#then I didn’t properly eat this morning and now I’m spiralling about five different things at once

[dreamerwriternstargazer]

Having a mental breakdown at work while smiling and teaching 😄

[maximotts]

♡ 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘵. 𝘪𝘪 ♡ {𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵}

pt. i || pt. iii

a/n: ahaha remember when I said all would be fixed in this part? Turns out I lied. Part 2 was getting way too long and I didn't want this to feel rushed so part 3 will be the final part, but fret not, I'm finalizing part 3 as we speak because I didn't want to leave y'all at another painful cliffhanger. That'll be up right after this one before I go to bed tonight

warnings: angst, another semi-argument, Wanda reading Natasha's thoughts, a gallon of hurt feelings, panic attacks (Wanda)

summary: Natasha can't give Wanda space anymore after an Incident. aka the Secret Softy finally realizes she misses the Small Sunshine

words: 3.1k

masterlist. || navi. || request info/rules. :open

𝘮𝘰𝘺𝘢 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘬𝘢𝘺𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘬𝘢 = 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭

𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘬𝘢 = 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺

𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘰𝘺 = 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵

✣ ✣ ✣

It’d been three weeks. Three weeks since she’d seen Wanda, eaten any meals with her, watched her dark hair fall gently over her shoulders as she laughed, or felt her soft hands brush against her fingers for reassurance or in a silent request to be held. Safe to say, Natasha missed Wanda terribly. Even more so, the guilt from how deeply she’d hurt the person she cared about was eating her alive. She saw Wanda’s wounded face almost as frequently as she blinked and she longed to reach out and hug her until it was all better.

She had made attempts. The night of her blow up, Natasha knocked on Wanda’s door for a good five minutes. It was obvious she was in there, sitcom laughter emanating from her television. After a while it was clear she wasn’t ready to talk and Natasha understood; she wouldn’t want to talk to her either. She resigned herself to seeing Wanda at breakfast the next morning, hoping maybe a friendly smile from across the room would let the girl know she wasn’t mad at her. But Wanda was nowhere to be found. Two days of missed meals later and having tripped over a dirty sandwich plate in front of Wanda’s room and Natasha realized she was purposely avoiding even the possibility of having to sit next to the redhead when she ate. Again, Natasha couldn’t blame her.

Now three weeks in, Natasha settled on just walking in. Wanda rarely kept her door locked when she was inside, she and Natasha were the only ones with permanent rooms on the female residence side and there was never an issue with Nat coming in unannounced- until now of course. An hour’s worth of hyping herself up behind her, she took the ten steps next door to where she’d hopefully be able to fix her awful mess. Still she hovered outside, hand outstretched, hovering as she took one last deep breath.

Her hand never reached the doorknob.

Before Natasha could make contact with the metal, a hot spark of red zapped her hand and she jumped back to avoid further attack. “Wa-”

“Don’t even think about it, Natasha Romanoff.” The first time she heard that voice again, she didn’t expect it to sound so dangerous. Natasha expected anger, but she didn’t know Wanda could sound so threatening.

She’d be a fool to try the knob again, it’d only upset her further. Nevertheless, it was important she at least got part of her message out. “I know you’re upset, Wanda. I’m upset with myself too. I was wrong, so wrong. I never should have hurt you like I did, I should have just talked to you. That’s on me. I want to prove to you I’m sorry, maybe even earn your trust back eventually? Whenever you’re ready.” Natasha sighed, twisting her still tingling hand in the other. “I miss you, but I ruined us. Not you. I’m sorry, Wanda.”

Unbeknownst to Natasha, Wanda had wandered closer to the door as soon as she noticed the other pacing outside of her doorway. She wasn’t ready to talk to her; she couldn’t find a way to face her yet without fear of looking like she was coming crawling back without having heard an apology, but before she could think too hard on it, Natasha was speaking. Her heart grew heavy with the weight of Natasha’s words. She wasn’t one for feelings or true emotions and although fairly clumsily uttered, Wanda knew sincerity when she heard it. Swayed as her heart was to run into the arms of the woman she missed for the past week, her brain instantly reminded her of other words.

You still want her after she told you how clingy you are? She’s right. You are pathetic.

The ache was back, stinging just as sharp as the day she’d first heard. She couldn’t yet.

Wanda’s back hit the wall, sinking to the floor with her knees huddled close to her chest. She knew Natasha had just been angry when she lashed out, that she wouldn’t typically be so public with her outbursts, much less direct them towards her, but there were some true feelings within those poison laced words and Wanda didn’t want to have that conversation yet.

“Well.. you know where to find me.” Wanda hated how sad Natasha sounded; she must’ve been tearing herself apart. She despised not being able to fix things. Soft footsteps told Wanda she was fully alone again and although that should have let her relax, she groaned with how empty she felt once more.

✣ ✣ ✣

Another week went by with no exchanged words and Natasha was beginning to give up hope. She’d ruined everything between them seemingly irreparably; asking any of her teammates yielded a non-committal response, none of them were spending tons of time with her either. She’d given up on knocking, having only met silence or words of warning. All she could do was wait.

For Wanda’s part, she felt like she was going to burst. Her skin felt like it was on fire, nervous energy sparking right under the surface. She’d closed herself off to everyone, opening herself up to Natasha was a mistake, it must have been. Her last words to her had been apologetic and kind, but the hurtful ones still lingered and she felt stuck. It was tearing her apart. Even more so, today’s training left her disoriented- earthquake simulation. As the fake ground shook under her and buildings fell, Wanda was spiraled back to childhood and more recently, Sokovia, and although she played it off as nothing with others, as soon as she was back in the safety of her room she fell apart.

Before she would seek out Natasha, whisper her worries against her skin from under the safety of a warm blanket. She couldn’t do that now, couldn’t ask such a thing from Natasha after what she said and after near radio silence for a month. Wanda huddled in her own bed, tired eyes staring longingly at the wall separating her and Natasha’s room. The person she wanted -needed- was so close, but so far. “You’re fine. You’ve dealt with this alone before.”

✣ ✣ ✣

Natasha couldn’t sleep. Not for lack of exhaustion; she’d been training longer these days in hopes of catching more glimpses of Wanda, just to make sure she looked okay. It was working and thankfully from what she could see, Wanda was alright. The past few days were different though; she looked more tired, dragging along more and more, and now today she’d survived the earthquake simulator. To anyone else, Wanda looked like her normal self, quiet and to herself, but Natasha saw the girl’s hands shake, watched her stance go slack in a way she’d warned Wanda against many times. Afterwards, Wanda was off to her usual seclusion before Natasha could reach her from across the room so she settled for giving Bruce a stern talking to instead. He should’ve known better than to shove Wanda in that simulation, especially by herself.

She left a properly admonished Bruce, heading in the direction of Wanda’s room. Arguments be damned, she wouldn’t let Wanda explode alone, even if she hated her for intruding after. If her repeated self-reassurance weren’t enough to convince her by the time she reached her destination, the moans and whines from within set her mind. Natasha hovered again, weighing the consequences, but Wanda let out such a sob that she couldn’t ignore. “Wanda? Can I come in please?” Her hand landed safely on the door, an improvement from last time.

“It’s just me, I wanted to check on you after training.” No response, but no rejection either. She turned the knob, grateful Wanda seemed to have forgotten to lock the door. Whether it was a mistake or a silent hope for Natasha’s intervention, she didn’t know, but she would use the opportunity. She could barely find Wanda in the dark room, but her eyes settled on the small form in the middle of her large bed and Natasha was by her side in an instant.

“Wanda? Sweetheart, hey, it’s me. What’s wrong?” Her eyes were unfocused, pupils blown wide with fear. Natasha longed to scoop her up, but she couldn’t startle her; she didn’t even know if she’d want her there once she realized who she was. Still, it hurt so deeply to have let her get this bad; she could’ve helped if Wanda trusted her enough to reach out. Natasha waited for what felt like hours until Wanda noticed her, crouching by a bed was rough on her tired knees, but she’d stay like that forever if need be. When Wanda finally made eye contact, she only stared at the redhead, as if figuring out whether the woman in front of her was real or not. She took a daring step, holding her hand out to Wanda, keeping it in her eyeline as long as she could until her palm reached her head. Her thumb moved, ever so softly, over her scalp as a test. Anything she could do to soothe her. “I’m here, Wands.”

If Natasha weren’t so strong, Wanda would’ve knocked her over. She’d thrown her full weight onto her in an instant, clinging to Natasha for dear life while her lower half still hung from the bed. There were so many things tearing at her, so much emotion she needed to unload, but she was too overwhelmed. Natasha had come to her. Had ignored their month of silence and hurt feelings to try to aid her and it left her stunned. “Tash- Natasha.. I-I’m so sorry..”

“Ah, no none of that,” Natasha stood with a grunt, taking Wanda with her to set them both on the bed. She navigated her way to the top of the bed in the dark, only stopping when her back hit the headboard, letting Wanda hold onto her, “This is my fault, I’m sorry. I should have been here for you.”

Wanda shook her head slowly, burying herself as far into the crook of her neck as deep as she could. “No. I should’ve been able to handle training today. You were right, I can’t do anything myself. I’m weak and pathetic and..” Sobs took over any chance of coherent words, shaking against the warm body she’d missed so much. Part of her screamed to move away, to suck up her tears and prove to Natasha she was just fine on her own. But she couldn’t pretend. She was fine on her own, she could handle it, but she needed the comfort of someone she trusted too. Someone she could relay her thoughts too instead of bottling them all inside until they got the best of her.

Before she knew it, Natasha felt tears rolling down her cheeks as well. She hated crying, couldn’t stand being so outwardly vulnerable with someone else, but if Wanda could be with her then she owed her the same trust. Toned arms pulled the small woman trembling against her closer, pressing frantic kisses to the crown of her head, anything to show her apologies. “You’re not weak for your emotions, detka. It’s one of the strongest things you could do to allow yourself to open yourself up and trust me.. I should have given you that same trust and been honest from the start.” Natasha cradled Wanda’s head to her chest, rocking her as sweetly as she could. She knew she was holding her a fraction too tight, but she couldn’t help it. Reassuring fingers brushed through long brunette hair, keeping her as close as possible.

“Can you forgive me?” The muffled voice from below temporarily shook Natasha from her waterfall of revelations and she remembered why they were in this situation.

“Moya sladkaya detka, you were forgiven weeks ago. You were trying to help me and yes, we need to talk about how I deal with the aftermath of long missions because I do sometimes need time to myself, but nothing, nothing you did warranted how I hurt you.” Wanda froze and for a moment Natasha was scared she would pull away, but she nodded slowly. “Can you forgive me?”

That was a loaded question. Wanda fought to clear her thoughts, organize them in any way that could possibly make sense. She wanted so badly to simply accept and stay in Natasha’s arms. It wasn’t that she thought Natasha was lying to her; she truly believed she was sorry for what she did, but that didn’t mean those words didn’t still swirl through her head everyday since she’d first uttered them. It was hard to think so close to her. Wanda pried herself away from Natasha, not missing the way Natasha kept hold on her hips as if letting go meant she’d lose her forever. “I want to forgive you, Natasha.”

It hurt, but it was fair. She didn’t expect an easy apology and didn't deserve one either. “There’s a but coming, right?” Wanda couldn’t meet her eyes; she only avoided eye contact when she had more to say and was biding her time. “You don’t have to forgive me, Wanda. I’m willing to do whatever you need to make you feel safe again, no matter how long it takes.” And she meant it. Natasha would put in the work for Wanda, she was more than worth it.

She knew what she needed. It was the only way she could think of easing her mind. Still, Wanda promised she wouldn’t do it again unless she had to, but… she had to. “I need to feel you.” A hesitant ring-clad hand reached out, tapping Natasha’s temple to finish the thought she couldn’t speak. “Nothing traumatic, nothing too deeply buried.. hopefully, at least.” Rarely was it hard for Wanda to search out thoughts in someone about a particular person who crossed their mind regularly. She hoped it was more than wishful thinking that Natasha had her in her thoughts with some frequency. “Please, Tash… I need to know you feel more for me than just ‘clingy, weak puppy.’”

Natasha opened her mouth to retort, to try to take her harsh words back, but she knew it wouldn’t help. The thought of Wanda searching through her mind again scared her still. Last time left her shaken for weeks, months, after what she’d dug up, but back then Wanda was looking to hurt her and damn, she was great at it. She had to trust she wouldn’t do that now. Trust was so hard. A promise was a promise, though. Natasha took Wanda’s free hand in both of hers, a lifeline to hold while she gave herself to the woman she cared so much for. “Okay.. be gentle?”

Wanda let out a chuckle; Natasha’s sensitive side was so very cute. “I would never be anything but, dorogoy.” Natasha nodded, swallowing her fears with reassurance. Wanda was only ever kind to her, too much at times; Steve and Sam never missed an opportunity to poke fun at Natasha when in the early days Wanda was practically exploding with nerves around the redhead. Eventually they figured out it was less that Wanda thought Natasha was going to beat the pulp out of her and more that she wished the older woman would crush her with her thighs- but the two men waited for Natasha to figure that one out on her own.

“Go ahead, Wands. Just be quick about it, alright? I don’t want to spill all my secrets right now.” Wanda agreed with a quiet hum, shaking her head and straightening her spine before moving her fingers alongside Natasha’s head. It reminded her of the first time they’d officially met; a bittersweet memory of how stunning she felt her then enemy was, but bringing her trauma to the surface before those steadfast blue eyes caught sight of her. Now though, Wanda was careful. Only going deep enough to look at Natasha’s memories and thoughts about her. How surprised she was that Wanda was as powerful as she was. Her instant and ongoing distrust of her when she and her brother came to aid the Avengers in Sokovia. Natasha’s annoyance at her stolen red jacket, with an added and apparently shocking sense of possessiveness brought on by seeing her in her clothing. Interesting. Wanda would note that little fact for the future.

Red ringed eyes shone in the darkness, both locked onto Natasha’s and staring far past her. She wanted to be open and honest, that was the whole point. Consequently Wanda let Natasha see what she was seeing and with every twinge of irritation her past self felt towards Wanda and her initial attempts to gain trust with her new team, specifically with herself, her current self cringed at her behavior. But slowly things shifted. Resentment shifted to reluctant endearment, then care and protection and finally into where she longed for Wanda’s calming presence when she was stressed or wanted a confidant. The weight of vulnerability felt like being flayed alive and despite the hand Natasha held using one finger to stroke reassuringly at her palm, she squirmed as they approached that night Natasha came home a month ago.

“You’re fighting me.” The brunette’s eyebrows furrowed, pushing harder at the memory Natasha was keeping away from her. “Stop it.”

Red curls shook as Natasha hung her head; she didn’t want to live through it again. Every night it haunted her. She should’ve just talked to her, given her credit for being one of the most understanding people she’s ever met, having her see it again would just push Wanda further away- “I can still hear your thoughts, Natasha.” Her racing concerns rang loud in Wanda’s own brain, blocking out any hope of unlocking that dreaded outburst until she could get her to calm down. “Trust me, please. You have to let me in.” True, Wanda could forcibly rip the memory from her with ease. It would take such little effort, but she wouldn’t- couldn’t. She needed Natasha to let her see, allow herself to be this forthcoming with Wanda. That would speak louder than anything.

It took everything in Natasha to take her next breath, “Okay, do it.” Wanda breathed a sigh of relief, Natasha’s agreement giving her hope of progress. She slipped her hand from Natasha’s warm grasp, ignoring the small sad noise she was sure Natasha didn’t want to talk about. Instead her hand went to the back of Natasha’s head and brought it forward to rest on her shoulder, her nose promptly burying itself in the crook of Wanda’s neck. Her gentle floral scent settled Natasha’s worries; it’d been too long since she was allowed so close. “I trust you.”

[arse-crack-thistle]

gifts

rwrb and the five love languages | part two

in which june struggles to have a nice valentine’s date with nora

June never expected to care this much about a stupid holiday like Valentine’s Day, but here she is, practically renovating the apartment to give her girlfriend a perfect night. She strings LED lights around the entire living room ceiling and uses Command hooks to drape the sheer, white Ikea curtains she bought on sale months ago in preparation for this. The lights glow pink through the curtains, making the usually neutral-toned living room appear like Aphrodite’s palace. June’s moved the coffee table into her room and replaced it with a fluffy blanket and a picnic set-up to rival TikTok lesbians.  All she needs now is Nora, if only she weren’t stuck at school.

The texts say, Will be late! Data mining for the gods! [Monet X Change gif] I want to be home with you though. Will bring noodles! And chocolate! Scratch that, I ate the chocolate. Sorry.

June knows she shouldn’t be annoyed because Nora has no idea what she’s coming home to. She also knows who she got into a relationship with—a brilliant mind that’s constantly moving parsecs a minute and has a hard time communicating her feelings. June has to remind herself that Nora loves her even if she doesn’t always show it.

That’s what tonight is for. It’ll give them time to slow down and just be together. Break the routine. Talk or not talk. She doesn’t expect it to be mushy or obnoxious—June isn’t a super, flowery romantic herself—but she does want another sentimental moment to hold onto forever.

Like the night of the 2020 election over a year ago. After Alex and Henry slipped away and everyone else was celebrating in their own groups, Nora pulled June into a storage closet at the venue and kissed her point blank, leaving no questions in her mind that their dabbles the months before meant something more than spectacular.

Or like six months ago when Nora asked her if she wanted to move in with her. She didn’t do anything particularly special, but she slammed her laptop shut while June was throwing on one of her sweatshirts and asked her to stay—to take the second bedroom because Nora needs space sometimes—but to stay with her because she was her favorite person. June answered with a happy “yes,” and Nora got up and kissed her. They didn’t talk much more about it; June just packed up her room at the White House and let the world think they were very best friends.

June pours a glass of wine and waits on the couch, flipping through social media. A few hours ago, her brother posted a picture from the Valentine’s gala he and Henry threw for the London queer youth center. Alex, Henry, Bea, Catherine, and even Philip and Martha hold champagne flutes with cheeky smiles on their faces. The POTUS account has a sweet yet posed picture of her mother and Leo. She likes everything she sees, from the various celebrities she follows to the photos she’s tagged in by fans. The time on her phone reminds her Nora’s now over an hour late.

She texts her, Home soon?

Ten minutes later her phone dings. Need more time. Almost done!

You are aware it’s Valentine’s, yes? And that we had plans?

Yes!!!! But flexible plans, right? Not like we can’t eat noodles and make out later. Will leave soon though. Promise.

I got food covered. Just get home please.

June sighs. She thought she made it clear this morning that they deserved a night with no distractions. God, they need to talk; she’s afraid to, but nothing will get better if she doesn’t say anything and if they don’t try.

The charcuterie board spread she copied off of Pinterest has been sitting out for a while so she moves it from the floor to the fridge. “Soon” for Nora could mean an hour. Empty coffee mugs line the sink. An open pack of weed gummies sits on the counter, hardening. Binders of paperwork and schoolwork collect on the kitchen table. There’s so much Nora in here. June redecorated the living room and kitchen when she moved in, but Nora’s managed to touch everything.

She smiles. If this were Alex, she’d be pissed at the mess, but it’s Nora. The beautiful, erratic mess that is Nora. The girl who can have four different shows on at once and can still get shit done. The girl who always burns pancakes when she tries to cook breakfast for June. The girl who never fails to kiss her first.

June won’t lose her. So she sits down on the floor, runs her fingers over the fleece, and waits. And drinks more wine.

Sometime later, when a key turns in the lock, she downs the last sip in her glass and sets it down. Some old love songs play from her phone, the ones she and Nora love to make fun of. She hears her girlfriend curse when her key gets stuck, and then she bursts through the door and catches herself before she could slip on the hardwood.

“I know you said you got food covered, but I got noodles any—Whoa! You did all of this?” Nora walks into the living room with takeout bags in her hands and stares, mesmerized, at the ceiling. Her contacts must’ve been bothering her because she has on her back-up glasses.

“Hi. Happy Valentine’s Day,” June says and reaches for Nora’s hand to pull her down.

“I’m sorry, June. I had no idea. I thought we both hated this holiday, so tonight wasn’t that big of a deal. But this—this is beautiful,” Nora says, having a hard time meeting June’s eyes.

“Thanks.” June rubs Nora’s hand with her thumb. “And this isn’t really about the holiday. I just wanted to give something nice to you—to us—just us. With no distractions.”

The strings from “At Last” by Etta James play from the phone. The curtains billow from the air blowing out the vent. As much as she hates to ruin the moment, June has to start the conversation.

But Nora takes a deep breath and talks first. “I know I’m a bit all over the place but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I just have a lot going on.”

“I know, but sometimes it feels like you don’t care about us as much as I do. It feels like an afterthought to you,” June says.

