#this was supposed to be a short post but the urge to Explain has won over

[octarineblues]

this is by no means a criticism of anyone and as a person who loves reading angst: please carry on writing it! also whatever i say here does not matter. but there's multiple fics containing a very specific physics error in the sandman fandom out there and i guess i want to clarify:

when you run out of air in a sealed environment (as dream possibly did when he was in the fishbowl) - you actually run out of oxygen, which is turned into C02. The gas does not magically disappear, but your body does not get enough oxygen and your cells start to die.

CO2 is also poisonous at high-ish concentrations (google says 10%), but assuming all oxygen would be transformed into C02, we'd end up with around 21% C02 in the fishbowl atmosphere. Which is very much deadly to humans.

(a bit of science talk, a bit of angst potential - when there's no oxygen, when the air is totally filled with another neutral gas, like nitrogen or helium, its not the other gas that kills you, its the lack of oxygen. and it happens very quickly, one or two breaths, and you don't even know it's happening (theres nothing to irritate the lungs, i think). there's a very specific alarm in labs that handle such gases - if it turns on, you leave immediately, no matter what you were doing, playing on your phone or handling open flame or whatever. you just nope the fuck out of that room, or even the whole fucking building. its sort of how monoxide poisonong works, btw, but monoxide poisoning at home is much slower. boy, that whole health and safety talk was brutal)

but yes. back to dream.

sound can carry in CO2 or any other gas. sound is just particle vibrations that are transported in a medium like a wave. the issue with dream not being able to speak would not be there being no air, as we already said that the air would remain in his fishbowl - there'd just be no oxygen in the air.

he'd be able to not die from not breathing in oxygen, and he'd be able to survive C02 poisoning (how well tho) and then he'd be able to exhale the gas, his larynx (is it larynx??) would possibly be able to make the air vibrate in his airways, he'd be possibly able to make the sound. but, if we assume he needs oxygen, or has gotten used to needing it (please do, again, good angst), or that the CO2 is affecting him - he would have trouble thinking, being able to formulate words.

he'd breathe in, and it would possibly not be painful, but he'd breathe out, and breathe in, and it would still possibly not be painful, but it would not be doing anything. he'd just asphyxiate further and further with every breath.

(i dont actually know the biological impact of lack of oxygen, other than whatever the fuck i remember from high school. pls help. i know the physics of it, thats all)

again, this is not a criticism. please do not take this seriously, also, because this rambling is inspired by me not having work life balance. but every time i read that theres no air, it has run out, there's nothing the sound can travel in, i am taken out of the fic and i start thinking about mass conservation. thank you for reading and have a good day.

[the-witty-pen-name]

The Nanny Pt. 3

Lee Bodecker x Nanny!F!Reader

18+

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: alcohol/drinking, food, corrupt cop, mentions of prostitution/smut, implied age gap (reader is in her 20s), cursing, mentions of serial killers/murder, mutual pining, 

Summary:

Based on this Request: The reader moves to Meade/Knockemstiff while answering an advertisement for a nanny in the paper. We learn that the ad was posted by Sandy, who has the reader watch her child whenever she and Carl leave to do their secret thing. After one of these trips, Sandy and her husband never return, so the reader is left caring for their baby. With the new investigation into these events, she meets Sandy’s brother Lee, the older, out of shape, alcoholic bachelor, and they are suddenly thrown into each others lives as he begins looking into his sister’s disappearance. Through it all, Lee starts to fall for her, and they slowly become a family.

A/N: I got inspired re-watching one of my favorite shows and I want to know if anyone else gets the reference I’m using! If I missed anything I should include as a warning that I missed please let me know! This is also unedited!

Taglist Form is in my bio!

Series Masterlist

Your shoulders tensed listening to the radio in the morning. Sitting on your ottoman, you were painting your nails, using the coffee table as your nail station. It was a really bright morning, and you had the curtains pulled open to draw in light. Julie frantically rushed between her room and the bathroom getting ready for her shift at the diner. The newest single from The Beach Boys was playing through the little counter top radio, but at the top of the hour, the melodies playing through the speaker changed to the news. The top story of the morning was chilling.

“Jules,” you said, calling her over hesitantly, putting the cap back on the bottle of polish. “Come listen to this.”

She scurried out of her room while working to tie her apron in the back, and then she stood next to where you sat to listen to the story on the news. The color drained from her face as you both listened to the reporter describe the horrific scene that was under investigation early this morning.

Roy Laferty was an evangelical preacher whose body washed up by the lake very early that same morning. The news report talked about the police investigation, and also disclosed his wife Helen, is also reported missing. They are looking into the disappearance of Helen, as well as opening a full investigation on Laferty’s murder. They also urge individuals with any information regarding the two to call the Sheriff’s department and to provide a statement.

“That’s horrifying,” you mumble, shocked as you try to process the news. Julie nods in agreement but strangely doesn’t seem nearly as affected by the news as you.

“It’s happening again,” she mutters, obviously concerned but her lack of surprise worries you.

“What do you mean again?” you ask.

“There was a string of unexplained murders, all men, like this newest one,” Julie explained, “This was all over the news like two years ago- can’t believe you hadn’t heard about it.” All you could do was shrug; this was all new to you. “Obviously, there was nothing linking their deaths, but there were these five killings a couple of years ago that are still unsolved. There’s no evidence, but the town rumors it was like a serial killer or something. Nothing is confirmed, of course, just a story.”

“What makes people think it was all the same person?” you ask, hesitantly.

“All the people were always the same type,” she shrugs, “Men all in their 20s and 30s. Again, there’s nothing linking them all together. It’s just talk.”

You clicked off the radio, and didn’t know what to do with yourself. Julie patted your shoulder, comfortingly but she had to go on with her day. So did you, and you almost her ability to move about the apartment almost unfazed by the news. You suppose it makes sense, her growing up here she’s probably used to it. You didn’t have the experience or the thick skin she had.

You had decided to go to the library, still preoccupied by the news segment as well as the things Julie had told you about the Sheriff. You spent the better half of the morning looking at the library’s archives of old newspapers. You wanted to read more about the unsolved cases Julie had told you about, so there you sat for several hours looking through the microfilm reader. You even stumbled upon articles that featured the Sheriff.

There he was plain as day on the front page when it was announced he had won the election the first time he ran several years back. You couldn’t help but notice the changes in his appearance and demeanor compared to the man you keep running into. He was a little slimmer, and he looked a lot happier, a little fuller of life, you decided was a good way to explain it. His smile was wider, and you could see the difference in his eyes as well. It was seeing how he was before the stress of the job began to take its heavy toll. He had on the same leather jacket as well, you were fairly certain, even though the one in the photograph hung a little looser.

You continued to skim through articles, piecing your way through the history of Knockemstiff. Little articles in black and white that persevered the history of this dark little town. You were beginning to realize this backwater town was a lot more tangled and complex than you originally believed. It was a tangled history, riddled with crime and unclosed cases, that people seem to have either forgotten or choose to ignore for their own sake. Your mind wandered back to the things Julie had told you about the Sheriff and him being corrupt. You wonder how much of what you read about linked back to him. Though you imagine if he has any sort of political connection, which a man like him must have, the things he was involved in probably didn’t even make it into the paper. The thought made you physically shiver.

You put the large leather portfolios of archives you took and put them back into their proper place on the self chronologically. You grabbed your sweater from the back of your chair, and pushed the chair back into place. Looking up at the clock on the wall, it was only just one in the afternoon. You decided to head down to the diner and grab a bite, and also visit Julie during her second shift. It was a short walk from the library to the diner. Everywhere felt like a short walk here, probably because everything in downtown was not much bigger than a few blocks. The majority of people lived far from the center of town, on their own land and farms.

The little bell on the door rang when you stepped in and Julie waved at you from behind the counter and pointed for you to grab an empty table in her section. You put your bag on the table and took a seat. It was a fairly busy time, most people who worked at the surrounding businesses coming in for their lunch break. Julie brought you over a coffee and then said she’d be back to chat when she got to take her five.

Lee hadn’t been able to go home since the phone call. The symptoms of his hangover were worsening and he was growing more irritable. His five o’clock shadow was still evident on his tired face and his head was pounding. He tried his best to just power through it but the sound of anyone trying to talk to him just made his ears ring.

After leaving the scene, he had to stop by his office and then he was on the phone for the better part of an hour fielding calls from frantic citizens not only of Knockemstiff but also Meade, where Laferty was from. Despite how horribly he felt, he tried his best to keep his temper level and just reassure people he had things under control. He was losing his patience.

He opened up his desk drawer and grabbed his bottle of asprin. Empty. He threw it into the small waste bin and got up abruptly grabbing his jacket off the hook and storming out. He didn’t tell anyone he was leaving and he didn’t care. It was a short walk to the drugstore from the station and he wouldn’t be five minutes. He just needed to do something to stop his head from hurting.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” the pharmacist greeted when he walked in. He nodded his head upwards briefly to reply without having to talk. He just needed to get in and out. She went back to whatever she was working on when he came in, and he browsed the aisles for what he needed. After paying and walking out, he glanced in the direction of the diner when he was crossing the street. There you were, again. Sitting alone and chatting with the waitress that was refilling your coffee.

He let out a heavy sigh, and then continued walking. He didn’t want you to see him like this, hungover, unshaved, wrinkled uniform and heavy undereye bags from his lack of sleep. You looked- well, Lee thought you were the prettiest thing he’s seen in a while, maybe ever. There was something about you he couldn’t pinpoint. Maybe it was just because you weren’t from here. You were a fresh face, and not ruined by this town. There was a sweetness and an innocence in how you talked to him, because you didn’t know him like the rest of people here did. He liked that.

Even when he left the station for the day, he couldn’t even go home yet. He had a meeting at the bar with one of Brown’s lackeys. He was just supposed to collect his cut so he couldn’t imagine it would take long, but he was still annoyed. Stepping into the bar he looked around as he took off his hat. It was a little more crowded tonight then when he was here last. The red curtain was closed and his eyes lingered there for a moment before directing his attention to the man he recognized who was waving him over.

“Sheriff,” the man greets and Lee slides into the booth across from him.

“Hayward,” he replies. Without even needing to order, the bartender comes over bringing them a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

“You ever go back there?” Hayward asks, watching as a girl came out and brought a man behind the curtain who had been waiting at the bar.

“No,” Lee scoffs.

“They are amazing,” Hayward says, almost giddy. Lee feels sympathy towards the poor woman who had to take care of him. Lee doesn’t acknowledge the statement and just empties his glass and begins to pour himself a second.

“So, my cut?” Lee asks. Hayward frowns and goes into the breast pocket of his sports coat and pulls out an envelope of cash.

“You aren’t getting full,” the man says when Lee cocks a brow at the thinness of the envelope.

“Still?” Lee asks, pissed. Hayward nods. Lee’s jaw clenches.

“You didn’t keep things tidy on your end,” Hayward reminds him, “You got one job. Keep the cops out of our territory. We had two cruisers drive through last week. The only reason you’re getting anything at all is cause you managed to keep your people off us when we did the exchange with Deckard’s crew.”

The man finishes his drink, and then slaps the empty glass on the table. He pulls out his own envelope, which is much thicker than Lee’s and drops down more than enough for the drinks. He chuckles condescendingly and tells the Sheriff to get a dance. Fuck that. Lee takes the extra money and plans to just put it right in his pocket and go home. He finishes his third scotch and suddenly his headache was back. He felt worse than he did earlier today.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” a feminine voice asks, making him break his line of thought. He looks to his side and he recognizes her as one of the girls he sees bringing men to the back room, behind the velvet curtain. He shakes his head, and instead of leaving him alone, she slides into the booth next to him. Her hand grazes over his thigh. “You seem awful tense, Sheriff,” she says and then bites her lip.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted. He knows she doesn’t actually want him, and it’s just an attempt to get him to spend money in the backroom. If he doesn’t focus his already hazing vision, maybe she could vaguely remind him of you. He can’t do it, but he wants to. Her hand moves up his leg and he pulls away. He adjusts his pants and she shrugs.

“Maybe next time then,” she winks before walking away. He rests his head back on the vinyl seat and sighs. He grabs his hat and jacket, leaving before he changes his mind. “Ask for Cherry when you come in, yeah?” she calls when he walks out.

You are just everywhere. You’re in his head and he doesn’t even know you. He needs to sleep, desperately, and part of him in the back of his mind hopes you’ll be there. When he wakes up, he doesn’t remember.

“Have you heard about the Church fundraiser coming up?” Julie asks. You shake your head. “It’s a pretty big deal here. Everyone participates.”

“What is it?” you ask, kicking off your slippers so you can sit crisscross on the couch.

“Bid-On-A-Basket,” she says casually, like it’s the most obvious thing.

“Never heard of it,” you reply, “It sounds fun. What is it?”

“All us single gals put together a picnic basket with everything for a lunch,” she explains, “and then all the eligible bachelors bid on the basket and a date with the girl who made it. Last year, the dreamiest guy, Bill Whittier, bought mine- it’s so fun. Me and Bill didn’t work out but it was a good time.”

“I don’t know anyone here,” you say hesitantly.

“Perfect way to get a date then,” she teases. You bite your lip. You aren’t sure about this.

“And what if some creep is the highest bidder?” you counter.

“You get a bad date story for your next date?” she poses. “Please,” she begs, “It’s for a good cause, all the money this year is going to help the Sunday school.”

“What if no one bids on it?” You rebut.

“Look at yourself,” she scoffs, “you’ll get bids. Trust me.” You roll your eyes.

“I’ll think about it,” you say finally. She smirks, completely planning to wear you down.

“Remember it’s for the kids,” she reasons, “It wouldn’t hurt to go and participate.”

“I said I’ll think about it,” you laugh.

Time passes and soon enough you get another call from Sandy, and you are suddenly back to taking care of Valerie. You had missed her, a lot actually. You definitely have gotten attached to her, and you think you’ve grown on her too. Sandy was vague this time for how long they’d be gone, but since the previous time went so smoothly, you didn’t worry about it.

About a week after Sandy and Carl left this time, there was another disturbing news report. You were sitting on the floor, changing Valerie and you had the television playing softly in the background. The news told the story of another body, this time found in the woods off of the highway. You finish changing the baby and hold her close, her little chin resting on your shoulder as you watch the news story. It was just like Julie had talked about. Another man, thirty years old. He was shot and his body abandoned. You jump at the knock at the front door.

You peep through the curtains, and you see the Sheriff waiting on the front porch. You wonder if he knows you’re there. Part of you almost wishes he knows it you here and he wanted to see you. It’s incredibly stupid on your part and you know better, but nonetheless, part of you hoped he came here for you. Very stupid. With Valerie on your hip, you open the door.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he says walking into the house. He stops in front of you and presses a kiss to Valerie’s forehead and she squeals happily seeing Lee. You close the door with your foot. “May I?” he asks, and opens his arms. You agree, based on Valerie’s reactions to him whenever she sees him. He takes her in his arms, and she starts playing with his tie. He loosens it so she can play with it and not choke him.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” you ask. He reacts in a way in a way you can’t really read, but you don’t press.

His mind just goes back to the woman a couple weeks back in the brothel who asked him the same thing, and that his mind immediately had gone to you. He just clears his throat and snaps himself out of that thought process.

“Um, I just came by to see Sandy,” he says, “But I can fathom a guess that she’s not here?”

“Excellent deduction,” you joke, and he smirks. Valerie has his tie in her mouth and is covering it in drool. He doesn’t even seem to care.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you nod. “You looked a little scared when you answered.”

“Just watching the news before you showed up is all,” you explain, “They were talking about how there was another man found dead.”

“Ain’t got nothing to worry about,” he says, “We’re on top of it. I’m on my way over there now.”

“Can I ask you something?” you ask hesitantly.

“Of course, darling.”

“My friend, you probably know her- Julie Grady.”

“Yeah, nice kid,” he says, listening but gently pulling his tie from Valerie’s grasp. She starts playing with the flap of the pocket of his jacket.

Kid. You almost grimace. That’s right. Of course, Lee would view someone your age that way. You weren’t. You chastise yourself for even caring, but you decide to continue. You shouldn’t care how he sees you.

“Yeah- well, she told me there have been others,” you continue, “I also read up about it, just the newspapers at the library- but she said people thought it was some kind of serial killer… I just, I want to know what you think.”

“I don’t think know,” he answers honestly, a little taken aback, not expecting you to approach him with something this serious. “I doubt it,” he explains, “Serial killers stay close to home. Now those cases you read about, and these two we are looking at- they sound close together but logistically, they aren’t really. Two of those unsolved were in completely different states- just like this new one.”

“So, no traveling serial killer?” you chuckle, trying to sound lighthearted. He chuckles and shakes his head.

“Most people like that stay in one area,” Lee explains, “They work jobs, they have a home, you know? They tend to stay near where they live.”

“That makes me feel much better,” you answer honestly.

“You got nothing to worry about, and that’s a promise,” he grins, although he supposes coming from him that probably doesn’t mean much. Regardless, it makes you smile.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” you offer again. He bites his lip, taking a moment to think.

“Sandy keeps a bag of candy in her cabinet,” he says, walking into the kitchen with you following close behind. He passes Valerie off to you and he chuckles under his breath at the state of his tie. He reaches up in the cabinet and pulls down a brown paper bag, filled with taffies and chocolates.

Something about this man who has a whole time scared of him playing with his niece and then stealing sweets from the cupboard is something you find so strangely endearing. He unwraps one of the brightly colored taffies and then puts the bag in his pocket.

“I gotta go,” he announces, “let me know if you hear from Sandy, yeah?”

“Of course,” you reply.

“Gonna head out to that scene, and do my report,” he discloses, not really sure why he’s telling you. “Then I have a meeting at the rectory about that fundraiser thing. Figure out security.”

“They need security at Bid-On-A-Basket?” you ask, with an eyebrow raised. He smiles.

“You going?” he asks, flirtatiously.

“Just seems weird to have police at a Church thing.”

“There’s been stupid fights,” he shrugs, “some guy will get outbid and cause a fuss. Nothing serious. Probably just gonna be me and a deputy in case. You going?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” you say sheepishly. “Why?”

He walks towards the front door, and you follow seeing him out.

“Cause I gotta know if I’ll be bidding on a basket,” he winks.

“You gonna start a fight if you don’t win it?” you joke.

“If it’s yours? Absolutely, darling.”

Taglist:

@adelaide-walker @thedepressolit @samanthadegaro @pyronack @greeneyedblondie44  @acciosiriusblack  @weenersoldierr @teenagemutant @witchybarb @iraot @my-love-darling @hold-me-like-a-heart-beat @swiftieandthewintersoldier @letsfly-andbe-free @rebekahdawkins @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan @hersilencedscreams @unsaltedalmonds @dangerdolns @vintagepigeon @bluebouquetcupcake29 @goslytherin @captainofallfandoms @buckistan @aynanasstuff @everything-is-all-clear @rosalynshields @tinynshykitten​ 

[guiltydumpling]

The Guard: Chapter 3

[KUVIRA X READER ROYAL AU]

Summary: “I called you all here to announce that we have a guest arriving sometime later today. Princess Y/N of the Kingdom of Elysian” The people in the throne room looked at one another confusingly. “Their palace was under sieged and the king had to send the princess away to keep her safe from any assassination attempts. Their kingdom has done a lot for us and has proven to be great allies for generations. She’s come a long way and has been traveling for a week, I expect nothing less than for all of you to treat her as you do a member of the royal family and to attend to everything and anything, she might ask for… This poor child has already been through too much.” There was silence in the throne room for a while, as they let the information sink in. “Dismissed.”

A/N: Hi beautiful beings <3 This chapter has mature content (i.e. masturbation and sexual thoughts) so please don’t proceed if that makes you feel uncomfortable !! 

P.S. I hope you are all enjoying the story as much as I am and I can’t wait to post the next chapters cause thing’s are gonna get interesting... and sad. According to my outline there’s about 4 more chapters left for this short story and I am exciteeeeedd

Word Count: 5.2k

A month goes by and each day you start to become more okay. You received a letter from your father two weeks ago and he assured you that things were slowly getting better and that you would be home soon enough. That letter was enough to comfort you for the next days to come while you in were Zaofu.

Meanwhile, since that night in your chambers, you and Kuvira grew to become incredibly close. You finally convinced her to start reading the book you recommended her which she reluctantly did after over a month of you suggesting it. It became a routine of yours to watch her spar every morning with the twins or train the new recruits.  She was a natural leader and everyday you admired her more and more. Occasionally you would bring a paper and a pencil to sketch her. She noticed you drawing her one time and you told her you just wanted to “practice” which she obviously didn’t buy but didn’t bring it up again. You enjoyed watching Kuvira in her element.

Some nights, she would join you for drinks in your chambers with Zhu Li and other nights it was just the two of you. You would be lying if you’d say that you didn’t prefer the latter. You talked about anything and everything. You didn’t have much of an interesting life and you were always excited to hear about Kuvira’s adventure and experiences as the Captain of the Guard. Everyday you fought the urge to do something you might regret with her and your self-control was getting weaker each day. Suck it up. You would say to yourself.

Before Avatar Korra left, Opal was able to convince Suyin to let her train with the Avatar and the rest of the new air benders in the mainland. Tears of joy nearly fell from your eyes when Opal was saying goodbye to you. You rooted for her so much and you were overwhelmed with pride when she chose to follow a different path rather than what was originally laid out for her.

What you would give to be able to forge your own path. But you didn’t have that luxury. Not anymore. Not since your sister’s death and the siege on Elysian. You had a duty to your people and to your father now.

You spent most of your afternoons in the library with Kuvira or in the garden with the Empress. You never knew your mother, so you were always eager to spend time with Suyin and have conversations you wished you had growing up. You really only had Zhu Li to talk to about things on your mind and it was comforting to know that Suyin was there too.

You were surprised to learn that your mother was born and raised in Zaofu. She was one of Suyin’s ladies and that she was originally supposed to marry your father to strengthen your kingdom’s alliance. You never knew this story and you never thought to ask about how your father met your mother. You always assumed it was like any other royal union. Early engagement and marriage. But this was so much more than that.

“Your mother was my best friend. And at the time of my engagement I was in love with somebody else. An architect.” She starts

“Emperor Bataar?” you ask, and she nods in confirmation. You were walking along the garden, collecting flowers to send to Opal along with many gifts from the Empress.

“While your father was here to court me, I would ask your mother to always cover for me so I can sneak out to secretly see Bataar. And along the way, your mother and your father got along really well. Not that I minded, in fact, I was happy for them. Your father talked to me about our marriage and we both agreed that neither of us wanted it. We ended up becoming good friends instead and I gave him permission to court your mother while I proceeded to marry the man I truly loved.” She explains and you nodded fully invested in the tale, urging for her continue. “Your father and I married separately but happily, and we knew that we owed it to each other. We loved one another not romantically but as people who we were thankful to have in our lives. After that, we didn’t need the marriage to strengthen the alliance anymore. Because we knew that no matter what, we would do whatever we can to be of service to each other.” The empress finishes as she picks the last flower for her arrangement. “Thank you for telling me this your majesty.” You say with soft smile.

~ ~ ~

You were playing the piano in the library while Kuvira sat on the couch reading the book you told her to read while humming lazily to the tune you were playing. “Her majesty told me about how my parents met” you say after you stop playing and Kuvira looks up from her book. “Did you know that my father and the empress were supposed to get married?” you continued and Kuvira raises her brows in surprise “No, I did not” she answers. “Neither did I” you say with amusement

“You would have been the princess of Zaofu” Kuvira suggested

“Or I probably would have never existed at all” You retort and Kuvira shakes her head

“Well then thank the spirits above that they did not end up marrying one another” she says as she goes back to reading her book. You cocked your head to the side in confusion. “Why is that?” You ask Kuvira and she looks up from her book once more. She takes a moment to respond. “A world without you would be bleak. Not really a world worth living in if you ask me.” She says in a serious tone before going back to her book once more.

Heat rushes through your body and you fought the urge to smile. Kuvira did this a lot. She would compliment you or say sweet things to you so passively that you sometimes wondered if she knew how this, how she affected you.

You went back to playing the piano.

~ ~ ~

You just got out of bed when Kuvira walks into your chambers with morning tea for you and Zhu Li and you two thank her. “Are you training anybody today Vee?” you ask Kuvira as you take sip from the delicious tea while Zhu Li brushes your hair. “Nope, not today princess” and you frown slightly.

As inappropriate as it was, seeing Kuvira breathing heavily and sweating was the highlight of your day. If you couldn’t touch her, the least you could do was look at her. And it wasn’t like you were harming her or anything, you just needed to be entertained.

“Why princess? You had something in mind?” Kuvira asks and you thought about it for a while before an idea struck you.

“I was wondering if you could train me” you suggested and Kuvira raises an eyebrow at you. “You want me to train you?” she asks just to make sure she heard you right and you nod your head with a hum

“I’ve always wanted to learn how to fight, just in case a noble decides to piss me off” you say jokingly and Kuvira laughs “Fine. The nobles would most probably deserve it anyway” Kuvira jokes along and Zhu Li joins in on the laughter.

You were now on the training ground and you had on black bottoms that were made of spandex that hugged your legs perfectly along with a tank top similar to Kuvira’s, except yours was a deep red. Kuvira on the other hand, was in her usual training clothes.

“Okay so first thing’s first you’re going to have to learn defense before you can go offense” She explains to you. “Why can’t I do offense?” you ask “Well mainly because defense is more practical for somebody of your status and judging by your eagerness to learn, you’ll most likely start picking fights with random people all over the palace” she says with a playful look and you mischievously smile “just the nobles” you answer and earning a chuckle from Kuvira

The training started and you noticed that Kuvira wasn’t training you like she would train other newcomers. First of all, she was too gentle. She would pretend to do offensive techniques on you so that you can practice the application of the new defense move you learned, and you easily won everytime and it bothered you.

After she complimented you once you tried to do another defensive technique, you had enough. “Stop it” you say seriously, and she looks at you in confusion. “I’m sorry?” she asked “Stop giving me the special treatment. I know how you train people, and this is not it.” You say as you turn to her to meet her deep green eyes and her features harden. “You want me to order you around?” she asks and your stomach flutters. Something about the thought of her “ordering you around” was incredibly intriguing and hot. So, you nod. She looks at you for few more seconds before she speaks “okay then”

Moments later and Kuvira didn’t hold back in “ordering you around”.

“Tighter” she says as you grabbed a hold of her wrist in an attempt to stop it from coming at you. “Harder” as you try to fight against its force. “Stop” she says, and you do. “Horse stance” she demands, and you comply.

You stare straight ahead and Kuvira circles you, closely observing as she tries to look for something to correct. “your form is right, but you can be easily knocked over. The point of this is for you to be able to withstand force.” She explains and you nod. She kneels in front of you just enough for head to be leveled with your hips “look at me” she says, and you do.

Kuvira kneeling in front of you in that top with sweat dripping from her neck to her chest was a sight you might never be able to rid your memory of. She put both of her palms on either side your thighs and squeezes them, causing your heart to raise. “I need you to tense these up for me” and you do. “harder” she says, and you comply. She smiles at you before saying “good”

Kuvira slowly gets up without breaking eye contact and she was directly in front of you now. Her face and her body just inches away and your breath hitched when you felt her place both her hands on your waist. She dragged one hand to your abdomen to press it. “Now I need you to tighten this for me” she says. For me. At this point she can ask you to jump off a cliff for her and you might probably do it.

She is still looking directly at you, “I want you to think of something that gets your body to tense up. Anything at all” She tells you and you furrow your brows in confusion “what do you mean” you ask “What gets you riled up? What gets your body to react and stiffen?” she explains, and your mind flies to images of Kuvira immediately.

“Close your eyes and picture it, something that will get your body to physically react” she suggests, and you do. You close your eyes and picture things that might get you to tense up. Kuvira.

Her hands all over your body. Tracing kisses all over your neck to your collarbones then down your chest. One hand holding you by the waist and the other squeezing your breast. You think about her pushing your dress up to grab your thighs. Fingers inching slowly towards your heat to tease you as you feel her heavy breathing. You think about her pressing her middle and ring finger against your heat over your underwear and moves it agonizingly slow that your knees would buckle from arousal. You think about her wanting you. Pleasing you.

Naturally, your body stiffens. “Very good princess” Kuvira whispers in your ear. The thoughts running through your head along with your proximity with Kuvira was beginning to be too much for you to handle. You feel warmth pooling at your center and your breathing was starting to become heavier. Suck it up. You thought to yourself. “Open your eyes. You can relax now.” She demands and you follow standing up right once more. You see a faint smile playing on her lips. Her lips. “I want this much tension in your body everytime we train. Got it princess?” She tells you and you simply nod unable to form words, still feeling flustered.  

“How does it feel?” She asks you and you had to hum, indicating for her to repeat the question because your mind was still elsewhere. After she repeats the question you think for a moment. All you felt right now was desire and frustration from not being able to do anything about your desire. What do you feel?

“I feel… tired” you manage to say, and she nods her head in agreement. “We can continue another day. You should freshen up now. I’ll take you back to your chambers” she offers, and you shake your head no. “It’s okay I can head back there myself. Why don’t you go freshen up as well and I’ll see you after lunch?” you suggest, and she hesitates for a moment before agreeing. You turn to leave, and you feel your head start to spin. Was it from training or arousal? You will never know.

You reach your chambers and thankfully Zhu Li was already there tidying things up and does a curtsy when she sees you. You smile at her and you plopped yourself down on the couch not wanting to ruin the bed she just fixed. You close your eyes for a moment, and you feel Zhu Li’s eyes on you and as expected, you open your eyes to see her sitting across from you.

“Can I ask you a question?” you say to Zhu Li and she nods. You bite your lip feeling a little bit embarrassed by the question you want to ask but if anyone can help you it would be no other than Zhu LI. “How do you find… other women?” you ask her

“How do I find other women… physically or emotionally?” she asks, and you answer with “both”. “Well your highness, I think they’re really beautiful. All unique in their own way. As for emotionally… I guess I admire them, mostly women who are good in combat. Or outspoken.” She answers and you shake your head.

“That’s it? You don’t think about them… or try to not think about them at all? Or maybe wonder if… they might… think about you too?” you say, your voice trailing off and Zhu Li raises a brow at you. “You mean Kuvira?” she asks, and your eyes widen in surprise “What?! Where for spirits sake did you get that idea?!” you ask trying to not sound defensive but obviously failing.

“I’ve known you since you were a child your highness. I know you’re reserved and most of the time untrusting. But with Kuvira… You’re always glowing around her. I’ve never seen you more comfortable with anybody else since your sister” She explains “Not to mention that your face gets red after every single compliment she gives you” she playfully adds, and you bury your face to your hands in embarrassment. There was no point in hiding it now.

You let out a frustrated groan. “I don’t know what to do Zhu Li” you say as you look back up at her. “What do I do?”

“As a friend… I would advise you to follow your heart. Cliché, but that’s the only way to be happy. And you deserve to be happy.” She says and you smile at her. “But as a royal subject, I would advise you to think about it carefully. At the end of the day, you are still an heir. The only heir at that. And although things have been more progressive since the Avatar admitted her love for Ms.Sato, it is still not generally accepted. Especially for people with your title. A title that requires heirs and a title that would require you to marry not for love, but for power and security.” She explains and you nod your head in understanding. You already knew these things. Which is why you never acted on your urges before because it would just be pointless. But it felt a lot more real now that it was somebody else who was saying these things to you. The stakes felt heavier. “Whatever you decide to do, I will support you. But I beg you… think about it” Zhu Li adds, and you nod your head once more. “Thank you for speaking your mind Zhu Li. I can always count on you to tell me the what I need to hear” you say before standing up. “Shall I draw you a bath?” Zhu Li asks, and you say yes.

You touch the water to check the temperature. Deciding it’s warm enough you start to disrobe before soaking in the bath. You exhale loudly as you let the warm water ease your muscles. I’m definitely going to feel this tomorrow. While scrubbing off the sweat and dirt on your body, your mind starts to replay the events this morning. You recall the feeling of Kuvira’s breath tickling your ear and her hands on your waist. The image of her on her knees in front of you, breathing heavily and glistening with sweat. You feel the warmth between your legs once more and you press them together to try to alleviate the sharp tingle.

You try to ignore the sensation between your legs as you proceed to rinse the lather off your body before you submerge yourself deeper into the bath. It was still tingling. Letting out an exasperated sigh, “fuck” you whisper to yourself and you close your eyes.

You remember your conversation earlier with Zhu Li about your desire to pursue Kuvira being impractical. You knew it was. But is it so bad that you want her anyway? Nobody will ever know right? How bad you want to feel her lips against your own. How you want to entangle your fingers through her thick hair. How you want her to kiss you all over your body. To feel her fingers there.

You peeked at the door to check if it was locked and with a shameful blush, you slipped a hand between your legs. I might as well get something out of this you thought. Your one hand rubbed against your sex in slow circles and you gasped when you started to increase your pacing. You dragged your free hand across your body to massage your left breast imagining it was Kuvira’s instead and you couldn’t help but let out soft moan escape your lips.

Your legs were starting to shake, and you slipped your middle and ring finger in and you had to bite on your lip to keep yourself from making anymore noise. Your fingers pumped in and out and you bring your other hand from your left breast to press against your clit. As you fingered yourself, along the way you pumped deep enough to find your sweet spot and your eyes widened. “Yes…” you moaned as you continued to pump your fingers making sure that you were hitting the right spot, but your body demanded more.

You increase your pace and you lifted your hips to rock them and match the rhythm of your fingers while your other hand continued to rub your clit. This time you didn’t bother to stop yourself from making noise anymore. “Fuck, Kuvira” you moaned, and you felt yourself clenching around your fingers. You were so close.

You put your hips back down and instead lifted your legs to rest it on either side of the tub, comfortably spreading your legs apart. You continued to pump your fingers and your hand moved to your neck, putting enough pressure to limit your air supply and this turned you on even more. Your mind replaced the hand around your neck with Kuvira’s as she whispered dirty things in your ear. “I want you to come for me princess” You imagine, practically hearing her voice. “Yes… oh fuck yes…” you moaned as you shut your eyes and your body starts to shake as you reach your climax and you had to bite your lip to keep you from screaming Kuvira’s name. You couldn’t help but let a string of moans slip from your mouth and occasionally Kuvira’s name as you continued to slowly pump your fingers, letting yourself ride your orgasm out.

Finally pulling your fingers out, you rinse them in water, and you emerge your body from the bath, your legs still shaking slightly. You patted yourself dry before draining the water from your tub. You turned to see yourself in the mirror and your cheeks and lips were more pigmented than they usually were which you admittedly kind of liked. It made you look very relaxed and problem free which for a moment back there, you were. And you knew in your heart no matter how much it embarrassed you, that whatever you just did, would not be the last time.

~ ~ ~

Two weeks go by and you were practically touching yourself to the thought of Kuvira every chance you got. It was starting to become a problem. Especially since Kuvira was really comfortable around you as well which meant more touches, more jokes, flirty lines, and innuendos. You hated yourself for it. You felt icky.

It wasn’t your first time touching yourself of course, it was just your first time touching yourself with someone in mind. You already knew she had similar feelings for you, but you doubt it was as strong as yours. And who knows, maybe it was just her being intoxicated that one night that led her to almost kiss you.

You had moments with Kuvira where she would intentionally let her touch linger a while longer than necessary and you just know that she knows how much it drives you wild. She would chuckle at you whenever she would catch you staring at her or whenever she’d witness you blush from one of her comments about you. It was as if she wants you to want her, and it was extremely frustrating.

Your combat training continued a few more sessions before you had to stop because she needed to train newcomers and you would be lying if you said you weren’t disappointed. You tried giving her a lesson in archery once only to have Kuvira realize in that moment that she hated the sport, which you didn’t really quite understand if she really thought it wasn’t for her or if she just didn’t like the way you thought her in that one session. You were hoping for the former.

You were now situated on the couch in your chambers outlining a sketch of Kuvira from the training this morning. Moments later and you were drawing her arms. I wonder how it would feel wrapped around me. You blush and move on to her hands, her fingers. Those long and strong fingers must feel good pressed against me. And you feel the familiar warmth pooling between your legs, and you stop drawing. “Why the fuck am I like this?” You ask yourself quietly before placing the sketchbook down and slowly spread your legs comfortably on the couch.

You let out a deep sigh before undoing your night robe to expose your naked body. You lightly twist your nipples in between you thumb and your index before sliding your hand between your legs. You let out a soft moan when you start rubbing slow circles against your heat and you let your head fall on the couch, relishing the sensation. You close your eyes and your mind replaces your hand with Kuvira’s like you would usually do.

You start to rock your hips against your hand, and you increase your pace. “Spirits… fuck…” you moaned. You felt your hand starting to slip from your clit because of how wet you were, and this turned you on even more. You kept the fast pace and your legs were now starting to shake. You let go of your breast and gripped the side of the couch to release some of the tension you were building up in your body. You were so close to the edge and you were breathing so heavily now.

Knock knock

Your eyes snap open and you immediately get up from the couch to look over at the door. “Who is it?” you yelled with a hint of annoyance hoping they would get the memo and leave.

Knock knock

You huffed in frustration and secured your robe around your body in an attempt to look somewhat presentable. You stood up from the couch and walked over to the door to open it and you were surprised when you see Kuvira standing there with an unreadable expression. She was still in her uniform, but without the metal armor.

“I finished your book” she says, and your eyes widen in surprise

“That’s um… great?” you answered not quite sure why she had to come all this way at this hour to tell you that. “How’d you find it?” you ask

“I think it’s stupid.” She answers and you were taken back, “excuse me?” you ask somewhat offended. “May I come in?” she asks, and you let her.

You close the door behind you and Kuvira start to pace back and forth before she stops to lock eyes with you.

“Why would you make me read this? You told me it was a story of courage!” She says, frustration laced in her tone. “It is!” you answered back starting to feel annoyance amidst the confusion. “No, it isn’t! They both die in the end because of their stupidity and greed, Romeo should have just stayed away from Juliet in the first place!” she explained, and you were still confused as to why this affected her so much.

“Romeo loved Juliet. And for him, it didn’t matter if their families were never going to accept them because he was willing to risk everything just for her and her for him” You try to explain calmly, not wanting to rile Kuvira even more which seemed to work because Kuvira’s features softened. She walks towards you and stops when she was only a foot away from you. She stares into your eyes for a while before letting out a sigh.

“Do you really believe that?” she asks in a low voice. And you understand now. She was referring to the two of you. You nod, unable to form words at the moment.

“It doesn’t make sense Y/N” she says and your heart flutters when you hear your name fall from her mouth. She’s only every called you “your highness” or “princess” despite giving her the permission to call you by your name. Now she’s used it, and all you want to do is to hear her say your name over and over.

“What’s the point in pursuing someone if you both know that it will never work? That no matter how much you love one another; you just aren’t meant for each other. What do you do when all you want is to hold somebody in your arms and tell that person how you truly feel, only to have to let that person go at the end? What happens then?” She explains and your heart is now beating out of your chest. You try to fight the tears that are welling in your eyes and you don’t break eye contact with Kuvira.

“I don’t know… But isn’t better to live a life knowing love than not at all?” you start. You walk towards Kuvira. She doesn’t move so you take this as a sign to continue walking closer. You gather all your courage and you bring your hand up to her face, neither of you daring to break eye contact. Naturally, she leans into your touch and brings a hand up to put on top of yours and her other hand snaking around your waist to pull you closer. “Sometimes you have to stop thinking about the future. Why should it be such a sin to be selfish from time to time? To take what we want?” you continue. “What do you want?” she asks.

Kuvira’s eyes shifted from your lips and back to your eyes. You knew what she wanted to do, and you wanted her to do it. It’s been over a month of self-control, tension and denial and you were exhausted. You worried about what is expected from you all your life that you never really knew what you wanted. Only that you wanted to meet those expectations. But right now, with Kuvira right in front of you, you were never sure about wanting something in your life than you were at this moment. You wanted Kuvira.

She was the only person to ever make you feel so comfortable and secure. You never liked being vulnerable around other people, but everything was just so easy with Kuvira. Everything felt so natural, so right. You were absolutely nothing alike and you complemented each other so perfectly. You loved how she never tried to impress you or never hesitated to call you out unlike most of the people in your life. She was genuine and honest, and spirits was she everything you never knew you needed.

“I want you” you finally admit. And Kuvira gives you a soft smile. “yeah?” she asks “yeah” you confirm returning Kuvira’s smile and no longer able to wait, finally, you put your free hand on other side of her cheek and you pull her in for a kiss, closing the gap between you and she places both her hands around your waist to pull you even closer.

It was everything you ever imagined and more. Your stomach was filled with butterflies and the feeling of her lips against your own was something you never thought you’d experience. Her lips were soft even when pressed hard against yours and you decide to wrap your arm around her neck wanting to feel even closer.

Kuvira pulls away first and you were both breathing so heavily now. She presses her forehead against yours, “you have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this with you” she whispers, and you smile at her.

If you only knew what I’ve been up to the past weeks. You thought

She pulls you in for another deep kiss.

