma!” You ran back out.

You saw Tom’s mother walking down the hallway, she offered you a concerned look.

Tom seemed calm enough for Tim, however, who was watching him with curiosity. You were thankful that they avoided conversing with each other, especially because Tom would probably screw up the alibi. One that you didn’t have. But probably Tim had bought it, even if he had yet to hear what the alibi was. However, you knew that Tom’s presence was a solid alibi for rather than anything else.

Tom had been an alibi for your nerves. You knew that Tim wouldn’t question why you were nervous because he knew you were always nervous when Tom was around. You certainly looked flustered and having Tom there would definitely explain why you were jittery.

Tim raised his brows at you, and you only took Tom’s hand in an attempt to drag him back to the elevator. Tim was explicitly confused.

“Ah, Nikki! I’m so glad you’re here, Emma is finishing up, would you mind helping her?” Your voice was coming out slightly coarse.

The woman gulped, “are Tom and you taking care of the...rain issue?” She questioned.

“Yes, ma’,” Tom quickly nodded, “we will… find the rain.”

Some things never change, Tom was still an idiot. And for being an actor how terrible was he at lying.

“Find?” Tim questioned.

“Nothing to worry about, Tim darling,” Nikki stepped into the room, trying to push Timothee back inside, “they are taking care of it and they should go look at it, right now, chop chop!”

“See you in a bit, Tim!” You said as you ran to the elevator as Nikki closed the door, you finally were able to let go of Tom’s hand.

He cleared his throat as he pressed the button, “So what was the alibi?” Tom second glanced at you. “Why would we take care of the rain?”

“Because it got lost,” you shrugged. “Why else would we find it.”

He closed his eyes as you both walked into the elevator. “I’m an idiot.”

“Biggest one.”

He chuckled, “I—uh, heard Emma’s comment. About her thinking we were going to-”

You blushed, “Yeah.”

Big distance between both of you. Never ever close enough to accidentally brush against each other or hands coincidentally touching.

How different it was from the elevator in New York.

Tom cleared his throat. “Good to know where she stands in that subject.”

You shrugged, “I would also get mad if my best friend ditched me at my wedding to have sex with an idiot.”

He smirked rolling his eyes. “I believe the term she used was hunk.”

You ignored the comment.

“Why didn’t Timothee question us?” Tom asked.

You shrugged, “Haven’t you noticed that no one questions us?”

Tom furrowed his brows. “How so?”

“Whenever we are together, they never ask anything, they just let us be,” you admitted. Because everyone was waiting for you both to get back together or everyone expected something more from you. You never gave it to them.

He tilted his head slightly, agreeing with you. “I guess they think they’re going to make things awkward.”

No. People let you be because they wanted you to solve it.

“As if they could be,” you chuckled. “I think that’s the best part of us right now, people just don’t… meddle.”

Tom smiled, “I guess.”

You cleared your throat, “Now, where the fuck do you reckon Harry is?” You asked as you reached the lobby, turning back to what actually mattered.

“Honestly, I have no idea, nothing can come to my mind, it’s just… Not likely from Harry to run away,” Tom said. “Like—Me? Definitely. I would’ve—“

“Yes, you’d definitely run,” you nodded as you jingled the keys. Tom asked for the car at the valet.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tom questioned.

“You’d definitely escape from your own wedding,” you chuckled. “You’re so afraid of commitment. It’s the Gemini in you.”

He opened his mouth with pride, “excuse me? Me the one afraid of commitment? May I remind you of your past, my lady?”

You avoided his gaze. “You may not.”

“Said no to a proposal, poor Timothee,” Tom started with a smirk.

“Okay that’s—“You cleared your throat, chuckling slightly. “You shouldn’t—“

“Then—Then,you faked a relationship.”

You eyed him, “are we really going to touch that subject, again?”

“You were scared of commitment enough to fake one,” he joked.

You could joke about it now. Or he could. You’d never joke about it.

“Or I knew you wouldn’t commit so I had to fake I didn’t want it,” you smugly answered.

He faked annoyance. “Well, you ran to another country, yes, just after confessing your lovely feelings through a letter—“

“That’s…different.”

“Then you didn’t give me an answer—you didn’t know if you wanted to date me,” he recalled.

You scoffed, “Thomas, may I remind you why I didn’t want to date you?”

“Then you called it quits after seeing your brother getting married and you were scared we were heading there too,” Tom said.

You gulped, “Ah, yes that last one wasn’t me—“ you reminded him. “Not entirely.”

Tom licked his lips. “Maybe we are both afraid of commitment.”

“No,” you nudged him. “I wasn’t.”

“I wasn’t either.”

There was a sudden silence. You’d barely talked about it before. As if the relationship had suddenly disappeared.

You hadn’t talked about the breakup once in months.

“I would say we are at a crossroads but,” he shrugged. “I do not believe that commitment was the reason for—“

“Nope,” you gave in. “It was not.”

Because it wasn’t, maybe it was the fact you were both too committed to a relationship without form.

“However—you did—“Tom cleared his throat. “I mean—we were headed in some sort of direction.”

“Thomas, I don’t think now is the time to have the conversation we haven’t had.”

“So we should keep pushing it, then? Pretending we are both fine with this agreement? Lately we don’t seem fine with it.”

You knew he was right. Neither of you were entirely happy with this whole new friendship thing. “I—maybe we can talk about it when we find Harry!”

Tom pursed his lips, “so you do want to talk about it?”

You took a deep breath, “Thomas, we can push aside that conversation but we cannot push aside the fact your brother is nowhere to be found on his wedding day.”

“Fine.”

“Besides I think if we’ve pushed it long enough—“

He laughed. “We are—particularly calm about that subject.”

“I don’t think we are,” you admitted. “We just like to pretend when we are calm around each other.”

Tom clicked his tongue, “Maybe. But I’m—We haven’t talked about that in a while.”

“And it’s not the moment right now, it’s your brother’s wedding, and he is nowhere to be found,” you repeated.

Tom’s smile faded and was overstrung again. The car was there.

You let him drive, he usually drove your car. Another habit that hadn’t worn out.

Now things weren’t calm, as if the sudden rush had become the both of you. You finally got it, the anxiety that should’ve come from hearing it. The anger and despair that you were supposed to feel from Harry running away.

He looked down, “what’s that?” He pointed at the cup on the cup holder.

“Coffee, from yesterday,” you explained. “Didn’t finish it.”

“You think I could die from that?” He asked.

You looked at him. “I—don’t know but—You're not thinking of—“

“Drinking it?” Tom smirked. “Yeah, I’m just—-thirsty.”

“Please don’t.”

He took the cup, “I won’t die.”

“I guess not but it’s been sitting here one day!” You tried taking it off. He gripped it and shook his head.

“I won’t die!” He said before taking a sip and scrunching his nose. “This is fucking disgusting.”

“Why are you bloody drinking it?” You laughed.

He laughed, “I—I don’t know, but no it’s not that bad.”

“Thomas what the fuck,” you couldn’t stop laughing. “If you die then I’ll have to take care of your dead body and finding Harry, and my priority is finding Harry so I’d have to pull a Weekend at Bernie’s”

Tom giggled and stuck his tongue out, acting so terribly as if he was actually dying.

“You know,” you watched him with fake repulsion. “You deserve an Oscar for that one performance.”

“Right?” He grinned. “I’ll thank you when I receive it.”

You chuckled, “I think we should focus on Harry instead, yes?”

You both discussed places where he would go, that park? Unlikely. That Pub? He wasn’t there. Home?

Where in the world would he go?

“What if he—?” You were getting tired. “What if he didn’t run away?”

Tom looked over, he was rubbing his face, angry you hadn’t found him at the third pub. “That’s the thing, I don’t think he did.”

“It makes no sense, does it?” You questioned.

“No, he—he loves her,” Tom licked his lips. “It’s cause—“ he clutched to the wheel. “I don’t think Harry would—“

“No, I don’t think so—I just—“

It started to rain, because of course it bloody had to. Seemed that the ambiance always had the urge to level up to the level of drama you were always living.

“Jesus Christ, can we ever get into a dramatic moment without it raining?” Tom questioned, angrily.

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a laugh. “I—It was on the news forecast, I am sorry to inform you, but we’ve got nothing to do with the weather.”

Tom laughed, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Alright, if he’s not at home then he’s—“You laughed, “Where the fuck is Harry?” You yelled, defeated.

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. “I—hate Harry.”

You agreed. “Wait—wait, where’s your dad driving around?”

“Dunno, but he would’ve called,” Tom admitted. “Bloody hell, I hate Harry—I—can’t believe he did this.” You stayed quiet. If he had. What had led him to it? The day before he had been alright. Of course, he seemed nervous but he was excited, dreamy. In love.

“What do you know?” He questioned.

You frowned, getting your gaze back to him. “What?”

“You have your—thinking face on,” Tom pointed out. “See? Brow furrowed and hand on hair and everything,” he said. “You feel...guilty?”

“What?” You chuckled nervously. “No!”

“I know you guys spoke yesterday,” he recalled.

“Well yes, I wished him luck, but nothing—He gave me no clue of that, no clues of running away!” you admitted. “He was scared but he—I mean I thought it was usual wedding jitters but—he didn’t—I just—Calmed him. I mean he talked to you before, you probably were the one to scare him!”

“I—what?” Tom was taken aback. “I—I didn’t—“

“He talked to you before me!”

“yes, we talked but I gave him brotherly—marriage advice.”

You scoffed. “You? You gave him marriage advice?”

Tom chuckled nervously, “I—no, but—love advice.”

“We are the last people on earth that should give advice on that,” you stated.

He sighed, “I know but—“

“What did you say to him? Maybe you scared him and that’s why he ran away!” You stated, poking him.

He frowned, “Did not!”

“What did you even say to him?” You pushed. “I just know.”

He rolled his eyes, and mocked, “you just know?”

You playfully slapped his arm. “Yes, idiot! I know, you give the worst advice on love, you’re so dramatic.”

“I am dramatic?” He laughed.

“Yes,” you interrupted before he could even defend himself, “and—and, and I am too. We are—Oh god, are we to blame for Harry running away?”

Tom seemed to realize it at the same time. “I mean—Considering what we both could’ve said—“

Neither of you couldn’t help but laugh, maybe with guilt.

“I’m scared,” Tom admitted. He sighed, holding one last laughter.“We’re fucked.”

You both stayed calmly, as the rain halted against the car.

“What did you talk about with him?” He questioned.

Of course the question held more than that. You knew what he was asking about actually.

Seemed that both of you knew you had basically laid it on Harry the day before. Or maybe not. But where else would Tom ever get his advice from?

You had told him not to give up, you’d told Harry that he had found it, whatever love is, he’d found it.

“How I was proud of him, how I wanted what he was getting,” you shrugged.

You had also joked about how you and him wouldn’t have worked out. But you’d also said you were sorry it hadn’t worked out with Tom either. How you knew that him and Emma were not headed there, that he had nothing to worry about.

How you regretted the script. Spilling out your heartbreak for the world to see. Spilling your love story that was barely one and how people had a lot to say about it.

How it was painful to hide your love. How you knew Tom hadn’t moved on either but probably was planning to.

You told Harry to keep his feelings for Emma, and only Emma. That he didn’t have to share it. You had told Harry to treasure every morning, and to find a flower to talk for him.

“You?”

“I apologized for ruining his engagement party,” Tom nodded, “the first one.”

You both gulped.

“But how I—“ Tom shifted in his seat. “How I thought that they had found the silver linings for it all. That after being apart they’d just come back stronger. And how—I was happy for him. How they overcame all obstacles. And how they were just meant to be.”

“Soulmates they are,” you said. “Which is why it makes no sense he is not there.”

“We need to find him,” he stated.

You nodded. “We are very calm, though, considering-”

“Yeah,” he gave in. “I—What about the park?”

“Oh? The park? Not a park, the park, of course, how didn’t I think of that,” you teased. “Oh yes, the park. As if there aren’t hundreds of parks. Yes the park.”

He snorted a laugh, “shut up! You know where I meant!”

“Well, drive, you pillock!” You chuckled. “Drive to—the park!”

He rolled his eyes and was about to start the car, yet again.

“Wait,” there was a part of you that thought you knew where he might be. But—to explain where it was would be difficult. “Let me drive.”

To try and find Harry. Which was technically the quest.

You had less time now. You were tired. But there was something that was making you believe you could find him. You hoped you were right.

Being behind the wheel with Tom as your copilot was weird. You always let him drive because you usually were in charge of the music.

“Well, given that I’m here, I’ll be for the first time in charge of the music in your car,”he said. He seemed to have the same thing in mind.

Which was completely stupid since you were looking for a lost groom, but well, Tom and you didn’t have much in common but you could always brag about the same stupidity and brain cell you shared.

He took the aux cord as you were driving, driving to that location that wasn’t far enough. A place you knew that gave Harry peace. The park.

But of course your own peace was disturbed as ‘I think we're alone now’ played.

You hadn’t listened to that song in a long while, since you’d danced to it on his living room, most of the lights out, your screen light and his own eyes being the only light you needed. When the things were good.

You had, purposefully, erased most songs that ever reminded you of him.

“You seriously have that song?” You snorted as the memories flooded back in.

Tom avoided your glance and shrugged, “What? It’s on my playlist.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, I notice that. That’s how music works.”

There was silence. Probably driven by the growing fear of not finding Harry, probably coming from the fear that Harry had actually escaped. And what would that mean?

Had Tom and you really scared him?

But you both drowned the fear while humming the song.

Or maybe the silence came from the very memories of the song.

“It’s on this specific playlist honestly,” Tom said after a few songs.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

“It’s—the song,” he cleared up. “haven’t you noticed the songs playing are only songs you like? Or songs—”

Songs with background. You shrugged, “Well, we have similar taste.”

He laughed, “No, y/n, we truly don’t.”

You glanced at him, as he was looking out the window. “Huh, alright—maybe that is the reason we broke up.”

Tom clenched his jaw. “Don’t be an idiot.”

You rolled your eyes. “Never mind, that is.”

“No,” he squeezed his eyes shut. “what Imean—this is my—you playlist.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

“You’re not going to say anything?” Tom asked.

“What does that even mean?” You questioned.

He licked his lips. “I—well.”

“So you ignore me but you have a playlist—a me playlist?” You questioned.

Tom licked his lips, “I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring you, it’s—been hard.”

It had been, for you, too. “It’s harder if we are apart,” you pointed out.

He gulped, “That is my point,” he coughed. “We are friends,” he said. “And lately, before I started ignoring you—We were—“

You had been acting a bit more than what friends are supposed to act like. And a wedding always brings romance in everything so it was hard.

You cleared your throat, “It makes it weirder if we both walk away from the other.”

Tom bit his lip, “is it, really?” He watched you carefully. “Because, y/n, I—I’ve been… jealous, how they solved it. And how we couldn’t, after we both tried it was so hard, how we kept falling back.”

You had been slightly jealous, too.

“And, really, I—look, I love my brother and Emma, it’s not them ,” he continued, he rolled his eyes. “For all I know, we are both bitter because before James’ wedding happened we were both talking about… marriage and all,” Tom continued. “And they basically stole what could have been our wedding.”

So you were going to have that conversation. A conversation you had avoided even before the breakup. How both of you were… in talks. How you were expecting it. How you’d jitter if he ever got on his knee to tie his shoe, how every time you’d be waiting for it.

“We didn’t even get engaged,” you pointed out, in an attempt to be cynical, probably.

He coughed, “We talked about it. Good thing—We didn’t get that far because, well.”

“I think we both thought marrying would salvage us from falling,” you stated. “Or we thought it was the next step.”

He shrugged, “Yeah, I think we did,” he admitted. “But I—Back then I really thought, I dunno. I was really about to ask.”

You took a deep breath, “I would’ve said yes,” you said easily, though it hurt to even think about it. Though, you had been prepared to say yes.

“It wouldn’t have been right,” he pointed out. “We would’ve broken up before even getting to plan it.”

He was right. So, so right, because where you were heading wasn’t a wedding, you were heading to an even more hurtful breakup.

The decision had been made acknowledging this. Knowing it would hurt less then. Avoiding a terrible breakup.

“We were on a thin line,” you agreed. “Anything would’ve broken us.”

“I knew we were going through a rough patch but—I think we never realized how rough it was.”

You sighed, “Maybe I fucked up when we came back here, when I decided not to move in.”

Tom took a deep breath, “No, it wasn’t that.”

What was it? What had it been?

“I don’t know where we went wrong,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

He shook his head, confirming he didn’t either. When asked, neither of you had a reason. It just—happened. Things had been just so rough and hard. Nothing to hold on to.

Though it didn’t make sense, you loved him. And he loved you.

“I think we both expected things to get better by themselves.” Tom played with his fingers and watched the window, staring at the raindrops slipping through it. Sliding easily, without no one stopping them.

“And we grew tired of fighting,” you added, as you stopped at a red light.

“Can't even remember what we were fighting about,” he confessed.

You took a heavy breath in, as the music still played in the background. “About nothing, and about everything. We fought over serious stuff, like whether we wanted to be public or not. A little about Tim and Cherry. And over stupid stuff mostly, yeah mostly over stupid stuff. Like when we were supposed to wake up for certain events or what tie you’d wear for James’ wedding, we fought over you staying at my place too much. We also fought about FaceTime hours, and whether we had to ask if we were available for it or not.”

Tom dedicated his glance back to you, sad, upset and full of regret. “I remember the cereal one.”

You raised your brows, “Yeah, that one was a smashing doors one.”

“Over stupid cereal,” he sighed as he brushed his face. “We were so—“

“Toxic?” You finished his sentence.

He chuckled, “yeah, mostly at the end.”

“The beginning too, I mean,” you shook your head. “I—We had sex to just solve everything. Thomas, we had hatred sex.”

He chuckled. “Well.”

You shrugged, “And that’s how we solved the fights initially.”

“It wasn’t enough at the end,” he added.

“It never was, and that’s—Thats why, although we both said we would talk we just—I think that’s why it didn’t work, at the end we just—grew tired of each other, the spark was gone.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Maybe it was the script,” you pointed out. “Everything concerning it.”

Learning he had a lot to do with the fact it was made had made you doubt yourself, the one true accomplishment had come because he had come to the rescue. Although it had been nice it had really started the downfall of your trust.

“No,” he shrugged.

He didn’t want to talk about it. You had had enough talks about the script, over the fact you wrote it and then regretted it. Over filming and the input he had in the movie, how the character had more in depth than before.

Over the fact he had come to your rescue because it hadn’t been good enough. That one specially had been the start of your downfall. Seemed that when you learned about it, you had completely gone mental. Though, it had come from his heart, he didn’t understand why you were angry.

You had always asked him not to ever give a hand with your writing, if you wanted to succeed it would be for your own accomplishments.

Then again, there was also this side that loved he had helped.

Truth is, it hadn’t affected your relationship, but it had affected your own self trust. And if you can’t trust yourself, however will you trust someone else?

Enough talks had been had.

“No,” Tom started. “We were guilty. Both of us, as if we were making it up for past mistakes. I never stopped thinking about what Tim said, and I think that’s why I always tried making it up for all the other times I hurt you. And then you tried making it up for the script, or—Whatever, it was a relationship built up on guilt.”

“Yeah, I think,” you whispered almost not wanting to be heard, “we both had things to learn about ourselves, and forgive ourselves first… and the timing was wrong.”

Tom shrugged, “Isn't it always wrong with us?”

Time was your true enemy. Or maybe it was easier to blame time rather than yourselves. Time was nothing.

It had been you and your pride or your fear, or whatever you came up with now.

However, there was some truth in that statement. Maybe in the past few months it had been time.

When you had told James and Harry you might want to get back together, Tom was dating.

When you were dating, Harry had told you he was thinking about it.

But what about now? Neither of you were dating, you were single and every odd could push you both to be together. Yet…You were not.

How disappointing, you would always think. Such a long story to end up like this.

How disappointing, really.

“No,” he stated, once again. “It’s not time. The problem might be we are the most stupid people to walk on earth.”

“Sounds reasonable,” you said. You nudged him, “look at us now, though, able to talk.”

“I like where we are, yeah,” Tom commented. “I think we are in a good place, we trust each other, we are friends, good friends, we take care, we hang out. We talk. And actually talk.”

You were focusing on the road, mainly, but your heart wanted to say more things. “Yeah.”

“There’s something bothering you,” Tom stared, intrigued.

“I don’t like you avoiding me,” you stated. “I really can’t stand it.”

“I won’t avoid you, then.”

Then, it was quiet. And it didn’t matter, you enjoyed moments of silence, and it wasn’t awkward. Both of you had learned that sometimes you just don’t have to say a word.

But you had to, in fear he would feel you were angry at the previous conversation.“It’s not even all songs I like,” you pointed out.

“Hm?”

“The playlist,” you decided you didn’t want to continue that past conversation.

He coughed, “So we are changing the conversation, huh? Well, they are songs that remind me of you but hey!” He nudged you. “Which ones don’t you like?”

So easily changing subjects and getting out a smile.

“I—we can get back to that later,” you turned to him and let out a soft chuckle. “songs that remind you of me?” You smirked, poking his shoulder.

He blushed, rolling his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted defeatedly.

You laughed, “You’re such a nerd.”

“What the fuck! It’s supposed to be sweet!” He complained.

You shrugged. “Or creepy.”

“No, it’s not—“

“I’m kidding I’m—more flattered than spooked—“ you admitted. “So why are you playing it?” You poked his cheek this time and he pushed your hand away.

“Because I’ve noticed you always complain about the music so when I play this you don’t!” He explained, annoyed.

“Oh, so it’s merely to keep me quiet,” you snickered, nodding.

Tom was moving his jaw, “Yes, basically.”

You glanced again, mischievously. “Wasn’t it supposed to be sweet?”

“No.”

You reached for his hair. “Tommy.”

“Don’t Tommy me,” he chuckled. “You called me creepy.”

“Yes, I don’t know how to flirt so I bully you, I thought we had that covered,” you snapped without giving it a second thought. Then completely regretting it.

His smirk was wide now, as he laughed maniacally. “Oh so you’re flirting.”

Your turn to blush had come. “No.”

He grinned. “You are.”

But then it was a miracle, a way to avoid this subject completely because it was not the conversation to be having with the current situation. “Shut up.”

“No, you are trying to flirt with me, I won’t shut up!” He mocked you.

“Shut up!”

“No!”

“Thomas! I think that’s Harry!”

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[where-dreamers-go]

Merlin x Fem!Reader (Soulmate AU) (Text reupload)

(A/N: Yes, I know I already have this up here, but it’s a DeviantArt link and it’s bothering me because it’s an external link. So...can’t take away the link aspect because it won’t let me save it. SOOO...here’s an insert reader from 2017 and my first attempt at a soulmate au.

Warnings: Minor angst?, fluff.

Word Count: 3,773 words)

“I’m telling you, Gaius, I felt something. It has to be magic if I woke up like that,” Merlin stood in front of his room as his older companion prepared breakfast.

“Merlin,” Gaius sighed and turned to the young man, “It could simply be nothing, but.....if you feel so strongly about it we should keep ours eyes open.”

Merlin simply nodded with a minute smile, not informing Gaius that, despite all they’ve been through, he was strangely looking forward to discovering the source of his new curiosity.

The young sorcerer went back into his room to dress for the day and giving the world a hopeful smile as his blue eyes peered down at his golden mark over his heart.

“Someday,” Merlin whispered to himself before pulling on a colored shirt.

* * *

Hide it.

You had to hide it.

The gold, the shape, the details.

A mark that helped bring souls together must be hidden.

Everyone else did since as long as their ancestors could remember. A unique mark appearing on everyone some time after birth, an image that would be perfectly matched to their soul mate. Whether the mark actually resembled something or was a pattern of shapes or swirls. It was said to be a powerful experience to meet one’s other half especially upon realizing who each other truly were.

Regardless of one’s mark, the pair were usually still bound by the laws of whichever kingdom they lived in. A ridiculous notion that you didn’t bother yourself with much. You only pitied those who were unlucky enough to deal with strict kingdoms where it was difficult between soul mates with different statures in life or overall trickier situations.

You were one of those lucky enough to live in Camelot, but even more fortunate to have been granted the opportunity to work in the castle as a servant. It was a drastic change from tending to the farms your family and neighbors grew for many decades.

A newly adjusted life as a castle servant gave you many opportunities during the day to daydream about your possible first encounter with your special someone as you went about your duties.

But how in the world were you suppose to find your soul mate when yours was inconveniently located over your heart?

It wasn’t as if your soul mate was going to display theirs. Well, you certainly hoped not.

You preferred not to tell anyone outside of your family about your golden dragon mark on your chest lest they scrutinize you for having a magical creature as your mark. Some marks weren’t even anything specific as an animal let alone a silhouette of a flying dragon. Your family liked to relish in their hopes of it meaning that your soul mate was a Pendragon, however deep down you knew that wasn’t true. Not just because King Arthur and Queen Guinevere were widely known as soul mates by now, but how the meanings of the marks went much deeper than names or outside appearances. They were symbols of who they were and you were honestly worried for your other half because of living where the majority of kingdoms outlawed magic and if your mark implied as such, you hoped they could take care of themselves enough not to be put to death before you met. If only you knew where to find them because even a peaceful kingdom such as Camelot forbid magic of any sort.

Working in the castle was still a learning experience that involved memorizing directions and scheduled times for cleaning rooms or simply changing sheets on a bed before washing them in a large barrel of water.

Not unlike your current state as you hauled a hefty load of used bedsheets in a basket from more than one bedchamber. This week had brought a number of visitors who sought to greet the new queen of Camelot; although they were a bit late by a few months.

Many of the castle’s servants, like yourself, were scampering around like ants on a daily quest. You had met a few already during your short time there, but remembering their names was more of a challenge than learning where to clean the laundry.

You continued walking with the basket wrapped in your arms as you centered your direction on getting to the lower levels of the castle. Taking a turn, you gingerly made your way down the stairs, being careful to the placement of your feet on each step as your eyes focused on the stone beneath you. The last thing you wanted was to bust a kneecap or make yourself look like a fool if you couldn’t even handle walking down about a dozen steps. More than halfway down the stairs, a patch of skin on your chest prickled and heated into a burn causing you to loose focus on anything else, including the placement of your footing.

“Ah!” You felt the ever fearful sensation of falling ripple through you.

Your body twisted to the left as gravity pulled down on your legs, the basket of dirty sheets leaping from your grasp. Your positioning was quickly leading the fall to surely be on your side in a painful trip instead of toppling headfirst.

(E/C) eyes were trained onto the steps as you closed the distance with hands hardly ready for the impact that was deemed so evident.

It never came.

Well, not from the stairs at least.

A pair of arms were braced under yours before you even registered anyone was near you. Their blue shirt filled your vision as you now felt how your savior was supporting you from even sitting on a single step. Being as your legs were the only part of you touching the cold stone.

“Are you alright?” A strained male voice asked, you figured it was from the position you found yourselves in, but the voice was soothing nonetheless.