“That’s not true, June! Come on! You know me.” She grabs June’s other hand and squeezes.

She squeezes back. “You don’t act with feelings in mind, but I know you have them. And I know it’s hard for you, but I need you to share them with me more. I need a reminder that you care every once in a while.”

Nora’s quiet. She uses her arm to wipe her eyes, knocking her glasses off.  “I—I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.”

June’s chest collapses. She wraps Nora up in her arms. “I’m sorry, Nor. I don’t mean you’re not enough for me. I love you so much. I—”

“No, I understand. I just—I need help with that. I need you to tell me when you need more—maybe not after the fact like now but—”

June laughs and pulls away. “You’re right. I have a stewing problem. I just assume you’ll eventually get it.”

“Yeah, don’t assume that.” Nora laughs too—the big kind that shows all of her teeth. “Reign me in when I’ve been off for too long. And know it’s not on purpose. I’m seriously spiraling in my own head the majority of the time.”

“Ha! And a hot head it is too.”

They both pause and look into each other’s eyes. And bust out into laughing fits. June makes a fart sound with her mouth, and Nora tackles her. They rumble around on the blanket for about forty seconds before June’s wine glass tips over and surprisingly bounces instead of shattering.

The girls take that as an opportunity to stop and pour some more glasses of wine. Nora preps the takeout while June brings the charcuterie board back to the indoor picnic. Nora changes the music to some weird techno shit, but June snatches the phone. They compromise with One Direction, which makes no sense since 1. June only knows their last album and 2. Nora definitely remembers the story of June turning down the advances of one Niall Horan when she did the daytime talk show circuit after her book deal was announced.

Either way, they stuff their faces and end up cuddled on the floor.

Nora interrupts the moment. “Before we get to sexy time—"

“Jesus Christ.”

“I just wanted to give you something. I would’ve saved it for your birthday, but I can get you something else.” She pops up from the floor and jogs to her bedroom. When she reemerges, she’s carrying a bunched-up blanket. “I didn’t have time to properly wrap it because—you know, you weren’t going to get it yet—although, it probably wouldn’t’ve been wrapped later either—but anyways, happy Valentine’s Day.”

She crouches down and hands over the present. She smiles and bops up and down in anticipation. June unwraps the blanket and sees a book.

It’s one of those photobooks you can get at Walgreens, and on the cover, it reads, “Catalina June Claremont-Diaz and Nora Elizabeth Holleran are NOT good friends…” June flips it over. “They’re fucking GIRLFRIENDS!” Inside is page after page of pictures as early as the day they first met and as recent as New Year’s Eve a month ago. A lot of candid pics they take of each other—Nora’s favorites. A lot of sleepy, cuddle pics—June’s favorites. It’s so perfect.

“Nora—this is—wow.” She feels the tears coming. No one has given her anything like this before.

“I’ll be better—”

“So will I.”

“No matter where my head’s at, I’m always thinking of you—just 50 million other things as well,” Nora says and cups her chin.

June leans in. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Nora kisses her, and everything wound up in June relaxes. Her body is so warm. “Best Song Ever” starts playing.

Cue sexy time.

check out the rest of my rwrb and the five love languages series: part one, part three, part four, and part five. (links to come as they’re released)

so this could be for quality time or gifts, but i decided to go with gifts since i had no other ideas for it! it’s definitely not my love language (quality time for the win!) but i had to write something lol. so i made it sapphic bc everything gay is better! <3

rwrb romance week | @rwrb-fests

[hold-my-hand-kuroo]

stress baker

something quick after i was hit with the idea of yamaguchi liking to bake

but it’s also part of my neighbors to lovers to bullshit propaganda so like???

pairing: yamaguchi x reader

i. bread

Yamaguchi doesn’t like to ask for too much, but there are two things that he currently wants: a raise at his job and a time machine so that he can go back to five minutes ago to stop himself from knocking his carton of eggs off his kitchen counter. It’s been a long day at work, too long, and frankly, Yamaguchi would hate to leave his apartment again to buy more eggs, especially not during the middle of a storm. All he wants is a warm loaf of freshly-baked bread and release his anxieties through stress-baking, but if he can’t bake, he’s just stress.

And that’s exactly why you find your freckled-neighbor, nervously twiddling his fingers at your door and looking down pointedly at the carpeted hallway floor. You’ve seen him in passing before, mostly him running out of his door and rushing to work, or him dragging himself back down the hallway, utterly exhausted. Despite being neighbors for a little bit over two months now, you’ve let to know his name. Rather, in your mind, you’d call him the guy who hated his job, and that was it.

“S-sorry for bothering you so late,” he stammers, bowing over and over again. You quickly shake your head and reassure him that 9 PM was definitely not late and that you really only started thriving at midnight. “I was just wondering…do you happen to have any eggs? I dropped my carton a few minutes ago, and I don’t think I’d be able to go out right now…”

You acknowledge the sound of the wind and heavy rain drops slamming against your window, agreeing that indeed, going out for eggs would not be his best option.

“Yeah, I have a few in the fridge,” you answer, smiling. That seems to do the trick in calming him down. “How many do you need? I’ll get them right now.”

“One-“ The man stops, going back to thinking. You notice the way his brows furrow before he changes his mind, hesitantly looking you in the eyes. “Sorry, two actually.”

You nod, closing the door before running quickly to your fridge. Even if he did seem nice, it was always better to be safe than sorry. Opening it back up, you’re glad to see that he doesn’t seem offended by your actions. When he sees the eggs in your hands, he instantly brightens.

“Thanks so much!” He gratefully accepts your help, flashing you the widest smile you’ve seen on him ever. Then again, you didn’t see him much. “You’re a life- saver…uh…”

“Y/N,” you say, returning his smile. There’s something about the way he chuckles sheepishly that makes your heart flutter. It’s oddly endearing, cute even. “And don’t worry about it. It’s just two eggs.”

“Just two eggs means a whole lot. I’m kind of a stress-baker, actually,” he admits. He seems embarrassed, cheeks turning pink. “Oh, I’m Yamaguchi by the way. Yamaguchi Tadashi.”

Yamaguchi bids his farewell before running quickly back into his apartment. He’s still a little nervous, worried that he might’ve scared you. He values first impressions, but he also can’t help the pit of guilt that rises in his stomach for not knowing your name. Embarrassed would be an understatement since he has been aware of you since you moved in next door to him. He wonders if you hear is soft ‘hellos’ whenever he sees you out in the hallway, but he’s knows that he’s never really that loud enough.

Yamaguchi gets crushes easily, and he finds it a little bit silly. He knows that he shouldn’t get his hopes up considering his dating track in high school or rather, lack thereof. He found lots of people attractive back then and would fall in an instant, but he’d realize sooner or later that they were really interested in Tsukishima. Yamaguchi doesn’t hold it against them though; Tsukishima is cool, calm, and everything Yamaguchi wishes he could be. He supposes that it’s a good thing that Tsukishima was always there to rat out the people who hung with Yamaguchi out of ulterior motives, and it was probably good thing now that he doesn’t get his hopes up as easily.

But still, Yamaguchi finds himself making a second loaf of bread for you. He tells himself that it’s just a crush and that he shouldn’t be giving you baked goods just to see you one more time and maybe have another conversation. It’s just for the eggs and the way you beamed at him so kindly at him, and it might also be an apology for being a coward every morning and not greeting you properly. Yes, he reasons. This loaf of bread would be a thank you gift and an apology.

It’s almost midnight by the time he’s done baking, and he’s wondering if it’s too late to knock on your door again. In an ideal world, he’d present you a warm, baked to perfection loaf of bread, and in his fantasies, the two of you would become friends. Maybe you’d even ask him to bake you more bread. He’d be happy to anyways, but he laughs at himself for his wishful thinking. Knocking on your door gently, Yamaguchi promises himself that if you don’t answer, he’d return and find another time to give you his gift.

“More eggs?” you answer teasingly as you open the door. Then you look at the tin pan in his hands. “Or not?”

“I made you bread as thanks,” Yamaguchi answers rather shyly. He tries his hardest to smile but feels a little bit dumb for rehearsing that one line over and over again before actually walking to your room. “Unless…you can’t eat it, of course! You don’t have to force yourself.”

“No, I love bread!” You look at his hands in awe, reaching gratefully over for the container. Much to your delight, it’s still warm, and judging by the color, it didn’t seem dry either. “You must be really good at baking to make bread look this good. I’ll have it for breakfast tomorrow!”

“Then I’ll stop bothering you.” Yamaguchi chuckles nervously, gives you a good night, and all but runs back into his living area. He tries to shut the door as quietly as possible before flopping onto his bed. Slapping himself on both sides of his face once, he becomes increasingly aware of how red his face must have been, sending him into another loop of embarrassment. He can’t help it, not when you smile like you’ve won the lottery while giving him praise. He knows it’s ridiculous to act all flustered when he’s only spoken to you for a few minutes.

He knows all too well.

But with his heart beating at an alarming rate and the increasing need to call Tsukishima to just rant and panic, Yamaguchi feels that he’s going through the same wormhole he’s been through over and over again. He’d go through the falling head over heels phase to growing hopeful only for his spirit to be utterly crushed by disappointment.

He’s scared, terrified even, but like time and time again, he lets himself fall. Tsukishima would sure get a laugh out of this one.

ii. cinnamon rolls

What Yamaguchi doesn’t expect is for you to starting waiting in the morning to say hello and walk down together before splitting up to get to work. It starts with you simply reporting to him about how well his bread paired up with your coffee, and somewhere after that, it spirals into a daily ritual. At 7:00 AM, Yamaguchi leaves his apartment, opening the door to see you leaning casually on the wall opposite to his room. From there, the two of you exchange similar sentiments of dreading to enter the workplace; the only difference is that you’re much more angry about it than Yamaguchi is, but he finds your honesty endearing.

“You don’t get it, Yamaguchi,” you’d groan, clearly still under a heavy drowsiness. “I hate giving budget reports. Everyone in the meeting room is always so quiet, and you know they don’t care at all, so what’s the point?”

“That does sound ridiculous,” he’d offer kindly. You can’t stay mad when his smile is like stars and sunshine and everything that’s good in this world. “Good luck today as always, Y/N.”

“Good luck to you, too, Yamaguchi!”

It’s amazing how powerful one sentence can be. The first time you say it to him, Yamaguchi is stunned into silence, and even at work, he’s in a daze. Sure, he messes up here and there, but compared to the past where he mulled over every single one of his faults, he feels energized. Refreshed. Ready to face the day no matter what comes at it. For that entire day, he hangs onto your words, wishing that you’d say them again to him every day.

And you do. Every morning. Yamaguchi thinks he’s blessed, and with some stroke of luck, he’s been gifted your encouragement and support. It’s bare minimum, he admits, once again feeling silly for getting excited over something so trivial. You probably don’t even think it’s a big deal, and neither should he, but whenever he’s stuck in a rut with a particularly tough client or faced with the rage of his boss, he plays your voice over and over and over again in his head. It’s his magic spell, and he spends a lot of his time wondering how he can return the favor to you.

His chance comes on a Friday night when he’s getting ready to indulge himself in baking once more. Yamaguchi’s not a professional by any means, but Friday is the time where he can try new things without worrying about going to bed early and waking up on time the following day. He’s free to do as he pleases, and it’s usually his relaxation time to try more difficult and time-consuming recipes.

He’s sitting idly while waiting for his dough to rise. It’d be a while, and he so desperately wants to text you, but recently, he’s come to the realization that maybe he texts you too much. It only makes matters worse that he’s fast to reply, and it dawns on him that he might be coming off as too clingy. Whenever his phone rings, and he sees that it’s a message from you, his fingers are flying away to type a proper response. He’s not sure if you mind it, but there’s a nagging thought at the back of his head that he might be creeping you out, so while he does want to ask you how your day went, he stops himself.

And then, you call him. That was new.

Yamaguchi fumbles for his device, almost dropping it in the process and blinks, rubbing his eyes. It must be a dream, he thinks. He’s only ever dreamt of calling you during nights where he wanted to hear your voice (and that was almost every night), but he never imagined in a million years that you’d be the first one to call. If this was a dream, he doesn’t want to pick up.

“H-hey, Y/N,” he stammers and mentally punches himself for the voice crack. He clears his throat. “How are you?”

“Are you busy right now?” Yamaguchi can tell instantly that something’s off. You’re tired, really tired, and it seeps through your hoarse voice.

“No. Is something wrong?”

“Can…can we talk?” You grip your phone, biting your bottom lip. You didn’t want to intrude on his Friday night, knowing well that he had his share of worries, too. “I mean, it’s okay if you can’t-“

“Why don’t you come over?” Yamaguchi doesn’t know what force of courage has overtaken him, but he almost chokes after he hears his own words. He feels his face heating up all the way to the tips of his ears. He feels his hand shaking but takes a deep breath. This isn’t about him right now. It’s about you. “I’m baking cinnamon rolls. Do you want to vent and maybe have something sweet after?”

You’re over in his apartment within seconds. The promise of venting session and dessert was too hard not to pass, and you find yourself being ushered onto his couch. He fusses over you, much to your displeasure, as you never really intended to bother him, but before you know it, he’s wrapped you with clean blankets and cushioned you with all the pillows he has. Then, he gets down on his knee, looking at you in concern.

“What happened, Y/N?”

You inhale and being talking, complaining about how poorly your day went and how dumb your coworkers were and how you never wanted to step inside the office ever again. Yamaguchi listens to every word, nodding sympathetically every so often. You don’t even stop when he excuses himself to check on the dough that he’s been waiting on the entire night. It didn’t matter if he was rattling away in his kitchen or pressing the beeping buttons on his oven; you knew he was listening, and that was more than enough.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble quietly after you’re done. “I should get going-“

“No, it’s okay!” the freckled-man insists, rushing back over to you with a plate in hand. “Are you…feeling better?”

You stop to think. Compared to before, you find breathing much easier, and that burdensome weight on your shoulders that dragged you down all day seemed to have disappeared. “A lot better,” you sigh, stretching your arms.

“That’s good.” He hands you a plate and fork hesitantly. “I baked cinnamon rolls. Have one before you leave. If you want.”

“You’re a saint, you know that?” You laugh and dig in, completely unaware of how Yamaguchi’s face goes beet red. He slowly takes a seat next to you on the couch, practically shaking at the idea of being just centimeters away from you. Sure, it was his couch, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling nervous while sitting on it. In fact, he’s so nervous that he desperately wants to throw up, but for your sake and his, he does everything in his power to not. It’d be a waste to have you running home disgusted, especially when you’re doing that thing that you always did when you liked eating his food, the thing that makes his heart palpitate at an ungodly rate. He wants to capture it in a photo, but he’s not even sure if the lens can take in everything beautiful and heavenly about you. It’s sensory overload, and he can’t peel his eyes off of you. There’s something so intimate about this whole scenario that takes place within the comfort of his own home, so sacred, and he’d never want to give it away. Instead, he thinks about other things that he can do to see the same sight in the future, anything at all with the little power he has.

Yeah, Yamaguchi loves it when you smile.

iii. pound cake

Yamaguchi feels guilty, but he finds himself wanting to keep Tsukishima and you apart. It’s not your fault, and it’s not Tsukishima’s fault either. Rather, it’s a result of his own short-comings as a person and the lack of self-esteem he carries with him consistently. It’s sickening, really, the way his insecurities can bubble up deep from inside him and take over his every thought, telling him that he’s not enough and never will be. He tells himself that it’s not true, that he should keep ahold of his pride because it’s all he needs, but sometimes, nights become longer than he’d like. It’s during times like those that he wants you around him.

For a while, he’s able to keep you and Tsukishima separate, although it isn’t hard considering that his best friend could care less about meeting you. Yamaguchi is torn though. He doesn’t want to believe that you’d toss him aside upon meeting someone better, and he knows that it isn’t fair on your part. It’s manipulative and downright cruel of him, especially since he’s almost 100% sure that you’d be better off with someone like Tsukishima, so when the two of you finally meet by accident in front of his door, he lets it happen. It’s his punishment, and if there was something called fate, he’d let it do its work.

The atmosphere is awkward, mostly because Tsukishima isn’t fond of strangers and doesn’t make an effort to hold a conversation with you at all. You struggle hard, trying to rid the room of the heavy silence.

“So you two are childhood friends?” you try before taking a bite of the pound cake that Yamaguchi offers the both of you. It’s rich and sweet, so you hum in content. Yamaguchi swears his heart stops. “What was Yamaguchi like as a kid?”

“The same.” Tsukishima doesn’t bother to elaborate, settling back in silence. He’s not even looking at you and has his head down low, focusing whatever it was on his phone screen.

“I see.” You rest in awkward silence, and Yamaguchi nearly chokes on his slice of cake. It was always like this. Everyone always had trouble getting Tsukishima to open up, but the ones who were interested would always try the hardest. Yamaguchi supposes that he can’t blame them though and is rather impressed by the courage it took to talk to someone as cold and indifferent as Tsukishima. Yamaguchi’s cowardice paled in comparison.

“I’m leaving, Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima finally says. His words are curt and short, and Yamaguchi knows that his friend is trying his best to remain distant. He appreciates it, but he steels himself for disappointment. “The cake was good.”

Yamaguchi nods and answers with a sound of affirmation, but he doesn’t dare look up. He’s seen this scene play countless of times over and over again, and he doesn’t think that he can watch it again. Yamaguchi’s scared to admit it because acknowledging it would crush his spirits into utter nothingness. Yet, he knows that you were more than just a crush, more than just someone he liked looking at from a distance. He’s realized it long ago, thinking about how he’d like to hold your hand and take long walks with you in the park.

In a different universe or perhaps a different timeline, Yamaguchi wonders if another luckier version of him, another cooler Yamaguchi, had the chance to be held in your arms during the tumultuous, dark nights when he’s plagued with nothing but doubts. Then again, a cooler Yamaguchi probably wouldn’t have the same problems that he did. He wouldn’t have such disgusting thoughts of keeping his best friend away from you and wondering when you’ll leave him all together. You’re probably already out the door, following Tsukishima closely, and if that’s what you wanted, then so be it. For the price of what he’s done, he hopes he can atone by making you happy, even if your happiness didn’t lie with him.

“Are you feeling okay?” His eyes flicker up from the table, widening at the sight of you still sitting at his kitchen table. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

From underneath the table, Yamaguchi pinches himself to make sure that he isn’t dreaming. “I-I’m fine! The cake’s just a little dry. That’s all…”

“Then,” you start, biting your lower lip, “why don’t we go out and get coffee? The weather’s good for walking today.”

He pinches himself again in stunned silence.

“Or maybe not? I guess it’s a little late for coffee…”

“N-no!” he quickly retorts, perhaps a little too eagerly. Clearing his throat, he rubs the back of his neck, a little bit flustered. “I mean, yeah. Coffee would be nice…”

He breathes. If this is a dream, Yamaguchi doesn’t want to wake up.

“And maybe a walk in the park after?” He can’t but close his eyes, waiting for rejection.

“That sounds fun! Let’s go before it gets dark.”

Even when he’s actually at the park and feeling the wind blowing in his face along with the lingering pain of pinching his hand too much, Yamaguchi’s not entirely convinced that he’s awake in reality. It just seems too easy for him to be spending time with you when already met Tsukishima. He didn’t plan anything with you further than that, fully expecting you to ask him about his best friend. It doesn’t happen, so he asks for you instead.

“What’d you think about Tsukki?” He internally berates himself bringing the topic he wants to avoid so badly, but his curiosity gets the better of him.

“Tsukishima?” He watches as you think while taking a sip of you americano. He wonders what it feels like to have a side profile sculpted by the Greek gods. “He’s…quiet? I only saw him for a few minutes, and he wasn’t much of a talker, so I can’t say I have any opinion of him at all.”

“Oh,” Yamaguchi mumbles quietly. “Isn’t he cool? He’s always been popular, you know?”

“Really?” Yamaguchi chuckles. Not many people expressed disbelief over Tsukishima being the center of attention. “I mean…I guess I could see that. But…”

Looking over at you, Yamaguchi is about to ask why you stopped, but when he feels warmth on the tips of his fingers, he comes to a standstill. He takes in your flustered face and averted eyes, wondering if he was just as red as you were right now, if not, even more. He doesn’t dare make any movement as your hand slowly but steadily wraps around his, grip loose and hesitant. Daring to make eye contact with him, you wonder in fear if he hates it.

“I mean…I think you’re pretty cool too.” It comes out barely as a whisper, but Yamaguchi is attentive, especially when it came to you. He’d never miss your words, not even the most quiet exchanges.

“Y-yeah?” His voice cracks, and his hands are sweaty, but his line of reason is gone thanks to the temptation of your soft and warm fingers. Eagerly, he returns the grip, hand awkwardly fumbling around with yours for a good few seconds before finding a comfortable position. “Sorry…this is my first time doing the whole…hand-holding thing.”