[jasmine-jules]

Escaping to Chaos

Sylvie & Loki & Mobius

1500+ words

Warnings: Fairly general. Little depiction of violence, mild language

A/N: Hey all! I can’t believe I wrote this piece only two days after getting the prompt. I mean I can, but it all has to do with the fact that I saw this theory on TikTok the other day about Sylvie’s relationship with the TVA and why Mobius is so invested in Loki variants. And then because the episode airs tomorrow, I didn’t want my cute and sweet theory destroyed by whatever painful thing we get. So yeah :)

Here’s my submission for the ever so lovely, @startrekkingaroundasgard 6k writing challenge: A picture is worth a thousand words. My picture prompt was the darkened, rainy street view in the writing challenge post, I couldn’t get it to paste in well Here

Hope you enjoy! Leave me a comment or a heart if you do, and feel free to check out my Masterlist if you want to see others like it!

~~~~~~~~~

Sylvie feels the time winds bluster past her as she steps through the door, and the air around her falls silent. The chaos of Lamentis 1 fades as the door slams shut, leaving her in quiet and safety. For now.

How? She’s actually not hundred percent sure yet, all she knows is that she saw a door; she saw a chance to live. And she couldn’t not take it. 

She’s spent this long surviving, this long fighting for the freedom of herself and everyone else around her—if anything, wishing for life to be the exact sort of chaos she just ran from. The TVA stole her from her home, they destroyed her family and everything she knew before she even got a chance to know it. She will not give up that easily.

“So, where do you think we ended up this time?” Loki’s lilting voice breaks through the peaceful din of the rainy, empty street they stand on. 

“Damn,” she mutters under her breath as she hears the one voice she hasn’t been able to shake yet.

“You think I would know? I don’t even know who was responsible for the stupid time door.” She whirls around, exasperated. Why is he still here, the only reason they stuck together was to get away from that doomed moon, and it wasn’t long before she couldn’t hold back from voicing those same thoughts,

“Why are you still following me around like a homesick puppy? I was only resisting my urge to kill you to get off that planet, and guess what? My reason is-” she snaps her fingers, “gone. So now you should be too.” After all, he’s just another person for the TVA to steal away from her, so it’s better that he leaves before he turns into anything more than a nuisance. 

“You need me.” Loki jabs towards her chest, “You wouldn’t be alive right now if it weren’t for me, and I you. So,” he crosses his arms indignantly, “fortunately for you, you’re stuck with me now.”

She resists the urge to smack him across that knowing grin he flashes her, he’s won and he knows it, “Fine. But we need to move, we still don’t know who opened that door and I’m not eager to meet them.”

“Lead the way, my Lady.” He gestures his arms towards the open sidewalk in front of him. 

Sylvie rolls her eyes and walks in the opposite direction of his arm, crashing her shoulder intentionally into his as she passes by. 

As they walk, she fights to push away the ease the comes with being in Loki’s presence. The sense of family. Of belonging. Of having someone by your side that knows you, understands what makes you tick and why you fight. She has no idea when it did turn from a very real urge to kill him, to this. 

She knows that Loki feels it too, but his fondness based more on a memory of a brother that she herself never had a chance to know. His pull to be near any Asgardian kinship stronger than the instinctual distrust of a stranger. She feels it every time he drops a hushed truth about himself, and every time he pushes her out of the way of a meteor. He can’t help but think of family either.

Sylvie hasn’t felt this in years. Decades even... she stops in her tracks.

“Sylvie?” 

But she barely hears Loki’s question through the hurricane of thoughts stampeding through her mind, whizzing past her faster than time. She hardly registers his presence even as he hesitantly steps towards her like trying not to spook an animal.

“I know who opened the time door for us,” She manages to get the words past her choked throat, “And I think you do too.”

She can see the dots piecing together behind Loki’s eyes—his face falling as the realization dawns on him.

“Do we run?” He asks, but she knows it’s a fruitless, rhetorical question. They both know the answer. 

“Ahhh, you two finally figured it out?”

Sylvie would recognize that soft, drawled out voice anywhere, even considering the centuries that’s passed since she last heard it in any meaningful conversation. She doesn’t turn to look at him just yet, but instead pleads silently to Loki’s eyes, begging him to take the lead. She can’t bear to talk to Mobius, not this time at least. 

It takes hardly any time at all for Loki to catch on, and she almost doesn’t comprehend the tiny, imperceptible nod he aims her way, the flood of white noise drowning out any constructive thought. All she can manage to do is to move in harmony with Loki as he makes his way towards Mobius. 

Instead of following any charming word or thrown slight that falls from Loki’s mouth, she’s overtaken with memories of when she first stepped into the dingy, perpetual grayness of the TVA.

Fingers wrapped too tightly around her little arm. Her long black hair stinging her scalp as the Agent pulls her along too roughly down the endless wall of windows, showing her the expansive city of lights, and space too large for her small mind to even grasp at. 

She hears the high pitched drone of Miss Minutes explaining to the younger version of herself, barely just figuring out her identity and the path she wants to take in her life, the crime that she had committed. That she broke the sacred timeline and varied away from her pre-destined road, and must pay the price.

She doesn't hear a word spoken in that vast courtroom. The gavel rings loudly on the dark wood of the judges bench as her sentence is decided, and she’s herded out of the court room. But this time, the arm that leads her doesn’t pinch too tight, doesn’t pull at her hair. This time the hand rests gently on her shoulder, and it’s not a cold voice, one hardened like steel in war-like conditions, but it’s almost goofy. His vowels twang and his words always have a soft uptick to them, like he’s always questioning what he’s saying.

They get to a different chamber, this time with a round table and a couple of chairs, so they can talk face to face instead of one looming over the other. 

He introduces himself at Agent Mobius, and he’s in charge of the variants that aren’t meant to be reset yet, but rather help them carry out tasks that the other agents haven’t succeeded at yet. Although, that’s not what she is here for either, 

“No, my sweet Loki, you’re here because you broke the timeline, but it’s still not your time. You deserve a chance to live.”

So she grows up beside Mobius. He raises her like Odin never did, he’s kind and he teaches her to fight, he tells her stories of the worlds that he’s seen, promising her more than she can even dream of. At night, Loki steals away precious moments under her covers or in the quiet of her closet to practice magic. The kind that the fading memory of her mother always talked about, and slowly she becomes not a Loki variant, but Sylvie, the Enchantress. 

Soon her need to learn expands wider than the scope of the TVA, she gets too curious, starts asking the wrong questions.

The TVA is too ordered, everything works the ways it’s supposed to and never strays from what the Timekeepers declare. It’s too perfect to be good, the universe tends towards disorder. And they’re doing everything in their power to prevent that.

She begs Mobius to tell her the truth. He never does, his stoic face never breaking no matter how many times she asks in every different way she can think of.

He never breaks, and eventually, decades after coming to the timeless place, she’s dragged away to yet another room, this time to be quieted down for good. So Sylvie fights, she kills anyone that gets in her path, she does anything necessary in order to escape.

She slits the last throat of the agent in her way and pockets her dagger. Her still bloody fingers manipulate the time clock, trying to program it the way she’s practiced a thousand times before. As she steps through the door, she feels eyes burning into her now blonde, short hair. She can’t help but look back and hold Mobius’ eyes.

“I have to do this.” Sylvie whispers, her own eyes burning as the time winds rush her into the first of the never ending line of apocalypses. 

She has to bring chaos back to the world, with or without Mobius. 

But now he’s here, and somehow he’s caught her off guard, practically making every evasive maneuver she’s done up to now completely useless. Loki still dances through his words, him and Mobius bantering like they’re an old married couple. And honestly, she now understands the drunken ramblings of Loki on the train. 

Love is a dagger. It cuts and it slips through your fingers before you can even realize.  And as the rain starts to fall lightly on her face, she captures both men’s attention,

“Just shut up, please.” Loki starts to protest, but she cuts him off, “You can squabble with your prince later. For now, Mobius? If you truly are here to help, then help. Because we need to keep moving.”

[thelastpilot]

Knighted- Chapter 8

oops okay i know i never update but take this as an apology? :Dc More Royal Guard!Nino and Princess Alya!

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

Nino loitered uncertainly in the corridor a short distance from the King’s chambers, pulling with undeniably shaky fingers at his royal seal. Being dressed in Full Armor did not fill him with as much pride as it had before, instead now it serves as a reminder for the scrutiny he was about to be under.

Nino leaned out from his hiding spot in a random archway, hoping his two-sided luck would hold and Adrien might appear. He just wanted some kind of reassurance that he looked appropriate for an audience with the King. The last time he had one he had been in torn worker’s clothes with too-big tattered boots and an old sword at his hip. The things he wore now were significantly more impressive but… if he wore any of it wrong he’d look just as much like a farmer as he did when he first got there.

All the senior guards had conveniently ignored him this morning… so he had no confirmation one way or another.

The thought made his hands feel hot as he struggled to repress that twist of anger. So much hard-won ground had been shattered underneath him last night. Part of him resented the Captain for causing such a scene, but no doubt she had her own opinions. He couldn’t even imagine how long she must have fought and struggled to be acknowledged even once by the royal family, or perhaps her motivation was more on behalf of her men. He couldn’t tell, not like he even knew what this was all about yet, but even as far in as the royal chambers he could practically feel all the veterans rooting against him, hoping he would be punished somehow. Like that would somehow be fair.

There were a few who didn’t care about his summon, Kim for one. He had caught wind of Nino’s little scene with the royal family from all the gossip, but it hadn’t occurred to him to mind at all. He was just sad he had missed it since it sounded so hilarious, and though Kim probably didn’t mean it as supportive per say Nino was grateful for it regardless. And the Captain has relaxed as well after her initial outburst so… he had no idea where he stood with her. Still, whatever allies he had retained hadn’t been around to help him get ready. He had only ever worn full armor once, and while he was reasonably sure he had done it right, he felt abruptly…

Alone.

Nino waited as long as he could, pulling at the straps of his armor and trying to keep his anxiety from paralyzing him as the seal slipped and folded. The more he tugged at it and the more it bunched and slipped, the more stranded he felt.

Servants and messengers passed him quietly, their duties sending them streaming passed like he was left to stand on a solitary bank, untouched by the current. He was almost out of time to stall now, and he took a moment of his privacy to breathe.

For the first time in a while… he felt like a farm boy. Holding his father’s sword in a field and pretending to be a soldier.

He breathed deeply again, attempting to steel himself in whatever way he could, when-

“It’s the loop.”

 The voice could not have been gentler, but the guard jumped regardless, turning quickly to face the interrupted stream.

Nino looked and found a servant meeting his gaze, the girl looking apologetic for startling him but raising her free hand to point at his shoulder. “The seal,” she explained, her voice girlish and sweet, “If it doesn’t catch it won’t stay, you can’t pin it or it will slip when you move.”

The girl smiled warmly and shifted the weight of the basket on her hip. She was dressed plainly, like a worker, but her natural beauty could not be hidden in simple clothing. Her dark black hair poured loosely on her shoulders, and she matched him with kind, blue eyes as she waited for a response.

“The- oh-,” he finally answered, feeling a little lame as he tried to look. His armor was too bulky to allow him to see what she might have meant, but before he could come up with the words to ask she was placing her things against the archway and stepping forward to help him.

“It’s easier to do it as you’re getting dressed,” she coached gently, stretching up onto her tip-toes to fidget with the weighty cloth. She smiled when he tilted his shoulder down to make it easier for her, now crouched a little awkwardly but trying to be accommodating.

He was quiet for an unsteady moment more, but when she stepped back to examine her work he couldn’t help but blurt out, “T-thank you!”

“Anytime,” she answered genuinely, making a show of checking for any other problems.

He hurried to hold his arms out, eager and relieved to have the second opinion. He smiled and sighed happily when she nodded, finding no other faults and nodding her head once more in confirmation.

“So everything’s good?” he double checked anyways, grateful that she was humoring him, even if she laughed a little.

“Fit for a King,” she reassured him.

The stranger bent down to retrieve her things but Nino beat her to it, quickly picking up her basket so he could hand it to her.

“Thank you so much,” he said again, laughing a little. “Genuinely. You have no idea how much better I feel having someone to tell me I don’t look like an idiot.” He rubbed at the back of his hair a little with a gloved hand, a gesture he could never really kick. “I get… uh, nervous,” he admitted.

To his surprise she laughed again, the sound of it sweet. “Everyone does, it’s okay. But I am glad I could make you feel better.”

“What’s your name?” he asked quickly when it looked like she was going to leave.

“Marinette. And I know who you are,” she answered with a slight curtsy. “It’s very nice to meet you Nino.”

Nino stood there with a dumb expression on his face, opening his mouth as if to respond but falling short, settling for a frown when she laughed at him again. “… my captain might have a point about my name getting around.”

“It’s not a bad thing, honest! It’s just that, well, the servants talked a lot about you when you first showed up.” She gave him a little shrug and another one of her smiles, gesturing with her head down the hallway. It took him a second to realize she was urging him to get going, probably having some sense that he was going to be late. “It makes sense for all of us to know who you are.”

“I guess…,” he allowed, glad when he noticed she was heading the same direction as him. They walked a little while. “Do people… like me?”

She laughed again and he frowned at her playfully, but she didn’t seem to mind making fun of him. And, honestly, that was pretty nice.

“Yes Nino, people like you, you’re a hero to a lot of them you know.”

“Oh, well I-… hm,” he hummed quietly, naturally walking with practiced steps now as they made their way towards the royal rooms. After a moment he said, “I never really set out to be a hero or anything. I was just trying to find paying work.” He mulled it over for a second and gave her a shrug too. “Guess I got a little overzealous.”

He shared in her laugh this time, some of the posted guards he passed giving him a look, but he didn’t care. The servants that passed them in hurried errands watched them curiously, a few of them smiling even, and that held a lot more weight to him, he realized.

As they walked and talked lightly about not much at all, it occurred to him that he might be worrying a little too much about what people thought again.

A simple thought that probably wouldn’t stick but… hey, he was trying.

 He hadn’t been very far from his destination when he faltered, so it wasn’t much of a walk until they were passing the royal chambers he was familiar with, Marinette pausing in front of the door he recognized as Alya’s. He couldn’t help but peer at it curiously, Marinette diverting his attention for a moment with a curtsy.

“Thank you for escorting me, sir,” she said for show, Nino aware for the first time of the two guards posted outside the princess’s room watching them intently.

“No problem mam,” he replied with a bow, Marinette giggling a little at the informality. He swore he heard one of the guards huff, but whatever. Screw them.

He was done trying to impress people who didn’t matter.

“Thank you again,” he added, lingering a little to look through the gap she created as she opened the door. He couldn’t see anyone inside, the servant possibly looking to complete a task while the princess was away.

“Anytime,” she repeated.

It was too short but… they both looked at the posted guards, and reluctantly they let their interaction end. Nino was quite possibly going to be late now and that was completely unacceptable, but he had gotten so caught up in the small talk.

As Marinette disappeared inside he was left to hustle down the hallway, hyper aware now of the servants as he passed them. The hallway wasn’t too crowded as he crossed the short distance to the King’s chambers, but a few of them looked. A few of them smiled.

And he felt a little less abandoned.

The King’s Chambers were empty as he paced his room, wanting to enjoy this rare moment of solitude but his mind too heavy with guarded thoughts. He didn’t even find peace enough to sit, though he wouldn’t have been able to. Every chair in his well-furnished chamber was stacked with parchments and letters, each one a source of distraction. He paused for a moment and picked one up, finding yet another confirmation of attendance, which was good, he supposed. More arguments to be had, more things to discuss. All the same things, so little ever decided. He had managed to spare his children from this particular round of discussion, even Alya though she of course assumed it was out of punishment. Still though, he knew she wouldn’t complain.

As soon as his thoughts turned towards his daughters, he was interrupted by the familiar wrap of an armored hand on the door.

“Your summon is here for you, sire,” one of his personal guards called in, his voice stilted and professional.

Otis stood for a moment… frowning. … had he called for someone? A servant perhaps. To send something? He hoped not, he had nothing to be sending. Or did he have something and he had just forgotten? That was probably… bad. If he had sent for a messenger, he definitely had a message that needed sending, but- hm…

“Come,” the King called, fully prepared to make something up. One perk of being the King is that you usually went unquestioned, but he felt a little haggard and old to have something slip his-

The door opened and a tall guard stepped calmly through, and the moment the King saw his face he was relieved to have his conversation with the Captain the day before suddenly spring to mind.

RIGHT.

“Yes, yes, I remember now,” he muttered out loud by way of greeting, gesturing at the guard as he took a post near the door closing behind him, bowing obediently. “Excellent, you’re right on time. I intended to speak with you in person. Nino, yes?” he confirmed his name despite being fairly certain of it, if only to give him an opening to respond.

“Yes Your Majesty,” he replied right away, his voice firm.

The King paced closer, his hands folded behind his back as he examined him. He had not scrutinized him this closely since Adrien had first brought him to be considered, having not even seen him again until yesterday. He was dressed appropriately and held himself more confidently then he had when they had first met, but he had grown since then. Not is stature, but something else.

He was made of something stronger now.

The King looked away from him, enjoying the moment but not having long to spend on this. His eyes wandered over the many papers and tomes that required his attention, but he looked back to the boy to give him what focus he was due.

“Did your Captain inform you of the nature of this summon?” he asked plainly, lifting a stack of papers from one of the chairs nearby.

“No sire.”

“Really?” Otis replied, shrugging a little. “I suppose I didn’t tell her much. When I asked her about your performance, she was begrudgingly honest.” The King couldn’t help but smile at him with humor. “I think a guard sticking out so much annoys her, but between you and I she has no room to be so critical.”

He rolled his eyes, and Nino was struck briefly by how humanizing that was, though the King himself did not seem to notice.

“I still remember when that tiny woman fought her way through the entire Knight’s Tourney and lit the social hierarchy of the castle on fire just by showing up,” he continued with a chuckle. “Comparatively? You are very quiet. But second to a hurricane is to be expected.”

There was a moment where the boy said nothing, but when he looked up at his silence the guard smiled. “The Captain carves a figure sire, I don’t want to make her angry.”

“Wise man!” Otis exclaimed, rewarding him with a smile and enjoying how this seemed to make him relax a little.

This young lad has been here for a season now, but despite what may have been his best effort he still did not quite vanish into the crowd like he must have intended. However, he could understand why his daughter’s might have been intrigued by that difference.

“I have duties for you to attend to, so I will keep this brief. I’m sure you have taken notice of the number of visitors the castle is entertaining at the moment…?” Otis let it hang in the air, waiting for Nino’s ‘Yes Sire,’ before continuing. “Well, we will be expecting a good deal more within the coming weeks for political purposes and the castle will be crowded as a result. I’m sure you can understand that security is our highest priority.”

“Of course sire,” he obediently replied, looking serious.

Otis gave him a slight nod of approval, elaborating as he stepped away to look over the papers crowded on his desk. “With every noble comes an entourage of guards who aren’t ours and servants we don’t know. Things are bound to be overheard and whispered about before long… For the most part the people give me their good faith, but the air within the castle grounds is sure to be tense, in time.” He looked over at the guard standing attentively, eager it seemed to show him that same good faith he spoke of. He nearly smiled again but kept his expression even.

“In times like these, I worry about my daughters. With so many people in the castle I tend to restrict their movements and they resent me for it, but my intentions are good. We have many guards and this is their home, but until we have our privacy it is best if they stay in this wing of the castle, unless needed elsewhere.”

Otis made a vague gesture with his free hand, pointing out towards the direction of the hall somewhat dismissively.

“We have our regular detail of course, they will remain, but when it came to their personal guard you came to mind.”

The King had been looking through the papers in his hands with distraction but glanced up just in time to catch the shock running across the young man’s face. He mastered it quickly of course, fumbling for a professional distance but his earnest nature betraying him somewhat. This time Otis couldn’t help his smile, seeing what his wife may have meant when she spoke of him. He did seem… young. But he wasn’t a fool. He had spoken to both the Captain and Adrien directly on this matter, and even if Alix had done so with distaste, she gave a fair and honest report on his abilities. Whether she was pleased or not to have her senior guards passed over, she assured him that the young man was capable and driven.

“They like you,” the King explained, raising an eyebrow slightly and was glad to see that the boy still had enough wits about him to look nervous. “They told me all about you yesterday… I was skeptical, but it was my wife who encouraged me to reconsider. It was her suggestion that we assign you to them.”

He continued to watch the boy carefully, attempting to gauge his emotions and finding this moment important. The safety of his children was no small consideration.

“They are bound to hate me for cooping them up,” he continued, sighing, “but I am prepared for that. The least I can do is give them someone they like. They might get bored eventually but it’s worth a try if it means keeping them happy.” He grumbled a little at how this might go poorly for him… and after a moment he narrowed his eyes, sealing the guard to the spot.

“My daughters mean everything to me, your first priority is always their safety. However, if you can manage to also keep them happy and behaved… I encourage you to try.”

Otis relaxed only slightly and looked away to give the boy room to release the breath he was holding. “Who knows, they might even listen to you. You’ve had great luck before, perhaps you’ll have some more.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” the boy said somewhat breathlessly, his expression awed and determined. It was very similar to the look her had given him before, when he was awarded a place in the castle. “It is… an honor, sire.”

The young guard bowed deeply, overwhelmed it would seem. Otis nodded and waited for him to stand, looking him in the eye. Nino did not look away at first, perhaps he did not think to. Little things like that showed where he came from, but as he hurried to correct himself Otis had faith that he had practice where it counted. Maybe not in courtesy or court proceedings but… he seemed earnest, and incredibly loyal.

When the boy had stood before him as he was sworn into the guard, he had sworn his fealty with an intensity he could never have appreciated from one of his people; his greater, humbler people. He could do with more time, and teachings… but there was also something else. Something unteachable that Adrien had assured him of.

He would gladly give his life to uphold what he had sworn to, and that intensity gave him some small comfort. It was a position of relatively little risk, for now. He was the last one in a long line of obstacles between the world and his daughters, but that final barrier was an important one. He was curious to see how this farmer would do.

“You will be assigned as the personal guard of my twin daughters; you are not to leave their side until the visitations have concluded. Then we will see what to make of you.”

Something flashed across his face, just minutely.

 Oh.

The twins?

Oh. Yes, of course.

Of course, he had meant the twins. That made a lot of sense. He had just sort of assumed- but, well he had said they. He just thought he meant- well the daughters. But yes, the twins. He was to watch the twins.

Nino wrestled with the pride that grew within him, in a war for his life with the grin threatening to compromise his composure. He was bursting at the seams with energy, completely overwhelmed with determination. Within one audience he was again aware of the seal on his shoulder, the vibrant purple of it so present in his mind he thought he might drown in it. HA! And so many of the old bastards in the guard were waiting for him to fail! Hoping he would be punished!

The King milled around his desk for a moment, murmuring to himself and sifting through papers, and despite his confidence high he felt another spark of unease as he was unsure of what to do. He hadn’t actually been-

“That will be all I imagine,” the King finally said, “You are to defer to your Captain for orders and instruction, though I imagine the Knights may wish to speak with you as well. You are dismissed, but Nino,” he added abruptly, cutting off the bow the boy was about to give him. He looked him in the eye again, stressing his authority. “Remain attentive.”

“I- yes, of course Your Majesty,” Nino managed, his pride somewhat deflated by what seemed to be doubt, but he shook it off easily enough as he bent into a deep bow. Fine then, he thought to himself as he stood up straight, turning and leaving with measured, confident steps.

All he could ask for were opportunities. Chances, risks, that’s all. His whole life here was a series of gambles he stubbornly leaned into, again and again, and he wasn’t about to quit now. Part of him was ashamed of himself for ever wavering, letting his worries get the better of him as he quaked in the hidden archway like a child. Everyone was waiting for it to collapse in on him, and maybe he was as well. But until then, he thought, marching down the hall standing above all the others,

I’m not stopping.

 -----------------------------

“STOP! Stop that both of you!”

Nino’s desperate shouts were met with mischievous laughs, overlapping each other and shrieking shrilly as he dashed through the ruined chamber, snatching Ella from the edge of her balcony as her sister screamed and ran passed him, diving for her bed and crawling underneath. Ella flailed in his arms, still in one of her formal dresses despite the fact that she was supposed to be in bed AGES ago, rebelling against him as they had the time of their lives. “Etta! Get out of there right now!”

All he got back was her screaming laughter, kicking further beneath the bed as Ella finally wrestled free and ran to join her, laughing hysterically as Nino caught one of her ankles, tugging her back. As he pulled her back and groaned in frustration he fell heavily to one knee, Ella tucked underneath one arm as he crouched and fished his free hand underneath the huge bed frame. He barely caught the edges of Etta’s dress with his finger tips but it was enough to get a grip, apologizing in his mind to the seamstress he knew was responsible for their dresses repair and tugging harshly, sliding the giggling princess out into the open so he could glare at her.

This was SO not his damn job.

“Your handmaidens are going to be here any minute so both of you settle down! It’s bed time and I expect you to listen!”

“You can’t tell us what to do!” Etta piped up, her face scrunching up as her playful sneer was ruined by her laughter. “We’re princesses!”

“Oh, don’t even try it,” Nino muttered, scooping her up under his other arm and toting them towards the bed as they laughed and laughed, knowing full well that excuse didn’t work anymore.

The twins thought they were so funny, nobody entertained them like they could entertain themselves. Separated they were docile but together they were ridiculous, and honestly it was his own fault.

He’d been at this for two weeks now and he was losing his mind trying to contain the monsters he had made of these two little girls.

Everything had started out just fine. It had honestly made his day to see the look on their faces when he was presented to them as their personal guard. They had been in public company at the time so they did their best to restrain themselves, their parents strict lessons on formality no doubt ringing in their ears but they still grinned up at him with joy. He didn’t bother to hide his warm smile in return, letting them be excited, and letting himself be a little excited as well. He took his position very seriously, but he was relishing in the opportunity he had reflected upon before. How these kids could not be children, there in the halls or even in the body of the castle. They had been children only a few times since he had met them and they had come to know his name, twice in a hallway and once in a field… and he had wished then that he might give them more of that.

But THIS was bullshit.

Nino tossed them both roughly onto the bed, giving them a glowering look that they both seemed unphased by, rolling around and laughing to themselves. He gave a heavy sigh and smoothed down their dresses, in the middle of reminding them to be lady like with their skirts when there was a knock on the door.

“Speak,” he called out, having to project to be heard.

He immediately sighed in relief when the familiar voice of one of their handmaidens reached him, turning and heading towards the door as he said, “Enter.”

The girls sat upright but were still laughing to themselves as the handmaiden entered, carrying their sleepwear in her hands and greeting them sweetly. However, when she looked up at Nino her greeting died in her throat, instead replaced by a sympathetic chuckle.

“Having a hard time?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” he grumbled sourly, allowing the princesses to hear him and grimacing at their chorus of laughter. Nino gave the maiden the most genuine look of frustration he could possibly muster as he abandoned the girls and crossed over to her, saying quieter, “The other way of putting it is not age appropriate.”

He got a laugh out of her like he had been hoping, her muffled giggles into the cloth she was holding enough to mollify him a little (only a little). Mylene, as she was called, looked up at him with pity, and then suddenly held out her things for him to hold.

He took them in confusion but watched obediently as Mylene slowly reached up to tie back her thickly corded hair with a long cloth, her expression settling into the most relieving thing he could possibly see.

The mom face.

He sighed audibly as she snatched back their things from him, calling out in a sing song voice, “Now, your highnesses,” and it was utterly effective.

The twins halted in their bouncing, growing still as their maiden strode towards them, scolding them in that same, oddly firm sing-song tone. “You know it’s time to be getting ready for bed, so it’s not very fair to give your guard a hard time now is it?”

Etta and Ella were quiet, shooting each other looks before mumbling something like, “Well you weren’t here-,”

“Yeah so we were playing and-,”

“Well,” Mylene cut them off, busying herself with gathering them up despite their protests, “me running a little behind is no reason to run rampant, so let’s get you two ready.”

She waved her hands at them dismissively as their complaints got more pronounced, and Nino couldn’t help but smile smugly when they glared at him. It was a petty victory to have to rely on the maidens again but he didn’t have that way with them yet, he was a guard not a caretaker. Usually at least one of their four maidens was with them, the leader of the bunch being Mylene, but in the brief time where they were not… it was chaos.

He had no one but himself to blame.

He jolted from his thoughts when Mylene suddenly turned on him as well, coming at him quickly and shooing him with her hands, pushing him out the door while explaining, “Go! They need to be washed and changed I’m already late as it is, go!” And then he was out in the hallway, left to breathe a blissful sigh.

Thank god for the maidens… it was almost an entirely genuine prayer, he thought it with as much reverence.

Nino posted up near the door to the twin’s room, relaxing a little more than he might normally since his presence was clearly superfluous. There were six other guards in this hallway alone, not to mention how many of them were posted nearby. The other guards looked over at him when he was pushed out into the open, but quickly returned to minding their spaces and he was left without their attention.

This was more or less his routine, having gone through a similar schedule every day for the last two weeks. What the young princesses were expected to do to occupy their time changed every day, but their movements were so restricted through the bulk of the castle’s meetings that for the most part they spent their day in the same wing they slept in. Nino was forced to stand by quietly as they diligently practiced and studied, watching over them as they saw to their lessons and whiled away their time. There were very few pockets of chaos as they did this, normally reserved for when he was escorting them back to their rooms for the evening to sew or read. That’s when they would start getting rowdy, and he would have to corral them inside when they were at their most energetic. Of course they would be, they were asked to sit and curtsy and sing for hours during the morning and early afternoon, they were children of course they get hyper. So, he tried to be understanding of their little outbursts but god it was so hard to manage. The handmaidens had a masterful approach by now that he did not, and since he was their most interesting ‘new friend’ he was put through quite a bit.

The maidens had gotten to quite like him, thankfully, Mylene being one of the only ones he had actually met beforehand. He often saw her hanging around Ivan, waiting for him to be done with his shifts or crowding around to watch him spar. No doubt she had been with him before realizing she was going to be late, but who was he to ask. The thought made him smile.

That was a little inappropriate, a royal guard and a handmaiden, but it wasn’t so bad. He was noble born but its not like he was a duke or anything, and she was high up in the inner circle as one of the young princesses’ caretakers. So it wasn’t so bad, and almost no one minded. Not that Ivan had admitted to it yet, despite everybody’s teasing.

The only other servant in the royal company that he recognized before starting was Marinette, and that was only by a handful of hours. He knew her now to be the chamber attendant to Her Royal Highness Alya Cesaire, but he did not get to see her often. A few pleasant conversations but not much more yet.

It was starting to get late as his mind slowly began to turn towards the twin’s older sister, but he was distracted before long by the gentle, distant call of his charges from inside.

He smiled, both at their insistence of telling him good night, and at the fact that he would soon be off duty. He was working for the entirety of their waking hours so breaks and privacy were rare and short lived. Still though, as a result the pay was astronomically better and just two weeks of work put him miles ahead in his family’s winter fund so… he wasn’t going to complain.

The job had plenty of perks too, he supposed.

He knocked before entering and shut the door quietly behind of him, in a significantly more even mood now that he had had a moment to recollect himself. He was actually about to apologize for being rough with them when he looked up and across the room to their bed and was disarmed by a smile.

“Hello farm boy,” Alya greeted quietly, focusing more on tucking the girls in for the moment, but glancing over to receive his returning smile. And his little bow.

“Hello Your Highness,” he answered without hesitation, gesturing to the door on the left wall that connected this room to her own, “I hadn’t realized you were in your room. I apologize if we were being loud.”

“Oh I’m always in my room,” she grumbled quietly, moving a strand of hair from Ella’s face and only speaking up to say, “And I don’t mind the noise. It sounded like the girls were having fun, even if,” and she glared at them, “it was at their guard’s expense?”

The twins giggled but did not answer, offering no apology whatsoever and Alya looked back just in time to see Nino roll his eyes.

The girls were still giggly but it looked like they were getting tired, Mylene still somewhere nearby it sounded like, probably wrapping up for the night. His replacements to guard the door should be arriving soon, and everyone was getting ready to end the day.

Nino was just in the process of deciding whether or not he was allowed to strike up a conversation when Alya stood up a little abruptly, smoothing her somewhat simple (but still elegant) dress with her hands. She leaned over to kiss both of her sisters on the forehead, stepping away towards him with the intention to pass him it seemed like, and he squashed his disappointment at the missed moment. Tomorrow maybe… but she seemed to be busying herself, already at the hall door by the time she was addressing her sisters.

“Sleep tight you two, and don’t be making a fuss. You’ve been a little too rowdy today and I’m going to be giving your Night Guards a special instruction to come and put you both to bed if they hear anything. So stay in bed.”

She gave them what felt like a fake glare and Nino had no doubt they intended to ignore her entirely but… that was night guards problem.

Still though he raised an eyebrow at her hasty exit, leaving as soon as he arrived and forgoing the door that just went to her room. Instead she was going to take the hall, so she could pass on a message? But she could have just asked him to do that, he was the one passing off to them anyways.

He was going to suggest this when Alya just opened the hall door, giving the twins a final good night and Nino a goodbye of his own, before she quickly but quietly shut the door behind her, and he was alone with the girls once again.

Well the girls and Mylene but she was busy.

Nino was still looking at the hall door with a frown when the twin’s tried to get his attention but…

“Sir Guard,” Ella whined, “Ninnoooo,” and he finally turned, clearly distracted and looking back towards the hall a few times.

“Yes?”

“Goodnight!” Etta exclaimed, like it was obvious, waving a little though he was fairly close to her. Her sister copied her and Nino waved back, smiled, but then looked back to the door, a bad feeling creeping up on him.

The twins were saying something more but he started to make a hasty exit of his own, mollifying them with a few warm goodnights and assurances that he would see them in the morning, but heading quickly for the door as well.

Because it had taken him a moment to realize but the replacements for the night weren’t actually there yet.

Nino opened the door with a little more gusto then necessary and left his charges pouting a bit but he had something slightly more pressing to be concerned with.

Nino entered the quiet, stuffy stone hallway with a significant spike in awareness, not taking anything lightly just because there were others around to watch his back. Mostly because, judging by the gap in security, he wasn’t actually as covered as he had assumed.

He looked down towards Alya’s room and felt a horrible crawl of dread against his skin as he saw her two personal guards waiting obliviously a good distance away, distracted by something and talking amongst themselves. The two of them were still of course doing their job and guarding the door, but…

Nino had a terrible feeling that they were under the impression it was occupied.

‘Okay, okay that’s fine. We don’t need to freak out yet, she couldn’t have made it too far surely someone would have seen her,’ he thought to himself placatingly, looking frantically down both ends of the hall and not seeing much besides a good chunk of guards who couldn’t have possibly missed that. So she must be back inside because how could they have not seen her.

Right so… Nino shifted his weight uneasily, the clink of his boots muffled slightly on the plush, ornate rugs left everywhere. She was out of his sight for… maybe thirty seconds, which was growing rapidly as he hemmed and hawed. He had every reason to assume that surely the six other guards in the hall had seen her standing there, taken her message on behalf of the night watch and escorted her back to her room. Yeah, that’s what happened probably, he probably just missed her.

He tried to let himself breathe a little, but he felt warm and uncomfortable for awhile more anyways. That was pretty irresponsible of him… in his defense he had been directly called in by royalty and could not disobey and there was plenty of presence in the hall, and his position inside the room always constituted that room as guarded regardless of the positions at the door, but if he wasn’t at the door and someone left then he was left relying on everyone else to catch it.

And he didn’t like relying on anyone else.

But what could he do really, order one of the others to watch his door for him? Half of the guard hated him, and the royal hall was almost always reserved for senior guards so usually everyone in the hallway hated him. So they would likely not listen to him anyways, or report him for negligence.

Oh well that was a great thought… they were probably just waiting till the ends of their shifts now to tell Alix about how Alya left the twin’s room unattended.

It was like, two seconds… ugh.

The severity of their watch really must be driving the daughters crazy at this point, and Nino fought a frown at the thought. Two full weeks of constant uninterrupted watch, and it would keep on for a few more days, or so the servants had told him.

Nino continued to bear the stiff silence of the hall, the only sound the occasional chatter from Alya’s guards a ways away from him. He watched them with a skeptical eye for a while, wondering where they got off chatting so much. And moving so much, every few minutes one of them would wander off and check the windows, looking around before returning to their post.

With such diligence, inconsistent though it seemed to be they surely saw Alya leave, and surely returned her to her room. It was almost as certain that this likely irritated her which… he completely understood. He mourned his own privacy while working so closely with the twins, he couldn’t imagine that being the entirety of his life. The rumors he had heard over time of the princesses (mostly Alya) sneaking off or even attempting to evade their guard (again, mostly Alya) had been entertaining when he heard them, but now as they occurred to him they seemed a little dismal. And also a little alarming, but again, six guards in a hallway. Wasn’t even a problem. Some of them weren’t even facing this door and a few of them were talking amongst themselves but still, six.

Regardless, he wished he could offer her royal highness some kind of reprieve, more so then kind smiles and informal chit-chat whenever he could spare it. If he could give her freedom he liked to think he would, so long as she didn’t try to run off on him.

Which she wouldn’t do, and hadn’t done, especially not now.

…

Doubt clung to his back as he started to shift uneasily in place, trying to decide just how much stock he was willing to put in rumors versus the capability of his fellow guards. He watched her personal detail start talking again, laughing at something and turning away… and his fear for the worst grew past his ability to give good faith.

“Ehem,” he eventually dared, every guard in the hallway instantly turning to regard him and nearly all of them sneering. He swallowed slightly but straightened his back, trying and failing to be casual as he said, “Um, just a status report. Before I leave for the night um… but where is the eldest princess? She’s… in her room, I suppose?”

There was a brief disbelieving silence before four of the guards just straight up ignored him, the final two being Alya’s personal detail who snorted condescendingly.

“Obviously,” cracked the senior guard, his partner laughing meanly as if to mock him. “What the hell you think we’ve been doing all day?” The two shot each other a look, shaking their heads at his idiocy and returning to their not so diligent guard,

of a completely empty room.

 “Ah,” was all Nino replied.

 Fuck.

[a-lonely-tatertot]

Finding Home

A/N: Introducingggggg AMY and linh! it gets gay at the end dont worry, once again thanking @bookwyrminspiration for betaing for me!

Tw: mention of injuries and some phantom pains (is that what they’re called??)

Word count: 2279

Chapter 2: Runaway

A month and an accepted roommate later, she got to remember she was Sophie for a minute. Sophie before everything happened. She saw her sister for the first time since their parents were kidnapped and it knocked the breath out of her. Short, bright pink hair blowing around her set face, Amy’s wide eyes stared up at the apartment complex. 

The stairs passed in a blur as Sophie barreled down them almost tripping over her feet on the way down. Amy, her Amy. “Amy!” she yelled barreling into her sister. A moment too late she thought it would be extremely awkward if it wasn’t Amy.

But it was, and she hugged her tighter than ever. Sophie buried her head in Amy’s short hair taking in the comfort of her sister. “You smell weird,” she whispered.

“Missed you too, sis,” Amy chuckled lightly. 

“Dyed your hair and got glasses?” Sophie said, pulling away and holding her at arm's length. 

“Sorry, are we not going to address the fact that you’re passing as human? Under my original name?” Amy asked.

“Uh yeah guess I’ve got a bit of explaining to do.” Sophie rubbed the back of her neck.

“Oh yeah, but over coffee, because I was not ready to see my sister for the first time in over ten years,” she laughed, “And I need a lot more energy cause we have a lot of talking to do.”

So they talked and talked until the sun set behind the skyline and the street lights flickered on empty roadways. They talked until they were out of coffee to drink and snacks to eat and stars to count. 

Sophie could barely pay attention to the first day of classes. Every flash of strawberry blonde and soft eyes sent her back. Back to bright mornings and weird lockers and one on one classes. But not only that; it sent her back to her friends. Dex appeared in the ramblings of Jena, one of Amy’s many friends who could talk for hours about chemicals and science. He clouded her memory when she walked into Chemistry and it threw her back to his laboratory. She thought of him looking at the skinny, freckled covered kid that hung onto her Quantum Theory teacher’s every word. 

When she walked into the library, three days in, and saw the spiraling stacks she remembered Fitz and how he could get lost in a book and never leave the pages. 

Marella could be found in the rare smiles that were Anaz. How sarcastic comments came to her with ease and there was always gossip flooding the halls. 

In her English teacher’s humor, she found Keefe. How Sophie collected pens just because they were there and how doodles filled Amy’s margins. 

Red became her color. In the morning when she didn’t know what to wear Biana flooded her mind. When she didn’t know how to hide her scars she thought of her. Sophie would wear them as a testament to the people she left behind. And when her eyes caught sight of the scars that littered another student’s body, clear on their dark skin, she stood a little taller. They were a testament to survival.

Tam, she remembered when the world was so loud. How he was able to control his impulses, his power, his shadows like her telepathy and inflicting. When she just wanted to hide from it all she remembered him, and kept going.

And the one that came as a surprise to her was Stina. The cold exterior and the sense of superiority that followed Henry, who locked so much of him away in a tiny box, to hide from the rest of the world. And how when you really got to know them there wasn’t a small corner that was as cold as it seemed.

But the one that never really went away was Linh. It didn’t surprise her. No, she knew she would never really get Linh out of her head. So Sophie accepted the small tug that came with seeing people together. As they laughed and smiled and hugged, as two girls held hands firmly; she wondered if that could’ve ever been them. If their broken world would’ve allowed it.

When she thought of them, her hand found her neck and the crystal and she held on tight only to let go. Because that was no longer her, and those people were no longer her’s. Amilia Ruewen did not know them. The crystal was all she had left of them.

And at some point that would have to be okay.

-

“You’re coming to this club with the group tonight,” Amy grinned. Ugh, a night with Amy’s friends? Sounded like torture. 

“Why?” Sophie asked. In her head and in her apartment, they were Sophie and Amy. To the world, their jobs, their school, their friends, they were Amilia and Natalie. 

She didn’t have work until Saturday and she had already finished her homework and Amy knew this. There wasn’t a way she wasn’t going. Amy looked up and smiled all teeth, all eyes. Someone save me, Sophie thought.

