#the sketch does not have cake i just. made that line way too thick and a little too curved so it. … Gave Him Cake

[kirk]

i did not want to be That Guy but literally if i keep seeing that the only tags ppl leave on that peterick bunk cuddling art is about petes ass i swear i WILL start biting people like i know it’s meant for fun and trust me it was funny to me to begin with too but having smth like that said over and over. without any sort of like further. compliment or excitement at least after is just disheartening at this point

[monabela]

who wants some corny slice of life lietpol? the answer is me! because I had not written anything yet this year and it felt Bad. I might do more of these little..... moments, for other pairings. it’s a fun exercise in characterization. 

--

sunshine (once again)

characters/pairings: Lithuania (Tolys)/Poland (Feliks) word count: 1800  summary: On a sunny spring day, Feliks can only be glad of where he is right now.

--

Feliks draws idle shapes on his sketchpad, tracing shadows as they pass through the sunlight. The shadow of the brim of his hat is the base—he imagines it’s the surface of a new planet that he can populate as he wishes.

Irrevocably, though, his eye is drawn away from what is supposed to be work and across the small tiled terrace in the backyard, to where Tolys is humming under his breath and kneeling amid the flowers, carefully digging holes for new ones and removing weeds. There is sunlight in the man’s hair, bringing out both the deep gold and emerging silver among the brown strands. His dirt-caked hands are careful with bulbs and flowers, and quick with weeds.

Looking back down, Feliks draws a vaguely humanoid shape on his sketchpad, which he really shouldn’t be doing because it’s expensive, professional paper, but, well, this sheet is already wasted either way, so he can’t do further harm. It’s relaxing.

Tolys interrupts his humming.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he says, gently. “Get out of here. Go home.”

He’s shooing the neighbor’s cat away when Feliks looks, waving his little spade at it.

“Come on, go on. No, I don’t have anything to eat for you.” Helplessly, he looks over at Feliks when the cat drops itself to its back without preamble as if it’s asking for pets. Feliks sketches an amused little wave and gestures at his nose. Tolys shakes his head, unimpressed but amused.

Well, it is true that Feliks doesn’t usually let his allergies deter him from petting any cat. Or dog. He’s not picky. He just doesn’t feel like getting up right now.

“Get,” Tolys tries again, to the cat. And then, “Well, fine.”

After he pets the cat for four seconds, the animal jumps up and races away, leaving his hand hovering in mid-air. Feliks snorts.

Then innocently looks at his ridiculous drawing so he only hears Tolys’s answering huff.

Before long, the large sheet of paper is just about full of nonsense—although Feliks made an effort at the last moment to at least do some experimental sketches of buildings one might find on this planet of his. Just as a thought exercise. He’s pretty sure the geometry doesn’t make sense on at least two of them.

Tolys, who has by now upgraded to whistling the same tune—or downgraded, maybe, Feliks couldn’t say—is patting the ground around the last sprout into place when he checks, reaching across the other flowers carefully. His sleeveless shirt shows off his shoulders, strong and tanned by the late spring sun. Feliks knows he has freckles there, which fascinates him because there are none anywhere else on his body as far as he’s aware.

A shadow falls over his paper.

“I thought you said you were working,” Tolys says, amused and standing in front of Feliks. He shields his eyes from the sun and tilts his head to look at the drawing.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Feliks shrugs up at him, smiling faintly, and Tolys laughs brightly. When he swipes his hair away from his face, some dirt crumbles off his fingers to slide down his shirt, and he looks at his hands. Feliks shivers at the dirt under his nails. He can practically feel it.

“Remind me that we need gardening gloves.” Tolys picks at his fingernails.

“Got it.”

“I’ll go and wash this off, at least.”

Feliks nods, then puts his sketchpad on the bench next to himself and stands, pushing his hat back a little so he doesn’t hit Tolys in the face with it.

“Do you want some coffee after you’re done?”

“Yes, thanks!”

Waiting for him to take his old sneakers off outside and enter the house through the conservatory, Feliks follows him to start up the coffee maker in the kitchen. He stares absently at the gentle drip of fragrant coffee while the water runs in the bathroom, combing his fingers through his own hair where his hat has flattened it, until Tolys come back downstairs, wearing different clothes and with clean hands.

“Almost done,” Feliks mumbles. Tolys pulls their usual cups down from the cupboards.

When they both have their coffee, they go outside again. Tolys takes a banana as well, which he breaks in half to share with Feliks. Feliks, meanwhile, kicks his slippers off and sits cross-legged on the bench, turning his face to the sun for a moment before shielding it with the hat again.

“Are you done with the garden?” he asks Tolys.

“For now, yes.” He smiles at it over the rim of his coffee cup. “It’ll be beautiful come summer.” Resting his cup on his thigh, he flexes the fingers of his free hand, which, while clean, now look quite red and very dry. Feliks frowns, shoving the last piece of his banana into his mouth.

“Give,” he says, beckoning. Tolys startles and raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Your hands.”

“I’m holding—”

“One hand at a time.” Turning sideways on the bench, shifting the cushions on the wood a bit, Feliks grasps Tolys’s left hand, which is the one closest to him. The man doesn’t say anything, just smiles and cradles his coffee cup with his other hand.

Feliks tsks as he runs a thumb across the new calluses on Tolys’s index finger and palm, holding his hand between both of his own. Feliks’s fingers are small and pale compared to Tolys’s, graphite staining his left hand but the nails smooth and clean. He pushes his thumbs down gently at the base of the palm, sweeping one down over Tolys’s wrist, where his skin is soft and warm.

“I should really have some, ah, like, some hand cream,” he says absently, and Tolys smiles.

“This is good enough.” With the back resting on Feliks’s knee, his hand is limp while it is gently kneaded, only the fingertips curling inwards. Grinning, Feliks taps them with his own as if pressing piano keys, before moving on to Tolys’s fingers.

They’re always thoughtful, those fingers, gentle with flowers and sure with those old-fashioned fountain pens Tolys likes to use for work. They may not know how to play the piano or how to braid very well, but Feliks trusts them to touch him in a way he doesn’t trust many things to. Because Tolys knows when to stop, and Feliks has learned to tell him to do so in return. And to listen.

He warms Tolys’s fingers between his own in the sunshine until he’s satisfied that he’s comfortable and swipes his thumb over his wrist again.

“Let me guess, you want my other hand now,” Tolys says without looking at him, face turned to the sun and eyes closed.

“Well, you do use both of them.”

At that, he opens one mossy green eye to look at Feliks, inclining his head slightly.

“I use the right hand more.”

“All the more reason, then.” Feliks reaches across his body with both hands and grasps his right one, pulling it towards himself. Although Tolys laughs, it’s gentle, and he shifts just enough to be comfortable. He closes his eyes again.

Opens them.

“Don’t forget to drink your coffee.”

Oh, of course. Reluctantly, Feliks drops the hand to grab his coffee and drink it all quickly. He grimaces.

Tolys snickers, then closes his eyes again and looks perfectly innocent.

“Can’t believe you,” Feliks mutters, but he watches the smile curl around Tolys’s lips with warm affection anyway as he picks his hand up again. Despite the gentleness of the smile, it pulls at his cheek and the corner of his eyes, marking the skin with little lines that speak of something true.

“You keep drinking coffee,” Tolys says mildly.

“You keep buying this brand.” He ghosts his fingertips over the sensitive inside of his elbow, which makes him jump just a little, and laughs.

“Feliks.”

He just keeps smiling. It may be cheating a bit to tickle someone when being tickled himself makes Feliks extremely uncomfortable, but Tolys has assured him that he doesn’t mind, every now and then.

When Feliks is done with his right hand as well, Tolys opens his eyes again, looking a little bleary. He blinks, looking up at him from his slight slouch.

“Where did you learn that?” he asks, as if just now realizing what he was actually doing.

Feliks just shrugs. He honestly doesn’t know where he picked up half the things he knows—it just took him a long time to find his way in life, and he took a lot of detours to get there.

“Well, it’s nice.” Tolys turns his hand over to clasp his knee for a moment.

“I could do your head, too,” Feliks puts in, pretty sure he did a course where he learned about scalp massages once.

“Hm. You just want to get in my hair.”

“You like it when I do.”

In response to that, Tolys just smiles innocently. They’ve spent many evenings with Feliks silently braiding and re-braiding Tolys’s thick hair while he listens to music, the man’s head in his lap. Tolys will doze or read a book propped on his chest. It’s a kind of intimacy that suits them both perfectly, and gives Feliks’s restless fingers something to do.

“My head got quite sweaty, actually,” Tolys is saying now. “I meant to take a shower after dinner.”

“Then can I?”

He grins, nodding so that his hair sways against his jaw. Feliks doesn’t think it looks sweaty, but then, it’s harder to tell with Tolys’s dark hair than his own pale blond, which gets stringy very fast. He sometimes suspects that he is the main reason that Tolys keeps it at the length he does, which is fine by him.

Now, Tolys leaves his left hand resting on his knee and reaches over with the other to pick up his sketchpad. He holds it up as if inspecting the drawing.

“I’m quite curious about this, Feliks,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, so am I, really.” Looking at it again, it’s really just a mess, although those windows he drew in the corner are quite nice. Tolys laughs.

“I’m working, he says.”

“I made an attempt.”

“Hm.” With a lingering smile, Tolys hands the sketchpad over, drumming his fingers on Feliks’s leg once. Feliks plays an imaginary little tune on his knuckles in return.

The neighbor’s cat sits down right at the edge of the patch of new flowers, looking quite curious as well, but Tolys has closed his eyes again and doesn’t see it. Feliks puts his finger over his lips before pulling his pencil from behind his ear and adjusting his hat until it shadows the sketchpad again.

Maybe, he can get some actual work done before dinner.

[everlarkbirthdaygifts]

Happy Birthday, mega-aulover!

Happy Birthday, @mega-aulover​! We hope you’ve had a wonderful day so far, and that you got exactly the presents you were hoping for! To keep your party going a little while longer, the lovely @endlessnightlock​ has written a story just for you!

Happy birthday @mega-aulover! Here’s something a little spicy, a little sweet for your day. Soul-mark Everlark. Rated M for non-explicit sexual content.

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

The first time I remember talking to Peeta, we were five, and it was a fall day, much like today- cool and windy, a welcome cool down from the heat of summer. He was standing at the bakery’s back door with his father, his little round cheeks pink from the heat emanating from the ovens. The heat was so intense from the kitchen you could feel it out on the step, and his eyes were the bluest things I’d ever seen. I think I fell a little bit in love with him then.

We were there that morning because my father took me along with him to trade with the businesses in town. It was a day of a lot of firsts: not only did I meet Peeta, but I also had my first Mellark’s fall apple muffin- I’d never tasted anything so delicious in my life. Since that day, I’ve had lots of baked goods from Mellark’s, and while my favorite is probably the cheese buns Peeta makes especially for me, I’ll never forget those apple muffins- they were like magic.

That day also marked the first chance I had to spend the morning in the woods with my father, tagging along behind him as he hunted and checked his traps. Prim was just a baby back then, and in my hazy memory of the day, I think she was teething, and Mother needed to sleep; that’s why I got to spend the day with Father. It was such a good day, and meeting Peeta was the icing on the cake.

My father is a hunter-gatherer, and we live in a small house in the woods close to where the fence used to run, separating it from the district boundary. It isn't far from town because my mother is one of the district healers, and there was school in town that my sister and I needed to attend, of course. It’s been a wonderful place to grow up, straddling that line between wilderness and civilization. My family is a happy one.

According to my parents, our life looks entirely different from how things were even five years ago now that our country is the New Republic of Panem. 

When my parents were teenagers, the Great War erupted, and the districts, with the military backing of newly rediscovered Thirteen, rose together and defeated the Capitol’s heavy hand of oppression. They’d taken everything away from the districts for so long- food, freedom, hope in addition to the two children a year, forced to fight to their deaths in the Hunger Games. 

After the war that ended in the rebel’s victory, citizens of Panem were free in ways they’d never been: free to travel, free to pursue higher education, and in Twelve, they were free not to work in the mines for a pittance until they died an early death from miner’s lung or cancer. The possibilities to choose the path of your own life? They’re endless now compared to what they used to be. 

The only place where we are not so free is marriage, which wasn’t the Capitol’s doing. That’s because of the soul marks. 

A soul mark is a pattern that emerges on your body through your teen years, eventually pairing you with your soulmate when you reach adulthood. If you’re going to get one (not everyone does), the beginnings of it show up around puberty, and the pattern typically doesn’t fill in entirely until you reach the age of eighteen. Once you hit your eighteenth birthday, you are considered ready for marriage as soon as you find the person with the other half of your soul mark. There’s a ceremony during the first day of the Harvest Festival where the eighteen-year-olds participate; it’s when the couples typically pair off. 

We’re all told from an early age about the force that draws you to your mate; the older couples in the district are continually telling us younger ones there will be no doubt who your soulmate is when your time to meet comes.

I have a soul mark- it looks like a series of lines on my right hand in the space between my thumb and pointer finger; it’s a long line, with a series of eight identical hash marks that meet it vertically, leaving me with a soul mark that forms what I think must be the bottom half of a barcode. I’m not entirely sure that’s what the mark represents or what it is supposed to be.

Some of my friends have the marks; some don’t. Delly has one on her thigh, and Madge has one on her back. Peeta, my closest friend, and the person I have so many confusing feelings for, has a soul mark; when I asked him where it was, he flushed six different shades and told me he couldn’t let me see it.

I don’t think Peeta knows this, but I got a good look at what had formed of his soul mark when we were fifteen. That summer, a group of us hiked to the lake hidden in the woods to swim. Madge and Delly and I wore our darkest bras and underwear, we’d been before and knew what the water would do, while Peeta and Gale wore their boxer shorts. Peeta wore a pair of boxers that were unknown to him, transparent from behind when wet. 

That’s pretty much when all the confusing thoughts I have about him began. I’ll never forget how dry-mouthed and hot I felt looking at him that way- I could hardly take my eyes off him. Peeta’s frame wasn’t as large then as it is now, and he wasn’t so muscular either, but it was still wholly overwhelming. He was all thick legs and broad shoulders even then, with the thin, wet material of his boxers leaving little of his backside to the imagination. 

I’ve spent a lot of time alone in my bed at night thinking about that day, not just because of the way he looked and the way it made my body tingle (of course, that was part of it), but because of his soul mark. On one side of Peeta’s, err, butt, I guess you’d call it, were a few curving lines I could just make out through the thin material, which I kept sneaking glances at when no one was paying attention to me. 

Like mine, I couldn’t determine yet what Peeta’s mark was supposed to be, but the curving lines reminded me of a loose sketch of clouds I’d watched him sketch once. Clouds and barcodes? Those two things were as unrelated to each other as doorknobs and jackrabbits. And it made me sad, realizing that his mark and mine were so different because that meant we were both destined to be married to someone else. 

I don’t know why I felt like that- I didn’t even know if I wanted to get married; it was just that if I were, Peeta was the only boy I could picture myself spending the rest of my life with. He’s my best friend- he makes me laugh and makes me feel comfortable just being myself, and lately, I find myself thinking a lot about what it would feel like to kiss him, among other things I’m too embarrassed to mention.

The fact that I’ll never have any of the answers seems impossible to stomach, and today is the day- Match Day, the first day of the Harvest Festival. I’m so scared of what it’s going to bring: both who I’ll end up matched with and who I’ll watch Peeta walk away from the square with. Both are reason enough to make me want to run.

In the square with the other girls, I’m here, waiting with Madge and Delly for Mayor Undersee to stand on the stage and give out instructions for finding your mate in the crowd; if your mate is of age. If you couldn’t find your mate today, you keep coming back every year until you met the person with the matching soul mark. Twelve isn’t a large district, so there aren’t many young men and women here, maybe fifty. I’d say a quarter of them are a few years older, like Gale, who hasn’t paired up yet.

I scan the crowd, and my eyes briefly catch Peeta’s. He stares at me intently, something in his eyes I can’t name. It doesn’t look like the fear that I’m sure mine hold. I don’t know what he’s thinking, so I look away from him quickly, my stomach sinking at the reminder that he will never be mine, not the way I wanted. 

Why couldn’t it have just been him? Why did we have to have these stupid marks on our skin anyway? I stare ahead at the stage, not looking to the left or right after escaping the razorlike sharpness of Peeta’s gaze on me. 

And then, it’s time. Mayor Undersee appears on the small stage erected in the square just for this occasion. He stands in front of the groups of young men and women gathered near the front while curious onlookers and family of the soon-to-be-matched stay towards the back. Mayor Undersee looks out, smiling benevolently at us all.  “Welcome to the matching ceremony!” 

I feel like I’m going to be sick. I think panic might be setting in. Because I’m so nervous, I can’t concentrate on what the Mayor is saying; every noise around me sounds like buzzing and droning. Words bounce around inside my head, but very few of them form a coherent thought. 

Meanwhile, my only real thought is- 

I can’t do this. I can’t do this-

And so, as Mayor Undersee is wrapping up, as I’m panicking, as I realize that I’d be just as happy living alone in the woods for the rest of my life as I would be married to anyone other than Peeta, I come to a decision. As unobtrusively as possible because I don’t relish the idea of making a scene, I turn around and, ducking my head, elbow my way to the back of the crowd. When I get to the end of the girls’ group, I take off running without looking back. 

Getting further and further away from the crowd, I hear someone call out my name, but I don’t stop.

I run for the first place I can think of, the bakery. The business is closed for the matching ceremony since Peeta is running it now; he has been since we graduated in the spring. At the time, Mr. Mellark moved into his new wife’s home. He still works at the bakery, but he wanted to make way for Peeta to have a place to bring his new wife. 

Surely Peeta won’t come back here right away with his match? He’ll have to meet with her family and make plans for their wedding first. I know I should go somewhere else, I tell myself as I run up the back stairs that lead to his living quarters above the business, but I want the comfort of being here one last time before I lose him forever.

Letting myself into his kitchen, my favorite room in this space because it reminds me of time spent here with him, I drag myself over to his table; it’s old, it’s wood worn smooth and soft over time. Pulling a chair out, I slump down into the seat and let my arms drop to the tabletop, laying my head there.

Eventually, I hear heavy footsteps coming up the steps. When they stop, I look up to see Peeta standing in the doorway. “Are you alright?” he asks, sounding out of breath as he approaches me.

I laugh derisively. “What are you doing here? You should have stayed. You’re going to miss your match,” I tell him, although I’m glad he’s here, secretly, even though I know it’s just going to delay the inevitable. Peeta’s still going to match to a girl who isn’t me- someone who’s soul mark matches his.

“What happened?” He asks gently, ignoring my words. He pulls out the other chair and sits, scooting his chair close to me.

Instead of looking at him, I stare down at my hands; the breath caught in my throat. I’ve never been hesitant with Peeta, but my heart is thumping oddly inside my chest, and warmth is spreading through me. What I’m experiencing is similar to how I always feel in his vicinity, but greatly intensified. I sense Peeta watching me, waiting for an answer. When I glance over at him, he’s staring at my mouth. His tongue darts out, and he licks his lips; it makes my whole body feel tight.

“I can’t do it,” I say, tearing my glance away from his mouth, “I can’t marry some random man from the district. Not when, if things were different, it could’ve been-” 

I’m trying to say it, trying to tell Peeta why I can’t go through with the soul marks match, but my words trail off when he moves into me. What I soon discover are his impossibly soft lips are on mine quicker than I would’ve thought possible, and oh, the feeling. At the first touch of his mouth on mine, heat spreads through me. It travels down to the tips of my toes and fingers, snaking its way through every fiber of my being. Peeta wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me down to the floor. We’re kneeling together when he pulls me against him again. I go without any hesitation; I want to keep kissing and touching him so badly.

“We can’t- we can’t do this,” I say, finally fighting against my wants as I attempt to pull away from him. I’m so weak, though, giving in to him when he chases me with his lips. Everything feels so good; I feel more alive, more right than I have ever been.

“Why not?” Peeta asks softly. His hands are everywhere, and I don’t want him to stop. I want to climb on top of him; it’s an overwhelming, powerful need. “Katniss, I love you-”

I give in because he loves me too, throwing myself at him with such force, I knock Peeta off balance. We tumble to the floor, landing side by side with our arms entwined around each other. “You shouldn’t say that,” I tell Peeta as my mouth drops to his neck. It feels like my brain and my body are directing two completely different courses of action, and I can’t seem to stop either one of them. 

“Why?” Peeta moans as I suck on his skin. 

“Our marks don’t match.”

“Do you want me, though?” he asks, sounding serious as he pulls away. We’re both harshly breathing as we stare at each other. “Do you want to be with me?” he repeats.

“Yes,” I whisper, searching his eyes, “Of course I do, but-“

He interrupts me, impatient with my reasons. “How do you know we don’t match? You’ve never seen my mark.” Peeta quickly sits up, rising on his knees. His hands drop, and I watch him tear frantically at the button and zipper of his pants. It’s surreal, lying on the floor beside him. My body is buzzing in a way that feels amplified times a thousand as I watch him unbutton his pants and pull down the zipper. 

I know I should look away, but I can’t- for the first time in my life, I let him see that I’m looking at him, that I’m fascinated by him, and I want to know all his secrets. As he pushes his pants down to his knees, the tails of his shirt drop, obscuring his front so that all I can see are his muscular legs. 

I don’t know what to do- Peeta is naked under that shirt, and I just-

He shifts a little, moving the bottom of his shirt to reveal one side of his behind, and I finally have a good look at him. I’m instantly distracted.

Wow, he’s got a great-looking behind. Gorgeous, really; in fact, I have a crazy urge to sink my fingers into it. 

I tell myself to snap out of it because it makes things a little weird with me lying on the floor next to Peeta, staring up at the side of his butt. So I sit up; when I’m upright, I move the portion of Peeta’s shirt away that’s obscuring my view since I still couldn’t see his soul mark.

Peeta shivers when my fingers brush against him, exposing his bottom while I remain silent. I stare at the sight that greets my eyes, and he glances over his shoulder at me expectantly with eyebrows raised. 

All I can do is drop his shirt, concealing his bottom again before covering my face with both hands, trying to keep the happy laughter escaping me from crossing over into hysteria. 

I absolutely cannot believe this.

“Don’t laugh!” Peeta says, but he’s smirking himself. “I know my mark looks ridiculous, but I told you we matched.”

I sit back on my heels- my body shaking with the effort of trying to hold my laughter in. I cannot believe this- I’m thrilled. I’m getting everything I want. 

Peeta turns to face me. He’s still on his knees, and his pants are still in a puddle around his legs, but he doesn’t hesitate to put his arms around me, pulling me close to him. “I love you,” he says as I get my laughter under control. I can feel him smile against my scalp.

“I love you, too,” I mumble, happy tears streaking down my face and wetting his cotton shirt. I’m probably getting snot on him by now, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Peeta pulls away, looking down at me. He uses one hand to wipe my eyes, and I take the opportunity to wipe my nose on the sleeve of my dress. I know it’s gross, but I guess some excess body fluids aren’t much to consider- he and I will be married soon. The corners of his mouth turn up in a smile as he watches at me. “You love me- for real?”

“Real,” I say, wiping my face with my sleeve again, just to be sure I got it all. “I love you.”

When my face is dry, I kiss him again, eagerly. I’m so happy, and I want him to know the way I feel. I love Peeta so much, and I want him so much. 

We’re kissing intently, and I’m urging Peeta to lay on top of me again as he slowly undoes the buttons of my dress, when I have an epiphany. What’s happening between us right now, this all-consuming hunger must’ve been what the older soul-matched couples referred to when they (rather knowingly now that I think about it) told soul-marked teens they’d know their mate when the time came. 

Apparently, in Peeta and I’s case, at least, “knowing when the time came” meant a quickly-awakened, unbridled desire for each other. Not that it took much for us when the love between us was already there, fully formed. I know this would’ve happened anyway.

It doesn’t take long for things to become even more heated between us. Before I know it, I’m lining up Peeta’s soul mark with mine when I reach behind him, grasping a handful of his delicious rump. My forwardness must surprise him, catching him off-guard in the middle of kissing a line down my neck and into the valley between my breasts, because when I do it, he grunts. HIs pleased noise makes my pulse race, so I do it to him again.

As for our marks? Of all things, Peeta’s is the top of an apple muffin, while mine is the bottom half. His curved lines and my rigid ones- they’re a lot like him and myself. Together we’re delicious. Although him on top and me on the bottom doesn’t last very long, just until he rolls us over and pulls my dress up and over my head, telling me he wants to look at me.

A while later, when the back of his head thunks against the wooden floor in bliss, I realize that maybe those apple muffins were pretty magical.

[highladyluck]

Fortuona Athaem Devi Paendrag playlist

Direct link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5KLghlM9nCF1WLKBNoLt5z?si=b1e1d244810e4ae9

26 songs, 1 hr 23 min. A character playlist for Tuon Athaem Kore Paendrag, aka the High Lady, aka the Daughter of the Nine Moons, aka “Precious” but only if you’re Mat Cauthon, aka Fortuona Athaem Devi Paendrag, aka the Empress of Seanchan.

She’s a fascinating mixture of good and evil, person and tool, sympathetic and unsympathetic by turns. I tried to capture that in this playlist, which is organized roughly chronologically by her personal timeline.

There are spoilers in the playlist and commentary for Winter's Heart through A Memory of Light, since this is meant to mirror the narrative.

Track List:

1.      Second Child, Restless Child – The Oh Hellos

2.      Game of Survival – Ruelle

3.      Sit Still, Look Pretty – Daya

4.      When I Rule The World – LIZ

5.      Bad Moon Rising – Creedence Clearwater Revival

6.      The Thief and the Moon – Shawn James

7.      Pomegranate Seeds – Julian Moon

8.      Zebra – The Magnetic Fields

9.      Jolene – Dolly Parton

10.   Maybe, This Time – OK Go

11.   Big Guns – Ruelle

12.   Fascinated – Ivy

13.   The Bullpen – Dessa

14.   Pretty Little Head – Eliza Rickman

15.   Greek God – Conan Gray

16.   Emperor’s New Clothes – Panic! At The Disco

17.   Rat Queen – The Mountain Goats

18.   Carmina Burana: O Fortuna – Carl Orff

19.   you should see me in a crown – Billie Eilish

20.   Muse with a Dagger – Taylor Castro

21.   Please Don’t Say You Love Me – Gabrielle Aplin

22.   Daisy – Ashnikko

23.   Mother’s Daughter – Miley Cyrus

24.   I Walk The Line – Halsey

25.   Glory and Gore – Lorde

26.   Trouble – Stripped – Halsey

Commentary and lyrics underneath the cut. Listen to it here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5KLghlM9nCF1WLKBNoLt5z?si=b1e1d244810e4ae9

1)      Second Child, Restless Child – The Oh Hellos

See, I was born the second child With a spirit running wild, running free

The Empress’s second child, the only one who goes across the ocean.