Way to be lame, Yamaguchi winces.

“It’s okay,” you mumble a little bit louder this time. “We can practice.”

iv. croissants

To think that even three years later, you’d had mornings, especially mornings when you slept in and woke up to a bed without Yamaguchi. He’s your source of comfort, and on days where you open your eyes for the first time and aren’t in his loving arms, everything feels a little off, a little bit lonely. You reach over toward his side of the bed, faintly feeling whatever warmth was leftover. Grunting at the lack thereof, you try for his scent that lingers in his pillow but still aren’t satisfied.

“Did you really want me to get out of bed that badly?” you mumble, walking into the kitchen where Yamaguchi was busy fussing around. He startles and then relaxes when he feels you wrap your arms around his torso, leaning into his back. This was definitely better than the pillow, you decide.

“Was I being too loud?” Yamaguchi sets the knife in his hands down, making sure to push it back far on the counter. “I’m sorry for waking you up. I’ll try to be quieter, so you can go and get some rest. You’ve been busy this week after all.”

“You weren’t being loud.” You nuzzle into his back and hear him chuckling. “I don’t like sleeping without you there. It’s cold.”

“I can turn up the heater if you want-“

“I’m already awake, so it’s fine.” You look over to the dough squares that Yamaguchi has laid out carefully on a sheet of baking paper. “Am I bothering you right now?”

“Not at all, love.” It’s been ages, and you still get flustered over Yamaguchi’s nickname for you. “I was just about to roll the croissants. It took me two days to make the dough, so I thought I’d bake you some on your day off.”

He lets out a little yelp when he feels your embrace around him tightening and soft, light kisses being pressed onto the back of his nape. Yamaguchi knows that he should be used to your affection by now, but no matter how many times you shower him with love, he has to wonder if everything is real. It is, and you’ve reassured that to him countless of times, but he has no idea how he or why he got so lucky. After all, he’s the only man in the entire world that gets to see you at sunrise and sunset and the only one that has your fingers carding through his hair whenever you’re bored and on the couch.

He tries to busy himself by quickly finishing his croissants and sending them to the oven, but he can’t help but feel a little distracted. The image of your soft lips against his skin makes him more giddy than he’d like, and he’s so very tempted to just turn around and kiss you all over your face. The butter on his hands is a clear reminder on why he can’t caress your face or intertwine his fingers on yours, so he wills himself to wait.

“Do you want to help?” he offers instead, laughing as you begin to get bored of just standing behind him. He feels you nod very slowly. “I can teach you how to roll them.”

Much to his surprise, you don’t leave where you’re standing and simply release your hold around him. You blindly feel around on the counter until your fingers land on something soft and cool. Tentatively pick it up, you wait quietly for Yamaguchi to take the hint. He doesn’t seem to get it at first, being rather confused as to why you were simply holding the dough in your hands. Wouldn’t it be much easier if you moved away from his back so that you could see? And then it hits him.

“Or I could roll them with you,” Yamaguchi chuckles again. He pretends to sigh in annoyance, but you know better and just laugh at his weak act. When his feather-light touches come into contact with your fingers, all you can do it hum in content as he figures out how to work his away around you and the dough without messing it up. He succeeds rather easily, much to your dismay, so you start moving your fingers around to make his job a little bit harder.

“Love, I don’t think you’re doing this right.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you deny as your wrap your fingers around the palm of his hands instead of touching the dough at all. There’s butter all over your hands, but you don’t mind at all, relishing in the familiar warmth that seeps through his skin. Relenting, Yamaguchi gives your hands a quick squeeze before trying to gently shake you off.

“We’ll never finish at this rate,” he murmurs. Your grasp lingers for a few moments before acquiescing with a grumble. “I’ll make it up to you after we’re done, okay?”

And because Yamaguchi always strives to keep his word, he places you on his lap after placing the croissants in the oven. You lean agains his chest, letting his fingers run through your hair and scratch gently against your scalp. He’s always gently with you, taking care to slowly untangle any parts of your messy bedhead and making sure that you’re comfortable against his frame. Yamaguchi likes watching you in peace, the slow rise and fall of your chest when you breath softly and the small ministrations that you perform on his other hand. It’s so ethereal, and every time he looks at you, he feels himself falling in love all over again.

When he notices that you’ve begun kissing his palm, fresh out of his entranced state, he cheeks become tinted with pink. And then, giggles spill out of your beautiful lips. Yamaguchi laughs along with you, although he’s not sure what’s so amusing.

“Even after all this time, you still get nervous when I kiss you,” you laugh and place your ear against his chest. “Your heart is beating really quickly, Tadashi.”

“I can’t help it when you’re this beautiful,” he replies sheepishly. He cranes his head down and places a quick, shy kiss near your eye. “But you said that we could practice, right? I’m a little bit of a slow learner.”

“Good thing I’m patient.” This time, you turn upward, trailing your lips across his jawline and then his freckles. They tickle a little, but Yamaguchi doesn’t lean away. At every kiss, he leans in more and more into your love, his hand sliding up to the back of your head to give you more support.

As you make your way closer and closer to his mouth, Yamaguchi vows for the umpteenth time in his life that he’d cherish you forever. You don’t make it hard for him to do so either, and even when the timer on the oven goes off, Yamaguchi takes his sweet time to part with you.

[probably-writing-x]

Admittance pt.9

Guzmán x Reader

Gif is not my own

Requests are closed🤍

Just as Guzmán had promised, you found yourself returning to school with the idea that you’d actually be graduating. They’d make sure you had a strong grade average by the time you had to leave for maternity, and they’d give you extra exams in that time to make up for the finals you’d be missing. It wasn’t perfect or conventional but you’d make it work - which was generally the motto for anything you did recently.

You now found yourself with another weekend off, though this one not running as smoothly as the others. Omar and Ander had been arguing and were now basically not talking to each other as Omar had gone to stay with Rebe for a few days. It had started over Ander getting annoyed at his boyfriend for not keeping up with school work and had spiralled ever since then.

“Still nothing?” Guzmán walks in through to the bedroom where you were sat watching Ander outside through your window.

He’d been out on his balcony for over an hour, phone in his hand like he was waiting to call Omar but still not finding the courage to do so.

“Nope,” You sigh, resting a hand on your bump, “I’m sure he dialled the number at one point but nothing more than that.”

“Shit man, how long will this go on for?”

“Well last time it lasted about a day because Omar realised he’d left his charger here so he had to come back. And as soon as they saw each other they were fine,” You explain as Guzmán flops onto the bed beside you, handing you a drink he’d collected from the kitchen along with your lunch.

“A day?” He raises his brows, “It’s already been three.”

“Exactly,” You sigh, “This is the worst it’s been in a long while. They’ve been fine since the start of the school year, since Ander went into remission.”

Guzmán sighs and takes a forkful of his food, “Come on, eat your food.”

“I swear I’m losing interest in everything,” You sigh, pushing around the pasta on your plate with disinterest.

“Well what do you fancy instead? And don’t say pickles because I can’t stand the smell anymore.”

“It’s cravings, I used to hate them too,” You laugh, “Don’t blame me, blame the baby.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, glancing back to the window, “Oh shit he’s pacing again.”

You felt like nosey neighbours watching your brother like this but it had made for good viewing for you and Guzmán as you watched him. You’d been keeping as updated as you could about the situation but Ander refused to talk about it at all.

“Come on, eat your food,” Guzmán nudges you again, “And I’ll make sure you get some more pickles at the shop if you do.”

You grin at him and take a forkful of the pasta dish he’d made for both of you.

He cocks a brow, “Not so bad is it?”

- - - - - -

It’s later in the day when Ander finally comes back inside, as the sun is setting and he’d moved to instead pace around the garden, and he’s got a face on him like he’s willing to murder a man. He storms straight past where you and Guzmán are sat in the lounge and walks straight upstairs to his room.

“Honey we’re going to have to do something,” Guzmán sighs.

“Honey?” You raise your brows, “We’re using pet names now? Wow, that’s a big step.”

He deadpans at your sarcasm, trying to hide the embarrassment on his cheeks, “It just slipped out, okay? Did you really need to bring it up?”

“Alright, darling,” You wiggle your brows, “But you’re right, I’m going to go and speak to Ander. There’s only so annoyed he can get at a pregnant woman.”

“Oh god good luck,” Guzmán laughs, walking over and kissing you quickly, “Shout if you need help.”

You head upstairs into your brother’s bedroom and find him laying face down on his bed, his phone still by his side. You walk over and lay down on the other side of the bed, your head on the end where his feet were as you stare up at the ceiling. You’d always done this when you were kids and it had stuck ever since then.

“He still hasn’t spoken to me (Y/n),” Ander begins after some time, seeming weak in his words, “It’s been three days.”

“He’ll come around, maybe you should try calling him first. Or going round there.”

He groans and turns over so he’s facing the ceiling too, “But I still agree with what I said. I think he needs to try harder in school, I don’t want him to fail again and not graduate.”

“I get that Ander, and you’re just looking out for him,” You encourage, “But you need to see it from his perspective. For the first time in his life, he’s genuinely happy. He’s got you, and you’re living together. He’s doing well in school, things aren’t so bad with his parents, and it’s like he’s found his chosen family. Maybe he just wants to enjoy that, and not spend every day focused on school.”

“I spoke to him about Malick too, I shouldn’t have brought it up but I was annoyed and I-“ He stops himself and sighs, pushing himself to sit up in the bed.

“Okay, well I don’t think that was a good idea. But it’s not something you can’t work past, when haven’t you two worked past your problems?”

He looks down at his lap and fiddles with the hem of his T-shirt as you wobble a little and manage to sit up too.

“I really thought I’d lost him before he went to New York. I was so sure he wouldn’t come back. This is the first time we’ve argued since then, and I guess I’m just terrified that this will be what pushes him away again.”

“Then I shouldn’t be the one you’re fucking saying that to!” You exclaim and throw a cushion at him, “God, one of us clearly got all of the brains in the family!”

He smiles but it doesn’t fully meet his eyes like it managed to whenever he was looking at Omar, “What should I do?”

“I think I have an idea...”

- - - - - -

“Do you really think it’s a good idea for you to be going to a club (Y/n)?” Guzmán asks once again as you, him and Ander get out of the taxi.

“The vip area is hardly a club, and there’ll barely be anyone there, and I’m not planning on drinking. If it’s bad, I can sit down. Stop being so protective,” You ruffle his hair and head inside, “Do I need to repeat myself again?”

“I really don’t think this is a good idea (Y/n),” Ander slows down as you’re nearing the doors.

“Don’t bail on me now brother,” You shake your head, grabbing his arm as you pull him inside, “Omar’s working the upstairs bar, and his shift finishes in five minutes. Meaning you need to be there to meet him in approximately four minutes. So, get your ass upstairs and follow every step of the plan.”

Guzmán settles a hand on your back as all three of you go to walk upstairs. The bouncer gives you an odd look as he notices your bump but Guzmán gives him a harsh enough glare to mean he won’t question it. There are a few people from your year already scattered around the vip area of the club but your eyes instantly go to Omar as you can see him getting ready to finish his shift.

You watch Ander walk over as Omar gives him that look that tells him he didn’t want to argue here. But instead of arguing, you see him accept your brothers offer to go downstairs and dance in the club just as they had done before, when they’d first properly confirmed that they wanted to be together. You walk over to the window and watch them head downstairs, seeing the bright smile spread onto Ander’s face as soon as he his face to face with Omar.

“I believe my job here is done,” You mumble, watching as Guzmán comes up beside you.

“Does that mean we can go home?” He cocks a brow.

You turn to face him, settling your hands on your swollen belly, “Do I not look fit for a club?”

He chuckles and it creates the creases beside his eyes so distinctively, “Not exactly. I think it’s the bump that really does it.”

You smile, “We can go if you want to. I just thought maybe you’d want to actually spend some time in a club, when was the last time you went to a party?”

“I don’t want to go to parties,” He defends instantly.

“Come on Guzmán. You spend every evening with me, dont you miss just going out and drinking with your friends?”

“Don’t you?”

“That’s different,” You roll your eyes, “I can’t do any of that, you still can.”

“For as long as you can’t, I won’t,” He shrugs, “Is that a problem?”

He reaches out his hands and holds both of yours, lacing your fingers together. There’s only so close you can stand now that your bump was between you but that small contact is just as much.

“It can’t be easy for you Guzmán,” You sigh, “A lot has changed in the past months, I don’t want you to feel like you have nothing left of your old life. You still can do. And it’s not easy to-“

“Everything is easy when it comes to you,” He interjects.

You scoff, trying to hide your blush whilst his eyes were so intently focused on you.

“You’ve given me a purpose (Y/n), that goes beyond being popular or keeping up a reputation. I have a reason to want to be something. And if that means I spend seven nights a week sat at home with you, talking about birthing methods, or watching films about being parents, or falling asleep before ten pm - I don’t care. In fact, I fucking love it!”

You giggle, “You make us sound like such an old couple!”

“Maybe so,” He nods, fighting back his own bright grin, “But I’ll take that any day.”

“Are you sure about that?”

He lifts your hands up and kisses one of them softly, “Lets get out of here.”

- - - - - -

Rightly so, that night you and Guzmán head back home and fall asleep before midnight hits. You’re wearing a T-shirt that you’ve worn for the past three days in a row and he’s snoring before you’re even asleep. The next morning, you wake up as you hear clattering in the kitchen and groan as you try to push yourself out of bed.

“What’s going on?” You sigh, rubbing your eyes to try to wake yourself up.

Ander and Omar look at you with guilty expressions.

“We’ve only just got in,” Ander smirks, “We were going to make some food.”

“You’ve just got home? Ander it’s like seven in the morning!”

Omar laughs, “We got lost and decided to walk home! It sobered us up though so we’re not doing bad.”

“Sober?” You scoff, becoming practically intoxicated yourself by the alcohol fumes coming off them, “Go into the lounge, I’ll make you some breakfast.”

They’re a mess of half-drunk giggles as they stumble with each other back to the couch in the lounge. They’re basically all over each other, a lot more PDA than they would ever be sober. But it warms your heart to see it, no longer fearful of Ander’s foul moods. Somehow, whenever things were fine with Omar, everything seemed to be fine in Anders life.

You go about making them some tea and toast to try to sober them up at least a little bit but when you walk into the lounge, they’re both flat out asleep on the sofa. You set down the food and head back upstairs with your own food to find Guzmán now awake in bed.

“Where did you go?” He frowns, poking open one eye to look at you.

“Ander and Omar just got home, looks like they had a good night,” You chuckle, carrying over the plate of toast and mug of tea.

“You made me breakfast?” Guzmán raises his brows, “What did I do to deserve this?”

You laugh and sit back down onto the bed next to him. His hair is messy from always moving in his sleep, and his eyes are puffy as they always were when he just woke up, and his voice still hasn’t reset back to normal tone, and he’s getting the shadows of stubble from where he was overdue a shave. And in every way it looks like you’re looking at yourselves as a married couple. You didn’t have that young spark that Ander and Omar had because yours and Guzman’s relationship had been built on completely different foundations. But somehow it worked somewhat perfectly for both of you.

He takes a bite of the buttery toast and opens an arm for you to lean into him as you take another piece from the plate.

Maybe he was right to say that you didn’t need the fancy nights out like Omar and Ander had. You didn’t need to be rolling into the house at 6am with enough alcohol in your system to last all day. You’d learnt pretty quickly that you wouldn’t have that for a long time. When your daughter was born, and this pregnancy was over, you wouldn’t have that again then. Instead, you’d be bringing a life into the world. You’d have commitments and responsibilities and the horror of feeling like you were doing everything wrong. At age 18, that seemed terrifying. But somehow manageable if you were doing it together.

“What are you thinking about?” Guzmán asks tiredly, snuggling into you a little like he could close anymore space.

“We’re really boring,” You comment, “But somehow, in a good way.”

“I’ll take that any day,” Guzmán chuckles, kissing your forehead, “And life certainly won’t be boring as soon as this one comes along. It will be far from boring.”

You smile and settle your hand over your bump next to where his rested, “What do you feel like doing today?”

“How about we order in a takeaway, put on some cheesy movies, play some video games, and basically not get out of bed?”

“Ooh you really know how to spoil a girl Guzmán,” You chuckle, “That sounds perfect.”

And somewhere, amongst the chaos of pregnancy and the uncertainty of your future, you were damn thankful for the consequences it had caused. You’d found someone. Someone who’d been so hidden to you in all of the years you’d known him. And in lazy evenings, in too much takeout food, in acting like an old pair - you’d found Guzmán. Whatever the future held for the two of you, it seemed certain that it would be together.

[mimssides]

Life on Crow Avenue: Part 13

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Warning: Small mention of kids being bullied, a fight, losing a tooth during a fight and the mention of blood!

___

Logan was checking the shelves for books which had been put back in the wrong place, when he heard a knock on the door. Stiffly, he turned to see what person wanted to come into his shop before he had officially opened. And then he saw. Quick he was up on his feet and shuffled to the door, pulling it open and letting in an entirely exhausted looking Patton.

“Good morning Mr. Fojtík. Sorry, for the early visit but I wanted to come and check on you after – Well, after last night, I guess,” Patton greeted him with a far too tired smile.

Logan sighed and stood to the side for Patton to enter. With no words Patton settled himself into an armchair close to the crime section, while Logan shuffled around some more and eventually took a seat next to Patton on the armchair next to his and put two mugs down on the little table between them. Grateful Patton nodded and then took a little sip from his cup, happy to taste the lavender flavour he liked so much.

For a few moments they just sat in peace. They had an understanding, a grasp of one another. They knew both how much this had affected them. They got the notion that both of them were struggling with aspects of the events, which the other could not understand or know about. That they were fighting with different demons but still appreciated the other being there. That to some extent, they even needed someone else to be here, so they would not spiral too much into their respective black holes.

Logan took a sip from his own cup and then sighed lengthily. He looked over to his friend and he returned his gaze with a wavery smile.

“How did you fare? Did you get some sleep?” Logan asked eventually and set his cup back down on the table between them.

Now it was Patton’s turn to sigh before he answered: “We did what we could and I think that went pretty okay all things considered. Remus and me didn’t sleep though.”

“And Virgil did?” Logan asked with raised eyebrows.

“Funnily enough, yes, he did indeed. Happened when he was listening to Remus ramble for a good twenty minutes about everything and nothing. It’s quite the experience to hear him talk to himself...”

There was short pause in which Logan contemplated on what to ask next. What was the right point to press on right now, without upsetting Patton too much.

“What exactly do you mean about everything and nothing? Something concerning?”

“Oh no!” Patton exclaimed to Logan’s relief. “It mostly was some anecdotes about him and Roman pranking people. When they were younger, you know. They sounded like minor trickster deities, to be honest.”

“I have no doubt they were astoundingly notorious among their peers.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they were. Just two boys who couldn’t quite fit in. Just like us, am I right?”

Patton and Logan shared a look. They had never really admitted that out loud. It had always just been something between them that they just understood. Just got about the other. Saying it out loud now felt like they had taken a step further in their relationship.

“I guess you are,” Logan said with a neutral tone to quiet the loud heartbeat in his ears. “Was this all you talked about? Or could you, you know…?”

“Talk with him to about going to therapy? I guess, I at least got him to consider it. He promised me so much… And then he just teased me about the thing I had with, uhm, you know, J, and I got flustered a lot and accidentally woke Virgil up. Which led to Virgil being a little grumpy and then kinda amused when he found out that it was about that little night and he started kinda gossiping about Janus’s other, uh, “acquaintances”. And that took a bit of time and really entertained Remus a lot…”

Logan nodded along and drank a little more of his tea, trying to not let himself get annoyed by the mention of Patton and Janus’s little “adventure” how the latter always called it. This was about Remus. About this poor man who had suffered for the last nine years and desperately needed help, he was unwilling to get at the moment.

“At least you could provide him a distraction. I am sure he could need it,” Logan told Patton and got a small smile from the latter.

The sat there for a little longer, Patton telling Logan that as Roman had woken up he got ready for work and despite Virgil and his own efforts they could not convince Roman to keep the shop closed for the day. Remus had told them that it was fine and he could use the distraction before they eventually left the twins to themselves and went to their respective homes. Well, before Patton came to Logan but Logan knew what Patton meant.

Their tea was finished and Patton got up with the words that he needed to figure out who to sent to fix the twins’ door and then take a short nap. Logan told him to take it slow for today and asked if he could get him anything for lunch, so he did not have to go and get something for himself. Patton agreed with the most grateful smile and then bid his goodbye.

