#the older sheet was driving me nuts

[cosmodynes]

cleaned up azem ref! this time with their travelling robes

modifications and alternate outfits

half robe is.. because I like the sleeveless turtleneck ok 😂😂😂 that’s all

himation style is based off of the ancient greek himation! comfortable and easy to move around in, protective for hot dusty weather

once again the summary under the readmore is so i don't need to dig out all the other links every time i look for my own refs lol

traveling gear breakdown: 1 (notes) and 2 (coloured) + weapon

sophist robes reference and what's underneath

face reference

hair reference

himation style works kind of like this (wao) - examples!!!

pull the fabric over your head to make a cowl or to keep your other shoulder warm if it gets windy

[onyxrosess]

Pain is My Hometown

vergil x reader [multi-chapter series]

Chapter IV: It's Too Late for Me Now

Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III | Chapter IV [you're here!] | Table of Contents

・warnings/tags: n/a

( cross-posted on ao3 )

Swinging the sheets off your body in an attempt to freeze yourself into waking up, mostly it worked. Dante’s bed was nicer than anticipated, likely due to him sleeping in his chair 90% of the time instead of the bed he owned. Regardless of how many times you’ve ‘accidentally’ spent the night at the shop, you never kept any clothes here, meaning you’d have to drive back to Fortuna to change clothes. Besides the heavy sigh that left your mouth, it was quiet and it wasn’t taken for granted, Kyrie’s and Nero’s house can get a little noisy unless it's 5 in the morning. Shuffling to the bathroom connected to Dante’s room, you addressed whatever was happening with your hair., scavenging for a brush to maybe tame the nest that was on your head.

After successfully making your hair look a little more presentable, you walked down the stairs, your eyes met with Dante leaning back in his chair, a magazine covering his eyes. You stepped around crunched up papers that littered the ground, standing next to Dante’s sleeping form. How does he not have back problems? Before you could give it much thought, you were reminded the man in front of you was not all man. Yet he acted with such ease that you wondered what happened to Vergil- why was he so…weird? You wished there was a nicer way to put it, but the things he’s done were of his own volition, no one else's. Your mind began to bubble up in anger once again, seething at your father. Heartless man. 

“Well good morning, didn’t take you for a stalker.”  The magazine that once covered Dante’s face was now slid down into his lap. His body remained motionless as he looked at you with a sly smile on his face. “I didn’t take you as a perv who stuffed his face in magazines all day.” Dante feigned hurt on his face, those puppy dog eyes don’t work. “Hey- you know I have bad luck with women.” “Is that what you tell yourself at night?” Dante playfully scoffs, shoving the paper back on the desk. His boots slid off the wooden surface, as you lifted yourself to sit on the desk. Silence took over the shop before it was quickly disrupted, “Y’know, I was thinking.” Oh god, Dante is thinking. You stifled a chuckle, trying to see what he was going to say before giving him shit. “Why didn’t you get into demon hunting with Nero?” 

The thought never crossed your mind really, when Nero was younger he was a little too cocky for his good. Your little exposure to demons before…whatever the hell happened in Fortuna, led you to just avoid them entirely. It’s not like hell gates of that magnitude would ever open again, hopefully anyway.  “That was Nero’s thing, plus I was recovering again.” You paused, letting out a breath before continuing, “And I’m just a regular human.” “Lady’s human and she does just fine.” Dante’s words became quieter, “Probably too well for her own good.” You couldn’t help but exhale a light laugh, Lady must have won their little bet the last time they were out. “Dante, you want me to believe Lady, who you’ve apparently known since you were 18 is the same age as you? She doesn’t look a day over 25- shit, I probably look older than her!” You did not want to point out your age, not that you were proud of the slowly appearing lines on your face, but at least you’ve lived. “Okay fine, I’m not sure if she’s fully human, her father was a nut job so I could only assume.” Dante crossed his arms over his chest, and for once he wasn’t wearing his red leather coat. The dark grey shirt rolled up at his elbows, the fabric fraying at the edges.

“Well, it seems like Lady and I have something in common.” Your attempt at a joke was met with a chuckle from Dante, he leaned forward in his seat, looking at a paper on his desk. He only skimmed over it before sighing, letting it fall back onto the desk.  “What's that?”  Dante looked at the paper again before closing his eyes in annoyance. “There’s a string of demon sightings, about 2 hours away from here. Likely a hell gate, which is beyond annoying.” You were puzzled, from what you knew, hell gates only appeared from human’s doings.  “I thought those only popped up due to humans.” Dante shook his head at your question, “Nope, but if it’s a demon opening it, that means there's a big guy guarding it.” Dante’s vocabulary switched like he was talking to a child, you suppose it’s easier for you to understand but it made you chuckle at his choice of words. So the ones in Fortuna when you met Dante must have been the synthetic ones. You tried to remember how Dante explained it to you in the moment but you were so shaken up you thought you were on something the way he was talking.

“A ‘ big guy ’- am I twelve Dante?” “Well you sometimes act-” “Don’t answer that.” You looked at him with a stern expression that could only be held up for so long before your face softened again. The two of you continued to reminisce on old times, frankly, they weren’t that long ago, but everything happened so quickly that it feels so long ago. It was close to seven years of knowing Dante, but a couple of those were taken from you due to some of the otherworldly events. You would never admit to Dante that you thought he was handsome when you first met, but now, things seem different. Whether he’s getting older or you both are- you can’t seem to bring yourself to walk that path anymore. Your friendship with Dante is one you hold close, and threatening to burn that bridge with a silly crush that you had years ago seemed illogical. 

You were reminded of Dante’s concern over his brother last night, and maybe you just wanted to add fuel to the fire that was hating Vergil’s guts, or you wanted to be right about him. Although you couldn’t help but ask, “Why did you ask about Vergil yesterday?”  You prepared yourself for a response that would make you feel justified in your hatred, “Well, he’s not the most… friendly , and I guess his attempts could be seen as off-putting.” Dante really knows how to not tell you exactly what was going on but sure, he’s not the most friendly. It left you just to reply with a small hum, you’ll find out more soon. Even if you had to beat it out of Vergil.

After some complaining about recent jobs being too boring, must he always find something to complain about? Even when they accidentally put an olive on his pizza he could easily pick off he has to complain, as if he was legally bound to complain about it, every time. Dante later departed with a grunt, saying how much of a pain in the ass going two hours out is, even though he can fly there, for free. You reminded him that he should be grateful he doesn’t have to deal with traffic. He responded with a nonchalant, ‘Yeah, yeah.’ You also left the shop back to Fortuna soon after, a change of clothes and a shower is in order.

Arriving back home, the van Nico and Nero took last night for the job was parked in front of the house, a loud clank came from the garage followed by Nico cursing. Thankfully they aren't dead, you sighed as you walked towards Nico. “Howdy.” She greeted you, but her attention was elsewhere tinkering on a new arm for Nero- like he still needed those.  “Hey, you staying out of trouble?” Nico playfully scoffed, “Never, you know me.” You smiled, “How did last night go?” Nico laughed before she could even give you an answer. “Nero got knocked around quite a bit, it made for the night's entertainment- he’s alright now he didn’t get hurt hurt, y’know?” Nico sputtered out her words after she told you Nero got injured, but her swift recovery followed. You brushed her off, Nero would be fine, he's an adult. No matter how many times you told yourself that you would always be worried when he got hurt. Nico continued on the mechanical arm as you excused yourself inside. Looking out the sliding door, the orphans splashed each other with water in an inflatable pool, you couldn’t help but smile. You had wished that was the life you had grown up with, but no jealousy filled you, just happiness that it was better for them.

Making your way to your room, you walked down the skinny hallway, about to pass Nero and Kyrie’s room when Nero appeared on the other side of the door. Nero looked as if he had the worst hangover and got beat to shit. Nero’s white hair was pointing in all different directions as scrapes and cuts littered his skin, but the gashes were already halfway healed from the looks of it.  “Nico told me it went well” Sarcasm leaked from your voice, as you held in a laugh, Nero did look a little miserable but you knew he would be fine. “Yeah, it went great .” Nero matched your voice, you could tell he didn’t want to admit that he had difficulty beating up a demon. He leaned against the door frame as he rubbed the exhaustion out of his eyes. “What happened? Just too strong for you?” You jabbed him in the side lightly with your elbow. He barely moved, just rolled his eyes at you. “The fucker had these little…” He paused, searching for the words in his head, “Bugs, I don’t know, and they were everywhere and the more I killed them they doubled, it was so annoying.” “So you got beat up by bugs” “I never said that.”  Nero gave you the look that he was trying to save his ego, you can only imagine Nico’s hysterics yesterday. “Well I’m glad you’re okay- you just look like you had a wild night.” A smile crept on your face as you watched Nero’s face heat up just the slightest bit. It left as quickly as it came as he shoved your shoulder, walking out of the doorway. 

The day went on without too much drama, you accompanied Nico in her attempts to fix the radio in the van. You couldn’t help but chuckle every time she let out a string of curse words, like ‘fucknuts’ or ‘you mother shitter!’ Maybe it helped her focus. Scrubbing your body clean from grease, and washing your hair vigorously, it's the only way it stays clean. You stood in front of the mirror, analyzing your face, restraining yourself from picking anything and everything off of your skin. Glancing at the clock, it was only three in the afternoon, you really should socialize- outside of bars. That was enough convincing for you to go out, after getting dressed and ready to leave you picked open your wallet, you were a little richer than usual, weird. You dismissed it, putting the key into your ignition as you sped off into the road. 

Fortuna was quite busy today, the sidewalks were a little busier than usual, some of the individuals carried bags with various shop logos on them, and others had street food in their hands before stuffing their faces. You cruised down a street with many varying restaurants and business fronts, one caught your eye, there were around 20 boxes full of records, and you desperately needed new music to listen to at work, Dante hadn’t gotten a new record for far too long. You stopped and parked your bike on the side of the street as you wandered into the store, the cashier greeted you as you reciprocated the gesture. Drawn to the records you flipped through them, seeing covers you recognized, and some you didn’t. You went through maybe two or three boxes before the roar of an engine brought your attention to the street, an old bike tore through the streets, and the red paint started to chip at the corners, which looked very similar to Dante’s bike he’s abandoned over the years. A short black-haired woman sat ontop of it- Lady. You quickly abandoned your post at the record boxes and went outside, Lady’s face did not wear her normal expression, she was far too focused than usual. She stopped the bike in its tracks once she recognized your face and your accompanying bike.

“What are you doing out here?” You questioned her as you walked closer to her. “There's another hell gate that popped up in Red Grave, I was out here doing work before I realized.” Lady’s skin carried a light sheen of sweat, and maybe a few stains from demon guts. You weren’t sure how to respond other than ‘Go get 'em’ tiger!’ but it worried you that Lady was even breaking a sweat over it. “They are so annoying!” Lady groaned, before starting her engine again, “It’ll be fine, (Name). Nothing I can’t handle, I’ll call you when I’m done.”  “Y’know, Dante said the same thing about the one he was taking care of-” “There's another one?” You paused, you assumed she and Dante were on the same page or at least she knew about it, but Dante often didn’t think about telling people about his jobs unless someone was accompanying him or he was asked. “I mean, I’m not sure- Dante just mentioned that he had a job a couple hours out for a hell gate.” Lady let out another annoyed groan, “Okay well, thank you, I really gotta go.” You could barely respond before she drove away, you stood on the sidewalk, it had been a long time since you’d seen Lady even remotely worried about anything demon-related, and to be honest, you weren’t sure if she was concerned or annoyed. Your mind quickly wandered to Dante, if another hell gate popped up does that mean he got rid of the other one? Trying to soothe your worries by using the excuse that you have no idea about any of it, your knowledge of demons and hell was slim to none. Deciding to go home early, empty-handed. You weren’t gone longer than 30 minutes, your attempt to socialize was exceptionally short today. You pulled into the driveway, Nico seemed to be inside as the garage housed no life. Lifting your helmet off of your head, a faint crackling sound came from behind you, you turned around to see little sparks of blue seeming to form in the air. A deep blue smoke? What the fuck is that? The screen of smoke enlarged as a figure stepped out from it, a figure you recognised. One you wished you didn’t recognise, Vergil. His expression was plain as ever as you still sat on your bike, a little confused- a bit more than confused. He can just pop up anywhere, wherever he wants? You knew Dante could fly, and you weren’t sure why this came as a surprise to you. The door to inside Nero’s home opened as you followed the sound, Nero stepped down the stairs, walking towards you and Vergil. 

“What’s going on? Nero, you should not be going out right now, you’re still-” “I’m fine, (Name).” Nero’s voice was laced with a string of seriousness, something you weren’t familiar with, at least directed towards you. Vergil stood where he had popped up from his portal, rather you’re assuming that’s what it was. “I’m requesting Nero come with me to take care of a hell gate, he should learn how to properly deal with them.” Vergil’s words teetered on the edge of a scolding, your brows furrowed together, he has no room to be scolding Nero. You held your tongue as Nero did the same. Your words did not come easily to you, this feeling you get when you’re around Vergil was not one you liked, you felt so little compared to him. Not just in stature but status, it was suffocating and you hated it. It felt all too close to the suffocating nature of your ex-boyfriends and their tactics to belittle you.

“...be careful, Nero.” Your voice came out just above a squeak, you despised it. As if it was not in your control to speak up. Nero nodded and Vergil unsheathed his sword, as the same crackling blue sparked from his sword. He slashed the air with the blade, his movements direct and controlled. An identical deep blue screen opened in front of him, he turned his head towards Nero, silently motioning to step into the portal with him. Nero did not say anything to you, but a glance. You could not get comfort from it, the whole interaction was ominous and frankly frustrating because you had no idea what just transpired. They were gone just like that, the portal closed right after Nero stepped in, with no evidence that neither of them was ever here. You pulled your bike into the garage, a little more aggressively than normal. You pulled the keys from their spot in your bike, rushing through the house to your room, luckily Kyrie and Nico were preoccupied and did not see you come in. You escaped to your room, shutting the door and flopping onto your mattress.

You had to remind yourself to breathe, as annoying and frustrating that you could do nothing or that you didn’t know the whole story is, nothing you could do at this moment could change anything. You exhaled, carding your fingers through your hair to get them out of your face. Ever since Dante planted the question of why you never picked up devil hunting, it made you ever so conscious of your helplessness, you were weak. If a demon tried to kill you, you could do nothing. The thought only made you more frustrated, but to bring yourself to do anything about that fact was something you could decide later. Your body laid still, as your eyes stared into the ceiling of the room, and your thoughts spiralled in your mind. If there was an award for overthinking, you would have first place.

As always, thank you for reading! Maybe a separate Dante fic coming sometime soon…? (I'm rubbing my hands together deviously) -onyxroses Previous Chapter | Next Chapter (coming soon!)

[snapthistiger]

lower GI scope notes

just some info from my experience since we all get older whether we like it or not and typically, when you turn 50 and every 10 years after or sooner and maybe more frequently if needed, it is recommended to have a colonoscopy to check for issues.

my primary care physician didn’t say anything about me getting a lower GI scope / colonoscopy even when i turned 60

i received a card in the mail in May 2022 from the local hospital advertising their gastroenterologist doctors.  i decided to give them a call and schedule.  i called and left a message.  an admin assistant called me back a couple of days later and said a nurse would call me.  about 3 weeks later the nurse called.  discussed with the nurse and scheduled the colonoscopy.  because i hadn’t had an EKG recently, the doctor wanted that, too.

i went to the doctors office to pick up the instructions and prescription for the prep medicine.  the nurse asked if i wanted the liquid prep or pills prep.  the pills are newer, so i chose that option.  the pills cost me $60 with my insurance and a coupon the nurse provided.  if i had known ahead that the cost was more, i probably would have chosen the liquid just to save money.  i tend to be frugal.

the EKG and pre preregistration was a week before the procedure.  completely uneventful.

for 4 days before the procedure, they instruct you to eat a low fiber diet.  no nuts, seeds, no apple peel, no high fiber bread, and on and on

for the day before the procedure they have you eat a clear liquid diet.  jello, tea, coffee, broth, and no solid food and no dairy.

the pills come in 2 sets.  i was instructed to take the first set at 4pm and drink water as instructed.  i was instructed to take the 2nd set of pills at 2am and drink water as instructed.  i followed the instructions closely and the prep cleans you out.  i felt a little weird all evening but not super hungry.  i did not have any bad side effects like nausea or upset stomach or cramps as some others have had.  the nurse told me to be sure and stay hydrated and i followed the water instructions closely.

reported to the hospital for 7am as instructed.  checked in and went to the get ready area after a few minutes.  there was 1 patient before me and i think he was getting scoped top and bottom.  my nurse, Shelby, introduced herself and gave me a drafty gown to change into and then i was in bed and covered up.  another nurse, Kim, started an IV on me.  Kim looked at my hands and then my arms.  i told her i give blood often and she decided to use that vein.  when she inserted the IV, some blood came out and got on the sheet.  after Kim secured the IV, another nurse changed the sheet and gave me a new one.

after about 20 minutes another nurse, Kevin, wheeled me to the procedure room.  he had me move over to the right side of the bed and then roll onto my left side.  he covered me up and adjusted my pillow.  Kevin also started me on a saline drip in my IV.  Meghan, the anesthetist came in and asked a few questions and said she was going to put me to sleep.  i asked what they were using and she said propofol.  she said it was quick acting and would wear off quickly, too.  the gastro doctor came in i i could see him behind me and Meghan started the propofol.  i was out within probably 15 seconds.  next thing i knew, i was back in the get ready area and the anesthesia was wearing off.  i tried using my phone and i was still clumsy from the drug.  the doctor came in and said everything was ok.  he did remove 1 polyp that was about 1 cm.  he said probably not C but sending to have it checked.  he told me not driving was i was good to go.  the nurses unhooked the IV and heart monitor stuff from me and i put my clothes back on and left.

felt hungry when i got home so i had 3 scrambled eggs and 6 pancakes.  :-)

[nookishposts]

Love Is

Somewhere between Disney and acne we are led to believe that love is a constantly shiny thing, that it must be unrelentingly romantic and sexy and full of passion and purple prose. Of course there are moments, especially in the courtship days when we work extra hard at being our best selves in an effort to be desirable. Its a mating game as old as forever and unlikely to change in spite of dating apps. Its fed by the marketing trends of the day as we become convinced that we must cover our natural selves in deceptive augmentations that cost a bundle and are soon yesterday's news. Don't get me wrong, I did my share of blow-dry styling, body scents, and boots shined to mirrors. It was fun to play the part, be obvious in the flirt, laugh through deliberate double-entendres. Lust was luscious.

Part of the privilege of getting older is letting go of the clutter on all levels. Its not a lack of effort to let things be simpler, it's self-awareness and self-preservation. I love to dance but the volume in public places means I cannot hear you when you speak , and frankly I know you have things to say. I am in your company because I enjoy who you are and I chose you to share the dance with me. Whooping it up at a wedding is one thing, but I can't do the clubs just for the sake of a night out. I did my time.

I'd rather go for a walk, maybe hold hands, and look at the sky together.

I love you in your faded jeans with a bit of bed-head and a deep sigh when you take your first sip of morning tea.

I love to have that tea brewing because I am usually up first.

Love is clean fresh flannel sheets on a cold Winter's night. Its putting seeds into the soil and topping up the washer fluid in your car. Its knowing when to shut up. Its eye-rolling from across the aisle at the grocery store when the poor kid at the cash register has never been properly taught how to make change. Its enduring the oldies radio station on Sunday mornings and still missing Stuart McLean's Vinyl Cafe.

Love is being safe in one of you making some decisions for two. Love is reminding me that yoga pants and slippers are really not fit public attire even for the gas station. Love is allowing one another to play to their strengths and being the best cheerleader when it comes to admitting and fixing mistakes as well as celebrating the victories. Love is understanding that time apart is still love.

You want to get my interest? Ask me to dance in the living room, apropos of nothing. Ask me to stand beside you when you do something that scares you. Let me hold you when you're not even sure what's making you feel blue. Laugh at your own jokes...that makes me remember how nuts I am about you because you don't hold back in your quirks. Remind me tactfully when its time to get a haircut. Trust me to drive while you knit socks in the passenger seat.

Love is a long game where the goal posts are apt to shift along with age and bumps in the turf and worrisome side-liners. Its also forgiveness for forgetfulness, and the magnetism of shared memory.

Love is one dessert and two forks.

[ushidoux]

He, Hercules - Ushijima x Reader

Summary: What is Ushijima if not strong? (~2.0k words)

Warnings: accident, temporary disability, implied depression, some suggestive themes, hurt/comfort

A/N: I have limited experience with athletic injuries and mental illness so bear with me. If there is anything you find inaccurate or insensitive in my depiction, don’t hesitate to pm me! <3

---

“Mr. Ushijima?”

You perk up when you hear the secretary’s voice call out your husband’s name, only realizing now that in your long semi-long wait you’d ended up dozing off, resting your head against his shoulder. Clearly, you must have been exhausted, because it takes you a moment to remember where you are, and why you’re here.

There are very few others in this small office aside from the single middle-aged man in the corner who you realize is staring quite hard at you, and you wonder briefly if it’s because you somehow looked inappropriate or acted inappropriately while you were asleep. There shouldn’t be anything very noteworthy about a young couple inside a therapy practice.

You glance at Ushijima who is barely moving despite the fact that his name was just pronounced. He’s as still as a statue and his expression is neutral as is typical of him, but you still perceive the lack of intensity behind his eyes, a constant reminder that no matter how much he acts as though he’s fine, he’s not.

Why else would you be here in the first place?

You nudge him gently.

“Love, they called your name. It’s time for your session,” you whisper into his ear.

He had been staring off at a fixed point across from him, but he does still respond to your nudges. When he rises, it’s done slowly, and he walks besides you with a slight limp in his left leg. He doesn’t wince with any step but the arm you hold onto as you walk with him through the hallway down to the provider’s office is stiff. You wonder if he resents how clingy you’ve gotten since his injury, handling him with kid gloves as though he were the most fragile of glass. You can’t help it. You’d almost lost him.

The office is open when you arrive, and a man who looks only a few years older than Wakatoshi is seated in a cream armchair, waiting, a measured smile on his face. Ushijima doesn’t smile back but he doesn’t frown either. 

“Welcome! Please come in and make yourself comfortable,” the man says without missing a beat, rising to shake his hand. He also shoots a glance at you, but before he can ask you to introduce yourself before politely shooing you out of the room (this is not couples’ therapy after all, even if it will help the two of you), you squeeze your husband’s hand before quickly exiting.

“I’m his partner, I’ll see myself out, thank you!”

You worry slightly about leaving him alone in this stranger’s care, but Ushijima is not a child and this isn’t the first day of kindergarten, he’s a man recovering from a life-altering injury and has finally agreed to go to therapy. 

You’re not sure how optimistic to be, but you’ve done an extensive amount of research and this particular therapist boasted credentialing in sports psychology, was highly recommended and had worked with a lot of current and former athletes alike. 

Of course, this would all be meaningless if Ushijima refused to talk, but as you started your car to pass the next hour at a nearby mall, you gave yourself a little bit of hope.

---

“Tell me about yourself,” is the first question the therapist asks, after offering not much more than his own name, and Ushijima is slightly annoyed by the question.

He does not want to be here in the first place, he doesn’t need to be here, and now he’s asked a question as vague and audacious as ‘tell me about yourself’ like he’s expected to pour out his feelings to this stranger from the very second he sits in this admittedly comfortable couch.

He pauses. He’s not sure exactly what he would say. 

He’s nearing 30. He’s married, no kids. If it’s not obvious, he’s from Japan. He plays volleyball professionally… well, played, up until recently. 

He frowns. That’s why he’s here. Because you don’t think he is okay, even if all of his injuries have essentially healed aside from this annoying limp that makes it obvious that he’s in some way not in optimal shape, broken, vulnerable. This  limp is the reason why he can no longer play even if he feels fine otherwise, and why he’s not exactly sure what to do next. 

But that’s beyond the point. The question is about himself.

What else can he say? How would others describe him?

His friends call him serious, just as the media describes him. Quiet and serious. Dedicated. Strong. 

Maybe he’s not that last thing anymore, but that too is beyond the point.

You think he’s sweet; you say this repeatedly. You tell him that he’s kind and considerate.

He thinks for a moment that maybe he was too kind. Kindness is what got him in this predicament in the first place, isn’t it?

A moment of compassion - a likely exhausted mother whose eyes leave her child for a split second to rummage through her purse, a little girl whose tiny legs take her just a bit too far out into an open intersection, a speeding car that shows no signs of stopping…

He remembers the exact moment he is no longer jogging but sprinting to take the child out of harm’s way, as well as the exact moment he hears his bones snap on impact, and he’s too shocked initially to feel pain, eyes frantically searching for the kid who now is standing on the opposite side of the street, looking at him in curiosity because the toddler is too young to understand what it means to see a body crumple. She’s unharmed, so he’s successful.

A woman screams and she sounds nothing like you. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing.

The car speeds on.

---

You sit in a food court, poking at some fries, but you’re not exactly hungry, just anxious. Is the session going okay? 

Even if the man is a professional at getting people to talk, Wakatoshi is a hard nut to crack. You could envision him sitting silently until the hour passed completely, before getting up to bow and exit stage left. It had taken you months to get him to agree to go to anything other than physical therapy.

You hope this is not an exercise in futility.

---

“I’m fine,” he grunted, just a couple days out of the hospital, once you’d started nagging him for weight-bearing on the leg that had just been operated on.

“Your leg was literally shattered!” You shouted. “You’re lucky they didn’t amputate!”

He gave you a mildly fatigued look. All he’d wanted to do was walk to the kitchen by himself, without crutches in his own house, and he’d barely made it a couple of steps before you were standing in the bedroom, looking all sorts of stressed and concerned. 

He figured your concern was temporary, so he attempted to quell his stubbornness. He had already been benched for the season, possibly to likely forever and pouring out his frustration on you wouldn’t be helpful.

“What do you need? I’ll get it for you.”

He frowned but he let you help him anyway.

---

“My name is Wakatoshi Ushijima. I moved here several years ago from Japan to play volleyball professionally. I was in a bad car accident a few months ago and my wife is concerned that I’m not adjusting well.”

The therapist offers a small smile again.

“Do you disagree with that assessment?”

Ushijima tilts his head slightly. He does disagree… he doesn’t? He’s not sure. He’s frustrated of course, who wouldn’t be, he had just been in the Olympics after all, but he’s fine. He’s strong.

He’s strong.

---

“We just wanted to thank you again.”

Wakatoshi glanced at the gifts the couple before them had brought,  a bouquet of flowers and stacks of cookies and pastries in boxes on the living room coffee table, before looking back at you. Your face remained polite and smiling but you were clearly uncomfortable from the way you were perched on the seat, nodding carefully as you listened to your visitors, your arms crossed over your midsection as you leaned forward in your chair.

He knew you wanted to be angry at them, well, her, the mother who looked at him pitifully initially then averted her eyes out of shame. But it wasn’t her fault but yet, it was her fault and still, it wasn’t. It was very complicated. No one was at fault. Her daughter was safe.

Everything was fine.

---

You’re back in your car again, ready to drive to pick up your husband from therapy. Things should get better from here on. 

Maybe he will no longer shut down like a brick wall when you suggest that now is a good time to start transitioning away from sports for the future. Maybe he’ll be less upset with small things like not being able to run as far, or lift as much or please you as much in the bedroom as he used to. 

They’re small things compared to losing his life.

---

“I would like to go back to playing but I’m told at every turn that it’s too dangerous, maybe even after a year of healing.”

The therapist nods, and scribbles something on a sheet of paper.

“How does that make you feel?”

The therapist notices even through Ushijima’s accented Polish that he’s naturally eloquent, but regardless he still lacks the words to appropriately talk about his feelings. 

His hands grip at his knees, the good and the bad one. The word ‘useless’ comes to mind but he can’t bring himself to say that to this stranger, even if these four walls come with the promise of understanding. 

For once, silence is uncomfortable for him, and the therapist is surprisingly good at staying quiet. They sit in silence for moments longer and surprisingly, Wakatoshi speaks up first.

“Weak,” he ekes out in a voice that is so small he barely recognizes it.

To that, the therapist leans just slightly forward, focusing his eyes on the man’s restricted range of motion and slightly hunched shoulders. It’s the posture of a man who’s normally stoic and confident, now made uncertain about the future.

“What’s wrong with weakness?” He says quickly, and Ushijima is somewhat stunned which then lends way to a small measure of anger.

Everything is wrong with being weak. Weakness was for other people. How could he protect himself, his livelihood, his team, you?

What is he if not strong?

---

“I love you.”

He says it less often than you do to him, but every time he does, he means every word. You shifted beneath him, weary from the lovemaking of just prior but still nevertheless craning your neck up to reach his lips. 

Your hands traveled down his shoulders and along the length of his bulky arms, playing with his biceps, drinking in the sight of his muscles flexing as he moved. He smiled and wrapped his arms tight around you, laying his head on your chest. 

“Aww, Toshi, you’ll crush me if you hold me so tight. You barely know your own strength,” you teased with a laugh, prompting him to loosen his grip ever so slightly, and lift up his head to show you the smallest of pouts.

“I love you more,” you added, giggling.

Pleased, he lay his head back down on the softness of your bosom, clinging to you more. He’d protect and take care of you forever.

---

You hold Ushijima’s hand tightly as you walked out of the building to your car, holding in your curiosity about the session the entire time. 

Would he go again?

He gives your hand a squeeze suddenly which surprises you, and when he turns to you, there’s a small upturn in the corner of his lips that approximates more of a smile than you’ve seen in recent weeks.

You’re elated enough that you immediately give him a hug, and maybe you’re a bit overzealous about it, but he stops and holds you close for just a moment.

“Thank you.”

There’s a lot in the thank you, and you shed a tear.

---

Strength is relative and inconstant, so our first task is to work on your definition of strength. 

But I would say, coming here in the first place is already evidence enough.

[hopeless-ro-simptic]

Familiar Cerulean Eyes Part 2

Not sure if that name is going to stick but it’s what I’ve got for now. Also thank you so much? The reactions I got for part one literally made me want to cry. I’ve never posted my writings because I didn’t think that I would get any kind of response. When we hit 7 notes in the first hour I was beyond ecstatic and I thought that that would be it. But 150 notes later and I couldn’t wait to post part 2. Let me know what y’all think of this. I don’t know if I will get a part 3 out as quickly but I do plan to work on it.  

Click here for full list of other parts. Part 3

Slow burn, no smut in this part but maybe a spicy moment. 

Taglist:  @skzero-99 @superblyspeedydragon @jparra4587 @flyingowls @emrysaaryn @imuziawi @sheedaabee @peculiarinsomniac

Word Count: Just over 3 k 

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Dabi had left you alone for long enough to go get food that you had already scoured his entire room, searching for any way to escape. You had learned that even though the window looked like it could open at some point, it had been sealed shut somehow and you didn’t have the strength to open it. Other than the window, there were two doors in the room. One leading to a small bathroom complete with a tub/shower combo, the other being the door that lead out of the room but was unfortunately locked when Dabi left.

As for the room itself, all it held was a queen sized bed, well really it was a mattress on top of a box spring, with holes in the blankets and sheets that looked like burn marks and a singular pillow that looked like he had owned it for years it was so flat. A dresser that was scarce in the amount of clothing it had in it, seemingly like majority of it was dirty in the corner on the floor next to but not in the torn up laundry hamper, almost all of it black or a shade resembling. The black chair that sat in the opposite corner of the bed that again looked like it had seen better days. Oh and a cigarette tray that was filled to the brim and a fan that was perched on top of his dresser pointing towards the bed. That was about it. The walls were bare other than scorch marks and burns here and there, the blinds were dusty, and the wooden floor was cold and scratched like it had been well worn for several years, burn marks from stray cigarettes being put out.

The Omega in you hated it, they wanted to start cleaning and organizing to find warm cozy things to build a comfort nest out of. The rational part of you saw it as what it was, a hideout for a villain. Not a place to get comfy in. Still you couldn’t sit here and wait. It was driving you nuts.

You had just finished picking up the discarded cigarettes on the floor into a nice neat pile on his dresser and was moving towards putting his dirty laundry into the hamper when Dabi returned. Cautiously opening the door to see what you were doing, he slipped in before shutting it and locking it behind him, takeout food in his hands.

“Look at you, being a perfect little housewife.” The smirk that was ever present on his face was bigger than normal and you immediately dropped the t-shirt that you had been staring at, turning and looking at him, your cheeks heating up at being caught.

He glanced at the bloodied shirt on the floor that was covered in soot and burn marks like the rest of his clothes and he shrugged, placing the food down on the counter before turning to you.

“Part of the job babe.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms and pulling in on your self again. You couldn’t help the fact that your omega blushed at the nickname. You had never been spoken to like that. Ever. Even given the context you couldn’t help but squirm.

The smell of food made you take a step towards him though. You were starving and looking at what he had brought had your mouth watering. He had two different ramen bowls and a rice bowl to go with it. It looked like heaven. Not to mention a whole bag of other snacks to eat as well. You grabbed a water bottle from the bag, forgetting just how thirsty you were as you quickly drank almost half of the bottle in one swoop, hungrily looking between all the food.

“Take your pick princess, I’ll eat whatever you don’t want.” He gave you space to choose through everything, electing to drop back into his chair on the other side of the room, picking up the shirt you had dropped and tossing it into the hamper like he had just learned a new trick.

You quickly choose your preferred out of the options of ramen, leaving the snack bag alone for later. You might need it. Choosing to sit on the floor, against the bed rather than the bed itself so that you had a sturdy surface to put your food, you internally thanked yourself for picking up all the cigarettes.

You could feel his eyes on you, but you refused to look up as you quietly ate the food. It was a couple minutes before he got up and grabbed his own food, choosing instead to sit on the floor next to you than to return to his chair. His legs spread out in front of him, showing you just how long they were, how much bigger than you he was.  Your mouth was watering from not just the food anymore, his scent enveloping you from being this close. You briefly thought that he was probably pumping it out more just to get a reaction from you, but you refused to show it. You weren’t going to play this alpha’s game. You just needed to keep a level head until you could escape. You were just going to ignore him, just enough to stay on his good side, but not to attract further attention from him. You could do that, you had been playing a similar game for years.

“So are you going to tell me your name..? Unless you just want me to keep calling you princess?” You accidentally dropped a rice ball into your ramen, the hot broth splashing onto your hand causing you to flinch at the burn.

Dabi let out a soft hum, setting down his bowl and taking yours away before you could even protest. He took your hand into his own, wiping off the broth gently with a clean napkin that he had gotten from the takeout bag and examining the burn. You couldn’t help but watch him, entranced but how gentle he was being. It was hard to connect the fact that this man, this alpha, was a known murderer. He killed people. He was a known League of Villains member, and yet here you were, letting him kiss your hand like he was a crowned prince in a fairy tale waiting to whisk you away to a better life, his cerulean eyes latched onto your own, a teasing expression.

Your face was redder than it has ever been in your life, yanking your hand away from his grasp, clutching it against your chest like he burned you. What were you thinking? Why was he getting under you skin so easily? Sure, you didn’t have a lot of experience with alphas other than the Todoroki’s, and those that visited the house, but none of them acted like this! You scooted away from the alpha, trying to block the scent of him from your brain, trying to calm down. You weren’t sure why you were so flustered but you needed to breathe to get out of this situation and fast.

“C-can I take a shower?” You weren’t sure why you even asked. Maybe you were scared he wouldn’t let you or that he would try to follow you into the bathroom. But neither fear was necessary as he nodded his head towards the bathroom door, his eyes watching your every movement like a wild cat, a deep chuckle reverberating through the air.

“Do you want me to join you?”

“No thanks!” You jumped up and threw yourself into the bathroom, closing the door behind you and leaning against it, trying to calm yourself. You turned around, locking the bathroom door, hearing the alpha shuffle on the other side of it. He didn’t try the door knob though and you relaxed slightly, turning towards the rest of the bathroom you turned on the shower faucet, hesitating only a minute before stripping out of your soot covered clothes that you are noticing were definitely ruined.

You stepped into the shower, pulling closed the curtain just enough to not get water on the floor but enough that you could see the door still just in case. The only soap in the shower was a cheap alpha brand. You didn’t care at this point though. You just needed to be clean after everything that has happened. Maybe you could pretend it was Shoto or some other alpha that you were going to smell like. Maybe.. just maybe you could pretend it was Touya’s scent.