2)      Game of Survival – Ruelle

Are we the hunters? Or are we the prey?

"Keep this doll to remind you that I will always hear you if you say my name. If I am still alive, of course."

3)      Sit Still, Look Pretty – Daya

Oh, I don't know what you've been told But this girl right here's gonna rule the world Yeah, that's where I'm gonna be because I wanna be No, I don't wanna sit still, look pretty

Tuon wishes she looked more intimidating, and threw a full-blown temper tantrum when she was told who she’d have to marry.

4)      When I Rule The World – LIZ

When I rule the world, then I'm gonna make you sweat Dog collar 'round your neck, on your knees and scrub the deck

I promise I didn't forget about the sul'dam thing. This should be as jarring as her initial POV in Winter's Heart is.

5)      Bad Moon Rising – Creedence Clearwater Revival

I see the bad moon a-rising I see trouble on the way I see earthquakes and lightnin' I see bad times today

Such a good “Seanchan invade Ebou Dar” song! I definitely stole this from someone else’s Mat playlist, but I don’t think it’s on 8tracks anymore.

6)      The Thief and the Moon – Shawn James

Said the Thief to the Moon "I'll extinguish your light soon I'll put an end to all the light that you shed On this world in its darkened state"

I can imagine this as a Seanchan myth; covers Tuon's opinion on her prophecy & getting kidnapped.

7)      Pomegranate Seeds – Julian Moon

Kore, Kore, fauna and flora How did you get your throne? (Hey!) You made a deal You traded daffodils For a kingdom of ash and bone

Had to sneak in a reference to Tuon's middle name. Tuon's POV on her bargain with Mat.

8)      Zebra – The Magnetic Fields

so there's one thing I crave when my days become ho-hum and blah I want a zebra

Took this from my Mat/Tuon book playlist because it is truly the funniest song on there. It's a zebra in our hearts!

9)      Jolene – Dolly Parton

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene I'm begging of you please don't take my man

This is very tongue-in-cheek, but at the same time, if you pay attention you can see that Tuon's particularly annoyed by/threatened by Joline Maza.

10)   Maybe, This Time – OK Go

So listen, I'm not trying to prove anything at all here But don't you think that maybe, this time, you were wrong?

Mat to Tuon after confiscating the a'dam from her.

11)   Big Guns – Ruelle

Every little move is fixed Like a game of chess The blood on your hands is thick And you're placing bets Can't hide in the den of lions

A really perfect song for Tuon's 'lion on the high plains' realization; I know technically Mat doesn't have cannon or grenades yet, but shhhh, the rapid-fire crossbows are more or less machine guns. Let me have this. Call it foreshadowing if you must.

12)   Fascinated – Ivy

Never turned out like we talked about Never could tell how to read your mind Never found out what you're all about In this lifetime, baby, you will be mine

Tuon's POV on the marriage ceremony.

13)   The Bullpen – Dessa

Forget the bull in the china shop There's a china doll in the bullpen

Returning to Ebou Dar to kick ass and take heads. This was the song that made me create this playlist, because of "china doll in the bullpen," which is such a great description of Tuon.

14)   Pretty Little Head – Eliza Rickman

Catch yourself a looker, let him go, go, go Wanna have your baby, but I'm so, so slow

Tuon misses Mat, but don’t you dare breathe a word about it. Besides, it’s just business.

15)   Greek God – Conan Gray

And since you always swear that you wanted me gone Then why don't you go get your gun? 'Cause you don't really hate me (You're a little baby) You don't wanna end me (You wanna befriend me)

The Tuon vs Rand confrontation (take two, where Tuon's actually there.) Rand has quite enough confidence, really, but most of the song really works.

16)   Emperor’s New Clothes – Panic! At The Disco

Welcome to the end of eras Ice has melted back to life Done my time and served my sentence Dress me up and watch me die

Declaring herself Empress after meeting with Rand.

17)   Rat Queen – The Mountain Goats

We who have never once tasted The stench of defeat Victory sweet as the dregs of the fast food dumpster Look how they jump when we show up Like they've just seen a monster

H/T to @anyboli, who first suggested this to me as a Tuon song. This is a good soundtrack to planning the raid on the White Tower…

18)   Carmina Burana: O Fortuna – Carl Orff

O Fortune, like the moon you are changeable[…]

I literally cannot imagine a Tuon playlist without this song. It’s White Tower raid time!

19)   you should see me in a crown – Billie Eilish

Count my cards, watch them fall Blood on a marble wall I like the way they all Scream

Yeah, this was inevitable too. I’m using it for that absolutely horrifying POV of hers where she's in the damane training room and decides it's time to plan a full-out attack on the White Tower.

20)   Muse with a Dagger – Taylor Castro

You're making fun of my people Pretend I don't hear you Cause I won't forgive myself For fueling or burning you

Tuon's thoughts on Mat in the garden. This didn't lean as as far into the dagger/knife imagery as I'd hoped for- remember, this is the blog that insists Athaem means Magic Dagger Curse- but it seemed so strangely apt for the two of them that I had to include it.

21)   Please Don’t Say You Love Me – Gabrielle Aplin

There's no need to worry when You see just where we're at Just please don't say you love me Cause I might not say it back

Her conversation with Mat in the garden.

22)   Daisy – Ashnikko

Respect a bitch, I'm a maverick Flexible, so elastic But don't you dare bend a bitch backwards

This is what you married, Mat. (The Mat POV version of this character sketch is probably Cake's Short Skirt Long Jacket.) I will not apologize for the number of #girlboss songs on this playlist.

23)   Mother’s Daughter – Miley Cyrus

Oh my gosh, she got the power Oh, look at her, she got the power So, so, so Don't fuck with my freedom I came up to get me some

The confrontation with Egwene. I see this as mostly Egwene's POV, with Tuon doing a sort of echo, the way she does in the original scene. They are fascinatingly alike here, and the way Egwene controls the scene and gets in Tuon's head- when that's Tuon's signature strategy- is amazing.

24)   I Walk The Line – Halsey

You've got a way to keep me on your side You give me cause for love that I can't hide For you I know I'd even try to turn the tide

Tuon admitting that her heart tells her to return to save Mat (and the armies of the Light).

25)   Glory and Gore – Lorde

Glory and gore go hand in hand That's why we're makin' headlines (Oh! Oh!) You could try and take us (Oh! Oh!) But victory's contagious

The Seanchan army comes back for the kill.

26)   Trouble – Stripped – Halsey

Don't forget me, don't forget me I wouldn't leave you if you'd let me Hmm, when you met me when you met me You told me you were gonna get me

Death threats are just their deranged way of flirting; if Tuon wanted Mat dead she wouldn't warn him, you know? And in that final scene with the fireworks Tuon's telling Mat that she wants him around, and he understands it as such.

[pixieminutes]

Purpose | SCB (2)

genre: angst, slight smut, fluff

members: reader x changbin, bang chan, han jisung, lee felix

warning: none

read part 1 here

“i can’t believe you’re six now! you’re such a big girl!” your mum exclaimed, playing with your hair.

“will i get art on my arm, like you mummy?” you asked, staring up at her, “you said you were six-years-old.”

“of course you will! soon,” she smiled.

and sure enough it came soon. you awoke the next morning, your arm covered. it had notepads and microphones as well as small pastries and cakes weaved in between trees. underneath, the words you cursed for the rest of your life were written.

‘until we meet, i am unable to be happy. until you fall in love with me, i am unable to laugh.’

changbin sighed loudly, walking into the shop and falling onto the sofa underneath the window.

“calm down edge lord,” chan said from his work station, seeing his friend’s sadness painted on his face, “what is it?”

julia was sat on the bed, chan sat next to her on the stool, sketching things.

“i have a secret but none of you– and i mean none of you can tell anyone, okay?” changbin sighed, sitting up and looking from chan, to julia, to jisung.

the three nodded, now intrigued.

“i’ve found my soulmate,” changbin sighed, burying in his face in his hands.

when no one spoke, he looked up, chan and julia’s eyebrows were both raised, jisung’s mouth hung open.

“changbin, th-that’s amazing!” jisung exclaimed.

“no, no it’s not!” changbin groaned, laying back down, “she doesn’t know.”

“then tell her!” julia exclaimed.

“it’s not that easy,” changbin sighed, “she’s not in love with me. i saw her tattoo today, it’s still there.”

“and yours isn’t?” chan asked.

changbin shook his head, taking off his jacket so everyone could see the dainty name in between the other patterns. y/n.

jisung’s gasped slightly, “y/n?”

changbin nodded, holding in his tears.

jisung sighed, nodding as he came and crouched beside his older friend, “it’s gonna be okay changbin, we can figure something out.”

“jisung, do you know what my soulmate connection is?” changbin sighed, sitting up.

“being emo?” chan asked.

changbin glared at the boy as julia began to laugh.

“it’s that,” changbin sighed, motioning to the laughing girl, “i can’t laugh until she falls in love with me. a-and you two were right, until i met her, i was unable to be happy.”

“but now she’s got purpose in everything she does,” chan said.

“and sees beauty in the world,” jisung finished.

“i just want to laugh,” changbin breathed, the tears that had been in his eyes since he left your house, now pouring out.

jisung sighed, sitting next to him and rubbing his back comfortingly, “i know.”

“i just want to laugh, jisung,” changbin cried, “i want to laugh so badly.”

___________

“good day!” felix smiled, skipping into the shop and throwing his bag into the back room, putting on his apron.

you giggled, “good morning felix. don’t forget it’s saturday.”

“i did not, and i even got our little friends some gifts!” felix exclaimed, going for his bag and laying out the small plushies on the counter.

you laughed, shaking your head, “you do realise they’re the same age as us, right?”

felix shrugged, turning to door as the bell rang, “hello!”

changbin smiled, giving a small wave as your breath caught in your throat. why was he back? wasn’t he wary of you? now he knew the truth. now he knew how sadness radiated from you.

“hey,” changbin said, “can i get an iced vanilla latte?”

felix nodded, “of course. that’ll be £3.00.”

changbin handed him the money and waved at you. you hadn’t realised you had been staring, beginning to blush, you wave back.

felix laughed, looking at you as he went to make changbin’s latte.

“you alright?” changbin smiled, “i finished the design and was thinking we could do the first round of your tattoo tomorrow morning? or are you busy?”

“i’m sorry, sunday morning and lunch time are usually quite busy,” you said, biting your lip.

“that’s alright,” changbin smiled, “our shop closes at 6pm tomorrow, why don’t you come by then?”

you nodded, “okay. see you then, bin.”

“i’ll text you, okay?” changbin smiled, waving as he walked out.

you flopped against the counter once he was out of sight, felix running his hands through your hair, “what’s that about?”

your heart felt as though it was about to burst out your chest as you looked where changbin had just been, sighing, “i have no idea.”

__________

“hello y/n!” jisung smiled, he had his bag packed on his shoulder and julia was turning the sign on the door to say ‘closed’, “here for changbin?”

you nodded, looking around the shop, “yeah, he’s here, right?”

changbin came out from a room at the back of the store, “oh, y/n. you’re here!”

you smiled, waving as he beckoned you over. your little legs waddled over, making changbin smile.

as you sat on the chair, you watched changbin organise everything, intrigued.

“bye guys!” jisung exclaimed, “changbin, i trusg you to lock up.”

“cool,” changbin responded.

“bye jisung!” you exclaimed, not taking your eyes off changbin’s hands.

“bye bean,” jisung laughed.

“you alright?” changbin asked, glancing up at you.

you blushed, nodding as you finally looked to his face, “i’ve never gotten a tattoo before.”

changbin nodded, shrugging, “it’s fine, you can trust me.”

you smiled, “don’t worry. i do.”

changbin looked up at you so the two of you made eye contact. it was kind of awkward and made you blush until your cheeks were so hot you had to look away.

“do you wanna see the design?” changbin asked, reaching for his notebook.

“no, i want a blind tattoo,” you said, before laughing at changbin’s confused face, “i’m joking! show me!”

changbin smiled, shaking his head as he opened his notebook. he turned to a page with the heading ‘y/n’.

it was simple, but it was one of the most beautiful designs you’d seen and so you. so much so, your breath caught in your throat when you laid your eyes upon it.

“changbin, i-it’s perfect!” you chuckled, looking at it in awe.

“so you’re ready for me to do it now?” he asked hesitantly.

“yes! oh my god, i’m so excited,” you laughed, changbin smiling at your excitement.

“okay, i’m gonna need your arm then,” changbin said as you eagerly gave him the arm that wasn’t covered with a soulmate tattoo.

he put on some gloves and cleansed your arm before stenciling on the design.

“i’m not working tomorrow, so it doesn’t matter how late this goes,” changbin said.

you nodded, humming, “me neither.”

changbin smiled, glancing up at you before looking back down to his work, “so… what do you think your soulmate’s like?”

“honestly?” you said, sighing, “i’ve got no idea. because the me from a couple weeks ago, is not the me you know today. hey, it’s been since i’ve met you!”

you laughed while changbin just smiled politely, nodding.

your laughter died down as you stared at changbin. his face was long, but it suited him. his eyes thin and his nose long and straight. his black hair fell over his face, but not enough for it to interfer with his vision. his arm muscles showed as he worked, tensing and untensing.

oh god.

___________

“how much is it?” you asked, getting your purse out your bag.

changbin waved his hand, dressing and wrapping up your arm, “nothing. it’s on me.”

“wh-what?! no! changbin i can—“

“i was the one who told you to get a tattoo,” changbin said, shrugging, “if i then asked you to pay, i’m sure that’d be some kind of illegal.”

you smiled, pulling changbin into a hug, “thank you bin.”

changbin returned the action and the two of you stayed like that for slightly longer then planned, becoming lost in changbin’s scent, changbin becoming lost in yours.

“bye then,” you breathed, pulling away and hopping off the bed.

“wait,” changbin spoke, standing up and looking down so you were eye-to-eye.

he didn’t say anything else, but from the very slight movement of his head, you knew where this was going.

changbin swallowed thickly as his lips edged closer to yours. finally, you just nodded, smashing your lips against his to finally continue what he wanted. and god, it was good.

his lips were soft and plump, devouring yours in a way that told you that he’d definitely done this before, but not too much. perfectly.

you started kissing down his jaw and down his neck. on his neck was a trail of tattoos, like a part of the milky way, trailing down behind the neck line of his t-shirt. you pulled it down slightly to kiss down further, the black material straining further than it already was over his thick arms and chest.

changbin paused as you came up and kissed him on the lips again, moaning against yours, “y/n.”

you were suddenly snapped into reality, breathing heavy as you stared at him, “changbin, we... we can’t do this.”

“wh–“ he paused, nodding, “no, you- you’re right. um, make sure to keep your arm wrapped up until tomorrow morning.”

you nodded, hopping down off the bed and waving awkwardly as you began to walk out the shop.

“y/n,” he called, waving also, “i hope you know, whoever they are, your soulmate doesn’t deserve you.”

you furrowed your eyebrows, laughing and walking out the shop.

upon reaching your apartment building, you ran straight up to your apartment and straight into your bed.

your arm was still sensitive as you leaned over to touch it, but the memory was more painful. why were you feeling this way about changbin?!

you’d known he was attractive since the moment you met him, so why was it affecting you now? something, though you weren’t sure what, had planted this idea that changbin was the one you needed inside of your head.

but what if he was?

you sighed, shaking your head, turning over and closing your eyes, too tired to take your clothes or make-up off.

your phone pinged and you sighed once again, reaching for it.

3 new message(s)

binnie🖤 - hope you like the tattoo x

binnie🖤 - i’m sorry for what i said about your soulmate

binnie🖤 - i just dont think i’m worthy

__________

you woke up to your alarm, groaning you smacked it off and rolled over. your arm felt like it was on fire as you’d been sleeping on it all night.

you sighed and sat up, slowly making your way to the bathroom where you looked at yourself in the mirror. you peeled off the hoodie you’d been wearing for the last 24 hours and could have fainted then and there.

the swirl of colours that once filled up your arm was now gone, replaced with one word.

‘changbin’.

“no, no, no, no, no! changbin!” you exclaimed, scrambling out the bathroom and pulling on a new hoodie.

the texts made sense now. the questions and the extra days spend with you. his sadness and his inability to laugh. it all made sense.

“changbin!” you shouted, breathless as you reached the tattoo parlor.

“you must be y/n! changbin’s not here right now,” julia smiled, “the boys are coming in a bit though, so I can take a message?”

“no,” you cried, “i need to see changbin now.”

“okay, i can give you his address?” julia offered.

uou nodded eagerly as julia scribbled down a postcode on the back of one of 3racha’s business card.

“thank you,” you breathed, typing the postcode into your phone and running to your new destination.

people were giving you weird looks, some swearing after you, but you didn’t care. as soon as you reached changbin’s, you ran up the steps and knocked on the door.

a tired looking jisung opened the door, “y/n?”

“jisung, where’s changbin?!” you cried, “please, please dear—“

“he’s sleeping,” jisung said, “what’s the rush for?”

“which one’s his room?” you asked, walking in the house, it was messy, though that was surely expected from three teenage boys.

“yes, of course! welcome, bean, come on in,” jisung sighed.

“jisung, i’m having none of that,” you said, rolling up your sleeve, “where is his room?”

jisung’s mouth hung open before turning into a smile, “the one with the painted door.”

you breathed out a sigh of relief, thanking jisung as you turned and saw the painted door. you took a deep breath, turning the handle and walking in.

changbin was laying in his bed, scrolling through his phone, no shirt on as he looked up at you.

“um– i– there’s a reason why— i, um, i—“

changbin laughed, and you thought you could nearly cry, approaching him and flinging yourself against his chest, rapping your arms tightly around him as though he was going to disappear any second.

“changbin, you’re so worthy. if anything? i’m not worthy! i made your life a misery and i—“

“y/n,” changbin chuckled, “did you choose that? no. and it’s not like your life was any happier.”

you began to cry, burying your face in his shoulder.

“stop crying,” changbin chuckled, holding your face in his hands, “this is suppose to be happy, remember?”

“how long have you known?” you asked, sniffling.

“a few days,” changbin shrugged.

“and you didn’t tell me?!” you cried, burying your face in his chest again.

“y/n, you weren’t in love with me until last night,” changbin laughed, “and now look! i can’t stop laughing!”

hee was right, since the moment you’d seen him, he’d been speaking with chuckles and laughs. it suddenly dawned on you how much this meant to him.

“you’re my soulmate, y/n, and i can’t be more thankful to have found you,” changbin smiled.

“changbin,” you breathed, beginning to sob again as changbin held you tighter, “i love you so much. you brought so much purpose to my life.”

“and you brought happiness to mine,” changbin chuckled, kissing you on the head, “i love you too, princess.”

[teacupfulofstarshine]

the crossroad of our destinies book two: fire

CW: mentions of fantasy ableism, character death of minor background OCs, cursing, mentions of war crimes, atla-canon-typical fantasy violence, mild angst, injury, brief blood mention, mentions of murder

word count: 9708

book one: earth // read it on ao3! 

“So you really can’t bend at all?” Roman asks. 

Virgil stiffens, rolling his shoulders back to try and relax the tension gathering there. He knew this question would come up sooner or later, and he has spent an inordinate amount of time preparing his response. “I don’t bend.” 

It’s not a lie. Virgil would lie outright, but Roman had tried that a couple of weeks ago only to have Logan immediately bust him. (As if he needed another reason to be the most terrifying twelve-year-old Virgil has ever met: his earth bending makes him a human lie detector.) Instead, Virgil answers with technical truths. They’re not the answers Roman is looking for, but they’re not going to earn a “Falsehood!” from Logan, either. 

“What’s it like?” Roman leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on his hands. “Not being able to bend? I know that every type of bending feels different, but I don’t know what it would feel like to not bend at all.” 

“It’s not so bad, not bending,” Virgil says. “I mean, bending might make my life easier, but it also might make my life more difficult.” 

“Have you ever seen it? Water bending, I mean?” 

A beat of silence. “Yeah. Yeah, I have.” 

“What does it look like?” 

“It’s . . .” Virgil searches for words that won’t betray his secret. “Have you ever seen dancers?” 

“I’m an ex-Fire Nation prince, Virgil. Of course I’ve seen dancers.” 

“But have you seen ribbon dancers? The way the silk arcs through the air, rippling and elegant, controlled and powerful . . . that’s what water bending looks like. To me, anyway. Snow and ice bending are different, and of course healing is different, but water bending . . .” Virgil’s throat chokes up. “It’s beautiful.” 

Roman is quiet, subdued. “I know my father. I know what he did to the water benders of the Southern Pole. I . . . I’m sorry.” 

“They killed my father,” Virgil says softly. “My mother died giving birth to me, and my father . . . he died protecting me. They killed him instead of me.” Roman gently places a hand on Virgil’s knee, all traces of joking gone, and Virgil whines softly.

“I am so sorry,” Roman murmurs, “that my father has destroyed your life.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Virgil says. Before starting this journey, he never could have pictured himself saying something like that to a fire bender, much less a former prince. But Roman isn’t just some prince, some foreign enemy. He’s Virgil’s friend. “You didn’t kill my father, and you didn’t give the orders to the general that did. It isn’t your fault, Roman. You’re not responsible for your dad and his tomfuckery.” 

Roman snorts a little at the swear. A whip of air smacks Virgil’s arm. “Virgil!” Patton says, scandalized. “Watch your language!” Virgil just laughs, and Roman laughs with him.

*~*~*~*~*

Virgil is hesitant to enter Fire Nation territory, even if it’s just the outlying colonies. Roman assures him that nothing will go wrong, that they’ll be safe, but he isn’t quite sure if he believes him. ��My father rarely visits the outlying colonies,” he tells Virgil. “My people are suffering under such a harsh regime. They will not aid him.” 

They still force him to stay with Remy and Thomas in the woods when they venture into town for supplies. “I know the Fire Nation better than any of you!” Roman protests.

“And the Fire Nation knows you,” Logan tells him firmly. “Stay with my brother and Remy. If something goes wrong, you’ll have to protect them and get Thomas out of here.” 

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Thomas says firmly, gripping Logan’s shoulders. Logan reaches up and covers his brother’s hand with his own. “Promise me, Logan.”

“That is not a promise I can realistically make, Thomas. I cannot control the actions of others,” Logan says. “But I can promise you that I will do my best to avoid unnecessary confrontations and keep a low profile.” 

“You duelled Roman into the ground, like, two and a half weeks after you met him,” Thomas laughs. “I don’t think subtlety is in your nature.” Logan scoffs at him, but he doesn’t push Thomas’s hand out of his hair when he ruffles it. 

Patton ties a strip of fabric around his forehead, obscuring his air bender arrow tattoo. When they first met him, he was bald, but now that he’s been on the run with them for so long, his hair has grown back in. It’s a tousled mess of coppery curls, and they match the bright copper freckles splattered across his nose. 

“Do you think you’re going to keep your hair or shave it off again?” Roman asks. Patton reaches up to touch his hair. 

“It’s strange to get used to,” he says. “I’m used to feeling the wind on the skin of my head. It’s so weird! But I kinda like the way it looks. Do you think it looks weird?” 

“I think it looks nice,” Roman says. 

“I think you look fantastic,” Logan says dryly. 

“Thank you, Lo!”

“Roman, however, looks like a drowned platypus-bear.”

“Hey!” Roman squawks. “Why does Patton get to look good?” 

“Roman,” Logan says, slow and patient like he’s talking to a toddler, “I can’t see either of you. I”m fucking blind.” Roman throws a fireball at him, which Logan easily dodges, laughing. Patton flicks a hand up to extinguish the fireball before Roman can set the forest ablaze. 

*~*~*~*~*

The Fire Nation is loud. 

It’s much louder than Virgil’s village ever was. The air is sharp and sweet, smelling like spices and sweet incense and wood ash. Virgil sticks close to Logan as Patton bounces happily in front of them. He reaches down and takes Logan’s hand in his. 

It’s so small.

“I do not need you to hold my hand,” Logan says testily. 

“This isn’t for you,” Virgil hisses, gripping Logan’s hand tightly. “This is for me.” Logan turns to him, face scrunched up in confusion and annoyance, before exhaling softly.

“You’re telling the truth.” He keeps holding Virgil’s hand as they follow Patton through the bazaar, and Virgil exhales in relief. 

*~*~*~*~*

Roman squeals in excitement when they bring back the little pastries he had requested. “I love them!” he squeals. “They’re my favorites, I -” His eyes go misty as he unwraps the parcel. “On our birthday, Remus would always get to pick out the cake. I was happy as long as the chef made a tower of these.” 

He takes a bite, and the tears spill down his cheeks. “They’re just like I remember.” Before any of them can offer any sort of consolation, Roman is wiping at his eyes and offering his pastries to them. 

“We can’t take them,” Patton says gently. “They’re your special piece of home.” 

Roman shakes his head and pushes the parcel towards them. “Please, I insist. I want to share with my friends.” Virgil is the one to break the strange, motionless silence, breaking off a corner. The pastry is layered with a thick, syrupy honey that leaves sticky residue on his fingers. When he pops it into his mouth, a sweet spice explodes across his tongue. There’s a slight, residual burn that tingles through his mouth as he swallows. 

“I know, right?” Roman says, reading something in Virgil’s facial expression. Virgil nods, licking the honey off his fingers. His obvious enjoyment is enough to encourage the rest of the group to start snacking on pieces of the treats.

*~*~*~*~*

Roman keeps every letter that Dragon brings him tucked against his chest. Under his shirt is a leather pouch that he attaches to his chest by tying it with strings, and inside he keeps the scrolls that he receives. “Remus and Dolos probably can’t keep my letters,” he tells Virgil. “They’ll have to burn them to make sure that no one else sees them.” 

“Why?”

“If the crew finds out that the exiled prince is sending messages to them, they’re in danger. Remus is already toeing the line by keeping Dolos aboard the ship. Discovering that they’re in contact with me endangers our lives and theirs.” 

Virgil wants to ask why Roman bothers putting so much care and effort into the crafting of his letters if he knows they’re going to get ruined. He spends so much time staring off into space, thinking of the perfect words, and then he sketches out elaborate doodles. Remus’s are always weird and kind of deranged, but Remus sends them back in kind. 

Dolos’s letters all have intricate, elaborate borders of twining flowers on them, and more than once Virgil has caught Roman doodling sparrow-snakes onto the letters for his love. “He loves them,” Roman tells him. “I promised him a pet sparrow-snake as a wedding present.” 

“Why would you do that?” Virgil asks, pulling one of his knives from his sleeve and examining the blade’s edge for imperfections. 

“Because it would make Dolos happy,” Roman says, looking up with an uncharacteristically fond expression. “I love Dolos. I want him to be happy. But I also want him to be alive, so . . . so I have to sacrifice his happiness and mine to keep him that way.” 

