#turnupswrites

[turnupswritessometimes]

Bring it on Home to Me - Ash/Eiji Oneshot

A thanks to @holographiccs (who I bullied into reading Banana Fish) for imitating Ash's gang and their New York accents with me and inspiring this fic! <3

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59433925

Summary:

Eiji heard Bones say it when he was posted outside their apartment. A friend of his had stopped by and asked both him and Kong out for a good time. Loudly. Loud enough for Eiji to hear in the kitchen. "Can't. We're guarding the boss' girlfriend." * Eiji finds out he's known as the boss' girlfriend - and he doesn't hate it. Ash should hate it - but he doesn't, either.

Word Count: 4,156

Bring it on Home to me

Eiji heard Bones say it when he was posted outside their apartment. A friend of his had stopped by and asked both him and Kong out for a good time. Loudly. Loud enough for Eiji to hear in the kitchen.

"Can't. We're guarding the boss' girlfriend."

Eiji’s stomach twisted. He stopped chopping vegetables - realised he was cooking Ash's dinner, like a girlfriend, and his stomach squirmed again – and looked to the door. It was closed; they probably didn't even know he'd heard.

What else had they heard? Had they heard him and Ash? Was that what they really thought about them? It wasn't not true, but it wasn’t true, either. He didn’t know what this thing was between him and Ash. He was already too soft for Ash's world, that had been made clear. The implication that he was his girlfriend didn’t sit right with him.

It hadn't been said with any judgement – not like they hated or looked down on him for it – just as a matter of fact. Not even, Eiji thought, as some kind of joke. He thought that was worse. Definitely worse.

He didn't feel like cooking up a nice, homemade meal anymore. He scooped the chopped vegetables into a bowl, and put them back in the fridge. They'd have a couple of TV dinners, or takeout, instead.

Bones came in, not long later, to catch his show on the ridiculously large TV Ash had brought. He always did, even though they were both meant to stay outside. It was their secret, between Eiji and Bones.

"You ain’t making dinner?" Bones asked, as he clambered over the back of the sofa to collapse into a heap on the too-firm cushions.

"Not tonight," Eiji replied. He picked up the book on the side, as though he'd been reading instead, but Bones wasn't even looking. He was already helping himself to the remote, and flicking through the channels.

Eiji watched him, for a moment. He thumbed through the pages of the book. His voice came out much smaller than he wanted it to: "The boss'...girlfriend?"

"Huh?" Bones craned his neck to look at him. "You heard that?"

Bones' voice carried; Eiji heard most things he said, though it was mostly him and Kong chatting about nothing. "It's just – I'm not – it's not—"

"It ain't about girls or boys," Bones said. "A girlfriend's the one who keeps house for you. Who you come back to after trouble."

Eiji still didn't think that was the right word. But maybe this was some new American slang he didn't understand. "Oh."

"It's a good thing." Bones smiled, showing his sharp canines. "And being Ash's girlfriend? Gives you a hell of a reputation."

Because Ash had a hell of a reputation. Because Ash was a gang leader, and he had the respect of most other gangs around New York. Did they all know him as that? As the Lynx's girlfriend?

"I'm not Ash's," Eiji said, because his stomach hadn't just squirmed, it had somersaulted, at that thought. He did not want to be just the Lynx’s property.

Bones tilted his head to one side, frowning. "That ain’t bad, either. I'm Ash's. Kong's Ash's. We're all Ash's."

It was as simple as that to him. He followed Ash, so he was Ash's. And Eiji supposed he could try and deny it, but he did the same thing. Stubbornly stuck at Ash's side until he'd stopped telling Eiji to go back to Japan. Didn’t have any plans to leave him, any time soon.

He was Ash's, he realised, through and through.

"Right." His voice was distant, but he didn't think Bones heard anyway; his show had started and that always hypnotised him. Eiji took his book to his bedroom, heart thumping. It was something, he realised, that he'd known for a while. He'd known it, but he'd only just realised it, and it felt overwhelming. Just how much he was Ash’s.

He sat on the end of the bed, and wondered what Ash was doing right now. Gang business. Dangerous business. And Eiji was the one he came home to – who he’d chosen to come home to. They didn’t have to live together, alone, here, but Ash had chosen that, and Eiji hadn’t argued. This was Ash’s safehouse, and that Eiji's job was to be there, when he came home.

His mind didn't settle to read. He flicked on the radio, and shifted restlessly, waiting. Thinking about fights and guns and gangs and realising he didn’t know much about how it worked at all.

Ash called from a payphone, to say he was on his way back. Eiji called for takeout. It arrived minutes before Ash himself, and he had to sacrifice a handful of fries to Bones and Kong when they saw the delivery boy. They clapped Eiji on the back as they said goodbye, then stopped to debrief with Ash in the hall. Eiji couldn't keep up with their conversation; their words were too fast, and their accents too heavy. He leant against the doorframe, and watched Ash's expression; that tense, serious expression he had around the gang. His eyes glinted green, his jaw set.

It relaxed, when he met Eiji at the door. Softened. His hands found Eiji's hips, and he brought him close for a hug. Eiji's arms went around his neck automatically and he pressed closer. Smelt of sweat, cigarettes and smoke. It was unpleasant, but it was Ash's.

He pulled away, ghosting his lips over Eiji's cheek. "Honey, I'm home."

It was a joke. It had started as a joke and because of Ash kissing him in jail. He still teased that they were together, like that. Every time it made Eiji duck his chin, and laugh, cheeks warming. Americans were too free with being intimate.

Ash was too free with being intimate.

He stepped away, not seeming to realise Eiji hadn't responded, and saw the paper bags sat on the table.

Eiji leant his back against the door to close it. "Sorry, I—"

"It's alright." Ash looked back at him. He raised an eyebrow, smirking. "I'm not going to beat you with my belt for not having a roast on the table after my day at the office."

It was another joke, but Eiji didn't laugh. He could see why the boys thought what they did. Ash noticed. Tilted his head to one side; his hair fell with the movement, gold in the artificial light. "Seriously, don't worry."

Eiji bit his lip. He wondered how to tell Ash about what Bones had said – wondered if Ash knew – if Ash called him that, himself. Wondered if he’d see it as another joke, and Eiji didn't know if he wanted it to be. Didn't know how he could even word it.

Ash stepped forward, again. His hand grazed Eiji's arm; brushed his hair behind his ear. It was genuine, and he looked up.

"What's up?"

Eiji tangled his fingers in Ash's. Took a deep breath. "The boss' girlfriend."

Ash frowned. "Huh?"

Eiji looked at their joint fingers. Ash's looked like the colour of ivory, against his. How was it that this boy could spend a summer outside in New York, and not tan at all?

"That's what they call me," he said. "The boss' girlfriend."

"Ah." Ash paused, for half a second. "Right."

"I don't hate it," Eiji continued. His voice came out much smaller than before. "At least, I don't think I do. It's – the food will go cold."

Ash let him get away with that. "Right."

But he didn't drop his hand, as he crossed to the table. Not until Eiji had to step around to the other side, and he absolutely had to. His fingers fell away, slowly. Then he was pouncing on the bags and pulling out the burgers and fries, smiling like a child.

"No weird Japanese dish tonight?"

"Sometimes I think you really are just an uncultured American," Eiji replied, and for a moment, it was just like normal. He unpacked his food. Caught Ash glancing up, smiling at him. A soft smile that made his heart squeeze.

But Ash saw through him. "This is because of what Bones said."

Eiji nodded. He helped himself to fries, chewing slowly. Ash ate like he hadn't in a week; like he was barely tasting any of it. Eiji picked at his own food, steadily.

When Ash finally came up for air, he said, "It’s not your cooking. Just – this food is predictable, you know?"

"Predictable?"

"You know exactly how it's going to taste, because it's come out the machine that way."

"I don't think it's all made by machines."

"It's – safe." Ash met Eiji's eyes, his were shards of emerald, then away again. Back to his food. But there had been something in that gaze; something vulnerable. It was the same kind of vulnerable he'd seen at Cape Cod; that glimpse of Aslan Jade.

It felt like a peace offering. Ash had offered up that, about himself, because Eiji had mentioned the girlfriend thing. Probably looked vulnerable too.

Ash was weird about food. He'd noticed that. Noticed that sometimes he ‘d eat like he hadn’t in a week, or didn't eat at all, or would only pick at his food. That the other boys would eat three or four hot dogs back to back, and Ash would find a subtle way to toss the rest of his out. Eiji didn't press about it. He’d do his best to push Ash towards eating more healthily.

He continued steadily through his own meal. For once, Ash finished long before him.

"I'll tell them to knock it off," Ash said. "I've half a mind to bash them."

"You...didn't say that, then?"

That there was this thing between them. The same thing as in jail; in that road trip across America; in Ash lying in his lap in the middle of the night. They were joint by this thing. They weren’t just friends; they were something more.

"No, I didn't." Ash's mouth twisted. "They're idiots."

"They aren't," though Eiji's protest was half-hearted.

Ash raised an eyebrow, unbelieving, and Eiji had to look away, biting his cheek in case he started laughing. He liked Bones and Kong, but he understood why they were often stationed outside his safe apartment building, where nothing happened, as opposed to the real work Ash had done today.

The work Ash had done today. The work that left him smelling like gunpowder. When Ash was like this, domestic and teasing, it was hard to equate him with the feared gang leader – whose reputation Eiji had by association.

He gathered the trash from their meals together, and threw them away. At least he didn't have to wash up tonight – and that was another part of playing house, wasn't it?

When he looked back, he saw Ash examining the back of his hand. Even from where Eiji stood, he could see the knuckles were red, starting to turn purple and blue.

"You've been fighting," Eiji said, automatically getting the first aid kit from under the sink. It was replenished nearly weekly.

"It’s nothing," Ash replied. He left his chair untucked, and flopped onto the sofa. He went over the arm, lying lengthways, and Eiji wondered if any of these boys were capable of sitting normally.

He crossed over, with a bag of peas. How many times, he wondered, could you refreeze peas before they were no longer safe to eat?

Eiji tossed them to Ash. He caught them without looking, and pressed them against his hand. Eiji perched on the arm of the sofa. Ash's hair flopped over his face, but he saw him wince at the ice.

"Bones..." Eiji swallowed. "Bones didn't make it sound like a bad thing."

Ash didn't answer, immediately. "That right?"

"He said – a girlfriend – is who you come home to, after a long day at war," Eiji said.

Ash smiled. A slow, unconscious smile that sent a rush of warmth through him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Ash sat, properly, his back against the arm of the sofa, his knees drawn up. He nodded to the empty space. Eiji slipped onto it, aware of his elbow knocking against Ash's knee. The touch tingled.

"And Bones didn't say what you did after a long day at war?"

Eiji's cheeks felt hot, at the suggestion. "I don't think he knows about that kind of thing."

Which made Ash chuckle. His knee bumped Eiji again, and he but his lip. It felt mean to laugh at Bones, but it was easier than this thing, and he loved making Ash laugh like that. He chanced a glance at Ash from under his bangs, only to see him watching Eiji closely. It sent that wave of heat down his neck.

"And – do you?" Ash's voice was soft; soft enough Eiji suspected he could pretend not to have heard, if he wanted.

"I..." He traced the gain of the sofa with one finger. "I have an idea, or two."

"Yeah?” Ash sat up further, leaning forward. “Care to share?"

He'd turned to Ash, and he wasn't sure when he had. But now his face was only inches away.

"You mean – demonstrate?"

Ash smiled – smirked – and Eiji's stomach twisted. "Only if you want to."

Eiji wanted to. He wanted to, but then it wouldn’t be a joke, anymore. Things would change. Still, he didn’t wouldn’t back down. Ash had that effect on him; made him want to rise to the glint in his eye.

He leant forward – didn’t let himself hesitate – and pressed their lips together. He felt Ash’s part, like he was surprised Eiji actually did it, before he kissed back. He moved slowly, as if he was savouring it, one hand sliding into Eiji’s hair. The bag of frozen peas fell to the floor with a loud thump.

Eiji shifted, so he was securely between Ash’s legs, hands on his knees to steady himself, as he kissed him back. Only pulled away when he felt lightheaded, and not far enough to see Ash clearly.

“That okay?” Ash whispered.

“If that’s – if that’s okay with you?” Eiji replied.

Ash pulled away. Eiji let him, though he was still very aware of how close they were; how he was pressed between Ash’s legs. His lips tingling. Ash raised a hand, brushing Eiji’s bangs from his eyes. His fingers trailed over his cheekbone, green eyes examining him. Eiji stared back, heart pounding. There was everything, and nothing, to say. Ash made a noise, then stopped. Tucked Eiji’s hair behind his ear.

“I like coming home to you,” he murmured.

Eiji felt heat rush through him, like he’d just sunk into a warm bath. His hands had moved, he didn’t know when, to Ash’s shoulders. “I like you coming home.”

Because Ash had been fighting, and he may only have come home with bruised knuckles today, but he could easily come home much worse. Eiji kissed him again, pressing their foreheads together.

“Please come home, Ash.”

Ash took a breath that Eiji felt against him, pressing his hands against the small of his back. Pressed him closer, until they were inches apart. He nodded, his hair falling over his eyes. It hid his expression. He pressed his mouth against Eiji's cheek. Properly, this time, lashes brushing his skin.

Eiji held Ash back. Felt his spine, his shoulder blades, and Ash's mouth moved to his temple. Kissed there, too, and then tugged him down so he could rest his chin on Eiji's head. He let him, falling ungracefully against Ash's chest, their legs tangled on the sofa. It wasn’t quite big enough, for this. They were very close. Closer than ever before, and this time, it was serious.

He didn't want to pull away. Listened to the steady beat of Ash's heart under his ear. His fingers reached up to curl a blonde strand around his finger.

"I'll try my best," Ash murmured.

"I'll hold you to that." And he felt Ash's chuckle as a rumble. He shifted, to look at him, their faces so close that Ash's eyes were a sea of green. "I promise, Ash Lynx."

"Well—" Ash kissed him. Long, slow and savouring and Eiji felt as though he was melting. "Then I can't let you down."

His voice was soft, like a purr. He pressed kisses to the corner of Eiji's mouth, trailing down his jaw. Eiji twisted Ash's hair in his fingers. This was earnest – so earnest and reverent, that it made his chest ache.\

He kissed Ash back. Kissed his temple; his cheekbone; the hollow of his jaw, and felt Ash's breath catch under him. He drew him even tighter against him, so there wasn't even room for that. They lay on the sofa, hearts beating against each other.

His eyes half-closed, and he didn't mind the smell of sweat and gunpowder. It was Ash's smell. This felt right, Eiji thought. Thought perhaps he was Ash's boy, after all, because this felt like where he belonged.

*

"So, who started it?"

Ash leant against the bar, and did his best glower at Alex. Made sure to sweep said glower over the guys standing around, so they all knew he was bothered by something. Bones ducked behind Kong; maybe he guessed what was up. Eiji, though, was in the thick of it, being taught how to play pool.

Alex smiled, but he looked tense, too. "Started what?"

Ash tilted his head and raised his eyebrow. "Started calling Eiji the boss’ girlfriend?"

Alex's grin stiffened. He swigged from his beer bottle, either buying for time or building up his courage. Ash didn't relent his stare.

"Ain't it right?" Alex eventually asked.

Ash huffed, taking a drink himself. His was an excuse to look over at Eiji. He was concentrating hard, lining up a shot, his brows together. He was biting his lip, and it made Ash's stomach twinge. Adorable.

"I never said that," he said; it came out much too defensive.

Alex shifted. Glanced across at him, and Ash stayed scowling. It was half the job of being the boss – he had to be imposing – had to have his respect and reputation. That was how you survived in New York. That was what Ash loved about New York.

Alex leant across, looking straight ahead, probably watching Eiji too, as he said, "You didn't have to."

Ash's stomach twisted. He watched Eiji as he took the shot. A ball fell into the pocket. The boys cheered him like he'd won the game, clapping his shoulders. Eiji laughed, the low lighting casting a halo on his hair. He looked like he was glowing, from the inside out. Those dark eyes found Ash's.

He looked away. "That obvious, huh?"

Alex half-laughed, like he wasn't sure if he'd get hit, if he did. "Yeah, boss, that obvious."

That was bad. Ash finished the bottle, and lined it up on the bar alongside the others. Beer wasn't his drink of choice, but it was what they drunk here, so he did too. At least it filled him up.

"It ain't him," Alex continued. Conversationally. "It's you. The way you look at him."

"Well, shit," Ash said it on reflex, like he'd dropped a glass or missed a shot. Like it was an accident. It was an accident. Being around Eiji was making him soft. He knew that, knew it particularly when they were alone together, but he hadn't realised it seeped through to everywhere.

He glanced up just in time to meet Eiji's eyes again; stood at the side of the table, with his pool-cue held like a staff in front of him. He smiled.

"I gotta smoke," Ash said. Snapped. Headed through the back of the bar. Stalked through, so that Bones leapt back out of his way. The lynx on the warpath.

He tried not to think about how that would seem to Eiji; for him to storm away just after being smiled at. But he needed space. Needed air. Needed to slam the door to the tiny courtyard and fumble for a cigarette in his pocket. He lit it with fumbling fingers, and leant against the brick wall.

Said courtyard was a square of cobblestone, surrounded on all sides by tall buildings, a hodgepodge of brick and stone, fire escapes twisting around them like ivy. Just a patch of sky at the top, and the light pollution of the city meant no stars or moonlight got through. It cast everything yellow.

Ash took a deep drag, and let it out slowly. The smoke drifted into the night air in a gray ribbon. His muscles relaxed, his mind numbed.

Alex pushed open the door. He leant against the frame, and watched Ash. He didn't look away from the patch of night, but held out the cigarette pack. Alex took it, and pulled out his own. Handed it back, and kept his palm out for the lighter.

Ash didn’t give it to him. He stepped forward, holding the lighter up to where Alex held the cigarette between his teeth. It was a challenge; to see if you flinched, at the flame so close to your mouth. If you trusted the person with the lighter.

Alex didn't flinch. His blue eyes held Ash's. The blue of new jeans.

Ash leant back against the wall.

Alex blew out smoke. "You know we don't mind, yeah?"

"It's not you." Ash held the cigarette between his fingers, and focused on the warmth of it. "It's – if you can tell, anyone can."

"Not anyone." Alex leant next to him, just as he did at the bar. There was no shaking him, and Ash thought he loved him for that. "But we can. Because you're different with him. You didn't beat him to a pulp for waking you up – things like that. We knows you, is all."

"And other people know me." Ash tapped the end of his cigarette, sending a miniature meteor shower to the flagstones. "Golzine knows me."

So if Alex and the boys – if Bones – could tell, Dino Golzine definitely could. Every time Ash went out with Eiji, he was parading his Achilles heel. If he was Achilles, he thought, as he took another drag, Eiji was Patroclus.

There was that painting. Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus. An image flashed in his mind of Eiji, that pale – that dead – and his chest ached.

Alex didn't press for those details; respected Ash's privacy when it came to his past with Golzine – even those visits before all this Banana Fish business that were much too recent for his liking. Just why had it taken him so long to get out of there – completely?

Ash's smoke blew out shakily.

"We'll protect him," Alex said. "We won't let anything happen to him."

It already had. Ash had been there, in California, and he'd not been able to do that. Eiji had been taken, right under his nose. If Ash Lynx couldn't protect him, then what hope did anyone else have?

Now everyone knew he had a weak spot.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Yeah." Alex paused. Smoke came out his nose, as he laughed. "'Cos he's your girl."

Ash punched his shoulder. Enough to smart, but not to bruise. He took the final drag of his cigarette, and crushed it under his converse, as he headed back inside. Didn't correct Alex.

Came face to face with Eiji, once he was back inside the bar. Eiji, dithering with a bottle in his hand, and looking concerned.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, when Ash was close enough.

The dim lights made his eyelashes spidery shadows on his cheeks. Caught in his dark eyes, and if Ash looked long enough, he could map galaxies in them. There was something about Eiji Okumura. He was unreasonably kind and thoughtful and if Ash was feeling philosophical about it, he would say something about his innocence – that boy had never seen a gun. But it was that stupid stubbornness Ash felt drawn to, like a moth to a flame.

If they were alone, he’d kiss him. He didn’t think that was possible, even if the boys knew, because he didn’t think Eiji would want that.

Instead, he smiled. Flung his arm around Eiji's shoulders, and steered him towards the bar. Eiji let him. It didn't matter if anyone saw, Ash thought, because all the boys knew anyway. The knew, and they'd protect Eiji.

"Everything's fine," Ash said. Aware that he stunk of cigarettes, but Eiji didn't pull away. If anything, he leant into him slightly. "Just peachy."

He didn't think Eiji believed him. He didn't quite believe himself. He felt itchy, ready for an attack, like a guard dog. Eiji was in danger, because of him. Because it was obvious how Ash felt about him.

But the gang would protect him. Ash would protect him.

Eiji was his.

[turnupswritessometimes]

Rookie Mistake - RE4 - Leon/Luis Oneshot

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58180393

Summary: "Secondly—" Luis stepped around him so neatly, that Leon didn't catch him in time. It wasn’t even until hands were tugging his shirt up, that he realised what he was doing. Realised his shirt had hiked up, at some point, and he hadn’t thought to fix it. "Hey!" Leon twisted, but Luis’ hands held him firm. Firmer than he’d think he was capable of. Thumbs brushed either side of his spine. "This regulation for you, sancho?" "That," he said. "Was a mistake."

(So there's this one mod...)

Word Count: 7,800

Rookie Mistake

"Wait a moment."

They didn't have time for this. They were heading through the tunnels; deep underground; he was completely lost and twitchy at having to rely on Luis. Ashley was in danger – more danger than ever – and they didn’t have time. He had to get back to her before it was too late. He knew what it was like to fight that parasite. She couldn’t go through that alone.

Leon looked back at Luis. "What?"

"Firstly—" Luis caught his shoulder, turning him to face him. It was easier to let him, than to resist. He raised his hands, and Leon looked at those splayed fingers. "You will be no help to the senorita if you have run yourself ragged."

"We don't have time."

"Secondly—" Luis stepped around him so neatly, that Leon didn't catch him in time. It wasn’t even until hands were tugging his shirt up, that he realised what he was doing. Realised his shirt had hiked up, at some point, and he hadn’t thought to fix it.

"Hey!" Leon twisted, but Luis’ hands held him firm. Firmer than he’d think he was capable of. Thumbs brushed either side of his spine. "This regulation for you, sancho?"

Leon’s stomach twitched. He tried turning again, with more force this time. Smacked Luis' hands away, though he was still aware that his shirt was still hiked up; that his midriff was on show. Aware that the touch had sent sparks dancing over his skin.

"That," he said. "Was a mistake."

That was a tattoo across his lower back. Was just sat above the line of his pants. Swirling black lines akin to wings. Usually, it was easy to forget it was even there; he couldn't see it unless he twisted around in the mirror; and he avoided that. That reminded him the mistake was permanent.

Luis leant back against the rocky wall. His arms were folded which meant, short of Leon tossing him over his shoulder, they would not be moving again in a hurry. If he wanted to save Ashley, he had to have this conversation. Luis looked smug; head titled to one side, smirking, those dark eyes looking Leon up and down. It made his stomach twist, and his cheeks prickle with heat. He hated that. Hated that he would care about what this man – this man who was untrustworthy and a stranger – thought about him.

He adjusted his shirt, tucking it in. "Does it matter?"

Luis shrugged. "I just did not see you as – that kind of guy."

He huffed his hair from his face. Tried to seem unbothered. Failed. It was always like this with the tattoo. "I'm not."

"And yet—" Luis waved a hand in the general direction of his midriff. Paused, waiting for a reply. When he didn’t get one, he tilted his head. Dark curls fell to his shoulder. "It suits you nicely.”

"Shut up," Leon snapped. "And get moving."

Though he didn't want to go first. Didn't want to expose his back to Luis again; that would be dangerous. So, he glowered until the man finally pushed off from the wall. Forcefully casual. He even whistled, under his breath, as he headed further into the tunnels.

Leon followed. His back burnt. He could still feel those hands on him. Thought about what it would feel like to feel that again. Maybe lying down; Luis above him; murmuring into his ear about how nicely it suited him.

He pushed the thought from his mind. This wasn’t the time.

The whistling was like a needling in his ear. Grating. It made his finger twitch on his handgun. It was more annoying than Luis' general chatter. And he knew what it was; it was Luis way of trying to break him; to get him to talk about the tattoo. It was working.

Eventually, he snapped, "I was still in training, alright?"

The whistling stopped. Replaced by a slow, wide smirk. "Alright?”

He didn’t want to look at Luis. He wouldn’t look at Luis. But he also knew the whistling would continue until he explained more.

"My squad - in special forces - all wanted to get tattoos together," he said. "Like – group bonding. Like, a rite of passage."

"I see, I see." Though Luis' eyebrows were still raised. "And you chose..."

"Somewhere always hidden." It wasn't enough, but it was true. He hadn't been quite stupid enough to get a silly tattoo somewhere he couldn't easily hide. Those dark eyes still watched him. "I was drunk. It seemed funny at the time."

Luis nodded. His dark curls fell forward to hide his face, and he pressed his hand to his mouth. A moment later, Leon realised why. He was laughing.

Leon pushed his shoulder. Hard enough to send him against the wall. Luis still laughed, bouncing off it like it was nothing.

"I am sorry," though he didn't sound it. He was still grinning at Luis.

Leon rolled his eyes. He felt uncomfortably warm. It shouldn't matter. It really shouldn't matter because he barely knew this man and he wouldn't want to see this man after this mission.

Would this mission ever end? He continued down the corridor, trying to listen for any bugs. Any monsters. In fact, he'd welcome a good gunfight right now, if it stopped this conversation.

“No, it’s a good joke,” he said. Snapped. They were up against a corner, and he pressed his back against it. Checked his sniper, to look around the corner with. “The pretty boy with the girly tattoo.”

He looked through the scope, instead of at Luis. Saw a blur of heat and took the shot, hearing the familiar cry of a bug.

“At the time, I thought I was in on the joke.”

He guessed he had been, until they were sober. And everyone else had guns or flags, which were equally stupid and embarrassing, but they weren’t quite as embarrassing as Leon’s.

He lowered the rifle, flicking his hair from his eyes again.

“I am sorry,” Luis repeated, and this time, he sounded like he understood. Leon wouldn’t look at him. It was another joke to him.

Leon shrugged. He continued walking; it felt like the tattoo was burning.

Their hips nudged together. Leon twitched away.

He felt fingers graze the small of his back again. Turned to snap at Luis, only to find him looking at him softly. His eyes were heavy-lidded; dark irises glinting in the low light.

"If I were you, I would not be shy," he said. His voice was low. Completely inappropriate for roaming underneath a plaga-infected castle. "It is – how you say – sexy?"

Bastard. He was a bastard, because Leon knew for a fact Luis knew that word just fine, and knew the implication. He'd said it to get a reaction from him.

"Shut up," he said, again, but it didn't have the same bite.

Because Luis was an attractive man. He could admit that. Objectively. He was very attractive and there were certainly worse men to have been chained to. Because deep down, he was already thinking about if they could meet again, after the mission. Hopefully still on the same side, but didn't think he would mind fighting Luis like he did Ada.

(Dammit, his love life was awful. How did he end up like this? He blamed Raccoon City. Everything came back to Raccoon City.)

Because Luis was being very obvious that he was attracted to Leon, and the tattoo only seemed to increase that. It made him feel unnecessarily flustered.

Luis shrugged. "I am just being truthful."

"Oh, so that's what you choose to be truthful about?" It was easy to slip into unbothered.

They had to pause, to dispose of a few bugs. It was strange, how easily they’d fallen into working with each other. Leon kicked a corpse to one side, reloading his handgun. Focused on the familiar movement of that, and not that his pulse was racing. Not that his mind was racing about what Luis would like to do with him.

"I have never lied," Luis said. "I simply operate on a need-to-know basis."

Leon almost laughed. He managed to stop it before it turned into more than a chuckle. Hated that too - that this guy could make him laugh, even when he shouldn't. They could pause here, in this alcove, and reload.

"And you think I need to know you think my tramp stamp is sexy?" Leon asked.

"Oh." Luis grinned at him, and it was like a sunbeam. "Si. Definitely."

It stirred his stomach. He looked Luis up and down, and watched his dark eyes twinkle in response; in genuine interest. Because if the tattoo wasn't secret, it was a joke at his expense; that he even agreed to it.

Now, someone found it sexy. And he liked that.

He was really flirting over the corpse of a bug monster.

"Well maybe when we get out of here, we can continue that conversation." It felt like a surrender. But he was choosing that, choosing to turn his back on Luis as they continued, and knew it was an invitation.

An invitation that was taken. He was there, immediately, his hands tugging Leon’s hips back to him. His thumb pressing over Leon's spine; the centre of the tattoo. "I like the sound of that, amor."

His breath caught involuntarily.

He didn’t move. Didn’t stop Luis from tugging his shirt up again, and let his fingers press over the tattoo, edging round to his hips. His touch was light, and that made it even more unbearable. Made it an effort not to make any embarrassing sounds.

Maybe he didn’t mind surrendering to this man.

He caught Luis' wrists, gently. Felt warm breath against his ear, lips just grazing the side of his neck. His heart hadn't stopped racing since he'd gotten out the car the previous night, but it pounded more heavily now.

There was another skitter from somewhere above them. Another bug. And that made Leon remember the monsters. The plaga. Ashley.

He was flirting whilst Ashley was fighting for her life. Terrified.

"We have to go." He let go of Luis' wrists. Stepped away.

And to his credit, Luis took it in his stride. He chuckled, matching his step down the stairs and tugging out his own gun.

"Later, then."

Which seemed like another reason to make it through this.

Even if it was as embarrassing a one as that damn tattoo.

*

Leon sat at the bar alone. Whiskey on the wooden top in front of him. He was trying to pace himself with it. Had to pace himself with it, because there was every chance he'd be sat here by himself all night. Every chance this was a trap, and if it was, he needed to have his wits about him.

He'd gotten the comms message through a week ago. It was unbelievable. Luis Serra, back from the grave.

His first reaction had been livid anger. At first, he was only going to the meeting suggested to pick a fight. How dare he let Leon think him dead – how dare he have the gall to say, "Fancy another dance, Prince Charming?" Instead of explaining anything.

But the rage settled. Alright, so Luis was alive, and he'd found out Leon was too. They were both alive. That was a miracle. After everything, after Luis saving his life, he couldn’t hold Umbrella against him. He’d repented for those sins. And couldn’t Leon have just as easily fallen into a trap like that.

So here he was, waiting for that man, in a small, seedy bar downtown. It felt like he had a target on his back; like he was waiting to be shot.

He'd been there half an hour when someone settled into the stool next to him. That familiar smell of cigarettes; like he really was a ghost, and his smell was proceeding him. He glanced across to see that familiar leather jacket; a glimpse of dark curls.

"You made it." Leon spoke to the glass in front of him. He couldn’t seem too eager.

"So did you," came the reply. That familiar, uncaring lilt. "Not that I doubted you, sancho."

Leon glanced at him, properly this time; Luis looked drained, dark smudges under his eyes, his curls a little lank. Then again, Leon couldn’t say he was fully recovered, either. And he wasn’t a wanted man.

"Well, no offence, but I had my doubts about you," Leon said.

Luis laughed. Ordered a whiskey on the rocks too, and Leon was very glad there was a group at the other end of the bar. They were clearly regulars, keeping the bartender occupied. The less notice they could attract, the better.

"It was a very close thing." Luis leant an elbow on the bar, and it brought them that inch closer together. Leon was sure he could feel the heat coming from him. "Thanks to your first aid."

He'd done the best he could. His hands had been shaking, from the fight with Krauser; from the shock; from the very fact that he needed them to be still.  He'd done what he could, with what he had. He’d thought it wouldn’t be enough.

"Well, you saved me," he said. Evenly. Took a swig. It seemed safer to, now, especially now it wasn't a trap.

"Oh, you would have been fine." Luis smiled at him, and it made a warmth settle in Leon's stomach. Those eyes were the same; like black coffee. "Surely, you were, no?"

"Eventually." Though he had been hung from the side of a cliff. And, because Luis was chuckling warmly, he pressed on, "How'd you get out of the castle?"

"Can I not keep a secret? Seem more mysterious?"

Leon raised an eyebrow. "Was it Ada?"

"If it was?"

He'd seen those emails. He knew they were working together. At the time, he hadn't even felt betrayed. It had explained everything; it had seemed inevitable. Only hurt as much as poking an old bruise. Luis' answer confirmed his theory.

Leon nodded.

There was a pause. They both took another sip. This thing sat between them. The thing from the tunnels. The flirting. That Leon had said they’d continue from there. This was the offer, returning.

"The senorita?"

"Home safe. You knew that."

"Por sorpuesto. What I do not know is if you still see her?"

She'd asked Leon to work for her. He thought about that, and how he'd known he couldn't. It would be like keeping a wolf for a pet. Still, "We said we'd meet, every month, for lunch."

Because he liked Ashley. She was sweet girl and she'd been through hell with very minimal complaining. Because he'd enjoyed spending time with her even when there was the imminent threat of death, so it would probably be even better when they weren't about to be killed.

"Ah, very sweet." And it seemed to answer Luis question. There was nothing there. She was a little sister to him.

Leon thought about saying that she'd like to see Luis too. She probably would. But they weren't here to talk about Ashley. He took another swig, and waited for Luis to get to the point.

"So, you learn your first aid skills before or after the..." He waved his hand to Leon's midriff. He couldn't help glancing down the bar, as if the men down there would know what they were talking about.

"You're not funny," Leon said. Paused. "The...happened just a few weeks into training."

"You were the black sheep, eh?"

"The kid who just graduated from the police academy dropped into the special forces by the president himself?” Leon swilled the amber liquid around the glass. “I fit right in."

Luis chuckled. His shoulder nudged Leon's, and he found himself nudging back. He still felt that spark. That hadn't changed. Luis thought he was sexy, because of that damn tattoo. And Leon still found himself attracted to him; to the smirks and glinting eyes and smell of cigarettes and leather.

"What about you?" Leon asked. Couldn't believe he was asking. He supposed he wasn't as scared of the answer now. "What about – Umbrella?"

Luis did pause then, and it gave him a jolt of satisfaction to not be the one on the backfoot, for once. He took a swig of his drink, and rolled it around his mouth. "You really want to know?"

Leon knew he should say yes. It could be important in figuring out their next move; what Ada was up to. But he also didn't want to know. It was acknowledging that, by all accounts, he shouldn't have trusted Luis in the first place.

"Suppose not," Leon said. "So, why'd you ask me here?"

"You and I both know why I asked you here, sancho."

Was he really still the sancho? It seemed like Luis was only saying it to irritate him. He wouldn’t rise to it. Not this time.

Leon finished his drink. It still burnt his throat on the way down, and sounded much too loud when he put it back on the wood of the bar. He looked at how the dingy, yellow light reflected on the rim. He did know. He was the one who'd suggested it. A night together; forget Umbrella and the military; forget the Plaga and the zombies. Still, now that the proposition was in front of him, he felt – oddly self-conscious. Too aware of what Luis was here for, and what he was expecting from Leon.

Not that he would ever say any of that.

He leant his chin on his palm, instead, and raised an eyebrow at Luis. Like he was unbothered. “That all, huh?”

Luis' dark eyes sparked back at him. He still smirked, letting his gaze graze over Leon. His skin prickled at the attention. “That’s all.”

Leon raised an eyebrow in return. Looked pointedly at the glass in Luis' hand. His smirk widened. He finished the drink, tossing the golden liquid back. His Adam's apple bobbed with the motion.

Leon's stomach squeezed in answer.

He still waited. Knew that he could say no and walk out. But he didn't. The more he sat with this man, even now the tide of relief had subsided, the more that attraction – that pull – was back. The more he did want to see where this went.

Luis stood, untangling himself from the stool. He stepped past Leon, fingers just grazing the back of his shirt, as he passed. Just over where the tattoo was.

Leon followed. Like a dog, he supposed. Tried to walk casually, though his heart was pounding in anticipation. Back out of the bar, and down the street. It was a warm evening, with a light breeze.

Luis lit a smoke, as soon as he was outside, and Leon tried not to watch him too greedily. But it was captivating; the way the smoke curled from between his lips; the uncaring way he took a drag. The way car headlights made his skin bronze, when they passed.

They paused, after Luis had stubbed it out under his boot, and when they were stood in front of a small hotel. A nice enough one, not the beat-up one around the corner.

"I have a room here for the night," Luis said. "I do not suppose you would like to join me?"

"For the night?"

"Si."

Leon pretended to think about it, as if there was any question. He'd met him at the bar, and that had been the answer from the start.

He smiled. "Sure."

As if he was unbothered. Tried to seem unbothered, as he followed Luis into the hotel and up the stairs. As if he wasn't fazed by the proposition; as if he did things like this all the time, when he was more used to gunfights.

The room was nice. Clean and white and comfortable. Leon closed the door by leaning against it with his back. Watched Luis flick on the bedside lamp, and look over his shoulder to find he hadn’t moved. His hair cast shadows over his skin; a curl sat just over the curl of his jaw.

Luis smiled, a dark eyebrow twitching up. "You alright, bello?"

Leon nodded. The monsters suddenly seemed easier to deal with; his body knew how to shoot a gun. Knew how to start with that; didn’t realise he’d forgotten how to start this.

Luis chuckled, under his breath, and stepped forward. Like he could see right through him. "Plaga infested castle, and yet you're nervous of me?"

"I'm not nervous," Leon said.

Luis' hands grazed his hips, palming the shape of them, and Leon pressed into the touch. Ran his hands over Luis' wrists, taking a breath.

"Of course you're not." Luis' voice was like a purr. His hands lifted higher, just raising the hem of Leon's shirt. His fingers brushed bare skin, and Leon thought about those hands on that gun of his – pressed further forward. Hated that he paused there.

Luis chuckled, and closed the gap. Kissed him confidently – firmly – and Leon let his mouth fall open; let Luis’ tongue press against his. His hands slipped to Luis' back, his fingers splayed over his leather jacket. He could smell it, underneath the smell of his cigarettes, and it made him heady. Luis pressed closer; a leg slipping in between his, just as firmly.

His breath caught.

Luis nipped his bottom lip, as he pulled away; just a hair's breadth. "Been a minute, huh?"

He nodded. Was it really so obvious? "Don't get a lot of time for…"

Luis' leg shifted and he felt a spear of arousal. He was being teased, and he should hate that; should hate Luis' soft chuckle in response. Should hate the soft way he kissed the corner of his mouth.

"You are not beating them off with a stick?" Luis brushed Leon's hair from his face, his fingers lingering over his jaw. "Truly?"

"What about you?" Leon asked, because that was easier. Easier than thinking about how it felt impossible to get close – truly close – to anyone, after Raccoon City. His lips grazed Luis' stubble. "Don Quixote?"

Luis only chuckled again; perhaps he had the same problem. He kissed at the hollow of Leon's jaw, teeth grazing skin, and Leon pressed him closer. Buried his hand in those dark curls, and kept him there. Luis' leg shifted again, and he felt another curl of heat. It was a relief when his shirt was tugged high, just under his ribs, because he was warm. Very warm.

Luis' hands moved over his waist, his fingers pressing over where the tattoo sat. It sent sparks dancing across his skin, and he pressed down against Luis' leg. Felt, rather than heard, a moan against his neck. His fingers tightened in those dark curls, breath catching.