“I’m fine,” you answered, not even positive if you were lying or not.

You didn’t fall, which was a plus. Yet your mark was burning into a searing pain with your blood rushing through your veins as rapid as a fleeing rabbit. Too much so for simply almost falling. Your mark had never done that before and you knew that it wasn’t a normal occurrence.

“Thank you,” you said, finally looking up to meet a pair of gleaming ocean blue eyes. A fluttering in your stomach added to the overwhelming feelings that coursed through your body that severely increased in this young man’s presence. One of whom you have never met.

“I’m Merlin,” he smiled as he pulled you to your feet.

The name registered in your mind in a snap, you had heard about him from the other castle servants about how he was the King’s loyal manservant with a name that seemed to stick in your mind.

His hands slid down to your hands before slipping away hesitantly and their comforting warmth they left on you slowly faded.

“I’m (Y/N),” you said, glancing up at him, your hand subconsciously going up to press onto the fabric of your dress that hid your mark underneath. As much as you tried, you couldn’t ease the stinging as it kept your attention.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Merlin asked bringing his hand up to copy your movements. His blue eyes suddenly bouncing between the two of you.

You didn’t reply, you couldn’t, and every part of you was screaming know if he felt it too. The pulling, the aching itch of your bright mark, and the undeniable need to be closer despite only just meeting him.

Was he your match?

Azure eyes bore into your orbs eagerly waiting yours short reply and full of hidden knowledge. His brown jacket moving shakily upon his now heaving chest.

“It burns,” you whispered, hand pausing its movements.

“Your mark?” His voice came out low, tickling your insides into a shudder.

Again you were silent, but you nodded. Oblivious to the by-passers having to walk around the pair of you at the foot of the stairs.

“A golden dragon,” Merlin whispered so quietly that your ears barely caught his three words.

But those words had your eyes widening to saucers and lips parting for what little breath you had.

Merlin took ahold of your free arm, pulling you away from the stairway before almost tripping over the dirty sheets. Using his brown boots to repeatedly kick the scattered fabric and basket aside to be out of the way of others.

Now beside a wall, the two of you stood in front of one another with the fabric mess at your feet.

Brushing aside his red neckerchief, he adjusted his shirt enough to pull the fabric down to his left to reveal a very golden dragon. A shining silhouette of a flying dragon’s profile was imprinted above his heart, an exact copy of your own soul mate mark.

Neither your eyes nor your mind could fully believe it was real. Yet your heart and soul was singing with rejoice at the discovery.

You raised a trembling finger to Merlin’s mark and tentatively touched it. A jolt went up your arm at the skin contact and he let out an uneven breath. Being mesmerized by the sight of it all would be an understatement, what with your shaking knees. Not only did you find a matching mark--your soul mate was seemingly happy and healthy. You would be more than glad to spend a few hours tracing your fingers along the delicate shapes on his warm skin.

An equally heated hand went up to cover your own with the thumb rubbing gentle strokes on your knuckles.

“May I see yours?” Merlin asked, breaking you out of your trance and focusing on his blushing cheeks.

Only now did you realize how close the two of you were standing from each other. Shoes mer centimeters from touching and Merlin’s breath billowing your hair.

Your eyes flickered over to where people were still milling around. Of all places, you and your soul mate, Merlin, had to meet at one of the most used staircases in the entire castle. That being said, you weren’t too keen on anyone seeing you physically disclose the location of your mark. Even if the neckline of your simple dress made the task rather simple.

“It’s okay,” Merlin softly shifted you to have your back to the stairs and effectively blocking your actions from any prying eyes.

Your fingers worked on their own accord, pulling the (F/C) fabric across your skin the short distance to reveal your still stinging mark.

“We are soul mates,” he whispered, “I knew something was different in Camelot.”

Tilting your head at him, you watched as Merlin’s mouth morph into a triumphant smile. You half expected him to touch your mark as you did with his, but he wrapped you in his surprisingly strong arms instead. A most welcome gesture being as you’ve never felt more relieved and happy in your entire life as you hugged your arms firmly around his waist.

There was a lightness in your chest that could have sent you floating to the ceiling as you nuzzled your cheek into your soul mate’s chest. Safety and joy emitted into you like the warmth from a fire. One of Merlin’s hands combing themselves into your hair while his other held you securely to him by the waist.

“I’m so glad I moved to Camelot,” you mumbled into his shirt as you squeezed your arms tighter around him.

You were sure the grin on your face would become permanent with Merlin resting his chin on the top of your head despite the tears threatening to roll down your cheeks.

“MEEERRRRLIIINNN!”

A spark of fear shot through you at the sound of the booming, annoyed voice. Your other half on the other hand didn’t seem fazed by it in the slightest. If anything his grip on you only grew tighter.

“Merlin! There you are,” King Arthur came from around the corner spotting his manservant. “What are you doing?” He pulled a face as his confusion sank in at the sight of his brunette friend embracing a girl.

“I....,” Merlin gazed down at you, “I found her.”

The look in his eyes as you met his again was overflowing with emotion. Ones that made your heartstrings pull and flex if only as a sign to tell you that he already cared so deeply about you.

Arthur’s eyes snapped wide and he pointed between you and Merlin.

Both you and Merlin looked back to the other young man.

You held in a giggle at the King’s lengthy reaction as Merlin nodded in glee with a new shine to his blue eyes.

“Oh.” Arthur peered around in thought before spying the floor. “Pick up your mess and the both of you can have the rest of today off. I’m sure someone else can take care of the laundry,” he looked straight at Merlin. “But I expect you to be on time tomorrow.”

“Really?” You gasped, fingers digging into the back of Merlin’s jacket. “Thank you, sire.”

“You’re welcome,” King Arthur let a smile slip. “If anything, you need luck having Merlin as your soul mate.”

“Ha. Ha,” Merlin looked as if he was suppressing the need to roll his eyes. “Thank you, Arthur.”

The King nodded at the both of you as he went to walk away, but turned to point at the scattered mess.

“Now, Merlin.”

“Right!” Your soul mate released you and spun out of your grasp.

A surprise giggle escaped your lips as you watched Merlin crouch down and rush to gather the almost forgotten mess. Before you knew it he had everything back in the basket and was standing with it ready to go.

“Shall we?”

It wasn’t difficult for Merlin to keep pace with you as the two of you completed your earlier journey to drop off the laundry. Leaving hand in hand after a hurried explanation to a rather confused woman who was already scrubbing away at some clothes.

You sprinted to keep up with Merlin, following his lead through the halls of the castle. Passing some knights as you went who called out to Merlin in a friendly manner to only have Merlin shout over his shoulder in passing.

“I found my soul mate!” Merlin was practically beaming with his wide grin that you equally matched with a short wave to the men.

Cheers and whistles echoed down the halls from the red-caped knights that added fuel to Merlin’s already quick pace.

Sooner than you thought in your adrenaline-rushed state, Merlin had finally stopped long enough to swing open a wooden door.

“Gaius,” Merlin called out, scanning the room as he lead you inside.

“Yes, Merlin. What is it?” An older man, much older in age than the knights, looked up from a much tattered book and adjusted his glasses. He eyed Merlin with suspicion, making you wonder what trouble the young man beside you had gotten into in the past.

“Gaius,” Merlin took a few breaths, “This is (Y/N). She’s my soul mate. (Y/N), this is Gaius the Court Physician.”

If only you would have noticed the physician’s jaw drop, but Merlin’s voice saying your name as if it was a proclamation of love was an easy distraction. Your hand that held his tightened all the more.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, (Y/N),” Gaius stood from his seat to shake your hand.

“A-and you as well, Gaius,” you briefly shook his aged hand.

“Ah....How did you both meet? Might I ask?” Gaius’ mind was clearly running through a long-winded list of questions and a mixture of emotions at the moment.

It wasn’t everyday that someone you know finds their soul mate.

You and Merlin on the other hand were clearly feeding off of one another’s energies, practically bouncing in place with excitement that only grew.

“When I was heading back to grab Arthur’s armor.....that I forgot, and once I went around the corner to go up the stairs my mark started to burn. But before I could do anything I saw (Y/N) about to fall down the stairs. I mean I didn’t know who she was at the time, but my feet were running after her before I realized what was happening.” Merlin’s fingers easily wound their way between yours. “Then we showed each other our marks just before Arthur showed up and figured out what happened.”

“Not to forget I dropped the laundry basket and made a mess out--.”

“That wasn’t a problem,” Merlin interrupted you and gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Let me be very honest with you both,” Gaius started and making you tense, “Soul mates, especially upon first meeting one another can hardly stay away from each other. They are drawn together.”

“Like Arthur and Gwen,” Merlin added in, unfazed by the in progress lecture.

“Yes and you remember how difficult it was for them once they found out. Being together makes soul mates complete and one. So I advise you both to spend your time wisely...and I hope Arthur understands your situation.”

“He gave us both the day off,” Merlin boasted as if he’d never had one, which quite frankly might be the case.

“Today or tomorrow?”

“Just today. You know Arthur can’t function without me,” Merlin glanced down at you with a smirk.

You bumped him lightly with your clasped hands.

“It’s nearly noon, Merlin.”

“I’m sure Arthur has told Gwen and he can survive a few hours without me. Well, hopefully,” Merlin mumbled the last bit, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

Gaius only sighed, looking about his home, and grabbed an empty hand basket.

“I’m....going to the market....for....I’ll be back later,” Gaius excused himself and walked past the pair of you before leaving.

“Is he alright?” You asked, glancing at the now closed door.

“....He might be in shock,” Merlin suggested with a shrug. “He’ll be fine though. I promise.” He reassured you, leading past the table and towards a door on the other side of the room with a couple of small steps leading up to it.

“Alright, but....maybe we should have listened more about what he had to say,” you said, “Just in case.”

“We’ll be fine. I won’t let anything bad happen to you for as long as I live,” he opened the door and gestured you inside. “But we won’t have as much time as we would like to speak to one another. So we can talk in here.”

“Is this your room?” You asked, taking a seat on the edge of his bed.

“Yeah,” he glanced around the room a bit.

You could sense his overall giddiness, however there was an amount of anxiety now that the two of you were alone.

“To be honest....I was afraid something would have happened to you before we met,” Merlin shut the door behind him, “because of our mark.”

“Afraid? I was worried you’d be locked up for magic or something. It’s a dragon, Merlin!” You gestured to your own mark.

“Er....About that,” he started fidgeting his feet.

“What?” You furrowed your eyebrows at him.

“I have magic.”

Your eyes widened and you were sure your eyebrows met your hairline.

“And I’m the last Dragonlord,” he added, “Which would probably explain our mark.”

“....Dragonlord?.....B-but I....I don’t have magic....a-and you....you have magic,” you tried desperately to have your mind wrap around this information being that it wasn’t theoretical anymore. “But you’re....”

“Arthur’s manservant.” Merlin sat down beside you, his hand finding its way to yours and intertwining with your fingers.

“Yeah,” you breathed out. “How in the world have you not even been caught?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We some have time,” you scooted closer to him with a sweet smile and rested your joined hands on your lap, his hand nicely nestled between yours. “Mister I-can-hide-my-magic-powers.”

“We do,” Merlin leaned closer and lowered his voice, “And I’m pretty sure Arthur will come looking for me before dinner.”

A short snicker shook you before resting your head against his shoulder and peered up into his deep blue eyes.

“I really hope we have more time than that,” you said, watching as he shifted his attention to his free hand that was closed.

“Well as long as nothing decides to attack Camelot today, we should be as good as you make me feel.”

Your eyebrows rose shortly as you breathed out a soft laugh.

“Did you just use a line on me?”

“Yes.....It was bad wasn’t it?”

“No, it was cute,” you smiled, feeling your cheeks get a tad rosy.

“So are you,” Merlin answered back and placed a small rose in your hair.

“Where did--Oh.”

Merlin moved a few stray hairs away from your face before resting his forehead on top of yours. The pair of you closed your eyes, absorbed in the calm moment that resulted from such a fast-paced turn of events.

“Thank you,” you whispered, still keeping your eyes shut and not entirely wanting to break the silence.

“For the flower?” Merlin asked, his fingers playing with the ends of your hair.

“No, for catching me.”

A soft warmth pecked your nose causing you to open your eyes in time to see Merlin kiss the tip of your nose again.

“I’ll never let you fall.”

You couldn’t help biting your lip because the back of your head was hurting from smiling continuously. Something in you told you that he would be the most positive person in your entire life.

“Merlin?”

“Hmm?”

“Did your mark stop burning too?”

“Yeah. I forgot when though.”

“Good,” you snuggled into his side as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