Virgil sets his knife down and reaches out to touch Roman’s shoulder. “I know that you love him,” he says softly. “And I know that he means so much to you that you would kill to keep him safe. You’d do anything for him.”

“Not anything,” Roman says. 

“What, then? What wouldn’t you do?” 

“I wouldn’t sacrifice you,” Roman says, eyes burning and serious. “I wouldn’t sell you and the others out to my father, even if it meant he would take me back. I love Remus and Dolos, I do, but you guys are . . . you’re my friends.” The way he says that word, friends, has a heavy finality about it. It carries a gravity that Virgil didn’t expect. “I wouldn’t be worthy of Dolos if I sold my friend out. And anyway, I like you guys too much to let you die.” 

“How touching,” Virgil says dryly, smacking Roman’s head with the flat of his blade. The only part of Roman that’s damaged is his pride. 

That doesn’t stop him from squawking in rage and chasing Virgil all across their campsite. 

*~*~*~*~*

Dragon lands on Roman’s outstretched forearm with ease, even though Remy is still coasting through the air. Roman coos to the bird, stroking his back as he reaches up and nips at Roman’s hair and ear. 

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Thomas asks, eyeing the bird suspiciously. 

“Not that bad,” Roman says. “When he nibbles my hair, it only feels like a light tugging, and he never bites my ear hard enough to hurt or bleed. It’s like a pinching feeling. I’m fine with it. Besides, he’s a good little birdy! Isn’t that right, Dragon? You’re a good little messenger birdy!” 

Dragon wraps his massive talons around the reinforced sleeve of Roman’s jacket and coos. Roman unties the scroll from his leg and spreads it out on the back of the saddle. Virgil carefully drops little weights on the corners to keep it spread out without blowing away. “What’s the intel?”

The intel, as it turns out, is a map of the Fire Nation, with a few small islands marked in red and black. “These are all sacred fire bending sites,” Roman muses, slowly tracing his fingers over the map. “And this is the code Re and i used when we were children. We used to write secret messages to each other.”

“What does it say?”

“He’s marking which islands are safe.”

“None of them are safe, because they’re in the middle of the Fire Nation,” Virgil mutters. Roman glares at him. “What? It’s not a comment on you personally, Princey. I know you love the Fire nation, I know it’s home for you. But it’s currently under the thumb of your tyrannical father, who’s a notorious jackass that wants all of us dead.” 

Roman lets his fingers skim over the ocean. One of the islands, the only unmarked one, is surrounded by drawings of monsters. There is writing above the island drawing, the only neatly-printed script on the entire map. It looks like Dolos’s handwriting. Roman smiles. 

“What does it say?” 

“It says ‘Here there be Dragons.’ It’s an old Fire Nation children’s story - that island is, supposedly, where the last of the dragons was slain. The water is so rough and choppy that there’s not a single chance of a ship being pulled into that island.” 

“And we’re supposed to be able to get to it?” 

“By air, we could,” Roman says. “Remy could fly us in. There are pretty regular storms, but if we go on the heels of one we’ll make it before the next one hits. No Fire Nation battle cruiser is getting to that island - but we will. We can. It’s the safest place in the whole Fire Nation, probably. It would be a good base of operations, at least for a little while.” He splays his fingers over the island. 

“You miss home,” Logan says gently. “You want to be back on Fire Nation soil more than anything.”

“Not anything,” Roman says. “Not more than your safety. If I thought it wasn’t safe, I wouldn’t suggest it. But as far as I know, it is safe, and . . . and if we’re there, it’s mostly rock. There’s no chance of us setting fire to a forest and attracting unwanted attention.” 

“That sounds like it’ll work,” Patton calls, turning his head around just enough to glimpse them without taking his eyes off the sky. “I’m on board with it.” 

“I trust Roman,” Virgil says. “If he thinks that island is safe . . . I’m with him.” 

Thomas studies his face. Virgil maintains a calm expression, despite his nerves. “Alright, then. Fire Nation it is.” 

“Yip yip!” Patton calls. Remy swishes his tail irritably, but he turns anyway.

*~*~*~*~*

It gets hard to find water in the Fire Nation. 

It has to be there, obviously, because sustaining life without water is impossible. But when compared to the flowing rivers of the Earth Kingdom forests and the ever-present oceans and ice of the South Pole, the Fire Nation is practically a desert. 

Still, Virgil finds that their group is drawn to the water almost instinctively. Realistically, it’s because Remy needs to drink and to keep himself clean, and while they can all make do with a little waterskins, he needs a large body of water. Virgil still finds it like fate or destiny to be able to find so many little places to connect with his element, given where they are. 

The river nearby is smaller than any he’s seen before, full of large, mossy rocks that he can easily fall and hurt himself on. He carefully removes his shoes and steps into the water. It takes a minute to find a spot where he can achieve a normal bending stance, but once he does, he inhales. 

“Vee?”

Virgil nearly falls as he whirls around, seeing Logan standing in front of him. “Is - that is Vee, isn’t it?” 

“Y - yeah, Lo, it’s me,” he calls. “You weren’t sure?” 

“You’re standing in the river,” Logan says. “The water fucks with my earth bending, so it obscures my vision a little bit. I knew someone was there, but I didn’t know who it was . . .”

“It’s me,” Virgil says. 

“Why are you out here in the middle of the river?” 

“I miss home,” Virgil says. “We don’t have rivers like this, but we have water everywhere. We’re surrounded by ice and ocean and . . . and there’s just water, no matter where you look. And that’s why I’m here.” 

“I understand,” Logan says, sitting at the edge of the river. “There is earth all around me, but all earth feels different. This is nothing like the earth that I knew at home. It’s full of ash and volcanic overflow, which makes for rich soil that nourishes plant life well. But I miss the rocks of my home village.” His voice is quiet. “I do not think my home village exists anymore.” 

“Why not?” 

“They knew that the Avatar had been born into an earth bending family. They travelled through the Earth Kingdom, searching for the Avatar . . . Thomas and I ran in the middle of the night. I could not let him leave alone. As we ran, I smelled the smoke, but Thomas . . . he must have seen the village go up in flames.” 

Virgil hadn’t even considered that as a possibility. “Is he . . . okay?” 

“I assume so,” Logan says softly. “He never tells me otherwise. Then again, I doubt he would say anything to me if he was. He doesn’t like to worry me, which is stupid, because he’s my brother. I’m always worried about him. Especially when he goes and hides shit from me.” 

“You curse a lot for a twelve year old,” Virgil tells him. Logan throws a rock at him. 

*~*~*~*~*

The island is beautiful, Virgil thinks. It’s all tall, imposing mountains with scraggly trees clinging to the cliffs and shining black-sand beaches. As Remy descends, Virgil spies a glimpse of a gleaming golden building hidden in the mountains. “What’s that?” he asks Roman. 

“It’s a Fire Nation temple,” Roman tells him. His eyes are wide and shiny as he stares at the island, even as the waves crash down onto the beach. “Fire Sages would study there, calling on the spirits and seeking their advice. This temple’s been abandoned for who knows how long, since it’s virtually inaccessible these days.” 

“Is that where we’re going to study?” Thomas asks, leaning over the side of the saddle. 

“We can study anywhere on the island,” Roman responds, “but yeah, we probably will spend a fair amount of time there. It’s a traditional place to train in fire bending.” 

Remy touches down on the beach, and almost immediately a dark, choppy wave crashes down over his tail. The flying bison snorts loudly, irritated, and lurches forward off the beach. “Easy there, boy,” Patton soothes, reaching to pat at his head. 

“Where are we going to camp?” Logan asks. 

“We’re on the beach right now,” Thomas says, “but I don’t think we can stay here. The ocean is too unpredictable, not to mention ships could spot us. I think it’s best if we move inland, try to camp out somewhere in there.” 

“That sounds good,” Roman says. He jumps off of Remy’s back and sinks to his knees, digging his hands into the black sand. “Oh, I’ve missed this . . .”

“What is it?”

“Volcanic sand. It’s formed from lava, there’s no feeling like it!” Roman happily begins to roll around in the sand, laughing like a little kid. Virgil watches him indulgently for a couple minutes before he starts harassing him to lead them inland.

*~*~*~*~*

They set up camp at the base of one of the large mountains. Logan and Thomas earth bend some shelter structures out of the rock, and Logan hollows out a campfire pit. Roman goes and finds good firewood, easily bending a campfire to life. Virgil settles down next to Logan as Roman begins to talk about fire bending to Thomas. 

“You know how to do this,” he says. “Not consciously, of course, but you’re the Avatar. You were a fire bender in some of your previous lives. The memory of bending is somewhere inside you. We just have to unlock it.” 

“And how do we do that?” Thomas asks. 

“We start with the bending stances,” Roman says, “and we work our way up from there. A word of caution - I can only teach you some of fire bending.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I can’t bend lightning.” 

“Fire benders can bend lightning?!” Thomas gasps. 

“Not all of us,” Roman says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Remus and I had training in lightning bending, since we’re princes, but neither of us mastered it. To the best of my knowledge, anyway . . .” 

“That’s really cool, though,” Thomas says. 

“You know what’s really cool?” Roman says. “Redirecting lightning. If bending lightning is rare, redirecting lightning is crazy rare. It’s not really a fire bending technique, I don’t think, cause Uncle Emile’s the one who pioneered it. He told me he used water bending techniques to develop it.” 

That perks Virgil’s interest. “Water bending?” 

Roman nods, explaining the way his uncle had developed the redirection technique in between instructing Thomas and adjusting his bending stances. Virgil listens, quietly taking mental notes in case he can use any of these stances in his own bending practices. 

*~*~*~*~*

The ocean is so different to the one at the South Pole. 

Virgil creeps away at night, after they’re all asleep. Patton is snuggled up to Remy, tugging the flying bison’s tail over himself like a blanket. Logan and Thomas are pressed close together, Logan’s quiet breaths obscured by Thomas’s snores. Roman is sprawled out on his stomach like a starfish, face totally obscured by his growing mop of wild curls. It’s warm enough in the Fire Nation that no one feels the need to huddle up to him for warmth, letting him spread out the way he apparently normally does. 

As he makes his way to the ocean, Virgil hums to himself, an old lullaby that he remembers from his childhood. It’s an old tale about spirits and balance and the moon, and it comforts him. The Fire Nation island is dark, but the moon overhead is bright and full. Virgil can feel it pulling on him as he creeps ever closer to the ocean. He steps out from the shadow of the sparse forest lining the coast onto the black sand of the beach just as a massive wave breaks against the shore. The water is black as pitch, and the moon gleams overhead like a jewel, reflecting beautifully on the water. 

“Hello,” Virgil whispers. The black sand is unlike anything he’s ever felt; it glides smoothly over the skin of his bare feet, slipping between his toes as he digs them in for balance. He understands why Roman missed a beach like this. 

Virgil knows that he isn’t strong enough to bend the ocean. Water is one thing, but the ocean is under the control of the spirit La, and Virgil doesn’t want to mess with spirits. For once, he isn’t out here to practice his bending. 

“Tui, Spirit of the Moon,” he says softly, “you gave me the gift of water bending, and taught me to wield it for defense. From your example, I take my lead. I thank and honor you.” Reaching into the small bag tied at his hip, he pulls out a piece of fruit he’d saved from their dinner, one of the two finest. “I offer you this sacrifice in thanks and adoration.” A wave rolls in, and he carefully sets the fruit down on a large, broad leaf. It’s carried out to sea, like a tiny boat, and Virgil quickly loses sight of it. He doesn’t bother to try and keep track of it; he has another sacrifice to make. 

“La, Spirit of the Ocean, you gave me the gift of the water I bend, and taught me to wield it for healing. From your example, I take my lead. I thank and honor you.” He produces the second piece of fruit he’d saved. “I offer you this sacrifice in thanks and adoration.” Another wave rolls in, and Virgil watches another leaf-boat disappear into the ocean. 

He’s done this spirit sacrifice every full moon that he can remember. Even on this journey, he’s done it, setting the sacrifices of the nicest parts of dinner he can save into the nearest body of water. He hopes that the rivers will carry his sacrifices out to La.

Traditionally, the spirit prayers are meant to be said in the plural. Virgil’s father had told him stories of the past, when all the water benders of the tribe would gather and sacrifice and pray together, thanking Tui and La for their gifts. Once the Fire Nation raids had begun, they had stopped. 

Virgil makes a point to do it every single full moon. Bending is a precious gift, and deserves to be treated as such. He steps closer to the ocean, bending down to dip his fingers into the waves. The water is chilly, but it’s nothing compared to the burning cold of his home ocean. He lifts his hand to his mouth and gently licks his fingers, grinning. 

He’s missed the taste of salt water. 

*~*~*~*~*

It takes Thomas almost a week to be able to produce fire. 

At first, all he can produce are puffs of dark smoke and the occasional spark. Roman seems ecstatic with this progress. “It’s good!” 

“It’s not fire,” Thomas says dejectedly. “It’s not anything.” 

“Most firebenders start out with smoke,” Roman says. “At least it’s dark! That’s a good sign! Dark smoke is always better than pale smoke. Remus’s smoke was pale for the first two months that we practiced.” 

“So . . . I’m not a failure?” 

“Of course you are not a failure,” Logan says, smacking his brother’s shoulder. “Do not say stupid things. It is beneath you.” 

Virgil snorts, laying out his array of knives. They gleam in the strong Fire Nation sunlight, and the edges are freshly sharpened. “You’re the fuckin’ Avatar, Thomas. You’re not a failure.” 

“Yeah!” Roman says, trying to be helpful. “Hey, at least you can bend!” 

“Roman!” Patton hisses. Logan glares at him disapprovingly, and Thomas frowns. Virgil is confused for a second, until he sees Patton glance at him sympathetically. 

Oh. 

They think Roman was making a dig at him, because they think that he can’t bend. 

Roman looks at him in confusion, and then immediately claps his hands over his mouth. “Oh - shit - fuck, Virgil, I didn’t - I wasn’t trying to - I’m so sorry -”

“Don’t apologize,” Virgil says, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s all good.”

“It’s not all good, though,” Roman says. “I never meant to imply that you’re not as important as us just because you can’t bend, I -”

“It’s all good, Ro, I mean that,” Virgil says. “I don’t bend, but that doesn’t mean I’m defenseless. I have all of these to keep me safe, and that’s not the only trick I have up my sleeve.” 

“What do you have up your sleeve?” Logan asks him. “Besides many, many knives, anyway.” 

“Water bending can be used for healing,” Virgil says. “There are plenty of scrolls about it in my home village. Different types of bending use different energy pathways, and if you know where those pathways flow, you can cut them off.” 

“You can take away someone’s bending?” Roman whispers. 

“Not permanently,” Virgil says, picking up one of his knives and fiddling with it so that he doesn’t have to look at anyone. “It’s only temporary. It leaves them weak and semi-paralyzed, and unable to bend, but they recover after half an hour or so. I try not to use it unless I have to, cause I know how much benders rely on their abilities.” 

“That’s a pretty powerful skill,” Thomas says quietly. 

“I guess. But you’re the Avatar, so you’d know all about power, wouldn’t you?” 

Thomas nods, but there’s still something strange in his eyes. 

Virgil goes for a walk by the ocean. When he comes back, the strangeness is gone. 

*~*~*~*~*

“Why am I the one who has to go get firewood?” Virgil complains. 

“Because I did it last time, and Patton did it the time before that, and Thomas and Roman are off doing fire bending practice somewhere,” Logan says. “It’s your turn.” 

“I can go,” Patton offers. “It’s not that big of a deal!” 

“No, Logan is right,” Virgil sighs, rolling to his feet. “It’s my turn to go get the firewood, so I’ll go get it. It’s not really that big of an imposition.” He pats his tunic, boots, sleeves down to make sure that he’s fully stocked with knives in case something happens. “I’ll meet you all back here, alright?” 

He tightens the straps of his boots and heads off inland in search of firewood. 

The island is very pretty, Virgil will give it that. The forest is almost non-existent this far inland, but there are plenty of small, woody plants and shrubs that he can gather wood from. He has an armful tucked against his side when he hears the noise. It’s a pained cry, and for a moment he thinks it’s Roman or Thomas. 

Quickly, he shakes his head to clear it and refocus. Thomas and Roman are training closer to the shoreline today, so they wouldn’t be this far inland. And the cry he’d heard . . . it wasn’t quite human. 

The cry echoes again, but there’s something different about it. Virgil ties the firewood together and throws it over his shoulder, scrambling off towards the cry. “I’m coming!” 

He realizes that this is kind of a stupid move. He realizes that he could be running straight into danger. What if it’s a trap? What if he gets himself killed? Despite his fear, there’s something in him pulling him forward. The cry sounds real, and it sounds pained. Who or whatever is making it needs help, and Virgil will not stand idly by and let someone suffer because of his fear. 

He makes his way to a cliff, and he can hear whoever’s crying on the other side. The cliff is tall, but not unscalable. Virgil’s used to climbing glaciers back home, and while ice is slippery and more perilous than rock, he can rely on his bending to keep himself steady. Here, he’s climbing with no support. 

Virgil pulls off his boots and knots the laces together, slinging them around his shoulders. Going barefoot will ensure that he has a better grip on the cliff as he climbs. The sun gleams sharply on the dark rocks, and Virgil goes slowly to make sure he doesn’t accidentally grab a sharp rock and slice his hands open. He hasn’t had to climb like this in quite a while, but he enjoys it, despite the reason for his climb. 

When he finally pushes himself up to the top of the cliff, he gasps. He’s found a small valley, hidden in the large, dark mountains, and tucked inside is a building. It’s built almost into the shadow of the mountain from dark brick, with a dark red tiled roof and gleaming golden accents. This must be the Fire Nation temple he’d spotted when they flew in, he realizes. 

The cry echoes again, and Virgil realizes that it’s coming from the temple. He quickly pulls his boots off from around his neck and tugs them on, knotting the laces securely. The cliff slopes much more smoothly on this side, like the curve of a bowl. Virgil backs up and then leaps over the side, pulling water out of the waterskin hanging at his side with his hand. He bends it and freezes it beneath him, creating a flat board that he can surf down the hill on. 

Virgil makes it to the bottom of the hill in record time, leaping off and bending his ice board back to regular water, which he quickly bends back into his waterskin. The temple hadn’t looked huge from the top of the cliff, but up close and in person it’s enormous. It’s clearly suffered from neglect; the door hangs ajar from the hinges, the gold is flaking off of the roof and the statues, some of which are missing arms and legs and noses and ears and even heads. Still, the temple is undeniably beautiful. 

A pitiful whimper sounds from the temple, and Virgil exhales softly. “I’m coming,” he says softly. “I’m coming.” 

The temple is dark inside, but Virgil can see rows of torches on the walls. He assumes they’re meant to be lit with fire bending, probably meant to be eternally burning, but he’ll have to make do. He carries flints with him in his shoulder bag, and he quickly pulls a torch off the wall and lights it. As he progresses slowly through the temple, he lights the other torches, and they cast a warm, ambient glow over the whole room. There are pictures decorating the entire length of the hallway, telling stories of the Fire Nation. They tell how the dragons taught the people of the Fire Nation to bend, to harness the warmth and strength of fire. 

Looking at these pictures, Virgil can’t fear fire bending. It looks peaceful; there’s strength and power there, but there’s also love and light and warmth. 

The hallway narrows and narrows and narrows, and then it widens abruptly into a large central chamber. This is the most intricately decorated room Virgil has ever seen - the walls, the roof, the floor, the pillars, everything is absolutely covered in decoration, but he can’t focus on any of it.

All he can focus on is the dragon in the middle of the room. 

It’s enormous , a long, serpentine body winding around the columns. It’s a brilliant red, scales flecked with gold, and a row of orange gold-tipped spines running down its back. Its wings are spread out over the floor, and its head has golden horns and spines and whiskers. The dragon lets out another pitiful cry, and as Virgil inches closer he sees it - a massive wound in the dragon’s side. 

It looks like an old wound, one that hasn’t healed properly. Even from afar, Virgil can tell that it might be infected, and the dragon’s breathing is heavy and labored. He creeps closer, and the dragon’s head snaps around to stare at him. Its eyes are a bright, unnatural blue, with slitted golden pupils, and when it stares at him it feels like it’s staring directly into his soul.

WHY HAVE YOU COME, CHILD? Virgil nearly drops the torch to cower and cover his ears. The voice is only in his head, and the dragon’s mouth does not move to speak, but he can feel it resonate against his sternum. HAVE YOU COME TO KILL ME, FINALLY?

“N - no,” Virgil manages, voice catching in his throat. “I heard you crying out.”

I AM IN PAIN. I HAVE BEEN IN PAIN FOR QUITE SOME TIME. I FEAR I AM NOT LONG FOR THIS WORLD.

“I - I might be able to help you,” Virgil says. 

WILL YOU KILL ME, CHILD? PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY?

“No,” Virgil says. “I - no ! I will not kill you! I want to try and heal you.” 

YOU THINK THAT YOU CAN DO THIS, CHILD?

“I’ve never tried to heal a creature this big or a wound this serious,” Virgil admits honestly. “But I’m going to try. I won’t just let you suffer without trying.” 

THAT IS ADMIRABLE.

“Can I come a little closer?” Virgil asks. The dragon rests its large head on its forepaws.

YOU MAY.

Virgil slowly climbs over the coils of the dragon’s body, settling himself down cross-legged next to the massive wound on the dragon’s side. It looks like an old burn wound, and the dragon’s flank rises and falls shallowly as it breathes. He gently lays a hand next to the dragon’s wound. 

“Oh . . . what happened?” 

IT WAS DRAGONS WHO TAUGHT THE FIRE NATION TO BEND. WE GAVE THEM THE GIFT OF FIRE. THE FIRE LORD TURNED IT ON US. HE SLEW ALL THE DRAGONS THAT I KNEW. I AM THE ONLY ONE LEFT. I AM THE LAST OF MY KIND. 

Virgil presses his free hand over his mouth. “That’s . . . that’s so horrible . . .”

I AM NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO HAS HAD THEIR LIFE DESTROYED, I SENSE.

Virgil winces. “My . . . my dad. They killed him because they thought he was the last water bender of our tribe. He died lying to protect me.” 

I AM SORRY, CHILD. THAT IS A FATE NO ONE SHOULD SUFFER.

Virgil exhales shakily. “No one should suffer your fate, either. I will do my best to heal you.” He pops the cap off of his waterskin and bends the water around his hands like a protective covering. The water begins to glow as he places his hands just above the dragon’s wound, letting his water bending give him information. What it tells him isn’t good; the wound is old, and it’s infected as he’d thought, and he suspects that the dragon has some form of blood poisoning. 

He’s never tried to heal something this big, or this serious. But he promised he would try, and try he will. He’s lucky that the full moon was the other night; that’s when water benders are at the height of their power. With luck, he’ll be strong enough for this task.

IF IT IS TOO MUCH FOR YOU, CHILD, DO NOT PUSH YOURSELF. I HAVE SURVIVED THIS LONG. I WILL ENDURE.

“No,” Virgil says, narrowing his eyes and clenching his jaw. “I’m not giving up. I have to try.” He presses his hands against the wound, and the water begins to glow even brighter. He focuses on the flow of energy moving throughout the dragon’s massive body, pulling out the infection surrounding the wound and trying to push healing energy into the dragon in its place. 

The water quickly becomes murky and infected as he heals. Virgil takes breaks to dispose of the tainted water and fetch some more clean water from the stream outside. The more he works, the shakier he gets, and he’s worried that he won’t have the energy to finish healing the dragon. 

DO NOT HURT YOURSELF, LITTLE ONE, the dragon rumbles. ALREADY I FEEL MYSELF IMPROVING. YOUR KINDNESS HAS DONE SO MUCH FOR ME.

“I - I can keep goin’,” Virgil slurs. “Almost done . . . one more should do it . . .”

He presses his hands against the wound one last time. It’s shrunk down considerably, all the infection pulled out and purified and disposed of. He’s working on the final part of the healing now, re-growing the torn and burnt muscle and skin and making sure the dragon’s scales grow in properly. 

Finally, he pulls his hands away, and the wound on the dragon’s side is no more. It stands up, shaking itself out; all of the scales rattle as they realign, and the dragon roars. THANK YOU, LITTLE ONE. YOU HAVE HELPED ME IMMENSELY. The dragon begins to glow bright blue, and Virgil’s exhausted brain manages to connect the dots: the dragon is a spirit. He’s just healed a spirit. 

YOU HAVE EARNED MY GRATITUDE THIS DAY, the dragon spirit tells him. REST NOW, LITTLE ONE. KNOW THAT THE SPIRITS ARE WITH YOU, AND ONE DAY YOUR GOOD DEED WILL COME BACK TO YOU TENFOLD.

Virgil’s vision blacks out and blurs around the edges. The last thing he sees as he falls backwards is the dragon spirit’s head coming forward to catch his body.

*~*~*~*~*

“- isn’t he waking up?!”

“What if he’s dead?” 

“He is not dead, I can hear his heartbeat. It is strong and steady. He will survive.” 

“But what if he doesn’t wake up?!” 

“Geez, Roman,” Virgil groans, lifting a hand to his head. “I never knew you cared.”

“Virgil!” He winces at the shout. “Oh, shit, sorry -” A hand presses against his forehead, warm, and when Virgil opens his eyes (only halfway), Roman is leaning over him, eyes bright with worry. 

“What . . . happened?” 

“You were taking forever to come back from firewood, so we went looking for you! We thought you had been ambushed and captured!” Patton explains, twisting his hands with worry. “We found you at the foot of a cliff, there was a rock next to you! We think there was some kind of rock fall that caught you unaware, you must have hit your head! We don’t know how long you were unconscious!” 

“How long has it been?” 

“We found you a few hours ago,” Thomas says. “It’s evening now.” Virgil slowly sits up, wincing when his head pounds. Logan is sitting beside him, and he offers him a waterskin. Virgil takes it and quickly gulps down a few chilly swallows.

“I thought you were dead,” he says softly. “I could feel your heartbeat, I could hear you breathing, I knew you weren’t, but when we found you, I - I was terrified, and I . . . I thought you were - I -” 

Virgil gently touches Logan’s shoulder. It’s easy to forget that he’s only twelve and a half, with the mature aura he generally projects, but sometimes it’s painfully obvious that he’s just a child, thrust into a war against his will. Logan will lose what’s left of his childhood to this conflict, and Virgil will be damned if he forces Logan to grow up any faster than he already is. 

“I’m sorry, Logan,” he says. Logan turns his face towards Virgil, and his eyes are wet. He hasn’t let any tears fall, but his hand is shaking when he places it over Virgil’s. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I - I didn’t mean to make you think you’d lost someone else. I’m okay.” 