He let Luis peel his shirt off, if only because it gave him the chance to catch hold of Luis' leather jacket, ready to ease it off.

Luis caught his wrists before he could. Tugged it free himself, and stepped away. It left Leon pressed against the door, feeling needy for that warmth again, his heart racing. He watched Luis place the leather jacket over the chair in the room, reverently, even though Leon's own shirt was in a puddle on the floor.

"Seriously?" he asked.

Luis looked over his shoulder at him. He didn't let himself look over his body; at how he could see the shape of his chest and waist now. He raised his eyebrows. "This jacket is a work of art. She should be treated with respect, alright?"

Leon raised his eyebrows back, crossing his arms. It felt like a shield; he couldn't decide if he wanted one or not. Because he wanted this; was attracted to Luis, was already aroused. But the skin on his back was prickling, and he still felt too aware of himself.

Luis laughed. He stepped forward again, and Leon did glance down him, now. Had the satisfaction of seeing the bulge in the front of Luis' jeans, and knowing he was not alone.

"No need to be jealous," Luis murmured, tracing his fingers over Leon's arms. Just lightly enough to raise the hair there.

"I'm not jealous of a jacket." Though he still stared at said jacket. It was easier than those dancing, black coffee eyes.

Those hands untangled his arms. Gently. He let them fall. Let Luis' fingers nudge his chin back to face him, his thumb rubbing over his chin.

"Very sweet," Luis murmured, looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

"I'm not sweet." But his hands were catching Luis' waist again, and he was pressing away from the door. The air-con was cold on his skin.

"Si." Luis' fingers brushed his hair back again, even as he guided him across the room, walking backwards. "Not nervous and not sweet."

"Shut up."

Luis lifted his chin up, smirking. "Why don’t you make me?"

Leon tugged them flush against each other, crashing their mouths together. Heard a satisfied sound from Luis as he kissed him back; pushing his tongue against Leon's. He carded a hand through the back of Leon's hair, another feeling his bare shoulder. He was busy exploring under Luis' own shirt. His skin was warm; soft, his back arching against Leon.

He lost track. There was only Luis' mouth and tongue and heat against him. Only his hands grazing over Leon's bare skin, and his heart racing in his chest. Then Luis was tugging him down onto the bed, and they were creasing the tight, white sheets with their weight. He tugged Luis' shirt free - he wasn't so reverent about that - and pressing their bare skin together. It increased that heat, between them. Luis' arms looped around his neck; he kissed over his cheekbone. Grazed his teeth there and Leon let out a soft sound. Felt Luis smile against him.

"Shut up," he said, again.

Luis lay back on the sheets, under him, dark curls spreading across the white.  His teeth flashed when he smiled. "I did not say anything."

Which he didn't. Leon still wanted to frown at him, though. Because he looked very handsome on those sheets, and it was making his heart stutter; because it was better than being soft. He couldn’t start being soft.

"Still," Leon repeated.

Luis chuckled, his knees pressing into Leon's hips. He bit his lip.  Held out until Luis' nails dragged up his sides; it sent a spear of heat through him, and he hated that a whine came from the back of his throat.

His cheeks burnt. He kissed Luis, forcefully, so that he didn't have the chance to say anything about it. Nipped at Luis' bottom lip and felt his fingers dig into Leon's skin. Kissed over the stubble of his jaw; it scratched his nose and mouth, and he loved that feeling. That feeling made his face tingle.

"Here," Luis murmured into the soft skin of Leon's neck. His hands pushed his chest. Leon resisted, for a moment, just to show that he could. Let Luis turn him over – his back hit the sheets – and settle over him. Their hips pressed against each other and the friction of their jeans made Leon's breath hitch. Fingers traced down his chest, slowly; teasing again. "Let me take care of you, bello."

His voice was so soft, like a purr, that he gave in. That he tangled his fingers in Luis’ curls again, and let him kiss his throat and collarbones as he eased his jeans open.  Paused, just after he did, pressing a palm against the interested bulge there. Leon's hips bucked against it – he tightened his free hand in the sheets.

Luis pressed a chaste kiss against his chest. It felt like a reward. Luis was the sweet one, but he didn't have the breath to tease him about that. Could barely think when those long fingers were tugging him free of his pants. Were twisting around him artfully; well-practised. He bucked his hips into the touch on instinct, desperate for the touch.

Luis shushed him, still gentle. Thumbed over the head of his cock and Leon saw stars. Tangled his fingers in more of those dark curls. He pressed his mouth into Luis' shoulder, and felt Luis' hand tug in reaction. Firmly.

"Goddamn," Leon gasped.

 "You really are happy to see me, eh?" His hand was still moving. Not firmly enough to create real friction. Just enough to get him to want more.

"Better here - than - those tunnels," he managed to reply.

Luis laughed, and it seemed genuine. His touch paused, and that felt like torture. Leon's hips raised upwards, and he took hold of the bedframe behind him to help angle himself.

"Oh, I don't know," Luis murmured. "It had atmosphere, no?"

If Leon had any breath left, he would have laughed. But Luis' thumb rubbed over that spot again, and his breath came as a sharp hiss. He tightened his thighs against Luis' hips, hating that smile. He gritted his teeth.

"You're gunna – either have to – stop that," he managed to say. "Or - finish."

Luis stilled his hand, tilting his head to one side. "You don't think you can go twice?"

His neck felt flushed. "Been a minute."

And he just knew, from Luis' dangerous smile, he thought that was sweet. Bastard. But he did let go of him, undoing his own jeans. Leon shifted lazily, kicking the rest of his off; kicking his shoes off, even as he burned. Should still feel self-conscious, but his body had warmed up now. Now his mind felt half-drunk on this intimacy. On Luis Serra's soft, soft voice murmuring that he'd take care of him.

"The bedside drawer," Luis murmured. Kicking their clothes from the bed. Their shoes landed in a collection of thumps. Leon didn't let his gaze linger on the scar; the tight, raised rope across his chest. He turned his attention to the drawer, pulling the bottle out.

Paused.

"What was your idea of how this would go?"

Their legs were still tangled, and Leon was still throbbing with need, but it had subsided enough to think a little more clearly.

Luis' hand shifted up his side, and Leon bit his lip to stop from sighing. "You'd let me choose?"

Yes, because it was easier than saying it himself. Leon shrugged. "You saved my life."

Luis kissed him, open-mouthed. Stayed there to murmur, "You saved mine."

"Still." Still, he was aware that his back was against the sheets. Aware that Luis liked the tattoo there, and he liked that Luis liked it. Made it feel like it wasn't a mistake.

But he couldn't articulate or admit that. Absolutely not.

“I said I’d take care of you.” Luis' black coffee eyes glinted at him, in the low light of the bedside lamp. He leant closer, until his lips were just grazing the shell of Leon's ear. "I thought about watching those wings of yours take flight."

His stomach clenched, and he dug his fingers into Luis' skin. It gave him away, even if he said, "That can be arranged."

Luis saw through him. Of course he did. He chuckled, and nipped Leon's earlobe. It sent a spark through him. He dropped the bottle, breath burning his throat.

"Oh, gracias, senior," Luis murmured. He caught the bottle, flicking it open and squeezing it over his fingers. "So kind of you."

"Screw you." But Leon's hips raised, ready, his core throbbing.

Luis actually winked. "Oh, we will get to that, do not worry."

Leon opened his mouth to snap back; just as Luis slipped a finger inside him. His breath stuttered out, instead. He closed his eyes, so he didn't have to see that smug, satisfied smirk. He rode that spear of pleasure, tangling his legs around Luis', and tugging him closer by his dark curls. Nipped at Luis' shoulder as he started to move. A steady, easy pace. Taking care of him. He felt like he was going to burst.

Luis' breath was hot against his throat. His breath rumbled, as he murmured, "Hey, hey - look at me?"

A thumb traced a line under his eye. It was a huge effort. Especially because Luis was still moving; Leon's hips twitched in that rhythm, seeking more. But he did. Was rewarded with a wide smile; his teeth flashing in the low lamplight.

"That's my boy."

He tugged Luis' mouth to his own to try and disguise the whine that came out of him at that. It wasn't successful, he felt Luis' chuckle against him. Even as he pressed another finger in.

Leon felt like he was coming undone. Watched the light glinting in Luis' dark eyes; the way his curls twitched as he moved; that soft smile as he worked; as he started to unravel him. He hung on to the bedframe behind him, blood roaring in his ears. Heard his own voice whine out, "Luis…"

Luis kissed him, softly, as a response. Continued moving; curled his fingers and Leon cried into his mouth. He felt clenched; primed like a bomb.

"Luis – I need—"

"What do you need?" Luis murmured.

"Dammit." He could barely think of words; and especially the words he knew would get him what he wanted. Did want that.

“Tell me.”

"You."

And he even got the strength to meet his eye, even as he fought for breath, his chest heaving. It was like a fight, and he was losing. Fine, he’d lose, if he could get some relief. If he could get another spear of that fantastic pleasure.

Luis brushed the hair from his face. His fingers sparked, where they touched. "Dios mio, you're…"

His hand stilled. It gave Leon enough of his mind back to ask, "What?"

“Here,” Luis murmured. His hands found Leon's hips again, thumbs digging against the bones. Eased him round, and Leon obliged. He thought he'd do anything Luis told him, if he’d make him feel this good. His knees sunk into the sheets and his need felt even worse; even heavier; in this position.

A good worse, he thought, as those hands felt over his waist; his hips; his ass. He heard Luis' moan, and looked over his shoulder, through his hair. It was actually nice to see Luis look flustered; a dark blush on his throat.

"Everything you wanted?" His voice came out low; rough. Because the tattoo would be full on show, now. Luis would have a view of it, like a black flag, just between his hip bones.

Luis' fingers tightened. "Oh, and more, amore."

Leon had to let his head fall back onto the pillows, catching hold of the sheets. It was the soft way he said it; the way his fingers grazed over his thighs, getting the downy hair to stand on end.

Teasing.

"Luis."

"Si, si, patience." He had to wait for another caress, shifting his head so that he could still see Luis’ out of the corner of his eye, before he finally felt Luis pressing into him. He keened, arching into it, and heard an answering sound from Luis. He wondered how the tattoo moved with the motion. His hands steadied him, as he began moving. Much too slowly.

It was lightning. It sent a wave of heat and desire through him at every move. Leon bit the side of his hand to stop from mewling like a cat. It was just the right side of overwhelming; especially when he was already so aroused. When his own cock burnt between his legs, and he didn't think Luis would even need to touch him there.

"Hey – hey—" Luis' breath was heavy, by his ear. His curls tickled between his shoulder blades, and just that sent shivers over his back. Kept moving, his pace increasing, just a little. "Can I hear?"

Leon made a sound of protest. Squeezed his eyes shut. His teeth made a dull ache on his hand; if he wasn't careful, he would break the skin.

Luis paused. A shaky hand brushed Leon's hair back from his face; grazed his wrist. "Hey – Prince Charming?"

Maybe it was the nickname; the nickname made him feel like he was floating. He did pull his hand away then, his breath so heavy it hurt his ribcage; burnt his throat like fire. "Don't stop. Please."

Maybe Luis planned to tease him again. Surely he did. But instead he kissed at the join of his shoulder, his tongue scraping there, his teeth nipping. Leon whined, and the fingers on his wrist tightened.

It was embarrassing. It was embarrassing for Luis to hear him; it was easy to give in, when he was being so soft. When him being soft made him realise he liked this; liked Luis wanting to hear him. When his whine was answered with Luis moving twice as fast as before. When he heard Luis' answering sounds, from above him.

The embarrassment added to it.

He bucked his hips, chasing that friction and that fire, and wondered if the tattoo was flying like Luis had hoped. From the fingers pressing into the hips, he thought so. He braced his forearms on the bed, his hair back in his face, staring at the lamp with blurred vision. He matched Luis' rhythm. Beat it, and Luis' gave a long, low moan.

"Bueno," he murmured. Dipped his head to kiss at Leon's shoulder. "Muy bueno - my good boy. My good, good boy."

If he was in his right mind, he would snap that he wasn't Luis' boy. His mind had left him, entirely, though. Instead, it sent a spike through him. Luis' boy.

If Luis made him feel like this, he would be Luis' boy.

He would only whimper a string of his name, twisting his fists in the sheets. Letting Luis hear every embarrassing sound.

"You can let go." Luis' mouth moved against his shoulder blade, his hands firm on his hips. "Let go, Leon."

He did; as Luis thrusted into him again. Cried out, and Luis answered as he finished. Leon fought for breath, as he came. The heat and the need subsided, and his mind could only fizz, like a disconnected wire. His strength gave out, and he fell against the sheets. Felt Luis over him, their skin burning where they brushed each other. Felt his dark curls against his back. Felt his hand search for Leon's, and fit over it. Squeezed. He felt his heavy breath; felt the movement of his stomach and chest as he recovered.

"Dios mio," Luis whispered again.

Leon took a heavy breath. Managed to murmur, "You can say that again."

Luis chuckled. Kissed at the hollow of his jaw and Leon made a soft sound in response, words failing. His hands found Leon's hips again, as he eased himself free, and it sent another whine from his throat; he couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or pain anymore. He shifted. Suddenly, it was hard to keep his eyes open. His energy had drained.

And yet, his mess was all over the sheets; over himself, now that he’d fallen into them. He was uncomfortable, and he needed to make himself move. He caught the back of Luis' neck, as he tried to get upright, and pulled him down for another kiss, his lips clumsy.

He searched for the right words through his misty brain. "You're – fantastic."

He felt Luis smile.

"Oh, I try.”

*

Luis was smoking.

Leon didn’t see how he even had the energy to sit upright, after that. He’d barely had enough energy to shower; to get rid of the messy sheets. He lay back, under fresh sheets, his energy drained. He watched Luis’ profile; he’d tied his hair back, so only a single dark curl fell by his ear. Watched his lips around that cigarette, and swore he could still feel them on his shoulders; his neck.

His heart wasn’t racing, but it still thudded heavily in his chest. His mind couldn’t do much more than spark, and it was an effort to keep his eyes open.

Luis glanced at him sideways. “Turned into Sleeping Beauty now, eh?”

“Shut up.” But he didn’t have the energy to move properly. He flapped an arm at Luis, and he chuckled. It was that charming chuckle that made his stomach twist.

His mind went on a tangent, because of that chuckle. Imagined if they were both normal; if he’d really been just a cop; if he’d gone on vacation to Spain, one time. If he’d met this Spaniard and had a fling with him. Just a fling. Without any of the complications of his job, or Umbrella.

Luis looked down at him, properly, his cigarette still between his fingers. The smoke curled in a ribbon, towards the ceiling. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah.” Leon wasn’t about to share that fantasy. The beers in the sun and the cool of the pool after a humid heat and the soft romance of it all. That would be too much. “I’m good.” He paused. “I’m beat.”

It was a poor choice of words and Luis’ smirk let him know that. He raised an eyebrow, but maybe he was tired too, because he didn’t make a joke. His eyes were soft.

“Your problem is you’re too tense.”

That was probably it. His muscles felt loose; like he’d just finished a workout. Completely drained, but in the best way.

“I wonder why,” he replied. Stretched a little, just to enjoy the ache in his muscles. It had been a minute, and he liked that it was Luis Serra who broke that streak. “Aren’t you?”

Luis raised his cigarette, twisting it slightly, and Leon chuckled. That was one way not to be tense.

He brushed his hair from his face – it was still damp from the shower – and kept his arm up, as Luis stubbed out his smoke on the ash tray. The smell lingered. The window was open, just slightly, just enough to get a breeze to catch the drapes. It was truly dark outside, now, only an amber streetlight outside fighting against the indigo blackness.

Leon listened to the roll of the cars passing. It was soothing. If cars were passing, that meant the city was still alive. He always slept easier knowing that; when he slept at all; guessed that was probably another reason why he was so wiped now.

Training had been harder. The deep breathing of other people sleeping was too much like the constant heaves and groans of those things in Raccoon City. Leon wasn’t letting himself think about how it would be to sleep next to Luis. He’d embarrassed himself enough, without having a night terror.

Embarrassed himself enough.

Damn, he had. Had mewled and whined and wanted Luis to call him good boy again. He bit his lip, frowning as though that would help soften the memories.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Luis said. His leg nudged Leon’s. “I am trying not to be worried, but…”

Leon shook his head, like that would be enough. Another car came by, the white lights illuminating the room for a moment.

A hand nudged his arm down. Gently. If he really wanted to, he could resist. If he really wanted to, he could start an argument about it. Deflect. Instead, he let Luis nudge his arm down. Looked up at him, and his dark eyes were soft, and searching. That made it worse; that he really cared.

He twisted his lip between his teeth, to feel the sting. “It’s not you.”

A dark eyebrow twitched higher; that wasn’t enough of an answer. Leon took a breath. Shrugged, and even his shoulders ached. “I just – guess they were right about me.”

“Because of the tattoo?”

Leon found himself smiling, just a little. “Must be a slut, right?”

Luis shifted. Lay down, on his side, so that they were on the same level. So their legs brushed against each other’s and he felt a rush of warmth. Luis traced the line of his collarbone.

“I did not think you would be bothered by what anyone says about you.”

“I’m not.” It was automatic. Just like not being nervous. Not being sweet. He reached up, twisted that dark curl around his finger. Easy to be intimate, now. “But some things – stick.”

They stuck when Krauser insisted on calling him pretty boy, with his mouth twisted like it was swearing. They stuck when he was trapped in basic training, and the comments were constant.

Luis’ hand settled over his chest. Could he feel his heartbeat? “And you know why they said that, don’t you?”

“Are you going to tell me it’s because they fancied me?”

“Maybe they did.” And when Leon rolled his eyes, Luis kissed him. Slowly. “Maybe they were jealous.”

Leon snorted. He got another kiss for that, Luis holding his chin steady. He tangled his fingers in Luis’ hair, his stubble rubbing against his mouth. That was a cliché, and it didn’t help wash the words away.

“Then they’d probably be jealous of you right now,” he murmured.

“Ah, of course.” Luis’ tongue traced over his bottom lip. “Then, I count myself a lucky man.”

Leon did laugh, genuinely, and that seemed amazing, just after feeling like that. That Luis could distract him. His hand trailed down, over his neck. His finger just grazed that spot. That raised scar. His heart stilled.

Luis shifted his wrist, moving his hand away, and it subsided the panic again. He pressed closer, barely pulling his face away. That was fine. Leon stared into those dark eyes. Luis was a lucky man. He was lucky, because he was here, with him.

“You know, I take it all as a compliment,” Luis continued. Leon pushed his chest in protest; immediately slipped a hand around to the small of his back to pull him closer, because Luis was alive. “I know you are having a good time, you know?”

“And did you?” Did he see those wings moving?

“They do not know what they are missing.” Luis murmured something in Spanish, too low and too fast for Leon to make out. He only registered another long, slow kiss, and felt his remaining energy draining from him. Wanted to stay here, in Luis’ arms, where he didn’t have to unpack any more of those feelings.

He suspected he would have to, in the morning. He suspected he’d remember and they’d have a similar conversation all over again. Maybe he’d even have to say more. Leon closed his eyes. He was allowed to keep them closed, this time.

“I’m really glad…” he murmured, already feeling himself slipping away. Another car passed. The city was still alive. “I met you, tonight.”

A mouth pressed against his forehead.

“Me too, mi corazon.”

[turnupswritessometimes]

Ricordami - Lies of P - P/Romeo - Ch4

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56555755/chapters/143738143

Summary: P decides to repair the king of puppets. It sends him on a journey to discover what happened to Carlo and Romeo - and to discover whether puppets can love, after all.

First | Previous | Next

4

They went out together. One night, P and Romeo walked out of the opera house and onto the streets of Krat. They fought the puppets who roamed the streets; the puppets who didn't heed their king any longer. Some were infected with the petrification disease; their joints jammed with carcass fluids. They couldn’t delay much longer – he would have to go into the Barren Swamp soon.

P had known Romeo was a good fighter; had fought him personally, even in this body; but it was different, fighting alongside him. Watching him move with such grace as he welded the weapon P had forged for him. Not quite the splendid sword he'd once had, but – enough.

It felt right, to be with him, like this. His Ergo hummed in response to fighting alongside someone it knew.

"I fought alongside the cat and fox," he told Romeo, as they stood with discarded puppets around them. Puppets that weren’t like them, P reasoned; these puppets were still trapped without their egos. They were still dangerous. "But this is different."

"The cat and the fox?" Romeo echoed. He wiped his blade on his trouser leg, and left a smear of oil there. He still wore the old Monad Charity House uniform. It made his hair was bright as a beacon.

"They're stalkers. Or were." P flicked Gemini on, to see better in the darkness. "They couldn't come with me far. The Cat's leg was bad."

Romeo looked at him for a moment. Then he gave a short laugh. "I think they tricked you."

"Why would they do that?" It didn't make sense. They'd been going his way too. They had helped him, at least a little. What reason would they have to lie?

"Because you're—" Romeo stopped himself. He took a breath, and squeezed P's shoulder. "Because you're kind."

"Was – he?" Was Carlo?

"Sometimes. He could be." Romeo let him go. Continued down the alley they were stalking. "I think he used to be, and I think he wanted to be, but he also thought the world was unfair. That made him reluctant to be." "Are you?"

Romeo looked back. His eye glowed red, in the dim light. "I wanted to be."

That seemed just as much of a riddle to P. They continued. They fought. They hunted. Until they came upon a chunk of Ergo bigger than P's fist. It shone like a streetlight; like a miniature moon.

They both cradled it, together. This would be the last piece of the puzzle, P thought. There wasn't much more left to the story. They'd both wanted to know, but now they stood, hesitant, with the Ergo. Neither of them were ready for that final memory.

"Back at the theatre," Romeo said. P nodded. Followed him back down the abandoned streets. This, he thought, was what they'd both wanted, once. Not just to know about the memories. Before that – in the charity house – they’d wanted to be together, a team, on the streets of Krat, only there was no one else to save, now. No chance of being Stalkers any longer. The city was destroyed.

They sat opposite each other, in the big chairs Romeo had used for the performance. They'd been pulled so close that the wooden legs touched each other.

P met Romeo's gaze. Romeo stared back, with his mismatched eyes.

The Ergo hummed between them, the blue reflecting on their hands; on Romeo’s smooth skin.

"Whenever you're ready," Romeo said.

P raised his eyebrows. "Are you?"

It got him a small smile. He suspected it was because it reminded him of Carlo. He really didn’t know if he wanted to delve into Carlo's mind once more. It was becoming harder and harder to separate the two of them. But he’d promised Romeo he would discover what happened to them, because Romeo was his friend. So he would.

P nodded. He adjusted his grip on the Ergo.

They crushed it, together.

*

Carlo was still sick. He still coughed until his handkerchief was splattered with blood. Still felt feverish. Still felt his organs beginning to turn to stone. His hand had been sacrificed in vain. He didn't tell Geppetto that. He didn't need to. His father could see that for himself, even if he wouldn't acknowledge it. It was only in the sad look of his eyes, the tightening of his mouth.

"I have something to show you."

Geppetto said it, when he'd deemed that Carlo was recovered enough from surgery. When he was strong enough to sit and stand on his own. He didn't look down at his left hand; his lack of a left hand, which his father had hated him using.

Carlo didn't want to see; he didn't care for anything his father would show him; but there was little else to do now, in his father’s house. So he slipped out of bed. He followed his father down the corridors of the house, silently. Down to his workshop. His stomach clenched.

His father paused, before they went in. He brushed the hair from Carlo's face, where it had fallen lankly forward. Carlo flinched away. There was a pause. His father didn't try again. Instead, he opened the door of the workshop.

There was a puppet sat in the workshop chair.

That was not unusual, but Carlo's stomach swooped with a horrifying recognition. He knew that blonde hair. He knew that sleeping face. He knew the puppet sat there.

Rage flooded through him. It ignited in every part of him, as though he was doused in flames. The rage was so strong that, for a moment, he couldn't see anything at all. The puppet swam in and out of focus.

"Is this a joke?" he spat.

"Of course not." And, God help him, his father was serious about that.

Carlo looked at him. He felt twisted with hatred. "You're sick."

"Permit me a moment to explain."

"You think you could replace him? That if it looked enough like him, then the real thing wouldn't matter?" Carlo shouted. It made his throat sing in pain. He had to stop to cough, backing away from his father's comforting hand. "It won't be him! It could never be him!"

His shout echoed off the workshop walls, following by his desperate coughing. The silence that followed was even worse. The P still watching from somewhere inside Carlo didn’t want to see anymore” He thought he knew the rest, and he didn’t want to hear it.

"But it is," Geppetto said.

"Liar!" Carlo managed to choke out.

"No, son." His father didn't try to hold him, again. He stepped toward the puppet instead. "You see, I've discovered it. The secret of Ergo."

Carlo spat blood into his handkerchief. He leant against the wall, his strength sapped. "Really?"

"I suspected, I've always suspected, but now I'm sure. Now that puppet's Egos are waking up all over the city. Ergo isn't a rock. It's not a power source – not in the traditional sense, at least. Ergo comes from us. From life. It's a life source. It holds souls."

Carlo felt sick. He wiped his mouth with the handkerchief, no doubt smearing blood over his cheek. His mind half-guessed at what all this meant, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. He wanted it to stay slow with the effort of being sick.

"The puppets have Egos, because they are remembering their previous lives," his father continued. "So? Don't you see? If you collect the Ergo, you can still use that person's life." Carlo stared. He looked from Geppetto's face – full of a manic joy – to the blank puppet he stood next to. Romeo. No. No. Everything in him was repulsed by the idea.

"You said you'd save him." His voice sounded very distant to himself.

"He had already passed, when I arrived," Geppetto said. His watery eyes flicked up to Carlo, and he felt a chill grip his spine with icy fingers. "But I did tell you I would help him. However I could."

"He's – he's..." Carlo's mind spun with fever. "Lampwick's in there."

It wasn't a question; it was a terrible, sickening truth.

"Yes." Geppetto smiled. "Though, truthfully, I have not started the puppet yet. We won't know for certain it's worked, until then."

Carlo shook his head. The room rose and fell with the movement, the puppet in the chair a pale blur. Romeo was dead, he told himself, as much as it splintered him in two. Romeo was dead, and he needed to mourn him. Not think about turning on that puppet.

The puppet wouldn’t be Romeo.

"Here," Geppetto said. "We'll start him up, together."

"No." The word ripped from Carlo's mouth. He snarled. "No. I refuse. No!"

He stumbled from the room. He didn't make it far. His heart was already overworking to keep himself alive, now it was racing with stress and fear and hatred. He fell to his knees in the hallway. Had to catch himself against the wall and scramble to his feet. He fled. From his father, still shouting after him. From the thing that he'd turned Romeo into.

Carlo had loved puppets. He'd loved watching puppets perform. It had been a delight. It had been a way to see his father, when he couldn't be bothered to show up at the Charity House. But puppets were – puppets. Tools. Performers. They were things which did as they were told, and they were marvellous for that.

They couldn't be people.

How would it feel to wake up inside a puppet? To realise you were a puppet?

To realise that you were bound by the Grand Covenant.

Romeo – his Romeo – his Lampwick – was bound by the Grand Covenant. If he was truly inside that shell.

When Carlo reached his rooms, he was sick. He retched into the bedpan, over and over, until only bloody spittle dripped down his chin. He had to twist his head into his shoulder to wipe it; his only hand was braced against the floor, keeping him upright.

 Geppetto followed him. Of course he did. And he rubbed that terrible hand on Carlo’s back as he struggled to breathe. Carlo couldn't push him away; he didn't have the strength; he didn't have the hand.

"I know it's surprising," his father said, his tone soft.

Carlo took a gulping, shuddering breath. He managed to look up at Geppetto, his hair sticking to his damp skin.

"If you ever do that to me," he said, his voice shaking. "I'll never forgive you."

*

Carlo woke to find his head resting against a chest. Romeo's chest. Romeo was holding him. His arms were around him; tight. And Carlo - P - shook. He was shaking as though he had a malfunction; perhaps there was; perhaps it was too much Ergo – too much stress.

"I think you're trying to cry," Romeo said, softly. Distantly.

P didn't move. He stayed pressed against him, his arms clutched in Romeo's shirt, his legs trailing onto the floor. Carlo's wish – his last wish – had been to not be a puppet. To not have his Ergo trapped. To not have his father bring him back, again.

Not like he had done to Romeo.

"I think..." Romeo paused. "I was an experiment. To see if it was possible. Before…before you."

P stared at the room of the theatre. The lights blurred into each other, and stung his eyes. "You think he always planned to do it."

Had he always known that Carlo was going to die? Had he tried to bring Romeo back first, just so see if it was possible? The prelude to his son?

"I think...Geppetto always loved puppets, more than he had people."

A puppet did as it was told, after all. His son would do as he was told. After all, Carlo's Ergo was inside P, and P had been obedient. He had done as his father had asked, without question. He had loved him.

Carlo had loved his father, once.

P still shook. Even when he got the strength to sit up. He took hold of Romeo's hands, and did not think too much about his legion arm. About the hand that his father had given him. Then he looked at Romeo, properly. He felt his gears jar.

"Your eye," he said. It was different. It was no longer the red puppet eye it used to be. It was the same as the other one. The same hazel, slightly green when it caught the light. Romeo untangled one hand, to trace over it, closing his eye. It was just like the necklace. He had changed. The memories had made him change.

Made them more human.

"Your hair." Romeo reached out a hand before P could check himself. He lifted a lock; it was the same length as before. This time, it was the colour that changed. The hair Romeo held was silver like stars. When he turned his head, he saw it was just that strand. A mark of Carlo's dismay and his grief.

Romeo looked back at him. His expression was stoic, but P saw something, in his eyes. Felt something, in the way he held his hands – he caught the other in his own, because it was easier than thinking about his changed appearance. Wondering whether he was becoming Carlo.

"I'm sorry," P said. His voice was strained. "I'm sorry for what he did. I'm sorry for what I told him to do."

"You didn't tell him to do that," Romeo replied, similarly cracked. "You didn't tell him to do this to either of us."

P shook his head. He brought the backs of Romeo's hands to his mouth, and kissed the knuckles. Even if they couldn't feel the same way, if it didn’t feel like it used to, then at least they understood the action. Understood the meaning behind it.

"You said you hated him, once," Romeo said. "Do you, now?"

P wasn't sure. Dimly, he realised that Romeo had said 'you,' and not 'Carlo,' and that P didn't correct him. But Carlo's visceral hatred, his disgust with his father, was mingling with his own affection he'd felt for Geppetto. Even then, he realised, there had been that nagging suspicion. Perhaps that had been Carlo. He wasn’t sure where either of them ended, anymore. He didn’t know if he wanted Romeo to, anymore. Perhaps Gemini was right about that.

"I don't know," he said. That wasn't a lie. "I don't know how I will face him."

Romeo tilted his head to one side, his lips quirking in a slight smile. He drew their joint hands back to himself, opening them to kiss P's palms.

"If you can lie," he said. "You can act."

P tried to smile back. He cupped Romeo's face instead, unable to look away from his mended eye. That had been Ergo. It had been because P was determined to find the truth. He had done that. Some good had come from the truth.

"Unless you want to do something more drastic?" Romeo asked.

Unless P wanted to attack Geppetto. He didn't think he could. There was still too much of P in him for that.

"He wants to save Krat," P said, slowly. He had believed that, and still wanted to believe that. "I believe that. But do you? Want to do something more drastic?"

"Will you fight against me if I do?"

Fight him again. Destroy him again, if he tried to destroy Geppetto?

P didn’t – couldn’t – reply immediately, because he was not entirely sure. Not anymore. P might, but he knew the Carlo in him wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure which was stronger, and he didn’t want to find out.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. That wasn’t a lie.

Romeo smiled. Nodded. Leant forward, and kissed P’s mouth. A soft, gentle movement that stirred his Ergo. He kissed him back.

And tried not to think about Geppetto. 

*

Sophia stopped him, when he came through the door of the hotel. She held a hand to his chest, her brows drawn together. He did stop. Her deep blue eyes examined him, and she looked concerned.

“What’s wrong, clever one?”

P looked at her. It was a struggle to breathe. “I remember.”

Her hand hovered over the lock of grey in his hair, but didn’t touch. “You remember?”

“I remember – Carlo.” He was starting to shake again, just at the memories. “And Romeo.”

“Romeo,” she echoed. “The name from the necklace.”

“The king of puppets.” He caught her wrist, gently, and brought it down. She made him calm and composed.

“I’m worried about you,” Sophia said. She hadn’t moved, to let him step around her. “I’m worried you’re going to do something you’ll regret.”

“I’m not going to do anything drastic,” P said, carefully. Not tonight, he thought.

Sophia must have caught something in his tone. She lowered her chin, narrowing her eyes at him. “Are you lying to me?”

He half-smiled, despite everything. He shook his head. “I don’t want to lie to you.”

She almost smiled back. She did take his hand, in both of her own, and squeezed it gently.

“But I have to see Geppetto,” he continued. He didn’t know what he was going to do, or say, but he needed to see him. He needed to look him in the eye and see his reaction.

For a long moment, he didn’t think Sophia would let him. She still examined him, as though he was about to go into a frenzy. Whatever she saw in his expression, it passed the test. She nodded, and stepped to the side.

It left him facing the stairs. They seemed more numerous than before; seemed like climbing a tower, instead of a couple of flights. Gemini glowed at his side.

“I’m sorry pal,” he said.

P traced his fingers over the lantern. The glow felt like an encouragement, and he certainly felt he needed it. He started upwards, taking every step carefully. When he reached the landing, Spring spotted him from where she sat on the side table. She chirruped at him, and P smiled, as stroked her.

He still took a breath, and a long pause, before he stepped through to Geppetto’s room.

His father sat at his desk, as usual, tinkering with machine parts. When he heard P’s footsteps, he looked up. He dropped the machine parts. A screw rolled across the carpet.

Geppetto stood, and crossed to him. His face was pale; aghast.

P didn’t move. His Ergo was stirring, and he felt a swarm of emotions wash over him. Hatred and loathing, but mixed with the same affection and love from before. He loved his father, but he hated him too. Even worse, he had a slight fear. What would his father do, if he crossed him?

“Son, what happened?” Geppetto asked. “Your hair. Who did this to you?”

“Myself,” he replied.

“There will be a way to fix this.” His father took hold of the grey lock, twisting it in the light. “I will fix this.” Then he realised what P had said, and frowned. “What do you mean, yourself?”

“It happened,” P said. It took a great deal of effort to control his tone. His words. “When I remembered.”

Geppetto frowned. “Remembered? What do you mean?”

“When I crush Ergo, I remember things. From before.”

Geppetto’s hands went to take his face, as tenderly and gently as they always did.

P stepped back. Sharply. Suddenly, he didn’t want to be touched by this man; couldn’t bear the thought of it. “I remember Carlo.”

His father jerked backwards, as though he had been slapped. He stared, his brow furrowed, and his chest heaving. “Who told you that name?”

Who had first said the name Carlo? When had he first heard it whispered?

“Romeo.”

“Romeo?” and Geppetto sounded angry, now. “How do you know anything about Romeo?”

“His necklace.” P found he didn’t want to lie. He wanted to tell the truth. He wanted to watch the words pierce his father; wanted to see his reaction to them. To realise what he had done. “The king of puppets had a necklace. Engraved on the back, it said ‘To Romeo. Your Friend C.’”

His father smiled, then. Indulgently. He did step forward, and said, “I believe you need rest, son. I said before. Even if you can’t sleep, your system needs time to configure itself. If you don’t, you get confused.”

Geppetto’s hand landed on his shoulder, and squeezed.

P didn’t move. He stared. “You tried to fix him. Carlo. You took his hand.”

His legion hand clenched on its own. He watched his father’s mouth tighten; watched the recognition spark in his eye. Still, he took P’s other shoulder. Pushed him back a step.

“Son, you need to sit.”

P shook his head, but there was a strange compulsion within him. He wanted to do what his father said – he’d always done what his father said, and that was easy. It made him feel safe. He wanted to. It was easier.

But—

“No.” He caught his father’s wrists. Not hard. “No. You took Romeo. You made him a puppet.”

Geppetto froze, again. He drew his hands away, breathing heavily. He brought one up, again, and brushed P’s hair lightly. The same way he would to Carlo. He hated it. He hated this man, he thought.

“Sit down, son,” he said, again. “And we’ll talk.”

He sounded so reasonable. So gentle. P didn’t want to talk. He didn’t know what he wanted to do – if he wanted to shout and scream, or lash out. He didn’t know if he could; if he was able to scream; if he was able to hit his creator.

His indecision decided for him.

He sat down, in the chair. That same chair he always sat in. He didn’t realise that he was so compliant.

And Geppetto knelt before him, as though he was speaking to a small child.

“I amputated Carlo’s hand to help heal him,” he said. “He asked me to save his friend, and I did. I only ever did what was best for Carlo. He was everything to me. He was my precious son.”

He. He was Geppetto's son. And the soft way in which he said it about Carlo made P realise it had only been used for him out of habit. He felt a dull hurt, at the same time as resignation. (That was from the Carlo side of him, he realised – of course his father would see him as less – why was he surprised? Why could his father still hurt him, even now?)

"But you have to understand..." Geppetto spoke slowly, now, slowly rose to his feet. P felt a creeping sense of danger; felt like when he could hear puppet footsteps further down the street; when he could hear springs, but couldn't see where they were coming from. Surely, he was wrong. "You are a puppet."

"I didn't want to be," Carlo said.

Geppetto blinked. Then his face twisted with anger. He caught P's chin in a harsher grip than he had before. His heart hammered.

"Don't." The word came out twisted like a gnarled tree root. "Don't pretend you are him. You're not."

He was. He was, and he wasn't. He was Carlo but he was also P, like two halves of a butterflies wing, joined in the middle by his body. He stared back at his father, watching the anger and confusion play out over his face.

"Stop looking at me like that."

It clinked into place as neatly as a spring; Romeo had been right. His voice stayed eerily calm – that was the P side of him.  

"Isn't this what you planned?" he asked. Still felt trapped, and still felt that sense of dread. "Lampwick was the experiment. When it worked, you tried it with me."

Geppetto let go of his face. Sharply. His head jerked back. There was a grim satisfaction in knowing he was right. That was the truth. It shouldn’t send him wheeling like it did. He sat in the chair, stunned, and watched Geppetto’s expression harden. He looked like stone.

"No," he said. "No, you're not Carlo. Not yet."

Not yet. It sounded like a threat. P wouldn't dream of hurting his father, but he suddenly knew he needed to be away – needed to get away – but he was trapped by the man over him. He couldn't get up without hurting his father.

And he didn't have the chance. He felt the shock through all of him; from the metal foot of the chair, the headrest, the arm rests. A sharp shock that took his breath. A shock his father had administrated. Panic flooded him, brightly, a sharp fear that he felt in his Ergo.

Felt his Ergo spark out – felt it call for Romeo!

Then his whole system short-circuited.

[turnupswritessometimes]

A Toast to the Roman - Last Binding Series - Oneshot

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56529883

Summary: “Mr Ross.” Shit, Robin’s Baronet tone was out – that was how Alan knew he was in trouble. “Did you sell pornography to my sister on an ocean liner?”

“In my defence—” He used his best, most clipped voice. “Your sister bullied me into selling her all the pornography I was carrying. And, if I didn’t sell it to her, I believe the fair lady would have stolen it.”

