#yeah no wonder he says fuck the veil - what purpose is it serving?

[thebookworm0001]

Thinking about how angrily solas said there was nothing in the lore to tie the elven gods to the tevinter old gods

and how I think he’s about to find out that isn’t true and it’s his fault

[bytheangell]

I Just Want to Feel Something Today

(A s02e11 inspired fic) (Read on AO3)

“Emotions serve a purpose. You don’t go through what you just went through, witnessing all that death and not feel something, Jace! It’s not good for you! Just feel something. Whether you think it clouds your judgment or not.”

Clary’s words catch Jace by surprise. He expects anger, denial, frustration… and he supposes, in a way, that’s exactly what he gets. Except instead of being aimed at him, those emotions come from Clary on behalf of himself. She’s upset, but she’s upset because he keeps pushing away anything that would make him actually stop and deal with everything that’s happening. She’s not mad at him, but at the way he is thanks to years of careful conditioning to push his emotions aside and lock them away so they aren’t a distraction.

And she’s right. It isn’t that he hasn’t felt anything, it’s that he’s buried every feeling he gets the moment it starts to form. He’s ignored every negative emotion because he hasn’t had time to deal with any of them, and he’s pushed away any remotely positive emotion he’s felt because he doesn’t deserve to feel anything good, not now, not after everything he’s done.

How long has it been since he let himself actually feel something, good or bad, all the way through? He certainly has plenty of emotions to choose from. Plenty of moments and events to focus on.

Not here, though. Not now. There’s still work to be done and plans to be made. He’s done enough damage already that a few more hours of keeping everything neatly tucked away won’t hurt. So he waits until he’s certain Clary is long gone and calls the elevator to face the rest of his day.

---

It isn’t long before Jace finds himself on the rooftop of the Institute, thankful for the solitude it provides him. He hadn’t realized how stifling the walls of the Institute felt until he’s outside of them, breathing in the fresh air, letting the slight breeze run through his hair the closer he walks to the edge of the roof overlooking the city.

It’s easier here, he thinks, to try and let go. This isn’t the first time he’s escaped to the roof to be alone and process things, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. It’s been so long that he wonders if he remembers how to let it all go… no, not go. How to let it all in.

“You’re hurting,” Alec had said as they sparred earlier. And Jace was - he still is. The hurt never stops, not now, not when there’s evidence of the pain he’s caused at every turn. It’s in the stress lines on Alec’s face, in the way the other Shadowhunters won’t meet his gaze, and the way the Downworlders would meet his gaze - but with nothing but hatred in their eyes. The pain is the easiest thing to let himself feel because it’s what he thinks he deserves the most - the disappointment, the anger, the despair.

He feels his chest tighten with emotion, too many to pick apart and name, and does his best to fight the urge to swallow it all back down and walk away, back inside where he can justify putting back on the mask of Being Okay.

Instead, Jace allows his mind to move on to something else he’s been effectively ignoring. Because after the Soul Sword his next biggest problem is Simon and the fact that he’s a Daylighter now, with all signs pointing to Jace’s blood being the catalyst.

Jace feels nothing but dread at the idea of this being true. There was so much going on at the time that he hadn’t considered the possibility that his blood is the reason Simon can walk in the daylight now. If that’s true it doesn’t just put him at risk, it puts Clary at risk, too. And not just from the other vampires but from the Clave. The Clave would hate this revelation. Worse, the clave would fear it, fear the possibility that Nephilim blood could be used to rid the vampires of their biggest weakness. There’s no telling what they’d do to him and Clary if they found out, and that’s a thought that genuinely worries him in a way that not much else does.

“No matter what, your secret’s safe with me. (...) You have nothing to worry about, I got your back.”

Loath as Jace is to admit it, even just to himself, he does trust Simon and believes when Simon swears that he isn’t going to say anything. If it were anyone else Jace would be worried they’d use the knowledge for blackmail later, to hold it over his head as leverage, but it isn’t anyone else. It’s Simon. And yeah, Jace trusts him, for whatever that’s worth.

Somewhere between the jealousy and the nearly dying to save Simon’s life, there’s witty banter and mutual appreciation. Simon has nothing to lose and everything to gain from sharing their secret with the other vampires, but he won’t. Jace thinks of Simon’s attempts to hug him, of casually affectionate touches and warm smiles and the fact that he’s… hell, they’re friends, aren’t they?

Clary stood by him out of perceived sibling loyalty. Izzy and Alec would always do the same. But Simon? Jace has so few people on his side that Simon’s loyalty isn’t something he takes lightly. Surprisingly, the idea of having Simon so resolutely in his corner is such an overwhelming realization that the relief of it brings the first tears to Jace’s eyes. Once they start they don’t stop, especially not as his thoughts turn to Clary.

“What else are you hiding from me?” Jace wishes he could blame Valentine for his fallout with Clary, but he knows that wouldn’t be true. It’s Jace’s fault he didn’t tell Clary sooner - he had plenty of opportunities, plenty of time, but more than that: she deserved to know. He’d just been too scared, too selfish to do it. He said he didn’t want to ruin things with her and Simon but that was just another lie. He wasn’t afraid she’d leave Simon for him once she knew, he was afraid that she wouldn’t. That he could have her now, and she could have him, but she wouldn’t want him the way he still wants her.

Because deep down he’s still just a scared, insecure boy, using that carefully crafted bravado to cover up the truth of what he’s actually afraid of: not being good enough. He knew it couldn’t last forever, but as long as Clary didn’t know she had a choice he could avoid the reality of her not choosing him.