Logan is silent for a moment. “You’re not lying,” he whispers. “I’m still mad at you, though.” 

“That’s fine,” Virgil says. “I’m sorry that I made you mad.” 

“Smart answer,” Logan says, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face. He sniffles once, loudly, wiping at his eyes. “You saw nothing. I was not crying.” 

“Of course not,” Virgil teases, gently ruffling Logan’s hair. He squawks loudly, but he makes no attempt to dodge Virgil’s hands. Virgil assumes he’s been forgiven. 

*~*~*~*~*

The stars seem a little brighter that night. Virgil is on his back, hands beneath his head, staring up at the stars, when Roman flops down next to him. “What’cha doin’?” 

“Looking at the constellations,” Virgil tells him. “They’re nothing like the ones back home, so I’m making up my own.” 

“Do you wanna hear about ours?” Roman offers. He seems uncharacteristically shy, but Virgil just smiles at him. 

“Sure, Ro. I’d love to hear about Fire Nation constellations.” Suddenly, the stars alight in Roman’s eyes. He lays next to Virgil and starts to trace lines between the stars, telling stories about the pictures he’s creating. At some point, the rest of their group shows up and settles in around them. Thomas lays down next to Virgil, Logan slots up against his brother’s side, and Patton stretches out beside Roman. 

It’s good. It’s . . . peaceful.

*~*~*~*~*

The first time Thomas produces a flame on purpose, they all stop and stare. 

Roman has arranged the kindling around the firepit, but he’s refusing to light it. “You’re going to light the fire,” he tells Thomas. The Avatar shakes his head. 

“Ro, I’ve never made more than plumes of smoke and the occasional spark. I can’t light it.” 

“You’re going to have to,” Roman says, “because I won’t. We can’t cook dinner without the fire, so you’re gonna have to figure something out and fast. The sun’s setting.” Thomas huffs. 

“Roman, you’re being ridiculous.” 

“You’re the Avatar. The fire is in your veins the way it’s in mine. You just have to convince it to come out.” Roman crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow impassively at Thomas. Even though he’s only met the man in passing, Virgil is reminded of Roman’s Uncle Emile. 

Thomas drops into a fire bending stance and thrusts his hand forward. A puff of dark smoke appears, but no fire. He growls in frustration and throws his hand forward again, and again, then his foot, then another hand. He’s copying Roman’s bending stances, but no fire appears. 

“You have to try harder than that.” 

“I’m trying the hardest I can!” 

“If that was true, you would have lit the fire five minutes ago.” Roman’s eyes are hard as steel. “Do better.” 

“How?!” Thomas pants, wiping the sweat off his forehead. 

“Just do it.” 

Thomas screams and thrusts his hand forward in frustration. A massive jet of fire roars forward, licking up the sides of the pit and engulfing all of the kindling. Within seconds, it’s reduced to ash. Before anyone else can react, Patton bends a vortex around the fire and siphons out all the air, extinguishing the fire. Thomas stares at the pit in shock, breathing heavily. 

“You did a good job,” Roman says, and his eyes are warm again. 

“What was that?!” 

“Fire benders often have to be pushed to a strong emotional extreme to create their first flame. Once you do it, though, it gets easier. We’ll work on being able to call your fire more reliably, and then we’ll work on tempering your control.” Roman touches Thomas’s shoulder and smiles. “I’m proud of you, Thomas.” 

Thomas smiles. Roman sweeps fresh kindling into the firepit. “Again.” 

Virgil backs up several feet. 

*~*~*~*~*

It takes about ten days for Thomas to be able to call his fire reliably. Roman needles him through the first few attempts, poking and prodding until Thomas screams in frustration and incinerates whatever’s closest to him. Eventually, however, he gains the ability to bend flames without fifteen minutes of Roman’s prompting. 

“You did well,” Roman tells him. “Now, we work on training that fire. Producing it is one thing, but controlling it is another. For that, we go inland.” 

“What? Why?” 

“There’s a Fire Nation temple on this island,” Roman says. “It’s not, like, strictly necessary to go there, but I always found that being connected to the tradition of fire benders before me helped sharpen my focus.” 

“Sounds cool,” Thomas says. Virgil thinks back to the temple where he’d found and healed the dragon. He’s glad they won’t be walking in on that fiasco. “Are we the only ones going?” 

“I want to go!” Patton says eagerly. “I’ve never seen a Fire Nation temple before!” 

“I would also like to visit an example of Fire Nation architecture,” Logan offers. “I am sure it will be fascinating.” 

They turn to face Virgil. “Vee? You coming?” Virgil’s already seen the Fire Nation temple, but he’s not too proud to admit that it was beautiful. He wonders if there are other secrets that the temple holds, secrets that will only reveal themselves in the presence of a fire bender. 

Plus, he’s not exactly keen on everyone else going off on an adventure without him. 

“Yeah, of course I am.” Roman grins. 

*~*~*~*~*

The cliff is much easier to scale the second time around. Before any of them can attempt to problem solve, Logan steps forward. Within a minute, he’s earth bended a set of stairs leading up the gleaming cliffside. “Will these suffice?” 

“Nicely done, Rocky!” Roman says, ruffling Logan’s hair. Logan hides his pleased smile, but Virgil catches a glimpse as he heads up the stairs. 

The temple is just as beautiful the second time around. Logan and Thomas bend a chute in the cliff, allowing them all to slide down to the entrance of the temple. “It’s beautiful,” Roman breathes. “It’s been neglected . . . forgotten about . . . but it’s still beautiful.” He reaches out towards the front door, carefully places his hand on the intricate wooden panelling. “There was one of these in the palace, but it wasn’t so intricately decorated. My father didn’t believe in taking care of temples like this, in honoring tradition. He only believes in power.” His voice is shaking. 

“We know not all fire benders are like that,” Virgil says softly. “We know you’re different.” 

Roman takes a deep breath. “Let’s go inside.” 

Once they step inside, Patton frowns. “It’s pitch black in here!” 

“Oh, no,” Logan deadpans. “How terrible, to not be able to see anything. How frightening.” Patton winces guiltily before Logan snorts and socks him in the arm. “Kidding. I do not take offense.” 

“Don’t worry about that,” Roman says. Virgil can barely see his silhouette in the dark, but then a flame arcs through the air, following the path of Roman’s foot as he bends. The flame dances along the rows of torches, illuminating the hallway. “Shall we?” 

Roman trails his fingertips over the murals carved into the walls as they walk. He’s vibrating like a little kid, but there’s something solemn and reverent in the way he touches things. “These murals tell the history of my people,” he whispers. He doesn’t need to, but Virgil feels the atmosphere of the temple the way he’s sure Roman does. It feels like a place for whispering. “They tell how the dragons taught us to fire bend. I wish I could see one . . .”

Virgil thinks of the last time he was here, and prays that they don’t see another dragon. 

When they enter the central chamber, it is empty and darkened. Roman steps into the center, humming softly to himself, before glancing upward. “I think I can open it . . .”

“Open what?” 

“All Fire Nation temples have a hatch in the ceiling that opens to let the sunlight in. That’s the source of our bending powers, is the spirit of the sun. There’s an intricate set of bending steps you have to do to open the hatch, it’s considered sacred. Fire Sages are usually the only ones who can do it, but they teach it to royalty as well.” Roman frowns. 

“What is it?” 

“Typically, you need two fire benders to open the hatch . . .” 

“I can help,” Thomas offers. 

“No, you’re not skilled enough outside of the Avatar state to do it. I can try and do it on my own, but I’m not super optimistic.” 

“You have to try!” Patton cheers. Someone snorts derisively from the darkness of the temple. Roman narrows his eyes, shifting to an attack stance. Virgil lets a knife drop into his hand; Patton and Logan shift into bending stances; Logan steps in front of Thomas, who settles into an earth bending stance of his own. 

Something crackles as white lines begin to trace in the dark. Roman’s face shifts from caution to shock. “Get down!” he shouts, moments before a lightning bolt sails over his head and slams into the wall. It fizzles out harmlessly against the stone, and Roman shifts back to a bending stance. “Show yourself!” Virgil’s blood runs cold. Another fire bender. They’ve been found.  

Another lightning bolt shoots out of the darkness, heading towards Roman. He doesn’t move, and Virgil is about to shove him out of the way when the lightning bolt strikes the stone right in front of Roman. Virgil frowns; Roman said lightning bending was rare, something only skilled fire benders could do. Whoever’s bending in the dark has missed them, not once but twice. Either they’re a terrible shot, or . . . 

They’re missing on purpose. 

Roman takes a step towards the darkness, and then another. “Show yourself,” he repeats, voice just a little softer. 

“Bad idea,” Virgil warns, voice low. Something shifts in the darkness, snarling, and then a dark blur throws itself onto Roman. It tackles him to the ground, knocking him flat on his back. Roman lets out a winded noise as he rolls with his attacker, trying to pin them down. Virgil slips a throwing knife into his hand, pinning it between his index and middle fingers, but he can’t get a clear shot on Roman’s attacker to throw it. 

Finally, they stop moving. Roman is on his back, his attacker perched proudly on his stomach. Virgil is ready to attack, but freezes when he sees that Roman isn’t staring up at his attacker with fear or anger or concern. His face is soft, and open, and looks almost . . . hopeful. Virgil’s eyes slide to Roman’s attacker, and he does a double take. 

Roman is being pinned to the ground by . . . himself?

A few more seconds clears his vision; the boy pinning Roman looks very similar to his friend, but there are differences. He has a white streak of hair in his bangs, the wispy beginnings of a mustache, a gap between his front teeth. There’s something slightly unhinged glinting in his eyes as he grins. 

“Remus?” Roman breathes. The name rings a bell. Remus. Roman’s twin brother. The one who told them about this island.  

“The one and only!” Remus crows. He hops up off of Roman, eyes settling on Virgil and the others. He bows exaggeratedly, crossing one foot behind the other, grinning up at them with something just shy of mania. Roman rolls to his feet and yanks Remus into a hug. 

“Rem!” Roman’s fist grips Remus’s shirt so tightly that his knuckles are turning white, and Remus holds his brother just as tightly. “You’re okay! After I left, I was so worried Father would do something to you, are you - are you okay?!” 

“I’m okay,” Remus says softly. “I’m okay, Ro, and Deedee is too. He’s safe.” 

“Is he here too?!” Roman gasps hopefully. Remus shakes his head. 

“He’s not strong enough to leave the ship’s quarters. Father did a number on him. But he’s alive, and he misses you. A lot.”

“I miss him too,” Roman says, eyes watering. He pulls back from the hug just enough to study Remus’s face. “Your hair - what happened?” 

“Lightning mishap.” 

“You can bend lightning now?! You absolute fucker!” Roman laughs, dragging Remus back into his arms. “I can’t believe you figured it out first!” Remus grins, hugging his twin. “How did you get here? We flew in, but -”

“I took a rowboat.” 

“Are you crazy?! You came in by sea? You could have been killed!” 

“I know! It would have been so exciting!” Remus chirps, bouncing and flapping his hands. “But I knew you were gonna be here, and I missed you!” 

“That was a stupid risk!” 

“Saving the Avatar and his baby brother from Father’s wrath was a stupid risk, too. Must run in the family.” 

Roman punches his brother in the chest. Remus laughs, rolling with the blow and kicking Roman’s feet out from under him. Roman lands flat on his back, laughing breathlessly. Virgil lets his knife slide back into its sheath. Remus still sets him on edge, but Roman looks more at ease than Virgil’s ever seen him (with the possible exception of when his Uncle Emile tumbled out of those bushes). 

It’s nice to see him relax.

*~*~*~*~*

Later, after Remus and Roman have performed and intricate series of dance-like fire bending steps and opened the roof hatch, letting the sun come pouring in, they all sit together. Remus and Roman are pressed close together, literally joined at the hip. 

“I can’t stay much longer,” Remus says regretfully. “I’m going to have to head out today if I’m to make it back to the warship before the sea becomes unnavigable.” 

“Why risk it at all?” Roman asks. 

“We’re checking all the outlying Fire Nation islands for you. Your flying sky beast was spotted by some locals on the shore. I volunteered because I knew it was the most dangerous island to look for. The crew thinks it was a noble gesture, they don’t suspect me.” 

“But if they do,” Roman says, “what will they do to you?”

Remus grins, sharp and unhinged. “I can do worse back to them, tenfold. Trust me. And they won’t find anything out.” 

“Why come yourself?” Virgil asks. “Why not send your Uncle?” 

Remus’s grin fades. “I missed Ro. We’ve never been apart this long, it’s . . . I hate it. It’s like someone ripped my arm and leg out and then beat me over the head with it.” 

“I hate it too,” Roman says. He grips Remus’s hand tightly. “I’m so sorry that I left you.” 

“Hey, if Dee and I coulda escaped with you, we would have,” Remus shrugs. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” 

“Someone has to take care of him until you get back. And Dee’s cool, I don’t mind.” Remus turns to regard Thomas, tilting his head to the side. “So how good of an Avatar are you?” 

“I’ve mastered earth bending,” Thomas says. “Roman is teaching me to master fire. Air is next, then water.” Remus winces. “What?” 

“You might wanna hurry that time table up a little. There aren’t any water benders left at the South Pole.” 

“I know,” Virgil says coolly. “I’m from the South Pole.” 

“Father is planning something,” Remus says, gripping Roman’s hand back. “He keeps meeting with dignitaries from the Air Nomads, and I’m not sure why. He told me before I left that he was trying to broker peace, but -”

“But Father has never brokered a peace in his entire life,” Roman finishes. “That’s suspicious.” 

“There’s more. I think once he finishes with whatever he’s doing with the Air Nomads, he’s planning an assault on the Northern Water Tribe.” 

“How is he going to do that?” 

“With the Air Nomads’ help?” 

“My people would never aid in something like that,” Patton spits. Remus shrugs. 

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just saying, you don’t know what Father is capable of the way that Roman and I do. He’s capable of atrocities beyond your comprehension. He took Mother away from us. He took Roman away from me. He’s - he’s taking everyone I’ve ever loved.” 

“He won’t take me,” Roman promises. “We might not physically be with each other, but as soon as the war is over I’ll come home.” 

“You’ll have to kill Father for that to happen,” Remus says. “You’ll have to win the war.” 

“We will.” Roman’s eyes are blazing, and Remus stares into them for a moment before nodding. 

“I believe you.” 

“Good.” Remus stands up. “Don’t accompany me to the shoreline. The ship’s crew are watching through the onboard telescope, and if they see you they’ll storm the island. Wait until after sundown, we’ll be long gone by then. If plans change, I’ll send Dragon.”

“You better be taking care of him. And Dolos.” 

“Please, Roro. I’m not taking care of anyone. Uncle Emile is keeping us all alive.” Roman heaves an exaggerated sigh. 

“I don’t know why I expected better.” He stands up as well, gripping Remus’s shoulders. “Promise me that you’ll be careful?” 

“I’m never careful, brother,” Remus laughs. They pull into another tight hug before Remus is disappearing down the hallway like a shadow. Roman watches him go with a wistful, hungry expression on his face before turning around to stare at Thomas with renewed fire. 

“You heard my brother. We have a lot of work to do.” 

[mollymauk-teafleak]

A Gentleman’s Guide to Dancing (chapter two)

For the ever wonderful @minky-for-short and @spiky-lesbian

Chapter One

Please leave a comment on Ao3! 

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“And where do you think you’re going at this time of the day, young lady?”

It was their little joke, between the two of them, one that wouldn’t get old. Taako knew fine well where his sister was going when he caught her at the door, in her nicest day dress with her hair done up in elaborate braids protected from the wind by a silken scarf that had been a gift from their aunt, with a basket hanging from one arm that was emanating a distinct, sweet sugar smell.

“None of your business,” she told him primly but with a wicked grin, one that lifted her freckled cheeks.

Taako leaned in the doorway, eyeing his sister with his best impression of a stern older brother, “Definitely not going to meet that scoundrel of a blacksmith in town?”

“I’m sure I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Lup checked her hair in the silvered hall mirror, “The only scoundrel I know is you.”

Taako had to laugh at that, rolling his eyes, “Well, give Barold my best. Tell him I hope he enjoys the cookies I spent all of yesterday making…”

His sister turned a pleading look on him, delicately moving the basket behind her back, “There were only ten left anyway! And he does really like them.”

He waved her off with a dismissive hand, “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ll just make more. Or starve, whichever. Have fun.”

Taako expected to hear the door open and shut in quick succession, Lup as eager as ever to go do whatever she did with her gentleman caller that he definitely didn’t want to think about. But instead she lingered, eyes now on him rather than her reflection though there were enough similarities between the two.

“Taako…”

He stifled a sigh. He knew this as well, as familiar as their joke, though this was starting to grate on him more. Lup gazing at him whenever she would leave to meet Barry, guilt and a little bit of pity in her eyes. Like she was tensing the bond between them, putting strain on it and felt like she should apologise.

Taako couldn’t stand that. He couldn’t bear the fact that his sister felt she had to apologise for being happy.

It was true that for years they’d had nothing but each other, knowing each other inside and out, forming shelters for each other when nothing else made sense. But the older they both got, the more he realised Lup needed more than him. She needed someone dependable and brave, who went around fixing problems. Someone she could build something with, rather than hide in.

Lup needed Barry in a way she’d never need Taako again.

He knew that. He just didn’t like being reminded of it.

He loped forward, meeting her in the square of morning sunlight coming in through the leaded glass, reaching forward and tucking a loose strand of golden hair back into the safety of the silk.

“You never do braids as neatly as me,” he smirked, patting her cheek before stepping back, “Go have fun, Lup. Don’t you dare come back before midnight.”

Lup looked as if there was more she wanted to say but eventually sighed, a small smile that was sad and grateful all at once, carrying the weight of everything they hadn’t said, “I love you, Koko. I’ll see you later.”

“Same to you, Lulu,” Taako fixed a smile on his face that carried nothing but what it was, quite deliberately, “Love ya.”

The house did feel so much emptier when she was gone.

Taako sighed softly, suddenly not wanting to go back to his book. He had the restless, fidgety energy that he sometimes got, the prickling under his skin and the swimming in his vision. He either needed to fire off some spells as quickly as possible or he needed to cook something.

Seeing as Lup had just made off with the last of the cookies he made the other day, he chose the second.

Taako was well aware that young men of his station were supposed to never set foot in the kitchen. But he was already clinging to said station by the very edges of his fingertips and cooking funneled his restlessness into something tasty and useful so he saw little harm in indulging himself within his own home.

He’d always loved it, in fact, and illuminating the manor’s kitchen with a wave of his hand brought a rush of fondness and, just for a moment, made him five years old again. Tiny and slight with ears so big he couldn’t hold them up and a broken heart in his little chest, still expecting his mother or father to walk through the door at any moment. Sitting at Auntie’s feet because he didn’t know how to be alone but for the first time Lup didn’t want him near. Finally getting himself absorbed in what she was doing, how she turned separate ingredients into something else, something new. If he followed her hands, became fascinated by the hidden, subtle magic of it all, then he didn’t have to think about why his sister cried all the time, why she seemed to have given up on mama and papa ever coming back, why they lived here now instead of their old house.

Even years later, when he and Lup found each other again, when they learned how to function with the raw, broken edges of their family, Taako still cooked. He bought books, telling anyone who gave him strange looks that it was for his Auntie, when really he would stay up all night making notes in the margins for possible amendments and sketching out presentation ideas. It was like his magic in a lot of ways. Taking separate things and making something new, something that hadn’t existed before and now did because of his efforts.

That was all Taako wanted. Making cakes out of flour and eggs and sugar. Making illusions out of simple electrical charges in the air, the patterns and eddies he could feel with his fingertips.

Making a future for his sister out of the mess he’d been up until now.

Taako gave a soft sigh and tied back his hair into a messy bun, a bastardised version of the neat queue it was normally in. He tugged on his apron, so faded it was hard to see it had ever been blue and white striped. Already his blue mood was fading, shaking off his hands like irritating droplets of water as he gathered bowls and ingredients from the pantry.

Lup had taken the last of the cookies but he found himself gathering sugar, the scalloped tins from the very back of the cupboard and some of the wildflower honey from Merle’s bees. Madelines it was then. Sometimes his hands made decisions before his brain did.

His ears twitched when the early afternoon sun fell on them, as if feeling the warm weight of it. The window, slightly ajar, let in nothing but a fresh breeze and birdsong. He settled into familiar actions and rhythms, certain in his actions, doing everything by eye with a sense of pride. And slowly, surely, like the honey running from the spoon, Taako felt himself again.

He whistled as he worked, summoning lemons right into his hand, tossing it from one palm to the other playfully. It wasn’t until the bowl was filled with perfect butter yellow curls of zest that Taako realised he was humming the song from the dance. The song that had carried him and Kravitz in a mad dance around the entirety of Countess Raven’s manor in a fit of burned frustration, wine and mania.

The thought brought a rush of heat to Taako’s freckled cheeks and the now waxy white lemon slipped through his fingers and bounced to the tiled floor. He retrieved it as quick as he could; with their funds the way they were, he couldn’t afford to be wasting ingredients. He’d lost the song but it still played in his head, as muffled as it had been that night, a counterpoint to the winter wind and the night owls that gathered in the woods.

“Come on,” he muttered to himself in irritation, continuing the stirring with magic alone just to have something to focus on. Something that wasn’t Kravitz or the way he’d smelled of polished oak or how cool his hands had been in the few times they’d ghosted over his own as they’d danced.

That wasn’t going to get him anywhere. It had been a nice wild moment, a release of the anxiety and frustration of a boring party, but he couldn’t see it existing outside of that night, like a flower that could only grow in a certain place with just the right soil. He wasn’t expecting to see Kravitz again. Now that the cold light of day had reminded them both who they were and what they were and just what was appropriate for them to be doing.

Taako began to spoon mixture into the scalloped impressions, lined up neatly like the world’s most orderly beach. Soon each one had a thick golden puddle in the centre, speckled with bright yellow. He took a moment to feel proud of himself and admire just how neat they all looked before banging them in the ancient, cast iron oven. He and Lup would scarf them down within two hours for sure. If any survived, he’d take them to Merle and Magnus in town.

He didn’t take off his apron or loosen his hair, not quite sure if he was finished yet. He simply magicked up a cup of tea and sat on one counter to rest his ankles, enjoying the kitchen filling with the smell of lemons and honey.

And suddenly it turned bitter in his mouth as a thought struck him, like his brain had just decided he was far too content and needed to be knocked back.

This could be the last time you get to do this.

Taako’s hands tightened around the mug, magic suddenly pulsing through his fingertips and leaving a hairline crack down the side. When he finally found a wealthy heiress willing to marry him- if, the sly voice corrected- it would hardly be proper for him to haunt the kitchen any more. He’d be expected to do whatever gentlemen did with their free time, probably hunt or drink brandy or scoff at poor people. A lifetime of pretending, of wearing a mask and hoping it eventually just fused to his face so he could forget there’d ever been anything underneath.

And that was if things went well. If they didn’t, in two months they wouldn’t have a home, let alone a kitchen. Destitution or a complete loss of the very few things he liked about himself. Those were his choices.

Auntie had sickened and gone so quickly there had been no time to formalise anything, to fill in the gaps that hadn’t been filled. Neither he nor Lup were officially recorded anywhere as her heirs, given that they weren’t her children, that she’d taken them in out of the goodness of her heart after not speaking to her twin since they were the age of the two children she’d suddenly acquired.

Taako tried to remember how he’d felt this time last year. Young, free, invincible. Able to outrun or outsmart anything that would dare try and trip him up. Unaware that life was just around the corner and it would always be faster, smarter and crueller than him.

If you weren’t the way you are, it wouldn’t have happened. Of course Auntie didn’t put anything in writing, she didn’t want a fuck up like you as her heir. If you were better, if you were even halfway decent, Lup would be safe.

Taako slammed the mug down on the counter, completing the destruction his magic had already done, though he didn’t stop and look back to see. Almost frantically he threw himself at the cupboards, pulling out whatever ingredients weren’t already assembled, anything he could get his hands on. He found more bowls, more spoons, his magic reaching out and grabbing whatever his hands couldn’t. And then he was moving, following a set of instructions that came from nowhere, latching onto them desperately so he wasn’t at the mercy of the rest of his mind. He didn’t care what he was making, as long as he could add something to the world in a manic attempt to prove his own worth in some small way.

And then there was a knock at the door.

Taako cursed under his breath, trying to steady his hands and dissipate his magic and his anxiety just as he’d done before, though this time it was like oil, just clinging tighter for all his efforts. As he went down the hall he did quick mental maths, trying to juggle in his head while moving his feet. If it was the milkman,they should have just enough spare silver rattling around to pay him, if it was the butcher he would take an IOU if Taako batted his eyelashes enough…

If it was a bailiff…

Taako shook that thought out of his mind and opened the door before he could lose his nerve

“Oh hello! I was hoping you’d be in,” Kravitz stood on the doorway, framed in winter sunlight, as effortlessly neat as he had been that night.

“I...yes, I’m in,” Taako said, apparently thinking that the only thing to do when stood in a doorway with the most idiotic gaping expression was to say something equally stupid.

There was a pause while Kravitz shifted his weight and cleared his throat, though he took the fact that Taako’s brain had apparently fallen out of the back of his head with good grace.

“I...I’m sorry if it’s a bad time or I’m interrupting,” he said with an adorably coy smile, “I was just going insane stuck inside of the mistress' mansion all by myself and had to get some air and, well...I don’t know anyone else around here?”

Taako relaxed a little. Maybe the honesty and openness from the party had survived, if only for a while, like a good kind of hangover.

“Well, you know me,” he flashed a smile, “And that’s really all the interesting people who live around here anyway.”

Kravitz laughed, a pleasant, deep, laugh with just a little rumble around the edges, “May I come in?”

Taako stepped to one side and gestured down the hall, though now thinking of the many jobs that needed doing since they’d had to let the staff go, the dust gathering in the corners and the grime on some of the windows where neither he nor Lup had got around to cleaning them.

But Kravitz’s eyes passed over all of that as if it wasn’t there, hanging up his coat on the stand. He was wearing a similar colour scheme to what he’d worn at the party, all black, but this time a loose everyday shirt and waistcoat, dark trousers with a high waist. Taako wondered if the Countess made black mandatory or whether her ward was consciously trying to fit in. Or maybe he just liked black too.

“Are you working on something?” Kravitz asked delicately, apparently paying as much attention to Taako’s dress as he was to Kravitz’s.

Taako looked down at himself, only just managing to bite back a curse. He’d left his apron on without thinking, still dusted with flour and a few golden honey stains.

“Oh, um…” his mind raced for an excuse as to why he’d be dressed this way, each wilder than the last. Rehearsing a play? This was the new men’s fashion for elvenkind? The flour was actually ground bone or some equally grisly spell component?