Spoiler: it went a lot worse than she expected.

There was a feeling that Sophie knew well. It was why she was here in the first place. The feeling started in her wrists, where she had been bound countless times. It spread up and down to the edges of her fingers which had caused so much pain. The fingers that held weapons and the hands that held both the blood of her enemies and friends. It filled her shoulders with tension and her legs with a need to run. But she couldn’t. She was surrounded by bodies, moving, dancing, controlled by the beat of the drums that shook her core like a war cry. That was because it was a war cry. The image of her friends, the small family she had made, half-dead and filling up every bed in the Healing Center. She had run away from them. That was what she alone had done. Sophie ran from the dangers and the responsibility.

Coward.

“Breathe,” an order. In. Out. One. Two. Three.

“Sophie? Soybean?” Amy’s voice. Amy’s hands on her shoulders. “Hey, hey,” her fingers cradled her jaw. “You’re right here, I got you, you’re okay. We won, it’s over.”

But it wasn’t. At night the demons came back to haunt her. And she would be running from them for the rest of her life.

-

Sophie had told herself when she left the Lost Cities she wasn’t following orders anymore. Little notes and anonymous gifts were things of the past. She told herself this as she took a picture of her shifts for the next week. They flowed through her mind as she wrote notes for a lecture. Words scribbled on papers and typed on documents controlled her whether she wanted them to or not. They set the path and all she had to do was follow it.

This time it wasn’t directed at her. 

“Hey Soph, you got anyone who would send you mail?” Amy called from the hallway.

“Nope!” She had barely even heard what Amy had said, too absorbed by homework.

“Huh, okay.” 

“You sure it’s not for you? It’s from that town like an hour north of campus,” Amy asked a minute later, shoving the envelope in front of her computer. “Get out of your nerd stuff and look at important things.”

Sophie made a noise but took the envelope, “My nerd stuff is important!”

Amy chuckled lightly, “Sure dear, you’re almost as bad as Jena.”

“My lord Amy it has your name on it,” Sophie shook her head, “And Jena is really smart and, unlike you, actually capable of holding an intellectual conversation!”

“Huh, guess I’m blind.” Rolling her eyes, she went back to her homework as Amy tore open the letter. Where was she? Oh yeah-

“Do you know about that road house right outside of town?” 

“Amy I swear if you interrupt me one more time-”

Amy ignored her, “It’s a coupon to there. We could take the gang this weekend.”

“Yeah sure, totally, now just let me finish my homework,” Sophie said, not realizing that she could’ve just agreed to anything.

-

“Nat you can drink?” Amilia asked. It was a running gag.

“Oh shush, I’m not eleven anymore!” Natalie retorted. And she wasn’t eleven, she was twenty-three and Amilia had to remind herself of that often. 

The roadhouse was dark, full of wooden booths. In the corner there was a pool table surrounded by a group of guys. Amilia sat at a table with three of Nat’s friends, her friends, she reminded herself. Thunk! The sound of darts reminded her of throwing stars. Shaking her head slightly she tried not to think about all she had left behind. Amilia, she thought, but it echoed outside her head.

“Amilia!” Tina called, waving her hand in front of her. 

“Sorry, what?” she asked. Get out of your head, she thought sternly.

They all chuckled quietly and tampered off into their different conversations. It was a nice normal, zoning in and out, the words just soft buzzing. She traced the rough wood of the roadhouse with her eyes. The chipped, frayed edges. Dark, daunting, but cozy. The roof domed up to balconies with rooms for the inn part. Sophie didn’t know if anyone actually stayed there anymore. Posts came down into booths, to a karaoke machine in the corner, to the bar that stretched along the entire left side. There was a girl, flannel tight around her waist, short dark hair held up by various barrettes keeping the strands away from her face. The pen and cups flew through her hands with experience and it was mesmerizing to watch. Sophie couldn’t see her face, but there was a tugging feeling that the girl was familiar. From a past life, she thought, and laughed. She had had many past lives. At this point she wouldn’t know which one the girl would’ve been from. If she would just look up, the urge to know who she was got stronger. She was someone to her someone important-

Crash. Her heart pounded, her ears rang. The shattering sound of glass was ironic because it played backwards in her ears. Shattered heart becoming whole.

Sophie, because to that face that was all she was. Her feet moved without her permission. 

Because this girl wasn’t just someone to her, she was everything to her.

She was the hardest to leave behind and the only one that could make her stay.

“I’m supposed to be bartending,” Linh whispered into her shoulder, “and your friends are looking at us.”

“Fuck off, I get the longest hug I want after not seeing you for a decade,” Sophie laughed stubbornly into her shoulder.

Linh turned her head into Sophie’s neck and hummed quietly, “I think that’s fair.”

For the first time she relaxed. The world fell off her shoulders and she realized this was the feeling she had been chasing. Linh smelled like cigar smoke and whiskey and cats (she made a mental note to ask about that later). But she knew, as she shifted closer, holding Linh as tight as she could, after all those years she would still smell like the ocean, she’d still smelled like home.

-

The next morning she found herself passed out in a room that wasn’t her own. An old lamp sat on a wooden nightstand. Next to it, barely lit, was a piece of paper. In big bold letters it read: The Western RoadHouse. In scratchy handwriting there was a note. it filled the entire card,words running into each other. In her very tired state Sophie could barely decipher it.

Hey! Sorry I had to work early and you looked way too peaceful to wake up. How much of last night do you remember? We talked about how I got here, and how you got here. And, well, we talked for hours and did you know the more tired you are the pinker your ears get? And the easier it is the fluster you? You also get clingy and rub your eyes a lot. I ended up having to carry you up to my room and swear to Amy on everything that I had you would be okay. But I realized in that minute in a half of hauling your dead weight and listening to you murmur in your sleep that I had missed you. I ran away because I’ve always been running, but I don’t wanna run anymore. If you’d let me, I’d like to run to you instead. This is me asking if you’ll be my girlfriend, or just go out on a date if you didn’t get that. So yeah? Can I run to you?

For a moment she thought she was dreaming. Then she read it again and all she could do was laugh. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes she grabbed a pen and paper and wrote a simple message in neat, loopy handwriting.

Well then runaway,

Come running.

She wrote her and Amy’s address at the bottom and slipped it into Linh’s bag on the nightstand on her way out. When Amy pulled up in the van she only raised an eyebrow.

“Did you win?” she asked, turning down the music slightly as Sophie closed the door.

She smiled, mouth crooked, eyes wrinkled, for once unguarded and wild. “Yeah, I think I did.” Whoops and hollers rang out from the back where her friends crowded together. They whooped and hollered and clapped her on the shoulder as Amy pulled the van out of the lot.

Tag list: @enbies-and-felonies, @clearlykeefitz, @ruewen-and-rising, @you-are-the-vacker-legacy @linhamon-roll  @lemontarto  @rainbowtay-11 @an-absolute-travesty @girlofmanyfandoms(if you want to be added or removed come find me here)

[gumnut-logic]

Flannel (Bit 26 and THE END)

Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4 | Bit 5 | Bit 5a | Bit 6 | Bit 7 | Bit 8 | Bit 9 | Bit 10 | Bit 11 | Bit 12 | Bit 13 | Bit 14 | Bit 15a | Bit 15b | Bit 16a | Bit 16b | Bit 17 | Bit 18 | Bit 19a | Bit 19b | Bit 20 | Bit 21 | Bit 22 | Bit 23a |Bit 23b | Bit 24 | Bit 25 | Bit 26 (The End)

Okay, this is an ending! Woohoo! Soooo many thanks to all you wonderful Thunderfam peeps who have written almost as much encouragement as I have fic ::hugs you all like crazy:: thank you for reading, commenting and putting up with my crazy during this fic (like this extremely strange posting schedule). Would you believe all these little bits add up to 22,000 words?! I never expected it to be this long (I’m blaming Alan - he was the one who wanted to go visit the mountain - it was supposed to finish just before that!) It went places I never expected. I had no idea when I started where the incident had actually occurred. I also now know a lot more about Washington State than I did before.

Extra thanks to @scribbles97 for reading this bit through and telling me it was okay when I thought it was too soppy. Yes, Nutty got soppy. Must be all the tears this fic has induced - even I got teary when Scotty cracked ::wails::

Anyways, I’ll stop babbling. Thank you being wonderful and I hope you enjoy this last bit.

-o-o-o-

It was John who was the practical one. Aware of his brothers’ state of mind, the suspected injuries hidden by Scott and Virgil, and the sun slowly being overtaken by cloud, urged him to gently suggest that perhaps it was time to go.

He had recorded the monument in fine detail. Enough to project a hologram from his phone. He had thoughts on that. Something that might help. But for the moment, his priority was getting his brothers safely home.

A quiet word with Eos and it wasn’t long before a roar echoed across the mountains and Thunderbird Two made her presence known. The great green cargo ship reassuringly familiar in the sea of emotion this place had invoked.

She came in to hover close, her forward hatch lowered. Of course, Virgil was the first to move towards her, an arched eyebrow in John’s direction. The half-smile John sent him in return was enough. Limping or not, his brother climbed the railing around the lookout and stepped onto his ‘bird. Gordon grabbed Alan, saying something that could not be heard over Two’s VTOL, and together they made their way on to the hatchway.

John stepped up beside Scott, who since releasing Alan, hadn’t looked up and stood staring at the monument.

“Time to go, big brother.”

Blue eyes looked over at him before darting in the direction of the hovering Two and then back to the grey flame.

“I miss her.” Barely heard.

“I know.” John reached out and put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

A blue inquiry was shot at him before the muscles under his hand relaxed just a little and Scott let his head drop in a single nod. Almost reluctantly, Scott made his way to Two where Alan offered him a hand to climb on board.

John took a last look at the plaque, his mother’s name and the flame forever frozen, reaching for the sky.

Two’s VTOL flickered in echo.

Green was his mother’s favourite colour.

He looked up and knew Virgil would be in his pilot seat by now, demanding control be returned to him. It wasn’t a guess, more a law of physics.

He let his fingers brush over stone.

A quiet, indrawn breath quickly let out again.

“Bye, Mom.”

The breeze overcame the heat of Two’s VTOL and curled its cold fingers in his hair.

He strode over to the hatchway and climbed on board. As the hatch drew him up into the warmth of Two’s belly, he caught sight of Mount Rainier, still massive, still silent, still there, until it was gone and all he could see was Two’s cockpit and all he could hear was her engines and his brothers.

Two minutes later they were out over the Pacific and heading home.

-o-o-o-

Virgil Tracy wore flannel. No matter the climate. No matter the temperature. He wore flannel. At least when he wasn’t wearing his uniform.

Well, almost any temperature. Apparently, John had spoken to Eos at length after their trip to Washington State. His purpose had been to explain the process of human grief. Her response was to heat the villa to thirty-five degrees centigrade to see if she could get Virgil to shed his flannel shirt.

What she hadn’t expected, nor Kayo and Grandma returning from the mainland unexpectedly, was how many other items of clothing might be shed.

Five Tracy boys in only their underwear as they desperately tried to cool down a hot house on an already hot and humid day, was not a spectacle either of them had expected to see.

John and Eos had a rather longer discussion after that little incident. Eos also made a point of hiding from Scott for the next month or so.

So yes, Virgil wore flannel unless his AI niece’s good intentions tried to cook him.

But what did change after Washington was the words.

Alan made a point of it. Not a big one, but a subtle one. No longer was the topic of their mother banned from conversation and Alan finally had a chance to get to know the woman behind the photos and the videos through his brothers’ memories.

First up he discovered that there was a reason why Virgil wore red plaid. Apparently, he’d had a blanket as a child, now long lost, but he associated it with their Mom and it gave him comfort.

That story appeared one day when Alan came across Virgil sitting out on the balcony. He had the shirt off, but it was laid across his lap. His grey t-shirt pale in the sunlight.

Alan sat down beside him and a rare moment of storytelling just happened. Alan did prod a little with questions, but Virgil appeared quite happy to tell him of the time six-year-old John went swimming in a lake and lost his shorts. Gordon had been just a baby, and Dad wasn’t there at the time, so it had been up to Scott and Virgil to fish their little brother out of the water and protect his modesty.

The fact Gordon’s third word after momomom and dadadadada was jajajajajah made the story all the more amusing.

Scott, too, offered some stories. He mentioned the awards their mother had won. Alan had known his mother was smart, after all her five sons had a decent set of brain cells themselves. But it was more than the awards. It was the stories about the ceremonies and how Virgil had cheered wildly into a dead silent auditorium. How every eye had turned to them, including those of their mother standing on the podium. Her smile had been brilliant.

Unfortunately, that had only encouraged Virgil, and their father had to quiet him down. But Scott remembered her proud smile.

Virgil had been right. There were many stories and his brothers offered them to him when they could and slowly the woman who was his mother grew in his mind into a person rather than just a figure head.

There were still bad days. Days where Virgil would be found shivering on the lounge or silent on the balcony. But the difference was that now the blanket appeared and was wrapped around him with words, reassurance and understanding. All the brothers would gather and they would talk.

About Mom.

About Dad.

About each other.

Eventually Virgil would end up snoring on the couch, usually half on top of one brother or another. And they would all crash there, all silent support...well, all except for Alan, apparently. They all claimed he talked in his sleep. He still wasn’t convinced Gordon hadn’t fabricated the recording he claimed to belong to Alan and his slumber years.

So, it got better. Not perfect, because life never is, but easier.

Some days the flannel comes off, some days it doesn’t. But ultimately, it didn’t matter.

And if Scott froze solid the first time John led them all out onto the cliff that overlooked the caldera to show them the permanent hologram he had installed there, it was to be expected.

If Virgil’s hands flew to his mouth to muffle his reaction, John chose to ignore it.

But the grey flame that now flickered above the volcanic rock said everything.

Their brother had installed a plaque, just like the one on the mountain in Washington, but the words were different.

Jefferson and Lucille Tracy

The source of the flame

Forever burning in our hearts

You were the lightning

To our thunder.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

[damienthepious]

I would love a going through changes commentary that picks up where the previous one left off, or really anywhere else you want in the most recent chapter

[Pick a short passage from any fanfic I’ve written and send it to me, and I’ll give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet!]

o w o thank you for ENABLING me i am incorrigible :Dc

[prev post]

["I am sorry that your mind has been circling such vexing thoughts," Damien says, his tone gentle and radiating calm.] GOOD IN A CRISIS BOY T.T ["To allay at least the lattermost of them, however, my lily..."] he works backwards, mostly because the last thing that Arum said was the MOST worrying. better to address that self-destructive urge early, yeah?

[Damien's hand moves away from Rilla's back, and then she feels one of Arum's replace it, and she thinks- yes, Damien's fingers too, laced between Arum's cooler, longer ones, gently pressing the monster's hand against the small of her back.] ah. oof. arghh. Okay so Damien can tell, so easily, that Arum wants to hold Rilla. But he can ALSO tell that the monster is holding himself back, likely for some of the same reasons he just listed as reasons why getting his memory back might be scary! he doesn't know HOW to hold them, like this. So Damien shows him, gently, and he leaves his hand there too, in support and in solidarity. like. of course you want to hold her. I do too. we can do it together, that would make it easier, wouldn't it?

[Arum hisses quietly, his breath catching beneath her. "Damien-"] he's reacting as much to Damien as to Rilla, just then. He does not know how to react, but - yet again - he DOES NOT pull his hand away.

["We are fully aware of the dangers inherent in our relationship, Arum, and we have been since the moment we decided to try. Would we be safer, were we not in love with you?"] here's the thing, Damien is even calmer than usual right now because they've DEFINITELY had a version of this talk with Arum before. Because i expect that... the more he cared about them, the more terrified he became about putting them in danger by loving them. Damien has already won this debate. He's calm, and certain, and so, so in love.

[He pauses, hums lightly, presses a quick kiss to Rilla's shoulder as if he cannot help himself.] he cannot. boy too full o love. ["Perhaps so. But that does not matter, because we would not trade what we have with you for merely the chance of mitigating that risk. You are too important, too precious, too deep within our hearts. I told you, Arum, that first day. It has been worth every single pain, every single risk, to be with you."] they're in LOVE they're in LOVE they're in LOVE. that's not useful commentary! I'm just heartsick for them always. He has already made a version of this speech. He means it. And Damien is getting less shy about telling Amnesia!Arum the way he feels out of nerves, now. Damien suspects that it's helping more than hurting, to reassure Arum that he's not going to change his mind. To reassure Arum that he is loved, no matter what.

["Ridiculous," Arum hisses, more breath than word.] awkward, embarrassed deflection. my beloved lizard..... T.T

["I have it on good authority that my ridiculousness is rather charming," Damien says, lilting and bright, and Arum shakes with a barely suppressed laugh.] again; getting less shy with being himself around Arum even in this state, and i absolutely... gods i love more confident, flirty, charming Damien.

["Moving farther back in your musings, if I may. It is curious to me that you are so keen to estrange yourself from- well, yourself. It is a fascinating philosophical qualm, I suppose, but in practice... can you truly not imagine yourself in... his position?"] The second most concerning of Arum's worries. Damien noticed Arum mentally separating himself from pre-amnesia!Arum way back in an early chapter, but he didn't realize how wide that chasm was. And he doesn't quite know how to address the idea of... how much memory makes a person who they are, because he doesn't think that treating Arum's CURRENT EXPERIENCE as a philosophical debate would be... even a little bit helpful? but addressing that separation in at least a SMALL way seems safe.

Damien is thinking of... the difference between himself now and a year ago, and he can obviously understand how he USED to be, but the reverse- how would his own old stubbornness fare, faced with his current position? i might also be writing THAT version of this amnesia hellfest, quietly, in the background, slowly. pretend you don't know that. Arum's uncertainty makes sense, but he wants to interrogate the depth of that particular separation just a little more, to hear how Arum explains it, how he understands it.

[The monster rumbles for a long moment, another of his palms settling on Rilla's waist, careful and light.] Getting bolder, getting more comfortable as Rilla holds him and as Damien speaks to him with such focused patience. He's thinking it through, honestly, and realizing that the way he felt a day ago has already begun to shift, but that's embarrassing to admit or explain, so-

["I... well. I think I am in his position. At the moment."] SLIGHT FLIRT! SLIGHT BRAT! FULL ARUM!!! But, also, importantly! he's sort of answering the question without answering it. He put his own hand on Rilla, without Damien's hand encouraging him this time, and then admitted a likeness in his position to that of his former self. Even jokingly- he's kidding on the square, really. He doesn't need to imagine his pre-amnesia position, really, because they're comforting him exactly the same now as they would have a week ago, and he's beginning to understand that. 💖💘💖

[whatwashernameagain]

Keep him safe - Chapter 31

You can read the previous Chapters here: Ch 1, Ch 5, Ch 10, Ch 15, Ch 20, Ch 25, Ch 30, previous chapter, Ao3 Link, Lo’s, Pat’s and Virgil’s aesthetics, Fantasy AU You are Magical, I’m dying to be with you

Pairings: Logan/Patton, Roman/Virgil

Words: 6.944

Warnings: effects of addiction, personal loss, insecurity, cursing onself

Summary:  Detective Logan Sanders and his best friend and dorky partner Roman Prince have made a dear friend in the lovely pattisier Patton. Logan however feels a lot more than friendship for the sweet man, even though he knows he cannot possibly have him.  Their routine is broken abruptly when Logan finds bruises on Patton’s fair skin and slender wrists he could hardly have received from his costumary clumsiness.   Meanwhile his partner Roman has his own demon to fight, which comes in the form of a little delinquent who seemed to have been pulled into a street gang quite against his will. Roman is determined to help the strange young man. It would be so much easier though if he just stopped hissing at him!

Notes: As many of you noticed I had a moment where I felt a little lost and unloved last week and you all came to my support immediately and cheered me up so much. I didn’t even manage to answer all of the kind and loving asks I’ve gotten due to working late every day. I hope I can tell you all this way that I appreciate your efforts so much! They were just what I needed! I usually post the new chapter only when I’m done answering the comments, but since I promised this one, here we are!

Chapter 31

This was madness. Utter insanity. Virgil was the last person fit for this. Logan should have left him to watch Patton, he could have easily handled his weird neighbor. Considering how tired the dude had looked, if he’d misbehaved a little bump on the head would have sent him into a well-deserved nap pretty quickly. 

Maybe his tendency for violence had been the reason Logan had sent him to retrieve Roman. 

Still, this was a bad idea! He grew mean when he was anxious and right now he felt like he was bursting at the seams! How could Roman be so stupid, though? Possessive anger pulsed through his veins as he marched up the creaking stairs.

He had Logan and Patton and... he had people who cared, alright?! How dare this piece of shit try to charm him?! He wasn’t some naive, pretty price to be won in some deranged game. Virgil knew exactly what was going on! This glittery bitch was trying to toy with Roman because he was beautiful and protected and therefore unattainable – a prize. Not to him, though! Virgil had seen that he was more than a dramatic stereotype of an attractive jock waiting to be dazzled and claimed. He was selfless and respectful and dangerously sensitive. He was infuriating and loud and soft and attentive and strong for everyone else. And he was weak for someone to come and give him what he craved. Roman just wanted to be loved. And Virgil was filled with icy panic at the thought of this son of a bitch giving him what he needed. He’d lure Roman away with the promise of being the only one. The treasure he’d put on a pedestal to be draped in expensive fabric and admired. That was not what Roman really needed, though. He needed a home. He needed someone who still loved him when he was whiny and obnoxious and so fucking special he made you want to strangle him! 

Ugh, Virgil, you utter asshole!

He was the one who deserved to be strangled. The peeling wallpaper of the staircase looked pretty appealing to his fist right now.  

All Roman wanted was a bit of attention, a bit of human warmth from him! His mind went to places of sexual favors immediately but even then, he knew he wouldn’t expect that. He just wanted to be loved. The detective’s wishes were so innocent, and even that was too much for Virgil. He was such a fucking- ugh. He hated himself quite a bit right now. Roman asked for so little. And even that was too much for him. 

It wasn’t, though! He- damn, this was the most irritating thing! He wanted to give those things to Roman! He wanted to make him smile and feel beautiful and – and even desirable. He wanted to tell him how soft Virgil was for him and how annoyingly adorable he was and how he liked the way his hair fell into his eyes and…

 Overwhelmed, his mind just shut down on him. The heat of his blush was probably cooking his brain. 

 He couldn’t possibly be expected to say those things! Thinking them almost killed him! This was this fucking, manipulative, damned thief’s fault! 

 That glitter-brained menace knew how to spin words and create grand gestures and make Roman go all starry eyed by playing to his idea about what love was supposed to look like. This was what Virgil hated most about them! They made Roman think shallow, expensive gifts and grand gestures and poetic pain were their love story and it worked because this was the love Roman had grown up with! He’d learned to desperately see love in the expensive lifestyle his absent father had given him or in the flashy gifts his mother had shoved at him instead of going through the trouble of actually loving him. 

 Fuck, this realization hurt like a knife between the ribs. After all those years, his parents were still hurting him! Virgil wanted to cry for little Roman. He didn’t deserve to have those innocent wishes for warmth and attention used against him. The thief hadn’t talked to him once but had made him feel like a prince needing to be bought with gifts. Like he was important and deserving of expensive shit, as if that was what love was instead of hurting each other and forgiving and working on yourself, working to deserve the other. Facing them even when being seen by your own reflection felt like too much. Wanting to tell them everything bouncing around your erratic brain even though you had no words to explain your ideas yet. Wanting to see them, every day, and needing to know they were close even when being in the same room was too much. Being haunted by their pain even when your own became a pale, common thing you grew used to ignoring. Thinking about what they would say all the time, wanting to tell them about your day at random moments, at all moments. Wanting to be touched, even when the thought was frightening. Wanting their happiness more than your own. 

 The 9 next to the faded blue door was hanging by the bottom nail, making it appear like a crooked 6. Only as he raised his clenched fist to knock did Virgil’s brain catch up with his panicked emotions. 

 Wait, he was in the wrong place. This building had a look about it that Virgil was depressingly familiar with. It looked like the bad side of the district he’d grown up in, where prostitutes and unemployed alcoholics and addicts lived. He was pretty sure in his distraction he’d passed an abandoned meth lab on the way up. Loud music was pounding through the thin walls next to him and a couple was screaming above him. Even outside the apartments, he felt the draft of badly isolated windows. It carried the smell of weed and microwave food. Down the corridor, a light was flickering so erratically, it threatened to give him a headache. 

 Reaching into his pocket again, he pulled out the address Logan had written down for him and checked his phone when the uneven gait of a drunk man climbing the stairs distracted him. 

 The middle-aged male dressed in a brightly colored track suit looked him up and down slowly. As he opened his mouth, smelling of tequila even from two meters away, Virgil glared at him acidly and hissed, “Keep moving if you know what’s good for you, asshole.” 

 Taken aback, the guy closed his mouth with an audible click before thinking better of his plans and stumbling away. This little thing with the furiously clenched jaw looked ready to cut him.

 Virgil was half disappointed to see the man leave. He could have done well with a chance to blow off some steam. A fight was better than facing Roman this way again and once again losing control of his temper. This place was reminding him of others quite like this one where he'd worked. Of the smell of cheap alcohol. The taste on his tongue. The bitterness and salt. 

 Turning back to his phone with a curse, he found the address to be correct. 

 “Fuck.”

 He had an idea about what was going on and he hated it. Suddenly, he felt like he had so many nights, standing at the door of his mother’s room, hardly daring to make a sound for fear of missing the sound of her breathing. Terrified of the moment it would stop. The uncertainty was eating him up even now.  

 He had to wrap his arms around himself to ward off the trembling, the burning tears in his eyes. He needed to grab Roman and bring him home, right now!

 Raising his fist, he started banging on the flimsy door almost violently. 

 “Roman, get your ass here, now!” He hollered. There was a hysterical note in his voice he didn’t like. His breath came short and quick. Hating the fear crawling up his back, he kicked the door hard. The urge to look over his shoulder to check for attackers trying to pin him against the wall was almost impossible to suppress. Where was Roman? 

 The door was wrenched open hard. A large body framed by murky light filled the doorway, making Virgil flinched and force him to tip his head back to look up a the face of the other man. 

 Seeing Roman, despite having come here for him, was a shock. He hadn’t really expected to see the graceful, well-groomed man in this place after all. Yet here he was, perfect curls falling into his handsome face, dressed in a pristine white shirt and dark blue trousers and that fucking, bloody scarf thing. His face was pale with surprise. 

 “Virgil, what’s going on? Are you hurt?” He asked, looking him over worriedly and sweeping the dusty corridor with his gaze. He didn’t ask him inside or move his large body past the narrow opening of the door. 

 Virgil stared at him and tried to keep his ridiculous, dumb heart from giving out. This was too much. 

 “Roman, what the actual fuck?”

 His voice came out differently than he’d expected. It sounded dry and tired-of-your-shit. And he was. He wanted to bundle Roman up and take him home.

 “Um, I- what are you doing here?” The young detective asked, startled. Self-consciously, he hunched his broad shoulders, yet his bulk still managed to hide the flat behind the half-opened door from view. He looked ashamed. 

 “What do you think, dude? You just- you just up and disappeared and you- you took that and you left this fucking thing?” Virgil hissed, glaring at the cravat and brandishing the note in a white-knuckled grip. “You think I wouldn’t come to- you ran into a fire for this asshole and then you bring his bribery or whatever and a fucking love letter, and you think I wouldn’t come after you?!” 

 Roman seemed at a loss for words for a moment. He didn’t fight Virgil’s harshly voiced accusations. When he spoke his voice was docile and submissive.

 “I didn't intend to make you anxious, Virgil. It’s nothing you need to worry about. I won’t do anything to cause you trouble anymore. You can go back to Logan and Patton.”

 “Go- no! I’m not leaving you while you’re being followed around by a fucking stalker!” Virgil screeched, nearing the end of his patience. This place was creeping him out, he didn’t understand what Roman was doing here and he needed him out. He knew what was going on behind walls like these and he couldn’t leave this naive idiot here, he was already a target and so soft for this thief and he needed him where he knew he was safe now. 

 Grabbing his arm, he tried to pull him along, barely hearing anything over his rising fear of- of whatever it was his fucking brain was coming up with right now- he just- he needed to get him out of here!

 Of course, the wall of muscle that was Roman wouldn’t be moved if he didn’t want to be, and for the first time, he wasn’t indulging Virgil. 

 “I am so sorry, Virgil. I can see that you are distressed. This is no place for you. Please just go home. I won’t worry you anymore.” He promised gently as he pried the pale hand loose from his sleeve. The younger man felt like he’d been punched. Pushed away from Roman’s life. Frustrated tears rose to his eyes. 

 “NO! You stupid idiot, are you actually this fucking draft? You need to listen – you can’t- you can’t stay here! What the fuck are you staying at this weird place for anyway? For them? You seriously think they’ll- this is fucking madness!” He howled, pulling his hair away from his face roughly. He wanted to punch something. He should have punched that wall. Helplessness made him terrified, and angry. 

 “Are you serious about this shit?! They are trying to win you but they don’t even know you! Trust me – they have no idea about how exasperating you are – how you spread out your presence wherever you go and make everything messy with shiny stuff like glitter and bright fabrics and shit. I don’t get why you pretend to be so annoying and selfish and then you make me see how much more there is to you - you aren’t the front you put up – that gorgeous, stupid, annoying idiot who tries to be the center of attention because he thinks he’s god’s gift to the world. You’re a mess and you’re reckless and kind to the point of being naive and you – you’re so patient with me, no matter how fucking- how I don’t deserve it and- and they don’t know! They think you’re this stupid façade, but I know you! I don’t get you, no matter how much I think about you, but at least I- ungh fuck, I- just- kill me now…” He whimpered. Miserably, he added, “They don’t want you the way you deserve.”

 Stricken, Roman stared at him. He looked hurt and shaken and… utterly lost in the world. 

 “But… at least they want me.” He muttered softly. 

 Virgil could swear he heard the moment his heart broke for this stupid man. He barely managed to swallow a scream of utter frustration and humiliation. “But I-” He broke off helplessly, hiding his burning face in his hands and muffling his voice. 

 “I… you are… I want you, okay?! I don’t- DON’T you dare think this means anything or – I’m not saying- it’s just that you’re- and you- 

 Disbelief and confusion washed over the younger detective. Totally overwhelmed, he tried to make sense of the stuttered confession. Virgil was already barreling on, though, powered by his frightened anger. 

 “You can't just fuck off and leave me behind! Do you think I – we - you think we don't give a fuck if you just run off with that extra, bedazzled creep?” He complained, his melodic voice deep and scratchy. He was giving Roman whiplash with his moods. 

“I- I’m sorry, Virgil. I didn't mean to hurt you. But- you flinched when I got close to you, and after the fire you were so angry and hid from me. I thought you couldn’t stand to look at me.” He muttered. The rejection still hurt so badly it made tears rise into his green eyes. This couldn’t possibly be true. He didn’t want another repeat of their kiss. Virgil couldn’t sacrifice himself again for what he thought Roman wanted. 

 “No, I- it’s not your fault!” Virgil groaned in distress. His confession burst from his chest like a physical thing. 

 “I was ashamed, okay? I was such a dick to you. How could you think I’d think badly of you? You saved someone from a literal burning building – you’re the most heroic, incredible, impossible dumbass in the world – who does something like that? That sort of shit happens in movies, not with real people! I just – I panicked, alright! I got so terrified you’d die, you don’t know how terrible – you can’t die! There’s no one else like you – in the whole fucking world - and if I lost you- I couldn’t- I can’t lose you! What you did was stupid, but it was also so brave and so you, and now that I have that in my life I couldn’t live without it! I got so fucking scared you’d be taken away by your own stupid heroism and treated you so badly because I don’t know how to just- be a fucking decent person anymore and then I couldn’t take it back even though-”

 He ran a frustrated hand through his messy hair, his face burning. He hadn’t been this uncomfortable in years. This was too much honesty; it might just kill him. 

 “Even though I – I admire you, okay?! Saving that person – that was – I don’t know. Pretty brave, I guess. What you do for others, just like that, it just fucking awes me. And exasperates me, too. How you make everything so fucking bright and look at the good side and how you always try to save everyone – that’s not my world. It’s not how people are, but you are that way, just like that. Don’t you get it?” He whispered tiredly. 

 “My life was ending in hurt and shame and I was just ready to fucking die already and then you came along and just fricking saved me. You- how can I-” Blinking back mortified tears, he groped for words. He couldn’t let Roman keep thinking he was afraid or disgusted with him. 

 “Sometimes I look at you and I can’t believe you’re real. I wake up at night and think I dreamed you. You’re like- like a-”

 Shame made the young man almost lose his courage, but he soldiered on, unable to look at the other man. Roman felt small and insecure and was about to make a terrible mistake because Virgil had made him feel this way, so he had to be brave for once in his life and change that. Roman wasn’t there for the taking. He was… he belonged to someone.  

 “You’re like the impossible hero I never even dared imagine. You just appeared like a mirage and made everything so… safe. And beautiful. Logan gives us stability, but you- you’re like bloody magic. You took me in your arms the way I was and make me laugh and feel things I’d thought were impossible after – um, you k-know. Point is, you’re a fucking irritating, annoying miracle and I couldn’t handle the thought of losing you. I’m so fucking sorry, Roman. I hurt you when you needed me and made you turn to someone else and I knew you deserved better, but after I fucked up again I just became so ashamed of myself. I couldn’t look at how hurt you were and I couldn’t find words to apologize, so I hid like a coward and – and now… fuck. I drove you away.”

 With shaking hands, Virgil unfolded the crumbled note, holding it out to the man who’d chosen the person who’d left it to him, because Virgil had broken his confidence. 

 “I’m sorry. I know you need something, but this, this isn’t real, even though it might be as… glittery, or whatever, as you deserve. I’m not much, and I can’t really promise- I mean- I’m in over my head, dude, but-”

 He was interrupted as his hands were being taken, impossibly tenderly, in larger, shaking ones. Finally daring to look up, Virgil found Roman in tears before him. His green eyes were wide. He was shaking. Then, he was laughing. 

 A lightness flooded the handsome detective he’d never felt before. It was like he could fly, like he was falling and wouldn’t ever come down. His heart raced with euphoria. He was soaring. Virgil may be burning up with terror and humiliation and he’d take care of him in a second, but right now, he could hardly believe the things he’d told him. 

 Virgil admired him. 

 His heart leaped. 

 Virgil thought he was a hero. 

 A laugh broke from his chest, watery and unbridled. 

 Virgil might possibly, unbelievably, just a little bit, want him. 

 Roman lowered his face and cried overwhelmed tears of joy. 

 He knew his thundercloud wasn’t propositioning him, he wasn’t ready for anything and didn’t need him like this. The poor, beautiful creature was probably terrified of the expectations he thought he was creating – as if Roman would ever demand anything from him. There were things he’d need to tell him, reassurances to be made. But first, he needed a moment to feel all of this weight fall off his shoulders. 

 Rubbing his cold hands slowly, so not to startle the jumpy creature that was probably unconsciously waiting to be ambushed after giving a man an opening, no matter how small, he smiled at him tenderly. Finally, he felt like he was permitted to look at him with softness. 

 “It’s alright, my starry night.” The endearment hung in the air between them for a moment. Virgil looked shaken but didn’t contradict him. He probably felt like he needed to be complacent to tempt Roman back. That would not do. Still, he felt like they were finally on the right path. He’d just need to show Virgil there was a healthy way to move forward, where he didn’t need to offer himself to make Roman happy. 

 “You don’t need to promise me anything or trade yourself for my complacency, dearest. I vowed not to demand anything from you and a prince stands by his word. The thought of having driven you away with my affection shattered me, but to learn that you don’t feel discomfort in my presence and perhaps even gain a tiny bit of satisfaction from our friendship is enough to make my heart soar with the clouds. And don’t be afraid. This is just fine. It’s all I could wish for.” He promised earnestly, squeezing his hands softly. 

 “You couldn’t drive me away with anything as long as you actually want me there. I’m happy to come with you, wherever you want to go.”

 The utter softness of the detective’s voice brought the young barista up short. Virgil’s breath caught on his emotions. Mortified, he needed to blink back tears. Oh god oh fuck oh shit what had he just told him?! Had he just made a fucking confession? Oh no no no he wanted to die.

 Sensing his mortification, Roman offered the safety of his arms hopefully, ready to protect him from this place that made him anxious and to let him hide his face. Knowing the alternative was punching Roman unconscious and running away, Virgil gratefully dove into his arms. What the fuck was supposed to happen? He’d already made a fool of himself, might as well get a hug out of it as well. 

 “I know you’re scared, little bird.” His deep, hoarse voice rumbled softly against Virgil’s ear where he pressed it against Roman’s chest. He sounded utterly calm, like all of his fears had left him. Like he was where he belonged. His arm settled around the narrow waist and held the trembling creature close while his other hand cupped the the back of his neck in a warm grip. 

 “There is nothing to fear with me.” 

 Virgil took in a shuddering breath, overwhelmed by the sudden wave of affection that hit him. He clutched the taller man tighter, squishing their bodies together. He smelled good, of cologne and this heady, male scent that made warmth spread through his veins. Though he was terrified of the possibilities for terrible, terrible things he’d just created, he knew he wouldn’t take those words back if he could. The silk of the cravat tried around Roman’s neck was cool against his cheek, taunting him with the threat of seducing him into another person’s arms. A fire blazed in his chest at the thought. He clutched at the muscle under his hands with sudden possessiveness. He was the one Roman had wanted first. The one he’d fought for and called ridiculous fucking names and gotten in trouble for. He was the one who would protect him from his silly mind that tried to betray him with stupid, romantic idea. He’d protect him from them. And if he had to face his feelings and try to somehow find a way to give him what he needed from him, then he would do that. Despite being frankly terrified. If things went wrong he could destroy his family. He could break Roman’s heart. He was likely to break Roman’s heart actually. He didn’t do lovey dovey relationship stuff! He didn’t even know what he was supposed to do with him! Sex was potentially no problem, of course. He knew he could satisfy him, there was nothing he hadn’t tried and excelled at yet, he was a genius gymnast after all. The problem was the- the emotional bullshit. He didn’t know if what he was feeling was even what he was supposed to feel in a relationship and-

 “Hush, darling.” Roman rumbled in his ear. “You’re thinking too much. It’s all good. This is perfect.” 

 Oh. Okay. This he could do. 

Relaxing into the embrace, Virgil allowed himself to be cradled by larger hands, marveling that they remained safely on his back and sides even after his stuttered confession. With the excuse of staying in this position for Roman’s benefit alone, he could breathe quietly and just feel the pleasure of being held onto as if he were the whole world. This actually felt really, really good. All of Roman’s attention was focused on him. He was safe and tender and a dork and so pretty Virgil sometimes hurt just looking at him. And he needed Virgil. He wanted Virgil without demanding anything. He was his for the taking, if he wanted him. 

 Oh fuck, Virgil wanted him. 

 He wanted him so much he was ready to straight up murder this bitch if they ever dared so much as breathe on his man again. 

 Possessive, fierce anger at the thief made Virgil curl his fingers into claws, digging them into Roman’s back. Before he could fully realize he might be hurting him, the taller man gasped and shivered in his tight grip. He didn’t try to hold Virgil harder or pull back. He just let the former criminal have his way with him and fuck, if that wasn’t the hottest thing that had ever happened to him. For Roman, the unloved, undemanding, ignored child, this vanilla, huggy, friendshippy thing might be enough, but it dawned to Virgil that it wasn’t for him. He wanted to grab Roman and have him all to himself. He wanted to be the one who got to claim him and touch him – be the only one who got to touch him - and make him laugh as freely as he had after his confession. He wanted him to look at him alone with those awed, beautiful eyes. He wanted to somehow make him happy and confident. He wanted- he wanted… so much. 

 Still, even as he realized that he really wanted to touch Roman more, at least as long as he remained so docile and nonthreatening under his hands, he knew the pleasure he could give him as a former prostitute wasn’t what Roman needed. Even though he claimed he would be fine with the little attention Virgil had just given him, he knew he dreamed of more. And the thief would continue to be there to fearlessly court him. Which meant, if Virgil really wanted to keep him, which he, oh my fucking fucking shit, really actually wanted, then he needed to step up his game. 

 Trying to breathe through the rush of panic at the realization that he would have to try to talk about his feelings, he buried his face in Roman’s neck, standing on his tiptoes to get closer. 

 Since when did he try to get closer instead of away when he was frightened? 

 Obediently, Roman’s arms tightened around his waist to support him. A small, pleased sigh escaped him. 

 Neither knew how long they’d held each other when a creak in the hallway woke them from their comfortable bubble. Drawing back from his hiding place, Virgil immediately felt his face burn crimson. This was worse than that one time he’d almost told Sam Gallagher in High School that he’d liked her. He could have never faced her again. Unbelievable that he’d been stupid enough to say those things to Roman, he lived with the man! Oh fuck. 

 Roman on the other hand appeared more relaxed than he’d been in weeks. His smile was tender and radiant. Every breath seemed to help him unwind further. He was beautiful.

 Virgil forgot a little bit of his shame as he looked at him through his bangs. He’d done that. He’d really put this smile on Roman’s face. It was… amazing. A fluttering lightness warred with his embarrassment and fear. He liked that he’d made him feel this way. It drove away the awful, ugly feeling of guilt and anger inside of him and made space for… whatever the fuck this exciting, dumb thing he was experiencing was. He wasn’t quite ready for more emotional revelations today, so instead he growled, “Can we go home now, dude?”

 A little laugh shook Roman’s broad shoulders. He tangled his fingers together in front of him in an unusual show of bashfulness. Virgil liked that too. 

 “Um… yes, I guess we can return to the apartment, dear.” He answered. Virgil felt safe enough to glare a little at the nickname. That would have to stop once they were of safer ground. He was still a hardened criminal, not some fancy poultry or shit like that. Speaking of the apartment. 

 Daring to peer around him curiously, Virgil asked, “The heck is this place, anyway?” 

 “Oh. Never mind that. It’s just more of my tragic, not-at-all-fun-to-listen-to origin story. Let’s just return home and drink cocoa. Perhaps the- the professor has left already.” 

 Virgil growled. “He better have.”

 His anger seemed to calm Roman a great deal. What was the moron thinking? That he’d prefer this weird, trashy, horny man-child over him? Delusional, seriously. And he was way too shy again. Virgil, incredulously, wanted him to talk to him. He wanted him to want to confide in him. 

 “It doesn’t have to be fun to listen to, you know?” He tried softly. “If you wanna talk feelings I’m here. I give a shit about your past, I guess. Helps me understand you better and… I want to understand you. Weirdo.” He added tamely. Too much niceness would make him break out in hives, he was sure. 

 Roman chuckled at his attempts to help him open up, ever appreciative of the little effort Virgil was capable of. His shoulders sagged a bit as he considered it. After a moment though, he stepped aside. 

 Curious and anxious to find a way to get this over with and make him smile again, Virgil stepped past him silently and peered into the wide, empty space. 

 The apartment was in bad shape. The old, wooden floorboards were scratched and in need of a thorough sanding and a fresh coat of varnish. The walls looked even worse. Long strips of wallpaper were peeled off by nervous hands in many places. What was left of it was splattered with suspiciously reddish splashes and yellowish stains. A narrow bathroom was visible through the door on the right side of the room. The sink was chipped and the mirror above it was spiderwebbed by cracks focused around a point of collision the size of a man’s fist. With horror, Virgil spotted the telltale black shadows of mold on the upper corner. The opposite wall of the bathroom was kicked in partly and revealed the cheap wooden construction underneath. Nothing but a table and a chair were placed in the cold, drafty space aside from a tiny kitchen corner with an old stove and a small fridge that rumbled noisily, and a plastic box filled with dish soap, detergents and such. Despite the deplorable state, everything was as clean as it could possibly be. 

 Drifting into the damp-smelling room and shivering at the cold air wafting through the badly insulated windows, Virgil took everything in, trying to make sense of what he saw. The door on the other side of the room drew his attention. It was half open and admitted a view of more furniture. Almost afraid to step inside, Virgil slipped through the crack and stopped in his tracks. 

 On wooden pallets, a mattress covered in clean, dark red linen was placed. At the foot of the improvised bed a plastic sheet was folded that appeared to have usually been pulled over the fabric to protect it from the dust raining from the ceiling. A space heater sat on the ground to ward off the chill the clearly broken radiator couldn’t get rid of. Next to it, Roman’s phone was charging on the ground. On the far wall, a vanity with beauty products sat. On Virgil’s left, a long rack was holding hanger after hanger of clothing tidily zipped up in white cotton covers. And there were boxes. All of them closed tightly with tape to protect them from dust or hungry animals, and all of them tidily labeled. Swiping his gaze over them, he deciphered the swooping handwriting. 