You looked forward to your future together even if you didn’t quit know it would involve more magic and adventure than you had ever experienced. Merlin would show you more of his magic and entrust you with knowledge of his destiny. No matter what was to come, you would be more than glad to help him in any way you could, even if that meant making sure he remembered to rest and eat.

~~~

Part Two 💖

[olivinesea]

No One Else But Me

a/n: Trying this Whumptober situation. No real warnings, things get a little suggestive at the end. ~1.7k

Emily is trying to adjust to new life by running away from her old one.

Whumptober 2021: Day 3: insults - taunting - “Who did this to you?”

She stared out her office window, eyes unfocused as the fog swirled around the buildings, masking their shapes, muting every color to a thin, interminable grey. She didn’t really see any of it, instead it acted as a background upon which she could project her memories. This time of day was always the hardest. Nearly time to leave, the rush of investigations and consultations past, only a few lingering forms to fill out. This was the time when she felt the most homesick. She hated that she knew how that felt now, after having spent the first several decades of her life without a home to be sick for. There had been residences and staff, grounds and gardens, each location only differentiated by the language that wove through the hallways and kitchens. In the ambassador’s presence it was always English. But Emily, so often lost to the shadows and corners of her mother’s political ambitions, was captivated by the intricacies of each new language she encountered. Her quick mind absorbed vocabulary and structure, trying to capture the one thing she could take with her when they inevitably left, searching for something that might connect her back to all the places she’d been.

Her childish hunt for a home in words became a useful skill when she chose her profession, helping her to blend seamlessly into various backstories, to move without notice through foreign countries, never attracting attention as the loud American who insisted on English. She found it a little bitter that of all the foreign places she could have ended up, she’d picked the only one with closer ties to English than America. Conversing in foreign languages didn’t just help with her job, it helped Emily become someone different, someone with roots, with a history of more than loneliness. Supervisors were always pleased to discover the breadth of her ability, thinking they’d lucked out on such valuable tool. They didn’t realize she was using them as much as they were using her. They were her ticket to places farther and farther removed from Emily Prentiss, places she hoped she could find someone different to be, someone worth being.

Now Emily was in London, running a unit for Interpol, having taken the ultimate journey away from herself, all the way into death and back. Despite getting exactly what she’d thought she wanted when she threw herself into different identities, she found herself wishing she could be the old Emily again. She’d been there about six months and still hardly knew anyone. She was purposely keeping distant from her co-workers, not yet recovered from the mess she made back in Virginia.

For a few years there she had allowed herself to believe she had found a home, been part of a family. She’d given everything to keep that family safe, to the point where she could no longer exist for them. Then, against all odds, she’d had a chance to return, to fit back into the space she’d left only to find it would never work. She was a different person to them now. Not in obvious ways but just enough to make it hurt. She wasn’t really leaving them, she reasoned, because they had already left her. Despite their best intentions to make her feel welcome they couldn’t undo their mourning, couldn’t forget the weight of her casket.

Turning away from the window, she repeated her promise to herself. She would’t make that mistake again. She’d lived a life without attachments for so long, this was just a return to form. She could do her job without making friends, without finding a family. The other agents had stopped inviting her out for drinks after too many declined offers. She was aware of their whispers—she was cold, she was aloof, she was calculating. All things she had heard before, insults so unoriginal they were bereft of any power. As she watched the group leave, laughing, jostling, she had a brief moment of unreality, a layering of wistful memories over her vision. Shaking her head, she turned back to her work, twisting away from the feeling. If she didn’t think about it, it didn’t matter.

Later that evening, after the lights in the office had long been turned off, the take out she’d mostly ignored gone cold on the counter, she went out to a bar. It was not one of the ones her coworkers might congregate at. This place was full of dimly lit alcoves, more corners than seemed logical for a standard shaped building. Far too loud for conversation, but no one went there to talk. She drank until her hands were numb, a sensation that reminds her of being dead. Unconcerned, she sipped at another drink while simultaneously drawing in the attention of a stranger, like she has so many nights before. It didn’t even take any effort anymore, she knew all the right moves to make. Her chest felt hollow as she flashed a smile, tilting her head just enough to make her intentions clear. Soon they were stumbling out the side door, ricocheting off one another as they made their way to the other person’s apartment.

Time blurred, sounds and colors fading in and out. Laughing up the stairs, fumbling the lock. Another drink offered and forgotten. A door opened into unlit bedroom—no just leave the lights off. The sheets smelled of a fabric softener she recognized but couldn’t place. Come here. All so familiar, she wasn’t sure if it was happening now or if she’d passed out on her couch again. It all felt the same. But no, she was in this particular bed, the other woman asleep beside her, breathing lightly. Emily stared up at the ceiling, thoughts trailing behind her actions, gradually catching up to herself. She was trying to remember how many times she’d been in this position. Wondering if the count reset when she died.

She was so deep in her memories she didn’t feel a hand slip under her shirt, sliding up her stomach slowly until it stopped abruptly, met with an unexpected change in terrain. The thick knot of scar tissue raised on her chest, just below her sternum.

“What—what is that?”

Startled, she pushed the hand away and sat up, trying to remember the other woman’s name. She twisted her fingers into the soft t-shirt fabric, grounding her thoughts in the present moment. That’s the real difference, she thought. She kept her shirt on these days. This was what differentiated now from her youth of doing all the same things—losing herself in the same kind of bars, the endless string of one night stands, the faces blending together. She didn’t usually stay long enough for anyone to notice this quirk. They’re usually too intoxicated to care, to push at this flimsy boundary. She’d gotten good at managing it, making it seem accidental, too rushed to get every piece of clothing off. Besides, the kinds of people she sought out didn’t care about her specifically, only looking to fill the same sort of void in their life as she was in hers. A body to occupy the invisible hours, the times when there wasn’t anything louder than unchecked thoughts. They were all just looking for passage through the night.

No one had ever asked her about her scar before now. Not even her team back at the BAU. She could tell they had wanted to sometimes—Spencer needing to see the proof of her resurrection like the stigmata, Hotch craving restoration of balance years after she had seen his own marks of mortality. But they were all too afraid to ask, too afraid of this new, not-quite-Emily.

She didn’t respond, but looked at the other woman, trying to hold the specific details of her in her mind. She was tired, too tired to keep running. What did it matter if this one stranger saw? She would’t remember her in the morning. She couldn’t even remember her name right now. When she saw that Emily wasn’t moving away, only waiting, watching for the next move, the woman lifted her hand to the hem of Emily’s shirt again.

“Can I?”

Emily’s nod was tight, already angry with herself for wanting this connection, for allowing this vulnerability. But she didn’t stop her. She lifted the shirt up slowly until the scar was fully exposed. Emily looked away as she traced a fingertip across it, always hating the not-feeling sensation of being touched along the dead nerve endings. Knowing she should feel something and being unable to.

“Who did this to you?”

Her voice was hushed, sounding awed, as if Emily was some sort of mythical creature rather than a human being with a lifetime of stupid mistakes. Like she expected to hear a fairy tale of magic and heroes, like there is some purpose behind the scar. As if it was not the never ending reminder that she had lost everything she ever wanted and only had herself to blame.

She had thought she was so smart, that she could keep everyone safe and handle it on her own. She’d thought that right until the moment she died. Like every other fool, she hadn’t realized what she had until she lost it. She had insisted to herself that things were as they had always been, that she had to handle them the way she always had. She knew now that it could have been different but it was too late.

The scar was a hateful reminder every day when she looked at herself in the mirror. She wished she could avoid looking at it but it pulled her attention like a black hole, taunting her with her frailty, her desire for connection thrown back in her face. He could have just as well stabbed her in the heart, the symbolism would have fit better.

Emily scowled. This wasn’t what she came here for. She just wanted to forget about herself and she knew exactly how to do that. She pulled the hand away again, this time rolling on top of the other woman, knees braced on either side of her hips. She laced their fingers together, bringing the woman’s other hand up to meet the searching one, trapping them against the pillow above her head. Emily leaned forward, her face close to the stranger’s, pupils dilated as anticipation flashed heat across her cheeks, arching her back to try to meet Emily’s body with her own.

“It doesn’t matter.”

[idreamofplaid]

Flashes of Freedom

Summary: This is how freedom to live your own life looks.

Characters: Sam x Reader; Callie (OFC); Dean and Jody mentioned

Word Count: 1824

A/N: This is a request for @awesomesusiebstuff . I wanted to write something for Susan for being so wonderfully warm and thoughtful. She got me tickets to Jensen’s and Jared’s Stageit panels. This is the best way I know to say thank you! 😘💗 I loved them both.

Flash #1

I’m still getting used to the whole idea. I ran from this life, but I couldn’t. Not really. It wasn’t because Chuck was pulling all the strings either. It was because I felt a sense of duty to my family, to Dean, and ultimately to myself. I couldn’t turn my back on who I was. I had a role to play that was bigger than I could have comprehended, and I had to face that head on with my brother. We both made choices over the years that we aren’t proud of, but maybe now we can finally come to peace with those regrets. Maybe we can hang onto the parts of ourselves and what we’ve done that are good and let go of all the rest.

One of the things I wanted to hang onto was Baby. She was my home before there was a bunker, but she belongs to Dean. They’ve always had a special bond, so I found my own Baby. It took awhile. I scoured the country for months looking for another black ‘67 Impala. I finally found her; I call her My Baby. The doors don’t squeak the same, but maybe in time. 

I took My Baby, and I hit the road. Dean headed up to hang out at Jody’s for a few days, saying something about home cooked meals and wanting to experience how a family lives since now that might be an actual possibility for us.

It’s still hard for me to wrap my head around the idea that we’re free to have lives. After all that fighting and struggle, we can truly control our own destinies. I feel like mine’s in North Carolina. Sounds weird, but something is drawing me there. It isn’t a part of the country I’ve been to very much. I tried California once. That didn’t work out too well, so I’m heading in the opposite direction.

I like the mountains here. They’re soft and rolling. They give everything they surround a secure and sheltered feeling. It’s beautiful and serene. I could stay here, I think, start a new life. 

There’s something I need to do to start this new life. It’s a symbol of starting a new chapter. I’ve been thinking about it for awhile, and I believe I’m finally ready. I scan the main street of the little town until I find what I’m looking for. It’s not a barber shop. I don’t want all my hair gone, just shorter. I’m thinking the barely hit my collar kind of short, that wouldn’t be short enough for Dean, but it’ll make the statement I want. It will tell me things are different now. It makes me a little nervous getting it cut because it’s been a part of me for so long. I settle on a salon that has a slightly modern look for a town like this.

Inside, it’s lots of chrome, clean lines, and green plants. I like the feel of it. It’s welcoming, but there’s also an air of competent efficiency. I need both. I’m really going to do this, so I want to feel comfortable and like this person who’s going to do it knows what they’re doing. 

The receptionist takes my name, and I sit down to wait. I sift through the magazines on the table; nothing grabs my interest, so I decide to just wait. You catch my attention as soon as you walk into the reception area, and I feel my heart do a little flip. You call my name, and I follow you. Yeah, you’re the woman I can trust to cut my hair.

You run your fingers through my hair and lift it up, professionally assessing it; but how my hair might look when you’re done isn’t where my mind goes. It’s been awhile since I thought about a woman like this, and I notice how pretty your smile is when you ask me for the second time, “Are you sure you want to cut it?”

I take a look at myself in the mirror. I’m completely covered by a black cape except for my head, to me it looks like a blank slate. I give you a nod. “Yeah, cut it.”

When you finish, you give me a handheld mirror and turn me around so I can see the back. It’s different, and that’s what I need. You spin me back around to face the big mirror again and tilt your head, looking at my reflection. “You’re still handsome, but I did like the hair.” Your flirtiness sparks some courage in me, and I take my next big step; I ask you out.

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

Flash #2

The next night I take you to what you have told me is the only Italian restaurant in town. It’s classic and traditional from the red and white checked tablecloths covering the tables to the wooden paneling on the walls. Each table has a white candle in a heavy red glass container that creates a soft glow of light and an intimate atmosphere. The way your eyes look in the candlelight does things to me; it makes me feel hopeful.

I’m relaxed with you, truly at ease. For the first time in forever, I don’t feel like I’m looking over my shoulder. We choose a bottle of wine and get to know each other better while we sip the full bodied red and wait for our food. You tell me you’ve lived in this area all your life, thought about leaving briefly for something bigger and more exciting; but you realized your roots were here.

It all sounded about as far away from the life I’d known as it could be. I noticed everything about you that night, so many details that wrapped me up in the web of you. Little things, like the way you twisted your spaghetti around your fork before you put it in your mouth. I saw the bigger things too, the life changing things. You look into my eyes when I’m talking like I’m saying the most fascinating thing you’ve ever heard, but I know it can’t be; I’m still holding so much back from you. I don’t want to scare you off, and my life has been a scary thing. I’m holding it back, but I want you to know. I want you to know me.

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

Flash #3

Your hair is plastered to your forehead, and the strain is evident on your face. I tell you to breathe, and you push your breath out deliberately through your lips as slow and steady as you can. It’s hard to watch you in this much pain, and there isn’t really anything I can do.

When the contraction passes, I guide your head down to the pillow so you can rest for a few minutes before the next one hits. You’re weak from all the effort of bringing our baby into the world, but still you smile at me. “I love you, Sam.”

I’m still holding your hand in mine; I raise it to my lips and kiss it gently. I return your smile and push your damp hair back from your forehead. “You’re amazing.” I didn’t get a chance to say anything else because another contraction tore through your body.

Our daughter was born a few minutes later. Seeing her in your arms and watching the way you looked at her was the most incredible moment of my life. My heart was filled with more love than it could hold and my eyes filled with tears. It was the first time in my life I cried because I was happy.

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

Flash #4

“Wake up, Sam.” I feel you dragging your hand down my chest and over my stomach. You’re whispering in my ear, calling for me, “Sam?”

I’m not fully awake when I turn to you and take you in my arms, kissing you deeply. It’s instinctual now, as natural as breathing. I’m used to having you beside me, sharing a bed with me, and wanting me. You’ve been wanting me more often lately, just like you did at this point in your pregnancy with Callie. I’m not complaining at all, far from it. I love giving you what you need, and I’m pleasantly tired. We made love when we came to bed tonight, and if you want me again already; you’re going to have me any way you want. 

In the dark of our bedroom, in the middle of the night, I love you. I give you, at least try to, everything you have given to me. I show you with my body things I still don’t think I’ve found the words to tell you exactly how I feel. The way you’re kissing me back tells me that you know.

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

Flash #5

It’s a morning like all our other mornings, but there’s nothing ordinary about it. You’re sitting by the window, holding our baby son, and singing quietly to him. Callie is on my lap, and I’m reading her favorite book to her. She has the words memorized now, and can tell the story along with me.

Our little girl’s laughter is such a sweet sound. Her delighted reaction is always the same, like it’s the first time she’s ever heard the story. I close the book and bop her on the nose. That makes her giggle even louder, and you lift your head to look over at us and smile. Callie grins at me; her big Y/E/C are exactly like yours. “Can we read another story, Daddy?”

My heart gets bigger when I hear her say it. There’s no other love like the love you feel for your child, and you gave me the gift of that twice. “Sure we can, turtle.” She flashes her cute little smile filled with baby teeth when she hears the name. You started calling her that when she was toddling around and taking her favorite plushie, a yellow turtle, with her everywhere. Callie goes over to the bookcase, much more steady on her feet now, and brings another book back to me. 

You’re putting our baby boy down in his cradle by your chair for his nap when Callie crawls back into my lap. She settles and opens the cover of the book, but then she turns. If it was possible to plot with a two year old, I’d believe you and our daughter planned what she did next. She reached up and took a fistful of my hair that’s grown back down to my shoulders into her little hand. “Daddy, your hair’s pretty.”

You’ve been listening and crossing the room to us this whole time. You place a kiss on top of her head. “Yes, baby, Daddy’s has pretty hair.” The look you give me is pleased, content, and suggestive. Silently, you let me know it’s going to be your hands in my hair tonight. I’m glad I let it grow back.

Everything: @gambitwinchester @princessmisery666 @onethirstyunicorn @peridottea91 @logical-princey @emilyshurley @beenlovingromansincedayoneish @fangirlxwritesx67 @waywardbaby @atc74 @ledzeppelinsbonzo @shaniquacynthia @mariekoukie6661 @tumbler-tidbits @67-chevy-baby @fandom-princess-forevermore @terrarium-jpeg @emoryhemsworth @crashdevlin @heycasbutt @jules-1999 @mrsdeannafuckingwinchester @cosicas-cuquis @sammyimpala-67 @queenoftheunderdark @dean-winchesters-bacon @mrs-meghan-winchester @timelordy-fangirl2 @sweetness47 @hobby27 @awesomesusiebstuff @kickingitwithkirk @gh0stgurl @becs-bunker @sandlee44 @supernaturalgrandma @lonewolf471 @sea040561 @dawnie1988 @volleyballer519 @outcastedangel @kdfrqqg @lizette50 @daisymoder72 @sorenmarie87 @oldfreakything 

Sam/Jared: @girl-next-door-writes @stunudo @feelmyroarrrr @winchesterxfamilybusiness @idabbleincrazy @evansrogerskitten @focusonspn @i-joined-social-media-finally @autumninavonlea @spnxbsessed​ @durinsbride​ @deansyahtzee​ @wendibird​ @team-free-will-you-idjiot​ @waywardnerd67​ @fullmooner​ @neii3n​ @supernatural-took-me-over​ @julesthequirky​ 

[thepandapopo]

Promises - A Sylvix 2020 Holiday Fic

Summary:

When Felix learns that Sylvain has never had the chance to truly enjoy the Yule holiday (or any holiday for that matter), he makes it his personal mission to correct this injustice.

OR

Felix just really wants Sylvain to know that he's loved. What better way than to melt down his favorite sword into an engagement ring?

Posted for A Very Sylvix Holiday 2020

Warnings: N/A. Rated T for vague mentions of sex. 

Sylvain/Felix #Sylvix  Fluff | Proposals | Family/Found Family #sylvixholiday  4300 words https://archiveofourown.org/works/28086762  I hope y'all like my sylvix holiday oneshot! As usual kudos, likes, and RTs welcome :) I hope I can share a little joy with all of you this holiday.

It was no secret that Sylvain and Felix grew up together. In fact, it was something that the older boy liked to remind their mutual friends every chance he got how adorable little Fe used to follow him around like a lost duckling, clinging to him whenever something or the other inevitably made his eyes mist with tears.

But in all his years growing up with Sylvain, the full force of Sylvain’s absolute joy over the Yule holiday never really came up until the year after the war ended, only a few months into his official ‘move in’ to the Fraldarius castle and the freedom that came from saying a long overdue fuck you to Margrave Gautier, whom – Dimitri assured – was on the fast track to being unseated so that Sylvain could finally take over and begin peace talks with Sreng.

“You’re acting like you’ve never celebrated Yule before.” Felix deadpanned as he watched his boyfriend (and new housemate) string tinsel along the hallways, complete with a mistletoe at every door.

Instead of a reply, Sylvain merely stuck his tongue out at him in an eerily reminiscent way that made Felix’s head spin with memories of two younger children in days long past.

He never really got an answer as to Sylvain’s strange behavior.

The Yule holiday season came and went, and it was only halfway through the next year on a sleepy summer morning that Felix learned why in one of their rare early morning pillow talks.

“What do you mean your family didn’t celebrate holidays?”

A warm huff of breath tickled the hairs atop his head, “it’s exactly like it sounds, Fe. My family wasn’t exactly the type to sit around a dinner table and chat amicably. The only time we celebrated was when we were with company or if my father wanted to rub elbows with other nobles and sniff out a marriage candidate for me.”

Felix is very glad that his face is buried in Sylvain’s chest so that he can’t see the fury in his eyes or the way that his eyes scrunch against a familiar sting when the truth squeezes his heart in a death grip.

His arms must also tighten unconsciously because just as soon as Felix makes some absent calculations on how long it would take to ride to Gautier and castrate Sylvain’s father, the warm strong arms around him are pulling him in tighter in reciprocation and a large hand tangles itself into his unbound locks.

“It’s fine,” Sylvain mutters, lips moving in a whisper across Felix’s forehead. “After all, I’ve got you now, don’t I? Holidays are for spending time with family at home and you are my home, Fe.”

Well, fuck him three way to Ailell if the fool isn’t right. Sylvain’s home is with him, here in Fraldarius castle. Here in his room, in his bed, and in his arms.

And fuck it all even more if Felix doesn’t make every holiday from that day forth the best damn holiday Sylvain has ever had to make up for his lost childhood.

Which is exactly how Felix finds himself standing in front of the stall of his favourite blacksmith in Fhirdiad later that year on the first snowfall of the season.

(It is very important that he does not go to a blacksmith in Fraldarius for this particular task because Goddess forbid Sylvain catch wind of this secret order and bother him about it.)

The weight slung across his hip is a familiar one – the well worn scabbard an extension of his own body and the sword sheathed inside a friend that carried him through the war, but more importantly, also the savior of Sylvain’s life too many times to count.

It only seems appropriate that it continues to accompany them throughout their future together.

“Lord Fraldarius!” The blacksmith greets heartily when he ducks under the entrance flap. “Or should I say Your Grace, now?”

The heat is sweltering inside, but it is easily overshadowed by the thrill and excitement of seeing the wide assortment of sharp blades strewn about for display. But alas, that is not what Felix is here for and he cannot bring home any evidence of what he is up to.

“No need for formalities, Than. Just Felix is fine.”

“Well then, young master Felix, what can I do for you this day? Another sharpening? Or perhaps a new blade?”

It’s all very tempting, but that’s not the reason why Felix has laden his gold purse with a hefty sum before coming here today.

“Actually, I was hoping you would be able to take on a custom request for me…”

----

It takes exactly 53 days before Than finishes his order just in the nick of time when Sylvain and Felix travel to the Kingdom capital with an invitation from Dimitri to spend the holiday with him, Byleth, and basically every other friend from the war that he can send a missive to.

It’s easy enough for Felix to slip away to the blacksmith’s once again while Sylvain is busy catching up with Ashe who chatters non stop about the booming success of Dedue’s Duscur cuisine, much to the embarrassment of the quiet giant who looks like he is torn between wanting to change the subject and basking in the praise of his ‘close friend’ (Sylvain snorts at that one because anyone with eyes can see how smitten Dedue is with the archer and vice versa).

It’s even easier to conceal the little velvet box underneath the layers and layers of wool that protect him from the bitter winter winds that Faerghus is known for.

What isn’t easy, is dragging Dimitri and Annette away to tell them his intentions because the last-minute invitation from their King throws off his entire original plan.

“Oh Goddess! Felix, it’s beautiful.” Annette gushes and peers at the silver band nestled snugly within the ring box cushions.

He’s not too sure about beautiful – there are other things more fitting to the word, like the very man he wants to give this ring to – but he does know that it is breathtaking in its own simple way.

The silver shines brighter than any gem and catches the light no matter which way it is turned. Etched onto the surface of the band in delicate handiwork are swirling lines weaving the symbols of Fraldarius and Gautier together to become something wholly new, something wholly Sylvain and Felix.

“There’s more.”

Gently, Felix pulls the ring out to show his two soon-to-be accomplices the detailing on the inside.

“Don’t bend it,” Felix glares a warning at Dimitri as he places the ring on the outstretched palm of his king.

“I promise I will not,” Dimitri chuckles, but Felix can hear the nervousness buried underneath in a way that only an entire lifetime of friendship can uncover. Regardless, the boar does not close his hand or pick up the seemingly tiny ring dwarfed in his palm, choosing instead to rotate his whole hand so that him and Annette can peer at the graceful cursive inscribed on the inside.

In Life and Death

“I…” Felix swallows the lump of emotion in his throat before continuing quietly, “I had it made from the sword that I used throughout the war.”

Both of his friends gasp at his admission, the crackling fire in the hearth flickering shadows across their faces that twist their face into a deeper shade of shock.

“But Felix,” Annette chokes, “You loved that sword. It was your favourite sword.”

Beside her, Dimitri nods emphatically, “I believe the very words you had said were ‘I will take this sword to my grave’.”

“You carry it around everywhere whenever you travel.”

“Indeed. I have rarely seen you without the familiar scabbard by your side.”

“You literally visited the blacksmith every moon during the war to make sure the blade was upkept.”

“The number of late nights you’ve spent sharpening-“

“Enough.” Felix hisses at them. “I get it, already.”

It’s another heartbeat of silence before he can muster up the courage to verbalize the emotions that are currently running through him; that have always thrummed in his veins whenever Sylvain is by his side.

“It’s… it’s because of how important that sword was to me that I wanted to re-forge it into something that I could give to Sylvain.”

Golden eyes turn down to the floor and Felix has to fight the visceral urge to scuff his boots against the floor like a boy who was just caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or in Felix’s case, with his hand on his father’s ceremonial swords mounted high above the fireplace, requiring both him and Glenn to even reach it.

“He still thinks I’m going to disappear someday and become a mercenary.”

It stings to say out loud, but it’s the truth and Felix will be damned if he ever becomes so much of a coward that he cannot even face the facts in front of him.

A shaggy lock of blonde hair falls from Dimitri’s half updo as he shakes his head. “I’m sure Sylvain doesn’t think that, Felix. You told him that you had decided against that and he believes you.”

But that’s not how Sylvain is. Felix knows that even if Sylvain tells him that he believes that Felix is here to stay, there will always be demons and ghosts lingering in the darkest corners of his mind, whispering poisonous words and you’re not worthy of love’s in his heart.

“He does, but I know him. He’s still scared; I want to give him this to prove that our promise is more than just dying together.” It is more. It is so much more. “It’s… it’s about living together, too.”

Felix does not elaborate further because he doesn’t need to. Despite Dimitri technically being his oldest friend, Sylvain was always his closest and it is no secret that Felix would fight a hundred wars just to see him happy. In fact, fighting to rebuild a world where crests no longer ruled over everyday life was one of the biggest reasons why he had fought to begin with.

He wanted to build a world where Sylvain was free to be… just Sylvain.

Turns out fighting an entire imperial army and a whole legion of crazy cultists is a lot easier than arguing with Sylvain’s demons.

“Oh Felix,” Annette sighs wistfully, “He’s going to love it.”

Felix certainly hopes so, because if he doesn’t, Felix is not only down one extremely well crafted blade, but more importantly it proves that maybe Felix doesn’t know Sylvain as well as he thinks he does.

Dimitri nods his assent, “It suits you both. Even if he didn’t, which I find impossible, he will love it simply because it is coming from you, Felix.”

If his self discipline was ever in question, it is long cleared based solely on the fact that Felix is still standing here under the awed gazes of his king and irritatingly fond friend despite how much every vein in his body screams at him to run literally anywhere else, just to get away from their scrutiny and out of the limelight. But his purpose in dragging Dimitri and Annette away is twofold and he has merely completed the first part of his goal, leaving the second most important bit still hanging in the air.

Taking a deep breath, Felix fills himself with the same steely determination that he brings whenever he steps on the battlefield.

“I’m going to need your help.”

----

Felix hates balls. But Sylvain likes them, and Felix likes making Sylvain happy so somehow Felix always ends up going to them.

Will you dance with me, Fe? Sylvain always asks with that stupidly blinding smile that makes Felix’s heart feel three times too small for the amount of love he feels for the man. And even though he wants to say no, there isn’t an ounce of will in him to actively go against something that clearly means so much to Sylvain.

Each time without fail Felix ends up being twirled around on the dancefloor to the lilting notes of a waltz – or maybe it’s the quickstep? Not that it matters since Sylvain’s leading is graceful enough that even Felix can keep up.

Which is exactly what he banks on.

“Come on, Fe! You owe me a dance still.” Sylvain tugs the flute of champagne from his hand, slipping his own calloused fingers through Felix’s and drawing him gently towards the open floor.

In the sea of Faerghus blues and whites, Sylvain cuts through the slowly diminishing crowd of the Yule ball like the blazing dawn of a new day tugging Felix along by his heartstrings.

He must make a face, because soon enough he’s being bombarded with pouty honey browns and Felix is drowning and completely at the mercy of the man before him.

“Just one.” Felix huffs. He has to put on a show of his usual reluctance after all. Otherwise Sylvain will start to become suspicious.

Sylvain winks like he’s in on a big secret, “just one.”

(They both know it won’t be just one.)

From across the room, Felix nods subtly to Dimitri who is following them with watchful eyes, and immediately, the King disappears to put into motion their grand master plan. If all goes well, Annette should also be on the move rounding up all their friends and entreating the small string quartet to play a half dozen more songs, just enough for the remaining stragglers to retire for the night at the encouragement and behest of Dimitri, before ending the evening with one final song request.

Felix barely has enough time to quickly run through the rest of his plan in his head before warm hands circle his waist and tug him closer into a lungful of citrusy bergamot and earthy pine.

The weight of the small box in his pocket is heavy, but the way Sylvain’s eyes melt into warm chocolate and the encompassing warmth of belonging make Felix feel like he’s walking on air. The world falls away to nothing around them and Felix knows with a surety borne from walking alongside this man for his whole life, that Sylvain is also here in this moment with him.

I love you.

I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

I never want you to feel lonely ever again.