Kravitz seemed to sniff the air a little, the scent of lemon and sugar and lavender escaping from the kitchen, “Are you baking?”

Taako swallowed, hoping he wasn’t blushing but the burning in his cheeks said otherwise, “Yeah, just...just a little…” He searched Kravitz’s expression for any disdain, confused when all he saw was a polite interest. Maybe even fascination.

“It smells divine! I’d never have thought you would be interested in something like baking but you’re clearly something of a genius.”

Now Taako was blushing for an entirely different reason, “Well...it’s kind of you to say so. I’m interested in all kinds of cooking really, not just baking. I always have, since I was small.”

Kravitz just looked outright impressed and not even in a feigned way. Taako actually didn’t think his face could hold an insincere expression.

“That’s amazing. If I were left to my own devices with no servants or cooks or anything, I’d starve before the day was through.”

Taako’s lips quirked upwards, “Well, if that ever happens, just come knock on my door. I’ll keep you going.”

Kravitz’s eyes brightened, “That’s a comforting thought.”

Taako gave a slight chuckle, tucking loose hair back behind his ears, “Why don’t you come through? I can make coffee and the madelines should be ready soon.”

And that was how Taako ended up with the heir of one of the richest and most mysterious families for miles around leaning against his kitchen counter, drinking coffee and pouting adorably when he was informed that the madelines needed to cool before they could be eaten.

“Believe me, it’s worth it,” Taako grinned, after discreetly vanishing the shards of broken mug from his outburst, “When the sugar cools and hardens around the edge and you get that snap when you bite into it...that’s magic right there.”

Kravitz seemed to accept that, eyes wandering, “And what were you making over there?” He indicated the half finished mess of Taako’s frantic baking frenzy just before the bell had rung.

Looking at it now, Taako had to suck a breath in through his teeth and admit, “I...have no idea. I was kind of...improvising?”

“Oh,” he nodded, looking like he might have sensed the hesitation under the elf’s words and was deciding to ignore it, “So...if I was going to learn to bake, just in case I’m shipwrecked on a deserted island or something of that nature and I can’t get in contact with you...what would I start with?”

Taako smirked, “Does this deserted island have a fully functioning kitchen?”

“Let’s say it does.”

Taako puzzled it over for a moment, wandering over to the shelf where all his recipe books were haphazardly piled, no attempt made to keep them neat with how frequently he pulled them down and juggled them around. Most were dog eared, either from use, being second hand or a combination of both. Some, Auntie used to say, were from generations back, hand written in crumbling scrawls.

“Do you like sweet or savoury things?” he hummed, fingers walking over some of the spines.

“Sweet,” came the almost shy reply. Taako hid a smile, it was a little unusual that someone who dressed entirely in black and lived in a mansion decorated with black feathers and even some skulls would have a sweet tooth.

“Well then, let’s try cookies. We can throw some nuts in, islands have nut trees, right? Do nuts grow on trees?”

“Some do,” Kravitz sounded like he was reciting from a textbook, like he was a schoolboy facing a tutor and eager for a gold star, “Tree nuts like hazelnuts and pistachios and pecans. All others aren’t actually nuts, they’re legumes or seeds.”

Taako lifted an eyebrow. Someone clearly didn’t go outside enough as a child. He hopped up onto his knees on the counter so he could reach far enough back and snag the ingredients.

“Right, well, tree nuts it is. And plenty of brown sugar, the good sticky stuff that goes like molasses when you bake it…”

“You’re so knowledgeable about this,” Kravitz’s voice suddenly sounded so much closer than it had before. When Taako turned, he saw that he’d moved right up beside him and was offering out a hand to help him down.

Stunned, Taako found himself blurting, “I could float down. If I wanted to.”

He immediately felt a pang of regret as a look of hurt flashed across Kravitz’s face for just a moment before smoothing out into his usual polite smile. The hand snapped back to his side, “Of course. I should have known better, I’m a magic user myself.”

Taako’s guilt crystallised into sharp edges in his chest as he recognised an obvious attempt to change the subject. But still he nodded, playing along, as if the jar in their conversation had never happened, “I can sense it. What school of magic do you study?”

Kravitz stepped back to let Taako hop down, “Ah, I haven’t studied a lot, if I’m honest. I’ve never had a magical tutor of any kind, just my...just my mistress.”

That did give Taako pause, though he covered it with busying himself at the mixing bowl. Innate magic was a rare thing, not taken from any book or school but from the user’s own blood. It had a reputation for being incredibly powerful but, as a side effect, very unstable. Unstable wasn’t exactly the word Taako would use to describe his new neighbour but he had to wonder what had come first and what had followed, out of his wardship to the countess and this newly mentioned magic.

“Lucky,” he finally said, playing it off lightly as always, “All my lessons were painfully boring.”

Kravitz gave a soft, easy laugh, though he’d clearly been watching very carefully for Taako’s reaction.

Usually Lup was the only person ever allowed in the kitchen while Taako worked and even then she risked a slap with a wooden spoon if she got in the way. But seeing as this was a lesson of sorts, Taako swallowed his usual protective bossiness and gave Kravitz odd tasks to do, carefully talking him through the steps for each one.

And each and every time, he regretted it.

“I think you were a little hasty when you said you’d starve in a day,” Taako eventually snorted in exasperation, “I don’t think you’d make it until the early afternoon.”

Kravitz, now wearing a grey suit rather than the black one he’d entered with after the sack of flour he’d dropped had ignored his aesthetic, gave him a wounded look, “I could eat stale biscuits from the pantry…”

“The second you’d touch them, dear, they’d probably spontaneously combust.”

Kravitz’s hurt pantomime cracked and he gave a bark of laughter, “Fine, I’m hopeless. But I tried and, therefore, I should still get some of the spoils.”

Taako smiled at the neat tray of seven perfectly round balls and four misshapen blobs of cookie dough. Even with operating around a one man disaster zone, they hadn’t done a bad job. Sure there was flour piling up in drifts on the floor and it had taken them two sets of mixture after Kravitz had poured buttermilk into one rather than actual milk but he had a good feeling about them.

“Sure, I’ll take pity on you.”

In the fifteen minutes they took to bake, they magically cleaned the kitchen and sat talking, drinking the last of the now lukewarm coffee and eating madeleines. Despite some careful questioning, Taako learned very little about Kravitz in that time. Just that he’d been working for the family business in the city and had a passion for music almost as precious to him as Taako’s love of cooking. Still, the conversation was as light and comforting as any he’d had with his sister or friends, in a way Taako just hadn’t thought was possible.

Almost as if the gods had known he’d needed a friend right now and had dropped one on his doorstep.

It was evening by the time Taako had Kravitz back on the doorstep with a basket full of still warm, still delicious smelling nut cookies and madeleines. He was still apologising about having to leave, saying his mistress would be expecting him back before eight.

Taako shook his head, “I told you, it’s fine. I’ll come see you next time, you can show me some of your pieces.”

Kravitz’s cheeks seemed to colour a bit, “Really? You’d be interested in that?”

“I made you cookies,” Taako leaned in the doorway and smiled crookedly, “I’m going to need something in exchange.”

They both laughed companionably at that, though there was something more serious in Kravitz’s expression afterwards.

“I had a really good time today, Taako. I’m glad I came over.”

Taako shifted, not liking the way that comment made butterflies wake up in his stomach, as nice as the words were, “Sure thing. It’s nice to have friends, right?”

Something changed in his expression then, something Taako couldn’t place in the second it was there before disappearing. A hesitation of some kind.

“Yes. It is nice to...to have friends.”

After exchanging goodnights, Taako watched Kravitz walk off into the gathering dusk, quickly becoming invisible as the sun disappeared behind the hills. He found himself nursing a small smile.

Even if it had been the last time he ever got to be himself, it had been a pretty good last time.

[lady-divine-writes]

All the Beautiful Pieces (Rated NC17) Chapter 10

Blaine Anderson is spending the summer after graduation flipping houses with his brother for Cooper’s total home renovation show. The show features the worst houses Cooper can buy, with Blaine playing the role of lackey so that Cooper can torture him in front of his viewers. The last house Blaine has to renovate is an original Victorian House in San Diego, CA, which is in terrible condition. But this house turns out to be more than just another job. It was once owned by a famous Vaudeville ventriloquist by the name of Andrew Smythe. It houses a very interesting collection of items - among them, two life-sized puppets. Blaine isn’t sure exactly why, but he’s drawn to them - especially to the one with the beautiful blue eyes. He convinces Cooper to give him the puppets, and Blaine starts to restore them. In the course of the restoration, Blaine finds out that neither puppet is simply a run-of-the-mill puppet, and Andrew Smythe was hiding a secret that will be the key to saving two lives.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Chapter 8 Chapter 9

Chapter 10 (7470 words)

A/N: Warning for a few dated homophobic slurs. I am determined to take the time during this quarantine to complete this re-write and finish the story. I hope that you join me on this little adventure. :)

Driving with Kurt turns into a major distraction for Blaine as the blue-eyed puppet stares up at the sky through the open window and sighs every five seconds.

“Oh, Blaine” - Kurt closes his eyes against the wind as the minivan breezes down the highway - “it’s nothing like I remember it.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Blaine asks, sneaking a peek at the puppet pulling his head in from the open window.

Kurt presses the button to close it, shutting it half way, then presses it again, lowering it an inch. He has developed a fascination with the buttons and switches that control things in the van – the door locks, the window switch, the seat adjuster. It had been adorable to watch Kurt spend the first five minutes of their trip swaying back and forth and up and down as he adjusted and re-adjusted his seat over and over.

“Both,” Kurt concludes after a pause. “I mean, I’m all for progress, and highways and tall buildings are a part of human civilization moving forward, but I don’t know …” He gazes out at the edge of the highway, where store after store and building after building blurs by. “There’s just something to be said about driving slowly down a dirt road and hearing the gravel underneath the tires, the birds flying overhead, seeing houses surrounded by green grass, cows grazing, and a chicken coop in the front yard, white picket fences, laundry hanging from a line …” Kurt sighs again, probably his hundredth sigh in the last half hour. But it’s peaceful, and Blaine knows he’ll never get tired of it. “I think I’m just an old-fashioned, silly romantic. The world has changed so much since I last saw it. I think I’m going to spend a lot of time playing catch up.”

Blaine wants to reassure Kurt that playing catch up in this new time period will be easy, but he bites his lip to stop himself. It won’t be easy for Kurt. Blaine knows it. And patronizing Kurt won’t change that. He comes up with something instead that he hopes will mean more to Kurt, give him something more substantial to hold on to.

“However long it takes,” he says, “I’ll be here to help you.”

Kurt’s glass eyes reflect the sunlight and blue sky overhead, making them look like they’re swimming with unshed tears. “Really?”

Blaine smiles. “I promise.”

As they turn onto Harbor Drive, Blaine’s eyes shift periodically to Kurt’s face, trying to gauge his reaction to returning to the house where he had been trapped for so long. But as they approach the old Victorian, Kurt settles back against the headrest and closes his eyes.

Blaine doesn’t ask. He understands.

Kurt isn’t ready to see it.

Gary’s U-Haul is parked by the curb out front. Standing beside it are Gary and two other men he brought with him to help. The first guy, Ted, Blaine knows. He’s a few years older than Blaine and studying occupational therapy at San Diego State University. Ted met Gary years ago when Ted was on the search for a porcelain doll for his mother for her birthday. It turned out that authenticating vintage dolls was a hidden hobby of Ted’s, and the day he walked into Gary’s shop, he rescued Gary from spending a fortune on dolls that turned out to be incredibly well-made counterfeits.

The other gentleman – an older man – Blaine doesn’t recognize. He’s standing off on his own reading a hefty, leather-bound book, while Gary and Ted talk over their game plan for the rest of the toys in the house. This man couldn’t be any more different from Gary and Ted if he tried. Where the other two men are wearing polo shirts and jeans, this older man is wearing a three-piece suit. He’s trim and tall, with generous flecks of silver interspersed in his stark black hair. Narrow reading glasses sit perched at the tip of his long, thin nose. His lips move as he reads, ignoring the other two men and their constant jabber.

From the looks of things, only Gary and his crew have arrived so far, which means everyone else would be showing up later on, while Blaine is inside the house and Kurt outside. Blaine hadn’t anticipated that. Usually everyone on the renovation team gets to a project house early. He doesn’t want anyone bothering Kurt when they arrive.

Blaine leans over to Kurt’s seat. “Okay, I’m going to be a couple of hours, but I’ll be in and out, so I’ll check in on you to make sure you’re alright.”

Kurt doesn’t open his eyes but he smiles, turning his face in the direction of Blaine’s voice. “Oh, Blaine, you are a gentleman. But don’t worry too much about me. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Blaine looks at Kurt’s face, serene and sparkling in the daylight. He’s staring, he knows it, but he can’t help it. Kurt is such an attractive puppet. He has such a kind and honest face. There are many compliments Blaine could give to Kurt in that regard that, unfortunately, wouldn’t be compliments at all. Blaine could say that Kurt is beautiful, which he is, but that might be more a comment on the masterful way he was made, and therefore a compliment to Andrew’s workmanship. Blaine would rather cut out his tongue than compliment that monster. Blaine could say that Kurt is handsome, as he was in all of those black and white photographs Blaine saw, but that would be a compliment to the person he was.

A person who doesn’t entirely exist anymore.

Whoever Kurt is, whatever he is, whatever miracle brought him to be, Blaine adores him - shamelessly so.

Of all the crazy, outlandish, off-the-wall things that could happen to Blaine, he has a thing for a puppet.

Go figure.

“Blaine?” Kurt whispers, his smile growing wider. “Are you planning on leaving anytime soon, or are you going to stare at me all day?”

Blaine’s cheeks go from tan to scarlet in award-winning time.

“I was … I was just wondering … uh …” He clears his throat “… if you’re going to be okay sitting here, or if you need a book to read or something.”

Blaine clamps his jaw shut when he remembers the only things he has in the van to read are the journals in the trunk.

“I’m fine,” Kurt assures him, “except …”

Uh-oh … he does want to read. Shit!

“Except …” Blaine repeats anxiously.

“If you can maybe find me some paper and a pencil? I would like to sketch.”

“Sketch?” Blaine mentally breathes a sigh of relief.

“Yes. I design clothes.” Kurt sounds contrite, like he’s apologizing for this thing that he enjoys, and Blaine longs to ask him who might have given him the impression that designing clothes was a bad thing. Kurt’s mother doesn’t sound like the type to discourage her son from a hobby like sewing, and Andrew, for all his faults, included a sewing machine in Kurt’s room, so it couldn’t have been him.

“Of course,” Blaine says, opening his door. “I’m sure I can dig some up. Give me a moment.”

“Mm-hmm.” Kurt hums as he reaches for the button to recline the seat. “Take your time.”

Blaine hops out and shuts the door behind him. Cheers and applause go up from Gary and Ted, who wave his way, hooting and hollering like the over-excited fools they are. Blaine smiles and waves back, heading for his trunk.

“I’ll open up the house in a second,” he calls out, knowing that Gary is drooling to get his hands on the rest of those toys. Blaine admires Gary really. He’s living his dream - he owns his own business, makes enough to support himself in an expensive city like San Diego, and most importantly, he enjoys what he does.

If Blaine can achieve half of that, he’ll consider himself fortunate.

Blaine knows he has a notebook somewhere in the trunk, but with all of the things he’s packed and unpacked in the last few days, he doesn’t know where it ended up. He rustles through the usual automotive junk – first aid kit, jumper cables, a bottle of Armor All. He comes across a roll of paper towels and a half used bottle of Windex that he doesn’t remember ever seeing , but there it is, and it reminds him of the posters hanging in the kitchen – the ones with dust caked on so thick Blaine couldn’t see through it. He pulls them out, keeping a hold of them while he keeps looking. Underneath the backseat he finds his notebook, with a pencil shoved inside the spiral rings. He grabs it along with the three journals, hiding them strategically between his body and the cleaning supplies. He closes the trunk and walks over to Kurt’s window.

“Here you go,” he says, laying the notebook on the lap of the resting puppet.

“Thank you, Blaine,” Kurt says with eyes still closed. “Now go. I’ll be fine. I promise.” And he blows Blaine a kiss.

Blaine feels it land against his cheek as if it were a real, palpable thing.

“Alright, Kurt,” Blaine says, noticing how Kurt’s smile grows when he says his name.

Blaine heads to the house, gesturing to the other men with one wide wave. All three men look at Blaine’s van as they pass. Though none of them are close enough to peek inside and see Kurt stretched out in the front seat with his eyes shut, they must have caught a glimpse of him because he’s the first thing Gary mentions as Blaine starts unlocking the house.

“So, you’re driving around with them, Blaine?” he asks, sounding disturbed but amused by Blaine’s choice of company. “Is this a legitimate obsession, or just an attempt to defraud your way into the carpool lane?”

Blaine decides not to argue with Gary, knowing he’s mainly teasing him.

“You know, Gary,” Blaine says, sticking a key into the front door, “as an adult man who plays with dolls, I would think that you, of all people, might understand.”

“Wait,” Ted says. “You guys aren’t kidding, are you? You brought the puppet with you, Blaine!?”

Blaine turns and shoots Gary an accusing glance as the door swings open and he leads the trio inside.

“You told him?”

“I’m sorry, Blaine,” Gary says, not sounding sorry at all. “It just … came up.”

“What in the world were you guys talking about that the subject of my puppets came up in conversation?” Blaine props the door open, then starts pulling the drapes.

“Cheeseburgers,” both men answer in unison, leaving Blaine to shake his head.

“You took one of the puppets?” the older man sneers, speaking for the first time.

“Blaine” - Gary steps in before a potential argument breaks out - “this is Alex Norton. He specializes in Vaudeville culture, and he’s very interested in the puppets.”

“I purchased two of the puppets,” Blaine clarifies to the man staring him down through the wafer thin lenses of his spectacles, “from my brother, who owns the house and everything in it.”

“So, you purchased them without knowing what they’re worth?” The man’s nostrils flare with contained anger.

“I paid quite a bit for them,” Blaine says in his defense, swallowing a comment about the loss of his paycheck. “I’m pretty sure my brother got what they’re worth.”

“Like I said,” Gary interrupts, “he didn’t buy any of the franchised puppets, just two handmade puppets that were trashed in the basement.”

“Made by the original owner of the house, yes?” Alex over-enunciates each word, unnecessarily in Blaine’s opinion. “Andrew Smythe?”

Blaine bristles at the name. “What difference does that make?”

“That makes the puppets of historical significance.” Alex straightens, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Therefore, I will need to see the puppets.” Alex stares at Blaine, waiting to be lead out to his van, Blaine assumes.

“No,” Blaine says.

“No?” Alex repeats contemptuously, his glasses beginning to slide their way back down his nose.

“No.” Blaine stands firm. “You are free to see any puppet in the house, but those two are my personal property. They’re not available for you to see.”

“They are the only existing examples of Andrew Smythe’s attempts to make human-sized puppets,” Alex argues, leaning in in an attempt to intimidate him.

“Too bad,” Blaine says. “You can’t see them.”

Alex stares at Blaine and Blaine stares back, the air between them electric, waiting for a spark to set it off.

“Okay, guys,” Ted intercedes, hoping to diffuse the tension, “we have a lot of work to do. If Blaine doesn’t want to show off his puppets, he doesn’t have to.”

Alex’s upper lip curls, baring his teeth. He knows he’s lost, but his eyes darken nonetheless.

“Fine,” he says, the word a growl inside his locked jaw. He stands up straight, fixes his glasses on his nose again, and walks off as if he knows where he’s going.

Blaine watches him carefully, concerned with how comfortable he seems in the house.

“I apologize about that,” Gary says. “He’s … really passionate about his work.”

“Apparently,” Blaine says, thankful that Kurt is safe in the minivan outside, and that even Sebastian is securely locked up in the beach house.

“Come on.” Gary claps Blaine on the back as he eyes the man heading for the hallway. “Let’s get to work so I can get these glorious tin toys back to my shop.”

Blaine peeks out the window to make sure Kurt can’t be seen, then heads off down the hallway himself. He holds his head high as he passes Alex on the way to the dining room, barely giving the man any berth as he hustles by. Alex grumbles something beneath his breath, but Blaine doesn’t pay enough attention to pick up the remark. He heads straight for the posters hanging on the dining room walls and begins spraying the glass with Windex. He puts his books and supplies on the table and waits as the blue liquid cuts through years of grease and grime, spreading through the muck like fingernails scraping it off. He sprays each poster frame a few more times before he starts tearing paper towels from the roll and wiping, cleaning the glass completely before he steps back and takes a good look at them.

He was right in assuming they were theater posters – twenty in all, each one hung in order showing the rise and fall of “The Great” (a superlative he adds in his head with a sarcastic snarl) Andrew Smythe. The poster on the far left starts with Andrew’s act listed at the bottom in the tiniest type conceivable. As time progresses, Andrew’s listing on the bill rises. His act becomes ‘Andrew and Sons’, written in larger and larger typeface until bam! There he is - his face big as life. And even though his act is still titled ‘Andrew and Sons’, the picture on the poster is of him alone with a puppet sitting on his lap – Sammy, more than likely. A couple more posters have his face on them, but then a new face takes its place and his act, now listed as ‘The Great Andrew Smythe’, shrinks back down the list of names until it’s barely legible.

“Ah. The demise of The Great Andrew Smythe,” a nasally voice echoes through the room. “Tragic.”

“Yes,” Blaine says, “if you believe Andrew Smythe was great.”

Alex tilts his head and stares at Blaine aghast.

“He was one of the greatest performers of his time.”

“Maybe, but he was a crap father.”

Alex jerks back, scrunching his nose as if he’d smelled something offensive when Blaine opened his mouth. “How could you possibly know that?”

Blaine shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes flicking subconsciously to the journals on the table. “I’ve been doing research.”

“Well, did your research tell you that being a good parent wasn’t a pre-requisite for being an excellent performer? Nobody in particular cared how he treated his children.”

Alex makes this statement with such an absence of emotion that it feels like a slap in the face.

“To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t care less about Andrew Smythe or his precious act.”

“And yet you apparently spent a considerable amount of money to purchase two of his rarest puppets, which are now so important to you that you won’t let anyone see them.”

“That’s my business,” Blaine says, wanting a quick end to this so he can find a quiet spot and start reading the journals.

“And what about these posters?” Alex asks, pointing to the walls. “Are they to become victims of your indiscernible personal collecting habits, too?”

“No. They’re being donated to the San Diego Historical Society for their exhibit on Vaudeville,” Blaine says with a sardonic twist to his lips. “I hear it’s excellent. Very informative. You should go check it out.” Now would be nice, he thinks. He picks the journals up off the table. Alex watches him, zeroing in on the books in Blaine’s hands as if he recognizes them.

“What are those?” he asks, reaching out a hand like he’s planning to grab them away, but Blaine pulls them towards his chest.

“Homework,” Blaine answers sharply as he brushes past, heading down the hallway and back toward the living room. He decides to plant himself next to the living room window and wait for the other members of the team to arrive. With Alex in the house, Blaine needs to keep an eye on Kurt. He can’t see Kurt from the window because the puppet is lying back in his seat, but Blaine’s not taking the chance of Alex slipping out unseen and harassing him.

He leans his head against the glass and looks at the journals, trying to decide where he wants to start first. Figuring that going in order will be less confusing in the long run, he opens the journal dated 1924.

March 5 -

Dear Margaret –

Our little nine-year-old is quite the recluse. He also has one hell of a left hook, and because of that we are no longer with the Henderson and Co. traveling show. That’s alright, though. I always thought they were stealing from the till, anyhow. So what if it took their little bastard Billy getting a black eye for us to leave that roadside freak show? I know that traveling can be hard on Sebastian, but I think it’s just because he misses you that he acts out this way. He needs a friend. Hopefully we can glom on to another traveling show that has kids down the line. Who knows what will come our way? I love you and miss you always.

July 6 –

Dear Margaret –

I think I might have found the solution to the problem with our Sebastian … and his name is Kurt Hummel. We just finished a show in Columbus, and on our way through Lima, we found him. Well, Sebastian found him. He’s not much more than a slip of a boy, with the thickest head of brown hair you’ve ever seen, but he’s clean and polite and has a voice like an angel. If I didn’t know better, I would say that Sebby was quite taken with him. He was probably just blown away by this kid’s talent like I was. But there’s something different about this boy. He’s special – not only his voice, but the way he behaves, as if performing isn’t something he does, it’s something he is. I’m hoping that his father will let the boy come with us. I introduced myself, told him my piece, but the man became suspicious as all get out. I could just let the matter be, but I really think having Kurt in our act would be a God send. Wish us luck, Margaret.

July 30 –

Dear Margaret -

By golly, it worked. My sweet new acquisition has tamed your unruly son. The two rug-rats are thick as thieves. It’s almost like having you back here with us, Maggy. He cooks, he cleans, he sings all the time. From morning to evening, he fills the house with music. I feel bad for his papa though - losing a wife and now a son - but I promised the man I’d raise his son proper. Maybe with his talent in the mix we’ll finally make it to Europe like we always planned. Can’t you just picture it, Maggy? Headlining in Paris?

“Hey, Blaine,” Gary calls, his arms wrapped around a box filled with carefully wrapped metal toys, “aren’t you supposed to be filming us or something?”

Blaine doesn’t look up from the journal when he reaches a hand into the pocket of his pants and pulls out his webcam. He switches it on and points it in Gary’s general direction. Gary chuckles.

“You know, Cooper’s going to be pissed,” Gary says, adjusting the box in his arms and heading for the door.

“Yeah, well …” Blaine lets the comment die off as he closes the first journal and opens the second one.

March 14 –

Dear Margaret -

Boy, that Kurt is sharp as a pin. Every day he spends with us, I learn something new. Here he’s been with us for almost a year and I didn’t know he spoke French. Says his mom taught him when he was little. She must have been one hell of a woman, just like you, Maggy.

August 21 -

Dear Margaret -

I was a little worried taking Kurt on that he’d be sort of … delicate. You’d understand if you saw him. But he’s no nancy, I’ll tell you that. Kurt and Seb got themselves into one heck of a tussle the other day – the two of them against four older boys, all of them a foot taller, and boy oh boy, did Kurt lick ‘em good. Of course, I told them that I wouldn’t stand by fighting, not while we’re trying to make a respectable name for ourselves in the higher paying houses in town. And I disciplined them. I didn’t lay a hand on Kurt. It don’t feel right giving a hiding to another man’s son and besides, I’m pretty sure it was Sebastian’s mouth that got them into all that trouble, so he got a few extra lashings with the belt to teach him. But you would have been so proud to see that boy handle himself.