 Octavia’s books. 

 Stepping closer, he discovered another sharpie-written label. 

 Octavia’s PlayStation games. 

 Another box, tidily and carefully sealed and labeled. 

 Octavia’s boots/jean jackets. 

 Crouching down and running almost reverent fingertips over the writing, Virgil continued to read with a sinking heart. 

 Octavia’s writing/notes/drawings from primary school. 

 Another box. 

 Octavia’s t-shirts. 

 And two more, placed close to the bed and sealed as tightly as the others, unopened. 

 Octavia’s buttons/jewelry/belts.  

 Octavia’s pictures/phone/laptop. 

 Virgil’s vision was blurring as he spotted the bottommost box. 

 Octavia’s stuffed toys/post-it notes from Nana. 

 Wiping his eyes, Virgil rose to face the detective making himself as small as possible in the doorway. 

 “Oh fuck, Roman.” He muttered. Crossing the room with long strides, he grabbed the larger man and pulled him into his arms hard. 

 Roman shuddered with a suppressed sob and folded himself into the embrace. 

 “It’s okay, man. I’m here. It’s alright now. I know.”

 And he did. He knew in his bones that this was the last place Roman had seen his sister. This was the apartment she had ended up hiding away in to consume the drugs she had fallen prey to. This might even be the place she had died in. The place young Roman had found his big sister in. It was the only thing he had left of her. 

 He understood, in a way, how you could be so trapped in your pain and your awful memories of the end of a life that you couldn’t look past it too see the good times. You couldn’t remember what the person used to look like before, happy and healthy. The only thing you could remember was their pain and your failure. You could remember nothing but the things you did wrong, instead of the ways you helped. The times you made them smile. The happiness you put into their lives. 

 He could barely recall the times he’d come home from school to see his mother wave from the window as she’s spotted him walking up the street, so happy to see him. The way her cooking had smelled, the way she had sat at the kitchen table with her feet up, with the slippers with the three buckles and tiny pink flowers on them. The way she liked to go shopping with him and look at the flowers and decorations in the shop. She liked to buy little things to put on the windowsill. A pained, small smile stole its way onto his suddenly tear stained face, surprising him. 

 “Tell me about what she liked to do best.” He whispered to Roman softly, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

 Roman took a deep, shaky breath. 

 “She… she liked skateboarding. She started secretly learning how to do it in the stables at home. Our parents wouldn’t go there unless they wanted to show off our priced horses. She was so proud when she learned to do a kickflip.” 

 “That’s pretty cool.” Virgil mumbled into sweet smelling hair, daring to bury his fingers in the thick locks and massage the back of Roman’s head gently. The taller man sighed at the pleasant sensation, unwinding under the pale hands. 

 “Yes, she was very cool. Mother wanted her to learn how to ride, so Octavia taught the horses tricks. She wanted to do donuts with them. With limited success.”

 Virgil laughed incredulously. Roman joined in, reveling in the memory that suddenly became clear before his eyes. 

 “She was a kick-butt PlayStation player as well. Her and Nana liked to play Mario Cart. They both kept wiping the floor with me. I was always more one for the finer arts.”

 “Your fricking Nana played PlayStation?” Virgil asked, delighted with this tidbit of information. He made sure to settle his limber body comfortably against Roman’s, encouraging him to keep holding on. 

 “Oh yes. Yes, she was good at learning things she wasn’t supposed to as a lady. She used to go rock climbing in her youth and she always owned the fastest cars. We learned how to drive in a Dodge Viper. That turned out to be a very poorly thought out idea, since I got it stuck between the bushes at the estate.”

 Virgil gasped with horror and laughter. He pinched Roman’s ticklish side just because he deserved it. “You fricking moron, seriously?! You got to drive a classic sports car and you put it in the bushes?” 

 Roman yelped and tried to squirm away, with limited success, since he was still holding on to his attacker. Stumbling and getting tangled up with each other, they tumbled to the ground in a heap of limbs. Spluttering with laughter, they settled on the mattress, close enough to lean against each other. 

 “I’d like to see you do better with a teacher who shows you the wheel and accelerator and tells you to punch it!” Roman howled, playfully offended. 

 “Octavia managed to finally do her donuts though.” He added. “She went to the horses afterwards and told them to suck on that.” 

 Virgil giggled, leaning more of his weight on the man huddled close to him. Roman brought his arm up and held him. The young barista continued to weasel happy stories about Octavia and Nana out of the detective until he unpacked one of the boxes, possibly for the first time since he’d sealed it years ago, and showed him her writing. She’d been really good. Rude. Virgil liked that. They poured over her drawings and feisty poems and playfully insulting post-its she’s left for Roman until their shadows grew longer and Logan’s worried texts started making their phones vibrate. 

 Deciding to end the day on a happy note and to boost Roman’s confidence even if he’d have to deal with the aftermath of his honesty tonight while hiding under his covers, Virgil pulled a few crumbled, glossy magazine pages from the pocket of his jacket. 

 “I think we better get home. Let’s pack up this stuff with Logan some other time.”

 Roman nodded quietly, a soft look on his face. He didn’t protest Virgil’s blatant attempts to steamroll him into moving out of this place. He seemed relieved. Unburdened. 

 “Here.” Virgil muttered, already feeling a blush coming up and trying to hide it under his bangs. “Let’s look at this fucking picture of you so you can preen again, alright, dude?”

 Curiously, Roman flattened the crumbled pages Virgil had ripped from the magazine he’d spotted and impulsively bought on the way home. 

 It was him. 

 A large, full color image of Roman. He was striding from a building alight with roaring fire behind his tall figure. Orange light was framing him while smoke billowed dramatically. In his arms he was clutching a slight body huddling close for protection. Despite having felt disoriented and half suffocated as he’d stumbled outside, on the photograph he looked strong and confident, even heroic. A streak of soot was artfully brushed across his cheek. Brightly burning sparks were dancing around him as if he’d been bending the very fire around his body. It was a stunning image. 

 Baffled, Roman stared at himself, printed in a magazine titled with the lines This detective is on fire. Skimming the text on the second page, phrases and words stood out to him. 

 ‘Detective Roman Prince, who was credited with recovering the secretly stolen St Edward’s Crown as well as bringing down the gang The Howling Scorpions with his partner Logan Sanders…’

 ‘…fearlessly put his life on the line…’ 

 ‘…stormed a factory already blazing brightly due to a suspicion of a missing person…’

 ‘The precinct asks to respect the hero’s privacy during his recovery…’

 ‘…will hopefully soon be available for interviews on his daring rescue…’ 

 ‘…an idol for young, aspiring officers and civilians alike…’

 A chuckle drew him out of his stupor. Virgil was glancing up at him from his hunched position, warm amusement reflected on his features. He looked like he was gazing at something he liked. This look, more than even the article, gave Roman a boost of strength and courage he’d never felt before. Virgil had found and kept this picture of him and as he glanced down at it with a flush, Roman could see that he enjoyed the image. And why shouldn’t he? Roman looked simply radiant! Pride filled every corner of his being. Virgil liked him! Virgil thought he was heroic! He’d probably dream about this image of him – brave and strong and chivalrous! Roman finally, blessedly felt like himself again. Better than himself, he realized as he tenderly gazed at the pale, lovely wildcat shielding his face behind purple locks. He felt like the man Virgil saw in him. He’d never felt his beautiful. Like a hero! An admirable knight!

 Feeling a rise of ideas Virgil didn’t appreciate at all, he boxed Roman’s arm firmly. 

“OW! WHY?” The detective howled, rubbing his poor, sore arm. 

“To cool down your ego.” Virgil growled at him. “Come on. Patton’s making cocoa. We can buy the other magazines for you on the way.”

“THERE’S MORE?!”

 *************

 It looks like Roman’s arc is starting sooner than anticipated. Virgil will have to work to keep him for himself since Deceit surely will try hard to win his prize. And I wonder who will see his picture in the newspaper?

Next Chapter

[setaripendragon]

Trapped in the Amber - 1x01

I promise I’m not dead! I know I haven’t been posting anything lately, but that’s because what I’ve been writing is mostly... well, this. The most ridiculously self-indulgent bullshit I’ve written in a long time, and it’s also the longest thing I’ve ever written, and it’s still not even half way done. I admit, I’m very self-conscious about this, because the nastier side of fandom has infected me with some bullshit prejudices that I haven’t completely managed to exorcise yet, but... I’m tired of being worried it’s not ‘good enough’, and maybe, if people do like it at all, it’ll motivate me to pick it back up. So, here I am, retelling Supernatural right from the start, with a next gen OC tagging along, fixing things here and there. (...Yeah, god, I know how that sounds...) It’s going to start out... sticking pretty close to the Supernatural script, although I tried to limit the amount of times I quoted the show verbatim, it still happens sometimes. The story will diverge from canon more and more as the little changes start piling up and having an effect, but... That’s a long way off, tbh. (For anyone who cares and doesn’t know me well enough to guess, the primary future!ships are Dean/Cas/Gabe and Sam/Mia, but apart from the main character being a Dean/Cas/Gabe baby who loves her parents, there really isn’t that much more focus on romance than there is in the show. For now.)

Blackwater Ridge, Lost Creek, Colorado – Friday 11th November 2005

Landing in the past feels like hitting the emergency stop on a bullet train, like she left her internal organs behind somewhere on the timeline. Meira knows it’s the past because the timeline had felt thick and gooey as she fell. Falling in the other direction would have felt worse, but that doesn’t mean she enjoyed the trip. Add that to the sensation of her grace suddenly retreating to coil up under her skin like a wounded animal, and she thinks it’s no surprise that the first thing she does once there’s solid ground beneath her feet is throw up.

“Oh, son of a bitch.” She groans once her stomach feels like it’s settled mostly back where it’s supposed to be. She braces her shoulder on a tree that’s conveniently nearby, and tries to get her bearings. She’s in a forest, she sees, as she looks around. There are a lot of forests on earth. There are forests elsewhere in the universe too, but she’s… pretty sure this is earth, anyway. And she’s somewhen in the past, although she can’t get any sense of where she actually is on the timeline, and when she tries to reach out with her grace to find out, a sharp, awful pain lances through her soul. She groans and staggers, leaning more of her weight against the tree and forcing her knees to keep her upright out of sheer force of will. She is not trying that again.

The thought that there might be something wrong with her grace is terrifying. She’s stranded, and she can’t get home. She thinks she might be able to manifest her wings, she can still feel them, after all, so they’re not gone, but she wouldn’t be able to fly on them. She can’t fly. She can’t fly.

The panic sits sharp and cloying in the back of her throat, and she swallows hard, as if that might get rid of it. It doesn’t. “Motherfucker.” She swears, and hates that it comes out more reedy than fierce. She has no idea how this happened, either, which doesn’t help. Well, she has some idea, because Heaven, Hell, and everyone in between has been trying to get rid of her for her entire life, and if whatever’s wrong with her grace is why she fell into the past, then she’d say someone finally succeeded. Dad’s going to go ballistic, she thinks, not sure if it makes her want to laugh, or cry.

“Hey, lady.” Someone barks, and Meira flinches so hard she nearly falls over. It’s only a decade of various combat training that saves her from ending up on her ass in the dirt. She has never in her life been unable to sense the people around her before. She’s always felt the shades and shapes of people’s souls. Until now, apparently, with her grace trapped under her skin and unable to reach out to feel the nuances of her environment.

The man standing a little ways off is fairly nondescript, with short-cropped light blonde hair and a touch of stubble, wearing what looked like wilderness gear. Meira has no idea what lies beneath his face, whether she can trust him or not and it makes her uneasy. “What’re you doing out here?” He demands.

“Getting lost?” Meira sasses, because nervousness has never helped shut her up.

And then, another man steps out of the underbrush, but this one, Meira recognises. It’s her dad. Even though he looks so baby-faced and young, she’d know him anywhere. The relief is like a physical blow and she sags against another tree. “And my name’s Meira.” She adds. “Not ‘lady’, thanks.”

Dad quirks a grin, enjoying her sass, and then says, with every ounce of cocky bravado she’s ever seen him use and then some; “Nice to meet you, Meira. I’m Dean.” He glances over at the other guy. “And this is… I’m sorry, what was your name again?” The question is so obviously insincere, and Meira chokes on an incredulous laugh, because she’s seen her dad playful before, even bordering on mean when he’s trying not to admit something’s wrong, but that was something else. It’s macho-posturing, she realises, with a mixture of hilarity and dread. He’s showing off, like a twat, for her.

Oh, god. She’s going to have to nip that right in the bud, or she’s going to throw up again.

“Roy. Roy Roberts.” The other guy replies through gritted teeth, glaring at Dad – at Dean, she’s going to have to get used to that, or she’s going to slip up, and things are going to get awkward real fast – with enough venom to bring down an elephant.

“Hey, mind if I tag along with you guys?” Meira asks, to diffuse some of the angry tension in the air. Absently she wonders if this is before Dean has admitted that he’s into guys, too, because that might explain some of that. Roy is a fairly good looking guy, after all. He reminds Meira of that guy who played Bond in those movies Dad likes from before she was born. That… probably haven’t even been made yet. Damn it. She’s going to have to be careful with things like that. “I have no idea where I am right now.” She adds, because Roy does not look convinced.

“We’re heading further in, not back out.” He warns her.

Meira shrugs. “You’re still a better option than trying to make it by myself.” And she has absolutely no intention of going anywhere without Dad. It’s not really very rational, but he’s her only point of reference right now, and until she can get her feet under herself and figure out what the fuck to do, she could use the illusion of support. So she grins into the face of Roy’s unimpressed glower. “You know I’m just asking as a formality, right? If you say no, I’ll just follow you anyway, because what the hell else am I gonna do?”

Roy’s glower shades towards resigned, and Meira knows she’s won. Her grin sharpens, and he rolls his eyes, but nods his acceptance. “Come on, then, if you’re coming.” He instructs, heading back the way he came without any further ado, leaving Meira alone with her baby-faced father.

There’s a brief moment where they stare at each other, both of them at a loss, and then Dad – Dean – jerks his head towards the bit of forest Roy disappeared into, and Meira takes that as her cue to fall into step with him. “So, before you were getting lost, what were you doing out here?” Dean asks, looking at her with open curiosity. Then his eyes flicker down and up again, and Meira catches herself before an Enochian exorcism can fall out of her mouth on instinct.

Instead, she switches to the first lie she can come up with that might make her dad stop looking at her like that. “I was running away from a dickbag who wouldn’t take no for an answer.” She says without looking at him.

There’s a beat of silence, and a glance shows Meira that Dean is grimacing. “What an asshole.” He comments, just as they catch up with the others again. Roy looks sour, but he’s attentive, scanning the surroundings with a keen eye, which Meira appreciates, and standing nearby is Uncle Sam. Only he’s a squishy-cheeked, smooth-faced, gangly-limbed baby-Uncle now. Meira has to bite back the urge to coo and possibly pinch his cheeks.

The other two in the group are people Meira doesn’t recognise, a teenage boy with close-cropped hair, and a young woman with cute dimples that show when she smiles at Meira in greeting. Meira smiles back with extra warmth. “This is my brother, Sam.” Dean says, taking it upon himself to do introductions. “And this is Haley and Ben Collins. Their brother’s gone missing, which is why we’re here, looking for him.” He explains, gesturing.

“I hope we find him.” Meira says, specifically to Haley. She’s just decided that Haley is her salvation, and she offers her hand to the other woman to shake. “I’m Meira.” Haley takes her hand with just a hint of befuddlement.

“Alright, let’s keep moving.” Roy calls, before Meira can add anything else. She does let her hand linger, though, just a touch, before she retracts it. Their group moves off again, and Meira makes it a point to walk beside Haley.

“Tell me about your brother?” She asks, just to strike up conversation.

Haley glances at her sideways, but obliges. It’s clear she loves her family, just the way she talks about them, and Meira catches herself smiling for real, and not just as a flirtation, although it’s that as well. She does make a point to tell Haley how admirable she thinks it is, that sort of devotion to family, and Haley ducks her head with a rueful smile, bashful.

Behind them, Sam snickers. Meira glances back and catches a disgruntled pout on her dad’s face before he smooths it out into something more neutral once he realises she’s looking. She makes a bit of a show of glancing between Haley and Dean, and then grins, unrepentant, and shrugs in faux-apology. Dean snorts and waves her off, conceding defeat gracefully enough.

When Meira turns back around, Haley is watching her, one eyebrow arched. Meira refuses to feel sheepish at being caught out, and just nudges her with her shoulder, gentle and teasing, and asks her another question about her life. Haley rolls her eyes, but answers.

The conversation carries them on through the afternoon, until they reach a point where Roy stops. It’s almost a clearing, if it wasn’t for the waist-high undergrowth. “This is it.” Roy says, looking about them. “Blackwater Ridge.”

“What coordinates are we at?” Uncle Sam asks at once. Roy answers, and Meira aches a little at just how incomprehensible the numbers are. Before, she would have just known where she was, and she feels a little sick, being made aware of just how little she can tell about the world around her now. She looks around, hating how small she feels, how muffled everything is. She doesn’t dare try to reach out with her grace again, but she wants to, just to make that feeling of wrong go away.

“I’m going to go take a look around.” Roy announces.

Meira whips around to give him an incredulous look. He might not be in the know, might not realise that Sam and Dean are probably on a hunt right now, but even so, it seems reckless for anyone to go off on their own. “You shouldn’t go off by yourself.” Sam points out, so Meira doesn’t have to.

“I’ll go with you.” Meira offers, since no one else seems like they’re about to.

It earns her incredulous looks from all quarters, and a disparaging one from Roy. Meira gives him a hard look in return, the sort of ‘do you really want to try me, bitch?’ look that Pabbi has always told her makes her look like her qaada. And she might not be able to bring her grace to bear along with it like she usually does, but she is still an angel, no matter how constrained, and it would take a tougher man than Roy Roberts to not even blink in the face of heavenly wrath.

“Look,” he says in a carefully reasonable tone, “I know these woods, and I’m just going to have a look around, see if I can find any signs of people. I’ll be fine. You’ll be safer staying here.”

“You’d be safer staying with the group, too.” Dean interjects, making no effort to sound inoffensive. Roy gives him a sour look.

“Why don’t we all go?” Haley suggests, all false brightness and impatience.

Roy raises his hands in frustrated surrender, and heads off into the woods. The rest of them follow along like good little ducklings. They do spread out a little as they go, looking for any signs of other people in the area. Meira is not an expert woodsman, but she’d learned a few things growing up with a hunter family, and she tries to pay attention, to be helpful.

“Haley! Over here!” Roy shouts suddenly. Everyone bolts towards the shout, and they come out in a clearing with three tents lying there in mangled wreckages, blood-splattered and torn. “Oh my god…” Haley breathes, sounding horrified. Meira doesn’t blame her. She feels a little bit sick, too, and it’s not her brother’s campsite. The thought of something like this happening to Jace makes her want to smite something, and her grace roils under her skin, pushing at the boundaries of her physical form and aching every time it brushes against the inside of her skin.

“Looks like a grizzly.” Roy remarks, cool and practical.

Meira thinks not. Not only because if it was, it’s unlikely her dad and her uncle would be here, but also because there would be more blood and less wanton destruction if it had been a normal animal. If a bear had been hungry enough to hunt people, there would be a lot more blood, at least, and if it was pissed at them being on its territory, there would be bodies. But there aren’t. Just a bit of blood splattered about here and there, and a lot of claw marks.

Haley begins shouting for her brother, and Meira grabs her arm before she can walk any further into the camp. “Don’t.” She warns, eyeing the surrounding woods warily.

“What?” Haley demands, eyes a little wild. “Why not?”

“Something might still be out there.” Sam interjects, giving Meira a respectful nod. She tries to smile back, but she’s not too proud to admit that she’s scared. She ought to be able to tell what did this, to feel the spirits and souls around her and know. But she can’t.

“Sam!” Dean calls, and Sam heads off at a brisk clip.

Meira heads after him on instinct. Haley follows her for about three steps before Ben calls out in a voice that wavers despite his best efforts, and she turns back to him without hesitation. Meira catches up to Sam just in time to hear Dean saying “-tell you what, it’s no skin-walker or black dog.” Then Dean turns and stalls at the sight of her. “Uh…” He says, staring at her like a deer in the headlights.

In other circumstances, Meira might glory in making her dad look like that for once, instead of the other way around, but she’s still feeling unnerved enough that it’s hard to wring any humour out of the situation. “Why are we ruling out skin-walkers and black dogs?” She asks, propping her shoulder on a tree and crossing her arms. It looks less pathetic than curling her arms around her sides, but it still serves to make herself feel better. What would be best would be a hug from her dad, but there’s no way she’d ask for that when he’d probably just take it the wrong way.

“You-” Sam begins, realisation dawning in his expression.

“You’re a Hunter?” Dean demands.

“More or less.” Meira agrees. It’s never been a title that sits right on her shoulders. Not when she’s spent her whole life surrounded by people who actually dedicated themselves to the job, while she’s always felt more like a kid mucking about with a hobby. At Dean’s sceptical, bordering on suspicious look, she elaborates. “I was raised to it, but I’ve never… dedicated myself to it.” She hedged. “I just help out here and there when something crosses my path.”

“Right.” Dean acknowledges, and then jerks his head towards something behind him. Meira comes closer to look, and Dean explains the tracks. It’s almost like being a kid again, with Dad schooling her on this or that aspect of hunting.

“A skin-walker or a black dog could drag a person away, but you’re right, the tracks just stopping like that is weird.” Meira acknowledges, wracking her brains for what could do this. “A phantom cat could, too. Or a wendigo or a moonfiend. Or a harpy, maybe. It’s too early for a werewolf.”

“Werewolves don’t tend to drag their victims off, never mind vanish with them.” Dean points out.

“What’s a moonfiend?” Sam asks.

Meira blinks, reminded suddenly that this is not really her uncle. “It’s a… It’s kind of like a mothman, but less aggressive. They’re mostly harmless, actually, really shy, but if they’ve staked out a territory, you don’t want to go wandering into it.” She explains absently. “It’s just that they can fly, which would explain…” She gestures at the vanishing tracks. “Like Harpies. Wendigos are strong and agile enough to lift a human body, and phantom cats are spirits. It’s possible a phantom cats could transport a victim that way, but they don’t tend to drag people off, either.”

“Phantom cat. That’s the animal version of a poltergeist, right?” Dean checks.

Meira nods. “Yeah, pretty much. Although normal poltergeists generally just want to hurt or kill you, but some legends suggest that phantom cats steal souls.”

“The pattern of attacks would suggest it’s hunting, not protecting territory, so I don’t think it’s a moonfiend.” Sam adds with a grimace.

The three of them look at each other, all of them coming to the same conclusion, none of them actually willing to say it out loud. Before someone can muster their courage, the forest air is shattered with a shout.

“HELP!”

Meira startles, and then lurches into a run before she’s had time to think. Of course, Dean and Sam are already on the move, too, even as a second, and then a third cry echoes through the forest. They converge with the others, a wordless scream that sounds closer than ever egging them on. Then the forest goes silent, and they slow to a stop, wary and alert, listening hard. “It seemed like it was coming from around here, didn’t it?” Haley asks.

Meira feels painfully vulnerable, and she tests her grace, to see if she can conjure her blade. It’s made from her grace, and it’s still there, so the blade should be there, but when she tries to manifest it, a lance of white-hot pain ricochets through her, and she clutches at her wrist, gritting her teeth against the agony.

“Everybody back to camp.” Sam orders, and Meira obeys on instinct. She’s never felt so vulnerable before in her entire life, and it only gets worse when she realises they’ve fallen for a trap and all their gear is gone. Before, she wouldn’t have worried. She’s an angel, she can survive off the ambient energy of the universe if she needs to. It’s not fun, but it’s possible. But now, she has no idea what she can and can’t do. Her grace is still there, warming her bones, but every time she reaches for it, all she gets is pain.

“Alright, listen up.” Sam says briskly, looking around the camp with a tight expression on his face. “It’s time to go. Things have gotten more complicated.”

“What?” Haley asks, incredulous and irritated.

“Kid, don’t worry. Whatever’s out there, I think I can handle it.” Roy says, and Meira’s tempted to deck him for the condescending arrogance in his voice.

“If you don’t even know what it is, you have no idea whether you can handle it.” She snaps. It seems to startle everyone, but Meira doesn’t care. Yesterday, a wendigo wouldn’t have frightened her. She could move faster than it, could burn it to death with just a touch of the holy light in her soul, but today, she’s as helpless as Roy Roberts, and it pisses her off that he’s not as scared as she is.

“Sweetheart, when you’ve been hunting as long as I have, there isn’t much the woods can throw at you that you can’t handle.” Roy retorts smugly.

Meira scoffs incredulously, suddenly hating him. “Oh, that’s what this is. Did Sam taking charge just now wound your fragile male ego? Are you really going to put everyone here at risk because of your god damned pride?”

“How dare you suggest-”

“Hey, relax.” Dean interjects. Even though it isn’t directed at her, Meira can’t help but subside, too used to Dad mediating arguments between her and Jace, or her and Rob, or her and Pabbi that way.

Apparently, Uncle Sam hasn’t gotten the memo, though. “She’s right.” He says, as if Dad hadn’t said anything at all. “You have no idea what’s out there, what it can do. I’m just trying to protect you.”

“You, protect me?” Roy scoffs. “I was hunting these woods when your mommy was still kissing you goodnight.” He spits, getting into Uncle Sam’s face.

“Isn’t it about time you retired, then?” Meira snarks.

“You shut your mouth.” Roy barks, rounding on her.

“Okay, that’s enough!” Dad snaps, getting between them with both his hands out as if to physically hold them away from each other. “Just chill out, okay?” He prompts, giving Uncle Sam a pointed look. Meira tucks her arms around herself and tries not to freak out any more than she already has. Haley putting a hand on her shoulder makes her jump, but the comforting squeeze she gets helps a little.

“We don’t have time, Dean. We have to get these people out of here before this thing eats them alive.” Uncle Sam protests furiously.

“Look.” Haley speaks up, interrupting whatever Roy had been about to say in answer to that. “Tommy might still be alive.” She states, and Meira knows what’s coming next. She knows, because it’s what she’d say if it was Jace out here, in the claws of a wendigo. It’s what Dad would say if it was Uncle Sam. “And I’m not leaving here without him.”

“Then we’re going to need fire.” Meira says. “Lots and lots of fire.”

Blackwater Ridge, Lost Creek, Colorado – Saturday 12th November 2005

They build up a large campfire, and several smaller fires, too, and Meira helps her dad draw protective symbols around their camp. And then they sit and wait for morning or the wendigo, whichever comes first. The hours draw on interminably, and Meira sits right by the fire, close enough that she feels a little feverish with the heat baking her face, but it’s close enough that she could grab one of the big branches out of the fire if she needed to.

Sitting and waiting isn’t the best plan though, she thinks grimly. For morning, yes. Wendigos don’t really like bright sunlight, so they’ll have that small advantage once the sun rises, but after that? Haley isn’t leaving without her brother, and her brother, if he’s still alive, will be in the wendigo’s lair. Which they’ll need to find, and get into, and get out of, without dying or getting caught themselves.

“What’re you thinking?” Haley asks quietly, nudging her.

Meira glances at her, sees how worried she looks, and musters up a smile. “I’m trying to figure out how we’re going to find Tommy.” Haley blinks, then almost smiles, except not really. Meira knows the feeling, and goes back to staring at the fire. “Even if we kill this thing, we’d still need to find him, and… Shit, that’s a lot of wilderness to comb through.”

“We’ll do it.” Haley insists stubbornly. “I’ll do it.”

Meira smiles, slanting a fond look at her. “I know.” She assures her. “I have a little brother, too. I’d take on a wendigo for him, too.” That wouldn’t really have been saying much before, but now? Like this? She still means it.

“A…” Haley falters, frowning. “I’ve heard of that before. Isn’t that some sort of Native legend or something?”

Meira nodded. “Algonquian peoples, primarily. They tended to live more northward, where the long, lean winters often led to starvation. And starvation sometimes led to people who who looked at their families and friends, and saw not people they loved, but food.” Haley shudders in distaste. “And once they’ve eaten someone, they start craving it, and every time they eat someone else, they turn a little bit more monstrous.”

Haley gives her a sharp look, fear buried under anger. “You mean this thing’s going to eat Tommy?” She demands in a harsh whisper.

“It’s planning to, yeah. But it probably hasn’t yet.” Meira reassures, reaching out to put an arm around Haley’s shoulders. Haley grabs her other wrist in a desperate, unthinking motion, clinging to hope. “Wendigos are born of deprivation, they know what it’s like to go hungry, and they hate it. They tend to hunt in spurts, and hibernate for long stretches of time in between, but they don’t gorge themselves. They’ll take people alive if they can, so they have food for later.”

Haley squeezes her eyes shut. Then she sets her jaw and nods. “How can we kill this thing?” She asks in a hard voice.

Meira looks away. “I’m starting to wonder if we should.” She admits.

“What?” Haley asks, so sharply that Sam and Dean look over at them from where they’re sitting together across the fire, heads bent together and discussing something.

Meira opens her mouth to explain what she’s thinking, what she doesn’t want to be thinking, but before she can, someone out in the woods calls for help. She cringes, even as everyone else leaps to their feet, those with guns aiming them out into the night. She knows that it’s the wendigo, knows that it isn’t some poor bastard getting chowed on, but… well, before, she would have known, would have felt it, would have been able to tell for sure that, no, the only soul out there is the corrupted one of the wendigo. Now, all she has to go on is cold logic. It’s enough to convince her head, but not her soul.

Some part of her still feels the need to go and check, to be sure, because what if she’s just sitting here, listening to someone die when she could have helped them? Then the gunfire starts up. “I hit it!” Roy shouts suddenly, and Meira’s head jerks up just in time to see him dodging around one of their extra fires and rushing out into the woods.

She’s on her feet before she can think about it. Then she hesitates. What is she going to do, without her grace? But she can’t just leave him to his fate, either, no matter how much she doesn’t like him. “Don’t move!” Her dad orders, right before going after Roy himself.

That cinches it, really. Meira’s not leaving her dad out there with a wendigo. She snatches up one of the burning sticks, and bolts after them. “Meira!” Uncle Sam shouts, reaching out to try and grab her, but Meira’s played that game a million times, it’s habit to flex her grace to give herself just a little bit more speed so that she’s not where he expects her to be.

And this time, it works.

It’s such a relief she nearly stumbles, but she doesn’t have time to waste, so she catches her balance and runs on. She’s right behind Dad, and Roy is up ahead, and she can hear the wendigo in the trees. “It’s over here!” The wendigo calls with someone else’s voice, and Meira can see it reaching for Roy. The world blurs as she lunges, practically tackling Roy out of the way just as the wendigo’s hands flash out and the claws sink into her face.

She could retaliate, she has her stick, but she remembers the thoughts that had been plaguing her earlier, and doesn’t.

The wendigo jerks her, hard, but Meira’s grace isn’t gone. It’s just trapped, which means that when her neck snaps, it’s nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Painful, sure, but her grace heals the damage almost as soon as it’s been done. The wendigo gives her another shake, nearly breaking her neck again, and then wrenches the burning stick away from her, tossing it back down to the ground. She lets it, because she doesn’t want to have to heal being eaten, and then plays limp ragdoll as the wendigo darts off through the trees with her. It won’t fool it forever, but it should fool it long enough for it to take her back to its lair.

They drop back to the forest floor eventually, and then further down still, underground, Meira realises. A cave, or an abandoned mine, perhaps. She’s tossed into a larger cavern, lets herself roll limply along the floor, and the wendigo retreats. Meira’s just going to have to hope that her dad and uncle can keep Haley and Ben alive through the night.

“Ugh.” She groans and sits up, rubbing at the back of her neck. She’s human enough that that sort of damage is still unnerving, and leaves her feeling vaguely squeamish for hours afterwards. So worth it just to know her grace still works, though.

“Holy shit!”

Meira stills, looking around. The cavern is not, in fact, pitch black. There’s faint light seeping in from somewhere above her head, moonlight, and it’s just about enough for her to see by. There’s a man strung up from the rafters that looks enough like Haley and Ben that Meira feels pretty safe in guessing “Tommy Collins?”

“Yeah.” Tommy says breathlessly. “I thought you were dead.”

“That’s what I wanted it to think.” Meira tells him with a shrug, clambering to her feet and dusting herself off. “Now, let’s see if we can’t get you down.” She wishes, briefly but intensely, for her blade. It’s right there, sitting inside her soul, and she can’t manifest it. Instead, she casts about for something in the cave that they’re in, and settles on a broken shard of rock from the floor of the cave. It worked for prehistoric people well enough.

“How- how’d you know who I am?” Tommy asks after Meira’s been sawing at the ropes for a few minutes. They’re starting to fray, finally, which is a relief.

“Your brother and sister have come looking for you.” Meira tells him. “Brought me and a couple others along with them.”

“Oh, god.” Tommy groans. “Are they okay?”

“Worried about you, but otherwise, yeah. Last I saw, anyway. And D- Dean and Sam know how to handle a wendigo. They’ll look after them, I promise.” Tommy lets out a shuddering breath, nodding to himself.

“I think this is backwards.” Tommy says in a tone of forced cheer. Meira hums curiously, scowling at the rope as she continues to work at it. “We’ll the beautiful damsel is rescuing the handsome knight from the monster.” He points out.

Meira snorts her way into laughter, and leans back to get a better look at him. “You are cute.” She acknowledges, and in other circumstances, she might have flirted back, because she’s gotten the feeling that both Haley and Tommy are straight. “But your sister’s cuter.” She adds, going back to her work. The rope gives way before Tommy manages to muster up a response to that. He staggers when he drops, having been strung up for so long and deprived of sustenance that his balance is shot to shit. Meira catches him and slings one of his arms over her shoulder. “Do you know if your friends are still alive?” She asks him. There’s no one else in this cave, she doesn’t think, although she can’t be entirely sure of that with her grace locked down like this, but she’s pretty sure this won’t be the only place the wendigo has to stash its snacks.

She feels more than sees Tommy shake his head. “N-no, it-” He stammers out. “Oh god.” He says, and Meira recognises that tone well enough to shift the way she’s supporting him so that when he doubles over and retches, she doesn’t get covered in bile.

“Easy.” Meira soothes, rubbing a hand over his back. He dry heaves a few more times, but manages to regain control of himself after that. “Yeah, I can’t imagine watching something like that was any fun.” She muses, tugging him back upright and setting off. She hopes she can remember the way out. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“What about- about that thing?” Tommy asks her as they stagger along, into the first of several pitch-black tunnels.

“It’s almost certainly out in the woods right now, hunting the others.” Meira tells him, which she is aware is not as comforting as it could be, given that ‘the others’ includes family for both of them. Tommy swears, and Meira grimaces, figuring she can at least help a little bit. “Sam and Dean know how to handle something like this.” She assures him. “And they have plenty of fire. They’ll keep Haley and Ben safe. And I’m going to keep you safe.”

“In normal circumstances, that would sound ridiculous.” Tommy mutters.

“Don’t be sexist.” Meira chides, but she keeps her tone light, and gives him a gentle little jostle with her shoulder to let him know she’s mostly teasing. Then she sobers, because short of actually eating her alive, which admittedly is a possibility, the wendigo can’t kill her, but it could definitely kill Tommy, and if he’s going to play machismo bullshit because she’s a lady, she really does need to nip that in the bud. “But I’m serious. If it does come back, if we run into it, don’t you dare try to play the hero, alright?” She puts a touch of divine command into her tone. “I am not your responsibility, do not wait for me, do not come back for me, do not try to throw yourself into harms way to protect me. Am I clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tommy mumbles, resentful and bewildered.

The rest of the slog out of the mines is made in silence, save for Tommy’s ragged breathing and Meira’s occasional curse when she makes a wrong turn and they have to double back. Finally, though, Meira picks out a hint of light and follows it to the exit. It looks like it might have been boarded up once, but the wendigo has made a neat little opening for itself, and she and Tommy stagger out into in the dim grey-blue light of false dawn.

Tommy chokes back a sob of relief. Meira grins at the sound and shifts him higher on her shoulder. “Come on, we don’t want to get caught here if it comes back.” She points out, and that convinces Tommy to pick up his pace. It’s still slow going, because he’s still pretty unhealthy after two days chained up in a cave with minimal sustenance. The wendigo probably wouldn’t have fed him, but they had been known to give captives water. They also have undergrowth to contend with now, and Meira might heal a broken ankle, but Tommy won’t.

“Where… are the others?” Tommy asks.

Which is a hell of a good question. “I have no idea.” Meira tells him, feigning cheer. “Right now our priorities are water and some way of making fire.” She informs him, and Tommy drags them to a stop.

Tommy clearly knows more about wilderness survival than she does, because within a few minutes of her pointing out a need for it, Tommy has somehow managed to get a small fire going. They’re still too close to the wendigo’s lair for Meira’s comfort, but having a weapon that might actually do something to it is more important than trying to escape something that could outstrip a bullet. They build up a campfire, draw some protective sigils, and Meira fashions them both makeshift torches, wishing bitterly that she wasn’t reduced to such primitive tools all the while.

Meira risks leaving Tommy alone with the sigils to protect him just long enough to see if she can find any hint of running water nearby. She does, so they relocate, going through the whole process of warding all over again, this time closer to the water. Tommy looks a lot better for the chance to drink and wash his face, and then they have to figure out what the hell to do next.

“Finding the others ought to be priority over killing the wendigo.” Meira muses. “There’s just the problem of how to actually go about that.”

Tommy nods grimly. “If it wasn’t for the monster out there that wants to eat us, I’d say set up a base camp, search outwards, leave signs.” He summarises. Meira is about to suggest that they should do exactly that, then, when a furious snarl echoes through the woods. Tommy flinches so hard he falls over where he’s sitting, only barely catching himself with one hand in the dirt.

“Think it noticed we’re missing?” Meira asks rhetorically.

They sit, tense and wary, in the ensuing silence, waiting for something to happen. It doesn’t for long enough that Meira begins to wonder if she should do something. Then the yelling starts. “Help! Help me!” Meira clenches her hands into fists, heart squeezing.

“You know that’s not going to work, right?” She calls, standing slowly and bringing two of their burning sticks with her, one in each hand. Tommy hisses at her, grabbing at the hem of her coat as if that might make her sit and stop baiting the monster. A snarl answers her words, echoing oddly as the wendigo moves mid-sound and the doppler effect turns it multi-toned. “What? Pissed because you couldn’t kill me? We’re pretty tough prey, I bet you’ve figured by now. All this exertion must be making you kinda hungry.”

The roar that follows shakes the forest, full of fury and malice, and Meira nearly giggles hysterically. She only has the barest idea of what she’s doing, and her hands are shaking with the terror of having a predator that’s bigger than her focused solely on her, but she knows, she knows from painful, bitter experience that making someone angry makes them sloppy in the short term. And any advantage she can wring out of this situation, she needs.

Tauntingly, she steps a little closer to the edge of the protective sigils. And there it is, sprinting too fast for the mortal eye to catch, close enough to make the underbrush rustle right next to where Meira is standing, but not quite close enough for her to hit with one of her torches. Meira doesn’t want to start a forest fire, but oh, boy, is she tempted right now. “Is that supposed to scare me?” She mocks.

The wendigo rushes by again, and then- stops. In plain view. Not even looking at her. Tommy makes a choked noise of horror, and the wendigo doesn’t even twitch. Meira is so tempted to lunge out of the sigils at it, but it’s too easy, and she hesitates. She hesitates like an idiot until it’s suddenly gone, bounding off into the forest, and she realises what must have happened.

It heard something she couldn’t. Something that was easier prey.

“For fuck’s sake!” She explodes, and goes after it, even though it’s probably going to get her eaten.

“Hey! Hey, wait!” Tommy calls.

“Stay in the circle!” Meira calls over her shoulder. “If it comes back, set it on fire!”

The wendigo appears in front of her in an instant. Meira swings on instinct, a little too slow because she’s so off her game right now, but a little too slow is still something, because the flames pass by the wendigo’s emaciated flesh with inches to spare, and it must feel the heat, because it shrieks, an awful, too human sound of pain. A huge clawed hand strikes out, and tears right through the sleeve of her leather coat and into the flesh beneath. “Shit!” She curses, pained and indignant in equal measure, because if she’s guessing right about the limits on her abilities, she’s not going to be able to fix that.

“Meira?!” Uncle Sam’s voice shouts.

The wendigo ignores him, which means Meira succeeded in pissing it off. She ducks the second set of claws aiming for her throat, and then swings both torches up and in. They crash into either side of the wendigo’s head, and the smell of scorched flesh fills the forest just as Sam skids into view. The wendigo screams, rearing back and disappointingly not dead. Meira gears up for another swing, and the wendigo bolts. It’s gone in a flash, and Meira is about to go after it, to press her advantage, but then Uncle Sam is right in front of her, eyes wide. “Are you alright?” He demands, looking between her face and her arm.

“I’ll be fine.” Meira assures him, lowering her arms and hissing when the wound pulls. “My jacket on the other hand…” She bitches, tugging at the shoulder to get a better look at the tears. She whines when she gets a proper look at the damage.

“You bitch-slapped a wendigo in the face with a medieval torch, and you’re just upset about your jacket?” Sam asks incredulously.

Meira considers that. “I… huh. That was pretty cool, wasn’t it?” Sam snorts, shaking his head like he genuinely can’t believe her. Meira grins, before the situation catches up with her, and she jerks her head back the way she came. “We should get behind the wards I set up if we’re going to catch up.”

Sam, though, shakes his head. “I’ve gotta-” He gestures after the wendigo. Meira is just about to point out that running off half-cocked is going to get him dead, despite the disorientation of having to tell her Uncle that, when he goes on. “It took Dean and Haley.”

Meira stares at him for a long moment, then tips her head back. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me!” She whines at the sky. “I just got Tommy out!”

“You got Tommy?” Sam echoes, brightening.

Meira nods, and realises there’s really only one thing for her to do. “I’ll wait with him while you go help the others?” She offers, and Sam nods once, sharp and decisive. Meira thrusts one of the torches at him. “Here. Take that.” Sam does, muttering a quick thanks before he’s rushing off again, and Meira goes back to sit with Tommy.

It’s not even half an hour later when she hears footsteps, people moving through the woods, and then the others appear through the trees, all of them in a straggly exhausted group. Haley and Ben both let out cries of relief when they see their brother, and stumble into a sort of run while Tommy clambers to his feet in order to embrace them.

“Wendigo’s dead?” Meira checks.

“Yeah.” Dean confirms. “Shot it point blank with a flaregun.” He adds proudly. Meira whistles, impressed. Dean grins back at her. “Heard you hit it in the face with a torch?” He asks, jerking his head at Sam to indicate just where he heard that. “Pretty awesome.”

Meira shrugs, grinning bashfully. “I did what I could.”

Then she realises that Roy is watching her very intently. He looks more than a little worse for wear, something a bit wild around his eyes that suggests he’s not taking the existence of the supernatural very well at all. “You’re alive.” He says when Meira catches his eye.

“Yeah.” Meira confirms.

Roy swallows. “Coulda sworn that thing broke your neck.” He says, all of a sudden not quite able to look at her and instead staring somewhere over her shoulder.

“Oh, man, it tried.” She replied, grinning in a strange, giddy relief at the memory of how easily her grace had healed her. “Shook me like a ragdoll. But I’m fine.” She adds to reassure him, because he still looks a bit haunted.

Roy nods. There’s a long pause, and then he clears his throat. “You saved my life. When I was being an idiot.” He adds briskly, grimacing at himself. “Thank you.”

Meira shrugs, smiling ruefully. “Just because you’re an asshole, doesn’t mean you deserve to die.”

Dean snorts in amusement at that, and interrupts before Roy can say anything else. It doesn’t look like he knows what to say in any case. “Come on, let’s get back to civilisation. I don’t know about any of you lot, but I’m getting a little sick of these woods.”

No one’s going to object to that, so they get themselves organised, and follow Roy’s recovered GPS out of the forest. Along the way they discuss what, exactly, to tell the authorities, getting their stories straight. Meira’s mostly quiet as they hike, trying to figure out what she’s going to do now. Ideally, she wants to stick with Dean and Sam, but she isn’t entirely sure how to go about inviting herself along. She knows from her dad’s stories that he and Uncle Sam had been kind of codependent when they were younger, and trying to insert herself into such a close-knit dynamic is going to difficult.

She still hasn’t come up with any good ideas when they get back to a road and call the paramedics. Then it’s all chaos as everyone asks questions and gets medical attention. Sam tries to point the paramedics at Meira, but Meira dodges them with the excuse that it was just a scratch, she’ll be fine. “Hey.” Someone says behind her, and she turns to find Haley standing there, looking exhausted and overwhelmed.

“Hey, you alright?” Meira checks, touching her lightly on the arm.

Haley nods. “Thanks to you.” Meira shakes her head, but Haley presses the point. “You saved Tommy. You saved my brother.”