You huffed at your own stupidity. Why do you always think of him when you’re upset? He can’t just magically save you. He isn’t coming back. You don’t come back from that. You felt yourself slip down into a seated position, pulling your knees to your chest, your eyes going fuzzy as you tried to blink through the tears that suddenly threatened to spill out.

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“Y/N! Touya! Get back here!” You giggled as you heard Fuyumi’s voice ring out behind you, Touya’s bandaged fingers wrapped around your wrist pulling you behind him as he ran, his laughter spilling out. It was a Saturday, Endevor had patrol and instead of working on his training, Touya had decided to steal you away from his younger sister’s grasp.

The two of you had ran all the way through the garden in the back of the house, and hid behind a cluster of cherry blossom trees that were in full bloom. At the time you think you must have been 11 or so, him just a little bit older. He had pulled you down beside him onto the grass and covered your mouth with his hand to hid your giggles, holding a finger up to signal you to be quiet. You could hear Fuyumi run by, calling out your names searching for you both. Grumbling how it wasn’t fair that he took you while you were both playing princesses.

He finally let go of your face, a smile crossing his own as he looked at you’re winded, excited expression. He couldn’t help himself when he leaned over and kissed your cheek, just to see you blush.

“Touya!” You covered your face with your hands, feeling your cheeks glow red.

“What? Aren’t princes supposed to kiss the princess? Isn’t that the whole point? To bond with a pretty princess?”

“You think I’m pretty?” You couldn’t help but look up into his eyes, they were the prettiest things you had ever seen. The color of turquoise, perfect gem stones.

“I think you’re the prettiest.”  

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“Princess? Are you okay?” You heard a soft knock on the bathroom, barely audible over the sound of the water streaming down onto your body. You realized your scent had gone sour, the sadness creeping in without your permission. You needed to keep a lid on things. You turned off the water, and grabbed what seemed to be a clean towel, wrapping yourself in it, grabbing your dirty and tattered clothes to put them on.

“I put clean clothes outside the door if you want them.” Pausing, you frowned. Clean clothes would be nice. You hated being dirty. You took a deep breath, unlocking the door and waiting a second before opening it just enough to quickly grab the clothes before shutting it again, looking at what was offered.

A pair of grey sweats and a black hoodie, very similar to what he was wearing. Cautiously you took a whiff of the clothes, relaxing when you mostly smelled the laundry detergent over his scent. You didn’t want to be scented by him more than necessary. Just in case Shoto tracked you down. You wanted him to be able to recognize you. Not that this scent proof room would allow it.

You already smelled like the alpha’s soap though, quipped your Omega, and it smelled good.

You slipped the clothes on, ignoring your omega, all of it being way too baggy on you, especially the sweatpants, which you rolled up at the bottom so not to trip. The tie to tighten them around your waist was missing and you were pretty sure you were going to have to hold them up. Frowning at your clothes on the floor, even your bra and panties had been ruined. You didn’t know what to do with them, so you scooped them up in your arms and shuffled out of the bathroom, hugging them lightly.

You heard a low whistle and saw Dabi laying with his back on the bed, messing with a phone he held above him that you assumed was a burner, the mess from your meal was cleaned up and nowhere to be found, save for the bag of snacks that you had left. One of his legs bent and with his foot on the floor, the other up on the mattress.  His eyes had abandoned the screen in front of him and were trained on your swallowed form in his clothes. He couldn’t help but think how good you looked wearing his stuff, and after taking a whiff of the air he appreciated the fact that you smelled somewhat like him now, and not like that Todoroki brat. He made a mental note that you didn’t need your own clothes. You could just wear his all the time. Other than the fact that you looked uncomfortable holding up the sweat pants with one hand.

You fumbled with the bundle of clothes in your arms looking around the room for a place to settle. You wanted to curl up in bed and sleep until this was all over. But he was in the bed..

“Just toss your clothes in with mine, I’ll take care of them later.”

“No.” You were tired, you no longer wanted to deal with this alpha. You just wanted a nap, and a nest made out of your own things.

His eye brows lifted a look of intrigue settling across his expression. He sat up, eyes watching you. “No?”

You squirmed under his gaze, considering retreating to the bathroom where you could at least lock the door and be alone, but the bathroom was so small that if you wanted to lay down you would have to be in the bathtub. Which was already wet. You stood there awkwardly trying to decide which of the two you wanted to deal with more, a flirty psychotic killer, or a wet bathtub nest.

“Come here” Apparently the flirty psychotic killer won that one as before you even noticed it you were standing in front of him, him still sitting on the bed, both his feet on the ground now, legs spread to accommodate you, surrounded in his scent. Something about him had your omega waging her tail practically begging you to do things you would never even consider.

He reached his hand up like he was going to grab your face causing you to flinch, but instead his hand gripped one side of the pull tie for the hoodie, wrapping it around his wrist before yanking it harshly, pulling you forward against him slightly and pulling the tie all the way out of the hood. 

You reached up and pressed your hands onto his shoulders, dropping your bundle of clothes to the floor, to brace yourself, his eyes lighting up with amusement at your reaction. You wanted to pull away, but your omega refused. You were a deer trapped in headlights.  

His lidded eyes stayed on yours as his right hand that was holding the tie, slowly drifted down your body, his left sneaking out and gripping your hip to hold you in place. His right hand finally reached your hip, curving around the front of you, removing the waistband from your grasp causing your face to turn bright red, only for him to slip the end of the tie into the hold of the waistband, slowly sneaking his fingers around your waist, feeding the tie through, until finally it poked out the other hole in the front. He returned his left hand to your hip, his right gripping both ends of the tie, pausing to smirk widely at you, flashing his tongue ring before yanking harshly, pulling the waistband tight around your waist and effectively pulling you flush against him at the hip, nose to nose, your face tilted down just slightly too match eyes with him.

His scent was intoxicating. You were completely enveloped in it, and your omega was begging for him to scent you so it never left. And he was waiting for you to ask him oh so patiently. He could smell what he was doing to you, making him laugh internally that he was going to get his way quicker than he thought. Your omega reasoned that he was a strong and capable alpha. He had been nothing but nice to you since you woke up and he wasn’t forcing himself onto you like most of the alphas you had meet previously. He was being so kind and gentle and he smelled so damn good. Why can’t you just…

Because he’s a murderer? He kidnapped you? You have an Alpha? Oh and he’s a murderer!

You pulled yourself out of his grasp, releasing a breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. Taking the tie out of his hand, he let the rope slide through his fingers, not making a move to stop you from leaving his presence, knowing that you would be back. You turned away, tying it into a bow snuggly against your waist so that the sweat pants stayed up on their own now. You took several calming deep breathes, trying to get your brain back in order. Not noticing when he reached down and snatched your panties off the floor, stuffing them into his pocket for later.

“Y/N” You barely whispered out. Your omega was still reaching out to him, trying to push you back into his arms. But you wouldn’t listen. Your brain was frazzled and you felt like the world was spinning.

“Hmm?” The soft hum behind you, made you shiver, wondering if he was going to reach out and touch you again. You wanted him to. God you wanted him to. He didn’t though. Just leaned back on the bed, using his hands to prop himself up, enjoying the view of your  backside as the inner turmoil raged in your head.

You snapped yourself out of it, clenching your fists as you crossed the room to the chair in the corner, curling up on it deciding it was as good a place as any to sleep. A soft mumble leaving your lips once more as you pulled the hood up and over your face, covering it completely from his sight other than the tip of your nose peaking out like a little mouse, the red of your blush noticeable from across the room. “My name… it’s Y/N.”  

[hoodharlow]

“Pa’que Pare de Chingar”

El Novio Quarantine Edition: Part 3

AN: Part 3 is HErEEEEEE!!! I apologize for not posting this yesterday. Hope y’all enjoy bc in un ratito Part 4 will be out. 

Warnings: smut, brief mention of weed and brief mention of birth control

requested? nope

Word Count:

Calum leaned back in his seat and scrolled through Twitter while he waited for Claudia to get her birth control pills from the pharmacy. He was still pissed at the lady with the rat. 

Mrs. Garner, the neighbor whose dog bit Damian, ended up leaking a video of him and Claudia making out in the Santos driveway as a way to get back at them for reporting her dog. It was more of a compilation of them dating back to the summer before to just a few weeks ago when they got back from walking Duke and Panchito. It created an uproar. 

Fans were confused and surprised that Calum and Claudia have been together the whole time. Others were angry at the neighbor for invading their privacy. The paparazzi set up camp in the neighborhood in hopes of getting pictures of the couple since Mrs. Garner had also leaked their address. For the sake of Claudia's family and their privacy and safety, Calum and Claudia went back to Calum's house in L.A. where the neighborhood was more private. 

Soon enough, Mrs. Garner got a taste of her medicine when Calum's fans found out she had a wine shop and flooded Yelp and Google with negative reviews. To think she did all of that because her dog bit a little kid. 

He closed the app and replied to Ashton's text confirming the time he and his team were going over for the album photoshoot. Calum still couldn't believe that Ashton wrote and produced his own album in such little time. Nonetheless he was proud of him. Ashton is someone he admired purely based on his ambition and talent. 

There was a soft knock on the passenger side of the window. Claudia waved at Calum and motioned that the door was locked. 

"Shit," He cursed. He reached over and opened the door for her. "Sorry."

"It's okay." She said smoothing out the bed sheet before sitting on it. 

It was well into June, making the weather be over 80° which was not a good mix with the car's leather seats and Claudia's short shorts and rompers. Not to mention she sweated an embarrassing amount through her ass. 

"I'm hungry. Can we get breakfast burritos before going to Target?" Claudia asked him. 

"Of course. San Miguel's?" Calum suggested. It's been months since they went to their go-to Mexican food place at Long Beach. 

"Yes. Let me order it through postmates so we can just pick them up."

She pulled out the paper bag containing her birth control and hid it behind her back while she tore apart her purse to get her phone. She felt one of Calum's cool hands on her back, pulling out the paper bag. 

"Why are you hiding your birth control like it's a bad thing? I know you're on it." he asked. 

"Because." she said, taking the bag and shoving it deep in her purse. 

"Because why?" 

"It's weird." she giggled nervously. She pulled back her hair into a bun. "Like I've never been at this personal level with any of my exes. Not that it's a bad thing, I'm just still, like, getting used to it."

"Oh."

"Yeah…"

"Did I make it awkward?” Calum asked her, intertwining their fingers together.

“A little, but it’s okay. I don’t want you to overthink this. I’m just getting used to this, you did nothing wrong.” 

Claudia leaned over and kissed his cheek. She pulled out her phone and opened Postmates. “Do you want your breakfast bowl hash browns or tater tots?”

“Tater tots please.”

The rest of the drive to San Miguel’s was pleasant. They got into some traffic, but luckily Calum and Claudia were both in good moods, resulting in Calum playing Jose Alfredo Jimenez and Natalia Lafourcade along with other Mexican groups. A few weeks ago, Diego introduced him to them when they both got high and decided to listen to Mariachi music. It was the most they bonded since Calum and Claudia started dating.

Pepe Aguilar faded into the background as Calum lowered the volume. He glanced over at Claudia, she was looking out the window, letting the sunrays dance on her face. 

“Hey Claudia?” Calum asked, getting her attention.

“Yeah?” She answered him, pulling herself away from the window. 

“I know I shouldn’t be asking you this, but if you’re comfortable, what was your other ex like?” He shifted in his seat awkwardly, not knowing how Claudia was going to respond. 

He knew it was one of those wildcard questions. She would either answer him, or go off telling him that the past is the past. But after her comment about her exes, he just had to know. All he knew about the guy was that he played football and was a year older than her. 

“Isaiah was a sweetheart. I met him through his sisters. We got close because I defended them when they got made fun of for liking One Direction, they even showed me some of Luke’s covers too. Anyways, we would always hang out at my place so I never met their brother until the first day of school where we were the only underclassmen in our AP Stats class. After that we became really good friends. We became a thing after he asked me to homecoming. Our relationship was pretty much stagnant. We didn’t do anything like sex wise. He was really respectful about that too and always kept the football team in check about that. 

This one guy from the football team started a rumor that he hooked up with a girl from the dance team and Isaiah called him out. Like overall he was a good guy. So when he graduated, we decided to just stay friends. We didn’t see each other until my senior prom where he was my date because a certain bass player didn’t go to prom with me after he said yes and I reached my goal of ten thousand retweets.”

“That was you?” Calum yelled. “I felt so bad. We had like a two week break, but a day after our show in Dublin my appendix ruptured and was bed ridden until our break ended. I guess that could explain why you didn’t give me a slice of chocoflan when I went.” 

“Damn, I thought your team was just BSing and didn’t want to go. I was really sad and sold my tickets out of spite.” Claudia mumbled to herself.

“I have the corsage somewhere in my room, actually.”

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah, I can give it too with one condition.”

“What is it?” 

“You slow dance with me.”

***

It happened so fast. Claudia was hanging up some shirts she tie-dyed to air dry while Calum watched in the comfort of their new lounge chair. It had a dark wood foundation with a comfy and waterproof mattress on top. A comment about Claudia's peeking out of her silk romper led to one about how they haven't christened the chair. A few teasing touches later, Calum dropped his slutty shorts. It was a term coined by Claudia after Calum accidentally bought some RVCA shorts that were closer to his crotch than his knees. 

Claudia leaned down and captured his lips. She got off the lounge chair, taking her time removing her silk romper. Then she slowly crawled back to Calum. He lifted his bucket hat covered head and leaned up to kiss her once more. He laid back down before pushing back his hat to get a better view of Claudia. 

She coated Calum’s cock with her arousal then she slowly slid down his length. Her hands rested on his tummy and Calum placed his hands on her waist, and slowly guided her. Claudia rocked her hips back and forth. She closed her eyes, gasping at the feeling of him all the way inside her. 

"Just like that pretty girl,” Calum moaned out. 

She opened her eyes and found him staring into hers. Without breaking eye contact she rolled her hips a bit slower, bucking his hips up into her. She moaned as he groaned in pleasure. 

"Calum,” Claudia whimpered. 

He sat up as Claudia wrapped her arms around his shoulders while he held her in his arms. She slowly continued to roll herself against him and Calum let out an incoherent moan in her ear. 

Claudia rested her head against his shoulder. “Hey,” Calum said softly. “Eyes on me." 

She lifted her head to look at him. His eyes flickered from her lips to her eyes and a huge smile formed on his lips. Calum captured her lips. Claudia halted her movements and solely focused his mouth. She held onto his face with both hands, deepening their kiss. 

Without breaking the kiss, Calum pushed Claudia onto her back. Pushing her legs to her chest, he slowly thrusted into her with slightly rough precision. He halted his movements thinking Duke must have gotten out, and looked up.

“Ash?”

“Ashton? I know—”

“Get dressed, Ash and Ryan are here.” He whispered, pulling up his shorts. He tossed her romper and awkwardly stood in front of the chair as she got dressed.

“Are you two seriously fucking?” Ashton yelled from the other side of the pool. “I liked napping in that lounge chair, now you ruined it.”

“Well I liked fucking my boyfriend in this lounge chair, now you ruined that.” Claudia yelled back in the same tone as him. 

She leaned into Calum and kissed his cheek. “I’m gonna make some cookies and stuff.”

She waved at Ryan and flipped Ashton off as she passed them to get to the kitchen. She poured some macadamia nuts on a comal and let them toast on a low heat while she prepped the cookie batter. She was making white chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookies with spinach. She saw the recipe on Fetch with Ruff Ruffman when she was in elementary school and since then it became her go-to recipe for white chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookies. She also liked making them to spite Ashton because he always said her cookies weren't the healthiest. Now he couldn't say anything since she put a bag of spinach in it. 

The macadamia nuts finished toasting in time for them to get folded into the cookie dough along with the chocolate chips and spinach. She placed them in the oven and cleaned up while they baked. Remembering she still had some doggie dough, she also placed them in the oven. She then prepared some agua de jamaica with some jamaica leaves that she let soak overnight. 

Claudia heard Duke’s barks by the front door. She went over and saw the delivery person walking back to their truck. She motioned Duke to back up so she could open the door to get the package. It was her monthly Savage×Fenty package. She took the box up to their room, thinking of ways to tease. Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the kitchen timer go off. 

Duke was excitedly wagging his tail in front of the oven, waiting for her to get out the treats she made. He backed away and watched her get out the baking trays. 

“En un ratito okay? They’re still hot.” Claudia told him.

Once they cookies and treats cooled off she placed them on plates. She placed the pitcher of agua de jamaica and the cookie plate on a tray and took it outside for the guys. Calum helped her carry it.

“Did you make your spinach cookies to spite Ashton?” He asked her.

“Yeah, pa’que pare de chingar.” She smiled to herself. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him. “Also, I got a package, so make sure no one touches your phone in the next hour or so, unless they want to see my ass.”

Taglist: @f-mu @another-lonely-heart​ @sunshinebabycal-deactivated2021​   @calumscalm​ @karajaynetoday​ @cherryxwildflower​ @myloverboyash​  @idontneedanyone​ @findingliam-o​ @5-secondsofcolor​ @spicylftv​ @sexgodashton​ @fckingpernico​ @2fangirl4u​ @calpops

[whumpmatsus]

aaaa are you still taking the sickfic requests?? maybe "don't speak" with choro as the sickie pls?

SickFic Prompts / ACCEPTING!

Don’t Speak - (character) has a horribly sore throat and is reduced to barely talking while they load up on hot drinks and soup to recover.

yesssss always!!! I had so much fun with this, it hit me right in the Honey Nut Feelios and I hope it does the same for u, sunshine 😩

-

After still feeling like total crap for several days while his brothers were almost completely recovered from the cold they’d all caught, Choromatsu finally breaks down and goes to the doctor.

He doesn’t really want to. Being sick is something they all hate, and continuing to suffer after everyone else felt better is just astronomically unfair. Sometimes he thinks he can will himself back to health if only he sleeps and takes medicine and does everything a sick person is supposed to do.

The others prod at him to get checked out, though, considering the fact that lately every time he’s tried to speak, it’s set off a cough and is painful even to those just listening.

When he comes back home with a pharmacy bag and an informational sheet proclaiming that he’s been diagnosed with laryngitis, it explains a lot.

He has little choice but to hand the sheet over to Osomatsu as Karamatsu comes over to help remove his scarf and coat and walk him over to the kotatsu. The eldest of them doesn’t necessarily know best all the time, but usually when one of them is sick or hurt with more than a cold or a tiny scrape, Osomatsu often slides into big brother mode and shows a surprising amount of maturity.

For once, Choromatsu is actually glad his oldest brother is taking charge of the situation.

“Okaaaay, guys,” he calls as Choromatsu settles in at the table. “So this thing says Choromatsu has… acute laryngitis. The doctor thinks it’s because he had a cold, I guess, since it says ‘viral cause’. Huh.”

Everyone else is already seated around the kotatsu since it’s the middle of winter and freezing. Jyushimatsu’s arm shoots up right away. “Oh! What’s laryngitis? That’s a funny word. Are we gonna get it too?”

Choromatsu opens his mouth to try and explain, like usual. Instead, he manages to get out a weak, “Probably not,” before he starts to cough.

“Hey,” Osomatsu pouts as Karamatsu pats the third eldest on the back, “this thing says you’re not supposed to talk if you can help it, Fappymatsu. So, y’know… shut up.”

What he gets in return for his efforts is an unimpressed glare.

Osomatsu grins, running a finger under his nose before looking back at the information sheet. “Well, I’m not wrong! Okay, so… the cold was contagious, but it says the actual laryngitis isn’t. It’s just some kind of throat thing that happened because of the cold. So it might happen for the rest of us, but I doubt it since we’re all feeling better already. Choromatsu just has bad luck, I guess.”

Karamatsu hums in thought and continues to rub his brother’s back. “Hmph, we’re probably safe then. Which means we just have to focus on taking care of our dear brother. How do we do that?”

Choromatsu holds the bag from the pharmacy up, allowing Ichimatsu to snatch it and dump the contents out on the table. He points toward the things he picked up at the doctor’s recommendation ― over-the-counter painkillers, lozenges, a throat spray, and cough syrup. There’s other stuff mixed in too, like tissues and a jar of yuzu-cha and a magazine. Though he could have lived without everyone seeing that, it’s not a huge deal.

Osomatsu waves the paper before picking through everything on the table. “Well, it says they don’t have any kind of prescription to give him. No antibiotics since it’s viral. Looks like it says the cough medicines and painkillers might help. ‘Home remedies may also provide temporary relief’… like tea and soup, huh? So we should probably try to keep the bastard hydrated with warm stuff.”

Karamatsu gets to his feet, grabbing the jar of yuzu-cha on his way. “In that case, why don’t I go mix up some of this for you right now? After being out in the cold air, your throat could probably use something warm. Want me to add a little honey?”

Choromatsu nods eagerly, mouthing, “Yes, please.”

Karamatsu’s face brightens at being useful, and he gives an exaggerated pose before heading into the kitchen. “What a good patient! Your big brother will be back with something soothing before you know it!”

“Hold on,” Totty comments as he scoots the lozenges, spray, and syrup toward him, “did you get all this stuff to take for your throat?”

His eyes scan over the labels, then roll back in his head when he’s finished. “Ah, Choromatsu-nii-san! You can’t take all of these at the same time. See, look. They all say ‘do not use with other medications containing’ ― uh ― well ― w-well, I can’t pronounce the word, but it’s the same one! They must all contain this ingredient, so you can’t take them all in the same day.”

Ichimatsu makes a gesture for Totty to hand them over, then nods after reading them. “Yeah, he’s right. If you take all these in the same day, even if you use each one like the directions say, you’ll be basically overdosing on this shit. Your mouth’ll go numb. Be drooling all over the place and maybe having trouble breathing.”

All the medicine is plucked from his hands by Osomatsu. “Okay, so we’ll rotate ‘em, and I’ll take care of giving it to you whenever you need medicine. Y’know, so that fever doesn’t fry your brain and make you forget which one you’re taking for the day. Which one do you wanna use today?”

Choromatsu lets out a soft groan which only serves to irritate his throat further. He could seriously just kick his own ass for not checking that before he bought all of those. The only excuse he has is that he’s in a lot of pain and not thinking like he normally does. He points to the spray, thinking maybe it’ll feel kind of like sour spray candy; once it gets sprayed on, it melts and lingers for a minute, which might be a nice quality in a medicine for sore throats.

“Alright, open up.” Osomatsu tears off the plastic packaging. “Totty, Ichimatsu, did either of you see how many times I’m supposed to spray this?”

“Two sprays every two hours as needed. But it’s only supposed to stay for fifteen seconds, then he has to spit it out. He’s not supposed to swallow it or it might give him a stomachache. Totty, you wanna go get an empty cup for him to spit in and a glass of water to wash the taste out of his mouth afterwards?”

“What?? Why can’t you do it? Your legs aren’t broken!”

“Yeah, but I’m busy.”

“Are you kidding me? Doing what?!”

Ichimatsu shuffles himself closer to Choromatsu and puts an arm around his big brother. “I’m his emotional support Ichimatsu.”

Choromatsu chuckles a bit, though it turns into coughing pretty quickly.

“Oh, my God. Now you know why you’re not first in my brother rankings, right?” Totty grumbles, but gets up anyway. “Fiiiiine, I’ll be right back.”

The idea of an emotional support anything is nice, though, so Choromatsu leans into the contact, resting his head on Ichimatsu’s shoulder. As it is, the fourth eldest is almost like a cat, warm and cuddly when he feels like it.

His fever must be getting to him, because he could even swear he hears Ichimatsu purring.

-

The next three days in the Matsuno household are, predictably, a little wild.

Although Choromatsu sleeps on the couch in the other room so that his coughing doesn’t wake his brothers, it’s pretty much all for naught. At least one of them ends up missing him in the night and coming to camp out with him anyway; he just counts his lucky stars that when he needs them most, they show themselves to be pretty great brothers.

He also practically lives on soup and tea. Mom and the others try to switch it up a little, because otherwise eating and drinking the same things every day would drive him nuts. Plain miso and zosui were fine for the first day, but after he could breathe through his nose and smell things again, they started offering him other stuff.

Honestly, shogayu and negi-miso-yu have never tasted so good. Now that he can taste the yuzu-cha, too, and Karamatsu prepares some for him at least once in the afternoon, it’s like a small slice of heaven. He’s pretty sure Karamatsu can tell how grateful he is even without words, if the stupidly proud look on his older brother’s face whenever Choromatsu drinks it is any indication.

His throat still hurts like hell for a while. It’s difficult to speak, so Osomatsu, in his infinite wisdom, has relegated his brother to using a mini dry erase board and marker if he needs to say anything. That doesn’t mean Choromatsu doesn’t try to talk. He does his best not to if he doesn’t absolutely need to, however, since he wants to be rid of this thing more than anyone.

Thankfully, everyone is apparently using this as an excuse to treat him nicely. He gets to sit in front of the TV watching Nyaa-chan concerts almost nonstop, while nestling in against his emotional support Ichimatsu. Karamatsu in particular keeps checking every twenty minutes or so to see if there’s anything he can get for his little brother, and whatever Choromatsu asks for, he gets. Hell, at one point he’s craving ice cream, even though milky things aren’t a good idea for someone who’s coughing, and Karamatsu comes back with a melon ice pop, which is almost as good.

Totty even manages to do something nice while typing away on his phone. He says he’s got Choromatsu a date. With a girl. Who likes pop idols. Who’s really excited to meet him as soon as he’s better. He says he texted her a picture of Choromatsu and she thinks he’s really cute. It’s perhaps a good thing that he can’t say much right now, because he’s sure he’d scream loud enough to lose his voice a second time.

Jyushimatsu even sits there on Choromatsu’s other side, and reads magazine articles to him whenever they’re not watching TV. Of course, he doesn’t read the dirty articles… well, he doesn’t read those out loud after the first time he tried and everybody ended up crying with laughter. They all joked that even when he was sick that would be Choromatsu’s main priority, and for once, he laughed along with them despite the fact that it made him cough.

The one who surprises him the most is Osomatsu. Maybe that shouldn’t actually be a surprise, though. He fills the role of diligent oldest brother with a lot more ease than one might expect; he breaks out the thermometer every few hours to make sure Choromatsu’s fever isn’t getting higher, he keeps track of which medicines Choromatsu is supposed to take and when, he helps Mom cook things that will help Choromatsu feel better, and if he’s not doing any of that other stuff, he’s positioned with Choromatsu sitting on his lap, with Ichimatsu and Jyushimatsu on either side, running his fingers through his little brother’s hair. It almost feels like the way things were when they were all kids.

Choromatsu is easily tired out when he’s sick, and he’s 99.99999% sure that it’s Osomatsu who carries him to bed every night when he inevitably falls asleep.

Despite the fact that he gives them a lot of shit, and none of them are perfect people, he knows he’s got some pretty amazing brothers.

Today he’s feeling nearly back to his old self, and his throat is less sore than it’s been in over a week. He knows it’s partially thanks to rest and partially thanks to how well his family has been taking care of him. Despite that he’s starting to recover, the others are still treating him much the same as they have been. Tea whenever he wants it ― as well as Karamatsu shoving it in his direction, urging him to drink with that pathetic puppy dog face of his, even when he doesn’t quite want it ― and lots of head pats and the TV turned to whatever he’s in the mood for.

He’s not quite as tired as he’s been lately, so it would be all too effortless to just take advantage of all this. Instead, his thoughts have just kept turning to how grateful he is to have so many people he can count on.

There’s some small part of him that has to admit he can be just as bad as they all are sometimes. He can be selfish and rude and lazy. But when one of his brothers is sick or hurt, he knows he steps up to the plate to try and take care of them. To know that they’re all willing to do the same for him when he’s the one in need makes him happier than he thinks he’s been in a long time.

He’s still got the dumb little whiteboard Osomatsu gave him, because his voice isn’t back to normal just yet. For a moment, he scribbles on it, then he holds it up for Osomatsu who’s sitting behind him. “Hey, Oso,” he speaks up in a quiet, breathy, raspy voice.

“Uh…! Hey, dumbass, you’re not supposed to be talking yet,” Osomatsu laughs, then lifts his head to look at the board. “… Huh? Choromatsu… hey…”

He laughs in a way that makes it sound like he’s about to cry, then takes the board and waves it to get everyone else’s attention. “Hey, guys! Haha… look! Look at this shit!”

Four other pairs of eyes turn in their direction. Practically as soon as everyone has processed what Choromatsu has written, he’s buried in a pile of brothers. He gets arms put around him, and kisses on his forehead, and everyone nuzzling against his face. They’re all laughing in that same way Osomatsu did…

… Well, until they all start actually crying. Including Choromatsu himself.

The whiteboard falls to the ground, mostly forgotten, but the words written on it hanging over the sextuplets like a rainbow.

Thanks for everything. I love you guys. 💚

[lumosinlove]

Coast To Coast

part vii

Harvard University, 2014

There must have been a greater power taunting him.

“Sexy!” Anderson—forward, number 77, alternate captain—had said in the locker room. “That is this year’s Halloween theme, boys. Bring your girls, bring your booze, bring your minimal clothing, bring your A-game.”

Sexy. That was definitely just what Logan needed for his first OKN house halloween party. His new teammates. In minimal clothing.

He rolled onto his back on his dorm bed with a sigh, continuing to scroll through his phone while he waited for Finn to get out of their shared bathroom.

Finn O’Hara. Harzy, the boys called him. Right wing but didn’t always play that way, number 17, a sophomore. Originally from New York City. Logan’s new roommate.

“It’s how it works, rookie,” Anderson had said. “Baby OKs share. You’ll get your own room eventually.”

Logan was fine having a roommate. He had had one at prep school. He didn’t even care if they were messy, he was sure he was twice as bad. But Finn O’Hara. Red hair, six foot even, brown eyes—bambi, the boys called him. A little on the thinner side, but Logan could tell he could bulk up if he wanted to. Finn O’Hara.

There must have been some greater power taunting him.

“Fuck,” Finn’s voice came from within the bathroom. The door was open, but not enough for Logan to see anything. “My balls are going to hate me.”

Logan snorted. “We wear spandex every other day of the year.”

“Yeah, breathable sports spandex, not this plastic shit. Jesus fuck,” there was a groan. “At least I look alright.”

“Stop staring at yourself and let me get in there.”

“Okay, okay,” Finn said, and Logan watched the door move as he pushed it open.

The universe hated him.

Finn was some sort of gladiator, Logan thought, with nothing on but a red cape that clasped around his neck and shoulders, and a pair of tight, gold underwear that left nothing to Logan’s imagination. They had a fake, foam sword clipped at the hip. He had gold paint on beneath his eyes, streaked like a football player, and a gold laurel crown sitting in his red hair. His pale skin was creamy against the gold and the frame of the dark red cape. He had cheap looking sandals on that went all the way up his strong calves, biting into the muscle a little.

Finn spread his arms, turning in a slow circle. “Look at these fucking things. Who makes these and why?”

Logan swallowed, looking at the gold underwear. “For frat parties, I’m guessing.”

“Yeah,” Finn laughed and then bent over his bed to fold his discarded clothes up. His cape slipped away from his back and Logan sat up abruptly.

“Merde, Harzy, those things are barely holding onto you.”

“I told you, my dick is gonna hate me,” Finn said loudly.

Logan smiled and swiped his party city bag from his dresser. “Souhaite moi bonne chance.”

“Swat bon,” Finn rolled his eyes.

Logan laughed and slipped into the bathroom. He could hear Finn putting some music on as he undressed, singing along softly under his breath. Logan gave himself a moment to close his eyes and breathe, fingering his necklace. He’d known Finn for a little over two months. That was it. And already he liked him in the morning. He liked him drunk off his ass. He liked him on the rare lazy day, still under his covers reading a book and wearing his glasses. His glasses. Dark tortoise shell things that turned amber in the sunlight, like his eyes, and just—fuck. He liked Finn on the ice and like it when they were on the same line, something that was happening more and more frequently. He liked Finn, and Finn seemed to like him well enough, and Coach liked them together. The found each other on the ice every time. Logan had never had that before.

Logan rubbed his hands over his face and then reached into the plastic bag for his costume—if he could call it that. A black cape, clasped by the yellow and black Batman symbol, the iconic mask that covered his eyes, and what could only be called underwear. They were black and shiny, with the bat symbol on the ass.

“Merde,” Logan breathed once he squeezed his thighs into the shorts. It was—obscene. He wasn’t hung like some of the guys he’d seen but this certainly made it look like he was. His cock pressed against the fabric as insistently as his ass did. He turned around and looked at the yellow symbol there and was glad that the cape would be covering at least some of it.

“Ready?” Finn said when thumping music started up downstairs meaning people were starting to arrive.

Logan looked out the small bathroom window and towards the dark driveway. Cars were lining up. People were getting out in bikinis and corsets, speedos and stockings.

“Uh, yeah,” Logan said. “One second.”

He looked at himself in the mirror and laughed a little before spinning the bat mask once, and placing it over his head. His hair curled out from under it, and the black frame made his eyes look a little startling.

He looked—not bad. If he was looking to pick up tonight—which he hadn’t done yet at Harvard—he probably could. He turned and looked at his abs, defined from the rigorous pre-season training. He looked good. He pushed away the wish that Finn would notice.

“I’m ready,” Logan said and stepped into the weird plush boots that had come with the costume. He pushed his way out of the bathroom. “Sounds like people are here.”

Finn looked up from his phone, legs spread in a way that was doing Logan zero favors. “Yeah, I—”

Finn’s stare was one Logan had felt before. Spotting him in the weight room, checking each other during drills. Two months of that look that Logan refused to think about. But that was a hard thing, when he had nothing to do but look right into it.

Finn stood abruptly, taller, gold paint reflecting into his eyes and making them light like syrup.

“What’s your,” Finn swallowed. “Tattoo. Necklace. I’ve never asked.”

“Oh,” Logan looked down at his hip. “It’s a fleur-de-lis. Sort of a family thing. Me and my sisters have them in different places.”

“How many sisters do you have?”

“Three. They’re older than I am.”

“Fleur-de-lis,” Finn repeated softly, eyes on the tattoo. He swallowed again and then looked away. “Sick. Should we go?”

“Yeah,” Logan said. “Yeah, I need a drink if I gotta wear this thing all night.”

Finn laughed. “Uh-huh. Me, too.”

Logan lasted about an hour before he couldn’t stand his mask anymore. He left it on a table somewhere, pushing his sweaty hair off of his forehead and wishing for a hat. He’d have to settle for something cool to drink instead.

OKN house had the back door open into the chilly yard and porch. The living room had a drinks table set up, one of those plastic fold out ones that they used at rush and club fairs, beside the great oak dining table that no one actually used except, well, Finn. Finn who planned his essays at this table until it was way too late and he snuck up to the room, trying to be quiet for Logan. Logan, who stayed up just to see him go about his routine and fall into bed. Logan, pretending he was a part of that routine.

Logan might have had a Finn problem. A two-month long Finn problem. A Finn-in-glasses problem. A Finn-dressed-as-a-gladiator problem. A Finn-in-his-red-Harvard-jersey problem with his rough skating and sharp shots.

A Finn over in the corner problem, talking to a girl. Problem.

Logan turned to the drink table and desperately looked for the rum.

Logan was allowed to have a Finn problem. Logan just couldn’t have a Finn…anything else. Finn-wet-dreams, in which he woke up with a gasp, sweating against his sheets and only needing to shove his hand into his pajama pants where he was red and swollen in his own hand, barely touching himself before he was shooting into his fist, eyes resolutely away from the bed across from him. Finn-bringing-him-breakfast, not that he could make more than burnt toast, before he drove them to the rink. Finn-laughing-with-him, like a best friend that Logan had never actually had. There were teammates, and then there were friends.

Finn was a friend. Logan could have a Finn problem, a Finn secret, and a friend.

He just couldn’t have Finn.

The rum was no where to be seen. A shoulder bumped his.

“Hey, rookie,” Finn smiled. “What you looking for?”

Finn’s crown was lopsided, like some sort of halo in an old painting. Like someone had been messing with it. Logan looked for the girl, but she was gone.

“Rum,” Logan said.

Finn did a quick survey of the table and found the bottle easily, unstoppering it and reaching over to pour a healthy amount into Logan’s waiting cup.

“Coke, right?”

Logan nodded.

A Finn-knowing-his-drink-problem.

Finn made himself one, too, and held his cup out for a cheers with a smile. Logan smiled back, clicking their plastic cups together.

“Lost your mask somewhere, Batman. Now the whole world knows your secret.”

Logan laughed tightly and raised his cup to his mouth. “I can’t have that.”

Finn tilted his head, chewing a little on the rim of his cup before taking a drink. He cleared his throat. “You been to the roof yet?”