His heart is pounding but Felix does not know if it’s from nerves or from the suddenly overwhelming need to let Sylvain know just how much he is loved.

Steps flow into more steps, and yet it feels like no time at all passes before the world comes back into focus as the first lilting notes of Felix’s requested song (communicated by virtue of Annie) fill the room.

As planned, the hall is almost entirely empty now save for their close friends who loiter around the sides. A flash of bright orange in his periphery tells Felix that Annette is busy running proxy and filling their companions in on the plan.

Goddess knows what Dimitri is up to. Though Felix has a sinking suspicion that the stupidly soft-hearted boar is probably sniffing away happy tears somewhere behind a glass of sparkling cider.

The music swells and that is Felix’s cue.

“Sylvain.” He doesn’t dare speak any louder, lest he break the spell that they are under.

Hazy brown eyes focus slightly, even as Sylvain gives a distracted hum in response.

“I…” Goddess, why are words so hard? “I… I know that you never got to enjoy Yule or any other holiday really when you were growing up.”

“Hm?” Now he has Sylvain’s full attention. “Felix, are you still thinking about what I told you in the summer? It’s fine. Really. I have you now and that’s all that matters.”

“But it’s not okay,” Felix grouses out, still dancing. “It’s not okay that you were robbed of happiness so early in your life. It’s not okay that you never understood what it was like to be loved until we basically beat it into your thick skull at the academy.”

Insulting Sylvain is definitely not how Felix wants this to go, but he relaxes a little when Sylvain merely laughs, “that’s one way to tell me you love me, Fe.”

“I do.” Felix says, almost defiantly as he raises his gaze to meet Sylvain’s stunned one. “I love you more than you know and more than you believe, and it’s because I love you that I promise that I will make up for all those years that you should have been happy – I’ll make every year better than the last.”

It must look so odd, Felix thinks, how the more determined and steelier his face gets, the sappier and lovestruck Sylvain’s expression becomes.

“Fe,” Sylvain’s breath washes over Felix’s face as he presses a soft kiss to his lips. “You already make me so happy. Everyday with you is worth everything I’ve gone through and more. I truly… I truly don’t deserve you.” When Sylvain pulls away, there is a sad smile tugging at his face and a distant part of Felix wants to smack it right off.

“You do deserve me.” Felix snaps. The music is slowly dying away now and his voice comes out louder in the growing silence of the hall than he intends, but his heart is beating a mile a minute and there’s no stopping now, and so Felix decides to hurl himself headlong into the deep end.

“You deserve so much, Sylvain. So much more than I can give you, but I’ll be damned if I don’t at least try.” Felix pulls them to a stop in the middle of the dance floor and gathers both of Sylvain’s much larger ones in his.

He doesn’t dare look up at the love of his life, but their lives are so entwined that Felix can picture with crystal clarity the look of growing confusion and wide eyes that is surely adorning Sylvain’s expression.

“Sylvain Jose Gautier.” Felix likes the way the name rolls off his tongue, but he would like it even better if there was another name added to the end. “You are the biggest fool I’ve ever met. You throw yourself into danger to protect those that you love, yet you never consider yourself worthy of love in return.”

Felix builds enough courage now to look up at Sylvain to see the startled wild confusion grow in his eyes.

Eyes that widen even further as Felix sinks down to one knee with his hands still cradled in Felix’s left, as his right reaches into his coat pocket to pull out a simple velvet box.

“I know,” Felix swallows the lump in his throat and tightens his grip on Sylvain’s hands which are now physically trembling, “I know that you’ve never thought that you would be happy. That you deserved to be happy. But I want to prove you wrong.”

There are tears running down Sylvain’s face now as his mind finally puts the pieces together and the reality of the situation fully dawns upon him.

“I never want you to feel like you aren’t loved ever again. I never want you to feel lonely or like there is no one out there who has your back. I never want you to feel like your life is conditional and that you have to cripple who you are just to be accepted.”

Goddess. Sylvain truly is an ugly crier. Blast him for looking so handsome anyways even with his nose scrunched up and fat crocodile tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

“I love you, Sylvain, and I want to spend the rest of our lives proving it to you, so will you marry me?”

The beat after the metaphorical ball drops is painfully long, but when time resumes again, Sylvain’s knees buckle beneath him and he collapses in a sobbing heap, his body leaning into Felix like he is touch starved and Felix holds the warmth of home in his arms.

“You-“ Sylvain’s voice is hoarse as he chokes the words out through his tears, “You… want to marry me? Marry me?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to.”

(Across the room, Dimitri has to hold Ingrid back from throwing a cup at Felix’s head)

“But, it’s me! Felix, I’m a mess. How could you ever want someone as broken as me?” There is desperation in Sylvain’s eyes, but it is wild, like Sylvain himself doesn’t know if he’s desperate for Felix to just take this last out he’s providing or to reassure him that yes, this is really happening and yes, Felix really wants to marry him.

“You idiot.” Felix huffs fondly, reaching up a pale scarred hand to gently thumb away the nonstop tears on Sylvain’s face. “I’ve wanted you since we were children. I will never stop wanting you. You might be a mess, but you’re my mess.”

Felix withdraws his grip slowly and finally opens the velvet box clutched in his hand. He doesn’t hear so much as feel the sharp inhale from Sylvain as he reveals the glittering silver ring nestled in the soft cushion.

“Do you remember the sword that I carried with me throughout the war?”

Sylvain scrubs his eyes and nods, “Yeah. I remember. Why? What happened-“

Brown eyes widen almost comically again and Sylvain stares at the ring with his mouth agape.

“Felix. Felix, don’t tell me…”

“If this doesn’t prove how serious I am, then I don’t know what will.”

“But Felix, you loved that sword.”

Felix doesn’t even pause to think before he retorts, “You truly are a fool if you think that I love a sword more than I love you.”

Felix does not expect for Sylvain to burst into sobs again, but rather than the irritation that he’s sure he would have felt under different circumstances, the only thing Felix can feel right now is warmth and love blooming in his chest.

“Sylvain,” Felix feels a small smile tug at the corner of his lips as he brings his hand up to frame Sylvain’s tearful face, “will you marry me?”

The crooked wobbly smile that graces Sylvain’s face next is one that Felix will remember for the rest of his life. It is the same one that he’s seen only a handful of times, but he knows what it means and Felix swears that he will dedicate the rest of his life finding ways to silence the demons and bring out that smile again and again and again.

“Yes.”

----

Neither of them remembers much of the celebration after Felix slips the ring on Sylvain’s finger.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of bottles upon bottles of champagne (the good stuff, according to Ashe who may have had a peek in the cellars) and laughter and congratulations.

But most importantly, it passes with Sylvain being surrounded by the people who have risked life and limb for him, and Felix hopes that this is at least a decent start to spending the rest of his life making his future husband happy.

---

It is only much later that night in the aftermath of rumpled sheets and whispers of pleasure that Felix succumbs to the incessant voice at the back of his mind, itching to ask what he already knows but wants reassurance of anyways.

“Did you… was this Yule better than last year?” His breath ghosts over the red hairs on Sylvain’s chest, stirring the owner to shift away ticklish and shuffle so that he can look down at his fiancé.

“Yeah, it was. It was absolutely wonderful.” Sylvain’s voice is quiet when he answers. Quiet enough that the sincerity of it strikes Felix through the heart and stirs the butterflies in his stomach. Above him, he can feel Sylvain’s muscles shifting as he examines his new engagement ring in the moonlight and Felix pointedly does not point out the fresh batch of tears that well up in Sylvain’s eyes when he finds the inscription carved on the inside.

Felix nods his head once in a jerky movement, the abruptness a stark contrast to the curl of satisfactory success blooming in his gut. Good. That’s one year down and an entire lifetime to go.

“I keep my promises, you know.”

He doesn’t need to say it, but the part of him that is finely tuned into the entity that is Sylvain tells him that these are words he needs to hear regardless of how difficult they are tripping up and out of his mouth.

“I promised that I would make up for all those shitty years that you never got to celebrate properly.”

Sylvain huffs a laugh into his hair, “well, you’re off to a strong start. I believe you also promised me that you would make each year better than the last.”

He’s teasing, but Felix hears the small sliver of shy hope that toes the open space between them timidly, almost as if the fool didn’t just hear him say that he keeps all his damn promises.

It will be a long and hard battle before Felix can officially claim victory over Sylvain’s doubts, but he’s no stranger to war and this is one that he already knows the outcome of.

“I will,” Felix whispers into a sweet kiss, “I promised.”

---

It comes as no surprise that Felix stays true to his word.

Either Felix is the most brilliant strategist in all of Fodlan or Sothis herself watches over them, for in a fortuitous twist of fate, the next Yule seasons brings Sylvain and Felix a beautiful baby girl that they lovingly name Sophia Gabriella Fraldarius-Gautier.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX Please follow me on my Twitter if you want to know my fic progress, when I put up new content, and sneak peeks!

[hungover-and-broke-student]

esthetics for the entities, part i.   bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. rest of the fears here.  this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

i.  the buried.   weighed blankets.  drowning.  the comfort of a loved one’s weight.  soil and sand piling on top of you.  hugging so hard it hurts a little.  cramped hiding spots.  letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.  walls pressing in on you.  not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little.  dragging the last second before you have to inhale.  lonely subways.  feeling like one with the earth.  a layer of dirt on you.  looking for something below.  cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts.  hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface.  entering your final resting place before it kills you.  a storm drowning you out.  dust and sand speaking to you.

ii.  the corruption.   insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life.  an illness in a community.  a rag that dirties more than it cleans.  an untreated wound.  containment.  breaching containment.  unbreathable air.  fungi.  one with that you love.  one with what loves you.  a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs.  honeycomb patterns.  an ecosystem within a person.  a curse passed on.  the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed.  blood on a handkerchief.  parasites.  something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.  trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever.  food that’s gone off.  pandora’s box.  death behind a glass.

iii.  the dark.   shadows.  lights that turn off by themselves.  the feel of cold marble.  a beaked creature in the night.  the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing.  touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white, clouded eyes.  months without going outside during sunlight.  pouring dark.  unscrewing lightbulbs.  black matter.  light sensitivity.  a starless night.  time before light was created.  a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.  staying unperceivable.  winter months in the north.  an empty church.

iv.  the desolation.   senseless pain.  warmth of faith.  wax where skin should be.  a blazing fire.  heat without a source.  the third or fourth tragedy in the family.  losing everything you’ve ever held dear.  so much to live for, gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline.  touch that scars.  coffee cup that never goes cold.  scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air.  a child born in fire.  death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods.  animals with burnt fur.  plastic explosives.  burning hot metal.  sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one.  disfigurement.  a kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat.  a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair.  little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.

v.  the flesh.   body horror.  factories.  a hunger for something more filling.  never quite happy with how you look.  the terror of an animal waiitng for slaughter.  a very good meal.  the liquid of a perfect steak.  fighting your worst survival instincts.  a twisted bone.  long nights working out.  more than one heart.  appearance that shapes like clay.  a bag of bones.  bone broth in a pot.  knowing to fear pigs.  the butcher’s shop.  plastic surgery.  something alien inside your body.  a hunger in the gaze laid upon you.  unwitting cannibalism.  forgetting what you used to look like.  being admired for your appearance and appearance only.  teeth marks on skin.  scars from wounds that should’ve killed you.  cooking in scarcity.  fenced in with one way to go.

vi.  the end.   the last page of a book.  nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.  a skeletal hand.  the grip of the grim reaper around your throat.  existential pain.  ivory dice.  flatlining in a hospital.  gambiling with death.  as old as the universe.  soul and spirit tied to an object.  a dream where you die.  closing your eyes for the last time.  the plead of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it.  a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.  an act of desperation.  someone’s life for yours.  an eternity spent alive.  the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial.  causing your own burial.  the smell of death.  numbness to fear.  words from someone gone.  meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

vii.  the eye.   googling something you shouldn’t have.  eureka moments.  the unforgiving lens of a camera.  witness reports.  hidden libraries.  eyes of different colours.  feeling of being watched.  a death recorded in tape.  a tragedy you can’t watch away from.  endangering yourself for knowledge.  truth.  analog records.  a symbol of an eye.  a watch tower.  compulsion to document.  turning on recording devices without thinking about it.  saving the evidence before the person.  extracting information.  truth or dare, without the dare.  a thirst for knowledge.  books that speak to you.  coordinated shelves.  cataloguing systems.  voyerism.  police report you can’t put down.  reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers.  books that read you back.

viii.  the hunt.   sharp canines.  sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.  the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters.  hide and seek.  running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you.  blood dripping from bare hands.  barks and growls.  focused eyes.  a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstorous.  perfecting your craft.  peering into the dark and running after it.

ix.  the lonely.   an apartment too small for a double bed.  completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone.  fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd.  a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles.  a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows.  isolation.  not truly knowing your friends.  your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea.  depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you.  talking to someone only to realise they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there.  safety in being alone.

x.  the slaughter.    a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby.  improvised weapons.  blinding rage.  intent to kill.  a horrific day in a quiet community.  a medal of bravery.  holding on to what validates your anger.  history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers.  a knifeblock on the counter.  a pool of blood.  shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward.  unimaginable pain.  not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.  a fully human monster.  an authority sending its lessers to their deaths.  kill or be killed.  unedited wartime memoirs.  a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  the spiral.   sleep deprivation.  corridors you can get lost in.  maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.  losing possessions.  losing people.  losing your sanity.  corkscew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality.  walking through the wrong door.  delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.  blank spaces in documents.  hallucinations.  wrong proportions.  a nameless thing.  a place that has never existed.  doubting your own mind.  blind faith.  losing track of names, labels, categories.  distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view.  loss of time.  a garish colour.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies.  an unnatural laugh.  jokes and tricks.  illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination.  limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  the stranger.   wax figures.  a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs and pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together.  the colours of a circus.  a puppet with no strings.  mannequins.  glitter and sequin.  a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins.  a machine imitating humanity.  the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight.  uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.  concealing.  forgetting who you are.  forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices.  images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiii.  the vast.   open spaces.  carnival rides going up and down.  fear of heights.  endless infinity around you.  your insignificance in an universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles and miles of nothing around you.  staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control.  a fall that doesn’t end in death.  glass floor to the view below.  terminal velocity.  the sound of wind in your ears.  a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building.  falling into nothing.  feeling your feet let go of the ground.  a leap of faith.  motion sickness.

xiv.  the web.   undecipherable code.  a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak-willed.  strings of fate.  manipulation.  an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap.  never voicing discomfort.  outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realising it.  red string across a corkboard.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unrealiability of chance.  watching others dance for you.  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny lengs and fangs.  shady forum threads.  something important gone missing.  suspiciously disregarded case.  a missing witness.  connections.  the world wide web.  power of victimhood.  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.

+  the extinction.   the end of an era.  apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.  a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism.  the last written history.  a changed world.  no survivours.  old prophecies.  a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape.  catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point.  overindulgence.

TAGGED BY:  @brokentoys

TAGGING: steal it! @monomaniiametus @tricksterreformed-a @acriminallawyer

[owlways-and-forever]

Not Giving Up (Pt II)

A/N: Okay, well, my quickly written one-shot has rapidly turned into an MC because I can't get enough of these two adorable idiots.

WC: 1470 | Pt I, or read on AO3, FFnet

o . o . o

Neil was coding.

He was lying in his bed, having a heart attack, and she could hear the machines beeping even though there were no heart monitors in his apartment. His neck was extended against the pillows, arteries popping against his skin as his muscles tensed excruciatingly. His mouth was dropped open in a silent scream.

She was in the kitchen, making pasta for dinner when it happened. She dropped the wooden spoon on the floor, let the water boil over onto the stove, sizzling, and she ran to the bedroom. It seemed like it took an hour to get there, a battle to cover every inch of ground. But then she was standing over him, rolling up her sleeves to do chest compressions and hopefully regulate the pace of his heartbeats.

Except she couldn’t remember the right rhythm.

Was it 5 compressions or 3? There was some song that was supposed to guide her, but all she could think of was Stayin’ Alive and she knew that was wrong. Worst misconception in the world because it was false but it was also a stupidly catchy tune and the second you thought about it every other song on the planet seemed to disappear.

It would have to be close enough.

She folded her fingers together and placed the heels of her hand right over his heart.

Ah ah ah ah stayin’ alive.

The sound of the imaginary monitors was flooding her ears, distracting her. She wanted them to shut up, but she also didn’t because that would mean he was dead. And she was not going to let that happen.

Claire woke up, confused and sweating, tears coating her cheeks. The nightmares were frequent, taking over her subconscious almost every night. Neil had been home for almost a week, and every night he died in her dreams. Except that was exactly what confused her. He died, every night, except tonight. Tonight he was dying, but not dead. Why had she woken up? She never woke up in the middle of a dream.

In her dazed, half asleep state she finally registered the feel of Neil tossing and kicking violently beside her. Oh.

She rolled over, grabbing his face with both of her hands. She really didn’t want to wake him, he needed the rest, but he was going to tear his stitches out and shred his abdomen to pieces if he kept moving like that.

“Neil,” she whispered, trying to wake him gently. Her voice didn’t seem to register with him, and she tried again, louder. “Neil!”

His eyes flipped open dramatically, wide and scared as he searched his surroundings. This was always hard. The two of them having nightmares that they didn’t want to talk about or acknowledge. At night especially, it seemed too scary to give voice to what happened inside their heads, as if that could suddenly make it real.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Claire asked, offering even though she knew the answer was going to be no.

Neil shook his head, staring up at the ceiling with tears building, and he reached out for her hand, holding it tight.

“Tell me something happy,” she demanded, knowing that distraction would be the best way to get the awful thoughts out of his head. She tried to keep her voice light and teasing. “Tell me about your tattoo, I’m dying to hear the story.”

“That’s not happy,” he croaked, his voice broken.

Well, crap. She searched her brain for anything else she could think of to ask him, but she was coming up frustratingly blank.

“About a year before you started at St. Bonaventure,” he said after a few minutes, taking a deep, steadying breath, “my dad passed away. He’d been sick for a long time - MS. He was a very pious man, and deer symbolize communication with God. But he was also stubborn and strong. A stag seemed like a fitting representation.”

Claire propped herself up on her elbow, reaching out to run her hands through his hair and smooth her thumb across his cheek, gently wiping away the tears that had gathered.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” she whispered, frowning at him.

“I haven’t been back home since the funeral,” he admitted, swallowing hard. “I talk to my mom at least once a week, and she always comes out here for Christmas and Easter, but I just haven’t been able to go back to that house. There are so many reminders of him there.”

Claire stayed quiet, unable to even imagine what that was like. She’d lost her mom, sure, but her childhood hadn’t been filled with many tangible things, so there wasn’t much that reminded her of her mom. Other than alcohol.

“Where’s home?” she asked, realizing the extent of things they didn’t know about each other. Sure, she’d done all kinds of research on his education and professional background, but looking up his personal history had always seemed like some kind of line that shouldn’t be crossed.

“Phoenix,” he replied, looking at her with a curious expression. “We lived in the same tiny house my whole life. It was nice though. My parents spent pretty much all the money they had to raise their kids in a decent house in a good neighborhood.”

“When you talked to me about my mom…” Claire started, thinking out loud and remembering the night after Angie’s death. “Were you angry at your dad for dying?”

“Yeah,” Neil answered, nodding. “For a long time. He declined treatments, and I tried to get him into every trial I could find, but he wouldn’t do it. So yeah, I was angry at him for not fighting harder. But eventually I stopped being angry and I just missed him.”

Claire nodded next to him. She was still waiting for the anger at her mother to fade completely.

“What’s your mom like?” she asked, changing the topic to something that was hopefully a little bit happier. Hopefully, one day Claire would meet Mrs. Melendez herself, but for now she was more than happy to listen to his stories about her.

“Mamá is a spitfire,” Neil answered, smiling wide. “She wants to take care of everyone all the time and fix every problem. She is so proud of me, and she tells me every time we talk. If she were here, she would probably tell everyone in the hospital embarrassing stories about me as a kid.”

Claire laughed, wondering what exactly Neil’s mother would have to tell.

“She’ll love you,” he said, reaching out to play with her curls. “You guys are two peas in a pod. Kind, smart, witty, beautiful.”

“So you’re saying you’ve got an oedipal complex?” Claire teased, grinning ear to ear.

“Oh yeah, big time,” he quipped sarcastically, reaching out to tickle Claire with the tips of his fingers.

She shrieked in response, curling up into a ball and trying to roll away from him, but he caught her with arms around her waist, fingers still wriggling against her skin. Claire laughed and twisted in Neil’s arms, making him laugh as well, until they were both breathless and he finally ceased the onslaught. Neil pressed kisses to her neck instead, nuzzling his nose against her skin sweetly.

“Hey, you want kids, right?” Claire asked suddenly, a thought occurring to her. “I mean, I heard that was what happened with you and Jessica. I don’t mean to pry, I just wondered…”

“Yeah,” he answered quickly, looking at her quizzically. “Do you?”

He felt his stomach pitch at the realization that her answer might be no. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she might not want kids someday, but it was entirely possible. Wracking his brain, he knew that he’d never heard her allude to wanting to be a mom. Ever. And after her own experiences with her mom, he could understand it if she had her qualms about it. But Claire nodded with a small shrug.

“Someday,” she said, smiling at him. “You would make a great dad though.”

Neil hummed, burying his face in her shoulder. After being pleasantly distracted from his own nightmares, he was getting sleepy again, and his eyes were drooping closed, eyelashes fluttering against Claire’s skin. She waited until he was asleep, and then grabbed her phone off the nightstand. She opened the app store and immediately began downloading Duolingo. She had never paid much attention until he had been talking about his mother, but the details were registering now, and she was putting the pieces together. Neil spoke Spanish at home, at least sometimes, and she was pretty sure he was going to want his future children to speak Spanish too. So if she wanted that future with him, she better get learning.

Plus, she really wanted to impress his mom.

[hopiewrites]

Nobody - OHSHC

NOTE: big, big thank you to the person helping me write this fic, LT! i don’t think they have a tumblr so here is a link to their quotev!

pairing - host club x reader

ongoing series, chapter 3

word count - 4,180

chapters 1 & 2 up now!

-> back to masterlist

03

Forget-me-not Blue

Weeks had passed, and the daffodils began to bloom, welcoming spring into season that April.

(Y/N) was excited, even if things were barely starting to come to life. The early spring flowers had arrived, and that meant the butterflies and bees would start dancing around again, and the cherry blossoms would bloom, and everything would be alight with new life and begin the new year with vibrancy. She couldn't wait until she was able to walk through Ouran's gardens that would be full of roses and lavender and dandelions.

It seemed that the entire school shared her excitement, as the whole campus was vibrating with excitement and joy. The colors seemed brighter and the sky seemed clearer and the spring air was crisp and clean, brushing it's hands through the trees that were budding with new leaves and fruits.

All was well that day. (Y/N) got to spend time with her mother that morning before she had to run off to work, managed to remember all of her school supplies, and even got to finish her makeup on time; she was wearing one of her favorite outfits, a cherry wood brown turtleneck and a pleated plaid skirt, paired with the dirty vans she always wore.

She stayed late yesterday to make the food beforehand instead of going in early that morning, so she managed to get two extra hours of sleep, and felt relatively rested.

She decided that the day was good.

Everybody in homeroom was chatting amongst themselves, as usual, while cute drawings of different characters and flowers adorned the whiteboard with little phrases and words next to them. Her head was low as she entered, quietly making a beeline towards her usual desk and pulling out her notebook.

Something scrunched under her papers.

The girl moved her notebook, curious brows raised, and there, on her desk, sat a yellow sticky note, with a sun wearing sunglasses and a little daisy sitting around the neat, swirly handwriting that read;

Come to the club room after classes, We have planning to do~

Just when she thought she'd gotten away from them, they pulled her right back into their grubby hands.

She sighed, trying to hide the slight grin that made it's way to her face. She propped her head up on one hand, staring blankly at the whiteboard at the front of the room.

I wonder what's going on this time.

It wasn't long before everyone got settled and into their seats. Now, all she had to do, was wait.

- nobody -

Everyone is so lively today.

Even more so than usual, the host club's atmosphere was effervescent, seeming to bubble over with what she assumed was excitement – even the guests were basically dancing in their seats.

"So, Kyoya! When will the annual Spring Dance be held this year?"

"Yeah! Everybody has been talking about it already, we're all so excited!"

"Well, ladies, we plan to have it soon, in early May. We're actually having preparations being made at this moment."

"Oh, wow, really!? We have to start looking at gowns, then!"

"Yes, we're looking forward to it! I wonder what the theme will be this year."

Spring Dance?

"That, my dears, is a surprise. Just know that all the hosts have worked very hard to find only the best decorations and catering for our guests."

They all swooned at Kyoya's smooth cut words, alight with his usual false cheeriness. He smiled at his guests politely, listening to their excited rambling.

Huh. I should've figured they would have one. Just slipped my mind. Maybe that's why they wanted me up here, to help with preparations?

"Oh, (N/N)-chan!!! You look so pretty!"

Almost knocked back by Honey's embrace, she hid a giggle, letting him hug her – now that it's been nearly a month, the timid girl has gotten used to her elder's childish mannerisms.

"Hello, senpai. Um, thank you!"

He laughed cutely before letting her go. "So you got Tama-chan's note? I wasn't sure if you'd come visit us today."

"Yeah, I almost didn't see it actual-"

"Oh, Princess! Welcome!"

Yet again, she was scooped up into a pair of arms, but this time, she was twirled around and around and around, before finally her feet touched the ground once more, a pair of warm hands on her shoulders.

Her cheeks were pink from that welcome, and head spinning after that twirl; she still wasn't used to Tamaki's bear hugs. As nice as they were, they always made her chest flutter and twist, as if, suddenly, the only thing that was there was warmth, and a rosy cinnamon scent that she could lose herself in.

(Y/N) smiled.

"Hi, Tamaki-senpai."

"I'm glad you came today! We have many things to discuss, like the-"

"Spring Dance?"

"Oh! Yes. I'm guessing you've heard?"

His hands fell from her shoulders, as his head tilted like that of a puppy, blonde hair shining like gold under the florescent lights that hung in chandeliers from the ceiling high above.

"Well, just now I heard some of Kyoya's visitors talking about it- oh, I think you have people waiting, senpai."

She nodded her head towards the girls waiting patiently with smiles on their pretty faces. The taller nods. "Yeah, I'll tell you more about it later, okay? So don't leave!"

"Okay, don't worry! I'll be right here."

He smiled once again before greeting his guests and walking with them to a table.

She took it upon herself to sit, folded up in a sofa situated at the back of the expansive room, and plugged her earbuds in to block out the chatter that echoed. Plucking her journal out from her bag, she balanced it on her knee, continuing a sketch she'd been working on recently–a myosotis plant, more commonly known as forget-me-not's.

Small flowers, known for their symbolism of faithful love and reminiscent feelings; their color, known as "true blue," was the color of trust, loyalty and truth. She chose these flowers for an assignment in her art class, the project being on symbolism in everyday objects.

She was a bit of a nerd for those kinds of things.

From beside the focused girl peered a curious ginger over her shoulder. A pair of honey eyes roamed across the paper, watching as her hand moved and twitched, careful yet messy in a way he hadn't really seen before.

"What're you drawing, (Y/N)?"

Music drowned out his words, earbuds nestled safely in her ears as she just continued what she was doing, unbothered.

