#wrong. if it’s cold‚ no amount of clothes will heat my freezing bones

[thesixthstar]

This heat wave is really reminding me that I am From Here for real. Like when it’s 96 I’m staying inside but last week I went and took an hour round trip walk to Starbucks and was like 😊 what nice weather for a good walk and a cold drink and then I’ve spent several days sitting out in the back yard in the late afternoon after work, instead of the air conditioned house.

I feel very solid in my stance of enjoying weather that’s Too Hot and being very averse to Too Cold

[elriel-oblivion]

I think it's been three days? Dunno, I don't keep track of day or night like I should lol but here's part three 😁 Next part up in five days so I can waste even more time before writing part six pft 😅 Thanks to all who interacted with the last post 😊🥰🤗

Word count: 3K. Lemme know if you'd like to tagged/removed 😊

Shoutout to @julesherondalex @verifiefangirl and @queen-of-glass for picking up on my fave paragraphs in the last part 😁😭 Can anyone do it again? Maybe I should make this a thing lol, shoutout to anyone who can find my faves. I think there are only two (or technically three?) this time 😅

Also, I'll prob put this up on AO3 this weekend, thanks to @acourtofcouture for reminding me 😊

AO3

Ashes from the Deep

Part III

__

Warmth soaked into Azriel as Elain poured a jug of water over his head. His throat loosened as that warmth fluttered through his body, pulsing against those frozen veins and humming under his skin. Goosebumps tickled his arms.

But it was nothing compared to the sheer bliss that rippled through him as her fingers delved into his hair. It was an effort to restrain the groan reaching through his throat, so he let out a light sigh instead. He didn't think it prudent for Elain to hear him moan under her care. She was so kind to do this for him; he didn't want her to feel uncomfortable.

Two more jugs of water followed.

'Is that nice?' she asked, as though it could be anything but. It felt almost exactly like his mother's hands when she'd wash his hair in those so few minutes he was allowed to see her every week. Gentle and tender and pleasant.

He could fall asleep here if he weren't so aware of Elain in the room with him. Touching him. As it were, that warmth pulled deeper into him, loosing his muscles, thawing his bones.

'It is.' His voice sounded thick and he cleared his throat.

She was silent as her fingers worked, and after a minute or two, she rubbed soap into her hands. The scent of lavender filled the air. She massaged his scalp and lathered his locks, her touch so comforting it almost broke him.

Cauldron boil him, she was so much like his mother, right down to the scent of the soap she used. Her touch had just the right amounts of care and force as it worked across his scalp, relieving a knot of tension at the base of his skull.

His blood was now a soft thrum under his skin, that warmth guiding him further from consciousness, like he was wrapped in his shadows, safe from expectations, safe from judgement, safe from the world.

'Azriel?' came Elain's voice.

He jolted, eyes snapping open. 'Huh?'

She let out a light laugh. 'Your shadows are sort of hiding your head.'

Indeed, his shadows swirled around him, thickest by his eyes. 'Sorry,' he murmured, leashing them back in.

'Don't be. You can close your eyes again.'

As he did, he noted how soft her voice had been, the sombre touch to her words. She hadn't stepped away from his shadows. They must've been cold on her skin, but she'd made no comment. What did she think of them? It irked him not to know.

She continued her work, occasionally adding more water to his hair. Her fingertips rubbed his scalp, the cool night air touched with that lovely lavender.

Behind his closed eyelids, his mother smiled at him. Her smile was so sweet, so radiant and inviting, so homely that he wished he could freeze time to extend that one hour into eternity.

'You're so beautiful, my boy,' she whispered, her voice tender. Her arms were extended and he ran into them, savouring the comfort he found there. It was astonishing that he could experience this warmth after those long miserable days in that cell.

Those days. They often blended into each other, dark and dank as the cell itself. When he'd be taken to see his mother, light through the windows was painful as it pierced him. It was always too bright, the sun. Always too penetrating, like those rays sought him out to display all his wrongness - especially his shadows, a frenzied, wild and unchained beast before he learnt to control them. Terrible, dark magic not born of the Mother, his father constantly claimed.

And oh, how dark those shadows looked in the sunlight.

But then he'd be reunited with his mother, and her light was mellow. Soft like a caress, serene as sunset, always calming his hurricane of shadows. She bathed him in her light, let it wash over him with her smiles and kind words, ever flowing in their hours together.

He regretted most the little time he had with his mother growing up. Resented it, for it was neither of their faults. It was always too fast, that weekly hour, and when he was finally thrown in the Illyrian camps without a clue what his culture truly meant, it was eternities before he could see his mother again and bask in her soothing glow. Those times were long and cold, even with his found brothers by his side.

His mother's image faded into darkness as something soft touched his eye. 'Mother?' he rasped.

'No, it's Elain,' whispered Elain.

Elain? As he opened his eyes and blinked, his murky vision cleared and he found her staring down at him in her dim bathroom, brow creased. His shadows were everywhere but one of her hands held a fresh towel; the other hovered by his eye. He dispersed his shadows into clear air. What did she make of his address?

And was that salt he scented?

Cauldron, did he - did he cry?

'I asked you to lift your head but you'd fallen asleep,' Elain said. 'I didn't want to wake you, but we should dry your hair before you really go to sleep. Especially if you'll be going outside again. Although I would ask you to consider taking a guest room.' She frowned.

When had he fallen asleep? And how could it have been so sound a sleep that he didn't feel Elain finish? There must be magic in those fingertips of hers to relax him so deeply.

'Right,' he said, slowly sitting up. His neck was stiff and Elain reached behind to hold it as he pulled it forward. Water dripped down his temples, off his head, some drops pattering on the floor.

Elain patted his head with the towel, wiping his neck and forehead. She brushed wet strands away from his face, her focus so intent on his hair. He dropped his heavy head, and she gave the back a more thorough dry. A few minutes of ruffling his hair around, during which she pulled the towel from his neck, and she seemed satisfied. She raked her fingers through his hair, flattening the spiky mess he was sure sat atop his head, and a ripple of comfort descended through him. She discarded the towels on her bathtub.

As a thin breeze breathed over his wet head, he noticed the plants resting on small stools around the tub. How did he not see them earlier? Exhaustion, he supposed.

Blooms and vines overflowed their small pots, cascading down in bursts of bright colour. Three hanging baskets of what he smelled as rosemary lined the wall, wild green clusters of stems trailing over the edges and hiding the ivory stone behind. He wanted to touch all those soft petals and velveteen leaves, feel the depth of Elain's care through their touch.

He made to stand, but she held his shoulder. 'Wait,' she said. 'I want to clean your face, too.'

He'd forgotten about all the dirt she'd found there earlier.

She wet a cloth and knelt by his side, touching the cloth to his cheek, right above the gash that rogue Illyrian had opened earlier.

He winced, the skin tight where the mud had dried.

'Sorry,' she said softly, pausing.

With a smile, he gave her the same response she'd given him earlier: 'Don't be.'

Elain breathed a laugh and dipped her head. 'That cut does look very bad, though. I think I'll have to clean it with alcohol too.'

'Let's crack open that wine, then.'

She laughed again and blushed. 'Not tonight, Azriel.' And she patted his cheek again, rubbing off the dirt and blood.

The sound of his name on her tongue heated his blood. It wasn't that pleasant warmth as she'd washed his hair; no, this was something more charged. Something that settled his weariness into a quiet hum and left him a little more awake.

He drew in his shadows, sending them through his veins. The cool they delivered wasn't nearly enough to pacify his rising heartbeat. Not with Elain so close. If he moved forward just a few inches, there'd be no space left between them.

He didn't usually think of Elain like this. Think of the feel of her mouth on his.

He blamed the exhaustion, even as it hunkered down.

And - she was so lovely. And he was Azriel. He should be disgusted that he was here, letting her tend to him, making jokes with her, imagining them kissing. That was enough to tame his heart a while.

But Cauldron boil him. How would he sleep with his mind teeming with so much conflict. The dead girl and her family, his mother. Elain too now, whether he liked it or not. He'd hoped his physical fatigue would win over his crowded mind. That he'd get some proper rest and deal with all the rogue Illyrian troubles and whatever else later.

Apparently not this night.

As Elain stood and washed the cloth, he let out a deep breath through his nose, then shifted on the seat, hoping to put more space between them. Distance - even an inch - might be helpful.

Not that he'd make the first move.

He never did.

Elain knelt down again, wiping the cloth across his jawline, nose, cheek. He faced her to give her more access, but she kept her gaze intent everywhere except his eyes, as if cleaning his skin required her utmost focus.

Look at me, he almost said. With her so close to him, it was maddening not to share even an accidental glance.

She abruptly went to close the window, a heavier silence settling over the room, then moved to the cupboard by the door, pulling out a small bottle of alcohol. Her petite frame looked so delicate, yet a tautness relaxed from her body in the way her shoulders loosened. It was probably just her defence against the cold, though the temperature was nothing but mild to him.

She poured a few drops onto a clean cloth and took her place beside him. She cringed. 'This'll hurt.'

He smiled faintly. 'It's all right.' He doubted he'd even feel it.

She delicately touched the cloth to his cheekbone and he clenched his jaw, the alcohol harbouring more ire than he expected. Mother above, that was a deep cut.

Elain creased her brow and patted along the gash. 'Are you all right, Azriel?' Her voice was subdued.

The truth would be more painful to put out. 'I'm all right. Are you all right, Elain?'

'I'm fine.'

He doubted her just as she probably doubted him. The dark circles around her eyes were faint but still there. But theirs was a friendship of mutual respect and boundaries. If she didn't impose on his, he certainly wouldn't do so on hers.

But oh, how he wished she would feel comfortable enough to truly confide in him right now. It wouldn't be the first time she'd done so; he just needed to be patient. But he'd do anything to relieve the tension humming behind her eyes. From her manic visions, pain he knew lurked under her skin and in her mind, general exhaustion from keeping up appearances - he would swallow them all in his shadows and dispel them on the highest wind if it meant she would be all right.

They were silent as she finished up. When she washed the cloth, he turned in the seat and spoke. 'You can talk to me, Elain, whenever you need.'

She beamed at him and her eyes finally met his. 'I know.'

He stood, holding her gaze. Something was very off about that smile.

Her hands fiddled to turn off the tap, the cloth falling from limp fingers. Her body faced his, and her smile fell, brows rising slightly. She cleared her throat. 'We should go downstairs to the fireplace. It'll be warmer there.'

In an instant, they were wrapped in shadows, her wrist in his hand, and the great living room came into view. A thin sheet of moonlight through the windows was the only illumination. Just as their feet found the floor, Elain bent to put three logs into the fireplace, lighting them after a few tries. 'Those shadows are quite convenient at times, aren't they?' she said.

He huffed a laugh and rested a forearm against the mantelpiece, crossing a leg over the other. 'They can be.'

The blaze flared out and she stepped back, looking up at him through that shadowy amber glow. 'Just a few minutes now and we'll be warm.'

Her eyes didn't leave his. And how stunning they were, soft and subtle in the dim light. The brown looked richer among the warm tones of the fire, something like dark chocolate - or rosewood, perhaps, with a mahogany undertone.

'I think you'll need a bandage for that wound,' she said.

'I'll be fine without it.'

'It's quite deep.'

'Not a match for my Illyrian healing.' He smirked, trying to relieve whatever pressure thrummed in the air between them. He hadn't even noticed it come; one moment the air was clear, the next it was pulsing a steady beat. What the hell was this? Did she feel it too? He wished his shadows would just devour the tension, if only to reduce his own shame.

Her eyes flicked to his wings behind him, and they rustled, spreading a bit. He straightened. The heat in his blood turned to a simmer and he knew in his bones it had nothing to do with the fire. Why couldn't he control this? She met his eyes again.

He'd wanted to see her eyes on his, but now they were just too focused, and if she didn't stop looking at him like this, like she could see the blood beginning to bubble beneath his skin -

She cleared her throat and scanned his face, likely checking she hadn't missed anything. 'Oh,' she said, raising a finger to his temple.

Her touch on his skin sent his blood boiling. His heart was pounding a loud rhythm and because his mind was so muddled from the fight and the blood and his childhood somehow entering his conscience, and the lines between the past and the present were so blurred tonight, and this heat was just searing - he grasped Elain's wrist where it hovered by his face.

Her breath hitched, eyes snapping to his.

This was wrong, this was so utterly wrong, but he couldn't let go. What had he done?

She stared at him, through him. 'I can hear your heartbeat,' she choked out.

Through the crackling fire, she could hear him.

He was silent. His body tensed.

'And it's a beautiful sound.'

His pulse spiked like his heart sang out to her, called her name. Did she - could she - feel the same as he?

'You're beautiful, too,' he breathed.

The air was stifling. Cursed flames. Every thought in his head narrowed to the girl before him. Her eyes glistened.

He wasn't sure he was breathing.

Was she?

Her eyes swept his face. They stopped at his lips.

'Are you going to kiss me?' she whispered.

So focused on her plump, rosy lips, he almost didn't hear the hiss of a log as it tumbled further into the fire. His throat bobbed. Maybe - just maybe this could be okay. Maybe if she wanted it as much as he did, he could put aside his own self-loathing for a moment. Elain was different, an essence of light in and of herself. Her core radiated brilliance; it'd take more than just a few of his shadows to snuff out her glow.

And damn the consequences anyway. The Azriel of later would deal with them. If he didn't burn alive here first.

He swallowed. 'Only if you want me to.'

'Yes.'

His chest tightened at the resolve in her tone. Yearning and compunction warred within. He craved her touch, yet disgrace corded his heart. How could he even think this could be fine? She would be poisoned, made impure by his mouth.

'I know what you're thinking,' she said, 'and I want you to know I trust you, Azriel. You will do me no harm. You couldn't.'

She trusted him. He wasn't sure why, but she trusted him. What could he give in return? His scars? He lowered his gaze, her wrist still soft in his hand. He felt his arm move like a dead weight, but it was only the feel of her thumb on his brow, smoothing out the crease there, that mollified him, that unravelled and burned away that cord of disgrace. He released a long breath.

'I trust you, Azriel. So kiss me.'

And it was the clarity in her voice, the pure stability that had him leaning down - slowly, so slowly. Doubt flickered along his bones but he couldn't savour the anticipation enough. This moment would change their path for ever.

His heart thundered with every inch he yielded, his free hand coming up to cup her cheek, fingers setting so perfectly over the delicate plane of her face. Her breath stilled when he was but a whisper from her mouth, and he paused.

Her floral scent fanned him, melding with the smokiness of the flames. Was that datura he smelled? Those exquisite flowers he loved so much, with their large petals curling off in tapered tips so like his own shadows. The first memory he had of them, that conversation where Elain had grabbed his wrist.

He was still holding hers now.

Her doe eyes were so steady on his. 'Kiss me,' she murmured.

He closed his eyes and removed the space between them.

So much for never making the first move.

___

So what's your fave ice cream flavour?

Feedback, constructive criticism welcomed, thanks for reading 😊

@illyrian-lover-flower @julesherondalex @nooriee @mis-lil-red @verifiefangirl @tswaney17 @a-happybird @thewayshedreamed @sleeping-and-books @thefangirlofhp

[diaco1968]

Let me down slowly

Dabi x reader smut

Warnin! Smut/ hairpulling, biting, riding/sex, a little degradation, very little angst that gets resolved quickly

You were his sin and you were his salvation. He loved you cause you were what he had always wanted to be, he hated you cause you were what he never was. Though he'd only freely admit to the latter in his late night and early morning drunk bickerings with you. Jokingly of course. You were no easier than him to read when it came to emotions. But he knew you were much colder than you let on. Freezing cold was in your nature after all.

Damn as much as it bothered him he would never dream of letting you know how he really felt about you and risk meeting your rejection. Deep down however he hoped you were as sharp as you sometimes accidentally let on. That your little sly self knew how he felt, how despite his shit talk, he was a slave to your will. That you knew, and would consider that before leaving him. If you ever decided to.

~don't cut me down, throw me out, leave me in the waste~

When his 'accidental' brushes of his shoulder on yours or even how by 'coincidence' he would stand too close behind you, turned into playful gropes and squeezes, you didn't mind, and it was a relief to him. When you started to reciprocate them equally as playfully by your own sneaky groping of his crotch while you were behind the bar, even as Shigaraki sat on your other side, Dabi was ecstatic. At the time he considered that particular part of his feelings being returned by you when he asked you to be his friends with benefits, no strings attached, as an absolute win. He was content with owning your body.

He was wrong.

~ I once was a man with dignity and grace~

You clutched his collar in both hands pulling him down to you as you backed yourself into the wall, smirking. His lips chased yours, kicking the door shut behind him as he pressed your back more against the wall, his hands gripping your hips to hold your body tightly against his. You could feel his already half hard erection press against your stomach and you gasped, mocking him "oh my, I just barely touched you Dabi." You rolled your eyes as he growled in your response "yeah, only after you've been shooting me nasty little looks and dirty slutty texts all night. From across the room." He lightly kicked your legs apart bringing his knee up and rubbing it between your legs roughly, making you muffle a particularly high pitched exhale. "Don't you even dare hold back those sounds. You had no problem earlier when Dust boy was reading the dirty shit you kept sending me, doll." You opened your mouth to protest "what?! Shigaraki was- " you were cut off with his lips crahsing into yours with a low growl, hand fisting your hair and angling your face up to hold you in the kiss forcefully to shut you up, pushing hismelf further onto you, his other hand sneaking up under your shirt and gripping your breast roughly, a squesk leaving your lips, and he drank it up like wine. When he pulled back you were both panting breathless "you say his name one more time and I'm gonna leave you here high and dry. Got it?" Your eyes flashed with excitement as you bit your lower lip and nod your head "good. Now show me," he nudged his knee between your legs one last time as he stepped back pulling you with him to the bed. He plopped down, pulling your pants down and lightly slapping your rapidly dampening clothed heat before he sat you down straddling his thigh, "show me what a needy little bitch you are."

You hummed finding it thrilling how his usual passive friendly behaviour changed to this. You snaked one of your arms around his shoulder and reached back with the other on his knee to balance yourself as you moved your hips making sure to grind down on his thigh as hard you could. His hands were both resting on your hips now, eyes staring back into yours, when you not so 'accidentally' brushed your knee against his erection, you looked down as he hissed. He knew what you were doing though, he gripped your jaw and made you face him "eyes on me, toy." He demanded, wanting all your attention. You moaned in his face tugging on his hair but he didn't budge "what you want now?" He said sarcastically as you groaned annoyed "kiss me damnit..." you had come to like the sharp cold tingle of his staples on your skin, face or hips didn't matter. "That's no way to ask for something now, is it?" You narrowed your eyes at him "please." He was surprised how easy that was to draw out of you, and if that meant you wanted him that desperately... the pleasure surged down his form and straight to his cock, twitching in reponse "well damn, can't deny you when you're so polite now, can I?" He pulled you over him with his hands cupping your ass, so you were straddling him properly as he leaned back on the headboard, urging you to pull his cock out of it's restraints, kissing you as he rocked you down over his length with his hands still on your ass, squeezing your cheeks. You gasped and whimpered loudly feeling him just slide between your folds with ease, missing where you wanted him most every. Damn. Time. You clawed at his shirt hissing in his mouth and the bastard just chuckled "what a desprate little whore." He mocked looking at your flushed aroused face. Now normally he would tease you. Till you were shaking and begging him to just fuck you senseless after you've already cum at least two times on his tongue or fingers. But he couldn't now. He wanted you as much as you wanted him and he couldn't even pretend to hide it.

"Fine then, do what you want." He carefully burned away your panties, the sharp inatke of breath in reaction to the sudden heat on your cunt not going unnoticed as he smirked in response. He grabbed your hand and tightened your fingers around his length, lifting you up with his other hand looking at you expectantly. You shot him a half glare "... the audacity..." he rolled his eyes as he tugged your shirt up and rolled it shoving the hem in your mouth so you were providing him with the view he wanted "I have better uses for that nasty little mouth of yours but that will have to wait for the next round." You shivered at the dark tone of his promise, teeth clenching down on the fabric of your shirt "now fuck yourself on my cock, princess." You whined, giving his length a few strokes before aligning his tip with your entrance, slowly and carefully lowering yourself. He wasn't patient enough for that as he grabbed your hips and slammed you down onto him. A short shocked scream ripped through you as you jolted forward, releasing the wet shirt from your teeth the saliva pooling in your mouth trickling down your chin, chest now pressed to Dabi's face as he let out a satisfied breathy groan in appreciation. Both at the hard clenching and twitching of your tight gushing pussy around his cock and at the sudden treat provided to him. He let his tongue drag harshly over your perked bud, his piercing strangely pleasant as he pushed against it, before sucking a considerable amount of your soft mound into his mouth. You could not move your upper body at all with the way one of his hands was gripping the back of your neck tightly and firmly holding you in place and keeping your chest in reach of his mouth. You clutched his shoulders, slowly beginning to move your hips, moving all the way over his lenghth till his tip was barely sheathed inside you before rocking back onto him to the hilt feeling his balls. "Taking your time, (y/n)?" He growled after he let go of your abused nipple with a pop "move faster!" He barked, his mouth not remaining idle for long as he moved up and sunk his teeth right above your collar bone. You gasped and your fingers tangled in his hair and tugged harshly, him complying as he tilted his head up to meet your eyes with a smug smile, satisfied with the angry red forming over the purple indents of his teeth on your skin.

He loved it all. The way you looked so needy for him. The way you were desperatelly rocking your shaking thighs over him. Most of all the way you yearned for his kiss, demanding it like that. He traced your jaw moving his hand from the back of your neck to trace your swollen lips, wiping the saliva off before pushing his thumb into your mouth, letting you suck on it, moaning as you looked at him, pleading. "Say it and I'll give it to you baby girl." You whined doing your best to keep up your pace over him but your legs were beginning to cramp. He pulled his thumb out of your mouth dragging your lower lip down with it. "Fuck... Dabi..." he couldn't stop himslef, he really wanted to hear you say it "Touya. Call me Touya."

Somewhere in the back of your lust filled mind you knew what a big deal this was. He just told you his real name, didn't he?

"Please t-Touya! I need you!" His eyes closed savouring the face you were making as his name rolled off your lips like honey. "You need me to do what?" He pressed on holding your glazed over gaze, you groaned "I need you to fuck me. Touya please!" You hissed which turned into a wanton moan as you called out to him. His response was immediate as he leaned in kissing you deep and rough, tongue pushing past your lips forcefully letting you play with the piercing with your own tongue only after his was shoved halfway to your throat already. His hand that was squeezing your ass bruisingly tight up untill now, let go, snaking around your waist and holding you down to him firmly. You only realized you were trapped when it was too late, mewling and moaning loudly in his mouth as he started thrusting up into you fast and harsh, him swallowing all your sounds. You pulled back from the kiss having to brace yourself on his shoulders by the way he was pounding up into you, but only managed to hug him tightly around the shoulders as he kept you flush against him with his chin resting on your shoulder. You could barely breathe as his cock was rearranging your gut only managing ragged noisy huffs and gasps, and he was getting close to his limit hearing you make these sounds, getting sloppy and throbbing inside your fluttering gushing cunt violently. Turning his head he rasped in your ear "cum all over me princess." That was the shove you needed as your orgasm washed over you like a violent wave as you came undone over him with a not at all muffled wail, the clenching and clamping, milking and draining him inside you. He slowed down letting you, and him, ride your peaks with a couple of deep slow thrusts. You went limp over him, panting to catch your breath. He let his hand trace over your spine, gentle, light. You shivered nuzzling your nose in his neck whispering in his ear playfully "stop it Touya." He rolled his eyes and gave your ass a sharp slap making you jolt and whine in protest, him only chuckling and rubbing it soothingly as you grumbled about what an asshole jerk he was.

~now I'm slipping through the cracks of your cold embrace...~

He knew he had fucked up when he watched you getting chatted up by that shitty dust boy earlier. He had tried to give you subtle hints and you had gotten them and deflected all, shrugging them off with a simple excuse "I'm not even flirting. But, even if I ever am, it doesn't concern you as long as it's not physical, right? Friend?" You had said playfully. He was not in the mood so he just stomped off. Now a few hours later he was sitting on the far corner of the room and leaning on the bar on his arms, uncharacteristically staring at his hands instead of his usual glass of whiskey. "Hey fren!" You chirped as you slipped your arms around him from behind making him jerk out of his miserable trance. He quickly gained composure "oh shut up (y/n)..." he groaned leaning back on the bar and trying to get away from your death grip "listen T- Dabi," oh yeah you had made it a habit of calling him by his name when you were alone. Which was a lot of the time. And as much as he loved hearing it from you, he hated when you almost slipped like this when you weren't alone. He never told you to stop though. "I've decided, I fucking hate it when you're grumpy... so, fine. I won't be 'flirting' with no one but you, ok? Even though I really wasn't." You still denied flirting as being 'overly friendly' but you leaned in mouthing the shell of his ear before pecking his jaw. He smiled as he felt the familiar standing of his hair on end, turning his head and meeting your lips with his.

He still loved and hated you. Loved you cause you knew him and as much as you tried to pretend otherwise, you cared for him and had his back. Hated you, cause he hated that you made him love you so much.

~so please, please~

[lastluvbug]

Your Trick Me Once and Trick Me Twice was amazing! My poor heart ached as I read it. May I request for a situation where Kalim was depressed after the events of Chapter 4;Jamil says something along the lines of "If only you hadn't exist" and Kalim decides to take drastic actions like attempting suicide? You can choose if his attempt is a success or a fail but I do want to see Jamil's reaction to the attempt though. Of course this is only if you are willing to write this. Thank you very much! :)

Toxins

Haha, you guys sure are enjoying the angsty Kalim fics! Oh well, truth be told, I am too! So let’s continue the sadness train!

Warnings: Extreme suicidal tendencies, toxic behavior, and language.

Please do not read if you are sensitive to these topics.

Vermillion skies bled to dark midnight as a little twinkle on the horizon grew into a thousand stars that created shapes and pictures Kalim loved to trace with his fingers.

Twilight, the death of the day, and the birth of the night. A long time ago, it was the part he dreaded with a passion unmatched by any other. After all, when the sun set, that meant today was over, and all those precious times he’d savored were now nothing more than lightly remembered memories soon to be rewritten, or forgotten. But now... well, now that he had no one to fall back on, no one to reach out to, twilight was now the sweetest kiss he could await for, the kiss that he’d wished to feel, but for now could only see.

Caressed by the wisps of wind that held the slightest hint of spice, he leaned back onto his hands, swathed in the moonlight that seemed to spotlight only on him, on the tears that freely dripped down his cheeks like crystals, a sad smile tugging at his lips. Feet dangling over the edge of the too tall balcony, he drank the taste of night, the bittersweet flavor of the dry desert air.

Sleep had long since been a hazy concept, often coming in sporadic periods that sometimes stretched for hours, and sometimes lasted no longer than five minutes. No longer did he carefreely fall into blissful dreamland, no longer did he find comfort in the silk finery of his sheets, or the clothing that had once fit so snuggly over his already lithe body.

Stomach shrunken, fingers bony, cheeks ever so slightly caved in, Kalim had gone from so heathily full, to a frail petal on the edge of falling from its flower of life. He didn’t need to show anyone the way his ribs had replaced the muscle that used to line the bones, didn’t need to explain why he’d suddenly found nitpicking every food that was placed before him as a new hobby. Probably the worst of all, he refused to allow anyone to see the secrets he was hiding, masked with a terrifying expertise he surely shouldn’t be capable of creating.

Riddled with jagged lines that cut over his shoulders, his hips, his thighs, Kalim hid those so well, walking without a single limp, waving without a flinch, acting as if he didn’t feel the sting of reopening wounds whenever he stretched his limbs a little too far, or the dripping of crimson as sparkly as gems down tanned skin. Laughing soundlessly at the tranquil sky, he sniffled, betraying his actions as the glittery sea of bottled sadness spilled from his eyes.

What was perhaps the scariest feeling of all, was that he simply felt... nothing.

All those smiles to his friends, all those sympathetic hugs he offered to classmates in need, he didn’t feel anything through it. It was as if a switch had been turned off; the dark smothered his light, shutting out the emotions that had so clearly made Kalim, Kalim. He could laugh and cry as much as he wished, but that didn’t cover the fact that it was all... fake? Forced? Imitated?