“Non,” Logan shook his head.

“Wanna? It’s a kinda cool view of campus.”

Logan tried to smile over the hammering in his blood. “That girl didn’t wanna join you?”

Finn rolled his eyes. “Come on.” He pushed off the table and was disappearing into the crowd quickly. Logan squeezed through bodies to follow.

~

“I found the picture,” Finn shouted. “Nut—fuck, is he still at the store?”

“Oui,” Logan said, filling up a glass of water from the sink. “Did you really find it? Let me see.”

Logan padded over to where Finn was sprawled on the couch and set his glass down before crouching near Finn’s head to see his phone.

“Oh God,” Logan laughed, ducking against Finn’s shoulder.

“Are you kidding? Lo, you look incredible. Fuck me, look at your legs. And you’re bigger now, like Jesus Christ… Ugh.”

Finn swiped his thumb lightly over where Logan’s tattoo was shown on his hip, just above the ridiculous yellow belt.

“This thing used to drive me crazy,” he said softly. “I mean, it still does, but…fuck.”

Finn used to have fantasies, while wishing for Logan, all of which had been very carefully kept faceless. Until this tattoo would make an appearance and ruin it all—and make him come immediately. It was ingrained in his subconscious as a Logan thing, one moment he would be touching himself in the shower, letting his mind wander quietly towards a hard chest against his, a large hand around his dick instead of his own. Faceless. He’d take the boy and press him against the wall of the shower maybe, do whatever he wanted him to do, kiss his neck, rut their cocks together, maybe he would moan Finn’s name—

Logan’s voice. The hip he had his fingers wrapped around was darkly inked, and tanned.

“Mon rouge,” Logan’s voice—really his voice—came through. Finn looked up at the touch of fingers through his hair. “Where did you go?”

Finn looked at Logan and took a slow breath. He was so familiar. He had been right there for so long, but it was only now that he was close.

“That was…” Finn swallowed. “Kind of a hard night.”

Logan’s brows drew together, and he nodded minutely after a moment. “We’ve had a few hard nights, non?”

Finn looked back at his phone, and then Logan was taking it out of his hand, clicking it off, and setting it on the coffee table. Finn sat up a little as Logan climbed into his lap, knees pressed to his hips. Finn ran his hands over his shoulders, then up beneath his sweatshirt to his broad back. He was bigger now. Stronger.

Logan pressed his fingers through Finn’s hair again and then a kiss to his jaw, one side, and then the other, his cheeks, and then his mouth.

“They lead us here,” Logan said softly. “The hard nights.”

Finn’s throat felt tight. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck. I know. I know they did.”

“Let me show you it’s easier now,” Logan said. “D’accord? Harzy, let me.”

“Lo,” Finn rasped out. He ran his thumb over where he knew the tattoo was, had memorized it quickly, would kiss it endlessly.

“You work hard for everyone,” Logan said the words into another kiss. “You worked hard trying to make me not be afraid, even when I was horrible and terrified.” He kissed down Finn’s throat and Finn’s mouth dropped open. “Even when you were terrified, even when I hurt you. Let me. Finn…”

Finn let out a breath, eyes opening to the ceiling, then to Logan’s when he brought their mouths back together.

"Let me.”

“I took you to the roof,” Finn gasped as Logan pressed against him, warm and real. “I don’t know what I was expecting, I…fuck, we barely knew each other.”

“Do you have any idea how much I wanted you,” Logan said. “Lean up for a sec.”

Finn let Logan pull his t-shirt off of him, let him press wet kisses to his neck and shoulders. It felt good, but part of him itched to flip them, to make Logan feel good. Kiss down his chest, kiss that tattoo.

“Relax,” Logan laughed softly, easing Finn back against the cushions. “You have to let me love you. I need it, Finn. I need to.”

Finn’s cock began to fatten up at that. He let his head fall back. “Lo…”

Logan reached behind him to yank his sweatshirt off and—and there he was. Real.

Finn pressed his palms against his chest, his stomach, feeling the hard curves of his muscles. Logan pressed his hands over Finn’s, bringing them to touch his neck, his pecs. “Let me take care of you for once. Rest and let me.”

Logan leaned down for another, soft kiss and then was swinging off of the couch. His cock was a soft outline in his sweatpants. “Allez.”

Logan pulled Finn up and Finn couldn’t help but back him against the nearest wall, just for a moment, thumb back against the fleur-de-lis, lips harsh against his jaw, just the way he knew Logan liked.

Logan let out a laugh that cut off in a moan. “Non, non—”

Finn pulled back and Logan’s smile made him smile. Logan was flushed and his neck was red from Finn’s mouth. Finn sucked a bruise on top of the blush on the side of his throat, and Logan’s short nails pressed into Finn’s back. Finn reached down and cupped Logan’s cock within his sweatpants, feeling the heat of it through the fabric.

“Non, non, non, allez,” Logan was still half laughing, walking Finn backwards towards his bedroom. “Je prends soin de toi. I’m taking care of you.”

“But I like making you come,” Finn grinned, only just managing to give Logan’s ass a squeeze before Logan pushed him back onto the bed. He bounced a little, pushing himself against the pillows before tapping his thighs. “C’mere, baby.”

Logan shucked his sweatpants off, followed by his socks, and then it was just him, bare and standing there in front of Finn. Finn swore softly and reached down to palm himself.

“Non,” Logan shook his head and knelt on the bed, cock standing out and wet. The sight only made Finn give himself another squeeze. Logan was straddling his hips then, snatching his hands and moving them to his waist. Finn wrapped his arms all the way around Logan, bringing their bare chests together.

He kissed him hard. “Gonna take my pants off, too? Can’t do much like this.”

Logan scoffed and hit the side of Finn’s head lightly, making Finn laugh. But he obliged, coaxing Finn to lift his hips so he could pull his sweatpants away. He leant to kiss the newly exposed skin, mouth soft against Finn’s hips and stomach, hand wrapping around his cock. Finn let out a slow breath and tangled his fingers in Logan’s hair.

He wasn’t expecting it when Logan sucked the head of his cock into his mouth. Logan hadn’t done that yet. He made Finn sit up, abs tightening.

“Tremz,” he panted out a breath. “Oh fuck.”

Leo had been wanting and loving about going down on Finn. It had practically broken Finn’s brain, seeing him there, blue eyes open with his mouth full of his cock. They’d laughed and kissed sending those videos to Logan. It was unbearably hot, thinking of Logan, seeing them, wanting them.

This was entirely different. It was different with both of them. With everything.

Leo and Finn liked to read together, swapping favorite passages. Logan didn’t read much, but he liked to be read to. Finn had always known that, had done it a million times back at Harvard. But now he knew that Logan liked to lay on Finn’s chest while he read, aloud or to himself, and fall straight asleep. He’d always fallen asleep to Finn’s voice. But now he was a weight on top of Finn, breathing softly against his neck and Finn just…

Logan’s mouth was soft, too, tongue pressing against the head of his cock.

Finn loved him.

“Lo, Lo, Lo…” Finn panted. “Fuck, baby.”

Logan just hummed and sucked down further for a moment before popping off and smiling a sweet smile. “Did it with Leo.”

Finn huffed out a laugh, throbbing at the image. “I should be no fucking problem, then.”

Logan laughed, too. “I hope he comes home soon.”

“Me, too,” Finn said. He wanted him with them.

“I guess I know a way to pass the time until he comes back.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Logan smiled and rolled onto his back, producing lube from Finn didn’t know where. He spread his thighs. “Love it when Knutty does this, the fucking splits.”

Finn leaned forward, running his hands down Logan’s smooth skin. “Yeah. I didn’t even think about how goalies do that until him.”

Finn watched Logan’s face as he slipped two fingers into himself.

“Baby,” Finn said softly. “Let me.”

“Non, you watch.”

Finn sat up further, hand going to his cock—

“Don’t,” Logan panted, head against the bedspread as he worked himself. “Watch.”

Finn sighed and took Logan’s thighs back in his hands and kissed the inside of his knee. There was a little scar there from a night that happened a long time ago. Finn remembered.

Logan laughed breathlessly. “You can’t help yourself.”

“I love you so much.”

Logan’s breathing hitched, green eyes hazy. “Finn…”

Finn kissed it again, and then the other one, and then his thighs. He sucked kisses into the skin, bringing purple to the surface. Logan was marked by the time he sat up.

He was quiet as he pressed Finn back against the pillows. He wet his lips.

“Lo, what—”

“Why do you have your socks on, you weirdo,” Logan said as he swung a leg over Finn’s thighs. Finn’s cock nudged his entrance, and Logan gasped, cutting himself off.

He leaned down and captured Finn’s mouth in a needy kiss and reached behind himself to line Finn up. It was only then that Finn realized—Logan was going to—

Logan’s thighs were firm beneath Finn’s hands as he sunk down on him. Finn’s mouth dropped open at the feeling, of Logan in complete control. It wasn’t like fucking him at all, it was Logan, above him, head tilted back with the feeling of Finn filling him up.

“Finn,” Logan’s voice was more whine than anything else. “Finn, Finn, Finn—“

And he was seated, their hips together, Logan’s cock drooling between them.

“Holy shit,” Finn could barely breathe in. “Holy fucking shit, Lo.”

Logan got his knees under him and pushed himself up before sinking down again. Finn clutched Logan’s hips as all the breath seemed to punch out of Logan’s lungs. He did it again, and again, landing hard with each thrust, completely gone with fucking himself on Finn’s cock. Finn was mesmerized with the wide expanse of tan skin he had to kiss, Logan’s collarbones and shoulders, tongue running over his nipples as Logan’s thighs worked around him.

Logan shifted his hips and pitched forward into Finn’s chest with a curse, burrowing his face in Finn’s neck as he rolled his hips forward in small, sharp motions, hitting that spot inside him again and again.

“There you go, baby,” Finn said, wrapping his arms under Logan’s and around his broad shoulders. He pushed up in time with Logan, making Logan practically shout. “Be as loud as you want, there you go.”

“Finn,” Logan just kept saying, slipping a few times and saying Leo’s name instead. It made Finn all the hotter to think that Logan was imagining Leo there with them, sitting beside them on the bed, maybe working Logan’s cock into his mouth.

Logan’s breathing hitched up and he tightened his arms around Finn’s neck, fingers gripping his hair to pull Finn back for a sloppy kiss as he started to raise his hips again, skin slapping down against Finn’s. He worked until Finn was sure his thighs had to be burning, no matter how toned they were. Finn was going to lose his fucking mind.

“What,” a voice came from the doorway.

Finn looked up to the side to see Leo standing there, keys in his hand.

“Leo,” Logan gasped, and reached a hand out while rocking himself down on Finn’s dick.

Leo walked forward slowly towards the bed and took Logan’s hand like he was in a daze, staring at their naked bodies, slick with sweat by now. Logan yanked him forward and started undoing his belt.

“Hi, Peanut,” Finn panted, head falling back again as Logan rocked against him harder. “Store was—good?”

“I…” Leo was staring at where Logan was wrapping an arm around his waist now, leaning forward to press sloppy kisses over where Leo’s cock was quickly filling in his underwear.

“Knutty,” Logan said, before getting his fingers under the band of Leo’s boxers and pulling down so that Leo’s cock fell out. Leo laced his fingers into Logan’s hair, a laugh startling out of him.

“Logan, oh my god, I’m still holding my keys and wallet. I have my shoes on.”

“Allez.”

Leo just shook his head, raking his fingers through Logan’s sweaty hair. He dropped his things onto the night stand and then tugged his t-shirt off in one go, pushing off his shoes next. Logan let him undress, turning back to Finn and pressing his hands to Finn’s shoulders.

“Don’t touch him,” Leo said as he kicked his boxers aside. He fell down on the bed beside Finn and wrapped a large palm around himself, stroking his shaft. “Come on Finn’s cock, Tremz.”

“Non. Finn.”

Finn watched Logan and Leo share a look that he didn’t quite understand.

“I found the Batman picture,” Finn offered as a hopeful way to get into whatever silent communication Leo and Logan were having. “Sort of—” Finn hissed as Logan tightened around him. “Stirred up some memories if you couldn’t tell, fuck.”

Leo raised an eyebrow, shifting to sit on his heels. “Oh yeah?” He ran a hand down Logan’s back and Logan slowed until he was rocking gently, leaning a little into Leo. Leo looked at Finn. “How’d he look, Harzy?”

“He looked—” Finn began, and then cut off. The sudden well of emotion that had cut through him earlier seized around his heart again. He looked at Leo, all kind eyes, running his hand through Finn’s hair. And Logan, connected to Finn in every possible way right then. Finn opened and closed his mouth, swallowed over a dry throat, and looked at Logan. “He looked…”

~

The October air was a relief on Finn’s face when he pushed open the old window to the roof of OKN house. He turned back to look at Logan. They had thrown sweatpants and sweatshirts on, Finn had swiped a bottle of rum from the kitchen. The only real remnants of their outfits was Logan’s mussed hair and the gold on Finn’s cheeks.

Finn still felt like he was wearing a costume. 

“This is semi-secret,” Finn said as he climbed out onto the tiles, vans catching on the rough material. “And by that I mean I really think no one likes it out here but me.”

He heard Logan laugh from behind him and smiled, pleased.

Fuck.

“You, the roof, and the dining room table,” Logan said.

The rum sloshed gently as Finn settled himself in the curve of the tiles, putting his hood up for some warmth and cushion. Logan did the same, and they settled shoulder to shoulder.

“Might have to steel your spot,” Logan said. “You can keep the table, though.”

“We already share a room and a starting line,” Finn handed him the bottle. “Wouldn’t be so bad.”

Logan’s smile was bright in the moonlight. “Well, good.”

They were quiet for a few moments, passing the rum back and forth to keep warm.

“Do you think you’re gonna make it? To play, I mean.” Logan asked him suddenly.

Finn knew Logan didn’t know just how loaded of a question he was asking. Was Finn going to make it? Hopefully. Was Finn going to survive it? If there was another teammate who became what Logan was quickly becoming, if Finn slipped up…

Hopefully.

He couldn’t read Logan. He couldn’t risk misreading Logan. He shouldn’t even try.

“Yeah,” Finn nodded. “I do, actually. I…you know, there’s all those statistics and shit but I also…feel it? If that doesn’t sound completely stupid? You?”

“I…” Logan hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

“Come on, have you seen you play?”

One corner of Logan’s mouth raised, but he looked different beneath the moon. He was looking intently at Finn, bottle clutched to his chest.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I feel…”

Finn waited for him to continue, but when Logan merely shrugged, he pressed on.

“Hey, I’d take you. Any day.”

It didn’t have the intended effect. The look that crossed Logan’s face looked almost—pained.

“I mean,” Finn tried to decide how to backtrack. “Maybe one day, eh? Anything could happen.”

Logan turned to look out over campus. He nodded mutely and took another drink. Finn felt concern draw around his heart.

“Lo, are you okay?”

Logan’s eyes snapped back to him. “Quoi?”

“What? Oh. Oh. Oh, no, I…” Finn laughed, a little awkwardly. “I didn’t really mean to…that’s been, like—it’s just been bouncing around my head for a while and I guess it slipped out.”

“That’s okay,” Logan said slowly. “I’m okay.”

“It’s okay if you aren’t. I mean… freshman year, Harvard hockey…it’s a lot of pressure. Believe me, I know.”

Another surprising thing. Logan closed his eyes and shook his head. “Non.”

Finn blinked. “What do you mean?”

Logan shook his head. “Nothing, I just…I’m probably a little drunk, I don’t even know.”

Finn let Logan hand the bottle of rum back to him, clutching it to his chest just to hold onto something. He didn’t know what to make of Logan’s no. No Finn didn’t know what it was like? That wasn’t true. If anything, Logan didn’t know what he was going through. Logan didn’t think about kissing Finn.

Logan stole the bottle back. “If you’re not gonna drink.”

He had a smile on his face again, one of his small secret ones. Finn, despite the uncertainty, smiled back. He couldn’t help it around Logan. Logan, who he now knew was the youngest with three sisters. Logan, who drank rum and coke. Logan, who hated doing his homework, but liked listening to Finn do his. Logan, who fought boys twice his size.

Before Finn could say anything, a rumble of thunder sounded off in the distance. It made them both look up and across campus.

“Halloween storm,” Finn said. “I guess that’s fitting.”

“My weather app said something about it,” Logan said after a moment.

Finn smiled. Logan, who checked a weather app.

Logan saw his smile and gave him a small shove. “Let’s go before it starts to rain and—and lightning and shit.”

“Don’t like storms?”

Logan was already pulling his hood more firmly on his head and maneuvering himself into a crouch. “Not really.”

“Well,” Finn started following him back to the window. “I don’t know about Canada, but we get some pretty crazy ones out here.”

Logan huffed, pushing the window up. “Well, super.”

Finn frowned. “Do you really not like—”

“Merde,” Logan hissed and stumbled the rest of the way through the frame. “Fuck.”

Finn pulled himself through a second later, eyes falling to the rip in Logan’s sweatpants by his knee, the red bleeding into the thick material.

“Shit, Tremz,” Finn said. “Is it bad?”

“It’s fine,” Logan said, looking at it carefully. “I’m fine.”

“Let me see, sit down.”

“I’m—”

“Let me see, speaking as your alternate captain now.”

Logan narrowed his eyes at him pulling that card, but sat on a ratty window seat. Finn grinned at him and crouched between his legs. He steadied himself on Logan’s knee, and then pushed Logan’s sweatpants up carefully, revealing his leg—a leg that Finn had been trying very hard not to stare at in skin-tight Batman underwear all evening. His skin was warm.

Finn would have liked a longer excuse to touch Logan, but the cut was small if not a little deep—thankfully not too bad. It was already beginning to stop bleeding.

“You should be good. Wasn’t anything rusty, just the wood edge. There’s some stuff in our bathroom from when I cut my cheek open last year.”

“Okay,” Logan said quietly. It was only then that Finn realized how still he was holding himself in Finn’s hands. It made Finn back up immediately, neck going hot. Who knew what Logan thought. Finn was so careful. So careful.

“Okay,” Finn said, then cleared his throat. “Okay, cool.” He looked around and then picked up the rum bottle from the floor. “Yeah.”

Logan pushed his sweatpants back into place and stood. “I’ll go check it out. Thanks, Harzy. See you in the room.”

“Yeah,” Finn managed faintly. He watched Logan send him a raw looking smile before jogging down the narrow staircase with a tight heart.

~

“Always taking care of me,” Logan was kissing his neck. “Remember the storm that night?”

Finn found Leo’s eyes before Leo was kissing his chest, teeth scraping over his nipple. Logan was grinding down on him in slow circles, making Finn choke out a moan. Their mouths on him ripped him right out of the memory.

Sometimes happiness made sadness’s edge sharper.

Finn blinked heat away from his eyes, but then Leo was there again, cock against his thigh, mouth brushing his own. Leo. Finn held one hand against Logan’s hip, the fleur-de-lis, and the other circled Leo’s back, fingers tangling in his hair to pull him in for a kiss. He loved kissing Leo.

“You deserve it, too, remember? Like we said.” Leo said.

Logan mouth was softer now, against his jaw. “Maybe it’s time we show you.”

Finn could only sit there and take it, the two of them, warming him through and through.

Leo leaned into Finn’s touch. “Like you told me.”

~

Finn woke up with Leo pressed along his front for the first time the morning before they left for Florida. It was to a six AM alarm, Finn was exhausted, but it was one of the best mornings. Finding out Logan was coming to Gryffindor. Waking up wrapped around Leo. Tied for best mornings. After a few kisses, they had to get up, even if it felt like they were a world away from anything normal. Finn actually smiled to himself in the shower the entire time. He was giddy as hell, and Leo was in the kitchen making coffee and eggs and he could kiss Leo while he did that now. He could kiss Leo while he was reading on the couch, he could kiss Leo goodnight and crawl into bed next to him. And and and.

Leo looked up when Finn entered the kitchen, hunched over his coffee cup with two steaming plates in front of him. “Hi.”

Finn just walked forward and turned Leo away from the counter and towards him. “Leo.”

Leo took a lock of his hair, the red darkened from the shower, and curled it around his finger. “You look a little too serious for my liking.”

“You’re okay with all of this, right?” Finn said, and then the words rushed out. “You’re okay with me, and with Logan—hopefully—and you feel good and not pressured, and I just want to make sure because, Leo, I’m not that much older than you but I am older than you. And I need you to know that I want this with everything I fucking have but not if you’re in any way not happy, or, like, nervous, or…I just want,” Finn felt Leo press his hand to his cheek. “I just want to make sure. And I’m gonna keep making sure.”

“Harz…” Leo’s smile was small, almost disbelieving. “I’m so happy. I’m so happy.”

“Well…good,” Finn let out a breathless laugh, relieved. “Because you deserve to be.” Finn pressed his hands to either side of Leo’s face and kissed him once, twice, and then Leo held him there with a hand on the back of his head, licking into his mouth and making Finn sway into the cradle of his thighs. “I really, really like you, Peanut.”

“I like you, too. Even though you’re going to make us late.”

Finn just smiled into their next kiss. “I’ll get the dishes, okay? You go take a shower.”

~

Logan was already under his covers by the time Finn came into the room. The halloween storm was getting sharper. It was raining now, lightning flashing against the sky. Logan had his headphones in, and his eyes were dark as they followed Finn around the room as he undressed. Finn could hear his music from all the way in the bathroom.

Finn found the Batman mask by the sink and laughed, heart pulling when he thought about Logan’s green eyes in it, staring a little self consciously out at him earlier that night. He brushed his teeth and then put it on.

Logan raised an eyebrow when Finn came out, but he laughed and pushed his headphones away from one ear, making his hair stick up.

“Forgot your secret identity,” Finn grinned.

“Too late now.”

Finn bit his lip as he crossed the room to his own bed, putting the mask down. Logan was certainly his secret. Logan had grown quickly into Finn’s mind, so fast that Finn hadn’t really realized it. One morning, he just woke up thinking about kissing Logan square on the mouth.

Logan took a shaky breath from the other side of the room and set his headphones on his nightstand with a glance outside. Lightning cracked across the sky, lighting up the room. Logan’s fists squeezed around his blanket.

Finn slumped down against his pillows with a sigh, taking the book he was reading from his bedside. He could hear people leaving downstairs, screaming and laughing in the wind and rain.

“I don’t like storms,” Logan said quietly. He wasn’t looking at Finn, and he was messing with his fingers agitatedly, covers pulled high on his chest. “I don’t really know why, I just…I don’t like them.”

“I don’t like seaweed,” Finn shrugged, but warmed when Logan actually laughed. “I don’t know, man, it’s just slimy. Thunder’s loud as fuck, I mean, it doesn’t not make sense to not like it.” He took a breath. “You want the light on? It won’t bother me at all.”

Logan looked at him for a long moment, before nodding. “Oui. Thanks, Harzy.”

~

“Harzy,” Logan said against his mouth, and Finn felt his back arch as Logan drew them closer together.

Finn couldn’t get any words out, though, not with Logan hot around him, with Leo sucking intently at his neck, rutting against his thigh. He let out a harsh breath and tightened his fingers in Leo’s hair. They were both hard and dripping onto his chest and stomach and Finn wanted to do something for them. He was aching inside Logan, breathless from his own memories.

“Please,” he said, and he wasn’t even sure what he was asking. He tried to sit up, to reach for them. He wanted to surround them, to pull them against him harder.

Leo shushed him gently, pulling him into a kiss and easing him back against the pillows.

“You were gonna go all the way and get me the stars,” Leo whispered, a light laugh following. “Fuck, Finn…”

“I just—” Finn flexed his hips up into Logan and Logan’s brows scrunched together, hands keeping him upright against Finn’s chest.

“I’m gonna come,” Logan panted, his hips fucking down on Finn. “Fuck, I can’t—”

Logan’s hips stilled and he gasped, cock still red and hard. He fucked once, twice, as if he couldn’t help it, but Finn groaned in protest as Logan gingerly pulled off. Finn watched his own cock bobbing an angry red against his stomach, shiny with come and lube. Logan collapsed into Finn’s side, sweaty and running his hand down Finn’s chest to his balls, cupping them gently.

“Always taking care of us,” Logan breathed. “Fuck, Harz, I love you, but you have to let us take care of you.”

They’d only fucked a handful of times—and Finn was looking forward to many, many more handfuls—but he guessed it was true.

“I like it,” He said. And that was true too. He loved it. His breathing hitched as Leo licked a stripe from Logan’s fingers to the tip of Finn’s cock. “Fuck, Leo.”

Leo just smiled, cheeks a deep red and swung a leg over Finn’s hips. Finn’s hand shot out to grip Leo’s thighs.

“Baby, did you even—”

Leo nodded. “You were a little preoccupied.”

“I could of done it.”

Logan laughed, pressing a kiss to Finn’s cheek. “That’s not the point of right now.”

Leo’s cock hung heavily, balls swollen and tip wet. Finn itched to touch him, but instead Leo cupped his cock against his abs, giving Finn a perfect view of him sinking down over Finn’s.

“We’re all here together,” Logan said softly, accent thick as Finn’s eyes closed at the feeling of Logan’s hand and Leo’s body. “We’re all here for each other, mon rouge. Let us.”

Leo’s head was tilted back, hips rocking in slow circles. Finn cursed, gripping Leo’s pale thighs, longer and leaner than Logan’s.

“Peanut,” Finn gasped. “Jesus, did you two practice this on each other, too?”

Leo’s smile was hazy and blissful. “Maybe.”

Finn groaned, head dropping back into the pillows. Finn loved the two of them together. His two.

Leo’s breathing turned heavy and then he pressed up and sunk down again, punching a sound out of himself. “Fuck.”

“There you go, pinotte,” Logan said from beside Finn. His palm was warm around Finn’s balls still, the sensation making Finn feel like he was about to be right on the edge. Leo was still holding his own cock, but not stroking it, just sinking down around Finn again and again. His blond hair darkened against his forehead.

“I’m close,” Finn said. “Jesus, fuck, I’m so close.”

The urgency had come out of nowhere, but he ached with it. Logan’s hand squeezed again around his balls, and then Leo was pulling off, too. Finn’s abs jumped and the loss. He fisted the sheets.

“Boys, this is not what I call appreciation,” Finn’s knees drew up on their own, trying to seek out any type of friction. His cock beaded precome across his stomach.

“Non?” Logan said, and then he was gone from against Finn’s side. Finn felt aflame, like he could feel every touch, and every absence.

Leo smoothed a hand down his stomach, through the mess, and then his mouth was back on Finn’s cock—and so was Logan’s.

“Huh—“ Finn wasn’t sure if he was breathing properly as his hands shot out to tangle in their hair, brunette and blonde. They lapped at him, mouths meeting occasionally around his wet, swollen tip. They’re—

“Fucking gorgeous, what the hell,” Finn managed, and he did sit up this time, legs splayed, pressing against their chests, palms rubbing over their spines. He had to close his eyes for a minute when Logan’s mouth found his balls and sucked at them, at the sensitive skin at his root, all while Leo’s mouth was sinking down, down. Finn felt it like a bruise, like a hurt that was so good it shattered, he shattered, looking at them.

Finn tried to keep his hips still as he came in Leo’s mouth with a low sound, bowed with his forehead pressed to Leo’s shoulder.

They kissed him, and then kissed each other, and then Logan was crawling across Finn and into Leo’s waiting arms. They smiled at each other, and Finn thought that was better than any of the sex. Leo’s hands were shaky as he pushed into Logan. Logan sunk down on Leo’s cock twice before he was shouting, come hot and white against Leo’s skin. Finn pressed himself all along Logan’s back and held him as Leo fucked into him a handful of times and came, too, face buried in Finn’s neck.

They were breathing hard, like a fine current surrounded the three of them, placing their breaths in sync. Finn was—

~

Leo closed the door to the balcony of Finn’s Florida hotel room and paced back to the bed, sitting beside him. Finn rubbed a hand up and down his back, thumb bumping along his spine.

“He’s hurting,” Leo said, eyes down. “He’s hurting, and he won’t let us tell him that we…”

“Lo’s always needed to do things in his own time. Always. We’ll get to him, we’ll talk to him.”

“I…” Leo cut off with a sigh and rubbed his hands over his face. Then he turned into Finn and Finn wrapped him up close.

“We’ll sort it out. Believe me, I’ve been waiting a long fucking time for this,” Finn pressed a kiss to Leo’s cheek. “For you, too, even if I didn’t know it.”

Leo smiled, even if his eyes were still a little sad.

“You’re right,” he said, and then paused. “Maybe we’ll just kidnap him at the buffet.”

Finn snorted. “Maybe.”

Leo took Finn’s hand in his lap and kissed it. “I think we’ll be together soon.”

~

It was too good. It was all his. Finn ran one hand over Logan’s abs slowly before pressing his palm over his pounding heart. With his other on Leo’s back, he could feel Leo’s heartbeat, too. They were louder to him than his own. Logan’s head was tilted back against his shoulder, his eyes closed, and Finn leant down and kissed his cheek.

“Knutty, c’mere,” he breathed. “C’mere.”

Leo’s cheeks were red like his mouth and he knelt his way over to Finn’s chest, leaning his chin up for a kiss. He pressed his hand to Finn’s cheek, swiping his thumb over his jaw.

“Stubble,” he mumbled with a smile, and dragged his lips over it happily.

Finn laughed softly. “I’ve been playing good, I gotta keep it.”

Logan looked up and all but smacked Finn in the face to feel. “Fucking loved that in college.”

“He had it the first day I met him,” Leo smiled, nuzzling against Finn’s slightly rough jaw and the dark red hair there.

~

“The fuck’s on your face, O’Hara,” was Logan’s greeting during preseason camp Finn’s senior year.

They’d seen each other a few weeks prior when Logan was still in the city staying with Finn’s family. He’d spent the last weeks of July with his own family, and how here they were, back at Harvard, sticky with sweat from ground training. Seeing Logan again after weeks, even just after a night’s sleep, was always a bit of a punch to the gut for Finn. He was tanned from the summer sun, sinfully so, and Finn wanted to—

“What?” Finn laughed, lifting his shirt up to wipe his face—including the week old beard he’d been experimenting with. “I don’t know about it, what do you think?”

He was thankful he was already sweating, because his face heated with the question. He needed to know what Logan thought, always.

Logan, green eyes were made light by his black snapback, walked forward. He took Finn’s chin between his fingers, turning his head this way and that before rubbing his palm over his cheek. Finn swallowed.

“Nice face,” Logan said.

~

Finn laughed. “You made fun of me.”

Leo snorted. “Well, neither of us could very well say fuck, what a hottie.”

“Nut, please go around calling Finn a hottie from now on,” Logan laughed, and then let out a breath. “Fuck, that was so hot.”

“I still haven’t seen the picture,” Leo said, and then, more quietly. “What activated our Finn plan, Tremz?”

Finn blinked. “Finn plan?” Logan looked up at Finn with a smile and Finn raised an eyebrow, tweaking his nipple and making him swear and laugh Finn’s favorite laugh. “What the hell is a Finn plan?”

“Just…” Logan looked over his face, and then to Leo, reaching out and petting a hand through Leo’s hair. “We wanted to show you that we want you just as much. That we want to take care of you as much as you always tell us you want to take care of us.”

Finn looked between them. “You…”

“We were talking about it,” Leo began.

“And making out,” Logan added.

“And making dinner one night,” Leo laughed. “And, I don’t know, we just sort of…when we felt the time was good, decided we’d make sure you knew.”

Logan nodded, hair tickling Finn’s throat. “You looked pretty sad there for a second, mon rouge, looking at that picture.”

“And when you were telling me about your rookie year, remember?” Leo said. “In Florida, after we got together?”

~

“I’m just saying,” Finn shrugged. They were laying down facing each other on Finn’s bed. Timmy was out with Kuny and Nado and, when that happened, he didn’t come back for a good while. Finn didn’t want to do anything too risky, but kissing Leo until he was soft and smiling seemed like a good plan. Logan wasn’t picking up his phone. He wasn’t in his and Leo’s room.

Kissing had soon turned into worrying.

“I’m just saying, I’m really glad you didn’t have to do the rookie season hotel shit. I’m so glad you’re with me. When I did it, it just,” Finn watched where his thumb was stroking over Leo’s knuckles. “I mean, Logan wasn’t really talking to me. I was trying to give him space, but I—missed him. Sorry,” Finn laughed a little, clearing his throat around the hot tears forming there.

“Don’t be,” Leo said. “Harzy, you love him. Of course you missed him.”

“I just waited for him to call forever,” Finn said in a rush. “And I’d wait forever again, you know, but I…I would just stare at my—phone,” Finn’s voice hitched. “And then I finally called him and it was horrible, I could barely talk.”

Leo’s eyes were sad and he pressed closer to Finn.

“I’m just happy you wanted to talk,” Finn whispered into the small space between them. “I’m so fucking glad we talked and now look, I can kiss you, Leo. Even though I’m crying,” Finn smiled a little, and Leo kissed him.

“You’re allowed to cry over him. Fuck, you think I haven’t cried over both of you?”

Finn laughed and rubbed his eyes. “Hope you don’t cry over me anymore.”

Leo grinned, swinging a leg over Finn’s hips. “I think they call you Heartthrob-O’Hara for a reason.”

~

“I remember,” Finn said softly. He couldn’t think about that phone call, though. Not yet. With time. “I didn’t know you remembered, Nut.”

Leo nodded. “I think we all remember.”

Logan let out a shaky breath against Finn’s chest and Finn rested his lips against the crown of Logan’s head. Maybe Logan couldn’t think about it either. Logan, who had tried to be so bright for him, even when he could tell Finn was crying.

Leo smiled. “Got a couple of star crossed lovers on my hands.”

Finn felt Logan’s laugh this time. “Care to join the party?”

“Yes, please.”

Finn groaned at the soft syllables in Leo’s voice, the drawn out ones in Logan’s. “You both get accent-y after sex."

“Tired,” Logan said.

“Fucked,” Leo sighed.

Logan laughed loudly, eyes squeezing shut, and he nudged Leo with his hand before wrapping his fingers around his arm and pulling him close for a kiss.

Finn didn’t think they were star crossed anymore. They had orbited around that somehow and ended up here, pulled by Leo’s gravity, into a tangle of light.

“In the middle,” Leo laughed, and bent briefly to press a lingering kiss to the dark ink on Logan’s hip before returning to his mouth. “Just how you like it.”

Finn smiled. Finn was just where he liked it, too. Feeling the weight of both of them in his arms, not moving, not going anywhere, their voices soft in a room the was safe and warm.

“What do you like, Nut?” Finn said. “Tell me.”

Leo bit his lip. “Looking at you two. I never even thought I’d have one person. And if I did, I thought they’d get tired of secrets. Scared away.” Leo let Finn pull him closer. “Secrets made you two stronger. And you’re not gonna leave me because you have to keep me a secret, either.” Leo’s gaze flickered. “I like looking at you two and knowing that.”

~

“Knutty, Knutty, Knutter, Nut, Nutter butter baby,” Finn sing-songed as he shuffled into the kitchen, voice sleepy and hair a mess. He felt awake after last night, his boys, on him, with him, working their way so deep into his bones and heart that he bled and bruised and breathed them. It felt good.

He rested his cheek against Leo’s back as he wrapped his arms around him from behind while eggs sizzled on the stove.

“Morning, Harz,” Leo said.

“Sup,” Finn sighed.

Leo snorted, then took a strip of bacon he had cooling from a plate. “Here.”

Finn made an appreciative sound and took it between his teeth.

“Do you wish we could cook?” Finn asked as he chewed.

Leo wavered his head back and forth. “No,” he decided. “I think you can do more than you think you can, but I like cooking for you. You guys clean up. It’s like being on a cooking show. All the fun, none of the work.”

Finn laughed, pressing a kiss to Leo’s shoulder through his t-shirt. “Cute.”

“Is he awake yet?”

“No,” Finn said, pulling three coffee mugs down from the cupboard. Logan, easily awoken, hard to wake up. “Somehow we managed to sneak out. Lightest sleeper ever. You know, I used to have to pee on roadies or when we were roommates—I mean I still pee, but you get the idea. And he would jump up like there was a fucking burglar.”

Leo dumped the eggs onto the waiting plates and flicked the hot pan off. He came up behind Finn this time, hands on his hips while the smell of brewing coffee rose in the air. Finn leaned back against his chest.

“I thought about doing this so many times while you made breakfast,” Finn said softly.

Leo glanced at his face, nose brushing his cheek. His eyes were closed, eyelashes turned shadows in the warm sunlight pooling on the floor. He was completely relaxed into Leo, and Leo held him there. This was what Leo liked. Finn, knowing that they weren’t going anywhere, no matter what he did.