Meira relents with a smile, and shifts her hand up to brush her knuckles lightly over Haley’s cheek. “I’m glad I could help.” She says sincerely. Haley huffs, smiling incredulously.

“You never let up, do you?” She asks.

Meira shrugs and retreats. “I do mean it.” She points out.

Haley considers her for a long moment, then nods. “Yeah, I got that.” She acknowledges. Then she glances over to where Dean is finally escaping the paramedics himself. “I should go and say thank you to them, too.” She says, and Meira nods, watching her go. She watches them talk for a moment, before an idea occurs to her, and she hurries off to pickpocket a ranger, talk to Roy, and then circle back around to Haley. She gets there just in time to hear her say “Must you cheapen the moment?”

“Yeah.” Dean replies, as if it should be obvious.

Haley shakes her head, catches sight of Meira, and rolls her eyes. “The pair of you, I swear.” She huffs, and Meira grins. She’s heard it before, mostly from Qaada. Dad always protested that she’s way more like Pabbi, but given that the pair of them are the same flavour of irreverent flirt, she figures that’s one and the same.

Meira flips her stolen pen over in her fingers and proffers it to Haley. Haley takes it with a quizzical expression, while Meira shoves up her sleeve and presents her arm to her. “Gimme your number, and once I can get my hands on a new phone, I’ll text you.”

Haley narrows her eyes playfully. “And why should I?”

For once, Meira doesn’t rise to the bait. “Because then if you get into any other trouble, or if you see anything else weird, you can call me.” She explains. Haley’s eyes widen a little, and then she nods and scribbles a phone number onto Meira’s arm.

“Smooth.” Dean comments, half complimentary, half resentful, and Meira elbows him in retaliation. He elbows her back.

Haley shakes her head at both of them again, and then, surprising the hell out of Meira, she leans in and kisses them each on the cheek, Meira, and then Dean. “I hope you find your father.” She says to Dean, who sobers at that, and then Sam and Ben amble over and Haley guides Ben off to go to the hospital with their brother.

“You going to be alright getting home?” Dean asks, startling Meira out of watching the little family leave in the ambulance.

Meira winces, trying not to think too hard about exactly how far away from home she really is. Dean catches it and raises his eyebrows at her. Over his shoulder, Sam is frowning in concern. “Don’t really have one of those anymore.” She admits quietly, since it’s mostly true. She’s just muddling her tenses a little bit. She swallows and glances sideways at Dean. “Mind if I hitch a ride with you guys?”

Dean glances back at Sam, who shrugs. “Sure.” Dean says, a little uncertainly. “I guess.”

Relief makes Meira’s shoulders slump. “Thanks.”

“You really don’t have anywhere to go, huh?” Sam asks, sounding sympathetic.

Meira gives a slightly bitter laugh at that. “No, I don’t. It’s… it’s all gone.” She raises her arms a little in indication. “This is everything I have right now.”

“Shit.” Dean breathes. “What happened?”

“What always happens to hunters.” Meira hedges, tucking her hands into her pockets and hunching into her coat uncomfortably. It’s not even entirely a lie. “They missed one, and it came back to bite them.”

“Well, you can stick with us for a while.” Sam offers.

“Thanks. I don’t mind helping you look for your dad for a while as repayment.” Meira replies, and they both nod their acceptance. Then Dean tips his head towards the Impala, and Meira goes, aware of the pair of them following along behind her.

She’s pretty sure she’s not really meant to hear it when Dean says, in an undertone. “Sam, you know we’re going to find Dad, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam agrees heavily. “But in the meantime… I’m driving.”

There’s a long pause, long enough for Meira to reach the back door of the Impala and turn to look at them. She’s just in time to see Dean flip the keys across to Sam, and she ducks her head on a smile. As long as she’s stuck here in the past, this is exactly where she wants to be; with her family.

[bamby0304]

Her Saviours- Ch.8

Series Masterlist

Summary: During an odd case, the Winchesters came across Y/N, a scared young Omega girl who had been used as a lure for a nest of vampires. After rescuing her from the monsters, John and his sons took her in knowing she was in no state to live among ordinary people. But three Alphas and one Omega is a mixture bound for disaster.

A/N: This is unbeta’d, ‘cause I legit just finished it and kinda wanted to just post it quickly so I could move on and start writing more...

Warnings: Explicit language. ABO dynamics. Angst.

Bamby

You were fast asleep, curled into Dean’s side with his arm around you as he laid down flat on his stomach. He twitched, pulling you closer as his other hand snuck under his pillow to grab the knife hidden underneath. You barely had a chance to register the fact someone else was in the room, before Dean suddenly rolled over and held you behind his back as he turned to the intruder.

His body relaxed in an instant the second he spotted Sam standing there, with a tray of coffees and a paper bag you assumed was full of food.

“Morning, sunshine.” Sam grinned knowingly at Dean, who still had you behind him.

Rubbing at his eyes, Dean groaned, “What time is it?”

“Uh, it's about five forty-five.”

“In the morning?”

“Yep.”

You whined, rolling back over to try and get some sleep.

“Where does the day go?” Dean grumbled as he dragged himself to the edge of the bed. “Did you get any sleep last night?” he asked, his words directed at Sam.

“Yeah, I grabbed a couple hours.”

Bullshit.

“Liar,” Dean called him out. “'Cause I was up at three, and you were watching a George Foreman infomercial.”

“Hey, what can I say?” Sam shrugged. “It's riveting TV.”

“When was the last time you got a good night's sleep?”

Sam didn’t seem fazed. “I don't know, a little while, I guess. It's not a big deal.”

“Yeah, it is,” Dean argued.

“Look, I appreciate your concern-”

“Oh, I'm not concerned about you. It's your job to keep our asses alive,” he gave your covered leg a pat. “So I need you sharp,” he noted. There was a paused before he asked, “Seriously, are you still having nightmares about Jess?”

That was the last straw.

Pulling the sheets back, you threw yourself out of bed, grabbed a fist full of clothes, and stormed into the bathroom.

It’s not that you didn’t like the girl, it’s just… things were weird. They were awkward. They were complicated. You were pissed.

Here you were, with two Alphas that you cared about, and they cared about you. They were young, unbonded, familiar, safe. They were smart, funny, strong, caring. They were both the full package. Two perfect specimens… and neither wanted you. Not the way you needed them, at least.

The longer you went without John, the more time you were stuck with Sam and Dean, the clearer things got. Sam was never going to get over Jess, he was never going to let you in, you were never going to have what you used to have with him. Dean was never going to settle down, he was never going to give up other women, he was never going to claim you despite the fact he insisted he had feelings for you.

If things don’t change, I’m leaving, you told yourself.

Staring at your reflection in the crappy motel mirror that made everything look a little distorted, you made a promise. If no one was willing to step up, you were going to step down.

“Thanks for making the trip so quick,” Jerry started.

After a long shower, you’d walked back out into the motel room to find Sam and Dean packing. Neither talked about your sudden departure, instead Dean had pulled you closer and kissed your forehead before telling you about a possible case. That’s how you ended up here, with Jerry, walking through the hangar he worked at.

“I ought to be doing you guys a favour, not the other way around.” Jerry turned to Sam as he went on, “Dean and your dad really helped me out. And Y/N… she was the saving grace that really calmed my family down.”

Sam glanced down at you then, lips twitching as if he wanted to smile. He fought the urge though. “Yeah, Dean told me. It was a poltergeist?”

“Poltergeist?” one of the other workers called out. “Man, I loved that movie.”

“Hey, nobody's talking to you,” Jerry snapped. “Keep walking.” He waited until he was sure no one else was listening before he nodded at Sam. “Damn right it was a poltergeist, practically tore our house apart. Tell you something, if it wasn't for you and your dad, I probably wouldn't be alive,” he told Dean and then went back to Sam. “Your dad said you were off at college. Is that right?”

“Yeah, I was. I'm… taking some time off.”

“Well, he was real proud of you. I could tell. He talked about you all the time.”

“He did?” Sam was genuinely surprised.

You ducked your head down and smiled at the ground. John had always gone on about his youngest son. The defiant black sheep of the family. John could brag about his college boy for hours if you got him going.

“Yeah, you bet he did.” Jerry nodded. “Oh, hey, you know I tried to get a hold of him, but I couldn't. How's he doing, anyway?”

“He's, um, wrapped up in a job right now,” Dean dodged.

“Well, we're missing the old man, but we get Sam. Even trade, huh?” Jerry grinned as Dean chuckled.

Sam, however, didn’t quite agree. “No, not by a long shot.”

In Jerry’s office, you all took a seat. Jerry sat on one side of the desk, while the rest of you sat on the other.

“I listened to this. And, well, it sounded like it was up your alley.” Jerry grabbed a cd and put it into a drive. “Normally I wouldn't have access to this. It's the cockpit voice recorder for United Britannia flight 2485. It was one of ours.”

The recording started, and within seconds you found your hand shooting out to grab Dean’s.

“Mayday! Mayday! Repeat! This is United Britania 2485—immediate instruction help!”

“United Britanis 2485, I copy your message-”

“May be experiencing some mechanical failure...”

Suddenly there was this loud whooshing sound before the recording stopped.

“Took off from here, crashed about two hundred miles south,” Jerry explained. “Now, they're saying mechanical failure. Cabin depressurized somehow. Nobody knows why. Over a hundred people on board. Only seven got out alive. Pilot was one. His name is Chuck Lambert. He's a good friend of mine. Chuck is, uh...well, he's pretty broken up about it. Like it was his fault.

“You don't think it was?” Sam asked.

“No, I don't.”

“Jerry, we're gonna need passenger manifests, um, a list of survivors-”

Dean nodded, cutting Sam off, “Right, and uh… any way we can take a look at the wreckage?”

“The other stuff is no problem,” Jerry assured them, “but the wreckage... fellas, the NTSB has it locked down in an evidence warehouse. No way I've got that kind of clearance.”

That didn’t seem to bother Dean, as he simply shrugged. “No problem.”

You stood with Sam outside a Copy Jack, while Dean was in doing his thing. You could have gone in with him, but you felt the need to be with the car. With the Impala.

She was as much your home as she was the brothers’. You’d lived on the road for years now, and the only consistent place you could call your won was Baby. When things always felt like they were crumbling, you knew she would always be there.

Like now. John was John, Sam was back and it was weird, Dean was his usual self which wasn’t helping you at all… you weren’t sure how much longer you could deal with all of this.

Looking over at Sam as he leaned against the car, just a few feet away from you, you wondered if things would ever be the same. If things would ever feel less strange and foreign. He used to be your best friend, someone you could rely on for anything, but now you weren’t sure.

The door to the Copy Jack opened as Dean walked out, almost pumping into a young and attractive woman right away.

She smiled, looking him up and down. “Hey.”

“Hi.” He grinned, checking her out in return.

Having seen enough, you sighed and pulled the car door open before climbing in. Just because you knew what you and Dean had wasn’t an exclusive thing, doesn’t mean you wanted to be reminded of it every time a pretty woman walks by.

“You've been in there forever,” Sam noted as his brother neared the car.

You looked out the window and watched as Dean held up two fake IDs. “You can't rush perfection.”

“Homeland Security?” Sam took one of the cards. “That's pretty illegal, even for us.”

“Yeah, well, it's something new. You know? People haven't seen it a thousand times.” Dean shrugged as he walked around the car. Both he and Sam slid in before he went on, “All right, so, what do you got?”

“Well, there's definitely EVP on the cockpit voice recorder.” Sam grabbed his laptop.

“Yeah?”

“Listen.” Sam pressed play and started the edited version of the recording Jerry had shown you.

The voices from before were all scratchy and distorted, followed by something new…

“No survivors!”

Dean frowned. "’No survivors’? What's that supposed to mean? There were seven survivors.”

“Got me.” Sam shrugged.

“So, what are you thinking? A haunted flight?”

“There's a long history of spirits and death omens on planes and ships, like phantom travellers,” Sam started. “Or remember flight 401?”

“Right.” Dean nodded. “The one that crashed, the airline salvaged some of its parts, put it in other planes, then the spirit of the pilot and co-pilot haunted those flights.”

“Right. Maybe we got a similar deal,” Sam suggested.

“All right, so, survivors, which one do you want to talk to first?”

“Third on the list, Max Jaffey,” Sam told Dean.

“Why him?”

“Well, for one, he's from around here. And two, if anyone saw anything weird, he did.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, I spoke to his mother. And she told me where to find him.”

“He’s in a psychiatric hospital,” you explained before Sam could.

Turning in his seat, Dean looked to you. “Psychiatric hospital?” Both you and Sam gave a short nod. His eyes landed on you again. “You’re not coming.”

“No surprise there,” you mumbled.

“Hey. It’s a psychiatric hospital, you’re an Omega, there’s no telling what might happen,” he noted.

You shrugged. “I’m not arguing, Dean. Why should I bother?” Shifting in your seat, you turned your back on him and looked out the window.

When you don’t know what the brothers might be hunting, there’s not a lot you could do. What little research there was, had already been done. So, while locked away in the motel room, you just flicked through the TV, doing your best not to overthink.

You wanted to call John, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t bear the thought of listening to his voice mail for the millionth time. It was painful to hear, knot knowing when or if you’d veer see him again.

The motel room door opened as Sam and Dean returned. You glanced up from the TV to greet them, only to have your words get caught in your throat.

“Why are you dressed in suits?” you asked, eyes dragging over Dean and the black and white suit he wore.

Sighing, he dumped his keys, phone and wallet on the table. “Sam thought we needed to look the part.”

“You, uh… you look good,” you managed, suddenly finding your mouth a little dry.

Dean paused as he looked over at where you were sprawled out on the bed, having been watching TV. His lips curved into a grin as he started tugging on his tie and heading your way.

“I look good, huh?” He threw his tie onto the ground and then started to crawl up the bed.

Laughing lightly, you leaned up to meet him halfway as he bent down to press his lips against yours. Despite having been upset with him earlier, you just couldn’t stay mad. Especially not when he looked like this… there was something about a guy in a suit that made you all tingly.

“Guys,” Sam groaned. “Not right now. We’ve got a case and I’m still in the room.”

“Get your own room,” Dean grumbled, trailing his lips down to your neck. “My girl needs some attention.”

Your heart fluttered when he called you his girl, all thoughts and doubts from earlier fading. Dean always managed to get you to forgive him.

Sam wasn’t letting the two of you fall into each other so easily. “Dean, the case… the sulphur.”

You tensed underneath Dean and pressed your hand on his chest to pull him back up. “Sulphur.”

Nodding, he sighed again as he pulled back and stood again. “When we checked out the wreckage, we found sulphur.”

“So… we’re thinking demon?”

“Yeah,” Sam answered, looking from you to his brother, as if he was waiting for Dean to tell you more. As if he was waiting for something specific.

Dean glanced over at his brother with a look that clearly said he didn’t want to say more, but apparently, he had no choice. Sam just waited, expectantly, making Dean sigh one last time.

“Sammy and me think you should stay out of this one.”

You looked to each brother with a growing frown. “You mean… you want me sitting in the motel room doing nothing? Not even research?”

“We can’t risk you getting involved. You’re an Omega. You’re an unclaimed Omega. We don’t know what this demon is about, and the last thing we want is for it to get a whiff of you. It’s too dangerous.”

There was a tightness in your throat as you watched Dean. You took in his words, you understood where he was coming from, and you hated it.

“I’m an Omega.” You gave a curt nod. “Sure, Dean… I’ll stay out of it.” Shaking your head, you got up and headed for the bathroom before closing and locking the door behind you.

You’re an Omega. You’re an unclaimed Omega. So, in other words, you’re too fragile and vulnerable to help us. You’ll just get in the way. You should stay home and be a good little Omega, like you’re supposed to. You’re not built for this.

Fine then. If they didn’t want you to help, then you wouldn’t. Clearly you weren’t needed here.

A knock on the bathroom door had you turning your head against the bath’s edge. You’d been in there for about an hour, soaking in the hot water you’d filled the tub with.

“Y/N?” Dean called from the other side. “We got a lead… Sam and me, we’re gonna head out. You okay here?”

Rolling your eyes, you turned away from the door again. “Yep.”

There was some mumbling on the other side that you couldn’t quite make out, before Dean snapped in a harsh whisper. “I got it, Sam. Just go get in the car.”

You listened as someone moved around in the other room before they left.

“Sweetheart… you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Dean. You should go. There’s people to save and monsters to hunt, remember.”

He paused for a moment before giving the door a tap. “Okay… call us if you need anything.”

“Yep,” you answered shortly again.

Nothing else was said.

You listened as he moved about the room before leaving. Next you heard Baby start up, her roaring engine loud enough for you to hear perfectly. Then she was driving away.

The instant you were sure you were alone, and the brothers wouldn’t be back, you pulled yourself out of the tub and emptied the water. Grabbing your towel, you dried yourself off quickly and then pulled on some clothes before heading back out into the room.

Gathering everything of yours, you stuffed it into your bag. After making sure you’d left nothing behind, you pulled the strap of your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door.

Looking back once, you gave the room a sad smile before leaving.

It took no time at all before you found a car that was out of the way. No one saw anything as you broke into the car and dumped your things in the seat beside you. Dean had taught you how to hotwire a car a couple of years ago… you doubted he’d expected you to use that skill to run away from him.

Bamby

[ketch117]

Hello. Can you list 10 reasons why Robert Baratheon is your favourite character? Thanks.

If you want. I did a post about this, once upon a time, that I think explains things eloquently (https://ketch117.tumblr.com/post/175829053109/robert-baratheon-for-whatever-thats-worth) but I suppose I have no problem finding ten new reasons. I will admit that I feel that if you need to justify your feelings, you’re not being honest, but nonetheless I will indulge a small disclaimer here to specify that Robert had numerous shortcomings, that much is well documented, and this post is not about them. Alright, here we go: 1.) I think part of the reason that I respond well to a character like Robert is because he's absolutely everything you're not supposed to be. He's rude, irreverent and sexist, dismissive of his enemies (rather than appropriately guilty for their deaths), and very much a product of the times he lives in. His great abilities in war have held him in little stead as king, which goes a long way in displaying the limitations of the society which exalts such behaviour which he comes from, yet he’s too vivid to be nothing but social commentary. Robert was self aware, he knew exactly what he was, and never pretended to be anything else. 2.) For all that the readers tend to not have respect for him, he was given a huge amount of respect as King. Even when he became a drunken serial whoremonger, no one dared step out of line (except for Balon, who paid mightily for it). Apart from crushing the Targaryen dynasty, he rallied the Kingdoms and solidified his crown when he crushed the Greyjoy rebellion. The realm would never have bled such as it did if he had reigned longer - fear of him and his hammer did for his reign what dragons did for the Targaryens, and it is worth remembering that all the People of Kings Landing came out for his funeral. Despite the spin that the Lannister’s tried, they sure didn’t do that for Joffrey. 3.) He was smart enough to let more capable men rule the realm while he enjoyed his life. Not that he ever did, since he’s one of the more realistic depictions of depression you’ll find in fantasy literature, but his greatest strength was his charisma. His ability to win people to his side, to turn enemies to allies. 4.) One thing that I really appreciated about Robert, ironically, was the fact that, despite the fact that he believed Rhaegar raped Lyanna, he still loved her and would have been willing - even eager to marry her if she were alive - and he never held what had happened to her against her. When you compare that to the way that rape victims are treated, even today, it shows that despite his flaws, there was a lot of good in him. For all his hatred of Targaryens, the only Targaryen whose death he was even fractionally responsible for was on the battlefield, and despite ultimately ordering Daenerys’ assassination he took it back on his deathbed and went to the grave regretting it. Robert hated, but he never really acted upon it for petty, personal reasons - unlike almost every other aristocrat in the series 5.) Gods he was strong then. Robert won three battles in a single day. He won every battle he ever fought save a single one, and ended every battle in a better position than he was beforehand. And remember how Jaime tried to cut his way to Robb Stark at Whispering Wood? Robert pulled that off. In every battle he ever fought. The man does not lack physical courage, and while that is not in itself a virtue (Atilla the Hun, to pick a name rather harder to defend that Robert Baratheon, certainly wasn’t lacking in physical courage), virtue without courage any virtue is largely academic. 6.) His loyalty. Understated, perhaps, but very important. Robert always has his friends back. I know some people feel he sold his brothers short by giving them valuable estates and immensely influential positions, but those people don’t make a lot of sense to me. Robert was a wonderful friend to Ned, a good son to Jon Arryn, and he did his best to be a good brother as well, even if a lot of people choose not to see it. 7.) I like that he deconstructs the heroes journey on a pretty fundamental level. He starts off as the rugged individualist against the establishment, fighting a dragon who has locked a maiden in a tower, and yet the story starts long after his best years, where he’s become a shell of that person. Fate can be cruel, can it not? 8.) I like the complexity of his nature - something that a lot of people ignore. Robert isn’t one thing or another, his good qualities don’t cancel out his bad ones, anymore than his bad qualities cancel out his good ones. Robert doesn’t fit neatly into any category, and I think that it is this very quality that causes so many to misidentify him. He’s not a good man, and he’s not a bad man either. He’s all sorts of man. 9.) His Historical Parallels. I tend to equate him to Henry FitzEmpress and Edward of Marche, myself, though a case has been made for Henry Bollingbrooke and Henry V which I can see. Most of histories greatest kings have been drunken philandering warmongers, I urge you to remember. 10.) Well, the rest isn’t anything concrete. I like the stag motifs drawing parallels to the ‘stag king’ of Celtic myth (the king is the land and the land is the king). I like the archetype of the great warrior finding he’s not cut out to be king. I like that moment in the television show where he talks to Cersei about the state of the Realm, and that moment in the novels where he tells Ned he wishes he could leave it all behind and be a sellsword. I like Robert Baratheon because he feels more real, more alive than the other characters. Because there’s something perverse in my nature that doesn’t want to see happy endings. I like Robert Baratheon because I do - these are all just attempts to rationalise it.

[forthelulzy]

silence will not cover me

The first part of what will eventually be three or four parts of critical backstory for my Dragon Age longfic, Heaven by Violence. The subsequent parts will not be posted until after I start posting that, as they rather casually reveal what’s supposed to be a grand plot twist for the greater series. But I’m nothing if not impatient, so here’s the non-spoilery bit!

Summary: “Still she looks at him like that, and it eats away at him like the waves eat away the cliffs at the edge of the grounds. Something is there. Something he should know, and does not.

It is maddening.”

With woefully little memory to fall back on, Fenris has no idea why Master's apprentice makes such an odd expression when she sees him.

Rating: T

Read on AO3

Sometimes he turns just so and finds Master’s apprentice darting her eyes away.

He has nothing to compare her expression to, the few times he catches it before she returns to that careful blankness, but he wonders sometimes if it is pity. For him, which is illogical because he hasn’t seen her looking at any of the other slaves in such a way, and they could be said to be even lower than he. He knows it not to be any of the expressions that Master has for him, the tenderness when he has done well or the disappointment when he has not. It’s not even wariness, like Master’s peers have for him. It is something he, frustratingly, has no reference for in his short existence.

So he finds himself at a loss for how, or if, to respond to his Master’s apprentice and whatever it is she feels. They have no reason to interact (without her initiative, of course, as she is Above Him), and as far as he knows never have. Still she looks at him like that, and it eats away at him like the waves eat away the cliffs at the edge of the grounds. Something is there. Something he should know, and does not.

It is maddening.

Master notices his unrest, as he notices all things within his domain, and carefully reminds him of his purpose. Those long clever (and how could they bring such pain and such reassurance one moment to the next?) fingers stroke his hair as he sobs wretchedly against his Master’s knee, and he does not tell because he is not asked. Because he knows that he is expected not to trouble his Master further.

Master’s apprentice delves deeper into her studies, working to become like Master, better than Master, and he does not see her for a long time.

Until he does.

Master takes afternoon naps, leaving him to his own devices as the heat reaches dizzying heights. Early on in his memories, scant as they are, he fainted once in the gardens as the sun beat down, and came close several other times, but now he is as comfortable as he will likely ever get. It makes him wonder— no. It is no use to wonder how he wasn’t used to the heat, and is now. That way lies only frustration, and for what? His Master is all he needs. Master will provide.

He turns a corner on the way to the atrium, and runs right into her. Her nose is in a book, a half-dozen scrolls tucked under one arm. She stumbles back, a little ‘oh’ of surprise coming from her, and before he has realized quite what he is doing he’s reaching out to steady her. Oh, his hands are on her shoulders.

His hands are on her shoulders.

He snatches them away, steps back himself, and slides into a graceless heap of a kneel. Master will be so disappointed in him, and that’s infinitely worse than whatever the mage in front of him will do.

“Le—Fenris!” she says, but he denies the temptation, the trap, in looking up.

“Mistress Varania, please accept my most humble apologies.”

Silence but for the shuffling of scrolls as she dumps them on a nearby end-table, then, quietly: “Please get up, Fenris.”

Odd, but a direct order. He rises, with considerably more grace, and chances to meet her eyes. She’s looking at him again, with that same expression. He still can’t puzzle it out, so he can’t hold her gaze. Her flame-red hair is falling out of its tight bun, there are circles under her eyes like she hasn’t slept since he last saw her, and the book in her hand is dog-eared and bits of the cover are worn away. He catches a glimpse of the spine, at the title etched in faded letters.

Letters he can read.

Memoria Detrimentum, it says, and he has barely begun to process that he can read the words, let alone what they could mean, when she clears her throat. “Is the magister asleep?”

He snaps his head back up, for that is a strange thing to ask in such a hushed, urgent voice. Her mouth is pressed in a firm line, her eyes — the same shape, the same color, do not think it — clear and focused on him, and his head is spinning. “Yes,” he says, almost automatically, because she is still Above Him.

She nods sharply. “Then we have time,” she says, as if he should know what she means. “Follow me.” She grabs her scrolls again, piling them haphazardly in her arms, and strides past him. He falls into step behind her, considers being the good slave and carrying her burdens, but her brisk, determined manner makes him reluctant to speak up. And he wonders what she is doing, what they are doing, if he is going to have to face his Master’s disappointment again.

Perhaps luckily for him, he does not have long to wonder. Mistress Varania’s tower is not far, as near the library as possible, just a few corridors down from the atrium as well. She bustles him inside, throws the deadbolt, and he feels the prickle of magic on his markings as she layers ward upon ward over the door. Far more wards than necessary, he thinks, if she weren’t planning something she didn’t want interrupted at any cost. He shudders, and it has nothing to do with the magic. Is she going to hurt him? Worse, is she going to betray Master?

They speak at the same time.

“All right—”

“Mistress—”

He snaps his mouth shut, flinching away, but she just regards him — again with that expression! — for a moment before shaking her head and moving past him to the center of the room. It is a workspace, he realizes, with a spiral staircase in the corner presumably leading up to living quarters. Bookshelves line the room, tables piled high with crystals and alembics and devices he doesn’t recognize are everywhere, and along one wall is a cot with a pillow and blanket.

“For when I’m too tired to climb the stairs,” she offers, dumping her scrolls and book on one less-occupied table. “Drag it over here, if you please. Just have to organize my notes.”

He resists the urge to obey. “Forgive me, Mistress, but what are your intentions with me?”

She flinches, then goes very still. “I…” Slowly, she turns her head to look at him, like it takes great effort. “I’m sorry. After so long, I forget what it was like. I’ll explain, but you should probably sit down first. On the cot,” she adds, when he goes to kneel again.

His instincts scream at him that this is wrong, that something is going to happen that he will not like. The rest of him — the ingrained servitude, yes, but also something more fragile and sentimental, for she has never been cruel to him and she is an elf too — forces one foot in front of the other and drops onto the (surprisingly hard, for a magister’s apprentice) cot.

“All right. All right. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Fasta vass.”

He startles a little, because she has never sworn in his presence before, and because she is getting agitated as she paces in front of him, a sheet of notes in her hand. Her magic, crackling in the air, makes his markings itch and burn.

Finally she stops, with her back turned to him, and all he can see are her hunched shoulders trembling and her hair, now almost completely out of its bun. “You name was once Leto,” she says quietly, so quietly, but it rings in the tower. “And you were my brother.”

“What?” he cracks out, but is unable to say anything else. Her eyes, her eyes—

“We grew up in this house,” she continues like he hadn’t said anything. Perhaps that is the only way she will be able to get through it. “Slaves to Danarius. He put on a tournament, offered a boon. You trained for months. You won, and you asked for our freedom — me, and Mother. That was the last time I saw you until a year ago. He… he came to me after Mother died… told me I could be his apprentice if I helped bring you back.”

She turns around, clutching her hands together in front of her. She’s biting at her lip, face screwed up as she blinks back tears, so wretched and unlike a mage that, in any other circumstance, this would be the most unsettling thing to Fenris.

But it is not any other circumstance; it is here and now, and he’s still trying to decide whether to believe her — his memories do run up against a void if he searches back too far, and oh, her eyes, but she could also be tricking him or toying with him, intoxicated on her power — when she speaks again.

“You had escaped…”

This is the point where he stops listening, where he knows for certain that she is laying a trap. Why would he want to escape, and how could he manage it? If slavery was his whole life… No. It is a trap, and he will not fall for it. Maybe she was once his sister, but no more. He blanks his face and lets her words roll over him, maintaining only a semblance of attention. None of her lies matter.

It takes a beat too long for him to realize she is done webspinning; she’s looking at him with wide eyes of (false) hope and worry, and he averts his gaze. “If there is nothing else, Mistress, may I return to my Master’s side?” he asks in as dead a tone as he can manage.

She flinches, face falling before she rallies herself. “No.” She breathes in, holds it, breathes out. “No. Even if you don’t believe me — I can tell you don’t, Leto, don’t try to play that dutiful slave game with me — I can show you.”

“Mistress—”

“Don’t move.” She consults her notes again, half-crumpled by the fists she’d been making, and sets them on the table behind her. When she reaches out he flinches, nearly topples backward, but she is undeterred. There isn’t any magic in her hands yet, he forces himself to remember, and even if there was, he could do nothing.

“I am trying to help you, Leto,” she says softly, as her hand alights on his forehead, cool and callused. She traces the three lyrium dots there with her thumb, and up close her expression tugs at something in his head, something he should remember—

Magic bursts from her hand, engulfing his vision in a pale blue glow, and presses into his mind before his markings can do much more than flicker in warning.

At first he feels nothing new, sitting there on her spare bed with her hand on his forehead, but then he knows.

She is Varania, his sister, and that expression is remorse.

Remorse for… Oh. The Hanged Man, Mas— Danarius sidling down the stairs of that dingy bar like he owned it and everything in it. Varania, backing away from her own betrayal. The cold and anticipation creeping up his neck as he prepared to fight. Danarius taunting him, taunting Hawke—

Hawke—

Garrett, his lover, his beacon in the darkness, looking Danarius up and down thoughtfully, before the magister even opens his mouth. The cock of his head, the smirk that is a mockery of the easy grin he held for everyone, the shift in warm brown eyes as he makes his decision and hands Fenris over. Merrill — and he was cruel to her, but he can no longer justify it, not now — and her protests, Varric and his shell-shocked sarcasm. Surprise and delight in Danarius. Fury, then knowing, in him.

He went with Danarius rather than throw his life away, and Danarius still took it.

And Hawke let him, turned on him as he should have expected, how could he have been so stupid—

“Breathe, Leto,” Varania whispers, and there is remorse, again, but infinite sorrow in her voice also. She’s taken her hand away, but the glow remains. It is him, shining bright, the lyrium turning him into a star that will one day explode gloriously. Perhaps this is that day. “Breathe.”

“Why?” he chokes out. It’s not directed at her, but it’s not a real question either. Hawke is just like any other mage, just as he should have known all along. He knows why, now.

Still, she chooses to answer. “He promised me he would make me his apprentice. You’d made us free, but freedom was worse. To be Liberati here… Leto, I was willing to do anything to escape it.”

He looks up at her, a dozen scathing retorts on his tongue, but he is unable to give voice to them.

“So I lead him to you, and I became his apprentice. But even that isn’t—” She makes a frustrated noise. “It’s everything I always wanted, but it isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough for me. I know that now. So what else can I do, but try to make it right?”

It doesn’t make any sense to him, but even as a child Varania could never explain herself properly. Her mind leapt like a deer, and was prone to taking shortcuts he couldn’t follow.

But. Make it right. His mouth goes dry. “What are you going to do?”

She turns her face away, clenches her fists at her sides. “Whatever it takes. But I’ll need your help.” She does not want to admit this, he can tell. In this they are truly kin.

“Varania. You know his power. Are you strong enough?” It’s unlikely. Danarius was born into magic, surrounded by it. She came into hers late, and has only been able to explore it very recently. All the raw talent in the world cannot beat both ability and experience.

She raises her head, lips quirking in a smile’s shadow. “Of course not,” she admits easily. “But I know who is.”

[lizardsoo]

ANTEROGRADE TOMORROW     Title: Anterograde Tomorrow Pairing: Kaisoo Rating: R (currently pg-13) Genre: Romance, Tragedy, slight angst Length: Three-shot Summary: Kyungsoo is stuck in the hours while Jongin begs the seconds, because time stops for someone who can't remember and runs from someone who can't miss the last train home. prologue: daisies; word count: 759 

  Sunlight drifts into Kyungsoo’s dream, refracts into something cool and salty and maybe involving heels digging into the soft overlap between ocean and beach. He turns and the wet sand transforms into cold linens. When he opens his eyes the cocktail of seagull wings and shades of blue is replaced by a ceiling, meters too low, a small window at the end of a narrow bedroom, and peeling wood floorboards under worn rugs. It’s his room, albeit not exactly the same as it were yesterday, because there are green sticky notes pasted over every inch of every wall that he can’t recall having placed. Second skin of colored texts and diagrams, numbers and dates. A breeze lifts the curtains and ruffles the notes, plays a melody in the tune of drizzled paper applause. The sight is unfamiliar but not strange, like something that must have happened once before and slipped through his memory. Maybe there has been a day between today and yesterday. Maybe there has been more than a day. Somehow he doesn’t have to read the notes to know that they will explain how many days has passed, and what he’s meant to do today. But the little specks of yellow notes amongst the green, some on the floor and walls and table and one on the pillow next to his, strike him most. The handwriting is different. There are no dates. Just words. Kyungsoo props himself up slowly, habitually reaching to clasp the night table as he slides out of bed. Rug fuzzy under bare toes, scent of six o’clock coffee brewing in the café downstairs gentle on the palate. He picks up the yellow sticky on his pillow and reads it, “Your name is Do Kyungsoo. You have short-term memory loss, antesomething amnesia, so you won’t remember what happened last night. But let me help you out.” And the one on the pillow neighboring, “Last night I put my head on this pillow and my arms around your waist. My name’s Kim Jongin. I call you hyung. Yesterday you loved me. Today you’ll love me again.” He takes a step back, eyes wide and mouth cracked open. His heel crunches on another. “This is where you undressed me.” “This is where I undressed you,” is posted on the wall, right on top of a green note that says ‘Mijin’s no longer serves rice cakes—05/05/2008’. A few inches beside another one says, “And here I pushed you up against the wall and kissed you really hard (approximately, it was kind of dark) and we thought we should have sex.” Over the table is posted, “Here you sat, dangling your legs. I put my palm on your kneecap and you bent forward and kissed me first.” By the treasure chest at the end of his bed: “We talked about ballet. You hummed a tune and my fingers did an arabresque here (because your ceiling is too low and I’d rather not hit my head, okay) here, grand jeté onto the floor, fouetté en tourant and then sissonne on the back of your hand. Pas de valse fast up your arm and you smiled.” At the back of his bedroom door: “I leaned on this and read your green sticky notes while you went around cleaning up invisible messes. It came to me that all the green looks like grass, and grass is boring without daisies. So I hope you like yellow?” And as he opens the door, one smacks him on the forehead: “And here’s Kim Jongin. Say hello to me?” Kyungsoo looks up, gaze flicking uncertainly up the contours of sharp collarbones, tanned flesh, defined jaws. One millimeter at a time. The urge to slam the door and call the police because there is a stranger in his apartment and this stranger has written him unquestionably creepy notes hits him in the face. Thick pulse and dizziness make his head light and stomach turn. He really can’t feel his fingers, or knees for that matter. But everything settles down again—almost as if it were always meant to—when his eyes graze a dumb grin and a pair of glittering eyes. “Hi, hyung,” Jongin says, the corners of his lips falling, though features still soft. His voice is new, certainly, and Kyungsoo can’t recall precisely when he’s heard it before—if ever. Still, it’s almost too natural to rekindle Jongin’s smile with a tiny “Hello,” and somehow the syllables are perfect on his tongue, perhaps because he’s said it a thousand times already. Perhaps because they’re meant to be.     prologue: daisies; part one: lost and stuck; word count: 6,489 
  Kyungsoo has a scrapbook of faces and dates. Polaroid collage with little sentences inscribed underneath. This is Zitao, new Chinese waiter doing Wednesday night shifts (6 June 2010); here is Yifan, model requesting Rhapsody in Blue with a dry whiskey every Sunday (19 December 2009); Baekhyun there, but he moved out (6 July 2008). It’s a synopsis of Do Kyungsoo: neighbors, acquaintances, old friends, new strangers, presented with military precision. Near the end is a snapshot of a hunched figure, leaning on a brick wall, with one knee bent and the other propping his entire weight. A cigarette rests idly between long, thin fingers. Monochromatic grey ghosts along his countenance. White smoke twirls from the ends of his lips, diffusing through hair and drizzled rain into a strange sense of solitude. Two words are scratched underneath. Neighbor, smoking. -- The newspaper is dated 12 July 2012. But more than the fact that Kyungsoo can swear it was only 24 November 2008 yesterday, his shirt takes up a good quarter the front page photo. His favorite shirt. The one that he’d gotten for being employee of the week, with a lopsided, hand-sewn Pororo logo, right up in all of its magnified glory on the cover story. Hastily scanning over the headlines of ‘massive disorder in downtown Seoul caused by raining money’, Kyungsoo focuses back on the picture. It’s certainly his shirt, the one that he’s wearing right now and has rolled out of bed in twenty minutes ago, in fact. More precisely, the one that he can’t remember wearing to any expensive penthouse, which apparently the picture was taken in. According to the article, “Esteemed novelist Kim Jongin has just been bailed out for destruction of public order, after literally blowing a storm of hundred-thousand won bills out the window of his Seoul penthouse with an unnamed accomplice. Calling it a ‘billion-won confetti display’, he has caused the largest traffic jam in Seoul history, effectively blocking off streets within a two-kilometer distance as city residents rushed to collect the money.” But according to Kyungsoo, as he shoves the newspaper under Minseok’s nose, “National Post is pulling really elaborate pranks these days—but where did they find my shirt?” Minseok frowns hard at the article, and really hard at Kyungsoo, and then towards the other end of the bar. Kyungsoo is too busy re-reading the article and double-checking his shirt to notice it, or the fact that there is someone exceptionally well-dressed seated at the end Minseok’s wide-eyed stare, someone hiding an amused turn of the lips behind a glass of whiskey. -- They meet for the first time, Kyungsoo thinks, in the apartment elevator. It’s early Friday morning, 13th of July, an hour when the world runs on uncertain lamplights, drunken howls, and the occasional punch of laughter. There are just the two of them at this hour, and an obtrusive kind of silence. Having just returned from the bar, Kyungsoo tries to fight off the cocktail of metallic smoke and the thick scent of alcohol caught in his hair. The last ringlets of saxophone nestle over his fingers and cinquillo beat lingers under his skin, but none of it is enough to fill the abyss that stands between him and the stranger. The stranger, with an unlit cigarette between his teeth, turns first. The unflattering elevator lighting enshrouds him in jaundice yellow and a heavy veil of lethargy. Kyungsoo wonders, with the cinquillo pounding into his veins, if the man’s skin is as plastic as it seems. “Hot. The weather. It’s hot,” he says, proffering a hand that Kyungsoo grabs with hesitation. His grasp is surprisingly cold, long fingers and nails cut short and sharp, leathery skin stretched taut over gaunt knuckles. “Um,” Kyungsoo balks, as soon as he catches the stranger staring holes into his face. The handshake suddenly feels more of a deliberate judgment than an abrupt greeting. More frightening than tense and more awful than awkward. Between the creaks of the elevator flooring and sputters of the fluorescent light bulb, Kyungsoo’s voice comes out as a squeak two pitches higher than it’s supposed to be, “Yeah. Hot tonight.” The stranger says nothing. Instead he leans back on the elevator walls and stares, eyes flickering up and down the length of Kyungsoo’s figure. It’s the kind of stare that makes Kyungsoo draw back behind his jacket, though a thin layer of cashmere does little to hide him from the other’s glaring fixation. Time stands on its toes until the doors open, when Kyungsoo lets out a gasp of air he didn’t know he was holding in. Only later, after Kyungsoo has worked his way down the apartment corridors and noted that the stranger has trailed after him, does he realize that it’s probably not the first time they’ve met. “Do I know you from somewhere?” He finally asks, voice echoing uneasily down the long hallways. The stranger has stopped at the neighboring door, twirling a keychain around his forefinger. A sliver of moonlight works in from the railings and gleams off of something on his suit. Kyungsoo notes a pair of cufflinks, shiny and expensive-looking, too expensive-looking to belong to someone who would live in this kind of residence. “Do you?” The stranger’s lips work into a slow smirk. Kyungsoo picks the lint in his pocket. He doesn’t remember coming upon the stranger’s face while reviewing the memory book earlier. But perhaps he skipped a page. It’s happened before. He hurriedly reaches for his bag, and is stopped with a bark of laughter, “So you weren’t kidding about the amnesia.” “What?” “Interesting. Cool. Really. What’s the last thing you remember doing?” The stranger interrupts, in no apparent hurry as he slumps against his door and regards the way Kyungsoo is fumbling with the lock. Even in the dark, the twinkle of sadistic amusement gleaming from his grin is distinct. It makes him look older than he seems, almost sadly so. Kyungsoo thinks so hard he forgets to answer, and by the time he turns around again, the stranger has gone. -- They meet again for the first time in the staircase. The sun is breaking into a Monday. A gust of summer blows away the last rays of moonlight. Kyungsoo rushes down for his job at the factory and the man with an unlit cigarette between his lips works his way up. Their gazes collide, and maybe their shoulders graze, and that’s enough for Kyungsoo to freeze mid-step. But the man doesn’t spare a second to acknowledge Kyungsoo’s flabbergasted stare. He simply keeps climbing, wheezing and panting, face pale and beaded with perspiration. Kyungsoo watches his legs quiver and wobble with each step, as if they’re no longer strong enough to support the invisible, enormous weight on his shoulders. As if he would quake and topple over with the smallest tickle of a breeze. It’s almost breathtaking how broken his back looks from this angle, all fabrics caving over blades of bones, sharp angles and emaciated lines. Half a thought passes about maybe taking a photo of this man, but Kyungsoo doesn’t know what he would label that photo, and plus he’s late for work, so he runs on. For Kyungsoo, summers in suburban Seoul are made of mezzo voices threading deep into midnight, cardboard boxes of leftover toys dragging across rubber conveyor belts, red bean slush and wrinkled newspapers under soft kisses of dusk. There are more entries in his scrapbooks now. His life is surging with columns of black notes; Zitao and Yifan are now more than friends, Minseok has found a new tune; there is a stranger living in the vacated apartment to the left, and they might have spoken before. -- They meet for the last of first times when Kyungsoo swings open his door and comes face to face with enormous, dilated pupils. “Hi,” the man grins, cigarette bobbing limply from the corner of his mouth, “My name is Jongin. I’m a writer. Novelist. I moved in next door a week ago. For the sake of inspiration, artistry, discovering poverty, avoiding the press mob at my usual place, so on. The point is: we’ve talked before. Twice.” “Oh,” Kyungsoo immediately falls back on his usual response, “Sorry—I have anterograde amnesia so—” “You don’t remember me. I know. You forget everything by the end of each day so you won’t remember me by tomorrow.” Jongin steps back, nurses a flame from his zippo onto his joint, takes a deep drag, and lets the smoke gush viscous and white from his teeth, “Anyways. Listen. I need to get a manuscript into my editor—Oh Sehun—if you knew him you’d know how much of a fucking douche he is, but the point is: if I don’t get in something in a month he’s going to nag like a bona fide bitch—and, to be frank, I’m out of ideas. But not really. I have an idea. And the idea involves…” It’s not until Kyungsoo is coughing back smoke does he realize he hasn’t been breathing the whole while, “Um, yes, involves what?” “You,” Jongin smiles. The thing about Jongin’s smile is that only his mouth moves upwards, so all Kyungsoo sees is a beautiful picture of pricey starched white shirts and grinning misery. A whole lot of suffering wrapped up in exposed teeth and narrowed eyes. The prettiest adjectives to dot an abandoned soul, most delicate epithets to cross a closed heart. Kyungsoo writes that down on the Polaroid he takes of Jongin that night. This is Jongin, new neighbor, novelist, sad smile (17 July 2012). We will have interviews. He wants to write a book about me. -- During Wednesday’s dinner, Kyungsoo decides that although his daily rituals are simple and repetitive, it’s best that way. His memory doesn’t last long enough for him to keep up with long-term changes and it’s not like he can grow tired of