He decided to tuck his voice away for now, watching the pencil as it dragged across the paper, quietly. He moved closer, a sheepish smile playing on his lips as he crouched, propping his arm on the armrest of the chair, head leaning close to the oblivious girl's shoulder.

He'd seen those flowers before, overflowing in the pots that sit right outside his mansion's front doors, serving as a welcome whenever he arrived home. He never realized how pretty they were until that moment.

Soon enough she turned the page, and from the corner of his eye he saw a nonchalant smile pull on her cheeks - she wrote a message in her book.

How long have you been spying on me?

Kaoru chuckled, then pulled out an earbud of hers.

"About five minutes now, actually."

"Hm. You're such a stalker, you know that?"

Closing her book she turned towards the younger twin, headphone swinging and smacking Kaoru in the face as she moved; she held back an embarrassed laugh.

"Those are forget-me-not's, right?" His head tilted, lights reflecting in his eyes like constellations.

She lit up. "Yeah. I'm just doing rough sketches for a project I'm working on... I'm pretty excited to start painting it."

"That's right!" The girl jumped at his exclamation, dropping her journal with a thud, "We've never seen your paintings before. When will you show us your winning masterpiece, (Y/-"

"What's this?"

Her cheap journal was plucked from the floor by slim hands, mischievous eyes studying the contents of the page that had revealed itself from the prior fall.

"Wai-"

"Ooh, I never took you as the obsessive type, (Y/N)."

Kaoru stood abruptly from his crouch and walked over to where his twin was in front of the poor girl, lips falling open, just a bit, just enough to suck in a breath he didn't know he needed.

"And for Tamaki, no less!"

Imprinted on the thin pages of her grimoire, was an unfinished portrait of none other than Tamaki Suoh, eyes sleepy and hair a mess, but a smile as bright as the very sun. You could feel the warmth he radiated through the page.

What took Kaoru by surprise was how much detail was put into the whole thing, even if it was a bit sloppy. It looked like it held every color in the world, even though the only thing that was there was the dull, grey lead of the pencil and bits of eraser shavings caught here and there.

She jumped up and tried to snatch it out of the taunting male's hands, though he just held it over her head.

She felt like crying; nobody was supposed to see that.

"What are you all doing?"

None other than the king himself asked, taking long strides towards the twins. Hikaru couldn't get enough of this. For one reason or another, he felt acid deep down in his stomach that bit at him from the inside, but on his tongue was the sweet taste of hell's fire, and he would deal with the burning of his conscience later.

"Seems like you have another fan, boss! Look at this."

Though, the girl wouldn't give up that easily. She jumped up once again, eyes glaring holes through the auburn's head, and a shiver crawled up his spine. He almost considered giving it back. Almost.

Tamaki was there now, and it felt like everything was in slow motion for her. Yeah, maybe she was being dramatic, but she couldn't help it. That was private and special to her, not to mention how embarrassed she'd be if he saw it.

(Y/N) disregarded how she was now chest-to-chest with Hikaru Hitachiin, and how pink dusted his cheeks as his eyes slanted down at her own ones in a silent declaration of war. The tips of her toes kissed the marble of Ouran's floors as she leaned against the much, much taller male in effort to get back what was rightfully hers, but he only stretched his arm out further, completely ignoring everyone else's presence in the now emptying room.

In that moment, nothing mattered to either of them. There was nothing else but each other and the mutual feeling of a bloody red.

...Save for the other club members of course, who watched the whole ordeal with amusement.

Kyoya sipped on his earl grey. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say Hikaru is flirting, wouldn't you agree?"

Haruhi's hand clasped over her mouth in an effort not to laugh. She hummed in silent agreement. "Yeah, I'd definitely say so."

"(Y/N), you drew this...?"

It was those words that were the rain that washed the fire to ashes,  though the biting heat lingered even when she pulled apart from Hikaru. His glare snapped to the wall as he avoided eye contact. Her skin was red with embarrassment and anger, blood boiling and burning her from the inside. The older twin only stood, arms crossed and eyebrows drawn together with an angry pout plastered on his rose petal lips.

Though, what she didn't know was that Hikaru was nauseous with the nasty aftertaste of guilt, pitchforks stabbing at his lungs, making it hard for him to do anything but clench his fists and bear it. He didn't care about how he made her feel. Why would he? She was just another one of Tamaki's stupid fangirls.

Right...?

He couldn't keep himself from glaring over at (Y/N) one last time.

- nobody -

Tamaki cleared his throat, clapping his hands together as all the hosts gathered and watched him.

"So, as many of you know, the annual spring dance is upon us, and we've already booked the grand hall for the ceremony."

(Y/N) listened curiously from her seat beside Mori, whom she felt safest by at the moment. He didn't ask questions; he didn't pry; he didn't do much of anything, really. His quiet presence was cooling against the fire raging red underneath her skin.

"I thought we should all gather to choose a theme. Last year's was royalty, and the decorations and dress code played off of that."

That's so like them. The girl grinned quietly to herself, finding their predictable nature entertaining. "Does anyone have any ideas?"

The girl hesitated, just for a moment, swallowing Hikaru's thorny glare like sour medicine.

"What about a vintage theme?" She spoke.

"Vintage theme...?" Tamaki questioned aloud, tilting his head slightly, just like she noticed he'd always do when thinking.

"Yeah. Like age old antiques, soft colors, lace, the like. Unless you've already done something like that, I mean.."

"No, no. Actually... That's a really good idea, (Y/N)," Kyoya flipped through his little black book, jotting down the girl's idea.

"Yeah. Sounds good."

(Y/N) shifted at the sudden voice beside her, quiet but not shy. Mori wasn't even looking at her, not sparing a single glance her way, his face bearing the same sea glass expression.

She took Mori's words to heart, those words he probably thought nothing much of. She then elaborated her thoughts, a little clearer, a little more confident.

"I think it would be really elegant, not to mention economical. We could maybe even visit a few antique shops for some of the decorations."

No one added anything in, silently willing her to continue.

"Soft colors, like cream and periwinkle and mauve would do. Maybe we can even make some kind of dress code."

Still, no one.

"...I don't know."

"That's a wonderful idea, (N/N)-chan!" Exclaimed Honey from his cozy seat on Mori's lap.

"Yeah, we've never done anything like that before. It could be really pretty," added Kaoru.

Kyoya chimed in, "Any other ideas?"

"Nope! I think this is what we're going for this year, my dear Kyoya!"

As the hosts scattered amongst themselves, Honey tucked his arms snugly around (Y/N)'s legs with a wide, sweet smile; too wide, too sweet. In the moment, though, the girl was caught up in catching butterflies in her stomach. They listened to me, she thought. Her hands subconsciously found their way around the short male's small frame, as they tended to these days.

"(N/N)-chan, do you wanna walk with us outside?"

A sheepish smile stretched her lips as she replied. "Can't, senpai. I have to prepare tomorrow's food."

"Oh, about that, (Y/N)."

Honey reluctantly loosened his hold and marched back to his tall companion. Kyoya stood at her side now, tucking his phone away safely into the pocket of his trousers.

She hummed, listening.

"We're not opening the club tomorrow, so you don't have to have anything ready. Just go home and get some rest."

(Y/N) turned her head to peer up at him. His eyes were unfocused, looking out at the blooming colors of spring outside the windows. She didn't understand what he was thinking or feeling, or if he was feeling anything at all for that matter.

In that moment, he reminded her of the darkness that separates the stars.

- nobody -

The walk home was full of life, unsurprisingly. Wildflowers and green grass lined the roads, honeybees buzzing happily as they kissed the flowers and danced with butterflies. There was still a few hours of the day left, judging by how the sun was strung in the sky, so instead she decided to walk to a local park. It was small and well-worn but very peaceful, with its rusty swings and small pond.

Ducks waddled around in and out of the water. Birds chirped back and forth in the few trees as a lady struggled to keep her small dog from chasing a poor squirrel scurrying around the base of an oak.

Settling on the swings, (Y/N) took a second to unwind. The wind was soft and carried the scent of wild roses as it soothed her skin. There were yellow daffodils happily swaying by the pond. Everything was okay in that moment.

In a swift movement the girl kicked off her shoes and hopped out of the swing, laughing at herself when she stumbled. The grass felt like silk on her callused feet as she stepped towards the large rose bush, crouching to smell its pink petals. Carefully, she plucked one, two, three, four roses and skipped away to gather a few daffodils, cattails, and dandelions.

For mom, when she gets home.

Right as she was about to steal a pinecone from its branch, her phone vibrated annoyingly in her pocket.

2 new messages from " the host club 👑✨💞"

Since when was I in a group chat??

Ignoring it, (Y/N) decided to check it out later. How did they even get her Instagram though? It didn't matter, she figured. She'd probably spent far too long at the park, anyway, if the creamy orange beginning to color the sky was any indication. It was time to head back home.

With all different kinds of plants gripped securely in her dirty hand, she retrieved her discarded shoes and gingerly walked back towards her neighborhood.

- nobody -

It wasn't until (Y/N) found herself sprawled across her bed and once more attempting to wrap-up her forget-me-not sketch that she remembered the notifications she had received from the host club prior.

The mixed bouquet of wild flowers she had managed to concoct was placed on her mother's nightstand, along with a note on which she had scrawled a short but sweet message the moment she arrived back home. Aside from that, the only things she had her mind set on were homework (regardless of how little she was assigned), dinner, and sleep. It's true, she was tired,  a bit hungry as well, but she still chose to squeeze in some relaxing time to comfortably let her pencil dance across the designated page within her journal.

It almost amazed her how lost in thought she would find herself whenever she decided to let her creative side flow as freely as it did. It's as if she would switch over to autopilot and let nothing but her hand take control while her mind soared with an intoxicated sort of vigor as it explored every idea that subconsciously came to her head.

It was for this exact reason that it took her several moments to register the lit-up screen of her phone lying atop the cluster of unmade sheets just inches away.

Setting down her pencil, (Y/N) diverted her attention to the rectangular device and awkwardly shifted positions before picking it up and unlocking it. The number of messages from earlier had since multiplied, a prominent 61 plastered on the corner of the application.

haruhi.fuji: Well I know of a few thrift shops around near my apartment. You can find all kinds of hidden gems there.

haruhi.fuji: Don't know about antique stores though, but (Y/N)-chan might know of some.

tama_king: Thrift stores????

(58 more messages)

The corners of her lips upturned just enough for her to notice.

She opened the app and scrolled through the messages, skimming through notifications and following each member back. Well, accept for Hikaru, who hadn't even followed her in the first place. Hesitantly, (Y/N) typed out a message, then deleted it, then typed it out again, then deleted it. The girl sighed, chewing on her cheek, trying to decide what to say.

tama_king: Look (Y/N)s online!!

Well, leave it to Tamaki to point her out. Said girl settled for a simple greeting.

(username): hi everyone!

haruhi.fuji: (Y/N), we were just talking about what kind of decorations we should get for the spring dance.

(username): oh, well i figured we could just go looking through local shops to find authentic antique decor

haruhi.fuji: Like all of us out shopping together??

tama_king: That sounds like fun we should go see all the commoner shops together!

(Y/N) suddenly had regrets. All eight of them, six of which all likely hadn't ever even heard of a thrift store before, out and about? Even if she was starting to grow used to the lot of them, it was a whole other thing to be seen out in public with them. It wasn't that (Y/N) was embarrassed of them, but more so bothered by how much attention they seem to bring towards themselves. The socially awkward girl wasn't sure if she could handle that very well.

(username): i mean, sure??

haruhi.fuji: That sounds... ;;;

(username): yeah ik, migjt not be the best of ideas i've had huh

(username): *might

She quietly laughed to herself, trying to shake off the dread that was already piling on her shoulders.

tama_king: No, it sounds like a great idea!!

The "Oh, what have I done," slipped past her lips as she saw none other than Kyoya himself finalize the plans.

KyoyaOotori: I see you three have been planning an outing?

KyoyaOotori: And when are we all going to do this?

It was funny, because she could practically feel him shaking his head through the screen. Maybe the two of them were more alike than she had originally thought.

She decided then that she might as well go through with it.

(username): well, earlier you said i didn't have to prep for tomorrows guests, so i'm free tomorrow after school.

tama_king: The host club was planned to be closed tomorrow for preparations to be made for the dance. i'm sure our lovely guests wouldn't mind. so Kyoya, is tomorrow okay to go out shopping?

KyoyaOotori: I suppose that it would be a good learning experience to see what low-budget commoner living is like. So, yes, that sounds just fine. I'll make sure to let the others know.

It looked like all had been settled, so she switched the device back off and let it sit to the side. The sound of the door clicking shut and the A/C being tampered with alerted the young girl of her mother's arrival home, so she skipped into the doorway to greet her.

She looked tired, just as she always did, with the same empty smile and hollow eyes. (Y/N) hugged her and in a small voice, said hello.

"Heya, Pumpkin."

There was nothing else to be said as the woman kicked off her shoes and walked into her room, no doubtedly to sleep until she had to drag herself back out to work again. (Y/N) hoped she liked the flowers she had picked out for her.

Sometimes there is no worse feeling than guilt that will eat one out from the inside.

She felt as though the way that things were running in her house functioned like an unbalanced scale. Her mother always came home exhausted and worn-out as the result of working from dawn to dusk, and it hurt the young girl's heart to see her in such poor condition. It wasn't extremely often that she would even get the chance to say hello, and rarer still that she ever had the time to hold a good conversation.

They both loved each other more than life itself, and (Y/N) knew that better than anyone else, but with all the overbearing work her mother put up with, day and night, everything just seemed...

Unfair.

Bitter and unsavory thoughts aside, one glance at the clock on the microwave reminded her of the looming drowsiness she felt gradually washing over her. It had been a long day, and the next was certain to be even longer.

With this in mind, she experienced little to no hesitation before striding off towards her bathroom to ready herself for what she hoped to a good night's rest. Once she was curled up under the cotton sheets and had her stuffed animal of choice in a loving grip (not caring about how childish she may have seemed), the bluish light of her phone caught her attention as she slowly and reluctantly lifted up one eyelid.

Reaching for the device resting on her night stand, she opened both eyes; given how she hadn't really been exposed to the darkness of her room for a prolonged amount of time, it didn't take long to adjust to the screen's luminescent glow as she focused on the message displayed on her lock screen. A single notification was shown, and (Y/N) couldn't help but allow a small smile to make its way onto her face once she had processed what it read.

haruhi.fuji: Good luck tomorrow, (Y/N). Hope you'll be able to handle a few hours out with those goofballs.

[ofmythsandmadness]

Nine Times he Almost Says I love you (and the one time he did)

PAIRING: Peter Parker x reader SUMMARY: the nine times Peter Parker very nearly admits his love for you, and the one time he finally does. WARNING: uh nothing really A/N: I’m a sucker for these nine times things so here we go.

Number one.

"I've got you."

Peter hisses it out as she stumbles, one arm grasping at her waist and the other allowing her hand, which had reached out in total panic, to clutch tight. Her nails dug in deep; he did not say a word. Just smiled and tried to reassure her with his eyes that she was going to be okay.

She takes in a shaky breath, lets it go slowly. Then another one. Three, each one getting stronger than the last. Finally, her eyes flutter back open and she seems to realise that she's been digging trenches into his arm - a fact she apologies for profusely. She relents in her steady touch, though her hands still remain on him, not ready to fall once more.

He says it's fine. That he did not even notice.

Her smile, he decides, is the prettiest thing he's just about seen - and he has seen a lot of beautiful things, in his many years.

"I've got you," he repeats, and he really does mean it. His grip smoothes and he grows comfortable touching her as she leans into the touch, letting him know it is alright. He mumbles the phrase again, almost a mantra as they slide just a bit further on the ice.

She admits she has never skated before, and though he is well aware, he feigns disbelief. Makes a joke out of her situation, then promising her that it is okay, he was only good because he has been out in the winter, on the frozen ponds and rivers and on passed-down skates all his life. And, also, that there were loads of things he was not so good at.

When her head cocks and turns, asking just what it was that a guy like him could possibly be bad at, he does not answer. Plays it off like it was just a joke, then changing the subject so they could be sailing carefully across the ice again.

Words pressed against his tongue, a self-conscious answer full of doubt and questioning of his own talents, but he doe not dare speak them. Even if that would bother him for the rest of the night.

Number two.

"You were amazing."

No, he thinks to himself, holding his composure even though he just wants to explode, she is amazing. She always has been, and he never really appreciates her the way she should be - because if he knows anything, she's a masterpiece painted by the gods above and everyone was so lucky to be in her presence, and how was it that it was him blessed with the chance to see her every day?

His words come out gruffer than desired, and he frowns - not at her, himself. He assures her when she asks what is wrong that he just smelled something bad, but really he's cursing at himself for just saying 'you were amazing', brushing off her accomplishments just like that.

Because really, she deserves more than that. Not just amazing, spectacular, an angel just missing her wings, captivating him the entire time. He wants to tell her, he really does and he actually does move to, but once her attention is grabbed and her big brown eyes are turned back to him, his tongue freezes up and the words are so jumbled that nothing makes sense.

So, he does not say what he really, really wants to say. None of it. Not about how lucky he is, or how much her performance and her presence in general means to him, and certainly not those three little words that had begun to haunt him - it all got pushed back, and all that could be said was a gruff mumble about how beautiful she looked or something.

She still blushes and acts like it's a big compliment, but it means nothing to him. Why would it? He's disappointed and angry at himself, and she's been written off as a second-grade symbol in his book. He never wanted that - never wants that.

He just hopes somehow, she can read between the lines of his rushed 'you were amazing' and pick up on the adoration poured into those three little words. Three words that should be twisted into very different ones, had he the courage and strength to spit those out.

Number three.

His fingers tap furiously at the device in his hand, stabbing at the buttons as he types out an electronic message to her.

Text me when you're home so I know you've made it safely!

It is sort of ridiculous, maybe. She lives five minutes away and she has always made it home fine in the past, but he does not want to chance it. The options that could be given aside from an all-okay flash before him and he does not want to even think about her hurt in the slightest. He never dares mention it to her, because he trusts her and knows she's responsible and knows where she's going, but the worry is always there.

He's pretty sure it will always be there.

She responds back two minutes later, and really he is almost ashamed at how fast he moves to know her answer. Once the phone buzzes on the kitchen table he is racing from the microwave to the device, bringing it up to his face to read the response.

HAHA, I'm home. Thanks for checking in. :)

She always signs her texts off with a smiley face. It makes him, in turn, flush and grin like a young boy with his crush, and he could almost jump for joy without even knowing why. Despite that weird rule he heard about before about waiting in between response times, his fingers are already flying across the keyboard and typing out an answer. He never wants to wait with her, and games seem pointless. Stupid.

Of course. Always. :)

Fifteen minutes later and she is texting him goodnight, him reading it with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth almost comically. He finishes brushing and slides it back into its place on the shelf before responding, wishing her a good sleep and morning tomorrow, complete with a little red heart at the end of it. As always.

Her response once more makes his heart flutter. He already has his typed out, an add-on that he did not attach with the goodnight sentiments but one he wants to tack on after that. Maybe he's tired and out of it and thinking too far into things again, but he wants her to know, and wants her to know right then and there. There is no point in waiting, and over text, it is easier, no worry of messing up the words. His tongue cannot betray him like always.

He never sends the text. He barely sleeps that night.

Number four.

She's crying and suddenly the world's gone dark, storms brewing all around them and everything feels so cold, even with his thick sweater on. He can barely hear his own thoughts over the wind howling and he's trying to think but all he can see is her tears, silver crystals against her skin and hear her quiet sobs and hate himself for it. Even if it was never his fault, and nothing could be done, he still feels like he's being ripped apart, watching the woman he cares so much for be hurt.

All he can do is open his arms and allow them to swallow her up, press her against his chest and let his chin fall to the top of his head, swaying back and forth where they stand. The hallway is dark and he can barely make out anything around him but he can picture every single detail of her and that is enough for him. She's shaking in his grasp and oh how it breaks his heart to know how upset she is, because a beautiful person like her never deserves to feel such pain.

He cannot take away her pain, and he knows that. So, he does not bother to make it better, or pretend like there is nothing wrong - she would never want that. He just holds her tight and rocks on the balls of his feet and runs his hand up and down her back soothingly, whispering to her that he is right there, it is okay to cry, he is not going anywhere. He will not be going anywhere so long as she needs and wants him there.

Because he never wants to leave her, never be away from her. He does not think he ever could.

Number five.

"Your hands 're as cold as ice."

Her hands are encapsulating his and he's laughing, making a joke about how small they are in comparison to his. But really, he's grateful for her warm grasp, how the fingers she always curse off as too small and stumpy overlap his and promise a comforting embrace in the cold weather.

In the frosty air, the tip of her nose has gone a light red and her lashes brim with snowflakes, every so often just before they melt away. She's wearing warm colours and stands out among the cold whites and blues and really, he thinks she's never looked better, even if every day he claims that fact. Because really, each and every day she outdoes herself.

Her head falls to his shoulder and she snuggles closer, still gripping his hands tight. Mumbles leave her lips and he cannot understand what she's saying, but he's warm and no longer shivering, and the Christmas lights decorating the park glow just about ten times brighter. The laughter of children fill the background but all he can think about or hear is her own giggle, and then words, painting a beautiful picture of their bond.

All he can think about is how much he loves the woman beside him, but he does not dare speak a single word of what he's thinking. He cannot, just yet. He just holds her hands, rubs the warmth back into them and tries to wonder how he got so lucky.

Number six.

He's stumbling on her fire escape, bloody and bruised. He feels awful to turn up here, knowing it's a Tuesday school night and she should be sleeping. And yet, when he looks up and into her big window, she's already waiting, smiling sadly at the dismal sight.

He apologises at least a dozen times, but every time she shushes him and tells him to just let her help him. Her eyes are focused only on his wounds, rubbing away the stains of blood and bandaging his body up, all the while he watches her with lidded eyes and breath hitching every time she touches him.

It's two in the morning, she's in pyjamas and would argue she looks horrible. But he thinks to himself that she has never looked so beautiful as she did that night, every night, with her hair pulled back and a soft smile staining beautiful features, an angel come in disguise to make him feel a thousand things at once.

He wishes he could say all the ways she makes him feel, but the words don't come and all he has, in the end, is a wistful, dismal 'thank you', mumbled just as she finishes. But he smiles, and so does she, and Peter can only hope she understands the meaning of those two words.

Number seven.

She's holding his hand tight.

It's only to get through the crowd, but still. She's holding him close and he thinks he's never been so happy to be close to someone. It's loud, and yet he can still hear her peals of laughter floating back, chuckling at something she said he missed. He loves her laugh. She hates it, always mocks her own - but he will never tire at the sound.

Peter, almost subconsciously, squeezes her hand. He does not clue in he even does it, not until she glances back and shoots a shy smile. Only then does he glance down and realises his grip has tightened and he's rubbing her knuckles in the soft 'I'm here' way he wishes he could express more often. For a second, he considers just letting go right then and there, pretending it never happened.

But he does not, and once they're out of the crowd, he holds on tighter and walks with a funny sort of pride with her by his side. They say nothing about the hand-holding, but both participants are smiling.

Peter just wants to sing his love right then and there - but hand-holding will have to do, for a little while.

Number eight.

She's fallen asleep and he's carrying her up to his bed, carefully gripping her shoulder and legs so that she does not feel a thing. She warned him that it could possibly happen and after a long day, he expected her to fall asleep, and does not mind a bit. They had put a movie on the both of them had seen about a thousand times, just so she had that chance to doze off - he knew for a fact it always frustrated her when she missed a movie.

She's adorable, sleeping, even with her mouth half-open and tiny snores filling the silence of his own breathing and stomps up the stairs. Her hair has fallen into her face and she's curled up into his chest with one hand curled limply around his arm. She barely flinches as he carries her into the bed and lays her down, showing no sign of waking aside from a tiny whimper leaving puckered lips. She was always a deep sleeper, and he appreciates that, especially in cases like that. Because once she's awake, she finds it hard to fall asleep and he wants her to have a chance at a good night.

He feels oddly motherly as he rushes about, adjusting her blinds and then tucking her in, but it feels good to care for her. She's always been the one to worry about him and do the little things, but he enjoys the chance to adjust her pillows and body so she could be most comfortable. It pleases him to make her sleep better, like an attentive boyfriend - though he's not that. Only wishing he was.

He bends and plants a kiss on her forehead, lips barely brushing the skin so as not to wake her up - though he doubts he really could. His hand falls from hers but just before he slips away, his mouth moves closer to her ear and he whispers a sombre declaration of love. It's tentative, hesitant and then a hurried mumble as though he's afraid to even pronounce the words - she hears none of it, but there's still a rush of fear when he realises that it's the first time he could get the words out.

His legs lift him back up to stand and away from her ears, he chuckles. How sad of a man was he, unable to say those three little words unless she was asleep. He really does mean them, and wants her to know how much he adores her, but he finds no ability to ever share that unless it's pressed up close to her sleeping ear, where no one but the monsters in the closet could ever here.

He hardly sleeps that night, the both of them sharing the bed they had since babies - only she was content snoozing away, and he was staring at the wall begging for the courage that would never come.

Number nine.

"I love you."

He's lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, lips still parted with a ghost of a gasp leaving them.

He cannot believe he's finally said it, but wastes no time in continuing, knowing he can't just give up there. "I...I know it's sudden, and I should have said it sooner but - I really do, I love you, I have for a long time."

He goes on and on and grows more confident as time goes on, mentioning her smile and her laugh, how sweet she can be but how brave he feels when she's by his side, and all the little things that make her beautiful to him, a goddess in her own right in his eyes.

For once, Peter finds it so easy to share all those thoughts, pouring his heart out into his storm of words, trying to convince her that there is nothing he would not do to make her happy, that she is the light of his life, the reason he loves to wake up and the reason he sleeps well at night, why he continues on fighting even when things get tough-

-but he rolls over and remembers with a heavy heart, she's asleep. She hears nothing. His confessions fell upon closed ears and Peter is the only one to hear any of it, just his own wistful words as sad echoes back to himself.

He sighs.

Number ten.

Her shoes are tap-tap-tapping out a rhythm on the hardwood floors, letting him know just where she is and where she's heading throughout the tiny house even before he catches sight. When she finally comes into view, her hands are at her ears, tucking back her hair though it just pops right back out and around her face again. She never likes the way her hair sticks up, but he thinks it is enchanting, a halo around her glowing complexion that only makes her more and more captivating.

For a second, he loses his breath, just taking her in.

Her pink lips are curved softly and her cheeks are aglow, a pretty picture of a woman who could never do wrong in his eyes. She's going on about her classmates, dishing on what happened last week and then bringing up how others could never do their job, driving her mad when she had to pick up their pieces. He knows he should listen, and other times he would, but there's a strange swelling in his head and all he can do is watch her and marvel at the masterpiece she really is. How was it he was so lucky to have her by his side? How is it that he is gifted with her presence, her friendship, those long nights spent together, turning into innocent sleepovers where they giggled and whispered at the ceiling? How is it, that he has the chance to know her?

Life's too short. Peter knows this. He's known this for a while, but it sets in really just then and he's taken aback at himself, his own weakness but the overpowering love he has for the angel in front of him.

She catches him staring and her blush is adorable. With even more flushed cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes as he pays her compliments as excuses, she leans in to bump into him just as she always did when he got lost in thought. They could hang out at her place, that evening, if he wanted? Her parents were out, but they left pizza money, and they could watch that Netflix show he had an interest in.

He acknowledges her words with a grunt and a nod, but his eyes are glazed and his tongue is forming words that have nothing to do with her planning of later on. It's driving him mad to keep it all in and himself together, because she's just too beautiful to not appreciate so, such a woman should never look twice at him and yet there they were so much later, with her hand on his arm and a second then third kiss pressed into his cheek and jaw, non-verbal exchanges of her love.

She leaves his side and he trembles at a new chill without her next to him. He watches her grab her things, backpack and phone in one hand and the other moving to fix her hair, and she's then turning to look at her phone, just to make sure everything is still as perfect as she left it to be, and then-

"-I love you."

He did not mean to just spit it out like that, it just happened. He could not hold it in any longer and so the truth is out, dangling in the frigid air for her to either take or leave. Peter's just left gasping, terrified and thrilled that he's finally shared that with her, left just hoping that he would not regret it in the end.

He repeats it, quieter, a soft mumble amidst the storm rumbling in his mind.

For a moment, she's frozen, saying nothing to him over his confession.

Every second of silence between them is torture.