(In which, Robin discovers Alan sold Maud his porn stash, everyone discovers the identity of the Roman and Alan discovers he's responsible for helping start all of their relationships.)

Word Count: 3,473

A Toast to the Roman

It happened on a lazy Sunday afternoon. A lazy Sunday afternoon of a bank holiday weekend. Naturally, the bank holiday meant Maud had been invited back to the Blyth estate from University – and where Maud Blyth went, Violet Debenham followed. Then, because Robin was Robin, he extended the invitation to Lord Hawthorn, to, “make it something of a party.”

And, where Lord Hawthorn went, Alan Ross seemed to follow.

“That had been my idea – a friendly party,” Robin had said, when they’d arrived. He wore that bright, Baronet smile that was impossible to resist. “A reunion, of the Final Contract Crew.”

Alan smiled back, blankly. “The what?”

“Ignore him,” Edwin appeared from further down the hallway, his arms full of books. “I’ve told him, we’re not calling ourselves that.”

“We need a team name,” Robin said. “Don’t you think?”

Alan weighed that up – figuring out who else would be solidly against the idea of a team name, who would be for it, and which side would be for fun to be with – when Jack said, “This isn’t Oxford, Blyth.”

Robin only laughed. He stepped aside, and welcomed them properly into his house. Alan was starting to feel more and more at ease on these estates, and he didn’t know how to feel about that. Certainly didn’t like becoming accustomed to houses with their own grounds; changing for dinner; days without any plans to do real work. At least he still felt the same zeal to radicalise the staff. At least he would never tire of the way Jack looked at him when Alan did have the clothes to change to dinner: as though he wanted to rip them straight back off and kiss him completely senseless. It was the company – not just Jack, but all of them – that made Alan begrudgingly alright with the whole business. Because they were closer to him than simply friends now. It was like having a second family.

And it was a nice weekend – a good weekend – until Robin leant forward to move a pile of books from the coffee table in the lounge to make room for the chess set, and a purple pamphlet fell out.

There seemed, to Alan, a moment where time stopped, as everyone recognised it. (Purple, Alan thought almost hysterically, was not a very discreet colour.) They’d all been half-asleep in the sunshine drifting through the windows, lounging around, totally full of roast beef dinner with all the trimmings. Now, though, they were all awake. He took stock. Adelaide was (mercifully) in the garden. Maud sat in front of the armchair, legs folded under her, with an expression so carefully clueless it looped right round to guilty. Violet actually sat in the armchair, playing with Maud’s hair, an eyebrow raised and a slight smirk on her face. Entertained.

Both Edwin and Robin were sat on the sofa opposite Alan. Well, Robin was leant over, looking at the pamphlet as though it was a dog who’d slipped the leash and he was trying to catch it solely with his mind. Whilst Edwin was reclining, an elbow on the sofa, his fingers against his temples. He looked faintly sick.

Alan and Jack were on the other sofa. Not close – not practically on top of each other, the way Edwin and Robin always sat. Jack was a respectable distance away, though his arm was over the back of the sofa. If he twitched his hand, he could just graze the back of Alan’s neck – which he deliberately did now. His bad leg was outstretched, his cane against the end of the sofa. He looked impressively uncaring, but there was just a – quirk – to his mouth that showed his amusement.

Alan himself sat on the edge of the sofa, primed like a terrier, and he was desperately trying to school his expression into normalcy. He suspected he was succeeding as well as Maud. He felt nauseous. It was one thing to know that a lot of men had read his pamphlets; it was another thing entirely to come face to face with them – especially when he was good friends with them. Especially when he’d fought alongside them to save England’s magicians – England – the world?

“Ah,” Robin said. “That’s Win’s.”

Edwin’s usually colourless face flushed with pink. “Robin!”

“What?” Robin smiled, easily, and picked up the pamphlet. He still twisted it, to hide the title. “No one knows what it is.”

“Okay,” Alan said. He couldn’t help it. “Even if we all didn’t know what it is, that would only make us more suspicious.”

Jack’s pointer finger traced his neck, and he determinedly did not look at him. No doubt the bastard was smug and smirking. He hated him when he was like that.

“It truly is the guiltiest thing you could’ve said, Robin,” Violet added.

“In that case—” Edwin cleared his throat. “For the record, it’s not just mine.”

“Wait, no.” Now Robin stood, the books discarded, holding Alan’s fucking pornography aloft in one hand. “I can understand Hawthorn and Alan knowing about the Roman. I can even understand Violet. But I would like Maud to explain how she knows.”

Maud ducked her chin, smiling. It was the kind of smile that Alan suspected got her out of a lot of trouble growing up, and he could already see Robin start to relent.

“I happened to stumble upon his works, aboard the Lyric,” she said.

“How?” Robin pressed.

Maud, bless her, probably tried not to. But she couldn’t stop those bright green eyes from flicking to Alan. She might as well have pointed her finger and shouted.

Alan, knowing it was a show of guilt, still looked down. The back of his neck prickled, expecting a nudge from Jack. He didn’t, this time, not with Robin staring him down. It was not so much that their relationship was a secret, but they both seemed repelled by physical affection when other people were in the room. (Apart, of course, from longing looks and ‘accidental touches.’ Perhaps that was part of it.)

“Mr Ross.” Shit, Robin’s Baronet tone was out – that was how Alan knew he was in trouble. “Did you sell pornography to my sister on an ocean liner?”

Violet burst out laughing; Maud giggled; even Edwin hid a smirk behind his hand. Jack though, Jack watched Alan with those piercing blue eyes. He had one eyebrow ever so slightly raised, like a challenge.

Alan, though, wondered if it was a good time to bring up the fact that he’d betrayed them all to Edwin’s evil older brother, and made the whole Last Contract business a hell of a lot harder. Surely that would be a good distraction from selling a Baronet’s sister porn.

“In my defence—” He used his best, most clipped voice. “Your sister bullied me into selling her all the pornography I was carrying. And, if I didn’t sell it to her, I believe the fair lady would have stolen it.”

Maud cried, “That’s slanderous, Mr Ross!”

Robin, though, rolled his eyes, as though he wasn’t truly angry. “Maudie. You can’t bully people into selling you things.”

“In my defence—” Maud sat up, even straighter, her dark hair falling out of Violet’s grasp. It fell around her shoulders in a soft wave. “It made for the most amusing evening we had on that ship.”

“Oh, that’s very true,” Violet added, nudging Maud’s shoulder with her knee. Her smile was dazzling. “Who knew Lord Hawthorn would make such a good character in a Roman pamphlet?”

Robin’s eyebrows rose in interest, looking over them all. Even Edwin looked intrigued. They were both, no doubt, using their imagination, given their familiarity with the Roman’s work. Alan was regretting eating so many roasted parsnips, because they were surely going to be making a second appearance.  Even that would be preferable to them guessing at the intricacies of their relationship.

It didn’t help, of course, that Jack looked so calm about it all – so uncaring – so fucking smug, when he said, “Indeed.”

Alan wanted to bite him, like a cobra. Unfortunately, thinking about biting Jack; about pouncing on his neck and sinking his teeth in; also sent a sting of pleasure through him. Because, hell, when they were alone these days, they alternated between playing out the Roman’s greatest hits and coming up with the inspiration for the next one. Because hadn’t Jack been folded into each of those stories anyway? What was the point of pretending otherwise?

Robin, at least, seemed at a loss. He nodded. Took a breath. Tried, Alan thought, to still be the indulgent, carefree older brother he always was. He twisted the pamphlet in his hand, hitting it in his other palm. Eventually, he sat back down on the sofa. Edwin’s knee nudged his own, in support.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m not happy about it, but alright. That does explain my question. Thank you.”

Edwin rested his cheek on his knuckles, looking Alan over as though he wanted to study him. He decidedly did not like being the centre of attention in this way – it was even worse than being dressed in fine clothes and trotted out to dinner.

“I’m sorry, Robin,” he murmured, and tried to look suitably embarrassed. Really, his mind was thinking back to that night on the ship. Was placing bull horns on the sides of Jack Alston’s head. Would there be any way to convince him to play that part properly, one day? To hear him rumble ‘Cesare,’ in his ear, when he caught hold of him? When he lifted him bodily, as though he weighed nothing and had Alan completely at his mercy.

He had to shift, on the sofa.

Jack. Whose eyebrow raised a step further. Alan narrowed his eyes in reply.

“Allow me,” Jack said, in that low murmur. It was as much of a ‘please,’ as he could ever give. It was the fact that he asked at all, which cut through Alan’s core. The asshole wouldn’t give Alan’s secret away without his permission. Now that he thought about it, he did want to see their reaction.

He nodded.

“What?” Edwin asked, his tongue sharp and his eyes sharper.

Jack, bastard that he was, drew the moment out. Settled himself even further into the sofa, adjusting his leg again, and tilting his chin ever so slightly up in that lordly fashion.

“Books are best read by their authors,” Jack said. He pinched the back of Alan’s neck. Just enough to sting. He had to bite his tongue to stop from laughing. His cheeks bloomed with heat.

There was another moment. A long moment. Edwin looked faintly sick again, his face colourless, his eyes flicking from Alan to Jack. Robin had stopped moving entirely, a half-smile frozen on his face, as though he was expecting them to say it was all a joke. Maud, though, had her hands pressed to her mouth, and looked ecstatic. Violet had hold of Maud’s tresses again, and looked suitably impressed. It was as though Alan writing pornography earnt him more respect, in her eyes, than saving them all from crazy magicians.

Jack, though, Jack looked smug. His hand had stayed just against the back of Alan’s neck. It felt like a claim. Like he’d decided to undress Alan in front of the whole room, and, just like when Jack actually undressed him, it filled him with equal parts embarrassment and excitement. Because everyone in this room was somewhat acquainted with the Roman, and they knew what that implied. Weren’t just placing them both in one of those pamphlets, but confirming it for a fact.  

It should bother him more, that he’d exposed not only his own writing, but his own tastes. But, Maud had let slip too many details about her own love life to Alan – and Jack commiserated his pain from Violet’s chats – and from Robin and Edwin determinedly not looking at each other, he guessed they all had their own tastes. That, at least, meant none of them were alone.

“You don’t mean—” Robin started.

“You?” Edwin asked.

Alan grinned. He couldn’t help it. He opened his hands, his fingers splayed. It was different to admit it when he wasn’t teasing Jack Alston. (When he wasn’t trying to fuck Jack Alston.) It gave him a slight thrill, though, to have this knowledge over everyone. To know that even men like Robin, magicians like Edwin, read his work. And liked it.

From behind Maud’s hands came a delighted giggle. Her eyes shone like jewels. Alan looked at her. He couldn’t help it. He flicked his eyelid in a wink. She giggled more, ducking her chin.

Robin rubbed a hand over his face, laughing soundlessly, still seeming dazed. “But you’re—”

“Older than I look.” Alan leant back, into Jack’s hand. Felt his finger press against the bone of his neck. It sent warmth rushing down his back.

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” Jack said. Smug, and, if Alan wasn’t losing his mind, a little proud too. Jack Alston was proud of him. It shouldn’t make him feel like a dog with a bone.

Robin thumped back against the sofa. He still held the pamphlet, and he let it uncurl. Alan got a glimpse at the title; it was the latest. He was still a subscriber, then.

“Damn,” he said. His dark eyes roved over Alan again, and he felt his heart squirm. It was unfair how attractive Robin Blyth was. Doubly unfair that he was much too nice to be in any of Alan’s pamphlets. “You’re a skilled writer, Alan.”

Violet snorted. She finished tying off Maud’s plait. “Please – are you going to wax lyrical about his descriptive writing?”

“Well, it is descriptive.”

Edwin took a folded wooden chess set from the table, and tapped Robin’s leg with it in rebuke. Alan bit his tongue harder, a chill running down his spine by the fact that Jack’s hand was still on his collar.

“It might interest you to know, then,” Edwin said, casually, with just a single sly look at Alan. “That the Roman’s writings played somewhat of a role in Robin and I starting our relationship.”

He said it like a poker player placing a winning hand. It certainly felt like that. For a moment, Alan couldn’t breathe.

He supposed it made sense. After all, they’d all recognised the purple pamphlet here, didn’t they? It was a discreet way of asking if someone else was of a similar persuasion, and he was sure it happened a lot. But, still—

“Is there anyone here who is not in a relationship because of my bloody pornography?” he asked.

“That’s a fine discussion to be having.”

Saints alive, it was Adelaide. Back from the garden, and peering into the lounge. Alan wanted to shrivel up like a raisin on the spot, and never be heard from again, especially with the way she was looking at them all. Thank God for the Blyths, and their infectious laughter. It dissolved most of the awkwardness in the room.

Adelaide looked at them all. She shook her head, and said, deliberately, “I will be reading in my room, if anyone needs me.”

“I’m sorry you had to overhear that,” Robin spoke for the group.

She shook her head again, and disappeared. It left them all looking at each other like guilty children. At least Adelaide’s appearance had knocked some of the smug from Jack’s expression. Alan sat back a little, on the sofa, and felt another possessive graze of touch on the back of his neck. It had answered his question. At least Robin finally had the sense to put the pamphlet back between the books, and pile them up underneath the table, and Edwin had busied himself in setting up the chess board. As Alan watched him, he couldn’t help but wonder – just which of Edwin’s copies of his work were the most well-thumbed? Did he and Robin play them out, too?

Edwin glanced up at him. Alan looked away. He definitely shouldn’t let his mind wander there.

Evidently, it was playing on Violet’s mind too, because she said, “I, for one, am very glad we can all share these details about our sex lives.”

Alan winced; he saw Edwin shake his head, determinedly, where Robin outright groaned.

“No, thank you,” he said.

“Oh, don’t be such a bore,” Maud said, tugging her new plait over her shoulder.

“Maudie.” Robin looked at her.

Maud got his meaning. She wrinkled her noise. “Oh no, you’re right. Let’s not.”

“That’s hardly fair, when I have to listen to Miss Debenham regale me with her stories,” Jack said. He had that fake disgruntled tone, which showed he wasn’t actually cross.

“That’s what friends do, Lord Hawthorn.” Violet ruined her air of manners and dignity by sticking her tongue out.

Alan laughed. He couldn’t help it. The sick feeling had given way to heady one; he’d been met with acceptance; with almost too much eagerness. But it was a secret they were all in together – just like magic, Alan supposed. That was why he felt so giddy. It was so ridiculous. It was ridiculous that he was able to have this conversation at all.

Ridiculous, and yet – it was a secret he could never share with his family. A secret that he was oddly glad to share with this family. His other family. It made him feel confident – powerful – like he’d earnt his place here.

He didn’t want to read too much into what that meant.

“I certainly will be reading the Roman in a new light.” Edwin finished setting up the board. He made the first move, with white, and rested his elbows on his knees as he waited for an opponent.

It definitely wasn’t going to be Alan. The more he played of chess, the less he liked it. He resolutely sat back, trying not to look too much like a cat with the cream. He was giddy, now; giddier from Jack’s proud look and smug smirk. Jack was proud that he’d landed the Roman.

It was Jack who made the move against Edwin. They looked at each other, and Alan suspected it would be a tense match. He nudged Jack’s elbow with his own, when he moved forward. He got a glimmer of those blue eyes on him.

“I know I certainly will be.” That was Maud, also looking far too smug – far too happy about who she could imagine in those pamphlets, now.

“You shouldn’t be reading them at all,” Robin replied – as though he was the epitome of innocence.

“I’m a grown woman, Robin.”

The two glared at each other. Silently, Edwin leant forward to move another chess piece. Jack followed suit. They’d exchanged three moves each by the time Robin stood, clapping his hands on his knees as though that concluded the conversation. (Which meant he’d lost the argument to his sister, Alan noticed.)

“I do have questions, though,” Robin continued. He was heading to the cabinet, and thank fuck for that, because that was where the liquor was kept. Alan felt like a drink. He eyed the sparkling glasses, because it was the only safe thing to keep his eyes on.

“I will not be answering any questions about practicality,” Alan said.

Violet laughed again. Jack made a move that clearly lost him his bishop.

Robin was pouring drinks on the sideboard. His cheeks were actually a faint pink, as though he was embarrassed.

“That wasn’t…” He seemed to be pretending to be more occupied in getting each shot of brandy even. “I rather meant about – where your ideas originate.”

“No,” Alan said. “Not today. Certainly not whilst I’m sober enough to remember. Tihank you.”

Which, at least, got a chuckle out of Jack. Alan kicked his good ankle, and was pleased to see that he left a shoe mark on his Lordship’s trousers. He would not even look at Edwin – still soundly winning against Jack – because he was sure there would be some knowing there.

Robin looked suitably cowed and apologetic (for the time being), as he handed out the glasses. They really were fine things; crystal-clear glass with patterns cuts into them; the likes of which the Rossi family would likely never own.

He really did live in two worlds.

“Can we have a toast though?” Robin asked. Asked Alan, and actually waited for him to nod, cheeks still hot. He was rewarded with another of those bright, Blyth smiles. “Well then, a toast to the Roman – for how his…descriptive literature brought us all together.”

Brought them all together, indeed, Alan thought, as they raised their glasses in unison. The brandy glowed golden in the sunlight coming through the windows. It was warm, kicking Alan’s throat on the way down.

But he was smiling.

And that, he thought, was pretty fantastic.

[turnupswritessometimes]

Butterflies - Ch6 - Lies of P/Alice Madness

Relationship: P/Alice Liddell

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53898544/chapters/137944243

Next | Previous | First

Summary: “But why go looking for other realities, when there’s no guarantee you’ll pass through to them?” “Because it’s an experiment, and I jolly well won’t learn anything more about all this unless I try,” Alice replied.

Having figured out how to slip in and out of Wonderland entirely, Alice Liddell sets off on a journey to find more realities around her own. When she follows a blue butterfly to Hotel Krat, she meets P. The more time they spend together, the more they feel as though there’s someone else out there, just like them.

Chapter Six: Discusses how Alice and P are not afraid of Puppets or Monsters

Alice was mortified. She did not cry like a little girl. Not anymore. She was entirely past that stage, thank you very much. And she certainly didn't sob into a boy's arms.

And yet – it hadn't felt entirely mortifying, when P had held her. He had been warm and solid and there – a life raft in a pool of tears. His breath had been warm against her forehead, and his voice a soft rumble under her cheek. She'd been able to hear his heart again; the springs that ticked to keep him working. It had been comforting. He had been comforting, though by all accounts, she hardly knew him.

But she did. She knew what it was like to be thrown into a world of horrors and being told the only way out was to fight.  She knew about telling lies – hadn't she told lies to get out of the asylum? Of course she was sane, and Wonderland was a figment of her imagination, and she had come to terms with her family's misfortune. She did know P, in the same way she knew herself.

They'd stayed on the windowsill for a long time. Until Alice was dimly aware of P lifting her, still so gently, of being carried and falling onto soft sheets. Of knowing she should protest, but being too sleepy to really fight against it; not really wanting to protest. It had been years since someone carried her to bed. It made her feel safe, in a way she hadn’t, not since them. Alice had been dimly aware of taking his hand again, squeezing it tightly, and hoping that he could feel it.

It was morning now, and she was mortified. Mortified, with that same feeling of butterflies fluttering in her stomach she'd had when they were dancing. She paced up and down the balcony of the hotel foyer, and wondered how she could face P, ever again after being so foolish.

Then she heard the voice: "—Don't wish for you to be distracted."

It came from Geppetto's room. She hadn’t really spoken to the man since she’d arrived. He always seemed harried, rushing from place to place, juggling a dozen gizmos. He seemed – distracted, and only half interested in them both.

She heard P's soft voice. "Alice is helping me."

There were other sounds. Mechanical sounds. Alice pressed her back against the wall, and peered in as much as she dared. She could only see a slither, without herself being seen as well, but she saw P sat in a large chair, Geppetto in front of him, and P's chest open. She couldn’t see what was inside, but she knew it was machinery.

She pulled back. Her heart thudded. She'd known P was a puppet, he didn't hide it, but it had been easy to forget the reality of that. He didn't have blood, or bones or muscle. He was a machine. But surely, there was more to him than that. He was a person.

"And I am sure, for a girl, she is capable," Geppetto said. Alice bit her cheek, feeling a rush of indignation. For a girl, indeed. “But Krat is dangerous, and she is human.”

P didn’t respond. Alice chanced a glance around the door again – just in time to see him look up at her. She felt a rush of warmth on her cheeks at being caught. But P didn’t give her hiding spot away, and his father didn’t seem to notice the distraction.

“I only noticed that you were spending a lot of time together. Please remember that Krat needs you, son. The sooner you can get to the Grand Exhibition, the better.”

P took his eyes off Alice to look at his father. He nodded.

Alice leant back against the wall, her face burning. Half of her wanted to snap that their relationship wasn’t what Geppetto made it sound like – that they were not too teenagers  with a pash. But the more sentimental and girlish half wondered if it was – wondered if she wanted to be. Most of her wanted to shake herself for focusing on that part of the conversation, instead of the rest. Instead of P’s heart, and the Grand Exhibition.

She heard footsteps.

It was P. He stopped, for a moment, in the doorframe, tucking his dark hair behind his ear, and she found herself fixated on the shape of it. It was delicate and intricate, like a shell. (Truly, she needed to give herself a very good shake.) He looked at her, with his crystal-blue eyes, for a moment, then nodded his head forward, without a word.

She followed him.

They walked in silence along the hotel balcony, and along the corridor that led to the gold coin fruit tree. P seemed even stiffer than usual. He didn’t turn, didn’t even look, at her, when he asked, “Are you scared of me?”

“I could ask you that exact question,” she replied. “I’m told I’m a very unstable young woman.”

It was easier to say that, now he knew the truth. She glanced at the hair behind his ear again. It exposed his jaw, and she saw it working, as he considered his words.

“I am a puppet,” he said, finally. “I could go into a frenzy, too.”

“I don’t believe that,” Alice said. She paused, her hand on the great, gold doorknob that led to the courtyard. “Otherwise, you would have already, I’m sure.”

P had a hand on the other doorknob. He looked down at it, and his lashes seemed very long, and dark. “You’re right. My father said I can’t.”

“He doesn’t seem to like me very much.” Alice turned, her back against the door, opening it with her weight, so she could still see P. His dark hair caught in the breeze from the courtyard, wavering like ribbons, and his blue eyes were soft in the early morning light.

“Only because you’re a stranger he didn’t plan for, and he likes to plan. He thinks I can’t have feelings for you.” P took a slow step into the courtyard too. He let the door fall closed behind him. “There are lots of things he says I can’t do. But I can think for myself. And feel. And want.”

Alice kept her hands linked behind her back, squeezing them together tightly. Until they hurt. Feelings. He said feelings. She took another step backwards, towards the tree. She loved the tree, with its twisting branches and strange, slightly glowing fruit. She would not ask what feelings he had for her, though she suspected she would make things easier for herself, if she did. She couldn’t bear having that conversation.

“My hair grew, when it shouldn’t be able to. Perhaps he doesn’t know everything I can or can’t do.” P stayed at the door. “So perhaps I could go into a frenzy.”

“If you do, then I would have to fight you,” Alice said. “But if it makes you feel better, I promise I would feel rotten doing it, and shout bitterly all the while.”

It did make P smile. A small smile, and his eyes seemed even softer. “Would you cry?”

“Certainly. I would weep.”

P truly smiled, and she was smiling back. For a moment, she thought, it was just like all of those novels of Lizzie’s. She used to hate them, and only ever flick through to the good parts, since they didn’t have any pictures in. Now, she felt electrified, but it only made her feel alive.

But then P’s smile faded, as he looked at her. “It didn’t bother you to see?”

He put a palm over his chest, to show what he meant.

“Of course not,” Alice said, and that was the truth. “Logically, I knew that you had mechanics inside you, but as everyone says, it’s what’s on the inside that counts. Although, of course, they don’t mean that literally, they mean it figuratively, to mean your soul…”

She realised she was burbling, and let her voice trail away. She’d been looking anywhere but P’s smile, and hadn’t realised him crossing to her. But there he was, just in front of her, and truly smiling at her. It made her stomach leap, he was close, and a part of her wanted him to be closer. And yet, she was also terrified that they were going to talk about feelings again.

“What’s at the Grand Exhibition?” she asked. “And shall I go with you?”

It made him pause, and she couldn’t help feeling relieved that she’d steered the conversation to a safe place. P clenched his fingers, and didn’t quite meet her eye. There it was – that thing he was hiding – and it was good to be reminded of it. P was keeping as many secrets as she was, and she shouldn’t trust him so entirely.

(Though that made her a hypocrite, since she still had so many. Besides, she couldn’t help trusting him – if he was keeping secrets, it wouldn’t be to hurt her.)

“The Grand Exhibition is where the head of the alchemists’ base is,” P said, slowly. “He might know more about what’s happening in Krat. I don’t know what I will find there.”

“All the more reason for me to go with you.” She folded her arms over her chest. It was much easier to be obstinate about this, than about feelings. “And don’t tell me I could get hurt, because we’ve both established that I’m quite capable of holding my own.”

P didn’t answer immediately. He reached up, slowly, to the branch above her head, and picked a handful of the gold coin fruit. The movement sent a few stray leaves fluttering down between them. He held out his hand, and she took one, twisting it between her fingers. He pocketed the rest.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll show you what’s out there.”

*

P led the way through the Malum district, and past where the Black Rabbit Brotherhood had made their camp. Alice was much too determined to find out, and he felt he owed it to her, after what his father had said. His father had been right; he really should be getting to the Grand Exhibition. There were people relying on him.

His father was relying on him.

Besides, it was easier to show Alice now, and avoid the question of feelings altogether. He led her through the streets, until they caught sight of one of the monsters.

It shuffled, blind, scratching at the boarded-up windows and grunting softly to itself. Crystals erupted from its skull, and down its back, and its skin was so sallow it had a greenish tinge.

They peered around a corner. Alice stood behind him, and caught hold of his arm to balance herself.

"What is it?" she whispered. She was so close, he could feel her breath on his cheek.

It hadn't heard, but P still tugged them both back to safety. It left Alice stood in front of him, and his hands hovered near her elbows. He gently took them, because she didn't pull away. It felt like holding a bird.

"My father calls them carcasses," he said. "They used to be human. But then, something happened."

Alice's eyebrows Rose. "Something?"

"That is why I'm going to the alchemists," he said. “To find out what.”

"We still don't know very much," Gemini added, at his side. "We think it's something to do with the petrification disease."

"And it's—" Alice's green eyes searched his. They had flecks of brown and hazel around the iris, as she looked for an answer. "Irreversible?"

"As far as we know." His grip tightened, without him meaning it to. "I won't let anything happen to you."

He expected her to brush him off, and tell him she was more than capable. Maybe the sight of the carcass rattled her, or maybe – maybe she trusted him. She caught his arms in return, and seemed to lean closer.

"I know you won't." She paused, examining his face, whilst he tried to read hers. "So, why did you hide the monsters from me?"

Her hands held him gently; as hesitantly as he held her, as though he was something which might break.

"I didn't want you to know I hurt humans."

It seemed to surprise her. She began to speak, but they were interrupted by a guttural cry. The carcass had heard them. It came barrelling down the street towards them, arms flying. Alice stepped back neatly.

P drew his sword.

Alice already had her dagger. She stepped back again as the carcass lunged, then darted forward, her blade flashing.

He saw the silver point poke out the carcass' back. It withdrew. Alice stabbed again. And a third time, then pushed the carcass back. It fell, still twitching, but harmless, to the pavement. Blood spewed from its wounds.

She stood over it, her dress splattered with blue blood, her knife at her side. She looked from the body, up to him, her green eyes focused.

"It doesn't matter if it was human once, or not," Alice said. "It's that, now, and it's deadly, and it will kill us."

She sounded more certain of herself than she ever had before, in Krat, as though the kill had helped. Perhaps P should be alarmed at that, but he wasn’t. He understood that; fighting was his purpose too. Fighting focused his mind as well.

And yet, he stood on the other side of the body, and said, “I’ve killed humans who weren’t monsters.”

He remembered the survivor with the mouse mask. Remembered that desperate battle in that underground room. Remembered before that, when the donkey came at him on the bridge, and he had seen real blood for the first time, instead of oil. How it had felt different to kill, that time.

P wanted Alice to know that, because she wasn’t scared. She wasn’t scared, and he felt she should be.

But Alice didn’t look shocked. She held his gaze, her chin tilted ever so slightly up, as though in defiance. “So have I. And they weren’t monsters in the physical sense – not like this one. Only in the philosophical sense.”

Though, that bothered her. He could tell by the way her eyes darkened, her brow furrowed slightly, and her lips pursed. It still bothered her, just as it bothered him, that she had killed. Their stories felt similar. It felt like standing in front of a mirror.

He didn’t know what he was going to ask her next; he didn’t have the chance; there was another great, guttering cry, and he looked up to see a carcass stumbling its way over a rooftop towards them. It leapt from the guttering, hitting the ground running, even as Alice turned, her blade raised.

P was there first. He didn’t draw his own sword; he lashed out with his legion arm. Smashed the carcass’ face as its arms flailed. It fell back, stumbling, and he punched it again. And again. Hit its chest, even as it fell back, limbs splayed, against the cobblestones. It was one of Alice’s moves, he knew, to smash its ribs with his boot. A brutal, desperate move.

Then the monster lay still.

P was breathing heavily. Blood glinted on his legion arm. When he raised his other hand to his cheek, he found a splatter there, too. P turned back to Alice, sure that he looked like a mad, killer puppet. Sure that this time, she would be even more shocked than when she had first learnt he was a puppet at all.

“Thank you,” she said. She hadn’t sheathed her blade. “I didn’t spot that one.”

P nodded. She was not as nonchalant as she’d have him believe. Her shoulders were tense, and her cheeks were dusted with pink. And she was covered in blood too, he realised. She was a fighter, like him. He clenched and unclenched his legion arm. He’d wanted to save her. Needed to save her. That had seemed as important as saving his father; just as instinctuall.

“You should head back to the—”

“I’m not scared of you, P.” She stepped closer to him.

He felt the urge to step back. She wasn’t scared. There was a look in her eye that made his chest feel tight, that he didn’t recognise. All he knew was she was the first person to call him P to his face, and he liked that. It made him feel – real.

“There’s nothing you can do that would make me scared of you,” she continued. “And I don’t believe there’s anything I can do to make you scared of me.”

How could he ever be scared of her? Brave, clever, kind, brutal Alice?

She was close now. Very close, and his hands took hold of her waist of their own accord. It felt natural, and she didn’t pull away. Her own hands went to the collar of his coat, her thumbs rubbing at the material. And he liked this; he liked being with her, like this.

Alice looked at him from under her lashes in a way that felt unfamiliar, yet – right. He couldn’t explain it; his springs were in overdrive. He felt electrified; alive.

“Alice,” he murmured, just to say her name.

She wasn’t meeting his gaze, anymore, she was looking at his mouth. He felt it part, under her scrutiny. Her fingers reached up, though only the very tip of her pointer finger brushed his bottom lip.

He kissed her finger. It felt good. Caught her wrist, and kissed her palm too. That felt wonderful. Her hand cupped his cheek in response, and that felt warm and perfect. He closed his eyes, and held her hand to his face. This felt vulnerable, and strange and yet he felt soothed. This was more comforting than his father’s touch. It was more like Sophia’s. It felt like there was care behind it, and he liked feeling cared for. Liked caring about someone else.

Alice pressed closer to him, and wrapped her other arm around his neck.

P buried his face in her shoulder, her hair soft against his skin. It smelt sweet, like the crimson apple from the Krat supply case. He held her back, and felt her breathe against him. She was alive, and she was holding him, her other hand just nudging his hair.

He could stay like that forever, he thought. Certainly stayed that way a while, but there was work to be done. There were more monsters in the city of Krat; more chaos outside. He’d put it off long enough.

It was time to go to the Grand Exhibition.

[turnupswritessometimes]

Butterflies - Ch1 - Lies of P/Alice Madness Returns

Relationship: P/Alice Liddell

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53898544/chapters/136426825

Next Chapter

Chapter One: How Alice Came to Krat

Wonderland had taken Alice the majority of her life to figure out the mechanics of. Whilst the asylum had been the catalyst for her visits, it had also been just as much a hindrance; it made her believe what everyone else told her; Wonderland wasn’t real. It was a figment of her imagination; her broken mind keeping her safe from reality, and she was mad.

That part had always made her want to laugh – Wonderland had never been safe; often times it was more dangerous than London.

The truth was, as truth generally is, more complicated than that. Instead, her experiments over the years, led her to conclude reality was, in fact, like a Matryoshka doll; there were layers to it. Wonderland was a layer on top of London, like a pair of spectacles over the regular world – thus, Londerland had occurred until she’d been able to separate the lenses from London. Alice had discovered a way of putting on those spectacles, thus encountering Wonderland.

It complicated further, because not everything in the two worlds had a direct correlation. Alice certainly did: most moves she made in London moved her in Wonderland too; a bar in London was the Carpenter’s lair in Wonderland. However, creatures like the Cheshire Cat certainly weren’t in England. (Unless he had been Dinah, and had, in Wonderland, been a boy, instead, but she couldn’t conclude that either way.) This aspect was a mystery, and Alice was left to conclude that some people just left bigger marks than others; like bruises running through an apple; only some reached through to the core.

These metaphors weren’t working.

Alice paused over her journal, her fountain pen wavering. First, she had compared Wonderland to glasses – something layered over the top, and now she was talking about bruises – something that went internally. That was contradictory.

Did it hugely matter? This journal was for her. Anyone else would conclude it the ramblings of a mad girl. The important point was Wonderland did not just exist in her mind. Wonderland was a different reality.

Therefore, it stood to reason, that there were more of these other realities. She had, through bumbling along odd jobs and meeting interesting people, discovered this to be true. On the way, she had also discovered how to slip entirely through to these worlds, instead of just partially through. This was extremely helpful in not finding her way back into an asylum. No more wandering in two worlds at once for Alice, thank you very much.

She decided to abandon the metaphors altogether, and packed her journal in her satchel. She would head down to the docks early. The theatre wasn't running shows for a good month; they had chosen February to make refurbishments to the building, and no one wanted to see shows now the festive season was over.

It gave Alice the time away from work to truly explore. That was what she planned: she was going to search for new worlds.

And, luckily, she'd made a few friends who were happy to take her on as a passenger on their next trip. It was ‘luckily,’ because good things generally didn't happen to Alice Liddell. At least, they hadn't, for a good decade. Now, it seemed that things were starting to change.

She wasn't the first to reach the handsome steamship she was due to sail on. A boy sat on the crates that were waiting to be loaded on, panpipes between his lips. He waved when he saw her, but didn't take the pipes away from his mouth.

She'd met Peter when he'd tried to sneak into the back of the theatre. He'd heard that people truly flew in the latest show, and he had to see it for himself.

Alice had known immediately there was something different about Peter. It was in the brightness of his blue eyes; the ruffle of his hair when there was no wind; the glint in his smile that was so unlike any London urchin. He wasn't a London urchin.

That much had become clear when she'd told him to buy a ticket like everyone else, and then inexplicably found him at her bedroom window the next evening. Her window, on the third floor of the boarding house.

Peter lived like her, between realities.

And currently he was working for Captain Nemo as a cabin boy. That was how he'd persuaded the Captain to let Alice join them as a free passenger.

Alice perched next to Peter on the crates, waiting for the rest of the crew to arrive. His pipes played a soft, haunting tune. This early in the morning, with the sun still rising, London was beautiful. Yellow lights flickered in the windows, and the smog was not so prevalent.

The men arrived. Captain Nemo was like all ship captains; gruff and growly with a good heart – and certainly had a better track record with his ships than the mock turtle, Alice thought. He chided Peter for slacking off, but ruffled his hair all the same.

Alice slipped off the crate to dip a joking half-curtsey. "Thank you again for letting me accompany you."

"None of that, now, Miss." He waved a beefy hand at her. "You can help us get loaded up, and all."

She had no qualms about that, so she did. She assisted in heaving the crates onto the ship. They were heavy, and left her sweating, but at least it felt as though she’d done something to earn her way.

It was nearly midday by the time they were setting sail. Of course, that was a figure of speech now. Instead of releasing sails, an engine was started up. The boat puffed out clouds of great smoke from a chimney, chugging them down the Thames.

Peter and Alice sat on the deck. It was drizzling, but not enough to be a true bother.

"So, why're you headed to France?" Peter asked. He sat on the rail, swinging his legs.

Alice leant her back against the metal rail, fiddling with the ends of her hair. It needed a good cut. "Charles Perrault."

"Who?"

"He was a writer. He wrote fairy tales. It stands to reason that he could do what we did. I'm hoping that if I follow his footsteps, I'll be able to discover them too."

Peter tilted his head to one side. Even in the gray day, his green eyes gleamed. "But why go looking for them when there's no guarantee you'll pass through?"

After all, Alice had not yet visited Neverland, despite Peter’s urging.

"Because it’s an experiment, and I jolly well won't learn anything more about all this unless I try."

Peter smiled, as though he was about to laugh at her. She narrowed her eyes at him. It didn’t quell the smile completely, but he didn’t tease her further. He stretched, almost overbalancing on the rail.

"I don't see why you can't be content with London and Wonderland."

It was a good point. Why wasn’t Alice content? Why must she search for more? Wonderland was twisted and dangerous enough – other places might be even worse.

She let go of the frayed ends of her hair. "I'm curious."

That was a lie. The real reason was that she had no reason to stay. Not in London, and not particularly in Wonderland.

Peter stopped stretching. His smile was even wider, his teeth very white. "Didn't curiosity kill the cat?"

Alice rolled her eyes. But she couldn't help her own mouth twitching. Just a little.

*

The had journey started smoothly. Most disastrous journeys did start smoothly, Alice supposed. The steamboat moved at a good pace. By the evening, they could see the line of the continent. They were easing their way around the coastline of Spain; threading the needle to reach France, and then onto Italy.

It was a relatively peaceful night, but the rain got heavier. What started as a pitter on the tin roof became a furious drumbeat. Became heavier and heavier, until it was as loud as hail. The wind howled at the tiny porthole in Alice's cabin.

She dreamt about the Mockturtle, and it was only when she woke in her own bed that she wondered if it really had been a dream. Either way, she was still stuck on a boat, in a storm. There was a distant roll of thunder. Yellow light flashed through the room so quickly that she wasn't sure it had even happened.

Alice knew the worst thing to do would be to fight her way onto the deck. But she still grasped the door handle, fighting to stay upright. The boat rocked on the waves.

Another flash of lightning.

She couldn't stay here. She couldn't stay in this tiny cabin and be thrown around like a sardine. It would kill her. Already she could feel a desperate, clawing panic in her chest. If she stayed, she'd be trapped in a tin can. If the boat sank, she'd sink with it.

She'd rather get thrown overboard. At the worst, she could fall back into Wonderland, and no doubt land on her feet, there.

There was shouting on the deck. Alice slipped, banging her knee on the floor, and fought her way upwards. The ship lurched drunkenly, the deck illuminated by another flash of lightning and the silver moonlight. Rain flew down in silvery sheets, competing with the roar of the waves.

The stairs seemed determined to attack her at every step, but Alice struggled on. Her breath came in great gasps, and she fought to keep hold of herself. She needed to keep hold of herself, or she would slip into Wonderland.

It seemed like years before she finally reached the deck. The men were just dark shapes, darting to and fro. Peter saw her, his boots sliding over the planks as he tried to reach her.

"Get back downstairs!"

"Not a chance!" she replied. The ship lurched again, sending them both slipping to the rail at the port side of the boat. Alice gripped it so tightly that the cold metal stung her skin. Her hair hung in her face. Her nightdress was soaked through already; the rain plastering the fabric to her skin.

The storm continued.

She clung to the rail as the ship moved the other way. Her feet slipped, and she nearly went head over heels. She hooked her elbow through the rail, hauling herself upright.

Peter had caught himself too. He looked like a seal; his hair plastered to his scalp. The silvery light made his eyes flash like a cat's. For a moment, he didn't look like anything from this world.

Then he was rushing to help a fallen sailor.

Alice clung to the rail and tried to catch her breath. The freezing rain stung her cheeks like ice. She looked up, through the silver and black, to try and see how far away from land they were. It didn't seem too far. They must be parallel to France, now, maybe even close to Italy.

There was something out there. Something bright, and blue. Something with wings, fighting against the wind.

It was a butterfly.

Yells sounded behind her. Rail pelted her on the back. Alice didn't move. The butterfly came closer. It was beautiful; seemed to be leaving a trail of glittering dust in its wake.

"Alice!" Peter yelled.

Alice lifted her hand from the rail. She reached for the butterfly.

And the whole ship lurched again.

*

The sea was cold and dark. Alice remembered little; she likely slipped through realities whilst underwater, to survive for any amount of time in that storm. When she regained consciousness, she found that she was still half in the water. It lapped against her legs.

Her front half was in something hard and bumpy. Her hands sunk into it when she pulled herself up to sit.

Shingles. And it was waves hitting her boots.

Alice coughed. Seawater didn't come up. Logically, she should be at least half-drowned, if not dead as a dodo. But here she was, on a shingle beach. Curious. She pushed her dark hair from her face, pulling her legs from the water, until she sat perched like a mermaid.

It was still night, with not even a streak of light on the horizon to signal dawn. At least the clouds had cleared enough that a strong moon shone down. The beach was abandoned. There were craggy rocks down the shore, and, more pressingly, there was a sea wall about ten feet from her. Like the kind the children said Brighton had.  If Alice squinted, she could see a chain rail, cornering off stone steps. Beyond the wall, she could make out the dark shapes of a city. A city, she suspected, that did not exist in France, or Italy, or anywhere in Europe. She suspected this was another reality altogether.

Not least because the blue butterfly was back. It fluttered down from the stairs, still heading towards her.

Alice's heart raced, but not from being thrown around by the waves. In fact, she felt none the worse for wear considering her sea trip. Her heart raced with anticipation. With excitement. Where was she? What wonders awaited her in that city?

"I sensed your power nearing us." A voice came, presumably from the butterfly. It was a soft, female voice. A voice Alice felt she could trust, from the outset – and that was a rarity. "Though, I must confess, I didn't believe I would be able to bring you here."

"I likely helped you," Alice said. “I have a few skills, like that.”

"Yes." The butterfly fluttered in place. "Your ergo is – different."

"Thank you." It seemed good manners, even if she didn’t understand that. Alice lifted her hand, and the butterfly landed on her fingers. It didn't weigh anything. In fact, she barely felt it at all. "I suppose we must ask the obvious questions. Who are you, and who am I, and do you need my help?"

"My name is Sophia," the butterfly said.

"And my name is Alice."

"I'm not sure you can help us, Alice." The butterfly's wings moved slowly. "Our city is in a dire situation, and I cannot ask you to put yourself in danger for a world that is clearly not yours."

"That's true, this isn't my world. But I'm not powerless, and I would like to help."

Because there was another sliver of silver on the beach; something else had washed up with Alice. She reached for it, careful not to jog the butterfly on her other hand, and her fingers found a familiar handle.

The vorpal blade.

It still snicker-snacked perfectly when she tested it in the air.

The butterfly fluttered, as though it was excited by this development too. Alice stood, carefully, her legs tingling. She'd noticed, as soon as she realised, she was wearing boots, that she wasn't in her nightgown any longer. Her outfit had become something familiar and dear. Her blue Wonderland gown, with her striped stockings and practical boots. Her omega pendant flashed on her chest.

It felt as good as chainmail.

"I will lead you to hotel Krat," Sophia continued, lifting herself from Alice and fluttering through the air. "It is a safe space, and we can talk face to face there."

"Thank you." It wouldn't do for Alice to forget manners. She followed the butterfly across the beach, her boots crunching in the shingles. It was easy enough to tug the chain to the steps free, and to make her way up them.

The moon and stars bathed everything in soft, white light, and Alice fell in love with it from first sight. It was patchworked together; it was buildings with gargoyles on the edges; was crooked chimney pots; was warm stones and cobblestones; was a fantasy from a gothic novel.

This was the city of Krat.

Sophia explained to Alice, as they continued down the streets, that Krat had once been very different. Was not the ghost town it was now, but a thriving seaside city. But then the puppets had – frenzied – and thrown the city into chaos. Puppets had been created to help humans; they were created to obey, and serve, and make life easier.

Alice could see why they might get tired of such a life.

She met one of these puppets, on their journey. A policeman lurched out at her from an alleyway. She raised her knife on instinct, slashing against its forearm.

The vorpal blade cut through the metal as though it was butter. Black spurted out, too shiny for blood.

The puppet lurched forward, and Alice got her first real look. A mechanical man, eyes empty, jaw gaping. It reminded her of those ridiculous puppet shows in Covent Garden.

She hated those puppet shows.

She drove the blade into its chest. When it didn't still, she plunged it in again.

It fell backwards, and clattered onto the cobblestones in defeat, making an almighty noise.

Sophia fluttered by Alice's cheek, as though she touched her face. She appreciated that.  She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. It wasn't blood, or tar, it was oil.

They continued.

Hotel Krat was beautiful too. The flickering halogen light was beautiful; the wide windowsills were beautiful; the abandoned tram line coming out of it was beautiful. It was beautiful because this building had dim, yellow light in some of its windows which winked like eyes.

Alice loved Krat. Krat was just as dangerous and broken as Wonderland.

It suited her, perfectly.

[turnupswritessometimes]

Butterflies - Ch2 - Lies of P/Alice Madness Returns

Relationship: P/Alice Liddell

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53898544/chapters/136426825

Previous (First) | Next

Summary: "But why go looking for other realities, when there's no guarantee you'll pass through to them?" "Because it’s an experiment, and I jolly well won't learn anything more about all this unless I try," Alice replied.

Having figured out how to slip in and out of Wonderland entirely, Alice Liddell sets off on a journey to find more realities around her own. When she follows a blue butterfly to Hotel Krat, she meets P. The more time they spend together, the more they feel as though there's someone else out there, just like them.

Chapter Two: How Alice had Afternoon Tea at Four in the Morning

Alice stepped into Hotel Krat, and came properly face to face with Sophia.

Sophia, who was as beautiful as her city. From her lacy skirts to her peacoat to her sky-blue hair, the same delicacy and elegance of her butterflies was in every part of her. She smiled at Alice, in welcome, and it made her feel as warm through as hot milk.

"I'm so glad you made it in one piece," she said, though she didn't step forward to greet Alice properly. She stayed by the great machine in the hotel lobby. At first, Alice thought it was a fountain, but she realised it was something else entirely. Something that still glowed with that blue hue she’d seen everywhere in the city.

The butterfly, Sophia’s messenger, at her side had dissolved.

"I have some past experience of dangerous places," Alice replied.

"Indeed." The smile widened. Her blue eyes were just as glittering as the butterfly’s wings. "I have a feeling you could help us, very much."

"Oh my, forgive me." There was another voice. A jerky, reverberating voice. It came from the front desk of the hotel.

A puppet manned the desk.

Alice's fingers tightened on the handle of her blade, but Sophia shook her head. Just slightly. She forced herself to relax. It was rather hasty to lump all puppets in the same category.

"We didn't believe there was anyone left in the city. No stalkers, at least." The puppet came around the desk, taller and wider than her. "My name is Polendina; I am the receptionist of Hotel Krat. All who seek refuge are welcome here."

Alice glanced to Sophia again. The puppet hadn't acknowledged her in the slightest. So, not everything was as it seemed. Even now, Sophia was stepping away. Retreating. Leaving her with this stranger.

In that case, she’d better remember good manners. "Thank you. My name is Alice. I've been told I'm here to lend a hand."

"Then, it is doubly fortunate you have found the hotel." There was a tick-tock from somewhere inside of the puppet – inside Polendina. "Consider this the base of the resistance. The last stand against the chaos Krat has fallen into."

Alice examined him. "You don't believe it's too dangerous a job for a girl?"

The puppet looked serious. His default was serious, Alice supposed, but he looked more serious. "You arrived her in one piece. That is proof that you are capable."

He may have been alarming at first glance, but Alice found that she was warming up to this puppet.

"I am afraid the residents of the hotel are currently asleep," Polendina continued. "However, I can show you to a room, and you can make your introductions in the morning – oh—"

The puppet broke off. Not everyone was asleep: a figure came down the lobby stairs, boots clucking, a greatcoat trailing in their wake. They moved like a storm of elephants, clearly not worrying about waking of the inhabitants.

The figure stopped, when it reached the great fountain-like machine, and Alice got her first good look at the newcomer.

It was a young man. He was perhaps her age, or maybe a year older, and there was a certain – muchness – about him, Alice thought. It was easier to start at the floor; at the aforementioned clunking boots, the long legs – then, better not to think at all about his waist, or his hips – the shape of his trousers and waistcoat and all that entailed. Even his coat made his shoulders look all the broader. He was a good head taller than Alice. She needed to tilt her head back to see his face.

A face framed by dark, curling hair, shining like polished mahogany. Without sounding too dramatic, he had the face of a prince from a storybook; both feminine and masculine at once, with freckles across his cheeks and eyes like sapphires.

Alice had never been one to care about boys. (Then, when had she chance? Asylums didn't leave much time for socialising.) She did know they were certainly not the alien beings other girls said they were, and most quite agreeable as friends. But she was very aware this boy was very handsome, and it felt like missing a step on the stairs.

And she was also aware her dress was caked with shingles and sea salt. That she was splattered with oil, and holding a very sharp knife. That her hair was damp from the rain and wild. And she'd never been one to care about looking ladylike, but she would have preferred to look somewhat more presentable, when meeting such a boy.

"Sir, this young lady has just arrived to seek refuge with us. That is alright, is it not?"

The boy's eyes glanced from her to the puppet. His face was quietly impassive. He nodded. Alice took advantage of his distraction to try wiping the vorpal blade on her dress, just to get the worst of the oil off. She tucked it in her waistband, just above the bow at the back.

"She has clearly come a long way. You will make her welcome, won't you?"

"I was planning to—" The boy gestured at the front door, not looking at her. Now he wasn't looking at her, she continued to examine him. He had a sturdy fencing blade at his side, and not only that, one of his arms was mechanical. Looked primed with its own weapon.

"Now, sir, you cannot be rude to our guest."

"No." Alice stepped back, too. "By all means, don't let me stop you."

He glanced back to her, his expression just as unreadable as before. She tried to school hers into a similar nonchalance.

"What would Lady Antonia say?" Polendina asked, and the boy wavered.

Another voice chirped at his side – at the glowing lantern, at his side. "Come on, pal, the monsters will still wait for us."

There seemed to be an internal struggle going on. Alice looked around for Sophia, but she was nowhere to be seen. When she looked back at the boy, he looked faintly annoyed.

So, she was making a splendid first impression.

"Welcome to Hotel Krat," he said. His voice was soft; it reminded her of lullabies. And, just like a prince, he bowed to her in greeting. Properly, his hand across his stomach, and not taking his eyes away from hers.

So, what could Alice do, but perform her best curtsey in response?

*

Polendina made them to sit in the dining room, whilst he prepared an afternoon tea. Made truly was the correct word – despite both Alice and the boy's protestations that it was unnecessary, he insisted upon it. It was “polite and proper,” he said.

Alice realised that his meant a lot to the puppet; these rules. Perhaps it was the only thing he had left to rely on. She gave in.

Though it was ludicrous. The dining hall was completely empty of other patrons, and felt like a gaping chasm. Of the dozens of white-clothed tables, theirs was the only that was laid. A complete afternoon tea, for the two of them.

Polendina rattled back to the desk, and left the two of them stood in front of the table, both primed to fight monsters, not make polite conversation.

"Well," Alice said, determined to break the silence. "I suppose they never did specify whether to have afternoon tea at four in the A.M, or four in the P.M."

She thought the boy smiled. The tiniest bit. It made her feel a flame-like flicker of pride. She brushed down her skirts – shingle fell to the worn carpet – and held out her hand.

"We might as well go about this properly. My name is Alice Liddell, and it's a pleasure to meet you."

The boy looked at her. He looked at her hand. His smile widened the tiniest bit more. Then he slipped his hand into hers. His right, which was the non-mechanical one. "I call myself P. No one else seems to use that name for me."

He didn't let go of her hand, though he didn’t shake on it, either. They stood there, holding each other's hands, and she wondered why no one called him his name.

"I see,” she said.

"You're meant to shake it." That same voice piped up from the lantern at the boy – at P's –side. "Or, if you truly want to act like a gentleman, you kiss it."

Alice pulled her hand away before he could do either, feeling a flare of panic at the thought. Ridiculous, she told herself, that she could be flustered by the prospect alone. P's hand lingered in the air. She couldn't look at his face; it was too earnest, his eyes too observant.

"Who's your friend?" she asked. It was safer to ask that. Much safer, because P used that lingering hand to unclip the lantern from his belt. He held it up, and Alice would see a small, dark figure inside. The figure of a cricket.

"This is Gemini. He guides my way."

Alice stared. For so long that her eyes stung from the light, but she could make out the tiny parts that built the cricket. Another machine.

"He's wonderful."

A cricket chirp came from inside the lantern that sounded proud of itself.

"Yes," P said. "When he's quiet."

Another chirp, and a, “Hey!”

Alice put her fingers to her mouth, to hide her smile, though she didn't know why. She felt much too aware of herself – felt much too jittery. Tea, she decided. She needed tea. She stepped up to the table. Tea would make her come to her senses.

"And you should offer the lady her chair, before she sits," Gemini continued.

"Oh, you don't need to," Alice said quickly. "I'm hardly a lady."

She fumbled to sit, but this time, P was quicker. He did pull the chair out for her, but then he looked completely lost for the next step. Completely lost to why he should be doing this, and if Alice was honest, she didn't understand all these rules, either.

Though it was easier to give in. "Thank you."

P nodded. It made his dark hair bounce. He didn't tuck the chair in under her, and Gemini didn't prompt him to – perhaps he was despairing at them both. Still, it was a relief. It was simpler to scoot the chair forward herself, whilst P stepped around her and took his own seat.

Alice busied herself with the teapot, pouring them both a cup with both hands. Better to keep her hands busy.

P watched her. She could feel those too-blue eyes examining her, and found herself wishing she'd actually leant this: learnt how to hold a proper tea party. Her only frame of reference was hers and Lizzie's, with her rabbit, and Lizzie's porcelain doll. They’d been light on the proper rules.

"How did you come to be here?" P asked. His hands remained on his lap.

Alice tucked her hair behind her ear. "I followed the blue butterfly."

P's eyes widened. He shifted and, for the first time, he looked interested. "Sophia?"

Alice nodded.

She saw him visibly relax; he looked relieved; and intrigued. He shifted forward again, more rapt on watching her than ever. Alice clenched her fingers on the teapot handle. Attention wasn't something she often received, and she’d always liked it that way. Handsome boys didn’t stare at girls like her, even in Wonderland.

"She said I had different Ergo." She put the pot down, carefully, and heard Gemini give another chirp at P's side. "But I'm afraid I don't know what Ergo is."

If P thought that was strange, he didn't tell her. Instead, he spoke calmly; explained Ergo powered puppets; powered almost everything in Krat; that it was mysterious. It was power – and life. Meanwhile, Alice put milk and small brown sugar cube into her tea, and stirred. Nodded, and sipped, and felt the drink do its work.

P had a nice voice; quiet and lilting. He spoke succinctly, and to the point. He watched the steam curling upwards from the teacups, but didn't move to take his own.

Ergo had made the puppets attack, though no one knew why – simply that it seemed to drive them crazy, and soon after, everything in Krat went wrong. Not just the puppets, but an outbreak of a deadly and unexplained disease. All P knew was that the puppets needed to be stopped.

“I am following Geppetto’s plan to save the city.

"And Geppetto is?" Alice reached for a scone. There were finger sandwiches on the platter, and tiny cakes, but scones were always the best part of afternoon tea. There wasn't any cream, which Lizzie would have called a crime, but she'd always preferred the jam and butter combination. Less sweet.

"My father." And P was even more unreadable than usual. He fiddled with his mechanical arm, clenching and unclenching the fingers of it.

Gemini was silent.

Alice knew when to avoid a subject. "Tell me what you've tried, so far?"

First, he'd liberated Krat Central Station, then Venigni ironworks factory, then fought a monster at a cathedral, and finally the King of Puppets himself. It had not solved the problem.

There was more. P seemed bothered by something. It was in the twitch of his fingers, and how he kept testing his arm. Alice knew about that; everyone had their own soothing method in the Asylum.

So, she didn't press further - who was she, to do so? She had plenty of her own secrets that she didn't want to talk about. It would even be ruder than resting her elbows on the table (and she was doing that anyway, so best not to push it further).  

She'd finished half of her scone, when she noticed that P's tea was still untouched, and his plate still empty.

"Are you not eating?" she asked.

P looked at the food. His blue eyes met hers, the lashes long, and dark. "I'd break."

The realisation hit her, then. This wasn't a young man sat opposite her. This was—

She went to stand. Had a hand on table. "You're a..."

Puppet. This boy was a puppet. He wasn't eating because he couldn't eat.

Alice forced herself to stop. He wasn't a threat. Just like the butler wasn’t a threat. Just because some puppets had gone into this frenzy, didn’t mean he would too. It was terrible to lump him in with all the others. And how could she judge him, even for a moment? Especially as he'd been nothing but courteous.

Especially as he didn't seem surprised or annoyed at her reaction. He looked resigned, as he took his own hands off the table, and back into his lap, like a scolded schoolboy.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Truly. It's not – I'm not – you're different, to the others."

"I know," P said. "I can do things other puppets can't. I don't have to obey the creator’s orders, and I can lie."

"Very well." Alice felt desperate to make up for her shock. Desperate to act as though everything was alright. "Tell a lie."

P considered. His eyes were the same vibrant hue as the butterfly’s wings. "You're not beautiful."

"That was your lie?"

"Yes.”

He’d called her beautiful. Alice would have preferred that he go crazy and attack her. It was better than sitting opposite him, frozen. Frozen and feeling heat climb her cheeks. She hated blushing; she was so pale she looked ridiculous, when she did. She ducked her chin, her heart pounding. And suddenly she did need to stand. Needed to step away from the table and take a deep breath.

Alice Liddell was not beautiful. She knew that. Lizzie had been.

P stood too. "I don’t want to upset you."

"No, it's just—" She turned back to him, feeling helpless, and ended up taking another step towards the windows. The curtains hadn't been pulled. It was pitch dark outside. She could see herself reflected in the window. Her side eyes stared back at her, manic. "It's just it's been a very long day. I didn't think I would be shipwrecked and then having afternoon tea in the middle of the night."

P had mirrored her movements. Stood opposite her, just far enough away for comfort. He nodded, not as though he understood, but as though he was trying to. How could he, though, when Alice didn’t understand her reaction herself?

"What I meant was, you look different." It was easier to pretend that last part of conversation hadn't happened. "You don't have the—"

She gestured to her own chin, and, to her mortification, found a smear of jam there. She tried to wipe it off without P noticing. He'd mirrored the movement, and once he understood what she meant, nodded again. He opened his mouth, as though he was going to say something more, but then seemed to think otherwise.

Alice gripped her elbows, so tightly that the points of them stung like daggers into her palms.

She couldn't say it whilst she was looking at him. She had to stare, determinedly, at the table and the barely touched food. Her heart rallied against her ribcage. "But you're very handsome, yourself."

When she dared a peak at P's face, she saw he was looking in the opposite direction too. That he was just chancing a peek back at her, and then away.

Alice squeezed her eyes shut, for a moment. How was it, in a world full of frenzied puppets and phantom butterflies, this was the agonising part?

She'd happily take monsters over this, any day.

[turnupswritessometimes]

Howl's Moving Castle Oneshot - I Like Fixing You

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53293354

(Or read under the cut)

Pairing: Howl/Sophie

Word Count: 4,542

Summary: "Tell me, when you went back in time, did you notice what colour my hair was?”

Sophie paused, she took a lock of Howl’s hair between her fingers. “It was dark.”

Like it was now. He made a sound of agreement. “But then I became Suliman’s apprentice.”

Sophie twisted the lock of hair and Howl watched it; the strand of black between her pale fingers.

“And if I was vain before, that woman made me a Narcissus.” He smiled. Clenched the railing tighter under his palms.

***

An exploration of Howl's past with Suliman, and the trauma he has from it.

Sophie called it the garden. Howl called it the balcony. Markl called it the garden-balcony. Either way, the two of them stood there, up against the railing. The breeze was sweet, slightly warm, carrying the start of spring with it.

It was just the two of them; everyone else was inside, and they were taking advantage of that. Were pressed together, Howl’s arms around Sophie’s waist, and hers around his neck. Were staring out at the scenery in between soft and slow kisses. No, Sophie was staring out at the scenery; at the hills below them and the silver streak of the river through the grass. Howl was staring at her. She shone when she was content like this, with that slight smile on her face, with her cheeks blown pink from the wind, her brown eyes sparkling.

He was in love, and that made him wonder why he’d been avoiding it for so long. This love was just like the spring. Was all-consuming, and he treasured these afternoons.

“You’re beautiful,” Howl murmured, kissing her cheek. He stayed there, his eyes half-open, savouring her flowery smell. Fresh laundry. He’d never cared about how laundry smelt before he met her.

Sophie turned back to him, her nose bumping against his. She ducked her chin, brushing his hair behind his ear. She smiled. “And what does that make you?”

She was calling him beautiful. And normally he would smirk and say something charming. Would feel a rush of pride, or simply laugh and kiss her again. But this time he paused. This time he took a breath, and – didn’t reply. He looked back out over the hills. They were passing a mountain; the daylight made it look dark blue against the cerulean sky.

And Howl should have known Sophie would notice that pause. She put her hand over his on the railing, pressing closer. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” he lied. It came smoothly, so long as he didn’t look at her.

So, of course, she turned him to face her. Just with two fingertips against his jaw, so gently that he couldn’t resist. A butterfly’s touch. He looked back at her, the wind catching their hair. Sophie’s silver hair trailed across her cheeks like ribbons.

“Howl,” she said. “Did I say something to upset you?”

Her fingers touched him properly, as if she was going to cup his cheek. That would be the end, he knew. He’d lean into it and then his mouth would start moving and it wouldn’t stop. So, he beat her to it. Took both her cheeks between his hands and said, “Sophie, you’re so observant. Really, it’s a gift.”

She caught his wrists, her thumbs rubbing over the skin. She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t flatter me to avoid my question. Tell me what’s wrong?”

He did laugh, then, as though nothing was wrong, and turned as though he was going to head back into the house. That was easier, he thought, to make a tactical retreat; Markl could provide a distraction. Perhaps he was still slightly cowardly, after all.

“Truly, you’re insatiable,” he said, over his shoulder. The wind caught his hair, hiding most of his expression. “The king should hire you to lead his armies – then you’d surely win any war.”

She caught his elbow. Of course she did; Sophie never let him run away. Her grip was still soft, and her other one sought his hand. Just – there, and warm.

“Tell me. Please.”

“You’re like Heen with a bone.” He gave her his best charming smile.

“Howl.” She looked at him, seriously, her brows together.

He wavered. He couldn’t stay strong when she looked at him like that. She did look like a severe, elderly woman like that. That was the Sophie who could give him the courage to fight. To stop being a coward. And the Sophie that wouldn’t let this go.

“It’s because…” Howl’s voice trailed off. He took a breath, so deep that his ribs hurt, and realised he didn’t know where to start. At least, he didn’t want to start when they were stood here, in the middle of the garden-balcony. “Here.”

He took Sophie’s hand in his own, and led her back over to the railing. Howl cupped her waist in his hands, helping her to sit on the top railing. She perched there; the wind catching her dress, and it lapped against his legs like the ocean waves. She watched him closely. He could fall into those brown eyes. They were flecked with copper in the sunlight.

Howl stood before her, his hands next to hers on the railing.

“No, I was always vain,” he managed to admit. “As vain as any other child. Tell me, when you went back in time, did you notice what colour my hair was?”

Sophie paused, she took a lock of Howl’s hair between her fingers. “It was dark.”

Like it was now. He made a sound of agreement. “But then I became Suliman’s apprentice.”

Sophie twisted the lock of hair and Howl watched it; the strand of black between her pale fingers.

“And if I was vain before, that woman made me a Narcissus.” He smiled. Clenched the railing tighter under his palms. “There was a lot of emphasis placed in my training about how I looked. She wanted me to be blond. She said it was more beautiful.”

“Did you want to be blond?” Sophie asked. She let go of the strand of hair and it flew in the wind.

“I liked it. Or—” Howl paused, tilting his head, thinking. “I liked the attention it got me. I liked Suliman liking me. It was always better to be on her good side.”

“What if you weren’t on her good side?” Sophie shifted, as though she was ready to hop down – ready to fight Suliman herself.

He caught her waist again. He loved doing that. Loved that she let him. “You’ve met her.”

Howl didn’t want to talk about that. Didn’t want to talk about the punishments; the mirrors; the echoing voices; the transformations. He didn’t want to talk about any of this, but he figured he could skip that part, for today. Instead, he reached up, to kiss the corner of Sophie’s mouth. Just because he hadn’t, in a while.

“All the same, I liked it, I liked being beautiful. It has its benefits.”

Sophie raised her eyebrows. “Pretty girls throwing themselves at you?”

Howl tried to make his grin look sheepish, or at least bashful, but he didn’t think it worked. He tangled their fingers together instead, tilting his chin. “Not just girls. I’m sure I could romance your princely true-love away from you.”

“You’re awful.” But Sophie was smiling.

“And yet, you threw yourself at me.”

“Liar.” Yet, she squeezed their fingers together, and Howl felt dizzy with affection for her.

“I thought I loved being called beautiful. It was always a good thing. It meant I was worth something.” He paused. “Maybe it’s having a heart again, but now it feels—”

He didn’t have the word. Empty, he supposed. Or painful, to think back on just how obsessive it was. To think back on how Sophie witnessed his meltdown over his hair. He’d rather she didn’t see him like that.

Yet, she loved him anyway. That seemed astounding. He kissed the back of her knuckles. Kissed the ring that he’d made her that would lead her home again.

“Howl,” she murmured. He kept kissing, until she pulled away. Until she curled her fingers under his chin, and tilted it up, so that he had to meet those deep, brown eyes. “It’s not so much not having a heart. You were hurt.”

Hurt. Like a wounded animal. He didn’t want to think of himself like that. He closed his eyes, and pressed closer to Sophie. Her knees bumped against his hips, and he wanted to go back to being in love. Enjoyed the feeling of her fingers brushing through his hair; of tracing down the shape of his jaw.

And he knew he was still vain. Still wanted to be pretty. Needed to be pretty, because he had someone to be pretty for. And being pretty would make her stay.

“You’re wonderful,” he said.

“Well, I always knew I wasn’t pretty—” And when Howl immediately opened his mouth to object, pressed her fingers over his mouth. “You don’t need to say it. Compared to my sisters, I wasn’t ever seen as the pretty one.”

He did close his mouth. If only to kiss Sophie’s fingertips, his chest warm.

“It didn’t make things easier. It just made me feel as though I wasn’t worth as much as them. In my mother’s eyes, I was good at making hats, but not good enough to get a husband.”

Which was ironic, now, considering she was practically married to the wizard Howl Pendragon. A match that would make most mothers wild.

“Then, I would say…” Howl reached, until their faces were inches away from each other. “That woman hurt you.”

She looked about to argue, then frowned, and sighed. She rested her forehead against Howl’s. He felt lighter; felt as though there wasn’t a clear answer to any of it. Also felt oddly raw; oddly sore; as though he’d pressed at an old bruise.

“You are beautiful,” Howl whispered. Kissed Sophie again, and loved the feeling of it. Loved that he was able to do that. “And wonderful.”

“And if I may say—” She paused, letting him object if he needed to. “You’re wonderful and beautiful too."

The word didn’t twinge at him in the same way. The wind swirled around him, and he caught Sophie’s waist. Swirled her around, from the railing as she laughed at him.

And thought he was so lucky to have her.

*

They were doing the washing up. Alone, which was a rarity. Markl was out in the garden with Heen; Howl could hear him barking. They’d taken the old witch of the wastes with them too, for some fresh air out in the garden. It left Calcifer, though he was lying low in the grate, only sparking occasionally. Howl suspected he was napping – or sulking over boiling the water to do the dishes.

He’d enchanted the plates to do his part. To dry themselves on the towel, and then to float over to the cupboard and put themselves away. It meant that he could catch Sophie’s hips in his hands, swaying them side to side, as though they were dancing. She laughed, and let him. Rolled her eyes at him when she placed a plate on the side, and he insisted on taking her hand to spin her around. He decided to do it each time.

“So, tell me,” Sophie said, as she scrubbed at another plate. The bubbles sat on her wrist, glinting like diamonds. “If you could enchant your dishes all along, why was it such a mess when I arrived here?”

“Because—” Howl rested his chin on her shoulder. Her silver hair tickled his cheek. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have anything to clean.”

“I think it’s because you’re lazy.” Sophie put the dish into the rack. It immediately leapt up again, heading towards the floating towel. It was rubbed dry, and Howl took Sophie’s hand – lifted it over her head to spin her around. She laughed, and caught herself with a hand on his chest. She arched into him.

“That’s me. Howl Pendragon, the lazy and the vain,” he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

Sophie’s fingers tightened in his shirt, and she lowered their joint hands, slowly. “Howl? I’ve been thinking…”

“You always do,” he replied. Was ready to tug her away from the sink and across the kitchen floor in a proper waltz. She would be a natural at that, and would forget about whatever she was going to ask him. He sensed it was something that he didn’t want to discuss.

“At Suliman’s…”

“Sophie,” his voice came out half-pleading, but she ploughed ahead:

“Those boys she had. They looked like you. Well—" Her fingers caught the edge of his necklace. She took it between them, making it catch the light. “The you I first met.”

Howl’s breath caught, and his stomach seized. He did lead Sophie a step away from the sink then, swaying them both slightly. As though there was any hope of making her forget this line of questioning, especially now.

Sophie looked up at him. Her eyes were dark, and warm, shining like conkers in Calcifer’s soft light.

“Yes,” he managed to concede. “They were likely copies of my younger self.”

Sophie kept fiddling with the necklace. Her lashes were still dark; they didn’t match her new hair. “Even after all these years…”

“I was her favourite student, wasn’t I?” He smiled, as though it was simple. As though his gut didn’t clench to remember how it felt to see those copies of himself. Himself as she wanted him to be; pliable and obedient. Catering to her every whim.

Sophie’s fingers pressed to his chin. Traced the line of his jaw, her touch featherlight; as though he was an illusion, and she didn’t want to press too hard in case it broke. “And that was how she wanted you to be?”

Howl kept smiling. It was easier to. “That’s right.”

The last plate floated past them and over to the cabinet. It put itself away, and he flicked his fingers to close the door. Tried to ignore how Sophie’s expression fell; he could turn the radio with another flick of his wrist, and they could dance. He could make this evening romantic.

But when he lifted his hand, Sophie turned his chin back to her. She kept hold of it, stretching her palm over his cheek. Her fingers just brushed his hair. The dark hair that he used to have; that sometimes he still hated, when he caught a glimpse of it on his shoulder.

“So, she decided how you looked?”

“She decided everything.”

Her eyes showed how much that hurt her. He could practically see her heart breaking for him. He pulled her closer, pressing his hands against her back. He loved the shape of her. Loved that he felt her breath under his palms.

Sophie reached up onto her toes to kiss him. He kissed her back, his hand between her shoulder blades. And he only pulled away to press more kisses against the corner of her mouth – her cheekbone – the hollow of her jaw. He kept his mouth there, his eyes closed, pressing her close. He knew this would happen. Once he started talking about it – about Suliman’s – it released a dam inside him. Made him feel sick and shaky and he hated being like this. Hated seeming weak. Cowardly and lazy and vain were all things he could except, but weak was too much.

“Oh, Howl.” Sophie said into his hair. She slipped her arms around his neck, brushing her fingers through his hair.

He stayed there, safe in her arms. Pressed a few more feverish kisses against Sophie’s jaw – her ear – her neck. Hummed against her, his heart pounding. It came out like he was a wounded dog. She kept stroking his hair, murmuring to him. The distant sound of Heen’s huffing woof, and Markl shouting came from outside.

Howl took a deep breath. He pulled away. Played with Sophie’s hair; brushing it from her face, and twisting the ends around his fingers. It was the same silver as his rings.

“It was a long time ago,” he said. His eyes were thankfully dry, but his voice sounded low, and heavy. “And it’s not like I didn’t receive any benefits. Aren’t I one of the greatest wizards you know?”

Sophie raised her eyebrows, though she still looked sad. “You’re the most arrogant wizard I know.”

“I know.” He couldn’t help it. He had to trace his thumbs over her cheeks; they were flushed pink; like spring blossoms.

“I hate her,” Sophie said. She looked at him – saw through him, could always see through him. That was what had saved their lives.

She released him. Had started towards the fireplace with that stubborn set to her step. The step that made her look like a determined, old cleaning lady. “I think we should march back to the city, and you should let me give her a piece of my mind.”

“Sophie, Sophie—” He had to hurry to catch up. Caught her fists, just as she reached Calcifer. “Wait a moment.”

She spun to him. “Do you not think I could?”

“I think—” He paused, to uncurl her fingers and slip them against his own. “You would no doubt defeat her. In any battle."

"Then let me.” Sophie brought his hand to her mouth. Pressed her mouth against his silver ring, and it felt like she was enchanting it. He felt a spark dance all the way down his arms. She looked at him from over it. “For what she did.”

He loved her. He felt that with his whole chest. “I think you already did.” And he shifted his hand to cup her chin; to tilt it up to face him. “You’re the reason I disobeyed her. You’re the reason I’m not so much of a coward, anymore. My, you’re even the reason I’m not blond anymore.”

That made her smile. Her eyes shone with warmth. “I prefer your hair like this.”

Dark and messy and how it used to be.

“And I prefer your hair like this.”

Like starlight. She was his new shooting star.

Sophie’s smile widened. And he loved that sight; of her smiling with his hand resting on her chin. He smiled back. Flicked his free hand, without looking, to turn on the radio. It crackled to life, with a gentle, melancholic tune.

“Dance with me,” he said.

Sophie laughed, and shook her head. But she let him take her hand; her waist. Rested her hand on his shoulder properly, as though she wasn’t worried he was a mirage any longer.

He counted them through the steps, and found that he was right:

She really was a natural at dancing.

*

It was all the talk of the past. It was remembering it; it was like opening a treasure chest of memories. And now he couldn’t stop them all from seeping out when it was least convenient.

Howl had awful dreams. Dreams that he had made a mistake; that he was facing punishment for it; that he was in that room with the mirrors all around him. Reflecting him infinitely, so that he couldn’t escape from himself. Couldn’t escape his own imperfection.

Howl woke with a sharp gasp.

There was the faint whir of the devices in the darkness of his room. An even fainter whistle of wind from the windows. He was home. And yet his heart was still racing. Yet his breath stuck in his throat, and he slipped in the sheets as he sat. His hair fell in front of his face. Dark hair.

He brushed it back. Fumbled to escape from his bedsheets, catching himself on the doorframe. He still felt disorientated. Dragged a blanket with him as he made his way down the corridor. The house was on the move; the floor swayed and bounced underneath him. It didn’t help to orientate him.

“Sophie,” he called out, softly, mostly against his will. His hip bumped into the wall.

She still heard him. Perhaps she was awake too. Her door opened at the end of the corridor, and her hair glinted in the moonlight coming from the window. She looked like an angel.

“Howl.” She crossed to him, catching his arms. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

He shook his head. More dark hair fell there, and it made him think of feathers. Feathers bursting from his skin; in sparks of pain.

Sophie brushed it back for him. She took hold of his hand between both of her own, guiding him down to her room. Her own sheets lay curled up, like a pet.

“It’s nothing,” he managed to say, digging his heels even as he crossed the threshold. “I’m being a fool.”

Sophie looked back at him. Her eyes caught a flash of moonlight, so it looked like there were stars caught inside. “You’ve woken me up, now. You’ll have to tell me.”

He couldn’t argue against her. He let himself be brought into the room; to be eased onto the bed with his blanket, with Sophie stood in front of him. She brushed hair from his forehead with gentle fingers, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders. Howl breathed out, resting his head on her sternum.

“It was only a dream,” he said.

“I know what a nightmare is like,” Sophie replied. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the shape of her back against his touch.

“Because of me?” Howl asked into her cotton nightdress. It smelt of her; of lavender and chamomile.

“Don’t be big-headed.” She threaded her fingers through his hair. “Only partly. Sometimes its about the witch of the waste.”

He tightened his fingers in her dress. The word came out as a shard of glass in his throat: “Sorry.”

Sophie paused. Her thumb brushed his temple and a soft hum came from the back of his throat, like he was a purring cat.

“You’ve done a good job of distracting me from you.”

He groaned. She was too clever by half.

“A bad dream,” he repeated. “And not an uncommon one.”

“My mother always said that sharing a bad dream makes it easier to face.”

“Tell me about her.” Howl looked up, resting his chin on the soft of her stomach. “Tell me about your life in the hat shop.”

Sophie simply smiled. “If you tell me about your dream.”

He groaned again, leaning back on the bed. He kept his hold on her, so she fell onto the sheets with him. She settled sideways on his lap, her arms around his neck, and her cheek on his shoulder. She kissed his cheek, her lips soft, and whispered, “Please, Howl.”

Usually, he couldn’t resist her. He couldn’t resist her now, when it was dark and he still felt jittery. When she was so close to him, and warm, and soothing.

So, he told her. About how punishments worked with Madame Suliman. The room of mirrors and the wild distortions they turned their subjects into. The hideousness of it all. With Suliman’s voice echoing; equating beauty to skill; to worth. He was worthless if he wasn’t beautiful.

Sophie held him tighter. Brushed his hair from his forehead, pressed kisses against his cheeks; temples; eyelids; murmured that Suliman was wrong and she wanted to give that woman a piece of her mind. Was going to challenge her to a duel.

“Please don’t start another war on my account,” Howl whispered into her hair. He did feel less shaky now. The dream was starting to slip back into the past. He was here, and they were safe.

Safe and in Sophie’s room. She didn’t seem to mind when Howl laid down on her sheets. She curled against him, a hand over his heart. He still couldn’t get used to that; the weight of a heart in his chest. That it raced, or skipped beats, or was otherwise completely irrational. A heavy burden indeed.

“You said you’d tell me about the hat shop,” he said, tugging the covers around them both, when he wasn’t kicked out. He did want to stay here, next to the woman he loved.

Sophie told him about the hat shop. The day to day of it. How it was wonderful to have a complicated and fiddly project, because she loved those best of all. She loved the method to them; loved seeing the hat slowly take shape. She could remember her favourite hats, because she was wonderful like that.

Her voice grew softer and softer. It took her longer and longer to find the right word that she wanted. Until she was silent all together, and her breathing deepened against Howl’s. His own eyes were half-closed, and his mind full of hats instead of mirrors.

He pulled her even closer, and went back to sleep.

*

Howl presented Sophie with the pendant, the next morning. A fairly simple one, because she still didn’t like anything flashy, but with a bright jewel set inside that shone silver like a star. A moonstone. It made him think of her hair.

He left it on the top of the stove as she was cooking breakfast. The chain hung from the side, as though it was trying to escape.

Calcifer noticed before she did. “Hey, what’s that? Is it for me?”

“These are for you.” Howl tossed the eggshells into the fire. They were consumed eagerly.

It made Sophie look round. She paused, letting the frying pan rest on the holder. Her dark eyes flicked from the ring back up to Howl, catching the gold light of Calcifer’s fire.

“Howl, you shouldn’t have.” And she did frown, as though she was going to scold him.

“It’s a present.” He picked it up instead, stepping closer. He heard Calcifer’s grumble, at his sentimentality. “For putting up with me.”

“What is it?” Markl asked. He hopped down from the table. Heen followed, wheezing his back and wagging his tail. “Wow – that’s pretty.”

“It’s no problem putting up with you.” But at least Sophie was smiling. She turned, lifting her hair up so let him fix the pendant around her neck. It swung as she spun back, like a shooting star, settling over her chest.

“It looks good on you, Sophie.” Though Markl was edging around them to get to the frying pan. Heen scrabbled at the edge of the stove, his nose twitching for the bacon. “Does it do anything special?”

“Just prove my feelings,” Howl replied. He helped Markl with the frying pan, making sure he had it steady before he started bringing it back to the table.

Sophie gave him another shining smile, her cheeks flushed pink. He loved when he could do that. She stepped away from the stove too, her skirts flowing around her.

Howl caught her hand, and tugged her back. They could have a moment of privacy, whilst Markl was serving up breakfast and Calcifer was hunting for any slithers of food dropped on the hearth.

“It shouldn’t be your job to fix me,” he said. Had to say.

Sophie softened. She stepped back, taking his other hand in hers too. “You deserve to have someone listen to you, dear.”

He hated having a heart. Because it made his whole chest feel very hot, and he could feel it beating against his ribs. It made him feel ridiculous about something very normal; very small.

“Besides—” Sophie paused to press her mouth against his. She pulled away before he could return the kiss, her eyes sparkling. “Maybe I like fixing you, Howl Pendragon.”

He smiled before he could stop himself. He felt almost giddy, and was sure he could hear Calcifer snickering behind him. For once, he didn’t have the words to reply.

Instead, he squeezed their hands together.

And kissed Sophie again.

[turnupswritessometimes]

Ricordami - Lies of P - P/Romeo - Ch5

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56555755/chapters/143738143

Summary: P decides to repair the king of puppets. It sends him on a journey to discover what happened to Carlo and Romeo - and to discover whether puppets can love, after all.

First | Previous

P’s system restarted. He felt his springs clicking into place; felt the whir of mechanics. He tried to get up – tried to stand – and found that he couldn’t. He was still slumped in that same chair; his limbs loose, his head slightly on one side. Like a discarded puppet. He had not realised, before, how much effort it took to move. Before, it had been simple. Now that it had been taken from him, he realised how important it was.

Now he was trapped.

A useless puppet.

Gemini glowed at his side, but he couldn't acknowledge him.

His father stood across the room, facing the painting of Carlo. P wasn't sure how long he had sat there, unconscious, and felt a flicker of fear. He also wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there, his mind whirring and his limbs unresponsive, before Geppetto turned.

"I think you did inherit some of Carlo's personality, in the end," he said. His voice was quiet. "He could be mischievous. But you – you were always such a good boy to me. It saddens me to do this to you."

His father had done something to him, when he’d been unconscious. He’d disconnected him from his limbs. P felt that flicker of fear turn into panic. He was trapped. Trapped in the one place that he should be safe – and trapped by his father. He should have been safe from this mean..

"You need me," he managed to say; that was how he found his voice, at least, was still connected. His words slurred. But Geppetto understood enough.

Geppetto smiled, indulgently. "I need your heart. I need Carlo’s heart. Just – not yet. Not until Krat's safe."

The play Romeo had performed, with the puppets of him and his father. His father taking P's heart. He hadn’t wanted to understand, but it was much too clear now.

"Why tell me?" he said. Short words, and fewer of them, were easier to say.

"You won't remember," Geppetto said, simply enough. His smile looked ghastly, in the light of the lamps.

Take away his memory – his father was going to take away his memory. Had he done it before? Surely not – surely Romeo would have remembered, if they'd performed this play before. How much did he want his father to take away? Before he met Romeo again? Or all of it? Would he start fresh?

And if he took away P's memory now – would he still be P after? Would he be someone else, entirely? A third person crowding his Ergo.

He didn't want that. But he couldn’t escape that.

"Then – then tell me—" P wanted to flinch away. He couldn’t. "Why make Romeo the king of puppets?"

Geppetto didn't seem too surprised, by that. He put his head on one side, and considered. "It served a purpose."

"You told me to kill him," P said, evenly. He concentrated hard on the words.

"It was dangerous. It was driving the puppets into a frenzy."

"Against you."

"Against us all." Geppetto crossed the distance between them. He stood in front of P, useless in the chair. Considered him. P stared up through strands of dark hair, and tried to look defiant. He wasn't sure it worked, when he was rendered so useless. When he was like a doll with its internal strings cut. "It was for the good of Krat."

"But you knew who he was," P said. Carlo said. They both said. "You knew he was Lampwick."

His Lampwick.

"It doesn't matter, now," Geppetto said. Firmly. He was annoyed - was always annoyed with Carlo said 'Lampwick.' "He's destroyed. He's gone."

He took P's head. Still gentle. Tilted it back, and he was unable to fight against it. He only made a soft sound of protest in the back of his throat. Gemini chirped at his side, like an alarm.

"It will be alright," Geppetto said. "I'll fix this. I’ll fix you. Just trust me."

How could he? After this? After everything?

P felt cold. Fear gripped his spine. This was danger. He was in true danger, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it. It felt as though he was trapped in a room with something much worse than any of the monsters he'd fought; than the giant puppets, or the carcass monsters. He was in danger, with his father.

His father was going to wipe him clean.

Would he cut his hair too, he thought, absurdly. Would he cut away the grey?

The door to the room slammed open.

Geppetto turned. Stumbled, and retreated from the chair. It was easy to see why.

Romeo stood in the doorway. He didn't look like a puppet, not anymore - not with his eye healed and wearing clothes, like any other citizen of Krat. He could have been a stalker, but for the lack of animal mask. His sword was steady at his side.

His hair glowed gold in the soft light looked like an angel.

"Carlo," he said, when he saw P.

"That's impossible." Geppetto stared, his eyes wide, taking a step closer to where P lay.

Romeo raised his sword. "Stay away from him, you devil."

"How on earth are you—"

"Stay away!" Romeo snapped. He took a step closer, the point of his sword still aimed at Geppetto's test. And he did back away, though his jaw was set. His eyes were cold flint. "Carlo - P - are you alright?"

"I can't move," he replied.

"What did you do to him?" Romeo's voice shook.

Geppetto didn't answer immediately. He studied the two of them, putting the pieces together. Realising that it was Romeo, again, who’d done this. He’d taken Carlo again. P stared back, and watched him realise it was him – P – who’d done that.

"He's broken. I need to fix him."

Romeo shook his head, slowly. He crossed the room with slow, confident strides, keeping his sword pointed at Geppetto. He wore a cape, and it swayed with him.

"I will not let you take Carlo's heart!" Geppetto shouted, but was still fixed in his position – still hadn’t tried to stop Romeo. "Not again! You're the devil."

Romeo stopped in front of P. It seemed they were at a standstill. Romeo wouldn't let Geppetto near P – not again. But he couldn't leave, not with P so useless. He wouldn’t be able to fight and carry him.

The shouting – Romeo’s presence – had attracted attention. There were more footsteps, hurrying up the stairs. Eugenie and Venigni appeared in the doorway, catching hold of the frame and looking harried.

"He said he was a stalker—" Eugenie panted.

"That wasn’t a lie." Romeo didn't take his eyes away from Geppetto. "I did graduate to become one."

P could have smiled at that, in another situation. His Ergo swarmed and swirled within him, desperate for an escape. It felt like he was going to burst apart.

"Sir, I must insist—" That was Venigni, stepping forward  with his cane raised – as though he was about to start a sword fight.

"He's a friend," P said. He tried to be louder. Tried to shout. "He's my friend."

"That's a lie!" Geppetto cried.

The pair looked between the three of them, Eugenie holding out her screwdriver. Venigni was the one who lowered his cane. Who believed P, instead of his father – even though P was the one telling the truth. Venigni carefully stepped forward, palms raised, his eyes on Romeo.

"I can help him.  I will help him, if you'll permit me."

Romeo's eyes flicked to Venigni, just for a moment. Whatever he saw there made his decision. He nodded. Sharply.

Venigni crossed the room, hesitatntly. P's jacket and shirt were already undone. He opened his chest port, the blue glow of Ergo illuminating his face. P couldn’t see his expression, anymore; his head was stuck.

No one else spoke – it felt like the humans in the room were all holding their breath. But Venigni couldn't stay silent for long. He shifted, so that he could look P in the eye, and whispered, "Do you really trust him, mi compagna?"

"Yes,” P whispered.

Venigni looked at him for a moment, before he nodded in return. His hands moved, deftly. Undid what Geppetto had disabled within him until P could feel his limbs again. Each one. Until he could move his head upright – could straighten himself in that big chair. He’d always hated sitting in that chair; he’d thought it had been the reminder that he was a puppet. Maybe he had sensed that the metal could be used to conduct that electric shock.

"Son!" Geppetto called.

P turned to look at him, even as he stood, slowly. Venigni hovered, as though he was ready to catch him if he fell. He didn’t. He looked at his father, who had done that – who would have been happy to wipe him clean. He looked just as angry as he did anguished.

"I can't trust you," P said, and he felt pain in his heart as he did. "I can't stay here with you, any longer."

"Let's not be hasty, mi compagna." That was Venigni, taking his elbow. "The hotel is the only safe place left in Krat. You cannot leave."

P felt a shift in his core. He didn’t want to. "I have to."

The bitter, hurt look left Geppetto’s face, leaving only anger; P supposed it was just what Carlo had done – was what Carlo was doing again. Yet, the sword still pointed at him. He was still just a man, faced with two weapons he'd created.

"You're making a mistake, son.” Geppetto’s use of the word made P hesitate. He still said it so softly. “The same mistake Carlo made."

P shook his head. That hadn’t been Carlo’s mistake. "I will continue to fight. I will continue to save Krat. But not here. Not with you."

"My friend…" Venigni tried again.

P stepped away. Behind Romeo, as he began to retreat from the room. As they began to leave. Together.

"We can survive out there," he said. To Venigni. To Eugenie. His own weapon had been left by the door, and he lifted it now. He didn’t know if he would be able to use it – not against the people he loved. "I'll come back, if I need help."

"Don't do this," Geppetto whispered. Begged. "Son. Carlo."

It was a final attempt at keeping P's heart for himself. He would not rise to those words; to his father calling him that. Not this time; not after what he’d done. He stayed behind Romeo, like he was his knight. His Ergo rushed in his ears.

He stayed behind him until they were leaving the hotel – they weren’t followed. P wondered what Geppetto would tell the others – but surely, the fact he had disabled P like that would through doubt on his words.

He did see Sophia, stood in the lobby, watching them as they passed. She gave him a sad, sad look. But then she nodded. As though she understood. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she knew who Romeo was to him.

P nodded back.

*

Romeo only spoke when they were a few streets away. Then he stopped, sheathing his sword. Now that P looked closely, he could see it was all a theatre costume. The style was much older than what the citizens of Krat wore. He was dressed as the hero from a Shakespeare play, in a tunic, cape and breeches.

Romeo took P's face between his hands. "Are you really alright? Your Ergo – I heard it call for me."

“I didn’t know I could do that.”

“It was so strong.”

"I'm alright," P replied, though he still flet the echoes of that electric shock. "Now. He was going to – I was going to be wiped clean."

Romeo swore. Swore a string of bad words that P had not heard before, but a dim memory told him Carlo had. He didn't have the chance to ask what they meant, before Romeo kissed him. Roughly. And again. Wrapped his hand in P's hair, and tugged him close. He caught Romeo's waist, in retaliation. He felt a surge of warmth, and tugged him flush against him. Kissed him back, and felt that panic and chaos start to calm. He was safe; he was with Romeo.

When they pulled away, Romeo pressed their foreheads together. His eyes were still closed.

"It was deliberate," P said what they'd always suspected, he supposed. It was different to say it aloud. "That you were the King of Puppets."

"Thank you." Romeo kissed him again. Kissed his cheek, then rested his head on P's shoulder, half-buried in his hair. "For defying your father again. For me. Carlo."

His hands were splayed on P's back, holding him close. Holding him flush against him. P didn't think he could return that kind of hold, though his hands tried.

"Sorry," Romeo murmured. "You're not Carlo."

"I don't know anymore," he said, into Romeo's blonde hair. "I don't know who I am."

There was a pause. It was raining, and he heard the pitter of it on the pavement around them. Gently, Romeo untangled himself . Brushed P's hair from his face, and his hair was caught in his finger joints. He didn't wince.

"I don't know, either," Romeo murmured. There was another twinge, as he pulled his fingers free of his hair.

P rubbed his thumbs over Romeo's hips. It felt natural. Normal. "Don't you mind?"

Romeo paused. Considered that. His fingertips traced P's mouth, across his cheeks, as though he was trying to join his freckles together.

"I don't know," he said. His fingers dipped to P's chin, his fingertip just resting on the carved dimple there. "Right now, I just want to be able to feel you. To really feel you."

P found himself smiling. Shakily. Because he was still full of fear from what his father planned. Because he needed to feel too, to chase away all the bad feelings. "Then let's feel."

So they made their way back to the Opera House. It was a safe route now, they both knew that Geppetto would not be following them. He wouldn't dare. The streets weren't safe.

They weren't safe for them, either, but they were safe enough. They could fight, his father couldn’t.

P wasn't sure if he would go back to the hotel. He knew he would have to, at some point. Sophia was there. Venigni and his legion arms were there; Eugenie and her weapons. Lady Antonia. His friends were there, and he didn't want to leave them.

But he didn't see how he could stay with his father, either. Not after what he'd done, and not what he knew.

Right now, he wanted to feel. He could, dimly, and that feeling only got stronger when he was with Romeo. He wanted to feel more; he ached with it. And so, he retreated, deep into the corners of the theatre, with Romeo. Into one of the abandoned changing rooms. He found their hands slipping into each other’s; liked holding hands with Romeo; it felt right.

He remembered following Romeo like this, back at the Charity House. Remembered giggling and being lead through the house on a summer day. Before that summer.

P closed the door of the changing room behind them. Stood, facing Romeo, and found himself out of breath. That shouldn't be possible.

Romeo smiled, his hazel eyes warm. He took P's hands, bringing him a step forward. It was a small room. There was an old, cracked mirror on the dressing table, against the wall. Discarded dresses on the floor. A chaise lounge, its pillows strewn over the boards.

"I'm so glad I have you," Romeo said. "I'm so glad I have you back."

"You came for me." P stepped closer. Had to step closer. Being so close to Romeo made his Ergo – his heart – sing. He held Romeo’s hips; his waist; pressed his palms against his chest. “You saved me.”

Romeo smiled, and his eyes were soft in the gas lamp. Glittered a dozen hues, like opals. He held P in return; his fingers tracing paths in his back, under his coat.

“You fixed me,” Romeo said.

“Of course,” he said.

Romeo kept searching, under his coat. It seemed natural, easy, to slip it off, and toy with the lapels of Romeo’s own jacket. It was trimmed with lace ruffles like he was a prince. He looked like a prince. Romeo kissed him. His lips moved, hovering over P’s cheek. He could feel his lashes brush against his skin.

“Because I’m your friend?” he whispered. Kissed the hollow of P’s jaw. “Or because of Carlo?”

He turned – kissed Romeo’s cheek – tugged his coat off, and Romeo let it drop to the floor. “Both.”

He still didn’t understand it; didn’t understand himself; but being with Romeo made him feel like he could.

Romeo chuckled. He took a step back, against the chaise lounge. He sat, tugging P’s hips closer by his belt loops, holding him between his knees. He smiled up at him; the yellow light dancing over his porcelain skin, and his hair flames. Like this, it didn’t look like he was imitating a smile at all.

He took P’s hand – his puppet hand – and kissed the back of it. Kissed his knuckles, and his palm. Brought it to his face, and P cupped it with his own. Traced the shape of Romeo’s cheekbone; his jaw. They were not soft. Not like before.

Romeo tugged P’s belt again. He settled himself in Romeo’s lap, his hair falling forward like a curtain. Held Romeo’s face steady as he kissed him. Again and again. Finding the steps of that dance, and letting his mouth fall open. A soft hum came from the back of Romeo’s throat. They arched into each other.

He wanted to be closer. He’d never wanted to be close like this, before. Not in this way, that made his Ergo hum and sing. Made him feel electric.

Romeo’s fingers fumbled on P’s waistcoat. Caught on a button string, and broke through it. The button bounced off the chaise lounge, and rolled across the floor. They didn’t pay attention to it. It seemed a desperate need; a need P remembered, distantly. Remembered doing this in a secluded corner of the charity house, when they were sure they were alone.

The waistcoat was discarded. He kissed the corner of Romeo’s mouth; kissed his jaw; laughed in response to Romeo’s purr at the feeling. His own hands were busy on Romeo’s waistcoat, even as Romeo took fistfuls of his shirt; felt the shape of him through it. Their breath was heavy; it usually only felt heavy like this when he was fighting. His springs whirred, his Ergo pulsing. It felt warm; he felt warm; doing this, made him feel more alive.

He tugged Romeo’s shirt up.

There was a pulse of blue, where his heart should be. When he pressed his fingertips to it, it felt hot. Boiling. Romeo leant into the touch with a sharp gasp.

“Here,” Romeo said. He caught the back of P’s neck, leaning back on the chaise lounge. There was barely enough room for the two of them on it. They were too large; too clumsy; built to serve the people on the furniture, and not use it themselves. But they managed. P followed Romeo down, catching himself on the soft cushions on the seat. He pressed his mouth against that warmth; pressed himself against Romeo’s body. Their legs tangled, and Romeo’s crossed at the ankles, keeping P close. Arching his back into him.

There was a ripping sound. P’s shirt. Romeo had torn it from the back in his eagerness to feel more of him.

He chuckled, as P drew away. His ruined shirt fell off one shoulder.

“I like it,” he said. “It makes you look like a fallen angel.”

“You look like an angel,” P said. He didn’t quite mean to, and when he realised those words were said aloud, he felt even warmer, and ducked his chin.

Romeo caught it, and held him steady. Laughed, and drew him down for a deep kiss.

P tugged the rest of his shirt off, between their dance of lips and hands. Tugged Romeo’s up, over his head, and let it fell with the rest of their discarded clothes. He didn’t let himself pause. Did not want to see where their joints met; the deep marks that would show they were puppets; reveal how they worked.

Romeo didn’t either. His hand landed on P’s shoulder, felt the joint, moved away like a startled butterfly, back to his hair. His finger joints caught, again, and P ignored it. Kissed him back, hungrily and hurriedly. Romeo mouthed at his neck; at his shoulder; at his collarbone. Their breath came heavily and P could feel the hum of his Ergo in his chest. Felt the sparks in every part of him.

Romeo’s joint legs tugged him closer, to close the gap between them.

P was pressed against him. All of him. His legs, and hips, and chest. Right where their Ergo sat.

It felt like an electric shock. Just as sparkling and burning as the shock his father had given him in the chair. Made all of him feel terribly, trembly alive.

He heard Romeo’s gasp. Felt his gasp against him. Felt their Ergo’s pulse and tangle with each other, and stayed pressed against him. It felt like stars were dancing between them.

P pressed his forehead to Romeo’s cheek, feeling him press back against him. Really feeling him. He was so warm. Everything was warm.

“I think—” And he shouldn’t be able to think at all, but he had to preface it with that, because how could he be sure, when he barely knew what emotions were? When he shouldn’t feel at all. “I love you, Romeo.”

It felt like a brighter, sharper electric shook, through all of him. He closed his eyes. Stars dancing over his skin.

“I love you, too,” Romeo murmured. He took a sharp breath. “Carlo.”

He didn’t correct him. Not that time. Everything was blue. Everything was a bright, crystal blue. Their Ergo.

Their Ergo, whose light eventually faded. He half-opened his eyes, to see blue stars floating away from their entwined bodies. He looked through strands of Romeo’s golden hair. His other hand traced Romeo’s side, up to his cheek. It felt – different. Or, he felt different. Could really feel Romeo’s skin. Soft. His fingertips tingled.

Romeo rubbed circles into his back. He could feel that too. Could feel sparks dancing across his skin, from the touch. Soft. They were soft.

“Romeo,” he repeated.

Romeo made a soft sound. He relaxed his limbs, to let P pull away. Just enough to look.

There was no blue glow from behind Romeo’s chest plate. It wasn’t a puppet’s chest plate, not anymore. There was real skin, real collarbones, real downy hair in the centre of his chest, in a line down from his naval, into his trousers. He had taut muscles in his stomach, lines where his skin folded creased.

He touched them, mesmerised.

“You’re not a puppet,” he whispered.

Romeo stared up at him, just as stunned. He traced P’s own chest; his own collarbone; his neck; his fingers buried in P’s hair. This time, his fingers didn’t catch. They fell through.

Romeo laughed. He tucked P’s hair behind his ear, lingering on that strand of grey. His fingers lingered, on his jaw.

“You too,” Romeo said. “P – Carlo – you’re real.”

He didn’t know what to do with that – still didn’t know who he was. He still had his legion arm, that hadn’t changed. But he found himself smiling. Found himself laughing, breathlessly – soundlessly, and brushing Romeo’s hair from his face. Found himself dipping down again, to kiss him.

Romeo was right. Kissing, as puppets, had been a performance – had been an echo of what it was. Now, their mouths were warm, and their breath was hot. Now, the touch sent stars dancing across his skin. Now, it felt like fire.

They overbalanced. Fell, in a heap, onto the floor. P’s back hit the floorboards; it actually hurt, he felt the dull ache of it through his back. Romeo was over him, a heavy, comforting weight on his hips. Smiling down at him.

“I don’t understand,” Romeo said. Still laughing. He dipped to kiss P’s cheek, and he took a handful of Romeo’s blonde hair in his hand. Held him close. Aware now, of how heavy his legion arm was.

P took a deep breath, and realised how wonderful it was to do that.

“I don’t. Not entirely,” he said. Pressed his forehead against Romeo’s again, starting into those hazel eyes. “I think Ergo has more secrets than even my father knows.” Romeo’s forehead bumped his. “I like the sound of something Geppetto doesn’t know.”

It still hurt. P felt an ache in his chest when he thought of Geppetto. Still felt himself and Carlo at war within him; Carlo’s resentment, and his own hurt. And yet – he was still his father. He still loved him.

Romeo kissed him.

Carlo – P – kissed him back.

“Will you help me?” he asked, his lips grazing Romeo’s. It was impossible to pull away any further. “Save Krat?”

Romeo kissed him, slowly, again, before he answered: “For you? Of course, my angel.”

P thought he would shatter into pieces, just like Ergo. Romeo’s soft voice was taking him apart; the way he held him as though he would disappear. He held him just as tightly, very aware his legion arm would be cold against Romeo’s skin.

They would fight, to save Krat, then. He knew he’d have to go back to the hotel, sometime. He still wanted to help Sophia – would help Sophia, and the others at the hotel. He knew would have to face Geppetto again. But he wasn’t a puppet any longer. He thought he could face him, Carlo or not.  

He would do it with his Romeo.

With his Lampwick.

[turnupswritessometimes]

Cruel Summer - Oneshot - 'Hikaru'/Yoshiki - The Summer Hikaru Died

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57792403

Summary: “I want to feel more like a human.” Yoshiki opened his eyes. 'Hikaru' was looking at him – looking at him, in that way he had, like he could see all the way through him. And he could. He noticed everything about him; noticed how he could barely stand to look at Hikaru’s bare skin. Maybe he knew him as well as he’d known Hikaru. “How are you planning on doing that?” Yoshiki asked. ‘Hikaru’ paused. His little finger did twitch, then. They touched and Yoshiki twitched away, out on instinct. “By touching. By touching you.”

A short oneshot exploring the boys touching each other.

Word Count: 2,231

Cruel Summer

It was a hot afternoon. It had been a hot summer. The kind of summer where you forgot what it was like to not be sweating. Yoshiki and ‘Hikaru’ sat in the field in front of Hikaru’s house. It was something he hated. Hated that he still spent so long at Hikaru’s house, when the boy sat next to him wasn’t Hikaru anymore.

Also hated that it didn’t bother him so much, anymore. It still hurt – he still missed Hikaru with everything inside him, but he wasn’t thinking of this boy as him. He looked the same, but he was different. ‘Hikaru,’ was different, and he couldn’t bring himself to hate him. Not like before.

They lay in the grass, side by side. And if he didn’t look at ‘Hikaru,’ he could try and ignore that it wasn’t his body. Try and believe it was someone else. Yoshiki closed his eyes, and felt sweat drip down his temple.

“Hey,” ‘Hikaru’ said, softly. Much softer than Hikaru had usually spoken. “Will you get mad, if I say I want to try something?”

Yoshiki didn’t move. “Depends what it is.”

‘Hikaru’ paused. He was sat up, looking over the rest of the fields. His hand was too close to Yoshito’s. If he twitched his little finger, they’d be touching. That idea was dangerous.

“I want to feel more like a human.”

Yoshiki opened his eyes. The sun turned ‘Hikaru,’ into a silhouette; a shadow; over him. He could only see a glint of his eyes. He was looking at him – looking at him, in that way he had, like he could see all the way through him. And he could. He noticed everything about him; noticed how he could barely stand to look at Hikaru’s bare skin.

Maybe he knew him as well as he’d known Hikaru.

“How are you planning on doing that?” Yoshiki asked.

‘Hikaru’ paused. His little finger did twitch, then. They touched and Yoshiki twitched away, out on instinct. “By touching. By touching you.”

Yoshiki didn’t answer. He looked away from ‘Hikaru’, at the sky. It was a deep blue, today, with no clouds at all. The cicadas were out in full force, screeching at the edge of the field.

“Why?” Yoshiki asked.

“Because you’re warm.”

“All humans are warm.”

“Not all humans are you.”

“Why me?”

‘Hikaru’ leant over, then, his face blotting out the sun. His pale hair hung down. Hikaru had done the same to Yoshiki, countless times. It twisted his insides now. He wanted to roll over. To push him away. To snap to leave him alone.

When he’d first found out, he might have done. It was getting harder to do that, now. There was an expression ‘Hikaru’ had; a sad, longing kind of expression that Hikaru had never made. All wide dark eyes and pouting mouth. He couldn’t be mean to that expression.

“Because I like you.”

He threw words like that out way too casually; way too casually, without even knowing what he was talking about. It should be endearing, like a little kid, and yet, there was a conviction in his voice. Maybe he did know. And maybe that sort of thing didn’t bother him.

Yoshito swallowed. “Alright.”

‘Hikaru’ grinned. Showed off that chipped tooth and Yoshiki’s stomach squeezed itself again. He sat up; this felt like something he needed to sit up for. Sweat trickled down his back. His cheeks felt hot. It was because of the sun, he lied to himself.

He stared at 'Hikaru.' 'Hikaru' stared back, like he didn't know how to start, either. Then he reached for Yoshiki's hand. Slowly. Like he was a startled sheep, he needed to coax into getting used to him.

Maybe he already had.

He let 'Hikaru' take his hand. Let him cradle it in both of his, looking at it as though he'd never seen one before. Its own hands were cold – still warm, still alive, but still on the cold side, for a human. The skin was firm, and Yoshiki couldn't remember if they were like that before. It made his stomach lurch. It was getting harder to remember Hikaru, as opposed to 'Hikaru.' How long would it be until he didn't remember what it was like before?

Would he even live that long?

'Hikaru' turned his hand over, and Yoshiki watched, as he traced down the soft skin of his palm. His fingers twitched, on reflex, when they reached the middle of his palm.

"That tickles," he said.

'Hikaru' smiled, and, for a moment, it was that same smile from before. The one to let him know he was about to be mercilessly teased. He traced his fingers over that spot again. Round and round and it sent tingles dancing across Yoshiki's skin, until he closed his fist. But he didn't pull away.

"Sorry," 'Hikaru' murmured. It was another difference.

Yoshiki opened his hand again, and this time the fingers slipped into his own, lining them up against each other. He clenched them together, interwoven, and Yoshiki found himself returning the grip. It made him feel like he was really there.

Their hands fell into the grass, and stayed there, hidden. Where it was safe.

"Do you..." Yoshiki looked up through his dark bangs. It was safe there, behind his hair. "Remember what your body was like, before?"

'Hikaru' shook his head. "Don't think I really had one."

He paused again, staring at their hands in the grass. Pretty much the same shade; his own was slightly paler; he didn't tan so easily.

"Do you...like having one?"

"It's kind of a pain," 'Hikaru' said, and laughed at whatever expression Yoshiki made. "I mean, eating and sleeping – it's a lot of maintenance. But I like being able to touch. I like that a lot. Can I touch you more?"

He still didn't get tones quite right, sometimes. It sounded slightly twisted, the way he worded it, Yoshiki thought – like bad porn. He didn’t think 'Hikaru' meant it like that; didn't think it really occurred to him, or that he wasn't consciously aware of what he was feeling.

It allowed Yoshiki to believe the lie – if it was a lie – too. He could pretend to be unaware of what this was too. He didn't have to read too much into his pounding heartbeat when he could hide behind that lie.

So, he nodded.

'Hikaru' squeezed his fingers once more, before they untangled. Before they traced down the veins of Yoshiki's arm; the heat had made them stand out in blue lines, like electric cables. He paused at the inside of his elbow. Then took it, properly, his thumb nudging against the bone, feeling the sharp point, just catching the ulnar nerve and sending a spear of that unbearable pain up Yoshiki's arm. He flinched.

'Hikaru' looked up. "Did that hurt?"

"It's fine."

‘Hikaru’ shifted closer. Close enough for their knees to brush against each other. Yoshiki wore trousers, but he still felt a tingle, through the fabric. He didn't watch their hands. He felt 'Hikaru' reach further, just under the sleeve of his t-shirt, to his bicep. His thumb pressed down again.

"I have stronger arms than you," he said. They were speaking very quietly, as though they were scared they would be overheard.

"Hikaru did more sports."

It wasn't said as a reminder, but Yoshiki still felt a spear of pain. He still saw 'Hikaru' twitch his eye. His hand slowly drew away, but Yoshiki could feel the path of it still. Like his skin had been marked. Like whatever that thing inside 'Hikaru' was had branded him just from touch. That thing inside him which had touched him and made him feel – alive. Really alive, for the first time since Hikaru's death.

"Did he—" 'Hikaru' leant closer, his eyes on Yoshiki's face again with that x-ray stare. "Did you – touch like this – before?"

He felt a heat that wasn't from the sun climbing up his neck. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the same as I did about my chest."

Yoshiki looked away, out at the fields and the town nestled in them, as though that would help. His breath was sharp in his lungs. It sent a shoot of panic through him, like a bamboo sprout; growing as fast and as undeniably as bamboo.

Fingers nudged his, again.

He could tell 'Hikaru' that boys didn't love each other like that. He didn't think 'Hikaru' would believe him. He thought 'Hikaru' knew the truth about him. Had he looked through Hikaru's memories to know that, or was it simply how Yoshiki had been since he'd returned?

"We didn't touch like this, before," he said, and that was true. No matter how much he’d thought about it, they hadn’t done this.

'Hikaru' shifted closer. Still touching his hand. "Did you want to?"

"It doesn't matter," his voice was a whisper. "I don't want you to be a replacement for him."

Even if he wore his body. Even if everyone else thought he still was Hikaru. Even if Yoshiki was being offered everything he'd wanted. He couldn’t take it.

"Then what am I?"

"I don't know." That was also true. He swallowed, cheeks heavy with heat, and looked up at 'Hikaru' through his hair.

"Is it still okay to touch you more?"

Yoshiki nodded.

'Hikaru' raised his other hand. The very tip of his pointer finger touched the mole on his jaw. Yoshiki didn't move. He should say no. He should stop this. It was probably dangerously stupid – might even lead to him being killed. It was the opportunity to kiss Hikaru. In this field. Where no one else would know. And there was already so much no one else knew about 'Hikaru.' This would be the worst thing, though.

The tip of that pointer finger moved to his bottom lip, tracing over the shape of it.

Yoshiki's mouth parted. He couldn't help it. It was the only way he thought he'd be able to breathe. They were inches away from each other, now, and he could still stop this, if he said no.

He decided to say no after.

'Hikaru' pressed their lips together.

Yoshiki didn't move away. His eyes were half-closed; he could still see a blur of 'Hikaru.' Then his mouth moved for him, and 'Hikaru' returned the gesture, tilting his head into it.

Yoshiki's eyes closed completely. He caught hold of 'Hikaru''s shoulder - still didn't push him away. Because his mouth was warm. His mouth was warm and it made him feel like he was a firework; there were sparks dancing over his cheek and down his throat. His heart was pounding; was trying in earnest to escape from his mouth. If it did, he didn't think he'd even try to get it back.

'Hikaru' touched his hair, brushing it back behind his ear, his fingers trembling. His mouth trailed, from the corner of Yoshiki's mouth, to his jaw. His mouth was open, left wet marks in his wake.

It hurt for Yoshiki to breathe.

'Hikaru' held him steady, a hand on the back of his head, his tongue tracing down his jaw. They were close; bundled into each other, but they had been closer before. They'd been part of each other.

This wasn't close enough. He gripped 'Hikaru''s shirt in his fists, his head tilting to one side. Exposing his neck. Like he was prey.

He felt like prey. A sound came from the back of his throat, and he felt like a deer.

'Hikaru' answered it with a low sound of his own. It sent a fire crawling through his stomach. Their legs were pressed together. Everything was pressed together.

A seagull cried.

It was a sudden, sharp noise, cutting across the cicadas.

Yoshiki pulled away. He half-fell, into the grass, his elbow hitting the ground. 'Hikaru' half-fell over him, his eyes wide. His hair caught in the breeze; it looked like swan feathers.

Yoshiki pushed at his chest. His hair was safely over his face, but he didn't think it hid how crimson he was. It didn't hide his heaving chest.

'Hikaru' looked at him. Yoshiki pushed him again, trying to untangle himself, and sit up at the same time.

'Hikaru' did. He moved back, and Yoshiki was sure that whatever was inside him had flicked out for a second. He saw something shift, back into his chest.

Hikaru never listened to him, like that.

"Was that too much?" 'Hikaru' asked.

"Yes."

"You seemed to like it."

"Not again." Yoshiki drew his knees to his chest. "Don't do that again."

'Hikaru' still watched, for a moment. Yoshiki wiped at his jaw with the heel of his hand, his heart still raced. He'd lost control. He’d always managed to control it around Hikaru, but it was a different matter with ‘Hikaru.’

"Alright."

Yoshiki looked away. He had to. Because 'Hikaru' had been right. He had liked that. He'd liked that a lot, and he couldn't. He absolutely couldn't. It would be a hole he could never crawl back from.

Because Yoshiki had liked that, and for a moment, it hadn't mattered this wasn't Hikaru. This was 'Hikaru,' and all the danger which came with him. It made it thrilling.

Which scared him even more.

So, they couldn't do that again. Ever.

Because he didn't know if they would ever be able to stop.

[turnupswritessometimes]

Geppetto's Boy - Lies of P - Ch1

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/54517777

Summary: He watched Geppetto, as he tilted the boy's arm to clean it. After they'd reunited, after he'd been held by the shoulders – again – and told that he was precious – again – Geppetto had eased him into the large chair that stood in his rooms. The pipes and tubes pulsed around him. He wasn’t connected to them, yet. "Let's get you cleaned up, son," the man had said. The stranger, really, and yet, the boy felt a pull towards him. A tug in his core. Like he was a magnet searching for its other half. This man was his creator. Was that the same thing as a father? Was that an important enough a question to ask?

A collection of oneshots set throughout the game, mostly exploring P and Gepetto's relationship. (But exploring P's relationships with most of Hotel Krat too.)

NEXT

Chapter One

The puppet sat in the chair. And it had been, he thought, the first time he'd sat down by himself. At least, that was assuming when the blue butterfly woke him, that was the first time he’d ever been awake. It must have been, because he couldn’t remember anything else.

Unless someone had tinkered with his memories. He had no way of knowing, if they had. Not unless they told him. He could only ask. The trouble, as he'd discovered upon arriving at the hotel, was that humans could lie.

Would the man calling himself the boy's father lie to him?

He watched Geppetto, as he tilted the boy's arm to clean it. After they'd reunited, after he'd been held by the shoulders – again – and told that he was precious – again – Geppetto had eased him into the large chair that stood in his rooms. The pipes and tubes pulsed around him. He wasn’t connected to them, yet.

"Let's get you cleaned up, son," the man had said. The stranger, really, and yet, the boy felt a pull towards him. A tug in his core. Like he was a magnet searching for its other half. This man was his creator.

Was that the same thing as a father?

Was that an important enough a question to ask? He had the impression that this man only wanted to answer important questions.

He let Geppetto ease off his shirt. The shirt Lady Antonia had given him – the uniform. The man had paused, holding the fabric in his hands just as tenderly as if it was his own creation, too.

"I never thought you would…" He didn't finish that thought. He noticed the boy watching him, and shook his head, with a sigh. "Forgive me."

The boy nodded, though the man needed him too. He sat, bare, and watched Geppetto bring out a suitcase of cleaning supplies. That was when he realised how covered in oil he was. Not just oil, there was blood on his hand too. When he caught his own gaze in the mirror on the wall opposite, he saw there was blood splattered all the way up his cheek.

"We must take care of you." Geppetto started on that cheek first, and the blood dried there, with a cloth that smelt of lemon. He wasn't meeting the boy's eye. It felt like that should mean something. "Make sure your joints are clean and clear. Especially your arm. That must be cleaned, as often as possible, to keep it working."

The boy nodded again. The cloth slid over his cheek. Geppetto's hand caught his chin, holding it still. So, he stayed still. Gemini pressed against his hip, glowing dimly, but staying silent.

His head was tilted to one side. The cloth wiped his neck.

He could hear his own springs. Could hear the tick, tick, tick of his mechanical organs. Was that what it was like to have a real heart? Could his father hear the thump of his own flesh heart in his chest?

Was that an important enough question to ask?

He didn't think so. His father didn't seem interested in questions like that. He wanted to talk about what they were going to do next, and how Krat was going to be saved.  That was important. That was why he'd woken in the first place. Why should the boy's trivial questions matter?

The cloth had to be rinsed several times. It left swirls of red and black in the water bowl. The oil floated to the top, reflecting the dim gas lamps in a rainbow. His skin was slowly turning back to porcelain.

When Geppetto reached the boy's wrist, he decided he could ask one question. He'd deemed it important enough.

"What should I say my name is?" His voice seemed as soft as the piano music drifting from the gramophone in the hall.

Gemini's light twitched.

Geppetto paused, for a moment. He smiled. "Are you asked that often, in a fight?"

The boy didn't answer. He could recognise that Geppetto was teasing; toying with him; avoiding the question. He didn't want to explain himself - to explain that he still wanted a name. That there were people at the hotel who did not want to kill him. That the other puppets he’d met had a name. That he didn't know how to think of himself, without a name.

Who was he, beyond Geppetto's puppet?

"You can call yourself 'P,'" Geppetto said, finally. "Is that acceptable?"

It was a short name. It was a letter. And it didn't feel fitting. But it was a name, and it was given to him by his father. The boy didn't argue; he nodded. He let his hand stay limp as his father wiped the blood and oil from his fingers.

"I assume you didn't meet anyone on your travels through the city."

"I met a merchant." He spoke before he could stop himself. Gemini gave another pulse and he couldn't figure he was trying to say.

Geppetto paused in his work. It reminded the boy, P, he supposed, of puppets. How they would pause for a moment, evaluating, before attacking.

"And did he find out what you are?"

What, not who. The distinction felt important.

"No."

"Good." He was at the tip of P's fingers now, at the nails set there. He even had nails. Polendina didn’t have nails. "The world will be a dangerous place for a puppet."

P – that still didn't feel right as a name, but it was all he had – knew that. One of the first things that had happened after he'd woken up was that he was attacked. And he had destroyed what attacked him. And that made sense.

He was attacked by puppets, and he fought puppets in return.

And then there had been the man on the bridge. The man who'd attacked him, simply because he'd recognised him as Geppetto's puppet. So, P had fought back.

Most of what he had done so far was fight. It was only at the hotel that he had real conversations. That he leant things. That he could stop and think about questions, and whether they were important enough to ask his creator about.

This was clear: the hotel was safe. The world was dangerous.

The oil was deftly removed from his fingers. Even under his fingernails.

He decided he could ask one more question: "Will I go into a frenzy?"

"No." And Geppetto did look up, then. He smiled, like there was something amusing about that. "No. You won't go into a frenzy. You're not like other puppets."

But how could he know that for certain, without knowing what caused the frenzy in the first place? P wasn't like how a puppet should be, but he was still a puppet.

"Because I do not obey the grand covenant." It was the logical conclusion from being able to lie.

"It's true that you are not bound by the covenant." His father still had that half-smile. He brushed P's hair from his eye. It fell back into place, almost immediately. "But I hope you will listen to its other principles."

"I hurt a human."

"To protect me." There were those hands again, on his shoulders, and they felt heavy. They pressed him into the large chair. "And I hope you will listen to your father."

Father was a softer word than creator, P decided. It was a word he liked. He watched Gemini, in the lantern. It was still lit with a soft glow, and he could see the silhouette of the cricket inside.

One of the hands lifted from his shoulder – but only to tilt his chin again. He knew he should be looking into Geppetto's eyes, but he found himself staring at the creases around them. At the way the light reflected on the rim of his monocle.

"Will you do that, son?"

Geppetto couldn’t tell P wasn’t meeting his eyes. "Yes."

The word came so easily it would seem he was bound by the Grand Covenant after all. He said it because he knew it was the right answer, and he had to do what was right. He had to do what his father wanted – he wanted to do that. But he wondered if saying ‘yes’ meant anything, at all. He could lie. He didn't know if he was lying now.

Geppetto smiled at him. More genuinely than before. The gas light reflected on his white teeth too. "Good.”

His father turned his attention to P’s other arm. The mechanical one; his legion arm. It was also splattered with oil, and it had become harder and harder to move as it had built up in the gears. The mess warranted more of his father’s tools; brushes and picks and flosses to get in between the parts. It would take a while.

P could talk more. He could talk about the woman with the baby. He could talk about only finding a puppet to give her, and how she didn’t know the difference because her sight was gone. He could talk about how it had made his springs do something strange to lie to her.

Was that feeling? Could he feel?

Should he be able to feel?

He didn’t think his father wanted to hear about that. Those were not questions he wanted to know about.

He knew that much about his father, already.

*

P saved that question for Sophia. For the next morning, before he was setting off again. Though even she had to coax it out of him. He stood in front of her in the lobby, staring at the hem of her dress, the lace just trailing against the rug. It was caught in a draft, drifting gently.

“What’s wrong, clever one?”

She asked it twice. But it was only when she raised her hand, as if to touch his cheek, that he came to his senses. He looked up, to her face.

“A woman. With the disease.”

Her hand stayed in the air between them. Her fingers gently closed, like a snail retreating into its shell. She watched him, closely, and her eyes darted in the direction of Lady Antonia’s portrait.

“The petrification disease?”

P nodded. “Her baby was taken from her.”

“That’s a terrible shame. She must have been heartbroken.” That hand fluttered to Sophia’s chest and settled there. It rose and fell with her breath.

P’s chest did not move. It ticked. It whirred. It didn’t breathe. What was it like to breathe? “She asked me to get it back.”

They blue light from the great stargazer flickered. There was the sound of rain pattering on the ground outside.

Sophia spoke slowly, watching P. “And what did you do?”

Her eyes were too blue and too piercing. P looked at her hand instead. “I said I would.”

“But when we got back to Krat Central Station, there were no survivors.” Gemini perked up from his hip. He hadn’t spoken, in front of Geppetto. He chirped, now. “We only found a puppet baby.”

Sophia didn’t reply. A strand of her hair had escaped its style, and hung by the collar of her shirt. It drifted in the breeze, like the pendant of a grandfather clock.

“I gave her the puppet,” P said.

“She thought it was her baby,” Gemini spoke up again. “She asked if we thought it was a cute baby.”

“And did you lie to her?” Sophia asked. Her voice was still soft.

P looked up, then. She seemed soft; seemed like she was shining from the inside out, like a star.

He nodded.

And she smiled. Not a happy smile, he could recognise that. It was a smile that had sadness there too. Yet, her eyes sparked with something else. Something like pride. The same kind of pride his father had, when he first saw P. Her fist closed on her chest, and for a moment, she closed her eyes.

She looked beautiful, P thought. Maybe Gemini did too, because he chirped.

“It was a very kind thing you did for that woman, you clever one,” she said, finally. “You made her feel happiness in what could have been her final moments of humanity, and that’s a lovely thing.”

His springs did that strange thing again. It felt like they jammed, for a second, like there was something stuck in his system. He blinked, and it passed. He nodded, again, and his hair fell in front of his eye, fully. He liked it there.

He adjusted his belts, and Gemini clinked against his leg. It was easier to look at the lantern to ask, “Are lies wrong?”

“There are different kinds of lies. Some lies are hurtful, and some lies are kind. It’s too complicated to call them all wrong.”

So why weren’t puppets allowed to lie at all? If it was always better to tell the truth? He didn’t think he would get a simple answer for that, either. He thought about what Sophia said, instead, twitching the fingers of his legion arm. He clenched his fingers. It helped get rid of the swirling thoughts.

He said that he was ready to go to Venigni Ironworks now, and Sophia didn’t argue with him. She nodded, her smile faltering slightly, and helped to make him stronger with Ergo. He watched the blue sparks and swirls in the air around him, from the stargazer. It was as beautiful as her, and he wanted to stay with it. With her. Wanted to stay in the hotel, and stay safe.

How could he want something, if he was a puppet?

How could he have so many questions?

*

P encountered the cat as he was making his way out of the hotel. It hopped off from a table in the hallway, landing without a sound, and sauntered down the rug. It was all amber – from its striped fur, down to its eyes. Eyes that looked up at P, somewhat blearily, as it trotted to him.

It made a noise in its throat, like a machine starting up. Its tail wiggled, like a flag.

Something in P recognised what it wanted him to do, and part of him wanted to do it. He knelt down, and offered the fingers of his human hand towards it.

The cat ran closer.  He thought it was a neat, tidy creature; with its pointed ears, pink nose and tiny paws. He liked the look of it, and he wanted to touch it.

But it stopped short of his fingers. When he twitched them, to touch its head, the cat recoiled. The inside of its mouth was very pink too, he found out, when it hissed at him. Like a cobra. Not just hissed, but arched its back and puffed its fur out.

Then it ran. Just as soundlessly down the stairs.

P stayed crouching in the hallway, his hand still outstretched.

Gemini chirped, on his hip. “Guess puppets and cats don’t mix, pal.”

The cat didn’t like him because of what he was. He didn’t like the cat hating him. It bothered him – could he be bothered, or annoyed, by things? Was that in his design?

He closed his fingers, slowly, and stood back up.

“I wouldn’t take it personally,” a voice said.

He looked up. It was Eugenie. She was coming down the hall too, carrying a box full of bits and bobs; something for her to tinker the day away with.

She smiled at him, somewhat nervously. She always looked nervous of him. “Spring’s not a sociable animal. She takes a while to warm up to strangers.”

“Spring?” P asked.

Eugenie was only a few paces away from him. She tilted her head to the side, and the gas lamps caught on her glasses, like the sunrise on the horizon. Just for a moment, before he could see her dark eyes clearly, again. “That’s the cat’s name. Spring.”

P nodded, to show he understood. (That was important, he’d learnt – to show he understood.) Then he held his hands out, feeling more mechanical than usual.

“Oh, thank you.” Eugenie’s smile became less nervous, as she passed him the box. It was heavier than he expected. Not heavy for him, but must have been heavy for her. He stared at her, wondering where she was hiding the extra strength.

They started down the stairs together. P’s footsteps were much louder than hers.

“Spring,” he repeated. “Like I have?”

“Oh, yes – I suppose!” She gave a small laugh, pushing her glasses up her nose. “But she’s also called Spring for the season. The season of new life and new beginnings. Of hope.”

“That’s pretty,” he said.

It was her turn to nod, as though she wanted to let him know that she understood. The idea made him smile. She noticed. Her expression changed, but he couldn’t read it now.

They reached the bottom of the stairs. Eugenie tilted her head in the direction of her workroom. She started that way, and P followed with the box.

“The cat – she – is scared of me.”

Eugenie paused. She knew it, and she knew why, P thought, but she didn’t want to tell him why. It was as though he had feelings to hurt.

But his feelings had been hurt by the cat, hadn’t they?

“She just needs to get used to you.” Eugenie didn’t face him, though, as she moved through her workspace. “Keep trying. I’ll find you some treats to bribe her with. You can put the box there.”

She gestured to the desk. P placed the crate of parts on top. It made a louder clatter than he meant it to, and he bowed his head as an apology. Flexed both his human fingers and his mechanical ones, at his side.

“Cats can be bribed with treats,” he said, to make sure he understood it.

“Everyone can be bribed with something,” Eugenie replied. She was starting to sort through the box of parts. But then she stopped, and looked up. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that. That’s teaching you some bad morals.”

Gemini laughed; P was sure he heard him laughing. He shifted the lantern on his hip, thinking that through. He asked, “Is it good morals to bribe the cat to like me?”

“No, that’s just making friends.”

“Is it good morals to bribe you to like me?”

Eugenie stopped in her sifting. She looked up at him. A strand of brown hair had come loose, and it swung down in front of her glasses, like a pendulum. “But I do like you, already.”

He didn’t reply, because he didn’t know what to say. He was expecting a simple yes or a no. But P found that he could only stand at stare at that pendulum of hair.

Eugenie stepped back around the desk. Her hands moved, as though she was going to take his hands – or his shoulders, like his father had done – but then they returned to her chest, clasped together.

“You don’t need to bribe me.” Her eyes were very brown, very warm. P liked them. “Because we’re friends already, alright?”

He didn’t understand it. He really didn’t understand how it could be so simple, yet so confusing. But he found he didn’t particularly want, or need to. They were friends. He had a friend, who was a human. His springs ticked again – that strange lurch of ticking that made him feel off-kilter. Off-kilter, but not bad.

P nodded.

He didn’t know what else to say.

[turnupswritessometimes]

Sherliam Oneshot - Lessons in Anatomy

Summary: John murmured, "You don't believe in mermaids?" Sherlock snorted. "Do you? Truly?" "I think, on an expedition to see new species, we shouldn't be surprised to find new species." It was actually wise, even if it was teasing. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek, bumping his shoulder against John's. "Don't expect me to sew a monkey onto a fish to indulge you."

***

Sherlock, a sailor on an expedition to the Galapagos Islands, gets shipwrecked - and saved, by a mermaid. 'Anatomy lessons' ensue.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52038016

Fic under the cut:

Sherlock stood at the rail of the ship, staring at the waves. They lapped against the hull in a steady, insistent rhythm. There was just enough of a breeze to push his hair back from his face; it had been tied back with a thoroughly salt-encrusted rope. His own tie had been lost the first day.

He loved sea voyages. For the first day. The change of scenery; the ocean; the crew and the tales they told. But then the next day was more of the same. Then more of the same. Open sea was, for the most part, not interesting to watch.  

He felt like a lion trapped in a cage at the circus. He'd happily leap through fire to be away from the monotony.

And it was even worse because he was so curious about what lay at the end of this voyage. Because they were headed to the Galapagos. This was an Exploration, and they were growing shorter and shorter in supply now the maps were mostly filled out. They would find all manner of strange creatures; the likes had only been recorded in Darwin's journals. Maybe a new species. Certainly there would be something interesting to take back to London.

But ships moved slower than they did in journals, and Sherlock was growing all the more restless. He’d tried to help with the ropes, and only succeeded in getting red burns against his palm. The only help he was to the crew was a violin performance in the evenings, and he was beginning to run out of songs.

"The crew say there's whales, in this area." That was John, at his side. At least he had John Watson, to while away the hours with.

"What a shame we have no hunting supplies." Because that, at least, would be exciting.

John raised his eyebrows. "I thought you didn't much care for hunting. A coward’s sport, you said."

"That's true. There’s no point in killing something just for exciting.” He sighed. "I shall have to content myself with a few grey backs, bobbing in the grey sea."

Though the sea wasn't grey here, not like England. It was picture book cerulean, the sky just a few shades lighter.

"Well, whales have blowholes," John said, seriously. "It will no doubt spray me in the face. That'll give you a good laugh."

Sherlock grinned, just at the thought.

"There ain't just whales, in these waters." One of the crew came behind them, swabbing at the deck as though it were a particularly pesky fly. "There's all manner o' strange creature."

"Oh, aye." Sherlock couldn't wipe the smile away completely. "Mermaids, even?"

"Oh, mermaids and all." The crew member's eyes grew wide, and earnest. "I seen 'em. Clear as day, fluttering through the water like butterflies."

"Well, we'll be sure to keep a weathered eye out."

The sarcasm flew over the man's head. "Just see you do, sir. Just see you do."

The two of them turned back to the ocean view, listening as the man continued his vigorous swabbing. When he was far enough away, John murmured, "You don't believe in mermaids?"

Sherlock snorted. "Do you? Truly?"

"I think, on an expedition to see new species, we shouldn't be surprised to find new species."

It was actually wise, even if it was teasing. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek, bumping his shoulder against John's. "Don't expect me to sew a monkey onto a fish to indulge you."

John nudged him back. That was the moment the first spot of rain came down. Sherlock looked to the sky. That beautiful blue was suddenly filling with grey clouds.

"You two'd better head inside," the captain called. "Storm's coming, and it'll be a big one."

Even as he finished speaking, the rain became to come down in earnest. Not like English rain; this came down in fat, warm droplets and made the air more humid than ever. It was that humidity that signalled there was a storm on its way.

 They complied. Headed back to their cabin and listened to the waves crashing against the hull. To the rain clattering against the porthole. To the deck hands shouting above them.

Thunder came. A rolling thunder that seemed angrier and more foreboding than back in England.

"I say." John steadied himself against the wall. "Do you think they're alright?"

The boat lurched sickeningly to one side. Sherlock slipped, only just catching himself against the wooden wall. It lurched to the other side. The rain spattered against the porthole so heavily that it seemed in danger of cracking.

“No,” Sherlock said, though he couldn’t tell if John heard him, over the roar of the storm. He felt his way to the door, fumbling to get it open against the roaring wind. Every step up to the deck felt like a fight. But eventually he stepped out onto the deck to see chaos. The boards were as slippery as ice, the ropes caught in the wind, lashing like whips, men fumbling to get everything under control.

Sherlock was soaked through in a matter of moments. Lightning flashed in the dark sky.

He grabbed the nearest deckhand by the arm. Yelled, “What can I do?”

“The ropes!” The man replied. “The sails!”

So Sherlock fought his way across the boards. His boots slipped; he crashed to one knee. Ended up crawling to the masts and fighting to grab hold of one of the lashing ropes. It kicked like a snake. He fumbled to copy the sailors around him, his fingers slipping over the rungs of the rope, rain pelting at his back.

The wind howled, battering his cheeks. He gritted his teeth, tugging the rope to knot it.

The cries sounded the same as all the rest. He looked up too late. But the mast was swinging, with a terrifying speed, towards him. Lightning illuminated it for a moment, and in that moment, Sherlock realised that he wasn’t going to get out of the way in time.

The mast hit him in the next moment. Right in his chest. It knocked the breath from his lungs; reverberated through every part of his body. The deck fell away. There was only the wind and the rain; he was in the air.

Then there was rain all around him. No, not rain. The ocean. Salty ocean water that enveloped him whole. Everything was black, and dark and he’d thought the ocean here would be warm, but it was freezing, now.

It was freezing, and he hadn’t had time to take a breath. His lungs screamed, banging against his ribs. His limbs were heavy – too cold and too heavy from the water around him..

And shit, Sherlock thought, shit this was how he was going to die. He wanted to be angry about it, but even that seemed like a huge effort.

There was something in the water with him. It brushed his limbs, and his back.

Then he lost all of his senses.

*

Sherlock returned to the world with the same sickening thud that had sent him out of it. He lurched upwards; coughing up seawater. It burnt his throat. His hair hung in his face. Everything seemed terribly bright, and terribly hot.

He left a puddle of seawater on the ground. The ground. He blinked, his eyes aching, as it came into focus. There was sand underneath his fingers. But his arms felt like jelly; he couldn’t push himself up.

“That was not as elegant as I thought it would be.”

A voice cut through the roaring of blood in his ears. Sherlock fought to catch his breath, blinking hard. It wasn’t particularly light, after all. It was easier to roll onto his back. The sky was beautiful. Dusky mauve and indigo and a hint of rose in the clouds. Dawn, then.

“You saved me.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse.

“Perhaps it’s because you are not a maiden.” Fingers brushed dark strands from his face. And a face came into view. The long, blonde hair framing it were as bright as the sun. It hung over his pale shoulders, framing an elfin face. High cheekbones, cupid’s bow mouth. “Or because I am not a maiden.”

Sherlock didn’t have the strength to sit up. His clothes hung, soddenly, to him. He stared up at his saviour. “You’re as pretty as one.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. He’d meant to ask who on earth this was, and how he was still alive.

His saviour smiled, just as elfishly, and it made his eyes glitter. They were a rich, shining red, like conkers.

“Thank you.” The hand was still on his cheek, a thumb trailing down the side, to the corner of his mouth. It pressed there. “You’re rather nice, as well.”

His heart pounded. He managed to raise his own hand, to catch his saviour’s wrist. “What wasn’t as elegant as you thought?” “Saving you.” The boy’s head tilted to the side, causing his blonde hair to ripple. “I thought you’d wake more elegantly.”

“How could you save me?”

“Do you remember? You fell overboard.”

“But I’d remember you on the crew,” Sherlock murmured. He was noticing more; that his saviour wore no shirt. He could see inches upon inches of creamy, pale skin. Could just see a pink nipple, between the strands of hair. His body was just as beautiful; just as elegant; as his face.

“I am not part of your crew, sailor.” The hand moved again, just over his bottom lip – his mouth fell open – to his chin.

“Who are you?”

Because there was something in his saviour’s hair; poking out where his ears would be. Something that looked like, and twitched, like fins. That wasn’t possible. Surely. Surely his mind was being ridiculous.

“Well—” The boy pulled away, looking Sherlock over. “I’m not a whale. Or a monkey sewn onto a fish.”

They were familiar words. His hand shifted, as well, down to Sherlock’s chest. Over his damp shirt, and racing heart. It was pounding for a different reason now; pounding because there was a beautiful face smiling at him. He shifted, managing to get onto his elbows. Managed see that he lay on a stretch of beach; scrubby plants to either side, the waves just beyond his feet.

And by his feet – his mind refused to believe it – a fish tail. A long, curving fish tale, the fin caught by the edges of the tride. The sun shone on the scales; they were vermillion. But in the light, there were hints of orange, of rose. In the shadows it was burgundy. Sherlock could watch it all day, but he trailed his gaze upwards. Saw the top of the tail, where it turned to the creamy skin of the boy’s stomach.

“I’m dreaming,” he said. This was not possible.

“Are you in pain?” The creature’s voice was soft, almost silky.

Sherlock nodded, and his dark hair was pushed back from his damp cheeks again. His chest still burnt and there was a dull pounding in his head.

“Then you aren’t dreaming.”

“Mermaids aren’t real,” Sherlock insisted.

The creature chuckled. A soft chuckle. His hand gently entwined with Sherlock’s, tugging it to himself. Sherlock’s hand felt heavy. His fingers brushed against the boy’s bare shoulder. The curve of his collarbone. The softness of his neck, and the line of his jaw. His fingertips disrupted the sparkling water drops there, turning them to rivers running down his skin.

“Am I real?” His saviour smiled at him.

Sherlock made a sound. Because now that his mind had woken up, now that he could see and think clearly, he realised the boy’s eyes weren’t brown at all. They were red. Like cherries. Like his ears and his tail.

This boy – this creature – this mermaid – was beautiful. Stunningly beautiful, and maybe it was because he was still half-drowned, maybe he was under some kind of spell, but he felt enchanted. Entirely drawn in.

“Perhaps I’m dead.” But he didn’t pull his hand away.

The mermaid’s hand shifted, so it lay over Sherlock’s chest. His palm was warm. “I can feel your heartbeat.”

“I’m delirious, then.” He arched into the touch. "Imagining things."

The mermaid chuckled. And did something that, to Sherlock, only confirmed his suspicions of delirium: he leant down, and pressed their lips together. He was warm, and tasted of salt. His eyelashes brushed Sherlock's skin, as he pulled away from the kiss, eyes glittering.

"Could you imagine that?"

It felt real. "No. I couldn't."

The mermaid's tail flicked. He felt it against his trousers and he felt a surge in his stomach. This creature was beguiling, and his kiss had made Sherlock's stomach leap. This was something out of a penny romance novel. Complete fantasy. Worse than that. The kind of explicit story that he would only read in private. It could go further down this route, if he lay back.

Did he want it to?

He pressed a hand to the mermaid's bare chest, pushing him away slightly. Those crimson eyes blinked at him; surprised.

"Let me make sure I have this right." He cleared his throat, and hoped it could help him clear his head. "A mermaid saved me from the ocean, because you've fallen in love with me."

"Love is a strong word." The mermaid touched the back of Sherlock's hand. Very gently, tracing down to his wrist. It sent goosebumps prickling through him. "I am intrigued by humans. By you."

Intrigued. The same feeling Sherlock had for the flora and fauna he was sailing to see. As though this was an experiment. He sat up properly, the swimming in his head beginning to fade.

The mermaid sat on the beach, his tail curled, as though an artist had drawn him. His hair shone gold in the daylight.

"Intrigued," Sherlock murmured. "You have an interesting way of showing intrigue."

The mermaid shrugged, catching a dark curl on his finger, and twisting it around. "You're very beautiful."

"High praise, from you."

The mermaid smiled. Their fingers nudged, in the sand, and Sherlock realised that he still had a palm pressed to the creature's chest. He stared. His skin was smooth and ivory. When he leant into the touch, Sherlock could see the lines by his ribs - deep lines. Were they gills? The mermaid took a breath, when he moved towards them, and the lines fluttered.

Sherlock let his fingers fall to the wet sand. His throat felt raw, and his head still too light. His chest still ached where it had been hit by the prow.

“As intrigued as I am,” the mermaid said. “You are unwell.”

“I could manage…” His mind was jumping ahead, and his gaze fixed on the mermaid’s lips. If he was delirious – if this was real – then he didn’t want to waste any time.

“You need rest.” Though the mermaid leant closer, as though he felt this same magnetism. So close that Sherlock could feel breath on his mouth. “There’s a cave, just around the bay. Could you make it there?”

“Not without you.” Sherlock grazed through blonde hair, gently taking hold of the strands, as though that would make him stay.

This creature, who smiled at him, somewhat indulgently. “I’ll meet you there.”

His lips grazed Sherlock’s. Just enough for him to lean forward, and manage to kiss him back, before he pulled away. Before his tail grazed Sherlock’s legs and trousers again, as he twisted away, easily over the sand, and disappearing back into the surf.

Sherlock saw a flash of crimson, above the water. It flashed again, to the left, and he realised he was being led to this cave. He managed to pull himself, with difficulty, to his feet. Managed to stagger through the wet sand, with his head still dully pounding. Now the mermaid wasn’t in front of him, he was sure he was delusional.

But his lips still tingled.

His imagination wasn’t that strong.

He found what was less a cave, and more an overhang. But it was shaded, with ferns springing from the soft sand. Very soft sand. He sat back down, his back against the rock, and watched the waves; the light on the waves; the sun was just beginning to set. That was good. It was much too bright, and much too hot.

He couldn’t be certain anymore, but there was another flash of crimson.

Then he had to give in to the pounding in his head.

*

Sherlock had dreamt it. He must have. Because when he awoke again, with a raw throat and raging stomach, there was no mermaid in sight. No mermaid to meet him. A delirious dream that had somehow led him to safety in the shade.

Because he was safe. Now his head was clear, he could see that he was on a bay of a large island. There was a forest, beyond the sand. He kept to the beach. Found coconuts and smashed them on the rocks, drinking their milk and going so far as to lick the flesh before he scraped that off with his teeth too. They were good fuel for the signal fire that he built where he’d washed up. He added leaves to it as well, to create as much smoke as possible.

Then he sat back under the overhang, and waited. Did not think of the beautiful face belonging to the beautiful creature. Did not think of those two chaste, fairy tale kisses. If he did, his trousers became tight.

It had been a fantasy. A dream. Because that sailor had told tales of mermaids, so it had all gotten mixed up in his mind.

But, in the late afternoon, then he saw something in the water. He first thought it was a shark, cutting through the waves towards him. But then a head emerged; a mostly human head, with sleek, golden hair. With glittering crimson eyes.

Sherlock met the creature at the start of the surf. Sat down as the mermaid pulled himself up, leaving the very end of his fin in the sea.

“You said you’d meet me,” Sherlock said. It came out accusing.

“And I have.” The mermaid pushed his long hair back, over ivory shoulders. His collarbone shone with drops of water, like a necklace of jewels. “I had to convince my brother that I hadn’t saved a sailor’s life. He’s not fond of humans.”

“You have a brother.” Sherlock watched a drop of water run down the boy’s bare chest, down to his naval. Even with a clear head, he felt attracted to this creature. It was his sparkling eyes and coy smirk; his softness contrasted with his boldness. He’d never met a boy like this, let alone a creature.

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Then Sherlock took in the second part of that sentence, and forced his eyes upwards. The boy’s crimson ones examined him, much too closely, shining like garnets. “Are you not supposed to save sailors?”

The mermaid chuckled. He reached out, catching a strand of Sherlock’s dark hair, and twisting it around one finger. “We’re supposed to drown you.”

“Then why didn’t you?” His fingers twitched, and grazed the scales of the mermaid’s tail. He felt it move against him. It was warm; the scales the size of his fingernails.

“Because—” The mermaid kept twisting his hair, until he had to lean forward to accommodate. Their faces were very close. “You call hunting a coward’s sport.”

“You listened to me.”

“I listen to many ships. Your conversation was interesting.” The boy’s eyes were half-lidded. “You’re interesting.”

Sherlock laughed. It felt light, and bubbly.

“To me, you’re interesting,” he replied. Dared to reach out his hand, and wipe his thumb over the boy’s collarbone. Felt the intake of breath under his touch. This was happening, then. They were continuing where they had left off. They were flirting, and that should have been absurd, but what else was he going to do whilst stranded on an island? With a beautiful boy who had his hand in his hair? “If you have a brother – do you have a name?”

“No.” He traced his fingers over the back of Sherlock’s hand. “But I like the name William. The first sailor I met was called William. It’s a nice name.”

Sherlock found himself smiling. He liked this one; with his knowing eyes and soft voice. With his slight smile.

“Can I call you William?”

The mermaid tilted his head to one side, catching the sun. “If I know what to call you?”

“Sherlock.” Sherlock leant closer to the mermaid – William, then, who buried his long fingers in his hair. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

Their lips brushed together, and Sherlock felt sparks dancing from the contact, as William whispered, “Sherlock Holmes.”

"I'm – not a sailor,” he whispered. “I’m on a research trip.”

William's mouth moved, to graze Sherlock's jaw. But only just enough to take his breath away. "What were you researching?"

Sherlock tilted his head away, his heart fluttering as surely as the mermaid’s tail. “New species.”

“I see.” He felt William’s lips move against the soft skin of his throat, then he dipped lower, nudging the collar of Sherlock’s shirt. “And what will you study, when you find this new species?”

Sherlock ghosted his fingers up the mermaid’s arm, past the curtain of silky hair. “Anatomy.”

"Remarkable.” William pulled away, his tail twitching eagerly between them. “I have the same interest."

They were watching each other's mouths. Watching the slow smirks growing there. Understanding each other.

Sherlock ran his fingers over the hollow of William's shoulder, his thumb tracing his collarbone.

"A joint investigation, then?" he whispered, as if this island was deserted. As if anyone could possibly overhear them.

William chuckled, breath warm on Sherlock's lips. "Quite."

Heat pulsed through him like a tidal wave. A tidal wave that sent him crashing forwards, his lips against William's. Their mouths opened against each other. The mermaid tasted of sea salt; felt soft, like velvet. He explored Sherlock's mouth greedily, his hands searching Sherlock's shirt, damp from the ocean spray. His fingers seemed to stick on every crease, sending sparks dancing across his stomach.

He pressed his palms to the curve of William's arms, round to his shoulder blades. They pressed against him as the mermaid pressed forward, humming in pleasure. His own back hit the sand once more, though he was only dimly aware of it; much more interested in William taking Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth.  Sherlock's breath shook.

William's thumb caught his nipple through his shirt

Sherlock's back arched; they were so close his chest brushed William's. His bare chest. This boy was so very bare, and his skin was warm; his hair shining with damp, his tails glistening. Certainly something from a Greek epic.

His hands tightened on William's back, feeling his spine shift under him.

William pulled away from the kiss, licking his bottom lip, as though savouring it. His crimson eyes shone. "Intriguing."

"What is?" Though Sherlock knew. He was arching his back, one hand clutching at the sand, feeling deliciously trapped.

"This." William's thumb pressed over Sherlock's nipple again. Caught the damp fabric of his shirt, sending sparks darting through him. His tail twitched, twined around and through Sherlock's legs. He toyed with Sherlock's nipple, watching his breath catch and the heat rise in his cheeks. "Your reaction. What is the purpose?"

Sherlock's fingers explored the mermaid's spine, and how it shifted under his touch. William's eyes watched him, almost lazily, shining with amusement. He kept up his slow torture.

"Pleasure." Sherlock smiled.

William chuckled, in response, dipping down to kiss him. Sherlock kissed back, pressing his tongue through to feel William's tongue; his teeth. When William pulled away, he made a sound in the back of his throat. It only earnt another chuckle, as William tugged open his shirt. Press just the tip of his tongue to Sherlock's nipple, before grazing the tip of his teeth against it.

Sherlock whined. He felt the tail tighten as if in answer. William's mouth was warm, his lips damp. His other hand pressed against Sherlock's chest. His heart raced against it, his he'd light enough to feel delirious.

William pulled away when he thought he was about to unravel completely. Smirked down at him, "Pleasure, indeed."

Sherlock's fingers tangled in long, golden hair. He smiled. "Humans are very sensitive."

"I can see." William smiled back. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's chest, then moved lower. Let his warm breath fan across the hollow of his chest, down to his abdomen. His teeth grazed sensitive skin, tongue poking out just enough to get Sherlock's breath to catch. He twitched, soft sounds emerging from him without his permission. He heard, and felt, William hum in response.

Sherlock twitched, and gasped, and let silky hair fall through his clutches. Felt scales against his bare legs and it sent a rush of arousal all the way through to his core. And when he felt William chuckling, knew he had to resist this. Couldn’t lose whatever battle was occurring. He shifted, half sitting up. Tilted William's chin up, so that those heavy-lidded, crimson eyes looked up at him.

"And is it the same for you?" he asked. His voice was low. It was a tease - because surely, he knew this about humans. Surely, this was a tease, and he felt the same way.

William pressed his teeth against Sherlock’s thumb. Nipped it, lightly. Murmured, "Why don't you investigate?"

Sherlock's hand dropped to William's chest. Eased him round, and down onto the sand. His tail flicked up after him, hitting the back of Sherlock's shins. He looked more beautiful, if possible, sprawled on the sand. His tail was a lurid red against it, stray scales climbing up his skin. Sherlock ran his thumb across them, and William’s stomach twitched against the touch. His skin was only a shade or two lighter than the sand around him, his hair sprawled out, those red eyes watching him with interest.

Sherlock kissed him first. He had to, to taste the salt on William’s lips one more time, before his lips trailed down, though still touching his skin until his found William’s nipple. Took it between his teeth and - toyed with it. Enjoyed the soft sound that William made as he did; how he arched in the sand and took a handful of Sherlock's curls. Tugged it, once, and he felt the sharp pain through his scalp. It made a sound come from the back of his throat involuntarily. From William's answering gasp, he enjoyed that.

Sherlock investigated lower. Trailed his tongue down William's chest and stomach, to the line where his scales began. No bigger than his fingernails, glistening in the sunshine. They were beautiful. He traced his finger across them, and William's tail shifted in response.

"This is where we differ," he said. "How sensitive are you, down here?"

William tilted his head, from where he lay in the sand, smirking. "That's for you to discover."

Quite, Sherlock found out. His fingertips earnt him twitches, and his mouth earnt gasps. The join on his fin was particularly sensitive. William whined, and keened at the tiniest touch.

Sherlock couldn't help smiling. His heart raced like music in his ears, his mouth tingling from the rough sensation of the scales. His own desire was a growing, heavy knot just below his stomach. He clenched his legs together in an attempt to hide it.

It wasn't successful. William was watching him, perched on his elbows. He flicked his fin against Sherlock’s side, reaching down. He palmed Sherlock’s crotch, his eyes glittering.

“Your body intrigues me.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched. It felt absurd to feel embarrassed, but his cheeks still flushed with heat.

“Tell me why that’s happening.” William’s voice was soft. His fingers twitched, and Sherlock gasped.

“I think you know,” he managed to murmur. Because surely he was not the first sailor this mermaid had studied anatomy with; he was too skilled for that.

“I don’t,” though the smirk at the corner of William’s mouth said otherwise.

“You.” Sherlock couldn’t help pressing his hips into William’s touch. It didn’t relief the need at all – it made it worse – he could feel each of William’s fingers pressing into him. “This. I’m aroused.”

That smirk widened. William pressed a kiss against Sherlock’s cheekbone. He kept his face close, his lashes brushing Sherlock’s skin. He kissed against his jawbone, whispered against his throat: “Can I see?”

As if Sherlock could argue. His fingers dug into the fish scales underneath him. He nodded, his hair falling into his face. William brushed it back. Sand stuck to his bare chest; to his fingers; he found the tie of Sherlock’s trousers. They fell open, and William eased them down. Exposed Sherlock’s need. He watched William’s expression, as he examined it. The interest and the satisfaction and his own desire.

His fingers stroked down his length, lightly; Sherlock’s hips bucked like a donkey in response. Those fingers went lower, exploring. Researching anatomy. That was what they’d said. The reality of it made Sherlock whine with arousal, his heart racing.

William’s tail flicked against him in answer. “What now?”

“Now—” Sherlock tried to smirk. It was hard to, when his heart was racing in his ears, and he was leaning over a mermaid on the beach. When this felt like something from a erotic fantasy novel. “You show me yours.”

But William was smirking back. The lower part of his tail twisted between Sherlock’s legs as he pulled him closer. Water droplets sparkled on his collarbones like diamonds, and Sherlock pressed his mouth to them.

And the studying, Sherlock thought, truly began.

*

They’d lain on the sand together, afterwards. Sherlock had lay with a mermaid on his chest, toying with his damp, dark locks. It was hard to catch his breath; his pulse still drummed in his ears, as constant as the tide. It lapped at his legs – his trousers were still undone – at William’s tail; the water was cool compared to the sun above them.

“You’re a fine sailor,” William murmured. He nipped at Sherlock’s collarbone, and he hoped that it would leave a mark. Then he would have a souvenir that this had happened.

“And you must be a troublesome mermaid to your brothers,” Sherlock replied, stroking his fingers through William’s long, golden hair.

William chuckled. “As enjoyable as sinking ships is, I much prefer this.”

Sherlock didn’t quite laugh. It had been easy to forget what William was – what he said mermaids did – whilst they had been wrapped up in each other. Now, he felt a shiver up his spine. He was laying with a predator; a killer. Perhaps he was in danger all over again.

But as it grew dark, William slipped back into the water. His brothers would be missing him. He left Sherlock on the beach, with a long, final kiss. He heaved himself to his feet, his clothes heavy with sand and sea salt.

At least it was a full moon. He spent the night re-building the signal fire; spelling ‘SOS’ on the beach. There were plenty of bone-dry leaves that created a thick, dark smoke. He sat on the beach, pressing a finger against his mouth, and remembering William’s. Remembered kissing the gills on his ribs. Remembered going lower, and discovering the secret of how mermaids procreated.

Useful, scientific insight, he was sure. Though he had been distracted by William’s beautiful face. Had been distinctively unscientific when that pretty face, with that pretty mouth, had pleased him, red eyes glinting up at him in amusement.

William came back. They continued their anatomy research. Lay against the rocks together afterwards, and Sherlock told William stories about London, and England. William told him of underwater palaces, and he was sure that he was being teased.

Eventually – after two days of surviving off coconut milk and seared fish – Sherlock’s ship found him. He was welcomed back on deck and told he was a very lucky man. Sherlock smiled back at them all, because he could see a red fin disappearing into the waves. A lucky man, indeed.

John hugged him. Tight enough to squeeze the air from Sherlock’s lungs.  He pulled away.

“I’m so glad we found you!” he cried. “The men all told me there was no hope, but I—” John ducked his chin to his chest. “I wouldn’t let them.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock caught his hands, squeezing them in his own. Another sailor put a blanket around his shoulders – his shirt was torn, and he was consistently sprayed through from the ocean. His shoulders and cheeks had burnt from laying in the sun. “You’re a good friend.”

John’s cheeks were pink, and his eyes shone. He kept grinning back at Sherlock.

“I’m really alright,” he said, as they were led across the deck. Bedrest, the Captain was saying – Sherlock needed lots of bedrest, and a proper stew, and a good measure of rum. “I survived.”

“Of course, you did.” John stayed by his elbow. Of course he would, and Sherlock was glad to have him back. “It looks like you got your adventure after all, Sherlock.”

His mind conjured up William’s red eyes and sparkling scales. The way he’d tugged Sherlock’s hair when they lay together; his tail wrapping around him.

He smiled back at John. He knew he couldn’t say what had happened. They would call him delirious – and maybe he was. William would have to stay a secret. So, instead he said, “Oh, absolutely.”

After all, he’d found his new species.

And maybe, he’d see William again, one day.

[turnupswritessometimes]

Geppetto's Boy - Lies of P - Ch2

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54517777/chapters/138571591

Summary: A collection of oneshots set throughout the game, mostly exploring P and Gepetto’s relationship. (But exploring P’s relationships with most of Hotel Krat too.)

First | Next

Chapter Two

P sat in the chair again. Again, he was covered in oil from fightig the puppets at Venigni works. Not just oil, he knew, but blood again.

Geppetto used a wet brush, to clean his hair. It eased the gunk out, as he sat and did not flinch as his hair was tugged. This was all part of being kept kept - he needed to be kept clean and in one place, to stay functioning. His hair fell in front of his face, separating the room with dark strands, like prison bars. It was a wonder Venigni hadn't been terrified of him; a puppet, splattered in oil, approaching him.

But then, he'd thought he was a stalker.

He'd met three. The fox and the cat - the cat, who'd conned him out of his ergo for a useless book. They'd been loud and confident and intriguing to him. He'd wanted to linger, but he'd had his orders to obey; he'd had Venigni to save. And then the third: the mouse. The man who had been scared of him.

The man he'd-

“I killed a human,” he said. He wanted his father to know that. Perhaps because he remembered the Grand Covenant. He shouldn’t harm humans.

“Yes, you killed a human to save me, on the bridge,” his father replied. He brushed more of P’s hair forward, working at the back. The brush snagged on the oil dried there. “You protected me.”

“A different human,” P said. “At the factory.”

His father didn’t pause, and didn’t seem shocked by the news. He continued with his work.

So P continued, “He was scared.”

He was sure he heard Geppetto sigh. “Explain what happened.”

“He was scared,” P said. "He attacked me."

"He attacked you with the intention to kill you." It wasn't a question. P supposed it was true. "You had no choice."

P realised he hadn't explained - not properly. He hadn't explained that the man was afraid because his friends had been killed. Killed by puppets. He hadn't explained that the man had attacked him because he'd heard springs inside P. Because P was a puppet, and he was scared P would kill him, too.

He didn't explain that when the man was dead, P hadn't wanted to leave him. Not in a hidden room of Venigni ironworks, by himself. He'd dithered, unsure what to do - sure the Fox and the Cat would not care about this dead man, since they didn't care that much about Venigni, as he was still alive.

In the end, he had knelt down, and eased off the mouse mask. It revaled the face of the mouse - the stalker. He had been young. Very young. Perhaps he was not even considered a man, yet.

"May he rest in peace," Gemini had murmured, at P's side. It sounded like the right words.

Now, Gemini flickered in his lantern. Almost erratically. But he kept silent. P moved carefully, so he wouldn't jog his father, and dimmed his light. For a reason he couldn't pinpoint, he didn't want his Father to know about how vocal Gemini was.

"He heard my springs," he tried to explain again.

"In that case, I'll see what I can do to make them quieter." Geppetto combed the back of his hair into place. Returned to the front, and brushed his fringe back to how it was. Freed P from that prison of dark hair. He was careful - deliberate - as he continued to style it back to how it was meant to be.

Frowned, just slightly, at P, as he examined his expression. He wasn't aware he was making one - how could he, when he was only a puppet?

"Does it bother you, to kill humans?"

"I don't want to hurt humans." P risked taking his hand off the arm of the chair, to graze his fingers against the glass of Gemini's lantern.

"How interesting." His father put the brush away, picking up the damp cloth again. He paused, the line between his brows increasing. "Do you feel guilty?"

It sounded like he was teasing him, again. P couldn't understand how his guilt would be funny, or how his killing could be of such little concern. He watched the line between Gepetto's eyebrows, and how it wrinkled his forehead.

He could still feel his own springs ticking - was that feeling?

"I don't know," he said.

The line deepened. That was the wrong answer. Surely, the right answer couldn't be no, that he felt no guilt. But he shouldn't feel anything at all, because he was a puppet, so the right answer couldn't be yes, either. He didn't know the tight answer.

"That is..." His father paused. He pressed the cloth to P's cheek, and dimly, he knew it was cold. Knew it was wiping away the oil there. "Interesting, but unnecessary. I daresay many more humans will attack you on your travels. You will have to defend yourself, and those close to you. Even if it means killing."

That was what P had been doing all along - he'd been killing to stay alive. He knew that saying that would be the wrong answer for his father. So, he nodded, instead. He stayed silent, dipping his chin slightly, so his hair fell back in front of his eye. That feeling was comforting; that he could hide, even a small part of his expression. He waited until Geppetto had finished cleaning his face – talking whilst he did so irritated him – to ask, “What if they don’t attack first?”

He heard the smallest sigh from his father, as though he was dealing with a precocious child. Did P count as a precocious child? He tilted his head to one side, to allow his neck to be wiped clean of blood and oil too. There was a scorchmark, there. He hadn't moved out of the way of that giant puppet's flamethrower fast enough, and had felt the sting of heat.

“Then you have no reason to hurt them.”

P’s springs ticked. He knew, in that tick, that what he was going to say would be wrong, and it would make his father angry. He also knew that he needed to say it - he needed to know would be said after.

“Unless you ask me to.”

The cloth came away from his neck. Geppetto washed it in the water, and did not look at him. P sat there, feeling restless, feeling his springs ticking like a clock, and waited. He was supposed to listen and obey this man – his creator. That included attacking who he was asked to. Not because he was forced to, only because he was asked to.

When Geppetto looked up, his blue eyes looked sad. He moved as though he was five years older, brushing P’s hair back, and cupping his cheeks, gently. It made him feel trapped; he didn’t think he liked it.

“I know I keep asking you to commit violence, and to put yourself in danger.” His fingers didn’t twitch. His gaze was searching. He wanted something from P, but P didn’t know what it was, or how to give it. “I cannot tell you enough how precious you are to me, and I am sorry that you must keep fighting like this.”

He waited. He wanted a response.

But all P could think was that he hadn’t answered his question.

*

Venigni had made himself at home in the hotel.

P knew he was safe - knew he was good and honourable, and on their side - and yet, he wasn't sure he liked Venigni being there. He was so - much. He moved so much, and spoke to much and touched him, much too much.

When he saw P again, he hugged him.

Actually shouted, "Mi compagno!"  His arms were tight around P's torso - as though he wasn't worried about breaking him. It was so different from the way his father handled him; from Sophia's soft, barely there touches, and the way Eugenie avoided him completely. It made him freeze. He waited, until Venigni had pulled away. It was hard to read his expression properly, when the gas lamps were reflecting off his gold-rimmed glasses.

"Compagno?" he echoed. His voice sounded barely there in comparision.

"I see Geppetto didn't programme you with language skills." Venigni still smiled. P's own mouth twitched - what would be the need? He wasn't built to talk. "It means companion. You are mine. A companion, and a friend."

P wasn't sure about that. Gemini was his companion. He didn't have the chance to discuss further; Venigni was already circling him, looking him up and down. Examining him, just as closely as his father would. P glanced back, and caught Eugenie's eye, from where she was adjusting a sword handle. Her eyebrows twitched at him, and she went back to her work.

"Amazing. Astounding," Venigni murmured more words in his circling, until they were face to face again. P looked at the floor. He flexed his fingers, focusing on how it felt. "I did not notice before - not with all the-" He waved P up and down; meaning the blood, oil and burns. "But you are truly a masterpiece. Truly the old man's finest work. No offence, Pulcinella."

The puppet stood not too far away from them, and yet he hadn't turned to the commotion. He inclined his head. "None taken, Master Venigni."

P didn't know what to say. It made him feel like a very ornate clock.

"Magnifico," Venigni decided. "And bello too."

"What do those words mean?" P asked, though he could make a good guess himself - it was more to see if he would be told. He stared at Venigni's mustache, instead of his smile.

"I shall let you discover that for yourself, I think." Venigni patted his shoulder. Much more roughly than the reverent way his father would do it. P couldn't tell if that was irritating, or a relief. He glanced over his shoulder, to Eugenie again, and saw her biting her lip. She seemed to be trying not to smile. "Now, I know Giuseppe Geppetto is the puppet man, but if you ever have a problem with that arm of yours-" And Venigni caught P's hand, tilting it, so it caught the light. So the arrow with the wire pointed dangerously at him, but he didn't seem to notice. "-You can always come to me. In fact, I have many ideas - ideas I would love to try."

P stepped forward, to look at the blueprints Venigni had already been drawing up. His arm, he realised, was just like a sword; another weapon to customise.

"To destroy," he said, as he looked at them.

"To protect." Venigni tapped a blueprint that showed a shield attached to the forearm. But then he looked up at P, from across the worktable, his eyebrows serious over his glasses. "To kill, yes, or to save. The thing about weapons is you choose what to do with them."

P stared back at him. Actually met his eyes, for once, and saw that he was serious. And yet - a weapon was still a weapon, wasn't it? Wasn't P himself, still a weapon? But Venigni made it sound pretty, so he nodded. So he picked out a new arm for the man to make him, and wondered how it would feel to go without one at all. He let Venigni talk, and found it somewhat of a relief for his mind to focus on the chatter. Found that the more he listened, the more questions he asked, the more Venigni treated him like a person, and not a fancy clock. That felt even more of a relief.

Though none as much of a relief as when Polendina came by to announce that he'd finished preparing dinner. Venigni waved him away, too intent on his project, but Eugenie put down her work. P said he would accompany her to the dining room - it gave him the perfect excuse to escape from Venigni. He walked with her, even though he would not be able to eat anything at dinner.

"So-" She tucked her hair behind her ear. "What do you think of Venigni?"

P paused. He wondered if he should lie. For once, he thought it better not to. "He's loud."

Eugenie laughed. It was a merry sound that reminded him of Gemini's lantern, when it was fully glowing. "That's true."

"But his heart his good."

She didn't laugh that time. She smiled instead. "Also true. And I think he would like to be your friend, if you let him."

P also didn't laugh, but he felt as though it would be appropriate. (Could he laugh?) He settled for smiling, and nodding.

But it didn't seem as though he had a choice in the matter.

*

P was starting a collection.

He had very little to put in his own room at the hotel. (There seemed little point in giving him his own room, considering he couldn't sleep, and he rarely stayed long.) All his weapons were kept downstairs, along with his spare legion arms. He did have spare clothes, which he folded and left the chest of drawers. It felt almost like a portrait gallery; a dozen different versions of him.  Weapons and clothes were a necessity. He could understand having them. They didn't feel any more personal than the borrowed bed and furniture.

But there were things he’d acquired which weren’t a necessity; things he’d seen and slipped into his pocket, as he'd wandered through abandoned houses and streets. P was drawn to them. He'd been programmed to read, he supposed, and he found that fascinating; how much had been written, and for so many different purposes.

His father had found one of these papers, when he’d been helping to clean his legion arm - to keep it functional. His fingers had brushed against the slip of paper in P’s pockets. He’d slipped it out, without asking.

P didn’t even think to protest. He watched his father read the note he’d found on Elysium Boulevard. The note written by a father with the petrification disease, speaking about his wife and daughter.

Geppetto’s expression became difficult to read; his eyebrows and lips twitched, as though he was reading it to himself.

“Why did you keep this?” he asked.

P had kept the note because it made him feel – strange - made his springs tick in the way which could be feeling. When he’d read it, he could imagine the man holding the quill; imagine the pain and fear that he felt; he’d understood the emotion behind the words. As much as a puppet could understand emotion.

“To remember,” he said. He’d wanted to remember a dead man: to preserve his last moments, even if he was the only one who could. It seemed to be becoming a habit.

Geppetto’s eyebrows twitched again. It shifted his monocle. “Remember?”

“Him.” P pointed to the note.

“But this is just a scribble from a sick man.” And Geppetto moved to toss it into the bin.

P jerked. His hand raised before he realised – his legion arm – and for a moment, it looked as though he was about to attack. He folded his fingers back, looked up, and said, “Please.”

Geppetto still stared at him for a long moment, his gaze calculating, if not, slightly disapproving. But then, he held the scrap of paper out. It wilted, the black lines like lines of ants on the page. P took it, and smoothed it out. His fingers tracing over the words he'd memorized, by now. He folded it, once, and slipped it back into his pocket.

“I never thought that you’d…” Geppetto trailed off.

P tilted his head to one side, looking up again. Did he never think that he’d be curious about humans? That he’d want to know more about the emotions that he wasn’t supposed to have?

“Be so meticulous.” Geppetto finished, but there were lines either side of his mouth that suggested it wasn’t the word he’d first thought of.

P nodded, because he wasn’t sure what else to do. Nodding always seemed a safe reaction.

His father smiled, tightly. “Thank you for remembering to say please.”

It wasn’t a chide, not quite, but it was enough to suggest that P had not been as obedient as he should have been. He hadn’t meant to, but he didn’t know how to explain that. He was a puppet; he was supposed to obey his creator.

But he wasn’t bound by the Grand Covenant. That was beginning to feel like more and more of a relief.

So he kept his scribbles from a sick man. He put the slip of paper in the same drawer as he had the other things he’d collected; the poster for the parade puppet, the figurine of the police officer puppet; the ruined guide to Krat. He sat, at the desk, when it was night, and looked through his little treasures by Gemini’s yellow light.

They were precious, to him, as relics of how Krat used to be. Of who lived there. Of what people were. His father had said the city wasn’t like how he remembered it, but he didn’t remember it at all. His first memory was waking on the train.

P asked Gemini: “Do you remember?”

The shadow of the cricket moved in the lantern. “Bits and pieces, but nothing in particular. It feels more like facts than real memories. Sorry, pal.”

P gave him a small smile. He ran his finger around the lid of the lantern, and kept looking at the parade puppet poster. What would the poster for himlook like?

'So lifelike you won’t believe he’s not a real boy.'

Why did that bother him?

[turnupswritessometimes]

Just for This Moment - SidLink - Oneshot

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50834488

Title: Just for This Moment

Ship: Link/Sidon (Legend of Zelda)

Word Count: 5,253

Summary: Link turned, feeling as though he was stuck in honey, to look at him. He had to keep staring, his chest hurting, until that grin slowly dropped. Until Sidon tilted his head to one side, and his tone became concerned, "What is the matter?" Link bit his lip. They didn't have time for this, not with everything else happening – everything else was so much more important. And yet, his stomach felt twisted in and around itself, and if he fought like this, he would make a mistake. So, he forced his hands to move. To sign out 'Are you avoiding me?'

Before, Link and Sidon were - something. Now - they're not. They both have feelings about that.

They stood in front of the four great jugs at the temple. One emptied a torrent of gleaming water; the others dripped sludge. There were four more locks to open; to save the domain. The domain was suffering, the Zora was suffering; Zelda was missing; Hyrule was suffering. Link needed to move. He had to stop this, and save everyone.

But he couldn't.

He stood, rooted to the ground, water dripping from his hair down the back of his neck, and under his amrour.

"Let's go, my friend."

It was Sidon, next to him. Perky and grinning and already looking around him for the first lock.

Link turned, feeling as though he was stuck in honey, to look at him. He had to keep staring, his chest hurting, until that grin slowly dropped. Until Sidon tilted his head to one side, and his tone became concerned, "What is the matter?"

Link bit his lip. They didn't have time for this, not with everything else happening – everything else was so much more important. And yet, his stomach felt twisted in and around itself, and if he fought like this, he would make a mistake.

So. he forced his hands to move. To sign out 'Are you avoiding me?'

Sidon followed. Blinked, as though he was stuck in the same honey Link was. "Why would you think that?"

Link tilted his head to the side, his hands on his hips. He was very aware a chuchu was behind them, rolling towards them, and he’d have to deal with it soon.

His hands moved slightly faster. 'You wanted to split up?'

"It was sensible, to cover more ground." And yet, Sidon wasn't meeting his eye. He stared at Link's hands.

'You—' Link faltered. The chuchu was getting closer. Its wobbles were audible, and irritating. 'Didn't want to investigate together.'

"I needed to stay, to purify the water."

‘Others could have.'

"I have a duty to the Zora. My people."

The chuchu was even closer now. Was bubbling and rearing, getting ready to attack. Not really a threat. Yet, Link was growing more and more frustrated, his fingers moving erratically, the frustration in his stomach growing.

He reached behind him, drawing the Zora spear he'd burrowed from the city. He spun, lashing out, swinging it down to whack the chuchu. It burst satisfyingly under the silver.

Link forced himself to take a breath. Sidon had drawn his own weapon, looking between Link and the remains of the chuchu. Confused.

Link put his own weapon back, to free his hands. They shook, and he hated that. But he needed to continue: 'You have a fiancee.'

They stared at each other. There was only the sound of rushing water. A distant cry of seabirds. Everything smelt like fresh rain. The air was cold up here, but Link's cheeks felt hot. He clenched his fists, taking a breath, ready to turn around and start finding one of the locks. If he fought, concentrated on using the powers his new arm gave him; then he couldn't sign. They couldn't talk. That would be better.

Sidon took a step towards him, which felt like approaching thunder. Link stepped a foot backwards, ready to run, or ready to fight.

"I thought—" Sidon seemed to be choosing his words carefully. Clenched and unclenched his own hands on his own spear. "You already knew the Zora custom of arranged marriages."

Link had, of course. But back before all of this, it had felt like a faraway thing. He'd been able to kid himself that it wouldn't really happen. That he had more time.

He had lost so much time. Again.

His arm hurt. Not his actual arm, but the one that was missing. It was a peculiar feeling, to feel something that had already been replaced. But he felt the pain of his own, beneath it, especially when it was cold, like this.

His heart was racing. He wanted to fight something. Needed to fight something, to stop himself thinking about this.

He forced his fingers into words. 'I know.'

"You were gone for weeks." Sidon took another step forward. "You were missing."

Link's hands shook. Too much to keep signing. He looked up. His hair hung in his eyes, but he didn't care. Only met Sidon's eyes through the strands. They were concerned and confused, but mostly sad; betraying everything he felt.

He wasn't sure his sign of 'I know,' was even legible this time. It was foolish to even try explaining further. That he knew the Zora used arranged marriages, that he knew he had gone missing again, that he didn't want to keep disappearing.

That he had known – knew – whatever relationship they had before could never amount to anything, because he was a Knight, Sidon was a Prince.

It was a familiar story. A too familiar one. Because everyone he’d ever loved was royalty.

He was trapped in a story where he could only ever love from afar. It sounded romantic in poems.

A hand grazed his shoulder. He flinched, involuntarily. The hand stayed, as a reassuring weight.

"My friend – Link – I am a coward." Sidon’s voice softened. "I did avoid you, because I was scared of facing you, especially about this. About Yona. I knew it would hurt you."

It did, but did it hurt Sidon as well?

How could Link ask that, especially now, when they were trying to save a kingdom. He was selfish to ask. What were his own feelings compared to Hyrule. He tugged at his scabbard, to feel the weight of his borrowed sword. To remind him of what he was doing here, and what he needed to do. It steadied his hands enough that he could sign again.

'I understand.' He thought about apologising, for bringing it up with everything that was happening. Instead, he signed, 'We need to find those switches.'

Sidon stared for another long moment, examining Link's expression. Could he see behind the mask of determination and practically? Of course Link was hurt; he still cared. And he wanted Sidon too, as well. What had happened between them wasn't insignificant; not something to be ignored.

He held those amber eyes – those eyes that always seemed pinned him like a butterfly – for a moment more, before he turned away. Sidon called after him. Link walked more determinedly, tugging out his sword. That was the useful part about talking with his hands; if they were full, he couldn’t communicate. It put an end to this conversation.

Perhaps that made him as much a coward as Sidon was.

*

It had started after liberating the Vah Ruta. Link had stayed in the Zorra domain on his return from the elephant. Directly afterwards, of course, he'd slept for twelve hours straight in a waterbed. Waking up from that hadn't been dissimilar from waking up after one hundred years.

The world was dark. It was after midnight, and he filled his empty stomach with stew, fruit and honey cakes, before going down to one of the pools. He’d washed the blood from his injuries, but his muscles ached for a good soak.

The bathing pools were beautiful, at night. The silver moonlight cast a halo over the water; glinted off the silver rails of Zora's domain. The sea snails clung to the inside of the pools, like shooting stars that had fallen to earth.

And even more beautiful, thought Link, was the Zora prince emerging from one of the pools. Sidon looked up the ceiling, and sighed. Silver water dripped down smooth skin; dark in the low lighting.

Then he noticed Link, at the edge of the pool. His amber eyes glinted in the moonlight, fangs flashing.

Link’s heart thudded. The Zora Prince had grown handsome, in these last hundred years. It felt impossible to ignore that. He stood here now, remembering how it had felt to ride on his back; feeling strong muscles clench under him. Hearing Sidon’s voice shouting words of encouragement that made him feel like the hero he most certainly wasn’t. (Not anymore.)

"Link – my friend—" Sidon insisted on addressing him like that, as though 'my friend' was a valued position at court. "I feared we'd lost you, once more."

Link found himself smiling. It was easier to smile down at the marble floor, than to think too much about the water trickling down Sidon's bare chest. He signed 'I'm alright. Just tired.'

"Very tired, it seems." Sidon moved through the pool. Getting closer. Link wished he wouldn't, because it would be harder to ignore him; to ignore the heat beginning to grow through his core; ignore that he wanted to stare at the Zora prince, like a fish on a hook. But he also wanted to be closer; was desperate to be closer. "I am glad you are feeling better now - I have so much I wish to show you, now the rains have stopped."

Link could not look up. He could hear the drip from Sidon's fins on the marble. Surely, he was smiling that bright, easy smile; his eyes glinting; ready to take Link by the hand to lead him around. Perhaps even offer to swim with Link on his back, again. His heart seized, just at the thought. If he looked up, he would surely take the offer.

'I have to leave.'

"Surely not." Sidon's hand reached for his, grazing the back of his with his claws, before Link caught shifted away, subtly. That would only make these feelings worse. "I am aware of the dire situation over the rest of Hyrule, but surely you may stay another day. At least until the morning."

It would be easier, to leave now, before anyone knew. It would make this easier. It would make him think less about Sidon, with his muscled arms, muscled stomach, his bright smile - the way his silver jewellery sat on his crimson, smooth skin.

Link shook his head, taking half a step back. His fingers were poised to repeat the signs that he had to go, but Sidon did catch his wrist, that time. Just lightly. He could pull away, if he wanted to.

He should.

He let himself be caught.

"Please, wait until the morning." Sidon's voice was soft, half as though he didn't want to wake anyone else – half as though it was just for Link's ears. "If only so you are not ambushed by stakoblins."

Link looked up, through strands of gold, finally meeting those amber eyes. They were concerned, the polite concern of a friend; but there was something else, underneath. Something deeper. Something that could be desire, as he looked over Link.

Link's breath stuck in his throat, as though he had been hit. There was still that steady dripping from Sidon's bare skin; sea snails casting stars in this private cavern of theirs.

He looked to where Sidon's hand circled his wrist. Bigger than his own, and yet – so gentle.

Link nodded.

Sidon's voice remained soft, "Splendid!"

He took Link's hand in both of his own, squeezing gently. Link couldn't sign properly, with one of his hands trapped, but that was better, in a way. It meant he didn't need to think about what words to use. He put his own over Sidon's. Nodded again, staring upwards. Bit his lip.

Noticed Sidon watching that, his eyes flashing like a shark's.

There was a moment that like it was ready to burst like a ripe berry. Link took a shaking breath, his feet aching to arch onto tiptoe.

Sidon released his hand. Abruptly. Took a step to the side, and said, hurriedly, "But, of course, you wanted to use the pools. I shall not bother you."

'It's no bother.' His hands worked quickly. 'You can stay.'

Another pause that was bursting with - this something. This something that had steadily grown since they'd met, since they'd fought alongside each other, this something that Link wouldn’t allow himself to look at.

"I do not wish to impose." And yet Sidon had not moved.

'Stay.' Link signed. He didn't look away and didn’t let himself think. 'Please.'

So, Sidon stayed. And Link wished he hadn't insisted, when he shed his quiver and sword belt, lying them on the marble. When he was working on loosening his wrist guard, and was all too aware of Sidon watching him.

No. Pretending not to watch him. His eyes darted away when Link glanced across.

His stomach squirmed, and yet he found his mouth twitching. He felt giddy that he wasn't the only one nervous. Not the only one aware of this.

Link pulled off his boots, leaving them in a heap next to his weapons and armour. His hands too oddly light, as he moved them, 'We can share the pool.'

As though there were not three. They didn't have to share the one. But sharing the one meant they would be close.

Sidon's voice was faint. "Very well."

And he stepped back into the water, almost gingerly. Let the silvery water envelop him again.

That was easier.

Link shrugged his tunic, his mail, his undershirt, off. The air was cool, almost moist against his bare shoulders and chest. He hesitated a moment, before stepping out of his trousers too. After all, without a belt, they weren't much use.

Then there was nothing else. He slipped into the water, and felt goosepimples burst across his skin. It was cold, but the cold was welcome on his flushing cheeks and chest.

He had to keep an elbow on the side to keep himself comfortably above water; the pool was too deep for him to stand properly in. He rested his chin on his arm, and pretended not to be staring at Sidon. At how the moonlight made his profile look; the shape of his dorsal fin. He looked like a prince.

Sidon pretended not to be looking at Link, in return. He didn't want to think about what he looked like; at how visible the scars lacing across his stomach and shoulders were – did they also shine silver?

"My sister—" Sidon paused. "You and my sister, I understand you were close?"

Link's stomach clenched. He pressed his lips together, an aching pain washing through him, as he thought of Mipha. The feelings were all fresh and raw. His fingers hovered, as though they were reluctant to sign.

'We couldn't act on how we felt.' The water lapped at him, punctuating the silence. 'She was a princess, and I was – am – a knight.'

Their relationship could not happen. Mipha would not let it. She was a future ruler, and would always act like one. It was refined to letters and longing stares. Refined to afternoons together, to hands grazing and imagining something more. Probably because imagining left the idea of the romance perfect; something from a poem.

"Of course." Sidon ducked his chin, and his jewellery sparkled like stars. "That's understandable."

'I miss her,' Link continued.

"As do I." There was another one of those pauses. Sidon shifted closer, in the water, and a drip from his fin fell in the water between them. It felt loud. "But I have had longer than you to mourn."

It still hurt. All of the friends he'd lost left a raging wound inside him. If he thought about it - them - for too long, then he would sink to the ground and be unable to fight. He allowed himself a measured sigh, then tugged the tie from his hair. He let it fall, just grazing the water, before pushing his hair back.

Sidon shifted even closer, and Link did the same. Found himself taking Sidon's arms, just for something to hold on to. And Sidon stiffened under him, but didn't pull away. In fact, his hands twisted, to hold Link in return. A reassuring hold.

He pressed himself closer. Even without the hundred years of sleep, it had been a long time since Link had been close to someone. Had been held by someone. He missed that feeling. His palms trailed up Sidon's forearms, his gaze watching the moonlight on his pale chest. His skin was smooth, and warm. His heart raced.

Sidon's hand curled under Link's chin, gently tilting it upwards. He was examining him, with awestruck eyes. He moved again, very slowly, brushing Link's hair from his cheek. His claw grazed the shell of his ear, and sent a tingling shiver down the side of his neck.

"You are beautiful," Sidon murmured. "Link."

And the way Sidon said it made him believe it. He barely dared to breathe, but tilted his cheek into Sidon's touch. Did dare to touch his fingertips against Sidon's chest. This something was on the very verge of bursting, of overflowing, and he didn't think he could stop it now. Not now that he’d lost his armour.

He pressed his other hand against Sidon's forearm, pulling himself further out the water. It ran off his hair, down his back. He was fixated by those amber eyes – by the suggestion of fangs in Sidon's mouth – by Sidon's mouth. Kissing someone. Someone allowing him to kiss them.

Sidon caught Link's waist, to help his journey. Lifted him until he was a hair's breadth away, and then paused.

Link continued. Kissed Sidon, and felt that something between them burst. It was a warm, exciting something, that sent sparks to chase away the goosebumps. And it was easier to focus on that than the hurt inside him.

When they pulled away, Sidon whispered, "We were discussing my late sister."

Link pulled away enough to look at him, his hands settling on Sidon's shoulders. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. Trying to convey the complicated feelings in him with that look. He knew. He mourned her. He needed to be touched. To feel something other than grief. Needed to act on this, whilst he was allowed.

Perhaps Sidon understood. He searched Link's eyes, then focused on his mouth. He pulled him close again, kissing him gently – gingerly. As though he would break. Link kissed him more forcefully in return. He wrapped his legs around Sidon's waist, opening his mouth against him.

He felt warmth, thawing him from the inside out. Felt Sidon's hand in his hair, tangling it in his fingers, his other hand firm on the small of Link's back. A fang caught his lip, not quite breaking skin, but enough to send a shiver through him.

That was how it – they – began.

Link didn't sleep that night. Neither of them did. They stayed wrapped up in each other; entangled; entwined. When the sun began to rise, turning the silver to gold, and the horizon to gold, they sat and watched the sky from the pool room. Sidon leant against a pillar, with Link in his lap, his cheek against Sidon's smooth chest. Sidon's arm was around him, and their legs tangled together. He could hear Sidon’s heartbeat under his ear; reminding him they were both alive. He loved that sound.

"Can we act on this?" Sidon asked. His voice was soft, and it made Link think of the sounds he had made whilst they had been entangled. The low keens that sent sparks through him. "Have matters changed enough to allow for this?"

Link took a moment to answer. Traced another pattern over Sidon's forearm, before he sat up properly, to sign.

'It's your decision.' Because Sidon was the prince. It was his reputation; his father who would take issue. Because Sidon had everything to lose, and Link was just a knight. 'The court may not approve.'

Sidon caught Link's hands. They were trembling, he realised. Because surely this couldn’t happen. But Sidon was smiling. A beautiful smile, in the dawn.

"Then the court do not need to know, my dear."

It made Link grin, like he was struck by a shooting star, and he squeezed Sidon's fingers in return, almost giggling. He ducked his chin, but it was caught. He was led back to looking at those warm, amber eyes. Eyes like a bonfire.

Sidon opened his mouth to say more, but whatever it was didn't make it past his lips. He leant forward, instead, and kissed him. His lips stung; a few cuts had been left in their wake. It was the same kind of sting from bathing wounds in salt water; it felt purifying.

So he kissed Sidon back.

And it seemed wonderful.

*

Now, Sidon was king.

Sidon was king, and Link had stood at his side during the ceremony. On a balcony that overlooked the statue of the two of them; with a ring on his finger that showed their bond. But he wasn’t Sidon’s fiancée.

She stood next to him.

They'd saved the domain, again – had fought side by side, again, would likely have a statue built, again. And things would go back to the way they were before. Professional. Link was an ambassador, an advisor, a knight of the realm, sworn to Princess Zelda’s side, whilst Sidon was king of the Zora.

So things wouldn't go back to the way there were before this latest calamity, because Sidon had to rule. With his fiancée. Another aspect that wasn't the same.

He could not have an affair with a knight.

Link smiled and clapped and bowed at the right times in the ceremony. Smiled when Sidon's fiancée, Yona, took his hand and said, "I'm so happy, aren't you, Sir Link?"

She had his hands in her grip, so he couldn't use words. He could only nod. Sidon was determinedly not looking at him. Avoiding him, again.

There was, of course, a huge celebration, over the whole domain. A great feast with music and dancing and displays of skill. All Link really wanted to do was sleep and wait a few days for his wounds to stop aching quite so much, before he moved on. It was clear that whatever they had before was over. But he had to attend this, as a final farewell. So he stood by the silvery rails, in his reclaimed armour, trying not to collapse from exhaustion.

Yona found him there. She smiled. "I must thank you again, for helping us. For helping Sidon. You gave him the courage to take his spot as King."

Link looked over at Sidon. Taller, even than the other Zora, the moonlight glinting from his crown, and his fangs. He was laughing, conversing congenially. Like a comet had landed in the middle of the domain.

'It is my duty,' Link's hands replied for him. Smiling felt like too much effort, but at least that made him seem solemn, and serious. Like a knight of Hyrule should be.

"Of course." Yona dipped her head. "But you're so busy, with searching for the princess…"

They had seen Zelda, at the temple. The Zora had seen her. She'd seemingly been behind the pollution. It didn't make sense, and it wasn't the only strange event she seemed to be behind. Link saw Zelda everywhere, but was no closer to finding her.

'Zelda would want me to help those who need it,' Link signed. And that was true. Whatever else was happening, she would want him to help everyone else first. Zelda would wait. She always did.

"Yes, I'm sure." Yona still smiled, and her voice was soft. "I hope you find the princess soon."

Link nodded his gratitude. He didn't like to think too much about the larger situation; about the days which were slipping by without her. It was worse than knowing she was waiting for him at the castle. Instead, she was everywhere and nowhere and his stomach twisted into tourniquets if he truly thought things through. It made him want to dash out on his horse now and keep searching, but his body needed rest.

Sidon noticed them, of course, and his gaze was measured. Didn't linger on either his fiancée, or on Link. Smiled at them both. Took both their hands, but kissed Yona's knuckles, whilst only squeezing Link's. Yona was "my dear," and Link, "my friend," said with the same amount of measured warmth.

He was much too good at this, Link thought – much too good at communicating with both fiancée and – whatever Link was. Whereas Link could barely look Yona in the eye. She was much too nice and much too sincere.

Sidon danced with Yona, to sighs and claps and shining smiles. A perfect couple.

Link leant against the rails, and half-dozed. Until Sidon reappeared in front of him, amber eyes shining like jewels, and offering his hand. Link's hands moved jerkily: 'I can't dance.'

Not at all. He could fight; he was born to fight, and it was as natural as breathing to him, but when he tried to dance, he became a muddle of clumsy limbs. King Rhoam had used him as a partner for Zelda for all of one day before he realised Link was a hindrance, than a help. Since Zelda's return, she'd occasionally pull him to his feet by the fire, and insist on trying the latest trend with him. He'd stumble, clutching her hands for balance.

She'd only laugh at him.

Sidon smiled, now. "In fact, I was offering to show you to your chambers."

Link could have laughed. He was too exhausted. Instead he smiled and nodded. He grazed his palm over Sidon's, but didn't take his hand. There were appearances, now. How would it seem if the King of the Zora left his own coronation with the knight of Hyrule on his arm?

Link indulged in that fantasy; the fantasy that things could change.

It didn't happen. He doggedly followed Sidon from the festivities, through the chambers upon chambers of polished silver and marble, water sparkling as it flowed in waterfalls and fountains.

And, eventually - 'These are your rooms,' Link signed.

"I am aware." Sidon's eyes gleamed. "If you wish to, you may stay here. It would be more comfortable, and more befitting of Hyrule's hero."

A rush of warmth went through Link's chest. He didn't know what this was, this time, or what it would lead to – if he even wanted something now Sidon had a finacee. But he didn’t. Just nodded,  and allowed himself to be led to the water bed, sinking down into it. It felt like it would swallow him as surely as a like-like. He sighed so deeply that it hurt his ribs, and left his throat raw.

'Thank you.' Though he didn't know what he was thanking Sidon for. He let his hands fall to the water mattress, where they bounced, then landed still. His eyes were already half-closing.

He heard Sidon chuckle, which seemed like a lullaby. Felt clawed fingers brushed tangled hair from his face.

"I cannot permit you to sleep in your armour." Sidon's voice was as soft as his chuckle. The bed bounced, as he settled onto the end. Link made a sound in response. Lazily opened his eyes to watch Sidon lift his ankle and ease his boot free. And the other. His touch left sparks in its wake.

He raised his hips when Sidon's fingers found his belt. He tenderly eased it open, putting it all to one side, in the same pile as the boots. Lingered, palms over Link’s hips, and he felt a surge of desire. Lifted his chest as the same was done to his scabbard, running a palm up Sidon's arm. It was smooth and cool under his fingers.

They didn’t speak. They let their touches linger and their gazes speak for themselves.

One wrist guard was removed, with that same, gentle touch. Sidon took his other hand, then paused. He stared, at the dark skin, the malachite veins, the ridges of metal inherited from Raoru in the forms of rings and bracelets.

Link twitched his borrowed fingers. He could feel, numbly, through it. Could recognise that it was his, now, even if it didn’t feel like it was.

Sidon cradled it, as though he was still injured.

"I was aware you had new abilities, but I was not aware that was because…"

Link had to slip his fingers out of Sidon's grip, slowly, because he needed both hands to reply: 'I lost my arm, in the battle under the castle. This was—' How could he even put it? 'Given to me.'

"Oh." Sidon took the new hand again. "Oh, my dear friend."

A ball of emotion welled up in his throat, so large that he could barely breathe. He took Sidon's forearms, trailing his fingers down to his hands. Didn't quite take them, but just grazed his fingertips over Sidon's palms, swallowing painfully.

"Are you in pain?" Sidon asked, closing his fingers over Link's hands. He leant over him, seeming closer and closer. Link wanted him closer, he thought, if only so he didn’t feel alone. It was just like last time, when this begun – he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to be held.

He shook his head. Couldn't help arching his back slightly, just to be closer to Sidon.

"I am sorry."

Link didn't want to think about it. He wasn't thinking about it. If he thought about it for too long, then he felt the pain of the demon-blight crawling up his arm. Then he felt about how strange it was to wake up with an arm that wasn't his. That his own arm was gone. That this was his arm, now. He'd lost one. Forever.

There wasn't time to get stuck on that, because then he'd feel so much. He wouldn't be able to continue on this quest; he wouldn't be able to find Zelda. He wouldn't be able to play the hero if he was lost in despair.

He shook his head at Sidon, his hair falling back into his eyes. He squeezed the hands that held his, with one of his own, and one borrowed hand. Watched Sidon's eyes soften, and a small, fond smile on his features.

Link's chest ached. He'd missed this. He wanted this – whatever they had before – he felt something with Sidon. Something they couldn't gain back, because of Yuna. Their chains had only tightened around them.

But Sidon leant closer. Leant over him until he could feel warm breath against his cheeks. His hands were pressed down, against the sheets, with tenderness. Link's lips parted of their own accord, anticipating a kiss.

It didn't come. Not to his mouth, at least, but to his forehead. Sidon placed his mouth there, paused, for a long moment. Then pressed his own forehead in the same spot.

"It is good to see you again," Sidon whispered, and there was another apology in his tone. His hand cupped Link's cheek, and he took a breath. Held it, swelling with emotion, his chest arcing up.

"Sleep well, my friend."

There was no further kiss.

Sidon pulled away. Claws catching on Link's shirt as he did, very slowly, as though he wanted to linger. The glint in his amber eyes suggested he did.

Link wanted to follow him. If he wasn't so tired – if he had more strength – he might have. Might have wrapped himself around Sidon and tugged him back down to the bed. Might have kissed every inch of smooth skin that he could. Might have bit down on him, leaving patterns and marks that showed he'd been there. That he'd staked his claim.

But he didn't have the strength. It already felt like he was sinking into sleep, trapped in his own body.

So Sidon left.

And Link stayed.

*

Before (!!), Link paraglided into the Zora Domain. He'd just fought the lynel on (!!). He'd needed the materials to upgrade his armour; needed to upgrade his armour to save Zelda.

Perhaps he was strong enough to save Zelda, now. He wasn't sure. But he knew that he couldn't chance it; not again; he had to be strong enough, without a doubt. If he could practice fighting lynels in preparation for fighting Calamity Ganon.

He landed just in front of Mipha's statue. It was almost midnight, and the stars shone on the stone of her. She practically glowed, like a Goddess statue.

Link let his arms fall, the paraglider fabric fluttering to the stone floor. He stared at her, that heavy feeling returning to his chest.

He had forgotten. When he was in the middle of battle, he forgot about the calamity, and forgot how many friends he'd lost. Forgot about Mipha.

Now that he'd stopped, Link felt exhausted. He was covered in blood. It had dried in his hair, and up his bare arms. His thigh was bleeding; he heard the drip of blood on the floor.

The worst part was, he didn't mind forgetting. Forgetting felt easier. If he could fight, then he didn't have that pain in his chest. He didn't need to remember that he'd missed out on one hundred years; it was a miracle (!!) was still alive. Everyone else was…

That was why he wore the barbarian armour. It made him feel like a warrior; he could lose himself behind the skull he wore on his head. It wasn't like returning to being a knight; it made him feel more brutal, feral, animalistic. A creature just to attack and kill.

Now Mipha stared down at him, with her gentle gaze. The same gentle gaze she used to give him.

Link's wounds hurt. They stung. His chest felt heavy, and just as important. He blinked, and felt hot tears in the corner of his eyes.

"Link, my friend!" Sidon's voice sounded distant, like he was underwater. He heard his footsteps, as he ran towards him. "I saw you flying in."

Link forced himself to blink. To look away.

There were other Zoras. Only a few, but still a few that were staring at him, wide-eyed. It was only when Sidon said his name that they relaxed; as if they hadn't recognised him before. Now they had, they came forward too.

"Link?" Sidon paused, before him. It felt like an effort to turn his head back to him. "Are you alright?"

He blinked, and took a breath. Came back to himself, and tried to smile. Though, he didn't think that helped his case.

'I killed the lynel again,' he signed to Sidon. 'I know it bothers you.'

"Oh, thank you!"

"He really is a hero, huh?"

"Thank you, Link." Sidon bowed his head, his eyes softening. "But please do not trouble yourself. You must have bigger problems to worry about."

Link did smile, then. 'It's the least I can do.'

Because Mipha was dead. Because he needed lynel hooves and horns for his armour. Because he needed to fight so that he wouldn't feel anything.

"Thank you, Link!"

"How can we repay you?"

'I don't need anything,' he signed. But then, he glanced to Sidon. He thought about the last time he had stayed the night.

"Please, Link, you've come all this way."

"I'll let you have a waterbed for half price."

"No, that's alright," Sidon said. He held up his hands. "Link can stay in more luxurious quarters, tonight. I will take care of him."

Link met his gaze. He felt his gaze soften, as he nodded. There was a moment, where it felt like they were the only ones stood there. Link wanted to sink into that; did sink into that, as he allowed himself to be led away by Sidon. His hand was a heavy, reassuring weight on his shoulder.

He found himself returning to Sidon's rooms, with the silver starlight streaming through the windows.

Sidon turned to him, stopping him by placing both hands on his shoulders. Then cupped Link's face, turning it upwards.

"If I may? You push yourself too hard, Link."

He was probably right. But pushing himself too hard made him feel alive; kept him alive. He took Sidon’s wrists, and nudged them down, with a shrug. As though it was nothing. As though he really was the untouchable hero the rumours made him out to be.

‘I’m bleeding,’ he signed, instead. ‘Do you have any bandages?’

“Somewhere, I–“ It distracted Sidon. At least enough to send him searching in his cupboards, whilst Link limped to the bed. He sat on the edge of it, twisting his leg to see the damage. It was an angry gash on his thigh, half-clotted. Not too deep, he didn’t think, from the fact it had clotted at all. His arm stung with pain as well; he’d been caught there. He pressed down on the cut with the balls of his fingers, feeling the ache spread down his arm.

Sidon stepped back in front of him.

‘I’ve had worse,’ Link signed quickly. ‘This is fine. I just need to patch it up.’

“Of course.” Though Sidon didn’t look convinced. He handed the wooden box of supplies over, then knelt by the pool to fill a bowl with water. It was so fresh that it looked blue; like a child’s drawing. It was brought over to Link as though he was the prince. He signed a thank you, taking a cloth from the box and dipping it in the water. He cleaned the wound, wiping away the congealed blood. Cleaning the cloth by squeezing rust red from it, and into the pure water. And again, until he could see the clean cut in his skin. No, not as bad as he thought.

Sidon watched him work, silently.

Link smiled at him, as he dried his leg with a fresh cloth. His hands moved on instinct, adept at wrapping wounds now. He tied it, tightly, then begun on the cut on his arm. There were a dozen more grazes, he knew, and by tomorrow morning, he’d be covered in bruises. But for now, he wasn’t bleeding. He breathed out, and felt his ribs ache. Met Sidon’s gaze where he knelt before him.

‘I like being here,’ he signed, then realised that sounded so little for what he actually felt. He tried again. ‘Here feels like home.’

“Truly?” Sidon couldn’t keep the smile from his features. “I know Hyrule castle is…but not Kakariko village? Hateno?”

Link shook his head. He’d spent a lot of time in those places; he loved those places; those places were full of Hylians, like him. Maybe he used to feel home there, before it all. Now, they were mostly full of strangers, and he didn’t feel like he belonged there. He didn’t truly belong in the Zorra’s domain, either, he knew. But he did feel at home, here, in this room. This room made him feel like the ocean on a calm day. Drifting.

“Then, I am honoured.” Sidon dipped his head, as though bowing.

Link smiled. ‘It’s because of you.’

Then, before he could think too much, he slipped from the bed, leaving the medical supplies and the water there. He settled himself in Sidon’s lap, instead, a hand caressing his dorsal fin. It sent a blush across Sidon’s cheeks.

[turnupswritessometimes]

Butterflies - Ch5 - Lies of P/Alice Madness Returns

Relationship: P/Alice Liddell

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53898544/chapters/137944243

Next | Previous | First

Summary: “But why go looking for other realities, when there’s no guarantee you’ll pass through to them?” “Because it’s an experiment, and I jolly well won’t learn anything more about all this unless I try,” Alice replied.

Having figured out how to slip in and out of Wonderland entirely, Alice Liddell sets off on a journey to find more realities around her own. When she follows a blue butterfly to Hotel Krat, she meets P. The more time they spend together, the more they feel as though there’s someone else out there, just like them.

Chapter Five: Which Explores the Difficulties of Dancing

Alice was, for once, very glad that she hadn't seen hide nor hair of the Cheshire Cat. She could only imagine his riddles and teasing about the whole situation. She could waste her breath and tell him that she was only interested in saving Krat – the proof of which was her venture onto Rosa Isabelle Street that afternoon – and Cat would still insist she was losing her head over a boy.

The worst part was, that wasn’t incorrect. She lay on the luxurious bed of her hotel room, in a borrowed nightgown, and found she could only think about P. It wasn’t that he was a puppet; that seemed by the by, now. It was his hesitant smiles, like he was still learning how to do them. It was his bright blue eyes, and the way they saw everything. (The way they looked at her, as though she was something special.) It was his earnestness and openness, his insistence that his father gave him a weapon for an arm because he loved him.

P was created to fight. But he was so much more than that.

Alice stared at the shadows of tree branches on her ceiling, and wondered if she was the opposite.

She still didn’t hugely know what she was doing in Krat. P said he was bound for the Grand Exhibition next; the alchemists called it their base. They had been experimenting with Ergo, he explained, and might know more about what caused the Frenzy and the petrification disease.

“They might know more about—” And then he had stopped short, and hadn’t continued. He’d his behind his dark hair.

There was something he wasn’t telling her. That was nothing new, for Alice, but she hoped he would be able to soon. She’d had enough of secrets – that would make Cat laugh, if he was here. Didn’t Alice have so many secrets of her own? Secrets that would change the way P looked at her, she was certain. How would he look at her, if he knew she was mad?

For now, she was helping P to prepare for his attack on the Grand Exhibition – because there would be enemies there. That’s what she would tell Cat, though he would smirk wider and make even more sarcastic comments. She rolled over, pulling the covers more tightly to her chest. If she was honest, she knew the other reason she was staying in Krat. She also knew that it was pure foolishness.

It was foolishness that her heart had beat so wildly when P stood so close to her. She was not a silly young girl, driven to silliness whenever she was close to a young man. Alice half-wished she was – but she was too jaded for that. She’d never had a problem with snubbing boys before – she didn’t have a problem snubbing Venigni.

It was just P. She couldn’t’ stop thinking about how it felt to have his hands on her waist, on her wrist, butterfly-light, as he showed her the right posture for fencing. Couldn’t stop thinking about how he had walked through the steps, just behind her, his face so close to hers. So close, she could see his freckles; see the gentle curve of his eyelashes. He had been so there and kind, and gentle, and that was what was different about him. No one had been gentle with her like that, before.

None of that touch had been necessary; he might not have even realised what he was implying by being so close.

But Alice wasn’t going to tell him that.

*

It was at Lady Antonia’s request.

Alice and P had returned from scouring the streets for pipes, or saws or throwing cells that would be handy on his charge on the alchemist’s headquarters. Anything that he could use as a weapon. They returned covered in oil. P’s arm had needed mending, and Alice had a bad cut on her arm which needed seeing to. It was Sophia – whatever Sophia was – who helped her bandage it.  Her hands were capable and practised, as though she’d done this several times before.

When Alice ventured back downstairs to find P talking with Polendina at the desk. Polendina nodded his welcome at her, and she couldn’t help but notice how jerky his movements were compared to P. P, who offered his arm to her, like a gentleman. She suspected, from Gemini’s faint chirp, that he’d told him to do that.

Part of her wished he wouldn’t; it made her feel like a lady, and she most certainly was not. But a much larger part of her wanted to believe that fairy story. To be the Alice that she could have been, if her family had survived. So she brushed her hair behind her ear, and put her hand on his elbow. Let him lead her into the rooms where Antonia sat, and she thought that was only polite: that they keep the lady company in the evening, especially as she was so sick.

They listened to her reminisce about the heyday of the hotel, when it was bustling with guests, despite the rumours it was haunted. About the wonderful dinners and lavish parties held there, before the frenzy and the petrification disease.

“Polendina would play the piano and this room would be full to bursting with dancers,” she said, her eyes shining and distant. “And I’ll have you know, I had my fair share of partners, back in my day.”

P nodded, and Alice smiled to think about it. They were the kind of parties her parents threw; the kind that Lizzie got to go to, but not her. She’d been too little. She’d only ever heard stories about such parties.

“What I wouldn’t give to see the room alive like that once more,” Antonia leant back in her chair, and sighed. She looked to the pair of them, and there was a glint in her eye. “You know, you two make a charming couple. I don’t suppose you would humour an old lady, and recreate the past for me?”

  P nodded again, almost without thinking. Not because of any obedience, Alice realised, but because he wanted to; he was clearly devoted to Lady Antonia, and wanted to make her happy. It was a simple request, after all. Most other girls Alice’s age in London would be able to oblige.

But Alice could not.

Still, admitting that she could not was the more mortifying choice. Instead, she nodded, and murmured that she would fetch Polendina to man the piano. His response was “Of course, I would be delighted,” and she wondered if he could even say no. Either way, he moved much too eagerly for her liking.

She stepped to where the desk lifted up to delay him, if only for a moment.

“There’s just one problem,” she hissed. “I have no clue how to dance.”

“That is simply fixed.” At least Polendina’s voice came out quieter. “Just follow your partner’s lead, Miss Liddell.”

Not the most comforting advice. She couldn’t hold him any longer without it being suspicious. Alice stepped aside, and let Polendina head to the piano. She glanced back, to see Sophia at the foot of the stairs. Sophia nodded, and smiled in an encouraging, albeit unhelpful, way.

So, she trailed back though, as Antonia was turning her wheelchair around, and Polendina was taking a seat at the pianoforte, and P stood, waiting for her. At least he looked as adrift as she felt; stiff, and formal. She stopped, a few paces away from him.

“Can you dance?” she whispered, looking up at him.

“I think I know,” P replied. It was still better than her, so she nodded, as though she thought she could too. As though they were not about to make fools of themselves. She heard Gemini whisper from P’s belt, and he held out his hand again. And again, she took it. Had to move a step closer, and had to take a breath before she let her hand rest on his shoulder. It felt solid; like a rock in a storm.

His own hand hesitated before he took her waist. His legion arm; his weapon. She could feel the cold of the steel through her dress. Aside from that arm, the rest of him was warm.

Polendina began to play.

P started dancing. He stepped as lightly as he did whilst he was fencing. That was good, Alice realised, it wasn’t so different from fencing. She could follow his steps, and pretend that there were still doing that. The only difference now was allowing him to take some of her weight; to tug her, when she was moving too slowly, like a buoy in the sea.

How terribly unladylike, she thought, to compare dancing to fighting.

But she felt distinctly unladylike, and distinctly out of place. Not because she was out of her own reality, but because she did not belong in a hotel like this. Did not belong at a party, imagined or otherwise, and shouldn’t be dancing. Did not belong opposite this boy.

His blue eyes were soft, and he had the impressive ability to be able to dance without glancing at his feet once. His hair drifted softly with the movement as they turned. This close, she could see the freckles on his nose and cheeks. She thought she could see constellations in them, if she stared long enough.

The thought made her stumble. Just slightly, but just enough to make her aware of her own shortcomings. Her heart thudded, and she felt electrified with nerves.

The piano music continued; lilting and beautiful; the kind of thing Lizzie would play on a Spring morning. Thinking of Lizzie made it easier; Lizzie would know what to do now.

“How do you know this?” she whispered. They were making a path across the room, under Antonia’s nostalgic gaze, and were hopefully too far away to be heard properly.

P paused. A strand of hair fell in front of his face, and he didn’t have a free hand to brush it back. “The same way I know fencing.”

It was something Geppetto had given him. Like fighting. What else did he know – innately?

“You’re a good dancer,” P murmured. He lifted his hand to spin her. She managed to not look too much of a fool, her skirts flaring round her as she turned. When she returned, she clutched his shoulder more tightly.

“Liar,” she said.

And he looked cowed, at least. “I try to only tell kind lies.”

Kindness made her feel itchy. Her cheeks felt hot again. P always looked at her in that strange way when she blushed. As though he was surprised and intrigued, which only made her feel more flustered.

"You don’t have to be kind to me,” she said, much too aware of her boots clacking on the tiles.

At least P’s shoes were loud too. He tilted his head to one side, and that strand of hair moved with him. “Why not?”

Because kindness and Alice were strangers. Because most people who seemed kind wanted to use her. Because she didn’t know what to do with kindness. She didn’t know what to do with this boy. She didn’t know what she was doing at all, dancing and pretending that she was any kind of respectable girl.

How could she forget who she was?

Girls from asylums did not dance with kind boys.

Girls like Alice did not dance with boys like P.

They had stopped. The blood roared in her ears too loudly to hear if the music had also stopped. She stood in front of P, a hand on his shoulder, and a hand curved into his, and felt a rush of embarrassment. This was ridiculous, she was ridiculous, she wasn’t Cinderella.

She was a fool.

Alice stepped back. She saw P’s eyes widen in surprise. But he didn’t stop her. Not even when she turned and ran from the room. She ran all the way up the stairs, not noticing if Sophia was there or not. She could only focus on finding the door to her room tugging it open, and slamming it behind her. She pressed her weight against it, her cheek to the wood, listening for any sounds of a pursuit.

There was the faint murmur of voices, but nothing else.

She sunk to the floor, and tried to breathe deeply. If she wasn’t careful, she’d slide back into Wonderland. She could, and then she wouldn’t be in Krat anymore. She could leave.

But she couldn’t bring herself to.

*

P listened to the footsteps disappearing up the stairs. Listened to Antonia tutting and murmuring, "What a pity." Listened to his springs ticking and turning.

He stepped forward, to follow. There was the distant slam of a door.

Gemini chirped when he reached the threshold of the doorway. "You might want to give her some space, pal."

So, P stopped again, like that was an order. He knew that he didn't want to stay there, after that. He made his way to the foot of the stairs, and lowered himself onto the bottom ones. There was silence from upstairs. He heard Lady Antonia talking to Polendina, reminiscing about the old days, again.

He clenched and unclenched the fingers of his legion arm. Alice had looked – scared. Her green eyes had been wide and her grip had tightened on him, just before she let go. She'd been scared because he asked why he shouldn't be kind to her.

And then she’d ran.

"What happened?" he asked Gemini. It was the same thing Gemini often asked him, but that was always about monsters.

"Beat me. I don't think anyone knows what goes on inside a girl's mind."

P narrowed his eyes at him, but Gemini only chirped in response. He clenched and unclenched his fist, as he thought. It had been going well, before that. He'd understood the music and how to move; as easily as he understood wielding a sword. He had enjoyed moving to it with Alice, and how it felt to hold her – as much as he could, when he was a puppet. She'd looked beautiful, with the yellow light casting a halo on her hair and her eyes shining. His springs had felt like they'd kicked into double time, like a butterfly rapidly fluttering its wings.

"The best way to find that out is to ask her."

It was Sophia. She leant over P's shoulder. A strand of her blue hair had fallen from its bun, and swung forward.

"I don't think she wants to talk to me," he said. It was just like that first evening: he’d upset her, even if he didn’t know how, or why.

Sophia raised her eyebrows, though she was smiling softly. "I think you should try, clever one. You might be surprised at the outcome."

She even offered a hand to help him up. He took it, but made sure to take his own weight; Sophia looked so fragile, he was sure he’d pull her over.  She brushed lint from the shoulders of his coat, and straightened the lapels, as if he was truly courting a girl. When he didn’t move, she raised her eyebrows again, “Go on.”

So P did. He dimmed Gemini, and made his way through the hallways of the hotel, towards Alice’s room. Even then, he paused outside the door, listening. He didn’t hear anything at all. He supposed that was better than hearing sobbing.

He knocked. And waited. There was no response.

P’s springs felt coiled tighter. The hotel was supposed to be safe, but what if something had happened? Even worse, what if Alice had left? He opened the door on impulse, ready to fight – and found himself standing in a dark, empty room. It did feel haunted, when he was left staring at the silhouettes of furniture, and trying to find a human in-between them.

She wasn’t here.

But the window was ajar. A faint breeze fluttered the curtains.

P headed towards it, catching the handle to stop it blowing open completely.  He paused again, peering onto the windowsill. It was a wide stone windowsill, with an iron railing, with more than enough space for someone to sit. He saw a flutter of blue skirts in the wind.

He stepped out, onto the stone – and there she was. Alice sat against the corner of the iron railing, her knees to her chest, and her head buried on her knees. Her hair fell around her.

“Alice,” he said her name without thinking. He liked saying it, he realised.

It made her jump. She looked up, startled, and blinked. “P.”

He didn’t know what to do now, not even whether to sit or stand. He watched as Alice brushed her hair from her face, and wiped the heel of her hand over her cheeks.

“It’s rude to barge into someone’s room, you know,” she said, but she wasn’t scolding him. Her voice cracked a little, and she hugged her knees closer to her chest.

“I was worried,” P said. He slowly lowered himself, to sit on the other end of the balcony. The sun had set, painting the city in indigo and black. It was too cloudy a night to see any stars. “I thought I’d – hurt you.”

Alice sounded tired. “You didn’t hurt me.”

P waited, but she didn’t say anything else. He fiddled with Gemini’s lantern, watching her. His light cast a soft, amber glow over the two of them. Sophia had said to ask, but suddenly that seemed like very daunting. The silence stretched between them, and Alice still didn’t look at him. He thought she was trying very hard not to cry.

“Did I upset you?”

“It’s not you.” Alice sighed. She covered her face again, hiding in her dark hair. “You’re…perfect.”

He blinked, his springs jumping. “I was built to be perfect.”

She made a sound that could have been laugh, or a sob. He found himself shifting closer, on one knee, reaching out to take her shoulder, but it didn’t land.

“I’m not the girl that you treat me as,” she said. If her voice had cracked before, it broke entirely now. She took a long breath. “And if you knew the truth…”

She looked at him. Gemini’s light reflected in her eyes, casting spidery shadows over her cheeks. Strands of dark hair hung in front of her face. She looked sad, P thought, sad and scared, and that was terrible. He didn’t want that.

His hand hesitated, for a moment, before he leant closer, and brushed the stray hairs from her face. He tucked them behind her ear, and though her breath caught, Alice let him. She didn’t pull away. Her fingers grazed his wrist, but she didn’t take hold of his hand.

“Tell me,” he murmured.

Alice took a deep, shuddering breath. She closed her eyes, and he was sure he saw the glimmer of tears on her lashes. Yet, when she opened them, they were focused, and determined.

“I was in an asylum for ten years,” she said, and dropped his wrist. “I was considered quite mad.”

Perhaps she expected him to call her mad too; to be repulsed by her; to treat her differently. He didn’t; it was impossible to; unthinkable. She was still Alice. Still, he moved slowly, giving her the chance to pull away, if she wanted, and laced their fingers together.

“You know what an asylum is?”

P nodded. He knew. He didn’t think it mattered. Especially when she had accepted him, too.

“So, you see, I am not a lady of any kind,” Alice said. “Not anymore. I’m just – insane—”

“You’re Alice,” he said. He took her hand in both of his, all too aware of the cold metal of his legion arm. He cradled it, as if he was holding Spring. She didn’t flinch at his mechanics. She didn’t move at all. “You survive storms at sea to help save cities, and won against me in a fight—”

“We drew.”

“And you’re kind. You only agreed to dance for Lady Antonia, when you didn’t know how.”

Alice shook her head. P tightened his grip, hoping that he could make his expression display everything that he felt.

“You’re Alice,” he repeated.

Alice, who looked at him as though he was mad. “You’re impossible.”

But her mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile.

Before she sighed, again, and shifted closer, her other hand on top of his.

P didn’t need Gemini to tell him what to do, though he felt him buzz against his hip, excitedly. He untangled his hands, to put his arms around her shoulders, instead. Gently, giving space for her to slip away, if she wanted to.

Alice didn't. She fell against him, her forehead bumping against his shoulder, and her fists clutching his shirt.

For a moment, he froze. She was so close and so warm and he hadn't expected her to do that. But it was good; made him warm in response; gave him the confidence to hold her properly. He rested his cheek against her silky hair.

"This is mortifying," Alice said, into his jacket. "I'm not usually like this."

"I do not mind."

"I don't suppose you do." She sniffed, shifting so her cheek was against him instead. Her weight pressed fully against him in the twilight, and she seemed so light. He revelled in the feeling of her.

"It's just..." Alice took another shuddering breath. She might still have been crying, but P would not embarrass her further by looking. "The dancing made me think of Lizzie, and our life before, and how that's what I should be."

P didn't understand all of that. He didn't know who Lizzie was, or what 'before' truly meant. The words, he thought, were only half-meant for him. They were mostly Alice talking to herself. Asking about it might upset her even more. Still, he turned over what he did understand. He said, softly, "Then you wouldn't be you."

"I wouldn't be mad."

"Mad is what they call what they don't understand," P concluded. Alice made another sound, but didn't argue this time. He held her as tightly as he dared, his hands pressed against her back, and he could feel her breathing. Her skirts spread over his knees. P told her about the woman in the window. The woman who'd asked him to get her baby back, and he'd only been able to give her a puppet. The street sign had called her mad. It would be easy to call her that. But she was grieving and in despair and no one wanted to understand that.

Alice's breathing evened as he spoke. He could feel her breath against his cheek. Her hair smelt of roses.

"That was one of the first lies I told," he said. He tried to be very still, as though he had a bird on his hand he didn't want to disturb.

"What was the very first?"

"The hotel doesn't allow puppets. I told the door I was human."

He dared to look down at her, then. She watched him, the moonlight shining on her eyes. It made her lashes look very long and dark, and her skin very pale. She looked like a fairy, and his heart thudded as if he was in a fight. Alice’s hand shifted. Her fingertips grazed his cheek.

"I think you're more human than most people."

[turnupswritessometimes]

Butterflies - Ch4 - Lies of P/Alice Madness Returns

Relationship: P/Alice Liddell

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53898544/chapters/136426825

Next | Previous | First

Summary: “But why go looking for other realities, when there’s no guarantee you’ll pass through to them?” “Because it’s an experiment, and I jolly well won’t learn anything more about all this unless I try,” Alice replied.

Having figured out how to slip in and out of Wonderland entirely, Alice Liddell sets off on a journey to find more realities around her own. When she follows a blue butterfly to Hotel Krat, she meets P. The more time they spend together, the more they feel as though there’s someone else out there, just like them.

Chapter Four: In Which Alice and P Spar Against Each Other

Alice had enjoyed talking with Eugenie; with someone who knew how to handle weapons, and who’d admired her own. And then she’d met P again. And though her heart had been behaving erratically, she'd liked it. She'd liked meeting someone who was like her – because he was, she thought. There was something about him that was like her.

Now they stood in the courtyard of the hotel, in the weak morning sunlight, facing each other. Ready to spar. Alice held her knife in her hand, and realised that she knew nothing about fighting. Not really. She only knew how to fight for her life. Not practice, like this.

There was a half puppet mounted on a stick in the courtyard, which fruitlessly waved its fists like a boxer. They were both pointedly ignoring it.

P looked back at her, his eyes catching the lights from the hotel. “Are you sure about this?”

“Of course I am.”

He nodded. “Alright.”

Yet, neither of them moved. They stared at each other, fingers clenching on their weapons. Alice took a breath.

“On three?”

P nodded again.

And that was what they did. On three P darted forward, swift as a cat and light on his feet. Alice raised her blade, just in time.

There was the fantastic clatter of metal on metal. P’s sword pressed against Alice’s dagger with enough force to send her sliding back a half-step. She suspected he was holding back on her.

She sidestepped. Slashed out with the vorpal blade and it was caught by P. Caught again, when she tried a different slice. And again, as she lunged, her weight behind it. P shifted his weight backward, catching it on his own. He didn’t hold her parry for longer than a moment; just a glancing blow against each other.

Alice retreated. P let her. Watched her, as she circled him, slowly, but he met her at every step, his sword outstretched. And, the moment she paused to catch her breath, to think, he was there. His blows were rapid, and she fumbled to catch them on her own.

She was good at fighting. In Wonderland, she was good. She’d taken down opponents bigger and more powerful than this. And yet, she felt clumsy. Her boots stumbled and her spare arm felt heavy. She was barely holding her own, and P didn’t even seem winded.

P stopped, for a moment, his blade diagonal over his chest, like a shield. “You’re good.”

“Are you lying?” she asked, swapping the hand her knife was in; her palm was sweaty.

P shook his head. He frowned, as though the thought offended him.

“Try again,” he said. “You won’t hurt me.”

Not because he was too good, because she couldn’t. She physically couldn’t hurt him, only break him. So, Alice redoubled her efforts, trying to recapture the desperate fight for her life that she felt in Wonderland. She slashed and blocked and ducked and swayed, trying not to pay attention to her footwork or her posture; she never had before. It was easier if she acted on instinct.

The problem was, P’s sword was much longer than her dagger. He had a range that she didn’t have; she had to get close if she wanted her attacks to land at all.

But getting close had its advantages, Alice reasoned. She waited, until their blades were locked, before she hooked her boot around P’s, just as she’d learnt from the street boys back in London.

It did unbalance P, too. But as he fell, he twisted his sword deftly, so it caught the front of Alice’s blade. She lost her grip on the vorpal blade; it spun out of her hand; she fell too; staring at her knife and P’s sword spinning in silver arcs through the air.

A judder went through her body, as she landed.

Not on the floor.

She’d landed on top of P, her palms on his chest, and their legs tangled together on the cobblestones. For a  moment, she was winded; he was so solid underneath her. Alice started to pull herself up, but she froze when she was halfway, her hair falling down in a dark wave.

P’s eyes were wide, staring up at her, and very blue. This close, she could see the freckles across his nose and cheekbones. See there were more on his temple. The pattern was so natural; it was strange to think he must have been designed that way. Someone had painted his freckles.

But what made her stop was his smile. A small, stunned smile as he stared.

“I’m so sorry – I cannot apologise enough,” she murmured, still trying to get herself in order.

P blinked. “You’re apologising for winning?”

“I have no weapon.” She needed to move. Why hadn’t she moved? She couldn’t lay sprawled on a boy, like this. “I think we can call this a draw.”

P hadn’t moved at all; his hands were at his sides. “You could strangle me.”

Could she? His chest felt hard and unmoving under her palms. She shook her head. “I doubt it. You could easily overpower me. It would be you strangling me, sir.”

And then she thought about that; about the two of them rolling around on the floor, grappling for power, and how thoroughly improper that was. She felt herself flush with heat, and yet, still couldn’t bring herself to get off this boy.

“I won’t do that.” P got onto his elbows, as though he was trying to reassure her. Did he think she had gone red because she thought he would? It would be impossible to explain that wasn’t the case.

“I didn’t think—” Her hands had shifted, with P’s movement, and she stopped. She’d felt something, under her right palm. She pressed, more firmly, against his chest, and felt it again.

A heartbeat. A solid heartbeat. Slightly fast.

P sat, properly, and she shifted with him, only dimly aware she was on his lap, now. (If she was truly aware, she’d be mortified, but she was distracted now.) His hand covered hers, keeping it pressed against the heartbeat. The hand that looked like hers, not his weapon-arm.

“It’s called a P-organ,” he said.

Alice barely breathed. She felt as though she was under a spell; enchanted by the feeling of his heart underneath her hand. A steady heartbeat from a puppet’s chest. Eventually, she became aware of those too-blue eyes watching her. Her own heart thudded, as she met P’s eyes. They practically shone.

“It feels…” She tried to catch her breath, but it felt difficult. “The same.”

“The same?”

“The same.” She took his wrist – the one that wasn’t mechanical – and brought it to her own chest. (The impropriety hardly seemed to matter, anymore – seemed easier to forget about it, entirely.) She pressed his palm against her own racing heartbeat.

P stared at their hands. His fingers twitched, and his palm pressed against her breastbone. Alice was very aware of how fast it was beating. She watched P’s expression of awe.

“Like butterfly wings,” he murmured, with his soft voice.

Alice nodded.

Neither of them moved. They stayed in the courtyard, in the weak morning light.

Until it began to drizzle.

*

Alice was not repulsed by P. She’d been fascinated by his P-organ; fascinated by him. She didn’t pull away when they touched; didn’t scramble away in horror. She’d stayed. She’d showed him her own heartbeat.

It had felt magical.

When it had began raining, they had moved. Slowly, as though in a dream, picking up their respective weapons and heading to the safety of the hotel. They stood, just in the doorway, watching the rain pitter onto the cobblestones.

P stood next to a human, who didn’t care he was a puppet. Who treated him, he thought, as if he was just as human as her. He liked that feeling.

Alice’s cheeks weren’t crimson anymore. They weren’t deathly pale, either, but pink. As pink as carnations. P liked seeing her blush. He fiddled with the hilt of his sword, flexing the fingers of his legion arm.

"I think we can both admit you are the more capable fighter," Alice said. She didn't look at him. That was fine. His mind was still full of her very green eyes. Eyes like he imagined the grass would be. Eyes like the tree leaves in summer.

"I was taught to fence," he said. That made it sound like it was something he'd learnt, and not something ingrained within him. As if he was built for a purpose other than to fight. "That's all. I can teach you."

Alice fingered the blade of her dagger. Her hair fell forward, shielding her face from view. She didn’t reply.

He continued, "If you teach me the moves you used on me."

"That's how we fought in the streets," she replied. "It isn't fair fighting."

He thought about that. He thought about how it felt to fight puppets, when they were only under orders to fight. He thought about how he would use any weapon in his arsenal to win against them, including pipes and chains. He thought about how he didn’t want to fight sometimes. He hadn’t wanted to fight some of the humans he’d faced; they’d only fought him because he was a puppet. He wasn’t like them; he didn’t bleed, and he didn’t tire.

"Is any fighting fair?"

She brushed her hair back then, and examined him with cat-like eyes, like she had before. Like he surprised her; like she was intrigued by him. "Are all puppets so philosophical?"

When anyone said something like that, it reminded P of what he was. (How could he forget, even for a moment?) He felt very aware of his springs, ticking inside him, instead of a real heart. He looked back towards the courtyard, letting his own hair fall forward. His father had cut it back, when it had grown, and he wished he hadn’t. Wished he could hide behind it too.

"I'm not like other puppets."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alice let go of her hair, and clench her fist. As though she was aware she'd hurt his feelings, and felt bad about it.

"I can teach you how to fight like a street urchin," she said. "If you teach me how to fence. Is that a fair deal?"

P turned back to her; her hair was messy from the rain and half-frizzy – beautiful – and it sounded like that was her apology, and he liked that better than the word 'sorry.' He nodded. Smiled a little.

Alice smiled back. She held out her hand again, for him to shake. He took it, and felt Gemini's vibrate against his hip. He'd kept mercifully quiet all morning.

P hesitated. Then, with the same push he felt when he went into battle, brought Alice's hand to his mouth. He pressed his lips against the back of her fingers, his eyes on hers. Her cheeks had turned back to red, and her eyes were wide. But she still smiled. A small, shocked smile.

"I'll find you a foil," he murmured.

Alice nodded. She tucked her hair behind her ear.

P found himself turning jerkily, turning and heading back through the foyer.

His arm was caught, as he passed, and he stopped himself just in time from powering his legion arm and attacking. It was only Vegnini. Grinning at him like a Cheshire Cat.

"Very smoothly done, my friend," he said. "You're more of a Casanova than I expected."

P raised an eyebrow at him. It was easier to be impassive with Vegnini – he suspected it amused him. He was the only one not intimated by P's silence. It was strangely refreshing.

 "You know I have had many partners in my three decades, don't you? Gentlemen, ladies, a few puppets, so you know I have plenty of advice." Vegnini leant closer. "For starters, you look much too nervous. Ladies notice that, you know."

P looked over his shoulder, wondering how he could look anything. Vegnini's voice carried, and Alice had no doubt heard. She was brushing down her apron and seemed to be politely ignoring the conversation about her. Because she was a lady.

"Thank you," P said. "I'm alright."

"Suit yourself, my friend." Vegnini let his shoulder go, though not without giving him another sharp elbow.

P didn't reply. He gave a single, sharp nod, and continued on. How was it that Vegnini could read how he felt so easily? (If that even was how he felt?) And he didn't find the idea of a puppet in love impossible?

Love was a powerful word. He didn't know anything about love. Love was for humans, surely.

P wouldn't think about it. That was simpler.

*

They fought alongside each other. Alice followed P onto the streets of Krat, in the drizzly afternoon. He taught her footwork; taught her how to hold a foil and how to parry. They practised on quiet streets, before facing the puppets that still walked the streets. The factory was shut down, and yet, they still seemed to keep appearing, as relentlessly as the monsters in the outer parts of the city.

P had not told Alice about the monsters. Not yet.

She was a quick study. She moved fast; she was determined to be perfect. Her eyes gleamed in the soft afternoon light like a cat’s when she did. In return, she taught him the opposite; to fight with whatever he could. Small, underhanded tricks which were nothing like fencing, and often didn’t require a weapon.

“The heel of your palm,” she said. “Against the bridge of someone’s nose. It should break it, and get them off of you.”

They were stood very close, in one of the many alleyways of Rosa Isabelle Street. She’d shown him with her own hand, moving slowly, and she’d let him. Her skin just nudged his own, and he felt – something. Like sparks. Like he was breaking.

“Have you ever had to do that?” he asked, looking between her fingers to her face.

Alice bit her lip. She pulled her hand back, and held it against her chest. “London can be dangerous, if you’re a girl.”

He didn’t like the sound of that; he clenched his legion arm, and released his fist, slowly. Alice had proven that she could take care of herself – she had gotten the better of him – but he still didn’t like the idea of her having to defend herself like that.

She leant against the alley wall, glancing out onto the street. It was as deserted as Krat could be, meaning it was piled high with puppet parts and there was a leg poking out from underneath a carriage.

“I suppose Krat is a dangerous place for you, too,” she murmured.

P paused. He took a moment, then joined her against the wall, brushing dirt and oil from his legion arm.

“Yes,” he said, finally. “Almost everyone attacks me.”

Puppets, monsters, humans. They didn’t even give him a chance to speak, most of the time.

“Almost?”

“There’s the fox and the cat,” P said. “They’re – friends. And the hotel guests. And – you.”

“And me.” Alice ducked her chin, tucking her hair behind her ear. It was pale as bone compared to ink of her hair. “It’s certainly a surprise for me too. Normally, I’m besieged by monsters the moment I go to Wonderland.”

Monsters? She fought monsters too. It made sense; how she was so fearless about Krat, and so accepting of what he was. He wanted to know more – he wanted to know about London and Wonderland and how it was that Alice could travel through all of these places. He wanted to know about those places: places other than Krat; the world.

“What’s Wonderland like?”

“Impossible,” she replied.

But she did explain more, that evening. They sat at the edge of the gold coin tree, the courtyard painted gold in the setting sun. P admired the way that Alice leant her elbows on her knees, her boots slightly pigeon-toed, her striped tights disappearing into her petticoats. It was decidedly unladylike. And yet, elegant. He liked looking at her.

If she noticed, she didn’t admonish him for it. She talked about Wonderland, toying with the edge of her blade. She spoke about smiling cats and shrinking down to the size of a mouse. She talked about great, steampunk factories where the Hatter worked, just beyond a village made of teapots and plates. Of underwater worlds, worlds full of paper ants and wasps and castles manned by card-soldiers.

Wonderland sounded like a patchwork of strangeness. Strange, and fascinating.

P felt entranced. Felt as though he could never dream up anything like it, even if he was able to dream. He listened, his chin on his fist, and felt like a small child being read fairy tales. Felt as though he did like fairy tales, though he didn’t know where that came from.

“I would like to go there,” he said.

Alice looked at him from under her lashes. She seemed more comfortable now, sitting so close to him that their arms brushed against each other. “It’s dangerous.”

“I don’t mind.”

She smiled, with her eyes more than her mouth. “Maybe I’ll find a way to take you there. I’m still trying to figure out how all of this works.”

He smiled back. And there was another one of those pauses, where he could feel those butterflies in his chest. Where it felt like there was something, and he didn’t know what it was. Didn’t know he could feel at all, let alone feel like this.

Alice looked away first, slipping her blade back away. “Can I ask about your arm?”

P tilted his head. “My arm?”

“Your left arm.”

“It’s a legion arm.” P held it in front of him. It was his puppet string model; the others seemed too likely to hurt Alice in battle by accident. This one, he felt he had control over. “My Father created this one and gave it to me.”

“But didn’t give you another arm,” she said.

P blinked. He’d never thought about it, like that. It made him very aware of where his own arm ended, and how he could lose some of it. How it moved just like his own, but it wasn’t really his. Not to keep.

“He gave me a weapon,” he said. “To protect the city.”

To save his father. To save everyone.

Alice didn’t seem to understand. She looked at him, with her bright eyes. “He gave you a weapon, instead of another arm.”

She wasn’t wrong, but it left him confused. Because Geppetto cared about him, he’d said that so many times – that he was sorry to send P into battle. His arm – this arm – was a work of art. Eugenie had said that. An incredible gift. Surely, a weapon like this was better than another arm.

But Alice said weapon like it was a bad thing. Like there was something more he was made for, other than fighting.

Was there something more?

If there was, then what would that be? What did he want it to be?

How could he want anything more, when he was Geppetto’s puppet?