doing something he can’t remember doing, in any case. “So what do you do?” Jongin interrupts, a pen tucked behind his ear and another one between his fingers. Kyungsoo says that he works at the neighboring toy factory from nine to five, gluing little shiny little marble eyes onto stuffed cartoon characters. A breath of artificiality for the sparkle of life. The job is purely for financial support, albeit Kyungsoo thinks that he might have grown attached to his coworkers and the plushness of the toys, the soft fabrics, the forever cheerful smiles. The job makes just enough for rent and necessities. Still, it’s alright because seven o’clock fixes everything. At seven, he heads for the bar to nurse transient melodies from his soul. Technically the hour is about demurely collecting change under drunken chaos, but for Kyungsoo, it’s about molding words out of thin air, gasps of smoke and shudders of music, closed eyes and faint sighs embracing the crop circles of sawdust in the carpets. It’s about muses slipping through fingers and curling around his toes. Seven is about passion. A dream. Kyungsoo lets all the two hundred and six bones of his body fall in place as he breathes, “It might be lackluster, I guess. But it’s hard to feel the lackluster when you’ve never really felt the luster. Felt alive, I mean.” “So you’re like a walking corpse?” “More like a walking fossil.” Minseok, his childhood friend and fellow singer in the bar, always jokes that because time has stopped for Kyungsoo four years ago, he must be perpetually twenty years old. But it’s not really a joke, and people have stopped laughing a long time ago. “I think it’s funny though,” Jongin remarks, dropping his cigarette stub in the beer can before taking an appreciative sip. Kyungsoo tries not to wonder how it tastes, nicotine and tobacco drowning in fizzling wheat. Instead he peers over at Jongin’s notepad, and the little illegible lines of black ink left sprawled over the edges. Jongin explains that they’re for a book he’s writing. A romance about a man who erases himself at the end of each day. Kyungsoo questions the romance in that. Jongin says no worries, writers are certified bullshitters; just kill someone and it’ll end up romantic. They met for second time twenty minutes ago, when Jongin banged on Kyungsoo’s door with a six-pack of Hite and a joint poking out between lax fingers, “Hi, I’m Jongin, your new neighbor. We’ve met before—” at which point Kyungsoo promptly reached for his book and Jongin commented, “I’m on the last page, I think. The guy wearing a suit.” Kyungsoo stared at the photo, and back at Jongin, and then twenty minutes later here they are: sitting on the fire escape, talking about large philosophies and sub-ideal romances that Kyungsoo can’t quite loop his head around. Their knuckles and shoulders are bumping, which makes Kyungsoo uncomfortable, and even more so that Jongin doesn’t seem to care. In fact, Jongin doesn’t seem to be the type to care about anything. “What do you mean, it’s funny?” “More importantly, how does it feel to be perpetually twenty years old?” Kyungsoo contemplates, “Good.” “But isn’t it terrible? You’re caught in time but time moves on. You can’t remember people coming or leaving. The world diminishes around you while you’re stuck in the center. All of your old friends leave or die and you can’t make new ones. You can’t love. You can’t hate.” “So why is it funny?” “It’s so sad it’s funny,” Jongin shrugs, “People tend to feel bad for poor, harmless souls like you. Carrying a larger-than-life burden with smaller-than-life ambitions. Like watching an ant die under a magnifying glass and squealing in joy over the sadness of it all. It’s hilarious. Well I mean, I make a living off exploiting it for all it’s worth, but it’s still hilarious.” Jongin flicks off the end of his cigarette and they watch ashes swirl down three flights of stairs together. A breeze. Jongin inhales summer, exhales toxins. Kyungsoo picks at his toes and fingers and the little bits of rust in the steel staircase before saying, decisively, something that he isn’t sure he wanted to say, “You sound so miserable.” “All novelists are.” “Is that why you smoke so much?” Jongin writes ‘inexplicably Good Samaritan and consequently nosy’ in the column headed under Character Traits. Pretending not to see it, Kyungsoo nudges him for the answer until eventually Jongin complies with a sneer, “You don’t need to know. Why don’t we talk some more about how you keep track of—” “No,” Kyungsoo snaps firmly, “No, I want to know.” “Listen the book is about you—” “This conversation is about us.” Lowering his head, Jongin mutters something about pains in the asses before ripping his face back up with a blank smile that curdles Kyungsoo’s guts, “Okay. About us.” “I won’t remember it by tomorrow, anyway,” Kyungsoo reminds him. Hollowing his cheeks in on the joint until the little flicker of orange disappears, Jongin lets the words flood out with white vehemence, “I’ll tell you what makes me miserable,” Jongin looks somewhere into the distance, and that is when everything falls apart, “I have idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. It means that my lungs are drowning in snot. I’m dying. That makes me fucking miserable, alright?” The noise of street vendors and traffic and children playing suddenly becomes unbearably soft. Kyungsoo stares at his knuckles and feels the blood rushing out of his face, “I’m—I’m sorry—I didn’t know you were—” “In other words, god is suffocating me in slow motion. In three years my heart is going to be lopsided trying to pump enough oxygen through my body. I’m going to have organ failure. Eating is going to be impossible because how do you eat a meal while breathing through straws? And why do I smoke, you ask? Why do I smoke. Why.” Kyungsoo watches his knuckles go bloodless. He wants this to end. He’s sorry. He’s sorry and he doesn’t understand—but Jongin doesn’t really want him to. “I smoke to die faster. I smoke so that when I’m etherized on the hospital table I’d go out with a swoosh instead of a swish,” Jongin nods, speaks of misery in the form of discursive gray, “But this isn’t funny, you know. This is just plain sad. I’m the saddest fuck on the planet. Miserable, isn’t it?” And a shriek of dry laughter to punctuate the monochromatic anger, “Nah, I’m just fucking with you. It is funny. It’s funny because my life is full of this: you think you’re escaping, until you run into yourself. Twenty-three years later it turns out that the longest way round is the shortest way home, and I’ve been running in circles since the get-go. What a riot, huh?” Neither of them laughs, though Jongin does snort when eventually Kyungsoo finishes things off with a gentle, “I’ll forget by tomorrow.” Their interview dawdles until it’s seven. Kyungsoo sings tonight, like any other night, but the words and tunes are coming out of his mouth and not his heart and the only thing he can remember is smoke. The liquid pain seeping from Jongin’s seams. He goes home at half-past midnight and sticks a note up on the wall, a bright yellow one smack in the center of everything, so he won’t miss it tomorrow: “Grab a toy from work. Leave it by the apartment next-door. (19 July 2012)” -- Kyungsoo comes home from the bar, two days later, to find a stuffed Pororo by his door. It’s the same toy that he stitches at work, and if he squints hard enough he can almost be sure that he’s the one who glued the eyes on because he’s the only one who manhandles superglue that way. There is a Thank You card underneath Pororo that says, in angry black ink, “Pity’s pretty fucking expensive from someone who can’t care.” He has no idea what those words mean, but the pang in his heart is too loud to be dismissed. Suddenly all the melodies and rhythms fade away into an overwhelming silence. More sour than disappointment, more bitter than loneliness. Tonight the apartment next-door is buzzing with strident, uneven laughter that sounds something like sobs. A whole multitude of voices and chatter, vague shouts of Luhan Jongin Sehun under the semi-buzz of never-empty bottles of scotch and vodka. While passing by to take out the garbage, Kyungsoo catches a glimpse of three very beautiful faces floating beyond the curtains, a sharp glare of chandelier lights, the pungent scent of alcohol and cologne and luxury. His own apartment looks particularly desolate at this hour. Dimness swallows all of the walls and corners. He re-writes all of his sticky notes in green instead of blue, and Friday passes with the silent clicks of gel pens against neon paper. -- Though technically Kyungsoo can’t remember having met the writer nursing what must be his fiftieth cigarette of the hour, the card in his hand says that they’re supposed to have regular interviews. More than the card, he knows that they’ve met before. And the thought’s not surprising—nothing is really—perhaps due to the messy haze of cigarette smoke that puts everything out of focus: coffee cups, moist windows, the fraying and tarred edges of the writer’s notebook; it slows everything down, dulls all of the shines into glows and all of the corners into curves. The writer smokes, hastily, and Kyungsoo feels this alien, emptied sensation watching him. Like something cracking slowly, deeply, irreversibly within him. The coffee shop during the evening of July 21st is a low rumble of clinking porcelain cups, the continuous drone of tired students, whipped cream murmuring into cappuccinos. It’s not particularly loud, but the noise is the kind to quicksand someone. Drown them slowly and leave nothing except clawing fingertips and air bubbles breaking the surface. Kyungsoo builds half a question over whether or not all writers look like this, with dark circles bruising eyes and complexion caught between yellow and white and occasional twitches of the brow. The question collapses as soon as the writer stubs out his joint and catches Kyungsoo’s gaze. One long, hard line from one pair of eyes to another. “You okay?” The writer, who introduced himself as Jongin, demands briskly. Jongin doesn’t seem to have the time or patience to accept any alternatives, so Kyungsoo only nods, “Yeah. I’m fine.” “Tell me about the accident four years ago. Or well, yesterday, as you would remember it,” Jongin prompts. There’s a hint of anxiety in his voice. Kyungsoo can’t help but notice the ugly smattering of bandages over his knuckles. The purple and green smudges around his wrist. And suddenly he wonders if it’s a writer’s thing at all, those angry eyes and bloody knuckles and unconscious flinches. “It was just a typical accident,” Kyungsoo says. Though he can’t remember days having passed from the particular evening, somehow the shock no longer registers, “I was coming home from the factory—the one I work at right now, got hit by a fruit truck. It was carrying apples. Red ones.” “You’ve always been working at the factory?” “Ever since I was eighteen. I went as soon as I finished high school. My mom passed away and my dad was sick so I had to foot his—” “Yeah, okay,” Jongin interrupts. Kyungsoo can see the look of exasperation on his face and wants to protest and no, it’s not just a typical sob story about just another kid playing hero. It’s a story about family and warmth and hard-earned cookies by the bedside and counting the drops of IV and praying to cartoon characters for happiness. But Jongin is not in the mood to entertain any clarifications, “So if you weren’t such a responsible human, you would’ve become a singer?” “I guess so.” “And then you got hit by a truck. Terrific luck,” Jongin quips and scratches something out on his notepad. Furiously. Kyungsoo chews on his lower lip, a bad habit. “Are… you angry?” “No,” Jongin snaps, a beat too quickly. Kyungsoo falls quiet while Jongin reads the next question, scarcely looking up from his pen, “How do you keep track of your life? All the details.” “Usually, I take pictures of new people I encounter, put them in a notebook and list what I’ve learned about them. I re-read it at the beginning of every day and update it at the end. Other things, I write on my walls, and my planner. The temporary issues I put on sticky notes and paste them wherever. Usually on my walls.” Kyungsoo peers at his coffee, and back up again when nothing returns except the noisy grinding of pen against paper. “Do you find that you have to relearn things? Like if you figure out how to walk to the coffee shop today, by tomorrow would you forget how to walk here again?” “Well, no. I can remember the answers. I just can’t remember learning them. Tomorrow I wouldn’t remember walking here with you. I would only know where this place is.” “Convenient.” “Are you really not upset?” “No.” “At all?” “Listen. We’re writing about you. A novel about you. Let’s not talk about me, okay?” “Why are you upset?” Jongin’s shoulders sag and he drops his notebook, pen, everything with a clatter. Rubbing a coarse hand through his crumpled features, he stares at Kyungsoo with worn exasperation. Perhaps he reeks a little of guilty conceit as he mutters, “Issues. Okay? People with actual memories have issues.” Kyungsoo doesn’t acquiesce to Jongin’s impatient tapping, “If you need someone to talk to about the issues, you know that I’m—” “You’re the perfect person to dump everything on, of course, because nothing would ever burden you because you’d never fucking remember, right?” There is a vague feeling in Kyungsoo’s guts that maybe he’s said that previous line one too many times. Maybe they’ve been in this situation before: Jongin frustrated and tattered on the fence of art and reality, Kyungsoo confused and worried, trying to help Jongin down with no idea how. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally, when Jongin has stopped retching for oxygen. He doesn’t take his eyes off the way Jongin’s fingers are trembling, “You’re right. I’m sorry if I asked you this before and I’m just reminding you of something unpleasant, I really don’t mean—” “It’s about hands,” Jongin suddenly decides. It takes Kyungsoo a long time to recognize Jongin’s voice because it’s low, monotonous, and awfully quiet. It’s nothing like what is usually and diffuses through the air like ether. “Listen. My life is about hands. It’s about shoving your diamond-ringed hands down my bile-washed throat. It’s about shredding my soul with a pair of your expensive gloves. It’s all about hands. Nails drawing crescent blood. Ink-smudged fingerprints down thighs. Knuckles crushing reflections behind a thin layer of paint and glass. Hands, hands, hands.” A sip of coffee and Kyungsoo presents an apologetic grin, “I still don’t really…” “I’m dying, okay?” Kyungsoo feels his heart plummet as Jongin continues, with the numbness of a man who has announced the same thing thousands of times already, “I’m going to be dead in three years, maybe two. Probably less. But you know, people won’t love me when I’m dead. That’s a fact. People might pity me. Worship me. Say that I was a genius mind, revel in the great performance art that was my life. And what do I do with all that? Can I sell it? Can I have a future and a white-washed house and argue about what plants to put in the front yard with their fucking assembly-line pity?” Jongin’s eyes are red. His lips are white. The silence is black. “You know what I think,” Kyungsoo has no idea what he’s saying, only an inkling that he probably shouldn’t be saying it at all—but the words come out on their own, “I think that you’re just afraid.” Jongin doesn’t speak for a long time, and when he does, he doesn’t look up from his notebook anymore, “So if you can retain memories of how to do something, do you also retain feelings? If you fell in love with a woman today, would you still love her tomorrow?” “I don’t know,” Kyungsoo gnaws on his lower lip again, “But I suppose if I can’t remember doing anything with her, then I can’t really—you can’t love someone you have no memories of, right? Isn’t love based on memories and actions?” “Is it.” Kyungsoo fidgets with his sleeves, “You’re still upset.” “No.” “You—I—am not your friend—or your therapist—or—I guess I don’t even qualify as an acquaintance but—Jongin,” Kyungsoo stammers, unsure again of what he’s saying, “You can talk to me. I won’t judge you. I can’t say I understand everything but I—just—wouldn’t you feel better if—” “Shut up,” Jongin snaps, eyes still fixated on burning holes into his notebook, “Do not lecture me.” “No, Jongin I just—” “You don’t have any right to assume what makes me feel better because you don’t understand pain, do you? What makes you think you can judge me? You can’t even love. You said it yourself. You can’t love so you can’t be hurt, can you? Tomorrow you’ll wake up and everything will be fucking fine. Everything will be fucking dandy like it’s always been and hey, do you ever think that you’re only so happy each day because you’d forgotten about all the times you’ve hurt everyone else? Do you ever think about that? What if you hurt someone yesterday? At least normal people have the decency to feel guilt. You can’t feel anything, can’t understand shit, Do Kyungsoo, because—you, are, just, a, walkingcorpse.” When Kyungsoo feels something welling in his eyes, Jongin has already slammed his notebook down and stormed out of the cafe. And it turns out that the notebook doesn’t actually have any writing on it, just massive twines of ink balled into ripped pages. -- “You look depressed,” Minseok comments one day, sometime by the end of July, when red bean slush is no longer enough for the heat. While they wait for the musicians to unpack their instruments and tune, he turns to Kyungsoo with arched brows, “What happened?” Kyungsoo frowns, thinks back all the way to when he rolled out of bed this morning, and shakes his head, “Nothing. I had a pretty normal day. Why?” “I don’t know,” Minseok shrugs, “You just look kind of solemn is all.” As Kyungsoo chews on his lip and ponders over why he would look solemn when everyone has been perfectly amiable, Minseok chats with Zitao about how the rich writer guy hasn’t shown up to the bar for days. They sing their usual song, a few new improv lines, before Kyungsoo realizes that Minseok was right. His heart is not in the music. -- The night washes tides of motorcycle hums and human chatter over Kyungsoo’s immobile figure. Midnight has passed hours ago, and his eyes are burning with fatigue, but Kyungsoo simply couldn’t fall asleep, so here he is, gnawing on his lip and flipping through his scrapbook. At some point before he’s realized it, he began counting the number of new pictures to the number that has been crossed out. And, to his disappointment, almost all of his old high school friends have moved out and away, and he hasn’t made any new notes on any of them since years ago. He tries to dial Baekhyun’s old number, and of course, it’s out of service. It’s probably been out of service for months, years. How long? “Hey,” a voice pops out from the dimness. Kyungsoo bolts a meter and a half and nearly shrieks. But somehow the person standing on the neighboring balcony doesn’t look all that unfamiliar. He has an awkward kind of smile, like it physically hurts to move his face that way, “What are you doing there?” Kyungsoo hesitates about telling the truth. He does it anyway, “Counting the number of people I’ve lost contact with.” “And?” “There’s a lot,” and he feels awfully like sobbing. The distant rumbles of friendship and laughter and camaraderie, things he no longer possess, push out his tears and he turns his head back to the scratched photos in his book. The old, fading smiles and the pain seeps in one molecule at a time. He doesn’t want to cry, and he doesn’t know why he’s crying, “Just yesterday I… I was friends with all of them but… it says here that… they moved away? They left? They’re gone? Why? Am I really alone?” The guy on the neighboring balcony breathes out fogs and glitter clouds, hiding a strangled laugh, “Yeah, you’re really fucking alone. We’re all alone, except you don’t live long enough to realize it.” Kyungsoo puts his head down in his arm and cries harder than he’s ever cried before, and he knows this because this is not the kind of pain that can be forgotten by tomorrow. He doesn’t see the blank look on the other man’s face, doesn’t hear the man’s cigarette falling out from between his fingers and onto the ground three floors below. -- The next morning Kyungsoo wakes up with swollen eyes and a sour aftertaste in his mouth. There is a scrapbook in his arms, paper cuts over his fingers, and the wall of green notes makes him sick to the guts. 
  -- “I’m not a very good human being. I haven’t been one,” a stranger in the elevator begins when Kyungsoo stumbles inside. Kyungsoo almost flinches, except somehow he’s not surprised to hear this voice. The low timber and the cracks around each syllable. A kind of grudging reluctance, shy naivety despite the words, “I’ve hurt everyone who has ever really tried for me. Even myself. I’m a coward, and I take it out on other people because… I’m afraid of admitting it.” Kyungsoo nods, and takes in everything about this man before him—the loosened tie, the heavy shadows under his eyes and the caved cheeks, the hunched back, the painful elevations of his chest, straining against a white-pressed shirt. Somehow his swollen eyes the taste of battery acid that wouldn’t wash out with mugs of milk disappears so easily. His heart clenches as he reaches out and touches the man’s arm, “You’ll be okay.” “My name is Jongin.” Kyungsoo might not have heard the last syllable. Still, the name is familiar on his lips as he echoes it, “Jongin.” “I’m a writer,” Jongin says, and the elevator doors slide open as if on cue. Kyungsoo doesn’t move. They revel in the stillness, the drone of the ventilator and their uneven, noisy exhales. And as the doors close again, Jongin tells a story about a boy who fell in love with dancing, and a dancer, and fell too hard, too fast. A story about someone named Jongin who was trampled under expectations and pressure and gave himself up and stopped loving people, himself, passion, aspiration. It’s not a long one, and it ends with a new story. “So he became a writer, and he wrote about that dancer who he loved and cast away. The innocence that crumbled in his hands, inevitably. People gathered and paid for the pity party and it made him rich and famous and sad—someone called him miserable, once—and he wrote more about corroding dreams and despair and moon-watching from well bottoms, and it made him richer, and sadder, and more famous, and eventually god decided to put him out of his misery. But he had to write one more book, because he’s become the kind of bastard who lived on misery. Parasitic dependency on sucking the agony out of others’ bones.” The elevator opens. This time Kyungsoo takes a step forward, and pulls Jongin after him. Their steps form a nice kind of rhythm. “And there was this particularly interesting person he met, who practically begged to be written about. He was everything sad, but he was so happy chasing after impossible dreams. He worked at a factory and wanted to be a singer—even though he couldn’t remember shit. He was an amnesiac forced to abandon himself at the end of each day and who refused to comply. Someone who struggled against the overwhelming odds of loss, for a dead-end. It was kind of funny, like watching a hamster run itself to death in a wheel, for an exit that didn’t exist.” “They met one day in July. The day the writer found out he was going to die. He invited this guy up to his house, where they turned up a giant fan and let it snow cash from the windows—big crisp bills. That day the writer was angry at the world, and jealous, and he wanted to show the amnesiac that he’d never achieve his dreams. That becoming a singer was the stupidest idea on the whole fucking planet for someone who couldn’t even live, couldn’t ever experience love or loss or agony or happiness. That him becoming a singer was like a robot talking about writing love songs. Absurd and fucking hilarious.” “Jongin wanted to show off how rich he was, how awesome life could be after losing himself and giving everything up. He was someone who cared more about protecting empty pride than his own life. People said big-ass parties with champagne towers and chocolate fountains make a person happy, so Jongin rinsed and repeated in all of those, and people said that he was happy. He was god fucking happy and—” “The amnesiac couldn’t see it. Here he was, this guy who couldn’t even remember losing his fucking best friends and parents, this guy who lived off of tips and counted pennies, the most pathetic kind of earthworm, and he couldn’t fucking understand when glory was thrown in his face. Glory, fame, wealth, power, status. Everything that Jongin—that I—have ever worked for.” Jongin runs a hand through his hair, shivering despite the heat. “That was when I realized it wasn’t because you were stupid. It was because I, Kim Jongin, was a moron. The whole time I was just trying to prove to myself that I was happy, that throwing away all I’ve ever wanted to be, to wallow in despair, to make a show out of myself, was the right thing to do. I moved into the shithole of an apartment building you lived in not for inspiration, but to watch you suffer. To confirm that you were suffering. I watched you sing night after night and prayed that you’d fuck up and go out of tune and get splashed in the face with a tub of beer. I tried to blitz your little cocoon of bliss because—because—I… I just wanted someone with me. In the quicksand. But you didn’t sink. I was wrong. I am wrong, and a fucking moron.” “But you’re not a moron,” Kyungsoo interrupts. They’re leaning on the railing on Kyungsoo’s tiny balcony. Kyungsoo is bent over the metal, estimating the shadows splayed across the grass, with arms tucked under his chest and head bobbling occasionally. Jongin is next to him, propped up on his elbows and facing the other way, legs crossed and gaze on at the stars as Kyungsoo whispers, “You’re just lost.” Jongin looks at him for the first time, really, from under his lashes. The moonlight runs down his face, highlighting all of the soft creases and the plastic flesh, and Kyungsoo thinks that Jongin’s so remarkably frail like this, so remarkably beautiful. “I’m going to be more lost. Lost, and lost, and then,” Jongin whispers, “One day, poof, I’ll be gone. I’ll be to the world like those photos in your scrapbook are to you. The world won’t remember losing me.” Kyungsoo’s voice is cracking all over the place and nails are digging up rust when he finally speaks, “No, no don’t gopoof.” Jongin snorts, the dismissive kind of mockery that snarls you’re just saying it, and makes Kyungsoo want to grab him by the shoulders and scream that he cares, that he really means it—Do Kyungsoo won’t allow Kim Jongin to go poof. Except he has no idea why he cares, and Jongin might be right. He might be just saying it. He might not care. He doesn’t really know this Kim Jongin, after all, doesn’t have any memories of what has happened between the two of them. “I just really want to remember you, for even one extra minute…” But if it were as simple as that, his chest wouldn’t hurt nearly as much as it does now. Their shoulders touch a little, but neither of them moves away. prologue: daisies; part one: lost and stuck; part two: invisible walls; word count: 7,442     “I’m Jongin, and I’m here to—” “Write.” Jongin’s jaw swings open, shock registering slowly on his tilted eyebrows. The seconds come and go, skittering along a thin line of hesitation. Outside the window the grass dissolves into the sky, burred colors and bright chaos. Kyungsoo waits. It’s not until Jongin spots the scrapbook lying open on the kitchen counter does he relax into the doorframe, “Oh. So you’ve read up on your notes already?” “Yup,” Kyungsoo nods, and doesn’t quite notice the look of fleeting disappointment over Jongin’s expression. Today the conversation resumes in Jongin’s apartment next-door. It’s a white-washed box cluttered full of balled papers, half-empty cans of beer, a myriad of achromatic shapes: sheets brittle and distorted over the nude mattress; tapestries dangling limply like surrender flags. Little cigarette stubs and yellow pills are arranged on a plastic coffee table to spell, “KYUNGSOC”. Everything is a thin veneer of white fragility, barely holding away the post-modern asbestos. It ostracizes Kyungsoo but takes in all of Jongin, laps up all of his lethargic steps and long lashes. Kyungsoo thinks that Jongin herds everything in the room together. Splayed out against the couch, Jongin is the kind of guy to belong in this sort of place, probably, or the kind of guy who has gotten used to this high class superficiality. A kind of stuffed, hollow man, shadows falling between the emotion and the response. “You don’t like this place, do you?” “It’s all black and white. It doesn’t look like anyone’s ho—” “Here,” Jongin calls suddenly. Kyungsoo almost doesn’t turn around fast enough to catch the bundle of still-packaged yellow sticky notes that Jongin tosses him. “What’s this?” “Come on, really. You’ve got to recognize these.” “No, I mean, why are you giving them to me?” “You were the one who said my room is black and white,” Jongin shrugs, leans back onto his couch until the hollow of his throat is fully exposed and suddenly he’s all jagged edges of chins and cartilage and elbows, knuckles, nails, “So color it. I bet you’re dying to. And look, it’s the color of the sun. Makes you feel alive, doesn’t it?” “You’re awful.” “Your admonishing stare,” Jongin grins, “is my favorite.” So Kyungsoo gives in, though only after ordering for Jongin to, “Call me hyung from now on. It’s ridiculous how unmannered you are.” Jongin laughs dismissively, smoke exploding like glitter clouds over his head and mouth wide with glee. Pulling a chair up against the nearest wall, Kyungsoo helps himself up, half-tottering as he tears open the first package and slips his thumb under the first note. Aligning it at perfectly perpendicular angles, Kyungsoo runs his thumb over the edges and smoothes down the corners. The wall is toasted warm from the sunlight and Jongin’s voice comes in a comforting hum from behind him, mists of little insignificant words drifting over wistful grimaces. “Do you ever wonder this—how many ten o’clocks have you spent doing the same precise thing, with the same glue gun and same bucket of marbles and the toy from the day before the day before the day before all of yesterdays? How many times have you sat down at your empty dinner table and wondered if tomorrow you will remember today?” With time Kyungsoo notices that Jongin is really not asking questions. He’s answering them. Filling the footprints that Kyungsoo had left behind. Gentle and entrancing, consonants broken full-stop and vowels tapering to infinity. Gaze dipping far, far, away, lost somewhere in Kyungsoo’s as Kyungsoo lights his walls ablaze in a field of golden conflagration. “Do you ever think that you can’t remember because there is nothing to remember? If you do the exact same thing every single day of the week, every week of the month, all twelve months of the year, doesn’t memory lose purpose? What do you think will happen if you begin breaking the routine?” They spend the night like this. Kyungsoo doesn’t go to the bar and he doesn’t sing, just listens to the course of Jongin’s whispers and the murmurs of the parchment under his skin, the beats of his pulse seeping into the invisible cracks of white-washed room. The process of letting Jongin break him out of his routine is almost too easy. At some point Kyungsoo finishes with the notes and Jongin with his questions. They’re on their old spots on the couch and the arm chair, basking in the dusk, when a tune settles between them. It grows, fluid and effortless, starts from the end and ends at the start, and it makes an invisible string from Kyungsoo’s tongue to the Jongin’s fingertips, lifting them like marionette strings over his lap. On their way to sleep, Kyungsoo molds the melodic lines, the a-flat, the b-sharp-minor, the Jongin look your hands are dancing, the Jongin I like you a lot; Jongin defines the meter, the four-four, the four-three, the hyung are you happy, the hyung fossilize me in your time. Jongin’s last question is a soft one, and he mutters it just as Kyungsoo’s eyes flutter closed, “How many times have you neglected something really important?” -- July is the cruelest month, and its last day the most bitter. “The people,” Kyungsoo says, and he’s so exhausted today. His bones ache and his ribs cut into his lungs and he can’t breathe and everything hurts, spins, hurts, spins. “The people are gone. All of them are gone.” Jongin keeps staring. Kyungsoo trembles and grips onto his scrapbook for life, paper crushing under his nails but maybe he wants to crush it. Maybe he doesn’t really want to remember. Maybe he can get in another accident and make all of it go away, “Baekhyun he—I—I tried to find him—says here,” he flips open the book and points to a weathered page, face in the photo barely distinguishable from too many glossing touches, “says here that he moved away. See, it says his number isn’t in use anymore. But Baekhyun was my high school friend. Best friend. I just—I really wanted to know why he moved. Where he moved to. All I wanted to do was patch things up in case we had a fight.” “So I called his mom, and I could remember how she hugged me during graduation and told me that I’m just like a son to her, and that I’m much better behaved than Baekyhun, and that if I ever need some motherly advice I should go to her—and Baekhyun punched my shoulder and everyone was laughing and it—but when I called today she just… it was still her but she sounded… she was so… tired. Frustrated. Jongin she was sick of me.” “No,” Jongin blanches, “You didn’t really ask for Baekhyun, did you?” “And she screamed at me, said to never call her again and then she apologized. To me. Because she couldn’t even blame me for calling her to remind her that Byun Baekhyun’s dead. That he was killed in the same accident as me. That I was the one who survived instead of him.” “Listen, hyung, it’s really not your fault—” “How many times have I done this, Jongin? How many times did I have to call her and ask her about where her dead son went? Jongin what have I been doing? Why didn’t anyone just… why didn’t I write it down? Why?” Jongin doesn’t answer. He shifts, barely, and slumps against the staircase railing. “Did you know about this?” Kyungsoo asks, finally, after the seconds have stumbled into minutes, and his nerves erupt into a frantic shout when Jongin fails to answer again, “You knew about this, didn’t you? Why would you let me do this?” With a sigh, Jongin pries the scrapbook out of Kyungsoo’s hand, “You weren’t planning to write it down today, were you, hyung? You’re upset but that doesn’t mean that you’ll do it, will you? Are you thinking that maybe all of this can go away when you wake up again?” Though Kyungsoo makes a noise to protest, he really doesn’t have anything to say. Jongin’s probably right. Heavy guilt, and maybe a little rage, precipitates from the dampness in his palms. “Afraid. You’re afraid. It’s better reopening someone else’s wounds than running the risk of reopening your own, because time heals pain like hers, but it sure as fuck is not going to heal yours. While the rest of us move on, you’re going to be stuck here all by yourself, crying about the same thing everyday. You know that. And you hate yourself for knowing it and—” Jongin grips Kyungsoo’s wrist, lowers his voice until it’s all ebbs and flows, “It’s not your fault. Trying to protect yourself is not wrong.” Kyungsoo takes a ragged gasp and before Jongin can start again, he jerks his wrist out and snatches back his scrapbook. Swallowing back the sting in his nose, he scribbles “died four years ago (31 July 2012)” over Baekhyun’s cheerful grin. Maybe the handwriting is a little broken, a little shaken, blurred with little plops of saline liquid. Maybe Jongin is shaking his head. Maybe he’s going to regret this every single morning from today forward. But at least he won’t be left behind. -- Jongin carries in the first morning of August and two grease-stained brown paper bags, throwing both carelessly across the tiny dining table in Kyungsoo’s kitchen as he turns around to explain, “You gave me the key to your apartment yesterday.” “I know,” Kyungsoo points to a note on the wall, except he thinks that he might’ve known even without the note. Everything about Jongin is new but familiar, abrupt but warm, in a way, like something evasive to the mind but fossilized in the sap of the soul. “How much do you know?” Jongin asks, while pulling egg toasts out of the bags and helping himself with great familiarity around the kitchen. “Your name is Jongin, you’re my neighbor,” Kyungsoo follows the beeline that Jongin makes from the cupboards to the dining room, “You used to dance, but you gave that up to be a novelist, and you have a sad smile and you’re always smoking because… because you’re dy—” The sound of paper ripping out of metal, as Jongin fetches the scrapbook from the kitchen counter, flips to the last page, and rips it out, is almost too raw for the ear. Kyungsoo falls silent and watches Jongin whip out a zippo and kindle a flame onto the sheet, “You don’t need to know. I’m one of those pages that’s going to be abandoned one day. It won’t even be a pretty page. It’ll be blood and tears over pulp and paper and, honestly, it’s better not to have a page of me at all.” “But—” “Just forget it.“ When Jongin leaves, Kyungsoo secretly rewrites the page, dusts up the ashes and puts them in a jar. He does this not because he wants to remember Jongin from today, but because he wants the Kyungsoo tomorrow to know of the boy behind Jongin’s secretive smiles today. He wants the Kyungsoo tomorrow to know that behind the Jongin who ghosts along cigarette stubs, who tosses back pills with glasses of milk, is a Jongin who can laugh with his whole face and body. A Jongin who puts his baseball caps on backwards and blows his cheeks up at unexpected moments. He’s a child with an old man’s scars, the gentlest romanticist hiding within a shell of hard cynicism. Though Kyungsoo doesn’t have a picture this time, he thinks that he doesn’t really need one. The words come out on their own, wishes at the end of every stroke, and Kyungsoo thinks that they’re more representative than any picture could be of that rare flicker of stardust in Jongin’s eyes. Of the way he calls him hyung. Of the way he pulls both of their baseball caps backwards and points out how they match. He doesn’t write that Jongin is dying. -- The man on the last page of his scrapbook is Jongin on certain days, a writer on others, and a stranger during brief elevator rides. On good days he has a smooth olive complexion; on bad days he wears jaundice over his flesh like a punishment. Sometimes he is a boy sitting on the neighboring balcony, legs dangling off the ledge and cigarette hanging on parched lips, arms poking out from behind rusted fences. Sometimes he is the tired man leaning against the wall, drowning in the rain with hair damp and back hunched. Sometimes they share a quiet second in the corridors, others countless hours speaking with lidded eyes, over thick divides of indigo smoke and ringlets of blues. Occasionally it hurts to see him, makes Kyungsoo’s chest throb with something heavier than pity, but most of the time seeing the man makes Kyungsoo’s head light and dizzy. And although Kyungsoo doesn’t record the details, there is always something when they come into contact. Every time their eyes catch, when they sprawl themselves out against the night sky, telltale grazes of knuckles between shallow breathes. It’s something inexplicably warm, light, transient. A little like fireflies. The kind of something that lingers just long enough in his palms to disappear by the time he learns to want. The kind of something that tells him this has happened before, and that next time, too, they’ll fly away. Slip between his fingers like fleeting memories. But this kind of something is probably not romantic. “Love you,” are two words that are never said. They’re too definitive, too abrupt without motive, solid evidence, rationalized explanations because at the end of each day sometimes Jongin is a stranger, sometimes Jongin is a book, but he is never more than a friend. Time keeps them at arm’s length, an invisible and impenetrable divide. Days come and go and Kyungsoo finds the border between don’t go and good night. Of course Kyungsoo is always dying to reach out and draw Jongin back in. He thinks that they’ve fit before, even though between them there is no entangling of toes or mazes of interlocked fingers. There is only the tsunami of text and slow wave of music. And maybe that’s all they are. With a tick of the second hand he always steps back into, “Good night.” With Kyungsoo and Jongin there is probably no romance, not in the usual definition of the word. But maybe there is a little of something else, between comfort and need, between hope and faith, between the nape of Kyungsoo’s neck and the creases of Jongin’s palm. -- They’re two souls floating on a rooftop of Samsung Tower, seventy-three floors up into the night, almost high enough to blow stars into constellations, yet still too close to earth. Kyungsoo counts the number of pills left in Jongin’s plastic orange bottle while Jongin watches smoke ripple into the air and dissipate. “What’s it like?” “What’s what like?” “Being forgotten.” Jongin tucks his hand underneath his head, and they gaze up together at the obscured moon and stars embedded in the clouds. He works his jaw up and down silently for a few seconds before the answer finally pops, a croaked, “It’s like being killed. Wiped out and deleted against your will.” “And what’s it like forgetting?” Kyungsoo looks deep into the sky, “It’s like dying, too,” and never before has he wished so bad to live just a little longer. Their knees touch. Kyungsoo inhales the smoke that Jongin exhales. Tonight they smell of ink and rain and cotton and street-side snacks, metallic fall, and each other. “You know,” Jongin turns, a flicker of absence over his expression, “hyung, when I used to dance, I liked the assistant. He was Chinese. Lu Han. My first love, I suppose. I respected him, followed after him, and he took care of me. And then one day I broke. Cracked under the pressure and pain and I was sick of everything. I took it out on him. He tried to fix me. Everyone tried to fix me. But you know, fixing a person isn’t like fixing a toy. When you fix a person you put yourself up to be broken.” One of them swallows, louder than Jongin’s whisper, “And I shattered him into too many pieces.” “My editor—Oh Sehun—he’s an ass. But he’s efficient. Puts me back together even if it’s in the wrong way and my head’s glued on backwards. The point is he shoves all of my pieces together so I don’t lose anything. We stick together. He keeps me like a stray dog, I guess, he’s good for me.” “And, then one day he tells me, he’s dating someone from a ballet company. I go, okay, cool, but dancers can be melodramatic. And he goes, no, this one’s great, his name is Lu Han, you two should meet up, didn’t you say you used to dance?” “Oh—” “So we met up. It was inevitable. But you know what? He still remembers what kind of coffee I drank. Eight years and he didn’t even try to forget me. He looks like crap even if he’s in love with Sehun. You know why? It’s the memories. They’re killing him. I can’t save him from them. Neither can Sehun,” Jongin grimaces, and suddenly the smoke no longer flows but sputters from his teeth, “No one can save anyone from their memories.” It’s clear what Jongin is getting at. Kyungsoo attempts fighting his next words, but it’s ultimately impossible. “It’s good that you won’t remember me, really, because this way I can save you. This way when I fuck up, you won’t have to carry it. Being forgotten isn’t unbearable compared to being remembered. I can stand dying at the end of each day, hyung. It’s okay to forget me.” Kyungsoo doesn’t hear Jongin’s loud, “I’m dying anyway,” that gets lost somewhere in the stars; instead he hears the muted, “don’t let me die,” in the fingers that Jongin laces into his own. So he leans over and presses their noses together, gives Jongin his oxygen and the scent of tic tacs on his tongue, and takes away a lungful of nicotines shadows and ground pain killers and bitter opioids. “You know why you always look so old? Because you think that nothing is worth remembering, because nothing is ideal, and you’re right—nothing is ideal. But every moment is worth remembering, Jongin. Every time you fuck up I’ll get to see a human, every time you fall I’ll get to see love washing you ashore… and I don’t care if in eight years I’ll look like crap. It might be because I don’t have any memories, and I can’t really be hurt, but—for me—to love and hurt and break myself down for someone worth it—” Jongin cups Kyungsoo’s jaw and tilts his chin and their first memory is of one kissing away the disquiet. And strangely, it is one that Kyungsoo cannot bring himself to record. -- “Listen, there was a time before when I said that I wanted to write about you,” Jongin says. The sand shifts over their toes; distant mutters of the sea carries his voice away, “The thing was, though, I didn’t really want to write about you. I wasn’t trying to write at all, I mean. Writing is about observing, but I was trying to persuade and… this time I want to observe. I want to learn about you.” Kyungsoo waits for Jongin to stop coughing to respond, “But I’ve been telling you about me. All afternoon. And if I’ve been telling you about me for two months, I’m not sure what there is left to—” His sentence stops on a verb when Jongin puts his hand on his neck. Jongin rekindles it on a conjunction when Kyungsoo gapes with surprise. A grin lights up his entire face, small and somehow ear to ear, no teeth but brighter than the moon and all of the stars, as Jongin says, “But there is still a whole character you haven’t told me about. You’ve told me about the Kyungsoo at twenty years old. Kimchi spaghetti, dry jokes, lunches by the tree trunk. The one who died. You haven’t told me, though, about hyung, the one who is living, who sings perfectly off-tune songs in a bar, who lives every single day like his last and first.” “I—” Kyungsoo begins, and that is when it dawns that he has nothing to say. Jongin’s hand is warm and heavy and perfect on his neck. “I want to learn about you, hyung. Not the you yesterday, or the you tomorrow. I want to learn about the you today. I want to know how you feel, why you didn’t go to the bar today, what your first thought was when you woke up, if you’re ticklish…” “Yeah.” “What?” “I’m ticklish,” and Kyungsoo has no idea what he’s doing when he puts his hand on top of Jongin’s, and feels the flux of warmth into his palm, “And I like your hand here. It’s horrible. In a nice way.” Jongin probably meant to laugh, but at some point the laughter decomposed into coughs that double both of them over. And while they sprawl out over the beach side by side, sand in hair and ocean in their fingers, Kyungsoo caresses Jongin’s neck, feels the air wheezing in and out, and closes his eyes, “I want to learn about you, too. Today, I don’t want to forget you.” So Jongin helps him remember, traces all of the lines and angles and pasts and futures of Kim Jongin into Kyungsoo’s skin with lips and lashes. Sleep is like wax, polyester, styrofoam, wool, graphite, and it wraps him up before he can reach back and try to grasp the ends of Jongin’s toes and fingers. “Tomorrow,” Kyungsoo says, at the periphery of dream and reality. Jongin’s hand ghosts along his collarbones, soothing his prayers, “I want to see you dance.” “Why?” “When you talk about it, it’s like you light up a little… I want to see you light up completely. Glowing. Overflowing with it. Like fireflies?” When Kyungsoo wakes up again, there is sand in the ridges of his toes, the ocean in the ends of his hair, and fireflies in his room. Dozens of little fireflies in the darkness before dawn, twinkling like stars in the water, shining into his little bedroom with the ceiling too low and walls too close. He stares perplexed at their presence, but even more by a strange urge to fall back on his pillow and laugh. -- “I’m here to pick you up,” says the man at the door. His name is Jongin, Kyungsoo thinks, but he can’t remember where he’s heard that name before. And as he frowns and checks his notes, Jongin grabs him close and pecks him on the lips, “This should be a better reminder.” Before Kyungsoo has a chance to push him away, though whether or not he would have pushed him at all is doubtable, Jongin has gotten his arm slung around Kyungsoo’s neck and began dragging him out the apartment, “Come on, let’s go.” “Where are we—” Kyungsoo yelps as Jongin practically throws him over the window pane of a filthy-rich looking convertible, a treacherous little thing parked up against the curb, all black exteriors and plush white interiors, not even bothering to open the door, “going?” “To see fireflies,” Jongin says, muffling coughs in his sleeves, and it’s only when Kyungsoo buckles up and looks over does he realize that the boy is grinning from ear to ear, “Real ones.” “Where are we going? Is there a field around here?” He asks, but Jongin doesn’t say much, only turns up the radio and blasts pop tunes to fill up the air, and maybe to obscure his obscenely pleased smile. The car speeds from lanky alleys to the shadows of skyscrapers and the grassy suburbs, deeper into the night. Somewhere along the lines Kyungsoo notices Jongin sticking his free arm out the side, dangling loosely off the window pane, and finds the nerve to do the same. The wind rubs away the nerves in his skin and breathes in sparks in their hair. It’s a small thrill, but big enough of one to make his heart beat a tad faster. Kyungsoo begins singing, voice excited and distinct over the radio, and he knows that Jongin is watching how the invisible currents swirl behind his digits. Ebbs and flows with the color of his wandering melodies. Except instead of driving to a field, or even a park, Jongin cuts the ignition in front of an abandoned warehouse. Kyungsoo turns to him gaping, “I thought you said we were going to see fire—” “Wait,” Jongin interrupts, and Kyungsoo understands that he’s not going to be briefed on this until after it happens, so he lets Jongin drag him out the car with fingers looped almost too easily between his, promising things about colored smoke and light and magic that seem to have very little to do with actual firebugs. Indeed it has virtually almost nothing to do insects, and almost everything to do with a pair of transparent gloves and an explosion of flames over them and an uneven smirk over Jongin’s lips as he orders Kyungsoo to pay attention. The door slams, moonlight dims, and Kyungsoo loses his breath. Jongin is a fleeting glimpse of hard muscles and fluid grace gliding through space, but more than that, there are literally lines of fucking light streaking out of his palms. Rivers of glowing green and yellow and blue light gushing out of his hands and floating like neon smoke and water. He paints his fingers with a close, shimmering precision. There’s no music, just the hushed melody in their lungs: Kyungsoo’s infinite inhales, long diminuendos when he remembers to breathe at all; Jongin’s quick exhales, sharp crescendos when moist heels slide against wet cement and palms slice the ebbs and flows of liquid fluorescence into the night. And then Jongin makes a gesture for Kyungsoo to come closer, a simple tilt of the forefinger really, but Kyungsoo’s heart is in his throat as he wobbles up and it nearly jumps out when Jongin suddenly runs his hand down the front of his shirt, a sweeping line from his neck to his chest with open palms. Though the colors are ethereal and vanish into the air, Jongin’s touch lingers behind hot and unforgettable. “Real fireflies,” Jongin grins, “Light people up from the inside out.” “What are you even saying?” Kyungsoo laughs, and even harder when he catches Jongin flushing from the neck up. Jongin’s answer begins with a stammer but disappears under a bout of fitful coughs and shaking, folded shoulders. There are beads of perspiration over his forehead. Somehow, it doesn’t look right. -- There are one hundred and twenty-two kilometers from Jongin’s midair mansion to Kyungsoo’s rundown bar, and somewhere in there Kyungsoo grips Jongin’s hand over the steering wheel and pulls them over, “Are you okay?” “What do you mean?” “The pills—Tessalon Perles, Phenergan, Codeine, and how do you even pronounce this one? And your coughing, and what’s—?” Kyungsoo tugs the little plastic half-mooned thing in the glove’s compartment, “You—is this a—vomit container?” Jongin blanches, “No, it’s not.” “You’re sick, aren’t you?” The drone silence is the loudest thing Kyungsoo has ever heard. Finally Jongin shifts away, looks into the distance. Kyungsoo watches the