And so, Logan was left back in his store worried about his old friend and the eccentric but undoubtedly kind florist from next door. Both of them were such emotional and far more fragile individuals than he had initially anticipated and he was not sure how he would be able to support both of them properly through this.

Reality, everyday life caught up to him and he got up to make the rest of the store presentable for customers. A last time he checked his phone and saw the e-mail notification he had impatiently been waiting for. At least a start, he mused and got himself busy.

With a sigh Remus followed his brother who quickly led both of them around the back to the bookstore and then knocked against the door leading into the backroom of Logan’s Bookberries. It was noon and Remus knew that Roman had not prepared anything for them to eat, neither had he himself. And he felt Roman’s nerves grow shorter and his temper boil. Roman needed space. He needed some distance.

And when the door opened and a slightly confused Logan looked at the both of them Remus felt something within himself relax. He shifted on his feet a bit and then looked to Roman who gestured and then put on a forced smile.

“Hey, Logan!” Remus listened to Roman say and then watched Logan’s mimic grow more neutral, “I didn’t want to impose but do you think you’d have a seat for Remus at your lunch table?”

A little, tiny wrinkle in between Logan’s eyebrows. A short twitch of the edge of Logan’s lips. But it didn’t stop the bookshop owner from answering dutifully.

“It is no bother at all, Roman. You are both welcome to come and eat with us. In fact, I’m positive everyone would like for you two to join us,” Logan said and stood to the side so Roman and Remus could enter.

Roman gave Remus a short look, the latter shrugged and then followed Roman as he entered hastily. At the familiar table Remus saw Patton and Janus already sitting, while Virgil was standing in front of the sink apparently washing an apple. They all looked at them and Remus felt like maggots crawled under his skin but got the image soon out of his head when he noticed Roman clear his throat and watched him instead of focusing on the others.

Forcing himself to look relatively relaxed Roman spoke up and said: “Hello! It’s so good seeing you! Anyway, Logan said it’s fine if I was to leave Remus with you so; Thank you all for that.”

Before any of the other men could interrupt, Roman had already turned around and shot Remus a look. Remus returned a short nod and listened when Roman told him: “Now, please behave and remember the rules!”

“Understood, príncipe.”

“Great. I’ll be off then. I’ll be back when we open in the afternoon. See you then!”

“Sure thing. Drive save and until later,” Remus replied as Roman excited the room in top speed and left the five men back in utter silence.

Remus sighed and walked towards the table. He promptly stopped when he saw Janus stand up with mortification in his eyes and shot him a lazy grin.

“Why are you smiling!?” Janus hissed and Remus causally crossed his arms over his chest. “Why do you let him go on a drive?! Did you – Did he not almost -”

Remus raised his eyebrows. He did not manage to say it. His posture was tense and defensive. He was clearly worried about Roman and apparently, he had admitted that to himself over the night.

“Did he not almost die in a car crash? Yeah, he did actually. But driving calms him, so sit your ass back down on this chair and let him fucking cope,” Remus answered and walked towards Janus.

Lightly Remus put his hand on Janus’s shoulder and pushed him down as he took a seat himself next to the man in the bowler hat. As he sat, he took off his beanie and draped over the back lean of his chair. He didn’t have to hide the hearing aids from them anymore, so why bother and keeping it on when they all knew anyway?

Again, Remus felt all eyes on him, these intense stares and he had to remind himself that they actually weren’t judging him. That they were not trying see though his skull and dissect his thoughts, pick apart his brain, cut off the frontal lobes.

Take a deep breath Remus and look to the probably still very upset man your brother has a huge crush on, he told himself and turned his head to his right to watch Janus’s appalled expression. He almost had to stop himself from laughing over it and instead just grinned and shook his head.

“How are you not worried about him? Driving in a such aggregated state can and might end fatally!” Janus said sharply without his voice raising a bit in volume.

“He wouldn’t drive if he was too upset. That’s why one of you three had to drive home and not him. He never drives when he doesn’t feel up for it.”

Logan, intrigued by that statement, beat Janus to the punch and asked Remus: “I’m sorry for the intrusion but how does driving help Roman to cope? I would have assumed just like Janus did that he would be averse to driving after such a traumatic event.”

“I don’t know exactly, book dragon,” Remus admitted and shrugged a little. “I know I hate sitting in a car and driving makes me antsy and nauseous but not with him. If he’s behind the wheel I just know that whatever happens to us, it won’t be his fault. He doesn’t use his phone at all and rarely listens to music. And he doesn’t speed if that did concern you.”

An airy gasp came from the sink and Remus turned to look at him.

“You… you really are not concerned for him? Like at all?” the emo asked with a big frown.

Remus sighed and looked to the floor, grin still on his lips. Technically, he was always concerned about Roman. Just not about this.

“I’m not now but I was freaked out for sure when he brought it up the first time after the crash,” Remus eventually answered and looked back up to Virgil. “When he asked our foster father if he could take the car for a grocery run. When he allowed it, I insisted on going with him. After the first five minutes I thought I’d piss myself from fear until I saw the look on his face and… He just looked like himself. More so than he had in a while.”

“He looked more like himself?” Virgil said hesitantly and exchanged a look with Remus.

“Yeah, he lost his whole friend group, his social standing. All his free time he spent to be with me, to communicate for me. I was, still am, so bad a reading lips and he was the only person whose facial expressions, whose gestures and body language I just understood. The first time after the accident, when I didn’t feel like a complete and utter outcast anymore was when he talked to me after waking up and I understood him. I just knew what he said. I wasn’t alone on this planet anymore…”

Thoughts rushed through Remus’s mind. Jumped and skipped around. Too quick for Remus himself to follow them truly. And by luck they circled back to the tall man in front of the leaky sink and Remus realized that he hadn’t answered Virgil’s question yet.

“Oh yeah, sorry. Rambling brain. Point I wanted to make. That all took a toll on Ro, which he didn’t want to admit and he started to act and look less like himself, I guess? I noticed it because watching people was something, I did a lot after the crash. And in the car, he looked more content, more at ease. Just more Roman.”

The atmosphere was tense. No one knew what to say after that or wanted to talk now. Patton looked around the round his eyes rested on Remus. Rested on the tiny wrinkles around his lips and beneath his eyes from smiling and grinning so much. On the eyebags and his thin frame. He wanted him to be happy so desperately. But for that to become possible he had to make him feel okay first.

“Then Roman should be fine, right Remus? So, we should help you be fine too and get some food into your belly, or what do y’all think?” Patton asked and met eyes with Remus.

It was as if the temperature of the room was shifting. All nodded, Virgil walked to the table and sat down to Janus’s other side, while Logan got his lunch box from the counter and distributed sandwiches to Patton and Remus and himself to eat. Quietly they ate for a while, letting each other just have a moment to themselves.

“It’s a good sandwich, pocket protector.”

Remus voice interrupted the silently agreed on truce and Logan huffed at the comment.

“I’m sure Roman would disagree,” Logan mumbled frustratedly thinking about the disdain Roman had had in his face when Logan had said that a sandwich was a perfectly reasonable meal for lunch.

“Nah,” Remus said purposefully overhearing the frustration in Logan’s words, “he acts like a food critique sometimes but he kinda eats anything. Like, the food we had some days, street dogs wouldn’t even eat that.”

Logan put the rest of his sandwich down and deadpanned: “That is not comforting to know.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I guess it’s not. We didn’t have to eat like that for the last … four years, I think? The first two years were pretty harsh after we got started but then it got better,” Remus tried to talk down the situation and looked into the group to see if he was succeeding.

His eyes ended up resting on Patton, who promptly said hoping to sound not as worried as he felt: “You must have worked very hard to accomplish that. Both of you must have a … well an outstanding work ethic?”

Well, shoot. That had not worked, Remus realized and decided he could as well just be honest with them then.

“You mean overwork ourselves to the point of ruin? That’s a good observation. I would like to think that Roman is getting a little better but looking at the way how he insisted on working today I gather we might have gone a step back. But then again, he’s always been prone to overwork himself for the things he wants. The nights he stayed up long after midnight to perfect the lines he had in school plays were far too many to count.”

“This started in school?” Janus asked with a deep frown.

“Yeah. He’s a model perfectionist. In arts, I mean. And such a drama kid, I can tell you. And somehow he managed to be popular and some of those ‘friends’ were absolute nightmares. With a few exceptions.”

A memory shot through Remus’s head and a laugh escapes his lips. It has been a moment since he had thought about this and even longer since he had such a carefree laugh come out of his chest.

“Sorry, I just remembered something hilarious,” Remus excused himself already awaiting the others to be weirded out.

But that wasn’t the case. At least not for all of them. Patton smiled a little and prompted him happily: “Please share! I’m curious!”

Quickly Remus straightened his back and took a little sip of water before starting to tell his little tale: “So, when we were in sixth grade we went on a school trip and because none of my friends had been allowed on the trip, all were expelled for a prank we pulled but I somehow did not get caught for, it involved water balloons with red water in it and the walls of the gym, I was with Roman and his friends for most of the time. And they were all pretty boring, because it wasn’t the drama kids but some prep-y ones. With the exception for one dude, which Ro had a terrible crush on and was objectively pretty cute and kinda cool. Anyway, Ro did not impress him at all and he seemed pretty bored by the museum we were in which I could not understand because there were a lot of bones and stuffed animals. How can someone be bored when you can watch dead things?! Anyway, then we had lunch and one of the girls, thinking she was doing me a favour did not ignore me for five seconds and asked what I wanted to see next to which I replied: ‘I hope we can go the deep-sea part next. ‘Cause there are squids and they always kraken me up!’.”

Remus watched Patton press his hand over his mouth and continued: “She rolled her eyes but Ro was cracking up and I added: ‘I squid you not they are my absolute favourite!’-” Patton laughed behind his hand and Logan pressed his lips together to stop a snort escape – “The cute boy snickered a little and the other kinds rolled their eyes and I started retelling facts about squids: ‘Did you know that squids have eight arms, which grow back if you cut them off but their two tentacles do not? And they are really important because it is where their suckers are so they can grab things and for the male ones it’s even more important because it acts as their penis!’ I couldn’t say penis though because Roman burst out laughing and water came up his nose and like four girls squeaked in horror, but one who was actually pretty chill as I found out later.”

A Logan had turned away from the table to compose himself, while Patton actually stopped trying to hide his laughter. Virgil just grinned at the story and Janus watched the self-satisfied expression in Remus’s face while he was watching the two gay spectacle wearers.

When both had quieted down a little Janus asked: “And what has this cute boy to do with anything?”

“Oh, yeah!” Remus exclaimed suddenly remembering that part. “He started talking to Roman after that. Before he had thought that Ro was just some stick in the mud like the others but after that they became friends until the end of sixth grade. He went to another school the next year.”

“So, you really always were the troublemaker of the two of you?” Virgil said with a smirk and shot a side-eye to his uncle.

“Absolutely. Which is kinda ironic considering I never got hurt in any of those stunts but Ro lost a fucking tooth in the one time he got into a fight.”

Janus blinked. That could not be right. He could not have heard that right.

“Pardon me? What?” he asked perplexed.

Remus snickered, wiggled his eyebrows and said with a fat grin plastered over his face: “Didn’t notice that while staring in his lovestruck eyes, lemon boy? His left canine tooth is missing but the gap is really tiny because his jaw was still growing, so it kinda worked out for him.”

“hOW?” Janus exclaimed exasperated.

Apparently, that desperation did not translate to Remus as he just snickered more and shrugged, while leaning back in his chair and crossing on leg over the other. Amused he bounced his foot in the air and thought about how to tell this story, so it would have the most fun reaction from the others.

“Oh, I thought the very same thing!” Remus began then with cheery tone. “He’s not a violent person and that would never have happened had someone tried to bully him but alas. 7th grader Roman Segura Reyes would never let his wimpy drama kid buddy get dragged through the mud and started a fight with the worst school bully of all people, because he had repeatedly written slurs on drama buddy’s locker. At first it was only some shouting and then bully got closer and straight up punched him in the face. I was about to fucking snap and tear the guy apart, when Ro merely budged, all pretty surprised that he was still standing actually, and then suddenly looked up and spat fucking blood and the tooth in his face and said: ‘If you don’t go now, you’ll be lucky to just lose a tooth.’ And then the guy didn’t go and Roman slammed him so hard into the wall that he blacked out and got a concussion from it.”

The room was deadly silent. Roman was by no means a mild-mannered man. Surely really passionate. But imagining him doing such a thing was pretty wild in all their opinions.

Remus chuckled a little and folded his hands on the table. Watched his thumb rub over his skin and added: “Yeah, everyone was just as perplexed like you are now. Ro was completely bedazzled that he had knocked out a guy a head taller than him an I was having the day of my life.”

“Jesus Christ!” Janus groaned and buried his head in his hands.

“I doubt that he’d listen to that plea. Otherwise one of those prayers before would have wiped me away from this earth already,” Remus teased him and rejoiced in Janus’s annoyed expression.

“Fine. Remus would you do me a favour and answer me a question?”

“You already did but you can ask another one if you like.”

The look Janus shot Remus could have killed people but he forced himself to remain calm and said: “Perfect. Now, you said yesterday that Roman got both of you an apprenticeship as florist. Was florist your dream profession then?”

“Nah.”

Janus had not expected Remus to respond in such a relaxed tone and needed a second to catch himself.

But the speechlessness didn’t last long and Janus continued: “Then how exactly did Roman come to the conclusion would make a good florist?”

“Flowers are still pretty without sound. And I like colours. In between them I felt less out of place.”

A tiny shift of tone. A little more defensive. Remus’s hands became more tense.

“Well, then… What did you want to do if you hadn’t become a florist?”

Remus chuckled. It wasn’t a happy sound. Almost as if he awaited to be disappointed in a second.

“I had two things in mind, but you’re not going to believe me.”

Janus folded his hands on the table and waited for Remus to meet his gaze. As he did he raised his eyebrows and asked with a sharp and clear voice: “Why would I not? Until now you have proven to be a terribly honest individual. I don’t see why you would lie to me now.”

Hesitation. Remus hesitated. Of all the things he could do he hesitated.

“Okay. I wanted to become a surgeon. Favourably a neurosurgeon because brains are awesome. But my family didn’t have the money so I would have needed a scholarship, which was kinda not really something I believed I could ever get. Mexican-American and all. So, plan B was a fashion designer.”

All eyes on him. It almost felt like he was burning. He didn’t know what to do with it.

“You have an interest in neurology?” “Do you have sketches of your designs then?” Logan and Patton respectively asked over each other.

He didn’t hear it properly. But the sound was in a harmony. A harmony of slight wonder and curiosity.

“I didn’t understand either of you,” Remus said and eyed both Logan and Patton

A little battle wordless argument went down. Patton gesturing Logan to go first but the latter refusing with a raised eyebrow. Huffing, Patton gave in and turned to Remus.

“Oh, I just wanted to ask if you have sketches from designs… I, I realize how silly that sounds now, I apologi-”

“I do,” Remus interrupted not letting Patton apologize for his harmless curiosity. “It’s old stuff, I didn’t have the energy to do more again but I still have some sketches. Roman always makes sure we don’t leave them behind. I can show you later. And what did you want to know?”

Logan pointed to his watch and then answered as casually as he could: “I wanted to talk about your interest in neurology but I just realized that our lunchbreak is soon over, so you might want to get over so Roman won’t be worried about you.”

Remus quirked his eyebrow up and grinned. Logan wanted to talk with him? About neurology? And he was disappointed he wouldn’t get the chance to do so?

“Oh, Roman isn’t coming back for the afternoon shift. I know he said he would, but he really was upset this time. He’ll need the whole afternoon to calm down. I’m going to close the shop for the day.”

Janus was about to speak up, Remus could feel the aggressively caring energy already come his way. Wit a single blank look he stopped Janus from speaking.

“He never had the chance to leave me alone after I tried to kill myself. He never could give himself a break and distance himself from me afterwards, because there was nobody he trusted enough to look after me. Give him the air to breath. Let him steam off his anger and not swallow it down as he always had to before.”

With that he turned looked back to Logan and said: “So, if it’s okay I’m going to chill in your reading isle for the afternoon? Then we have enough time to talk neurology, bicho~”

Logan wrinkled his brows for a second but was quick to adapt and agreed and even offered to come with him to close the shop. A few minutes later the five men went back to their respective shops, Logan finishing to close the flower shop and then comfortably led him back into Logan’s Bookberries.

They did talk neurology for a good half hour before, Logan had Remus read for a few minutes in a neurology book he had and the florist dozed off soon after. Quietly, Logan tucked him in a blanket, remembering how cold he had been last night and let him rest. Logan caught himself watching Remus with a small smile on his lips and shook his head to get his loud heartbeat out of his ears for the second time today.

___

@varthandi

@sickeningly-deceitful

@sammy-is-obsessed / @exhaustedfander

@unoriginalgayboyalex

@alexisrealgay

@softie-sushi

@wolfs-feder

@just-a-neoclassical-painting

 Tagged for this fic:

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@arodynamic-enby

@espepspes

@bullet-tothefeels

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[breakingsomething]

to remember

basic summary: marvin's spiraling.

trigger warnings: mentions of abuse and self harm, flashback to a suicide attempt, much talk of medications, violent thoughts, themes of memory loss, extreme distress

it started with little things.

first he'd forget where he left stuff, like his phone or his cup of tea. that was just normal. but then he'd forget having ownership of certain items altogether. chase had once gotten mad at marvin for leaving a full mug next to his laptop, and it had taken five minutes for marvin to remember he'd made the drink in the first place.

as the weeks went by, thing continued to slip his mind. just small things. street names, words he should know, inside jokes from a while ago. he'd stumble before saying the name of an old friend, hesitate before mentioning that so and so had blonde hair because hadn't they dyed it, or had that been year ago? which of chase's kids liked sonic the hedgehog again? oh, chase kids were missing and he shouldn't bring them up? yeah. he'd forgotten that too.

then it was his medication. he'd been prescribed small tablets of paroxetine to take every day, which he'd done at the beginning. then he'd get so caught up with other things that it'd only be every few days that he'd remember the meds and a jolt of realization would hit him that he hadn't taken them in ages. but it was fine. he'd set a reminder on his phone! which worked for a while, until he'd read the notification and swipe it away with the intention to get up right away, but then get distracted, or even if he didn't get rid of it it would just get buried in his notifications bar and he wouldn't think twice. but it was fine! he was just a bit forgetful. silly billy marvin. so what if he sometimes forgot what his girlfriend looked like or when henrik's birthday was? that was normal, silly stuff. he was just fine.

"marvin, how long has it been since you've eaten?"

oh, someone was talking to him! he startled at the sound, whipping round in the kitchen doorway to face whoever it was and breathing a sigh of relief as he recognized him. jackie. his sweet big brother jackie, big brother who helped him keep his head on straight and comforted him through nightmares of events that marvin wasn't sure had really happened. how much of reality was he making up anymore? he wasn't sure.

"i just ate this morning," marvin said certainly, flashing the hero a smile. "what about you? i haven't seen you eat recently at all."

jackie crossed his arms, narrowing his dark eyes underneath his glasses. "me, chase and henrik ate breakfast together this morning. we had toast and wheetabix with bananas cause chase is on another health kick. where were you?"

marvin's confident grin slipped. "i - i had toast too," he said, trying to keep his voice steady so as not to reveal his uncertainties. "this morning. you guys must have - left."

marvin's heart was racing as he racked his brain. he had eaten, hadn't he? oh, oh, he didn't know. jackie's disapproving gaze was burning into him, making him feel smaller and smaller, like a child on the receiving end of a lecture.

"you can't skip meals, marvin," jackie sighed. he tilted his head and slowly reached his hand up to marvin's face, touching his forehead. even with the warning, marvin flinched. "are you feeling alright? apparently a lack of hunger or a feeling of sickness are side effects of the new medication, so -"

"shut up, jackie!" marvin hissed, face flushing. jackie raised an eyebrow at marvin's response, and the magician unconsciously flinched again. fuck, what was wrong with him lately? he knew jackie wasn't going to hurt him.

"there's no need to be embarrassed about medication," jackie said coolly. "i take paxil for my anxiety. it's nothing to be ashamed about."

"i know," marvin mumbled. he rubbed his skin comfortingly beneath his hoodie, wincing at the feeling of the scars all up his arm. self inflicted. couldn't blame anti for that. "it's not - i don't know. i'm new to all this. the whole - the whole…"

"mental illness thing?" jackie said with only a small hint of amusement in his voice. marvin snorted. the situation wasn't funny at all, so they had to make it that way themselves for it to be survivable.

he hummed, not looking jackie in the eye. another thing he was struggling with lately. he had always been good with things like that, something he excelled in that jackie did not. something else that had been taken from him. "i don't know. my head feels a bit weird all the time, but i don't think i'm sick. i should be ok, but, uh, thank you for the concern."

jackie kicked at a broken panel of wood on the floor, still not moving out of marvin's way. "speaking of medication," he said, and marvin's heart sank. "have you been taking them?"