Blaine winces as he reads. He knows that Kurt, Sebastian, and Andrew lived during another era, in almost a completely different world. The twenties erupted in the middle of a turbulent time in American history, but that’s no excuse for the way Andrew treated his son – or the fact that he replaced him.

Blaine switches to the last journal – 1928. He does the math – if Sebastian was 10 in 1924, he’d be around 14 in 1928.

February 22 –

Dear Margaret -

Those two boys are inseparable. They go everywhere together, and they’re so similar, they could pass for brothers. So I call the act ‘Andrew and Sons’ now. It’s worked out well for us so far. The burlesque houses hire us for their matinees. It’s good to have a family act to offset the bawdier performances. With our name on the billboards, it keeps the Fuzz off their backs and we get a higher percentage of the pot.

Blaine skims through a few entries, stopping off and on when real life intervenes. He’s interrupted first by a phone call from the storage company, rescheduling again for the following day, and then by Alex when he boldly tries to read over Blaine’s shoulder. Gary swoops in and rescues Blaine by telling the dreadful man that he and Ted are ready to pack up the puppets and they need his help with the values. Alex gives Blaine a stern glare before he hobbles off after Gary and Ted.

Blaine turns to the back of the book, trying to find an entry that he saw earlier and thought looked promising.

October 15 –

Dear Margaret –

I wish you were here. It was the darndest thing. I went out to the shed behind the house and saw Sebastian kissing Kurt. It wasn’t brotherly nor friendly neither. It was a real, honest-to-God kiss. I’m not surprised with Kurt. I kind of suspected that his tastes tilted that way, so that doesn’t bother me. He’s a smart boy, and if that makes him happy, then so be it, but not Sebastian. I’m not raising a cake-eater. But it’s an easy fix. I’ll whore it out of him. I know you wouldn’t approve, Maggy, but there’s nothing else I can do. He turns fifteen come January. I’ll plan for then. In the meantime, I’ll have to find a way to keep them apart.

Blaine closes the journal. He’s had enough. He blinks his eyes, spots and shapes dancing in front of him as he recovers from Andrew Smythe’s wretched penmanship. He looks out the window in time to see Kurt raise his seat. From this distance, Kurt doesn’t look like a puppet. With his head titled, his eyes shut, a small smile curling his mouth, he looks like a human boy.

Blaine sees a car from another pawn shop pull up out front, and he runs to meet them with his webcam switched on. After Cooper’s demeaning phone call, Blaine isn’t too concerned with getting all the shots he claims that he needs, so he plans on only taking enough to keep his brother off his back. He ushers the men into the house and directs them down to the basement, filming as they look over the large tools and equipment, deciding what they can realistically sell. It takes a while to interview these new guys since they’re so focused with the job of rifling through the power tools, plugging each one in to see which ones work or not. As soon as Blaine gets the bare minimum of shots that he needs, he races back up the stairs, taking a brief shot of Alex discussing what looks like the last of the puppets with Gary and Ted, and then heads for Kurt sitting in the van.

“Hey,” Blaine says, trying to sound nonchalant while panting uncontrollably, “I came out here to make sure you weren’t getting too hot or anything.”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve felt the sun on my face?” Kurt sighs. “Or the wind?”

“I can only imagine.” Blaine cocks his head. “Do you feel it now?”

“Not really,” Kurt says, the smile on his lips taking a wry quality. “But I can remember them better when I’m outside than when I was locked up in the dark.”

Kurt’s comment tugs at Blaine’s heart. Tears prick his eyes at the thought of this beautiful boy locked up, shattered to pieces on that cold, damp floor, and he has to look away. He glances down and sees the notebook he gave Kurt open in his lap, the pencil stuck back in the spiral spine, two sheets of paper covered in drawings. Kurt didn’t sketch clothes like he’d said, but the living room and dining room of the house, drawn the way they might have looked when Andrew bought the place. Blaine stares in awe at the intricate details of the embossed wallpaper, the grain in the wood floor, the furniture, down to the tiny touches – portraits on the walls, statuettes on the mantel, books in the bookcase, and the tools by the fireplace, arranged so purposefully that Blaine can tell which one gets the most use by how it leans slightly while the others stand perfectly straight. Even the light streaming in through spaces in the drawn curtains gives hints to what time of day it is.

“Kurt … your drawings … are they of this house?”

“Sort of.” Kurt closes the book, keeping his eyes staunchly shut, and hands it to Blaine. “It’s a combination of the house we lived in with Sebastian’s dad and this one the few times I saw it.”

“They’re amazing,” Blaine says, thumbing through the pages. Kurt has sketched each upstairs bedroom, a bathroom, and also (Blaine discovers) a few outfits. They’re an older fashion, a match to the time period Kurt lived in.

“Thank you,” Kurt says.

“I’m close to wrapping things up in there,” Blaine mentions, setting the notebook back on Kurt’s lap. “We’ve probably got around another hour or so. Did you think about where you might want to go after this? The movies, maybe?”

Kurt raises one eyelid and peeks at Blaine.

“Do you think there’s some place we can go and see the sky?”

Blaine nods.

“I think I know the perfect place.”

***

“I’ve missed the beach so much,” Kurt says, sitting cross-legged on the retaining wall. His eyes travel up and down the shoreline, watching the white caps of the tide curl into the sand.

“Me, too,” Blaine agrees, his own gaze following Kurt’s.

Kurt turns and looks at Blaine. “But, don’t you live here?”

“No.” Blaine coughs, the confession he should have made before tickling the back of his throat. “Actually, I’m from Westerville, but I live in Lima.”

Kurt gasps, throwing both hands over his mouth. “You’re kidding!”

“Nope.” Blaine takes out his cell phone and opens his photo gallery. “Here. Take a look.” He scoots closer to Kurt so that he can better see the pictures on the screen. “These are a few of my friends from high school.”

“Where do you go?”

“McKinley.”

“Hmmm … must be new,” Kurt says, watching Blaine swipe the screen and change the photo.

“This is the Auglaize River last winter. The Glee Club went skating there over break.”

“That’s quite a handsome young man you’ve got your arms around,” Kurt remarks dryly, eyes darting away from the image of a tall blond grabbing Blaine from behind. Blaine smiles at the jealousy plain in Kurt’s voice.

“That’s my best friend Sam. He’s just a friend,” Blaine explains.

“You look close,” Kurt says, noticeably unconvinced.

“We are,” Blaine admits with a smile that slowly takes over his entire face.

“Quite.”

Blaine switches the photo, bypassing a few others with Sam in them. He wants to tease Kurt with the knowledge that he garnered from those journals, how Andrew had hoped Kurt could settle Sebastian down, how the two boys were so fond of each other, but it seems like a cruel memory to bring up. Kurt might not remember it that way and besides, thinking about that closeness starts to plant a seed of jealousy in Blaine’s mind.

Especially that kiss.

Blaine shows Kurt a few, more generic, pictures – the farmer’s market where the Secret Society of Superheroes Club held a food drive last Thanksgiving, the Lima Mall, The Lima Bean coffee shop where Blaine goes pretty much every day after school. Kurt looks at these photos like he’s absorbing the images into his brain, imprinting them there.

“It looks so different now,” he says. “I don’t think I’d recognize it if I went back there.”

“Do you want to go back there?” Blaine asks, closing the photo gallery and pocketing his phone.

Kurt looks at the ocean, sadly shaking his head. “No. There’s nothing there for me now.” He wraps his arms around his torso, runs his hands up his exposed skin.

“Do you want to leave?” Blaine assumes Kurt has caught a chill, forgetting for a moment that Kurt can’t feel the cold.

“Not yet. You know, back when I …” He stops. He stares off at the distance, then he shakes his head. “Do you think it’s more fitting to say when I was alive? Or should I say when I was human? I mean, if I’m speaking of the past, what do I say? How do I address it?”

“That’s a good question.” Blaine wraps his arms around his bent knees and squeezes. He’s definitely catching a chill, but he has no intention of mentioning it. “I would say that you’re alive. And I like to think of you as human. Maybe you don’t need to make the distinction.”

Kurt looks at his hands, turning them over front to back, examining them beneath the moonlight. As well made as they are, as much time was put into them, they don’t look like human hands. They glisten unnaturally, and his knobby knuckles reveal the fact that his digits separate, each piece held together by wire, every time he bends them.

He may be alive, if this is what alive is, but he’s far from human.

“What’s going to happen to me now?” he asks, looking at Blaine with his hands splayed in front of him. “I’m a puppet. I’m made of porcelain. I can’t have a normal life like you. I know you said you would help me, but how? What can I do?” Kurt drops his hands in his lap, helpless, and Blaine sighs. He feels just as helpless. He doesn’t know exactly how Kurt feels, but Blaine is human and still, most of the time, he has no clue what he’s doing. He can’t fix this, not completely, not right now. He doesn’t even know where to start. So he puts an arm around Kurt’s shoulders and holds him close, and together they watch the waves chase each other down the beach.

***

Blaine and Kurt return to the beach house late. They’re not covered in sand, so Blaine doesn’t rush to shower right away. He takes Kurt to his bedroom and sits him down on the bed.

“Okay,” Blaine says. “I had a thought. Hang out here for a second. I’ll be right back.”

Kurt nods, watching Blaine disappear out the door. He crosses the living room and heads for the opposite end of the house. These rooms Blaine doesn’t go to usually with the exception of the kitchen. Where his room and his brother’s room are situated side-by-side on one end of the house, the master bedroom and his parent’s library mirror them on the other.

It’s the master bedroom that Blaine ducks into.

When Blaine was younger, his mother used to sew a lot. It was a hobby that inspired him, but that she kind of grew out of the more “adult” she became. He can’t remember exactly when that happened, it just kind of did. She kept a basket of sewing supplies in the bottom of the closet, along with a few old fashion magazines, so Blaine always had hopes of her picking it up again.

To date, she hasn’t.

On their last visit here, his father, who is tall and thin like Kurt, left clothes hanging in the closet. He had planned to pick them up on their next summer trip, but there never was another one. Blaine looks them over, frowning at how out-of-style they are, but he hopes that Kurt can do something with them. Blaine pulls the clothes off the hangers, grabs the basket of supplies and a handful of magazines, and races back through the house, ignoring Sebastian with each pass.

“Here we go.” Blaine slides into the bedroom on his sock-covered feet and drops the supplies onto his bed. Kurt sees them and goes from sullen to ecstatic.

“Oh, Blaine.” He picks through the clothes and the magazines, smiling so brightly that Blaine thinks Kurt might burst into song. “Did you bring all of this in here for me?”

“Yeah. Well, I thought these clothes might fit you better.” He opens the basket of sewing supplies. “And if they don’t, you could alter them, maybe? And …”

Blaine stops when Kurt kisses him on the cheek. It’s brief, innocent, but it makes Blaine’s entire body tingle.

“It’s wonderful,” Kurt whispers. “Thank you.”

“Yeah? Oh. I’m glad you like them.” He stands and backs up toward the bathroom door while Kurt continues to sift through the items on the bed. “I’m just going to take a quick rinse, and then …”

“Are you going to work on Sebastian?” Kurt’s expression seems genuinely hopeful, but Blaine still has trouble interpreting that wary tone in Kurt’s voice.

“Do you really want me to?” Blaine asks.

Kurt pauses a second.

It’s a second in which Blaine thinks Kurt might say no.

“Yes,” Kurt says in the same unsure tone. “Yes, I do.”

***

Blaine’s shower is basically a dip beneath cold water to get his head straight before he jumps back out and joins Kurt for what could turn out to be a long, exhaustive night of repairing Sebastian. He has only been at it for fifteen minutes, but already he wants to throw in the towel. Sitting in a chair from the dining room that he pulled up in front of the loveseat, Blaine struggles to get Sebastian’s arm seated correctly. Whereas Kurt’s body felt magnetic, his broken limbs pulling together, longing to return to their body, Sebastian’s body feels like he’s repelling these pieces away. Maybe Sebastian doesn’t want to be put back together, Blaine muses.

Or maybe he doesn’t want help from Blaine.

If Blaine had the money to send him to a professional repair person, he would. At least it would get Sebastian out of the house for a few days. The longer he sits on the love seat staring blankly into space, the more unnerving it feels having him around.

Blaine wrestles with the piece, eventually fitting the arm in its socket. He threads the wires through, twisting them together and tying them, but they snap before he can finish. The sharp end recoils and hits Blaine on the arm, leaving a long scratch. Sebastian’s arm falls off his body and onto the love seat.

“Dammit,” Blaine screams, dropping Sebastian to look at his smarting wound, which sends the loose arm tumbling to the floor.

Kurt puts down his sewing and runs over to examine Blaine’s injured arm.

“Is it bleeding?” he asks, looking on with concern.

“I don’t think so,” Blaine hisses, “but it hurts like hell.” Blaine reaches for a box of tissues on the table while Kurt bends over to retrieve Sebastian’s arm.

“Blaine!” Kurt exclaims, getting on his hands and knees. “You didn’t tell me you had a cat!”

“I … I don’t.” Blaine leans to the right and peeks over Kurt’s shoulder. “Oh, is it a tabby cat?” he asks, remembering the fugitive cat that scared the living daylights out of him. “Apparently he’s found a way in here.”

“No!” Kurt gasps, pulling a furry body out from underneath the love seat. Blaine eyes the unmoving animal and groans low in his throat.

Great. The cat broke in again just in time to die in my dining room.

But what Kurt has in his hands isn’t the dead body of a tabby cat. It’s the puppet of a tabby cat - the same tabby cat Blaine had seen in the house before. It has the same inquisitive green eyes, the same ripple pattern to the fur.

“Abigail,” Kurt murmurs, gently stroking the animal’s coat.

“Abigail?” Blaine slides off his chair to kneel on the floor beside him.

“Yes.” Kurt smiles affectionately at the realistic-looking feline puppet with the silky fur and the sparkling green eyes. “Sebastian made her. His dad was teaching us to make puppets, and Abigail was Sebastian’s.”

“But why would Abigail be here?” Blaine asks. “I didn’t bring her here.”

“Abigail was the first,” Kurt says, petting the cat as if he expected it to spring to life any second.

“The first … what?”

“The first puppet that Sebastian’s dad tried the spell on,” Kurt explains, each word forming as if the memory comes to him in the instant that he speaks.

“A spell?”

Kurt’s eyes grow wide as he starts to remember.

“Sebastian’s dad bartered for a spell from the Calhoun family. A favor for a favor. It was supposed to capture any lingering soul and put it into the vessel of your choice.”

“But, why start with the cat?” Blaine asks. It sounds far too fantastic to be real.

But then again …

“Abigail wasn’t just any cat.” Kurt holds the animal up to his nose and stares into its eyes, trying to coax the creature to come alive for them. “She was Sebastian’s cat. His best friend back before I joined their group. She was a stray. Andrew didn’t really let Sebastian keep her. She followed them around because Sebastian fed her, and they couldn’t get rid of her. After she died, Sebastian said he always kind of felt her around. He swore he would see her dart out from behind corners, or feel her curl up next to him while he slept. She was always hiding under things and scurrying beneath toys and such, looking for mice …”

Blaine’s mind conjures up the sounds of scurrying he heard in the Victorian house when he first entered it, wondering if they might have been made by Abigail hunting around the piles of trash.

“He got the spell to bring us back, but he tried it out on Abigail first.”

“So, he was able to bring her back because she stayed behind? So that means that you stayed behind?”

Kurt puts Abigail down beside Sebastian on the love seat, moving the cat close to his friend’s body so that they can finally be together again.

“I couldn’t leave him,” Kurt says, giving the cat puppet one last pat on the head. “He was like a father to me. And he felt so guilty … I had to make sure that he was going to be okay.”

“And Sebastian?” Blaine bites his tongue. The answer is obvious, but Blaine doesn’t want to let on that he harbors secret knowledge of the motives of Andrew – or Sebastian - Smythe. After what Blaine read in those journals, he knows that Sebastian didn’t stick around for his father. No way. There’s only one person he would have stayed around for.

“He stayed around for me.” When Kurt turns and looks at Blaine, it’s with the ghost of tears in his eyes – tears that don’t exist but are as real as any others, brought on by emotion that Kurt can feel but can’t fully express. “That’s why you have to promise me you’ll put him back together.” Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine’s torso. “You have to fix him. Please? For me?”

“I will,” Blaine says, holding Kurt just as tightly in his arms. “I promised I will, and I will.” With his cheek resting in Kurt’s hair, he looks Sebastian over. He should fix Sebastian – at least give the poor guy another arm or a leg. He did promise Kurt. Sebastian’s puppet is made of wood and the pieces are not as extensively damaged as Kurt’s were, but fixing Sebastian feels like the last thing he should do.

He has a feeling that if Sebastian wakes up, he has the power to take Kurt away from him for good.

***

There must be rats somewhere beneath the floor. Or possums. Or maybe Abigail is up and roaming about the house, chasing dust bunnies or pouncing on her shadow. Either way, in his sleep, Blaine can hear the scrape, scrape, scrape of something moving across the wood floor.

Or maybe it’s a gnawing. He can’t tell in his half-asleep state.

His mind swims with dreams of Kurt: Kurt sitting on the sand at the beach, staring off into the water; Kurt dancing beneath the moonlight, arms outstretched to the sky; Kurt lying beside him where they fell asleep together on the living room floor, their fingers intertwined.

Kurt’s blue eyes, his smooth skin, his pink lips.

Blaine feels a tickle on his cheek, bothering him awake. He opens his eyes with a smile, expecting to see a tuft of orange fur, or maybe blue eyes staring at him from an already awake Kurt.

He hopes it’s eyes – stunning blue glass eyes.

Blaine’s eyes open slowly, holding on to as much dream as he can, even though he’s eager to spend another day with Kurt.

He focuses through slits. It’s eyes that he sees alright, but this time they’re not blue.

They’re green.

And they don’t belong to Abigail.

Blaine’s eyes snap open, realization propelling him awake.

Sebastian is lying out on the floor in front of him, nose pressed against his, wooden mouth split into a startling grin.

“Well hey there, tiger,” Sebastian says. “Don’t I get a kiss hello?”

[owlinaminor]

[texture]

@16bit_drifter on twitter requested: beacon interacting with someone (not duck) carrying him

Beacon has been sitting on this desk for thirteen hours and forty-seven minutes.  In that time, he has mentally constructed and played out five intergalactic wars, written a short textbook on battle strategy, and reorganized the contents of Duck Newton’s cabinets.  The man cannot group similar nonperishables to save his life.  He’s about to set in on organizing the cases of beer near the refrigerator according to who would drink from each when there’s the low thud thud thud of someone walking into the kitchen, followed by a voice.

“Duck?  You up yet?  I know it’s early, but I found somethin’ interesting, and I wanted to—oh, hello there.”

There’s a shape looming over Beacon, a wrinkled brown hand coming down, and then he makes contact.  Every human has a texture, he has learned—a unique signature he can sense and log, a lens through which he can gather all their rage and their love, their hopes and dreams and fears.  Leo is smooth and sturdy, like the brick of an old schoolhouse or a crumbling castle.  Duck is rough and thick, jagged edges sometimes and soft patches other times, like the bark of an ancient oak tree that modulates with the seasons and the threats of predators.  Lady Flame, she picked him up once, she is thin and sharp like blown glass, like a mirror or a magnifying glass that can focus faraway sunlight into one sharp point.

This new person, this old man who picks Beacon up now, is cool and smooth with jagged patches, like a rocky outcropping on the peak of a mountain.  He’s a warrior—might not call himself that, might call himself an adventurer or a naturalist, but Beacon can tell he’s comfortable in empty spaces, comfortable in anger and in loneliness.  He likes to sit alone in the sunlight and listen to the wind, he likes to watch hawks circle and then dip over the pines, he likes to walk until he forgets the sound of his own voice.  But there’s something else here, too—beneath the knotted beard and wrinkled skin is a slow-burning fire, a molten core, the inside of a volcano waiting for the right moment to explode out into the sea.  Show yourself, Beacon tells it, and it bellows at him in an ancient language, bellows and snarls and spits fire until he leaves it be. Alright.  A battle for later, then.

I’ve never met one like you before, he says to the fingers now curled along his handle, lifting him and pointing towards the cabinets.  You’ve got layers like a cake.  Delicious.

He’s expecting a jolt of fear, at that—it’s the typical reaction, and overwhelmingly the sane one, at least for lower life forms such as these.

But the man only laughs, and says, “Oh, a talking sword.  Nice.  What can you do, huh?”

What can you do, as though Beacon is a fucking butter knife!

I am Beacon, destroyer of worlds, Beacon snarls, thrumming red-hot.  I am the harbinger of justice.  I am the beginning and the end.  I am the smiling face behind the Reaper’s scythe.  I am—

“An intergalactic weapon, got it,” the man says—says, as though he’s making observations about wildflowers in a little spiral notebook!  As though the number of petals on a sunflower and the grand purpose of a great weapon are at all comparable!  As though Beacon’s destiny can be reduced to pencil scratches, flattened beneath blue-lined paper, thrown down and trampled in the dirt!  Beacon begins to vibrate, pulling at the red-hot core beneath this infuriating old man and taunting, fight me head-on, get out here and show me what you’re made of, let’s see what anger really tastes like—

“Hey, Thacker, what’re you doing with Beacon?”

Another set of footsteps. Another shadow beneath the kitchen lights.  And another hand—Beacon is passed, from the lonely-wrinkled-hiding grip to a familiar one, a tree-trunk grip, a shade-on-a-hot-day grip.

“Just testin’ it out,” the old man says.  “I can’t believe you didn’t show me this before, man, it’s incredible.  Just holding onto it for a couple’ve minutes made me feel like I could level a mountain or somethin’.”

Duck sighs.  “Yeah, he does that to you.  Don’t you, Beacon?”

Beacon twists in his hand, projects volcanoes and forest fires and distant screams.  Do not talk to me like a pet, Duck Newton, this man was showing me immense disrespect, he felt no fear when he handled me, he was ready to sketch me in one of his little notebooks, he—

“That’s just Thacker,” Duck says.  “He’s kinda weird, but he’s harmless.  I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

Didn’t mean it my ASS—

“Beacon, you don’t even have an ass.  Come on. I’m putting you back in my sock drawer.”

And Beacon goes, snarling all the way.  It’s funny—or, not funny, but some terrible opposite of funny—that Duck is the only person who can hold onto him when he’s like this, all captured heat and reflected fire.  Duck can hold onto him, and Duck is rough and cool and ancient like an oak tree in winter, and Duck is the dark quiet of the sock drawer and the way Beacon falls into something like sleep, finally.  And it is moments like these, the tree and the sock drawer, that make Beacon think maybe this grand destiny of his will come to pass, after all.

send me taz amnesty prompts!

[empressofmankind]

A Wind of Change - Part I: Departure - 02. Loren I

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[pinkbubbles-and-bigtroubles]

Take A Bow (Girls Talk Boys Part 33)

I know it’s been ages since I updated this fic. I am really stuck on everything else I’m working on, and this was the only thing that clicked. I forgot how much I enjoyed these couples though, and I still have more to tell in this story.

if you’re new to this story you can find earlier chapters HERE

“Ashton,” Cher raised her eyebrows at the man grinning at her across her bedroom. “We're just going to the grocery store, why are you looking in the toy box?”

His only response was to turn back to digging through the box of their assorted sex toys. She could see the light bulb go on over his head,and he opened the drawer where the charging pad and the rechargeable toys were. He winked at her and tossed a necklace her way. Cher caught it and her eyes went wide when she realized it was her collar.

It was a simple black leather choker with a round charm with a paw print on one side, the other just said Kitten. Ashton bought it for her about a month ago and it quickly became a signal he was asserting his dominance.

“This is a bit much for a shopping trip,” Cher rolled her eyes trying to hide her excitement

“Did you just talk back to me?” He narrowed his hazel eyes at her as he walked across the room towards her.

“No daddy,” she pouted, “ just surprised me.”

"I've got the bags in the car, is there anything else you need from the store," Cher asked Camille as she grabbed her keys.

Camille was on the couch tangled up with Calum watching a documentary about volcanoes. She glanced up at her roommate raising her eyebrows when she spotted the collar. In the past few months Ashton had been "caught out" in public with Cher a few times, but the past couple weeks he'd made a point to be spotted with her. Camille knew they both denied their relationship was anything past exclusive friends with benefits, however Camille wondered what Ashton was up to with this public show of affection.

Calum laughed as the door closed behind them, "No telling when those two will get back, if they don't get thrown out for fucking in the produce section."

"Oh God I did not need that visual," Camille shook her head trying to clear it like an Etch a Sketch which made Calum laugh even harder.

In contrast to Ashton's situation, Calum was very much happily committed to Camille. He'd taken counseling sessions to get past his jealousy issues, recognizing that his insecurities were at the root of his behavior. Camille was supportive but let it be known that she wasn't responsible for "fixing" him. Calum wanted to work on his communication issues, and she'd helped him open up and get out of his own head.

Camille finally found the security and strength with Calum to fight her own insecurities. Calum was deeply private and rarely posted on social media. For that Camille was grateful as she didn't think she'd be well received by his fans. Camille was known to be a friend of the band. Publicly she'd been seen with Luke on a couple occasions and at parties with the guys. There had been rumors about Luke which they all found hilarious, but that had simmered down once Luke got a girlfriend.

Camille sighed and Calum tensed up, "what's on your mind darling?"

"Sorry babe, was thinking about making cupcakes for Luke and going to see him tomorrow," Camille rested her head on Calum's chest turning her attention back to the screen.

"Mmmm I'm sure he'd like to see you," Calum murmured not really wanting to agree or disagree. Luke's recent breakup with Summer had been a disaster, with Calum right in the middle. It was a touchy subject with Camille, but Calum didn't want to argue. "You'd just better text them to remind them before they get too distracted."

Cher stopped to read the text from Camille when she felt Ashton come up behind her, his hands on her waist, his body pressing into hers.

"We're in public," she whispered trying to wiggle away.

"So what?" he smirked reaching in his pocket.

Cher gasped as he clicked a button on a remote and the bullet vibrator he'd demanded she wear came buzzing to life.

"Ashton I swear if you make me squirt in this store I will kill you," Cher hissed trying not to moan.

"Say that properly this time," he dug his fingers hard into her hip.

"Please Daddy, I don't wanna make a mess," her voice was low and breathy and Ashton realized he was as turned on as she was.

He clicked off the remote until they got a few aisles over and she was standing next to a couple of ladies perusing the different kinds of pasta sauce.

Click

The two ladies glanced at Cher as she made a weird noise. She grimaced and said "sorry, back spasms."

They nodded and the older lady launched off into a lecture about home remedies and why Western medicine was a scam.

Ashton let her get so close before turning it off again.

When the ladies walked away Cher glared at him before throwing him a wink and walking away.

Ashton cursed under his breath, suddenly finding his pants far too tight.