He knew why. He wrote about it every night, in the journal he kept beneath his pillow. He dreamt about it, whenever he could manage even a glimpse of an image past the realm of sleep. He remembered it, he remembered him. His words. The ones that stabbed him in the back, in the heart he thought he could so foolishly bear to someone who’d once been so trusted.

He knew this was all because of Jamil. But he rejected any thought that came within a hundred feet of blaming him. How could he? How could he even begin to blame Jamil, after everything he’d done?

“Hey, Mr. Oblivious. Won’t you pull your head out of your ass for one goddamn second and pay attention?”

Kalim should’ve been listening better, then Jamil wouldn’t have had to tutor him on basic classes.

“Why won’t you just get out of my life? I’ve told you a million times, and I’m done repeating myself. I’m not your friend. I never have been and never will be. Now leave me alone.”

Was he being too pushy? Maybe... maybe he just needed some space.

“Kalim, get the hell out! Good for nothing leech, just get away from me!”

...How much longer can he do this?

Slow, encumbered, Kalim turned his head to the door of his room, waiting, hoping, praying that the handle would turn, and welcome in the one person he wanted to love again, despite the late, late hour. Staring at the wood, he felt numb, expecting something he knew would never happen.

Falling rather ungracefully from the balcony ledge, he dropped onto his wide bed, onto the plush mattress that was deceivingly firm underneath his back, cradling all the wrong places as his covers practically strangled him in the heat. The tears that came this time weren’t born of fear, or anger, but grief and guilt.

Maybe if he’d been more perceptive, maybe if he’d loved just a little harder, things would be different. But... didn’t it amount to anything that he’d tried? That once, Jamil had been treasured like a brother? Didn’t he care at all that Kalim was suffering?

Cuddling into the overwhelming confusion between suppressing heat and empty cold made Kalim’s head spin, and cradled by the hand of the night that so desperately urged its dimming sunshine into sleep, he felt his eyes slip shut, sinking into a slumber that was neither welcoming, nor satisfying.

<————>

Heavy and cold, shivering in warmth, dimmed in light.

Kalim curled in on himself, sleep clothing askew as he gritted his teeth, chest sinking with a fractured stabbing as he hugged his knees to his chest. Just as the nights before, sleep had brought nothing but a dreamless black that he wished he could stay trapped inside, only to awake yet again in a body that only ever seemed to work against him.

Sitting up, he grunted as his wounds burned, flames traveling through his veins as if salt had been rubbed into his cuts. Tears speckled across his eyelashes as he bit back his cry, every breath he took watering the knot that grew in his throat.

He knew then, with the sensation of cracking glass prodding at his chest, with the cloud that dampened his head, with the glaze that formed over his eyes consisting of dammed tears and bottled fear, he couldn’t do it today. He couldn’t go out and act as if everything was alright. He couldn’t smile and laugh like he’d taught himself to. Because every time, it would come out too broken, it would show the feelings he’d worked so hard to conceal.

He needed to make a trip.

Dressing himself was an especially difficult task, as any small movement made his arms scream in protest, his hips cry in red as mended injuries were pried open, his thighs burn like boiling water had been splashed over them. But, biting his cheek and gritting through it, Kalim disregarded his bodily urges to stop, pulling on his school uniform and sloppily tying his turban, slipping on his pointed shoes to complete the look.

He didn’t even note the time as he headed out, feeling unbearably heavy as he glued his gaze to the floor, wandering through the halls of Scarabia. Along the way, he caught the eye of a few students, who waved energetically. He didn’t have the strength to summon even a hint of a smile back, trudging past them as he blinked, shoving down the water that longed to rush down and cool his warm face.

Pinned with the helplessness of being alone, Kalim hesitantly made his way to the mirror portal that led back to Night Raven’s main building, freezing as he noticed who stood against the wall, cleaning the dirt from his nails. Jamil barely acknowledged Kalim until he was within reaching distance, scowling as he met the crimson eyes of the other.

Though he was tugging dangerously hard on a taut string, Kalim inhaled as he brought forth a shimmering smile, betraying the unspoken words in his eyes. “G-G—“ Kalim cleared his throat, swallowing the knot, “Good morning, Jamil! Are you on your way out? I could come with you, if you’d—“

“You’re a damn idiot if you think I want to spend even a second with you. Not that it’s any of your business, but I was waiting for someone.” Jamil clipped, crossing his arms.

“A... Ah, of course! Well, I could still stay with you as you wait for—“

“No. It’s clear they’re not coming. I should get out of here, before I waste anymore brain cells on a useless, incompetent child like you.” Jamil didn’t make eye contact as be pushed off the wall, pushing by Kalim without another word and wandering off into the labyrinth known as Scarabia.

Fists clenched tightly at his sides, Kalim stared blankly into the mirror, watching it swirl and sparkle with ethereal light as he resisted the urge to break down right then and there. He could feel as his legs quivered, on the edge of giving out as his breathing hitched, shallow and shaking.

Still, he followed the path set aside in his mind, almost missing a step as he practically fell into the portal, whisking away to the Mirror Hall.

Emerging on the otherside, he almost breathed a sigh of relief when no one was there to greet him but the dead silence of morning. Instead of bouncing off to class like he would’ve had he the stability to paint on a pretty smile like any other day, he made a sharp detour to a certain portal he never saw himself going into.

Stepping into it, he squared his shoulders, prepping himself with failing encouragements for the conversation that needed to succeed.

<————>

“Dorm head Vil. Pardon the intrusion, but you have a visitor.”

The blonde looked up from his vanity, pausing mid stroke and setting his mascara down. “Oh? Let them in, I’m not busy.” He shrugged, standing to his full height, enhanced by his heeled shoes.

“Of course,” the underclassman nodded, stepping out of the room to allow in said visitor.

Kalim felt weirdly out of place in the proper Pomefiore, despite having been raised in sumptuous royalty since birth, and setting foot into Vil’s positively sparkling room made him wince inaudibly with guilt. His bone slim fingers twitched with anxiety, a dark shade over his eyes as he stepped before the taller boy, only scarcely making visionary contact. “Good day to you, Vil,” he blandly greeted, grinding his teeth together in a smile that looked more like a grimace.

“...And to you, as well Kalim. Is there something you needed?” The white haired dorm leader shuddered, offering no explanation before pouring out the dialogue he’d rehearsed a hundred times in his head.

“Well, you see... I’d like to ask you if you could make me a poison. Something fast acting, and easily hidden, that doesn’t smell too horrible.”

Vil flinched, pupils dilated and mouth agape as the request spilled from Kalim’s lips. He... wanted a what? For who? Why? “E-Excuse me? Kalim, what are you thinking?” Vil near yelled, balling his fists at his sides.

“O-Oh uh...” Kalim scratched the back of his head, feigning an awkward look as he chuckled. “It’s for educational purposes. I’ve been cooking for myself lately, and knowing me, I’m likely to accidentally poison myself!” He laughed boisterously, perceived differently by both listeners. “So I figured you’d be the one to go to, right? Unless... maybe I should’ve tried doing it on my own...” His voice trailed off, Vil’s hand on his chin, debating within himself.

Kalim popped a sad smile that didn’t appear so outwardly as Vil returned the act, a smirk falling to his painted lips as he extended a hand towards the prince. “Very well. Of course, coming to me is obviously the smartest idea someone like you could’ve come up with, but sit down first. You look absolutely atrocious.” Vil scoffed, gesturing to the seat before his vanity.

Reluctantly taking a seat, Kalim felt the insult dig deeper beneath his skin than it should’ve, crushing his hands under his thighs as he obediently followed Vil’s instructions, lips pulled into a thin line.

With momentary strokes and too gentle touches, Kalim couldn’t help but think of Jamil, seeing his gold speckled coal black hair and stony grey eyes instead of Vil’s blonde and amethyst. He used to do this too, every morning, dragging a brush dipped in black over Kalim’s thick lashes, dabbing red onto the corners of his eyes, thumb and first finger gripping his chin and tilting his head when need be.

A cold stab to his heart snapped Kalim from his short lived memories, reminding him of his purpose for coming to Pomefiore. “All done. Now that you look presentable, please, follow me.” Vil clapped, stepping away from the fellow leader and clicking off. Scrambling after him, Kalim gripped the fabric of his sweater tightly, biting his lip.

They didn’t travel too far, Kalim following closely behind Vil as he unlocked his bathroom door. Arriving in the room, Kalim toed the polished white tile, the lights fixed into the ceiling seeming to spotlight him as opposed to the beauty guru who swooped low to open the cabinets under the sink.

Inside were a number of brightly colored liquids, some transparent as water, others dotted with plant shavings or objects Kalim didn’t want to recognize. “Fast acting... sweet smelling, easily hideable, is that correct?” Vil quizzed, the twinkling of glass clacking against glass filling Kalim’s ears.

“Exactly,” he nodded into the mirror, averting his gaze quickly.

Vil didn’t reply, merely smiling devilishly before bringing out a small cauldron and three different bottles. Apprehension pulled Kalim taut as he watched the taller begin to explain his process, acetic irony making him soundlessly sneer. From poisoned to poisoner.

“On most occasions, a poison of this sort wouldn’t be possible to make, seeing as you want it to be not only quick to show results, but also pleasant-smelling. But, since you are working with the best, I believe we can make it work.” Vil boasted, uncapping and pouring the first vial into the cauldron. “This one is for the rapid dissemination,” the second, “this one for scent,” the third, “and this one for dilution, to water down the color, though still deadly.”

Kalim watched in wonder as Vil stirred the liquid, eyes wide and trained on the poison. Though at the beginning, an arrant black that made him scrunch his nose in disgust, the more Vil continued to churn, the color began bubbling with splashes of transparency. By the end, it was water-clear, and almost overpoweringly reeked of florals.

“Ah, there we are,” Vil smiled, laying a delicate hand on his cheek. Once again swooping low, he retrieved an empty bottle, ever so carefully filling it with the solution and capping it. “I haven’t made any antidote for this particular poison, so it may be in your best interest for me to hold onto it presently.” Vil cautioned, placing the ewer just out of reach while Kalim’s eyes shadowed.

“A-Are you sure? You can trust me, I’ll be careful with it!” Kalim argued, smiling wide to prove his point.

“Hm, I’m not a fool. I feel it would be for your safety if it was in my care until I create an antidote.” Vil refuted, sternly said, toying with the intricately designed cap.

Kalim chewed his tongue, clenching and unclenching his fists as he formulated a plan. Beaming a smile to Vil that seemed so outwardly innocent, he bowed slightly, showing his appreciation. “I see. Thank you for your time anyways, Vil.” He lied through his teeth, rising from his bow and bouncing off.

He didn’t risk a glance behind him as he stepped out of the senior’s room, shutting the door gingerly behind him. Scanning the gorgeously decorated hallway, he identified objects that could be used to his advantage, closing his eyes as he snapped the steps of his newly formed plan together.

Tiptoeing over to a vase that rose slightly above his head on a marble pedestal, he yanked the flowers that sprouted from the top out, tossing them on the floor as regret rooted itself into his heart. He internally apologized for what he was about to do, knowing full well that no one would hear him.

Winding his arms around the pot, his knees buckled as he dropped the weight of it in his arms, the arms that could barely lift his body mass. The water inside sloshed around, jumping onto his face as he regained his footing, tilting the porcelain prize and leading a trail of water around the corner of the hall. Repositioning himself in the indigo drapery of the curtain closest to Vil’s room, he swallowed a deep breath, hurling the expensive decoration as far as he could, cringing as the sound of shattering filled the hallway.

He hid himself in the curtain just in time, as Vil’s door burst open, slamming against the wall as he stormed out, empty handed. “What in the— Rook! Rook, go chase down Epel! That little scamp destroyed another vase, and made some pretty little prank out of it too.” Vil barked, Kalim cowering behind the curtain as the older stomped off.

“Sorry, Epel-kun,” he whispered, before creeping out from the curtain and darting back into Vil’s room.

Snatching the vial from Vil’s bathroom countertop was surprisingly easy, Kalim tucking it into his pocket as he scampered out once again, heartbeat amuck. Sneaking along the walls, he beelined away from the mess he’d created, turning a blind eye to it as he pushed open a random door in the hope that it was some sort of exit.

Instead, he welcomed himself to the Pomefiore lounge, where a handful of boys were lined up before Vil and Rook, Epel amongst them, who all twisted to stare at the invader. “Kalim? What are you still doing here?” Vil badgered, arms crossed.

“U-Uh... you see...” Kalim ducked his head in fabricated humiliation. “...I got lost... I couldn’t find the exit.” He whined, a few of the students laughing as Vil sighed.

“Rook, please escort Kalim out. I need to have a word with you lot.” The leader threateningly smiled, the laughter immediately ceasing.

“Of course, Roi de Poison! Come now, Kalim, we shall leave these heathens to their due punishments!” Rook singsonged, spinning over to the white door where he stood.

Kalim looked over to Epel, who had his face scrunched in confusion and fear, an apology spelled in his gaze that the purple haired boy only caught at the last minute, Kalim vanishing behind the door as Rook pulled it shut.

“Oh, what a tragedy! The rowdy boys of our dorm destroyed a simply magnifique vase crafted of the finest quality! On top of that, they made a mess of the hall too...” Vil’s overly extra vice leader boohooed, the flowy feather of his hat bouncing in an imaginary wind.

“Really...? Why would they do that?” Kalim asked, as if he didn’t already know they answer.

“I wish I could say. I often wonder what goes on in those spoiled little brains of theirs.” Rook replied, falling into a solemn silence Kalim relished.

The early blue sky hadn’t before been such a treat to the Scarabia dorm head, the boy thanking Rook briefly for the guidance. “Of course! Do come again!” He laughed, waving briskly and waltzing back inside the rather stuffy building.

Sneaking a victoriously pitiful smile, Kalim pulled out the stolen toxin, only holding it to the sun as he stood before the mirror portal.

It wasn’t supposed to be so easy.

A tiny part of him had wished it hadn’t been.

<————>

The school day came and went in a blur of colors, voices, and assignments that flew right past Kalim’s head.

He wasn’t fully there when he agreed to walk with Azul, the Leech twins joining not to long after. Happy conversation tied between the threads of three complementary personalities weaved around Kalim, who remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange. He was too busy twirling the stolen poison in his pocket, and had been for the whole day, debating his very existence instead of interacting with his peers as he normally would.

The quiet wasn’t overlooked by the three, though Floyd was the one to finally put voice to the thought the Octavinelle trio shared. “Hey, Sea Otter~ is something wrong? What’s with the face?” He cooed, downturned eyes for once actually bearing a dollop of sadness.

“Hm...? Oh, um—“ Kalim shook his head, pulling a smile to his face that looked more dismal than welcoming, “—of course! I’m a little tired, is all! Y’know, Trein’s lessons can put anyone to sleep, even me!” Kalim laughed, mutual discomfort shared between the Leeches as Azul fixed his glasses.

“Kalim, would you like to accompany us back to Mostro Lounge?” Azul offered, having picked up on Kalim’s abnormal behavior. “We could always use someone like you to brighten up the atmosphere.”

“Yes, Azul is right. You know how to play the drums, correct? Why don’t you pair up with Floyd? You’ll put on a show that’ll attract dozens to the Lounge.” Jade smiled, eyes shut out of joy.

For a moment, Kalim thought about it, giving them the false hope that maybe, he’d agree. He felt remorse sink its claws into his brain, making him shake his head as the three strolled by the open courtyard, a flash of red, gold, and black making Kalim freeze as he identified the person behind the Scarabian shades. “A-Actually, I had plans already,” he fibbed, stepping back to put distance between himself and the trio, “I was going to meet Jamil in the courtyard. Sorry guys.” He bowed, shoving his hand back into his pocket to fiddle with the bottle.

Azul perked an eyebrow. “Jamil wanted to meet up? With you?”

“Uh, yep! Told me this morning!” Kalim smiled, trying to wave off the suspicion that the fellow second years exuded.

“Oh? I thought that you and Sea Snake had—“ Floyd began, but Kalim was already dancing away before he could continue.

“Sorry, don’t want to keep him waiting!” He shouted, coughing after he stepped outside. It wasn’t often he had the voice to be so loud anymore.

“Should we pursue this, Azul?” Jade asked calmly, Floyd’d signature careless grin upside down in a glower.

“...No. It’s Kalim, he’ll figure it out himself. It’s about time he learned how to do so.” He coldly decided, pushing his glasses up. “Come, we have business elsewhere.”

“Of course,” both Leeches replied, though Floyd couldn’t hide the somewhat concerned look he sent over his shoulder, before disappearing with his fellow Octavinelle members.

In the courtyard, Kalim looked around confused, having been so sure that he saw Jamil walking around from the hallway. “Surely, he didn’t leave... wouldn’t I have seen it if he did?” He puzzled, approaching the stone well located in the middle of the wide yard space. He briefly caught a glimpse of his striated reflection in the impossibly dark water at the bottom, hastily breaking the contact to look up.

Through the strings attached to the wood bucket, Kalim’s maroon irises set themselves beneath the apple tree, to the person who sat so daintily upon the black-rimmed bench. With his hair brushed over his shoulder, Jamil crossed his legs, immersed in a thick book that Kalim couldn’t quite make out thanks to the gap. Sprinkled in the choppy afternoon sunlight, he looked more like an ethereal angel than the traitorous student he was to Kalim, so deceivingly beautiful.

Exhilaration, and dare he say, a spark of hope, flared in him, a genuine smile splitting his face as he sashayed closer. Believing that he had the courage to mend the bridge that had been severed from both directions, he stopped a meter from the bench, attracting Jamil’s attention, who shot him a dirty look, tearing himself from his readings.

“What is it you want now, Kalim?” He spat, holding the book up.

“I... I saw you from the hallway and I...” It was as if he’d forgotten how to speak, words working against him.

“Congratulations for using your eyes, dimwit. If you’ve come to be nothing but a stuttering fool, see to it that you leave me alone.”

Kalim squeezed his lips shut, heeding Jamil’s advice as he awkwardly looked up, to the apples that grew plentifully from the strong tree overhead.

Courage slowly being whittled down to an embarrassing pit, Kalim forced himself to smile once more, pulling his hand from his pocket. Taking a seat beside Jamil, he gripped the edge of the bench, leaning over the side to peer at the cover, and, riskily enough, Jamil’s tranquil features.

They didn’t stay tranquil for long, as grey orbs met Kalim’s enchanted red ones, scowling as he noisily slammed his book shut. “What?” He seethed.

“Nothing, I just—“ he cut himself off, unwilling to live the lie any longer, “I miss you, alright? I miss—“

“No, don’t start. Screw this, I’m leaving.” Jamil growled, tucking his book under his arm and stomping away.

“Jamil! Jamil, wait...!” Kalim called. Panicked as the vice refused to listen, he hopped up, rushing over to him and pulling on his arm, book falling to ground in a flurry of aged pages. A thunderous boom exploded in the courtyard as it collided with the ground, Jamil whipping around, arm still locked in Kalim’s grip.

“Jamil, please! I’ve tried so hard to take care of myself, but I need you!” He confessed, tears brimming. “I need your—“

“Shut up!” Jamil yelled, making Kalim flinch as he tore his arm away. Turning the tables, he spun, shoving a finger into Kalim’s chest as he grew red from anger. “What you need is to grow up! Do you understand how much you’ve hindered my life, because you just “need me so much”?” He kept shoving his first finger into Kalim’s chest, making him stumble backwards. “I wasn’t able to have a normal childhood because of you! I had to hide who I was, because of you! And now you need me? You must be a goddamn idiot, even after all this time!” Jamil accused, Kalim staggering as he tripped over himself trying to back away.

He refused to let his tears fall, Jamil continuing with his rant as his back hit the apple tree, both of them speckled in the magical light, despite the argument. “It would’ve been better if no one came to save you whenever you were kidnapped!” Kalim choked a sob, meeting Jamil’s murky eyes as the taller seized the collar of his shirt, slamming him back into the trunk of the tree.

Kalim gasped as his head thwacked against the wood, Jamil so close he could feel his uneven breathing. “If only you’d never existed.” He whispered, shoving a hatred dipped dagger into Kalim’s heart as he dropped the boy, Kalim’s legs giving out as he fell to the ground, eyes glazed and distant.

Stomping away, Jamil grabbed his book and left the courtyard, steam practically pouring from his ears as red hot anger guided his feet as far from Kalim as possible.

Dropped unceremoniously on the grass, the silvery haired dorm leader slumped over, bleak and broken as he stared to nowhere at all, shoved over the dam that had both blocked his sugary tears, and kept him from drowning in the ocean of self hatred and doubt that now had full access to Kalim’s entirety.

Numbly, Kalim picked himself up, ambling towards the school corridors once more as his eyes dried, hand reaching back into his pocket and this time, pulling out the vial within.

The clear liquid swished around, seeming so harmless in its elegant bottle.

Kalim hoped with everything he had left in him that it would be quick.

<————>

The beat of his heart had never been so loud before.

Erratic and off timed, electric volts shot throughout his hands, every pulse of blood throbbing in the tips of his toes, the center of his chest, the thin muscles of his legs. A formless noose of cold anticipation wound itself tighter around his throat, strangling the words that longed to be said from a voice that wouldn’t again speak. Tears pooled in his deep red eyes, though Kalim couldn’t fathom why, since he waited all this time just for the moment of peace that wouldn’t remain so peaceful.

Lying with his back against the end of his bed, Kalim rested his head on the firm wood, clenching the small bottle of poison Vil had specially created that morning in one fist, his journal in the other. Tilting his head to look at the moon, always a perfect circle, and always smiling down at him despite the action he was so close to making. He was tempted to smile back, but uncapping the bottle and smelling the rosy scent that wafted from it, he was reminded why it was he couldn’t.

Dropping the book inked with the thoughts he’d neither shared nor broke free from, he watched as it fell, slamming on the floor loudly and torn between pale light and shadows. Inside, a letter was tucked in the smudged pages, the last note that would be written in his swirly handwriting. He prayed that Jamil would take the time to read it, but he didn’t want to hold his breath.

Lifting the graceful vial to his lips, he felt his tears drip down his supple cheeks, for what seemed like the first time, fear dripped into his soul.

He was scared. What would be waiting for him after...? Would this really fix his wrongs? Would it... make up for what he did to Jamil?

“No,” he thought gently, pressing the glass to the plush flesh of his lips, “it’s not for you. It’s for everyone else.”

Hungry for a distraction, he looked to his door, locked for safe measures, keeping any prying intruders away. He didn’t want anyone to stop him. He needed to this, needed to make up for the years of pain he’d brought to those around him. Though, he did regret not getting a second chance to apologize to Jamil, the scuffle from before helping him realize that Jamil truly didn’t want anything to do with him. He deserved this. He earned it.

Finally, setting his dulled gaze on the moon once more, he leaned the glass up, pouring the liquid into his mouth and swallowing it in a single gulp.

It was excruciatingly bitter, burning trails down his throat as he gagged, dropping the vial as his hands squeezed his neck. The feeling didn’t stop no matter how tightly he wound his fingers around the skin, the bubbly fire spreading throughout his chest and dripping into his stomach, iron-tasting blood seeping out through his parted lips.

His vision swam with black, his body betraying him as he lost the fight in him, leaning back on the end of his bed, sitting with his legs stretched out on the floor and hands numbly dropped into his lap. It no longer felt painful as he struggled to keep his eyes open, the midnight-dark blood dribbling over his chin to settle on his clothes.

He had time for only one last thought, jumbled and lost to the winds of his mind, never to be voiced.

“I... I’m sorry... for every breath I took. I’m envious Jamil, that you had the strength to carry on for so long... Me? I couldn’t last half a year in your shoes... I’m not a fighter... I’m not even strong enough to look you in the eye. I hope—I hope this did something for you... I hope this... brings an end to your suffering.”

For a moment, he saw his life flash before his eyes. The games he used the play when he was little, the laughter he used to share with his siblings, the friends he made, the fight that cost him his best friend... they all seemed to burn away as he stared at the moon, ever the lively spirit.

But, just like a candle whose fire was blown out, he snapped, going limp in the paleness of his room.

Sat on the floor, leaning against his bed, Kalim Al-Asim took his last breath, light finally snuffed out for good.

<————>

Clomping down the corridors of Scarabia, Jamil pulled his hood over his silky braided hair, something indescribable cracking in his chest.

He hadn’t seen Kalim at dinner that evening, off putting Jamil’s behavior as he pondered over the reason behind the change. Ever since Kalim announced them as “equals,” Jamil had been rather lax with his servant duties, cooking only for himself instead of for the prince, refusing to wake him in the morning, and so on. But tonight... tonight was the first night he noticed Kalim’s absence in the mess hall.

Asking around had revealed that the white haired dorm leader had been skipping the meal for quite some time, furthering Jamil’s confusion as he followed his planned track to Kalim’s room. How long hadn’t he been eating? Was he really that afraid to ask someone else for help? The idiot.

Jamil gritted his teeth. The absence hadn’t been the only reason he was so adamant on checking Kalim.

He wanted to—and damn him for saying it— he wanted to apologize. Ever since that afternoon, when he laid hands on Kalim, he felt strange, almost guilty. Maybe it was true that Kalim was overly clingly and immature, but it wasn’t his place to hurt him the way he did. Not only that, but...

Jamil furrowed his eyebrows, glaring at nothing in particular as he tried to assemble a puzzle that was missing far too many pieces. The gnawing in his stomach continued as he trudged down the hall, bringing a fist to his cheek as he nibbled on his lower lip.

Kalim had been so... thin. Like all the muscle on his body had just melted off, leaving skin and bones as replacement. Before the overblot, Kalim had been almost neck-and-neck with Jamil when it came to physique, always healthily svelte, while the dark haired servant became more toned thanks to the dirty work he often found himself in. But now—now Jamil could only describe Kalim as frail, dangerously near skeletal.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jamil tried and failed to remember how easy it had been to slam Kalim into the wall, to pin him using barely an ounce of his strength. The usually cheery boy’s helpless face flashed in the darkness, stained with tear tracks and shock as Jamil walked off, not even a glance over his shoulder to accompany him.

How long had it been since Kalim properly took care of himself?

“Doesn’t matter,” Jamil clucked quietly, reopening his eyes to see that the end of the hall, and the door leading to the grand bedroom, was closely approaching, “I’ll just get him to tell me. He’ll be back to the old Kalim in no time. Idiots never change, after all.” He quipped, though the tremor in his voice sounded more like a timid reassurance than a witty remark.

Stopping a few inches from the door, Jamil bit his tongue, debating what he was trying to say as he pulled his hood down. Cautiously bringing his hand to the door, he faltered for a split second, as if in fear the wood would reach out and bite him. Three quick short knocks bounced off the hall walls, magnified in Jamil’s ears as he was met with silence. “Kalim, it’s Jamil. Can I—I come in?” He stuttured, surprising himself.

When, yet again, late night quiet was his response, he felt the need to double over, uneasiness eating his gut. Knocking again, Jamil placed his ear on the door, listening for the rustle of clothing, or the scuff of shoes on stone. “Kalim?” He tried, hand slithering down to the brass knob. “Kalim, answer me or I’m coming in.”

Still nothing.

Dread coiling in his core, his arms stiffened as he turned the handle, finding it firmly held in place. Frantically jiggling it, he used a shoulder to push at the wood, feeling it give way ever so slightly. “Last warning, or I’m busting in, Kalim. Open the door.” He deadpanned, taking a step back.

The third round of the silent treatment sent Jamil over the edge, the vice shaking out his hands before balling them, running shoulder first into the door. It swelled, before dropping back in the same place, Jamil repeating the process over and over until his shoulder was decorated in a blossoming bruise and there was a hole just big enough for him to weasel his hands through.

Wincing at the sting in his skin, Jamil pushed his hand through the cracked wooden hole, maneuvering his arm so that he could reach the lock from the handle. Twisting it, a satisfying click rendered the door openable, Jamil yanking his scratched arm from the door panel.

“Alright, Kalim, was that necessary? I understand that I—!” Jamil froze as he swung the door open, letting a swath of light from the hall slip into the dorm leader’s exquisite room.

His heart skipped a beat as his blood chilled, eyes stretching impossibly wide while the air fueling his lungs seemed to be syphoned out of him.