"yes, jackie," marvin lied, swallowing hard, clenching and unclenching his fists. he couldn't stay still, why couldn't he stay still? his legs were shaking. "taken them every day."

"you're lying," jackie said flatly. marvin breathed in sharply at the undertone of disappointment in his voice, and just managed to look up at his face, cringing at how tired jackie looked. he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, pushing up his glasses. "henrik says you would have needed a refill by now if you had been taking them regularly. but you've barely touched the second packet."

marvin shook his head, breaths quickening. "i - yes i have. i finished the whole box." he'd dump them somewhere when he got a chance alone.

jackie sighed, shaking his head. "stop it, marvin. i looked in your room yesterday. the box was on your desk."

marvin gave a strangled cry. "you - you were in my fucking room? when i wasn't there?" god, he sounded like a child. but jackie knew that things were different after anti. marvin needed his space. he glared at his brother angrily, mouth hanging open with words he couldn't get out. "you fucking asshole, i thought you were going to respect my fucking privacy?"

jackie grimaced, scratching the back of his neck. "we're - we're worried for you, and -"

marvin didn't even say another word. he just shoved past his brother and stormed upstairs, slamming the door behind him.

sometimes he didn't remember his brother's names. that was just something that happened sometimes though, right? sometimes he forgot his street name. that was just a funny little mishap though, wasn't it? sometime he woke up and didn't know where he was and cried himself softly through his panic attack, curled up in the middle of his bed, too afraid to move in case someone came to hurt him, until he passed out from the headache that all the tears ended up giving him. that was normal though, wasn't it? just a silly little one time thing. it didn't mean anything. it could happen to anyone.

and then it happened again. and again. and again.

he awoke from nightmares he didn't remember. he thought about names that meant nothing to him, mouthing the words "dapper" and "naomi" and "jack" to himself. he held knives and thought about stabbing himself in the chest with them just to see what would happen. he shut himself in his wardrobe, shaking so hard he couldn't breath, feeling something hot drooling onto his neck.

the others began to properly notice the day marvin got lost.

he was just going to the corner shop. he bought a bottle of milk, a loaf of bread and a small packet of gum. he left the shop and was instantly hit with a dizzying wave of vertigo, like he was standing on top of a building. he didn't know where he was. he didn't know.

it was fine. there were three streets that branched off of this one, he was bound to belong on one of them. eeny, meeny, miney, mo, and he set off down the street to the left, which went down a small hill. that street then branched off into two other streets, and a long flight of stairs. marvin stared at them, head spinning.

he was suddenly so fucking scared.

he set off down the street to the left again. this one was sloping even further down a hill, tall, pretty looking houses with trimmed gardens and shiny cars parked neatly outside. marvin didn't live in a house, did he? he was certain he lived in a flat. there were flats somewhere in the distance, he could see. he set off towards them purposely, milk carton smacking against his thighs painfully.

it was so quiet. marvin felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, his chest tightening painfully. he wasn't supposed to be here. he wasn't supposed to be here. someone was going to stop him and tell him to turn around and he was lost, he was scared, and -

and the road ahead branched off into three separate roads, all of which were lined by blocks of identical flats.

he wasn't going to cry. he wasn't. he set off straight ahead, down a hill, frantically looking at the buildings around him. it was early spring, and some families were out in the gardens, playing in sprinklers and having barbecues. marvin was too hot in his long hoodie, sleeves covering the ugly scars on his arms. he couldn't breathe. he couldn't remember. nothing was familiar and the world was upside down and he was fucking terrified, was this a prank? was this a prank for his brother's youtube channel - which brother had a youtube channel, why couldn't he remember, he was scared, oh, he was scared!

eventually he collapsed in an empty bus stop, just across from a construction site surrounded by a red fence. he remembered that. there was a field behind it, and there was an abandoned waterworks, and a farm with lots of cows. he rapped his knuckles on his thighs, trying to ground himself. what else could he remember? he knew his own name. marvin mcloughlin, that was him. he tipped his head back and let out a shaky sob, stomach churning. nothing was right. he was too hot and the milk had gone warm and his palm was sweaty from holding the bread.

he sat there for an hour, numbly watching the sun go down. his head hurt from crying. he was too hot and tired and scared and he felt like a fucking child. marvin sat up, scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeve, scratching his sensitive skin. his mind felt like soup.

my name is marvin mcloughlin. i'm twenty nine years old. i have been on this planet for three years. i'm bisexual. i have three brothers. i have a girlfriend named naomi gudmundson. i used to be part of an organization called hecate's international network of magic.

-

it was night before his mind returned to him.

he fucking sobbed when it did, immediately scrambling to his feet and racing in the direction his mind was telling him to go before he forgot it. the milk and bread bashed his sides as he ran, and he definitely looked like a goddamn idiot, crying and darting through the streets with his shopping in hand. by the time he got to a street he recognized, a street he remembered, he was full blown sobbing, so hard it was difficult to catch a breath. and oh, when he saw chase sitting at the window on his ds, marvin could have cried out in relief. his little brother must have sensed him coming and turned to look at him, grinning, but his face fell as soon as he saw what state marvin was in. he leapt down from the window and disappeared, and marvin fell against the front door, not caring anymore if anyone saw him. he was scared, he was just so scared, he was just so, so scared.

as soon as the lock clicked and the door swung open, marvin threw himself into chase's arms, dropping the warm milk and crushed bread to the floor. "chase, chase, chase, chase!" he gasped, heart racing as his legs gave out, feeling like jelly. "oh my god, chase, chase..."

"what happened?" chase cried, clearly alarmed. he ran his hands across marvin's back soothingly, knowing not to touch his hair in case he set him off further. "did someone hurt you? do you need henrik? marvin, talk to me."

he couldn't talk. he was so overwhelmed, so fucking terrified out of his mind that he couldn't manage words, he just couldn't. all he could do was dry heave, coughing into his arm but still trying to cling to his brother because if he didn't he would disappear and marvin would be alone again and he couldn't be alone again he couldn't anti would get him anti would hurt him and dapper again and he'd punish him because kitten had disobeyed the rules and cut off his hair and anti would make him go into the spare room by himself again without anyone to touch him or talk to him fuck fuck fuck he was so scared!!!

he slept in jackie's bed that night. he couldn't speak, too overwhelmed, too afraid he'd be punished. he curled into a ball and hugged himself, confused and delirious, too shocked to speak. anti in his head. anti in his bed. dapper, anti, kitten, which name was his again? none of them sounded right.

everything came crashing down on him the next morning when he woke.

oh, oh, oh, had that all really happened? had he really gotten lost going to the corner shop, had he really had an hour long panic attack in broad daylight while clutching a bottle of milk and a bag of bread? a slapping wave of humiliation washed over him, and he shuddered, sitting right up in bed. was that real, had he made it up? he groaned softly, clutching his head. let it have been a nightmare, please, please.

he knew it hadn't been when jackie woke up and immediately started badgering him.

"who hurt you?" were his first words. "who upset you? what happened, why were you gone so long, tell me!"

"no one hurt me," marvin croaked. he hadn't spoken in hours, and his voice was hoarse. he curled tightly into himself, gently gracing his fingers across the skin of his neck to soothe himself. "just my own head. just my own head, jackie, jackie, jackie."

the conversation went by in a blur. marvin couldn't remember it.

my name is marvin mcloughlin. i'm twenty nine years old. i have been on this planet for three years. i'm bisexual. i have four brothers. i have a girlfriend named naomi. i used to be part of an organization called hecate's network of magic.

-

he didn't care what his brothers thought anyway. he was fine. it was just a silly memory lapse. ptsd? henrik, you're being ridiculous. jackie, don't agree with him! is anyone here on my side? chase? well, fuck you guys, i don't need you! no more doctors, no more doctors, i don't need you!

naomi was there for him. naomi, his best friend, his girlfriend, girlfriend, there was a change! he'd never loved that word more than now. he'd never loved her more than now. she was wonderful. she didn't treat him like he was fragile. he loved her.

"so how've you been?" she asked one morning when he was round at her shop, nai's blomma magi, yet again. he was there often, especially as of late. he didn't want to be around his brothers. all they did was talk in hushed voices and look away when he entered a room and speak to him gently like he was a bratty child. naomi didn't. naomi looked at him like he was her best friends and she loved him. he was so grateful for her. he thought she was the string holding him to the earth to stop him flying away.

"i've been good," he said cheerfully, swinging his legs on the counter where he was perched. naomi leapt up next to him, blowing upwards to push her caramel hair from her face. marvin wasn't used to it being so short. he thought it looked pretty. he stretched out a hand to run through it as he spoke, because they were dating and he could do that now, though he kept his eyes trained on naomi's despite how hard it was for him just in case she showed any signs of not liking what he was doing. "been busy. lots to do these days you know." he shot her some finger guns. "vibing."

she chuckled, rolling her eyes and shifting closer to him, knocking their legs together. "oh, the usual then," she joked, returning the finger guns. ""it be like that sometimes" and all that? are those the vibes, pye?"

he snorted, elbowing her side. "i am begging you to stop trying to use teen lingo. or - is lingo a word people use anymore? god, i don't fucking know. my point is please, please stop this madness."

she took his face in hand and titled it towards her, booping her nose against his. "ah, but you love me and my attempts at speaking like i am generation z," she laughed. "don't deny."

he knocked his forehead to hers, realizing how unprofessional they would look to anyone who might come inside. but honestly, he didn't care. he had no dignity left to lose. "i do love you," he murmured, before gently pressing his lips to hers, fingers brushing her warm cheeks. he couldn't stop himself from grinning ridiculously, giggling slightly as he pulled away. "ah, naomi, i'm bad at this."

"i'm no better," she admitted. her dark eyes flickered from marvin's lips to his eyes, making him automatically glance down at their entwined hands despite wanting to continue looking at her face. "i haven't had a relationship in years. what do we do? i mean, i won't lie, i enjoy what we're doing now. just this."

he kissed her again, just wanting to be close to her, not wanting to think. "naomi, naomi," he said softly against her lips, like a chant, like he was an actor memorizing his lines. "love you, naomi, naomi."

"that's my name," she whispered, her breath warm on his face. her fingers traced the scar on marvin's lip, the one anti had given him that day he tried to run away and he had made dapper slash his face with his knife as punishment. "you have a pretty name too, marvin. i should say it more often. marvin, marvin, marvin."

he felt light as a feather all of a sudden, like the air had been let out of him with just one stab of a knife to the face. marvin, marvin. forbidden. he didn't know that name.

he pulled away. stared into those chocolate eyes, his vision blurring as his exhaustion began to catch up to him. marvin, marvin, marvin, he didn't know a marvin.

"i don't understand," he mumbled.

the woman frowned, eyebrows furrowing. "what's wrong? pye, are you ok? you've gone very pale."

his fingers had gone very numb. he clumsily pushed himself off the counter, head swimming dizzily, his body moving sluggishly like he was wading through honey. "i'm not meant to be here," he slurred, tongue too big in his dry mouth. "i can't - i don't understand."

anti, anti, there was a name he knew. where did he go, kitten didn't know where he was or what he was doing - pye? pye wasn't his name. he didn't know what was. anti would know.

"marvin," his girlfriend was saying, naomi something, naomi gudmundson, his best friend. "marvin, hey, calm down, it's - uh, it's ok, i'm here. i - do you have your phone? i'm going to call jackie."

her voice was so lovely. marvin remembered days spent hypnotized out his mind, so desperately trying to remember the girl who called him names he wasn't allowed to know in his dreams, the two of them performing magic together. kitten wasn't allowed to perform magic anymore. his hands burned, and he clutched them tightly to his chest, tears forming in his eyes.

his phone had fallen out his pocket. "password, marvin," she asked, but he didn't know. he was suddenly so deep in his own head that he didn't know where or who he was. he was dimly aware of someone taking his hand and pressing one of his fingers to a sensor, of words being spoken, of a man with anti's face arriving and walking him home, of babbling tearfully about monsters and names and memories and girls in his dreams and twins who spoke with hands and charcoal and chocolate eyes and knives slitting his face and ropes and chains and predictive dreams and a man who held him tightly, crying, whispering "marvin, it's ok, it's ok, it's ok."

my name is marvin. i'm twenty something years old. i have been on this planet for three years. i'm bisexual. i have five brothers. i have a girlfriend. i used to be part of an organization called hecate.

-

they took him to a doctor.

jackie went with him. he was the only one marvin trusted, the one who's reddish hair and dark blue eyes and splattering of freckles across scarred cheeks was most comforting, warm, safe. the doctor's name was - something. she was kind, dark hair and glittering black eyes. she asked him questions. "have you been in any accidents recently?" she started in a tinny american accent. like chase. chase had an american accent.

jackie answered for him. "he's recently had a bad concussion, fell down the stairs and hit his head. that's the main thing we can think of."

that wasn't true. and yes, jackie and henrik had argued about lying. "they could incorrectly diagnose him, and then he could be put on the wrong medications, he's already on antidepressants and we can't risk something making his condition any worse!" henrik had cried. "this won't work!"

"then what do we say - "our brother deeply hypnotized him and locked away a ton of his memories, gaslighting him so badly he didn't remember his own name for like three days?" no!" jackie had hurled back. "a concussion is something more easy to explain. i can fake hospital records, aaron can help me if i need it, and -"

"we can't fake this!" henrik despaired. "this is a genuine problem, this is his life, we can't just fake hospital records and hope they magically come up with the correct diagnosis based on the lies you tell them -"

"this isn't your thing, hen, this is marvin and i am doing what's best for him -"

marvin had been sitting at the top of the stairs listening to them fight. he rubbed his burning hands together, wincing at the pain of the contact. how long had it been since he'd been able to use his magic? months. but he couldn't use it. he'd get in trouble. it wouldn't be ok, though. anti would let him use his magic before he exploded.

chase came to sit next to him. "i'm sorry," he said softly. "this is - shitty, i know."

everyone was always sorry. marvin shoved his hands between his knees and didn't respond until chase got the point and walked away again.

eventually, they had just gone with the concussion story.

the doctor turned back to him, smiling reassuringly. marvin fucking hated her. "does anyone in your family have a history of alcohol or drug misuse?" she asked.

chase, marvin dimly thought. then she realized he didn't mean that. "don't have parents," he said hollowly. "all i have is -"

"- is us," jackie interrupted, shooting marvin a look. "our parents are dead. there was no history of any of that, no. not that i'm aware of."

she glanced at her computer, ponytail swinging as she turned in her chair. "i see you're currently taking paroxetine, two 10mg tablets per day?" she asked, and marvin nodded. "have you had a history of mental health issues before this?"

"recently got diagnosed with depression," marvin mumbled, looking at his purple boots.

"have you ever self harmed or made a suicide attempt?"

"what does this have to do with memory loss?" jackie suddenly snapped, squeezing his brother's hand. marvin smiled, but shook his head at him, clearing his throat.

"it's ok, jackie," he said softly, and turned to the doctor again. "uh...yes to both."

"ok, ok." she was silent for a moment as she typed. "i don't see a log here for… any time recently. when did you make said attempt?"

a knife that anti hadn't taken back. he was out, gone away doing whatever he did, and marvin was in the bathroom, blade pressed to his wrist. it could all be over. dapper, brother, don't rewind, i want this to be permanent.

marvin turned to jackie, panicked. the older man immediately spoke up, leg bouncing rapidly. "i - last year, around july. he - there should be records, uh, i can see…"

jackie's boyfriend was going to be busy with these fake records, marvin thought, amused. records for a concussion, records for a suicide attempt - marvin hadn't yet met aaron, the man who had swept jackie off his feet while he was away, but he got the feeling the poor bastard was going to think he was a total nutjob.

no, that wasn't a nice word. naomi wouldn't like him using that word. a pang of guilt went through him; he'd left naomi for a full year with no explanation, kissed her a few times, freaked the fuck out and dipped. maybe she'd think he was insane too. no, no, bad word. he shouldn't be thinking such things about himself. naomi would never think that.

the doctor asked him a few memory related questions: what he'd had for breakfast, what his parents names were ("jack and… donna," he'd said), his address, ect ect. then he did something called a "mental state examination" that honestly felt like a test at school. he did a quick physical exam. then they'd asked to draw his blood.

that had been an immediate no from marvin.

"you - you can't do that," he stammered, pulling his hands inside his sleeves and wrapping them around himself. just the thought of someone coming near him with a sharp object sent him into an immediate sweat, his fight or flight instincts kicking in. "i - i don't like - i can't do that."

the doctor sighed. "we have to test for certain things, such as vitamin b-12 deficiency and thyroid disease," she said, like she was reciting from memory. "although given all i've heard, i think we may be able to diagnose you, but we have to make sure. we'll likely still have to do an mri to make sure."

"i can't do the blood, i can't do the blood," marvin chanted. he was shaking so ridiculously hard. when did he get this pathetic, this weak? "i - i'm sorry, i'm sorry, can't have sharp objects, jackie, jackie, jackie -"

jackie took his both his hands, glancing at the doctor helplessly. "he - he gets scared around sharp objects," he said apologetically. "marvin, hey, it's ok. no blood today, no blood."

"we'll have to reschedule if we can't do this today," she sighed again. marvin was getting sick of her doing that. "can we do tomorrow at… right before ten? maybe five two? that's when the trucks come to take away samples, and results would be quicker if we could get it done sooner."

jackie hesitated. "marvin?"

marvin couldn't breath. couldn't breath. "no, no, no, i didn't do anything wrong," he sobbed, flapping his hands in a circle with his eyes screwed up tight. "don't hurt me, i didn't mean it, i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, leave me alone -"

he thought he blacked out. memories were fuzzy. days passed, maybe. maybe he got his blood drawn somehow. he didn't fucking know. time meant nothing anymore.

my name isn't mine. i'm too old. i have been on this planet for so long. i'm real, maybe. i have a lot of brothers. i have people who i think love me. i used to be somebody.

-

they diagnosed him with ptsd and memory loss. then he got started on donepezil as well as his paroxetine. two medications for two of the many things that were wrong with him.

he visited naomi and told her the truth.

"i lied to you," he said. he stood in front of the counter like a customer, eyes dry and voice flat. "i wasn't staying with a friend last year. i told you that because the truth is fucking awful and i didn't want to burden you with that."

naomi looked unsurprised, but concerned. she frowned, raising her hand like she was going to touch him, but held back. "marvin," she said softly, and the name grounded him. "you can tell me anything."

she shut shop for the day and he told her.

they were both crying by the end of it. it was a lot, to be fair; marvin had years of trauma to unload, though most of it had happened within the last year and a bit. he almost expected her to kick him out - he was damaged goods, too fucked in the head to even function without constantly being doped up on meds. but she never did. instead, she pulled him in for a proper hug, kissing the side of his head and gently rubbing his back. "marvin mcloughlin," she said, naomi said. "i can't even put into words how fucking sorry i am that all that happened to you, i - my fucking shit, that's so horrible."

marvin had been so unbelievably touch starved for so long that for a moment all he could do was linger in her arms, stunned, eyes so full of unfallen tears that he couldn't see. "please don't let go," he choked out, and he was still scared, but he knew her, had known her for a long time, and trusted her with his life. he somehow always had. maybe he'd fallen in love with her the moment they'd met. "you don't hate me. you don't hate me?"

he heard her snort, shocked. "you think i would - hate you for what?" she almost laughed, her short hair brushing marvin's forehead and getting caught in his barrettes. "marvin, you are more than just my boyfriend. you're my goddamn best friend and i love you more than i ever have loved anyone, and that is - väldigt läskigt, i am forgetting english. but i would never, ever hate you. well, do you - do you want the truth?"

he nodded into his shoulder, the movement making the tears overflow and spill down naomi's back. he quickly scrubbed at his face, embarrassed, but naomi hardly seemed to notice. she buried her face into marvin's neck, her voice slightly muffled as she spoke her next words.