Cher made sure to get everything on Camille's list and cat stuff despite Ashton's constant distractions. Soon they were headed home Ashton was driving with one hand on the wheel, and the other steadily creeping up her thigh. Cher was playing on her phone pretending to ignore him. He switched on the vibe, first on low wanting to see her react. When she didn't he increased the speed until she was squirming in her seat.

"Please, don't wanna cum yet," she whined earning her a smack on the thigh.

"Cross your legs and not another word," he commanded. She whimpered but she obeyed him and he continued driving. Little moans were escaping the back of her throat and her hips kept bucking despite her trying to keep control.

Ashton pulled over into a parking lot and grabbed a towel from the backseat.

"Pull your dress all the way up to your waist," he told her as he opened her legs.

His fingers were on her heat and combined with the vibe humming furiously her g spot she quickly felt herself toppling over the edge of bliss.

Ashton held the towel up as she gushed for him, her nails digging into his arm as she held herself back from screaming his name.

After Cher gave him a quick blowjob Ashton headed home. Calum and Camille were still on the couch discussing fault lines as Camille explained subduction zones. Cher loved the way Calum watched Camille when she got into what she called her "nerd self." He always seemed interested in whatever history or science topic she was currently into. It helped that Camille could make almost any subject entertaining. Cher almost tripped over the cat carrying groceries to the kitchen. She left out the cake ingredients so that Camille could work on a care package for Luke. Poor Luke, she thought, why does shit like that have to happen to such a nice guy.

Calum perched himself on the edge of the counter watching her cook. She was making red beans and rice with ham for dinner, but before that she had to prepare cold food for tomorrow's lunch. She made potato salad before starting on the chicken and egg salad. Camille hated egg salad but Calum loved it so she made it just for him. She made red velvet cupcakes going out for a smoke and a glass of wine while they were in the oven. Calum pulled her onto his lap stealing the joint from her and taking a puff. He pressed it back to her lips, she took a deep drag making her cough. He felt himself stiffen up as she jiggled against him. His lips found her neck and she melted into him.

They were rudely interrupted by a phone call from Michael to Calum. Luke was crashing with him and Crystal tonight, and being surrounded by three dogs at once had finally cheered Luke up a bit. Michael told Calum that he should come by with Camille the next day. Luke needed to see him, and maybe they could all get past this. Calum knew Luke didn't blame him, but with the hurt and the anger he just needed space away from his friend.

Cher had gone over to Ashton's after dinner wanting to finish what they'd started earlier and not have to be quiet. Camille was trying to find something to watch but Calum wouldn't keep his hands to himself. The commotion woke Duke up and Calum found himself cockblocked by his own dog.

Later that night after they were completely alone Calum was between her legs with her thick thighs slung over his shoulders. He was playing his favorite game "guess what I'm spelling" as he traced letters with his tongue on and through her wetness. After he wrote "I love you" on her skin Camille moaned "I love you too, baby." Calum responded by sliding two fingers inside of her. By the time Camille regained any clear thought she couldn't feel her legs and Calum had gone outside for a cigarette.

Cher saw the orange glow in the darkness before she actually saw Calum. She hadn't really needed to come outside to smoke, Ashton was dead to the world and he didn't mind the smell. She just needed to get out of his space for a minute. She knew going home in the middle of the night would raise too many questions, but she also knew she wouldn't be getting any sleep anyways. Normally Ashton left her satisfied and sleepy, but that was before she found the little box with a diamond ring tucked away in a drawer.

Camille arrived at Luke's door with a basket of sandwiches and goodies with Calum a couple steps behind her. Luke answered, looking tired and sad, but better than he had a week ago. He hugged Camille the way he always did, having to bend down to wrap himself completely around her. Calum was her love, but Luke was her best friend out of the guys, her little peanut.

Three weeks ago the guys had flown to New York City for a quick promo tour. The guys schedule was so insane that most of the girlfriends had stayed home, with Summer and Luke the only couple on the trip. Her boss was a photographer the band was working with for a magazine cover. Nobody questioned it as Summer tagged along on most trips, camera in hand. This trip started off well, but on the second day the two of them were sniping at each other. Luke's relationship had always been up and down, but their relationship had seemed solid until the final night before they were to return to California.

They'd gone out drinking at a karaoke bar. The beginning of the night everyone was cheerful and laughing, but soon things got messy. Summer caught Calum texting on his phone and snatched it away from him. She started playing on his phone dancing away from him when he tried to get it back. Luke was kind of laughing along until she tucked it into her bra and told Calum to "come and get it."

Things got even more awkward when Calum refused and sat there clearly annoyed. Luke got up and tried to get the phone back but she refused.  Whining at him "I want Calum to get it,"  she dodged his hands, pouting the whole time. "Want Calum," she repeated and Luke and Calum both turned red. Summer tried to tuck the phone into her jeans, but she was clumsy drunk and almost dropped it. This allowed Michael to grab it and toss it to Calum. Summer burst into tears and she ran out, with Luke following close behind.

That gave the night a weird vibe, but none of them were in any hurry to return to the hotel. They hung out for a bit, some fans stopped by and chatted for a while. By the time they wandered down to an all night pizza place they all had a decent buzz going and the mood had picked up. They began sending cheesy pick up lines and thirst trap pics to their girls. Calum getting a bit of attention from some girls when he removed his jacket to flex his biceps for Camille while Ashton filmed.

When they got back they heard shouting from Luke's room. Ashton went to check on them, while the other two went to bed. Calum stripped down to his skivvies and crawled into bed hoping the room wouldn't spin. Calum didn't know how long he'd been out when he heard knocking, actually.. banging, on his hotel room door. He threw on a shirt and cracked the door to find Summer standing there in tears.

Calum tried to be kind and invited her in, fumbling for his phone to text Ashton or Luke, he wasn't sure which. Next thing he knew Summer had thrown herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him anywhere her lips could find. Stunned Calum tried to back away, that turned out to be a mistake as the bed hit the back of his knees and he fell back. They both tumbled backwards with her on top of him. Now she was tugging at his shirt and his waistband talking a mile a minute, "I feel horrible but I told Luke I wasn't in love with him. That I wanted someone else. I've been in love with you, Calum, for ages now. I love you so much, you just don't understand," Calum pushed her off of him and jumped off the bed.

"Wait, Calum, baby, pretty please," she was desperate and grabbed his hand. "I need you, I can treat you better. I'm not boring and I'm better looking."

"Enough," Calum shouted, startling her into silence. "This is not happening. You need to leave." He texted Ashton, afraid to talk to Luke at that moment. Calum had no idea what kind of nonsense she'd said to Luke,or how bad this was going to be.

He headed for the door when Summer ran in front of him, "please just stay with me tonight. You can have me any way you want. I'll do anything you ask, just please don't go." Calum was not impressed by this offer.

There was a knock and Calum had to find a way to open it without physically shoving her aside. He found Michael, their manager and the hotel concierge standing in the hallway.

The concierge wrapped his arm around Summer's shoulders leading her away with a gentle manner and absolute authority. Their manager told them he'd see she got another room for the night and a different flight home.

After they left Mikey informed Calum that Ashton was with Luke, who was completely devastated and quite drunk. Summer had broken up with Luke and while they were fighting confessed that she'd been in love with Calum the whole time. The flight home was awkward, everyone was tired and on edge. Calum was relieved that Camille had taken everything so well. Not that she wasn't furious and ready to "slap the shit out of that green eyed demon whore," but she wasn't mad at him.

Luke was a different story. He wasn't angry, but kept his distance from Cal. He told Camille it hurt to think of being with her and the whole time she was into Calum. Camille set up a little picnic on Luke's living room floor , settling in between the two guys. Petunia sprawled out next to Luke, Miss P hadn't left his side since he got home. Camille kept the conversation flowing, asking them questions about the new music they were recording, and the trip Luke and Ashton were taking back to Australia for a couple weeks. The guys started to relax and chat a bit.

Luke stopped, sighed and began, "Listen, Cal….I need to apologise."

Calum cut him off, "Mate there's no need for that, I get it."

Luke nodded and pushed his plate away, but Camille noticed he'd eaten two sandwiches and a cupcake. That was progress.

"It's weird how once the bubble pops you see all the warning signs, and little shit you overlooked before because you wanted to make it work," Luke mused.

"I personally found her tiresome and I think her work is overrated," Camille rolled her eyes.

Her phone rang and Camille snatched it up thinking it must be work, everyone else texts.

She frowned when she saw it was the security desk at the front gate.

"Sorry to bother you Miss Camille," she recognized Dale the security guards voice. "We have a man here insisting on being let in," he paused his voice muffled as he spoke to the person he was calling about. "Claims he has legal documents for Miss Cher."

Camille shivered as a chill swept over her, "what's his name?"

Muffled voices and Camille heard "Barett," and she interrupted "Dale, did you say Benjamin Barett?"

"Yes ma'am," he replied.

"I'm on my way right now," Camille hit end and leapt up startling both guys and dogs.

Calum scrambled to his feet, "What's going on? Who's here? I'm coming with you."

Camille shook her head,"you can't, he's gonna be an asshole to me and I don't need you cracking his jaw."

"WHO?" both Luke and Calum all but shouted question at her.

"Cher's husband, he's tracked her down," Camille answered.

@wildhearthood @babygirlcashton @kiiiimberlyriiiicker1995 @vfdsstuff @unabashedlymyself @5sos-ficssmut @rosettesofhappiness

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Artifice | Chapter Four

CHECK OUT THE STORY FROM THE START HERE

[A/N: Heads up, this is a bit of a backstory chapter. Nothing too extensive, but now that this is a full story, I have to backtrack a little] 

“Tienes que concentrarte en el arte, Beca” His words were sharp and laced with a hissing venom. It dripped past his tongue, picked up on every aspect of his thick accent. Each syllable was over pronounced and drawn out. His chin was held higher than his ego at this point, back against a clay wall. It was undeniably steaming from the Spanish sun that bore down on the pair.

His skin was like leather, wrinkled and worn from the countless hours spent in the whitewashed courtyard, a thick sweat forming right above the mans’ brow. He didn’t make another advance towards the young painter- the ran welt on her cheek enough to quell his movements for more than a few moments.

Beca breathed in deeply, chewing the inside of her jaw. Her ear was ringing, pulsing with her heartbeat pounding against the inside of her wrist. He had struck her before, never this hard, never with this much passion behind his movements. She clenched the graphite closer to her palm, not shifting at the black mark it created on her skin.

“vete a la mierda” She grumbled out with discontent. “You don’t think I’m trying, Christian?”

He wrinkled up his nose, making his aged features look even more so. This man, the one in front of her, was supposed to be a skilled painter. One that Beca had traveled months to follow in studies. It took another thirty days to even convince the borderline drunk to give up his seat at the tavern and pick up a pencil again. Except, he hadn’t. Not in the past four weeks.

All Christian Calderon had done so far was lecture the brunette about art styles on his rooftop garden. Something that was a bit extravagant and overlooked the city of Madrid. A beautiful view that Beca wanted to sketch the second she got a good look at the expertly crafted buildings and streetways.

Calderon had refused it, though, stating that she was under his teachings now. She placed her instrument to the paper when, and only when, he allowed it. Now was not one of those times- her back resting against the far side of the wall, a ripe apple in her hands, growing warm from the lack of storage.

“I know you’re not trying,” He let out an exasperated sigh, running his hand through his dark mane of pitch hair. “If you were attempting to see what I am to instruct, then we would not be having this conversation, and I would have had to-“

“Strike me?” She asked, toying with the sarcasm in her voice, “I got it.”

“Then tell me,” he squatted down in front of her, gently, placing his hand over hers as he pulled the apple up to her view, her midnight stare focusing hard on the piece of fruit that he had picked from the tree in a yard three blocks over. “What do you see?”

‘hungry’ hadn’t been the right answer, and neither had red. Beca was stating the obvious at this point. She had even gone as far as stepping into a few different hues of the bloody color, but all was met with a hard glare and an even harder smack to the face. Not out of ill will, out of discipline. She understood- but the taste of iron was itching at her tongue and clawing at her throat. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take of it.

“Please, young one.” His voice began to crack under the pressure. Christian hating this almost as much as she did. Hated drawing his hand back and bringing it against already irritated bone. “Tell me.”

She drew in a small breath, fingers digging into the malleable skin of the fruit. It was smooth, weighted in her palm as she spun it to the side. It was just an apple, the same thing she had seen at every bodega, hanging off of multiple oaks that reached towards the sky- and pressed its branches into the blue depths.

“I uh,” She swallowed thickly, “I see summer, I suppose.”

Beca drew back, wincing involuntarily for a strike that never made contact. He just stared, his chestnut eyes not showing any type of emotion or sign that she was right. A sign that was wrong would have been worse, however, her stance tightening.    

“Red can mean war,” She sounded out carefully, “But it can also mean love. Something that took the time to form around one tiny seed in the soil. It wasn’t instant, but it was there. It grew, and it flourished, and now it’s sitting in my hand in the warmth of a mid-day sun.”

Christian lifted his chin in the slightest of ways, rolling his shoulders back. “Take a bite.”

She was hesitant, raising the item to her lips as she stared at the gold flecks that circled the man's pupil. He didn’t’ make a move to interject, her tongue tankful for the change in taste as sweet juices dribbled off her chin and soaked into her cotton shirt. She chewed slowly, eyes darting down to the sizable dent she had made in the fruit.

“Good,” he breathed out, stare darting to the sketch pad to her side. “When you paint, La Hija, you should remember this feeling of summer, and taste of apples- because it is all you have to hold onto. All you should allow yourself to display within the lines.”

She gulped back the residual taste, staring at him with wide composure. “You want me to?”

“Draw, young one.” He nodded solemnly “make it count.”

Beca Mitchell drew in a soft breath, fingers running over the smooth edge of the apple. It was a deeper shade of crimson than she had ever seen before- grown in different soil and brought up in a different climate of the world. It would be undoubtedly sweet, tooth-rotting.

She held it up, inspecting the bruising and the slight deformed edge that it had to its shape. It wasn’t perfect, but no apple was. The weight of it making her fingers ache. The brunette had lost her train of thought a few moments ago, listening to the steady chopping that Stacie provided each time her steel knife came down on the crisped edge of the fruit.

“I lost you a few minutes ago.” The taller of the two spoke out, swiping her palm against the wooden cutting board, brushing all the juicy pieces to the side tactfully. “Thinking about anything interesting?”

“I don’t like apples,” Beca said, instead, placing it down with a look of disdain on her features.

“Ah, what an eloquent speech you have been piecing together Madame Mitchell.”

“Fuck off,” A smile found it’s way to her lips regardless, she liked the way that Stacie teased and berated her. She didn’t’ tip-toe like the rest of the staff did. They wouldn’t even meet her eyes on most occasions, going about their work just like Beca had intended to do for the past three days of near silence in this place.

However, Chloe Beale is a hard woman to track down within the walls of this estate. It had become apparent to the young artist that if she wanted to be found, she would be. There was no point in looking for a woman who had no interest in the work that was sure to take place at some point- their shared conversation by the Southern swamp was the last she had seen of the girl in forty-eight hours.

For now, she sat at the island, residing to the far corner of the place while she watched Stacie prepare what looked like an apple dessert of some kind- maybe even a pie. She wasn’t sure- she was more focused on the woman’s movements; how fluid and precise they were compared to the clunky ones of her own. Residing to the fact that she was meant to be a painter and not a cook. She had even begun to sketch a rough drawing of the woman in front of her, messy and always coated in some form of baking material.

“Good thing this thing isn’t for you,” Stacie continued her train of thought. “Unless you can get past your unnatural distaste for apples?” She cocked an eyebrow, throwing a glance Beca’s way. By the scrunched-up expression on the woman’s face, she assumed that was a no. She didn’t question the girl, instead, bringing the sharpened edge of the knife into the crisp fruit.

“Does the woman of the house have a thing for them?”

“A thing?” Stacie sounded out carefully, “I would say no. What she does carry an affinity for is my apple cake. No one can refuse it.”

“Watch me, Conrad,” Beca grumbled under her breath. She couldn’t stand the thought of that sickeningly sweet taste anymore. It was just what Christian had taught her- it wasn’t about the object, but the feeling connected to it. This feeling was laced with dread and questioning of self-worth, something her old teacher mastered in. “Speaking of which, have you seen her?”

“Not for a few days,” She lifted her shoulders up slightly. “Are you that keen on packing up your brooding attitude and heading back out to sea?”

Beca drew in a careful breath. These last couple of days had been calming, albeit, strange. She hadn’t stressed the worry of where her next meal was coming from, or how early she had to wake up to be out of quarters before the real owner returned to their storefront. It wasn’t that she didn’t miss life on the streets, and crave for even one bit of danger, because she did. But it was so quiet, and still. She was stuck in time, frozen in golden amber with her wings raised and pension building.

“Aye aye.” Beca gave her a tantalizing wink. It was easier this way, to shove everything off with a light wave of the hand instead of going into her psyche with a girl she barely knew but felt connected to. She wasn’t afraid to talk with her, to open up and share the worries that plagued her.

“And what about you?” Beca asked, not sparing much detail. “Ever see yourself sailing against the Pacific?”  

“Mm, never.” Stacie shook her head. “That’s left for my brother, a sc-all-y wag.”

Beca had to bite down a laugh at the way the leggy brunette struggled through the word. Her tongue stuck out a bit from her lips, eyes staring up at the ceiling as she tried to place her words. It wasn’t natural, almost aloof. It brought a genuine smile to the smaller woman’s features, her fingers spinning the brown stem of the apple absently.

Both women glanced up as someone new entered the kitchen, Beca’s breath catching in her throat like it was sticky, the air humid from the working ovens overtime and the streaming sun still creating a large reflective rectangle against the tile. Chloe’s hair was wet from a shower, her lavender bath soap coating her throat and lungs. It was soothing, catching.

Chloe’s wild mane of copper locks flowed over her bloused chest. An armed guard strapped to her forearm and going up past her elbow. It made her arm look a little awkward and straight- but her shoulders were pulled back in a defined way. She flicked her royal stare to Stacie.

“Is that what I think it is?” She asked, a sprouted smile on her lips. Chloe breathed in strongly, a look of bliss making Beca sit back in her seat, the stem still between her forefingers.

“Mm-hm” Stacie wiggled a bit, shoving more apple pieces to the side, Chloe’s own eyes widening with excitement.

“Seriously,” Chloe pointed a finger towards Beca “her apple cake is the best thing in the whole entire world.”

“I wouldn’t’ go that far,” She laughed “Nothing is better than sex, including this cake.”

The girl let out a huff as she reached forward, attempting to dip her finger in the buttercream icing, resting softly in a spreadable pile. It almost looked too pure, too sweet. Stacie, however, batted the girl's hand away before she got a chance. “Chlo,”

“Come on,” She groaned like a child, Beca smirking until her jaw was sore. She had only seen a poised side of the woman, the type where every little movement was overthought. She had even gotten a taste of the dangerous and daring woman who knew how to fence like no other. But not this, not a girl struggling to get a hold of sweets, just waiting to get scolded. “Stace, you expect me to wait all day?”

“That’s exactly what I expect you to do.” She snipped back, pulling the last apple from Beca’s grasp with a sparing glance. Chloe let out a discontent huff. She quickly got over it, flashing that indigo color back to Beca. It sent a wave of dissipating chills through her spine, lips parting slightly.

“Hi,” Chloe let out a long sigh, a slight smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“Hi,” Beca rolled her shoulders back pulling her arm over the edge of the chair so she could turn to face the woman more, her other hand resting on the table, a leather-clad book under her fingertips. It seemed she took it everywhere, palms coated in black charcoal.

“You need to get changed.” Chloe scanned the length of her stare over Beca, the girl in long sleeves and even longer pants- her whole body always having a bit of a chill to it despite how many layers she allowed herself to hold, Stacie cocking her head to the side.

“What? Why?” Beca held her arm out a bit, staring down at her dark clothing.

“I am going to teach you how to fence,” Chloe stated matter-of-factly.

Beca squinted her dusky eyes, “Gee that sure sounds like fun, Chloe, but I would rather take that fork and stab myself in the throat.”

Stacie drew in a careful breath, slowly pushing the metal utensil away from the small artist. Chloe crossing her arms over her chest as she elicited an amused scoff. “You want to get to know me? Well, you have to know fencing first.”

“It’s a sport with pointy things that you thrust into the air.” Beca waving her hand in the air.

“No,” Chloe took a small step forward “It’s a practice of agility and swift movements that help regulate heart rate and overall pain tolerance. Kind of like painting.” Beca raised her eyebrows, bemused. “Get changed, Picasso. Meet me in the yard in twenty.”    

[childrenofhypnos]

Chapter 15: Mad Science

Past the castle’s portcullis was an long and empty courtyard, and the far side of it stood a yawning entrance. Weeds grew up through the courtyard flagstones. The entrance of the castle had once been covered by two great oak doors banded with iron; one now hung open on an iron hinge the length of Emery’s leg, and the other lay across the floor of the entrance hall, covered in a layer of dust. Emery and Wes had to step around it to enter.

Moonlight filtered through the high narrow windows behind them, illuminating dancing dust motes in the air. To their left and right was darkness, no walls in sight, and stretching out before them was a wide green carpet covering the smooth stone floor. The ceiling vaulted high over their heads, held aloft by two rows of columns that led from the ruined doors to a large stone staircase at the far end of the hall. The staircase, too, had been destroyed. It looked as if a great fist had punched sideways through its middle; the bottom half of the stairs was scattered to their left in chunks of stone bigger than Emery’s whole body, and the intact remains of the upper half hung over the gaping hole that remained. The green carpet climbed the stairs until it reached the rubble, then fell down into the hole.

The place had an eerie gaping silence; it gave Emery the feeling that something had been making noise just before they entered. Their footsteps made no sound against the carpet.

“Bets on Frankenstein monsters?” Emery said. Her voice echoed up to the ceiling.

Wes looked sick. “Please don’t talk. It’s creepy enough in here already.”

There were no other visible doors in the room, and the staircase, like the walls, disappeared into darkness. They approached the hole in the stairs. The carpet tripped down over the rubble left behind, then fell straight, hanging into what must have been a secret passage beneath the staircase, now revealed. A ten foot drop led the way to another staircase. This one curved downward, and around the bend was the faintest glow of firelight.

Wes made an unhappy noise.

“Yes, we have to go down,” Emery said. “Even if we don’t find anything, we have to play out the dream to get out of here.”

Her voice was higher than she liked. She pushed sweaty hair off her forehead, then looked at her hand, confused. She hadn’t been sweaty until just then. Her heart beat faster, too, and her throat tightened. Wes didn’t look like he was faring much better; though a chill settled through the castle, a sheen of sweat coated his forehead.

“This is just the fear the Dream wants us to feel,” Emery said. “It’s a nightmare, this was going to happen. The more fear we feel, the closer we are to something important.”

Wes nodded. Emery lowered herself into the hole first, climbing carefully down the rubble that had partially filled the secret passageway. Wes followed. They kept their weapons out as they descended the curving staircase into the castle’s basement, and Emery prayed they didn’t run into anything else wearing a suit of armor.

At the bottom of the curving stair was yet another heavy door. A padlock the size of Emery’s head hung on a black chain looped several times around the door handle and an iron ring on the wall.

“I can try shooting this,” Emery said, “or you can dreamform it away. I’m not super eager to shoot anything else around here, so dreamforming is my choice.”

Wes shouldered up beside her in the narrow passage and took the padlock. He looked it over, frowning, and said, “This is a strong dream. I don’t know if I can get rid of the whole padlock, but I can probably just…” He grabbed the chain instead. The chain creaked in his fist as he squeezed tight around it, and with a loud crink, a link gave way. Wes unraveled the chain and let the padlock fall to the ground.

“You need to teach me how to do that,” Emery said. “Without getting a nosebleed, I mean. Obviously I can do it if I try, I just don’t want to kill myself in the process.”

“Oh, obviously.”

Emery ignored him and pushed open the door.

Inside was a laboratory out of an old black-and-white horror film. Torches along the walls burned with emerald fire, casting the room in sickly shades of green. Emery and Wes stood on above it all; a staircase to their left followed the wall down into the room. At the base of the stairs were sturdy wooden tables cluttered with test tubes, beakers, piles of reagents like hair and claws. Pages of scrawled notes spilled from a large leatherbound notebook. Against the left side of the room, cages of all sizes had been stacked up in a pyramid, and inside them huddled the unmoving forms of furred animals. Against the right side of the room, chains hanging from the ceiling held up body parts too large to belong to any human: arms and legs as big around as a horse’s body; hulking shoulders and torsos; slack-jawed heads without hair or eyes. Every body part was made of different shades of skin held together by black stitches as big as Emery’s pinkie. The back wall was empty, but the stone appeared to have been scored many times, over and over, from the floor to the ceiling.

Emery motioned to the body parts. “What’d I say? Frankenstein.”

Wes rolled his eyes.

They crept down the short staircase, toward the animal cages. Emery knew through the logic of the Dream that the animals had come from the woods, that the scientist who lived here had captured them and was using them for study. One little creature in a smaller cage on top peeked out at Emery from under a batlike wing; its eyes were sickly, poisonous green, and they glowed. In the cages below it were a lizard, a sort of porcupine with huge black quills, and in the biggest cage at the bottom, a doglike creature curled in a tight ball. The faint glow of their eyes showed through their eyelids. All of them were missing patches of fur, some had blood caked on their snouts or legs, and the porcupine had been stripped of half its quills.

Wes picked up the leatherbound notebook on the table and began rifling through the pages. “He’s researching something. Not all of this is in that dream-language from before—some is in English, and there are pictures. Diagrams. Dream windows. Gateways.” His frown deepened. “Dreamhunter weapons. Sleeping sand.” He turned a few pages and began to read. “‘The existence of dreamseekers predates dreamhunters by several decades…The shift to dreamhunter power in the Hypnos State began as early as the 1920s…’” He flipped a little farther. “Floating hair. Doppelgängers? ‘…a surge in numbers…new policies…’ more of it is nonsense now…” He turned another page and stopped. His face went ashen.

“What?” Emery said.

Wes’s lips pressed together in a thin line. He held the notebook out for her.

Inside was a drawing of a doppelgänger in ink. The long tendrils of her black hair floated around her head like she was underwater, and her body was only an outline, naked but undetailed. Everything except for her face. It was detailed enough, and she stared out at the viewer with eyes a piercing white against the black of her lashes and thick eyebrows.

Emery’s insides shifted sideways. The pressure of the Dream crushed in around her.

“It’s me,” she croaked. “This is me—my doppelgänger. But why—why would he draw this? He’s been following me. Does he—does he know something? He can’t like, send people’s doppelgängers after them, can he? I wouldn’t even have a doppelgänger yet, we’re too young, we’re way too young, and—”

“Emery.” Wes was shaking his head. “There’s no way you have a doppelgänger. No way. He’s insane, he’s got to be. We weren’t even supposed to go near him, and now we’re inside his head. This is just a drawing. It doesn’t mean anything.” He took the book back. “I’ll read through this and see if I can find something more concrete. You finish searching the room.”