There, just barely discernible from the dark, Kalim sat motionlessly. His eyes were sealed with his thick lashes, mouth parted as blood dribbled down to the neck of his clothes. He lie still, propped up by the bedside, a transparent purple vial close by, glinting in the light.

One moment... two moments... three, until Jamil shrieked out Kalim’s name, throwing the door completely open and rushing inside.

Sliding and dropping to his knees before the body, Jamil softly lifting him into his embrace as he called for anyone to come help, to come save what had clearly been lost.

“Kalim... Kalim, wake up...! I know you’re stronger than this! Get up, move, do something! Please, please wake up...!” Jamil cried, brushing the hair away from his forehead. “I-I’m sorry I pushed you earlier... I’m sorry I l-left you alone for so long. I... I didn’t mean what I said, you know I didn’t! I’m sorry, I’m sorry but please, just open your eyes... laugh one more time. Smile...? Anything... just... wake up...”

Nothing. Kalim was cold, and not a single breath heaved from his bony chest.

“Somebody help me!” The plea was cracked, echoeing about as Jamil suppressed tears, tears that shouldn’t even exist.

He asked for this. Every damn night, he asked for this. He wished with every part of what he was for Kalim to be kidnapped, for him to shunned, for him to rot in a ditch. He hated Kalim—no, he despised him.

So why the hell did it hurt so much?

Why did every look at his pale face stab his heart in a way watching an abused puppy limp did? Why did he care that Kalim was feather light, that it felt as if he was holding a pile of bones rather than a person? Why were there tears dripping from his hatred powered eyes?

Trembling with the force of fear, disbelief, and stigma, Jamil’s ears didn’t recognize the orchestra of shouts and gasps that rang out behind him as Scarabia students acted upon his words, calling for teachers and help alike. He didn’t realize just how many tears slid from his face to Kalim’s bloodied clothes, soaking the fabric. He could only stare numbly at Kalim’s once so buoyant features, at the eyes that would never again light up with joy whenever Jamil entered the room. At the cheeks that would never again heat up in a blush that was the product of his profuse smiling. At the lips that would never, ever utter a single syllable, or pull into a grin that made even the sun look like a busted light bulb.

Moreso than that... Jamil heaved breathy sobs at the discoveries he made hidden all over Kalim’s body. His arms, mutilated with self inflicted wounds that never properly healed. His torso, tenuous and more bone than skin. He wouldn’t let himself go any further, already shaken to the core by the sick scavenger hunt.

The tears felt hollow and empty, painfully slow in their race to his jaw, grip crushing on Kalim’s shoulders.

He fought with a vigor that put three boys in the infirmary when help finally arrived, Kalim being wrestled away from his protective grasp and off to who knows where. He didn’t settle down until Kalim was carried off somewhere, far outside of Jamil’s view, and was left with the worthless consolation from people he didn’t care to see.

The only thing that ran through his head was the fact that he’d been the cause of this. That he was the one who pushed Kalim too far. That it should’ve been him to die instead.

Hours later, Jamil slept in Kalim’s now unoccupied room, stumbling upon a certain bound journal that just begged to be explored.

<————>

Why was it that the saddest moments always happened on sunny days? Was it the sun laughing at the earth’s struggles? Was it nature’s way of trying to ease the pain?

Jamil had no response for his questions, dressed in his formal wear as he stared somberly down at the glass casket, the temporary bed for Kalim’s lifeless body. Today would be the last day he ever saw him, as in less than an hour, Kalim’s family would be arriving to take their brother, their cousin, their son, home.

“Hey Kalim...” Jamil muttered, kneeling before the casket. “I, uh... I wanted to say goodbye, one last time. You’ll be with your family now, they’re taking you back to the Land of Hot Sands, where you’ll get a proper burial.” He said, studying Kalim’s blissfully expressionless face.

It was so strange, seeing him so calm. It looked like he was sleeping, like he could wake at any moment and pull Jamil into a hug that he would reciprocate with all of his strength, had he the opportunity.

“It’s not fair...” He whispered as a ray of light painted over Kalim, making his white tuxedo almost blinding. “Even in the afterlife, everything about you is so... so happy. Not a cloud in the sky, the sun shining on the horizon, it seems fitting. You were always... the sun to my moon.” Jamil admitted, a realization striking him like a lightning bolt.

“Oh, I um... I read this last night,” Jamil held up the black journal he’d found in Kalim’s room, “Kalim, why did you keep yourself hidden like that? You didn’t have to—you know you didn’t have to! You shouldn’t have done this to yourself, because of me. You should’ve... should’ve...”

Should’ve what? It wasn’t Kalim’s fault he felt that way... it was his. Jamil knew that.

“I know it’s a little—no, very, very late, but I... I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Those words don’t mean anything now that you can’t even hear me, but I need to say them. I need you to know that I’m sorry...!” He felt his eyes damped, and using the back of his hand, he wiped away the water that hadn’t even spilled yet. “Kalim, you were right, okay?! You were right! You may have needed me, but I needed you more! You gave me my freedom, even after I threw you to your death! I had so much pent up anger, I didn’t... didn’t know what to do with it!”

The dawning of the truth set Jamil’s waterworks into action, a pretty blush darkening his cheeks as his shattered weeping rose into the air. This was it. Kalim would never smile, laugh, speak again. Never. He wouldn’t ride a magic carpet, or sit on the balcony of the lounge, or even take another breath.

He was gone.

Undeniably, irrevocably, gone.

Sniffling, Jamil placed the journal in Kalim’s hands, having written his own letter inside. “I figured, your family deserved to see your last words. And my apology. There’s not much left for me to say... but thank you. You were never in the wrong, it was me. Thank you, for being so forgiving, even in my darkest hours. Thank you, for staying by my side. Thank you, Kalim, for being the brother I didn’t realize I needed.”

Standing, Jamil leaned over Kalim, the one he took for granted. Sliding his hand over his eyelids, he bent down, pressing a kiss to his forehead, the way he did when they were little. “Goodbye.” He breathed, before parting ways, beads of saltwater still trickling down as he trekked off, fists balled tightly at his sides.

<————>

Dear Kalim,

I’ve had little time to ponder over your passing. Over the very certitude that you’re not here anymore. But in that little time, I’ve arrived at a single conclusion, that can’t begin to express my emotions.

I said I hated you. I said I wished you’d never existed. I said I wanted you out of my life. And, I used to mean those words. I used to believe that if you one day disappeared, everything wrong with me would suddenly right itself, that you were the source of my suffering.

But... only now, when you’ve really departed, do I see that I was so incurably mistaken.

I was the cause of your pain, as once upon a time, I thought you to be mine. I’m the fool, for having ignored you for so long. I’m the fool, for pushing you beyond your limits. I’m the fool, for pretending to hate you, even as I myself, was at the mercy of your charms.

When we were young, I treasured you like family. We fought like siblings do, we laughed as brothers, we grew as a pair. It’s impossible to set a specific date, but somewhere along the way, something changed. Suddenly, you were no longer my brother. Suddenly, you were my rival, my enemy that I could never escape.

I know the penmanship of my woes could never bring you back, I am painfully aware of that. I am beside myself that it took your death for me to grasp that the reason I never left your side was because I didn’t hate you.

I never left you, because I was afraid.

I was afraid that you’d lose the need for me. I was afraid that you’d leave me behind. Moreover, I was terrified of losing you, like I have now.

That smile of yours, the one that never ends, and never fails to bring laughter to even the coldest of hearts, that was what I wanted to preserve. That was what I wanted you to keep, if nothing else.

I’m truly sorry, sorry beyond what words can say.

I pray that one day, you’ll smile again. It’s far too late for me now, but I want you to know that you were my best friend, Kalim Al-Asim.

You were what I strived to be.

I just wished I had the gall to admit it sooner.

Written truthfully,

Jamil Viper

Yet another request finished! Thank you @etervenislucifen for the ask!

I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!

Stay lovely!!

[slothgiirl]

gonna put you off (alex turner oneshot)

alex turner/age difference!reader oneshot in which you are visiting your boyfriend in london from the midlands

You take the last train of the night down to london. Traces of stage makeup still clinging to your skin as you collapse into the seat, a few days clothes tucked into a duffle bag with the tackiest floral print you'd though was chic when you'd seen it at a thrift shop, but had been on many flights with you since, sticking out among a sea of black and navy. As the clock strikes eleven, feeling very much like cinderella as you wipe the remains of the makeup away, the train whizzes past dark countryside, too dark to make out anything. 

In two hours you'd be in London. In two hours you'd be with Alex again. You're still wearing a leotard under your many layers of leggings and sweatpants topped with a turtleneck, flannel, and jacket--in that order. Not remotely like the fashionable girl you'd felt having been dressed by Simone Rocha. It helped that you'd been dressed. 

After years in ballet, most of your wardrobe consisted of warm and practical cotton clothes to shepard you to and from rehearsal. You couldn't give a damn about what you were wearing when you were waking up before sunrise. You'd much rather be warm and not pull a muscle thank you very much. At some point, somewhere in the midlands, you fall asleep. Exhausted to the bone from a weeks worth of shows and only three days to recover. Though you'd probably fit in a few hours of practice during your stay with Alex. 

The announcement for King's Cross wakes you up, a crick in your neck from napping while sitting. You scramble to stuff your headphones into your pocket and grab your bag as you hurry to get off. It's past one in the morning. There's no crowds for you to push through in order to depart, but the sleep-full grogginess gives way to electric anticipation. You have to force yourself not to run off the train. Because Alex. 

You'd seen him just last week. 

He was coming up to Birmingham this week. 

But it didn't matter. You couldn't deny the giddy happiness that you get at the thought of your boyfriend. It was so different from the calm resolve that made you dance for ten hours. Or the serene delight when you twirled about on stage, the heat of the lights blinding you to the audience leaving only room for perfection, one step at a time. 

Just as the train is mostly empty. So it the platform. 

So is the station. 

It's easy to spot Alex, in dark jeans and an equally dark leather jacket, a bouquet of roses in his arms. 

You suck in a breathe, consciously having to stop yourself from speed walking as a smile breaks out on your lips. This is a perfect day in your eyes. "Alex," you tell him, still a couple of steps away. 

His gaze mets yours, the grin on his well formed mouth complimenting yours, as Alex wraps his arms around you and wow is the station freezing. You hug him right back, not caring that you're in public when you reach up to cup his cheek, pressing your lips to his, savoring the taste of him in your mouth. 

" 'ello love," he whispers against your lips. "I take it you had a good show?"

"It was great," you admitt, hands around his neck as you lean back and drink the sight of Alex in. Unlike you, he definitely got enough sleep last night. You've probably been awake for sixteen hours at this point. "but I won't lie. I'm looking forward to these three days off."

Alex laughs. "I brought you flowers," he notes with too much casualty as pink sneaks its way into his cheeks. But he doesn't make to pull away, and the flowers are much forgotten in his grip as you gaze into each others eyes. 

"Thank you," you reply, the happiness bubbling up into your voice. 

"Do ya wanna get outta here," he asks, smile shifting into as smirk as his dark eyes full of the nights promise meet yours. 

"Yes please," you demure, unable to help yourself and add, "I need more tubs of tiger balm than you use of gel right about now."

Alex takes your bag, letting you carry the bouquet as you both get a cab to his flat. His hand never leaving yours. 

** *

Your ballet friend's older cousin, who'd bought alcohol for you both when you were still in high school and incredibly sleep deprived trying to juggle school and dance, works for some company that does PR for a couple of fashion brands. You're not really sure about all the connections, but when she hears you're moving to England--England not London-- she sends you a dm. 

Want to go to fashion week. 

You think Julia might have told her about your plans for after ballet, because as much as yo loved dancing and it was your career right now, like with most sports, it wasn't a long career. But again, you're not sure and seeing as she offered and you don't know anyone else in the entire country, you reply yes. Twenty isn't that young of an age to leave home at. There's lots of ballet stories about young kids leaving at 11 or 13. It isn't any less daunting to leave everyone you know behind. But Birmingham meant a job contract, a steady job. A rarity in dance. 

So you somehow find yourself sitting third row at Simone Rocha, filling in the seats behind celebrities and Anna Wintour. It's like something out of a dream. You wear a dress from the last collection that's worth more than your paycheck and try not to spill anything on it as you get invited by the man sitting next to you, Pierre with three dangly earrings in one ear, skin as rich as creme brulee's crust.

He takes one look at you and says, "new?"

You laugh, caught like a fish out of water, "yeah. I'm still not sure how they even let me in."

"Because you're a size 0," he jokes, which isn't true but you have that toned look that makes you appear slim, exchanging instagram's before the show, then taking you out for a night on the town like you're the latest it bag. It's nice. And easy. You drink beer, and make faces, trying not to think about how awful you'll feel in the morning. You meet writers and buyers, head spinning as you network between drinks and house music, feeling wobbly in heels the way you never would in pointe shoes. Pierre takes you out on the dance floor, where models tower over you. 

Photographs don't do them justice. But instead of feeling insecure the way all those carefully edited selfies do, you just appreciate the edge they each have. The perfect girl next door, all heart shaped face. The perfect cold scandinavian poise, every feature perfectly complimenting each other and poreless HD skin that no amount of makeup could hope to achieve. Like you, having put years into making dancing on pointe seem effortless and painless, they've just perfected their natural beauty. 

And being five one means you have no hopes of being a model. 

Pierre grins shamelessly after making eyes with some photographer in a sequined blazer in some Bahaman themed club, over his latest cocktail, "do hit me up," before disappearing into the crowd. 

You snort into your drink, trying not to feel out of depth. 

In three days you'll be back to your usual routine, settled in at a new studio. Seattle had been home for so long, had been where you first wore pointe shoes and learned to bang the sound out of the wood, smacking each pair of shoes as you all groaned about the piles of homework waiting for you at home.  

You should go. 

Another man slides into the space Pierre had left behind. He's handsome in a classically english way, hair quiffed like some 50s greaser or maybe you'd just thought the 50s were exactly how Grease depicted them. Either way, hot. Unlike most people out and about in during fashion week, his outfit isn't outrageous, trying to attract street style photographers, or a fit for the gram. 

But there's still something sharp about his well fitted blazer and carmine dress shirt,  confidently wearing sunglasses indoors. 

He catches you looking, and without missing a beat, you lie, "sorry my friend ran off with some guy and I was waiting to see if I'd been ditched or not."

You play it off, trying to sound cool and not like you are completely lost and contemplating going home before one in the morning like a loser. You'd already missed out on house parties to the nutcracker and swan lake. You weren't about to let this night go to waste just because you didn't know anyone. 

He smiles, taking a drink from his whiskey, the line of his shoulders relaxing. 

Maybe he thought you were some fangirl. 

There were plenty of famous people here who probably wanted to avoid being hounded while they were just trying to party. 

"Do ya want another drink," he asks, nodding at your empty glass. 

"Sure," you reply lamely. It's not so surprising when he leads you of the club, your hand in his. "So its your fist day in london," Alex parrots, glancing back at you, just to make sure. 

"Yeah," you nod, grinning like an idiot and it wasn't just the alcohol in your bloodstream. Alex's smile could make any girl weak in the knees, you were sure of it. Plus that swagger. You finally understood the meaning of swagger. "Got of plane a couple of hours ago. haven't even seen Buckingham palace."

"No," he shakes his head. 

"I'm serious. I had to head straight to Rocha and get my outfit and makeup done. First time getting my makeup done actually. Found out I've been doing my foundation wrong for years," you ramble on, internally wincing. No one wanted to hear about foundation especially not men you'd only met an hour ago. And Alex was definitely a man, not like the boys you'd gone to high school with and laughed when your health teacher went over a diagram of a vagina. "so no, I haven't seen any london-y things."

"Well we can't have that," Alex utters, flagging a cab down habitually, somehow lighting a cigarette at the same time. 

"To Buckingham Palace through Piccadilly Circus," he tells the cab driver as you both slid in. "Traffic'll be hell though."

"The company's not bad," you comment, watching as his eyes crinkle up from laughter. It softens the line of his face, revealing the baby face beneath the pomade and gel. 

"So what brings you to london," he asks. 

"Work," you admit, your gaze leaving Alex for the first time since you'd laid eyes on him as you watch the city go by. It's a slow crawl as you hit the center of London, views you recall from movies, "Birmingham National Ballet offered me a contract.  I'd be stupid not to have said yes. So I'm just in London for a few days."

"In a very nice dress," Alex says, voice thick in a way that has blood pooling in the pit of your stomach. 

"In a very expensive dress," you add, "that I made sure to take lots of selfies in earlier before I have to return it tomorrow. 

"So ya dance for the posh people."

"Yes," you groan, "and no one thinks it's a real job. Or sport!"

Alex chuckles, smirking, "I've watched Black Swan. I know it's fookin' hard." "2009 was a very good year for ballet." Granted you were too young for anything other than the child parts in The Nutcracker, but still. "What about you?"

He's about to reply, the lights of Piccadilly Circus, still full of life at one in the morning, filling your eyes, when the cabbie interrupts. 

"He's in the arctic monkeys," the cabbie says, taking his eyes off the road. You peel your gaze off the window and turn back to Alex, and his admittedly expensive attire, "Oh so you're actually famous famous?"

He looks down bashfully, nothing like the confident greaser air he put on, "ya could say 'that." 

"Would I have heard-"

"One of our songs," Alex continues, "probably. Me mate says we're properly overplayed now."

"Well you're no One Direction," you counter, teasingly. 

You spend the rest of the night making out in front of Buckingham Palace's fountain, before you invite Alex back to yours. 

** *

Alex laughs as you peel off another layer, laying on his bed, only to uncover another moth eaten sweater. It was annoying when all you wanted was Alex's hips against yours. "Patience love," he manages, but you can hear the want in his voice. 

"Don't be an ass," you counter, "or I'll suddenly remember how tired I am." In response, his lips meet yours, shoving back any intention of sleep away as your skin burns with want, his tongue exploring your mouth, hands abandoning any pretense in favor of shoving your sweatpants down.

"Of course there's leggings," he half groans, half moans against your lips, breathlessly. 

You giggle, pulling your shirt off, "wait until we get to the leotard."

"Can't they have those buttons babies onesies have," Alex mutters, tugging off his shirt. 

"Would be awfully convenient," you admit. There was no sexy way to take a leotard off, but apparently no one had told Alex that, because his hands are helping you tug the leotard down your thighs, fingers leaving burning trails on your skin as he goes, sucking kisses down your neck. 

You moan, closing your eyes in bliss. 

" 'm genuinely surprised your not wearing of these things," he mutters against the crook of your neck. 

"Oh take your jeans off already for fucks sake," you retort, trying to act like your voice isn't all choked up. 

Alex chuckles, but does as you ask, his dark gaze meeting yours as he unbuttons his jeans painfully slow, sitting up between your thighs. It's hot and all, but you are horny. You're twenty, and so turned on, having lost your shoes in the hall. A coat in the living room. 

You reach for him, your hands deliberately brushing against his cock, before helping him tug them down his hips. 

"I'm flattered," Alex teases, voice hoarse. 

"Oh," you counter, when you finally get him out of his boxers, "I see, you think this is about you," you tell him, cupping his jaw as he presses down against you, his hips meeting yours, his fingers brushing against your core. And then you aren't thinking very clearly at all, pleasure taking over as Alex's nimble fingers elicit the most debauched moans out of your lips. 

Callused fingers slid into you as he nips at the skin of your collarbone, knowing exactly where the rub to make you see stars. Yours hands wrapped around his neck, keeping him close, wanting him and only him. And- "There. there there," you manage, aware of how wet you were, toes curling. 

His other hand digs into your hipbone, as you writhe beneath him. 

You whimper at the loss of his touch. At the loss of his fingers curling so deliciously inside you. 

You can feel how hard his cock is, on the inside of your thigh, wet with precum and your breath hitches when he enters you, Alex pressing his lips hard against yours, kissing you with all the passion and lust you'd both laughed around earlier, like it would take the sting of separation away, hand still wet with you as he twists his fingers in your hair.  

He's anything but patient as he trusts into you now, his body meeting yours. Your legs wrapping around his waist, that little extra in the angle as he thrusts into you, has you whimpering into his mouth. Your eyes flutter shut as you hold him near, his pace relentless. 

So. 

Worth. 

Taking. 

The. 

Midnight.  

Train. 

"come for me, love," Alex manages, voice cracking, lips bruising your own. The reunited with your long lost lover bruising kiss that you'd thought only existed in movies. 

You come with a shudder, exhausted, satisfied, in that afterglow, stars dancing across the back of your eyelids as you lean back limply into the bed. Alex coming seconds after, collapsing onto the other sider of the bed, spent. You don't care about anything after that. 

Having been awake for eighteen hours. 

A good fucking day. 

** *

You wake up to thirty six missed messages. Mostly from Pierre and Vivian, your fellow corps ballerina you'd told you where all the cheap AND good bars were in Birmingham were. 

They're all along the same lines. 

Links to articles like, "Black Swan for Arctic Monkeys Lead Man." Which okay, was a great movie. "Alex Turner New Flame Confirmed." Again, true. "Teenage Love for Arctic Monkeys Singer!" Which was fucking gross clickbait. You were twenty. Had been for months even if sometimes you felt much younger than that, like when you realized you had to buy pots and pans, they didn't just magically appear. 

And, "New Arctic Monkeys Album? Alex Turner All Loved Up." 

You rolled your eyes. 

For once you were up after sunrise. And after Alex which wasn't surprising. He rarely woke up before noon if it could be helped. 

You reply to Pierre, "officially a sugar baby now lmao [eye roll emoji]." 

And just heart some of the links Vivian sent you. You'd be seeing her soon enough. 

Nine years. Alex was nine years older than you, but it wasn't really something you thought about of ever really talked about. He was just Alex, your boyfriend, once he'd gotten back from tour and had spent more than three days all cooped up in your hotel room bed having the best three days of your life. It wasn't that big of a deal. Just something you hadn't specifically mentioned to your parents during your weekly facebook messenger video call. They would worry. Your mom would go on a rant. Your dad would definitely bring up how you should've gone to college before pursuing ballet and how this was supposed to have helped you get into a university not be a career.

And you'd have to keep them from taking a flight to the UK. 

Besides, your parents knew how to google people. They weren't dumb. Just worried about you living so far in general. 

Even you hadn't ever really thought about, it hadn't crossed your mind, to date someone so much older than you. Alex had a house. He had an established career. 

You couldn't even legally drink in the states. 

But after the initial shock of the band and his age, you'd fallen into easy conversation, ordering room service, Alex's lips at the apex of your thighs while waiting for a full english breakfast because you just had to see what that was about, and it had slid from the forefront of your thoughts. 

Now the tabloids had of course, decided to be an ass about it. 

You got up and slipped into the shower. The water steaming as you quickly got ride of last nights seat before heading downstairs, interested in what Alex had scrounged up for breakfast this time. 

Last time you were here, it'd been frozen waffles, an avocado, and margaritas. Alex is frying eggs as you take a seat on a barstool, watching him cook. You hated frying eggs. You could never get them to not stick to the pan.

"Matthew," Alex tells you as he plates the eggs along with toast and slices of tomatoes, "sent me a load of articles. 'fink they know who you are."

"Had to happen eventually," you respond, watching as a line forms between his brows. Maybe you should talk about the elephant of the room. Just because something didn't bother you didn't mean it wasn't bothering him. Though the whole famous thing in general annoyed him. "Pierre sent me some too. Though he works for some fashion website so he always sends me a bunch of things to read."

He'd also heavily hinted that should you ever decide to try being an influencer he'd love to get you in touch with small fashion brands. 

The man loved his Laquan Smith. 

Alex frowns as he takes a seat next to you. A set up you personally hated and never failed to bring up at least once while staying at his flat. How could you hold a conversation like this! face to face was the way to go. 

Trying to lighten the mood you joke, "I've been twenty since July."

He doesn't smile. Or reach for his food. Alex had the bad habit of just sitting, following his train of thought, as he lapsed into silence. And his thoughts didn't always lead anywhere good. 

If you thought that hard, you'd probably be depressed. It was a good thing you generally were too busy remembering counts and steps to think, and got home to tired to do much other than sleep.

"Alex, baby," you tell him, "who gives a shit what they think." 

"Ya ever 'fink," he says instead of shrugging it off, "about how when I was twenty ya were 11?"

"No," you answer plainly. It had crossed your mind once but-"Well I thought about it once," you tell him honestly, putting down you fork, "but what's the use thinking about it? I didn't know you then. It's not like your some family friend that knew me when I was five. That's fucked up."

Alex snorts, his eyes meeting yours. For once his hair isn't full of gel. Strands falling into his doe eyes. "Ya know what I'm trying to say...your-I'm. Nine is. . .I grew up with the strokes ya grew up with One Direction."

You reach for his hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, warmth spreading in your hearth when he squeezes your hand. "Nine is not a small gap. Or a huge one. It's not like your some fifty year old man dating a woman young enough to be his daughter."

This time he really does laugh. " 's true love but. . .don't ya want someone. . .I'm-I don't want you to miss out on doing what twenty year olds do."

You roll your eyes. "Alex you're also twenty not some grandfather. I'm not missing out on anything. It's not like we don't go out. And more importantly I want to be with you. Now let me eat my eggs before they get cold and rubbery."

"It's just. . .ya. . .," he turns his whole body so he's looking at you, even as you dig into your breakfast because you just knew if you kept talking about this Alex would just keep going in circles and your much rather eat and then fuck your boyfriend on the couch before wandering around london. Or curling up to watch telly. "ya sure-"

"Alex," you meet his gaze head on, "nine years isn't nothing, but it only really matters if you were rushing to have kids and get married or in some different stage of life which you're not. Fuck the tabloids. When have they ever been your friends."

Alex runs a hand through his hair thoughtfully and you finally start eating. Which okay, your boyfriend could fry an egg.  It was much better than the oatmeal you'd had for the past few days because you hadn't stopped by a store even though you lived a block from one. 

"I really love ya," Alex mutters softly. 

Out of natural instinct, you reply, while smashing some egg onto a slice of toast, "I love you too."

Then realize what he'd just said. What you'd just said, and look over at him all bug eyed. It was the first time you'd ever told a boy than. And it sent the same little thrill through you as kissing him in front of Buckingham Palace had. 

"Alex, I love you," you repeat just because you can, smiling softly over at him.  

"I haven't put ya off yet love?" Alex asks, smiling sappily over at you. 

"Never." You smile in response. 

[cuculine-nelipot]

POSTSCRIPT: IN THE AFTERGLOW

{a little Lambskel-centric companion piece I wrote to @stfustucky‘s Custom Made, set directly after chapter 15. ao3}

Geralt’s door closed with a gentle thud; he and Jaskier were settled for the night, and that in turn settled something inside Eskel. Just one more idiot brother to take care of. Not that Eskel wouldn’t be absolutely lying if he said that his motives in making his way back to Lambert's room were purely altruistic.

It had been a uniquely busy day, and they were all as a result, uniquely exhausted. But still Eskel felt an… itch. Just beneath the surface of his skin. It had been there for hours now, but he had dutifully ignored it in the face of Jaskier’s much more urgent needs. With that done however, his own desires burned to make themselves known, demanding satisfaction.

The prospect of more skin contact should have made him sick — and it did. The thought of touching Jaskier anymore, or Geralt, or hell anyone for that matter, made his skin crawl. He chafed everywhere. Oil, sweat, spit, and an unfathomable amount of seed stuck to his skin, drying in matted clumps on his chest and stomach and groin. The smell clung to his nose, thick and cloying.  It was nauseating, to be quite honest, and the smell of stale fuck only got stronger the closer he got to Lambert’s room.

But under it all there was that intoxicating blend of apple, cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, sparkles (if that was thing that had a smell,) citrus — Baby Wolf. Lambert who — save for a scant few incidental brushes as they traded off getting Jaskier off — he hadn’t gotten to touch properly all day. And that just wouldn’t do now, would it?

“C’mon you filthy bastard, let’s get you cleaned up.” He sauntered into the room to find the youngest wolf splayed on his bed like a sacrificial — well not virgin, but you get the idea.  He hadn’t even bothered getting under the sheets which, considering his long-standing and well documented (groused about) hatred of the cold, was truly a testament to how spent he was. Seeing him so wrecked — all loose limbs and tousled hair, his face slack, skin still faintly flushed, Eskel almost felt bad disturbing him. Almost, because Lambert was fussier than he’d ever admit, and the filthy sheets, and enough fluids crusting on his skin to rival Eskel, hardly promised a good night’s sleep. “C’mon little wolf,” Eskel cooed. He perched himself on the foot of the bed, coaxingly stroking Lambert’s shin with blunt nails. “Want me to carry you?”