"i was so lost when you left," she murmured. "i had made you my anchor. i blamed myself for you leaving; blamed my bpd, blamed all the depressive states you'd seen me go through, blamed all the mania you'd had to talk me out of. but you know what? i got a therapist and i learned i couldn't blame myself for the actions of others and i continued to love you every second you were gone. i knew you'd be back. i did. i never doubted you and i loved you, so so much, and with the help of my therapist i think i figured it all out."

she sat up, knocking her nose against marvin's. "you are a person and not an anchor. not a - a puppet or a magician for your brother to use. you are a person and so am i and this makes no sense, i don't even know if i'm speaking english but i do know i have always loved you and always will and i'm so glad you're alive."

and it was those words that finally broke marvin. he let out a noise that was almost a wail of despair, shoulders shaking as his chest heaved against naomi's body. she was crying too, he could hear her. so for a long while they just held each other through the pain, and eventually marvin wasn't sad or mourning, he was just hugging his best friend. just comfortable, just warm, just happy. just in love. just alive.

he would be ok.

and as he kissed her once more, this time certain of who he was, where he was, what he was, this time certain he knew he was ok; as he did that, he remembered himself one more time.

my name is marvin mcloughlin. i'm not dead and i'm not going to let myself hurt anymore and anti can suck it if he thinks i'm going to fall to his whims anymore. my name is marvin mcloughlin and i love my family and my friends and myself. my name is marvin mcloughlin and that glitch bitch better hide as well as he can, because a storm is coming and i'm going to be in the eye of it.

[mr-and-mr-diaz]

FIRST CHAPTER OF PART 2 OF THE RELUCTANT FIANCE

So excited to get started!!

M/M Romance, Arranged Marriage  - Also available on AO3

Chapter 1: A New Life

Excerpt: “Speak, you useless boy! Our future was secured! We were the most envied family in the city to have gotten Shawdun! What have you done?!”

I was awoken in the morning by the sound of two carriage drivers yelling at each other. Horses whinnied. It was far more noisy than I was used to but I would adjust soon enough. Our new house was closer to the street with no winding carriage drive or luxurious gardens to block the sounds of the city at our doorstep. We weren’t quite deep enough into town to hear the market stall owners hawk their wares--the “pitious boulevards of the hoi polloi” as Father called it--but certainly closer. I yawned, stretched, and smiled as Mary, one of our two new maids--Mother’s “Ladies of all tasks,” since they had to take care of everything now--poured tepid water into the washing stand and departed. 

Slowly, I slid my feet into worn slippers and observed myself in the small mirror. My hair was still messy from a night spent wandering the market in nothing but shirtsleeves and britches. I hoped to take Billy back there today on a walk, if Margaret would allow. 

I pulled a linen shirt from the worn clothes press and put it on, sliding back into yesterday’s britches. There was no one to notice or care about how I looked. Henry was now engaged to Oliver, soon to be Marquess of Metley, and myself and my parents had disengaged from polite society (that is, polite society threw my parents out on their self-important arses and me with them) and moved house to a place we could afford with what was left of the money the Shawduns paid for breaking off the engagement. It was smaller and darker, and closer to the dreaded common folk. We had only two maids now, no butlers or other staff. Outside, a small bit of cobblestone received carriages when necessary and behind the house a pitiful patch of back garden tangled with weeds when I didn’t attend to it myself, and I couldn’t often be bothered.

Dressed, I headed downstairs to breakfast. Father sat, resplendent in a fraying greatcoat and greying silk shirt. Mother sat beside him, her crushed velvet gown growing shiny at the elbows. They were already eating. I sat down as well and the maid brought me cold toast and eggs, served with some lukewarm tea.

“...what I wouldn’t do with a bit of cards right now, Felicity. I tell you, once we are restored to our former home, I shall never cease playing them.”

Mother sniffed. “And I shall wear five different silks all in one day, all with matching hats, and we shall once again be the very toast of town!”

Typical breakfast talk, as it had been for the three months since we’d moved here. I found myself quite tired of it this morning. “And exactly how do you plan to restore yourselves to society, Mother and Father? Surely no one will have me anymore now that I’m Henry’s leftovers,” I could not conceal my small grin of victory, “and you need extensive wealth or breeding to even be considered.”

Father cleared his throat. “Of course Felicity, I would buy you as many silks as you wish.”

Mother smiled at him. “And I shall never again complain when I see you seated at cards, Aloysious, dear.”

Ah, yes. This was another new feature that came with our new home. A precious few of our previous belongings, supplemented by second hand castoffs of other impoverished nobility. Carpets worn to the threads. No social calls for this house. 

And not a word to me. Not since Father had received Henry’s formal letter and sworn me off as useless had either of them spoken a word to me.

“...but of course, the trick is to only gamble with what you have in front of you…”

I scoffed, pushing my cold breakfast away from me. Eat something, you look hungry. “Goodbye then, Mother; Father.”

I collected my coat and departed. 

“‘To my dear friend Aloysius Mallory, I pray you are well. I also ask after the health of your wife and of course, your son, Philip. I find it difficult to write this letter to you, but find that I must.’ Whatever is Henry talking about in this letter, Philip? ...Ahem, ‘ I regret to inform you that…’ What the devil?!”

As I walked along the river towards the garment district I contemplated the last time Father spoke to me. 

“This useless son of ours… Henry Shawdun has officially broken off the engagement! It says here that he has fallen in love with another! WHAT DID YOU DO, PHILIP?!”

Our new accommodations meant that I lived closer to Margaret and Billy than I had previously. No more than a fifteen minute’s walk.

“Speak, you useless boy! Our future was secured! We were the most envied family in the city to have gotten Shawdun! What have you done?!”

Soon enough, I arrived at Mrs. Blethely’s Fine Gowns and Costumery. A felt a small smile ghost over my face as I spoke aloud the words that I had said to Father then, the words I had sworn not to say, but hadn’t been able to hold back in the heat of the moment. All my resentment, all my hope that maybe they cared for me a little, the illusion vanished as I said those five words and erased myself from my parent’s purview forever. 

“I found him another suitor.”

“So you did.” I startled and looked up at Mrs. Blethely’s age-worn face. Her mouth had permanent frown lines around it, making her a truly foreboding looking woman, but I knew that behind all the salt and pickles was a… well, a truly foreboding woman who smiled at you but only when you earned it. Our first impression had been quite shabby, with neither of us getting a terribly good impression of the other. Now, she regarded me evenly, but her eyes smiled just the tiniest bit. “Come in quickly, young man; you are late and Billy is all a-wonders at his shiny new Uncle Oliver and gasping to talk about it with someone who knows the man.”

So Henry had introduced them at last.

I hesitated on the step, then entered.  

No sooner was I in the back room then young Billy flew into my arms. “Uncle Philip, Uncle Philip!” He spoke loudly though he was mere inches from my face. “We met a new man last night! And he’s so nice, and so very smart and he knows all about plants and he knows you!” I carried him to Margaret’s quarters as he carried on. “And Henry said he’s going to marry him, but I told him no! He can’t, because Mr. Lord Philip is marrying him, and then Mama shushed me, so I’m still so confused, are you marrying Uncle Henry?” his big blue eyes, perfect copies of his Uncle Henry, stared into mine, filled with joy, curiosity and confusion.

I cleared my throat. “I… ah, no, Billy. We were going to but then… er.” How to explain to a five year old?

“They decided that they prefer to be just friends, Billy. And your Uncle Henry and Uncle Oliver get along so well and they want to get married, so now they’re going to get married instead.” Margaret came down the spiral staircase and interrupted my bumbling. She was Henry’s older sister, and even more years my senior. She had all but raised Henry while his own parents neglected him, and took a similar approach to me, though God knew I was fully grown and had done little to deserve her kindness. Now she swooped young Billy out of my arms, depositing the lad on the floor where he continued to vibrate with unasked questions. “Apologies, Philip, I should have explained it to him properly last night, but I got distracted…” She gestured around her workshop where half-completed dresses spilled over the surfaces, sprinkled liberally with thread spools and spare buttons. 

“No worries.” I gave her a tired smile. “Surely you have more important things to do than discuss three-month old news.” I gestured around the shop, which bustled with new orders. “The Harvest Ball keeping you and Blethely on your feet, I see.”

She smiled, hands on her hips as she observed her domain. “My kingdom for an assistant.”

I chuckled. “Well, there’s always me, useless though I am!”

She grinned at that. “I’ll bear it in mind, Philip--you never know when I might need a spare dress form.” She winked and sat down to work.

“Wait, but--Uncle Philip?” I turned back to Billy who looked up at me. “Does that mean that you won’t be my Uncle Philip anymore?” His large blue eyes began to fill with tears. “Does that mean that--that you won’t visit anymore??”

Ah yes, I reminded myself. The title. “I… I don’t know, Billy.” I turned helplessly back to Margaret who looked up from her sewing. “I--I don’t want to overstep, Margaret. I would happily visit as a friend, but “Uncle” belongs to Oliver now, and I don’t know if it would be proper…”

She smiled and gestured to Billy, who scampered to her side for a hug. “It’ll all be okay, Billy. Philip will continue to come visit you all the time just like before.” She put a finger under his chin and lifted it so Billy was looking into her eyes. “He still loves you, no matter what. Family comes in all shapes and sizes, even if we aren’t married to someone. Would you like to keep calling him your Uncle Philip?”

Billy nodded, chin wobbling.

Margaret glanced at me, and I nodded my ascent. If Henry wanted to say no to this child, that was very much his problem. I was not that strong. 

Margaret smiled and turned back to Billy. “Then he is still your Uncle Philip.”

“Really?” Billy turned to me, all dusty cheeks and frayed cuffs and hopeful face and my heart caved in. 

“Of course, Billy. I’ll be your Uncle Philip for as long as you would like me to be.” And God spare my heart when he eventually grew tired of me and realized I didn’t belong. When they both did.

Billy smiled and the sun came out. “Okay.” He wiped his eyes and nose on his shirtsleeves, before Margaret clicked her tongue and handed him a scrap of cloth from the table. “I’m… I’m really happy you aren’t leaving us, Uncle Philip. I like Uncle Oliver a lot, but…”

“We don’t compare people, Billy, it’s rude.” Margaret chided, eyes back to her sewing. “Now, wash up before Uncle Oliver and Uncle Henry arrive for lunch.” 

I startled. “Ahh… that would be my cue to leave, I suppose.”

“You don’t have to.”

I rose and straightened my coat. “No, no, I think it would be best. Allow Oliver and Billy time to bond,” Billy would soon become Oliver’s adopted son, allowing Billy to secure a title and a future outside of Mrs. Blethely’s workroom, and it would hardly do for an irrelevant interloper to get in the way of that. “I will be back to visit, though, rest assured.” I shook Margaret’s hand, and gave Billy a quick hug before hastening to the door.

“Philip.”

I turned back. Margaret had risen and followed me to the door, a soft scarf in her hand and a kind smile on her face. “As you will not be marrying Henry I know we will not become brother and sister, but I should like to think that we could still be friends.” I felt a lump in my throat thicken as she quoted my own words back to me. 

I looked down at my feet and swallowed. Abandoned at home I might be, and I would no doubt have to get used to a life without them soon enough, but I would bask in the glow of her and Billy’s friendship for as long as they could want me. “I… thank you, Margaret. Yes, I would be honored.”

“Then I will see you on Thursday morning at ten sharp for breakfast with Billy, myself and Mrs. Blethely. Now here’s a little something I made with scraps from Lady Aramintha Vogun’s Harvest Ball gown. It’ll keep you warm as the chill sets in.” With a warm smile, she pressed the scarf into my hands and then ushered me to the door.

As I hastened outside into the early autumn breeze, I felt eyes on me. I looked up and caught the stare of a man I had never met before. He regarded me intensely from across the street, not saying a word, hat pulled low and coat collar turned up. Coincidence it could be, but I didn’t like the feeling I got from him. Straightening my shoulders, I turned away from him and hurried down the street, praying he would not follow. When I chanced a glance over my shoulder a few blocks away, he was gone.

[gra-sonas]

The Soldier and the Alien

Pairing: Malex, Alex Manes/Michael Guerin

Words: 4.2K | Rating: T | On AO3

For @beamirang​ who asked for Fictional Kiss Prompt 12: a hoarse whisper “kiss me” | eternal thanks to @insidious-intent for the beta!

Warning: Mentions of Michael drinking a lot/being drunk in the past. He sought help and is already better when this story takes place, though.

🎖️💚👽

Michael fell sick on a Wednesday. 

It was an ordinary day. There were no threats, no fights, he hadn’t even seen anyone in two days. No one knew why or how it happened, or how it was even possible. He’d been working on the alien spaceship console in his bunker until late the night before, trying to figure out whether a different looking piece of iridescent glass he bought from a contact on the Dark Web was part of it, but when he woke up the next morning, he felt like crap. 

Max came by, but his attempt to heal Michael with his powers turned out to be fruitless. Isobel insisted on calling Kyle, who in turn consulted with Liz. The two were now working in Liz’s lab at the hospital in an attempt to figure out what had caused Michael to catch what seemed to be a common cold. 

He couldn’t breathe because his nose was stuffed, his throat felt like he’d swallowed sandpaper and his entire body hurt. He was lying on his bed in the Airstream, wrapped in three blankets and a sleeping bag because he was so cold. Cold! He’d never been cold in his life. Like Alex had pointed out correctly, Michael does run hot.  

Alex. Thinking of him caused an entirely different kind of pain to flare up deep down in Michael. He sighed. Alex had always been fond of Michael’s human-shaped heating blanket qualities. 

Isobel dabbed at his forehead with a wet cloth and it made him shiver. She didn’t look confident if this was in any way helpful or would speed up Michael’s recovery. 

“Do you feel any better, Michael?” 

Michael’s eyes were closed and his voice was merely a croak. 

“Not since you asked me just five minutes ago. I’ve never felt so terrible in my life. And I’ve been hungover a lot. What is going on with me, Iz?” 

“I don’t know, Michael. Liz is working on your blood samples. I could call her again?” 

Michael blinked his eyes open to looked at her, but even though it was dim inside the trailer, the light made his eyes hurt. 

“Why don’t you drive over and see how far they’ve come? I’ll sleep for a bit.” 

Isobel looked down at him. 

“Are you sure? What if you need something and I’m not here?” 

“I have my phone, Iz. I’ll text you in case I need anything.” 

Isobel got up and reached for her handbag. 

“Okay, but really try and get some sleep, Michael. I’ve heard it helps when people are sick.” 

Michael closed his eyes and nodded, his breathing slowly evening out. 

Isobel took one last look at him before she left the trailer and walked over to her car. Liz better had some results, seeing Michael look sick and small in his bed made Isobel’s heart clench painfully in her chest. 

-- 

Michael had been asleep for a while when he woke up from someone knocking on the door of his trailer. His first impulse was to open it with his mind because he could barely speak, but of course he didn’t. Instead he tried to answer. 

“Come in, door’s open!” 

He was prepared to get up and shuffle over to open the door because there was no way the person standing outside could’ve heard him, but he was spared the effort.  

The door opened and Alex climbed up the steps and entered the Airstream. Michael’s breath caught.

Alex was without his crutch, and he was carrying something that looked like a picnic basket on his right arm. Michael had a hard time keeping his eyes open, but he still took his fill of looking at Alex.  

He was wearing black jeans tight enough to leave very little to the imagination, a forest green v-neck Henley that put his chest hair on display, and a black leather jacket. He was also wearing Ray Bans he took off once he'd closed the door behind himself. He put the basket on the kitchen counter before he stepped closer and squinted at Michael, his eyes only slowly adjusting to the lack of light inside of the Airstream.  

“You look like shit, Guerin.” 

Michael snorted. 

“Thanks, guess my exterior matches how I feel.” 

Alex face softened a little when he heard Michael’s rough voice. 

“Wow, you really are sick. I thought Isobel was joking when she called earlier and asked me to make a sick bed visit.” 

Michael attempted a shrug, but Isobel had wrapped the blankets around him so tight, he had very little room to move. He nodded instead. 

“Yes, I’m really sick. You shouldn’t come any closer, I might be contagious.” 

Alex came closer regardless, until he was right by Michael’s side.  

“I went to war, Guerin. More than once. I can handle a cold.” 

He reached for Michael’s forehead and pressed his flat hand against it. It was cool and although Michael was cold and shivering, it felt heavenly. Alex’s eyebrows drew together in a concerned frown. 

“Seems like you’re running a fever.” 

Michael shook his head. 

“We run hotter than the average human, are you sure it’s a fever? Besides, I’m freezing. I can’t even feel my toes anymore.” 

Alex turned around and rummaged in one of Michael’s drawers. When he returned to the bed, he lifted the blanket pile, reached for Michael’s legs and put woolen socks on his icy cold feet (it was a pair of socks Michael had bought for Alex years ago, after he’d complained how cold it was in the trailer when he visited Michael while he was on leave). Afterwards, Alex was careful to tuck the blankets around Michael’s feet properly and Michael felt a little less cold already. 

“Thank you.” 

Alex smiled at him and walked over to the kitchen area. Michael’s eyes hurt, so he shut them and just listened to Alex taking things out of the basket. He heard the clanking of pots, then the snick of a lighter when Alex turned on the gas stove. 

Michael dosed off for a while. 

-- 

When he woke up from his nap, he forced his eyes open and looked around the Airstream. Alex had made himself comfortable at the table across from the kitchen unit. A laptop was open in front of him and he was scrolling through something on his screen. When he heard Michael shift, he looked up. 

“Hey, how do you feel?” 

“Still like crap but a little better, I think?” 

Michael noticed steam coming from a pot on his stove. 

“Are you trying to burn down my trailer, Private?” 

Alex chuckled, got up and moved over to the stove. He took the lid off the pot and stirred. 

“I’m making soup. It’s my mom’s recipe. She used to make it when we were sick, and we were usually back to normal the next day. Maybe it’ll do the same for you. If not, you’ll at least eat something that will be easy to swallow.” 

Warmth spread through Michael. No one had ever taken care of him like this. Not that there had ever been a reason for it, he’d never been sick after all. But now that he was, Alex was here. Even though they weren’t on the best of terms at the moment.  

Too much happened. First Caulfield and the immeasurable loss of that day, then all the shit that went down with Noah. Followed by Max healing Michael’s hand against his will, and Michael playing guitar for the first time in a decade. Feeling a moment of peace in all the chaos, before the pain of Max’s death had ripped through Michael like a knife. 

He’d been a mess afterwards, and for much longer than it took them to bring Max back. He still doesn’t recall what happened during some of that time because he’d been drunk out of his mind for most of it. Until one day he’d realized he’d have to face his demons and claw his way back into the world of the living. Today, it was over three months since he last had a drink. 

Alex didn’t know about that, though. They’d barely been in touch since the night Max brought Rosa back. That fateful night when Michael went to the Wild Pony and Alex’s best friend let him kiss her. The night Michael had ruined things between him and Alex for good. In his desire to make the pain stop, he’d not only hurt himself worse, he’d also hurt Alex. 

Alex had left Roswell shortly after hearing about him and Maria. According to Liz, the reason he’d left in his car had been to “take care of important Project Shepard business”. It had kept Alex from Roswell for a couple of weeks, according to Liz longer than planned because Jesse Manes had been kidnapped from the hospital and Alex had worried about Flint’s and possibly at least one of his other brothers’ involvement. 

When Michael had heard that Alex left town, he’d ignored the part about Project Shepard, though, and given into the righteous anger bubbling up in him because “leaving’s what Alex Manes does best.” At the same time, it had felt like the most vital part of Michael had finally died, the part that still had hope. The part that had always made him believe that there was still some good in the world, and at least one man on this godforsaken planet worth living and fighting for. 

Needless to say, he hadn’t taken it well. The downward spiral he’d been on since Caulfield had turned into a bottomless fall. He’d barely managed to keep his job at the junkyard, and they probably would’ve been able to bring back Max earlier, had he not decided to drink himself into oblivion on a daily basis. 

Until one day, he’d received an envelope in the mail. It had contained a USB stick and a detailed note in Alex’s neat handwriting, telling him that Alex was on a mission to shut down Project Shepard for good, that he’d found another facility where more aliens had been held captive by Jesse, and that he was currently busy relocating them somewhere safe, but he wanted Michael to have all the relevant information he’d uncovered so far.  

Michael had stared at the note with wide eyes, his inebriated brain unable to process most of the information in Alex’s letter. He’d plugged the USB stick into his computer to see what Alex had sent him. He’d skimmed through some random files first, feeling oddly detached when he looked at numerous elderly faces of people, who were very likely also aliens. When Michael had opened the first picture in a folder labeled MARA, though, he'd felt like watching Caulfield burn to the ground all over again. 

Mom! 

Michael’s first instinct had been to drink until he’d be able to forget, but then he’d clicked through the entire folder. Looking at pictures of his mother from 1947, when she was as young as he remembered her from that one magical moment in Caulfield, was what brought him to his knees. 

He’d dropped to the floor, his body wrecked by hard sobs, and he hadn’t been able to calm down for a long time. He had no idea how much time had passed, when he’d finally managed to sit up. He’d sat on the cold floor of his lab, arms curled around his legs, head placed on his knees. He’d gotten up from the floor eventually and dragged himself to the bathroom, where he’d stared at himself in the mirror for the first time in months. 