She finally turns to face him and he sees she's smiling, almost as much as the first day he asked her out, beaming from ear to ear with her eyes alight with new passion and heavy emotion. In an instant, she's transformed and he can tell she's not considering her work day at all - no, like him all her thoughts are just on the words that just left his lips.

"I love you, too."

Peter would say til the end of his days, that that was the happiest day of his entire life.

[datarevived]

   -- Ⅱ : ɪᴋᴏʀᴀ ʀᴇʏ

" I'm Selene. "

" Selene? Nice to meet you, Selene. "

A travel that rounded a corner and several steps downward, it didn't take but less than a minute for Hawthorne to guide the Awoken to their next destination. The details of the Warlock's desk coming to a better view, numerous books and files stacked upon its' surface, decored with strange artifacts and carved symbols at its' pillar. Jars of random substance seem to speckle the desk with various meaning, while several arm bands scattered between that of the floor and piles of books. Crates - some open, some not. 

The Warlock, herself, seemingly invested in a single piece of paper in hand - her back angled in favor of the two. Their steps overshadowed by the banter of other civilians and ships in the sky.

" It seems the Traveler hasn't abandoned us yet, " Hawthorne calls out in their approach. 

The mention of the sentient provoked the others' full attention as occupied hand drops from eye view, turning present and setting the paper aside - carefully noting its' weight to the wind as she pinches a corner of it beneath one of the plentiful books. 

" Hawthorne. To what do I owe the pleasure, " the Warlock smiled.

" Eh, you know. Figured I'd take a more respectable approach instead of callin' out from my post, " Hawthorne teased, her head nudging along with her words. " Not for my sake, mind you. But Selene's here, " she then motions a hand at the Awoken. " A new Light the boys found out in patrol. "

" A new Guardian? " Ikora inquires, her voice teetering betwixt astonishment and surprise. " Even now, with light so dim, the Traveler still... " her head turns, attention rested upon the giant structure in the distance -- its' mass still coiled in Cabal roots. " ...There may be hope, after all. "

Her words and actions resulted in a look of confusion upon the Awoken's face. Brows dampened in a set of worry -- what did she mean, there may be hope? A pressured feeling in ones' chest as a hand is raised over tattered shirt, still stained by the dirt of the forest. Several thoughts pacing at once in a dizzy mess. Nearly impossible to pluck a single sentence from the bunch - an information overload.

" We've had what, a few dozen since the blackout? " Hawthorne shrugs, crossing her arms back at her chest. " No tellin' how many more are out there. "

" You mean Guardians...? " Selene finally speaks.

" Yes, " Ikora turns back to their view, locking her arms behind her back as she examined the other. The youth... the lack of understanding. One of the worst times for Guardians, she felt - the state of acceptance. " You are... recent, correct? I'm sorry, " she shakes her head, " For getting ahead of myself. My name is Ikora Rey, and it is a pleasure to meet you. "

" S-Selene, " the Awoken nods, her glance briefly driving by Hawthorne then back to the Warlock. " I... I woke up in a pit. Out in the forest, somewhere from here before the Ghost found help. A man brought me here - to her, " she notions to the other, " I... forgive me that I'm still a little... lost... "

" I told her not to stress it too much, " Hawthorne chimes in, offering a lighthearted smile. " Told her if there's anything she needs while adjusting, she can ask me or my crew. Mentioned the Vanguard and how this place works - you n' big blue. Cayde, eh. Said she wanted to meet you first. Figured it wasn't the worst idea. "

" Quite possibly the smartest she'll make in some time, " Ikora chuckles, turning her eyes back upon the Awoken. " But yes, I am of the Vanguard. I specialize in mentoring those who look to empower themselves in the ways of a Warlock. Though that is not a decision you must make right away. Not that I wouldn't mind the company... but we are in quite dire times right now, Guardian. "

A sudden tension grips at the three in audience, and with it, Hawthorne merely shakes her head. Her stare falling short as she looked back out to the skies,  pastel-painted clouds shadowing in the nightfall just enough to proc the lanterns that began to light up the City. The light hum as those lanterns around the Bazaar began to ignite, as well - Ikora and Selene's heads tilting in watchful eye.

" Haven't really gotten to that part yet, " Hawthorne admits, her expression tapped against a screen of sympathy. " Lot to take in, as is. But this fight... I'm only part of it. You can probably tell it better than I can. "

" Fight? "

A shallow sigh is carried over the exchange of words, the Warlock then turning her back once more as she stared back up at the Traveler. A moment of silence as she collected her thoughts, preparing what every Guardian had the rights to know in their turn of new life.

" We are amidst a War. Something that never seems too out of reach these days..." she begins, her chest rising in stalled breath. " This time, against the Cabal threat, who currently hold the Traveler and its' blessing hostage. Their leader, Ghaul, wishes to take its' power for himself. And in the process doing so, attacked our home and killed many of our kin. We first lost our Light, and in following, did we lose friends... family... civilians... Guardians... " 

All the while, Hawthorne and Selene stood in silence. To one, a story she had lived and heard plenty of times in counting. To the other, a horrific altered fairy-tale in which the hero slain and the villain a victor. 

" Even now, the Vanguard falls short of being whole. And while some Guardians were lucky, able to retrieve their full potential... not all can be said the same for others. A blessing in disguise, really, that those borne to new Light have the advantage, " Ikora hums, twisting her body back around and approaching several steps toward Selene. 

The hesitant silence shakes the nerves of the Light as she awaited her to speak again. Surely it wasn't a prompt for her to follow with her own words. Just what was the Warlock expecting her to say -? The weariness of ones' anxiety pulls the Awoken's gaze elsewhere, resting at the woman's boot as she gripped opposing wrist in habit - again, digging nails at revived flesh --

  -- interrupted by the movement of ones' hand resting upon her shoulder. 

Selene's gaze snapping back up in fit of panic, meeting back at the ambers' of the Warlock as if to ask ' why '. Ikora gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze in response, offering the new Light a soften smile, an attempt to calm her down.

" We can never ask a Guardian to fight a war they don't deem their own. Neither will the Vanguard ever expect you to do something you do not wish to, " she assures, offering a brief nod. " You were chosen by the Traveler for something special. A purpose that only you can do. Whether that means on the front lines, or in the back of a shop making the juiciest bowl of Ramen that'll send Cayde to the secondary Moon of Venus and back - well, who knows. "

" That's some mean ramen, " Hawthorne chuckles. " I'd try it. "

The reassurance, followed with making light of the situation, it eased Selene just enough that her grip lessened to mere fingertips - still laced around her wrist in non-threatening demeanor. Her heart racing just a little slower, this time. A breath of air -- relief. The tightness of ones' throat slowly melting back into reason.

" I don't know... anything about war, or this fight - Guardians. I don't even... I don't even know how to use a gun, " the Awoken stammered, raising her shoulders in pensive debate as her head shook in doubt. " I don't understand what any of this.. means, I just - I don't.. -- "

" --And that is fine, " Ikora squeezed again, tilting her head some to be presently eye level with the other. " It's fine. We all learn. We all help. Very few Guardians retain the ability to just go out and have a field day the moment they are brought back for the first time. Being without knowledge is not uncommon, and that is why here in the Tower, we offer every effort we can to teach those Chosen so that they can make their life their own again. So long as you are willing... I am certain there will always be someone much older, much wiser, that will tell you anything and everything you want to know and learn. "

Willing to learn... would she be? 

Lip bitten under her breath, Selene mulls over the statement a moment. More importantly, focusing on ones' ability to breath proper - in, then out. Chest fluttering against the caressing winds of night. Perhaps more a draft than necessary, the holes still apparent from when she had fell.

" ...I know it is hard to adapt, Guardian, " the Warlock's voice pinches the air again, removing her hand from shoulder as she takes a step back. " It certainly isn't easy to start... but over time, things will become much easier, I assure you." 

  a pause.

" How about it? We'll get you some new clothes, a place to rest. Take as long as you need, then come back to me. I will answer what questions I can, and tell you anything you wish to know. --And, if it's something you'd wish to do... which, even to civilians I highly recommend for their own safety... I can teach you to use a gun. Maybe something even more so. "

Fingers twitch upon rested wrist as the Awoken collects the exchange of words, her gaze then lifting back to meet Ikora's head on. A single nod - an agreement made, and her attention is then tangled back to Hawthorne. A non-verbal ' thank you ' for sticking around as she drops the hand from other arm, straightening her posture with an exhaled breath. 

" I... y-yes, " finally comes the seal of the deal. 

Ikora responding in kind with a smile as she pulls a hand from her back and motions back over to Hawthorne, " I have no doubt that Hawthorne will get you settled in. Should there be any discrepancy, do let me know. "

" Yes'mam, " Hawthorne grins, giving the other woman a two-finger salute before turning on a heel and ushering Selene over with a list of preference fabrics. The two quickly making a departure from the Warlock's territory, the Vanguard turning her own steed back towards the Traveler with an expressive plant of worry.

[until-we-fall-in-love]

(remember me, love,) when i’m reborn: chapter five

-Read Chapter Four-

(remember me, love,) when i’m reborn Masterlist

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, Natasha Romanov x Reader if you squint

Summary: It feels too heavy to be coincidence, so weighted that it could be fate. You were crafted in the depths of HYDRA, another soldier to serve their purpose. In a series of events that unravel, you vow to destroy your creator and forever disappear with the only one that has ever mattered to you. But when you meet his best friend, you are forced to realize that you hold far, more secrets than you ever intended. (This will follow the events of Winter Soldier and Civil War)

Warnings: Violence, blood, gore in this chapter. Other chapters have light smut, torture, and swearing.

If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!

A/N: hi guys!! sorry for the wait on this chapter but thank you for your patience!! thank you to everyone who has continually supported and responded to this series!! i love hearing what you all have to say about it!! i have the next chapter already in the works, so should be out in the next week or so :)

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When the dawn of the next day is rosy and new, still streaked with blue darkness and stars, you leave Bucky and return to the hidden base that Maria Hill had brought you to for a final rendezvous and update. You still need to return to your own apartment, shower; Pierce will expect his pet to be nothing short of pristine on his biggest day. Exhaustion seeps into the back of your head, aching and sore. You will not rest tonight. 

You have not rested since you vowed to end this, you think. 

And you won’t rest until you and Bucky are safe and far from the reaches of any prying hands. 

Natasha, Steve, and Sam are with her and Fury. They give you their plans as they begin to suit up, slowly armor themselves. Natasha will go undercover as Councilwoman Hawley, she will be with you the entire time the chips are being placed by Sam and Steve. They plan to cause mass chaos, alert everyone to HYDRA in hopes of drawing out anymore hope; hope that Steve still has. 

You have a harder time seeing the promise in it, are truly fearful to see just how far reaching HYDRA has become, but you don’t have the heart to deny Steve of this hope.

They plan to kill Alexander Pierce.

“If you cut off one head,” You begin tiredly, but it is Steve who finishes it;

“Two more shall take its place.” 

Your eyes catch and hold before you have to turn away from the imploring blue of his. You cross your arms over your chest, squeeze the meat of your own arm. Your fingernails dig lightly into your skin, a prickle of pain as you imagine Pierce dead. 

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted, yet strange, and distant. A dream so far off, you can’t even imagine it. It makes your stomach curl inwards, suddenly anxious. If none of this works, if you’re revealed to be a traitor to HYDRA--

“Do you want to take the shot?” Natasha asks, jarring you from your twisting thoughts. 

The question is considerate; coming from another who perhaps knows what it’s like to be made and unmade into girl weapons, perfect in every way. Her voice is cool, calm. All eyes turn to you and you squirm under their gaze. You think about all that ferociousness you’d hand only hours earlier as they fried Bucky’s brain for the thousandth time. How much will personally taking Pierce’s life do? Will it soothe something in you? Will it feel good? 

Should it?

You become wary. 

Pierce has been your captor for years, kept you on such a tight leash, made you small and puppet and hostage. He’s never harmed you, never struck you or threatened you, but perhaps because you have never outwardly disobeyed him. He believes he is the hand that feeds you, gracious and kind, you would never bite him. 

He thinks you know nothing else but his commands. 

And before his commands, Karprov’s. 

Before Karpov’s, faceless trainers in ghostly Russia. Pale and faded with time, swathed in the grey light and skittering shadows of your childhood . Who is it you can blame on all of this? Who is the shot that you truly want to take aim at? You don’t know. You don’t think you’ll ever know. 

You’re not sure it will make a difference. 

You think the only thing that will soothe you is Bucky’s safety and freedom. Steve and Natasha’s safety. Your own, long awaited freedom. 

You aren’t sure you have ever been free, not truly, not fully. The idea is large and overwhelming, something you can't even fathom yet. 

“I don’t need to.” You answer with a quiet breath. “As long as I see him die, I don’t need to.” 

Natasha nods, green eyes a fraction softer as they gaze upon you. 

“Then he’s mine.” Fury declares and your head turns at the sound of his solid voice. He looks like a man who has something to settle and you’re certain he does. He looks at you, then, as if he seeks your approval. As if he has an inkling of what Pierce’s death means to you, all that it symbolizes; the breaking of your binds, the outstretching of your wings. 

You nod, give him that approval. 

“Is there anything we should expect in the next few hours?” Hill speaks up, “Any last information you have? Advice, even?” She asks, a hint of dryness to her tone. 

“Yes,” You say quickly, “Pierce plans on giving each council member a “badge” that will give them access to the building, but it has a small explosive he can detonate which will kill you, should he choose to.” You direct your attention to Natasha, “Which, is possible, the moment Steve makes his announcement.” 

“Is there a way for you to switch mine out?” Natasha responds. 

You shake your head, “I don’t have them. I won’t have access to them.” Your brows furrow as you try to think, wrack your brain for a way to get around such a deathly flaw in your plans. “And even if I did, I don’t have time to make you a decoy.” 

“Is there a way to deactivate them?” Sam speaks up, “Destroy them before Pierce can use them?” 

You blow out a breath, “There’s always a way to destroy things, it’s only--” Slowly, the idea forms in your worn down mind, sluggish and probably stupid, but, “An electric pulse would short circuit them.” And you can already hear Natasha sighing. 

“Are you suggesting I taser myself?”

You rub at a knot in the back of your neck, peak sheepishly at her, “Perhaps.” You glance at the others, “Unless anyone else has any other ideas.”

When no one speaks up, Natasha rolls her eyes, “I think you all just want to see me taser myself.” 

You give her a wry smile, tired and wane, but try to show her that you’re appreciative, “I’ll make it up to you, Tasha.” 

Her eyes glitter in the shadows, a little mischievous, promising you all sorts of trouble. “I’m holding you to that, malen'kiy vorobey.” 

Little sparrow. 

You have never liked that name until it has rolled off her tongue, or been touched by Steve’s. Not as an agent of HYDRA, but an alias, a title, a name of your own. The little bird with quick, beating wings that builds and works diligently for it’s nest. Originally given to you because you were frail and pretty to look at compared to the others; half mocking, half in crudeness. 

Now it is yours and only yours and you feel as if you have wings, finally unbound, ready to take flight and be as fleeting and exuberant as the little birds in the sky. 

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

Steve catches you alone before you leave once more, his eyes so gentle and prodding. You are so exhausted that you can’t find your guards, wonder how well he can read you. Wonder if you smell like Bucky, wonder if Steve has any clue. Can he tell by the haunted look on your face that you were holding Bucky’s slack body after being tortured? What would he say if he knew? 

“How are you feeling?” He asks instead, only concern for you.

Awful. Terrified. Excited. Desperate. 

Stupidly hopeful. 

“Exhausted.” You tell him instead, let your shoulder slump. And before you can ask the same of him, he is already responding;

“I bet.” And his face softens, “You’ve been waiting for this day for years.” 

“Yes,” You admit on an exhale, “Yes, I have.” And strangely, because Steve seems to have this effect on you, this ability to completely unravel you in a myriad of extreme and emotional ways, your eyes well with tears. Just as they did the night you met him, when he touched you so tenderly, in so many other quiet moments between you two. “I have been waiting years for this day.” 

Steve nods, eyes heavy for you, his hand coming up to cradle the swell of your cheek, your jaw. He guides you into looking up at him, “You’re going to be free soon.” He says on a whisper and to hear it aloud, makes you inhale sharply. 

A tear slips down your cheek, pristine, free. 

Free, free, free, your heart pounds like that of a bird’s wings taking flight. 

“Yes.” You agree hopefully, breathlessly. 

“You’ve paid such a high price for it.” He adds quietly, as if it is a revelation, something he is understanding for the first time in this moment with you. And he’s looking at you like you’re a vision or a ghost or a gem. Something precious but something unyielding. Something whole and something shattered, reverent and awed and heartbroken for you. As if he feels your losses, too. 

You wonder if he does, wonder if he mourns Bucky with you without even knowing it. He doesn’t know the full picture in detail, but he’s starting to grasp it. 

And the acknowledgement is almost too much for you to bear the weight of. You have paid the price for this, for years, in your sister’s life, in Bucky’s. In yours.

“Yes,” You repeat, lip wobbling, “I have.” 

“Whatever happens today,” Steve continues, swiping away a tear with his thumb, “I promise I will ensure your safety and freedom. If Pierce lives, if things go sideways,” Steve holds your eyes, honest and intense, “I promise, I’ll do anything to keep you from him. From all of HYDRA.” 

No one has ever promised you protection like this before, no one has laid their hand so gentle to you, with no restrictive touch, and simply loved you and believed in your freedom. Perhaps Bucky; but it is a primal part of the Soldier that guarantees your safety, savagely desperate to keep you. Bucky could never promise you such freedom when he is caged, too, leashed more severely than you. But this, this; what Steve promises is something you don’t have words for. 

Nothing besides a rushed, truthful, “Thank you.” Just as the sun breaks outward in a flare of morning gold and vibrant pink, the dark blue washing away to reveal the eager day. “Thank you, Steve.” 

And he kisses your damp cheek, let’s you slide away from his embrace so you can both ready for the battle ahead. 

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

You return to your apartment, shower under high pressure and heat, as if you can burn away all that you’ve gone through. Your skin becomes raw and tender, but it wakes you, burns you, fuels you. 

Washes all away until you can step out a new person, wear cream and white clothes, and turn away from the black darkness. You walk with a new air, strip away your shadowed mask until it is just you, in the light of a new day, swathed in satin and pearl.  

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

You dutifully take up your position beside Pierce, are certain that all is in place for his grand day. He walks tall and proud and bloated on his excitement for Project Insight, for the death of millions. Of freedom.

You greet the councilmen with ease and grace, Pierce introducing you the way he does every time; as if you are a pretty toy, a well behaved tiger for show. You play hostess, do tricks, find that your sharp, little smiles have become genuine because this will be the last time you play this part. 

Soon Pierce will know. He will know who got the best of him when no one else could. He will know what it’s like to lose that which he loves, know your betrayal, know the claws and teeth he’d thought you’d never use on him.  

You pour champagne; a celebration. Pierce makes a toast. 

You raise your glass but it’s for yourself, for all your years suffered. The cost of your freedom. 

Steve’s voice crackles to life over the intercoms. Pierce freezes, blood leaving his face and you could almost laugh. In triumph. In bitterness. 

Steve speaks the truth, voice ringing and clear through all of the Triskelion. You watch the councilmen shift, uneasy, slowly wrapping their minds around what has happened. Who Pierce really is. You stand still and straight and tall, just as Steve finishes, and you feel his words personally, as if he speaks to you;

“And I know I’m asking a lot, the price of freedom is high; it always has been. But it’s a price I’m willing to pay. And if I’m the only one, then so be it, but I’m willing to bet I’m not.” 

Accusatory eyes sharpen on Pierce, just as guards march out. The councilmen think they’re SHIELD, but they aren’t. You know this, fingernails biting into the palm of your hands. You knew there’d be guards but it makes your skin crawl with nerves nonetheless. 

When none of the councilmen comply to Pierce, when no one believes his words of safety and freedom, he is handed a gun. You shift behind him, worried, eyes glancing to Natasha. If she doesn’t do something, you will--

But the moment he raises the gun, Natasha is a blur of emotion. She easily disarms Pierce, takes out the guards, and then raises back up with the gun now pointed to Pierce. 

She sheds the electronic veil, revealing herself. Not part of the plan, but neither was Pierce’s sudden, potential violent streak with the councilmen that don’t agree. You shouldn’t be surprised, but you can also tell that Steve’s announcement has deeply rattled him. 

“I’m sorry, did I ruin your moment?” Natasha asks, smug as she is. 

And instead Pierce looks at you; your ace up his sleeve. His eyes glitter, almost excitedly, as if she’d never expect this. When you don’t move to disarm Natasha, to engage or try to protect him, he narrows his eyes. 

You stand prim and proper, uncaring. 

He says your name.

“Disarm her.” He then tries, “Get me out of here.” 

Natasha’s lips curl into a vicious, little smirk. The cat that’s got the canary.

“No,” You say lightly, “I don’t think I will.” 

Pierce face falls and you think this is the first time you’ve ever seen him this shocked, this rattled. His face drains of color. His mouth hangs open for a moment. It’s satisfying, and you can’t help your own slight, twitching of a smile. Victorious. Proud.

And then his face contorts, fury tracing the edges, his eyes clouding over. “I gave you everything.”  He says dangerously, as if he poses a threat to you. Without his guards, without his dogs around him, he’s nothing. Just a man, power-hungry and desperate, grasping at anything. “I set you free!” He snaps. 

His entitlement of you is unsurprising, but just as vile. You look over him lazily, uncaring. 

“A gilded cage is still a cage, Alexander.” You reply coolly, calmly.

His fists squeeze, face turning an ugly shade of red for a moment. He presses his lips into a thin, angry line. He’s trying to keep his composure, “You’ll pay for this.” He warns darkly, “Deeply and dearly.” He says, scrambling for something, anything to scare you with; no sister to use against you, only;

 “I’ll kill him.” Pierce’s words are venomous and promising. When your jaw ticks, he pushes on, “Your precious soldier. Don’t think I’m so naive, I know you care for him--”

You keep your mouth shut, dare not allow him to know that you plan on disappearing with Bucky. No snide remarks that you both will be far from Pierce’s reach by the time this is over, you only turn away from him as Natasha heads over to the computer, ready to wreak her own havoc. 

You can practically hear his groan of frustration, but you pay no mind. The broad, transparent screen gleams to life, just as Natasha begins her process of being able to leak all of SHIELD and HYDRA’s demented little secrets. You exhale slowly, remain silent and watching as Natasha and Pierce exchange a few words about clearance, before you hear the whir of a chopper in the distance. 

Nick Fury’s return from the dead comes with impeccable timing and style, gliding in like the phantom he is. He has his own questions for Pierce, his own need to find truth in all of this deception. You turn, find your eyes landing on the battles that forge onward on the helicarriers, on the ground below. You can catch glimpses of Sam, evading bullets, somersaulting through the air. Soaring high, a modern Icarus flying for his life. 

You can’t find the stark blue of Steve’s suit, the gleam of Bucky’s arm. You have no idea where the pair of them are, only hope for their safety. Your fingernails dig into the palm of your hand, prickling of pain as you turn away from the window. 

You watch as Fury and Pierce give their retinal scans to allow Natasha further access, and just like that, all of SHIELD and HYDRA’s secrets are uploaded for all to see. 

The information of your own life, all that HYDRA has on you, on your previous missions, on your sister, is buried somewhere on the internet now. For anyone to see. Perhaps it should frighten you, but there is nothing but a slight release. No more hiding, no more shadows, no more being a secret puppet for the next master to pull on your strings. 

You suppose, perhaps it could also mean more interest on you, if the wrong person unearths your file. But the truth is worth it, bright and glittering in front of you as you look at the screen that has just leaked all, it is something you have been reaching for with outstretched fingers since you became aware of what and who you are to HYDRA. Since you realized there was more to being their war doll, their concealed weapon on a leash. 

Your eyes slide back to Pierce just as his fingers twitch for the remote he’d been carrying, his last resort. You jolt towards him, ready to disarm him but the councilmen all go down in bursts of hot light. The smell of burnt flesh, sound of groans fill the room. Pierce eyes you as he raises it towards Natasha and your heart drops, halting your advancement on him.

Natasha and Fury’s weapons click, ready for use, as they’re pointed at Pierce but it’s clear he has a moment of control. Natasha could ignite her taser, fry out the small pin on her collar but she’d be down and out; her and Nick exchange a glance. They don’t blow their cover yet and both lower their weapons. 

For the moment they allow Pierce to try and reach out to others, to get the helicarriers locked onto their targets and ready. He’s engrossed in it, desperate to save this. But you can tell that Natasha and Fury know something he doesn’t; perhaps they’ve already gotten word through their comms. that Steve and Sam have been successful. You cling to the thought, right as Pierce orders the shot.

And for an eerie, passing moment, nothing happens. 

The helicarriers stand still in the sky, strange, ugly crafts blocking the sun. You near the window, eyes no longer able to find Sam. You search frantically, heart skipping, threatening to drop. Where is he? Where’s Steve? And--

Then the helicarriers turn towards each other, fire at will. Tear each other apart.

You let out a breath, exhale hard, as if is the first time you can breathe clearly almost. Your chest constricts tightly as you watch what you have planned and hoped and worked for, lied and hid and begged for, come to fruition.

You are free, you think. Bucky is free. 

And you turn to Pierce, his face falling in quiet horror. 

I am your Destroyer, you think as you gaze at him. This is because of me. 

“What a waste.” He mutters, shoulders going slack.

You want him to know, know who ruined all that he’d try to create, and you want him to know why. For your sister, because he killed her by sending her away from you. For Bucky and all that Pierce did to him.

For you; to cut your strings of him, walk now as if you are not being controlled by him. 

Pierce tries to walk Natasha out of the room, tries to get away. You watch as Natasha steels herself, back going rigid in preparation for the pain. Electricity sparks, constricts her for a moment. Her body jerks, shudders, before she collapses to the ground in a heap of blue.

You rush for her, drop to your knees, wary suddenly that your idea had done worse damage. Your breath comes quick. 

Two, clean shots ring out. Glass shatters. You shield her with your body as it rains down. When you pick your head up, Pierce is on the ground. 

“Natalia,” You hiss, grabbing her shoulder, jostling her. “Natasha.” You then try.

Fury is at your side then, too, trying to wake her. His own fear for her written in his eye. But the moment she blinks awake, mumbling about how those really do hurt, you’re up. 

Like a person possessed, you float over to Pierce. Sick fascination or unfinished business, you don’t know what it is, but it forces you to your knees beside him. The prim white of your skirt seeps scarlet, the stains slowly crawling up the hem. 

His eyes focus on you slowly, anger and even grief, the kind that comes with broken trust. 

“You,” He garbles, his mouth filling with copper blood.

“Me,” You agree firmly, find his wrist and seek out a pulse. It fades, slow and dreary. “It was me all along.” You admit because you need him to know. You let his hand drop into the glass he lays upon. 

His lips tremble, “Why? When?”

“October 12th, 2013.” 

His brows furrow, as if he is hurt by this, but there is also a flicker of something else, something unnameable at first, “For so long?” 

“Since my sister’s death.” You tell him calmly, “Since I discovered there was more to life than being yours or HYDRA’s.” Your fingers, quick and cold, seek the holes ripped through him. He tenses, jolts when you find one wound, press sickly into it. 

He croaks, blood bubbling, thrashing against the press of your hands but you are strong, so impossibly strong compared to him.

“And I have vowed to put you in a grave every time you touched my precious soldier.” You tell him in a hiss of breath, a quiet exhale, repeating his words to him cruelly. Your fingers dig deeper into the warmth of his torn flesh and blood. 

He surges further, knowing pain finally, knowing the torture and hurt that he put Bucky through. But he rattles out a laugh.

“I should’ve kept you on a tighter leash.” He gets out gruffly.

“No,” You say, fingers finally receding, slick with warm maroon blood, “You shouldn’t have put me on a leash at all.” 

You take a final look at him, at your puppeteer, at your gilded cage and then stand gracefully. You step over him, walk on glass, lily white seeped with poppy red. Pristine, except for the blood that drips from you. 

But you follow Natasha and Fury into the helicopter, and into the sky, quick and rising, like a sparrow taking flight.

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

Sam dives into the helicopter so harshly that he nearly bursts through the other side. You and Natasha grab for him, haul him upright and between you two. You hold to him a little too fiercely. 

“Hill! Where’s Steve? You got a location on Rogers?” Natasha hollers into the headset and your eyes fly wildly over the helicarriers crashing and burning, colliding into buildings and each other. Panic rises, mounts horribly inside of you and presses against your ribs with every push of your lungs. You repeat his name inside of yourself, repeat Bucky’s name, too, as if it will suddenly make them appear in your line of vision; alive and safe. 

“He was in the last helicarrier.” Natasha informs you all, “H-he told Hill to blow it while he was still on it.” 

Your head whips to Natasha, then back out to the helicarriers, which are falling in flames, torn to shreds. Sinking from the sky like great ships, astonishing and catastrophic. You have a horrible, sinking feeling that if Steve is on one of them, so is Bucky.

“No,” You say out loud, but your voice sounds distant and wane, far away. Maybe you stand to watch them, to watch what you created, your destruction, fall from the sky like a flaming comet. 

You have no breath in your lungs as you watch your worlds crash and burn in fiery glory. And if your loves are on that ship, you look on helplessly. You watch them sink. 

You don’t realize you’ve collapsed until Sam’s arms are around you; strong and warm and hauling you back into the seat. 

There are tears, dripping down to your chin, onto your collar bones. You can’t catch your breath, you feel like you’re being constricted, strangled in the most cruel way possible. To sit and watch, to sit and watch like all those years you watched Bucky be tortured and beaten and bloodied, promising him a future but it’s just this, just a fiery death that you guided him to as much as Pierce. 

And Steve, Steve, oh Steve--

Natasha is telling you that we’ll find them, I swear to you we’ll find them.  

Sam is holding you down, against his chest and he is your only anchor as the helicopter careens over the carnage, over all the destruction and hellfire and they are nowhere to be seen, no hope in all of this wreckage.