“Fuck off I’m not a fucking child,” Lambert grumbled petulantly, but sat up anyway; elbows on his knees, blearily rubbing at his eyes with the heals of his palms. “Fuck I’m tired.” He slumped into Eskel’s side, and thick fingers immediately began lightly scratching his scalp in small circles. Not enough.

“I know, but you’ll sleep better in a clean bed.” His voice low, and gravelly. In part because he was exhausted, but mostly because he knew all the little tricks it took to entice a grumpy Lambert into his bed. The voice was a crucial element.

“Aren’t you tired of… touching?” Lambert whined. He would never admit that he whined. Might stab you if you called him out on it. But it was a whine. Still, he didn’t move away, and Eskel took that as encouragement, sliding his hand down to rub Lambert's upper back.

“Not you,” he leaned in closer, burying his nose in Lambert’s hair both to prove his point, and to seek out more of that smell like spiced cider. “I always want you close.” That couldn't be denied. They were always touching when no one was looking, only slightly less when they were, and the days at the beginning and end of their annual spell at Kaer Morhen were spent trying to quell the frantic need to make up for lost time. It never worked, but it made damn sure they survived another long year on the Path.

Lambert didn’t answer for a while, leaving Eskel to wonder if he’d fallen asleep sitting up. “Fine,” he finally relented, but didn’t move.

“My offer stands." Eskel smiled, but it wasn't teasing. His voice stayed low; thunder rolling in the distance, the promise of something coming. Lambert loved the rain. "Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Nah, I can walk,” Lambert insisted, and pressed himself harder into Eskel’s side, eyes closed, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. Eskel didn’t bother suppressing a chuckle as he wrapped an arm around the smaller Witcher’s waist and gently pulled him up.

Lambert’s less than half-hearted show of independence lasted only until they left the relative warmth of his room and stepped into the bone-chilling hallway. The cold set his teeth chattering instantly, and he wasted no time in jumping onto Eskel’s back and hanging on like a limpet, doing his level best to soak in as much heat as possible. Until Lambert, Eskel hadn’t known any Witcher to shiver. Assumed they just didn’t. But then, Lambert was always special.

“Fuck it’s cold. Should’ve put on some pants. Or boots at least.” Sticky chest (and sticky cock) pressed into Eskel’s back, sticky face buried in the crook of his neck, sticky limbs wrapped securely around his torso, Eskel probably should have been more grossed out than he was. Mostly he just felt warmth pooling in his chest as something gold and glowing settled deep in him. Love, satisfaction — call it what you want. “Hurry up would you?” Those lips mumbling his against skin; Eskel fought down the urge to groan in pleasure.

As soon as they passed the threshold of Eskel’s significantly less pungent quarters, Lambert sprang for the bed, but was immediately jerked back by a firm grip around his wrist.

“Fuck’s sake Eskel! It’s freezing, my balls are about to fall off.”

“You’re covered in come Lambert, your balls will last another minute.” But he picked Lambert up by the waist and stood him on the rug by the fireplace anyway, so that at the very least he wouldn't standing on cold stone.

Eskel fetched a clean cloth and a pair of trousers, igni-ed up a small basin of water and set to work wiping Lambert down. His large hands were impossibly gentle, as they always were, but he moved with efficiency, and kept a steadying hold on the fast fading youngest wolf the whole time. He resisted the urge to linger at the smaller man’s tenderest places, instead kneeling down to help Lambert into the thick, soft trousers he not-so-secretly kept on hand just for him. He planted a chaste kiss into his firm stomach just above the waistband as he tied off the laces.

Eskel wanted more — wanted to kiss him breathless, senseless, wanted to watch him fall apart and come together again under his careful attention — but Lambert was swaying where he stood, half gone, and they had tomorrow.

“Go on then,” Eskel whispered, voice hoarse. He barely held back a laugh (only so many times he could get away with that in one night) as Lambert launched himself into the bed with cat-like eagerness and agility.

“Fuck this is good,” Lambert moaned as he curled up beneath the pile of furs.

“Yeah,” Eskel agreed, just looking at the soft face and ruffled hair peeking out while he wiped himself down just as thoroughly but with much less ceremony. “Pretty damn near perfect.”

After stoking the all but dead fire back to life, he crawled up next to Lambert and twisting, retrieved a vial from his bedside table.

“That your broken-dick oil?” Lambert didn’t need to look to know, the act was so familiar.

“Mhm. Thought we could both use some. May I?”

“Fine.” Lambert helpfully rolled onto his back. “But no funny business.” When nothing happened, he cracked open an eye to find Eskel peering at him with amused questioning painted on his face. “I can smell you getting hornier by the second you lecherous old bastard,” he explained, “and I’m all fucked out.” “Mm,” Eskel hummed indulgently, smiling at him. “No funny business,” he agreed, pouring the subtle thyme and lavender concoction onto his palm, holding it moment to warm it up. He slid his deft hand into Lambert’s trousers, and took his time massaging the oil into Lambert’s velvety, very soft, very much spent cock and balls — nothing funny, just… savouring the feel of the other man his hand. Once he got them both sorted, he rubbed the excess oil onto Lambert’s chest, knowing he found the smell pleasantly soporific.

Finally settling down, Eskel arranged them so that they lay chest to chest, with Lambert’s head resting on Eskel’s bicep, tucked under his chin. He breathed in the scent of Lambert, not completely clean, but clean enough for now. Tomorrow they could scrub off in the hot springs and then get to work bathing in the smell of them instead. But for now they had this lazy intimacy. Eskel stroked Lambert’s back with his free hand, from the nape of his neck to the very small of his back.

“This okay?” He asked, not un-smugly when Lambert squirmed against him.

“S’fine,” Lambert answered, and then, after a deep, considering inhale, “s’nice.”

Warm in Eskel’s bed, cradled safely in Eskel’s arms, the smell of lavender and thyme, and the damp stone of Eskel swaying him gently to sleep’s edge, Lambert drifted. Fully relaxed, entirely exhausted, utterly unguarded, his mind, rather unfortunately and completely unsanctioned, began actually processing the day’s events instead of just hastily shoving them away, as was his custom. Not good. He didn’t like it. His brow twitched into a frown. His shoulder’s bunched slightly. He clasped his hands between his knees.

“I can hear you thinking little wolf. Sounds painful.” Eskel did in fact hear the slightest stutter in breathing, just as he caught the sour note of worry and sadness, felt the tension creeping into the body in in his arms. When Lambert didn’t offer up an explanation, Eskel cupped the back of his neck, thumbing his jaw, and gently pulled them far enough apart to look at him properly. “What’s wrong?”

Lambert’s eyes flickered to his and away again. Never a good sign. “I’m an arsehole.” Straight to the point, at least. After so many decades he knew that he could trust Eskel with anything.

Eskel hummed, more to buy himself time to figure out what the fuck Lambert was on about than anything else. He was far too tired and would have preferred to wait until morning to have any sort of conversation, but he wasn’t about to let whatever this was eat at Lambert all night. “This about your attempt at dirty-talk?” He realised eventually.

“Yeah,” Lambert confirmed. He still didn’t make eye contact, but even in the dark his guilt was evident to Eskel — written clear as day across the shadows of face, the too-taught lines of his body, in his smell.

Sure, Lambert could be a prick; it was an image he cultivated carefully and with great pride, but he never wanted to actually hurt anyone he didn’t think deserved it. Couldn’t stand the thought in fact. And he definitely didn’t think Jaskier deserved it. Left to navigate his thoughts alone, Lambert would inevitably fall into a spiral of shame and self-loathing they’ll have a hell of a time pulling him out of, and not without significant collateral damage. Eskel wasn’t going to let it happen.

“Pretty sure he forgave you. More than once if memory serves.”

“Well that’s just because he’s nice innit?”

“So are you.”

“M’not nice.” Lambert grumbled, trying to hide his face against Eskel’s chest again as he sniffled almost imperceptibly.

“Hey, look at me.” When he wasn’t immediately obeyed, Eskel tugged lightly at Lambert’s hair and was met with acquiescence; puppy eyes looked up at him imploringly, glistening more than the fire- and moonlight could account for. “Lambert, if you were so much as half the arsehole you think you are, you wouldn’t be so worked up about it. You made a mistake. It happens. He forgave you, and he was perfectly happy to have you keep fucking and fussing him. All day.”

This time when Lambert tucked his face into his neck, Eskel let him, giving him time to work through the logic on his own. If pushed too hard, he’d just get stubborn about it, and then there would be no stopping him from crashing.

“Think Geralt’s mad?” Lambert asked eventually, having decided that yeah, the he and the bardling were probably okay. He’d apologise again tomorrow just to be sure.

“I know he’s not. Wouldn’t have stayed if he was, or thanked you after, or agreed to wash your sheets.” More concrete evidence for Lambert to turn over before accepting that no, no one was mad at him.

Meanwhile, deep wintery silence dripped over them like black treacle, coating them in silky soft sweetness, and Eskel began to doze off. Still, he kept up a litany of tender, reassuring touches up and down Lambert’s back, making sure the younger man knew he was still there with him, for him. He scratch at the nape of his neck, rubbed firm circles between his shoulder-blades and the small of his back, gently massaged a large knuckle down his spine. Lambert slowly unwound, his shoulders went slack, he curled an arm around Eskel’s ribs, reaching up to play with his hair. But he could not so much as begin to fall asleep, hovering just on the precipice despite the bone-deep exhaustion of his body. He needed just a little more.

“Eskel?”

“Mm?”

“You can kiss me if you want.”

Another night, Eskel might have teased him for asking for affection in such a round-a-bout, Lambert-esque way, but he really wanted to kiss him and wouldn’t risk losing the privilege. Instead, he slid a hand up to cup Lambert’s jaw, tilting his head back, brushing his plush lower lip with a calloused thumb.

Another night, Lambert might have at least made a show of wrestling for control, but he was wanting. So instead he parted his lips just enough to let Eskel do as he pleased, and was rewarded with a deep, sweet kiss that pulsed through his whole body, and curled his toes. Waves of pleasure lapped at every raw thread of his nervous system, cresting in his skull, swallowing the noise in his mind and washing it out to sea. A kiss that only stopped when they were both smiling too much for Eskel to continue with any sort of craftsmanship.

“Better?”

Lambert was still smiling up at him — that smile like dancing sunlight that so few people got to see. A smile reserved for moments like this, when Lambert was alone with someone he loved, who he knew loved him and would never hurt him, or send him away. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Eskel all but purred. “Now get some rest.”

That same treacle silence, but sweeter, softer, smoother than silk and warmer than wool.

��Eskel?”

“Mm?”

A moment passed, the air between them filled with nothing but the sound of their hearts beating in time, and the vibration of hesitancy, anticipation. “Nothing.” Coward.

Another moment, another synchronous heartbeat. “I love you too Lambert.”

Petal pink warmth exploded across Lambert’s face, sinking into his chest, settling deep in his gut, quick and almost violent. He bit into Eskel’s collarbone, hard. Get it together moron.

Between the man before him and Aiden, — and fuck, sometimes even Geralt — it was getting easier to hear, easier to believe, easier to say, but slowly, slowly. “Love you.”

The pleased hum like rolling thunder that emanated from Eskel’s chest, rumbling through Lambert everywhere their bodies touched, was more than reward enough. The soft, lingering kiss pressed into his crown knocked him right out.

[scribbleb-red]

Hello Ghost (An Afternoon Andreil AU)

After college, the Minyard-Hemmicks sell up in South Carolina and Andrew is signed by the Baltimore Bombers.

He buys a house on the outskirts of Leakin Park, it's pretty grand but he has a vision of inviting his family to stay, one day, perhaps.

The house is also more than a bit run down (which is why Andrew figures it was a good price). 

He starts to fix the place up. New paint. New floors. New windows. 

But then weird stuff starts happening. 

Food he was sure was in the fridge disappears. Stationary and paints will vanish from almost under his nose. Tools go missing only to reappear somewhere else. And clothes too (he is sure he brought his favourite black hoodie with him from SC, and Aaron swears he hasn't got it...). 

He starts to hear noises - not loud, just like shuffling, sliding, sometimes like a door is creaking open.

Andrew has nearly done the ground floor when he thinks he's found the answer - navy paint paw prints - all across his freshly stripped and varnished wood floor. 

He won't lie, they're kind of cute. The creature must have knocked over the feature-wall paint.

But then, one day after practice, he comes home and takes off his headphones and he's sure he can hear humming. Whatever animal the pawprints came from, he's sure most of them won't know Bohemian Rhapsody.

He creeps up the stairs, it's pretty tatty up here still. The only room he's really bothered is his own. There are rooms he's barely opened since he arrived - particularly the one that looks like it once belonged to a kid (the yellow clown wallpaper *has* to come down soon).

The humming is coming from the main bathroom. 

His hand hovers over the handle. 

He presses down. 

The door swings open. 

 He swears he sees a flash of red. Blue eyes in the mirror. 

But when he pushes inside, nothing and no one is there. 

"The actual fuck??" he mutters.

The actual fuck is right. 

Over the next few weeks Andrew becomes increasingly paranoid. Summer has bled into autumn and he is pretty sure he's being haunted. 

There is a ghost in this house. There is a ghost in these walls.

He talks to Aaron who just shrugs and tells him to call an exterminator if he has rats in the walls. Andrew is sure there aren't rats in the walls. That's not what he's hearing. Rats don't have nice tenor voices that hum Queen and Blue Oyster Cult through the piping. 

He talks to Nicky, who freaks out because omg Andrew you have to get out before the ghosts turn violent Andrew, you don't know what kind of ghost it is Andrew, what if you piss it off by accident Andrew. Maybe you can get an exorcist Andrew. Or salt? Isn't salt bad for ghosts?

He calls Kevin, who frowns down the line. 

"Are you okay, Minyard? Not getting rattled now you're in the pros?" 

No, Andrew is not rattled. He's doing fucking great for the Bombers. 

"Then get some sleep and... maybe call Bee?"

Great so Kevin thinks he's mad.

He calls the estate agent last. Though really he should have called them first.

"There's something wrong with this house," he says. "Tell me what's wrong with this house." 

"Oh dear." The estate agent is very anxious. "I'm so sorry, Mr Minyard. I thought everyone knew."

Turns out everyone except him did know. Andrew's grand house that he got for basically pennies was once the home of the Butcher of Baltimore. Andrew missed the memo though, too busy getting his brother clean and surviving the mood-meddling, court-prescribed drugs at the time.

"I'm so very sorry," says the estate agent. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do now, but I do know a good geomancer who could feng shui the property for you." 

 Andrew slams down the phone. 

 So he has a ghost in his house. 

 Probably a murder ghost too. 

 Fuck.

He decides that if he's going to get rid of his ghost, he's going to have to figure out what exactly the ghost is taking, when and why. He starts keeping track in a little notebook. He quickly notices something even weirder than the missing stuff though.

The ghost takes food - not a huge amount - but enough each week. It's mostly fruit and vege, the occasional protein bar. If Andrew makes smoothies from fruit, the ghost will take some. And sometimes the ghost will make smoothies itself and leave half for Andrew.

The ghost launders any of the clothes it borrows. Not everything is returned. But socks will miraculously reappear. So will tshirts and sometimes jumpers. The black hoodie has not made a reappearance. But his woollen winter jumper does, with the elbow holes freshly darned.

The ghost showers. Andrew has noticed more than once that the bathroom mirror is misted and the towels damp when they shouldn't be.

The ghost leaves red hair behind, long curls of it.

The ghost is probably not a ghost. Or if they are, they're a very very corporeal one.

He decides maybe - just maybe - he could lure the ghost out. 

After a shower one day, he writes on the misted mirror:  HELLO GHOST. 

The next day, the ghost leaves a reply: HI HUMAN. 

 Andrew frowns and scrubs the note away.

He goes out to buy clothes for the ghost - no need for them to nick his favourite stuff if they have their own right? 

He leaves the bag in the bathroom and writes: THE BAG IS FOR YOU. 

The next day he sees: THANK U. 

The day after: CAN I HV A TOOTHBRUSH? 

Andrew buys one, even though the ghost writes like a fuckboi.

When he comes home from a long weekend of away matches, the toothbrush is used and wet. There's a Smiley on the mirror in the the mist. Andrew scowls. And he realises the ghost is near - because there's a shuffle, a sigh & for a second he's sure the shadows behind him move.

Andrew and the Ghost fall into a rhythm. 

Sometimes when the ghost needs something there will be a note on the bathroom mirror. Sometimes when the ghost is thankful, they'll leave homecooked left overs in the fridge for Andrew, presumably made when he's at practice.

Aaron asks him one day if he solved his rat problem. 

"It's a ghost problem,” Andrew tells him. “But yes, something like that."

For Christmas, Andrew goes to visit Nicky and Erik in Germany. 

It's three weeks away and he's so anxious about the flights, he forgets about his little ghost in the walls. 

He packs in a hurry. He turns off the lights. Turns down the heating. Locks the doors.

The holiday itself is good. Nicky is thriving now he's back with his boyfriend and Andrew almost feels bad that he kept Nicky from being this happy for so many years. Almost. Because he wouldn't trade those years with Nicky and Aaron for anything. 

He goes home, content.

As soon as he opens the front door, he knows something is wrong. 

It's freezing cold. So cold his breath is vapours on the air. 

There's a smell too, stale and fetid. Like old fruit. 

And that's when he sees him, the ghost.

The ghost is a boy, but he certainly looks half dead. 

He's sprawled on Andrew's new sofa. He's all bones. Emaciated to a point where he looks childish. His skin is sickly pale. His hair is dank and plastered to his forehead. His eyes are closed.

Andrew drops his bag and the ghost's eyes flutter open, just a slither before closing again. 

The ghost is sick. Incredibly sick.

Andrew calls Aaron. 

"My ghost is sick," is the first thing he says. "He has a fever. I don't know what's wrong with him." 

Aaron doesn't pretend to understand, he just lists off ways to bring down a fever. "I can be there in the morning," he tells Andrew. "Just --"

-- Aaron stops short. He can't tell Andrew to keep a ghost alive can he? 

Andrew does what he can. He lifts his ghost up into his arms, wrinkling his nose at the sweaty, sick smell rolling off him. He's far too light and far too small.

Andrew tucks him into his own bed.

He finds a can of fizzy lemonade and brings it upstairs to the ghost. He's barely stirred but as Andrew cracks open the can, the ghost lets out the tiniest of whimpers and it breaks Andrew's heart.

Carefully, he nudges the ghost awake and helps him to drink some of the lemonade. 

"Bring up his sugar levels. Make sure he has plenty of fluids. Anything cold to bring down his temperature." 

It takes nearly an hour for the ghost to drink the lemonade.

Andrew doesn't sleep that night. Doesn't stop applying cold flannels. Checks his temperature every 30 minutes. 

"You better not become a real ghost, Ghost," he warns the boy in his bed. "I want my fucking hoodie back."

Aaron arrives and it’s a good thing he's just finished his rotation in the ER because Andrew's ghost is a young man with one of the worst cases of pnuemonia he's seen in a while. He calls up a professor and explains why he needs a prescription for a variety of medications.

He's able to get them within the morning and they set Andrew's room up to be a hospital bed minus the bleepity-bloopety machines. 

Andrew finally sleeps when Aaron forces him to - but only for a couple hours before he's back at the ghost's side. 

Two days go by.

Ghost wakes up. 

For all that he looks like he hasn't eaten a full meal in his life, his eyes are the most striking Andrew has ever seen in his life. They are coldest blue, like a winter's sky. 

"Hello Ghost," Andrew says. 

"Hi Human," replies the ghost.

Ghost recovers slowly. He sleeps a lot. Andrew cooks for him. Makes him eat soups and broths and slowly reintroduces solids. 

Turns out when Andrew left, he'd locked Ghost inside with only enough food in the cupboards for a week. 

Ghost managed to make it last 12 days.

But with the heating off, Ghost had shivered his way into sickness. 

Andrew asks him how the hell he's been haunting his house when he's clearly not a ghost. Ghost frowns. 

"The walls," he says. "He built the walls too thick so they could hide escape routes." 

 "The Butcher?"

Ghost nods. He's so pale. Andrew presses because he knows there's a secret here and Ghost finally admits: "He was my father." 

The pieces fall into place as Ghost recovers. His name is actually Nathaniel but every time Andrew uses it, Ghost flinches.

Andrew moves Ghost out of the walls where he used to hide and into the house. 

"Why didn't you leave after your father died?" Andrew asks one day over hot chocolate and coffee. 

They're curled up on the sofa, their feet overlapping but nothing else.

"Because he didn't die," Ghost says. "He was killed." 

And out comes the story of how Ghost lived in the house as his father's prisoner. How he was trapped and how he was punished the few times he tried to escape. 

 There are scars, Andrew has seen them. They make sense now.

"My mother escaped though. With millions that belonged to my father. A couple years ago my father killed her... my uncle came in retribution. He killed my father. I was there."  Ghost's voice is thick and raw. His eyes won't meet Andrew's. "He said he'd come back for me."

"He never came back," Andrew fills in the next line. 

"No." 

"But you stayed." 

"I've barely been outside before. I never... I had rations stored and I figured, it was safe here at least, now he was gone." 

"And then I arrived." 

"Yeah. And it was kinda nice. Being your ghost."

Andrew chest feels warm and full. "You're still my ghost," he says after a minute. 

And it's true. This boy from the walls is going to haunt Andrew forever - and he doesn't even mind.

Andrew learnt to live in increments, one breath at a time, one minute, one hour, one day. He'll teach Ghost to do the same, over years. 

They'll find a human name for Ghost. They'll settle on "Neil", a name untainted by the father who hurt him or the mother who left him.

They'll cook together in the evenings, brushing against each other in whispers.

They'll fall asleep together on sofas and then, later, in their shared bed. 

They'll move house together one day, when Andrew transfers to another team. 

One day Andrew is lying in bed next to Neil, tracing patterns over freckled skin and taut muscles. 

"I meant to ask, what was with the pawprints that time? With the paint on the floor?" 

And Neil looks puzzled, then smiles. "Maybe it really was a ghost."

THE END 

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Unlucky Enough

Summary: Set during Httyd 2. Hiccup and Toothless fell above a frozen ocean and neither of them had much luck landing.

Rating: Teen and up

Words: 2 013

Prompt: Falling Through Ice

Author’s Notes: This was written for the monthly prompts held on the Httyd whump Discord server that I take part in.

Constructive criticism is highly appreciated.

Enjoy!

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

"TOOTHLESS!"

The Night Fury heard Hiccup yell after he was torn out of the saddle by another dragon.

He wasn't sure of the exact species. He just heard it coming and tried to warn his Rider of its approach, but by then it was already too late. It had dug its claws into Hiccup's shoulders. It looked like a Shovelhelm.

He'd heard Hiccup shout when he was grabbed, before calling out his name, but Toothless was already plummeting.

The ocean was frozen below them. The ice he landed on was thick. Too thick to break even under his weight and with the amount of force he'd smacked onto it.

Upon colliding with it, fire ran through Toothless' entire being and he couldn't help but release a roar of pain as he lied on it. With Hiccup for a rider, he wasn't a stranger to crashlanding, but it was rare for them to hurt as much as it did this time.

He needed a moment to regain his composure, to let the painful agony in his body settle. His left fore- and hind legs and wing hurt especially bad. There was a particularly terrible headache brewing after the impact his head made with the frozen sea.

Once able to breathe a little easier, Toothless stared up to the sky to see the mysterious dragon rider with their Stormcutter and all the other dragons in their pack still circling them. Searching for and finding the offending Shovelhelm, the Night Fury noticed that Hiccup was no longer in his grasp.

He'd grabbed Hiccup by the shoulders instead of his arms. It was without a doubt a minor slipup, but it probably caused him to lose his grip.

Scanning the area for his Rider, Toothless' keen eyes quickly caught sight of a gap in what must be a thinner sheet of ice someways away. The water within it rocked, as did the broken chunks and pieces. It was newly created.

And Hiccup was nowhere to be found.

'Hiccup!'

Pushing himself up to his feet, every inch of him hurting and his left side protesting, Toothless dragged himself with a limp and hurry towards the break. The need to find his Rider motivated him to fight the pain.

It took him seconds longer to get there than he would've liked. If the hole had been created by Hiccup, he hadn't reached the surface at all in that time.

A roar of panic left the Night Fury, as if calling out to his Rider, before he sunk his head down into the water to see and make sure whether Hiccup was there or not. The freezing water bit even into his tough and heated hide, but Toothless chose to ignore it. What mattered to him was finding Hiccup.

He found him quite easily.

Hiccup was unconscious and sinking. And was that blood he spotted in the water?

Toothless wasted no time. He took a quick breath of air and dove down into the hole with him. The bone-chillingly cold water did his sore limbs no favours, but he refused to be held back when his Hiccup needed him.

With strong and swift strokes Toothless attempted to reach Hiccup as he slowly sank further and further away from him into the dark depths down below.

The stranger who had intercepted them moments earlier did not agree with his efforts. Before long, the Night Fury felt himself be pulled out of the water by other dragons. Toothless struggled as hard as he could, roaring in rage when he broke through the ocean's surface.

Hiccup was right there. Toothless only needed to grab him and he could've saved him had those dragons not interfered. The same Shovelhelm that had failed at keeping his hold on Hiccup properly was the one who held him in an iron grip now.

Toothless roared at him.

'My Rider is down there! He's drowning!'

Instead of listening, the Shovelhelm growled back at him. It wasn't necessarily hostile. It was more of a warning to calm down and not fight them any further, lest he lose his grip again.

With a simple wave of their staff, the dragon rider told the pack to move. If Toothless' efforts to be let go of so he could save Hiccup weren't desperate enough already, his struggles grew fiercer. At the same time, the Shovelhelm's grip on him grew even tighter, just shy of piercing his hide. Toothless' cringed at the sensation.

It took some tries, but eventually, a second dragon joined them to keep the Night Fury from escaping. All that Toothless could do was watch as the break in the ice Hiccup had fallen through became smaller and smaller as the entire pack flew away from the scene.

No amount of angry snarling or close warning shots could convince any of them to turn back around for his dear Rider. His calls of fury turned to calls of despair. And they weren't for the other dragons, they were for Hiccup, his significant other.

"I know Bud."

Remembering the last time his Viking came close to death by drowning didn't lessen the blow of losing him in the slightest.

"I wouldn't leave you either."

Toothless left him. It wasn't of his own will, but Toothless still left him. That was the only part that would ever truly matter to him.

They pack heard the telltale whine, but Night Furies were rare enough that they didn't immediately realize what Toothless was planning on doing. Once they did, it was already too late.

The Shovelhelm was blasted right out of the sky. As he fell, so did Toothless and the other dragon.

All three of them landed on the cold hard ice. While the other two were slow to recover from the crash, Toothless was quick to get back up on his aching feet. Injured or not, he needed to move.

He could hear that accursed staff rattle again, could hear the Stormcutter let out a roar, and the entire pack stopped.

Toothless needed to reach Hiccup before they could grab him again. He wasn't going to leave Hiccup behind. He didn't abandon him in the straits, he wasn't going to leave him to his fate now.

They hadn't gotten too far yet, fortunately enough. But still, Toothless was sure he must be seeing things as he sprinted back towards where his Rider had fallen. It almost looked like Hiccup was already out of the water.

The closer he came, Toothless realized that his eyes weren't tricking him. Hiccup truly was out of the water. He quickened his pace.

The dragons in the sky seemed to be watching him from a distance instead of chasing him. Did they figure out Toothless would be too much trouble to bring to wherever if he weren't reunited with the other rider?

Hiccup was lying next to the break. He wasn't moving. Thankfully, Toothless could still tell that he was alive. He didn't know on whose side they were, but he noticed a Seashocker disappearing into the darkness of the sea.

"... Bud?" Toothless couldn't thank the Berkian Gods, or the Seashocker, enough for the fact that Hiccup was still with him and breathing. The relief that swept over him upon hearing his voice, hoarse as it was, was indescribable.

Hiccup heard his dragon cooing and felt his warm breath as Toothless pressed his nose to his temple. He was cold. So, so, so cold. His fingers and toes were tingly, but numb. His stump was frozen. He shivered, the winds were relentless.

Toothless checked Hiccup's body out to get an assessment on his health. The fall could've been brutal to him.

He was lying on his left side, facing the other. His right arm was limp as it laid there at an odd angle and there was a terrible head wound that he'd previously been sniffing too. But that wasn't where the blood was coming from.

The Shovelhelm, on top of grabbing Hiccup wrong and losing his grip on him, one of his large talons had pierced through Hiccup's leather flight suit. The wound must not be deep enough to be life-threatening or Hiccup would've bled out already, but that still needed treatment.

"I'm really cold, Bud." Toothless heard him and wrapped himself around the Viking as he lied down, both of his forelegs held him close. He held him close and hidden from view. Hiccup was sopping wet. In this kind of weather, so far up North, it wouldn't take long for him to freeze to death.

To make matters worse, Toothless knew the stranger and the dragon pack were approaching them again. He heard the rattling, heard the thunder coming closer.

Toothless bitterly realized he would have to let them do as they wished and take them. Hiccup needed treatment and shelter and he was in no fit condition to mount up and travel all the way back to Berk. He was close to passing out again. Hiccup's best chances were with the same ones who'd torn them out of the sky in the first place.

"Heh, I regret leaving Berk, Bud." Upon hearing Hiccup speak again, Toothless focussed his attention back on him. He was breathing through his pain, momentarily reminding Toothless of his own aches as he tried to suppress them for Hiccup's sake.

"Maybe I should listen to dad once in a while." Hiccup gazed up at him. Though he said it in a joking manner, Toothless could see he was truly sorry. To comfort him, Toothless cooed and pressed their foreheads together.

'It's okay.' That is what he tried to tell him. Hiccup smiled, closing his eyes. Whether he understood his dragon or not, at least Hiccup figured out what he was trying to do. His left hand held onto his right shoulder. That was a hard landing he'd made, who knows the kind of injuries that were still hidden by his flight suit.

Hiccup was growing colder in his embrace too. Toothless gave him all the body heat he could provide, but it would mean very little for as long as Hiccup still wore his soaked clothes. Hypothermia could already be setting in.

With light footsteps, the stranger approached after having jumped off the Stormcutter. The other dragons in the pack were still up there in the air, but the two of them had joined them on the ground.

"Hmmm, Toothless!" Toothless held Hiccup tighter even despite his protests. He looked over, watched the mystery rider approach and bared his teeth in a snarl. It was a warning to not come any closer. At least, not with ill intentions.

The rider stopped, crouching, and removed the mask that they wore.

The face that met Toothless was that of a woman and he was only briefly taken aback before growling again.

She didn't look like someone who would be a threat. In a way, she reminded him of Hiccup somehow, but only vaguely so. Toothless wasn't fooled. He hadn't expected her, that was for sure. He would give her that much at least.

The woman made eye contact with him and continued her advance with caution. She was still crouching, her behaviour was that of a submissive dragon, a defensive one. Toothless never knew he'd ever meet a human who acted more dragon-like than Hiccup, but there she was and once again Toothless was dumbfounded.

Perhaps she could tell and she could very well be using that to come closer until she was right next to Hiccup, opposite to Toothless.

Gazes still connected, she slowly removed the armbrace that looked like a claw and placed it on Hiccup's shoulder.

She wanted to help.

Despite her draconic behaviour, her eyes were still that of a human and Toothless recognized a familiar kind of compassion in them.

"Bud?" Hiccup, though previously as stumped as he was, looked up to him. He was searching for an answer to only one question.

Could they trust her?

Hiccup would give her a shot if Toothless did and he decided, for his Rider's sake, that he did.

[13ismyheart]

13xReader - Finding Truth In The Rain

A/N: This wasn’t a request, but something I wanted to write for a while. I hope you like it. Warnings: None. It’s just fluff Summary: The Tardis had left you and the Doctor standing alone in the rain, in the shelter that you found one truth reveals itself.

You and the Doctor were just about to follow the rest of the team back into the Tardis when suddenly an invisible force shield made the blue box inaccessible for you. Confused you turned to your left to see the Doctor banging against the imperceptible wall.

“Oh, no, no, no. Don't do this to me. Can't you see that we’re soaked to the bone?”

“Doctor? What is this? Why can't we go in?”, your voice carried a hint of worry, but also annoyance as you really wanted to get out of those wet clothes and into your warm bed.

“I don't know. It's some sort of shield, but I have no idea what could have caused it. I have thoroughly checked this planet and we are the only intelligent life form currently inhabiting it. It must be – Y/N!”. While you were listening to the Doctor's thoughts you had leaned against the shield, the shield that had now vanished along with the Tardis. You lost your balance, but thanks to the Doctor's quick reflexes, your hitting the ground was once again avoided. Looking into the Doctor's eyes as she steadied you, you thanked her. You were almost sad when she let go of you. “Well I guess that answers the question. The Tardis must have put that shield up herself. The only question that remains is why she wanted to lock us out and leave us here? Well, nothing we can do now but wait and find shelter from that rain.”.

The rain had actually stopped coming down as hard, but there was still a slight drizzling coming down and judging by the colour of the sky a second round of cats and dogs wasn't completely out of the question either. You just nodded and decided to follow the timelord in her quest to escape the wetness. Even soaking wet the Doctor was the prettiest woman you had ever laid your eyes upon, you had noticed her eyes and her jawline the very first moment that you saw her. Since then she had only become more attractive to you and you found yourself slowly falling in love with her. Of course, nothing would ever come off this. She was the most generous, lovable, beautiful and honourable woman in the whole universe and you were just – well, you were you. Knowing this didn't keep you from looking at her though daydreaming about how it would be to see some of the telltale signs reflected in the Doctor's gaze. You sigh, catching the Doctor's attention again who immediately tried to console you and reassure you that the Tardis would come back soon enough to come and pick you both up. 

“Can you imagine the team being in there alone and having no clue what's going on?”, you asked the Doctor laughing. Her face scrunched up in amusement and you really had to hold yourself back not to reach out and touch her. “Oh, I am sure they'll be fine.”, she chuckled, thought about it once more and then added, “Although I am not so sure about Ryan, he is a bit wary of the Tardis since the toaster incident last week.” These words made you laugh even harder, actually causing you to snort which in turn made your cheeks redden in embarrassment. The unfortunate happening had been a tiny misunderstanding between Ryan and the Tardis and since it happened Ryan refused to go anywhere near the console. You and the Doctor had found a little cave to settle in for the time being and it had turned out to be a rather good idea because the rain had indeed started up again. Still a bit breathless from your laughing fit you remarked on the time. “It must be getting pretty late.”. But the late hour wasn't the only inconvenience as it was also getting colder and colder. It wasn't long before even your thick jacket couldn't keep you warm anymore and you started shivering. The Doctor didn't seem as fazed by the cold, but that did not surprise you. No one who gets cold easily wears the same clothes in summer and winter, with the small addition of a loose scarf. The Doctor noticed your discomfort though and started to scoot closer towards you. “You are freezing. We need to share body heat to warm you up a bit.”, she said and proceeded to take her coat off to lay it on the ground. She gestured for you to remove your jacket as well and then pulled you down onto hers. You were lying very close, her left pressing to your right with your coat dealing as a blanket for both of you. 

It wasn't uncomfortable per se, but it was weird, to say the least. You had never been this close to the Doctor for a prolonged amount of time, you had hugged before of course, but never longer than a few seconds, not that you would have minded them being longer, but you also did not want to seem like a creep who preys on her friends. Now you have already been lying next to each other for about 10 minutes and no one knew how much longer you were forced to stay here before the others found their way back here, or rather before the Tardis lead them to you. You were quite content to just stay quiet, silence never really bothered you, but you also knew the Doctor and her intense need to talk. If you thought about it it was already quite out of character for her to have been completely silent these past 10 minutes, so with a confused look you turned to look at her., “Cat got your tongue? You aren't usually this quiet.” She quickly turned her head towards you on reflex before staring straight up at the ceiling again, but not quickly enough for you not to notice her blushing. You grin, you didn't know there was anything that could get someone as confident as the Doctor to blush. “Come on, you can tell me. I swear I won't judge you.” The grin in your voice was as tangible to the Doctor as your finger which was insistently poking the timelord's torso. Instead of answering she blushed further. Suddenly it hit you, the Doctor was thinking about someone she liked. The most common reason people blush is when they are asked about something related to the person they have a crush on, right? Now it was your turn to blush, you tried to say something, to apologise for invading her privacy like that, but instead, you just opened and closed your mouth a few times looking like one of those fish your GP kept in his waiting room. You laid back down on your back. Where the contact of your bodies did not faze you before it now felt as if someone constantly sent tiny electric shocks through the whole right half of your body. 

You started shivering again, catching the Doctor's attention once more. Worried looks were sent in your direction, but your mind was pre-occupied with one thought only the Doctor is in love. You tried to focus on the plitter-platter of the rain, a sound that never failed to calm you, at least not until now. A numbing sadness had suddenly taken over your mind and body. You had never really thought you had any chance with the Doctor, you really hadn't, that's why you never told her. Having proof of her affections lying elsewhere, however, was still crushing you.  The Doctor interpreted your shivering differently though and moved again, this time to lie half on top of you with her arms around you to chase the coldness away. But this closeness hurt you more and the shivering intensified, plus you couldn't look at her right now, it would only pain you further and she would know instantly that you were in love with her. You couldn't jeopardise your friendship. If that was all you were ever gonna have with the Doctor you would do anything to protect it. You were so focused on your thoughts that you didn't pay any attention to what your body was doing. Currently, your face was very openly declaring your discomfort and when the Doctor saw this she gasped and immediately rolled off of you to sit up, causing your jacket to slip off as well. Shit, you thought, she knows and now she is disgusted by you. Now the tears you were so desperately trying to hold back burst free and even if you wanted to talk, to explain to her that you weren't in love with her and that you are sorry you made her uncomfortable, you wouldn't have been able to because all that was currently able to leave your mouth were sobs. The Doctor was evidently troubled, she didn't know what to do or how to comfort you. In the end, she just opted for a straight-up apology. “I am so sorry my feelings made you uncomfortable, I thought I could hide them better and I totally understand if you want to leave me now. As soon as the Tardis is back I can get you home and I won't bother you ever again, I promise.” She was looking at you with tears of her own in her eyes, but she was trying her hardest to be strong, she didn't want you to feel guilty for not returning her affections. Her words hit you like a wall of bricks and you yanked your head around to face her, not minding the cracking of your neck as you did. Stuttering you asked her “What did you say?”. You were sure you must have heard it wrong, in your frenzy, it had sounded like she had apologised to you for having feelings for you. The Doctor gulped once and repeated “I said I am sorry I made you uncomfortable. I totally understand that you don't like me like that and if you want to leave I will drop you off back home and not bother you again.”. Your eyes were as wide as saucers, so you had heard correctly. Your heart began to hammer wildly and you sat up to be face to face to the Doctor. “Do you really mean that?”, you had to ask again. Your head still couldn't wrap itself around the idea of the Doctor returning your feelings. Her face fell, as she lost all hope that you would still be travelling with her if given enough time. Swallowing hard she nodded once and lowered her head, not being able to look you in the eyes as she slowly lost the battle against her own tears. Your face, however, showed the definition of contradiction. Your eyes were puffy, cheeks swollen and decorated with wet trails of your tears, but your mouth was spreading into the biggest grin you had ever worn. The Doctor was in love with you! You couldn't believe your luck. With new found energy you raised your hand to the Doctor's chin and gently lifted it up. She was a little startled by your touch and when she looked into your eyes, confusion shone in hers. It hurt to see her so broken, but the happiness over the news overweighted and without thinking about it you lunged your head forwards and pressed your lips to hers. The Doctor gasped in surprise and you wasted no time, deepening the kiss and sighing contently. You don't know how long the kiss lasted, all you know is that her mouth tasted of custard creams, early grey and something heavenly that must have been the Doctor's own specific taste. You loved every second of it, only registering the sighs and moans both of you let loose and ignoring everything else around you.

When you reluctantly broke the kiss to fill your lungs with desperately needed air, both of you just took a second to look at the other. Outside of your little cave, it was still raining and slowly the cold was returning to your bones, without looking down you grabbed for your jacket and covered the Doctor and yourself as best as you could. You were still looking at each other, smiling softly and sharing small touches, when you finally broke the silence. “God, I love you so much!”. Again the Doctor blushed, but this time she didn't look away, instead, she leaned in close and whispered, “I love you too, Y/N.” As your lips met again you heard the unmistakable whooshing sound of the Tardis.

[liv-andletdie]

Zelink Week 2018: Fire

Author: liv-andletdie Rating: teen and up Words: 960+ Pairing: BotW Zelink  Notes:  “Please Just tell me… what is it?... what’s wrong with me?!” Available on Ao3

<><><>

“Please Just tell me… what is it?... what’s wrong with me?!”

Link turned, his eyes catching on her figure in the water. Silhouetted by the cold light of the moon. Her body shook, noiseless convulsive sobs wracking her very bones. She looked so small, so timid as she hugged her arms around herself, sinking deeper into the pool. What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me? And standing before her, silent and unfeeling, was the Goddess. Her cold marble glare offered no comfort, offered no hope.  

He felt a fire spark under his skin, his blood boiling as he stared at the damned effigy. Her ridiculous half smile knocking him sick, her soulless eyes trained on the young woman before her.

His body felt hot with rage as he threw down his sword, a loud metallic ring echoing over the air. She turned to him, the young woman in the pool, watching as he leapt into the water. Great white splashes following him as he waded over to her. He pulled her into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. A hand wrapped around her shoulders, keeping her close to him.

“There is nothing wrong with you” he growled, squeezing her so tight it hurt. Zelda felt fresh tears well up in her eyes, falling over her cheeks in hot trails. She wrapped herself around him, letting a sob tumble from her throat. Link buried his nose in her hair, his words falling from his lips like a mantra. There is nothing wrong with you! There is nothing wrong with you! There is nothing wrong with you!

The two stood there, holy water lapping at their legs, tears burning in their eyes. Her violent sobs, and his words of love, were drowned out by the thunderous waterfalls around them. They were hidden from view from the world. Only the Princess,The Knight, and the Goddess privy to this moment.

With shaking hands, Link led her back to the bank, led her back to her tent, led her back to the fire to dry off. He let her change, fixing his gaze on the cooking pot in front of him. He tried to focus on the meal, occupying himself with thoughts of burnt vegetables and ruined meat. If he let his thoughts stray past that, to the girl in the spring, to the weeping princess and the merciless Gods, he wouldn’t be able to contain his rage.

When Zelda returned she was silent. She ate in quiet, only murmuring words of thanks as she passed her half finished bowl back towards him.

She looked so broken.

She stopped as she stumbled back to her tent, pulling her damp hair behind her she turned to face him. A fake smile plastered across her face. “We can try again tomorrow” she said and he nodded, his own lips twisting into a false grin. He tried to look confident, tried to look assured and noble, tried to look like he believed any lie he would tell her.

And as she turned back to her tent, disappearing behind the canvas flaps, Link felt his heart turn black.

Fire. A burning never ending fire flooded through his veins. An uncontrollable fury, a storm of hatred and anger washing over him like a tsunami. He ran back to the spring, landing in the water with a terrific splash. All he could see was red as he splashed water at the unmoving marble before him.

Oh how she taunted him, looking down on him with her pitiful half smile. Link felt curses welling up in his throat, his hand itching for his weapon. He wanted to take a blade to that smile, wanted to watch as the marble crumbled against holy steel. He wanted to scream and curse, to kick and fight and yell, to do everything She wouldn’t. A thousand vicious blasphemous thoughts ran through his head. He reached into the water, fingers blindly grasping for a stone. His fist closed around the rock, his arm pulling back as he prepared to launch it at his Goddess.

A strangled cry left his lips as the rock hurtled through the air, bouncing harmlessly off of the giant marble statue before him.

Link collapsed to his knees. Freezing cold water stung his heated skin, tears pouring down his cheeks. Curse you! He thought, pained angry eyes cast towards the heavens, Curse you all. You said you cared! Why are you abandoning her? She has been devout and faithful. Done everything you asked! Sung every hymn, followed every damn ritual and STILL you leave her. You cursed me with the blade when I was but a child! So heavy is the weight I must bare and yet hers is greater still! Explain it to me. Explain it to me please! Why have you abandoned her? Why do you forsake your own child?!

The Goddess remained silent. Her half smile twisting into a smirk in the moonlight.

Link felt the fight leave him, sinking lower in the water. He couldn’t bring himself to care that his clothes would be wet or that he would be uncomfortable. He knew she was hurting, his princess. He could imagine her, curled up in a ball, tears streaming down her face as she muffled sobs and cries into her pillow. And if she was hurting, no amount of discomfort could make him feel worse.

“I’m meant to protect her” he whispered to the sky, “But how can I protect her from you? How can I protect her from your cruelty?”

Hylia remained silent, watching over the hero as he sat, submerged to his shoulders in freezing cold water.

“Please just tell me” he begged, his voice catching slightly on his words “What is it?... what’s wrong with me?”

~Fin~

Why are my BOTW fics so angsty and short? I had a basic idea for where I wanted this to go, and then I veered away from that at the end haha oops. I’m pretty happy with how this turned out, There’s a tie in to the last prompt with Hylia I wonder if anyone will notice (it��s very subtle) I hope you enjoyed this I’ll I see you tomorrow for FLUFF!

[sicklylittlesnowflake]

Hi! Could u write a fic where Lance is asthmatic and catches a cold that's been passed through the team? They got over it quickly, but it hits Lance really hard. Everyone thinks he's exaggerating for sympathy so they ignore him. Lance tries to take care of himself but it turns into a bad chest infection. When he shows up to a meeting all feverish and wheezy and coughing nonstop, the team finally realize something's wrong

(wOW I love this prompt?? Like this was lower down on my to do list but I brought it up because of s3 and the hype and also I couldn’t wait to write it..this is so good thanks anon!! sorry if this is medically inaccurate!!)

Lance’s space adventures taught him many things, but one of the many things he had definitely learnt was that he didn’t know a lot of things. The universe was far more vast, diverse and complicated than he could ever had fathomed, and at times Lance questioned everything he once knew.

One thing he still knew for sure, is that he was extremely adaptable.

If Lance was part of the X Men (which in his opinion, was just as cool as flying a robotic lion), he was definitely Darwin. He adjusted pretty well to the Garrison, despite being many miles away from the family he loved very deeply. Things were constantly tossed and yanked away from him, and he bounced back pretty quick.

It wasn’t easy, definitely, but Lance worked hard and put a 100% in everything he did. Of course he still felt he wasn’t good enough, and that he could work into being more, but he could be slightly assured that what he had done was all he could have in that moment in time. It was one of the only things he prided himself in and held dear to his identity.

Lance constantly had a flaming passion, this fiery desire burning in his heart to be a hero and to do good for others. He wanted to look out for the little guy, inspired by his young nephews and nieces to be the guy that people wanted to look up to. Hope that people would turn to in the darkest of times. He had promised his family he would always be protecting them from harm, and he vowed to himself to do all in his power to do so.

But of course, he had to work through trials and tribulations. Life was not easy, and not everything he wanted could necessarily be what he got, but he’d try.

One of the obstacles he faced in his journey was asthma.

He’d had it for as long as he could remember, and it was a irritating when it interrupted his daily life, but since he’d always had it it was pretty normal for him. Sure, it weakened his immune system, made illnesses hit him a little harder than the average, make him carry around inhalers everywhere and be a little more careful and cautious than everyone else, but Lance would not let it get in the way of his dreams and not let it hold him back from doing what he wanted.

His family knew what triggered it the most, kept the house clean constantly, carried around inhalers themselves just in case Lance forgot, and always remembered to replace inhalers. When he moved to the Garrison, Hunk became like his family and was the only one who knew about it, but he was more than enough. Hunk helped him when he had attacks, taking it upon himself to educate himself more so he could give Lance a hand. With someone as lovely as Hunk by his side, it was a minor inconvenience, at most.

It was indeed proven as a minor inconvenience when a small cold spread across the five Paladins.

It had started with Pidge, who had passed it onto Hunk, who had passed it to Shiro, who passed it to Keith.

At most it was only a very slight fever topped with a few coughing and sneezing fits, increased drowsiness and fatigue, scratchy throats. The Paladins were grumpy and exhausted, but it wasn’t anything to be worried about. It was such a minor inconvenience to the team that Hunk was sent on a solo mission by the time Keith received the cold.

Despite the fact that the cold was so minor and something that could have been cured with a day to twos rest and some soup, Lance took it upon himself to take care of Keith. He checked up on him every hour, forgetting that he had a weaker immune system. Of course, Lance was last to receive the virus. On the day Hunk left for the solo mission, no less.

Lance woke up feeling extremely groggy and weak to the bone, intense heat radiating off his body, but yet trembling with the cold. He barely managed to open his eyes, which were heavy and burning slightly, but his vision managed to focus enough for him to check his clock. He had five minutes before his alarm would go off.

Lance let out a delighted, but tired noise and shut his eyes, pulling the blankets tight against his skin so he could insulate his body heat. He snuggled against one of his pillows and was lulled back to sleep in record breaking time.

However his five minute sleep had lasted far longer than he had expected.

When Lance finally woke up again, he woke to an obviously loud ringing of his alarm. He hissed at the irritating, headache inducing sound and sat up groggily, rubbing at his aching temple. His eyes scanned over to his alarm clock and froze as he realised it was a whole 25 minutes after his regular waking time.

Lance gasped softly, about to throw himself off bed when he began to cough violently. The sound that released from his lungs awfully congested and phlegmy, causing a light wheeze to sound out from his chest. He gasped for air, managing to cough enough so he wouldn’t choke.

Lance breathed in heavily, getting out of bed and quickly changing into his clothes before running out of his bedroom, despite his lungs begging and pleading for him to stop. They were still recovering from his past fit, and needed a bit of time to recover from it and certainly did not appreciate Lance’s sprinting.

Lance tried to ignore the thought in his head that was telling him none of the other Paladins cough’s sounded that horrible.

“Nice of you to join us,” Keith commented, not looking up as he heard the door sliding open.

Lance opened his mouth, probably about to shoot back a snide remark but instead, took a sharp inhale and sneezed ticklishly twice.

Shiro frowned, giving Lance a sympathetic smile, “I guess you weren’t immune to this after all.”

Lance rubbed his nose on his sleeve weakly, shaking his head, “Im fine, just a morning snee–”

He cut himself off with two more forceful, congested sneezes.

Keith looked over at Lance, a look of guilt momentarily washing over his features. He looked away defensively, curling up within himself in what seemed to be shame, “C-cover your mouth when you sneeze, Lance.”

Lance rolled his eyes, too tired to respond to Keith so sat down on one of the couches. He looked glum and exhausted, curling up, shivering ever so slightly.

“Oh c'mon Keith, cut him some slack, he’s sneezing because he looked after you,” Pidge insisted, focused on something on her computer.

Keith flushed, crossing his arms and refusing to meet Lance’s eyes, defensive and guilty, “I didn’t ask for him to look after me!”

When Lance didn’t respond, only coughing harshly into his sleeve, the sound awfully chesty and wet, Keith felt even worse.

“L-look, Lance, it was nice and stuff, but it was stupid. I didn’t need the help,” Keith said, completely flustered.

Shiro sighed, “What’s done is done. Lance is sick now. Nothing we can do about that.”

“You’ll get over it in like a day, Lance, you’ll be fine. Honestly, it’s not anything worth fussing over. You don’t even have to stay in bed or anything, so I wouldn’t worry or anything,” Pidge reassured, looking up at Lance kindly.

Lance offered a small, weak smile back at her. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was wrong. As the seconds went by he became even more convinced that Pidge was in fact very wrong, and that this wasn’t something that would fly by easily.

His chest felt extremely heavy, and there was a blockage in his airways that made it hard to breathe. He could practically feel some congestion and mucus building up inside him, a light wheeze every time he exhaled.

Lance coughed harshly again, his chest burning with a fiery blaze every time he did. His entire body was racked by his coughing, tears streaming down his eyes as he continued to mercilessly hack. He let out one final, strangled cough and slumped back against the couch, head spinning in circles as the world rotated violently. He breathed in heavily, basically gasping for air as his body desperately replenished itself with much needed oxygen.

Pidge was undeniably one of the most intelligent people Lance knew, but in this moment he was certain she was wrong. This was not going to be a good day.

Everyone was pretty easy on Lance that day, assigning him simple jobs while the rest of them continued to navigate and intensely plan away. It was a pretty easy-going, laid back da for him, but even the simplest, most easy jobs took a toll on Lance.

In fact Lance was extremely frustrated, because most of the Paladins had been able to do simple jobs easily while they were ill. Why couldn’t he?

He knew it was because of the asthma messing up his lungs, but he was frustrated nonetheless.

His chest felt extremely heavy, his wheezing even more noticeable as the day went on. He started to feel stifled and restrained, as if someone was squeezing at his chest and preventing him from breathing. It was so difficult to breathe at a steady pace and his body was not receiving the amount of oxygen that it needed. He felt completely drained and void of energy, head furiously pounding. He felt extremely faint, nauseous and weak. Not to mention warm yet freezing with a fever that had began to worsen.

Allura was explaining a mission that they were expecting to take on soon to Lance a rather simple one, but Lance could not hear her at all. He felt too sapped and drained that his body simply was no longer functioning.

“Lance, do you hear me?” She asked, very convinced that he hadn’t.

Lance sniffled softly, trying to keep his drooping lids open as he let out yet another cough, and croaked, “Sorry, princess, I didn’t.”

Allura sighed in exasperation, clearly exhausted by today, having exerted herself because they were short one and a half Paladins, “I have to explain again.”

Lance looked genuinely guilty, his voice raspy and sounding like his vocal chords had just been viciously burned and strangled, speaking straining his throat greatly, like a dagger slicing his throat as he spoke, “Im sorry. I just feel really sick.”

Shiro sighed softly, “We know Lance.”

Lance frowned, feeling a little off and extra sensitive from his fever, curling up in his seat pathetically as he shivered violently, “I  feel so awful..this really sucks you guys..”

Pidge spared him a glance, genuinely feeling really sorry for him but feeling a little cranky from the intensity of today, “Yeah Lance, it really does, we all know. We had it. It really isn’t so bad, i promise.”

Keith nodded, "We are sorry Lance, but we do need to continue on and work. We don’t have time for this at the moment. We really need to focus on this right now.”

Lance felt a pang in his heart, his entire demeanour declining. He nodded guiltily, his fever heightening his sensitivity. Realistically, the Paladins and he were just seriously misunderstanding and didn’t mean to be dismissive. Hell, if they knew Lance had asthma and felt this sick none of them would ever act like this, but Lance’s fever made him extra sensitive so he withdrew and hid away.

Lance overexerted himself the next few days, trying to work to an efficient standard to the best of his ability. He tried to push past his illness and elect to ignore it, ignoring the inclining fever and how the wheezing had intensified every time he breathed. He tried to ignore the violent coughing fits that completely took over him, the congested hacking that had him buckling at the knees and shaking violently, and the phlegm he had to spit out and the strange colour, and the odd discolouration.

His friends had helped, bringing him blankets when he worked and making him herbal tea, sending him off to bed earlier than the rest of them, excusing him from training and the like. But Lance downgraded the true extent of his illness, but the Paladins were a little wary of the fact Lance was sick longer than they had. For the most part he took care of himself, discreetly taking his inhaler when no one was looking and taking medicine to himself, making himself soup and drinking lots of water.

Lance kept his symptoms bottled up, ignoring how his chest felt like it was on fire and how his entire body became ablaze with pain every time he coughed. His chest felt tight and restricted his breathing, leaving him in a constant faint state, leaving him detached and derealised from his reality and friends. He didn’t even feel like a real person.

All this kept building up, until his bottle couldn’t handle anymore material and it eventually burst.

Everything came crashing down on the day Hunk returned. Everyone had come to greet him as the yellow lion mounted back onto the Castle, save for Lance.

He hadn’t even heard Coran announcing Hunk’s return, simply engulfed by his blazing fever as he struggled to get out of bed, fiercely sweating into his sheets and trying to find the willpower to get out of bed. His head hurt with such an enormous intensity that he wanted to cry out with how much it hurt. He’d clenched his teeth so tightly to try and subside the pain, desperately clawing at his head to try and stop the gnawing hurt in his head.

He then heard speaking over the intercom calling him for a meeting, and somehow Lance mustered the last slivers of his strength to get out of his bed. As he did the world spun violently, like he was on an intense amusement park ride. He groaned as he tried to keep himself from falling, as every time he walked he was shaking, knees threatening to buckle and give out on him. Lance pulled his jacket on and zipped it up, pulling his sleeves over his hands to mask as gloves.

As he staggered over to the bridge, his chest felt incredibly tight and constricted, feeling suffocated and smothered. He could barely breathe, his breathing so short and shallow only a minuscule amount of oxygen could enter his body at a time, leaving him feel very faint and weak. He could hear a loud wheezing from his chest as sweat dripped down his face.

Lance didn’t know how he made it to the Bridge, but he did. The doors slid open and Hunk beamed.

“Lance! I–” Hunk’s face dropped, his face growing into extreme worry in a millisecond as he gasped.

“Oh my god Lance!” He yelped, rushing towards his side.

Everyone else aboard whipped their heads around to see the commotion, all their mouths dropping open as they took in Lance’s ghastly appearance. He was horribly pale, dark circles underneath his eyes and he shivered intensely, looking like a zombie from those films that Lance very much loved. But as much as Lance enjoyed good zombie media, they all knew Lance didn’t want to become one.

“Oh my god!” Pidge exclaimed in shock, completely frozen in place, genuinely scared that her dear friend was dying.

“Lance!” Shiro yelled, angry that all this had happened under his nose.

Hunk pressed the back of his hand against Lance’s cheek, eyes widening at the intense heat coming off it. His concern was only further worsened as he began to hear wheezing coming from Lance.

Lance began to cough violently, entire frame taken over and racked with the congested, strangled explosions. His vocal chords strained each time he coughed, muscles being pulled fiercely and mercilessly. The extravaganza of the whole ordeal had Lance’s legs giving out on him, leeching him off the tiniest sliver of energy remained in him. He could no longer support himself, knees buckling and soon enough he was on the floor, continuing to hack his lungs out.

Everyone was frozen, completely stunned and at shock.

Suddenly, a strangled yell sounded out.

“Well don’t just stand there!” Keith yelled, running towards Lance and hitting his back, while Hunk sprinted for an inhaler, Shiro running for a glass of water and the remaining three running to prepare medicine and the medbay.

Keith kneeled down to Lance and rubbed his back as he continued to cough, whispering reassuring, soft words into his ear. His freehand stroked through Lance’s brown hair soothingly and reassuringly.

Lance spit out some phlegm, slightly tinged with a bit of blood.

“Oh Lance..” Keith muttered worriedly, letting Lance exhaustedly rest his head on his shoulder, breathing heavily and gasping for air.

“You’re going to be okay, buddy, I promise you, just hang on a little bit,” Keith whispered soothingly, continuing to twiddle with his hair.

Hunk burst back into the room and pressed the inhaler to Lance’s lips, watching as the boy visibly relaxed as the medicine entered his system.

“I didn’t know he was..” Keith said guilty.

Hunk smiled at him kindly and placed a hand on his shoulder, “Well know you know.”

Shiro returned with a glass of water, which Lance gulped down gratefully.

Soon enough, Pidge had returned.

“The medbay is ready for him now, do you guys know what’s wrong?” She said worriedly.

“I think it’s a chest infection,” Hunk said worriedly.

Shiro gave them all a reassuring look, “He will be just fine, Lance is tough.”

Keith didn’t look too convinced, still clearly shaken, but managed to stand up and pick Lance up into his arms, cradling him gently, beginning to walk towards Medbay.

“Keith?” Lance slurred feverishly.

“Yes?” Keith said shakily.

“I feel a little sick.”

Keith couldn’t help the shaky smile creeping onto his lips, “Solid observation, there, buddy.”

Lance woke up a few hours later, feeling a lot better but still a little out of it and generally unwell.

His eyes focused enough so that he could see Keith sitting down on a chair next to him, lightly nodding off.

“Keith?” Lance croaked out.

Keith woke instantaneously, unable to hide how his face lit up when he saw Lance awake. He couldn’t help the soft smile spreading across his lips.

“Oh god, Lance, you’re okay,” Keith breathed out.

Lance managed a husky chuckle, “Yeah, I guess dude.”

Keith’s face darkened slightly, “I’m so sorry.”

Lance’s face scrunched in confusion, “Huh?”

“..This is all my fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

Keith looked away guiltily, biting at his lip, “..You got sick because of me. You’re here because of me, and I didn’t even notice you became so bad.”

There was a long silence, and tears began to prick at Keith’s eyes.

“Hey man,” Lance pressed, “Stop this emo crap. I wanted to take care of you. I care about you, in case you didn’t know. I knew there were consequences, but I made a choice and I still stand by it.”

Keith chuckled shakily, looking up at Lance and unable to stop himself from grinning ear to ear. It was a good look on him.

Suddenly Keith leaned in and pressed a kiss against Lance’s lips, a spark of passion igniting in his body. He felt a mix of the cozy warmth of a fire on a cold winter’s night, and the cool summer breeze against his hair on a hot summer’s day. Keith felt firm, but yet sweet and soft, loving. The perfect combination of fire and ice.

Keith pulled away, despite Lance wishing against everything he never would, blushing hard, “I’m sorry.”

Lance smirked, “For what?”

“I don’t really know,” Keith giggled.

Keith tried to suppress the dorky grin spreading across his features, rubbing his neck, “Uh, I should tell the others you’re awake..um..let’s not tell anyone about this..for now, okay?”

Lance giggled, “Okay.”

They would all find out eventually.

[negare-boshi]

HQ!! Secret Santa: DaiSuga for Sisa

Ho, ho, ho! This is my present for @sisaturday for the @haikyuusecretsanta!! I struggled a bit with this one, because I wanted to write you the most fluff as possible but it took me some time to manage. I really hope you like it! These two are adorable. And Sisa! I hope you have an amazing New Year’s Eve and that the next year brings you all the most beautiful of things and experiences.

// @ellehletoile

Title: Warm White Winter Pairing: Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi Word count: 2.5 Rating: Teen Potential Trigger Warnings: Kotatsus Weren’t Hurt, A Ton Of Fluff, hope ur teeth r ok

// AO3 //

 (fic under the cut)

Warm White Winter

There’s a blistering snowstorm when Koushi steps out of his house. White swirls around, covering every shape and color from the deserted street. It slaps him with such force the hangover still lingering in his system disappears instantly. And so does the sensibility of his nose and the tip of his ears.

Koushi’s pretty sure he’s about to freeze to death, and shivers as he hugs himself as tight as he can.

He’s been living in Tokyo for too long. Miyagi’s winters are something short of unforgettable, but enough snow nights in the blue glow of the big city can paint over any memory. Koushi’s college life has overwritten enough of those for him to know how certain that is.

And so had the night before. It’s impressive how two years of living away, of crossing the line of adulthood, of long hours of classes and part-time jobs and finally tasting alcohol can change a person. Koushi hadn’t really thought about it until yesterday night when, wiggling, he’d made his way home with eyes big as moons and a knot the size of Okinawa stuck on his throat.

Probably something akin had been stuck in his stomach, but after the long trip he’d taken to the bathroom, he couldn’t be sure if it were old feelings, or just the bad settling of cheap sake.

After that,  Koushi had spent half the night wide awake, unable to tell if what still felt warm on his lips had been a drunken reality of a foolish dream, too close to his wildest fantasies to be anything but painful.

He walks through town like a ghost, feet dragging and pale as the snow surrounding him. Koushi moves purely out of will, the weak muscles sore after a long day of ice skating, of falling over and of regretful acts he still has trouble thinking of. Curse him and his vivid memory. Curse his muscles and their tactile memory. One would think a kiss would last less than a handful of falls ending in bruised skin.

Well, as Koushi knows now, one would be wrong.

Not even the frozen breeze can kill off the soft reminder of what branded Koushi’s mouth last night. Even with his hand gloved, when Koushi brings the tip of his finger right on his mouth, he still feels it. A burning mark never fading.

He rushes his steps on instinct then, and his balance breaks in the slippery road. Like a bird trying to take land, Koushi opens his arms and his eyes in equal amounts, and magically manages to keep himself standing. His heart pounds like drums, but the warmth in his lips never eases.

It’s almost thirty minutes later that Koushi makes it to Daichi’s door. He’s breathing heavily, and his feet are one second from falling off. A burning feeling has started crawling up his nose and around the sides of his face, but Koushi can’t quite tell if it’s anger, shame or a fever.

He rings the Sawamura’s household’s bell anyway. In the haze of his current mindset, there’s no regard for any of Daichi’s relatives, or the weirdness of Koushi, being up so early morning, walking around in the mid of a snowstorm.

Koushi wobbles. The door opens.

And the burning feeling lights up. Koushi’s not red anymore. He’s in flames.

“Suga,” Daichi musters, voice broken and hoarse. There’s sleep in his eyes still, and Koushi darts his eyes down to see he’s still wearing his sleeping clothes —a blurry memory of Koushi dropping a glass full of oiled paint on that shirt flashes as soon as Koushi sets eyes on it. “What are—”

“Let me in before I die. And I explain. Later.” Koushi manages to say, but he’s surprised Daichi understands at all, given the way his teeth chatter.

He’s been holding his upper arms for so long, he has trouble letting himself go even once he steps inside Daichi’s house and the warmth from it starts clearing his muscles. Koushi’s brain must have frozen partially, because he’s already spilling his guts out before Daichi can even lock the door.

“I’m so pissed at you.” His teeth rattle, and the words come out uneven and low. Daichi stills a second before turning around. Koushi can’t but grimace at the sight of him, right out of bed, still warm and soft from sleep. Something weird swirls in Koushi’s stomach. “I’m really, really mad right now.”

“I can see that.” Daichi arches an eyebrow, but there’s no way Koushi can answer him the same way. The muscles in his face are barely following any of his orders at this point, and Koushi can’t assure he has any at all. “You’re mad enough to kill yourself in a snowstorm. Smart.”

“Cut–cut the bu–bu–llshit. Dammit, I need–warmth.”

Daichi grabs his hands and pulls them away from himself, finally ungluing his fingers from his own arms. Koushi sighs in relief, and tries to wiggle himself out of his coat when Daichi takes it off him. Before he knows, he’s been pushed through the corridor, his gloves and scarf forgotten together with his coat and shoes. Koushi’s knuckles are purple when he dares to glance at them.

“Get in. I’ll make you tea,” Daichi says, pointing at the kotatsu. Koushi’s a bit ashamed of the way he moans at the sight of the blessed table and the heavy futon surrounding it.

He’s shameless when he jumps in, and Koushi couldn’t care less. Legs, thorso, arms and even his nose go under the table, all weirdly packed and together with the most loud of pleasure sounds. Koushi could cry from the soft sting of his limbs coming back to life thanks to the heated table and the heavy futon.

“I see you made yourself home.”

“Yes,” Koushi musters, eyes narrowed, from under the blanket. Daichi stares at him, fists at his hips, a shadow on his gaze. Koushi wants to take the tea, waiting for him on the table, but that would mean facing Daichi and the cold. “Thank you.”

Daichi sighs. Loudly. It’s not a happy sigh.

“Get in?” Koushi mumbles, futon still over his mouth. If he makes a weird face I’ll play dumb, but Daichi frowns before doing as told. His feet are warm against Koushi’s shins. Koushi doesn’t move. “Thanks,” he says again, and Daichi nods.

“Are you gonna drink your tea?”

“In a sec.”

Resting his head on his hand, elbow on the table, Daichi’s eyes never leave Koushi’s. It’s another warmth, one clearing the bitting cold from Koushi’s inside better than tea ever could. “You don’t look as hangover.”

“I did walk through a snowstorm for an hour.”

Daichi’s lips twitch. Koushi wants to kiss them. Instead, he wiggles under in the kotatsu.

“My head’s a bit…”

“It was an interesting night.”

That arched eyebrow again. The heat’s getting dizzy. Koushi has the most astonishing need of standing up and kissing Daichi. And that eyebrow. Gods, he’s gross.

“That’s an understanding.”

“Are we gonna do this all day?” Koushi asks, halfway exasperated, halfway amused. “Talk around it till we are so tired of it we will just leave it for another day?”

“What do you wanna talk about?”

Koushi sits, finally. He slides up slowly, intently brushing his legs with Daichi’s. Electricity flickers. Koushi keeps his gaze stubbornly locked with Daichi’s.

“How you told me you’ve had a crush on me since our third year after you were dared to kiss me.”

Daichi’s shoulders stiffen. “It was since our second year, but keep going.”

Koushi wants to throw something at him. And then kiss him. His mouth burns, and the more he thinks of it, the more intense the feeling becomes.

“You should have said something before.”

“Well,” Daichi shifts in his sit, and his knee brushes Koushi’s. Something heavy and bright goes from where they touch through every part of their bodies. Koushi’s breathless by the time Daichi says, “I didn’t. I never thought— You know why I didn’t.”

Koushi knows. Still, he can’t care one bit when the knot in his stomach is starting to feel exactly like the knot he’s had in his heart since their years of high school. One should get over a crush when there’s almost no contact with said crush over two years, but here Koushi stands, with a worryingly heavy light stuck where his heart should be. If it beats a bit faster, it will probably explode.

“It stings that you only kissed me because Oikawa dared you,” Koushi musters, and he’s so surprised by his words his hand actually cups his mouth, as if trying to catch them. He hasn’t meant to say that. In fact, he was about to say something salty and uncaring, maybe something sexy enough as to steal Daichi’s lips a second time.

“Oh.”

Koushi regrets not being under the futon. His heart stutters, and unable to answer Daichi’s gaze, he grabs the cup and puts it in front of his face. The warmth of the tea kisses his skin. Koushi pretends the blush now painting it red comes from the heat, and not from the overwhelming shame of knowing himself discovered.

“Suga…”

Koushi shakes his head.

“Suga, can you please put the cup down?”

“No, thank you.”

Daichi’s sigh is so heavy it shakes Koushi’s bones. Or maybe it’s not Daichi’s exasperation but Koushi’s nervousness, what’s shattering his nerves’ control. The hot cup brands Koushi’s palms, the prickleing of the contrast between his still cold hands and the heat travelling up his arms. Koushi bites his lower lip. Daichi grabs his wrist, so tenderly it almost a ghost touch, and forces Koushi to put his hands on the table.

Koushi stubbornly avoids his gaze. The table have several marks and burns he learns by heart, so aware of Daichi’s fingers still locked around his skin his heartbeat starts matching his.

And it’s going crazy.

“Suga— Koushi.” Koushi’s heart stutters as his eyes, unbidden, jump up and into Daichi’s. There’s a glow of softness and fear and things Koushi doesn’t dare hope for. “Why did your really come here?”

Daichi’s eyes are mesmerizing this close, with the swirling heat of the tea painting them, with the quiet fall of the snow outside. Koushi has no control. He’s looking at him, drowning in him, and before the question registers properly, he answers, “I wanted to kiss you again.”

The blush doesn’t surprise anyone. Koushi’s sure it hasn’t left his cheeks since he stepped inside anyway, but now it burns like a candle lit right on his skin. Daichi leans forward, and Koushi’s lips part because they are treaturous things.

“Suga…” Koushi makes a strangled sound and he tries, gods, he tries so hard to tear his eyes away from Daichi’s lips, but they are magnets Koushi can’t fight against. Ah, the promises they hold. “Yesterday’s dare?” Koushi manages to nod. “I asked Oikawa.”

“You asked what?” Koushi’s lips burn with the memory.

Daichi huffs, a ring of amusement. “The dare. I asked Oikawa to dare me to kiss you.”

That does it. Koushi stares back up, Daichi’s eyes filled with glee. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.”

A second ticks. It’s soundless, just how snowstorms ought to be. They stare at each other, as if they hadn’t already memorized to the bone how they look. Daichi’s lips twitch. Koushi doesn’t even think.

They meet halfway, a kiss on the corner of a warm kotatsu. It’s better, way better than the sloppy, drunken kiss they shared last night. As innocent as it is now, the simple touch of their lips is enough to lighten a whole city. Koushi’s bones shake. His heart shakes. When he closes his eyes, there are fireworks in their darkness, and nothing has ever felt more perfect than this moment.

Daichi barely gives him a second to breathe when they part, for he’s already on his mouth again, teasing his lips with his own, digging his nails on the back of his neck, deep into his hair. A mist takes over Koushi’s consciousness. Who needs to think, when one’s been kissed to oblivion.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, and at some point Koushi crawls out of his side of the kotatsu and into Daichi’s. Narrow as it is, Koushi has given himself the perfect excuse to be all over Daichi. The heat of the table has started to be insoportable, but the uncomfortableness of it barely registers.

The tea is already cold when they finally stop, panting and gasping, chests raising in sync in uneven breaths. Koushi rests against Daichi’s arm, both laying on the tatami staring at each other. Their legs tangle. Koushi smiles, wide and warm and glowing, and softly pulls Daichi closer to him.

“Hi,” Daichi musters, a soft red on his cheeks. Koushi doesn’t stop the urge. He leans forward and kisses them both, left, right, the tip of Daichi’s nose.

He giggles softly when he goes back to Daichi’s arm. Daichi has the sweetest of expressions. “Hi.”

Koushi didn’t know staring could be so… meaningful. Yes, he wants to kiss Daichi some more, and then maybe snuggle against him and take a long nap, but. This here, simply staying close to each other without needing to contain his own feelings… this is what Koushi has been yearning for. After years in high school holding his need to let his touch linger, of darting his eyes away during practice and camp and everything in between, of keeping the words bottled down scared of what they’d entitled if they ended up spilled. This moment sums up to be the best result Koushi could have ever imagined from that painful path.

So simple. So charged and yet so beautiful.

Daichi grabs Koushi’s hand. Their fingers meet and fall against each other and Koushi’s fascinated by the way it feels.

“You’ve warmed up.”

“Yes, thank you,” Koushi says with innuendo, and Daichi laughs before pulling from his hand.

“I didn’t know—” Daichi closes his eyes for a second. Koushi, as if he’s been doing it for years, brushes his knuckles with his fingers, reassuringly. “I didn’t know this could happen.”

“That’s a thing, you know.” There’s confusion gleaming in Daichi’s eyes when he opens it. Koushi smiles. “Talking. If you talk, you actually figure things out.”

“Thanks, smartass.”

Koushi laughs at him. And he’s still laughing when Daichi kisses him, trying to quiet his amusement. And again, when it doesn’t work the first time. Koushi lets himself be kissed, because having Sawamura Daichi pinning him to the floor, all muscles and heat, has been the number one in his list of fantasies.

“Koushi,” Daichi musters at some point, between kiss and kiss. Koushi’s head spins a bit at the sound of it. No one has ever said it with such intent, as if Koushi’s name meant something more. “Koushi, Koushi, Koushi.”

Koushi kisses Daichi senseless as a reward. They end up knocking on the kotatsu more times than not, and Daichi hits his wrist trying to turn their positions. Koushi laughs, and Daichi kisses his laugh away.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Daichi explains when Koushi complains about this rain of shut up kisses. “Kiss your laugh. It tastes better than I imagined.”

Koushi doesn’t complain anymore.

Not about the shut up kisses, at least.

He does complain about the warmth, and Daichi turns the kotatsu off.

He complains about him being the one making the first move, so Daichi proclaims them boyfriends (one can’t deny Koushi’s joy is as if witnessing the most beautiful of sunrises at the sound of that).

Koushi complains about Tokyo and how they’ve managed to spend two years without seeing each other. Daichi just kisses him, because that’s a stupid remark and an even stupider fear. Koushi lets himself be kissed shut, because he might have just said that just for that kiss.

The day goes by with a storm of kisses and whispered confessions; just the tip of the iceberg, but the gleaming promise of what’s hiding underneath. Koushi tells Daichi, I’ve dreamt of you since second year too. And Daichi tells Koushi, I looked for you in every train I ever took while I lived in Tokyo.

Koushi drinks from those truths, and from the ones unworded, and from those yet to come. At nightfall, Daichi puts his coat and his boats and takes Koushi home, always holding his hand. As if it were the most normal of things. As if this has been their routine since the very beginning.

“Well, here we are,” Koushi says in white, nose buried in his scarf.

“Lift your head.”

Koushi does. The kiss tastes of cold and dry lips and of promises and a love so old and yet so new it’s almost palpable.

Koushi wants to say, thank you, but instead he says, “Daichi. Pick me up for breakfast?”

“I’ll be here.” Daichi’s smile could be categorized as wicked. “See you tomorrow, Koushi.”

Koushi shivers and smiles and glows and can’t keep his heart from beating furiously happy for the rest of the night.  

[veneataur]

Fandom: BBC’s The Musketeers

Day 20 of 24

Title: Seeking Warmth

It’s been a long, hard day for all four of them. It started badly with a major train delay that left them driving to work. As soon as they arrived, late, Treville sent them out to follow up on a lead that came in on their current case. It led them up north to a park and ended with d’Artagnan and Porthos fishing Athos and Aramis out of a frozen pond that wasn’t as frozen as they thought. As they worked, the heavy snow turned to freezing rain and left a layer of ice on everything as well as soaked their jackets.

When they got back to the station, after a stop at the ER to make sure Athos and Aramis were okay after their watery adventure, they were all cold and exhausted. Athos and Aramis were given dry scrubs and d’Artagnan and Porthos gave them their jackets, which were wet and cold, but not soaked like theirs. Given their state, Treville sent them home.

They step through the door with slow, lethargic steps, shivering despite the warmth of the train ride. Porthos knew they could get home sooner on the train than by driving.

“You two should go shower and get warm,” Porthos says, pointing to Athos and Aramis, who are both sitting on the bench by the door.

“Too cold to move,” Athos mutters. He’s leaning on Aramis, who’s leaning on the wall, eyes closed.

“You really need to get warm. The doctor already said both of you are liable to catch a chest cold,” d’Artagnan says.

“My bones are cold,” Aramis whines and tries to pull in on himself. Athos moans as his pillow shifts.

“Stop,” Athos says, leaning further into Aramis.

“I’ll take Athos, you take Aramis,” Porthos tells d’Artagnan.

“Sure. You better take Athos first. I’m not sure he’s going to let Aramis go otherwise,” d’Artagnan says, watching as Athos buries himself deeper into Aramis’ side.

Porthos nods, agreeing. “Let’s go, Athos. It’s time to shower.”

“I’m cold,” Athos says.

“I know. That’s why you need to shower. You’ll get warm.”

“Aramis is warm, comfortable.”

“No, he’s shivering just as much as you,” Porthos says. “And you want him to get warm, don’t you?”

“’Mis,” Athos asks.

“’thos?” Aramis sounds a little more alert than Athos, but just as exhausted.

“Are you cold?”

“To the bone.”

“You need to shower.”

“After you.”

“They could shower together,” d’Artagnan suggests. “It might go easier and quicker.”

“Tried it before and it doesn’t work. Let’s go, Athos,” Porthos says matter-of-factly, pulling Athos away from Aramis and gently to his feet. With their two hot water heaters, neither man would have to worry about saving hot water for the other. Porthos just hopes that the two, in their frozen stupor, realize this. “Make sure he stays in the shower for more than a few minutes,” Porthos says, looking back at d’Artagnan, who’s managed to get Aramis to his feet, though he’s a bit unsteady. “When he’s in this state, his military training kicks in and he’ll be in there long enough to get clean and nothing more. Might even take a cold shower.”

“Really?”

“I’ve seen him do it. Sent him back in to take a longer, warmer shower. You might want to sit in there, too. Especially with how unsteady he is.”

“Got it.” d’Artagnan nods as he continues prodding Aramis along behind the others. Once upstairs, they separate. Porthos pushes Athos down to his bedroom and d’Artagnan guides Aramis into the main bathroom.

Both men sit in the steamy bathrooms keeping watch over their charges as they languidly shower. There’s some occasional prompting to stay awake, wash up, or keep themselves under the water. The shower, initially, wakes each more, but once the water is shut off, the energy seems to fade.

“Wrap this around your waist,” Porthos says, handing Athos a towel. He grabs the man’s robe as well, gently shoving Athos’ lethargic arms into it. After tying it, he guides Athos to sit on the toilet seat. With the bathroom door closed, the room is still warm with steam and Porthos knows it’ll help to warm Athos more. The shower only worked through the surface level chill. It’s going to take much of the night to get through to the bone. As Athos sits, Porthos takes another towel to dry the majority of the water from his hair.

“Do you have a blow dryer,” Porthos asks, taking a break from his hair-drying efforts.

“Hmm?” Athos looks up lazily, eyelids drooping easily.

“Blow dryer, Athos. Do you have one? I want to get the rest of the wetness out of your hair so we don’t slide back on getting you warm.”

“Down.” Athos points tiredly to the bottom of the vanity. Porthos leaves the towel on the man’s head to look, coming back with a rather old looking hair dryer. Athos sits patiently, shivering on occasion as the heat from the steam dissipates, as Porthos finishes drying his thick hair with the blow dryer.

“I’m going to take this to Aramis and d’Artagnan,” Porthos says, once he’s satisfied with how dry Athos’ hair is. “Why don’t you work on finding some warm clothes?” He guides the man to his closet, hoping that while he goes to the others, he’ll find something decent.

Porthos knocks gently on the main bathroom door, waiting as he listens to d’Artagnan telling Aramis to stay where he is and that there’s nothing wrong. Porthos curses under his breath, realizing now that this event would’ve put Aramis on edge.

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says, poking his head out the door.

“How’s it going?”

“Have a look.” d’Artagnan opens the door to show Aramis sitting on the toilet seat, a towel around his waist and one on his shoulders. There’s another in his lap, which Porthos thinks might’ve been used to attempt to dry his hair, which is just as thick as Athos’ and infinitely more unruly. Now, however, his hair is mostly plastered to his head. Aramis has a disgruntled look on his face and d’Artagnan looks just short of exasperated.

“Are you cooperating, Aramis?” Porthos sees that Aramis is just as tired looking as Athos and still cold.

“Headache,” Aramis says.

“I had no idea until I started trying to dry his hair. Then he went pale and threw up in the trash can,” d’Artagnan explains.

“I thought I recognized that smell. The doctor did say you had a mild concussion from hitting your head going in the water. But you do need to get your hair dry, ‘Mis,” Porthos says gently.

“Hurts,” Aramis reiterates with a noticeable whine.

“I know. But d’Artagnan will be gentle.” Porthos turns to d’Artagnan. “Once you get the worst of the water out, use this.” He holds up the blow dryer. d’Artagnan gives him a puzzled look. “It’s Athos’. I don’t know why, but I’m glad he had one. It’ll help to keep the chill off them. We’re going to be spending a good part of the night getting them warm.”

“Right.” d’Artagnan nods and takes the blow dryer. “How’s Athos?”

“’Bout the same as him. Tired, cold. I left him finding some warm clothes, which I hope he’s done. I should get back. Give a shout if you need help. Once we get them dressed, we’ll leave them in Athos’ room while we get changed.”

d’Artagnan agrees and the two go back to their charges.

Back in Athos’ room, Porthos finds that he’s found some clothes, but they’ll hardly get him warm. Without speaking, he finds a pair of sweats, an undershirt, a long-sleeved shirt, and a thick sweater, handing the stack to Athos, who did manage to get boxers on at the very least. While Athos slowly dresses, Porthos finds him some socks and puts them on as Athos works on the series of tops. It’s slow going thanks to the bruising finally settling in. In the end, he also helps Athos to get the sweater on, when it proves to be difficult for his tired brain to sort out.

“Wait here, Athos,” Porthos says. Athos is sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m going to go help d’Artagnan with Aramis.”

“I can help,” Athos says.

“I know. But I’ll get it. You just curl up on the bed for now.” He eases Athos down to lay on his side and grabs a blanket from the end of the bed to throw over him. “Once he’s done, I’ll bring him in here, okay.”

“Okay.” Athos nods as he pulls the blanket around himself.

Porthos finds d’Artagnan and Aramis in the latter’s bedroom, with Aramis sitting on the bed, dressed in sweatpants and d’Artagnan struggling to get a shirt on him.

“Hey, ‘Mis,” Porthos says calmly, “why don’t you help d’Artagnan by raising your arms.”