He’d barely recognized the man staring back at him. And not just because his eyes were blood-shot and puffy from heavy drinking and crying for hours. He’d looked awful. Thin, almost haggard, his hair unwashed and much longer than he preferred, his clothes tattered and stained. 

It had been a cruel awakening for him. In that moment, he’d realized he'd hit rock bottom, and if he didn’t manage to pull himself together, he’d likely drink himself to death, alien physiology be damned. He’d also realized that he wouldn’t be able to get out of this on his own. 

If someone had told his teenage self (or even his adult self, prior to Max’s death), that one day he would call Kyle Valenti and ask for his help, Michael would’ve dismissed it as utter bullshit. But that’s what he did, because he knew that neither Isobel nor Max were equipped to give him the help and support he'd need. 

Kyle had been nothing but kind and professional about it and monitored his detox closely. Even when Michael had tried to rile him up when the pain of going through withdrawals had been almost blinding, Kyle had kept his composure and treated Michael like he’d treat any of his patients. 

Three months after that fateful day in his lab, Michael was doing better. He’d put the weight he’d lost back on, he was working more regular hours at the junkyard, and at Kyle’s insistence, he saw a therapist several towns over two times a week. Even though it bothered him that he could never reveal the whole truth to her, he understood that - regardless of the fact that she didn’t know that he’s an alien - talking to her was a vital part of his recovery.  

Which lead Michael’s train of thought back to the here and now, and the fact that Alex Manes was currently in his trailer, cooking soup for him. Right now, Michael wasn’t physically able to hold a longer conversation because of his sore throat, but he knew they had to talk.  

“Why did you come here, Alex?” 

Alex looked at Michael. 

“I told you, Isobel called. She told me you were sick and asked me to look if you were ok.” 

“You’re making me soup.” 

Michael couldn’t see it clearly, but it looked like Alex blushed. 

“Well, it’s what you do when someone’s sick. You make them soup.” 

“What else?” 

“You make them tea. Read them a story. I don’t know, whatever keeps them warm and makes them feel better.” 

“I’m buried underneath a pile of blankets but I’m still freezing. Looks like you’re not doing a very good job at keeping me warm.” 

Alex snorted. 

“What do you expect me to do, Guerin, come over and climb into bed with you to warm you up?” 

“Good idea.” 

Michael had overused his voice and he started coughing. 

Alex grabbed a bottle of water and walked over to him. He helped Michael sit up and take a few sips. Michael hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. It was painful to swallow, but drinking water made him feel better. 

When he had enough, Alex took the bottle and put it within reach on the floor beside his bed. Then he handed Michael a small bottle of acetone. Michael hesitated. 

“I don’t use acetone anymore.” 

Alex looked surprised. 

“You don’t? Since when?” 

“Since you sent me the USB stick.” 

It seemed to dawn on Alex what that information implied. 

“That can’t have been easy. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you looked through those files.” 

Michael closed his eyes. It still hurt to think of Caulfield, of his mom, but the pain no longer threatened to tear him apart. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Kyle told me some of the things you’ve done for me, for us, over these last few months. That can’t have been easy either. Working against your own family.” 

“You are my family, Guerin. I know you don’t believe me, and that you only associate me with pain and misery, but for better or for worse, you are my family.” 

Michael swallowed hard. It hurt, and not just because his throat was sore. 

“I do believe you, Alex. I’ve been working on myself while you were away. My therapist and Kyle’ve helped me to put a lot of things into perspective.” 

Before Michael could continue, his body was wrecked by another coughing fit. Alex stepped closer and rubbed soothing circles across Michael’s back while Michael tried to catch his breath and grabbed for the bottle of water. Alex pulled out his phone and tapped away on it while Michael took tiny sips of water until the urge to cough subsided. When Alex’s phone beeped with a notification, Michael looked up. 

“Everything ok?” 

“Yeah, it’s from Kyle. He tells me that I can give you some acetone for medical reasons.” 

Michael was still hesitant. 

“It’s ok, Michael. He says as long as it’s just one sip and you don’t down the entire bottle, it will help you with pain relief, but it won’t put you back to square one.” 

Alex uncapped the bottle of acetone and handed it to Michael. He took a cautious sip and sighed in relief. His throat and head didn’t hurt as much all of a sudden. Instead his stomach rumbled. 

“Thanks, Alex. It helped. When do you think the soup will be ready?” 

Alex smiled. 

“Should be ready by now. I’ll get some for you.” 

Alex filled the soup into a bowl and brought it over to Michael. Since his throat was currently not killing him, he was able to eat without pain. He couldn’t taste anything, but the soup was warm and his stomach stopped rumbling eventually. Alex returned to the table where he ate some soup himself. When he came back over to Michael to take the empty bowl from him, Michael managed a somewhat suggestive smirk. 

“How about you’re telling me a story now, Private?” 

Alex walked back over to the kitchen area and put Michael's bowl in the sink. He turned around to Michael.  

“What kind of story do you want to hear?” 

Michael pretended to think for a moment. He knew what he was about to say may very well blow up in his face, but he had to risk it. 

“Uhm, how about the one where the soldier and the alien are madly in love with each other and figure out a way to be together?” 

Alex walked back over to Michael. Michael scooted into the corner of his bed and offered Alex a place to sit.  Alex didn’t sit down though. Instead, he leaned against the opposite wall of Michael’s cot and looked at him with sad eyes. 

“I thought there’s only the one where the soldier and the alien were madly in love, but somehow they both managed to fuck it up?” 

And there it was, the rejection in the form of a Past Tense that hurt so fucking much, Michael struggled to breathe. He closed his eyes when he felt tears pricking at them and he considered feigning another coughing fit so Alex wouldn’t notice that Michael was falling apart on the inside right in front of him. 

When Michael had finally decided to get his life back in order, he’d made an effort to sort through his complicated feelings for Alex with the help of his therapist. He’d learned to differentiate between his unwavering love for Alex Manes, and the pain connected to all the back and forth they’d gone through over the course of a decade. At some point, he’d allowed himself to hope that Alex and him would find a way back to each other one day. 

The logical thinker in him understood that it may be too late, that he’d let Alex walk away one too many times. (This was something his therapist had pointed out to him: yes, Alex had left him more than once – oftentimes he didn’t have another choice, though, the Air Force didn’t treat deserters kindly - but Michael had also never gone after him when Alex could’ve stayed. They'd both used unhealthy coping mechanisms, they both had abandonment and trust issues several miles deep. Unraveling their behavior had helped Michael claim half of the blame, and even though it had been hard to admit his mistakes to himself, it had also made him feel lighter). 

The emotional part of Michael had refused to give up hope, though. 

The realization that it was indeed over, hurt more than anything. When Alex talked again, it startled Michael and he blinked his eyes open. 

“The thing is, the soldier is actually still madly in love with the alien and would love nothing more than to figure out a way for them to be together. If it’s not too late?” 

Alex’s voice was soft and his expression unsure. His hands fiddled with the hem of his shirt. Michael’s heart fluttered in his chest and all the pain inside of him evaporated for the moment. He made a grabby hand gesture at Alex and Alex slowly sat down on the edge of Michael’s bed. 

“Alex, the alien wants that, too. I want that. You have no idea how much I want for us to give it another shot.” 

He ran out of breath, and tears he couldn’t hold back any longer started streaming down his cheeks. He flung himself forward towards Alex, who caught him and wrapped his arms around Michael in a tight embrace. 

“I’ve got you, Michael, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.” 

A pained sob escaped Michael’s mouth and then he collapsed. Physically and mentally. He cried and cried and cried, interrupted by painful coughing fits, but the tears just wouldn’t stop falling. Alex held him the entire time, his shirt soaking up most of Michael’s snot and tears. He didn’t seem to care. He continued to rub soothing circles into Michael’s back and whispered his affirmation to stay into Michael’s ear over and over. 

After a long time, Michael’s body couldn’t take the dual strain of crying and coughing anymore. His tears dried up eventually, but Alex kept rubbing Michael’s back in an attempt to further soothe him. When Michael’s breathing slowed down to a normal speed of in and out, Alex pulled the bottle with acetone from his pocket, uncapped it, and encouraged Michael to take another sip. 

The urge to cough faded and Michael sank back onto the bed, utterly exhausted. 

He blinked at Alex, his eyes puffy and red. 

“I thought I’d lost you. I thought I’d ruined it all and that it’s too late. Alex...” 

“I know, Michael. Me too. You have no idea how many times I wanted to reach out to you since I came back a while ago, but Kyle kept telling me to wait. He didn’t give me any details - “doctor patient confidentiality, Alex, you know what that means” - but I understood that you were doing something for yourself, and I didn’t want to jeopardize that. You deserve being better like no one else. I won’t lie though, staying away and giving you space has been harder than serving three tours.” 

Michael shook his head. 

“And I thought you hated me, that I had finally managed to destroy the one good thing in my life for good.” 

“Michael, please. We both made mistakes, big and small, and too many of them over the years. We’ll talk about everything when you’re feeling better, not today though. You’re exhausted.” 

Alex bent forward and placed a kiss on Michael’s forehead. 

“I’m just so grateful Iz called me earlier and asked me to see you,” he whispered. 

“Me too.” 

“You should sleep, Michael, you can barely keep your eyes open anymore.” 

Michael closed his eyes for a second while he held onto Alex’s hand. 

“I’m afraid that when I fall asleep, you’ll leave and I won’t see you for another three months.” 

Michael sounded and looked so small when he confessed what seemed to be his biggest fear, and it almost ripped Alex’s heart out. 

“Michael, please look at me.” 

Michael blinked his eyes open, his pupils were blown wide in the twilight of the trailer. Alex took Michael’s hands in his and looked into Michael’s eyes. 

“I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere. That’s a promise. You have me, Michael. For as long as you will have me and even beyond. I’m yours and you are mine. We’ll figure out the details later, we’ll talk, we’ll talk some more, just, whatever it takes to make this work. I want to be with you, and unless you tell me to go, I won’t ever leave you again.” 

Alex caressed the side of Michael’s face, and Michael nuzzled into the touch, his eyes falling shut. Alex ran his other hand through Michael’s sweat-damp curls. 

“How about I’ll now take you up on your invitation to warm you up?” 

Michael’s eyes flew open and he nodded. He shuffled over into the corner of his bed to make space for Alex. Alex got up, opened a drawer across from the bed and pulled out one of Michael’s sweaters. He stripped out of the soggy green shirt he was wearing and pulled the soft sweater over his head. Then he sat down and unlaced his boots to take them off. He didn’t take off the prosthetic, but he adjusted his jeans and socks to ensure the cold metal was covered, before he climbed into bed with Michael. They were facing each other and Michael managed a small smile. 

“I can’t believe you’re really here. I’ve missed you so much.” 

Alex searched for Michael’s hand underneath the blanket, and when he found it, he laced their fingers together. 

“I’ve missed you, too, Michael. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” 

Michael didn’t manage more than a hoarse whisper when he asked: “Kiss me?” 

And Alex did.

[must-be-brooklyn]

could you do something angsty with Spot proposing to Race modern au?

Angsty proposal - not something I’ve ever really thought about, but I did my best! I hope it’s at least half decent hahaha

Ship: Sprace

Words: 1.9k

Era: Modern au

Also — it is actually just angst. Well, angst and then a follow-up bit. I also have the obligatory, sappy, extra, make-up bit and ehhh I might post that later if anyone wants it -  for now I decided to just stick to the ask and fulfil the ask as an interpretation of what was requested! 

The //angst// stops as “His eyes stung with unshed tears that were finally beginning to bead as he realised what had just happened.” After that it becomes more ~~discussiony/leading-into-the-pt-2-that-I-may-or-may-not-post~~ lol

And we’ve got some very ooc characters probably because I still don’t know how to personify them lmao. At this point, I have given up on the accent so much that I’m barely even writing it — so use your imagination!!  

Warnings: cursing? tell me if you want me to flag anything else 

“Will you marry me?” Spot looked at him expectantly, twisting a plastic ring that could not possibly have cost more than two dollars between his fingers.

Race stared at him, horrified. It was like his heart had suddenly started seizing and he could not breathe properly. “What?” he said, fully aware of how his voice broke as if he was going through puberty again. By his sides, his hands clenched into tight fists, but he could barely feel his nails digging into his palms. “You’re joking?”

Spot shrugged. “No? We’re living together, neither of us have proper health care arrangements, taxes are risin’ and it would grant you automatic citizenship, and I know you’re applying for it at the moment.”

“That’s so low.” Race took a step away from Spot as his face became even grimmer. “That’s so fucking low, Spot.”

For his part, Spot genuinely looked confused about what he had said that was so wrong. His fingers were curling around the ring, though, and he pulled it out of Race’s sight. “I don’t understand…” he started, “You’ve been talkin’ about gettin’ citizenship for ages. And, tax benefits would be good for both of us. It’s a win-win situation.”

Shaking his head, Race took a few more steps away from Spot. His stomach was curling as he thought about what Spot was saying. “A marriage of convenience is not a win-win,” he spat. “I can’t believe you’d even suggest that.”

“You said you don’t believe in marriage, though,” Spot said. He sounded a little strained, now, and deep frown lines marred his forehead, disfiguring the normally smooth skin. “It’s not like I’m asking you to wear a ring or anything. You could still date whoever you want” – he swallowed heavily before continuing – “And we could get divorced if one of us actually did want to get married. But, it’s thirty-five dollars to get a licence and we’d both benefit from it.”

Race laughed hysterically. “Benefit?” The more worked up he got, the more his Italian accent began to work its way through. Since he had moved to New York on a full ballet scholarship for college four years ago, he had worked hard to assimilate. He sounded almost completely fluent in English now, but there were still times when his Italian vowels showed loud and clear. “What the hell kind of benefit is that?”

Spot looked distinctly uncomfortable. He gave a meek shrug and leaned against the kitchen counter, hands slowly moving into the pockets on his jeans.

“I’m going somewhere else tonight,” Race said, whipping around on his heel and storming out of the kitchen.

Spot rushed after him. “I’m sayin’ we have to kiss or anythin’. We don’t even have to tell people. It’d just benefit both of us, you know?” He stood adamantly in the doorway of Race’s bedroom, but Race refused to look at him as he threw a change of clothes into a rucksack and grabbed his dance bag with his other hand.

“Get out of the way,” Race said, scowling. He pulled bags onto his shoulders. The little patience and self-control he had left were rapidly disappearing. He could feel a wildfire that was only growing in his chest, and it was on the edge of spiralling out of control. “Spot, toglietevi di mezzo.” He hissed the words and the venom in them was palatable.

Finally, Race shoved past him and rushed out of the apartment with nothing in his mind but getting as far away from Spot as possible. His eyes stung with unshed tears that were finally beginning to bead as he realised what had just happened.

He stumbled blindly down the streets until he finally found himself in a different building, standing outside a door that was much too familiar. Resigned and exhausted, he knocked on the door and waited for someone to let him in.

It took only a few seconds for David to appear at the door, looking pleasantly surprised. “Race, hey. Do you want to come in?” he said, not even hesitating. It was times like this when Race truly appreciated how much David had acted as his surrogate parent since he had moved from Italy. He never questioned things until he knew the whole story, always had time to listen to other people’s problems and never held any (visible) prejudice, no matter what Race told him. And over the years, Race had told him some pretty dodgy stuff.

David took Race’s bags from him and dropped them in the entranceway. Race stepped in, not having realised until that second that he was shaking and his hands had gone numb.

“Race is here!” David called into the small flat as he guided Race into the sitting room with an arm around his shoulders. He sat Race down on the couch.

There was a thundering from somewhere deeper within the apartment and suddenly, Jack appeared in the room. The grin he wore slid off his face like mud as he took in Race’s appearance. “What happened?” His voice was low and vaguely threatening. “Who do I need to kill?”

Race shook his head. “I overreacted,” he said very slowly and even more quietly. Now that he was out of the flat, his head was slowly clearing as he did his best to rationalise everything that had happened. “I argued with Spot.”

“Spot,” Jack said, tone unreadable. “What did my stupid brother say this time?”

Stumbling over his words a little and with Jack and David on one side each, Race recounted exactly what had gone down just over an hour previously. The whole time, Jack made little noises of exasperation under his breath, moaning and rubbing his temples. David’s lips were pursed tightly.

“Spot’s an idiot,” Jack said immediately after Race finished talking. “And I’m going to knock some sense into him because he’s a stubborn ass who ain’t going to admit he’s wrong otherwise.”

Race shook his head. “No, please don’t.” He wrung his hands together and then shook them out. “Can I sleep here tonight?”

Jack hesitated for a second and his eyes flickered toward David. He seemed conflicted, as though he could not decide what exactly the best course of action was when there were so many things that he wanted to say to Spot. Race tore his eyes away from them and stared at his hands, twisting them into knots on his lap and then undoing them.

“Of course, you can stay. You know the spare room is always made up,” David said softly, “But you know that you’ll have to talk to Spot at some point, right?”

Race swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, sure. Can I just go… Lie down?” They gave him a small sign of agreement and Race took himself to the small bedroom. It was not late, but for once in his life, he just wanted to be alone for a bit.

Originally, Jack and David had bought the apartment under the pretence of being friends and therefore needing two rooms, even though they had been dating for two years when they first moved in. They had never used that second bedroom, but they were enough like the honourary parents of their group that there seemed to be a constant stream of people who needed a place to spend a few nights.

Alone in the room, Race was left to his thoughts. The whole situation just felt mindboggling. Objectively, Race had absolutely no problem with marrying Spot. Except for the facts that they were not dating, and he was already having enough trouble suppressing his feelings as two friends living together. Spot’s proposal seemed a cruel joke.

By the time morning came, Race still felt slightly sick in the bottom of his stomach, but he pulled himself out of the bed and stumbled into the kitchen. Jack was standing by the counter, pouring coffee. A mug of tea was already steeping next to it. He greeted Race without looking up.

“D’you want any coffee?” Jack asked, reaching for another mug in the cupboard.

Race shook his head. He had ballet this morning, and his coach was making him, and everyone else in the cast of their newest production, avoid caffeine. “Do you have any eggs?” Those were one of the foods that the coach had been actively encouraging people to eat before coming in for rehearsal.

Jack put the coffee pot on the bench and found a teaspoon and the milk in the fridge. “Uh, yeah, a few… They’re kosher ones, but Dave won’t mind if you have them.”

“Kosher?” Race repeated. “I thought Davey didn’t do kosher.”

“It’s the…” Jack paused and screwed up his face, obviously doing his best to remember something, “Ten Days of Repentance?” He trailed off, before shaking his head and muttering under his breath, “Dave mostly calls it by the Hebrew name.”

Race looked at him questioningly.

“He only observes kosher durin’ the big holidays. Or at least observes it more strictly – there’s other stuff he doesn’t do and some stuff he does all year ‘round, anyway. But, whatever, yeah, he won’t mind you eatin’ the eggs.” Jack walked to the fridge and rummaged around until he found the eggs he had been talking about and a carton of milk.

Jack hummed under his breath as he moved around the kitchen, putting things in their various places and pulling a saucepan out for Race. “Where is Davey, anyway?” Race asked as he watched the scene.

Jack put the milk back in the fridge with a completely unnecessary flourish. “He had a bad night,” said Jack, his tone a touch more clipped. Race tried to ignore the roll in his stomach. “Anyway,” Jack continued, “About Spot. Seein’ as he’s my brother and all, can I please have permission to go and knock some sense into him. As your friend and his brother, it’s my duty.”

Suddenly, Race did not feel so hungry. He put the eggs down on the bench as he gave Jack a non-committal shrug. He could take what he liked from that; Race wanted no further part in anything to do with Spot until he had worked out a satisfactory way to apologise for the way he had acted and found a way to permanently remove his feelings.

Jack grinned at him. “Great.” He wrapped a hand around each mug on the bench and picked them up. “I’m goin’ back to Dave, now. But you know where stuff is, so I’m sure you can figure out how to boil an egg.”

“I’m sure,” Race agreed.

Nodding, Jack carried on as if he had not heard Race speak. “Yeah, and you can stay here again tonight if you need it. Also, just close the door behind yourself when you go to dance.” He walked towards the bedroom, but Race held him back for just a second longer.

“Really, Jack, thanks for everything,” he said, voice low.

Jack grinned at him and the liquid in the mugs slopped precariously up the sides. “It’s never a problem, Race.” His voice was oddly rough but his face doubled in warmth. “Take care of yourself, okay?” 

part 2 (it’s hyperlinked!) 

[justkeepdancing-nemo]

숨 (breath) || nemo one-shot

Summary: Nemo meets with his Talent teacher and gets bad news

Nemo’s breath is the air, and the air is his breath. He is everywhere.