So you cling to Sam and try to focus on Natasha’s swimming voice, watch desperately for any sign of the man you started all of this for, and the man you finished all of it for. But there is nothing and no one but ash and metal and wreckage, and your hope lies among it. Steve’s words ring inside of your head, echo and then sink deep into the pit of your stomach;

The price of freedom is high. 

How high? You mourn, how high? You plead with your eyes on the ground, searching, seeking, but soaring taller with every beat of your newly freed wings. 

[getaroomyouheck]

wrote a review for Spirit They’re Gone, Spirit They’ve Vanished

“Shh... Do you want to hear a secret? I know one…” When you close your eyes, and remember the halcyon days of your youth long past, what are the emotions that spur most flagrantly? Is it a sense of whims and love for that which made you, the bruises and arguments and play fights , wonder for the love left behind? Subtle sadness for those days forever lost in memory, with friends you may no longer be able to or even want to be able to talk to? Are those memories something to even bring up, or was it all just too much to bear, whatever broken sordid past that's left you to this point of blocking it all out? Perhaps it’s all of these at once, whirling into a broken cacophony, a maelstrom of youth and fervor, all wondering when that young soul left for once and for all? No album asks or answers that question to such an extent and utter poignance, as Avey Tare and Panda Bear's Spirit They’re Gone, Spirit They’ve Vanished The tinkered child coming from then 20 year old Avey Tare (David Portner) handling vocals and lyrics, and 19 year old Panda Bear (Noah Lennox) handling percussion and production, is one of the most whimsical, harrowing, and utterly magnificent tapestries of emotion and sound ever released. Moments of utter splendor and beauty, moments of despicable and disturbing noise, moments of the darkest moments and most primal evil committed against man, all this and more is woven through this album and the 10 tracks composing it. From the title track Spirit They’ve Vanished to the near 13 minute odyssey that is Alvin Row, this album documents and details the disillusionment of childhood, growing up and leaving behind the innocence and whimsy and wonder you once held, yet also trying to grow past indelible, inescapable trauma. Wilted capriciousness and disturbed corruption exist within a fulcrum, from jangling piano chords and synths being sliced through by harsh shrill noise and feedback. With all of this starting with the ubiquitous title track, Spirit They’ve Vanished Spirit They’ve Vanished as an opener to this album is so off-kilter and bizzare, yet through its dizziness and almost headache-inducing telepathic rhythms, it sets the stage for the forest of souls, memory and childhood Avey and Panda give life to. Drifting among a cold, dead sea of distorted high pitched feedback and a whirling synth give life to Avey’s soft vocals, embodying the Spirit of youth and young fervor, singing lines like “Turn it fast, as one mild day steals someone’s soul into 20 years”. Untitled is the key moment to this album's aesthetic, as soft whirring piano melodies are cut through with vehementation by blood-curdling noise sounding of a child's utter panicked wailing and shrieking, droning and droning till the screams cease and sinewy vocal cords burst. The nigh-impossible encompassment of repressed trauma, of what exactly was stolen from you, all at once your life and blood essence, is never coming back; when the only thing that can be done is to shriek. Yet from Penny Dreadfuls onward, Spirit They’re Gone takes on a far more melancholic but gentle approach to its whimsy; subtlety and beauty become accompaniments for the harrow of the child's plea as opposed to his harsher cousin chaos, this track being the key teller of this shift in sonic palette Feeling almost as a lullaby for the broken child's spirit, warm piano chords drift atop swirling synthlines constantly ascending and descending in an interstellar loop. Smothered sounding drums chime out and pound their heart into oblivion among Avey’s soft, innocently spry vocals singing into the void for a memory no longer wanting to recall, of the friends lost that might never have been friends to begin with. Chocolate Girl is one of my favorites on the whole album, a beautiful highlight of delicacy and heartful cries of youthful recklessness. Frenetic vocal deliveries atop a beautiful whirling drone and chaotic drum passages give ways to a lavished chorus breakdown carried by acoustic guitar and beautiful synth passages dropping in and out amongst more and more prominent drum passages from Panda; the music itself sounds of fairies and wildlife dancing their merrytime in jubilee. Lyrically this song is an incredible standout, Avey through using the metaphorical concept of his “Chocolate Girl”, he describes a loss of innocence and a tranquil reminiscence of the folly he once held in his imaginary friend, singing for her and so that he might no longer “feast on folly”. In sharp contrast to the pleasantry of the prior track, La Rapet is a song embroiled in misery and darkness, with the spirit-forgone child approaching the Devil within a nightmarish dreamscape, with the protagonist singing of “touching angel shadows on the ceiling” and “starting to rot in their mind, pretty angel” as a means to call for the angels of youth to save them from this inevitability. The droning sounds all slowing and quieting into silence, an inexorable reminder that, even as a young child in a playplace unbeknownst to death, that it’s always guiding your staying hand. Bat You’ll Fly is one of the more disorienting songs on the album, at first sounding pretty and incandescent, but the admirable qualities of the album become discernible as it progresses. Overtop warm guitar plucks and a wonderfully gorgeous synth line comes a dual channel song, delivering 2 completely separate lyrics and stories on both left and right audio channels, whirling into a furor of passion and energy singing for the loss of life and innocence on one side, lines like “But you can still think back to the wild cause happiness was being a child”. Yet on the other fulcrum comes chaos and singing of fairies and the autumn cold, melded together into one binary piece of odd beauty. Now following a interlude-esque track with Someday I’ll Grow to Be as Tall as the Giant, comes the crescendo finish to this record, and one of the most emotionally charged pieces I’ve ever listened to, a song that never fails to render me to tears for the memories held within. This, is Alvin Row To be quite honest, this song is honestly hard for me to even speak about. It opens up a part of me, a damning qualm to my own failures as a person and all the demons in my heart I’ve yet to claim victory against, much in the same way a song like Wake by The Antlers does. Yet, there is no cry of hope, no resolution against the lingering pain in my heart inflicted by people who no longer even know my name; Alvin Row is an utter culmination of the sorrow I feel within my soul for that which has claimed my once childhood innocence, the monsters under my bed and the monsters I let grow closer to me than I ever should have, and for the spirits of death that touch my face every day I am alive. Each individual piano chord slammed down by Aveys manic performance, the multi-layered drumming that switches phase to phase showing the journey of the protagonist and their symbol of childhood manifested as Alvin Row, each beautiful synth passage and knife twisting drones of utter grief, each lyrical passage discussing the symbols of love and life forgotten by time, with Alvin slowly vanishing as our narrator loses the bewitchful youth that once held within them the spirit of love and life: From lines like “Words slip by when I’m silent I have to let so many people down”and “A new apartment and a heart don’t make me old”, all of Alvin Row rips into my soul in ways no other song or any real piece of media has ever done, and yet, I love it to bits. When I put this song on, and just tune out the rest of the peripheral sight, what billows up to the forward thoughts of consciousness, is the halcyon days I’ll never be able to get back, yet are always a part of me. Waking up excited to visit my grandmother who’s no longer with me on this Earth. Fighting shirtless in the rain with my best friend whom I haven't seen in at least 7 years. Sharing the beautiful words of this album's opener to a friend experiencing her own grief and learning to move forward. Crying to this album together with another friend who’s connection to this album is in many ways more ample than my own. Every insignificant memory, every minor embellishment to what makes me Aiden Shaw, is what is churned within me the moment I press play This is my answer to the question proposed early on, what Alvin Row and by extension the whole album, spurs within me the moment I listen, and I close my eyes and remember that which has led me to become who it is that writes this review you’re reading now. Maybe I have suffered in ways no one ever should. Maybe I have hidden parts of myself deep within my consciousness that Spirit They’re Gone has painfully ripped out, especially through La Rapet and Alvin Row. Maybe my sordid and ignominious past has indelibly made me relate with this album in ways not intended by Avey and Panda. Yet all of that is something so human and beautiful, that even when crafted from the broken tapestry of a childhood left fragmented by its own abusive remnants, the juvenile wonder of who I once was, surfaces, at least for a temporary time. My childhood is forever gone, but the memories from it that this album pulls forth show that it will always be a part of me. Even when my own spirit has forever forgotten me, even for the briefest moments, this album helps me remember that. Thank you, everyone who's read this and given this diatribe the time of day. Thank you, Avey Tare and Panda Bear, for culminating childhood agony and regret into a consolidated artform. Thank you, Spirit They’re Gone, Spirit They’ve Vanished, for making me feel, even for a little bit, that I’m not alone “Now my singing voice is gone, my singing voice is gone, my singing voice is gone…” Favorite tracks: Spirit They’ve Vanished, Untitled, Penny Dreadfuls, Chocolate Girl, La Rapet, Bat You’ll Fly, Alvin Row (standout) Least favorite track: N/A

[spnjediavenger]

Feel My Dreams Part 3

Title: Feel My Dreams Part 3 (boys x sister figure!reader)

Type: sequel

Warnings: general SPN violence, slight torture description, injury description

Spoilers: none

Disclaimers: I don’t own supernatural or its characters

Baku lore: Baku = Mythological Creature Who Eats Nightmares, Protects ...https://www.onmarkproductions.com › html › baku

Witch lore: witch_protection.html protection-against-witches-how-ornaments-used-to-ward-off-evil-spirits

Part 1, Part 2

“You weren’t able to get anything?” Dean asked Rowena incredulously.

Rowena shrugged with a sympathetic smile on her face. “Arcadia has kept her tracks covered and trained her coven well. Seems she’s not as dense as she was when we were both part of the high coven. I’m sorry, dear,” she finished, looking at Y/n.

“There has to be something else we can go off of,” Sam said hopefully. “Rowena, is there any kind of spell you can use to track her or anything?”

“Not without a piece of her, I’m afraid.”

“What about me?” Y/n asked, looking to Rowena.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked her, crossing his arms.

“You said Arcadia would have had to bind herself to me somehow. If she’s able to get to me, there must be a way I can reach the other way and get through to her,” Y/n explained.

Rowena thought for a moment, then closed her eyes and frowned. “Ay, maybe it could work, but…”

“But…?”

She sighed and glanced at the boys. “If we risk a connection to Arcadia, there’s a chance she could pull Y/n into another nightmare. And it seems each time she’s done so in the past, her bond strengthened. This could work to track down Arcadia but only by putting Y/n at risk.”

“Let’s do it,” Y/n said without missing a beat.

“Y/n-”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Sam said, interrupting his brother.

Y/n sighed. “Guys, these nightmares are only going to continue getting worse. Arcadia almost killed me last time and I know she’s going to keep trying until she succeeds. So we’re not losing much by trying to beat her before doing it.”

“And what if this is giving her the chance she needs?” Dean asked.

Another sigh. “Like I said, she’s going to try again anyway.” Y/n turned her attention back to Rowena. “Ro?”

The witch sighed as well. “Alright. But we’ll have to take precautions before any of this. I don’t want this backfiring on you if I can help it.”

Y/n smiled a bit and gave Rowena’s hand a reassuring squeeze before turning to the boys to try and come up with a plan.

~ ~ ~

After Cas came in and was caught up, the group hit the books. Everything Rowena brought, anything in the bunker the boys could find on witchcraft, and all the research Y/n had in her journal from the past. Rowena was trying to figure out a spell to allow Y/n to see through Arcadia, and the others were trying to figure out ways to keep Y/n safe in the meantime.

“Amulet?”

“No.”

“Hagstone?”

“No.”

“Silver dime, penny, salt, horseshoe, urine??”

“None,” Rowena said again, a bit exasperated. “I’m sorry, dear. If it was a lower-level witch, those would impair them a wee bit but they won’t do a thing against Arcadia.”

Y/n let out a big sigh and ran a hand down her face.

“Wait, guys,” Sam spoke up from his corner of the table. “I think I may have found something.”

“What?” Y/n asked, walking over behind Sam to wrap her arms lazily around his shoulders and rest her head next to his to look at his laptop. He smiled a bit, loving when his sister-figure got close.

“So get this - in Asian folklore, there’s a creature called a ‘Baku’; it’s what they call a ‘dream-eater’. When children would wake up from nightmares, they would call it three times and it would come to feed off their nightmares so they could go back to a peaceful sleep.”

“Ok great but we need to stop them before they happen,” Dean argued. “We can’t wait till after.”

“Let him finish, De,” Y/n said.

“There’s supposedly a palindrome that can be sung three times before going to sleep that’s said to ‘ward off bad dreams and ill omens.’”

“What’s a palindrome?”

“It’s a verse that reads the same forwards and backwards,” Y/n answered, earning a small but proud smile from Sam.

“Now, it doesn’t specify anything needed besides the palindrome to summon one but most people keep a baku talisman by their bedside. Maybe worth a shot until Rowena can figure out a spell?” Sam questioned, looking at the rest of the room’s occupants.

A round of head nods confirmed and Dean stood up to look at Sam. “Ok, so where do we get one of these talismans?”

~ ~ ~

Y/n ran her thumb across the smooth wooden figure in her hand. It was cute. A creature resembling many animals but had an innocent look about it.

“You ready?” Dean’s voice got Y/n’s attention.

She looked up at him, let out a shaky breath, and nodded, placing the talisman under her pillow.

“Hey,” Sam said, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Dean, Cas, and I will all be here with you, ok? If something happens, we’ll pull you out ASAP, alright?”

Y/n weakly smiled, but smiled nonetheless and nodded again. She picked up the sliver of paper on her nightstand and took a deep breath before singing the words on it. “Nagakiyonoto o noneburinominamesame. Naminoribuneno o tonoyokigana.” She repeated it twice after that and received a small, quick orange glow coming from under her pillow. Y/n looked wide-eyed at the brothers and Cas. “Do you think it’ll work?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Cas said, finally speaking up. He also gave her shoulder a squeeze and smiled before she laid back into her bed.

Sensing her nerves, Dean took a seat beside her, allowing her to snuggle up against him as he carded his fingers through her hair. The boys smiled a bit when her eyes slowly closed and soon fell asleep.

Y/n woke up to find herself strapped to a table again. Her eyes darted about and her heart instantly sped up. Not again! she thought.

“Welcome back,” Arcadia said, emerging from a corner of the room.

Y/n took a quick moment to look around the room, hoping for any sign to indicate where she was. She didn’t get too long before her insides began to twist and convulse. A scream tore at her throat but no sound came. The pain stopped and she panted for air.

Arcadia approached the table and smirked evily. “Our bond grows stronger with each dream. I’m able to use more and more spells to make sure you won’t wake up. And I’ll be more careful this time.”

Arcadia picked up a knife and ran her eyes down Y/n’s body until she stopped at her abdomen. “How’s that stab wound?” she said, pressing the knife slowly into it, breaking the stitches and reopening the wound.

Sam had gone back into the library to help Rowena with the spell while Dean and Cas stayed behind with Y/n to watch over her and wake her if needed.

The boys were gazing around the room, the waiting becoming a bit tedious, when Cas glanced back at Y/n to see tears streaming down her face.

“Dean,” he said, pulling the older Winchester’s attention as he approached the bed.

Dean snapped his head over to the girl and walked to her side as well. He began shaking her shoulders to wake her to no avail. He looked her over and stopped when he saw blood seeping through her shirt, immediately becoming even more alarmed.

“I thought this thing was supposed to protect her?!” he yelled.

Baku-san, help me. Baku-san, help me. Baku-san, help me! Y/n repeated in her head, remembering the detail from researching.

Arcadia removed the knife from her abdomen only to run it over her cheek, drawing a line of blood behind it. When she lifted it again, she went to make another cut when an orange light flew from the table to knock the witch over. It stopped next to Y/n and began to materialize into a majestic, tiger-like creature. It resembled a tiger but had small, elephant-like ears, small trunk and tusks, small bull eyes, and a cow tail. As soon as it fully appeared, it grabbed the restraints holding Y/n in its teeth and ripped them off. The girl rolled off the table onto the floor, clutching her stomach. She took note of the symbol on the floor and looked up to see the baku prowling protectively in front of her, growling at Arcadia with its teeth bared.

The witch rose and twisted her hands, a blue glow surrounding them. The baku quickly curled around Y/n and an orange light surrounded them.

Y/n woke up with a gasp, the orange light fading around her. She felt hands on her shoulders and grabbed them to push them away but looked up to see Dean, not Arcadia.

“It’s me, kid. You’re alright. Well, kind of. We’ll have to patch you up again.”

“Y/n, that orange glow - what was it?” Cas asked from beside her.

“The baku,” she said, catching her breath; she silently thanked every power that she could speak again.

“I thought it was supposed to protect you?” Dean said, a little angry she still got hurt.

“It did. When I called to it in my mind, this orange light appeared. It knocked Arcadia over and it became whole. It ripped the restraints off and got me out of the dream before she could hurt me anymore. It worked,” she explained, smiling a bit at the end.

Dean returned a small smile and pulled her into a hug, trying to be gentle and avoid her injuries.

“Guys!” Sam jogged into the room, abruptly stopping when he saw Y/n was hurt. “Hey, you alright?” he said, striding over to inspect her wounds.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Cas, go get the first aid kit.”

Cas nodded and Dean looked expectantly at Sam. “What were you gonna tell us?”

Sam smiled a bit and looked over at Rowena, who stood in the doorway, then looked back to Y/n and Dean. “We figured it out.”

The other two smiled and Sam put a hand on Y/n’s shoulder and squeezed it a bit. “We’re gonna fix this. It’ll be alright soon.”

Dean placed a kiss on her head and she leaned into him, relief flooding her system and hope filling her chest. It would all be over soon.

[aria-i-adagio]

Ch 16: Directions to See a Ghost

Fandom: The Arcana

Chapter Rating: Lime, very lime

Wordcount: 5600

Masterpost

Prior Chapter

a/n: @ilyarium co-wrote this chapter!  

Julian’s mood seems to improve as Portia leads us up the hill that I had stumbled my way down twice the other night.  Sunlight, perhaps, or the effect of the alcohol working its way out of his system.  He’s quiet, but as he promised, sure footed, even during a scramble up a particularly steep part of the path.  Portia unlocks the lemonstone gate that leads into the garden.  We follow her around one turn of the hedge maze and she two in front of two statues and grins.  “There are all these passages and portals throughout the palace.  I’ve been, um, mapping them in my free time.  Deep breath, both of you.”  She takes Julian’s hand and mine then steps between the statues, pulling us both with her.  There’s a sudden lurch and a sickening sensation of falling up, then we land in a dark hallway.  Julian loses his balance, pulling both Portia and me to the floor with him.  “Graceful, Ilya.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t, um, expecting that . . . damn, it’s dark in here . . .”

I try to summon a light to my hands.  Like the other night, my magic doesn’t quite seem to work.  The light flickers for a moment, then flares, and extinguishes itself.  “Sorry.  Not much help right now.”

“No matter.  This is Lucio’s old wing right?”  Julian’s long limbs unfolding as he gets to his feet is just barely visible as my eyes adjust to the dim light.  “There were candelabras all along the walls.  Sure there’s still a candle or two in one.”

As he paws along the wall, looking for something to create some light, I get to my feet and dust off my clothes.  Like before the air here doesn’t feel quite right - more that the staleness of an unused room.  It’s heavy around me and moving - slowly, but strongly, like a current in a river.  Hands extended in front of me, I walk down the hall, leaving Portia and Julian to their search for a candle.  My hand finds a door knob and without thinking I pull it open. 

The ground is cold under my feet, like ice through the soles of my shoes, and as slick as ice too. Did I step in? I can't really remember making that decision, but I must have made it. It feels oddly wet, and feel how I slide and start to fall and... something catches me. I think something did, or did I just react fast enough to catch myself for once?

 You. Again. I remember you.

 A little wisp of wind against my ear makes me shiver, the sudden little current like an unexpected breath.

"Hello?"  No response.  I'm not certain if I should even have expected one.  Or if I even wanted one.  There's a rectangle of light on the opposite wall, just barely pushing through heavy drapes.  I pick my way across to it, stepping with care on a floor that has no business being so slick.  The room smells of ash.  Ash and dogs and years of neglect.  A cloud of dust rises like smoke when I push aside the curtain.

The light that falls through a dirty window feels muted, faded like an old memory. This is... a bathroom? Polished marble and a giant bathtub with golden claws, somehow reminding me of the one in my own rooms, just far, far more... absurdly opulent? Is that a thing? The palace seemed a lot at first, but I've somehow grown used to it, but this....  A swan is engraved into the window, proud wings spread in flight, leaving a trail of little crystals set in the glass as he leaves the water. It must be a spectacle when the sun shines through it.

Something touches my back as I trail my finger through the dust on the edge of the tub.  I turn, expecting Julian or Portia, but there's no one behind me, at least not that I can see.  The sensation of fingers - icy cold -  close around my wrist.  "Who's there?"  My voice shakes softly.  Foolish question, really, how many ghosts could one expect from a single wing of the palace?  I glance to my right, at a wall of mirrors.  There's a faint form towering beside me, though it could be a trick of the light or the cobwebs that coat the surface.  I see the shape move, shimmering, just a slight tilt at the top - a nod to acknowledge my presence?  "Lucio?"

 Was that so hard? Foolish girl.  Of course it is I, always have been, always will be, and... ah, so warm, I have forgotten how warm you were. Can feel it down to my bones. Well, metaphorical bones, or metaphysical ones, whatever.  Pretty enough. You'll do for now.

 I step closer to the mirror, lifting my free hand, fingers skimming slowly over the surface.  My mind is one step behind my body and the cold is seeping slowly, so slowly into both.  "Can you speak?"  This might be a bad idea.  Or it could be a good one.  If he knows what happened, how he died, who killed him.  Do you even remember your life, once you're dead?

I see in the mirror how he leans down to me, about to whisper in my ear.  Maybe?  A cool gust of wind again, washing over my skin.  Is he touching me?

 Aah.  Your fragrance.  Human.  Not ash and not fire and not nothing, most of all not nothing, and I inhale again, deeply, trying to inhale some of your very life back into me.  Never thought I'd miss that so much.  A question.  What was it again? Oh, right.  Can I speak?  No, I say and giggle, because I can't, not here, not now, and yet your ears seem to prick like Melchior's when he hears something interesting. How I miss his soft fur...

 He's here.  Yet not here.  I take a deep, slow breath and close my eyes, thumbing through the pages of the books in my shop in my head.  At least one related to the question of spirits and communication between the living and the dead.  The twisting pattern of a sigil that strengthens the link between the spirit and our world appears behind my eyes.  At the shop, I'd use chalk or a sand tray, but technically anything will do, even the dust overlaying the surface of a mirror or a pattern held carefully in the mind.  I lift the hand that still feels like it's being held by cold fingers and carefully trace the design onto the mirror, hoping that my recall is clear enough.

 I put my hand on her shoulder, trying to remember how it felt. Touching someone out of pride, rare as it was, one of my mercenaries when he did a particularly good job, because I sense what she's doing, even if I don't know the details. Who needs details anyway? Bureaucrats and tailors, and that's it. She's drawing me towards her, or into the mirror, or in her head, and she feels almost solid under my palms, and I press down a little more. 

 The feeling of someone standing over me only grows stronger as I finish the sigil.  The cold touch shifts from my wrist to my shoulder, and I swear I can feel a breath on the top of my head like a lover’s faint sigh.  I shiver, both from the chill in the air and the thought of a ghost hovering so uncomfortably close.  Once I've drawn in the least few lines, I lean close to the diagram and breath on it, to activate spell.  Breath and blood - the two symbols of life, and I don't want to mess with blood magic.  Not unless I must.  Just for a moment, the diagram glows - a faint pulse of blue green light.  I wait, hands at my sides, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt as I tried to keep them from shaking.

 Are you scared? I whisper and chuckle. I'm scared too, or giddy, or maybe both. It's nice to see someone with actual competency trying for once, not the courtiers, not that one time - just a single time, that Val showed up, around deep in his cups and another bottle at hand.  I feel her magic wash over me like a wave, and then, it's almost there. I'm almost there, almost, can see myself forming in the mirror, my glorious human self, and then it's gone again.  Lost in the sea. That's how the afterlife feels for me. Sometimes almost at the safe shores, but then again so far out between the waves that I can feel myself drowning, becoming another one of the sad shapes that haunt the palace. But not me. Not Lucio.

 The presence was stronger, but only for a moment.  Breath alone isn't going to be enough.  I gnaw at my bottom lip, then with a sigh dig a penknife out of my bag.  The chance that he knows - that he could clear Julian of his death - it's too important to not pressure.  I add six lines to the diagram, a hexagon - regular as I can make without a compass - framing the sigil.  Any spellwork I do within the frame will last only as long as the frame itself, no matter how powerful.  The limiting frame might keep Asra from killing me, once he finds out about this little adventure.  I prick my finger and allow a bead of blood to form before touching it to the center of the diagram.

 The sensation is a bit like cumming, and I shudder in delight.  Maybe I just moaned, not quite sure.  A heartbeat full of life pumping through me from that tiny drop, and my nails dig into her clothes. Damn magicians, always holding back their power.  Greedy things.  More. I need more... but I smile.  My old charm is still there, somewhere.

 I wince.  The feeling of a hands grasping at my side is stronger.  Nearly painful.  I'd be proud of myself for recalling the sigil well enough for it to be effective, if there wasn't a very insistent voice in the back of my head declaring that I was certainly going to regret this mistake.  

"Speak if you can, Lucio."

Silence.  But the phantom hand tightens on my waist.  

 You'd be the first to want that. I chuckle. Does she hear me as I whisper in her ear? Briefly muse to lick along the shell, make her shudder as she made me.

 Rude, I think, even as I feel my head tipping just slightly to the side.  And not enough, yet, it seems.  Damn.  The trouble with this spell - with most spells - is the sequential increase in power that is geometric, not arithmetic in nature.  The next step adds four drops of blood to the cardinal points, not simply a second drop.  But I want - I need - answers.  Fuck it.  I squeeze the pad of that finger and touch it to the mirror right to left, lower to upper.  Whispering to myself, because it seems odd to work in silence when I know someone else is here, I dot more blood onto the diagram.  Sixteen drops more, makes for twenty one total, the product of three and seven.  Three for stability and creation, seven for completion and expectation.

The sigh of the dead man is clearly audible this time, or maybe it's a moan. I'm not quite sure.

"What gives me the pleasure of your presence?" The ghost’s voice grows stronger as he speaks. "Did you miss me so much?" 

I can feel sharp nails trailing along my jaw and a thumb being over my bottom lip.  Miss him?  Why would I, specifically, miss him?  Or does he simply assume that everyone in the city, process and paupers alike, long for his presence?  

"Nadia wants, needs to know . . .”  My voice shakes as I try to figure out a way to ask the question that will get me an answer.  “How did you die, Lucio?"

"Dead?"  A melancholic laugh. He's bitterly amused by the question it seems.  "I'm not dead, my dove.  I'm like you, not quite alive." 

 She's not.  I knew the first moment I touched her.  Two sides of the same coin, her side wiped clean, mine engraved too deeply.  I want to take her, suddenly, urgently, to become one, but know that won't do the trick.  I was told by trustworthy sources.

 "Like me?”  What does he mean by not quite alive?  Fingers trail through my hair.  I can make out more of his image now.  Blonde, average height, trim physique, face still lost in dust and shadow.  "How are you like me?"

"You do not know? Oh, of course not." 

 She's their pawn.  A perfect little doll, ignorant of how they toy with her.  Liars and cowards, all of them, and I feel the heat of my hate returning, and it feels so good.

 "There's quite a lot I don't know.”  For a second, my temper flares and I have to shove back thoughts of Asra and everything he's hidden from me - even if it's true that he withholds information to keep me safe.

"They are horrible, aren't they? Always telling that you don't need to concern yourself with this and that...."

  Heavens, I hate being sober.  Happier to be a drunken fool.  No wonder Val stays that way.  The realization they did that - that they lied, manipulated, despised me, only came after my little accident.  For a moment, her face has fallen. She knows what I mean.  Could I bring her around to my side?  Would she help me?  Not it she understood what would happen, how we're alike, but then she needn't understand, only obey.

 "Who are they?"  I can't decide whether he's being condescending or if he'd commenting on his own experience.  "For you, that is?"

"Take a wild guess, my dove. Isn't it always those that claim to love you?" 

 Liars, selfish liars, all of them!

 The people who claim to love us, eh?  The blood on the diagram drips slowly, pooling into oval drops.  The dream, the dream where Asra cut Julian's hand and allowed the blood to fall.  The one that was more than a dream, if what Julian said about Asra involving himself with blood magic was true.  I pull away from the cold hand on my shoulder and sit down on the edge of the tub.  The people who claim to love us and blood.  There's a connection here, one I can't quite put into language.  "What do you know about Asra?"

Any number of things would have met my expectations for what would happen next, but not hysterical laughter.  It starts with a low giggle and rises and rises until the whole room around me seems to be shaking with it.

 Of course that little bastard is behind this!  Of-fucking-course!  Not enough that he fucks my wife, he also sends -her- of all people to find out... find out... No.  Nonono. Not this time.  Fuck this.

 Suddenly, there is silence. I see one of the red pearls loose its shape, run down the shining surface like a tear, and then, I scream.  Scream before I realize that it was the mirror cracking into pieces, shattering the image of me and the room and the not-quite-there man, destroying the connection we had.

"Shit!  Shit, shit, shit!"  The mirror crumbles leaving between a raw plaster wall.  There's a shriek from the hallway - Portia, or maybe Julian.  They run in from the hallway, door slamming behind them.  

“Dema!  What is it are you alright?”  Julian fumbles with a half burned candle, that they appear to have finally managed to light.  “What happened?”

Portia runs a hand through her hair.  "My god, what a mess!  You didn't get hurt did you?"

"I'm okay.  Lucio, um, he's definitely here."

"You spoke to him?  What did he say? Does he know who killed him?”

"I - we didn't get that far.”

"Is he still here?"  Portia spins about on her heels.  "Hey, Count, I need to know who killed you.”

"I don't think it'll be that easy."  My spell is gone shattered along with the mirror.  Casting another one, well, it was possible, but I'm not at all sure that it would be wise.  No, definitely not.  The first hadn't been wise.

A crash from the next room interrupts Portia's next question.  Perhaps I won't need another spell, not if Lucio’s ghost is capable of property destruction.

Julian holds his candle to the door like some sort of ward.  It quivers against the darkness of the hall beyond.  "What was that?”

"Maybe the dogs."  Portia doesn't sound particularly convinced by her own statement.  

"Came from his bedroom."

 No, no, Mercedes, don't look at me like this and wag your tail just because daddy made a fun mess.  That bust was expensive and I looked so regal in it, and now it's gone just because of that damned witch.  He and his kind make me so angry, still do. What did I expect?  Anything Noddy does being actually useful and not another selfish act? Ha!