“Hurts,” Aramis says. Like Athos, Aramis is starting bruise and the heat from the shower is quickly leaking from the muscles, letting them stiffen up.

“I know, but please just put out your arms. We’ll get the rest.”

When Aramis complies, Porthos takes the t-shirt and puts it on his arms, working to gently ease it over his head and down his abdomen with the least amount of movement required by Aramis.

“He has a thick flannel and zipper hoodie in his closet. Can you find them,” Porthos asks d’Artagnan. “He’s not going to be able to get anything else on with how fast the stiffness is starting.” It doesn’t take d’Artagnan long to return with the items in hand. By then, Porthos has socks on Aramis.

“Let’s get you standing,” Porthos says.

Aramis shakes his head.

“This’ll be much easier, Aramis,” d’Artagnan says.

“Listen to the Pup,” Porthos says, which earns him a glare from d’Artagnan, who’s never liked that nickname. “Stand up and we’ll get you dressed in something warm. Then you can go lay on Athos’ bed while we get changed.”

“How’s Athos,” Aramis asks.

“He’s cold and tired, much like you. Now, come on. To your feet and you’ll be able to see for yourself.” Porthos gives Aramis a light pull up until he’s on his feet. Between him and d’Artagnan, they finish getting Aramis dressed in the flannel and hoodie. They take him to Athos’ room and let him find a spot on the bed close to Athos. Porthos tosses another blanket on them and then he and d’Artagnan go get in warm clothes themselves.

Once dressed in warm clothes for the first time in several hours, they disentangle, Aramis and Athos, the two are ushered to the den downstairs where Porthos leaves d’Artagnan in charge of getting the room warm and helping them to get comfortable. Porthos himself goes to the kitchen to get hot chocolate going. He dumps a couple jars of Aramis’ chicken noodle soup into a pot to warm and gets busy making a plate of grilled cheese and ham sandwiches. Everything they’ll eat tonight will be warm. Even he’s starting to feel the chill in his bones and he wasn’t anywhere near as wet at Athos and Aramis. d’Artagnan, himself, with his thinner frame must be feeling colder than him.

When the sandwiches are done, he cuts them into single bite pieces, knowing that Athos and Aramis will do best with smaller pieces that are easier to eat and make less of a mess. He can also get them to eat more when they don’t realize how much of a full sandwich they’re eating. The soup he leaves in the pot, planning to use a trivet and stick the whole thing on the coffee table so they can ladle out what they want into large mugs. He wants no excuses for them all to get warm food in them, especially Athos and Aramis. This won’t ward off any illnesses that are settling, but it will ease part of their discomfort.

As he brings the food and dishes into the den, he sees that the fireplace is going which has done wonders in warming up the room. Athos and Aramis are on the couch in much the same position as they were at the front door. d’Artagnan has a couple blankets on them, including the electric blanket.

“You might want to start to rouse them,” Porthos says. “I have the food ready.”

When he brings in a pitcher of water and four glasses, Athos and Aramis are awake, but neither looks pleased nor like they’ll be awake for long.

“Okay, the deal is, you each eat at least two ladles of soup, eight pieces of the sandwiches, drink a glass of water, and a mug of hot chocolate, then you can go back to dozing.” Porthos is firm but kind in his command. He knows how to deal with these two, well-accustomed to doing it on his own. Athos and Aramis, knowing that tone, nod without protest. They disentangle themselves from the blankets and each other to sit up and take the food from Porthos. d’Artagnan and Porthos serve themselves and take a seat on the couch and in the armchair.

Dinner is quiet with just the sound of slurping, sipping, and the crackling fire. When Athos and Aramis have eaten their required quota, plus a couple extra pieces of the sandwich each, d’Artagnan takes the dishes back to the kitchen and leaves Porthos to help them get settled back in. He helps Porthos in cleaning up before they both settle back into their spots on the couch and armchair, with a blanket each. Porthos turns on the TV, turning to an oldies channel where I Love Lucy is playing and they settle in for a night of looking after Athos and Aramis, waiting for the bone chill to be replaced by a feverish chill and a raspy, wet cough. It’s going to be a long week coming up for them all.

[punishandenslavesuckers]

She has no throne. Girls without thrones should not have knights, but hers won’t go. Princess Zelda – the girl who killed Calamity – would love to fade into legend, but Link’s bought a house, he’s fighting off monsters, and he’s selling giant horses to strangely familiar Gerudo men. She'll never have any peace now. (ao3)  

(chapter one) (chapter two) (chapter three) (chapter four)

Like in most villages, Link’s arrival at the Rito Village main bridge gets a disproportionate amount of attention. As they board their horses at the village Stable, half a dozen Rito drop out of the sky and into the yard beyond the fence.

By the time Zelda and Draga finish talking to the stable hand, Link’s surrounded by a small flock of the massive bird-like tribespeople, three of whom greet the shorter Hylian with a warm mo’a – gently butting their foreheads against his and turning their faces aside to briefly press along the side of his head. It’s a strictly Rito welcome. Not usually shared with non-Rito on the basis that non-Rito often find the bird-like race welcoming and polite but ultimately somewhat stand-offish after a certain degree of familiarity. ‘Stand-offish’ generally meaning that they liked you well enough to test your friendship a little, as was customary. But the average Hylian doesn’t know they should be excited about a bit of Rito ribbing and take the new cold-shoulder as a hint to get lost.

Link, having dealt with Revali (who did not actually want to be friends at all), doesn’t let ribbing of any kind deter him. Generally. 

Link slings his pack to the ground as a massive white-feathered Rito makes a smooth but high-speed landing directly in front of him, straightening up to tower over the Hylian hero, head tilted with a positively predatory lean. He’s a warrior for sure – broad-shouldered frame roped with avian muscle, a massive bow clipped to his back. Brutal, eagle-like features make his expression difficult to read. Of the assembled Rito, he appears the most likely to embody the warrior reputation of his people – that he may slit a man’s throat on the raptorial hook of his beak and hurl them hundreds of feet to their squalling death. But presently, he just looks… worried? No. He looks impatient.  

“Teba?” Link says, tone a sure sign he’s noticed. “What’s wrong?”

“Is this your priestess?” he says, wasting breath on not a single pleasantry. His voice, rough, shockingly deep, matches Draga’s for pitch and intensity. “You vouch for her skills?”

Link, startled by this, nods.

“Good. Apologies, but we need you immediately.” The giant Rito gets down on one kneel, facing her. “Get on,” he says, indicating his back.

“I –” She looks at Link for guidance and gets an urgent nod. “Okay of course.” She rushes to loop two arms around Teba’s neck, careful to sit high so she can rest her armpits over the top of his shoulders, weight against his chest and not his throat. “I’m okay. You can go fast. I’ve done this before.”

He takes her at her word and launches skyward.

The air screams, her stomach drops, but Zelda keeps her head tucked against Teba’s neck, feeling the impossible power in the musculature of his upper back and chest, freezing mountain air tearing her hair into a tangle. She peeks over his shoulder just in time to see a large wooden platform rising to meet them and she realizes, blankly, that it’s Revali’s Landing. Built like the rest of the village into the side of the impossible white spire of porous stone that marks the Rito stronghold – she knows it better than any part of the Village even a century later.

Teba drops into the center of it and lets her down. He leads her quickly to a private residence one landing up where a pink-feathered Rito in white physician’s garb is waiting at the door. Strange that there even is a door – most Rito homes are open air platforms left exposed in the day so their residents and come and go by sky as needed. The open walls have been enclosed in thick canvas and cloth tenting, creating an enclosed winter dome. She can smell incense and medicinal herb from the interior.

“You’re a healer?” the Rito woman demands, in a voice that would be musically sweet if she wasn’t deathly serious.

Zelda is ushered her into the tent, but Teba stays outside. Quarantine possibly? Zelda rolls her sleeves up as she enters.

“Yes. I read Teba’s letters. I’m ready to start.”

“Good. I am Saki. Head physician. Teba is my husband.”

Zelda nods. “Thank you for the letters. Where’s the –?” She stops cold, almost stumbling. “The patient?” she finishes.

There’s a Rito male lying on a reed mat near heated stone hearth. He’s lying on his back, visibly in pain, both his wings curled to his chest, pressing into his sternum. He’s breathing in short, wet, asthmatic gasps that rack the Rito’s whole body. There are patches of molting feathers along his shoulders and back. The floor is dark with them. Before the illness, he was probably blue-black and cream-colored in plumage, a beautiful mohawk-ish head crest and a dozen warrior braids. Now, he looks dusty and grey.

He looks, with some exceptions, almost exactly like Revali.

“What is it?” Saki demands, edgy. “Link told you what’s happening?”

“Yes, I… what’s his name?”

“Mishi. The illness started in the house of his father and mother, then spread through the rest of the family and –” She stops. “He’s dying. This is the last stage. I’m only asking you to… try.” Then, with un-Rito-ish desperation, she says, “Please.”

Zelda goes to Mishi’s bed side and very gently draws his hands away from his chest so she can see. He can’t speak by now. He looks at her. He’s less eagle-like than Teba in facial structure. More like a raven. His eyes are neon-green and afraid. She tries to smile as she, carefully, places two hands palm down over his heaving ribs. The feathers beneath her fingers are soft, more downy fluff than the plumage lining his shoulders and arms. Rito hearts beat faster than human ones, but his feels like a humming bird snared behind a hollow-boned cage.

“Hey, Mishi? I need you to stay with me,” she says as her palms begin to glow, begin to infuse a warm light into the dense muscle beneath her fingers. “Breathe, okay? Try to breathe big, deep breaths for me.”

He nods and, with great effort, tries to keep breathing. Instead, he coughs until he gags, then struggles twice over to breathe. She cups his throat, very gently with two hands then slowly moves them down, spreading them across the band of his clavicles, then over his chest, over his lungs, then down to below his ribcage where the Rito’s waist begins to come in. Then she does it again – dousing for the damage that’s killing him. Feeling it under her fingers as pressure and cold. Sweat runs down her cheek.

“You’re fine,” she says warmly. She can feel something burning away under the radiant gold that she’s flooding into the dark, afflicted interior of Mishi’s chest. “Stay with me.”

Her head is swimming a little from exertion – focusing entirely on the indefinable sensation of organic systems finding their right configurations by her hand. It’s a blind shot, the magic of healing. Done by instinct and repetition, like braiding her hair. Or drawing a bow.

“You’re pale,” Saki says.

“I’m fine.”

She hears heavy footfalls outside, voices. A triangle of light opens across the wall as someone draws the curtain back and a very large person enters the room. 

“What are you doing?” Draga says.

She doesn’t look up from Mishi. “Healing. Where’s Link?”

“Outside. You’re using too much energy.”

“Go away. Send Link in here.”

“Why? Because he won’t tell you to stop?”

And he’s right, so she just redoubles her efforts. Light flares between her fingers, a heat rushing from her hands, lifting her hair from her shoulders. Draga immediately moves to kneel beside her, one fist set against the floor so he can lean near her without touching her.

“You need to stop,” he says.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snaps. Gold is gathering in her arms like candle flame. Her teeth ache from gritting them. Her head pounds. There’s a pain gathering in her lower back and mounting her spine. “I can do this. This is nothing compared to what I’ve done before.”

“This is nothing like what you’ve done before.”

Saki looks sharply at her.

“It’s taking longer than it should,” Zelda explains, glaring at Draga. “That’s all. I can do this.” Her arms are starting to shake. The golden shine beneath her fingers flickers. “Goddess. Where is it?” She stacks both hands over Mishi’s laboring heart. “Draga, just trust me. I can get this.”

“You need to stop or it’s going to kill you.”

Saki, hearing this, shakes her head and starts to push Zelda away. “Okay. I’m sorry, but I won’t allow that.”

“No! Just wait,” Zelda cries. “Please, I can save him.”

Saki glances at Draga, then back to Zelda. “Priestess, the champion descendent vouched for your skill and cited your healing work in Hebra and Akkala as proof of your ability. I trust his judgement as far as your skills collude it, but this cannot continue. I thank you for your efforts as they are.”

 “I didn’t say we’re letting the boy die,” Draga says somewhat drily. He pulls a piece of white chalk from his belt and starts surreptitiously marking the floor in sigils Zelda doesn’t recognize, then stares hard at them. Zelda smells copper – like warm metal or blood. He looks at her. “Zelda, I think your power’s being drawn off. You won’t be able to heal him entirely, but you can stave off the killing blow. Pick something very specific to heal, then stop.”

Mishi sits up a little, making it easier for her to lay hands along the curve of his windpipe, then against his chest again. He’s breathing slowly now, evenly. By the time she’s finished, he’s dozed off into what Saki informs them is his first unlabored sleep in three days. Draga grunts, frowning at the marks on the floor. Then he sits forward, presses his palm down over them and Zelda watches a quick, dull flash of red snake across the lettering and fade. The markings smoke slightly, burned into the wood. He wipes his palm off on his trousers.

“Saki, Mishi is the last in his familial line. If he dies, that ends it, correct?”

Saki tenses. “How do you know that?”

“That’s not important. What else can you tell me?” Draga presses. “Was there’s anything special about Mishi’s family? Were they a political target? Did they have enemies.”

Saki looks shocked. “No. No, if anything the opposite.”

“Why the opposite?”

“They… they were from the same clan as the Rito Champion, Revali.” Saki does not notice the look on Zelda’s face or if she does, she does not give a sign. “But why does that matter? This is an illness. It began in their family and spread as the healthy family members came to help.”

“This isn’t a disease,” Draga says, calmly. “It’s a curse. I suspect one tied to his family in some way. I’m afraid if Mishi dies, it’s going to jump to the next group of tribesman that meet its… criteria.” He glances at their patient who sleeps on, surrounded by people, yet somehow completely unprotected. “I’m going to need time and Zelda will need to recover. First, we must break the curse. Then we can save your tribesman, but I would recommend you limit all Rito contact with him until I determine the vector of transmission.”

“But if what you say is true,” Saki murmurs, “then there is a murderer to blame for this?”

There’s a pause, because there’s a very Rito flash of… intention in Saki’s eyes. Like an archer seeking a target.

“Possibly,” Draga says. “Generational curses are indistinguishable, generally, from a pre-meditated hex. It could be one person in the family encountered a cursed object or entity and it spread from there down the line. I can try to find out and if there is a party to blame. Does this meet with your approval?” When he receives a nod from Saki, he turns his attention back to Zelda. “I will need you strong. Go get Link and get some rest. I’ll call you back when I have something for you to fight.” Then in Gerudo, “Is that acceptable, Princess?”

That annoys her, but she thinks he’s trying to make her angry at this point.

She stands up. “I can do that. Thank you, Draga.”

His expression loses a touch of its edge. “I’ll fix this,” he says.

Zelda manages a very brittle smile. “I think we got here too late for that.”

“Draga’s mad at me,” Zelda says.

Link sits forward, scowling, and signs, ‘I am also mad at you.’

“Right.”

She spends two more days sitting with Mishi to stave off the effects of the curse. Draga spends that same time stomping around the Rito Village, disappearing for hours to walk about the foothills around the lake, scaring off large animals and writing things in a small grungy notepad. Link goes with him sometimes. He stays with her other times. When asked what Draga is doing, Link’s not sure because 90% of what Draga does looks like “scribbling in the dirt” and “squinting really hard at nothing then cursing”. He says Draga is doing ‘spellwork’ to trace the source of the curse.

He kind of fumbles over a slang sign for ‘spellwork’ that’s dangerously close to ‘magical bullshit’.

They’re sitting together on Revali’s Landing, side-by-side with their legs hanging over the edge. Link is not actually mad at her, despite his insistence because he’s far too worried to make room for being mad as well.

Link signs. ‘Don’t worry so much. Draga will get it.’

Zelda sighs. “I didn’t even notice it could be a curse.”

‘Were you ever trained for that? Detecting curses? Who curses people? That sounds fake.’

“You literally fought an incarnation of ancient evil and fight magically tainted monsters all the time. You have several semi-cursed objects in your travel pack that are so magically afflicted that Draga hit you in the face once because he thought one of your masks was taking root in your skull.”

“Psh,” he says in that tone that is largely responsible for 90% of Draga’s anxiety. Then he signs, ‘Were you trained?’

“Well, no, but… I don’t know. I thought it would be natural to feel and dispel such things.” She sighs. “I am… resigned to the notion that my power is waning but I thought more highly of my abilities.”

‘Draga said it was subtle. It’s why he’s so annoyed with it.’

“Your point?”

‘It’s easy to miss.’

“All my training as a girl was so… academic. The powers passed from my mother and grandmother were divinely sourced. Not something one could learn from practical wizardry so, while I have some training, none of it was… none of it was anything I could practice. Nothing I learned were things I could take with me in any useful fashion and I find that so… frustrating.”

Link says nothing to that.

“I’m a little embarrassed, if I’m honest. Aren’t I supposed to be good at this?”

Link snorts.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Relax,” he says out loud.

“I can’t just relax,” she says, offended.

“Not with that face,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

He smiles at her.

“If you’re trying to improve my mood, you’re doing a poor job of it.” She stares out over the massive glacial basin that makes up Rito Lake, to the mountain range beyond. “If Draga is right, then someone killed Revali’s family while we were... elsewhere. I can’t stand it. I honestly… I can’t.”

Link’s not smiling anymore.

“It’s just absurd,” she says, aware that she’s starting to babble, to become frantic. “Because there’s nothing to gain from it. I mean… of all the Champions... Revali is gone. Revali’s abilities were singular. That was the… the whole point with him, you see, that he was the first of his family to do what he did. There was nothing he inherited. Nothing special in his bloodline. He did everything he did on his own so attacking his family is unwarranted and…” She shakes out her hands. She was clenching them, you see. “That’s stupid, Link,” she says angrily, choking a little. “That’s stupid. Why would someone do that to them?”

“Maybe no one did,” Link says gently. “I could be an accident.”

“That’s worse though! Don’t you understand? That’s worse!”

Link says nothing to that.

“They’re gone.” She covers her mouth with her hands. “They died while I was doing other things.”

Link says nothing.

The sun’s starting to fall in earnest now, a warm blush of orange receding from the clouds over the mountains. She can see her breath in the air and she thinks of sitting here, one hundred years ago while Revali filled the silence with assurances that, hey, most people are idiot nay-sayers and morons. Whiners and charlatans worthy of nothing but her contempt and fuck them anyways. They could go to hell. What did they know?

Zelda bends a little at the waist, leaning forward over the edge until the vertigo rushes her. Her hair slides forward over her shoulders and hangs, framing the fall to the icy waters below and –

“Did you know he was shot down?” she gasps.

Link, who instinctively looped an arm around her waist moments before, says nothing.

“They say he… he faced the Windblight on top of Medoh and he was… they all saw him fall.”

Link says nothing.

“He would have hated that.”

Link, still, says nothing.

“You know, we were friends?” she says though it hurts to do so. “He would fly to meet me at the castle and, sometimes, he would sneak me out to do field surveys when I should have been praying. He… he thought praying for salvation was stupid. He liked that I was trying to find practical ways to fight back. He said it was ‘very Rito’ of me.” She laughs, but it stings. “Goddess, it’s been one hundred years. Why do I keep thinking I’m going to see them again? Why does it feel like I still have time? And then I remember and its…”

Link has his arms around her ribs, somewhere between a hug and cautionary hold to keep her from rolling off the landing. He commits to a hug then, pulling her against him and kind of collaring her arms between her chest and his. He always hugs her way too tightly, but for whatever reason she prefers that – the feeling of being contained somehow. Like she could scream for days and it would be okay to do so. Link would just absorb it, like lightning coursing to ground.

They watch the sun set over Revali’s Landing.

  Draga is looking up at her. He’s seated by a light source of some kind, a fire maybe or a hearth with the remains of a fire, something dim enough she can’t see his face in full detail but even in the dark she knows his features – the dark dramatic line of his jaw and brow, that he’s thinking about something, a hundred miles away. And yet, when he looks up at her he’s unfamiliar. His eyes – green in the dark, but there’s something beyond the surface, like live coals in deep water. The sands shift under her feet. She can see her own breath in the desert cold. Draga tilts his head and asks her what she is doing. He asks her very calmly.

He asks her because she’s fitting an arrow to the string of a bow. The bow is gold. Her hands are also gold, dripping with gold, a warm oily honey of gold soaking her arms from the elbow down. The shaft is platinum. The arrowhead has dull internal luminance.

“What are you doing?” he says again.

She draws the line back, smearing gold across her cheek.

“What are you –?”

 She wakes up.

There’s a thin, watery line of sunrise visible through the slits between the rug walls of their room. For a moment, she can’t recall the strange octagon shape of the apartment, the feather bed and heavy quilt around her, the elaborate patterns in the tenting walls. The soft creak of wood brings her slowly back. They’re at the Rito Village inn – a sturdy wooden structure built (like the rest of the village) into the side of the impossible central spire that marks the Rito stronghold. The rooms are dozens of nest-style wooden platforms enclosed by retractable cloth walls and warmed by depressed stone hearths at the center of the floor.

She can hear the faint sound of birds outside.

She lies there, shocked by her calm. Horrified by Link who sleeps on undisturbed beside her. Horrified by the sham of his safety in her bed – one they share by habit now despite what that might suggest. For a while, she lies there, hopeful that Link’s sleeping façade will break apart and he’ll wake too. He’ll ask her if she saw Draga like he did once before and she will not be alone with it.

But Link lies dead asleep with his arm under his head, his bangs in his eyes, pale lashes laid against his cheekbones. Even in the dim dawn light he looks peaceful. Not like a man having a divinely shared nightmare. Not like someone she can blame for infecting her with some viral strain of violence. She hates the small hopeful part of herself eager to pin the problem on Link and rolls away from him, throwing the covers back so she can creep across the cool wooden floor and make use of the water basin and clean washcloth laid out by the door.

She dresses quickly, shakily. Picks up her water canteen from where she left it just outside the door to chill in the mountain air. She rinses her mouth out, puts on her boots and that’s when she hears a faint knock against the door frame from outside. She answers slowly, peering out into the cold dawn morning. It’s Draga. He’s over-dressed in Snowquill gear and a scarf. The cold in this region irritates everything in him that can be irritated, but it’s 4am and he shouldn’t be awake much less knocking at their door and for a moment a tiny frisson of dread curls around her heart and –

“Mishi is in danger,” he says.

She blinks. “What?”

“The curse,” he says impatiently pulling his scarf down. His nose is a red from the cold. She can see his breath. “I know it’s structure now, but it’s accelerating. I can break it, but I need you. Both of you.”

Link’s awake and dressed in seconds. They follow Draga up the multi-tiered spirals of steps and landings that comprise the Rito Village, rushing to keep pace with him as he only uses every other step to climb. The wood groans every time he pushes off, none of this village being built for someone his size and density.

“What’s going on?” Zelda demands.

“The spell is designed to resist magical defense,” he says, skipping two stairs and forcing the smaller Hylians to race up the steps after him. “Ancient sorcery. Something changed when you began to treat Mishi with magic and when I stripped out the obfuscation from the spell, it triggered some kind of failsafe.” He sounds frustrated. “We need to break it now, before it can get its teeth into Mishi. I have a… a way to do it.”

They reach the small quarantined platform that makes up Mishi’s apartment. The moment they enter… Zelda knows something is wrong. Mishi’s lying, seemingly asleep, surrounded by a series of wire and paper lanterns. Draga’s plastered paper protection wards on every wall. But there’s… something in the room. Like the air pressure inside his home is twice what it shoulder be. The air’s harder to breathe and tastes… chemical and sour. Like fermentation and machine oil. She knows that smell. She knows it in her nightmares and Zelda moves to kneel on the far side of Mishi’s bed, laying a hand over the Rito’s temple and forehead.

“He’s cold,” she says. “He’s breathing but he’s cold.”

She tries to heal, yelps when it rebounds against her palm. Frantic, she spreads her hands and tries to push a purification but, again, nothing happens.

“I can’t… I can’t heal him. What –?”

Draga shakes his head. “He’s not sick, the curse is drawing off his life. We need to break it to heal him.”

“How?” Link demands.

“I can do it,” Draga says.

Then he hesitates.

“Draga!” Zelda cries. Mishi’s breath is visible now. He’s shivering, violently. “Draga, he’s dying.”

“I can do this,” Draga whispers.

He sounds afraid. She’s never heard that before, not from Draga and it shocks her how profoundly she’d cemented him in her mind – a fixed point, unshakable as the fucking sun. Hearing him now, it puts a fine surgical line through the image she’d constructed of him. He looks at her and his eyes are undeniably lit by some internal flame – like fairy lights but darker and older and that fire of it sets something in her heart racing. He starts to say something but the words catch on his lips and that surgical seam splits into a wound, pulling it open and suddenly she can see past her assumptions: He’s not just afraid, he’s terrified.

“I can do it, but I need you ground me.”

“What?”

“You and Link. I need you to shield me.” He’s pushing his sleeves up to his elbows, kneeling now so he’s on both knees beside Mishi’s bed and there’s something… threatening in that: Draga on his knees. He looks at her, tone low, urgent. “We don’t have time. You source your power from Hylia so I need you to hide what I’m doing in that power. Do you understand?” And when Zelda stares, frozen, he raises his voice. “Zelda, do you understand me or not? I can’t do this unless you –!”

Link moves to stand beside him.

 Draga stops. They both stop. The whole room (the whole world) seems to stop.

Link’s got the sacred blade out. (When did he draw it? Did she see it? Why?) He’s calm. He stares down at Draga and his eyes aren’t human for a moment. They’re composed of the same ancient metal as the blade, lit from the inside by the cold silver flame that sets the air around him moving. His breath is visible in the air, his hair and clothes disturbed by a wind localized to him alone and… Zelda can feel it. Her skin warming, her palms heating like a skillet to flame. She can taste whatever Link’s drawing on – bitter sweet, like licking the residue of sap from summer-hot skin. It makes her want to move… to yell… to set her teeth in something and bite down. She –

Link drives the blade point first into the floor next to Mishi’s bed.

Before their very eyes, thin sap-green branches start to thread up from the old floorboards, infused with borrowed vitality. Link goes down on one knee before the sword, reversing his hold on the hilt so he can grip it like a mountaineer grips a cliff-face, not a weapon but a handhold. Then he lays his opposite hand against Mishi’s chest.

The Hero looks at them both.

“Move,” he says.

Draga does not hesitate.

He pulls a blade from his belt and cuts his right palm open.

Blood splatters the floor. He closes his bleeding hand over a bone and ruby pendant at his neck. He rips it from the cord and holds it in his fist against his heart. His other hand he lays palm down on Mish’s chest, covering Link’s hand, but Link doesn’t even flinch, not at the blood, the violence of it, or the sick lurch in the air when Draga begins to speak. He casts in a language Zelda can’t understand – too old to fathom, in a voice that seems less like one man speaking and more like a dozen, three dozen, a hundred voices speaking at once – and the shadows gather in the corners of the room. Shadows deepen, lengthen, darken and suddenly the only light in the room is the silver from the sword, gauzy ribbons of radiance thrown around them on an erratic wind.

Draga sees the shadows, but keeps going.

He keeps speaking until he’s shouting and Zelda realizes the voices aren’t him. He’s trying to speak louder than the shadows in the room which are beginning to slither toward him, sending forth rhizoids of darkness across the flowering floor, probing the edges of the light, seeking a path to the source. The room stinks now – of blood, of rot, of flowers and fresh sap, of iron, and the forge. Draga is bellowing now, as loud as he can but the shadows are buzzing, are loud, a deafening cacophony rising like an infinite field of cicadas around them.

Zelda knows without knowing that if Draga loses his voice in the riot, the shadows will penetrate Link’s barrier wall and have every drop of blood from the caster. She knows without knowing, that every voice in the shadow has a name, and every single one of them knows Draga by his. They are clawing, frantic, cannibalistic and mad trying to get past Link to reach him. Link they know, but they can’t look at because (there is a Wolf composed of woven moonlight stalking through the valley of shadow) he’s impervious to them.

But she…

She is their Enemy.

Zelda moves now. She grabs the hilt of the sacred blade, her hand closing around Link’s, her other hand grabbing Draga’s bloody wrist where the pendants has begun to burn him now. She can smell the sick acrid scent of his palm. She can feel Link struggling to breathe. She closes the circuit of three, Mishi at the center, and the shadows begin to scream.

She opens her eyes. She thinks they’re filled with light.

“I can see you,” she says to the legion.

The screaming stops.

Gold runs from her palms like water, translucent and infused with sunlight, running down her arms and dripping from her elbows. Her skin’s begun to shine internally, golden light sparking along the tracery system of her veins then shining from within. Her palm on Draga’s skin steams, a gold mist rising from the place where their hands meet, like an ocean finding a lava-flow. Her fingers around Link’s are electric, rain infused with lightning.

“I can see you,” Zelda says again, louder, and the shadows flinch back from her voice. “I can see you, damn you, get out!”

in whose name, says the darkest corner of the room.

The shadows are burning away before her light, but the in the corner of the room, directly behind Draga, the darkness seems to pull inward, deepening infinitely into the wall, like a mouth opening behind him and Zelda can feel Draga feeling it – that there is something behind him. It’s nothing. It’s just a dark corner in a room. It’s a black hole. It eats every ounce of light that sears from her skin. She rises to her feet, gripping hold of Link and Draga more tightly. There is something in the darkness and she can almost see it.

in whose name, says the thing in the darkness.

Draga is still speaking, but when the thing speaks he falters. He starts to look.

“Don’t look at it!” Zelda shouts, pulling on his hand. “Look at me! Don’t look at it!”

in whose name, says the shadow behind Draga.

And Zelda can see now that the shadow is Draga’s shadow, cast against the wall but impossibly large.

in whose name, it says again, closer now.

Draga’s hair moves like something is breathing on him, some terrible maw inches from the back of his neck. But Draga keeps casting. A line of blood opens along Draga’s right cheek. But Draga keeps casting. The voice from the shadow shakes the room.

IN WHAT NAME DO YOU ACT

Zelda’s right hand ignites. The sword ignites. Link moves. Time twitches infinitesimally and he’s there, then gone, a silver after-image snapping into follow-through and the Hero’s put the Master Sword through the oak beam in the corner. But there’s no shadow there any longer. The blade’s dark again where it rests in the solid wood block, buckled and splintered outward now as though struck by a blow far greater than Link’s one-armed killing-strike. (If there were, in fact, a greater blow possible.) Link breathes hard, slowly, through his teeth, and Zelda can see a line of sweat run from his hairline to his jaw.

Then he wrenches the blade free and stares at the mundane wreckage he’s made of the wall.

“Zelda?”

“It’s gone.”

He turns, afraid. “Mishi?”

“He’ll be fine,” Draga says.

He’s wrapping his palm calmly in a clean strip of bandage. Mishi – still unconscious, still identical to her eyes as the fallen Champion a century past – lays quietly, breathing the slow, deep, even breaths of slumber. There’s nothing dark in the room, just the usual shade where the lantern light can’t reach and, in the face of true darkness, every shadow seems bright as day.

Zelda covers her face, pushing her hair from her eyes. “Thank the Goddess,” she says.

Then, she looks at Draga.

Link is also looking at Draga.

He finishes wrapping his other hand. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair, disturbing only a few of the gold clasps there. “I guess we should talk,” he says.

 They congregate in Draga’s room. He’s so big, the Rito gave him their only entirely wooden cabin – a sun-facing room, the balcony open to the dawn. There’s nothing but the mountain range stretched out beyond the basin, a long, jagged line against the horizon and beyond that – the faint shimmer of light from the highlands beyond. It occurs to Zelda, that he’s very near his homeland now. That it’s, perhaps, three or four days ride into the valley that feeds into Gerudo country and suddenly he seems strange – less the traveler on the road, more a desert creature drawing back relentlessly to the habitat that produced him.

That said, it does nothing to stop the three of them from sitting down, cross-legged in a circle near enough that their knees are touching while Draga tries to figure out the vocabulary in Hylian for what he did.

Zelda knows what he did. Link probably… has some notion, his intuition being a match for any academic knowledge. The Master Sword is laying in his lap. The naked metal, she knows, is comforting to him. His hand lays on the cross guard, bare fingers worrying the details in the hilt. Zelda has a hand on his knee because Link is her totem in times of uncertainty. Draga has his elbows braced against his knees, one hand set against his chin, fingers curled over his mouth. Thinking.

Eventually, Zelda makes the first move.

“Draga, that was unfathomably dangerous.”

“That is ironic coming from you.”

“I overstrained myself using my magic inefficiently. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you made a minor pact with a demon to break that curse.”

“With a spirit, Princess, not necessarily a demon, though several were present in an opportunistic capacity.” There’s a short beat of horrified silence from his Hylian audience. His eyes narrow. “I’ve been on the road since I was fifteen. I like to think I am fairly dangerous myself, Zelda.” He lowers his voice slightly, tone softening. “That does not mean I did what I did lightly.”

“You opened a door –” Zelda begins.

He cuts her off. “The door was left open decades ago. It wasn’t I that left it so or did you think I didn’t see what stands on the other side?” He looks away, staring at the floor between them. “What you saw… the shadow on the wall, Princess, was just that, a shadow. I knew the demon wouldn’t dare show its face in the presence of Hylia’s acolytes.”

Link, eyes never leaving Draga’s, speaks up. “The demon?” he says.

Draga says nothing for a while.

“Curses are difficult. I needed something more.”

Which is an evasion.

“The shadow we saw,” says Link, startling the other two. “It wasn’t there because you summoned it. It was there because it’s always there. You used blood magic, but that wasn’t dangerous. What was dangerous was that… thing in the corner because it’s waiting for you to slip up.” Link’s hand on the Master Sword curls into a fist and she wonders if the blade is speaking to him. “You’re cursed. That’s why you know so much about it, because you’re cursed. There’s a demon in your shadow.”

Draga, finally, looks Link in the eyes. He seems tired. “That was a lot of words and yet… succinctly put.”

Zelda leans forward. “Draga, are you in danger?”

He laughs, broad shoulders shaking with the effort. “I am always in danger, Princess. That’s the point.” He sighs. “But presently? No. The curse is dormant except in the very specific circumstances that Link described. It’s a family curse. So, I’m used to it.”

Zelda feels her eyes start to sting. “What?”

“Generational curses,” Draga says, almost conversational in tone. “They’re indistinguishable from a pre-meditated hex. My entire family for generations has carried the curse. We have no recollection now of where it came from or who crossed some demon in their actions, but it’s always been there on the edge of our lives. My mothers and my sisters and my ancestors before them were all ward-workers and war-maids of Din’s acolyte for a reason: to defend themselves.”

He shakes his head.

“So now you know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but, like I said, it’s dormant unless I try to barter for power beyond my own.”

“But you directly summoned a spirit to break the curse on Mishi.” Zelda waits, but he doesn’t answer and she feels this… heat rising behind her throat, behind her teeth. “Why would you do that?” And when Draga looks away, she sits forward. “Look at me, why would you do exactly what that thing has been waiting for you to do? I saw your face. I know it terrifies you. Why would you put yourself in its way?”

“I needed the power,” he murmurs.

“You can’t do that.”

He looks at her. “Why not?”

“This was our task, our responsibility. Link and I. You shouldn’t have risked yourself just because I wasn’t strong enough to –”

“Zelda,” Draga says, “believe it or not, perhaps I didn’t do it just for you and Link.” Draga’s staring at her, unreadable. “Perhaps watching an entire family die in the throes of abomination is more than I can tolerate and perhaps that was the entire reason I left Gerudo Town in the first place: To learn how to protect people from exactly this kind of thing.” He shakes his head slowly. “I understand that, for a time, the world largely revolved around you and your hero, but this was not about you.”

Zelda blinks, stunned.

“I… that’s not what I meant!”

“I know. You never mean it,” he murmurs in a tone that she can’t interpret any other way than affectionately sarcastic, which is really just a nice way of being condescending.

She wants to hit him so much her fist curls in anticipation.

He notices, pale green eyes flicking idly to her half-cocked arm. “Are you going to punch me, Princess?”

“No,” Zelda says. “You’re just… trying to make me mad to distract me.”

“So you’re not going to hit me?”

“I am,” Link says, which the only warning either of them get before Link lunges.

He punches Draga right in the face. So hard, it knocks the bigger man backwards onto the floor. This, apparently, was not one of the scenarios that Draga had anticipated because he ends up sprawled out, swearing over the sound of Link yelling, “Not about us, huh!?”

Link tackles the larger man with momentum that shouldn’t apply to someone his size, hitting Draga at his waist as he rises. He hits him the way a cannon hits a building, knocking the Gerudo back down with a crash. Then he’s on top of the other man and just swinging with everything he has. Draga tolerates that for exactly zero seconds and literally, again, throws Link off. But Link’s hitting his stride now so he comes out of the throw with one of those infuriating little… flip things that he does, landing on his feet like an absurd cat. Which makes Draga really mad.

And then they’re just brawling.

“Stop that!” Zelda shrieks. “Are you kidding me?!”

Link kicks Draga in the chest. Draga grabs his leg with one massive hand and throws him into the four-poster bed, smashing it. Link doesn’t even stop. He’s up and charging Draga immediately, body checking him so hard he crashes into the wall. Zelda, panicked, thinks they are doing the Rito Village a lot of property damage in a very short amount of time. Link and Draga are both yelling at each other now. Nothing intelligible, just angry fighting noises as they crash around the room, destroying things.

“We are half a mile up in the air!” she screams, jumping out of the way as Draga bull-rushes into the wall spine first because Link is trying to choke him from behind. “If you go through a wall you will fall to your death!”

Link’s still clinging gamely on, arm hooked around Draga’s throat from behind. Draga ducks forward, hard, throwing Link over his shoulder where he slams flat on the ground, air going out of him. Then Draga just sits on Link’s chest which, when you’re Draga’s size, is an effective end to most fights.

“I will light you both on fire!” Zelda screams, not sure if she’s serious.

“Are you done?!” Draga’s yelling at the man beneath him.

Link hisses. Literally.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Bite me!” Link snarls.

“What in the name of the gods is wrong with you?”

“Are you with us or not?” he snarls.

“What?”

“Are you with us or not?” Link repeats, through his teeth, shoving at Draga’s knee so he can sit up. He’s sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead, face red. “Well?!”

“Of course, I am, you infuriating madman!” Draga pantomimes like he’s going to choke the Hero of Hyrule right here on the floor. “I didn’t dodge a demon because it was the right thing to do, you dense son of a bitch! I did it because it would have killed you both to watch Revali die again like it kills you just to speak their fucking names. Are you happy now?”

Link flops back on the floor, exhaling. “Yeah.”

Draga, disgusted, stands up and marches out of the room. “I can’t even look at you.”

Link makes no move to follow him.  He just lies there breathing hard, arms spread on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Zelda, very primly, kneels next to him so she can stare down at her duly appointed knight, who has bits of shredded feather pillow in his hair and a bloody nose.

“Really?” she says.

“He’s with us,” Link informs her.

It’s infuriating that, somehow, that was exactly the question she wanted to ask.

.

.

.

go to chapter 6...

[biglucks]

Nina Puro

WOMAN CRYING IN A GALLERY

is a rupture an artifact or just a wound?

shadow that does not match the shape that made it

how much of grief is a performance to the dead?

shadow sliding across a lawn

if the performance is only to the self, does a tree fall?

bad pears in a wooden bowl

how much of my starvation was a performance to the sky?

vomit leaking from plastic bag

if the body is a house, was I burning it in protest?

house as wine bottle filled with snow

can an action take place in stillness?

mesh bag of clothes I couldn't sell

to what extent was I making myself an artifact?

pallet of gently used winter clothing on a barge to Burma

to what extent was I a bad architect?

pallet of H&M’s new spring line on a barge from Bangladesh

to what extent was I a lazy artist?

people in a shipping container on a barge from China

to what extent did I invert the lie?

people in line for bread or phones, sweating in rows of ellipticals

if at first I wanted to be small, then for 14 years couldn’t get better, was the disease always false?

circle of women’s bodies making snow angels

if photographs do not exist, was what happened real?

circle of thin white womens’ bodies eating

if starvation changes the brain, what else could have occurred & would I remember more?

voice on a tape in an archive

was it an effort to forget?

Ana's body slamming into the deli

if starvation changes the brain, did I become fluent in a hidden language?

to see snow, see her silhouette

if I got sick in order to leave, rather than the usual regression-into-childhood model, what was I trying to escape?

to see, try to unsee

was incessant weighing & measuring a comment on capitalism or a reiteration?

circle of thin white girls in hospital gowns begging to see their weights

did the revolving door in the Seagram Building blur to snowflakes or make me see better?

circle of thin white girls in kimonos taking photos with “warrior” makeup to learn to be strong

when was the last time you got undressed & measured by a doctor or a man?

silhouette filled with powder

on a warm February day, how far do you walk with your coat on without taking it off?

silhouette drawn with white police chalk

how cold are your hands?

circle of girls with sharpies on butcher paper, tracing how big they are vs. how big they feel

what color is the sky now?

in our separate showers, mornings, steam curled from our bones at the same angle

what about the color of the sky when you were born?

white rock into a river

what coin from what country paid to stitch your mother up?

throwing up into the river quiet after snack

who wiped your mother’s brow after? who didn't?

phone ringing in an empty room

what coin over her eyes or under her tongue, later?

whales in an ocean

what phone numbers have you memorized?

murder sites on a map

what do you say into the disconnected phone in case the other person can hear?

public bathrooms & grocery stores on a map

so ok if my bulimia was stealing massive amounts of food & scheduled twelve-hour blowouts every 1-3 days, rather than frequent quickies while in & out of company, how do the lack of spontaneity & isolation play into what occurred, which is to say: did I protect the rest of my life & keep myself functional or did I make the rest of my life a waiting for that period?

I'm losing you I'm losing you I miss you

to what extent was the stealing poverty and to what extent adrenaline?

white bread crumbs on a kitchen table

to what extent gathering evidence I was a bad person?

white powder to gums on a kitchen table

when I had to be restrained & tube fed, why did I want this? why did I not comply & try to get better?

three-car pileup, body kept from ricocheting around car by seatbelt

do I just crave intensity?

ID in a wallet

to what extent was I reacting to those boys when I was four?

loaf of bread in an oven

to what extent was I inventing an invisible friend because I was lonely?

girlchild in a well

to what extent did I want to shut all humans out, burn my forest?

father in a coffin

to what extent did I mistranslate everything I was told?

mother’s voice on a phone, rapist’s voice on a phone

to what extent was it ingrained habit: purging as quotidian as tooth-brushing?

panther pacing a cage

how does the desire to escape tie into being queer, e.g. being taught my basic perceptions & desires were wrong?

medical chart thick as my thigh in a dump

if bulimia taught me to be angry instead of passive, as in anorexia, was it a gift?

plastic bottles in a dump

if I had gone to prom or college instead of hospitals, if I’d had family or mentors, would I have become a queer poet?

green beach glass washing ashore

if I had been functional enough to be in a relationship, might it have pulled me out?

Ensure in a can

had I not been granted benefits, would I have forced enough stability for a job?

napalm in a can

was my protracted convalescence just simpering?

empty cans clattering in the backseat, half coors lite, half diet coke

what if I don’t know how great the scene was five years ago because I was too busy dying?

empty gurney, empty shopping cart

am I using someone else’s marginalization to demonstrate my own?

shallow stitches in a teenage girl’s arm

is correlating the murder of a brown person with my white lived experience problematic to the point that this poem is irrevocably flawed?

meal plan on a tray

a building can melt in enough heat, as from burning napalm, right?

meal plan in the body

so why do freezing temperatures only create tiny fissures, at worst?

ice in the marrow

what does a woman’s body build & what does a man’s body build?

scraps I’d throw on the floor “accidentally”

how fine a lace have I knit my bones to & how early will I know?

UNICEF rice on a helicopter shot down

what is the use of bricks?

body thrown from Pinochet’s helicopters into the ocean

what is the use of mulch, of peat?

baby cut from corpse’s stomach

why did I make a winter garden?

ovaries shrunken grapes or swollen pears

why did I not stay in the winter palace?

kwashiorkor stomach

why is food used to describe a woman’s body?

a house’s shadow sliding slow across a lawn

why is architecture used to describe a man’s body?

bone chips in a desert

does a decade of amenorrhea create visual changes to the appearance of the ovaries?

dimmest star in a constellation

what was I trying to say without using language?

the smallest white dwarfs collapse & are never named

was I using the master’s tools or my own?

  Nina Puro's writing is in Jubliat, Guernica, the PEN/ America Poetry Series, & others. Each Tree Could Hold a Noose or a House, winner of the 2017 New Issues Poetry Prize, will be published in 2018. They are a member of the Belladonna* Collaborative and recipient of fellowships from the MacDowell Colony, Saltonstall Foundation, and others.

[toosicktoocare]

For @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak who requested sick Enjolras/Combeferre/Courfeyrac bromance. Hope you like it, love :)

Enjolras was the first down, not to anyone’s surprise. The boy worked harder than anyone, and he often neglected his well-being in favor of getting his work done. It had started with a small case of the sniffles, but as the day progressed, he had grown steadily worse, not that he would ever admit it out loud. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were forced to tag team when it came to assessing how bad off Enjolras was.

In a rare moment when Enjolras was taking what he called a “cat nap,” Courfeyrac and Combeferre snuck into his bedroom. Courfeyrac carefully climbed onto the bed, but despite his caution, he couldn’t win against Enjolras’s light sleeping.

“What?” Enjolras rasped out, voice thick with sleep.

Courfeyrac eyed Combeferre with raised brows, and Combeferre responded in the only way he knew how for this pending situation. “Pin him.”

Courfeyrac acted fast, knowing that it wouldn’t take Enjolras’s tired mind long to catch up to what was about to happen. He maneuvered around until he was straddling Enjolras, pinning his arms above his head.

“Dammit, Courf!” Enjolras struggled against Courfeyrac’s hold, but his limbs felt like lead.

“He’s burning,” Courfeyrac muttered, voice laced with concern. “I can feel the heat radiating off him.”

Combeferre, thankful that he had decided on an ear thermometer for their apartment, shoved the thermometer into Enjolras’s ear, ignoring Enjolras’s yelp of pain.

“For the hundredth time, I’m fine,” Enjolras snapped.

“We will let the numbers decide that,” Combeferre said just as the thermometer beeped. He stared hard at the reading with a frown– 102.8.

“I need you to tell me how you really feel,” Combeferre said, adopting his doctor tone in an instant.

Courfeyrac frowned at this. If Combeferre was shifting into doctor mode, then it must be bad. He rolled off of Enjolras and onto the other side of the bed. He sat up on his knees, gnawing lightly at his lower lip as he watched Enjolras struggle into a sitting position.

Enjolras sighed, rubbing at his wrists. “I really am fi–”

“Enjolras.”

Enjolras visibly winced at Combeferre’s tone. He dropped his gaze to his hands. “Cold. Tired. Head hurts,” he paused, thinking, “a lot. My body feels really heavy.”

Courfeyrac crawled towards Enjolras, wrapping his arms around Enjolras’s trembling frame. He pressed a small kiss atop Enjolras’s head.

“Hmm, must be a strain that wasn’t covered with the flu shot,” Combeferre announced, brushing his hand lightly against Enjolras’s cheek. “You need rest,” he added softly.

Courfeyrac nodded in agreement against Enjolras’s neck, but Enjolras wasn’t having it. “I can’t,” he said. “I have too much work.”

“Let me tell you your options,” Combeferre started firmly, pulling his hand away and crossing his arms. “You can rest here and let us take care of you, or I can have a bed prepared for you at the hospital. Take your pick.”

Enjolras groaned. “Fine,” he mumbled, allowing Courfeyrac to ease him back down against his pillows. “Can I have my laptop at least?”

“When your fever lowers,” Combeferre said while gesturing for Courfeyrac to get off the bed. “Right now, you can go back to sleep.”

Enjolras wanted to protest, but he could feel sleep tugging at all corners. He only nodded in reply, eyes slipping closed as his breathing evened out.

“What now?” Courfeyrac whispered.

“Go wet a cloth with cool water for his forehead. I’m going to sort through our medicine.”

*****

Courfeyrac smoothed a new, damp cloth over Combeferre’s forehead. It had only taken a day until Combeferre went down, more gracefully and willingly than Enjolras. It made sense considering how much time Combeferre had spent watching over Enjolras in the last twenty-four hours, enduring Enjolras coughing and sneezing all over him.

Combeferre had told Courfeyrac when he started feeling unwell, and Courfeyrac had quickly ushered him into his bedroom. While Combeferre wasn’t nearly as bad off as Enjolras, only sporting a fever of 101.4, he was still sick with no doubt Enjolras’s flu.

“You’re doing very well”, Combeferre muttered, voice barely audible thanks to the hours spent coughing.

Courfeyrac’s lips pulled up into a small grin, but the smile never reached his eyes. He was desperately worried for his two friends. In the time since Combeferre had gone to rest, Enjolras’s fever had spiked twice, and despite doing everything Combeferre said, Courfeyrac still felt useless.

“Thanks,” he answered, leaning back in the chair he had moved beside Combeferre’s bed.

“Are you feeling alright?” Combeferre asked, not liking Courfeyrac’s somber demeanor one bit.

“Of course,” Courfeyrac answered, plastering on a wide smile. In all honesty, he felt dreadful. His body ached, and no amount of ibuprofen seemed to remedy it. He had checked the apartment thermostat four different times within the last two hours because he just could not get warm– it felt as if ice was freezing over his bones. His head throbbed mercifully, making it hard to concentrate, and his throat felt as if he were swallowing glass.

But, years of hanging with Jehan had taught him how to act. So, he reassured both Combeferre and Enjolras, who managed to ask when he was lucid enough, that he was perfectly fine.

“If you’re sure,” Combeferre muttered, eyelids growing heavy.

“I’m sure, Ferre,” Courfeyrac said, voice light yet confident. “Just rest. You can count on me.”

Courfeyrac watched Combeferre drift off to sleep. As soon as he was sure Combeferre wasn’t about to wake back up, he dropped the act, rubbing at his temples with trembling hands.

He stood after a few minutes on shaking legs and crept out of Combeferre’s bedroom. The living room lights did nothing for his pounding head, and he staggered towards the main light switch; however, the room started to spin, and he was forced to stop and close his eyes. A wave of heat washed over him, prickling uncomfortably across his skin, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t calm his racing heart.

Opening his eyes proved to be the wrong idea. Black circles danced across his vision, and his knees began to buckle. He briefly thought about Enjolras and Combeferre before everything went black.

*****

“-erre! Combeferre!!”

Combeferre’s eyes snapped open, and he blinked the fuzziness away to see Enjolras hovering over him– eyes wide and intense.

He shot up despite his limbs protesting. “What? What’s wrong?” He questioned while coughing, hand fumbling around on the bedside table for his glasses.

“Courf,” Enjolras breathed out, gesturing frantically towards the living room. “I got up when he didn’t come to my calls and found him passed out.”

Combeferre was out of the bed in seconds, bolting towards the living room with Enjolras hot on his heels. He rushed towards Courfeyrac’s limp form, gently rolling him onto his back, and he cursed at the sight. Courfeyrac was deathly pale save the blood red flush spread across his cheeks. His breathing was ragged, and his brows were furrowed as if in pain.

Combeferre pushed Courfeyrac’s unruly bangs away, pressing his palm against the brunet’s forehead. “Jesus,” he muttered, hand dropping down to Courfeyrac’s wrist to check his pulse. “Get the thermometer,” he told Enjolras, eyes never leaving Courfeyrac.

Enjolras fought against the dizziness coating his vision as he raced to retrieve the thermometer. He felt nausea swirling around in his stomach, but he knew it was stemmed from anxiety. He snatched the thermometer from his bedside table and turned to run back into the living room.

“Here,” he said, crouching down beside Combeferre. He handed Combeferre the thermometer. “He’s going to be okay, right?” He asked, grabbing one of Courfeyrac’s hands with both of his.

Combeferre watched the numbers on the thermometer climb until they stopped at 104.6. “We need to get his fever down now,” Combeferre said firmly. He briefly thought about calling an ambulance but decided against it. He was a doctor after all– he knew what he could do to help. “Help me get him to the bathroom.”

Together, Enjolras and Combeferre, running solely on adrenaline, carried Courfeyrac’s limp body to the bathroom, and they worked quickly to strip him down.

“Fill the tub with luke-warm water,” Combeferre instructed Enjolras before turning his attention towards getting Courfeyrac to wake up. “Courf,” he started, patting the brunet’s cheek a few times. “Courfeyrac, can you hear me?” He pat Courfeyrac’s cheek harder, breathing out a sigh of relief when Courfeyrac groaned under his touch.

“Wha?”

“Hey, shhh.” Combeferre brushed his thumb up and down Courfeyrac’s cheek. “You’re okay. We are going to take care of you.”

Enjolras turned the tap off then moved to kneel beside Courfeyrac. “Hey, Courf,” he said, shooting the brunet a soft smile. “We’ve got to get you in the tub to get your fever down, okay?”

“Fever?” Courfeyrac blinked slowly, trying desperately to get his eyes to focus on his two friends. He didn’t have a fever– they did.

“Yeah,” Combeferre said gently. “You’ve got yourself a pretty nasty one, but it’s going to be okay.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes darted between the two blurry boys in front of him. He couldn’t follow the conversation– he didn’t understand.

“Let’s get him in,” Combeferre said as he got to his feet. Enjolras nodded, and together, the two helped Courfeyrac into the tub.

“W-why?? C-cold?”

Enjolras’s hand hovered above the tap, but Combeferre shook his head. “We can’t,” he told Enjolras.

Enjolras sighed, sitting down onto the closed toilet seat. He dropped his face into his hands as Combeferre smoothed a damp cloth over Courfeyrac’s bare back and chest.

“I know it’s cold,” Combeferre said softly as Courfeyrac looked up at him with pleading eyes. “But I promise this will help.”

“I’m s-supposed to be t-taking care of y-you.”

Enjolras looked up. “It’s our turn to tend to you,” he said, smiling softly at Courfeyrac’s nod of response.

After twenty minutes, Combeferre requested the thermometer once more. Enjolras went to get it, much slower than last time as his energy was rapidly depleting. He handed it to Combeferre, and the two stared hard as the numbers climbed, stopping at 102.8.

“We can work with this,” Combeferre said. The numbers weren’t great, but they were low enough to rule out the need for a hospital. He and Enjolras helped Courfeyrac out of the tub. Enjolras wrapped a towel around the brunet’s shivering form, rubbing up and down his arms as Combeferre left to get some clean clothes.

“I think I can manage changing on my own,” Courfeyrac said with a stronger voice as he took the clothes from Combeferre. He sighed when his two friends appeared reluctant to leave. “Really, I’ll only be a minute. I’ve got this.”

Combeferre and Enjolras stepped outside, closing the door behind them, and that was it for Enjolras. He slid down against the wall, cupping his face with shaking hands and coughing harshly. 

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asked. “Are you okay?”

Enjolras moved his hands away from his face to reveal his wide, welling eyes. “No,” he said, voice shaking. “I thought, shit, Ferre. I thought he was dead.”

Combeferre pulled Enjolras to his feet and wrapped his arms around the trembling boy, stroking his hair as Enjolras let out a strangled sob against his neck. Heat was still rolling off Enjolras in waves, and Combeferre was suddenly reminded of his own ailments.

“He’s fine, Enj.” Combeferre soothed just as Courfeyrac opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac mumbled, tears slipping from his own eyes. “I thought I was fine. I wanted to take care–” His words trailed off as Enjolras all but lunged at him.

“It’s fine,” Enjolras whispered, clutching at Courfeyrac like a lifeline. He really had thought that Courfeyrac was dead when he found the brunet crumpled on the floor unresponsive. It was easily the scariest moment of his life, but he felt worlds better seeing Courfeyrac awake and responsive. 

“We are all fine,” Combeferre said, capturing his friends’ attention. He motioned to the living room. “How about we make ourselves a nice little nest on the couch and take care of each other?”

Courfeyrac nodded, smiling wide, and the three slowly but surely covered the couch with blankets and pillows. 

Combeferre helped the two get comfortable before going to retrieve medicine for all three of them. He still felt terrible, and he knew that Courfeyrac and Enjolras felt the same, but he knew they could pull through together. However, he made a mental reminder to call Joly or, hell, even Grantaire if this ever happened again.