Crouched on one of the branches of the tallest pines in the forest, this is how it feels. He closes his eyes and the whole forest breathes with him. The air tickles at his clothes and bites his ears pink. His fingers perch, his foot gracefully arched in a releve. He looks caught–like a picture snapped on his phone. But he’s just waiting for the wind to blow his way.

When it shifts, he feels it in his blood. Nemo’s muscles tense, his wings flexed pin-straight and trembling. His toes test at the branch.

3…

2…

1–!

He pushes into a run, darting toward the end of the branch At the end, as his toe scrapes the open air, he leaps into the sky. His wings unfurl and catch the wind. He pushes up, each beat of his wings twisting the air around him into a funnel that sends him higher and higher and higher. There’s a roaring in his ears, A roaring on the inside, too. Ahead of him, there’s nothing but pale blue sky, littered with cumulus clouds, and the sun pours down on him like a spotlight.

Nemo breathes. In, and out, steady now. He breaths, he climbs, higher and higher. Always higher, his wind funnel keeping him steady.

Up this high though, the air thins and slips through Nemo’s fingers. It’s harder to control– battering like waves in the ocean, each upswell more violent than the last. Nemo’s wings beat harder, struggling to control the flow of the wind around him. He’s wobbling. His right shoulder blade burns, but he just presses faster, gritting his teeth, keeping his eyes straight ahead–

But the gust is too great. It grabs him in its fist and he’s jerked off course. He yelps, flips, spins. His heart is in his mouth. His breath has been pulled from his lungs.

He plummets toward the trees.

–

Nemo remembers Eomma’s heartbeat more than anything.

Her heartbeat thrummed the most exciting song. At night, in the morning, before naps, Nemo curled up against her, his ear pressed against her chest, where he listened. She stroked his dark hair, humming and talking. Her voice was light and high. She smelled like cornflowers. He knows that every night, she read to him and cuddled him and sometimes she’d sing, even though Nemo can’t remember the words to those lullabies.

But he could never forget the  song of her heart. She used to whisper into Nemo’s hair that it was a song they shared– heartbeats singing in perfect, uninterrupted rhythm together. She pressed her hand over his chest, pressed Nemo’s hand over hers.

Before he’d ever gotten his talent, she had known exactly what he was meant to be.

–

He plummets

But Nemo knows how to fall.

He’s not scared. Even as his adrenaline spikes, and his eyes sting from the wind. He flails out his hands, searching for that wind, his blanket, his parachute– he trusts it, because it sings with Eomma’s voice.

He catches himself right before he slaps into the pine trees. His wings flutter and gather the air into a pillow underneath him. It billows and shoves him upright. For a moment, Nemo wavers. His breath has become erratic. That’s not good. Breathing is the most important thing about fast-flying– not the speed, not the altitude reached, not the power, but the breath. In Korean, it’s even the word for his talent– 숨. Sum. Nemo swallows, closes his eyes, dips down and then up again until he finally gets a hold on 숨. He’s tired, his shoulder is hurting, but…

But he opens his eyes and looks up at the clouds and the sun. I can do this. Nemo sucks another deep breath into his lungs and braces himself to try again.

His pillow of air becomes a springboard, catapulting Nemo straight up into the air.

–

It was Eomma he thought about when he was five years old, bouncing on his toes as he waited for his Arrival ceremony. He kept accidentally hovering above the heads of his Arrival class, so the Helper-talent minding them kept tugging him down and tutting him to stay still. But he couldn’t. His heart was thrumming that same song. He could feel Eomma because of it. Are you watching, Eomma? Nemo looked up at the bright moon, shivering, smiling. His heart beat even faster, and he knew that she was.

So when it was his turn, Nemo wasn’t nervous. He whisked out into the center and thrust his cupped palms out, smiling as big as he could up at Clarion. His small wing didn’t matter then; he forgot all about it.

When the gold pixie dust splashed over him, Nemo’s heartbeat became a drum. He took a single breath and the wind rushed through the clearing, ruffling everyone’s hair as it curled around Nemo and kissed him brand new.

“Fast-flying!” Queen Clarion had announced. “Welcome to the Hollow, Nemo.”

“Just like your mother,” Appa said later, with little tears in his eyes. And Nemo swore he would be.

–

Nemo falls a second time.

It’s in the same place. The gust keeps shattering his wind funnel and sending him spiraling. Again Nemo flails, spinning and flipping and flipping and spinning. He can’t tell up from down, left from right. This time, he hits the treeline and the leaves and twigs rake at his arms and legs with a hundred green teeth. He shouts, grabs at pine needles, but can’t get a hold.

He gives up and folds his wings in to protect them–his eyes focusing on the fast-approaching ground. Nemo flings out his hands.

But he never forms the gust that will break his fall. Instead, something collides into Nemo. He yelps in shock and squeezes his eyes shut.

When he opens them again– Nemo’s breath snags in his lungs.

“Sera,” he squeaks, winces. Splinters. It’s one of the Scouts. Her face is expressionless as she darts gracefully through the pine branches, holding Nemo in her arms like he weighs nothing. Nemo’s face burns in shame. He hates being held like this, like a fledgling. He wants to wiggle out of her arms. But he can’t. He’s been caught– literally caught.

They zoom down to the ground and as soon as he can, Nemo twists out of Sera’s arms and stumbles onto the forest floor, nearly tripping on a stick. He catches himself and spins around on the ball of his foot.

Sera stares at him. She arches one eyebrow in his direction.

“Heh,” breathes out Nemo.

“You’re bleeding,” states Sera.

Nemo blinks. “No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.” Sera moves forward and pushes up Nemo’s sleeve. He tore it. Actually, the branches tore the sleeve and scraped his skin when it did. Now little beads of blood bloom on his upper arm. Nemo slaps a hand over the mark and winces. He has a dozen other tiny stinging marks. But Appa will just heal him– he always does.

“It doesn’t hurt.” Nemo shrugs his injured shoulder and flicks his fringe out of his eye.

Sera stares, until Nemo sheepishly scrunches his shoulders together and looks down.

“You better come with me,” says Sera. She moves forward and grips Nemo’s wrist with the strength of a hawk. Nemo has no choice but to stumble after her, casting one last look up, through the branches, at the clouds he never reached.

–

Nemo figures Sera is going to take him to the healing clinic first– march him straight to Appa, so he can be properly chastised by his father and punished for practicing all alone. Nemo’s already gritting his teeth, ready to argue. I was totally fine, he’ll say. Falling and flying are basically the same thing for a fast-flyer. I would have stopped my fall with a gust. I was never in any danger. How else am I supposed to practice? I need to practice, Appa. You don’t understand.

Instead, they pass the clinic. Nemo frowns as they do, then opens his mouth, nearly saying something to Sera. But the questions curl up inside of Nemo, like dying leaves. He lets himself be led, all the way to the Pixie Dust Tree.

“Wait, you’re not taking me to Queen Clarion, are you?” Nemo squeaks. “You’re not– you can’t take me to Queen Clarion!”

Sera snorts. “I should take you to Queen Clarion. But, no.”

“Then where–?”

Sera looks back at him with that same pinched look and Nemo’s words once again die on his lips.

They flutter up the Pixie Dust tree, past the Pixie Dust storage, past the mixing rooms, past the kitchens, past the library. They’re heading all the way to the top, Nemo realizes. There are only a few things in the upper regions of the massive Pixie Dust tree. There’s the Perch– a lookout built on one of the tree’s longest branches, where all the Scouts gather. Then there’s the Star-watching Room, for the Light-talents. And then there’s the Eye, which is what they call the room for Fast-flying-talents. Where Nemo has had classes for all of his life.

They’re going to the Eye.

The Eye is oval-shaped and almost half made up of  floor-to-ceiling windows, which are only closed when you draw the curtains over them. There’s no chairs, because Fast-flyers rarely like to sit anyway, even preferring to drink and eat while standing and walking. There’s only one squat bookshelf with books on meteorology and a few tinker tools on top that make it easier to get exact measurements for weather. The rest of the room is empty so nothing will be knocked over or blown outside when the Fast-flying fledglings gather to practice.

When they arrive, Nemo is nervous for an entirely different reason. He’s having trouble keeping his breath steady. He tries. He counts, like he’s in dance class, but his stomach twists and twists.  

Sera lets Nemo go. “Wait here,” she instructs. Nemo’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to ask why, but he knows why. He knows he knows why, and he thinks he might totally lose it if he says it out loud.

So Nemo is left alone, standing in the center of the Eye. He fidgets there and tries to fix his sleeve so it will hide his collection of brand new scrapes. He doesn’t know how long he waits before the curtain thrusts aside and Mistral enters. Nemo’s heart officially drops into his stomach.

Mistral is his Fast-flying teacher, and the head of the Fast-flying talents. Nemo immediately shrinks a second time, taking a step back and ducking his head. He knows what is coming now. Not an Appa lecture, which he knows how to argue against, but a Teacher lecture, which he can’t. She’s going to repeat all the rules that Nemo knows and then– and then–

Nemo doesn’t know what then. Send for Appa? Lecture Nemo in front of Appa, so his father will be ashamed of him? And then make Appa take Nemo home the long way.

Nemo braces for all of this, like he’s bracing for the ground. He’s plummeting. But this time there’s no way to break his fall.

Mistral only sighs.

“Nemo,” she says after a beat. “Nemo, I think you should sit.”

Sit? Nemo glances up at once. He only sits during lectures– well, he is about to get one. Slowly, Nemo lowers himself to the ground and crosses his legs, but he’s surprised when Mistral does the same, sitting opposite of him with perfect posture and her wings erect. Nemo’s are folded down (his small wing hurts so bad from all his flying sprints, not that he’ll admit it). He blinks and knows that he looks as confused as he feels.

“This is the second time this month you’ve practiced outside Talent hours.”

Second–? Nemo nearly protests, but quickly shuts his mouth when he realizes that she’s referring to his lie to Chase on the night he tried to sneak out to see Robbie. He can’t expose his lie now, even though it might help him.

“But as you know– you’ve done this countless times over the years, haven’t you?”

Okay, maybe not. That’s true. Nemo swallows, cheeks still bright red. “It’s almost Placement,” he manages to squeeze these words in a feeble voice.

Mistral only frowns deeper. “That’s exactly what I was afraid you would say.”

“What? Why?” Nemo shifts, already uncomfortable on the floor. He itches to move. “We’re supposed to practice. Everyone else is practicing! I can’t be the only one who does solo flights. Maybe I get caught the most, okay, but– there’s no way that Bora and Cardinal–”

“This isn’t about them.”

“But why not! I’m telling you, just because they aren’t getting caught–”

“Nemo,” warns Mistral, and Nemo falls silent at once.

“I can tell you that they are not practicing the way that you practice,” Mistral continues. “They do practice. They come here, like they’re supposed to, to practice their tricks. But they don’t need open-air practice and they don’t need solo flight practice. Do you know what I’m saying?”

And Nemo does. His frustration sucks itself back in and he blinks, becoming completely blank-faced.

Mistral continues. “None of your peers have ever put themselves in danger because they need open-air practice. It’s different for them. They’re different than you. And I think because it’s different, you and I should start talking about Placement.” Nemo is still staring at her. Mistral’s eyes are too kind– the way animal-talents look at injured critters. She continues, but he wishes she wouldn’t, as she says– “What are you planning to test for?”

“You know,” Nemo says bluntly. It’s disrespectful, but he can’t help it. “Fast-flying.”

Mistral sighs again, a breath that contains volumes. “Have you considered testing for a few other Placements?”

“No. I don’t need to.”

“Nemo–”

“Cardinal and Bora and Eren aren’t going to test–”

“They’re not you.”

“I’m a Fast-flying talent. If I test for Fast-flying, if I want to be Fast-flying, then I should be Fast-flying. It’d be different if I wanted something different, but I don’t. I just want this.”

“Nemo, you won’t get Fast-flying talent.” Mistral says very gently.

It’s like being struck by lightning.

Suddenly, he’s completely breathless. The room has been sucked out of air. Nemo barely manages to keep his tears out of his voice as he croaks, “Why not?”

Mistral simply looks at him. She doesn’t want to say it, hasn’t been saying it, because like everyone else, his teacher doesn’t like to talk about his wing. It’s easier to ignore it, until right now– when apparently, it’s the only thing that matters. Not the ten years Nemo has been training. Not fate, which handpicked Nemo for this. Not his Eomma, who he needs to honor.

His wing.

“Why not?!” he demands, louder. A tear slips down his cheek.

“Nemo, you practice twice as hard as your peers, but you will always be half as good as they are,” Mistral finally says. “I’m not saying you’re a terrible flyer or cloud-sewer or gust-breaker. You’ve done very well and you should be proud of everything you’ve accomplished. You’ve completed your Talent-training. But now it’s time to pick something that is going to better suit what you’re best at, and how best you can serve the Hollow. There are other placements for Fast-Flyers–”

“I don’t want those other placements!” Nemo exclaims.

“If you don’t test for a few, you’ll be assigned one anyway, maybe one you won’t like–”

“Why are you saying this? Why are you– what are you saying? I haven’t even tested yet.” Nemo voice trembles and a few more tears track down his cheeks. He can’t breathe deep enough to stop them. “You don’t know until I test. I could do brilliant–”

“Nemo, your very best is not good enough. I’m sorry. I can’t help but feel…I should have had this conversation with you sooner so you could be more prepared.” Mistral sighs short, but is firm. “If it was up to me, you would not test for Fast-flying at all. I can’t stop you from doing that, but even then– it’s a dangerous test. For you,” she adds. “And after talking with Sera, and Chase, and having been your teacher for ten years, there are some parts we…I don’t feel comfortable with you attempting. And if you can’t complete the whole test–”

“This isn’t fair!” Nemo’s insides are crackling. He’s never felt more thunderous. “You can’t just write me off without letting me try! It’s discrimination!”

“It’s not fair to change the test for one Fast-flying fairy either. It’s not fair to put you in a placement where you will struggle. I’ve made up my mind,” she says this again. “I have some alternatives, and I’ve been talking to the Heads of those talents so you could meet with them. Messaging-talent, for example– you’d be a wonderful messaging-talent. And how about Performing-talent? You have so much practice from your Human classes. You can learn more about–”

“Shut up!” Nemo springs up at once. Pain spikes in his back, so intense that he gasps– struck breathless again. He lurches. Mistral’s face twists from anger to worry as she stands to steady him. But Nemo pulls away, stumbling back. His gasp turns into a sob.

He feels like all he is is his wing: crumpled, small, and wilting. He hates Mistral and he hates the Hollow and he hates his wing and he hates Appa for ever having him and he hates, most of all, himself, for that ugly sobbing noise. Pathetic. He doesn’t want to cry and he doesn’t want Mistral to pity him.

His anger blows back through him, wicked, and cold.

“Shut up!” he yells again. “Shut. Up. You can’t stop me from testing, you said so yourself. So I don’t care. I don’t care what you think, I’m going to test and I’ll show you!”

Before Mistral can say anything else, Nemo zooms out of one of the open windows in a squall that nearly blows the curtains off the walls.

–

Nemo never saw his Eomma’s wings.

There were no pictures of her with wings. Not in the ones that Appa ever showed him. Appa talks of them in the same warm tone as he talks about the rest of Eomma– her wings were beautiful, just like her hair (rich bark brown, like Nemo’s), her eyes (dark and winking, like Nemo’s), her smile (wide and eye-crinkling, like Nemo’s).

Her wings weren’t just beautiful, though. They were delicate. Elegant, Graceful. Appa told Nemo once that there was a subtle blue tint to their capillaries, so when the sun shined through them, they looked like rivers. She liked to fly over water and skim the surface with her toes. She was perfect.

Nemo is not. His wings are nothing like Eomma’s.

Nemo’s wings pulse at the apex of his joints. His small wing struggles to flutter half as fast as his other one and it drags him down like an anchor. He staggers in the air like he’s drunk on mead, and he’s crying too hard. He can’t breath. And if he can’t breathe, he can’t fly.

Even after Nemo’s knees hit the ground, he still feels like he’s falling, trying, against the odds, to catch his breath.

[nebuulaa]

I really feel like I’m losing my mind again and I don’t really fully understand why. It’s been a hard week. Jevon and I hit the roughest patch in our friendship in four years which has kind of lead me to start reminiscing and thinking a lot about my adult life so far. Since I turned 18 a lot has happened in my life. I’ve lost people, had four terrible failed relationships. Courtney and me ended on terrible terms. Tom was an abusive manipulative fucking psychopath. Lissa was nasty and manipulative and used me until there was nothing left of the person I used to be and then Bex and me were never ever going to work out when we wanted completely different things out of life. I really suffer with nostalgia I think it stops me moving forwards because I really do spend so much time thinking about the past and the trauma that I faced. I’ve learnt a lot about myself this week and I think typing it all out and getting things off of my chest will free me somehow.

So I’m dramatic. Very dramatic. Around my friends and not really my family which also ties into the fact that I talk a lot. The reason for both of these I’ve come to realise is that I don’t ever feel listened to at home so when I get to work and spend time with my friends I find it hard to stop talking because I finally have someone in front of me who cares enough to hear me out. That being said, I was once told that I talk a lot but say very little. And I think that’s true too. I talk a lot of shit but when it comes to the things that really hurt me or how I’m really feeling I find it hard to articulate those emotions in a healthy and productive way which is why they manifest themselves in tears or bouts of anger and sadness. I know that isn’t a constructive way to manage those emotions but I struggle to find another way. It’s something I’ve been working on a lot lately actually. I’ve stopped to think more before I post a tweet or say something to someone. I’ve learnt how to manage feeling desperate and instead of lashing out I now retreat, take a step back and do something that I know will put me in a more positive frame of mind before tackling the situation that confronts me rather than just being reactive.

Something I’ve noticed myself starting to develop, on a less positive note, is a stutter and stammer. Now I’ve struggled with this before at various points in my life and now I know why. These phases of nervous speech coincide with points in my life where I feel as though I’ve lost or am starting to lose sight of myself. It really took hold this weekend when, for some unknown reason, I started to slip and spiral into self loathing and felt as though I had no control over the direction in which my life was heading. It scares me; not feeling as though my mind has both hands on the wheel. But I’m starting to process my thoughts before they manifest into words so that I can have a dialogue and continue to maintain healthy relationships.

I’m learning to look after myself in the most basic way. That’s something you only truly discover when you have mental health issues. Basic things like eating properly and getting enough sleep cease to be second nature and become things on a to do list that slip further and further down in priority. This week, in an effort to combat the creeping feelings of doubt and fear I have been going to bed at a slightly more reasonable hour before and trying to get at least five hours sleep. Which when compared to the two or three that I’ve been getting if lucky, is a vast improvement. After working an eleven hour day at my high pressure, stress filled job on Monday night I came home and barely slept. But tonight after a terrible, long and very emotionally and physically demanding day, I ran myself a bath, poured myself a glass of wine and washed off the day. Then I took a walk through my town to clear my head before coming home and getting into bed to spend some time writing and listening to songs that make me feel more at peace with myself.

Taking care of yourself becomes a chore when you feel as though your life isn’t yours anymore. I’ve been finding remembering to eat lunch difficult and when I get home I hardly manage to eat dinner because I’d rather go for a three hour long walk in the freezing cold in an effort to detox from the day I’ve had. It’s slowly improving with time. I do still need time away from work and home to de-stress and think about how I’m going to move forward with my life. I’m coming to a point where I have a lot of big decisions to make and I want the space to be able to make them in such a way that I give myself the best possible outcome. In five days I have a week off of work; three of those days off I’m spending in Yorkshire because that county has always brought me a real sense of peace. At the risk of sounding corny it’s where I’ve always gone to “find myself”. This time I’m going up alone. Getting on the train on Monday morning to spend three nights in a cosy b&b in the North of England is something I really cannot wait to do. I’m going to go for long walks, eat well, get in the Christmas spirit and maybe even find time to do a bit of writing in the evenings. I need fresh surroundings to think clearly.

I’m in the process of deciding whether I want to move teams at work to potentially open up some new doors but with that being said I’m already in the toughest team with the best Title Lawyer at the firm and some of the nicest people. I’m just now debating if moving away from certain people might be what’s best for me to try and move on with my life. I love going to work and I absolutely love my job but staying in the same place for long periods of time because it feels safe is what got me into so many of the worst situations I’ve experienced. Maybe it’s time to step out of the comfort zone I’ve built myself and try something new. All the better if it’s hard and slightly scary at first. Because that’s how we grow as people and it’s how I plan on advancing and improving in my twenties. I want to become a woman that I can be proud of being and that my kids can one day be proud to call their mum. So for now I’m going to take a step back, evaluate where I am in my career and my life at the moment and see how I can better myself even further. Because I didn’t come this far to only come this far