“Me too,” Leo said, kissing Finn’s jaw. Finn smiled, and turned his head into the kiss.

“Leo,” Finn said.

“Yeah?”

“I think we should ask him.”

Leo only had the chance to smile and kiss Finn again, deeper, before there was a weight falling against both of them, Logan’s dark head of hair burrowing against Leo’s chest. Leo laughed and stumbled, just a little.

“You gain ten pounds when you’re sleepy, I swear.”

Logan just hummed. Leo and Finn looked at each other over his head, and then Finn sandwiched Logan in from the other side.

“Hey, Lo,” he whispered.

“Quoi,” Logan mumbled sleepily, his eyes closed and cheek against Leo’s t-shirt.

Finn smiled at Leo, and Leo ducked down.

“Will you move in with us?” Leo whispered.

Logan looked up so fast he butted Finn in the nose with the back of his head.

“Fuck me,” Finn startled back and Logan swore, turning in their arms and pressing his hands to Finn’s rough cheeks.

“Harz,” Logan began, and then Finn realized that both him and Leo were laughing too hard to speak.

“Ouch.”

Logan sagged against him, gasping for breath—

And then Finn realized he was half crying. And nodding. And nodding and nodding.

Finn abandoned his aching nose and looked at Leo, whose expression had softened. Logan’s breathing stuttered and he gasped out a laugh, wiping his face.

“Fuck, I just woke up.”

“Is that a yes?” Finn laughed. “Head butt me then burst into tears, I guess that’s a pretty regular morning for us all.”

Leo kissed Logan’s neck softly. “Say yes.”

“Get out of Dumo’s basement,” Finn said.

Logan punched him in the chest, making him groan, and the pulled him back in, leaning into Leo’s arms.

“Yes,” Logan said. “Yes.”

~

Over coffee, Finn held his phone out to Leo.

“Slutty Batman.”

Leo blinked at the photo. “Holy fuck.”

[pressedinthepages]

Beneath Each Other's Bones

My fic entry for @eskelbigbang <3

Please also check out @drachedraws two amazing pieces of art that they made for this fic!

Relationship Tags: Eskel/Geralt

Character Tags: Eskel, Geralt, Lambert, Vesemir, Lil' Bleater

Other Tags: smut, established relationship, oral and anal intercourse (m/m), some very soft smut. what can i say.

Summary: Winter at Kaer Morhen can be brutal. But Eskel and Geralt find warmth in each other in an effort to stave off the cold.

The stones of Kaer Morhen sighed as the sun rose over the winter-frosted valley. The birds and harpies had long since traveled south for the cooler months, and the draconids had nestled themselves in the depths of the mountains around the aging keep. The castle itself was full of its Witchers, who were patiently waiting for the first snowfall to blanket their surroundings in layers of quiet white . With the last witcher having finally arrived a few evenings prior, the pack were all finally able to rest peacefully with the knowledge that all were safe.

The first thing that Geralt felt was cold. His nose, the tips of his ears. The rest of him was encompassed in warmth, but the chill rudely nipped him awake, undaunted by his furry woollen fortress. He squinted one eye open with a grimace, finding his bedroom washed in the cool sunlight that streamed in from the window. It was still early. The morning sun had barely breached the horizon. Lambert would still be snoozing away, cocooned in the safety of a warm and familiar bed, but Vesemir would likely already be down in the kitchen preparing for the day.

Geralt’s ears, barely poking out from under his blanket, picked up the steady thunks of wood being chopped, and he grunted as he sat up, letting the blanket pool around his waist. His chest was bare, pale, scarred skin reluctantly exposed to the early winter air as the witcher roused himself. Still sitting in his bed, he turned and scooted to the windowsill, peering at the courtyard below.

Ah, fuck. Geralt’s morning arousal became actively invested in the sight that met him. Eskel had a stack of freshly chopped logs at his side, with one propped up atop a large stone. Geralt could see his muscles strain against the thin linen of his shirt as he swung the sharp ax high over his head, its honed edge glinting with the emergence of the sun as it met its apex, only to fall again with breathtaking force. The log split in two, and Eskel gathered the halves off to the side, stacking them neatly with the others on a long piece of thick canvas with handles on either end.

The ax found a resting spot for a moment as Eskel wiped the sweat from his brow. Geralt set his chin in his hands and his elbows on the edge of the windowsill and held in a low groan. Eskel had reached for the neck of his tunic and lifted it up over his head, revealing the olive-toned flesh of his stomach and the dark curls of hair over his chest that drew a delicious line below the band of his trousers. It was clear he’d been the first to return to Kaer Morhen. A comfortable roll of belly fat protruded from the confines of his belt, proof he’d had plenty of time to rest and indulge over the past weeks. His skin shone with perspiration and his thighs flexed and pushed at the fabric when he lifted another heavy log onto the chopping stone. Hells, the haphazard seam of one of the trouser legs was coming loose as his thigh threatened to free itself.

Eskel breathed in and swung again, driving the ax all the way through the thick log in a single stroke. As the two halves hit the ground he turned, dropping the ax and facing the little patch of green that remained before the frost. Lil’ Bleater was happily bounding through the grass, pouncing off of crates and rubble like it was her sole duty in life. Eskel smiled wide as Geralt did the same from his perch. The sun glinted off of Eskel’s back, dancing over the drops of sweat that dripped into the hollows of his muscles. Geralt swallowed thickly, unable to look away when Eskel’s arms came up to sweep the hair out of his face. The muscles of his shoulders and down the line of his spine flexed and shifted beneath his olive skin as he moved his hands to his hips.

“Alright, Bleats,” Eskel laughed as she came bounding over to his feet. He leaned down and offered a few sweet pats to the top of her head, “Think we’ve given Geralt enough of a show?”

He glanced over his shoulder with a cheeky grin to where Geralt was watching from the window, jaw agape and gobsmacked. The goat bleated as Eskel turned back and waved, and Geralt truly couldn’t help the smile that crept up his face if he tried.

“Fuckin’ tease,” Geralt grumbled half-heartedly as he watched Eskel drape his tunic back over his head. He was picking up the straps to the carrier for the firewood when Geralt finally tore himself away from the window, willing himself calm.

It only took a moment of deep breathing and a lifetime’s worth of practice, but Geralt soon found himself presentable to pleasant company. He threw on his usual winter attire, soft trousers and an even softer loose-fitting tunic tucked into the waist of his pants, his lined boots, and his cloak thrown over his shoulder. He tied his hair back off his face and let the rest hang on his shoulders in long silver waves. Finally, Geralt grabbed his swords and scabbards before heading down the stairs to the small kitchen space.

As expected, Vesemir was there with a steaming mug, poring over a book that was almost certainly older than Geralt himself.. He grabbed an apple and plopped down on the bench next to Vesemir, the both of them wordlessly grunting a greeting at the other. Geralt ate in relative silence for a bit, only the latent thrumming of the older Witcher’s heart and the crackling of embers in the fire accompanying the crunch of apple between his teeth.

That is, until Eskel butted open the doors to the hall and dragged his firewood haul in with him. Lil’ Bleater was riding the pile of wood like a pirate would her ship, the stack being almost as high as Eskel’s shoulders. Speaking of Eskel’s shoulders, Geralt couldn’t tear his eyes away from the visible line of sweat that trailed its way down his back, darkening the linen of his shirt and making it stick in all the most tempting places. He felt his mouth water at the sight and the piece of apple still in his mouth felt thick and hard as he choked it down.

Eskel grunted as he got close enough to the fireplace to relinquish his load, letting the heavy pieces fall haphazardly as he dropped the canvas sheet. The apple slipped from Geralt’s hand and bounced on the table before falling to the floor. “Dammit,” he growled, pointedly ignoring the disappointed sigh that escaped Vesemir’s nostrils.

He picked the fruit up and dusted it off, slicing off another piece as Eskel approached the table. Eskel smelled...like he needed a bath. Salt and sweat clung to his skin and wood dusted the strands of his hair, but he still carried that deep, musky, earthy scent that shone with a hint of citrus. It was the scent that kept Geralt awake at night, kept him sane on the Path. It was everything.

Eskel reached over and plucked a handful of dried fruits and nuts, as well as the jar of honey. He dropped the fruits and nuts into a bowl and carefully swirled a generous portion of honey over top. His fingers shone with the golden, sticky sweetness as he grabbed a dried grape and popped it between his lips. The scar turned his mouth upwards at the edge and pulled oddly at his lip while he ate. Geralt remembered how long it took for Eskel to be comfortable eating in front of him again after he got that scar, and he treasures every moment that he gets to see.

“Geralt?” Vesemir peered over his mug at him.

Geralt hummed in response, already dreading the day’s assignment.

“Oh don’t give me that. I need you to go out and put salt on the training grounds before the dirt frosts, and freshen up the wards around it. I don’t need the goats going in and licking it all up again. After that, the day’s yours.”

“And me?” Eskel asked around his mouthful.

“You can be done, you’ve already chopped enough wood to last us a good few weeks. I’ll get Lambert to-”

“NO. Don’t go giving my assignments before I even get to the table, old fart,” Lambert called down the stairwell.

Vesemir blinked slowly and sighed once more. “I’ll get Lambert to do SOMETHING ELSE today, though if you want something to keep busy, I’m sure there are some books that need rebinding.”

Geralt watched Eskel nod and swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Yeah, alright. I may take some time later and see what I can do about those books. Lay them out for me?”

“Of course.”

Eskel smiled over at Geralt, his deep amber eyes meeting Geralt’s sunrise gold. Geralt’s moon and stars rested in those eyes, a whole universe tucked away in the depths of Eskel’s soul, bared just for him. They smiled at each other before Geralt tore himself away, draping his cloak over his shoulders and striding quietly towards the door.

Eskel watched him haul the heavy bag of salt up onto his shoulder with a grunt. He shook his head with a smile and polished off the last of his breakfast. The stool scraped on the floor as he pushed away from the table, ready to go fall into a warm bed somewhere. Eskel heard the door shut from Lambert’s room as his feet pounded down the stairs, so he made haste in avoiding that breakfast discussion.

***

Why’s Geralt back outside?

Eskel rounded the corner of the staircases, following the fresh scent of Geralt trailing out to the courtyard. It was far past noon by this point, and Geralt had already taken care of the training grounds. He had come back in right as the sun reached its highest point in the sky, climbing the spiral stairs in search of a snack.

Eskel shouldered open the heavy wooden doors and turned to the east, following the light footprints over the balding grass. He smiled to himself as he heard soft whispers coming from the stables, low and not meant for anothers’ ears. Well, another human’s ears.

He stopped just short of the doors, now close enough to make out the words being murmured.

“-n’t give me that look, I was just wanting to braid your mane.” Geralt’s honeyed tenor drifted over the heartbeats and huffed breaths behind the stall. “I know Eskel doesn’t normally do it, but it’ll help keep it from matting over the winter. I bet you’d hate for our big softie to have to cut off old chunks of your mane, wouldn’t you?”

Eskel heard Scorpion huff heavily from his nose and he chuckled, pulling on the cool steel handle and closing the door behind him. The whispers stopped as Geralt peered over the short wall between the stalls, his hair shimmering golden with the light of the fire roaring in the fireplace. He held a hardy brush in his right hand and had his other resting lightly on Scorpion’s flank, and his hair was tied up high and away from his face.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Eskel rumbled, crossing to where he could see into Scorpion’s stall. He let his back hit the wall behind him and slid down, his bottom thumping audibly onto the ground.

“Just gonna sit there and watch me?” Geralt grumbled, resuming his brushing of Scorpion’s mane. The great warhorse stamped his foot impatiently, butting his head into Geralt’s chest.

Eskel quirked his brow and nodded, “Figured you wouldn’t mind after you ogled me this morning.”

The tips of Geralt’s ears flushed a pretty pink as he hummed noncommittally in his chest. Not denying it.

“Your man’s a smartass,” Geralt mumbled to Scorpion, and the horse fucking snickered, I shit you not.

“Ay,” Eskel laughed, watching a little smile threaten to pull at Geralt’s lips, “no need to turn my horse against me, I’ll need him come Spring.”

“Don’t wanna talk about Spring,” Geralt sighed, carefully running his fingers, long and delicate, so unlike Eskel’s, through the wispy strands of Scorpion’s mane.

“Me neither.” Eskel pulled up his knees and rested his elbows atop them, his eyes drifting down Geralt’s body. Gods, but he’s so gorgeous.

If you asked him, Eskel would say that he couldn’t pick a favorite part of his Geralt. Everything was his favorite, it was impossible to choose. But Eskel did have a favorite, and he very well kept it to himself, thank you very much.

That damned waist. The way that Geralt’s shoulders, broad and sharp, sloped in and down over his stomach and into a glorious handful for Eskel. Nothing about Geralt was dainty, not in the slightest, but Eskel loved that he could wrap his arm over the soft line of his waist in the dead of night, or grasp desperately onto it while lost in the throes of passion.

Eskel sat there quietly, listening to Geralt mumble to Scorpion while he busied his hands. He leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the idle sounds of the castle and nearby woods overtake his mind and senses. He could hear Lambert’s heavy footfalls from beneath the castle, down in the labs. A pack of wolves patrolled the treeline past the castle walls, jaws snapping as they called to each other under the low afternoon sun.

He heard Geralt’s footsteps grow close to him, stopping just where Eskel’s hips met the floor. Geralt’s fingers brushed gently through Eskel’s thick, dark hair and Eskel couldn’t hold back the quiet moan that spilled from his lips. Geralt chuckled and knelt at his side, running his hand down Eskel’s cheek and thumbing over the line of his brow.

“I know you went down to the springs and got clean earlier,” Geralt rumbled lowly, “but maybe you’d want to join me for a bit?”

Eskel smiled and opened his eyes, two golds meeting and melding into one. He nodded and Geralt leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. Geralt reached and grabbed onto Eskel’s hand, pulling him to stand and brushing the stray bits of straw from his backside.

Eskel chuckled as he batted Geralt’s hand away, though not before he got a solid squeeze in edgewise. “Hey, if you wanted to touch my ass, all you had to do was ask.”

Geralt shrugged as they walked through the doors to the castle and down the center spiral staircase that led to the hot springs, “I always want to touch your ass. Doesn’t really matter.”

Eskel shook his head and laughed heartily as he felt the air change. It felt thick, musty, warm with minerals and moss that grew in sharp brushstrokes up the walls. His lungs filled with the comfort of home, the air that was unique to this one spot of the castle, and only ever really meshed with his soul when Geralt was around to share in it.

He watched Geralt peel his shirt from his body, his pale skin a stark contrast to the dim caverns lit only by the stray candle or two sporadically placed in the cracks of the stones. Eskel reached out, his hand guided only by the raw urge to touch, to feel Geralt’s skin yield under his fingers, and he felt the warmth before he even made contact.

Geralt’s sigh tingled under his fingertips, vibrating through his bones with a summer long lost. Eskel stood flush to Geralt’s back, his hand resting over Geralt’s heart and his neck bent to rest his forehead at the nape of Geralt’s neck. He invaded Eskel’s every sense, every fiber of his being, just by existing in the same space. He smelled of sweat and horse and hay and happiness and home, and Eskel just wanted to...breathe him in. To take him into his lungs and never let him go. He felt Geralt’s fingers intertwine with his where they rested on Geralt’s chest, long and thin and pulling him up to Geralt’s lips. His lips were cool and chapped from the chill outside, but Eskel felt the warmth being pulled from his soul into the sweet press of Geralt’s lips.

“C’mon, let’s get into the baths,” Geralt mumbled, his lips still pressing into the pads of Eskel’s fingers. Eskel hummed noncommittally, honestly fine with just standing here, Geralt in his arms and close enough to finally feel. Geralt turned and stepped back, just out of Eskel’s reach with a grin as he reached for the ties on his trousers. “I’d like to get clean before I die of old age, so you best get naked.”

Eskel smirked and shucked his own shirt to the side, undoing the bright ties on his codpiece and letting the thick leather fall away. His trousers fell and were kicked away with his boots and the air embraced his skin with a welcoming grasp. He padded towards the pools, slipping into the water with a grateful sigh that one would expect from the sight of a long-lost friend.

He peeked over his shoulder and found Geralt standing where he was left, mouth slack-jawed and his hands hovering with his trousers half-undone. Geralt blinked and cleared his throat, adjusting himself through the leather of his trousers before untying them the rest of the way and letting them fall away. “I...it always surprises me just how much I can forget…”

Eskel crooked his head as Geralt stepped into the water beside him, rippling the waves over and up the stone sides. “What do you mean?”

“Just...you,” Geralt murmured, dipping under the water to soak his hair, “you are always so much more...real than I can ever keep in my mind. Whenever I think of you, it always pales in comparison to actually seeing you in front of me.”

Eskel felt his cheeks flush and he smiled, running his damp hands through his hair before lounging back into the edge of the pool. “I can never really get how you feel right. I know how good it makes me feel, but actually touching you? Or hearing your heart? My brain can’t replicate that. Not well enough, anyway.”

“Exactly. And it always is a bit of a shock. But a good one.” Geralt soaped up his hair quickly, batting away Eskel’s hands when he tried to help. “No, I want to get this part out of the way so we can relax. We can do that next time.”

Eskel thought back to a couple of winters prior, when Geralt had requested that he wash his hair for him. Albeit, with a bit of a caveat. Eskel spent an hour washing Geralt’s long, thick silver locks with his cock buried to the hilt in Geralt’s ass, the both of them gasping and clinging onto each other by the time his hair was rinsed. Eskel smiled at the memory as Geralt ducked back under the water, leaving his hair dripping wet and free of suds.

Geralt peered over at Eskel with a smirk playing at his lips as he reached his hand for Eskel’s thigh. He felt the muscle tense briefly under his fingers as he moved up slowly, his other hand sliding up and onto Eskel’s neck. Eskel sighed gently, a pull of air from deep in his lungs as Geralt played with the little curls of hair on the nape of his neck. Geralt’s hand moved over his hip, warm and soft and just a tad squishy beneath the water, and splayed over his stomach, tracing idle swirls through the hair that led down to his groin. Before he could get far, though, Eskel caught his errant hand with his own and brought them to his lips.

“We should eat first,” Eskel rumbled, his lips brushing the sensitive tips of Geralt’s fingers with every whispered word, “then I’d like to take you to bed properly.”

“Hmm,” Geralt traced down the scars on Eskel’s cheek and into his lip, watching the tiniest little shudder shoot over his nerves, “Lambert cooking tonight?”

Eskel nodded and ran his hands down Geralt’s spine and the swell of his backside. Not pushing or pulling with any direction, just feeling the skin that he so craved, even in his sleep. Geralt bent down, just barely pressing his forehead into Eskel’s and brushing their noses together. “You’ve kept me waiting all day,” Geralt sighed with a smile, “I suppose I could wait a bit longer. Not much though.”

Eskel chuckled and pecked Geralt on the cheek, “I promise. Once we’re both warm and comfortable and full, then I’ll take you upstairs and show you just how much I’ve needed you.”

“If you don’t let me go now, there’s no way I’ll be able to stop myself,” Geralt growled and nipped at Eskel’s chin. Eskel laughed and playfully shoved him back, watching the crystalline water drip down the dark hairs over his chest and into the dip of his waist. He had been feeling the stirrings of arousal all day, but it was getting more and more difficult to ignore.

Eskel followed Geralt as he clambered out of the springs, his hands and feet striking roughly against the weathered stone beneath them. He smirked at the quite obvious state of arousal that Geralt was in, his skin flushed and his cock straining upwards from between his thighs.

Geralt could feel Eskel’s eyes on him as he strode towards their pile of clothes and drying sheets. He peeked over his shoulder at him, finding Eskel hauling himself out of the bath with his arms, the muscles dipping and pulling as he rose to his full height, soaked to the bone and sporting a very pretty erection of his own. Geralt’s mouth watered as he wrapped a sheet to hang low on his hips before gathering his worn clothes into a bundle in his arms.

Eskel followed suit, feeling the drafty air whistle through his legs and cool the drips of water that still wore their path down to the floor below. They traveled through the halls together, still shoulder to shoulder even though the walls were just a tad too close together to accommodate them both comfortably. They didn't mind though, drawing their warmth together and letting their souls mingle in the approaching evening.

As they climbed the spiral staircase that led back to the main level of the keep, Eskel could smell the dinner that Lambert had been working on, something with chicken and hearty vegetables, along with bread and fresh butter and citrus chutney. They continued on up the stairs until they reached the door to Eskel’s chambers. They did typically end up sharing the room over the winter, but Geralt still liked to have his own little private space for himself. Eskel knew how loud the world could feel, and he liked having his own space too sometimes.

He kissed Geralt sweetly on the shoulder as he moved to continue up the stairs to his own room, leaving a tingle of his lips to keep him company. Geralt shook his head with a light hearted huff and slowly climbed up the spiral, and Eskel waited until he heard the heavy thud of his thick wooden door to open his own. He threw his clothes onto the chair by the fireplace before flicking his fingers out and up in the sign for Igni, feeling the warmth from the fire bloom from his palm and onto the wood, bathing the room in a pale glow.

Eskel dressed quickly, throwing soft trousers over his underthings, followed by a knit shirt that stretched across his chest and held tight. He left his swords propped by the door next to his boots before padding back down the stairs into the dining area. The three fires roared beneath bubbling pots and sizzling pans, sending rich scents swirling softly around the room. Lambert stood over one, giving it one last stir before grabbing onto the handles. Eskel lowered himself onto the bench at the table just as Lambert set the steaming cauldron down onto the nearly-black wood.

Vesemir grabbed the other pan and brought it over, lifting the lid to reveal several chicken breasts that had been seared and seasoned to perfection. Lambert began to ladle some of the stew from his pot onto his plate and tore a chunk of bread for himself before tossing the loaf to Eskel. It was warm in his palm and he smiled, the bread soft and yielding as he tore off some for himself as well. Vesemir declined, so he set the rest of the loaf in Geralt’s spot and began to heap his own plate with Lambert’s delicious looking dinner.

Geralt joined soon after they began to eat, dressed comfortably with his silvery hair pulled up and away from his face. Geralt swung his long legs over the bench and sat down next to Eskel, humming as he picked up the bread.

“Yeah, pretty boy, saved that bit for ya. Dig in before it all gets cold.” Lambert chucked the ladle down in Geralt’s direction, sending stray bits of stew flying to the walls. Vesemir rolled his eyes as Geralt caught it without looking and gave it a spin, rotating it flamboyantly around his fingers before plopping it straight into the great pot.

The four of them ate in relative silence, only the gentle scraping of utensils or grunts of acknowledgement breaking the fragile quiet. Vesemir was the first to be finished with his meal, leaning back in his seat and breathing in deeply. “Delicious as always, Lambert. Thank you. I'm headed to the library, gonna try and go through some of the old tomes.”

Lambert nodded and the others hummed, no one willing to part with their plates quite yet. Eskel wiped his plate down with the remainder of his bread, sopping up the stew and downing it all in one satisfying mouthful. Geralt watched with a raised brow and a smirk.

“Alright lovebirds, I’m off. Try to keep it down, at least a little, huh?” Lambert winked as he stood and wandered off, likely back down to the alchemy labs for more of his...experiments. Eskel chuckled as Geralt lobbed an old apple at the back of Lambert’s head, more for effect than anything else. Lambert batted it away into a corner and Eskel sighed. He stood and retrieved it, knowing that it would be long forgotten if he didn’t. He set it back onto the table before stretching his arms up above his head and turning to the door that led to the staircases.

Eskel held his hand out to Geralt, who looked at it through hooded lids. “Join me?”

Geralt smiled and lept to his feet, the last few bites of his dinner instantly forgotten. “Fuckin’ finally, you tease.”

Eskel laughed as the two of them bumbled up the stairs and into Eskel’s room. Geralt could feel the warmth emanating before they even swung open the door, his cheeks flushing and his arms shivering with the welcome change in temperature. Eskel shut the door behind him and led him to stand before the fireplace, his olive skin glowing in the flames.

Geralt sighed as he felt Eskel’s hands on his hips, his fingers toying with the hem of Geralt’s shirt and just glancing to the skin of his stomach beneath. Eskel slid his hands up and pulled Geralt’s shirt with him, lifting it over his head and letting it land with a soft thud in the cushy armchair in the corner.

Next Eskel moved to Geralt’s trousers, sliding the ties open and letting them fall to the floor. He gave Geralt’s bum a little pat and nodded to the bed. “Go on, I’ll be just behind you.”

Geralt reached to push down his smalls but Eskel caught his hands and dropped them back by his side. “J-just wanna hold you for a bit...that okay?”

Geralt hummed, pressing his lips to the junction between Eskel’s neck and shoulder, “Of course, Wolf. Don’t take too long though, gonna get cold without you.”

Geralt smiled as he climbed onto the wide bed draped in thick furs and soft knit blankets. Eskel loved textures, and tried to surround their bed with as much comfort as he could find. His golden gaze found Eskel once more as he too stripped down to his smallclothes. Geralt leaned back onto the soft pillows as Eskel slid up next to him, resting his head on Geralt’s chest and breathing in deeply. Geralt wrapped his arm around the breadth of Eskel’s shoulders and held him close, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against his side. Geralt could see out of the little window cut into the stone, revealing the sun setting in bright oranges and deep purples between the craggles of the Blue Mountains.

Eskel ran his hands down Geralt’s chest, tracing those same swirling patterns as before while he peppered kisses up and down the line of Geralt’s neck and over his collarbone. Geralt could always feel the little crook in Eskel’s lip from his scar as it traced over his skin, grounding him home in warm arms and soft eyes that held endless love and patience.

Geralt threaded his fingers into Eskel’s hair and gave a little scratch at the nape of his neck, chuckling a bit when he felt the full body shudder that Eskel granted him. Geralt felt the gasp of hot breath ghost over his collar when he tugged gently on the handful of hair that he had, and a possessive kind of growl erupted from behind his teeth. Geralt didn’t often let this part of himself show, this need to hang onto every thread of his partner, but with Eskel, it felt safe, known, instinctual.

Eskel pushed himself up and pressed his hand firmly in the center of Geralt’s chest, breathing with the steady thuds of the heart that rested just beneath his fingers. Eskel’s eyes were dark with lust and hunger and something so deep and innate that it escaped such a simple name. Eskel slid his hand up and wrapped it gently around the back of Geralt’s neck and leaned down, pressing their foreheads together as he climbed between Geralt’s legs.

Geralt lifted his leg and wrapped it around Eskel’s hip in an attempt to get him to maybe speed things up a bit. “Eskel,” Geralt hummed, “Gods, you’re killing me…”

Eskel smiled and ran his nose down the line of Geralt’s jaw and into the hollows of his neck. His lips traced along the tendons and veins and his teeth just barely glanced over his pulse point and Geralt felt his cock thicken and throb where Eskel pressed into him.

“Can I have you like this?” Eskel asked, his voice still muffled in Geralt’s neck, “Just wanna be able to look at you…”

Geralt swallowed thickly and nodded, turning his head in search of Eskel’s mouth. He finally, finally, slid their lips together, breathing each other in and holding onto each and every piece that they could reach. Geralt wrapped his arms around Eskel’s waist and stroked up and down the hard lines of his back, tracing the scars he knew better than his own.

“Lift-nng” Eskel tried to say, though Geralt nipped and tugged at his lower lip to keep him in place, “Lift your damn hips, you great oaf.”

Geralt chuckled and did as he was bid, letting Eskel run his fingers through the ties keeping his braies on and loosening them. They slid down his thighs and Eskel let him rest his bum back on the bed. Eskel shimmied himself backwards and fully pulled the smalls off of Geralt, sending them careening through the room to land somewhere in the shadows. Geralt’s cock lay hard and flushed and weeping on his stomach and Eskel took a deep breath in through his nose, grounding himself in the lust on the air and the taste of Geralt already on his tongue.

Eskel stood up and turned to face the fire as he undid his own smalls, pushing them down quickly and without any dramatics. But Geralt found himself drooling over him anyways, seeing the beautiful bronze skin revealed inch by glorious inch, the swells of his backside just begging for his teeth to sink into. Again. He then grabbed the little vial of oil that spent most of the year gathering dust on the mantle, but in the winter found a new home atop the little table next to their bed.

And oh fucking shit I’ve missed that so much, Geralt thought as Eskel turned back to him with his cock hanging heavily between his thighs. Eskel crawled onto the bed and prowled over top of him, his chest already heaving and pressing into Geralt’s. Eskel sat up on his knees and Geralt braced himself on his elbows, watching Eskel uncork the oil and slowly drip a generous amount of the cool liquid onto their cocks where they rested together. Eskel’s hand was warm when he reached down to rub the oil around, wrapping around them and tugging and pulling and-

“-Fuck, Eskel,” Geralt spat through grit teeth when Eskel just barely thumbed the slit of Geralt’s cockhead. “If you’re gonna do all that shit, I need you in me now.”

Eskel laughed breathily and kissed Geralt hard, all teeth and tongue and rushed whispers of affection. “Alright, alright. I’ve got you, Geralt. I’ve got you…”

Eskel poured some more oil between Geralt’s legs and Geralt felt it slowly trickle down to his entrance. Eskel’s fingers followed soon after, languidly rolling his balls around in his palm before trailing down between his cheeks. Geralt sighed as Eskel started pressing around his hole, not pushing in yet, just massaging and loosening the tight muscle.

“Gods, Geralt,” Eskel murmured, dragging his free hand down Geralt’s flank and across his stomach, “you’re so tense…”

“No one’s been back there since Spring, Esk…”

Eskel blinked up at him and Geralt could taste the new wave of arousal that poured off Eskel. “You’ve not had anyone? All year? Geralt, I...you-”

Geralt’s head hit the pillow and he sighed, trying desperately to put the words together in his head. “I-fuck, Eskel, I just want you. You’re...you’re the only one who I can...who I can be comfortable with.”

Eskel surged forward and captured Geralt’s lips between his own, tasting of salt and honey and fucking unending love. “Geralt. Fuck. You can’t just say shit like that out of nowhere. Fuck, I love you so much it hurts. It fucking hurts, and then you just go and say that? You’re gonna put me in an early grave-”

Geralt’s world twisted and turned as Eskel’s hands gripped onto his hips, his fingers digging into his skin as they rolled and shifted on the bed, winding up with Geralt laying on his stomach and Eskel’s lips pressing into the skin at the nape of his neck. Eskel dragged his mouth down, leaving hot wet kisses down Geralt’s spine and over the swell of his bottom.

Eskel’s breath ghosted over Geralt’s skin as he slid his finger back down to press against his entrance, finding only a gasp of resistance as he pushed in to his knuckle. He worked Geralt open slowly, kneading and licking and nipping the soft flesh of Geralt’s ass while he slid in another, and then one more finger. He relished the little noises that clawed their way out of Geralt’s chest unbidden, gasps and moans and keens that he felt more than heard.

Meanwhile Geralt was warring with his own mind, torn between wanting so desperately to grasp into Eskel’s hair and haul him back up to feel his lips cover his own, trailing down over his jaw and neck and chest, but also needing to feel more of him, deeper, harder-

Their words broke off between gasps for air and fisted sheets and Eskel quietly continued his task of working Geralt open on his fingers. Geralt’s breath hitched in his throat when Eskel crooked his fingers inside of him, warm and slick and hitting up against that devastating bundle of nerves. But all too soon it was not so nice, his fingers sliding in and out and not being close to enough for Geralt. “M-shit, more, Eskel.”

Eskel hummed and bit down into the tender flesh of Geralt’s bum, feeling the fluttering of his walls play at his fingers. He looked down and watched his fingers slowly slide in and out, stretching him in preparation of what was to come. Eskel had his own wars inside of his head, his need to shower Geralt with soft touches so rarely afforded to his battle-worn skin clashing against the feeling tugging behind his belly to find the breaking point nestled so deep inside of Geralt’s body.

Geralt’s hips thrusted softly against the bed beneath them, chasing the release that had been teasing at them both all damn day. Eskel chuckled when a particularly hard thrust made him bonk his nose into the crease of Geralt’s asscheeks, and he shifted himself to sit up with a sweet pat to the swells of muscle.

“Roll back over, wanna look at you-”

Geralt sighed when he felt Eskel’s fingers slip out of him, leaving him oddly empty and aching and wanting. It took him a moment to find his bearings, but he flipped over soon enough to meet Eskel’s fiery eyes. Eskel hovered over him, his chest heaving with hot breaths and his medallion clinking against Geralt’s. Geralt ran his fingers through the soft dark hair over Eskel’s chest, pressing his fingers into the yielding flesh over his heart and giving it a squeeze. Eskel growled with a sinister grin and moved faster down his body than Geralt had anticipated.

Eskel leaned down and lapped his tongue up the underside of Geralt’s cock just as he slipped his fingers back into him. Geralt shook when Eskel wrapped his lips around the tip and sunk down, teasing and licking while his fingers hit that precious bundle of nerves nestled so deep inside of him. Eskel’s mouth moved with his hand, pushing in and out and up and down and humming against him and Geralt could feel the pearly arousal dripping onto Eskel’s tongue with every slick slide of his lips.

“Ah, ah, Esk-g...gonna-fuck...”

Eskel only hummed, low and hard from his chest, and Geralt arched up off the bed in pleasure when Eskel zeroed in on that spot within him, holding there and sucking and slurping every bit of spend that Geralt had to give. It just kept coming, shooting down Eskel’s throat and spilling out the sides of his lips messily. Eskel felt the haze of his own pleasure tease at the edges of his eyes as his hips thrust lazily against the bed, his free hand holding tight to Geralt’s hip.

Geralt sagged back onto the bed in a haze, tender and sensitive and already craving more. He pulled Eskel back up to him and ran his thumb over the corner of his mouth, gathering his own spend onto his finger. Geralt slipped his thumb between his lips and licked it clean as Eskel watched with great gasping breaths and eyes so dark there was only a little ring of gold shining in the night.

“Geralt, fuck, c-can I-” Eskel stuttered over his words, his hands running over Geralt’s shoulders and down his chest, his cock dripping down into the hair above Geralt’s own half-hard cock.

“Yes,” Geralt breathed and fit his hand up onto the nape of Eskel’s neck, his fingers pressing firm while Eskel shifted on the bed to line himself at Geralt’s entrance.

Eskel gasped into Geralt’s skin as he just barely pushed into the rim, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist to hold him as close as possible. Geralt’s fingers tightened in Eskel’s hair as he started to gently thrust inside of him, Eskel’s chest rumbling with a low purr as he smothered Geralt with his body.

“G-Geralt,” Eskel murmured, his hips already losing rhythm, “I’m, fuck you’re so-”

Geralt hummed and nodded, running his hands down Eskel’s shoulders and back up again around his neck. “Go on, Eskel. You’ve been on edge all day. Give it to me.”

Eskel’s voice went high and strained, tight mumbles escaping from between his teeth as he ground his hips deep against Geralt’s, spending inside of him. Eskel rubbed his face into the tender skin of Geralt’s neck as he finally, gloriously released into him, feeling the way that he fluttered and flexed around his cock. He saw great stars shooting behind his eyelids as his climax tore through him, unrelenting and all-encompassing.

Geralt kept his hold firm on Eskel as he went limp in his arms, Eskel’s mind blanking and blind for a blissful moment. Geralt felt the pressure of Eskel everywhere, on top of him, around him, inside of him, leaking out of him. The only thing that could ever gather him enough strength to move was Eskel himself, and he didn’t really seem up to that quite yet.

Or, well, maybe he did. Eskel didn’t even soften a little bit in Geralt, his hips already rolling deep and slow inside Geralt. His bones sang out to Eskel in ecstasy, yearning for him, craving him.

Geralt’s cock rested hard once more on his stomach, steadily dripping his arousal into a little pool. Eskel’s hands tightened on his hips and pulled him into each and every thrust, slow and hard and deep and addicting. Eskel couldn’t keep his hands still as he dragged his cock inside of Geralt, only just barely shifting back and forth as he tried to stay buried in his tight, wet heat as much as possible.

“Ger-nnng,” Eskel gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes shut as he felt the pressure of Geralt around him clench and smother every last bit of him with every soft move of his cock. Geralt smirked and bore down farther, tightening his hold on Eskel’s arm and around his neck as he pulled him down so that their faces were held with only the space of a breath between them.

Geralt could feel the tight coil of release draw taut as he dragged his hands down Eskel’s chest and to his own cock. Eskel’s eyes followed him, branding his skin with the fire behind them, watching as Geralt took himself in hand. Geralt shuddered as his climax came closer and closer into view, only needing just a little more, a little something to push him over the edge-

“Fuck, Geralt, I...I can’t hang on much longer…” Eskel ground out, brushing his nose down over Geralt’s and pleading with his eyes.