Emery almost ripped the book out of his hands again. It was her doppelgänger—the Sandman had been following her. If anyone should get to look through his thoughts, it was her. But Wes was already turning away, looking at that sketch again, and Emery marched away from him so she didn’t have to look at it.

The body parts hanging from chains hadn’t come from the forest, like the animals. Emery got no information from the Dream at all about whose skin and innards had been stitched together to make them, but she knew the scientist was making something. Strings of tissue and gristle dangled from the open ends of the arms and legs and the big torsos. They should have smelled horrible, but the only scent in the air was something just past sweet, like decomposing flowers, that had also pervaded the woods. Emery spent only a moment looking up into an eyeless head that could have swallowed her without hardly opening its mouth before her stomach turned over and she had to walk away.

She went instead to the scores on the back wall, which appeared to have been carved into the stone with some kind of metal instrument. The grooves were shallow but many, harsh repeating jagged lines. Closer to the floor and ceiling they became deeper and more violent. Emery followed the intensity of the lines to the center of the wall, where they shrank and shrank and shrank until they began to take shape, until she realized the repetition was not the work of madness, but of writing. Five letters, over and over again.

In the very center of the wall, where the writing was small and calm, the word had been etched into the stone the very first time. Though they were the same letters and it was the same word, only the smallest one was legible; all the others blurred and distorted when Emery tried to read them. She had to lean close to the smallest one, at the center of all the chaos, and her nose almost touched the wall.

It wasn’t a word. It was a name.

“Klaus,” Emery read.

Like a stone tossed into a calm lake, the name rippled the fabric of the nightmare around them. The entire room flexed in, pressure squeezing Emery’s insides so tightly she almost vomited, then it flexed out, ballooning until she got lightheaded. When it snapped back into place, it rocked the room, throwing Wes into a stone pillar and Emery against the animal cages. One of the stitched heads came loose from its chains and hit the floor with a wet and heavy THUD. The animals sprang awake in their cages with screeches and barks. The tiny batlike creature that had peered out at Emery before struck at once, sinking its needlelike teeth into one of the fingers Emery had wrapped around its cage bars to keep herself upright.

The pain shot up her hand and wrist; she whipped out a Peacemaker, shoved the barrel through the cage bars, and fired. In a flash of purple light and a bang that echoed off the walls, the little bat because a spray of green blood on the wall. Emery pulled her hand back. Where the knuckle of her index finger had been there was now a torn and bloody mess. It throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

“Are you okay?” Wes grabbed her collar and tugged her gently away from the bottom cage, where the burly dog monster—complete with fangs like a sabertooth tiger—was attacking the bars near Emery’s shins.

“How hard do you think it is to dreamform a new finger?” she asked.

“You said something right before that happened. What was it?”

Emery started to repeat it, then thought better of it and nodded toward the wall. “Those marks. I think those are his name. I said his name, and the Dream reacted. But—look!”

The ripple had shaken a portion of the back wall loose. Stones had fallen from their careful placement, revealing a hole to yet another room. Stones portruded from the jagged edges of the hole like the teeth of a zipper. More green torchlight flickered in the room beyond.

Emery and Wes made their way carefully around the remains of the wall and looked inside. The new room was half the size of the first, lined with those green torches. Wicked metal instruments hung from a rack on the far wall. Chains swayed in the darkness of the ceiling, disturbed by the Dream’s fluctuation. The only furniture was a long metal table in the center of the floor, and on the table laid a young woman in a filthy dress. Leather cuffs around her wrists and ankles held her to the table. Pale hair fanned around her head.

“Is she dead?” Emery said over the continuing raucous of the animals in their cages.

As if in response, the young woman moaned.

Emery and Wes sprang through the hole in the wall and hurried to the table. The woman’s eyes were closed, her breathing shallow, her skin the color of wax.

Emery began undoing the restraints on the woman’s ankles, picking at the buckle with her nine good fingers. “Get her wrists, Wes.”

Wes stood at the end of the table, frowning at the woman. “You think this is a good idea?”

“Are you kidding me? She’s strapped down to an exam table in a mad scientist lab! Don’t you watch movies? We can’t leave her here.” Emery got one cuff off and started on the next.

Wes started on the wrist restraints. “I don’t like this.”

Emery wished the animals would shut up; their shrieks and barks were making her hair stand on end, and she couldn’t hear footsteps coming down the steps from the entry hall. Her heart pounded in her head and in her finger, which was now leaking a green pus from her wound. Sweat gathered at the nape of her neck, the small of her back, between her legs. It dripped into her eyes, and when she tried to blink it away, her vision split double, then came back together.

When the woman was free, Wes pulled her arms over his shoulders and hefted her onto his back. She looked like she didn’t weight much more than a feather pillow. The woman moaned again, pale hair falling around her gaunt face.

“Let’s…let’s get her back to the village.” Emery’s voice came out slurred. Wes gave her a strange look. “‘M fine. Just…go…”

Emery followed Wes back through the hole in the wall, though when she tried to climb out after him, her foot caught on the loose rubble and she tripped back into the laboratory, catching herself on her hands before she hit the ground. Green pus oozed from her finger and onto the floor; her whole hand gave a vicious throb that made her head spin. She stood again.

Their path back upstairs was slow, and when they reached the hidden entrance to the laboratory, Wes had to boost Emery up so she could grab the ledge and pull herself back into the entry hall, and then they had to slowly and painstakingly lift and pull the young woman up after. Emery’s head throbbed and her finger screamed, but they got the woman sprawled along the stone floor, and Emery reached back down to pull Wes up. He slung the young woman over his back again and frowned at Emery.

“Do you feel okay? You’re not walking straight.”

Emery pushed against his elbow. “Walk. Need to get out of here.”

They started toward the fallen front doors of the castle. The floor rocked back and forth under Emery’s feet. They’d left the screeching of the animals behind down below, but somehow the silence was worse. The silence left a ringing in Emery’s ears that wouldn’t go away.

Moonlight spilled into the couryard outside the castle’s front entrance. The walls around the courtyard were too high to see over, but when Emery turned to look behind them, the moon loomed over the castle, five times as large as it had been when they’d gone inside. She could see every crater and pockmark in its surface; it was so big she could only see its top half curving over the castle. It was so big, Emery craned back to see it over the tallest of the castle’s towers, and the ground lurched beneath her. She fell hard on her back in the dirt and the weeds.

“Emery!” Wes appeared over her. He got darker in the moonlight; the young woman got brighter, as if the light reflected off her pale skin and hair.

Emery started pushing herself up. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine”

“Shut up. I’m fine.”

“Emery…”

She pushed herself onto her elbows and glared up at him.

The young woman, still hanging over his shoulder, glared back.

Her eyes were open and locked on Emery, and they were the same bright glowing green as the animals in the lab. Her pale hair, strands shimmering silver, began to weave itself back along her head; her dirty shift had become a long white dress, and it lifted into the air behind Wes like sheets billowing in the wind. Then her body, too, began to lift away from him, and Wes’s eyes went wide.

Like the moon, the young woman grew. She towered over them, the layers of her dress flowing in a nonexistent breeze, her eyes like beacons. Her arms were long and pale, her fingers each tipped with a wicked white fingernail. In Emery’s head she heard the name, like the Dream was whispering it directly into her ear.

Witch of the Wood.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

High on the courtyard wall, above the portcullis, stood a figure all in black. His hair, too, had gone luminscent in the moonlight; his black goggles hid his eyes. Emery blinked and the Sandman disappeared from the wall and came charging at them across the courtyard.

Wes grabbed Emery’s arm and hauled her to her feet. Her knees had given out; she could no longer stand, much less run. Her hand felt like it was on fire. Wes grunted, slinging an arm around her waist and taking on her weight. The Dream shifted around them; the ground rose up around the witch and grabbed at her flowing skirts. Emery tried desperately to lift her feet and help Wes move them forward, but her toes and ankles had gone numb. The portcullis loomed before them and the witch screamed, horrible and piercing, behind them. The pressure of the Dream crawled in through Emery’s ears and squeezed her brain.

Edgar, she thought. Edgar and his sweaters. Grandpa Al and his tea. Mom’s weapon is a cannon. Dad’s is a claymore. Jacqueline makes order and Joel makes chaos. The student council room will be warm and cozy right now. XVIII. The quotes on the Fenhallow steps. I will be one of those quotes someday. I will not die here. Wes’s eyes. Wes’s eyes are black. Wes’s eyes are black because they are dreamforms.

“The dean!” Wes gasped.

Emery raised her head. They’d made it through the portcullis. There was the blurry span of the bridge in the moonlight, and the hard line of the forest past that, and the Dream groaned and rippled as a light pierced the nightmare. The trees bubbled outward and exploded. The bridge fell to pieces under their feet, but they didn’t fall with it. A man appeared before them. The light coalesced into a sword in his hand, as bright as the sun. His eyes burned with it, round and flat. Reflecting. Glasses.

“Dad?” she said.

“No, Em,” the man replied.

He turned, drew his sword through the air, and tore a hole in the world.

(Next time on The Children of Hypnos —> Turns Out, Poison Isn’t Fun)

[dotshiiki]

A Blue Secret (Percy/Annabeth)

Summary: Annabeth is hiding something. The secret is driving Percy to distraction.

Notes: So it’s my birthday today, and I felt like doing blue-related things. I honestly didn’t know if I was going to finish writing this in time to post as I’ve been working on it a while since the bunny hopped into my head last month when I was baking cookies for my friend’s birthday. (Yes, blue M&M cookies. And yes, I was sorting M&M’s, which was the inspiration for the fic.) But then the last bit that was evading me came together and voilà! Fic to share! Be warned, though, it’s high on fluff but low on plot. 

Plink, plink, plink. The unusual noise coming from behind Annabeth’s room door makes Percy halt on the landing, his brow furrowing with curiosity. It sounds like quarters being deposited into a coin bank. Or maybe a wonky percussion instrument. ‘Annabeth?’ The sound stops abruptly and is followed by a quick rustling noise and a loud thump. Then footsteps, and Annabeth’s door opens. 

'Percy! What are you doing back so early? I thought you and Frank were organising the Pyrrhic War re-enactment at the Coliseum today?’ 'Oh, well, it had to be cancelled. Some junior legionnaire fed Hannibal peanuts. No war elephant equals no elephantry display.’ She looks at him a little blankly. 'Hannibal the elephant? He’s peanut-intolerant. Huge mess—Frank’s sorting it out now.’ 'Oh, right. I forgot.’ 'So what are you up to?’ 'Nothing, just studying.’ She looks away from him when she says it, to the thick tome of a textbook sitting open on her desk. He has the strange suspicion that she actually pulled it out right before she opened the door. But he can’t think of a reason why she would lie about it, and he has a feeling she won’t take it well if he says the first thought that pops into his head, which is, ’Didn’t sound like studying.’ He doesn’t want to be the suspicious boyfriend, after all. And then he’s distracted by Annabeth asking if he wants to join her. He says yes, of course. She picks up the book and moves so they can sit together on her bed. As he plays with her hair and listens to her talk about structural supports and Doric columns, he forgets about her mystery activity. OoOoO He is reminded a few days later, though, this time when a freak thunderstorm puts an end to his plans to go canoe-surfing in the lake with Piper (thanks a lot, Zeus, or Jupiter, or whichever form he’s meant to be for a Greek demigod living in New Rome) and he gets home to hear the same steady plink, plink, plink coming from behind Annabeth’s closed door once again. He knocks this time and there’s the same abrupt pause, the rustling—maybe a drawer opening and closing? Annabeth opens the door and this time he notices the little details he overlooked before: her eyes just a bit wider than normal, her breathing a little too fast. 'You’re back!’ She glances at the window and the weeping skies outside. 'Oh. I guess they closed the boating docks.’ He decides to be direct. 'What was that noise?’ The furtive expression that passes over her face is so quick, if Percy wasn’t on the alert, he would have missed it. 'What noise?’ says Annabeth, a little too casually. 'You know, that, er, clinking sort of sound.’ There’s a moment’s hesitation, and then she says, 'You mean the rain?’ 'No, I thought I heard …’ She cocks her head to one side. 'Sounds like the rain to me,’ she says with a shrug. She gives him an affectionate peck on the cheek as she passes him, heading for the bathroom. He catches sight of her fingers by chance. They are stained with multiple colours, like rainbow ink stains from different pens. When she emerges from the bathroom a minute later, her hands washed clean and smelling of lemon soap, Annabeth launches immediately into a complicated narration about the interior design she’s sketching for a temple Jason asked her to help with. This isn’t exactly atypical for her, except that she usually waits for him to ask first before going all Alex Dunphy on him. It’s almost as though she’s trying to steer the conversation away before he gets a chance to ask questions she doesn’t want to answer. Yeah, he thinks, she’s definitely hiding something. OoOoO He begins to notice a pattern. It’s always when he gets back at an unplanned time—earlier than expected, cancelled plans—that he finds Annabeth holed up in her room doing whatever it is that she’s not sharing. She’s doing it only when she knows he’ll be out of the house. This conclusion makes him uneasy. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, or that he thinks she’s up to something shady. If there’s one thing he’s certain of, even more than the fact that pizza makes the best dinner and blue makes food taste better, it’s that his girlfriend always has his back. Besides, this is Annabeth after all, the girl with a million projects on her plate, most of which he doesn’t even understand when she does tell him about them. It’s probably just a new hobby she’s picked up—maybe sewing; it did sound like she might be rustling through buttons in a bag. Except Annabeth is probably the least domesticated person he knows, so he can’t really picture her hunched over a needlepoint. Or it could be—there’s some brainiac game that involves chucking marbles in a wooden board with holes, right? No, the fact that Annabeth might have a new hobby doesn’t faze him. What he doesn’t get is why it has to be a secret. She’s trusted him with everything since they were kids: her problems with her family, her deepest fears, even her embarrassing crush on Gregory Peck that she swears she’ll kill him if he ever tells anyone. There’s nothing she’s ever needed to hide from him. Except … well, except for that stuff with Luke, ages ago. But that was before they got together. Back when there was a war with the Titans and they all thought he was marked for death by prophecy. Gods, he hopes it’s not some new war-related shit. Haven’t they done enough with the Titans and then Gaea, and that whole debacle with the Norse gods that he still doesn’t understand. Oh, and not to mention Apollo and his Roman emperors? He goes so far as to ask her how she’s been occupying herself when he’s out, but she only raises her eyebrows and says, 'Are you suggesting I don’t have important stuff to do that don’t involve you?’ He wisely backs off from that line of conversation. Still, he wishes he knew. The curiosity is starting to drive him a little crazy. One morning he comes out to the kitchen to find Annabeth sitting with her elbows propped on the table, looking like she’s waiting for him. He frowns, confused. Has he forgotten something? It’s too early in the day to figure it out—at least he can’t really think clearly before he’s had some coffee, which thankfully Annabeth has brewed. He makes a bee-line for the pot on the counter and takes a huge gulp before facing her. 'Um,’ he says, running his fingers through his hair. He notices she’s wearing an oversized Camp Half-Blood t-shirt (probably his, which always turns him on way more than it should) and her pyjamas shorts underneath, so obviously she’s not all ready to leave the flat or anything. That’s good—it means he hasn’t forgotten a morning date. Then he sees the jar sitting on the table in front of her. It’s one of those giant jam jars, about the size of a football, with clear glass all around, and it’s filled to the brim with M&M’s. With blue M&M’s, to be exact. It all falls neatly into place then: the slow clink of tiny chocolate pieces into a glass jar, the rustling of candy packaging and fingers rifling through a colourful packet. The secret that was driving him crazy the last two weeks is sitting as a big blue present in front of him and he feels like a real idiot not to have put it together earlier. Between being distracted by Annabeth’s mystery activity and how different spending summer summer in California has been, he’s managed to forget that today is his birthday, which probably means that he’s going to be in a world of hurt since his birthday is also conveniently their anniversary. Well, there’s a reason his nickname is Seaweed Brain and not hers. 'Well?’ says Annabeth, her impatient tone at odds with the way she’s chewing her lip. Annabeth is always brusque when she’s nervous. Although why she would be nervous, he has no clue. She’s the amazing girlfriend who made him a thoughtful gift. He’s the dork who’s failing as a boyfriend. 'I—wow. You did this … for my birthday?’ he manages to say, feeling every bit like the kelp-head she likes to call him. Annabeth shrugs. 'It’s your first one away from home, so I thought you’d like … well, I would have done blue cake or cookies, but you know me and baking. I didn’t want to burn the house down. This seemed safer.’ 'Geez, Annabeth, you must have gone through tons of packets!’ He can’t really guess how many M&M’s are in the huge jar—he never was any good at those guess-the-number-of-jellybean games—but she would have had to go through ten times the number to sift out that many. He pictures her sitting at her desk, patiently rifling through packs of multi-coloured M&M’s. He can’t imagine doing it himself without getting distracted and giving up. Percy puts her arms around her and squeezes her tight. 'You’re the best, Wise Girl,’ he murmurs against her hair. Annabeth relaxes into his embrace. 'I know. You’re not so bad yourself, Seaweed Brain.’ They don’t say I love you; but then, they’ve never had to.

(For anyone who didn’t get the Alex Dunphy reference, she’s a nerdy character on Modern Family. Let’s just assume Percy watches, yes?)

Here, have some blue M&M’s!

[davidpires578]

Dark Chocolate and Sponge Cake (11)

Amazingly, to me at least, the last post in this series occurred on March 29th of this year. Where did all the time go? Well, that’s easy enough to answer – most of it went into the project work at Colgate University, and then a few other things came up. I had thought I might be away from this piece for a 2~3 month stretch but somehow more water has passed under the bridge than that. That’s how it goes.

So glad to be back on this project, and ready to dig into some more of that delicious Cuban mahogany. The parts previously cut have been sitting in my shop, strewed around somewhat as I juggled other parts from various projects, and now that I dust these pieces off I am pleased to find that the mahogany, of both varieties (Cuban and Honduran) has remained perfectly stable. The joined frame joints remain tight and clean, and the panels free of warp, bow, cup, or twist. That’s a benefit of having the parts ‘season’ in the shop mid-construction. The Cuban mahogany has oxidized a degree back to a chocolate color, so I feel like there’s no need to worry about applying dye to freshly cut sections to blend parts together for color/tone -it will all look uniform after a few months so I’ll make the piece intending to celebrate the variegation, knowing it is but fleeting.

One of the lessons that has come to be clear to me in recent years, when faced with a situation where a project is interrupted for a lengthy period, is that it sure pays to be doubly cautious when re-entering the fray. One can’t always step back into full flow and take up as if there has been no interruption, for as much as there has been a time break there has also been a mental one. Caution is merited on account of the precious nature of the wood I am working with, the supply of which really does not allow for those sort of mistakes which would necessitate that a stick or panel be replaced. But the other caution flag which comes up for me now relates to that getting one’s head back into the project and not making assumptions about next steps until one is thoroughly back into the very head space which shaped where things had been taken to in the previous design and build phase.

On top of all this are the factors which come up when you look at something with fresh eyes again and may well choose to do some details differently than previously envisioned.

Assumptions can be a real drag sometimes if they do not prove to be correct. Every woodworker knows this, and I would venture to say that making erroneous assumptions is one of the most common sources of error in projects, along with plain old inattention and/or obliviousness.

When I start in on a drawing for a project, I tend to work first in big (digital) brush strokes, coming up with appropriate massing and configuration for the piece to suit the intended purpose. Once I have shared these initial ideas with a client, the direction forward hopefully becomes more established, and eventually I am rendering the piece in fairly close detail.

I say ‘fairly close’ detail rather than ‘exact’ detail because, with more complex pieces especially, certain areas of a drawing such as joinery details (if they are not a visual feature), or uncertainties about the final form of a molding profile, or any spacing/number errors which may crop up in SketchUp drawing that indicate there is a problem somewhere (a problem however which would require significant backtracking and analysis to parse out), tend to be left for later. In such cases I tend to continue forward with the sketching of the piece, the goal being to produce a drawing which conveys all of the visual detail the client needs in order to make the decision to proceed.

Others might only take their drawings as far as the concept sketch phase in their interactions with their clients, but I find that with joinery-based solid wood pieces a lot of the constructional detailing is going to be apparent in the final product, so it makes sense to define it fairly thoroughly so that the rendered drawing is very close to what will be made. The look of the piece comes partially from how it is made, not from what is applied to something otherwise to make it look like something it really isn’t.

Once I have reached the ‘go-ahead’ phase with the client, wood and other materials are sourced and I go about producing any necessary templates I might need. Once the wood is in hand and ready to be worked, I start breaking down the material as per a cut list, prioritizing the critical pieces first. When it comes time to cut joinery, I go back to my drawing and go over the component in question with a fine-toothed comb looking to correct errors, flesh out details, make minor changes as required.

So, at this phase, I grab rendered components in my drawing and duplicate them, and then in the same sketch make the duplicate white in color so that I know it is a revised and ‘final’ part.

After a while the overall sketch becomes cluttered with various components which have been dragged out, made white and revised to a detailed level. My main drawing looks like this right now, for example:

Sometimes I put things on different layers, toggling layers on and off, but I don’t always bother with that for single pieces of furniture.

I also start new sub-drawings dedicated to particular aspects like doors, back panel framing, drawers, etc., copying parts over and then going through them in detail, again rendering to white. Once the part is finalized in the drawing I print take-offs of various parts and their details, with dimensions, which I then take with me to the shop. It’s like a road map. Until recently we have not had a family laptop, so taking the drawings to the shop has become what I am used to, as opposed to keeping a computer at the shop. My shop lacks an office or dust-free space, so I tend to be averse to bringing a laptop into that – and my wife certainly is not keen on that either.

And, where I last left off in the build I had just started the fabrication process with this futon storage cabinet, having prepped most of the stock, and having constructed the frame for the top and the 4 sets of latticework which comprise the sides of the cabinet:

I could have re-started pretty much anywhere, but I chose to continue on with the fabrication of the top frame and panel. So far I have prepped the stock, cut the corner joints, cut the interior edge dado for the panel, and molded the outside. See post 6, post 7 and post 8 if your memory needs refreshing. I know mine did!

The frame of the top has the thickest section height of any stick in the cabinet, and I was only able to squeeze out the four frame members I have from the 8/4 stock I obtained. There were only two boards out of the pile which yielded material of the required thickness, so if something goes south with joinery cut out on the frame, which is a bit on the complicated side so it is rife with opportunity for errors, then I have nothing with which to replace it. It’s not like I can go and get some more Cuban mahogany at the hardwood lumber outlet. So, I’m super careful. Well, a bit paranoid too! It seems that you can’t so freely use the term ‘it’s only wood’ when what you have to work is in actuality virtually irreplaceable.

One of the tricky areas with frame and panel work is that of joining the frame outer corners together with their supporting post. The three way connection in other words. There are various solutions of course, and I’ve wrote about them extensively in the past, and I have written two joinery Monographs which deal with this topic exclusively. Yet, with a new project comes new particulars, and I sometimes need to come up with new configurations of three-way connections to satisfy the requirements. I find this a lot of fun actually and relish the challenge.

Just in case it might not be clear, here’s the connection I am using in this cabinet to join the top’s corners and posts together:

It’s a form of half lap, but one which needs to incorporate the size and position of the post tenon amid the lap’s dual locking pin mechanism, shachi-sen, plus accommodate the molded front profile, and the interior dado for the panel. Pushing the design configuration is the intended assembly sequence involving the latticed side frames and bottom frame. Also pushing on the design is the fact that the post tenon’s visual exposure means that the position of the rear post tenons need to be the same if at all possible to the front tenons, and yet the form of post used at each location is different. The rear posts accommodate the clip-in back panel assembly, while the front posts are shaped to partner with the door stiles in such a way so as to allow the doors to swing 180˚ open. Finally, there was the design decision to use a joint which showed a bit of it’s mechanism, instead, say, of a joint with a fully mitered appearance. This decision was made in light of the piece overall and wanting to walk that fine line between showcasing the material and showing the virtues of joined work too. The corner joint with shachi sen is becoming a frequent feature of my work, part of the design language.

So, there’s a lot going on in a tight space and a lot to consider. Of course I fully recognize that I do bring this on myself though the desire I have to build, insofar as possible/reasonable, without any recourse to glue or metal fasteners and using joinery which is, to whatever extent it seems sensible to push it, demountable. It would all be vastly simpler and quicker, to be sure, to join everything together with glued butt joint and miter joint connections with dowels, biscuits, dominoes, etc., and maybe even tack on a little joinery simulacra. I’ve seen in some pieces of furniture the look of through tenons simulated by simply burning rectangles on the surface for instance. How these pieces are not outright laughed at and withdrawn from consideration for sale at the furniture outlet is beyond me, but of course there are price points to consider. Anyway, I’m not tempted by those easier routes though it certainly offers what it from many sides a more pragmatic way to proceed, that is, from a manufacturing and profit/loss perspective.

Anyway, back to the top frame detailing. The relative simplicity of the core of the joint, that of half-lap pierced by single tenon, appealed to me, but wringing out the details took a while. I think that’s one of the key things to realizing a design successfully: sitting with the design until it is truly done to the last detail and not giving into the strong temptation to just get on with the cuttin’. Sometimes those little tiny details that seemed better to gloss over, the ones your choose to mentally abbreviate, can come back to bite you – this certainly has happened to me enough times.

When I got my head back into the drawing after the long break, I discovered that I had left off working on the drawing in the middle of finalizing certain details. Some things were not pencilled in fully, and some parts were annoyingly off their marks for reasons which were unclear. About three days were absorbed in straightening everything out and getting to a point of being ready to fabricate.

Back then to the cutting, I decided to mortise the lap joints for the tenons, and thought it made good sense to mill these mortises with the joints tightened and in an aligned position. In the past I have tackled such joints with chisel alone, by hollow chisel mortiser, and by router with edge guide. Now my weapon of choice, more often than not, is the Zimmermann pattern mill. I’ve gravitated, therefore, to the tool that tends to produce the most precise results, with the safest way to produce the cuts, with the cut area clearly exposed to view, the cleanest way to produce the cuts, and with the most reliable fixturing. That, in a nutshell, is the pattern mill.

I used a pair of Bessey clamps to dial each corner joint in tight and dead square, before clamping the assembly down onto the work table of the mill:

The mortises had been marked out months ago, but a last double check revealed one of the mortises was in the wrong position (!), so I’m super glad I took the time to re-check that and make the correction.

The mortise is roughed out initially with a under-size cutter and the location of the mortise defined by that cut’s position checked with a caliper in situ: