#to scrape together the money to have him cremated. that would mean hes gone. he isnt gone. this cant be real.

[jvzebel-x]

🦋

[mykaverse]

Nix - Compass Soulmates AU

Mama said that the compass pointed to the other half of your heart. The fact that Mykal's little red arrow was pointed straight up his arm to his chest all the time simply meant he was lucky enough to be born with a whole heart. Lucky enough to be born without the need for a forever-person. Lucky enough to be born earning love the old fashioned way, while the rest of the world had their happiness handed to them by the flesh-bound indicator. 

Most people looked like ink, or paint. Mykal thought his looked like blood. 

Twenty years, it didn't move. Not an inch, not a muscle. The soft flesh of his inner wrist marred by what might have been a scar or a simple birth mark, brighter and darker than most of the spinning little needles that seemed hectic and panicked on some of his friends. 

And then Mama died. 

It only took three months for the savings to run out - especially with how much the city was charging for cremation services. It only took sixty days after that for Mykal to do the neighbor a favor. Nothing more than signing for a package when it arrived, take it inside, wait for the neighbor to get home. 

That night, sitting on the sofa with the box beside him, the brunet watched his compass needle move for the first time. Staring at his arm to avoid looking at the box, he saw it twitch rather violently to the side, bouncing a moment before it settled. Pulling out his phone, Mykal checked the direction. Due South. 

A knock at the door startled him out of that contemplative reverie, and by the time the neighbor had retrieved his package, the compass had returned to its previous position - unmoving. 

It was another few weeks before another request from the neighbor had Mykal's mark spinning, this time pointing a little bit West. Pulling out a map, the brunet made a note of the two directions it had pointed so far - and measured the space between them. Maybe the distance between them could give him an idea of how far the target was. Tempted beyond measure to chase it the next time it pointed, Mykal packed a bug-out bag, ready to make a break for it the moment he got a direction to follow. 

The next time the neighbor asked him to wait for a package, the request for a "favor" included instructions of where to bring it to - since the guy didn't have time to come home for it this time. It limited the time that Mykal could make it to the pharmacy that day for his anti-biotics (welcoming the winter in the only way his body knew how) so he was quick to leave the moment it arrived, all but jogging down the city sidewalks. It wasn't until he was halfway to the drop off that he noticed his compass spinning again. Without thought, he took off, watching it wriggle enough to indicate that his mate was within sprinting distance - unless they were on a freaking jet plane. 

Box still under his arm a half an hour later, Mykal slowed from a sprint to a defeated walk, glancing down to find the compass once more pointed at himself. A shout drew his attention to the side, and before long the brunet found himself dragging a sodden ginger out of the stream, squeezing water out of his mouth. 

Elliot survived, Mykal offered dinner - two steps into the apartment building and the omega was against the wall with a hand around his throat. Fortunately, it didn't take long for the neighbor's attitude to change when the box was handed over - a little worse for wear but generally not ruined. 

Mykal followed Elliot back to The General's place. Now a house exactly, but it was more home than the empty (and now dangerous) apartment. His lease lapsed, his things were seized. Everything of remote worth to him was squirreled away - photographs and keep sakes, some of which broke or were lost. All the while, his compass remained unmoving, pointing at his own heart like an accusation. 

Begging is not easy. He loathes the people who think that it's "giving up"; wonders if they could even survive the shot to one's pride every time he asks someone if they have a quarter to spare. Mykal refuses to lie to them. Others make up stories, or try to sell cigarettes one at a time. He says straight up: I'd like to eat today. Gotta little brother to feed. Work is worth doing. He mows lawns, and clears gutters, and scrapes pools. He scrapes shit off of roofs, and slime out of dumpsters. He gets offered money for sex, and for drugs, and vice versa. 

He accepts, once. Alexei is barely legal, comes home with him under promises of real good quality shit. They spend a month helping him climb down. The General says he's a fighter. Elliot says he's a trap. When he wakes up, he's Sasha - like his mother used to call him. Mykal can hear her death in his tone, but can't imagine who put the burns on his back and shoulders. 

That winter, all of them need something for the cough - a wet cough that lingers no matter how many times they break the fever. Mykal doesn't know much, but he's had bronchitis before. He lets himself into a pharmacy before it opens. Points a fake gun at the young woman in scrubs, begs her to cooperate, and leaves with enough to get them all better. 

On the way home, the rising sun reveals his twitching compass, pointing due South again, but there's no time to be sprinting off when he's got a family to nurse back to health. And honestly, at this point, shouldn't whoever the damn thing is pointing at be trying to find him too? 

The General doesn't remember everything, which probably makes him easier to talk to. It takes his idle thoughts, while they sit on the overpass watching a sun set - a pipe in the old man's mouth, long since emptied. Maybe Mykal's mark only moves when he's committing a crime, because eventually he will get caught. 

Mykal can't decide whether that brings him comfort or not, but he gives up chasing the direction down all together. If that lay lies jail time. 

It doesn't stop him from offering his services to the neighbor a few months later. A broken leg, a new mouth to feed, and the old man's failing health, all driving him towards a more steady source of income. Not having his apartment anymore means that he's set to the beat, hands in his pockets while cheap shoes slap the sidewalk, always on the look out for buyers. 

Fortunately, it's not always selling. The brunet is inconspicuous, knows how to hide in a crowd, and has the innocent sort of face most people want to trust. He gets good at moving whole shipments - in backpacks, or rental trucks. Location to location. His education kicks in enough to start a trust - keep the money out of his name, out of the government's reach, make sure the boys can get their hands on it when they're starving and he can't come home. Sasha offers to help, then demands that his offer be accepted, but Mykal isn't willing to risk any of them. They should finish school, get a real job. It takes a shouting match for the truth to come out - Sasha hasn't owned himself in almost ten years. No identity, no documents, no idea what direction is home. The answers lie somewhere that he never wants to tread again, and any attempt to find them can only lead to re-capture, arrest, or death. But Mykal knows some people. 

It takes the neighbor - whom Mykal has been calling "Boss" for almost two years now - about a month to find the answers they want. A photograph and a school photo ID card are sent in a brown envelope, along with a card, type font name and an address of "the guy you want". The brunet hides that, handing Sasha the rest, who goes to meet his mother. 

Mykal makes a very important trade. Someday, Boss is going to get caught, and all Mykal has to do is make sure he's the one who pleads guilty to whatever they think the Boss did. 

Sasha's kidnapper is dead the next morning, along with eighteen others, all caught in a "fire" that leads to one of the biggest human trafficking breaks of state wide history. 

His compass points straight forward, away from him, and stops moving. Mykal's "whole heart" must be gone, he figures. 

It takes two years for the Boss to get caught. A day to turn himself in - or risk having everything taken. A week to get convicted. And a month to decide he needs to get out. His debt is paid. 

A month after that, the Boss is dead, and Mykal applies for parole. "Max," he offers, the first, and the second, and the third time they pair him with strangers. "Last name Dziedzic. It's Polish so don't feel bad if it's too hard to pronounce. Most people don't have the teeth for it." All the while, his compass stood straight forward, having betrayed him to whatever excuse for humanity would take him at this point. 

On his way down the hall with Nicholas Timmons, Max glares down at the black wristband - again - annoyed by the restrictions and the invasive inspections. His eyes widen a bit when he realizes that the compass is pointing at him again. 

Except, wait. It's not pointing at him. 

It's pointing behind him. 

A glance over his shoulder, and Max watches blue eyes brighten over a slightly forced smile. 

Oh boy...