“Let go, Eskel. I want it, please-”

And then he did. Eskel thrust hard and deep a handful more times as he hit his peak, his cock pressing against that devastating bundle of nerves nestled deep inside of Geralt each and every time. Oh, and then when his release finally overtook him once more? Gods, his cock flexed and spilled and hit Geralt like a punch in the gut over and over and over, until finally Geralt too climaxed with his cock in his hand. Long stripes of spend spilled and painted his chest while Geralt groaned from low in his stomach.

The two of them laid there for Gods know how long, just lingering in each other, the scent of their combined arousals making them feel almost drunk from the heady way it went straight through them. Eskel was the first to move, slipping from the tight embrace of Geralt’s body and flopping down onto the bed at his side. Geralt reached out and tangled their fingers together while their chests heaved in great gulps of air, their minds still addled and off-kilter.

Eskel swallowed thickly and focused his mind on the feeling of Geralt’s thumb running over the back of his knuckles, back and forth and back again… “Gods, Geralt,” he murmured, peering over at him, “I’ll never get tired of that.”

Geralt chuckled without opening his eyes, already feeling the threads of consciousness being steadily pulled from him. “You better not. I plan on getting fucked like that until I die.”

Eskel hummed and reached out blindly with his free hand, groping for the spare scrap of cloth that he kept by the bed. Once he found the soft fabric he gently swept it up over Geralt’s stomach and chest, feeling the vibrations of his hum beneath his fingers. Eskel reached back between Geralt’s thighs and cleaned there as well, knowing that although Geralt would never really say anything about it, he wouldn't enjoy being sticky in the morning.

Eskel tossed the rag away and shifted underneath the blanket, reaching out to pull Geralt into his chest. “C’mere, you. Wanna hold you.”

Geralt grunted and rolled over onto his side, burying his face into the hair on Eskel’s chest. Eskel wrapped his arm around Geralt’s waist and held him close, pressing his nose into the silver hair atop Geralt’s head. Woodsmoke, spice, pine. Home.

Geralt sighed into him and wrapped his own arm around Eskel, snuggling in and quickly letting sleep take him away. Eskel felt the shift, the way that Geralt’s shoulders relaxed and his hips fell further into the bed, his mind finally quiet and his hands still. He pressed his lips softly to the crown of Geralt’s head and held it there for a heartbeat or two, pouring everything he could into those soft moments before he himself fell into the warm embrace of sleep.

[werewolf-cl4ws]

Random head cannons for my AU because these require oddly specific questions I don’t think I’ve ever seen ask memes have.

A lot of these I do have something to back them up with, but others it's just logical hilarity to me because I can.

Kitty!Sonic:

- absolutely mistrusts/gets annoyed by anyone that is an "authority figure" (i.e. adults "in charge", leaders, etc) but does nothing to actually be useful. As a kid he was always told to listen to the adults because "they know best", but after the coup and seeing a good number of adults doing everything in their power to just save their own hides or hiding, it fucked him right off. Only adults he’s ever respected were his uncle and Rosie (Rosie took some time to gain that trust though because why the hell is she teaching us maths when people need help???). Bookshire is another but he does fight Bookshire on occasion because Sonic hates fussing with medical stuff.

This carried on into his own adulthood, and it’s hilarious whenever someone points out he’s the adult now as it sets off his aversion to being older, but if he has to be called an adult then damnit he’s gonna be a USEFUL one at least.

And yes he has confirmed on many occasions that he can and will flip off King Acorn if he plays up. What's he gonna do, ground him? Arrest his for treason? He flipped off Robotnik, he ain't scared of no thing.

- his uncle was brilliant with robotics and mechanics and science. Sonic has literally zero idea about any of those. And yet he’s weirdly good at chemistry. But he doesn’t get a lot of opportunities to use this so no one knows this, but Rotor has come by chemistry formulas mysteriously solved if he leaves them out on his workbench after a night of wracking his brains over why something isn’t working. How does Sonic know this? Nobody knows, Sonic will never tell either, and will deny he’s even good at it.

- he’s also very good at physics, in that he knows exactly how to break physics to do impossible shit. He’s great at figuring out just what angles he needs to shoot himself into to get the most air time, how much speed and lift to land in the exact spot, etc. It all happens automatically to him (it has to, going at the speeds he does there’s literally no time to plan this shit) but if someone asks him he will actually figure it out in the spot with freakishly good accuracy, and can do it not just with him being the projectile but any object (he has worked out perfect catapult trajectories before and it still baffles everyone to this day). Again, he doesn’t know how he knows this, will never tell anyone he knows how to do this, and will deny he knows this.

- he’s also good with musical instruments. Obviously his favourite is the electric guitar, but if you give him a sheet of music and at least an hour to mess around with the instrument he’ll work it out. Getting to watch him play the violin is a rare but delightful treat. This is his special interest, the thing he would have gotten into if the world hadn’t gone to shit. He doesn’t get to indulge in it as much as he’s like but he loves music and could ramble about it for hours on end if given the chance.

The con of this though is that he's really good at identifying music, including ones from operas and orchestras. Sally takes great delight in making him identify both because he does get embarrassed about it, but his pride doesn't allow him to just not pick them out.

- he likes to cook, but he prefers recipes that allow him to leave things to cook without him needing to watch it once it’s prepared. So baking, roasting, slow cook stuff like soups and chili, that’s his jam. Anything that’s gonna be a long haul he has to be basically trapped in his hut to do it without wanting to go nuts (so extra cold days where being outside would be hell are good cooking days).

- during the summer he sleeps in a hammock. During the winter he sleeps in a bed and practically buries himself in blankets.

- loves bubblegum. Gum balls, sticks of gum, whatever. If it’s gum he loves it. Unfortunately it is non existent thanks to the coup (shelf life of gum is terrible) so finding any that’s not terrible is an amazing day.

- milk and cookies is oddly a comfort food to him. Something about the simplicity of it just works for him, and ridiculously shit days are made better by it. Default choc chip cookies work best.

- he hates spiders. More specifically, he hates when you see a spider, look away, then look back only to find the spider is gone. Spiders themselves don’t bother him until they do that, but once they do he has to fight himself to not just set whatever building or dwelling he happens to be on fire in order to solve the issue of having to deal with it later.

- he’s about .0001 seconds away from just walking away into the forest and never coming back. He won’t do it because he honestly doesn’t want to abandon his friends… but he’s so close to just becoming a cryptic in the forest. He has wandered off before when things get super annoying, but someone always drags him back, much to his endless frustration.

Sally:

- can’t cook for anything. Sonic has seen her burn water. Toast somehow always ends in fire. No one ever attempt to drink her coffee for your own sake.

And yet somehow she makes really, really good pancakes. Like ridiculously good. She makes them very rarely because she’s always busy with something and has been banned from all kitchens, but when she does they’re amazing and no one can figure out how this happens.

- if she’s snacking on nuts or anything that doesn’t go soggy (like hard/dry fruits, or extra crusty breads) she will sometimes keep some in her cheeks. Not to the point that her cheeks will be bulging with them, but if she’s working while snacking she will just stash some away so she can focus on what she’s doing, and then when she’s done just finishes those off. This only happens when she needs to focus so she’s pretty discreet about this and has perfected talking/quick chewing with them if someone interrupts her.

- she loves video games, but because they’re so hard to come by thanks to the coup she doesn’t get to play as often as she’d like. She knows Sonic, Tails and Rotor has some stashed away and has played them on the sly, which has left them wondering how their high scores got beaten or how new levels have been unlocked. Though she has to be careful about this because if she’s left alone with them long enough she will just play them until either she finishes the game, or someone physically drags her away from it. This is probably her only weak point in terms of something that can just pull her away entirely from everything.

- she is very, very neat… only because she literally doesn’t make a mess of anything thanks to her one-track mind. If she’s working on a plan or something that needs a lot of research she will basically just make a pathway to her desk and bed and leave everything else undisturbed. She will still shower, only because the shower is just another place for her to think without interruption. This is a big factor on why she can’t cook for shit, too. She just… doesn’t. At all. Because she’s gotta work. Work is life because they may literally die if she can’t figure plans out

- she is genuinely fascinated by legends and myths, which we see a lot of in SatAM. Although she does sometimes dismiss some legends or myths as just stories, if she finds anything that even hints at it being real, and if time allows it, she will chase it down. If it’s anything that might be especially useful in their fight she will go for it after doing a ton of research to make sure she’s got every angle and possibility down. The researching to that extent is due to her own perfectionism, but also because if the expedition turns out to be a bust it could mean time that should have been spent on something else/time being away from the village for a crapshoot.

Sonic and Sally as a couple:

- they don’t use pet names for one another… until one of them is absolutely pushing their luck with the other. Pet names = stop it.

- Sally did once call Sonic a shit-weasel out of anger during such a scenario, and then was immediately apologetic for it because that was Too Far™. Sonic said that made him fall in love with her all over again and it was an awesome insult. Pet names are still a no-go though.

- they live together and everyone thinks it’s Sonic that would be the nightmare to live with.

It’s not.

It’s Sally.

Sonic does get messy and likes to live in organised chaos, but Sally just has the worst sleeping habits (she doesn’t sleep), functions mostly on auto-pilot (the amount of times she eats the last of something but leaves the box it came in/was stored in for Sonic to find drives him up the wall something shocking all because she’s just vaguely thinking "I need food I suppose" alongside whatever she’s doing at the time), and if she’s working on something big she will spread herself everywhere (including Sonic’s bed if he isn’t in it or on it in some way).

Sonic won’t move out because he genuinely thinks if he did Sally would never sleep at proper hours or eat like a regular person unless he monitors her. Plus they actually really do like each other’s company and do miss one another if they aren’t in the same space in their down time. But Sonic is constantly amazed at just how much of a gremlin Sally can be and no one believes him.

- Sally takes great delight in this and amps up her gremlin behaviour because of it. If she does this in front of anyone else it just gets encouraged. It’s okay though because Sonic knows how to be a bastard so it’s a constant battle of who can out bastard or out gremlin who.

- they sleep separately (see aforementioned sleeping habits of gremlin ground squirrel), but on occasion will share a bed. Or share the couch. Sharing will almost always result in Sonic being used as a pillow/mattress but he’s fine with it, as long as it means Sally’s sleeping and they get to cuddle ‘cause cuddling is great.

- Sally loves puns. Sonic has begged her not to say puns. He secretly loves them but he hates that he gets them (temporarily forgetting your own language, then relearning it is a trip and picking up the puns does things to his head). Sally does not stop the puns. This has led to Sonic almost achieving his goal of becoming a forest cryptic as he does just start walking out when she starts.

- this is kinda canon but I like to joke that they are actually legally married and this happened during their zone-hopping adventures. But the marriage itself happened in the most mundane way for the most mundane reason, and yet it is legally binding and they do actually have wedding rings from it. They don’t wear the rings but they do carry it on their person at all times, and pull them out just to blindside people with them because it’s funny.

[purplesurveys]

1131

survey by lilprincess

Approx. Time you began this survey: 6:46 on a Wednesday evening.

Describe your mood right now: Erm, a bit exhausted because I just ended a work shift; but content for the same reason. Right now I’m simply looking forward to dinner and crashing on the couch or my bed, wherever I feel like sleeping tonight.

Spell your first name without vowels: Rbn. Let’s just also remove y for this one.

Age you will be on your next birthday: 23.

Zodiac Sign: Taurus.

Do you believe what your horoscope says about your sign? I do not believe in astrology whatsoever.

What state/region do you live in? Somewhere in the Philippines somewhere close to Metro Manila.

Height: Like 5′1″ ish. I had a massive growth spurt in 4th grade that also ended in 4th grade, which will always be a funny story to tell people lmao. I went from being placed at the back of the class line to the front really quickly.

Do you smoke? Super occasionally. My last cigarette was like...all the way back in February last year. It was easier to hide the smell around my family before, but because my parents and siblings have mostly been staying at home in the last year it would be so easy to weed out the smell. I never feel like smoking anyway since I vape, so there’s been no reason to seek it out.

Do you drink? Yeah, sometimes socially and sometimes on my own if I wanna unwind and feel a lil buzz come through.

What's your ethnic background? Southeast Asian, specifically Filipino.

What's your religious background? Technically my ~background~ would be Catholic since I was born and baptized in that faith, but I’ve long let go of this. Excluding one very brief period in high school, religion was something I never held much belief and faith in, even if I've been taken to literally every Sunday mass for the last 23 years and even if I was enrolled in Catholic school from preschool to high school.

What's your natural hair color? Black.

What;s your natural eye color? Dark brown, almost black.

Do you have any bad habits you want to break? I do overtime work a lot but used to seldom file it on our company shift log sheet because I get shy that they must think I’m doing it just to be paid more, lol. I’m starting to file them every time I do OT though because fuck it, pay me.

Name a few of your positive habits. I like that I always find a way to meet deadlines. I like that I’m selfless, even though some would see it as a flaw. I’d rather do too much than say I never did anything at all.

Have you ever lived in a foreign country? No, the most I’ve done was travel to one for a week.

Did you vote in the Nov. 6 2012 presidential election? No because I am not American -___- The last election that took place before I was eligible was in 2010, and had I been able to vote then, I would’ve given mine to Gibo Teodoro, who I believe was the most qualified at the time.

Are you even eligible to vote? Yeah, I’ve been for the last 5 years. I’ve voted twice - once for the presidential elections back in 2016, and the next was for the senatorial elections in 2019.

Are you right handed or left handed? Right-handed.

When you write, is your penmanship usually neat or do you tend to scribble? It starts off neat for the most part, but it gradually gets messy and becomes more like a scribble if we’re talking about writing several essays in one sitting, which was usually the case in my exams in college.

Have you ever experienced an accident? (of any type): Sure, I’ve been in car accidents before. I’ve also been shocked once.

Do you have/want children? They would be nice to have, yeah. 

Are you environmentally conscious? For the most part, yeah. But there are some things that can’t be helped, like me driving. Unless the government does something about the shitty public transport system that we have and have had for decades, I refuse to take it.

What's your favorite mode of transportation? Like I said, my own car. If I’m traveling, by plane.

Do you prefer 80's - 90's music compared to today's music? Eh, not at all. I prefer music produced these days.

Are you more of an introvert (quiet/shy), or extrovert (social butterfly)? I’ve been more of an extrovert in the last few years but I will always be shy at first upon meeting new people, like that will never change. I warm up a lot quickly now, though.

What's your favorite emoticon? :)

Do you miss the good old days of hand-written letters? I caught the super super super last part of this era, so I didn’t even get to experience it. I know snail mail was still kind of a thing when I was a kid, but at the same time that was happening my mom was also already using email to keep in touch with my dad, so.

Nowadays, though, when I do write letters to loved ones, I will still prefer to make handwritten ones, especially for a significant other or best friend. I don’t think I’ve ever sent out a computerized long letter.

Do you enjoy receiving or giving more? Giving, but it’s nice to be treated too sometimes.

Are you good at keeping secrets? Sure.

Do you take or give advice more often? I don’t usually get into situations wherein I’d have to do either, but I think I’ve been asking for advice more, especially over the last few months.

Do you have your driver's license? “I got my driver’s license last week, just like we always talked about...” Haha this question made me sing a bit. Anyway, yeah, I got it shortly after I turned 18 since I needed to quickly learn before college started.

Would you rather be poor & happy or rich but miserable? Rich but miserable. Soz but I’d solve 4854983594857 of my problems if I never had to worry about money.

Have you ever had a pregnancy scare? Never.

Have you ever blocked someone on Facebook? Probably not blocked, but I’ve unfollowed some current Facebook friends and unfriended others entirely.

Do you think recreational marijuana should be nationally legalized? Idk much about the topic since it’s taboo enough where I live, but sure, I guess?I haven’t heard one bad word about the effects of marijuana.

Describe your perfect first date. I’ve never really had a first date, but I imagine an ideal one would be pretty lowkey, just a stroll around a nice city and maybe have fancyish dinner somewhere.

Have you ever been high? Nope.

Have you ever watched a NC-17 rated film? Sure. A good handful of Kubrick films pass for NC-17, right? I’d be surprised if they weren’t, lol. I’ve been scarred by some of them for sure.

If you ever become reincarnated as an animal, what would you want it to be? A dog.

Do you remember where you were/what you were doing on September 11, 2001? No; I was 2 years old. I did ask my parents where they were in those moments, and my mom understandably missed most of it since the entire thing unfolded in the late evening in the Philippines. The only thing she can recall was being insanely worried for my dad, who had just started to work in the US back then.

Do you ever wish you were of a different nationality/religion? Yeah, to a certain extent, just because the political and socioeconomic situation here is very messy and it doesn’t really give us the nicest reputation in front of the world. I’m proud of my Filipino culture and heritage though.

Are you more of a junk food addict or health nut? Health nut is the last thing anyone should be calling me. But I’m not so much a junk food addict either? I do like spoiling myself with food, but I still monitor my intake.

Do you believe Antarctica should be considered the 7th world continent? Isn’t it already though?? We’ve always been taught there were 7 continents and Antarctica is one of them lol.

Describe your own sense of humor in 1 word: Gen-Z, if that counts as one word.

Have you ever quoted the Bible (or any other Holy Book)? If I ever did it was probably meant to be sarcasm.

Have you ever completed a Sudoku puzzle? No. Never figured out how to play it either.

Would you rather be a nuclear physicist or marine biologist? Marine biologist. That’s one step closer to one of my loves, biology. Plus I was never any good with physics, so.

Do you have a deep, dark secret you're hiding from every one? I guess.

Would you rather be able to soar like an eagle or swim like a dolphin? I’d make my childhood self happy and go with flight.

If you wanted to learn a foreign language, what would it be? Korean so I can finally stop reading subs, hahah.

Are you bi-curious? No.

Did you watch the Disney Channel or Nickelodeon more as a kid? The Nickelodeon cartoons were far more interesting to me. I think I only got into Disney when I got a little bit older, once I was able to appreciate the more mature content in shows like The Suite Life, That’s So Raven, etc. But for the most part our TV was always tuned into Nick Jr., Spongebob, Jimmy Neutron and the other Nick shows.

Name 5 films that were made the year you were born: American History X (great watch), The Truman Show, Mulan, La Vita e Bella if I’m not mistaken (one of my faves, no matter how gut-wrenching it is), and Shakespeare in Love.

Did you have a lot of friends in high school? Yes, eventually I did.

Do you rely more on the newspaper, Internet or TV as your news source? Social media these days since I find that online writers are far more discerning in their reporting than TV anchors, who stay neutral at best.

True or false: Bigger is better. Very vaguely put, but not always, I guess.

Do you think religion is the primary cause of war? No? There’ve been plenty other reasons for war.

What's your favorite pizza topping? ...Cheese.

Think of your wardrobe. What color do you wear the most? It’s still black, I think.

Have you ever been to a planetarium? Just once, on a middle school field trip. I’d love to come back, though.

Do you feel like you connect more with animals or other people? I don’t get to be with animals a lot other than my dogs, so I’ll go with people.

Do you feel like sometimes you have to lie in order to protect yourself? Wow so dramatically put haha but yeah, I suppose it does feel that way sometimes.

How often do you exercise? Literally never. I’ve stopped working out this year since I didn’t see the point, and I’ve stopped feeling like I had to ‘get back’ at my ex just by getting a more toned figure. I’m totally at peace with how my body looks, plus I never want to give up on my favorite foods and snacks lol so there’s that.

Can you swear in a different language? Putangina mong bobo kang gago ka. That’s three for ya.

Do you think teachers/doctors deserve to get paid more than pro athletes? Everyone deserves to be paid fairly to the point that no comparison should be necessary, period.

From a scale of 1- 5, you would rate this survey: Erm, a 4.5. I had to delete some questions I didn’t feel comfortable answering or that I found a little meh, but the rest I fairly enjoyed.

Do you think most of these questions were more original or more ordinary? It’s a bit in between.

Approx. time you completed this survey: Hahahahah 10:38 PM. I took a million breaks.

[ultraglittercat]

Drabble 132

Caramel Apples

Varian was thrilled to have his Dad back and found himself enjoying the time they spent together, slowly getting used to their new normal. Varian was older and a bit more guarded, and Quirin was still trying to sort out what had changed and what hadn't. The important things were still the same, such as the deep love and respect they had for each other. Today they were doing something they hadn't done in over a year: go to Corona to sell some of their apples. Varian had a good idea to boost sales, make a caramel sauce to dip the apples in. Quirin agreed that it sounded great.

Varian and Quirin washed and dried all the apples, gently twisting off stems and placing craft sticks into the center of the apples. Ruddiger pawed and begged for an apple of his own, and Varian obligingly handed him one. Quirin poured water into a heavy sauce pan and then added sugar, stirring so that none of the sugar stuck to the sides of the pot. Varian added a mixture of honey and brown rice syrup (made by breaking down rice starches into simple sugars then boiling them into a syrup in his lab.) In the past, Quirin hadn't liked to mix alchemy and cooking, though his late wife had always insisted they were similar. Now, Quirin trusted Varian to make some of the ingredients in his lab.

Together they heated the sugary mixture until it became a medium amber color, resembling copper. They stirred the mixture a few times to ensure it heated evenly. Then they moved it out of the stove and added cream. The sugar bubbled a little, and Quirin remembered with a smile that this had always been Varian's favorite part of making caramel when he was younger. He almost brought that up, but thought it might embarrass Varian to be reminded of his childhood so he said nothing and father and son continued to cook in silence.

Varian whisked butter, salt, and vanilla into the pot. Quirin placed it back on the stove. Ruddiger chittered and was rewarded with a second apple from Varian. Quirin thought he might be over-feeding the raccoon, but was it really his place to say so? Varian had been taking care of the animal for over a year now so he had to be doing most things right.

Varin took a damp cloth and began wiping at the table while the caramel boiled.

“It's uh, a nice day for apples.” Quirin broke the silence.

“Yeah, Ruddiger definitely thinks so! Of course, he thinks that every day so maybe it's not so impressive.” Varian shrugged.

“I'm just glad I got to cook with you. It's... been awhile. I was a little worried that the... harvest wouldn't do so well in my absence.” Quirin said 'harvest' but really he meant 'son.'

“The... harvest went through a bit of a rough patch, but it's better now.” Varian replied, showing that he knew what Quirin had really meant.

“That's good. It's about time to pour the caramel, isn't it?” said Quirin.

“Yeah, I'll get it. I've invented these great containers that are more heat-proof and resilient than most.” Varian answered.

The containers weren't the only things showing resiliency, Quirin noted with a smile. Varian petted Ruddiger as the caramel cooled. Varian seemed to have more confidence and drive when he was near the little raccoon, and for that Quirin was glad he'd let Varian keep his unusual pet. Quirin let Varian attend to Ruddiger as he prepared the sheet pan. They were nearly done, all that remained was to dip the apples in the caramel and let the excess drip off. The caramel was thick enough that you couldn't see the apple through it and Quirin knew it had reached the right temperature. He scraped the bottom of the apple onto the edge of the caramel container.

Varian stopped petting Ruddiger and began chopping nuts. After a few minutes he had enough small nut pieces that they could roll the apples in, making for a crunchy treat.

“Well, that's done! We did good together.” Quirin judged.

“Cooking's the easy part. It's selling it I worry about. I've been helping in Corona, trying to tidy up the rubble, and I've even taken part in the scavenger hunt. I'm just not sure if everyone there trusts me enough to buy something edible from me. I did sort of trick people into eating truth serum filled cookies.” Varian looked sheepish.

“I'm sure your friends will want to buy them and with their endorsement the others will come around.” Quirin assured him.

“I hope so.” murmured Varian.

Ruddiger chittered and Varian moved to give one of the caramel apples. That was a little much in Quirin's eyes.

“He's had enough. You're spoiling him.” Quirin scolded.

“I know, I just... want him to like me.” Varian admitted.

“You don't have to try so hard to be liked. Just being you is enough.” Quirin said wisely. Ruddiger seemed to accept that another treat wouldn't be forthcoming, and rubbed up against Varian's ankles anyway. Ruddiger did shoot Quirin an angry glare but he did it so quickly Quirin couldn't be completely sure of what he saw. Ruddiger might be a little greedy, but he did love Varian so he and Quirin would just have to get used to each other's habits.

Varian picked up the sheet pan full of apples. “Okay, Dad. I'm ready to go to Corona now.” Varian said, psyching himself up for the journey.

“I know you are.” Quirin smiled.

The End

Don't worry, they're going to sell plenty of apples. Feldspar and a few others might turn them down, but Rapunzel, Eugene, Lance, Kiera, Catalina, and the Pub Thugs will all get to have a yummy caramel apple. Ruddiger will get to eat some of the leftovers later (when Quirin's back is turned, probably.)

[hockeysweetheart]

So This post will be about the realitonship Between  Peeta And Katniss this will be a long one  PART 1... Catching Fire and Mockingjay will be in another post

Peeta Mellark! Oh, no, I think. Not him. Because I recognize this name, although I have never spoken directly to its owner. Peeta Mellark.

Why him? I think. Then I try to convince myself it doesn't matter. Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. Not even neighbors. We don't speak. Our only real interaction happened years ago. He's probably forgotten it. But I haven't and I know I never will. It was during the worst time. My father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember. The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. Where are you? I would cry out in my mind. Where have you gone? Of course, there was never any answer. The district had given us a small amount of money as compensation for his death, enough to cover one month of grieving at which time my mother would be expected to get a job. Only she didn't. She didn't do anything but sit propped up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while, she'd stir, get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Prim seemed to affect her. I was terrified. I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well. At eleven years old, with Prim just seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best I could and tried to keep Prim and myself looking presentable. Because if it had become known that my mother could no longer care for us, the district would have taken us away from her and placed us in the community home. I'd grown up seeing those home kids at school. The sadness, the marks of angry hands on their faces, the hopelessness that curled their shoulders forward. I could never let that happen to Prim. Sweet, tiny Prim who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason, who brushed and plaited my mother's hair before we left for school, who still polished my father's shaving mirror each night because he'd hated the layer of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam. The community home would crush her like a bug. So I kept our predicament a secret. But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death. There's no other way to put it. I kept telling myself if I could only hold out until May, just May 8th, I would turn twelve and be able to sign up for the tesserae and get that precious grain and oil to feed us. Only there were still several weeks to go. We could well be dead by then. Starvation's not an uncommon fate in District 12. Who hasn't seen the victims? Older people who can't work. Children from a family with too many to feed. Those injured in the mines. Straggling through the streets. And one day, you come upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the Meadow, you hear the wails from a house, and the Peacekeepers are called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the cause of death officially. It's always the flu, or exposure, or pneumonia. But that fools no one. On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town, trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Prim's in the public market, but there were no takers. Although I had been to the Hob on several occasions with my father, I was too frightened to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. The rain had soaked through my father's hunting jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone. For three days, we'd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I'd found in the back of a cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud puddle. I didn't pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my feet. Besides, no one wanted those clothes. I couldn't go home. Because at home was my mother with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips. I couldn't walk into that room with the smoky fire from the damp branches I had scavenged at the edge of the woods after the coal had run out, my bands empty of any hope. I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The merchants live above their businesses, so I was essentially in their backyards. I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring, a goat or two in a pen, one sodden dog tied to a post, hunched defeated in the muck. All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 12. Punishable by death. But it crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins, and those were fair game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher's or rotted vegetables at the grocer's, something no one but my family was desperate enough to eat. Unfortunately, the bins had just been emptied. When I passed the baker's, the smell of fresh bread was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back, and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life. I lifted the lid to the baker's trash bin and found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare. Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to see the baker's wife, telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of having those brats from the Seam pawing through her trash. The words were ugly and I had no defense. As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him, a boy with blond hair peering out from behind his mother's back. I'd seen him at school. He was in my year, but I didn't know his name. He stuck with the town kids, so how would I? His mother went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must have been watching me as I made my way behind the pen that held their pig and leaned against the far side of an old apple tree. The realization that I'd have nothing to take home had finally sunk in. My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain. There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed toward me through the mud and I thought, It's her. She's coming to drive me away with a stick. But it wasn't her. It was the boy. In his arms, he carried two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black. His mother was yelling, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!" He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts and toss them into the trough, and the front bakery bell rung and the mother disappeared to help a customer. The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with? My parents never hit us. I couldn't even imagine it. The boy took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly behind him. I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to have them? He must have. Because there they were at my feet. Before anyone could witness what had happened I shoved the loaves up under my shirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly about me, and walked swiftly away. The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life. By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them on the table, Prim's hands reached to tear off a chunk, but I made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, and poured warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread. We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts. I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep. It didn't occur to me until the next morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose. Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing it meant being punished, and then delivered them to me. But I dismissed this. It must have been an accident. Why would he have done it? He didn't even know me. Still, just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness that would have surely resulted in a beating if discovered. I couldn't explain his actions. We ate slices of bread for breakfast and headed to school. It was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds. At school, I passed the boy in the hall, his cheek had swelled up and his eye had blackened. He was with his friends and didn't acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Prim and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me from across the school yard. Our eyes met for only a second, then he turned his head away. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed, and that's when I saw it. The first dandelion of the year. A bell went off in my head. I thought of the hours spent in the woods with my father and I knew how we were going to survive. To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed. And more than once, I have turned in the school hallway and caught his eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away. I feel like I owe him something, and I hate owing people. Maybe if I had thanked him at some point, I'd be feeling less conflicted now. I thought about it a couple of times, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself. And now it never will. Because we're going to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Exactly how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there? Somehow it just won't seem sincere if I'm trying to slit his throat.  

Can I just say How much Peeta must be like Oh my god yes I am with the  girl I love. But how will I tell that when we are trying to kill each other 

I have misjudged him. I think of his actions since the reaping began. The friendly squeeze of my hand. His father showing up with the cookies and promising to feed Prim. did Peeta put him up to that? His tears at the station. Volunteering to wash Haymitch but then challenging him this morning when apparently the nice-guy approach had failed. And now the waving at the window, already trying to win the crowd. All of the pieces are still fitting together, but I sense he has a plan forming. He hasn't accepted his death. He is already fighting hard to stay alive. Which also means that kind Peeta Mellark, the boy who gave me the bread, is fighting hard to kill me.

"What's he saying?" I ask Peeta. For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling. And I must be, too. "I think he said for us to hold hands," says Peeta. He grabs my right hand in his left, and we look to Cinna for confirmation. He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that's the last thing I see before we enter the city.  

IS CINNA A Matchmaker  and The others because shit I be dammed. 

A warning bell goes off in my head. Don't be so stupid. Peeta is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is. But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise.  

Just you wait soon you’ll see  What Peeta’s Plan will be. 

Then Peeta totally covers for her... and They go talk on the rooftop about it and Peeta does... 

Peeta and I walk together down the corridor to our rooms. When we get to my door, he leans against the frame, not blocking my entrance exactly but insisting I pay attention to him. "So, Delly Cartwright. Imagine finding her lookalike here." He's asking for an explanation, and I'm tempted to give him one. We both know he covered for me. So here I am in his debt again. If I tell him the truth about the girl, somehow that might even things up. How can it hurt really? Even if he repeated the story, it couldn't do me much harm. It was just something I witnessed. And he lied as much as I did about Delly Cartwright. I realize I do want to talk to someone about the girl. Someone who might be able to help me figure out her story.

  Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. I start to take a step back, but then I let him, deciding for a moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness. A friend would do that, right? "They were from here?" he asks, and he secures a button at my neck.  ( UMM SURE “ friends”  do that Katniss... 

"It's getting chilly. We better go in," he says. Inside the dome, it's warm and bright. His tone is conversational. "Your friend Gale. He's the one who took your sister away at the reaping?" "Yes. Do you know him?" I ask. "Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he was your cousin or something. You favor each other," he says. "No, we're not related," I say. Peeta nods, unreadable. "Did he come to say good-bye to you?" "Yes," I say, observing him carefully. "So did your father. He brought me cookies." Peeta raises his eyebrows as if this is news. But after watching him lie so smoothly, I don't give this much weight. "Really? Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys." The idea that I might ever have been discussed, around the dinner table, at the bakery fire, just in passing in Peeta's house gives me a start. It must have been when the mother was out of the room. "He knew your mother when they were kids," says Peeta. Another surprise. But probably true. "Oh, yes. She grew up in town," I say. It seems impolite to say she never mentioned the baker except to compliment his bread. We're at my door. I give back his jacket. "See you in the morning then."   

Okay Peeta I see what your doing...  Seeing if anything Is going on between Katniss and Gale... I totally almost missed this. 

When Haymitch has finished several platters of stew, he pushes back his plate with a sigh. He takes a flask from his pocket and takes a long pull on it and leans his elbows on the table. "So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now." "Why would you coach us separately?" I ask. "Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," says Haymitch. I exchange a look with Peeta. "I don't have any secret skills," he says. "And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels." I never thought about Peeta eating the squirrels I shot. Somehow I always pictured the baker quietly going off and frying them up for himself. Not out of greed. But because town families usually eat expensive butcher meat. Beef and chicken and horse. "You can coach us together," I tell Haymitch. Peeta nods. "All right, so give me some idea of what you can do," says Haymitch. "I can't do anything," says Peeta. "Unless you count baking bread." "Sorry, I don't. Katniss. I already know you're handy with a knife," says Haymitch. "Not really. But I can hunt," I say. "With a bow and arrow." "And you're good?" asks Haymitch. I have to think about it. I've been putting food on the table for four years. That's no small task. I'm not as good as my father was, but he'd had more practice. I've better aim than Gale, but I've had more practice. He's a genius with traps and snares. "I'm all right," I say. "She's excellent," says Peeta. "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring down deer." This assessment of my skills from Peeta takes me totally by surprise. First, that he ever noticed. Second, that he's talking me up. "What are you doing?" I ask him suspiciously. "What are you doing? If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of. Don't underrate yourself," says Peeta. I don't know why, but this rubs me the wrong way. "What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour," I snap at him. "Tell him that. That's not nothing." "Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It's not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn't," he shoots back. "He can wrestle," I tell Haymitch. "He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother." "What use is that? How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?" says Peeta in disgust. "There's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead!" I can hear my voice rising in anger. "But you won't! You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she didn't mean me, she meant you!" bursts out Peeta. "Oh, she meant you," I say with a wave of dismissal. "She said, 'She's a survivor, that one.' She is," says Peeta. That pulls me up short. Did his mother really say that about me? Did she rate me over her son? I see the pain in Peeta's eyes and know he isn't lying. Suddenly I'm behind the bakery and I can feel the chill of the rain running down my back, the hollowness in my belly. I sound eleven years old when I speak. "But only because someone helped me." Peeta's eyes flicker down to the roll in my hands, and I know he remembers that day, too. But he just shrugs. "People will help you in the arena. They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you." "No more than you," I say. Peeta rolls his eyes at Haymitch. "She has no idea. The effect she can have." He runs his fingernail along the wood grain in the table, refusing to look at me. What on earth does he mean? People help me? When we were dying of starvation, no one helped me! No one except Peeta. Once I had something to barter with, things changed. I'm a tough trader. Or am I? What effect do I have? That I'm weak and needy? Is he suggesting that I got good deals because people pitied me? I try to think if this is true. Perhaps some of the merchants were a little generous in their trades, but I always attributed that to their long-standing relationship with my father. Besides, my game is first-class. No one pitied me!

I glower at the roll sure he meant to insult me. After about a minute of this, Haymitch says, "Well, then. Well, well, well. Katniss, there's no guarantee they'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?" "I know a few basic snares," I mutter. "That may be significant in terms of food," says Haymitch. "And Peeta, she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?" says Haymitch. Peeta and I nod. "One last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every minute," says Haymitch. We both start to object, but Haymitch slams his hand on the table. "Every minute! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training." I bite my lip and stalk back to my room, making sure Peeta can hear the door slam. I sit on the bed, hating Haymitch, hating Peeta, hating myself for mentioning that day long ago in the rain. It's such a joke! Peeta and I going along pretending to be friends! Talking up each other's strengths, insisting the other take credit for their abilities. Because, in fact, at some point, we're going to have to knock it off and accept we're bitter adversaries. Which I'd be prepared to do right now if it wasn't for Haymitch's stupid instruction that we stick together in training. It's my own fault, I guess, for telling him he didn't have to coach us separately. But that didn't mean I wanted to do everything with Peeta. Who, by the way, clearly doesn't want to be partnering up with me, either. I hear Peeta's voice in my head. She has no idea. The effect she can have. Obviously meant to demean me. Right? but a tiny part of me wonders if this was a compliment. That he meant I was appealing in some way. It's weird, how much he's noticed me. Like the attention he's paid to my hunting. And apparently, I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either. The flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the bread.

 OH MY GOD someone stop me before the whole freaking book is on this 

Okay I am skipping the training the Katniss shot an arrow at the gamemakers scored 11 bla bla read that in the book  and to Peeta asking to train alone. 

The stew's made with tender chunks of lamb and dried plums today. Perfect on the bed of wild rice. I've shoveled about halfway through the mound when I realize no one's talking. I take a big gulp of orange juice and wipe my mouth. "So, what's going on? You're coaching us on interviews today, right?" "That's right," says Haymitch. "You don't have to wait until I'm done. I can listen and cat at the same time," I say. "Well, there's been a change of plans. About our current approach," says Haymitch. "What's that?" I ask. I'm not sure what our current approach is. Trying to appear mediocre in front of the other tributes is the last bit of strategy I remember. Haymitch shrugs. "Peeta has asked to be coached separately."

Betrayal. That's the first thing I feel, which is ludicrous. For there to be betrayal, there would have had to been trust first. Between Peeta and me. And trust has not been part of the agreement. We're tributes. But the boy who risked a beating to give me bread, the one who steadied me in the chariot, who covered for me with the redheaded Avox girl, who insisted Haymitch know my hunting skills. was there some part of me that couldn't help trusting him? On the other hand, I'm relieved that we can stop the pretense of being friends. Obviously, whatever thin connection we'd foolishly formed has been severed. And high time, too. The Games begin in two days, and trust will only be a weakness. Whatever triggered Peeta's decision  -  and I suspect it had to do with my outperforming him in training  -  I should be nothing but grateful for it. Maybe he's finally accepted the fact that the sooner we openly acknowledge that we are enemies, the better.  

Ha no sweety he has a bigger plan he doesn’t want you to know yet. 

I'm still in a daze for the first part of Peeta's interview. He has the audience from the get-go, though; I can hear them laughing, shouting out. He plays up the baker's son thing, comparing the tributes to the breads from their districts. Then has a funny anecdote about the perils of the Capitol showers. "Tell me, do I still smell like roses?" he asks Caesar, and then there's a whole run where they take turns sniffing each other that brings down the house. I'm coming back into focus when Caesar asks him if he has a girlfriend back home. Peeta hesitates, then gives an unconvincing shake of his head. "Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" says Caesar. Peeta sighs. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping." Sounds of sympathy from the crowd. Unrequited love they can relate to. "She have another fellow?" asks Caesar. "I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," says Peeta. "So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" says Caesar encouragingly. "I don't think it's going to work out. Winning. won't help in my case," says Peeta. "Why ever not?" says Caesar, mystified. Peeta blushes beet red and stammers out. "Because. because. she came here with me."

For a moment, the cameras hold on Peeta's downcast eyes as what he says sinks in. Then I can see my face, mouth half open in a mix of surprise and protest, magnified on every screen as I realize, Me! He means me! I press my lips together and stare at the floor, hoping this will conceal the emotions starting to boil up inside of me. "Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," says Caesar, and there's a real edge of pain in his voice. The crowd is murmuring in agreement, a few have even given agonized cries. "It's not good," agrees Peeta. "Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady," says Caesar. "She didn't know?" Peeta shakes his head. "Not until now." I allow my eyes to flicker up to the screen long enough to see that the blush on my cheeks is unmistakable. "Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar asks the audience. The crowd screams assent. "Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours." The roar of the crowd is deafening. Peeta has absolutely wiped the rest of us off the map with his declaration of love for me. When the audience finally settles down, he chokes out a quiet "Thank you" and returns to his seat. We stand for the anthem. I have to raise my head out of the required respect and cannot avoid seeing that every screen is now dominated by a shot of Peeta and me, separated by a few feet that in the viewers' heads can never be breached. Poor tragic us.  

Okay How Katniss shows her love is this 

After the anthem, the tributes file back into the Training Center lobby and onto the elevators. I make sure to veer into a car that does not contain Peeta. The crowd slows our entourages of stylists and mentors and chaperones, so we have only each other for company. No one speaks. My elevator stops to deposit four tributes before I am alone and then find the doors opening on the twelfth floor. Peeta has only just stepped from his car when I slam my palms into his chest. He loses his balance and crashes into an ugly urn filled with fake flowers. The urn tips and shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces. Peeta lands in the shards, and blood immediately flows from his hands. "What was that for?" he says, aghast. "You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!" I shout at him. Now the elevators open and the whole crew is there, Effie, Haymitch, Cinna, and Portia. "What's going on?" says Effie, a note of hysteria in her voice. "Did you fall?" "After she shoved me," says Peeta as Effie and Cinna help him up. Haymitch turns on me. "Shoved him?" "This was your idea, wasn't it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?" I answer. "It was my idea," says Peeta, wincing as he pulls spikes of pottery from his palms. "Haymitch just helped me with it." "Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!" I say. "You are a fool," Haymitch says in disgust. "Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own." "He made me look weak!" I say. "He made you look desirable! And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!" says Haymitch. "But we're not star-crossed lovers!" I say. Haymitch grabs my shoulders and pins me against the wall. "Who cares? It's all a big show. It's all how you're perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?" The smell of wine on his breath makes me sick. I shove his hands off my shoulders and step away, trying to clear my head. Cinna comes over and puts his arm around me. "He's right, Katniss." I don't know what to think. "I should have been told, so I didn't look so stupid." "No, your reaction was perfect. If you'd known, it wouldn't have read as real," says Portia. "She's just worried about her boyfriend," says Peeta gruffly, tossing away a bloody piece of the urn. My cheeks burn again at the thought of Gale. "I don't have a boyfriend." "Whatever," says Peeta. "But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides you didn't say you loved me. So what does it matter?" The words are sinking in. My anger fading. I'm torn now between thinking I've been used and thinking I've been given an edge. Haymitch is right. I survived my interview, but what was I really? A silly girl spinning in a sparkling, dress. Giggling. The only moment of any substance I hail was when I talked about Prim. Compare that with Thresh, his silent, deadly power, and I'm forgettable. Silly and sparkly and forgettable. No, not entirely forgettable, I have my eleven in training. But now Peeta has made me an object of love. Not just his. To hear him tell it I have many admirers. And if the audience really thinks we're in love. I remember how strongly they responded to his confession. Star-crossed lovers. Haymitch is right, they eat that stuff up in the Capitol. Suddenly I'm worried that I didn't react properly. "After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?" I ask. "I did," says Portia. "The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush." They others chime in, agreeing. "You're golden, sweetheart. You're going to have sponsors lined up around the block," says Haymitch. I'm embarrassed about my reaction. I force myself to acknowledge Peeta. "I'm sorry I shoved you." "Doesn't matter," he shrugs. "Although it's technically illegal." "Are your hands okay?" I ask. "They'll be all right," he says.  

Okay I have to admit that was kinda sweet  but Honey Pushing him  yeah hes gonna love that.  

There  Nerves of the Hunger Games talk is kinda cute I will admit  but Then its like wtf 

My feet move soundlessly across the tiles. I'm only yard behind him when I say, "You should be getting some sleep." He starts but doesn't turn. I can see him give his head a slight shake. "I didn't want to miss the party. It's for us, after all." I come up beside him and lean over the edge of the rail. The wide streets are full of dancing people. I squint to make out their tiny figures in more detail. "Are they in costumes?" "Who could tell?" Peeta answers. "With all the crazy clothes they wear here. Couldn't sleep, either?" "Couldn't turn my mind off," I say. "Thinking about your family?" he asks. "No," I admit a bit guiltily. "All I can do is wonder about tomorrow. Which is pointless, of course." In the light from below, I can see his face now, the awkward way he holds his bandaged hands. "I really am sorry about your hands." "It doesn't matter, Katniss," he says. "I've never been a contender in these Games anyway." "That's no way to be thinking," I say. "Why not? It's true. My best hope is to not disgrace myself and. " He hesitates. "And what?" I say. "I don't know how to say it exactly. Only. I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense?" he asks. I shake my head. How could he die as anyone but himself? "I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not." I bite my lip feeling inferior. While I've been ruminating on the availability of trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of self. "Do you mean you won't kill anyone?" I ask. "No, when the time comes, I'm sure I'll kill just like everybody else. I can't go down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to. to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games," says Peeta. "But you're not," I say. "None of us are. That's how the Games work." "Okay, but within that framework, there's still you, there's still me," he insists. "Don't you see?" "A little. Only. no offense, but who cares, Peeta?" I say. "I do. I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at this point?" he asks angrily. He's locked those blue eyes on mine now, demanding an answer. I take a step back. "Care about what Haymitch said. About staying alive." Peeta smiles at me, sad and mocking. "Okay. Thanks for the tip, sweetheart." It's like a slap in the face. His use of Haymitch's patronizing endearment. "Look, if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in the arena, that's your choice. I want to spend mine in District Twelve." "Wouldn't surprise me if you do," says Peeta. "Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?"

"Count on it," I say. Then I turn and leave the roof. I spend the rest of the night slipping in and out of a doze, imagining the cutting remarks I will make to Peeta Mellark in the morning. Peeta Mellark. We will see how high and mighty he is when he's faced with life and death. He'll probably turn into one of those raging beast tributes, the kind who tries to eat someone's heart after they've killed them. 

Okay The 74th Games ( shit this is long) 

   When suddenly I notice Peeta, he's about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance, still I can tell he's looking at me and I think he might be shaking his head. But the sun's in my eyes, and while I'm puzzling over it the gong rings out. And I've missed it! I've missed my chance! Because those extra couple of seconds I've lost by not being ready are enough to change my mind about going in. My feet shuffle for a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take and then I lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread. The pickings are so small and I'm so angry with Peeta for distracting me that I sprint in twenty yards to retrieve a bright orange backpack that could hold anything because I can't stand leaving with virtually nothing. 

  An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the others. "We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!" I almost fall out of the tree. The voice belongs to Peeta 

Thank goodness, I had the foresight to belt myself in. I've rolled sideways off the fork and I'm facing the ground, held in place by the belt, one hand, and my feet straddling the pack inside my sleeping bag, braced against the trunk. There must have been some rustling when I tipped sideways, but the Careers have been too caught up in their own argument to catch it. "Go on, then, Lover Boy," says the boy from District 2. "See for yourself." I just get a glimpse of Peeta, lit by a torch, heading back to the girl by the fire. His face is swollen with bruises, there's a bloody bandage on one arm, and from the sound of his gait he's limping somewhat. I remember him shaking him his head, telling me not to go into the fight for the supplies, when all along, all along he'd planned to throw himself into the thick of things. Just the opposite of what Haymitch had mid him to do. Okay, I can stomach that. Seeing all those supplies was tempting. But this. this other thing. This teaming up with the Career wolf pack to hunt down the rest of us. No one from District 12 would think of doing such a thing! Career tributes are overly vicious, arrogant, better fed, but only because they're the Capitol's lapdogs. Universally, solidly hated by all but those from their own districts. I can imagine the things they're saying about him back home now. And Peeta had the gall to talk to me about disgrace? Obviously, the noble boy on the rooftop was playing just one more game with me. But this will be his last. I will eagerly watch the night skies for signs of his death, if I don't kill him first myself. The Career tributes are silent until he gets out of ear shot, then use hushed voices. "Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with?" "Let him tag along. What's the harm? And he's handy with that knife." Is he? That's news. What a lot of interesting things I'm learning about my friend Peeta today. "Besides, he's our best chance of finding her." It takes me a moment to register that the "her" they're referring to is me. "Why? You think she bought into that sappy romance stuff?" "She might have. Seemed pretty simpleminded to me. Every time I think about her spinning around in that dress, I want to puke." "Wish we knew how she got that eleven." "Bet you Lover Boy knows." The sound of Peeta returning silences them. "Was she dead?" asks the boy from District 2. "No. But she is now," says Peeta. Just then, the cannon fires. "Ready to move on?" The Career pack sets off at a run just as dawn begins to break, and birdsong fills the air. I remain in my awkward position, muscles trembling with exertion for a while longer, then hoist myself back onto my branch. I need to get down, to get going, but for a moment I lie there, digesting what I've heard. Not only is Peeta with the Careers, he's helping them find me. The simpleminded girl who has to be taken seriously because of her eleven. Because she can use a bow and arrow. Which Peeta knows better than anyone. But he hasn't told them yet. Is he saving that information because he knows it's all that keeps him alive? Is he still pretending to love me for the audience? What is going on in his head? 

  But it's too late to run. I pull a slimy arrow from the sheath and try to position it on the bowstring but instead of one string I see three and the stench from the stings is so repulsive I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't do it. I'm helpless as the first hunter crashes through the trees, spear lifted, poised to throw. The shock on Peeta's face makes no sense to me. I wait for the blow. Instead his arm drops to his side. "What are you still doing here?" he hisses at me. I stare uncomprehendingly as a trickle of water drips off a sting under his ear. His whole body starts sparkling as if he's been dipped in dew. "Are you mad?" He's prodding me with the shaft of the spear now. "Get up! Get up!" I rise, but he's still pushing at me. What? What is going on? He shoves me away from him hard. "Run!" he screams. "Run!" Behind him, Cato slashes his way through the brush. He's sparkling wet, too, and badly stung under one eye. I catch the gleam of sunlight on his sword and do as Peeta says. Holding tightly to my bow and arrows, banging into trees that appear out of nowhere, tripping and falling as I try to keep my balance. Back past my pool and into unfamiliar woods. The world begins to bend in alarming ways. A butterfly balloons to the size of a house then shatters into a million stars. Trees transform to blood and splash down over my boots. Ants begin to crawl out of the blisters on my hands and I can't shake them free. They're climbing up my arms, my neck. Someone's screaming, a long high pitched scream that never breaks for breath. I have a vague idea it might be me. I trip and fall into a small pit lined with tiny orange bubbles that hum like the tracker jacker nest. Tucking my knees up to my chin, I wait for death. Sick and disoriented, I'm able to form only one thought: Peeta Mellark just saved my life. 

  The news sinks in. Two tributes can win this year. If they're from the same district. Both can live. Both of us can live. Before I can stop myself, I call out Peeta's name. 

I clap my hands over my mouth, but the sound has already escaped. The sky goes black and I hear a chorus of frogs begin to sing. Stupid! I tell myself. What a stupid thing to do! I wait, frozen, for the woods to come alive with assailants. Then I remember there's almost no one left. Peeta, who's been wounded, is now my ally. Whatever doubts I've had about him dissipate because if either of us took the other's life now we'd be pariahs when we returned to District 12. In fact, I know if I was watching I'd loathe any tribute who didn't immediately ally with their district partner. Besides, it just makes sense to protect each other. And in my case  -  being one of the star-crossed lovers from District 12  -  it's an absolute requirement if I want any more help from sympathetic sponsors. 

Hugging the rocks, I move slowly in the direction of the blood, searching for him. I find a few more bloodstains, one with a few threads of fabric glued to it, but no sign of life. I break down and say his name in a hushed voice. "Peeta! Peeta!" Then a mockingjay lands on a scruffy tree and begins to mimic my tones so I stop. I give up and climb back down to the stream thinking, He must have moved on. Somewhere farther down. My foot has just broken the surface of the water when I hear a voice. "You here to finish me off, sweetheart?" I whip around. It's come from the left, so I can't pick it up very well. And the voice was hoarse and weak. Still, it must have been Peeta. Who else in the arena would call me sweetheart? My eyes peruse the bank, but there's nothing. Just mud, the plants, the base of the rocks. "Peeta?" I whisper. "Where are you?" There's no answer. Could I just have imagined it? No, I'm certain it was real and very close at hand, too. "Peeta?" I creep along the bank. "Well, don't step on me." I jump back. His voice was right under my feet. Still there's nothing. Then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown mud and green leaves. I gasp and am rewarded with a hint of white teeth as he laughs. It's the final word in camouflage. Forget chucking weights around. Peeta should have gone into his private session with the Gamemakers and painted himself into a tree. Or a boulder. Or a muddy bank full of weeds. "Close your eyes again," I order. He does, and his mouth, too, and completely disappears. Most of what I judge to be his body is actually under a layer of mud and plants. His face and arms are so artfully disguised as to be invisible. I kneel beside him. "I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off." Peeta smiles. "Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying." "You're not going to die," I tell him firmly. "Says who?" His voice is so ragged. "Says me. We're on the same team now, you know," I tell him. His eyes open. "So, I heard. Nice of you to find what's left of me." I pull out my water bottle and give him a drink. "Did Cato cut you?" I ask. "Left leg. Up high," he answers. "Let's get you in the stream, wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you've got," I say. "Lean down a minute first," he says. "Need to tell you something." I lean over and put my good ear to his lips, which tickle as he whispers. "Remember, we're madly in love, so it's all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it." I jerk my head back but end up laughing. "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind." At least, he's still able to joke around. But when I start to help him to the stream, all the levity disappears. It's only two feet away, how hard can it be? Very hard when I realize he's unable to move an inch on his own. He's so weak that the best he can do is not to resist. I try to drag him, but despite the fact that I know he's doing all he can to keep quiet, sharp cries of pain escape him. The mud and plants seem to have imprisoned him and I finally have to give a gigantic tug to break him from their clutches. He's still two feet from the water, lying there, teeth gritted, tears cutting trails in the dirt on his face. "Look, Peeta, I'm going to roll you into the stream. It's very shallow here, okay?" I say. "Excellent," he says. I crouch down beside him. No matter what happens, I tell myself, don't stop until he's in the water. "On three," I say. "One, two, three!" I can only manage one full roll before I have to stop because of the horrible sound he's making. Now he's on the edge of the stream. Maybe this is better anyway. "Okay, change of plans. I'm not going to put you all the way in," I tell him. Besides, if I get him in, who knows if I'd ever be able to get him out? "No more rolling?" he asks. "That's all done. Let's get you cleaned up. Keep an eye on the woods for me, okay?" I say. It's hard to know where to start. He so caked with mud and matted leaves, I can't even see his clothes. If he's wearing clothes. The thought makes me hesitate a moment, but then I plunge in. Naked bodies are no big deal in the arena, right? I've got two water bottles and Rue's water skin. I prop them against rocks in the stream so that two are always filling while I pour the third over Peeta's body. It takes a while, but I finally get rid of enough mud to find his clothes. I gently unzip his jacket, unbutton his shirt and ease them off him. His undershirt is so plastered into his wounds I have to cut it away with my knife and drench him again to work it loose. He's badly bruised with a long burn across his chest and four tracker jacker stings, if you count the one under his ear. But I feel a bit better. This much I can fix. I decide to take care of his upper body first, to alleviate some pain, before I tackle whatever damage Cato did to his leg. Since treating his wounds seems pointless when he's lying in what's become a mud puddle, I manage to prop him up against a boulder. He sits there, uncomplaining, while I wash away all the traces of dirt from his hair and skin. His flesh is very pale in the sunlight and he no longer looks strong and stocky. I have to dig the stingers out of his tracker jacker lumps, which causes him to wince, but the minute I apply the leaves he sighs in relief. While he dries in the sun, I wash his filthy shirt and jacket and spread them over boulders. Then I apply the burn cream to his chest. This is when I notice how hot his skin is becoming. The layer of mud and the bottles of water have disguised the fact that he's burning with fever. I dig through the first-aid kit I got from the boy from District 1 and find pills that reduce your temperature. My mother actually breaks down and buys these on occasion when her home remedies fail. "Swallow these," I tell him, and he obediently takes the medicine. "You must be hungry." "Not really. It's funny, I haven't been hungry for days," says Peeta. In fact, when I offer him groosling, he wrinkles his nose at it and turns away. That's when I know how sick he is. "Peeta, we need to get some food in you," I insist.

"It'll just come right back up," he says. The best I can do is to get him to eat a few bits of dried apple. "Thanks. I'm much better, really. Can I sleep now, Katniss?" he asks.

"Soon," I promise. "I need to look at your leg first." Trying to be as gentle as I can, I remove his boots, his socks, and then very slowly inch his pants off of him. I can see the tear Cato's sword made in the fabric over his thigh, but it in no way prepares me for what lies underneath. The deep inflamed gash oozing both blood and pus. The swelling of the leg. And worst of all, the smell of festering flesh.

I want to run away. Disappear into the woods like I did that day they brought the burn victim to our house. Go and hunt while my mother and Prim attend to what I have neither the skill nor the courage to face. But there's no one here but me. I try to capture the calm demeanor my mother assumes when handling particularly bad cases.

"Pretty awful, huh?" says Peeta. He's watching me closely.

"So-so." I shrug like it's no big deal. "You should see some of the people they bring my mother from the mines." I refrain from saying how I usually clear out of the house whenever she's treating anything worse than a cold. Come to think of it, I don't even much like to be around coughing. "First thing is to clean it well."

I've left on Peeta's undershorts because they're not in bad shape and I don't want to pull them over the swollen thigh and, all right, maybe the idea of him being naked makes me uncomfortable. That's another thing about my mother and Prim. Nakedness has no effect on them, gives them no cause for embarrassment. Ironically, at this point in the Games, my little sister would be of far more use to Peeta than I am. I scoot my square of plastic under him so I can wash down the rest of him. With each bottle I pour over him, the worse the wound looks. The rest of his lower body has fared pretty well, just one tracker jacker sting and a few small burns that I treat quickly. But the gash on his leg. what on earth can I do for that?

"Why don't we give it some air and then. " I trail off.

"And then you'll patch it up?" says Peeta. He looks almost sorry for me, as if he knows how lost I am.

"That's right," I say. "In the meantime, you eat these." I put a few dried pear halves in his hand and go back in the stream to wash the rest of his clothes. When they're flattened out and drying, I examine the contents of the first-aid kit. It's pretty basic stuff. Bandages, fever pills, medicine to calm stomachs. Nothing of the caliber I'll need to treat Peeta.

"We're going to have to experiment some," I admit. I know the tracker jacker leaves draw out infection, so I start with those. Within minutes of pressing the handful of chewed-up green stuff into the wound, pus begins running down the side of his leg. I tell myself this is a good thing and bite the inside of my cheek hard because my breakfast is threatening to make a reappearance.

"Katniss?" Peeta says. I meet his eyes, knowing my face must be some shade of green. He mouths the words. "How about that kiss?"

I burst out laughing because the whole thing is so revolting I can't stand it.

"Something wrong?" he asks a little too innocently.

"I. I'm no good at this. I'm not my mother. I've no idea what I'm doing and I hate pus," I say. "Euh!" I allow myself to let out a groan as I rinse away the first round of leaves and apply the second. "Euuuh!"

"How do you hunt?" he asks.

"Trust me. Killing things is much easier than this," I say. "Although for all I know, I am killing you."

"Can you speed it up a little?" he asks.

"No. Shut up and eat your pears," I say.

After three applications and what seems like a bucket of pus, the wound does look better. Now that the swelling has gone down, I can see how deep Cato's sword cut. Right down to the bone.

"What next, Dr. Everdeen?" he asks.

"Maybe I'll put some of the burn ointment on it. I think it helps with infection anyway. And wrap it up?" I say. I do and the whole thing seems a lot more manageable, covered in clean white cotton. Although, against the sterile bandage, the hem of his undershorts looks filthy and teeming with contagion. I pull out Rue's backpack. "Here, cover yourself with this and I'll wash your shorts."

"Oh, I don't care if you see me," says Peeta.

"You're just like the rest of my family," I say. "I care, all right?" I turn my back and look at the stream until the undershorts splash into the current. He must be feeling a bit better if he can throw.

"You know, you're kind of squeamish for such a lethal person," says Peeta as I beat the shorts clean between two rocks. "I wish I'd let you give Haymitch a shower after all."

I wrinkle my nose at the memory. "What's he sent you so far?"

"Not a thing," says Peeta. Then there's a pause as it hits him. "Why, did you get something?"

"Burn medicine," I say almost sheepishly. "Oh, and some bread."

"I always knew you were his favorite," says Peeta.

"Please, he can't stand being in the same room with me," I say.

"Because you're just alike," mutters Peeta. I ignore it though because this really isn't the time for me to be insulting Haymitch, which is my first impulse.

I let Peeta doze off while his clothes dry out, but by late afternoon, I don't dare wait any longer. I gently shake his shoulder. "Peeta, we've got to go now."

"Go?" He seems confused. "Go where?"

"Away from here. Downstream maybe. Somewhere we can hide you until you're stronger," I say. I help him dress, leaving his feet bare so we can walk in the water, and pull him upright. His face drains of color the moment he puts weight on his leg. "Come on. You can do this."

But he can't. Not for long anyway. We make it about fifty yards downstream, with him propped up by my shoulder, and I can tell he's going to black out. I sit him on the bank, push his head between his knees, and pat his back awkwardly as I survey the area. Of course, I'd love to get him up in a tree, but that's not going to happen. It could be worse though. Some of the rocks form small cavelike structures. I set my sights on one about twenty yards above the stream. When Peeta's able to stand, I half-guide, half-carry him up to the cave. Really, I'd like to look around for a better place, but this one will have to do because my ally is shot. Paper white, panting, and, even though it's only just cooling off, he's shivering.

I cover the floor of the cave with a layer of pine needles, unroll my sleeping bag, and tuck him into it. I get a couple of pills and some water into him when he's not noticing, but he refuses to eat even the fruit. Then he just lies there, his eyes trained on my face as I build a sort of blind out of vines to conceal the mouth of the cave. The result is unsatisfactory. An animal might not question it, but a human would see hands had manufactured it quickly enough. I tear it down in frustration.

"Katniss," he says. I go over to him and brush the hair back from his eyes. "Thanks for finding me."

"You would have found me if you could," I say. His forehead's burning up. Like the medicine's having no effect at all. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I'm scared he's going to die.

"Yes. Look, if I don't make it back  - " he begins.

"Don't talk like that. I didn't drain all that pus for nothing," I say.

"I know. But just in case I don't  - " he tries to continue.

"No, Peeta, I don't even want to discuss it," I say, placing my fingers on his lips to quiet him.

"But I  - " he insists.

Impulsively, I lean forward and kiss him, stopping his words. This is probably overdue anyway since he's right, we are supposed to be madly in love. It's the first time I've ever kissed a boy, which should make some sort of impression I guess, but all I can register is how unnaturally hot his lips are from the fever. I break away and pull the edge of the sleeping bag up around him. "You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right?"

"All right," he whispers.

I step out in the cool evening air just as the parachute floats down from the sky. My fingers quickly undo the tie, hoping for some real medicine to treat Peeta's leg. Instead I find a pot of hot broth.

Haymitch couldn't be sending me a clearer message. One kiss equals one pot of broth. I can almost hear his snarl. "You're supposed to be in love, sweetheart. The boy's dying. Give me something I can work with!"

And he's right. If I want to keep Peeta alive, I've got to give the audience something more to care about. Star-crossed lovers desperate to get home together. Two hearts beating as one. Romance.

Never having been in love, this is going to be a real trick. I think of my parents. The way my father never failed to bring her gifts from the woods. The way my mother's face would light up at the sound of his boots at the door. The way she almost stopped living when he died.

"Peeta!" I say, trying for the special tone that my mother used only with my father. He's dozed off again, but I kiss him awake, which seems to startle him. Then he smiles as if he'd be happy to lie there gazing at me forever. He's great at this stuff.

I hold up the pot. "Peeta, look what Haymitch has sent you."

Getting the broth into Peeta takes an hour of coaxing, begging, threatening, and yes, kissing, but finally, sip by sip, he empties the pot. I let him drift off to sleep then and attend to my own needs, wolfing down a supper of groosling and roots while I watch the daily report in the sky. No new casualties. Still, Peeta and I have given the audience a fairly interesting day. Hopefully, the Gamemakers will allow us a peaceful night. I automatically look around for a good tree to nest in before I realize that's over. At least for a while. I can't very well leave Peeta unguarded on the ground. I left the scene of his last hiding place on the bank of the stream untouched  -  how could I conceal it?  -  and we're a scant fifty yards downstream. I put on my glasses, place my weapons in readiness, and settle down to keep watch. The temperature drops rapidly and soon I'm chilled to the bone. Eventually, I give in and slide into the sleeping bag with Peeta. It's toasty warm and I snuggle down gratefully until I realize it's more than warm, it's overly hot because the bag is reflecting back his fever. I check his forehead and find it burning and dry. I don't know what to do. Leave him in the bag and hope the excessive heat breaks the fever? Take him out and hope the night air cools him off? I end up just dampening a strip of bandage and placing it on his forehead. It seems weak, but I'm afraid to do anything too drastic. I spend the night half-sitting, half-lying next to Peeta, refreshing the bandage, and trying not to dwell on the fact that by teaming up with him, I've made myself far more vulnerable than when I was alone. Tethered to the ground, on guard, with a very sick person to take care of. But I knew he was injured. And still I came after him. I'm just going to have to trust that whatever instinct sent me to find him was a good one. When the sky turns rosy, I notice the sheen of sweat on Peeta's lip and discover the fever has broken. He's not back to normal, but it's come down a few degrees. Last night, when I was gathering vines, I came upon a bush of Rue's berries. I strip off the fruit and mash it up in the broth pot with cold water. Peeta's struggling to get up when I reach the cave. "I woke up and you were gone," he says. "I was worried about you." I have to laugh as I ease him back down. "You were worried about me? Have you taken a look at yourself lately?" "I thought Cato and Clove might have found you. They like to hunt at night," he says, still serious. "Clove? Which one is that?" I ask. "The girl from District Two. She's still alive, right?" he says. "Yes, there's just them and us and Thresh and Foxface," I say. "That's what I nicknamed the girl from Five. How do you feel?" "Better than yesterday. This is an enormous improvement over the mud," he says. "Clean clothes and medicine and a sleeping bag. and you." Oh, right, the whole romance thing. I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips. I remember my father doing this very thing to my mother and I wonder where Peeta picked it up. Surely not from his father and the witch. "No more kisses for you until you've eaten," I say. We get him propped up against the wall and he obediently swallows the spoonfuls of the berry mush I feed him. He refuses the groosling again, though. "You didn't sleep," Peeta says. "I'm all right," I say. But the truth is, I'm exhausted. "Sleep now. I'll keep watch. I'll wake you if anything happens," he says. I hesitate. "Katniss, you can't stay up forever." He's got a point there. I'll have to sleep eventually. And probably better to do it now when he seems relatively alert and we have daylight on our side. "All right," I say. "But just for a few hours. Then you wake me." It's too warm for the sleeping bag now. I smooth it out on the cave floor and lie down, one hand on my loaded bow in case I have to shoot at a moment's notice. Peeta sits beside me, leaning against the wall, his bad leg stretched out before him, his eyes trained on the world outside. "Go to sleep," he says softly. His hand brushes the loose strands of my hair off my forehead. Unlike the staged kisses and caresses so far, this gesture seems natural and comforting. I don't want him to stop and he doesn't. He's still stroking my hair when I fall asleep. Too long. I sleep too long. I know from the moment I open my eyes that we're into the afternoon. Peeta's right beside me, his position unchanged. I sit up, feeling somehow defensive but better rested than I've been in days. "Peeta, you were supposed to wake me after a couple of hours," I say. "For what? Nothing's going on here," he says. "Besides I like watching you sleep. You don't scowl. Improves your looks a lot." This, of course, brings on a scowl that makes him grin. That's when I notice how dry his lips are. I test his cheek. Hot as a coal stove. He claims he's been drinking, but the containers still feel full to me. I give him more fever pills and stand over him while he drinks first one, then a second quart of water. Then I tend to his minor wounds, the burns, the stings, which are showing improvement. I steel myself and unwrap the leg. My heart drops into my stomach. It's worse, much worse. There's no more pus in evidence, but the swelling has increased and the tight shiny skin is inflamed. Then I see the red streaks starting to crawl up his leg. Blood poisoning. Unchecked, it will kill him for sure. My chewed-up leaves and ointment won't make a dent in it. We'll need strong anti-infection drugs from the Capitol. I can't imagine the cost of such potent medicine. If Haymitch pooled every donation from every sponsor, would he have enough? I doubt it. Gifts go up in price the longer the Games continue. What buys a full meal on day one buys a cracker on day twelve. And the kind of medicine Peeta needs would have been at a premium from the beginning. "Well, there's more swelling, but the pus is gone," I say in an unsteady voice. "I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss," says Peeta. "Even if my mother isn't a healer." "You're just going to have to outlast the others, Peeta. They'll cure it back at the Capitol when we win," I say. "Yes, that's a good plan," he says. But I feel this is mostly for my benefit. "You have to eat. Keep your strength up. I'm going to make you soup," I say. "Don't light a fire," he says. "It's not worth it."

The sound of the trumpets startles me. I'm on my feet and at the mouth of the cave in a flash, not wanting to miss a syllable. It's my new best friend, Claudius Templesmith, and as I expected, he's inviting us to a feast. Well, we're not that hungry and I actually wave his offer away in indifference when he says, "Now hold on. Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately." I do need something desperately. Something to heal Peeta's leg. "Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance," says Claudius. There's nothing else, just his words hanging in the air. I jump as Peeta grips my shoulder from behind. "No," he says. "You're not risking your life for me." "Who said I was?" I say. "So, you're not going?" he asks. "Of course, I'm not going. Give me some credit. Do you think I'm running straight into some free-for-all against Cato and Clove and Thresh? Don't be stupid," I say, helping him back to bed. "I'll let them fight it out, we'll see who's in the sky tomorrow night and work out a plan from there." "You're such a bad liar, Katniss. I don't know how you've survived this long." He begins to mimic me. "I knew that goat would be a little gold mine. You're a little cooler though. Of course, I'm not going. He shakes his head. "Never gamble at cards. You'll lose your last coin," he says. Anger flushes my face. "All right, I am going, and you can't stop me!" "I can follow you. At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I'm yelling your name, I bet someone can find me. And then I'll be dead for sure," he says. "You won't get a hundred yards from here on that leg," I say. "Then I'll drag myself," says Peeta. "You go and I'm going, too." He's just stubborn enough and maybe just strong enough to do it. Come howling after me in the woods. Even if a tribute doesn't find him, something else might. He can't defend himself. I'd probably have to wall him up in the cave just to go myself. And who knows what the exertion will do to him? "What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?" I say. He must know that's not an option. That the audience would hate me. And frankly, I would hate myself, too, if I didn't even try. "I won't die. I promise. If you promise not to go," he says. We're at something of a stalemate. I know I can't argue him out of this one, so I don't try. I pretend, reluctantly, to go along. "Then you have to do what I say. Drink your water, wake me when I tell you, and eat every bite of the soup no matter how disgusting it is!" I snap at him. "Agreed. Is it ready?" he asks. "Wait here," I say. The air's gone cold even though the sun's still up. I'm right about the Gamemakers messing with the temperature. I wonder if the thing someone needs desperately is a good blanket. The soup is still nice and warm in its iron pot. And actually doesn't taste too bad. Peeta eats without complaint, even scraping out the pot to show his enthusiasm. He rambles on about how delicious it is, which should be encouraging if you don't know what fever does to people. He's like listening to Haymitch before the alcohol has soaked him into incoherence. I give him another dose of fever medicine before he goes off his head completely. As I go down to the stream to wash up, all I can think is that he's going to die if I don't get to that feast. I'll keep him going for a day or two, and then the infection will reach his heart or his brain or his lungs and he'll be gone. And I'll be here all alone. Again. Waiting for the others. I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss the parachute, even though it floats right by me. Then I spring after it, yanking it from the water, tearing off the silver fabric to retrieve the vial. Haymitch has done it! He's gotten the medicine  -  I don't know how, persuaded some gaggle of romantic fools to sell their jewels  -  and I can save Peeta! It's such a tiny vial though. It must be very strong to cure someone as ill as Peeta. A ripple of doubt runs through me. I uncork the vial and take a deep sniff. My spirits fall at the sickly sweet scent. Just to be sure, I place a drop on the tip of my tongue. There's no question, it's sleep syrup. It's a common medicine in District 12. Cheap, as medicine goes, but very addictive. Almost everyone's had a dose at one time or another. We have some in a bottle at home. My mother gives it to hysterical patients to knock them out to stitch up a bad wound or quiet their minds or just to help someone in pain get through the night. It only takes a little. A vial this size could knock Peeta out for a full day, but what good is that? I'm so furious I'm about to throw Haymitch's last offering into the stream when it hits me. A full day? That's more than I need. I mash up a handful of berries so the taste won't be as noticeable and add some mint leaves for good measure. Then I head back up to the cave. "I've brought you a treat. I found a new patch of berries a little farther downstream." Peeta opens his mouth for the first bite without hesitation. He swallows then frowns slightly. "They're very sweet." "Yes, they're sugar berries. My mother makes jam from them. Haven't you ever had them before?" I say, poking the next spoonful in his mouth. "No," he says, almost puzzled. "But they taste familiar. Sugar berries?" "Well, you can't get them in the market much, they only grow wild," I say. Another mouthful goes down. Just one more to go. "They're sweet as syrup," he says, taking the last spoonful. "Syrup." His eyes widen as he realizes the truth. I clamp my hand over his mouth and nose hard, forcing him to swallow instead of spit. He tries to make himself vomit the stuff up, but it's too late, he's already losing consciousness. Even as he fades away, I can see in his eyes what I've done is unforgivable. I sit back on my heels and look at him with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction. A stray berry stains his chin and I wipe it away. "Who can't lie, Peeta?" I say, even though he can't hear me. It doesn't matter. The rest of Panem can.

The sound of rain drumming on the roof of our house gently pulls me toward consciousness. I fight to return to sleep though, wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets, safe at home. I'm vaguely aware that my head aches. Possibly I have the flu and this is why I'm allowed to stay in bed, even though I can tell I've been asleep a long time. My mother's hand strokes my cheek and I don't push it away as I would in wakefulness, never wanting her to know how much I crave that gentle touch. How much I miss her even though I still don't trust her. Then there's a voice, the wrong voice, not my mother's, and I'm scared. "Katniss," it says. "Katniss, can you hear me?" My eyes open and the sense of security vanishes. I'm not home, not with my mother. I'm in a dim, chilly cave, my bare feet freezing despite the cover, the air tainted with the unmistakable smell of blood. The haggard, pale face of a boy slides into view, and after an initial jolt of alarm, I feel better. "Peeta." "Hey," he says. "Good to see your eyes again." "How long have I been out?" I ask. "Not sure. I woke up yesterday evening and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood," he says. "I think it's stopped finally, but I wouldn't sit up or anything." I gingerly lift my hand to my head and find it bandaged. This simple gesture leaves me weak and dizzy. Peeta holds a bottle to my lips and I drink thirstily. "You're better," I say. "Much better. Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick," he says. "By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone." He doesn't seem angry about my tricking him, drugging him, and running off to the feast. Maybe I'm just too beat-up and I'll hear about it later when I'm stronger. But for the moment, he's all gentleness. "Did you eat?" I ask. "I'm sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groosling before I realized it might have to last a while. Don't worry, I'm back on a strict diet," he says. "No, it's good. You need to eat. I'll go hunting soon," I say. "Not too soon, all right?" he says. "You just let me take care of you for a while." I don't really seem to have much choice. Peeta feeds me bites of groosling and raisins and makes me drink plenty of water. He rubs some warmth back into my feet and wraps them in his jacket before tucking the sleeping bag back up around my chin. "Your boots and socks are still damp and the weather's not helping much," he says. There's a clap of thunder, and I see lightning electrify the sky through an opening in the rocks. Rain drips through several holes in the ceiling, but Peeta has built a sort of canopy over my head an upper body by wedging the square of plastic into the rock above me

The memory of the feast returns full-force and I feel sick. "He did. But he let me go." Then, of course, I have to tell him. About things I've kept to myself because he was too sick to ask and I wasn't ready to relive anyway. Like the explosion and my ear and Rue's dying and the boy from District 1 and the bread. All of which leads to what happened with Thresh and how he was paying off a debt of sorts. "He let you go because he didn't want to owe you anything?" asks Peeta in disbelief. "Yes. I don't expect you to understand it. You've always had enough. But if you'd lived in the Seam, I wouldn't have to explain," I say. "And don't try. Obviously I'm too dim to get it." "It's like the bread. How I never seem to get over owing you for that," I say. "The bread? What? From when we were kids?" he says. "I think we can let that go. I mean, you just brought me back from the dead." "But you didn't know me. We had never even spoken. Besides, it's the first gift that's always the hardest to pay back. I wouldn't even have been here to do it if you hadn't helped me then," I say. "Why did you, anyway?" "Why? You know why," Peeta says. I give my head a slight, painful shake. "Haymitch said you would take a lot of convincing." "Haymitch?" I ask. "What's he got to do with it?" "Nothing," Peeta says. "So, Cato and Thresh, huh? I guess it's too much to hope that they'll simultaneously destroy each other?" But the thought only upsets me. "I think we would like Thresh. I think he'd be our friend back in District Twelve," I say. "Then let's hope Cato kills him, so we don't have to," says Peeta grimly. I don't want Cato to kill Thresh at all. I don't want anyone else to die. But this is absolutely not the kind of thing that victors go around saying in the arena. Despite my best efforts, I can feel tears starting to pool in my eyes. Peeta looks at me in concern. "What is it? Are you in a lot of pain?" I give him another answer, because it is equally true but can be taken as a brief moment of weakness instead of a terminal one. "I want to go home, Peeta," I say plaintively, like a small child. "You will. I promise," he says, and bends over to give me a kiss. "I want to go home now," I say. "Tell you what. You go back to sleep and dream of home. And you'll be there for real before you know it," lie says. "Okay?" "Okay," I whisper. "Wake me if you need me to keep watch." "I'm good and rested, thanks to you and Haymitch. Besides, who knows how long this will last?" he says. What does he mean? The storm? The brief respite ii brings us? The Games themselves? I don't know, but I'm ion sad and tired to ask. It's evening when Peeta wakes me again. The rain has turned to a downpour, sending streams of water through our ceiling where earlier there had been only drips. Peeta has placed the broth pot under the worst one and repositioned the plastic to deflect most of it from me. I feel a bit better, able to sit up without getting too dizzy, and I'm absolutely famished. So is Peeta. It's clear he's been waiting for me to wake up to eat and is eager to get started.

ither that or he's got very generous sponsors," says Peeta. "I wonder what we'd have to do to get Haymitch to send us some bread." I raise my eyebrows before I remember he doesn't know about the message Haymitch sent us a couple of nights ago. One kiss equals one pot of broth. It's not the sort of thing I can blurt out, either. To say my thoughts aloud would be tipping off the audience that the romance has been fabricated to play on their sympathies and that would result in no food at all. Somehow, believably, I've got to get things back on track. Something simple to start with. I reach out and take his hand. "Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out," I say mischievously. "Yeah, about that," says Peeta, entwining his fingers in mine. "Don't try something like that again." "Or what?" I ask. "Or. or. " He can't think of anything good. "Just give me a minute." "What's the problem?" I say with a grin. "The problem is we're both still alive. Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing," says Peeta. "I did do the right thing," I say. "No! Just don't, Katniss!" His grip tightens, hurting my hand, and there's real anger in his voice. "Don't die for me. You won't be doing me any favors. All right?" I'm startled by his intensity but recognize an excellent opportunity for getting food, so I try to keep up. "Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta, did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren't the only one who. who worries about. what it would be like if. " I fumble. I'm not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don't want him to die. And it's not about the sponsors. And it's not about what will happen back home. And it's not just that I don't want to be alone. It's him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread. "If what, Katniss?" he says softly. I wish I could pull the shutters closed, blocking out this moment from the prying eyes of Panem. Even if it means losing food. Whatever I'm feeling, it's no one's business but mine. "That's exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of," I say evasively, although Haymitch never said anything of the kind. In fact, he's probably cursing me out right now for dropping the ball during such an emotionally charged moment. But Peeta somehow catches it. "Then I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself," he says, and moves in to me. This is the first kiss that we're both fully aware of. Neither of us hobbled by sickness or pain or simply unconscious. Our lips neither burning with fever or icy cold. This is the first kiss where I actually feel stirring inside my chest. Warm and curious. This is the first kiss that makes me want another. But I don't get it. Well, I do get a second kiss, but it's just a light one on the tip of my nose because Peeta's been distracted. "I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it's bedtime anyway," he says.

I'm not really sure how to ramp up the romance. The kiss last night was nice, but working up to another will take some forethought. There are girls in the Seam, some of the merchant girls, too, who navigate these waters so easily. But I've never had much time or use for it. Anyway, just a kiss isn't enough anymore clearly because if it was we'd have gotten food last night. My instincts tell me Haymitch isn't just looking for physical affection, he wants something more personal. The sort of stuff he was trying to get me to tell about myself when we were practicing for the interview. I'm rotten at it, but Peeta's not. Maybe the best approach is to get him talking. "Peeta," I say lightly. "You said at the interview you'd had a crush on me forever. When did forever start?" "Oh, let's see. I guess the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair. it was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up," Peeta says. "Your father? Why?" I ask. "He said, 'See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner,'" Peeta says. "What? You're making that up!" I exclaim. "No, true story," Peeta says. "And I said, 'A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you?' And he said, 'Because when he sings. even the birds stop to listen.'" "That's true. They do. I mean, they did," I say. I'm stunned and surprisingly moved, thinking of the baker telling this to Peeta. It strikes me that my own reluctance to sing, my own dismissal of music might not really be that I think it's a waste of time. It might be because it reminds me too much of my father. "So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent," Peeta says. "Oh, please," I say, laughing. "No, it happened. And right when your song ended, I knew  -  just like your mother  -  I was a goner," Peeta says. "Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you." "Without success," I add. "Without success. So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck," says Peeta. For a moment, I'm almost foolishly happy and then confusion sweeps over me. Because we're supposed to be making up this stuff, playing at being in love not actually being in love. But Peeta's story has a ring of truth to it. That part about my father and the birds. And I did sing the first day of school, although I don't remember the song. And that red plaid dress. there was one, a hand-me-down to Prim that got washed to rags after my father's death. It would explain another thing, too. Why Peeta took a beating to give me the bread on that awful hollow day. So, if those details are true. could it all be true? "You have a. remarkable memory," I say haltingly. "I remember everything about you," says Peeta, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "You're the one who wasn't paying attention." "I am now," I say. "Well, I don't have much competition here," he says. I want to draw away, to close those shutters again, but I know I can't. It's as if I can hear Haymitch whispering in my ear, "Say it! Say it!" I swallow hard and get the words out. "You don't have much competition anywhere." And this time, it's me who leans in. Our lips have just barely touched when the clunk outside makes us jump. My bow comes up, the arrow ready to fly, but there's no other sound. Peeta peers through the rocks and then gives a whoop. Before I can stop him, lie's out in the rain, then handing something in to me. A silver parachute attached to a basket. I rip it open at once and inside there's a feast  -  fresh rolls, goat cheese, apples, and best of all, a tureen of that incredible lamb stew on wild rice. The very dish I told Caesar Flickerman was the most impressive thing the Capitol had to offer. Peeta wriggles back inside, his face lit up like the sun. "I guess Haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve." 

Every cell in my body wants me to dig into the stew and cram it, handful by handful into my mouth. But Peeta's voice stops me. "We better take it slow on that stew. Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn't even starving then." "You're right. And I could just inhale the whole thing!" I say regretfully. But I don't. We are quite sensible. We each have a roll, half an apple, and an egg-size serving of stew and rice. I make myself eat the stew in tiny spoonfuls  -  they even sent us silverware and plates  -  savoring each bite. When we finish, I stare longingly at the dish. "I want more." "Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another serving," Peeta says. "Agreed," I say. "It's going to be a long hour." "Maybe not that long," says Peeta. "What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me. no competition. best thing that ever happened to you. " "I don't remember that last part," I say, hoping it's too dim in here for the cameras to pick up my blush. "Oh, that's right. That's what I was thinking," he says. "Scoot over, I'm freezing." I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me. I can feel Haymitch nudging me to keep up the act. "So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?" I ask him. "No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you," he says. "I'm sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam," I say. "Hardly. But I couldn't care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam, you'll be a girl from the Victor's Village," he says. That's right. If we win, we'll each get a house in the part of town reserved for Hunger Games' victors. Long ago, when the Games began, the Capitol had built a dozen fine houses in each district. Of course, in ours only one is occupied. Most of the others have never been lived in at all. A disturbing thought hits me. "But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!" "Ah, that'll be nice," says Peeta, tightening his arms around me. "You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games' tales." "I told you, he hates me!" I say, but I can't help laughing at the image of Haymitch becoming my new pal. "Only sometimes. When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you," says Peeta. "He's never sober!" I protest. "That's right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you. But that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set you on fire," says Peeta. "On the other hand, Haymitch. well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you." "I thought you said I was his favorite," I say. "He hates me more," says Peeta. "I don't think people in general are his sort of thing." I know the audience will enjoy our having fun at Haymitch's expense. He has been around so long, he's practically an old friend to some of them. And after his head-dive off the stage at the reaping, everybody knows him. By this time, they'll have dragged him out of the control room for interviews about us. No telling what sort of lies he's made up. He's at something of a disadvantage because most mentors have a partner, another victor to help them whereas Haymitch has to be ready to go into action at any moment. Kind of like me when I was alone in the arena. I wonder how he's holding up, with the drinking, the attention, and the stress of trying to keep us alive. It's funny. Haymitch and I don't get along well in person, but maybe Peeta is right about us being alike because he seems able to communicate with me by the timing of his gifts. Like how I knew I must be close to water when he withheld it and how I knew the sleep syrup just wasn't something to ease Peeta's pain and how I know now that I have to play up the romance. He hasn't made much effort to connect with Peeta really. Perhaps he thinks a bowl of broth would just be a bowl of broth to Peeta, whereas I'll see the strings attached to it. A thought hits me, and I'm amazed the question's taken so long to surface. Maybe it's because I've only recently begun to view Haymitch with a degree of curiosity. "How do you think he did it?" "Who? Did what?" Peeta asks. "Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games?" I say. Peeta considers this quite a while before he answers. Haymitch is sturdily built, but no physical wonder like Cato or Thresh. He's not particularly handsome. Not in the way that causes sponsors to rain gifts on you. And he's so surly, it's hard to imagine anyone teaming up with him. There's only one way Haymitch could have won, and Peeta says it just as I'm reaching this conclusion myself. "He outsmarted the others," says Peeta. I nod, then let the conversation drop. But secretly I'm wondering if Haymitch sobered up long enough to help Peeta and me because he thought we just might have the wits to survive. Maybe he wasn't always a drunk. Maybe, in the beginning, he tried to help the tributes. But then it got unbearable. It must be hell to mentor two kids and then watch them die. Year after year after year. I realize that if I get out of here, that will become my job. To mentor the girl from District 12. The idea is so repellent, I thrust it from my mind. About half an hour has passed before I decide I have to eat again. Peeta's too hungry himself to put up an argument. While I'm dishing up two more small servings of lamb stew and rice, we hear the anthem begin to play. Peeta presses his eyes against a crack in the rocks to watch the sky. "There won't be anything to see tonight," I say, far more interested in the stew than the sky. "Nothing's happened or we would've heard a cannon." "Katniss," Peeta says quietly. "What? Should we split another roll, too?" I ask. "Katniss," he repeats, but I find myself wanting to ignore him. "I'm going to split one. But I'll save the cheese for tomorrow," I say. I see Peeta staring at me. "What?" "Thresh is dead," says Peeta. "He can't be," I say. "They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it," says Peeta. "Are you sure? I mean, it's pouring buckets out there. I don't know how you can see anything," I say. I push him away from the rocks and squint out into the dark, rainy sky. For about ten seconds, I catch a distorted glimpse of Thresh's picture and then he's gone. Just like that. I slump down against the rocks, momentarily forgetting about the task at hand. Thresh dead. I should be happy, right? One less tribute to face. And a powerful one, too. But I'm not happy. All I can think about is Thresh letting me go, letting me run because of Rue, who died with that spear in her stomach. "You all right?" asks Peeta. I give a noncommittal shrug and cup my elbows in my hands, hugging them close to my body. I have to bury the real pain because who's going to bet on a tribute who keeps sniveling over the deaths of her opponents. Rue was one thing. We were allies. She was so young. But no one will understand my sorrow at Thresh's murder. The word pulls me up short. Murder! Thankfully, I didn't say it aloud. That's not going to win me any points in the arena. What I do say is, "It's just. if we didn't win. I wanted Thresh to. Because he let me go. And because of Rue." "Yeah, I know," says Peeta. "But this means we're one step closer to District Twelve." He nudges a plate of foot into my hands. "Eat. It's still warm." I take a bite of the stew to show I don't really care, but it's like glue in my mouth and takes a lot of effort to swallow. "It also means Cato will be back hunting us." "And he's got supplies again," says Peeta. "He'll be wounded, I bet," I say. "What makes you say that?" Peeta asks. "Because Thresh would have never gone down without a fight. He's so strong, I mean, he was. And they were in his territory," I say. "Good," says Peeta. "The more wounded Cato is the better. I wonder how Foxface is making out." "Oh, she's fine," I say peevishly. I'm still angry she thought of hiding in the Cornucopia and I didn't. "Probably be easier to catch Cato than her." "Maybe they'll catch each other and we can just go home," says Peeta. "But we better be extra careful about the watches. I dozed off a few times." "Me, too," I admit. "But not tonight." We finish our food in silence and then Peeta offers to take the first watch. I burrow down in the sleeping bag next to him, pulling my hood up over my face to hide it from the cameras. I just need a few moments of privacy where I can let any emotion cross my face without being seen. Under the hood, I silently say good-bye to Thresh and thank him for my life. I promise to remember him and, if I can, do something to help his family and Rue's, if I win. Then I escape into sleep, comforted by a full belly and the steady warmth of Peeta beside me. When Peeta wakes me later, the first thing I register is the smell of goat cheese. He's holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped with apple slices. "Don't be mad," he says. "I had to eat again. Here's your half." "Oh, good," I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese tastes just like the kind Prim makes, the apples are sweet and crunchy. "Mm." "We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery," he says. "Bet that's expensive," I say. "Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it's gone very stale. Of course, practically everything we eat is stale," says Peeta, pulling the sleeping bag up around him. In less than a minute, he's snoring. Huh. I always assumed the shopkeepers live a soft life. And it's true, Peeta has always had enough to eat. But there's something kind of depressing about living your life on stale bread, the hard, dry loaves that no one else wanted. One thing about us, since I bring our food home on a daily basis, most of it is so fresh you have to make sure it isn't going to make a run for it. Somewhere during my shift, the rain stops not gradually but all at once. The downpour ends and there's only the residual drippings of water from branches, the rush of the now overflowing stream below us. A full, beautiful moon emerges, and even without the glasses I can see outside. I can't decide if the moon is real or merely a projection of the Gamemakers. I know it was full shortly before I left home. Gale and I watched it rise as we hunted into the late hours. How long have I been gone? I'm guessing it's been about two weeks in the arena, and there was that week of preparation in the Capitol. Maybe the moon has completed its cycle. For some reason, I badly want it to be my moon, the same one I see from the woods around District 12. That would give me something to cling to in the surreal world of the arena where the authenticity of everything is to be doubted. Four of us left.

For the first time, I allow myself to truly think about the possibility that I might make it home. To fame. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor's Village. My mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of freedom. But then. what? What would my life be like on a daily basis? Most of it has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I'm not really sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Haymitch, with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children, most of his waking hours drunk. I don't want to end up like that.

"But you won't be alone," I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Prim. Well, for the time being. And then. I don't want to think about then, when Prim has grown up, my mother passed away. I know I'll never marry, never risk bringing a child into the world. Because if there's one thing being a victor doesn't guarantee, it's your children's safety. My kids' names would go right into the reaping balls with everyone else's. And I swear I'll never let that happen.

The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating Peeta's face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing, good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I'll admit it, there are moments when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we'll be friends, I think. Nothing will change the fact that we've saved each other's lives in here. And beyond that, he will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though. and I feel Gale's gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12.

Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Peeta's shoulder. His eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss.

"We're wasting hunting time," I say when I finally break away.

"I wouldn't call it wasting," he says giving a big stretch as he sits up. "So do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?"

"Not us," I say. "We stuff ourselves to give us staying power."

"Count me in," Peeta says. But I can see he's surprised when I divide the rest of the stew and rice and hand a heaping plate to him. "All this?"

"We'll earn it back today," I say, and we both plow into our plates. Even cold, it's one of the best things I've ever tasted. I abandon my fork and scrape up the last dabs of gravy with my finger. "I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my manners."

"Hey, Effie, watch this!" says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, "We miss you, Effie!"

I cover his mouth with my hand, but I'm laughing. "Stop! Cato could be right outside our cave."

He grabs my hand away. "What do I care? I've got you to protect me now," says Peeta, pulling me to him.

"Come on," I say in exasperation, extricating myself from his grasp but not before he gets in another kiss. 

We finish our food in silence and then Peeta offers to take the first watch. I burrow down in the sleeping bag next to him, pulling my hood up over my face to hide it from the cameras. I just need a few moments of privacy where I can let any emotion cross my face without being seen. Under the hood, I silently say good-bye to Thresh and thank him for my life. I promise to remember him and, if I can, do something to help his family and Rue's, if I win. Then I escape into sleep, comforted by a full belly and the steady warmth of Peeta beside me. When Peeta wakes me later, the first thing I register is the smell of goat cheese. He's holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped with apple slices. "Don't be mad," he says. "I had to eat again. Here's your half." "Oh, good," I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese tastes just like the kind Prim makes, the apples are sweet and crunchy. "Mm." "We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery," he says. "Bet that's expensive," I say. "Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it's gone very stale. Of course, practically everything we eat is stale," says Peeta, pulling the sleeping bag up around him. In less than a minute, he's snoring. Huh. I always assumed the shopkeepers live a soft life. And it's true, Peeta has always had enough to eat. But there's something kind of depressing about living your life on stale bread, the hard, dry loaves that no one else wanted. One thing about us, since I bring our food home on a daily basis, most of it is so fresh you have to make sure it isn't going to make a run for it. Somewhere during my shift, the rain stops not gradually but all at once. The downpour ends and there's only the residual drippings of water from branches, the rush of the now overflowing stream below us. A full, beautiful moon emerges, and even without the glasses I can see outside. I can't decide if the moon is real or merely a projection of the Gamemakers. I know it was full shortly before I left home. Gale and I watched it rise as we hunted into the late hours. How long have I been gone? I'm guessing it's been about two weeks in the arena, and there was that week of preparation in the Capitol. Maybe the moon has completed its cycle. For some reason, I badly want it to be my moon, the same one I see from the woods around District 12. That would give me something to cling to in the surreal world of the arena where the authenticity of everything is to be doubted. Four of us left.

For the first time, I allow myself to truly think about the possibility that I might make it home. To fame. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor's Village. My mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of freedom. But then. what? What would my life be like on a daily basis? Most of it has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I'm not really sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Haymitch, with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children, most of his waking hours drunk. I don't want to end up like that.

"But you won't be alone," I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Prim. Well, for the time being. And then. I don't want to think about then, when Prim has grown up, my mother passed away. I know I'll never marry, never risk bringing a child into the world. Because if there's one thing being a victor doesn't guarantee, it's your children's safety. My kids' names would go right into the reaping balls with everyone else's. And I swear I'll never let that happen.

The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating Peeta's face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing, good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I'll admit it, there are moments when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we'll be friends, I think. Nothing will change the fact that we've saved each other's lives in here. And beyond that, he will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though. and I feel Gale's gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12.

Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Peeta's shoulder. His eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss

The boulders diminish to rocks that eventually turn to pebbles, and then, to my relief, we're back on pine needles and the gentle incline of the forest floor. For the first time, I realize we have a problem. Navigating the rocky terrain with a bad leg  -  well, you're naturally going to make some noise. But even on the smooth bed of needles, Peeta is loud. And I mean loud loud, as if he's stomping his feet or something. I turn and look at him. "What?" he asks. "You've got to move more quietly," I say. "Forget about Cato, you're chasing off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius." "Really?" he says. "Sorry, I didn't know." So, we start up again and he's a tiny bit better, but even with only one working ear, he's making me jump. "Can you take your boots off?" I suggest. "Here?" he asks in disbelief, as if I'd asked him to walk barefoot on hot coals or something. I have to remind myself that he's still not used to the woods, that it's the scary, forbidden place beyond the fences of District 12. I think of Gale, with his velvet tread. It's eerie how little sound he makes, even when the leaves have fallen and it's a challenge to move at all without chasing off the game. I feel certain he's laughing back home. "Yes," I say patiently. "I will, too. That way we'll both be quieter." Like I was making any noise. So we both strip off our boots and socks and, while there's some improvement, I could swear he's making an effort to snap every branch we encounter. Needless to say, although it takes several hours to reach my old camp with Rue, I've shot nothing. If the stream would settle down, fish might be an option, but the current is still too strong. As we stop to rest and drink water, I try to work out a solution. Ideally, I'd dump Peeta now with some simple root-gathering chore and go hunt, but then he'd be left with only a knife to defend himself against Cato's spears and superior strength. So what I'd really like is to try and conceal him somewhere safe, then go hunt, and come back and collect him. But I have a feeling his ego isn't going to go for that suggestion. "Katniss," he says. "We need to split up. I know I'm chasing away the game." "Only because your leg's hurt," I say generously, because really, you can tell that's only a small part of the problem. "I know," he says. "So, why don't you go on? Show me some plants to gather and that way we'll both be useful." "Not if Cato comes and kills you." I tried to say it in a nice way, but it still sounds like I think he's a weakling. Surprisingly, he just laughs. "Look, I can handle Cato. I fought him before, didn't I?" Yeah, and that turned out great. You ended up dying in a mud bank. That's what I want to say, but I can't. He did save my life by taking on Cato after all. I try another tactic. "What if you climbed up in a tree and acted as a lookout while I hunted?" I say, trying to make it sound like very important work. "What if you show me what's edible around here and go get us some meat?" he says, mimicking my tone. "Just don't go far, in case you need help." I sigh and show him some roots to dig. We do need food, no question. One apple, two rolls, and a blob of cheese the size of a plum won't last long. I'll just go a short distance and hope Cato is a long way off. I teach him a bird whistle  -  not a melody like Rue's but a simple two-note whistle  -  which we can use to communicate that we're all right. Fortunately, he's good at this. Leaving him with the pack, I head off. I feel like I'm eleven again, tethered not to the safety of the fence but to Peeta, allowing myself twenty, maybe thirty yards of hunting space. Away from him though, the woods come alive with animal sounds. Reassured by his periodic whistles, I allow myself to drift farther away, and soon have two rabbits and a fat squirrel to show for it. I decide it's enough. I can set snares and maybe get some fish. With Peeta's roots, this will be enough for now. As I travel the short distance back, I realize we haven't exchanged signals in a while. When my whistle receives no response, I run. In no time, I find the pack, a neat pile of roots beside it. The sheet of plastic has been laid on the ground where the sun can reach the single layer of berries that covers it. But where is he? "Peeta!" I call out in a panic. "Peeta!" I turn to the rustle of brush and almost send an arrow through him. Fortunately, I pull my bow at the last second and it sticks in an oak trunk to his left. He jumps back, flinging a handful of berries into the foliage. My fear comes out as anger. "What are you doing? You're supposed to be here, not running around in the woods!" "I found some berries down by the stream," he says, clearly confused by my outburst. "I whistled. Why didn't you whistle back?" I snap at him. "I didn't hear. The water's too loud, I guess," he says. He crosses and puts his hands on my shoulders. That's when I feel that I'm trembling. "I thought Cato killed you!" I almost shout. "No, I'm fine." Peeta wraps his arms around me, but I don't respond. "Katniss?" I push away, trying to sort out my feelings. "If two people agree on a signal, they stay in range. Because if one of them doesn't answer, they're in trouble, all right?" "All right!" he says. "All right. Because that's what happened with Rue, and I watched her die!" I say. I turn away from him, go to the pack and open a fresh bottle of water, although I still have some in mine. But I'm not ready to forgive him. I notice the food. The rolls and apples are untouched, but someone's definitely picked away part of the cheese. "And you ate without me!" I really don't care, I just want something else to be mad about. "What? No, I didn't," Peeta says. "Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese," I say. "I don't know what ate the cheese," Peeta says slowly and distinctly, as if trying not to lose his temper, "but it wasn't me. I've been down by the stream collecting berries. Would you care for some?" I would actually, but I don't want to relent too soon. I do walk over and look at them. I've never seen this type before. No, I have. But not in the arena. These aren't Rue's berries, although they resemble them. Nor do they match any I learned about in training. I lean down and scoop up a few, rolling them between my fingers. My father's voice comes back to me. "Not these, Katniss. Never these. They're nightlock. You'll be dead before they reach your stomach." Just then, the cannon fires. I whip around, expecting Peeta to collapse to the ground, but he only raises his eyebrows. The hovercraft appears a hundred yards or so away. What's left of Foxface's emaciated body is lifted into the air. I can see the red glint of her hair in the sunlight. I should have known the moment I saw the missing cheese. Peeta has me by the arm, pushing me toward a tree. "Climb. He'll be here in a second. We'll stand a better chance fighting him from above." I stop him, suddenly calm. "No, Peeta, she's your kill, not Cato's." "What? I haven't even seen her since the first day," he says. "How could I have killed her?" In answer, I hold out the berries.

Peeta's a whiz with fires, coaxing a blaze out of the damp wood. In no time, I have the rabbits and squirrel roasting, the roots, wrapped in leaves, baking in the coals. We take turns gathering greens and keeping a careful watch for Cato, but as I anticipated, he doesn't make an appearance.

Okay I skipped to the   Mutt Part with Peeta and Katniss ( After Catos down on the ground)  

I turn my attention to Peeta and discover his leg is bleeding as badly as ever. All our supplies, our packs, remain down by the lake where we abandoned them when we fled from the mutts. I have no bandage, nothing to staunch the flow of blood from his calf. Although I'm shaking in the biting wind, I rip off my jacket, remove my shirt, and zip back into the jacket as swiftly as possible. That brief exposure sets my teeth chattering beyond control. Peeta's face is gray in the pale moonlight. I make him lie down before I probe his wound. Warm, slippery blood runs over my fingers. A bandage will not be enough. I've seen my mother tie a tourniquet a handful of times and try to replicate it. I cut free a sleeve from my shirt, wrap it twice around his leg just under his knee, and tie a half knot. I don't have a stick, so I take my remaining arrow and insert it in the knot, twisting it as tightly as I dare. It's risky business  -  Peeta may end up losing his leg  -  but when I weigh this against him losing his life, what alternative do I have? I bandage the wound in the rest of my shirt and lay down with him. "Don't go to sleep," I tell him. I'm not sure if this is exactly medical protocol, but I'm terrified that if he drifts off he'll never wake again. "Are you cold?" he asks. He unzips his jacket and I press against him as he fastens it around me. It's a bit warmer, sharing our body heat inside my double layer of jackets, but the night is young. The temperature will continue to drop. Even now I can feel the Cornucopia, which burned so when I first climbed it, slowly turning to ice. "Cato may win this thing yet," I whisper to Peeta. "Don't you believe it," he says, pulling up my hood, but he's shaking harder than I am. The next hours are the worst in my life, which if you think about it, is saying something. The cold would be torture enough, but the real nightmare is listening to Cato, moaning, begging, and finally just whimpering as the mutts work away at him. After a very short time, I don't care who he is or what he's done, all I want is for his suffering to end. "Why don't they just kill him?" I ask Peeta. "You know why," he says, and pulls me closer to him. And I do. No viewer could turn away from the show now. From the Gamemakers' point of view, this is the final word in entertainment. It goes on and on and on and eventually completely consumes my mind, blocking out memories and hopes of tomorrow, erasing everything but the present, which I begin to believe will never change. There will never be anything but cold and fear and the agonized sounds of the boy dying in the horn. Peeta begins to doze off now, and each time he does, I find myself yelling his name louder and louder because if he goes and dies on me now, I know I'll go completely insane. He's fighting it, probably more for me than for him, and it's hard because unconsciousness would be its own form of escape. But the adrenaline pumping through my body would never allow me to follow him, so I can't let him go. I just can't.The only indication of the passage of time lies in the heavens, the subtle shift of the moon. So Peeta begins pointing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the agony of the night engulfs me again.Finally, I hear him whisper that the sun is rising. I open my eyes and find the stars fading in the pale light of dawn. I can see, too, how bloodless Peeta's face has become. How little time he has left. And I know I have to get him back to the Capitol.Still, no cannon has fired. I press my good ear against the horn and can just make out Cato's voice."I think he's closer now. Katniss, can you shoot him?" Peeta asks.If he's near the mouth, I may be able to take him out. It would be an act of mercy at this point."My last arrow's in your tourniquet," I say."Make it count," says Peeta, unzipping his jacket, letting me loose.So I free the arrow, tying the tourniquet back as tightly as my frozen fingers can manage. I rub my hands together, trying to regain circulation. When I crawl to the lip of the horn and hang over the edge, I feel Peeta's hands grip me for support.It takes a few moments to find Cato in the dim light, in the blood. Then the raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where his mouth is. And I think the word he's trying to say is please.Pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into his skull. Peeta pulls me back up, bow in hand, quiver empty."Did you get him?" he whispers.The cannon fires in answer."Then we won, Katniss," he says hollowly."Hurray for us," I get out, but there's no joy of victory in my voice.

A moment  not matter what I will always Watch

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed," he says. "Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor." There's a small burst of static and then nothing more. I stare at Peeta in disbelief as the truth sinks in. They never intended to let us both live. This has all been devised by the Gamemakers to guarantee the most dramatic showdown in history. And like a fool, I bought into it. "If you think about it, it's not that surprising," he says softly. I watch as he painfully makes it to his feet. Then he's moving toward me, as if in slow motion, his hand is pulling the knife from his belt  - Before I am even aware of my actions, my bow is loaded with the arrow pointed straight at his heart. Peeta raises his eyebrows and I see the knife has already left his hand on its way to the lake where it splashes in the water. I drop my weapons and take a step back, my face burning in what can only be shame. "No," he says. "Do it." Peeta limps toward me and thrusts the weapons back in my hands. "I can't, I say. "I won't." "Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don't want to die like Cato," he says. "Then you shoot me," I say furiously, shoving the weapons back at him. "You shoot me and go home and live with it!" And as I say it, I know death right here, right now would be the easier of the two. "You know I can't," Peeta says, discarding the weapons. "Fine, I'll go first anyway." He leans down and rips the bandage off his leg, eliminating the final barrier between his blood and the earth. "No, you can't kill yourself," I say. I'm on my knees, desperately plastering the bandage back onto his wound. "Katniss," he says. "It's what I want." "You're not leaving me here alone," I say. Because if he dies, I'll never go home, not really. I'll spend the rest of my life in this arena trying to think my way out. "Listen," he says pulling me to my feet. "We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me." And he goes on about how he loves me, what life would be without me but I've stopped listening because his previous words are trapped in my head, thrashing desperately around. We both know they have to have a victor. Yes, they have to have a victor. Without a victor, the whole thing would blow up in the Gamemakers' faces. They'd have failed the Capitol. Might possibly even be executed, slowly and painfully while the cameras broadcast it to every screen in the country. If Peeta and I were both to die, or they thought we were. My fingers fumble with the pouch on my belt, freeing it. Peeta sees it and his hand clamps on my wrist. "No, I won't let you." "Trust me," I whisper. He holds my gaze for a long moment then lets me go. I loosen the top of the pouch and pour a few spoonfuls of berries into his palm. Then I fill my own. "On the count of three?" Peeta leans down and kisses me once, very gently. "The count of three," he says. We stand, our backs pressed together, our empty hands locked tight. "Hold them out. I want everyone to see," he says. I spread out my fingers, and the dark berries glisten in the sun. I give Peeta's hand one last squeeze as a signal, as a good-bye, and we begin counting. "One." Maybe I'm wrong. "Two." Maybe they don't care if we both die. "Three!" It's too late to change my mind. I lift my hand to my mouth, taking one last look at the world. The berries have just passed my lips when the trumpets begin to blare. The frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above them. "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you  -  the tributes of District Twelve!"  

And we are not done Yet...

The hovercraft materializes overhead and two ladders drop, only there's no way I'm letting go of Peeta. I keep one arm around him as I help him up, and we each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes us in place, and this time I'm glad because I'm not really sure Peeta can hang on for the whole ride. And since my eyes were looking down, I can see that while our muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of Peeta's leg. Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he slumps to the floor unconscious. My fingers are still gripping the back of his jacket so tightly that when they take him away it tears leaving me with a fistful of black fabric. Doctors in sterile white, masked and gloved, already prepped to operate, go into action. Peeta's so pale and still on a silver table, tubes and wires springing out of him every which way, and for a moment I forget we're out of the Games and I see the doctors as just one more threat, one more pack of mutts designed to kill him. Petrified, I lunge for him, but I'm caught and thrust back into another room, and a glass door seals between us. I pound on the glass, screaming my head off. Everyone ignores me except for some Capitol attendant who appears behind me and offers me a beverage. I slump down on the floor, my face against the door, staring uncomprehendingly at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty. Through the glass, I see the doctors working feverishly on Peeta, their brows creased in concentration. I see the flow of liquids, pumping through the tubes, watch a wall of dials and lights that mean nothing to me. I'm not sure, but I think his heart stops twice. It's like being home again, when they bring in the hopelessly mangled person from the mine explosion, or the woman in her third day of labor, or the famished child struggling against pneumonia and my mother and Prim, they wear that same look on their faces. Now is the time to run away to the woods, to hide in the trees until the patient is long gone and in another part of the Seam the hammers make the coffin. But I'm held here both by the hovercraft walls and the same force that holds the loved ones of the dying. How often I've seen them, ringed around our kitchen table and I thought, Why don't they leave? Why do they stay to watch? And now I know. It's because you have no choice. I startle when I catch someone staring at me from only a few inches away and then realize it's my own face reflecting back in the glass. Wild eyes, hollow cheeks, my hair in a tangled mat. Rabid. Feral. Mad. No wonder everyone is keeping a safe distance from me.

I slip my legs out of bed, nervous about how they will bear my weight and find them strong and steady. Lying at the foot of the bed is an outfit that makes me flinch. It's what all of us tributes wore in the arena. I stare at it as if it had teeth until I remember that, of course, this is what I will wear to greet my team. I'm dressed in less than a minute and fidgeting in front of the wall where I know there's a door even if I can't see it when suddenly it slides open. I step into a wide, deserted hall that appears to have no other doors on it. But it must. And behind one of them must be Peeta. Now that I'm conscious and moving, I'm growing more and more anxious about him. He must be all right or the Avox girl wouldn't have said so. But I need to see him for myself. "Peeta!" I call out, since there's no one to ask. I hear my name in response, but it's not his voice. It's a voice that provokes first irritation and then eagerness. Effie. I turn and see them all waiting in a big chamber at the end of the hall  -  Effie, Haymitch, and Cinna. My feet take off without hesitation. Maybe a victor should show more restraint, more superiority, especially when she knows this will be on tape, but I don't care. I run for them and surprise even myself when I launch into Haymitch's arms first. When he whispers in my ear, "Nice job, sweetheart," it doesn't sound sarcastic. Effie's somewhat teary and keeps patting my hair and talking about how she told everyone we were pearls. Cinna just hugs me tight and doesn't say anything. Then I notice Portia is absent and get a bad feeling. "Where's Portia? Is she with Peeta? He is all right, isn't he? I mean, he's alive?" I blurt out. "He's fine. Only they want to do your reunion live on air at the ceremony," says Haymitch. "Oh. That's all," I say. The awful moment of thinking Peeta's dead again passes. "I guess I'd want to see that myself." "Go on with Cinna. He has to get you ready," says Haymitch. It's a relief to be alone with Cinna, to feel his protective arm around my shoulders as he guides me away from the cameras, down a few passages and to an elevator that leads to the lobby of the Training Center. The hospital then is far underground, even beneath the gym where the tributes practiced tying knots and throwing spears. The windows of the lobby are darkened, and a handful of guards stand on duty. No one else is there to see us cross to the tribute elevator. Our footsteps echo in the emptiness. And when we ride up to the twelfth floor, the faces of all the tributes who will never return flash across my mind and there's a heavy, tight place in my chest. 

When the elevator doors open, Venia, Flavius, and Octavia engulf me, talking so quickly and ecstatically I can't make out their words. The sentiment is clear though. They are truly thrilled to see me and I'm happy to see them, too, although not like I was to see Cinna. It's more in the way one might be glad to see an affectionate trio of pets at the end of a particularly difficult day.

Okay I know this part doesn’t really have Peeta in it but It’s super important 

Haymitch's eyes shift around my musty holding space, and he seems to make a decision. "But nothing. How about a hug for luck?"

Okay, that's an odd request from Haymitch but, after all, we are victors. Maybe a hug for luck is in order. Only, when I put my arms around his neck, I find myself trapped in his embrace. He begins talking, very fast, very quietly in my ear, my hair concealing his lips.

"Listen up. You're in trouble. Word is the Capitol's furious about you showing them up in the arena. The one thing they can't stand is being laughed at and they're the joke of Panem," says Haymitch.

I feel dread coursing through me now, but I laugh as though Haymitch is saying something completely delightful because nothing is covering my mouth. "So, what?"

"Your only defense can be you were so madly in love you weren't responsible for your actions." Haymitch pulls back and adjusts my hairband. "Got it, sweetheart?" He could be talking about anything now.

"Got it," I say. "Did you tell Peeta this?"

"Don't have to," says Haymitch. "He's already there."

"But you think I'm not?" I say, taking the opportunity to straighten a bright red bow tie Cinna must have wrestled him into.

"Since when does it matter what I think?" says Haymitch. "Better take our places." He leads me to the metal circle. "This is your night, sweetheart. Enjoy it." He kisses me on the forehead and disappears into the gloom.

I tug on my skirt, willing it to be longer, wanting it to cover the knocking in my knees. Then I realize it's pointless. My whole body's shaking like a leaf. Hopefully, it will be put down to excitement. After all, it's my night.

  The anthem booms in my ears, and then I hear Caesar Flickerman greeting the audience. Does he know how crucial it is to get every word right from now on? He must. He will want to help us. The crowd breaks into applause as the prep teams are presented. I imagine Flavius, Venia, and Octavia bouncing around and taking ridiculous, bobbing bows. It's a safe bet they're clueless. Then Effie's introduced. How long she's waited for this moment. I hope she's able to enjoy it because as misguided as Effie can be, she has a very keen instinct about certain things and must at least suspect we're in trouble. Portia and Cinna receive huge cheers, of course, they've been brilliant, had a dazzling debut. I now understand Cinna's choice of dress for me for tonight. I'll need to look as girlish and innocent as possible. Haymitch's appearance brings a round of stomping that goes on at least five minutes. Well, he's accomplished a first. Keeping not only one but two tributes alive. What if he hadn't warned me in time? Would I have acted differently? Flaunted the moment with the berries in the Capitol's face? No, I don't think so. But I could easily have been a lot less convincing than I need to be now. Right now. Because I can feel the plate lifting me up to the stage. Blinding lights. The deafening roar rattles the metal under my feet. Then there's Peeta just a few yards away. He looks so clean and healthy and beautiful, I can hardly recognize him. But his smile is the same whether in mud or in the Capitol and when I see it, I take about three steps and fling myself into his arms. He staggers back, almost losing his balance, and that's when I realize the slim, metal contraption in his hand is some kind of cane. He rights himself and we just cling to each other while the audience goes insane. He's kissing me and all the time I'm thinking, Do you know? Do you know how much danger we're in? After about ten minutes of this, Caesar Flickerman taps on his shoulder to continue the show, and Peeta just pushes him aside without even glancing at him. The audience goes berserk. Whether he knows or not, Peeta is, as usual, playing the crowd exactly right. Finally, Haymitch interrupts us and gives us a good-natured shove toward the victor's chair. Usually, this is a single, ornate chair from which the winning tribute watches a film of the highlights of the Games, but since there are two of us, the Gamemakers have provided a plush red velvet couch. A small one, my mother would call it a love seat, I think. I sit so close to Peeta that I'm practically on his lap, but one look from Haymitch tells me it isn't enough. Kicking off my sandals, I tuck my feet to the side and lean my head against Peeta's shoulder. His arm goes around me automatically, and I feel like I'm back in the cave, curled up against him, trying to keep warm. His shirt is made of the same yellow material as my dress, but Portia's put him in long black pants. No sandals, either, but a pair of sturdy black boots he keeps solidly planted on the stage. I wish Cinna had given me a similar outfit, I feel so vulnerable in this flimsy dress. But I guess that was the point.

All I know is that the only thing keeping me on this love seat is Peeta  -  his arm around my shoulder, his other hand claimed by both of mine. Of course, the previous victors didn't have the Capitol looking for a way to destroy them. Condensing several weeks into three hours is quite a feat, especially when you consider how many cameras were going at once. Whoever puts together the highlights has to choose what sort of story to tell. This year, for the first time, they tell a love story. I know Peeta and I won, but a disproportionate amount of time is spent on us, right from the beginning. I'm glad though, because it supports the whole crazy-in-love thing that's my defense for defying the Capitol, plus it means we won't have as much time to linger over the deaths. The first half hour or so focuses on the pre-arena events, the reaping, the chariot ride through the Capitol, our training scores, and our interviews. There's this sort of upbeat soundtrack playing under it that makes it twice as awful because, of course, almost everyone on-screen is dead. Once we're in the arena, there's detailed coverage of the bloodbath and then the filmmakers basically alternate between shots of tributes dying and shots of us. Mostly Peeta really, there's no question he's carrying this romance thing on his shoulders. Now I see what the audience saw, how he misled the Careers about me, stayed awake the entire night under the tracker jacker tree, fought Cato to let me escape and even while he lay in that mud bank, whispered my name in his sleep. I seem heartless in comparison  -  dodging fireballs, dropping nests, and blowing up supplies  -  until I go hunting for Rue. They play her death in full, the spearing, my failed rescue attempt, my arrow through the boy from District 1's throat, Rue drawing her last breath in my arms. And the song. I get to sing every note of the song. Something inside me shuts down and I'm too numb to feel anything. It's like watching complete strangers in another Hunger Games. But I do notice they omit the part where I covered her in flowers. Right. Because even that smacks of rebellion. Things pick up for me once they've announced two tributes from the same district can live and I shout out Peeta's name and then clap my hands over my mouth. If I've seemed indifferent to him earlier, I make up for it now, by finding him, nursing him back to health, going to the feast for the medicine, and being very free with my kisses. Objectively, I can see the mutts and Cato's death are as gruesome as ever, but again, I feel it happens to people I have never met. And then comes the moment with the berries. I can hear the audience hushing one another, not wanting to miss anything. A wave of gratitude to the filmmakers sweeps over me when they end not with the announcement of our victory, but with me pounding on the glass door of the hovercraft, screaming Peeta's name as they try to revive him. In terms of survival, it's my best moment all night. The anthem's playing yet again and we rise as President Snow himself takes the stage followed by a little girl carrying a cushion that holds the crown. There's just one crown, though, and you can hear the crowd's confusion  -  whose head will he place it on?  -  until President Snow gives it a twist and it separates into two halves. He places the first around Peeta's brow with a smile. He's still smiling when he settles the second on my head, but his eyes, just inches from mine, are as unforgiving as a snake's. That's when I know that even though both of us would have eaten the berries, I am to blame for having the idea. I'm the instigator. I'm the one to be punished. Much bowing and cheering follows. My arm is about to fall off from waving when Caesar Flickerman finally bids the audience good night, reminding them to tune in tomorrow for the final interviews. As if they have a choice. Peeta and I are whisked to the president's mansion for the Victory Banquet, where we have very little time to eat as Capitol officials and particularly generous sponsors elbow one another out of the way as they try to get their picture with us. Face after beaming face flashes by, becoming increasingly intoxicated as the evening wears on. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of Haymitch, which is reassuring, or President Snow, which is terrifying, but I keep laughing and thanking people and smiling as my picture is taken. The one thing I never do is let go of Peeta's hand. The sun is just peeking over the horizon when we straggle back to the twelfth floor of the Training Center. I think now I'll finally get a word alone with Peeta, but Haymitch sends him off with Portia to get something fitted for the interview and personally escorts me to my door. "Why can't I talk to him?" I ask. "Plenty of time for talk when we get home," says Haymitch. "Go to bed, you're on air at two."

The interview takes place right down the hall in the sitting room. A space has been cleared and the love seat has been moved in and surrounded by vases of red and pink roses. There are only a handful of cameras to record the event. No live audience at least. Caesar Flickerman gives me a warm hug when I. come in. "Congratulations, Katniss. How are you faring?" "Fine. Nervous about the interview," I say. "Don't be. We're going to have a fabulous time," he says, giving my cheek a reassuring pat. "I'm not good at talking about myself," I say. "Nothing you say will be wrong," he says. And I think, Oh, Caesar, if only that were true. But actually, President Snow may be arranging some sort of "accident" for me as we speak. Then Peeta's there looking handsome in red and white, pulling me off to the side. "I hardly get to see you. Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart." Haymitch is actually bent on keeping us alive, but there are too many ears listening, so I just say, "Yes, he's gotten very responsible lately." "Well, there's just this and we go home. Then he can't watch us all the time," says Peeta. I feel a sort of shiver run through me and there's no time to analyze why, because they're ready for us. We sit somewhat formally on the love seat, but Caesar says, "Oh, go ahead and curl up next to him if you want. It looked very sweet." So I tuck my feet up and Peeta pulls me in close to him. Someone counts backward and just like that, we're being broadcast live to the entire country. Caesar Flickerman is wonderful, teasing, joking, getting choked up when the occasion presents itself. He and Peeta already have the rapport they established that night of the first interview, that easy banter, so I just smile a lot and try to speak as little as possible. I mean, I have to talk some, but as soon as I can I redirect the conversation back to Peeta. Eventually though, Caesar begins to pose questions that insist on fuller answers. "Well, Peeta, we know, from our days in the cave, that it was love at first sight for you from what, age five?" Caesar says. "From the moment I laid eyes on her," says Peeta. "But, Katniss, what a ride for you. I think the real excitement for the audience was watching you fall for him. When did you realize you were in love with him?" asks Caesar. "Oh, that's a hard one. " I give a faint, breathy laugh and look down at my hands. Help. "Well, I know when it hit me. The night when you shouted out his name from that tree," says Caesar. Thank you, Caesar! I think, and then go with his idea. "Yes, I guess that was it. I mean, until that point, I just tried not to think about what my feelings might be, honestly, because it was so confusing and it only made things worse if I actually cared about him. But then, in the tree, everything changed," I say. "Why do you think that was?" urges Caesar. "Maybe. because for the first time. there was a chance I could keep him," I say. Behind a cameraman, I see Haymitch give a sort of huff with relief and I know I've said the right thing. Caesar pulls out a handkerchief and has to take a moment because he's so moved. I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks, "So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?"

I turn in to him. "Put you somewhere you can't get hurt." And when he kisses me, people in the room actually sigh.

For Caesar, this is a natural place to segue into all the ways we did get hurt in the arena, from burns, to stings, to wounds. But it's not until we get around to the mutts that I forget I'm on camera. When Caesar asks Peeta how his "new leg" is working out.

"New leg?" I say, and I can't help reaching out and pulling up the bottom of Peeta's pants. "Oh, no," I whisper, taking in the metal-and-plastic device that has replaced his flesh.

"No one told you?" asks Caesar gently. I shake my head.

"I haven't had the chance," says Peeta with a slight shrug.

"It's my fault," I say. "Because I used that tourniquet."

"Yes, it's your fault I'm alive," says Peeta.

"He's right," says Caesar. "He'd have bled to death for sure without it."

I guess this is true, but I can't help feeling upset about it to the extent that I'm afraid I might cry and then I remember everyone in the country is watching me so I just bury my face in Peeta's shirt. It takes them a couple of minutes to coax me back out because it's better in the shirt, where no one can see me, and when I do come out, Caesar backs off questioning me so I can recover. In fact, he pretty much leaves me alone until the berries come up.

"Katniss, I know you've had a shock, but I've got to ask. The moment when you pulled out those berries. What was going on in your mind. hm?" he says.

I take a long pause before I answer, trying to collect my thoughts. This is the crucial moment where I either challenged the Capitol or went so crazy at the idea of losing Peeta that I can't be held responsible for my actions. It seems to call for a big, dramatic speech, but all I get out is one almost inaudible sentence. "I don't know, I just. couldn't bear the thought of. being without him."

"Peeta? Anything to add?" asks Caesar.

"No. I think that goes for both of us," he says.

Caesar signs off and it's over. Everyone's laughing and crying and hugging, but I'm still not sure until I reach Haymitch. "Okay?" I whisper.

"Perfect," he answers.

I go back to my room to collect a few things and find there's nothing to take but the mockingjay pin Madge gave me. Someone returned it to my room after the Games. They drive us through the streets in a car with blackened windows, and the train's waiting for us. We barely have time to say good-bye to Cinna and Portia, although we'll see them in a few months, when we tour the districts for a round of victory ceremonies. It's the Capitol's way of reminding people that the Hunger Games never really go away. We'll be given a lot of useless plaques, and everyone will have to pretend they love us.

The train begins moving and we're plunged into night until we clear the tunnel and I take my first free breath since the reaping. Effie is accompanying us back and Haymitch, too, of course. We eat an enormous dinner and settle into silence in front of the television to watch a replay of the interview. With the Capitol growing farther away every second, I begin to think of home. Of Prim and my mother. Of Gale. I excuse myself to change out of my dress and into a plain shirt and pants. As I slowly, thoroughly wash the makeup from my face and put my hair in its braid, I begin transforming back into myself. Katniss Everdeen. A girl who lives in the Seam. Hunts in the woods. Trades in the Hob. I stare in the mirror as I try to remember who I am and who I am not. By the time I join the others, the pressure of Peeta's arm around my shoulders feels alien.

When the train makes a brief stop for fuel, we're allowed to go outside for some fresh air. There's no longer any need to guard us. Peeta and I walk down along the track, hand in hand, and I can't find anything to say now that we're alone. He stops to gather a bunch of wildflowers for me. When he presents them, I work hard to look pleased. Because he can't know that the pink-and-white flowers are the tops of wild onions and only remind me of the hours I've spent gathering them with Gale.

Gale. The idea of seeing Gale in a matter of hours makes my stomach churn. But why? I can't quite frame it in my mind. I only know that I feel like I've been lying to someone who trusts me. Or more accurately, to two people. I've been getting away with it up to this point because of the Games. But there will be no Games to hide behind back home.

"What's wrong?" Peeta asks.

"Nothing," I answer. We continue walking, past the end of the train, out where even I'm fairly sure there are no cameras hidden in the scrubby bushes along the track. Still no words come.

Haymitch startles me when he lays a hand on my back. Even now, in the middle of nowhere, he keeps his voice down. "Great job, you two. Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be okay." I watch him head back to the train, avoiding Peeta's eyes.

"What's he mean?" Peeta asks me.

"It's the Capitol. They didn't like our stunt with the berries," I blurt out.

"What? What are you talking about?" he says.

"It seemed too rebellious. So, Haymitch has been coaching me through the last few days. So I didn't make it worse," I say.

"Coaching you? But not me," says Peeta.

"He knew you were smart enough to get it right," I say.

"I didn't know there was anything to get right," says Peeta. "So, what you're saying is, these last few days and then I guess. back in the arena. that was just some strategy you two worked out."

"No. I mean, I couldn't even talk to him in the arena, could I?" I stammer.

"But you knew what he wanted you to do, didn't you?" says Peeta. I bite my lip. "Katniss?" He drops my hand and I take a step, as if to catch my balance.

"It was all for the Games," Peeta says. "How you acted."

"Not all of it," I say, tightly holding onto my flowers.

"Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what's going to be left when we get home?" he says.

"I don't know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get," I say. He waits, for further explanation, but none's forthcoming.

"Well, let me know when you work it out," he says, and the pain in his voice is palpable.

I know my ears are healed because, even with the rumble of the engine, I can hear every step he takes back to the train. By the time I've climbed aboard, Peeta has disappiared into his room for the night. I don't see him the next morning, either. In fact, the next time he turns up, we're pulling into District 12. He gives me a nod, his face expressionless.

I want to tell him that he's not being fair. That we were strangers. That I did what it took to stay alive, to keep us both alive in the arena. That I can't explain how things are with Gale because I don't know myself. That it's no good loving me because I'm never going to get married anyway and he'd just end up hating me later instead of sooner. That if I do have feelings for him, it doesn't matter because I'll never be able to afford the kind of love that leads to a family, to children. And how can he? How can he after what we've just been through?

I also want to tell him how much I already miss him. But that wouldn't be fair on my part.

So we just stand there silently, watching our grimy little station rise up around us. Through the window, I can see the platform's thick with cameras. Everyone will be eagerly watching our homecoming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta extend his hand. I look at him, unsure. "One more time? For the audience?" he says. His voice isn't angry. It's hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me.

I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.

[somedayonbroadway]

Newsies Bandstand AU??

Bandstand AU

Since I already had an ask for a Bandstand AU, I wrote a scene! Please enjoy I Know a Guy!

“How’s the house tonight?”

“Good! Lining up outside already!”

Tony nodded, assembling his saxophone steadily in his arms, ready to play a few notes and get warmed up. He might make rent this month after all. That is, if his damn band would show up on time. “Of course Skip’s runnin’ late…” he muttered to himself, checking his watch for what must’ve been the millionth time. “Can’t find a decent piano player that shows up on time…” Shaking his head, he started to warm up anyways.

He failed to notice someone sliding in through the door just beside him.

“Hiya.” The voice caught him off guard. If he hadn’t been beside a chair that he could latch onto so quickly, he might’ve fallen over. But he closed his eyes for a moment, collecting himself before looking over at the man beside him, hardly more than a few years older than him, smirking at him, smugness radiating off of him. “Didn’t mean ta scare ya, pal… I’m lookin’ for Antonio Higgins.”

“Well, ya found him, but he ain’t too keen on talkin’ ta you right about now,” Tony said. “We ain’t open yet.” He turned to continue rehearsing.

But this man wasn’t going to give up so easily. “The backdoor is,” he stated, pointing back to the door he’d just entered with a small grin. Tony just glared. The guy’s smile fell just a little. “Sorry… I… did you used ta play with a cat who went by the name a’ Specs? He called you—“

“Racer…” Tony finished for him, actually turning to face this stranger now. “The drummer. We played a few gigs outta of high school,” he recalled.

Nodding along, the man stepped closer to him. Tony didn’t stop him. “You went into the Air Force—?”

“Navy,” the younger man corrected immediately. He caught himself. He knew lashing out did no good. “What… what is this? My pianist ‘ll be here any second now—“

“I was army. 37th infantry,” the man informed, taking the cap off of his head and biting his lip, suddenly looking slightly nervous. “Specs said you’re good.”

Tony looked down at his shoes for a moment. “Look… I ain’t tryin’ ta be rude but I gotta show ta prepare for—“

“You can really swing, huh?”

This man seemed determined to make sure he could hardly get in a full sentence at a time. Race hated that. “If ya wait in line and pay like everyone else, you’ll find out,” he shot back.

The guy’s smirk fell easily back onto his face. “Ya know Tell Me The Night?”

Tony looked back up at this ridiculous stranger. “What are you smoking?”

The man frowned. “I’m sorry, ya don’t know Tell Me The Night?”

Somewhere in the back of Tony’s mind, he knew it was a challenge. But he’d never been one to back down from a challenge anyhow. So he brought his sax to his lips and began to play with more than just his instrument.

The man grinned, slipping onto the piano bench beside him and playing along easily, fitting his crazy improved notes in perfectly with Tony’s.

When they finished, there was an easier look on both of their faces.

The man at the piano held out his hand. “The name’s Jack,” he introduced. Tony nodded, a small smile falling on his lips as he shook Jack’s hand. “I’m… I’m thinkin’ about starting a band. All vets.”

Pausing at that, Tony stepped away, trying to make himself look busy. “I’m gettin’ a law degree. I can’t—“

“We’ll make it work.” If there was one thing Tony could tell about Jack, is what that he wasn’t one to take no for an answer. Tony admired that. It didn’t make it any less annoying. “There’s this contest on the radio…”

“The NBC thing,” the blond confirmed.

“Bingo,” Jack winked. “They just announced the statewide competition is gonna be held here in Cleveland.” The smug man shrugged. “We have the hometown advantage. What do you say?”

He had such confidence about him. Tony couldn’t help but be drawn to it. “I suppose you’d be the band leader?”

“Naturally,” Jack deadpanned. “That a yes?”

“That’s a ‘Jesus Christ, you’re relentless’,” Tony drawled, running a hand through his curls.

Jack’s raised his eyebrows as though telling this man he already knew that. “You’re welcome.”

Tony let out a small laugh as he positioned his saxophone against his chest. “Is Specs on drums?”

All the energy in the room seemed to be sucked away at that simple question. Jack’s smile fell slowly and he lowered his gaze. “Uh… no… he didn’t make it back…”

Tony’s heart broke again after it had so many times before. He didn’t know if he’d be able to keep stitching it back together. “Oh…”

“Yeah…” Jack reached to rub at the back of his neck. “So… so do you know any other guys? Who served, but young n’ good looking? Like us?”

Squinting, Tony shrugged. “It’s radio. What does it matter?”

“If we win,” Jack said, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping even closer to the younger man. “We get to be in the movies. Do you know any?”

For a moment, Tony genuinely thought about it. If he didn’t give this guy some names, Jack would surely hunt others down just as he’d done to him. Might as well give him some good players and be able to stop the panic attack Jack had nearly caused him. “Sean Conlon. Kicks it on bass. Plays at Oliver’s every weekend. Best of the best when he ain’t high,” he stated, smirking himself when he saw Jack’s eyes widen only slightly. “He’s army too.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Jack insisted, accepting the challenge.

Tony might like this guy after all. “Meet me at the Rio Lounge tomorrow night,” he offered, turning to get the stage set.

But Jack stopped him. “Wait, he plays at the Rio?!” he asked.

Turning back to him, Racer shook his head. “Nope. He drinks there.”

“We’re ready to open, Tony.”

“Let ‘em all in.”

—

“Alright, alright! I got anotha’ one!” Sean laughed, waving over the bartender who’d been serving him all night. He was slightly beyond drunk and the bartender had told him several times that he was going to be cut off soon. It didn’t stop him from sneaking drinks off the folks around him. “A pirate walks into a bar with a ship's steering wheel on the front of his pants. The bartender says 'hey Captain, you've got a steering wheel stuck to your crotch.' The pirate says 'arrgh, it's driving me nuts.'”

“Very funny, Mr. Conlon, but jokes aren’t going to buy you more drinks,” the man behind the counter stated. Sean stuck just tongue out at him, turning around on his stool, coming face to face with familiar blue eyes.

“Spottie… still as soft n’ friendly as eva’, I see…”

“Tell anyone n’ you’re a dead man, ya skinny son of a bitch,” Sean laughed, playfully punching the younger man’s shoulder. “What wind blew carried ya here, Higgins?”

Before Race could even try to respond, he was pulled into a tight hug. “Spot, this Jack Kelly. Kelly, this is Spot,” he introduced, pulling out of the embrace and gesturing to the man standing with a small smile behind him. “Jack, here made it through Solomon Islands…”

Spot looked the man up and down and smiled. “Well, I’ll tickle your catastrophe,” he shrugged. “I liberated Dachau.”

“Jesus…” Jack breathed.

“Hey, Tony told me about your band idea!” Spot gently hit Race in the chest with the back of his hand before reaching back to clasp Jack on the shoulder. “I’ve heard about you,” he explained. “So my cousin marries this Polak, right? Turns out, this guy!” Spot laughed, shaking Jack gently, “played accordion at her wedding! When he was somethin’ like what? Ten years old?”

A small but easily hidden blush crept up Jack’s neck. “Well, ya know the differenve between and accordion and Hitler?” he asked, quickly finding this man enjoyed humor. Spot shrugged. “One perpetrated years of oppression and humiliation on the Polish people… and the other is Hitler.”

It only took Spot a moment before he was engaging in a drunken laughing spell, patting Jack on the back as both of the other men laughed along with him. “You see, ‘I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men’.”

Jack looked between Spot and Racer, trying to figure out what had just been said to him. “I have… no idea what you just said, but I hope that means you’re in,” he shrugged.

Racer rolled his eyes. “It’s Shakespeare. And yeah… that means he’s in.”

A grin spread over Jack’s lips. “Oh great! That’s great! Now all we need are a couple a’ horns n’ a monster on drums!”

Before Race could even think to say anything, Spot already had an arm around Jack’s shoulders. It was slightly awkward, as Jack had about four inches on him, but it didn’t seem to stop either of them. So Race grabbed Spot’s drink and took a sip, watching the exchange ahead of him.

“Well, ya see, I know this guy. His trumpet’s hot but he ain’t no barrel a’ laughs,” Spot explained. He gestured between them. “Although, I think between that two a’ us… we might have a shot at break in’ him,” he smirked. He leaned a bit heavier on Jack and Jack could only laugh.

“Let’s do it.”

“Get your jokes ready, Jack-Be-Nimble-Jack-Be-Quick,” he winked.

Race smiled behind them.

—

Albert played a B flat. It was easy. It should’ve been easy. “Take it from bar four,” he instructed the boy before him.

The boy did not play a B flat. But he continued on anyway.

“Jesus, stop! For the love of…” he pointed to the sheet music in front of his student. “What’s that note right there?”

“B flat,” the boy stated, his voice wavering with nerves.

“How do you miss a B flat?” Albert asked him. “It’s a B flat trumpet!” He was yelling now. He made no attempt to stop or correct himself.

The boy shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I’m tryin’ my best, Mr. DaSilva…” he muttered.

Albert sighed. “I know. Heartbreaking, isn’t it?” He shook his head and let his own trumpet fall at his side. “I’ll see you next week. Ask you fatha’ if he’s got the money ta get your teeth fixed. Maybe that’ll help.” He had not remorse. The boy begrudgingly packed up his things and went, clearly frustrated.

“Gee, Al. Ya goin’ for teacher of the year, here?”

Albert rolled his eyes, looking towards the door where three men stood, only one of them familiar to him. “Somethin’ like that…”

Spot shoved his hands in his pockets. “Listen, this is the guy who thinks we belong in a band together.” He nodded towards Jack who gave him a quick wave.

Albert wasted no time getting straight to the point. “Who else is playin’ trumpet? I’m not playin’ second—“

“Just you!” Jack insisted. “But we need a trombone.”

“And a drummer,” Race added.

“Has to have served.”

Albert nodded. “I know a guy. Blows like a champ but he’d got a bug up his ass.” He grabbed his trumpet case. “You want perfect… he’s the guy ya want.”

—

“Yeah, I know a guy…” David stated, cleaning his trombone, determined to clear off every smudge. “He’s kind of a mess but a genius on drums.” He shook his head. “He’s got all the rhythm you need.”

Jack grinned, holding out his hand. “Thanks, Davey. It’s good ta have ya on board.”

“David,” the other man corrected.

Still, Jack could only smile. “Thanks, Davey!”

—

“You’re starting a band? Hey! I play the drums!”

It was hard to keep the smile on his face. But Jack did his best. “That’s why we’re here Charlie… think maybe we could hear a bit?”

The kid, younger than the rest of them grinned and hopped on his only remaining leg over to the set up in the corner.

And Jack had never heard anything like it.

It was happening.

It was all happening.

[shuheather]

50 questions

tagged by: @azfool ty these are fun !!

1. What is the color of your hair brush? I use a thick toothed comb these days and it is black

2. Name a food you never eat? Beef

3. Are you typically too warm or too cold? Lately I’ve been too cold like every day but my heat tolerance is miserable

4. What were you doing 45 minutes ago? Probably checking my work slack

5. Whats your favorite candy bar? Twix all the way bb

6. Have you ever been to a professional sports game? Yes, mostly baseball (at least Cubs, Indians, Orioles, and Red Sox but maybe more), I’ve been to some indoor football games if that counts? Also do you consider yoyoing a professional sport because I’ve been to a million yoyo competitions because of my brother

7. What was the last thing you said out loud? Something in response to one of my brothers about a video game probably

8. What is your favorite ice cream? Chocolate Chip Cheesecake from J. P. Licks (if they ever bring it back I WILL go great lengths to get some) but of the attainable variety honestly anything that has a good amount of chocolate, no fruit, and no nuts

9. What was the last thing you had to drink? Water from my water bottle

10. Do you like your wallet? Honestly not really I never use it, I just keep one of those pockets on the back of my phone for the three cards I need most at any given moment

11. What was the last thing you ate? I had a bowl of Frosted Flakes for breakfast

12. Did you buy any new clothes last weekend? No but the weekend before I thrifted a flannel that I am very excited about

13. What was the last sporting event you watched? Stanley cup final

14. What is your favorite flavor of popcorn? I could eat any sort of lightly salted popcorn for years on end but buttered is good too as long as it’s not too much. Movie theater popcorn makes my stomach upset though so no more of that

15. Who was the last person you sent a text to? Olivia

16. Ever go camping? Yes but not since I was a child

17. Do you take your vitamins? I don’t buy them on my own but when my mom tries to get me to eat gummy vitamins I say no

18. Do you regularly attend a place of worship? Whenever I’m outside I stop to look up at the treetops and the clouds a lot does that count

In all seriousness no my parents never cared about religion much so it’s not something I’ve ever been into

19. Do you have a tan? My Chaco tan from this summer is still going pretty strong but it is fading

20. Do you prefer Chinese or pizza? Chinese 100%

21. Do you drink soda through a straw? I don’t drink soda so undefined

22. What color socks do you usually wear? I always wear funny patterned socks that either I buy or other people buy for me. Common themes include cats, space, and food

23. Do you ever drive above the speed limit? Honestly yes but I try not to do more than 10 mph over

24. What terrifies you? The future of my country, that everyone I interact with secretly hates me, suffocation (but especially drowning)

25. Look to the left, what do you see? Phone, water bottle, pencil holder I sculpted in high school containing pens and honey sticks, my wall of art/letters/quotes/etc that makes me happy

26. What chore do you hate doing the most? Doing the dishes is hard sometimes

27. What do you think when you hear an Australian accent? I’m bad at separating out Australian accents from English/NZ/etc accents tbh so usually I’m just like ??? trying to figure out where they’re from

28. What’s your favorite soda? I don’t drink soda so undefined

29. Do you go in fast food places or just hit the drive thru? So I don’t eat a ton of fast food these days because their vegetarian options are often few or nonexistent however if I go to Taco Bell I always go in or order online because I do so many modifications that I would be embarassed to dictate it to a person and I would rather just input it on an order screen. Otherwise if I have my order together I’ll drive through as long as the line isn’t significantly longer than the line inside

30. What is your favorite number? I know it’s basic of me to pick my birthday number but 24 probably

31. Who’s the last person you talked to? like, out loud? My youngest brother

32. Favorite cut of beef? I don’t eat beef so undefined

33. Last song you listened too? I listen to music while I work a lot but it’s never music that I know because then my brain latches onto it, so I’m currently listening to Lucky Sue by Men I Trust on my discover weekly but the last song I knew was Just the Two of Us by Grover Washington and Bill Withers

34. Last book you read? I am currently in the middle of The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern and it is wonderful so far would recommend

35. Favorite day of the week? Saturday because I work 9-5 so it is the only day I am truly free rn

36. Can you say the alphabet backwards? I just tried and my brain went “zyxcvbnm” so no

37. How do you like your coffee? I don’t drink coffee so undefined but as a loophole I will say cookies with coffee in them are REALLY good

38. Favorite pair of shoes? In the summer my chacos, right now my feiyues, in the winter my docs

39. Time you normally get up? I am currently working hard to maintain a sleep schedule so my alarm goes off at 9 but left unsupervised I will wake up any time between 9 and noon

40. Do you prefer sunrise or sunset? If I am seeing the sunrise it usually took some level of sleep deprivation to get there which is usually not good for me in any respect so sunset

41. Describe your kitchen plates? I’m living at home rn so we have a variety which includes my plastic Barbie plate which I think is actually older than me but also these plates that were supposed to be fancy dishware and my mom was like “if we don’t just use these they will sit in a box forever” so now they are our normal dishes

42. How many blankets on your bed? I sleep with a sheet (look I also used to be anti sheet but sleeping in a place with no AC changed me okay) and a comforter. In the winter I might add another blanket but I get warm when I sleep so extra blankets are usually not necessary

43. Describe your kitchen at the moment? There is such thing as having too many spice mixes

44. Do you have a favorite alcoholic drink? I do not drink so no

45. Do you play cards? I used to a lot when I was a kid but now I mostly just play solitaire on my phone

46. What color is your car? I don’t have a car of my own but the car I share with my brother is maroon

47. Can you change a tire? I might need to follow instructions but with instructions I believe I could

48. Favorite state? I don’t think I have a favorite state but if we were doing some sort of mathematical analysis a large amount of my favorite places are currently in Massachusetts

49. Favorite job you’ve ever had? I think probably my current one which is Database/IT stuff for a racial equity nonprofit

50. Tagging: @alnasak because it’s just like the good old days