 Julian pushes the door to the bedchamber over and enters first, candle held out before him.  There's a pile of broken ceramic in the floor, flanked by Lucio's hounds.  They looked surprised for a moment, then rush Julian with happy barks, tails wagging as they prance around him, demanding attention.

"Old friends?"

"Umm, yeah."  Julian hands the candle to Portia before the dogs can knock it from his hands and kneels in the floor.  He rubs Melchior's ears as the hound pushes his nose against Julian’s face.  Mercedes huffs and sprawls in the floor, rolling over and exposing her belly for rubs.

 Jules. You too. Of course. We're getting the band back together, and the witch is the new lead singer. You're looking like shit, old friend, and I've seen you looking like shit before.

 A massive portrait of the Count in a gilded frame dominates the far wall of the bedroom.  Like the painting in the dining room, red is the dominant color.  Lucio is depicted in profile, standing with his heel on a horse’s skull, triumphant over the death’s head that haunted the right corner of the dining room portrait.  Death’s smiles is as pronounced as it is for any skull, but the cobwebs, dust, and ash surrounding it add an additional layer to the grin.

The door crashes shut.  Beside me, Julian jumps.  His fingers twist into mine, then just as quickly twist away.  “Helluva draft.”

Air pushes past my face, warmth incongruent with the rest of the room.  I don’t think that’s a draft.

At my feet lie the crumbled remains of a statue, gold and translucent oranges and browns, some precious stone.  Agate maybe?  I see the remains of an armored arm broken from the body that's lying over there, half of a sword still in its clutches.  It's gilded, and I know quite well whom it belongs to.  How can somebody have so many depictions of himself in his own bedroom?  I'm happy to avoid my face after waking up for the longest time, while the count seems to be somebody who'd consider a mirror over his mattress an excellent idea.

If Lucio has enough energy remaining from my spell to shatter a bust, perhaps he has enough left to interact with us.  "Lucio?"  There’s another push of air between me and Julian, and then his chin tilts down, as it touched by a hand.

“Now this is a face I didn’t expect to see again.”  The ghost’s voice is more distant than before, but still very present.

“Lucio?”  Julian’s whisper is barely audible.

A laugh from the ghost and a flash of white in the corner of my eye.  “Jules, you somehow escaped the dungeon.  And survived.  Fascinating.”  Air brushes past my face again, followed by the stinging sensation of claws brushing along my cheek.  "And your pretty little friend you brought to the Masquerade too."  Cold claws wrap around my hand, jerking me away from Julian.  "I almost didn't recognize her the other night."  The pale form spins me around.

 That's a lie. I do recognize her, the way she feels, something of Jules, but that she's another one of Asra's pawns... I should have known. Should have known from the start. Why are they looking like that? Don't they know? Don't they remember? I may be missing one thing or the other, that's a mix of booze and drugs and death, but they...

 "Montag . . .  Lucio, what happened to you?”  Julian speaks the first name - the one I don't recognize - softly, almost affectionately, and I’m reminded of Valerius’s comment that he and Julian knew the Count better than anyone else in the court.

 I let her go, suddenly losing all interest in her.  Jules sounds like he used to, back in the day, the good, old, bloody days, and I decide to be at his side to bop his silly old nose.  Always liked that nose.  Liked him.  Yes, I think I did?  Then something happened.  Did the magician fuck him, like he did with anybody back then?  Would you do that to me, Jules?  Could you?  Suddenly, I feel a bit like weeping, and don't like it at all.

My fingers are running through those red curls, and I grab one tweaking it sharply.  "Well, what's your diagnosis, doctor?"  I spit.  No need for them to think me sentimental.

 "I . . . I don't really know.  There was a fire.  Here, I thought I might have . . ."  Julian's voice trails off and he lifts his hand, as if he's trying to curl his fingers around Lucio's.  

Portia breaks in, hands on her hips and single minded.  "Who killed you, Lucio?"

"And who might you be, little girl?"  The ghost sounds lost in thought, hand still dancing over Julian's skin.  I feel a sudden wave of aggression rolling through the room. He doesn't like being spoken to like this.

Portia's own glare, as formidable as a thunderclap, knocks into the aggression rolling from Lucio's ghost.  "Ilya's my brother, and I'm not about to let him die for something he didn't do."

"Are you still trying to die dramatically, Jules?  I told you to stop that nonsense more than once, didn't I, my silly puppy?"  The claws follow the line of the high cheekbone.

 I choose to ignore the little brat for now, because there are tears forming in Jules' eyes, nostalgia, maybe love even, and they give me more than the witch ever could. He's the last one with a kind thought left for me, and a part of me cherishes that more than I expected.

The Count's obvious affection for Julian surprises me, but perhaps it's a way to persuade him to help us.  "Please, Lucio, the courtiers have Nadia convinced that Julian murdered you.  What really happened?”  The ghost returns his attention to me, red eyes flashing with anger.

"So Noddy is a beautiful and dumb as ever.  Ha!  Some things never change.  Noddy and Asra and their ilk . . ."  That obviously means means me, and it sounds amazingly offensive for such a little word.

Portia snaps again, fearless in her anger at the comment.  "Don't speak of Milady that way."

Julian sighs, but speaks kindly, as if he's had to calm the Count's temper many times before.  "Lucio, you know her better than that."

"And now she's looking for you to put up a statue of Vesuvia's hero?" 

I know what she thinks of me. Of course I do. I used to love the challenge I thought her to be, but now I know better. A beautiful waste of space.

"You don't know what happened to you, do you?"  I know that the question is going to piss him off even more, but pissed off people often reveal a lot.  "At least Nadia is interested in finding out the truth."

The witch is right. I do not know, and I wonder if I care.  When things come together, not a single one of them will remain anyway, and still...

"I have seen Jules try to kill as it was about saving his own bony ass. He didn't manage, even then."

"So what the hell happened?”  The limited amount of patience that Portia began with has clearly run its course, and if I haven’t managed to piss Lucio’s ghost off she certainly will.  "Why are you even still here?  You're dead."

The whole room seems to inhale and hold its breath, and I see Julian duck defensively. "Please, don't..." He whimpers, the sounds echoed by one of the dogs, obviously knowing and fearing what might come now, and I feel it too, feel death in the air and feel my fingers weave energy to fend off whatever might be coming and . . .

"Jules? Would you kindly take your lovely sister for a walk before I rip her fucking head off?”  The dead count's voice cuts like a knife, and suddenly I can imagine him wreaking havoc on the battlefield so very easily.

I take a step, placing myself between Portia and the Count's ghost.  Why the hell did I use blood to summon him?  And what did I do wrong with the framing that he still has residual power from it?  Better question: how do I undo the it now?  But it’s my blood he’s drawing energy from, that should give me some control over him.

"That's enough, Lucio."

Behind me, Julian is frantically pulling at Portia's hand, whatever spell Lucio had him under broken by the threat.  My fingers twitch through the movements of a ward to banish evil spirits, holding it in the air.  But I can't resist one last attempt to get something from him.  "What happened?  What did Asra and my 'ilk' have to do with it?”

"Sit down, witch, will you?" A nod towards the bed.  Now that his attention is on me, I have an idea what happened with Julian.  The world around us feels like it's under water, Julian's scramble to get Portia out before she tries to choke a dead goat somehow far away and not of any significance.  He is.  Lucio is.

Is this what people mean when they speak of charisma?  Or some perversion of the idea?  One foot starts to move in the direction of the bed, and I pull it back, trying to ignore the part of me that so very much wants to follow his command.

There's a sudden movement, a blur of white and red, and a cold arm wraps around my waist and tosses me onto the bed.  Greasy gray ash stirs around, clouding the air.  I cough, then choke as it dawns on me that this is all that remains of Lucio's body.

"Always resisting.  Just like him!  Just like Asra!  You want to know what happened?  Fine."  The pitch if the voice rises and a cold draft swirls around the room.  "It was supposed to be mine!  But Asra stole it.  Thief!  A new body for that dead lover he was always weeping about.”  When he speaks the last line, there’s sharp stab behind my eyes, like one of those claws pressed through my head.  All the air in the room seems to rise to the ceiling, lifting the drapes around the bed.  The draft becomes hotter as it swirls, painfully hot.  "Dirty, conniving little thief!"  The air settles and the voice lowers.  "So now, I'm . . . I'm this . . . But not for much longer."

The very thought of him makes my blood boil even worse than the impertinent little Devorak.  The witch remembers, almost does, I can feel her rising panic, washing away some of the things Asra did to her to wipe her clean for him.  His own little virgin sacrifice, tabula rasa because she could not stand him anymore, because nobody could, and I lie her down gently on my sorry remains.  It surely would have been a nice body. Drape myself at her side, looking down through glowing eyes.  Well, that maybe would work better if I was in better shape.  She's scared, and angry.  I like that in a lover.

"You know that you are like me, don't you?  Surrounded by liars and traitors, only thinking about their own desires.  Aah, yes, of course you know, and you also know your owner only means well.  Such a waste of talent, being nothing but an assistant to a thieving scalawag that took even your truth away."

His voice is low now, sensuous.

Truth?  My truth?  What is the truth?  A freezing finger traces along my jaw, and despite the cold - almost cold enough to burn, I want to tilt my face into his hand.  Let the chill of his fingers push back the pain in my skull.  Just give in and obey whatever command I'm given.  I also want to lash out at him!  Owner?  Oh hell no!  The second part of me wins and I roll away from him, catching another lungful of ash, escape interrupted by a second coughing fit.

A disappointed little sound, and then he chuckles, and it sounds more human than anything else that came from him.  "What is it, dove?"

A hand, both welcome and unwelcome, settles on my hip.  It would be easy enough to let him turn me back over, do whatever it is he wants . . .  No, no, no.  I don't want . . .

Portia's voice breaks the spell.  "Leave her the fuck alone!”

And suddenly, I can scramble backwards, our if the bed, nearly falling into floor before hands - warm, human - catch me and pull me tight against a chest that's rising and falling with breath.  Julian.

"Dema, are you alright?”

A laugh fills the room.  "You know I wouldn't hurt her, Jules, not unless she wanted me to.  And oh -"  I can see Lucio stand before Julian spins me around and tightens his arms around me, holding me close against him.  Another cold breath ghosts over my neck, and then a not quite solid, but ever so definitely present, weight presses against my back, as if the ghost leaned over me to press a kiss to Julian's cheek.  “I’d do that so well.”

I hold my hand over my mouth to stifle my laugh as they leave. This time, it's not an impressive, manly one, but the mad giggle the huff the ladies are in and the blush that threatens to burn Jules' cheeks deserve. I let them leave for now, even if it dreads me to be so awfully alone again. Melchior gives me one long longing look, and I allow him to go and play with them. Real pets are better than anything I can offer.

Why does Noddy want to know what happened all of a sudden? And why wasn't I informed about that new idiocy the courtiers are trying? If I didn't need them, I . . . .

Julian seems frozen in place.  I pull away from him and bolt for the door.  Lucio’s amused laugh follows me as I stumble out of his room and fall hard on my knees.  The hallway shifts in and out of focus along with the throbbing in my temples, stabbing through my skull each time I cough.  The ash still coats my mouth and throat, choking and disgusting.  A wave of nausea hits me and I curl over myself dry heaving in the floor.  A cold nose presses against the back of my next and one of the dogs whines, briefly pushing against me then pulling away.

Gentle hands close around my shoulder.  "It's okay.  He's gone."  Portia kneels beside me, sitting me up, a supportive arm around my shoulders.  "Ilya, do you have something, anything to drink?”

A rustling of fabric and then he closes by fingers around a metal flask.  The alcohol burn is a welcome distraction from the pain in my head as I swish the liquid around my mouth.  I spit it back out on the floor, more concerned with getting as much of the body remains of Lucio out of my mouth than with dignity.  Another sip.  This one I swallow and try to pay more attention to the cheap liquor burning it's way to my gut than to the pounding in my head.

"Dema?"  Julian's voice.  Cool fingers on my forehead.

"I'm -”  I want to say fine.  But I'm not.  Colors explode behind my eyes when I close them, but even the dim light of the hall is too much, too bright, too painful to keep them open.  The liquor washed the grit from my mouth and throat, but it's done nothing for the nausea.  "Head's killing me."

"Migraine like?”

Nodding is painful.  I feel like my skull is about to disintegrate, to crumble from the inside out.  My skin crawls over my arms, and where Lucio's ghost grabbed my shoulders, I can still feel his claws scorching my skin.  Despite the lingering heat, I'm shivering, the shakes starting in my chest and radiating out.

"Let's get you to your room."  Portia stands, pulling me along with her.  Even with her arm around me, I stumble, balance lost to the migraine.  The world turns around me, and I don't have enough concentration to both not throw up and to stay on my feet.  Strong arms catch me and lift me off my feet.   

"I've got you, darling."  He cradled me against him, one arm under my thighs, other pressing me to his chest.  I tuck my head against his neck, trying to block out as much light as I can from my eyes.

a/n: Directions to See a Ghost is the title of a nice, trippy album by The Black Angels.  Highly recommended.

Next chapter: SFW version and 18+ version

[zweiginator]

Good Company- Part 4

Masterlist 

Summary: While one love is confessed, another still festers inside.

Word Count: 3,670

Warnings: slight smut, angst (oops)

“We need to get you out of this rain.” Brian broke the kiss, the skin of his lips bitten and scarlet red, fresh blood risen to the surface of the soft skin. His breath was fanning against your face, soft breaths visible in the air, the muffled sounds of London nightlife on the cusp of remaining unheard. It just felt like it was you and Brian, two quickened heartbeats, four eyes--two cases of tunnel-vision, just for each other.

“You too. You’ll get sick.” You snapped out of your haze, looking down at yourself. You were a mess--soaked tennis shoes, caked in wet mud. Your jacket was weighty, your shoulders sunken by the mass of the ruined suede, but liberated from the stress of a love unconfessed. You were giddy; it felt as if the icy rain had seeped into your bloodstream, diluting the blood, making you light-headed and almost unbearably dizzy--but in a good way, in the best way possible.

Brian’s hands shook as he grasped the handle to the passenger-side door, his fingers were white like his nails--devoid of fresh blood. You knew he was in pain--he loathed the cold--but you’d never seen him look so genuinely happy. He had a goofy, almost drunk smile on his face that you had only seen a few times in your experiences with him. One of those times was three and a half months prior.

Brian had trudged into the shared flat, his clogs soggy with late-summer rain. He closed his umbrella, gently tapping the excess water off so it seeped into the doormat, which was once  paisley-patterned, but was now faded by dust and the dirt of four men’s shoes. You--and the rest of his band--could tell something was off about him, by the way his eyes were glued to the floor as he sat at the second-hand loveseat angled towards the small couch across the room. You were sat on that couch, your legs thrown over Roger’s lap, Deaky on the other side, watching a game show intently as Freddie boiled a kettle of water for tea.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist, Brian?” Roger asked, flipping to a different channel, ignoring Deaky’s groans of protest, rolling his eyes. John resorted to curling up on the couch and closing his eyes, his lips pursed in anger.

“I told my mum and dad that I’m leaving school for the band.” He blurted, rubbing his hands over his face, his elbows resting on his pointy knees as he sighed deeply.

Freddie gasped, then yelped as he scalded his pinky finger with the boiling tea water. “Brian! Really? You’ve decided?”

This had been a major decision in the making for months--the band wanted to continue, to go further, try harder, be famous. And so did Brian. But he was shackled by his father’s expectations. He was supposed to get his doctorate in astrophysics. Get a good, high-paying job, get married, maybe have a few kids. But Brian felt the taste of fame and of pure appreciation every time he performed. And fame--fame was a fleeting thing. It happened or it didn’t, and when that juncture had elapsed, there was no going back. He pondered for months, weighing his options. Please his father but possibly be very unhappy, wondering about the lavish lifestyle he could have had, or give it a college try, and face condemnation from his family for going against their wishes, for wasting their money.

That was a huge driving force for his decision. He had grown up poor, having to work for everything he had, having to make a way to keep every hobby of his. And he had been taught to make wise decisions his whole life. To deliberate about his options, pros and cons; to stick with the decision wholeheartedly. But that’s what he did when he finally decided to pursue music full-time, but the irony was that within following his parents philosophy, he had to defy it.

“Yeah,” Brian answered, looking up from his hands, honey hazel eyes bloodshot from him rubbing them harshly. “I have to try it, I can’t live my life wondering how I could have lived, the life I could have had.”

“Exactly, Bri! I’m so glad you’ve decided to stick with it. I don’t say this often enough mate, but you don’t give yourself enough credit for how talented you are.” Roger shifted in his seat, uncomfortable from the overly-sappy confession, but ecstatic that Queen would remain lively--a true vocation instead of a weekend hobby.

“Brian, I’m so proud of you for making the right decision!” Freddie poured a fifth cup of tea--Earl Grey--into old fine china his mother had given him as a housewarming gift. “All cockiness intended, we are great musicians. We are going to get somewhere with this, I can feel it in my bones.” Freddie took a dramatic sip of tea, prodding the tea bag with his pinky finger.

“It’s true. It’s honestly very rare that four talented musicians who actually get along end up together. It’s kind of like fate.” John smiled at Brian, gapped teeth and gums revealed by its genuinity.

Freddie took the cups of tea to you guys, one by one. Steam was billowing from the top of each cup, which was chipped in its own “fabulous, unique way!”, just like Freddie said, when Roger examined the cracked china after finding them proudly displayed in the cupboard when they first moved in.

“Cheers!” Freddie yelled, his voice slightly cracking as he rose his arm in the hair, a pinky up, as he held his cup of tea. “To Queen. To many more recording sessions, to more albums, maybe a tour of the world! To Brian, for making it happen!” You all stood up, and clinked your cups, the soft tinkle of them permeating the air, humid and stuffy from the last, fleeting fragment of summer. Brian smiled so hard his eyes were crinkled shut as his bony fingers held the impossibly tiny teacup, his long pinky upright, just like the rest of you.

You climbed into the car with him, your muddy shoes making a large stain on the small carpet rug lying on the floor. Brian pulled the sleeve of your coat down, a gesture to convince you to rid yourself of the wet garment. He set it in the backseat, reaching over the driver’s seat.

“Oh! Heat, that would be fantastic right now.” Brian scolded himself as he turned the dial for the car heater, sighing in relief as warm, seemingly artificial air blasted from the fragile vents. You were already warm from his touch, from the love, the promise of change--good change.

“I don’t even know what to say, Brian. I can’t believe we feel the same way about each other, but we honestly don’t know anything about each other.” You burst out laughing, eyes screwed shut as Brian drove mindlessly in the rain, away from the lively city, away from the chaos of the past month--it was almost symbolic in a way.

“Fuck, you’re right, Y/N! I don’t honestly know the first personal detail about you.” Brian took a sharp turn down a black country road, the bumps and hills making your stomach drop, a makeshift roller coaster. “Tell me more about yourself; random things.” He pinched your leg a little as he drove with one hand, and you grabbed it as he was pulling it away, intertwining your fingers with his much longer ones. He shifted in his seat, the emergence of a smile on his still-red lips.

“You go first, Brian. Where are we going? That’s my first question.”

He put a finger to his lips and furrowed his eyebrows dramatically. “Shhh. You’ll see when we get there, won’t we?”

“We’ll never see if you don’t put your hands back on the wheel!” You planted your intertwined hands on the wheel, swerving the car gently to the right.

“Alright, I’ll start, I guess. What do you want to know?” Brian asked, looking at you briefly.

“What’s your favorite color?” You traced the veins of his hand, and Brian revelled in the feeling of your touch, his skin still wet.

“Black. And that’s the best question you can come up with? Really?” Brian rolled his eyes playfully and squeezed your hand, almost as a sign he was only joking.

“Well, I didn’t know that!” You pinched his cheek as he stopped the car. He quickly turned the headlights off, attempting to stop you from seeing where you were. The car was enveloped in long weeds--browned dandelions creeping up the sides of the car as he parked it in a field which was frozen over.

“This is a bit creepy, Bri.” You held onto his hand, nervous.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. Relax.” He took a deep breath, rose his eyebrows at you and waited for you to do the same, before he tightened his grip on your hand slightly, before letting go, automatically causing the cold winter air to seep into your body as if Brian were your insulator--keeping your warmth inside. He stepped out of the car and trudged through the thin layer of snow, ice cracking beneath his numbed feet, as he opened the passenger door and led you out of his car. He had a blanket in one hand, and your own hand in the other.

In front of you sat a dilapidated barn, plywood cracked and graffitied, un-paned windows smashed through with jagged patterns. Red paint chips peeled from the sides, but Brian was smiling as he walked into the barn, looking around before he pulled you in. He turned on a light fixture that was hanging by the ceiling; he pulled the makeshift switch gently, as it looked like any excess force at all would bring the entire building crumbling to the ground.

You looked at him, still confused as to where you were; what purpose this served.

Brian held a finger up as he spread a blanket on the floor, tapping the spot next to him for you to sit down. “My dad took me here when I was little and started to become obsessed with the sky.” He explained, pulling you into his chest as you laid beneath the stars which blended in and out of focus as miniscule tears stung at your eyes. “We could never admire the sky at home, too much contamination in the sky.” He petted your hair and pointed at a small star which seemed to be alone--away from any of the other clusters of them which hung in the sky like make-do night lights. “That star--I’ve always resonated with it. It’s lightyears away from us--and seemingly away from every other star in the sky. But in reality, it’s as far as every other star.” Brian sniffled; you could feel a tear fall from his cheek onto yours. “And that’s how I felt. Like I was always behind everyone; like I was out of it--the world. I felt bad for myself this past month and forever really. I didn’t try to make it better. I didn’t realize that everyone else in this world feels alone too.”

You sat up, wiping your eyes with your sleeve as you looked down at him. His hair was spread across the blanket and he looked utterly angelic as he fiddled with the rings on his pinky, staring up at you as you were, down at him. “And why are you telling me this?” You bent down and kissed his cheek, and he pulled you back down so you were laying, completely on top of him.

“Because after meeting you, after falling in love with you--that’s when I realized that. That I have to take control of my own life instead of wallowing in self-pity. And when you were taken away from me, I lost that again. You drive me fucking crazy, Y/N. I mean, literally I need you to function properly. How pathetic is that?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s pathetic when I sort of went crazy without you.” You replied, playing with the buttons on his shirt, his breaths heavy, laborious. “I was on my way to a date with a guy I absolutely despise before you saw me.”

Brian perked up, sitting on his elbows. “You stood him up?” He rose his eyebrows, a cheeky smirk on his lips.

“Well, I guess I did.”

He pulled you down again, before he kissed you so deeply you got the same feeling you got when it felt like you were falling as you fell asleep--Brian was attacking your lips, slipping his tongue into your mouth. These kisses were hotter and deeper--not like the passionate ones you shared at the bus stop earlier. His hands grabbed at your ass and you moaned quietly as your hands played with shorter curls at the nape of his neck.

“You have no idea what you do to me, Y/N. You’re driving me to the brink of insanity.” Brian flipped you over, so you were on your back, and his hips bucked against your core as he kissed you again--teeth clashing, noses bumping together. Shallow moans left your mouths as your hands trailed down his back, untucking his soaked shirt from his trousers which were just barely drier.

___

“Where the fuck is Brian?”  Roger looked at the time ticking away at an antique clock he and Freddie snagged from a rude saleswoman on Kensington street. Not that it was worth much anyway; the minute hand was so far behind it was beyond fixing. The time was approaching eleven, and Brian had left almost five hours ago for a two-hour tutoring session.

“I’m kind of worried.” John was standing opposite of Roger, on the other side of the counter which was cluttered with food; they were trying to clean out the refrigerator. This always happened when Brian was gone for a long time--they didn’t really know what to do without his calm rationale. Freddie was sat on the tile floor, legs crossed as he sifted through expired cheeses and condiments, dramatically gagging as he handed them to Roger.

“These pickles have an expiration date of July 1969. We hadn’t even lived here yet, how the fuck does that happen?” Roger handed the jar to Deaky, who dumped the juice down the sink, making a disgusted face at the foul smell.

“Brian should really be back by now, it’s been hours.” Freddie closed the drawer in the refrigerator with his sock-covered foot and admired the pile of expired food on the counter in front of them. “We are disgusting!” He giggled and tossed things in the trash, as Roger inspected a particularly repulsive bottle of ketchup.

“Who knows what he’s doing, probably being a geek at that poor boy’s house.” Roger sniffed at the ketchup and then shoved it under Freddie’s nose, making Freddie slap Roger’s hand so hard he dropped the bottle.

“If that would have spilled everywhere I would have fucking left.” Deaky shuddered and washing his hands vigorously in the kitchen sink.

Roger sighed, looking at a bottle of horseradish sitting on the table. You despised horseradish. Sometimes he would sneak a dollop onto a sandwich he made you and watch you get angry, playfully slapping him as your tongue burnt from the disgusting taste. He missed you, as much as he hated to admit it,he did. He knew it was a long shot, that the chances of you taking him back were slim to none, but he couldn’t help wanting you. He set the bottle of expired horseradish down. “I want Y/N back.” He blurted, and Freddie kicked him.

“Roger, no. None of the Queen members will be shagging nor dating Y/N. She is ruining our relationship as friends and as a band. I love her, but this was fate.”

Deaky agreed, taking gulp of water, trying to swish the bad taste out of his mouth. “Exactly. We do love her, but I think it’s time you and Bri let her go.” Just as Deaky finished the last of his water, Brian walked into the door, soaking wet. His hair was frizzy, his natural curls bouncing as he took his coat off, which still smelled slightly of your floral perfume.

“What took you so bloody long?” Roger looked him up and down, confused at his mess of a state.

“I got caught up in the rain, Rog. Can’t you see I’m soaked?”

“I didn’t know you drove outside of the car, Brian. Truly fascinating.” Deaky rose his eyebrows, before pointing to a dark purple mark near Brian’s adam’s apple which was bobbing from anxiety. “See, Rog? Bri already got over Y/N!”

Brian covered the hickey with his hand and went into the bathroom, tilting his head back to look at it in the mirror which was barely fogged from Freddie’s shower earlier. He hardly formed a smirk before he realized he would have to hide his relationship with you--if that was what it was. He wrapped himself in a fluffy, raggedy towel before he sat down on the couch. The rest of the boys were still in the kitchen bickering about Roger’s confession.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” Freddie whispered harshly. “Brian said he was in love with her. You can’t blatantly hurt him like that.”

“I’m not trying to hurt him, I was dating her first!” Roger replied, rolling his eyes.

“She isn’t a toy at the kindergarten, Rog. And you know that Brian would never truly forgive you for that. He could act like it was okay all he wanted, but he would be hurting inside seeing you with her.” Deaky hoisted himself on the counter, unpeeling a banana, before pointing it at the other two men. “You see, like if Brian was dating her. You would be heartbroken, yeah?” He shrugged his shoulders.

Roger agreed. “I suppose, yeah. But Y/N and I have history. You know? It’s different with me and her.”

Brian stood up from the couch, dizzy from not eating much the entire day. But even though the kitchen was five feet away, he went to his bedroom, unable to hear them talk about you and about him as if he couldn’t hear. Unable to be in the same room while he silently lied to them. Instead, Brian opened a book his father had bought him about the night sky for Christmas when he was young--about eight or nine. The inside cover was dog-eared, creased and yellowed around the edges--it was a very old edition. The dedication page had his father’s swirly cursive looped together, black ink smooth and languid.

Brian, Always look up at the sky and know anything is possible, you just have to go for it.

Christmas 1956. Love, Dad.

___

The next morning, the clock next to Brian’s bed read near noon when his eyes adjusted to the morning light seeping in through his windows. His room was the tidiest of all of the boys; he had a tall bookshelf filled with books on various scientific phenomena, classic novels, books about the guitar and riveting memoirs--most of which he had read many times. His clothes were neatly hanged in his wardrobe, his bed looked barely slept in. He had barely woken up when he heard banging on his door, the jingling of keys.

“Brian!” Roger opened the door without a care in the world, plopping down on Brian’s bed. Brian moved his knees back and grumbled, annoyed by Roger’s attitude.

“What?” Brian snapped, rubbing his hand over his eyes.

Roger held Brian’s keys up, jingling them quietly. “Can I borrow your car?”

“Why can’t you just take the van?” Brian sat up, pulling a shirt over his head, ruffling his curls.

“Because I don’t want to fucking rattle around in a giant van when I just need to pick up some new drumsticks.”

“Okay, Jesus. Just don’t drive like a maniac, please.” Brian got out from under the covers, finding a pair of jeans neatly folded on the floor. Roger covered his eyes. “You came into my room, Roger. You can look at my ass.”

__

You cupped your hands on the side of your face, the edges of your chilled thumbs resting on your cheeks. You had been so blissed out by the events of the previous night, you had forgotten your wallet in Brian’s car. And you could see it as you peeked into the window of his old Volvo, resting in the cupholder, untouched from when you left it. You were panicking. You weren’t on good terms with Roger, and you couldn’t be on good terms with Brian--or else they would know.

You gasped, seeing Roger walk giddily towards Brian’s car, which you were attempting to hide behind. He was twirling Brian’s keys around his pointer finger, a keychain of the Earth clicking against the almost-rusted car keys.

“Y/N?” Roger smiled, stopping in his tracks as he saw you crouched behind the car, your fingers inexpertly grasped onto the back taillight. “What are you doing here?” Roger looked cocky, assured that you had come to visit him. You were livid with him, and six weeks of sorrow--of pure pity--transformed into anger, disgust by his actions. You stood up, and  were about to argue with him--pick at him, like you knew he hated--when he pulled you in by hem of your sweater, dank from the soft rain of that morning. He kissed you, his tongue massaging yours as his hands rested on your hips, which were slightly bruised from the night before.

Brian halted as he strode out of the front door, his hands shoved in his pockets, toying with the hole in the lining. His face fell when he saw you, wrapped in Roger’s arms, kissing him gently in the soft rain. He turned around so fast, he didn’t see you push him away. The sound of Roger’s protests were muffled by the resonance of blood rushing to his ears, the burning of a choked sob begging to be cried.

____

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