way his Adam apple jumps up, hesitates, and drops, and he suddenly regrets asking. Everything breaks, crackling along the seams as he croaks a tepid, “What is it? It’s not terminal, is—” “My lungs.” There is nothing in the air but heavy breathing, and maybe a hinge of a sob in Kyungsoo’s throat. “How many, how many months—days—?” He asks, wearily, more tired than the ashes crumbling off the end of Jongin’s cigarette. Lighting up and fading into gray. Lighting up and fading. Fading. “The doctor said, two years,” and Jongin tries to smile, with the joint between his lips, hanging like mockery and sadness, “It’s a pretty long time, considering I’ve only been alive for twent—” “No. Stop smoking.” Blinking slowly, Jongin falls into a little trickle of cracked sniggers. The uneasiness is tangible. “What are you going to do about it? I’m dying anyway. Two years, two and a half years, what’s the big difference? It’s just a matter of time, and it’s not like it would matter for you, anyway, it’s not like you can remember what we did—” His jaw is blunt and hard against Kyungsoo’s knuckles and Kyungsoo almost can’t believe that he’s just punched Jongin as the man flies back and bumps his head against the headrest. His cigarette falls and settles on the seat. “This,” trembling, teeth chattering, Kyungsoo picks the joint up and watches the smoke twirl, “this is what I’m going to do about it,” and stuffs it in his mouth. The flame is still there and the pain of being burnt is not the searing kind, but the spearing kind. It’s the sort that rips through Kyungsoo’s flesh, the kind of pain that slices every nerve and hurts, really hurts. Jongin’s eyes are unwavering as Kyungsoo chews and swallows the cigarette, flints of tobacco and paper and filter rough as knives across burn wounds. Smoke seeps down his throat and he chokes a little, tears welling up cold behind his eyes. The tobacco tastes of dirt and medicine and it tastes worse under Jongin’s expressionless stare. “The next time I see you smoking,” Kyungsoo gulps it all down, tongue screaming in agony as it presses against the roof of his mouth, “I’m going to do this again. Because, yeah, yeah, it’s not like time matters to me. It’ll be the same if I die today or tomorrow, really, wouldn’t it? If you think you’ve got the right to cut yourself off from me, why wouldn’t I?” “You’re so fucking dumb, hyung.” Kyungsoo is in too much pain to answer, but he kind of agrees. -- “It’s weird, that writer guy doesn’t smoke anymore,” Minseok remarks the first night that Kyungsoo shows up to the bar in weeks, apparently. He takes a quick sip of water and glances at the musicians before turning back to Kyungsoo, “He used to smoke them by the handfuls, I swear. And the expensive suit, too. It’s like he’s a different guy.” Curling his tongue absentmindedly to stroke at the burn mark that he’d gotten some time ago, Kyungsoo traces Minseok’s gaze to a man biting down a patronizing grin, seated across the room. It’s half-past twelve, and the bar is bustling full of people and chatter, but the seconds their eyes catch all Kyungsoo can see is that man and the shape of his lips, the dark glint under his lashes. The entire room empties in the flash of a second until all that is left is Kyungsoo and the man in the leather jacket. Quiet, colorless, surreal. At some point the music starts and Minseok nurses a tune. Kyungsoo moves his jaw up and down on instinct, because he knows that it’s his cue to join. The microphone heavy in his palm and he waits for his voice, only nothing comes out. Dry croaks and quick blinks and panic seeps in, further when he hears Minseok tapping the floor in impatience. The man across the room arches his brows, mouths something that Kyungsoo doesn’t quite understand, and lifts a hand tentatively. Perplexed, Kyungsoo watches his fingers dance through the air, and then somehow the sound of a piano ghosts from nowhere, glitters loud and clear and it all comes together, everything sinks in. The melody travels through the man’s body, guiding it into corners and curves and Kyungsoo thinks that he is the most beautiful man, most beautiful artist on the planet. The melodies flow from the man’s fingertips and into his heart almost as if that was the sole purpose of its existence. It’s a night in a month like September, or maybe October, when Kyungsoo delivers his best performance to a dancer in a leather jacket. And afterwards, as Kyungsoo waits for Minseok to divide the tips, the dancer makes his way past the tables with a bashful smile, “I don’t have an umbrella.” Kyungsoo blinks, suddenly aware of the rain drumming against the window. Minseok nudges him, “He says he doesn’t have an umbrella.” Kyungsoo keeps blinking until eventually the dancer sighs and slings his arm around Kyungsoo’s neck carelessly, clearly a gesture that he’s done more than once before, and begins dragging him out, “Come on, come on. Walk me home, hyung.” At the mention of ‘hyung’, Kyungsoo immediately thinks of the last page in his scrapbook, the one without a photo, about a man who is really a boy, a writer who is really a dancer, a neighbor who is really much more. Kim Jongin. The page had a note on the side that said to pretend to have never read it, because Kim Jongin doesn’t want to be remembered. So Kyungsoo pretends that he doesn’t know that Jongin is his neighbor, “Where do you live?” “I know you know.” “I swear I don’t.” “In your apartment.” “No really.” “Yes really.” Kyungsoo grumbles, Jongin smirks, and Kyungsoo knows that he has no alternative but to take him there. Seoul at one o’clock smells of damp earth, drenched windbreakers, and Jongin’s fabric softener. Kyungsoo offers to hold the umbrella, perhaps so that his knuckles can brush against Jongin’s shoulder when they come too close in their unparallel lines. They’re in a relationship appropriately summarized by two slender silhouettes, shoulders barely grazing, feet pattering down wet sidewalks somewhere between dusk and dawn. It’s a picture full of adolescent naivety, adolescent blushes and anxieties and sudden pronouncements of, “I like you,” and “what are you saying,” and “I’m going to kiss you,” and rough lips, gentle caresses, mouth smiling and fumbling against knuckles and wrists. -- “Isn’t it kind of boring using only one color?” Jongin remarks as Kyungsoo darts from one end of the bedroom to the other, straightening out and reorganizing and dusting off all of the details because everything looks horrendous with a guest around. “It would be a headache otherwise,” Kyungsoo responds, smoothing out the last wrinkles in his comforter. “Yeah, but you can’t tell what’s important like this. Everything’s green. Like a lawn. You’ve got grass on your wall,” Jongin laughs awkwardly at his own joke while Kyungsoo gives up on cleaning and slumps down on the rug, “Alright, humorless today, are we.” “So you… what… are you?” Kyungsoo doesn’t exactly broach the subject, because he already knows the answer and really it’s all formalities, pretending not to know Jongin when he feels like he does and when he has memorized every line about him in the scrapbook. “I’m a writer.” “I thought you were a dancer?” “I used to,” Jongin picks his way across the room, bending his neck slightly because the ceiling is too low, and drops himself next to Kyungsoo. Their feet fit together perfectly, toes scarcely bumping and all the lines aligned, “When I was young, I did some ballet.” Kyungsoo asks for Jongin to explain what ballet is like, because he’s never seen it before, and Jongin decides to do a live demonstration with his fingers, “So here’s the head and these are the legs and, ready, set, go—,” an arabresque, he calls it, “and when they jump like this,” it’s called a grand jeté, and “give me your palm,” a twirl of the wrist, spinning nails dig laughter out of Kyungsoo’s palm, “fouetté en tourant,” and his smile disappears into curious fixation as Jongin’s fingers skitter to the edge of his palm and over to the back, “here a sissonne, one, and a two, and—,” they both stop breathing momentarily, when his fingers cross Kyungsoo’s wrist and up his forearm, arm, shoulder, collarbone, neck, lower lip, stop. Jongin pries a smile open on Kyungsoo’s mouth with a thumb, and leans in to smear it away with his own and it’s a sweet, chaste kiss that Kyungsoo reels in. But when Jongin’s hand slips around his waist to bring him in closer, Kyungsoo jerks away with a gasp, “Wait, no.” Still dazed, Jongin stares holes into Kyungsoo’s mouth as he scampers away, perches on the side of his worktable uncomfortably, “I don’t even… I don’t know you. I mean—I mean, I don’t really remember…” and he trails off when Jongin stands up, grabs his hand, and raises it over his chest. He feels Jongin’s thundering heartbeat, and Jongin’s thin pulse, and Jongin’s whispers over his earlobe. “Listen,” Jongin says, “this is me, in love with you,” and he brings their hands over Kyungsoo’s chest, and Kyungsoo is suddenly aware of how hard his own heart is pounding out of his chest and the sudden heat in his cheeks, “and this, it sounds kind of familiar, doesn’t it?” There is game in Jongin’s eyes and a challenge in the small partition between his lips and Kyungsoo has no idea what he’s doing, but the moment Jongin puts his hand over his kneecap everything combusts, turns into fingers digging into back of necks and messes of tongues and breathlessness and bumping knees against hips. It’s almost natural to break all of the invisible barriers between them, reach across and touch the reality over one another’s flesh. Guide hand over hand and lips over lips and they fit so perfect together, crevices into slopes and speed into hesitation. Fall in one another endlessly until they’ve hit the pit bottom, until Jongin has gotten him backed up against the wall, legs bumping the inner seams of his thighs and breath scalding over the base of his neck. Kyungsoo forgets to breathe when Jongin shocks the silence, ripping his zipper open and pulling down his jeans and briefs at once. He doesn’t know where to look, really, because he’s never done this before, and Jongin seems more than familiar with the procedures as he fists Kyungsoo, dragging hot fingers until Kyungsoo is so hard it almost hurts. He bucks, on instinct, and Jongin seems to notice the way he’s gripping back and studies Kyungsoo from under his lashes, “It’s okay, we’ll go slow.” Though the definition of slow might be subjective, Kyungsoo is positive that Jongin is stepping out of bounds when he opens his mouth and closes it around his cock, immediately sliding further down the shaft, lips furious and scalding and intoxicating, tongue flicking across the slit and rubbing impatiently up the underside of his cock. Throwing his head back, Kyungsoo thrusts uncertainly into Jongin’s mouth, though the uncertainty ends the moment Jongin moans and the knot of pleasure unravels into his guts. From there it’s about heat and moans, nail bed scraping against scalps and whimpers prefixes to sharply gasped, “Jongin, Jongin,” and low moans suffixes to muffled shudders behind clenched teeth. When Kyungsoo is about to come, Jongin pulls away and crushes him against the wall, mouth fervent and hot and whispering fast instructions about, “take my pants,” between, “off, now” jolts of, “hurry,” electricity, “hyung.” As Kyungsoo follows his orders to the syllable, Jongin peels away his shirt, throwing it anywhere before awarding Kyungsoo with a light trail of kisses from his mouth to his jaw and lower, down his neck and off his shoulder, skittering along the length of his arm until he finds the junction between the fingers. Slowly, with his eyes squared in Kyungsoo’s, he sucks off their fingers together. As Kyungsoo reels in the warmth of Jongin’s tongue, Jongin pushes him over the bed. The first digit that Jongin inserts into Kyungsoo hurts, the second one is blind agony, and Kyungsoo waits for Jongin to nip the pain away, distracting little pecks spiraled along his neck. He relaxes in time for Jongin to thrust in deeper, and that is when his hips jerk up on their own. A strong wave of pleasure punches him numb and inarticulate; his jaw drops but nothing comes out. Jongin remembers the spot and when he replaces his fingers with his cock it’s the same damned spot that he hits, the same spot that makes Kyungsoo let go of everything. A noise between a grunt and a scream comes out from his throat. Jongin squeezes his thigh before thrusting in again and faster, rougher, over, and over until Kyungsoo comes in streaks of white over his stomach, and keeps going until a sudden, sharp, grunt. As they fall back onto the bed together, Kyungsoo worries himself about perhaps folding up the clothes that Jongin has tossed everywhere, and Jongin about wrapping his arms around Kyungsoo’s waist in the perfect way. The rim of Kyungsoo’s starched shirt, scented of cigarette fumes and the wet transition between fall and winter, wrinkles at the ridge between their hips. Jongin slowly slides his hand down the buttons, unclipping each one with the leisure of time and the faint buzz of pleasure in his throat, “You know, I never told you my name was Jongin. How did you remember?” Kyungsoo flushes, face turning pink to red as he tries to bury his head into the pillow, “You knew, didn’t you, that I have a page about you in my book?” “Of course I did,” Jongin mutters, and Kyungsoo wonders why it sounds as if he’s been wheezing—wheezing this whole time, maybe since the beginning, “I have the key to your apartment, and no sense of privacy or obedience. But you don’t seem to have any either, seeing as you wrote us down even though I told you not to.” “But I would keep writing,” Kyungsoo says, “I want to remember us. I really—I want to have—I want to just—a relationship. I want to have a real relationship with you, where we can talk about what we did yesterday or the day before that…” Jongin says nothing, only buries his nose in the nape of Kyungsoo’s neck, breathing heavily still. “Tomorrow, tomorrow please, don’t let me forget you, Jongin. I want to remember this, I want to remember us.” “Don’t worry, hyung. I’m a writer. I remember things for a living.” They stay up all night. Jongin makes cups of over-soaked tea and they drink them on Kyungsoo’s balcony, legs extended and overlapping, toes fidgeting against toes. Kyungsoo tries to talk about everything he can think of, anything to keep awake because when he falls asleep it will all be over, the beautiful stars and the warm fuzz in him and the amazing smoothness of Jongin’s skin gliding down his own, the stark contrasts. He rambles about how nice Jongin looked when he danced in the bar like that, how perfect their voices and movements fit together, how the sky is so clear and how the weatherman said it would rain tomorrow. But eventually, Kyungsoo’s eyes grow unbearably heavy and he slumps against Jongin, semi-conscious of the cool breeze teasing his skin and the lines Jongin draws into his neck. Jongin puts Kyungsoo’s head in his lap and strokes his hair, continuing Kyungsoo’s words as if they’ve never stopped, because maybe things don’t have to end so quick. Because he, too, is hoping. Sleep takes Kyungsoo away, anyway. -- In the last seconds of summer, hours are always too short and seconds too long.  The days are growing shorter and though Kyungsoo can’t say that he has any proof, trepidation gnaws at him with every sunset and he can feel it lingering over him. Filling the creases of his skin, gliding down his spine, dripping off his toes. A longing. A fear. The sinking cold of winter, the rain without a beginning, the same hours that he knows he’s passed once before. And then night swarms in and paints everything blank. prologue: daisies; part one: lost and stuck; part two: invisible walls; part three: tomorrow; word count: 8,425 

  Sunlight drifts into Kyungsoo’s dream, refracts into something cool and salty and maybe involving heels digging into the soft overlap between ocean and beach. He turns and the wet sand transforms into warm linens. When he opens his eyes the cocktail of seagull wings and shades of blue are replaced by a ceiling, meters too low, a small window at the end of a narrow bedroom, and peeling wood floorboards under worn rugs. It’s his room, albeit not exactly the same as it was yesterday, because there are now green and yellow sticky notes pasted over every inch of every wall. Notes that he can’t recall having placed: a second skin of colored texts and diagrams, numbers and dates. A breeze lifts the curtains and ruffles them, plays a melody in the tune of drizzled paper applause. Though Kyungsoo is unsurprised by the state of his room, somehow he is taken aback by the overwhelming number of yellow notes. The confusion, however, fades automatically into a smile when he climbs onto the balcony and notices a figure leaning on the adjacent railings. “Have you read the yellow ones?” The stranger asks abruptly, glint in his pupils turning mischievous as he notes Kyungsoo’s matte stare, “Go back and read them. And open your door when I knock.” So Kyungsoo goes back, reads them, and opens the door when Jongin knocks. Ten minutes later they’re bent over the kitchen sink making breakfast while Jongin pokes his stomach, counting the ridges of his ribs, ruining everything the perfect way. Uneasy stops and easy goes, crawling along with arms around waists and chins sunk into shoulders. Maybe this can repeat forever, Kyungsoo thinks. Maybe one day he’ll wake up an old man and Jongin will still poke him in the stomach, breathe incoherent teases into his ear, and make a mess out of everything just like today. They’ll eat breakfast over the balcony, wrinkled feet in fluffy slippers and gray hair too thin to hide bright smiles. He would like that. -- Lovemaking between Kyungsoo and Jongin is summarized by nondescript etches over fraying pages, compiled in a little list that Jongin has titled Things that Turn Do Kyungsoo on. On odd days there are spontaneous combustions at the drop of a pen, even days there is Jongin molding his hands to the texture of Kyungsoo’s goosebumps. Mainly they’re made of regular nights at the bar, when everyone else has abandoned them to a glass of untouched Scotch as arbitrator. Kyungsoo finds himself staring stupidly at Jongin’s face while he sings, contemplating how it’s possible for someone to look so flawless and broken at once. Beautiful as inkworks, happiness spilling over the contours like aged tea, Jongin is like an artifact of lost perfection—though the perfection part bites the dust as soon as he looks up and, catching Kyungsoo’s wide-eyed gaze, winks. There’s something about Jongin’s wink that makes Kyungsoo almost drop his microphone, and certainly the time signature of the song. It doesn’t take long before Kyungsoo crops off entirely, because that is when Jongin has closed the distance between them, pretty lips breathing blues over sleek perspiration. Kyungsoo’s heart thuds against his chest with every semi-intentional bump of the wrists and whisper of, “I dare you, really.” The game of dares turns lethal when the lounge door shuts and leaves Jongin crushing Kyungsoo into the wall, “Say that again? You dare me?” Palms and knees skimming up thighs, incoherent mumbles punctuating every whine and whimper. Urgency runs everything over while frustration guides hands down metal zippers. Or maybe not frustration. Maybe just urgency, because they’re always in a rush for the grains of sand vanishing from the creases of their palms. Because as winter folds into spring, lovemaking is less about sharp thrusts and smoldering gazes, and more about humid silences trapped between the sheets in Jongin’s apartment. Because as spring comes, the crests disappears and leave only a steady stream of troughs. -- Kyungsoo stretches over Jongin’s mattress, watching the curtains blow life into hundreds of yellow sticky notes over the walls, while Jongin meets the hollow of his throat with both thumbs. A distracted whisper fractures the calm, “I’m sorry.” The air resonates not of Jongin’s little apology, but of the gasps of air whistling into his lungs. Sliding his hand under Jongin’s starched shirt, Kyungsoo counts the number of Jongin’s ribs with his forefinger. He leaves behind little prints of sticky perspiration and come, soothing “one, two, three—”s. Jongin jumps, startled, while Kyungsoo pecks the surprise off his lips, “Shhh. Don’t be sorry.” It takes Jongin a very long time before he relaxes into Kyungsoo’s ministrations, allowing the other to smother his palms down his sides and paint him in warmth and comfort, “It’s just that I can’t even, properly, love you.” Kyungsoo snorts, digs his finger sharply between the ribs, and Jongin erupts with laughter, which Kyungsoo skillfully cups with both hands and caps under a longer, fuller kiss. There is a faint shadow of violet under their bodies as Kyungsoo pulls away, letting the hues of his sigh drift lethargically. “Jongin, listen. I don’t care about sex. It’s more than good enough, like this. We’re already making love.” Jongin buries his face in the pillow. Kyungsoo pries him out. Jongin looks away. Kyungsoo forces his face back. Eventually Jongin breaks into an embarrassed chortle, “You’re killing me, hyung. You’re really killing me.” “Why?” There is no response, so Kyungsoo thinks that maybe it’s just another one of those things that Jongin says for no reason. One of those things that comes and goes. As the sky darkens, the question dissipates together with the light, and it doesn’t return again. -- “Where does a thought go when it’s forgotten?” “I don’t know. Away?” “That’s vague.” “I’m not a writer.” “Don’t be vague.” “Well, it dies. The thought dies.” “What if I don’t want to?” Jongin flicks his zippo open and shut, watching the tongue fire flick around the steel cap. “Don’t let me die, hyung. Promise me you’ll remember me.” “Okay. I promise. I’ll remember you.” “Forever.” “Forever.” There are times that the truth hurts more than the lie, and times when the lie itself is painful enough to rip Kyungsoo apart. “Will you love me tomorrow?” “Of course.” “Promise me that.” “I’ll love you tomorrow, and I’ll remember you forever. Just give me the lighter before you burn my apartment down.” Jongin writes him a note to hold him to their promise, “My name is Jongin. I’m the writer who lives next door. See you tomorrow, hyung. Don’t forget!”Kyungsoo laughs at the exclamation mark and Jongin punches his shoulder and they roll together, under the covers, over a slight slope of hope. Kyungsoo figures then that lies are also what pieces Jongin together, so maybe he can lie a little. The hope ends, eventually, and the lies fail. Jongin’s voice is small and lonely as he mutters into Kyungsoo’s hair, “I only have two things in this world, hyung. It’s just you and dancing. That’s all I’ve got going for me, and soon, they’re going to carve the dance out of my bones, and, eventually, they’ll take you, too…” Kyungsoo lets Jongin snake his hand around his neck and draw him into an embrace. The fire flicks off and the darkness settles. It’s raining out. Pitter-patter on the windowsill. -- There are moments when Kyungsoo watches Jongin dance that he notices how Jongin’s movements lag behind, not significantly but just enough. Hesitant bucks of the joints, fear and desire in the tell-tale hesitation. It’s as if his muscles are straining for something that his tendons hold back, as if he’s caught perpetually chasing some melody that is always a beat faster. Jongin probably knows it himself; the glimmer of frustration and grief dilating in his pupils is unmistakable. But eventually, even those moments disappear. There is no more frustration or grief, no movement, no struggle, not really. Just an apparition sitting on the other end of the bar. Disintegrating slowly into particles of dust and light. Then there are the moments when Kyungsoo sings that he notices the clenching and unclenching of Jongin’s fist. The bite marks in his lower lip, the downcast eyes, the surrendered shoulders. Everything comes apart not with a shout, but with the inevitable gasp for air. Gently, steadily, inevitably. And ultimately, the sentence that describes Jongin as a dancer in the back of the scrapbook becomes something like a lie, because Jongin doesn’t dance anymore. He’s not really a writer, either. He doesn’t seem to be the man in the page. He doesn’t seem to be a human at all, perhaps just a corpse repeating at the end of every hour, “Hyung, do you remember when…?” -- Kyungsoo is hanging between being suffocated and scalded by a midsummer’s night as he steps into the elevator. The stranger already inside nods a terse greeting. It’s the 12th of July, a moment when the world runs on uncertain lamplights, drunken howls, and the occasional punch of laughter. There are just the two of them at this hour, and an obtrusive kind of peace. Having just returned from the bar, Kyungsoo tries to fight off the cocktail of metallic smoke and the thick scent of alcohol caught in his hair. The last ringlets of saxophone nestle over his fingers and cinquillo beat lingers under his skin, but none of it is enough to fill the abyss that stands between him and the stranger. The stranger, with an unlit cigarette between his teeth, turns first. The unflattering elevator lighting enshrouds him in jaundice yellow, a heavy veil of lethargy. Kyungsoo wonders, with the cinquillo pounding into his veins, if the man’s skin is as plastic as it seems. “Hot. The weather. It’s hot,” he says, proffering a hand that Kyungsoo grabs with hesitation. His grasp is surprisingly cold, long fingers and nails cut short and sharp, leathery skin stretched taut over gaunt knuckles. But more than that, he’s trembling, Kyungsoo realizes. His teeth are chattering and he can barely make eye contact. “Um,” Kyungsoo balks. He wants to ask if the stranger’s okay, why he’s shaking like that, but between the creaks of the elevator flooring and sputters of the fluorescent light bulb, the words are lost, “Yeah. Yeah. Hot tonight.” The stranger says nothing. Instead he leans back on the elevator walls and lets his eyes glide down the length of Kyungsoo’s figure, as if he’s waiting for Kyungsoo to recognize him. It’s the kind of attention that makes Kyungsoo draw back behind his jacket, though a thin layer of cashmere does little to hide him. Time stands on its toes until the doors open, when Kyungsoo lets out a gasp of air he didn’t know he was holding in. Only later, after Kyungsoo has worked his way down the apartment corridors and noted that the stranger has trailed after him, does he realize that it’s probably not the first time they’ve met. “Do I know you from somewhere?” He finally asks, voice echoing uneasily down the long hallways. The stranger has stopped at the neighboring door, twirling a keychain around his forefinger. A sliver of moonlight works in from the railings and gleams off of something on his suit. Kyungsoo notes a pair of cufflinks, shiny and expensive-looking, too expensive-looking to belong to someone who would live in this kind of residence. “Do you?” The stranger frowns, and it resounds much more of a plea than a request. Kyungsoo picks the lint in his pocket. He doesn’t remember coming upon the stranger’s face in the scrapbook or the rows of green notes on his walls. But perhaps he skipped a page. It’s happened before. He hurriedly reaches for his bag, and is stopped with a bark of laughter, “So you don’t remember. Nothing at all?” “What? What am I supposed to remember?” “Nothing. Really, nothing,” The stranger laughs, or maybe sobs, as he slumps against the neighboring door and slides down, down, down. Even in the dark, the twinkle of fear gleaming from his crooked grin is distinct. It makes him look younger than he seems, almost sadly so. -- The watermelon tastes of grimy windows and the air of some kind of invisible, dimming melody decomposing at the veins. Kyungsoo finds it hard to swallow. Everything is imperceptible today, teetering by the edge of existence. “Jongin,” he says, picking out the black seeds with careful forefingers, “Why are you so quiet?” “I’ve always been quiet,” Jongin responds. They’re sitting cross-legged on Kyungsoo’s balcony, mildewed walls behind them and an unending country of suburbs etherized before. Kyungsoo feels like all of it is just a film set built out of dust and cracking dreams. There must be a real world somewhere out there, where laughter doesn’t seem an impossibility on the barren desolation of Jongin’s face. “No you haven’t.” “You wouldn’t know. It’s not like you remember.” “Why are you so upset?” “I’m not.” “You are.” Jongin bites angrily into a chunk of watermelon. Trickles of juice run down the side of his mouth and he smears them away roughly with the back of his hand. He’s upset, that much is clear, Kyungsoo decides, or perhaps a little more than upset. Waiting patiently, Kyungsoo picks up the sound of Jongin biting, chewing, swallowing, hitching for air. But Jongin doesn’t break out of the routine, only continues eating faster and faster. “Look, what did I say wrong? Jongin, I want to have a relationship with you but you can’t be like this—” “No, hyung. I can, because we don’t even have a fucking relationship,” Jongin suddenly snaps, brittle and cold, “And we’re never going to have a relationship. You get it, don’t you? You can keep trying but you’re never going to remember me. That’s just the way it is.” Kyungsoo doesn’t want to cry, but a little whimper cracks his poker-faced façade and screws everything up. Jongin grows angrier, “You don’t even have a right to be upset. You wake up each morning and you’re all fine and dandy but what about me?” “I’m sorr—” “I’m in love with you, damn it, but I still have to introduce myself to you every fucking morning and do you even understand how that feels?—No, you don’t, because you don’t actually love me. Without all my notes, there is nothing. There is actually, exactly, really nothing. I’m really just a stranger to you, and this relationship is all just a play. It’s just another novel. Fabrication. Everything. I’m not even writing a fucking novel, fuck, I’m living it.” After a long pause, “I’m sorry,” unwinds eventually, from one of them. Maybe both of them. “Two nights ago, I went through and took off all the notes about us in your apartment, and yesterday, I tried to see if you would remember the night that we met for the second time—even a little spark of recognition—but of course…” Jongin laces his fingers into Kyungsoo’s and holds them together, sticky smudges of watermelon juice smearing over sweaty palms. “Here are the facts. I’m going to die. One day you’re going to forget us. And then, the day after that, you’re going to forget me. Not even because of your amnesia. Just because of time. Because that’s what time does. It takes the little pieces. The insignificant ones first, and then it sneaks the significant ones… But then by the time you do realize it, they’ll be gone, and you won’t know what’s missing until—” “No, no Jongin, it’s not like that—my head is bad, but my heart,” Kyungsoo presses both their hands against his chest, and breathes in deeply, as if the air can fill the gap between them. Jongin’s warmth seeps through his shirt and it makes his stomach light, unlocks the words from somewhere he had not known existed, “My heart is good. I’ll remember you there. I can’t remember anything about you, but when you hurt, my heart hurt. When you laugh, my heart laughs. I can love you even without memories so just hang on. Hang on, please?” After a long struggle, Jongin manages to force a smile onto his face but it quivers, and ultimately cracks as he says, contemplatively, brutally, “This isn’t a romance novel, hyung. It doesn’t work that way.” He inhales, and the final nail comes not with a bang but a sorry whisper, “Don’t you see it, hyung? Our ending is so clear. It’s all been drafted from the very beginning, before we ever met.” Though Jongin is waiting for a rebuttal, though they’re both waiting for a rebuttal, Kyungsoo doesn’t have anything to say. The sobs wrack through his body heavy and awful and he can’t manage the slightest protest as Jongin rambles on, “You know—one day, I won’t be able to touch your face, talk to you. I’ll just—lay there, watching you cry with eyes wide open, body numb, and, and my hand, around yours… You’ll hold my hand like right now, but it’ll be cold, and it’ll hurt, more than it does now. And when that day comes, hyung, promise me you’ll let me go. You’ll go home, take away the daisies—” “No.” “Because, listen, hyung. You don’t deserve to…” Jongin’s Adam’s apple bobs up, stops, and doesn’t come down. His voice breaks. Kyungsoo suddenly realizes that Jongin’s been crying, too. He’s been crying all along, perhaps before Kyungsoo woke up, “see daisies wither…” “No,” Kyungsoo grasps both of Jongin’s hands, collects all of the crumbling bones and the threadbare tendons, and gasps little prayers onto the feeble knuckles, “No, no, no.” -- Between the months and the seconds, Kyungsoo loses track of the hour hand and forgets how to read clocks and calendars. Sometimes he forgets the date. Other times he looks out the window and wonders what season they’re in. His scrapbook is no longer updated and he’s not sure if he’s twenty or twenty-five because it doesn’t matter either way. He’s always going to be caught in the same spot, that’s just how things are. But when Jongin comes in everything settles back together. It’s the last months of fall. 2013. He’s twenty-five, almost twenty-six three months, and so deeply in love that it hurts. It hurts because it’s already the last months of fall, because summer was over and he can’t even remember it, because he’s in the kind of love that makes him greedy and angry and sad for everything that he can’t have. The kind of love that makes him cling onto Jongin at the end of every night and beg for him let him remember all of today, and yesterday, and— “Tomorrow,” Jongin interrupts. Kyungsoo thinks that he smells a little of iodine or antiseptics, double-printed hospital sheets. “You can remember tomorrow. I’ll remember all of our yesterdays, and you can remember all of our tomorrows. It’ll be great.” Kyungsoo deadpans, “That makes no sense. How do you even remember tomorrow?” “Well,” Jongin relaxes into Kyungsoo’s arms, lets his back fill the curve of Kyungsoo’s chest and cheek glide over Kyungsoo’s, “Tomorrow I remember that we will go to the beach, and?” “And what?” “And what do you remember we’ll do?” “Jongin what are you even saying, how do you remember something that’s never happened—” “Shush. Let’s see. I remember that the water is going to be ablaze with light. The sun will be setting, all violet and red into the clouds. But it’ll be quiet, mostly just the sound of water and wind, and your voice. You’re going to sing My Lady and bury your feet in the sand while watching me kick around in the water. I’ll dance, you’ll sing. I’ll trip over, you’ll pluck your feet from the sand and try to catch me. Noticing how nice you look, I’ll get the sudden urge to put you in a compromising position. I’ll make love to you right there and then so that there will be sand all over the place and you’ll freak out, of course, and do the laundry four times, scrub everything down—but that’s later, of course—first we’ll have dinner sitting on the roof of the car, lazy and slow. We can have hamburgers, with lots of cheese...” Kyungsoo contemplates, “And we’ll watch the dusk. I’ll keep singing and you’ll grab my hand, drag me off the roof. We’ll dance together. Laugh. You’ll laugh harder but I’ll laugh longer. Mosquitoes everywhere, probably. I’d like to go but you want to stay longer, because you’re like that, and I’ll drag you back and you’ll shrug me off but eventually you’ll give, because I’ll hit you. Or maybe I’ll give, when you grab my hand and pull me in and kiss me really hard.” Jongin grabs his hand and pulls him in so close Kyungsoo can feel his exhales on his tongue, “Like this?” “What are you thinking right now?” “How much I want to stay like this.” There are questions Kyungsoo doesn’t ask Jongin. He doesn’t ask Jongin if they can stay together forever, or how many tomorrows are really left, because sometimes the truth is too bright. He can only hold onto the seconds, each gesture, each contact, each syllable. Jongin comes in seconds. Everything comes in seconds. If only the seconds could last long enough. -- When Kyungsoo wakes up the next day, however, they don’t go to the beach. In fact, there is no ‘they’. There are no yellow notes on his walls, no words on the last page of his scrapbook, no compromising positions or hamburgers over car roofs. There is only Kyungsoo rushing down the stairs for the factory, eating supper before an empty dining table, waiting for seven o’clock to come with eyes peeled on the neighboring balcony and a strange feeling that something might be amiss. As he nurses a tune under the hazy stage lights, he stares at the empty seat on the other side of the bar and contemplates what that hollow pit in his chest means, why every note is coming off on the wrong key. Minseok tries to adjust his volume to cover for Kyungsoo’s mistakes. He gives up by the time they hit the break, “What’s up with you?” “I don’t know,” Kyungsoo mutters. Nothing out of the ordinary has occurred today. Everything has gone according to the notes in his scrapbook. “Where’s that writer guy? Kim Jongin?” “What writer guy?” is what Kyungsoo meant to ask, but it somehow comes out as a gasp of inexplicable panic and pain almost too loud to be registered. On instinct, he reaches for his scrapbook, goes through the pages once, and again, and again with the same shaking whimper, “I don’t know any writer guys.” A bundle of dry-pressed daisies slip out from the back cover. Kyungsoo breaks. There’s no one to catch him this time. -- He wakes up in October to green on his walls, the color of synthetic grass that never dies. October withers the world at each sunset, until it reeks of decomposing leaves and forgotten promises. With October arrives endless rain that washes out immortal footprints and brings new customers into the bar. He wakes up in November to snow piled thick and high outside his window. A familiar urge to bury his face in his pillow and cry like tomorrow will never come curdles in his guts. November carries days that vanish into thin air and nights that become the beginning to the end and the ending to the beginning. In November the tomorrows stop coming. In November he wonders how long he’s lived like this, how much longer he’s going to keep living like this, how many tomorrows there are left before time will let him go. He wakes up in December, four days to Christmas, to a knocking at his door. Darkness swallows his apartment as he makes his way through the corridors, fingers outstretched to read the walls as he undoes the chains and pulls it open and— “Hyung,” whimpers the boy at his door. What Kyungsoo takes in is a conflation of ashen lips and swollen eyes, shivering under a thin hospital gown with nothing save for snowflakes on his hair and plastic slippers under his feet. The boy might have been trying to smile, the traces of which are left tugging sadly at the corner of his mouth, but it all thaws away when he tries working his jaw again, “Hyung,” and it’s a sob, “hyung, hyung…” An enormous, inexplicably warm tide of relief washes over Kyungsoo, except it’s not enough to stop him from croaking, hesitantly, “Who are you?” A pause. “Of course, of course you’d forget. How silly of me...” Kyungsoo watches something well up the boy’s already reddened eyes with breathless curiosity, or perhaps a prick of indefinable empathy. It’s terrifying how easily this perfect construction of bones breaks down in slow motion. The boy gives in a tremble at a time, unwinding at the seams, into an eruption of noiseless wails. Forearms rubbing away tears and whole chest shaking with inconsolable grief, he eventually gulps everything down, hard. He makes a little gesture of a wave, and it looks so fragile, “Sorry to disturb you. I just thought—in case you remembered—but, just, never mind. I’ll just…” There is nothing but the hush of colliding snowflakes, gleaming little spheres of light, like fireflies, as Kyungsoo wraps his hand around the boy’s wrist. He isn’t really thinking of fragility when he pulls the boy in closer to the door. In fact he isn’t sure what he’s thinking as he says, “No, it’s snowing. Let me get you a jacket. You’re going to catch a cold.” “A cold,” the boy parrots, and his laugh sounds like the saddest thing this side of the universe, “I’m going to catch a cold.” -- On their way to the hospital, the boy introduces himself as Jongin. He gives Kyungsoo four facts in the backseat of a taxi. One, he’s a writer. Two, they’ve met before. Three, he’s dying. Four, he’s taken himself out of Kyungsoo’s notes or scrapbook because of those facts. “They said I had six months left. Maybe a year if I behaved,” Jongin says, eyes reflections of the dawn flying past the windows, “So I wanted to play a hero. Let myself be forgotten, to save you from all the yesterdays and leave you with all the tomorrows but… then I heard that I had pneumonia. It wasn’t six months. I had four weeks. Maybe three. And I cracked. Being stuck with the yesterdays while you moved on without me suddenly wasn’t all that appealing anymore and—really, I’m sorry. I lied. I’m not a hero. Just a coward.” Their knees touch. Kyungsoo doesn’t move away, “Do you… like me?” “Like you,” the boy echoes, and he’s laughing again as he says, “No, I just want to be in all of your tomorrows. I want you to remember me.” Kyungsoo knows the truth, and he can tell that Jongin knows it too. Wishes are only wishes, and prayers are only prayers. The city flying past the windows might glow with Christmas and the warmth of New Years but it doesn’t change the fact that too much is too much. Some things are simply not possible. “I mean, you don’t have to remember me. I'm not delusional. Really you can just drop me off at the hospital and… just… I just wanted to see you one more time, and I guess I did so… I’m really sorry for bothering you,” Jongin laughs, and each time he laughs Kyungsoo thinks that it sounds more like a cry, “You must think I’m a freak or something, randomly popping up at your door like this.” “I don’t think you’re a freak,” Kyungsoo interrupts, and the tension fades a little when he manages a grin, “I think you’re a moron, for running out of the hospital in this kind of getup when it’s snowing outside.” The car stops. It takes a few moments before either of them realizes that they’re already at the entrance, and that the time has come for Kyungsoo to leave and Jongin to stay. For their last second, they’re all polite smiles and awkward bowing of the heads, as if they’ve only just met for the first time and that Jongin’s red eyes mean nothing. “So,” Jongin says, not quite shivering with Kyungsoo’s jacket over his shoulders, but still chattering nonetheless, “I just, I have one last request?” “Yeah?” “Will you say my name? One last time.” Kyungsoo clears his throat and tries to replicate the syllables, but somehow they’re stuck to the sides of his throat even as he opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. By the time he reaches up to touch his neck, he realizes he’s shaking and that there is something wrong with him. The world is coming down on him in slow motion and his heart hurts really, very bad. “Jong...” Kyungsoo gulps down the hesitation and focuses on the bare syllables, “Jongin.” “Thank you. Thank you,” And the second thank you is said softly, almost as if it’s meant for more significant things. Perhaps something of a, “Thank you for meeting me, finding me, digging me up from the debris of broken pieces. Thank you for giving me life, tears, wishes, rows and rows of yellow sticky notes lighting up my room when the tapestries have shut off the sun. Thank you for teaching me how bright fireflies can shine.” But Kyungsoo doesn’t hear any of that. All he hears is Seoul at dawn, the whistles of a breeze and Jongin wheezing for oxygen. “You’re welcome,” he returns stiffly. It’s a cold today. Jongin doesn’t shiver as he crawls out the car, slams the door, and looks back. Rolling down the window, Kyungsoo wonders why it feels like his whole world is collapsing. Outside, with the wind sharpening his bones and coursing through his hair, Jongin smiles meekly. Kyungsoo nods. A few shreds of snow make it down from the sky, and disappear. “Well.” “Okay.” They’ve given up words, because there is a mutual understanding that words are clumsy. Words are like little comets, streaking behind them a reign of tears and hesitation. They can’t afford words. No tears or comets or hesitation in this exchange between a stranger and a memory, only glimmers of snow. Kyungsoo extends his hand awkwardly across the window pane. Jongin takes it, laughing at something funny that Kyungsoo can’t understand, and then he turns around and walks. Legs too thin, back too bent, head held too pitiably high despite his trembling fingers. Kyungsoo turns to the driver with a grin two shades too bright, “Drive me back, please.” He’s trying to pretend that it’s all natural, because it is. After all, he doesn’t know this Jongin. He doesn’t understand the meaning of tomorrows or yesterdays and on top of that, he’s already late for work. With a deep inhale of crisp winter, Kyungsoo tells himself that he doesn’t want to run at all, that there are no tears threatening to fall, no tears blurring his vision even though— They fall, anyway, one by one, as does Jongin. Kyungsoo screams so loud he doesn't recognize his own voice. -- Standing at the back of the room, Kyungsoo gathers leftover words from the doctors. Something somethings about oxygen treatments not being enough, antibiotics but the liver is shutting down, keep him in the ICU maybe but it’s not like it’ll change anything, at least down the fever in an ice bath but his lungs won’t hold up. He doesn’t understand any of the big words, the multi-syllable Symbicort or Theophlline or corticosteriods, but he understands the ticking of the second hand in between the lines, the incessant beeping of the monitors, the meaningless apologies about, “there’s nothing more we can do.” “I don’t want to die,” Jongin says, muffled under the oxygen mask. Kyungsoo settles in the stool beside his bed and studies the plastic veins extending out of Jongin’s ankles. Somehow he looks so tiny, so full of emaciated edges. “You’re not going to die. They said you’ll be fine.” “Liar,” Jongin laughs, shifting his head away, and that’s when Kyungsoo realizes that he’s not really laughing. That he’s crying. “There’s going to be a new guy in this bed in three weeks. Four, tops. I’ve got pneumonia. On top of the fibrosis I have fucking pneumonia.” “You’re going to be fine,” Kyungsoo insists, even though Jongin is wrong about the three weeks, because it’s really something more like two. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” “No,” Jongin screws his eyes shut. Kyungsoo doesn’t know what else to do but stand up and drag his fingers over Jongin’s chest. Jongin quickly flinches away, “Now what?” “Writing god a note. I have to. He can’t take away these lungs. You need them,” Kyungsoo decides, pulling Jongin closer to continue scribbling invisible lines into Jongin’s flesh, “You really need them.” The silence falls, and after it falls it never lifts again. Jongin’s murmur is just a ghost behind the hum of the air conditioner. “When I first heard I was going to die, I thought—finally, thank you—but now, now I just—I just want one more minute, one more millisecond—I want more time, with you, hyung… I haven’t loved you yet, I’m not done…” and his eyes close before Kyungsoo has a chance to grab his hand and tell him that they have enough time. That there’s no rush, that it’ll be fine, because he’s going to go home and write all of this down—Kim Jongin, west wing, room two-twenty, Seoul Hospital, take the taxi to the southern entrance, we’re not finished yet—so that he can come back tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after… -- “Mm, we can try tattooing my name… onto your face,” Jongin says, taking a long drag of oxygen from his mouthpiece. The nurse had let him into a wheelchair earlier, said he was doing much better and should get out of his room. Try walking down the hallways, she said. And so here they are, two little figures wrapped up in big bundles of wool and cashmere, bracing the stale air down endless corridors. The steady tap of Kyungsoo’s heel is comforting, almost, a testament to the reality of their existence: they’re still together, the two of them; they’re making it through one more day. “I can’t see my own face though.” “Well it can’t go on mine. I’d look… awful with my own name on my… face,” Jongin chuckles, sputtering for air and waving away Kyungsoo’s concerned hand, “I mean the press already thinks… I’m a narcissist. Just imagine… them finding out about a fucking… tattoo—ha.” They say nothing, merely watching the other patients pass. It’s a welcomed kind of peace that they’re no longer afraid of, though eventually Jongin breaks it again, “Are you going to… the bar tonight?” Kyungsoo shrugs, “Maybe not tonight.” “You said… the same thing… yesterday,” Jongin grins, eyes a little melancholy under the occasional moan of the oxygen tank, “Tomorrow, go to the bar. You… have to sing. It’s what… you do. Sing. Live life.” “I’m living it with you,” Kyungsoo protests, “I can sing right now.” “No don’t make an idiot out of—” But Kyungsoo sings, melodies frosting delicate and translucent despite the suffocating atmosphere, breaking the Jongin’s scowl one scoff at a time. Hesitantly, Jongin’s fingers begin tapping on the arm of the wheelchair. It doesn’t take long for him to realize that Jongin isn’t just nursing a beat, that his fingers are dancing some kind of magic into the cold. And as Kyungsoo kneels before him, coming head to head and eye in eye, everything perfectly in sync, Jongin’s fingertips skitter up his knuckles. Light and easy. “Arabresque,” he whispers, words surfacing as white mists over the plastic. His hand does a little leap. “Grand jeté,” and a twirl of the wrist, spinning nails digging laughter out of Kyungsoo’s palm, “fouetté en tourant,” to the edge of his palm and over to the back, “here a sissonne, one, and a two, and—,” they both stop breathing momentarily, when his fingers cross Kyungsoo’s wrist and up his forearm, arm, shoulder, collarbone, neck, lower lip, stop. They share a smile, during which Kyungsoo presses his lips against Jongin’s fingers, molding easily over the cold, pruning flesh. Jongin’s flush is almost too bright against the white backdrop of his hospital gown. Kyungsoo thinks that he could be glowing, perhaps a little like a firebug. With time their song ends, and the nurse calls Jongin back into his room because the unfiltered air isn’t kind to his lungs. Nothing is kind to his lungs. “Night hyung,” Jongin breathes, as they hook him to his daily dose of morphine. His eyes are beginning to flutter closed, and Kyungsoo knows that he’s grasping at the seconds when he says, “I love you.” “No, Jongin. Tell me that you’ll see me tomorrow.” “Hyung I might not make…” “Just. Tell. Me. That you,” and Kyungsoo’s voice falters all too suddenly, words and thoughts collapsing at once. He remembers the way Jongin’s fingers had danced so adeptly up his arm, so naturally, as if they were born for the single purpose only minutes earlier, and it all feels so surreal to this Jongin lying etherized under blankets of fluorescent lighting, this Jongin who will probably never dance again. “…tomorrow. Tomorrow…” Jongin puts his hand on Kyungsoo’s neck, draws him a little closer, smudging Kyungsoo’s tears with a thumb, “Okay. See you…” The trickles of fluid dripping into his plastic veins take him away before the last word. -- There are no more yesterdays, and gradually no more todays either, just tomorrows. They’re running out of time. The shadows are becoming too long, the lights blinking too slow, the monitor’s song always on the verge of a fugue. Giggles always erupt from under Jongin’s frown, swelling slowly into raucous laughter. Too loud. Too rushed. He’s laughing as if he’s afraid he won’t get a chance to laugh again. As if he’s afraid all the lights will turn off if he doesn’t keep up his display. So Kyungsoo wraps his arm around Jongin’s waist, when no one is watching, and presses their foreheads together. He tells Jongin that it’s okay. That he doesn’t have to laugh so hard. That he understands, whatever it is. “I’m on borrowed time... How much do you think the interest is?” Jongin muses one day, contemplating the thought as the nurse slides a giant metal tube into his back. He takes a long drag of oxygen and holds it while blood and puss pours into a plastic container. “I don’t know,” Kyungsoo answers quietly. “At the last moments you begin… praying for things… will I make it for the winter… can we make kimchi together…” “Do you want kimchi?” “And then you want more… Will I make it… to kiss you under the mistletoe. And… will I make it… for New Years, because I want, I want to eat… rice cakes, with you. Will you… make it for our birthday… I want to see… the mole on your tragus… when I lean, in, to… whisper in your ear… show you… true fire… flies…” “Stop it, Jongin, you’ll make it to all of them. We’ve already made it for the mistletoe, today,” Kyungsoo insists, pointing to the neon-wrapped boxes at the other end of the room, “We have Christmas. If we’ve gone through Christmas we can do New Years, too, and our birthdays, and I can show you my mole right now if you—” “And it’s never enough, because… the more I have of… you the more I… realize that I’m still missing… so much of you… of us…” “We can celebrate it together,” Kyungsoo interrupts, “We’ll celebrate everything together, okay? Okay? Just, don’t cry, Jongin—” “You’re the one… crying, hyung.” “Shut up.” “I don’t want to die yet, hyung,” Jongin chuckles drily, droplets of liquid rolling down the creases of his eyes. Kyungsoo isn’t sure if they’re the tears that have fallen onto him, or the tears that are falling out of him. -- He can’t talk anymore, the head-nurse explains in hushed whispers, as if it were some terrible secret, his lungs don’t supply enough oxygen as it is and it’s best not to agitate him. But to Kyungsoo it doesn’t really matter, because he doesn’t need to hear Jongin speak. He doesn’t need to touch Jongin, either, or the see him. He just needs to be near him. To know that Jongin is breathing, still, that Jongin can hear him when he sings for him, that his lips can twitch a little with every lame joke Kyungsoo throws at him. Kyungsoo doesn’t really understand how he knows this guy, or why his knees automatically buck when he sees the stranger’s room number. Then again, he doesn’t understand a lot of things. And by the number of questions Jongin pass him, scratched out sloppily over little yellow sticky notes, neither does Jongin. “One day you’ll look to the balcony next to yours and you won’t see an asshole draining cigarettes. During those days will you be sad?” Kyungsoo looks up from the note, blinking reluctantly, “I’m already sad. I miss seeing you on that balcony,” and he doesn’t fail to recognize the shock registering on Jongin’s expression. “How did you know that it was me?” Jongin writes, so quickly that the handwriting is illegible but Kyungsoo knows what he’s asking, because he’s asking the same question himself. “It was just a feeling,” Kyungsoo grins, and he’s so glad that he’s finally caught something in memory. Maybe they’ve got hope after all. Maybe tomorrow Jongin will get his lungs and Kyungsoo his memory, and the day after that they can talk about what they did tomorrow. About silly notes, trembling hands, glassy eyes. Tonight he goes home with Jongin’s name on his lips. Repeating it like a prayer, again and again and again until it’s as natural as breathing, he carries it into his dream, begs a million times for god to please at least let him keep the name. Please at least let him have Jongin, let him struggle out of those dreams without taking Jongin away. He doesn’t need to know anything, not of their past or their future or their virtues and vices. All he wants is just a name. Any little piece of Kim Jongin. -- When Kyungsoo wakes up he finds a whole assortment of crumpled sticky notes in his pockets, littered in barely legible scribbles of pen and pencil. They’re written by a practiced, albeit shaken hand, with lines spiraling and barely hanging on. He smoothes the first note over his palm, carefully smothering away the wrinkles. “Do you think there is a god?” “If there’s a god, do you think he’d give me some extra time? It doesn’t have to be a lot. Just an extra week, or even day. Anything. I wouldn’t mind an hour. A second. I want more time. I just want more time.” “You’re crying.” “I should’ve stopped smoking earlier, huh?” “Stop being so brave, hyung.” The last note is green and, with edges fraying, corners dog-eared and yellowing, clearly older than the other two. The handwriting is more determined, pressed down with so much force that the words are physically imprinted into the paper. However, it’s still distinct enough for him to recognize: “My name is Jongin. I’m the writer who lives next door. See you tomorrow, hyung. Don’t forget!” -- Sometimes when Kyungsoo looks at Jongin in the hospital bed, he’s not sure if he’s looking at a reflection or the original. It’s almost as if time has worn away him from the outside, turned him transparent, left just enough of him to be a shadow. Kyungsoo wants to talk to him, but the nurse says that it’s unlikely that Jongin can manage, so he can only look down at the “Jongin” scribbled loosely on the back of his hand, and match it to the “Kim Jongin” nameplate hanging at the end of the bed. The seconds refract into kaleidoscope souls over the bedsheets, and Kyungsoo counts them one by one as Jongin drags his body around. Feeble, whistling moans inflate the hush between them as he lifts an arm, which Kyungsoo immediately clasps with both hands. Jongin’s first murmurs are nearly indistinguishable from the gush of air rushing out of his plastic mask, and he repeats himself with painstaking determination until Kyungsoo makes out, “Will you be here tomorrow?” “Why?” “Be here tomorrow, the thirteenth,” the boy says, negotiating for each syllable with deep inhales of air, “Our birthday… tomorr… average… twelfth… fourteenth…thirteen…” Kyungsoo balks. Jongin winks. Everything ends too easily, but they hold it together with a thin string of hope. Kyungsoo doesn’t go home tonight. He begs for the nurses to let him stay overnight and by some miracle they relent, though they tell him to keep quiet, because Jongin needs his rest. Because Jongin is really hanging onto life by nothing by that thin string of hope. He tries to stay up all night, to be able to look Jongin in the eye tomorrow morning and be the first to tell him, “Happy birthday, to Kim Jongin and Do Kyungsoo,” without looking at any notes. Tomorrow he needs to save Jongin. He has to save him. Remember him. -- Sunlight drifts into Kyungsoo’s dream, refracts into something cool and salty and maybe involving heels digging into the soft overlap between ocean and beach. He turns and the wet sand transforms into cold linens. When he opens his eyes the cocktail of seagull wings and shades of blue is replaced by a frail green line jumping through a black screen, a small window at the end of a narrow hospital room, and plastic floor tiles. Plastic everything. It’s not his room, and he has no idea how he could have woken up by a stranger’s bedside. There are words written on the back of his hand, a loose, fading “remember Jongin; our birthday tomorrow (13th January 2014).” Kyungsoo drags himself upright, back cracking and neck sore from slumping over the bed all night, and that is when he notices that the stranger on the bed has been watching him, a twinkle of a smile lingering over his indistinct features. “Hello?” Kyungsoo blinks. The stranger doesn’t respond, though maybe the corner of his eye flinches. Maybe his thumb twitches. Kyungsoo looks at the nameplate on the end of the bed. Kim Jongin. There is an unsettlingly even stream of air gushing in and out of a bizarre metal apparatus by the bedside. Kyungsoo traces his gaze over the plastic extending out of it and into Kim Jongin’s nose. He’s about to ask a question, probably about the strange message on his hand, when something strikes him and he blurts a, “Happy birthday, to us.” The stranger named Kim Jongin seems to take an extra sharp gasp of air. His hand twitches in Kyungsoo’s grasp, and gradually, he falls back asleep. Kyungsoo almost begins thinking that it’s natural, that the stranger is probably just tired, but the constant beeping from the monitor with green lines stops, and some kind of alarm goes off loud and noisy and a slew of doctors and nurses rushes inside and shoulder him away, too far away, as they try to wake the stranger back up. And he realizes that this is wrong. All of this is wrong. Wrong “Kim Jongin, time of death nine twenty-seven, January thirteenth, year two-thousand and fourteen. Monday.” Wrong. It’s not until Kyungsoo has made it out of the hospital that the tears slam him in the face, knocks him off guard and shatters his whole body into a thousand irreversible pieces. He has no idea why the world seems to have ended on such a beautiful January day, or why he’s sobbing in the middle of the street as if tomorrow will never come. Why the name on the back of his hand burns harder than any goodbye. -- It’s early Friday morning, second week of July, an hour when the world runs on uncertain lamplights, drunken howls, and the occasional punch of laughter. There are just the two of them in the elevator at this hour. Having just returned from the bar, Kyungsoo tries to fight off the cocktail of metallic smoke and the thick scent of alcohol caught in his hair. The last ringlets of saxophone nestle over his fingers and cinquillo beat lingers under his skin, but none of it is really enough to distract him. But today he feels awfully empty, like someone has taken him apart while he was sleeping, stolen something from his core, and put the rest of him back together again. The stranger, with an unlit cigarette between his teeth, turns first. The unflattering elevator lighting makes him look tired, and thin, and generally awful. Kyungsoo wonders, with the cinquillo pounding into his veins, if the man’s skin is as plastic as it seems. “Are you Do Kyungsoo?” The stranger asks, turning around just in time for the elevator to slide open. “Yes,” Kyungsoo responds, hesitantly stepping out with the other after him, “Have we met before?” “No, not really,” the stranger smiles, extending a hand, “I’m Oh Sehun. I was Kim Jongin’s editor?” Something in Kyungsoo stirs, but not enough. “Nice to meet you.” “I’m kind of busy, so I’m just going to cut this short,” Sehun says, dislodging something bulky from his briefcase and handing it to Kyungsoo. It’s a notebook, Kyungsoo realizes, an old one weathered and dog-eared from use, smeared all over with runny ink and graphite, “This is Jongin’s last novel. Hand-written and everything. For you.” Eventually Sehun disappears down the corridors and Kyungsoo finds himself sitting on the balcony, moonlight grazing the notebook in his lap. He flips to the last page on a whim, just to check if it’s a sad ending, because he doesn’t like sad endings. “My name is Jongin. I’m the writer who lives next door. See you tomorrow, hyung. Don’t forget!”  

[kerahlekung]

The biggest coward now wants to debate...

The biggest coward now wants to debate....

 Here’s Why Najib Dares To Debate Only 

After Becomes “Prisoner-in-Waiting”...

July 18, 2017 was the day Mahathir Mohamad urged, even persuaded, then-PM Najib Razak to attend a forum so that both leaders could have a debate. Scheduled to be held on August 13 that same year in Shah Alam, Mr. Mahathir said – “It is a good chance for him to explain things and clear his name.” The forum, called “Nothing to Hide 2.0”, was a replacement to a cancelled similar dialogue.

Comically, before Mahathir organized the version 2.0 of “Nothing to Hide”, the version 1.0 was actually engineered by none other than Najib himself. Yes, the “Nothing to Hide 1.0” was supposed to be a marketing gimmick to gather some 1,500 pro-Najib supporters so that a well scripted question-and-answer drama could be held to boost the image of the scandal-plagued prime minister.

According to the organiser, all questions regarding the implementation of Goods and Services Tax (GST) and the controversial investment arm 1Malaysia Development Berhad (1MDB) will be answered by Mr. Najib. We know what happened on June 5, 2015, the day the Malaysian leader was supposed to tell all and sundry that he didn’t steal RM42 billion of peoples’ money.

Najib, who had actually self-proclaimed as “Bugis Warrior” less than 24 hours before the forum started, shamelessly chickened out of the “Nothing to Hide 1.0”, the very forum he had gotten his boys organized. The sight of 89-year-old Mahathir, who walked fearlessly like a celebrity into the PWTC (Putra World Trade Centre) building by 9am, had sent shivers down Najib’s spine.

The prime minister cowardly went into hiding, and told the IGP (Inspector-General of Police) – Khalid Abu Bakar – to cancel the dialogue at the very last minute. The disgraced police chief claimed it had to be cancelled due to safety and security reasons. Of course, like any Bollywood film, Najib pretended that he was absolutely upset with the police’s decision.

Not only the trembling Najib refused to face Mahathir at the “Nothing to Hide 1.0” forum on June 2015, the fake Bugis Warrior was so terrified when he learned that Mahathir was using the dialogue to talk about 1MDB that the police was instructed to stop the old man from continue with his speech. So, Mahathir only managed to give a short talk before the police intervened.

It had gotten so bad that the Crown Prince of Johor, Tunku Ismail Sultan Ibrahim, laughed and ridiculed PM Najib for not attending the “Nothing to Hide” dialogue. He said – “How can you have a dialogue called ‘Nothing2Hide’ featuring a person who has everything to hide? Obviously he won’t show up.” He also insulted Najib like “a drowning man who will try to reach and hold on to anything -including ‘faeces’”.

Two years after the June 2015 dialogue, Najib similarly chickened out of the “Nothing to Hide 2.0” debate on August 2017. In fact, Mahathir was having so much fun seeing Najib squirms so much so the old man had again asked the Bugis Warrior on November 2017 for another debate – “Nothing to Hide 3.0”. In total, Najib had cowardly gone into hiding 3 times in relation to “Nothing to Hide” forum alone.

Angered and humiliated by Mahathir for hijacking his “Nothing to Hide 1.0”, the despicable Najib had quietly sent some mobsters to create trouble at the former’s organized “Nothing to Hide 2.0”. Two projectiles were launched to attack Mahathir, followed by smoke bombs and punches. But Mahathir, the master strategist, was well prepared with Najib’s amateurish dirty tricks.

Najib’s hired-thugs were easily cornered and captured, thrown inside a locked room and were happily beaten by Mahathir’s boys instead. Only after Mahathir’s boys had enough of the troublemakers were they handed over to the police. Journalists reported that by then, Najib’s gangsters were so badly whacked that they were totally unresponsive.

But the three versions of “Nothing to Hide” dialogue or forum were not the only time where Najib had chickened out. As early as 2012, he had rubbished a series of debates between his ruling Barisan Nasional coalition government and now-defunct opposition Pakatan Rakyat coalition – claiming debates were not part of the country’s political culture.

In fact, during his premiership from 2009 to 2018, Najib Razak had never once dared to debate with anyone. Even after his downfall, he continues running away when he “smells defeat” as can be seen during an hour-grilling with Al-Jazeera’s reporter Mary Ann Jolley on Oct 26 last year. And that was not even a debate but just an interview with a woman journalist.

1MDB Scandal - Dialogue PM Najib Razak with NGO 

So when Najib suddenly challenged DAP supremo – Lim Kit Siang – to a debate, it raises eyebrows. More importantly, what had changed since the last time Najib cowardly rejected any debate challenge and preferred playing hide-and-seek instead? First, Najib has lost his power. Second, Najib has become “prisoner-in-waiting”. Third, the Malay-vs-Chinese conflict is at record high.

From the beginning when Mr. Lim accepted the challenge, he had fallen into “Najib’s trap”. The DAP adviser, despite his courage and clean record as a politician in the last 53 years, probably had forgotten that there was no need to dance to the tune of Najib. Unlike Kit Siang, who is now part of the government, Najib, on the other hand, is facing the prospect of 20 years in prison.

In essence, Najib has nothing to lose but everything to gain with the debate. While it’s true that Kit Siang has nothing to lose as an individual since he had humbly rejected any government post after the victory last May general election, the same cannot be said about the 1-year-old Pakatan Harapan coalition government.

Although Najib has in principle agreed to Lim’s suggestion that the debate should focus on “How Malaysia became a global kleptocracy and how we can become a leading nation of integrity”, it was just a red herring. The crook was not interested to debate about corruption or money laundering, but to use the platform to play racial and religious cards to the hilt.

When an extreme Islamic group like ISMA could make a mountain out of a molehill that a postage stamp bearing the image of a church was an indication that Muslims were increasingly being sidelined in Malaysia, despite the fact that the stamp series was first issued in 2016 when Najib regime was still the government of the day, imagine what Najib could manipulate with a Chinese like Kit Siang.

As an example, Najib Razak would ask during the debate why there has been no justice after the death of fireman Muhammad Adib Mohd Kassim. If Lim Kit Siang explains that it was actually 50-250 Malay thugs who started the riot at the Hindu temple that led to the death of Adib, his answer will be twisted as anti-Malay. No matter how Lim explains, it would be spun as anti-Malay and anti-Muslim.

Najib Razak and Lim Kit Siang

Najib would also accuse the government, of which DAP is part of, of mismanaging the Tabung Haji despite the fact that the Muslim pilgrimage fund had been transformed into a Ponzi “Get-Rich-Quick” scheme under the previous Barisan Nasional government. No matter how Lim explains, Najib will declare in the debate that Chinese DAP has stolen money from Tabung Haji that it required a bailout of RM17.8 billion.

Of course, Najib would most likely accuse DAP of using ICERD (International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination) as a tool to attack Islam, despite the fact it was PM Mahathir, who promised to ratify the core UN instruments related to the protection of human rights in his address at the UN General Assembly on Sept 28 last year.

Yes, the desperate Najib will use the “live debate” as a platform to stir up racial and religion sentiments among the Malays that the Muslims and Malay Rulers have lost power to the “Chinese, Christians and Communists”. The crook will definitely manipulate the debate into a racial conflict, playing up issues such as the Rome Statute, PTPTN, Felda, matriculation quota and whatnot.

Sure, Kit Siang has lost some face for cancelling the debate which he had agreed initially. But he also deserves the credit for listening to advice from concerned parties, ranging from government leaders to average people on the streets. Already, pro-Najib cybertroopers, propagandists and bloggers are mocking the DAP supremo as a coward.

But Lim Kit Siang has already won the war after struggling for 53 years fighting corruption, abuses of power and criminal activities like money-laundering. The collapse of the corrupted Barisan Nasional coalition and the 42 charges of criminal breach of trust (CBT), money laundering and abuse of power currently faced by Najib were sweet victories.

Najib, facing a loss in his SRC International trial, desperately needs a diversion to draw public attention away from his corruption and money laundering cases. We’re talking about a man who has no shame as can be seen with his “Malu Apa Bossku (Why The Shame, Boss)” marketing campaign. It will hurt Najib Razak even more if Lim Kit Siang ignores his debate challenge.

The simple fact that Najib continues to provoke Lim, despite the cancellation of the debate, goes to show how frustrated the former premier is that the DAP adviser refused to swallow the hook, line and sinker. Calling the senior Lim as a “serial liar”, Najib said – “This is a debate, not a wrestling match. Why run?”

Najib Razak - A Coward

In reality, Najib should be the last person on the planet to call anyone a liar or a coward. He would probably claim that he can debate today, and not when he walked the corridors of power, because he is free now. In case he had forgotten, his cowardice was a well known fact and has become a joke in at least 130 countries since September 2015.

Nope, we’re not talking about the “Nothing to Hide 1.0” forum, dialogue or debate. We’re talking about the self-proclaimed Bugis warrior chickening out from the 16th International Anti-Corruption Conference (IACC) in Putrajaya, the same federal administrative centre of Malaysia where the office of the then-PM Najib Razak was located.

Held from 2-4 Sept, 2015 the conference theme “Ending Impunity: People, Integrity, Action” had successfully attracted over 1,000 delegates from 130 countries. Najib was supposed to deliver his scheduled keynote address, meaning his schedule was pre-booked beforehand and he had the free time to attend the conference held in his backyard.

Yet, the coward quietly went into hiding (again) and sent two low ranking Ministers – Paul Low and Abdul Wahid – to shield him from potential humiliation by the international delegates. Perhaps Najib should explain why he did not use the opportunity to explain to the delegates from 130 countries that the US$681 million (RM2.6 billion) discovered in his account was a donation.

On the first day of the conference, the Transparency International chief Jose Ugaz wasted no time by grilling PM Najib over the US$700 million scandal, openly asking him to explain who paid the money, why, and what happened to it. Too bad Najib, the biggest coward, wasn’t as courageous back then as he is today. His strategy had been from “Cash is King” to “Hide is King”.

It’s hilarious that Najib Razak celebrates after only one debate rejection from Lim Kit Siang, when the same Najib had rejected dozens of debate challenges from Lim previously. There’s no honour in debating with a prisoner-in-waiting, especially one who is also a serial liar. Kit Siang did the right thing by refusing to argue with a crook. The crook will drag him down to his level. - FT

Pemimpin 6 parti menghadap Sultan Perak...

Sultan Perak, Sultan Nazrin Muizzudin Shah menitahkan pemimpin utama dari enam parti menghadap baginda berhubung isu penggunaan masjid dan surau untuk aktiviti politik di negeri itu. Mereka yang dipanggil adalah dari Bersatu, Amanah, PKR, DAP, Umno dan PAS, lapor Berita Harian. Mereka termasuk Menteri Besar, Ahmad Faizal Azumu yang juga pengerusi Bersatu Perak, Pengerusi Amanah Perak, Asmuni Awi, Pengerusi PKR Perak Farhash Wafa Salvador Rizal Mubarak dan Penasihat DAP Perak Ngeh Koo Ham yang juga speaker Dewan Undangan Negeri (DUN). Di pihak pembangkang, pemimpin yang dipanggil adalah Ketua Perhubungan Umno Perak, Saarani Mohamad dan Pesuruhjaya PAS Perak, Razman Zakaria.

Laporan itu, memetik sumber, berkata semua pemimpin berkenaan menghadap Sultan Nazrin di Istana Iskandariah di Kuala Kangsar pada jam 4 petang semalam. Mereka dipanggil berhubung isu penggunaan masjid dan surau serta kemudahannya dalam aktiviti atau program berunsur kepartian ketika bulan Ramadan, termasuk menggunakan logo parti. Terdahulu hari ini, ketua Pemuda Amanah Perak, Hasnul Zakarnain Abdul Munaim mendakwa mengesan sekurang-kurangnya empat program menggunakan nama parti pembangkang di masjid dan surau di negeri itu, baru-baru ini. Sultan Perak, Sultan Nazrin Muizzuddin Shah hari ini memberi perkenan agar pengerusi jawatankuasa masjid dan surau yang membenarkan premis mereka digunakan untuk program parti politik, digantung tugas, sementara siasatan ke atas mereka dijalankan.

Menurut kenyataan media oleh Pejabat Sultan Perak hari ini, Dato’ Pengelola Bijaya Diraja kepada Sultan Perak, Abd Rahim Mohamad Nor, berkata, cadangan penggantungan tugas itu dibuat Pengarah Jabatan Agama Islam Negeri Perak (JAIPk), Mohd Yusof Husin. Sultan Nazrin juga, kata Abd Rahim, merumuskan bahawa persaingan aktiviti yang semakin rancak oleh parti politik sama ada pemerintah atau pembangkang di masjid dan surau merupakan perkembangan sangat tidak sihat yang berpotensi menjejaskan kesucian rumah ibadat itu.

"Baginda bertitah parti-parti ini menggunakan pelbagai alasan, seperti khidmat masyarakat, program kebajikan, majlis ilmu, khatam al-Quran, bantuan, tetapi pada masa yang sama mempamerkan lambang parti politik masing-masing dalam bangunan dan kawasan masjid dan surau," katanya.

Story kat sini

Katanya, baginda juga bertitah agar parti politik tidak menjemput penceramah tanpa tauliah daripada MAIPk dan jika program ceramah mahu dianjurkan dalam masjid atau surau ia perlu mendapat kebenaran pihak berkuasa agama Islam negeri. Katanya, sementara penggantungan tugas itu, Sultan Nazrin menitahkan agar tanggungjawab pengerusi jawatankuasa masjid dan surau diserahkan kepada Pegawai Tadbir Agama Daerah, selaras dengan Peraturan 10(2), Peraturan-peraturan Jawatankuasa Kariah Negeri Perak 2015. "Baginda menitahkan Pengarah JAIPk melakukan siasatan lengkap untuk dipersembahkan kepada baginda mengenai program yang dianjurkan atas nama parti politik dan penyampaian ceramah agama oleh penceramah tidak bertauliah,” katanya. Sultan Nazrin bertitah demikian semasa menitah menghadap Ketua Polis Perak Razaruddin Hussain @ Abd Rasid; Pengarah JAIPk; Setiausaha Majlis Agama Islam dan Adat Melayu Perak (MAIPk) yang kini dipangku oleh Mohd Haidi Sulaiman petang semalam.  - mk

Semoga masjid terus diimarahkan secara aman damai dan harmonis..Semoga tiada lagi mereka2 yg menyalahgunakan agama dan masjid utk dijadikan medan politik kepartian dan menyemai bibit2 perpecahan di kalangan umat islam dlm M'sia...

Lama sangat dalam era BN beginilah jadinya. Semua harap ditongkat pemerintah. Kenapa pemandu grab boleh survive tapi pemandu teksi tidak? Nelayan, petani, pelajar, penggangur, penoreh, pekebun dll semua minta bantuan dan subsidi kerajaan tapi sampai bila kena suap tanpa usaha...

cheers.

Sumber asal: The biggest coward now wants to debate... Baca selebihnya di The biggest coward now wants to debate...

[bountyofbeads]

How a Trump Tax Break for Poor Areas Became a Bonanza for the Rich https://www.nytimes.com/2019/08/31/business/tax-opportunity-zones.html

Exclusive: How @realDonaldTrump's signature initiative to help poor communities is fueling a once-in-a-generation bonanza for the wealthiest Americans — including Trump's family and advisers. by @JesseDrucker @EricLiptonNYT

The White House boasts that its “opportunity zone” tax break is creating new jobs and businesses in poor areas. Trump has touted it on the campaign trail.

They spent months studying this. So far, there is little evidence of this actually happening. https://t.co/SHvkr6LWTD

The “opportunity zone” tax break — which allows people to delay/avoid capital gains taxes — is worth billions. We found that its likely beneficiaries include @ChrisChristie, @Scaramucci, Richard LeFrak and the Kushner family (including thru @CadreRE). https://t.co/gaqaNjiLEt

"We found that the tax break is often subsidizing investments in high-end developments that were *already planned* in pricey neighborhoods."

"The tax break is largely benefiting the real estate industry – where President Trump made his fortune and still has extensive business interests. But he's hailed it as an investment in poor neighborhoods that could see to new housing, businesses and jobs."

"For example, @Scaramucci's firm is financing a @virginhotels in New Orleans' very trendy Warehouse District." https://t.co/08ptvLUDwO

This is a long story, but if you want the rundown on some of those linked to @realDonaldTrump who are poised to profit on opportunity zones, here you go: https://t.co/Mn1dKeN3aH

"The opportunity-zone initiative was well intentioned, but a gaping loophole was built in: Not all zones actually had to be poor."

"The predictable outcome is that wealthy investors are winning huge tax breaks by financing luxury projects in affluent areas."

"Investors are preparing to reap big, tax-free profits from luxury projects in President Trump's opportunity zones. In some cases – as with a high-end New Orleans hotel that Anthony Scaramucci is helping finance – projects that pre-date the tax cut are being subsidized."

PLEASE READ 📖 AND SHARE 👇👇🤔🤬🤬🤬

How a Tax Break to Help Poor Communities Became a Bonanza for the Rich

By Jesse Drucker and Eric Lipton | Published August 31, 2019 Updated 9:18 a.m. ET | New York Times | Posted August 31, 2019 10:56 AM ET |

NEW ORLEANS — President Trump has portrayed America’s cities as wastelands, ravaged by crime and homelessness, infested by rats.

But the Trump administration’s signature plan to lift them — a multibillion-dollar tax break that is supposed to help low-income areas — has fueled a wave of developments financed by and built for the wealthiest Americans.

Among the early beneficiaries of the tax incentive are billionaire financiers like Leon Cooperman and business magnates like Sidney Kohl — and Mr. Trump’s family members and advisers.

Former Gov. Chris Christie of New Jersey; Richard LeFrak, a New York real estate titan who is close to the president; Anthony Scaramucci, a former White House aide who recently had a falling out with Mr. Trump; and the family of Jared Kushner, Mr. Trump’s son-in-law and senior adviser, all are looking to profit from what is shaping up to be a once-in-a-generation bonanza for elite investors.

The stated goal of the tax benefit — tucked into the Republicans’ 2017 tax-cut legislation — was to coax investors to pump cash into poor neighborhoods, known as opportunity zones, leading to new housing, businesses and jobs.

The initiative allows people to sell stocks or other investments and delay capital gains taxes for years — as long as they plow the proceeds into projects in federally certified opportunity zones. Any profits from those projects can avoid federal taxes altogether.

“Opportunity zones, hottest thing going, providing massive new incentives for investment and job creation in distressed communities,” Mr. Trump  declared at a recent rally in Cincinnati.

Instead, billions of untaxed investment profits are beginning to pour into high-end apartment buildings and hotels, storage facilities that employ only a handful of workers, and student housing in bustling college towns, among other projects.

Many of the projects that will enjoy special tax status were underway long before the opportunity-zone provision was enacted. Financial institutions are boasting about the tax savings that await those who invest in real estate in affluent neighborhoods.

Mr. Scaramucci’s development in New Orleans offers a portrait of how the tax break works. His investment company, SkyBridge Capital, is using the so-called opportunity zone initiative to help build a hotel, outfitted with an opulent restaurant and a rooftop pool, in the city’s trendy Warehouse District.

The tax benefit also is helping finance the construction of a 46-story, glass-wrapped apartment tower — amenities include a yoga lawn and a pool surrounded by cabanas and daybeds — in a Houston neighborhood already brimming with new projects aimed at the wealthy.

And in Miami’s hot Design District, where commercial real estate prices have nearly tripled in the last decade, the tax break is set to be used for a ritzy new office tower with a landscaped roof terrace.

Some proponents of opportunity zones note that money is already flowing into downtrodden communities like Birmingham, Ala., and Erie, Pa. They argue that more funds will follow.

“The early wave, that’s not what you judge,” said John Lettieri, president of the Economic Innovation Group, an organization that lobbied for the establishment of opportunity zones.

But leaders of groups that work in cities and rural areas to combat poverty say they are disappointed with how it is playing out so far.

“Capital is going to flow to the lowest-risk, highest-return environment,” said Aaron T. Seybert, the social investment officer at the Kresge Foundation, a community-development group in Troy, Mich., that supported the opportunity-zone effort.

“Perhaps 95 percent of this is doing no good for people we care about.”

A Tax Break Is Born

The opportunity-zone tax break was targeted at the trillions of dollars of capital gains held by rich Americans and their companies: profits from investments in the stock market, real estate and other businesses, even short-term trades by hedge funds. When investors sell those assets, they can incur tax bills of up to 41 percent.

Sean Parker, an early backer of Facebook, helped come up with the idea of pairing a capital-gains tax break with an incentive to invest in distressed neighborhoods. “When you are a founder of Facebook, and you own a lot of stock,” Mr. Parker said at a recent opportunity-zone conference, “you spend a lot of time thinking about capital gains.”

Starting in 2013, Mr. Parker bankrolled a Capitol Hill lobbying effort to pitch the idea to members of Congress. That effort was run through his Economic Innovation Group. In addition to Mr. Parker, the group’s backers included Dan Gilbert, the billionaire founder of Quicken Loans, and Ted Ullyot, the former general counsel of Facebook.

The plan won the support of Senators Cory Booker, Democrat of New Jersey, and Tim Scott, Republican of South Carolina. When Congress, at Mr. Trump’s urging, began discussing major changes to the federal tax code in 2017, Mr. Parker’s idea had a chance to become reality.

Mr. Scott, who sponsored a version of the opportunity-zone legislation that was later incorporated into the broader tax cut package, said it was “for American people stuck, sometimes trapped, in a place where it seems like the lights grow dimmer, and the future does, too.”

“Let’s turn those lights on and make the future bright,” he added.

Confined to six pages in the 185-page  tax bill, the provision can significantly increase the profits investors reap on real estate and other transactions.

It allows investors to defer for up to seven years any capital gains taxes on the money they invest in opportunity zones. (That deferral is valuable because it allows people to invest a larger sum upfront, potentially generating more profits over time.) After 10 years, the investor can cash out — by selling the opportunity-zone real estate, for example — and not owe any taxes on the profits.

Over a decade, those dual incentives could increase an investor’s returns by 70 percent, according to an analysis by Novogradac, an accounting firm.

“We are very, very excited about the potential,” the president’s daughter Ivanka Trump said last year at an event celebrating Mr. Parker’s role in creating opportunity zones. “The whole White House obviously is behind the effort. The whole administration.”

The opportunity zones, focused on low-income census tracts, were drawn by officials in each state, as well as in Washington, D.C., and Puerto Rico. Last year, the Treasury Department approved roughly 8,800 such zones. (The White House and Treasury declined to make senior officials available to discuss the program.)

Nearly a third of the 31 million people who live in the zones are considered poor — almost double the national poverty rate. Yet there are plenty of affluent areas inside those poor census tracts. And, as investors would soon realize, some of the zones were not low income at all.

The Middle Man

The Harvard Club of New York City, in Midtown Manhattan, is the embodiment of America’s old-money elite. Crimson-jacketed waiters serve members who are watched over by oil portraits of elite alumni.

One recent morning, financial advisers representing several dozen of America’s richest dynasties — advisers to the Pritzker and Soros families were listed as attendees — crowded into a drab meeting room on the club’s third floor.

The advisers were there to see Daniel Kowalski, a top aide to Treasury Secretary Steven Mnuchin and the Trump administration’s point person for the opportunity-zone rules. Mr. Kowalski is barnstorming the country, bouncing from one conference to the next, explaining to real estate investors and developers how to take advantage of the new rules.

Mr. Kowalski was an aide to the Trump campaign, where he worked for the White House policy adviser Stephen Miller. Before that, he was an aide to Jeff Sessions when Mr. Sessions was on the Senate Budget Committee.

At the Harvard Club, he dived into an explanation of how opportunity zones work — and for whom they work. “The audience for opportunity zones is inherently fairly small because it’s limited to capital-gains income, which is why I wanted to come and talk to this group,” he told the room of advisers.

That audience is small indeed: Only 7 percent of Americans report taxable capital gains, and nearly two-thirds of that income was reported by people with a total annual income of $1 million or more, according to I.R.S. data.

Yet this is a vital constituency, since the success of the opportunity-zone program will hinge largely on how much money investors kick in. That is why the Trump administration — and Mr. Kowalski in particular — is promoting the tax break on Wall Street.

“I have served a little bit as a middle man between the business community and the I.R.S.,” he said at another conference a few weeks later.

More than 200 opportunity-zone funds have been established by banks like Goldman Sachs and major real estate companies, including CIM Group of Los Angeles, which has previously been a partner with the Trump and Kushner families on projects. Those funds have said their goal was to raise a total of nearly $57 billion.

The law does not require public disclosure of who are taking advantage of the initiative or how they are deploying their funds. Among those who have invested money or said they intend to are Mr. Kohl, a founder of the department store chain that bears his name; Steve Case, co-founder of AOL; Alexander Bhathal, part owner of the Sacramento Kings basketball team; and Richard Forman, the former owner of the Forman Mills chain of clothing stores, according to interviews and other public statements.

Many others are lesser-known business executives who recently sold small companies or real estate and are looking for ways to avoid large tax bills.

Paul DeMoret, for example, recently sold his auto-industry software company in Oregon. He said he was using some of those capital gains to help finance a Courtyard by Marriott in Winston-Salem, N.C., and an apartment building in Tempe, Ariz., among other projects in opportunity zones. He is making the investments through a private equity firm, Virtua Partners.

The tax break is largely benefiting the real estate industry — where Mr. Trump made his fortune and still has extensive business interests — and it is luring people with personal or professional connections to the president.

Mr. Christie, a onetime adviser to Mr. Trump, has raised money for opportunity-zone investments including an apartment building in Hackensack, N.J., and a self-storage center in Connecticut.

Cadre, an investment company co-founded by Mr. Kushner and his brother, Joshua, is raising hundreds of millions of dollars that it hopes to use on opportunity-zone projects. The company is eyeing neighborhoods in Savannah, Ga., Dallas, Los Angeles  and Nashville that are expected to grow larger and wealthier in coming years. Jared Kushner has a stake in Cadre worth up to $50 million, according to his most recent financial disclosure.

Mr. LeFrak, a longtime confidant of Mr. Trump’s and a major campaign donor, is building a luxury residential community in the middle of an opportunity zone in Miami. (It is unclear how much of the development’s funding will end up being tax advantaged.)

Not far away in the Design District, Daniel Lebensohn is planning to build his high-end office tower. Mr. Lebensohn previously joined the Trump Organization to sell luxury condominiums at the Trump Hollywood complex north of Miami.

And Mr. Kushner’s family company directly owns or is in the process of buying at least a dozen properties in New York, New Jersey and Florida that are in opportunity zones. They include a pair in Miami, where Kushner Companies plans to build a 393-apartment luxury high rise with sweeping views of Biscayne Bay, according to a company presentation for potential investors.

A representative for the Kushner family confirmed that it was considering opportunity-zone funding for some developments, but said it would probably not use the funding for the Miami projects.

‘The Best Thing I Have Ever Done’

Backers of the opportunity-zone program say luxury projects are the easiest to finance, which is why those have been happening first. Over the long run, they say, those deals will be eclipsed by ones that produce social benefits in low-income areas.

At least some struggling neighborhoods are already starting to receive investments.

In Birmingham, for example, a developer is using opportunity-zone funds to convert a building, vacant for decades, into 140 apartments primarily aimed at the local work force.

“We are seeing projects that are being announced here in Alabama that would not have happened otherwise,” said Alex Flachsbart, founder of Opportunity Alabama, which is trying to steer investors to economically struggling neighborhoods.

Similar projects are getting underway in Erie, Cleveland and Charlottesville, Va. Goldman Sachs is using some of its capital gains — profits on the company’s own investments — in opportunity zones, including $364 million for mixed-income housing developments in Salt Lake City, Baltimore and other cities.

Mr. Case, the AOL co-founder, and Derrick Morgan, a former professional football player, are among those who have announced that they will invest in opportunity-zone projects that are designed to address clear social and economic problems.

As he announced his retirement from the Tennessee Titans in July, Mr. Morgan wrote on Instagram that his goal would be to “create more opportunities for those who are underserved and overlooked” in communities like Coatesville, Pa., where he went to high school.

Emanuel J. Friedman, a hedge fund manager, is using some of his capital gains and money he has raised from others to build 11 warehouses in rural Jasper County, S.C., near the Savannah seaport. The warehouses won’t employ many people, but he said the jobs would offer higher wages than hotel housekeeping positions at the nearby Hilton Head resort, where many area residents now work.

“Of course it will make a difference,” Mr. Friedman said. “It is mind-boggling. It is the best thing I have ever done.”

A Spa for Pets

But even supporters of the initiative agree that the bulk of the opportunity-zone money is going to places that do not need the help, while many poorer communities are so far empty-handed.

Some opportunity zones that were classified as low income based on census data from several years ago have since gentrified. Others that remain poor over all have large numbers of wealthy households.

Number of Opportunity Zones by Median Household Income

More than 7 percent of opportunity zones had household incomes above the median census tract in 2017. Investors are focusing on projects in these neighborhoods.

And nearly 200 of the 8,800 federally designated opportunity zones are adjacent to poor areas but are not themselves considered low income.

Under the law, up to 5 percent of the zones did not need to be poor. The idea was to enable governors to draw opportunity zones in ways that would include projects or businesses just outside poor census tracts, potentially creating jobs for low-income people. In addition, states could designate whole sections of cities or rural areas that would be targeted for investment, including some higher-income census tracts.

In some cases, developers have lobbied state officials to include specific plots of land inside opportunity zones.

In Miami, for example, Mr. LeFrak — who donated nearly $500,000 to Mr. Trump’s campaign and inauguration and is personally close to the president — is working with a Florida partner on a 183-acre project that is set to include 12 residential towers and eight football fields’ worth of retail and commercial space.

In spring 2018, as they planned the so-called Sole Mia project, Mr. LeFrak’s executives encouraged city officials in North Miami to nominate the area around the site as an opportunity zone, according to Larry M. Spring, the city manager. They did so, and the Treasury Department made the designation official.

The Far West Side of Manhattan is part of an opportunity zone — even as high-end towers have been replacing run-down apartment buildings and more than 15 percent of households reported income of $200,000 or more in 2017, according to an analysis by Webster Pacific, a consulting firm. This is the new home of Pershing Square Capital Management, the prominent hedge fund run by the billionaire Bill Ackman.

Mr. Ackman is trying to find tenants for 80,000 square feet of unused office space in his fund’s building, which has a Jaguar dealership on the ground floor. He said he was using its location inside an opportunity zone as a lure.

That is because investors can use their capital gains to invest not only in real estate but also in businesses inside opportunity zones. A company that sets up shop inside Mr. Ackman’s building therefore would be eligible to accept tax-advantaged opportunity-zone money.

Financial institutions are not even trying to make it look as if their opportunity-zone investments were intended to benefit needy communities.

CBRE, one of the country’s largest real estate companies, is seeking opportunity-zone funding for an apartment building in Alexandria, Va., which CBRE is pitching to prospective investors as “one of the region’s most affluent locations.”

JPMorgan Chase is raising money to build housing targeting students in College Park, Md., near the University of Maryland. (Because many students do not have jobs, census data often wrongly suggests that college towns are poor neighborhoods.)

In marketing materials, JPMorgan noted that while College Park “qualifies as low income due to the student population, the area around it is affluent.” The bank added, “The tax benefits can be remarkable.”

The Swiss bank UBS is raising funds from its “ultra high net worth” clients — requiring in some cases that they have at least $50 million in investable assets — for developments in New York and Connecticut. The projects include a 23-story retail and office building in Downtown Brooklyn and an upscale apartment building in New Rochelle, N.Y., with a yoga studio and 24-hour valet parking. There is even a spa — for residents’ pets.

Other companies have set up subscription databases showing which zones have the highest incomes and fastest-growing populations to help investors steer their money to the most lucrative and least risky destinations.

“The current system is clearly driving capital to places that are known to be winners,” said Christopher A. Coes, vice president at Smart Growth America, a nonprofit group that encourages investments in American cities.

Luxury Hotels, Abandoned Homes

The Warehouse District of New Orleans is one of the city’s trendiest neighborhoods. Some of the area’s hottest restaurants — as well as a new one dishing out shrimp tempura tacos — are here. So are hipster barbershops. Boutique hotels spill well-heeled tourists onto the red brick sidewalks. High-end coffee shops are packed with young people buried in their MacBooks.

And it is getting hotter. The sounds of heavy-duty equipment heaving steel or pouring cement are audible across the neighborhood.

In other words, in a city grappling with acute poverty, this is not a neighborhood that especially needs a generous new tax break to lure luxury lodging. Yet state officials have established an opportunity zone here.

That decision benefited businesses already operating or planned for the district. One of those is a 225-room hotel, part of Richard Branson’s Virgin Hotels chain, whose plans were unveiled a year before Mr. Trump signed the tax law. Its location inside an opportunity zone meant investors could earn greater profits than they otherwise would have, by financing the project with tax-advantaged money.

Changing Incomes in New Orleans

Early opportunity zone development is often happening in neighborhoods where income was already rising, not in struggling areas.

Those investors include Mr. Scaramucci, who briefly served as White House communications director in 2017 and has claimed credit for helping to create the opportunity-zone plan. “We got to get into this business because this will be transformative to the United States,” he said recently.

Mr. Scaramucci’s investment firm, SkyBridge Capital, has raised more than $50 million in capital gains from outside investors, and most of it is being used to finance the hotel, according to Brett S. Messing, the company’s president. He said the hotel was likely to be the first of numerous opportunity-zone projects financed by SkyBridge.

Less than two miles away is the poorest opportunity zone in Louisiana — and one of the poorest nationwide. The zone includes the Hoffman Triangle neighborhood, where the average household earns less than $15,000 per year. Block after block, streets are lined with dilapidated, narrow homes, many of them boarded up. On a recent afternoon, one of them was serving as a work site for prostitutes.

City officials, including the head of economic development for New Orleans, said they were not aware of any opportunity-zone projects in this neighborhood.

Terrance Ross, a construction worker who has lived in the area for 20 years, is familiar with the building boom underway in the Warehouse District.

“Why is the federal government putting money where money is already accumulating?” he asked, lighting a cigarette and standing across the street from an abandoned house. “This neighborhood just needs some tender loving care.”

Similar scenes are playing out in opportunity zones across the United States: The federal government is subsidizing luxury developments — often within walking distance of economically distressed communities — that were in the works before Mr. Trump was even elected president.

In Houston, construction recently  started on the Preston, with 373 “luxury for rent” apartments as well as a “skydeck” and a resort-style swimming pool. The development is being financed by the investors in Cresset, a multibillion-dollar asset management firm, including one of its founders, Avy Stein.

Changing Incomes in Houston

Early opportunity zone investment is coming to Market Square, already a site of high-end developments and major income growth.

And in downtown Portland, Ore., the developers of a 35-story tower with a hotel, condos and office space are hoping to raise up to $150 million in opportunity-zone money to pay for the project. Condos will go for as much as $7.5 million each. The hotel is a Ritz-Carlton.

Partying at Red Square

Club music blared from speakers as millionaires and billionaires — and the money managers, lawyers, accountants and other professionals looking to make money off all this wealth — milled around a pool and private cabanas at the Bellagio hotel in Las Vegas.

They were at an annual investment conference to talk about the next big thing. This year, that thing was opportunity zones, which were the focus of five panel discussions.

The Las Vegas event was hosted by Mr. Scaramucci. Among the attendees was Mark Cuban, the billionaire owner of the Dallas Mavericks basketball team. At one point he posed and smiled for a photo with Mr. Scaramucci and his wife.

“OZ are super hot right now,” Mr. Cuban said in an email after the event, adding that he had recently bought a property in an opportunity zone, but had not decided yet if he would use the tax break. “Every major investor I know has been pitched a property or fund within an OZ.”

The feeding frenzy is not confined to rich individuals. Lawyers, accountants, wealth managers and consultants are enjoying a gusher of new work — and raking in fees — helping clients structure deals with the maximum tax savings.

Real estate lawyers like Brad A. Molotsky are billing hundreds of extra hours as they field calls from eager investors. One day in June, Mr. Molotsky juggled clients who wanted to invest in $500 million worth of opportunity-zone projects.

“I am just one guy, and that was from just two meetings,” said Mr. Molotsky, who works in New Jersey for the law firm Duane Morris. He has completed more than 20 opportunity-zone deals, he said, and has dozens more in the pipeline.

The night after Mr. Scaramucci’s pool party, more festivities were underway on the other end of the Las Vegas Strip — part of a separate event also focused on opportunity zones. One party was at the Soviet-themed Red Square restaurant. Inside, an investor handed out postcards with photographs of buildings he wanted to buy in opportunity zones.

At another open-bar soiree, a man in a navy suit and a cowboy hat wandered the crowd, drink in hand. Attached to the top of his hat was a large sign. It beckoned: “Looking for OZ Funds.”