Except now he may have lost her for good, and not just to Simon.

Of course, she doesn’t trust him now. She may never trust him again, and he wouldn’t blame her. He let her down, not for the first time, but arguably the worst time since they met… and that’s saying something, considering everything they’ve been through.

Jace remembers how hurt she looked at the realization that he kept something so important from her, and the tears fall steadily now. He lets that pain in, he lets it mean something. She practically begged him to feel something so it seems only fitting that he feels this the most. Jace closes his eyes against the tears, only to see the image of Clary walking away from him in his mind’s eye. The ache of it knots his stomach, the fear that she may not come back to him, not as a lover or as a friend, is paralyzing.

He lets it in. He feels it, all of it.

The tears continue to fall and Jace continues to feel everything from the past few hours, the past day, the past week. Everything he pushed away. Everything he buried, finally allowed to break through the surface.

Regret. Anger. Relief. Sorrow. Loss. Hope. Fear. Sadness. Love. Pain. Loss.

He feels all of it.

There’s a sound behind him and Jace knows it’s Alec behind him on the rooftop before he ever hears his parabatai speak. He reckons he could take a minute to collect himself and brush this off without Alec pushing it - he already silenced the sobs that shook his entire body only moments before. Another thirty seconds and he could give some bullshit excuse about being upset over Clary and move on to whatever Alec came looking for him to talk about. Alec knows when Jace wants to talk and when he doesn’t, knows when he can push and get something out of Jace and when it was a lost cause. It’s why Alec asked him about the Downworlders and about Clary while they sparred earlier, knowing that Jace needs a side of distraction with his honest conversation. It’s easier to talk between punches, to discuss emotions while simultaneously having a physical release for them.

This? Crying, with no singular reason or cause, just because... just because he tried to face his emotions and became immediately overwhelmed by the weight of it all? He doesn’t do this. They don’t do this. They do eye-rolls and thinly veiled admissions of not being fine - but also not wanting to talk about it - in between hits with a staff. They do brief moments of serious conversation while literally pinned to the ground and unable to escape.

They don’t do falling into each other’s arms in tears... and yet that’s exactly what Jace wants to do right now.

“Jace, you okay?”

No. He isn’t okay, and no amount of sparring is going to fix it this time around. There aren’t enough distractions in the world, which is unfortunate, because they’re about to summon a Greater Demon to the Institute and Jace can’t get his fucking shit together. At least, not on his own. It took Clary’s influence to get him to this point, and he knows what he needs to move further. Maybe not to closure, but to something close.

So he turns around, eyes bloodshot and face streaked with tears, and gives Alec what is probably the most lost, helpless look he’s ever willingly allowed anyone to witness.

Alec doesn’t say he’s sorry, or ask what’s wrong - he simply moves to close the space between them and wraps his arms around Jace, pulling him close. Jace allows himself to be pulled, to be tucked into the firm but gentle embrace of his parabatai.

After a moment Jace tries to pull away, to shrug off Alec’s comfort as the guilt of not deserving it settles again, but Alec holds firm. Jace came up here to be alone, but maybe being alone isn’t what he needs just then. Just like keeping everything bottled up wasn’t what he needed, either. It took Clary to realize that, and it takes Alec’s insistent presence for him to realize that he needs these moments of comfort from his brother that he’d never allow himself otherwise.

They stay this way, silent except for the slowly quieting sobs from Jace until the tears stop completely. Only then does Alec finally loosen his grip around him enough for Jace to pull back.

“Feeling things is overrated,” Jace manages, and the words startle a laugh out of Alec despite the situation.

“Clary?” Alec hazards a guess, not that it’s a difficult conclusion to reach.

“Clary,” Jace confirms. “Among other things.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Alec offers, sounding as uncertain in asking as Jace is in his answer.

“No,” Jace admits. Except he’s starting to realize what he wants isn’t always what he needs.

Jace sighs.

“But maybe I should.”

[atinybitofau]

[ateez] W O O Y O U N G ➳ aesthetic love

“starry night and a midnight drive”

• it’s not everyday a woman runs from her fiancé.

• it’s definitely not everyday you want to run from the man you love.

• yet here you are.

• running on bare feet, white pearl heels hanging loose from your fingertips through a house he promised was gonna be yours.

• you knew it well enough for someone who hated it.

• hated the smell.

• hated the look.

• hated what was in it.

• the man who owned it by far the only good thing about it.

• you sprint like that was the only thing you knew how to do,

• until you’re stopped in the middle of a poorly lit garage, two cars and a dark suited man waiting for you at its passenger doors.

• “Hey gorgeous, I think you took a wrong turn on your way to the venue.”

• you feel your heart strings being pulled tens of different directions,

• biting down at your trembling lip, veil sardonically dangling over your stained leaking eyes.

• “Wooyoung, I—“

• “Let’s take a drive shall we?”

• he gets in first, engine roaring when the key kisses the ignition,

• being the second thing he loved after you.

• and you’re not supposed share him.

• you sure as hell don’t want to and that’s the reason you were going to leave in the first place.

• but the thought of spending time with the man you love was the only thing keeping you from leaving.

• and it seems that no matter what you do, you’ll always be right there in his passenger seat.

• counting the stars in the sky and having him drive you to a place where no one but you two can go.

• “I love you.”

• he says the words for you like it hurts.

• “And if you want to leave me, I’ll let you.” his voice breaks and you can feel the curdling pressure of his hands on the steering wheel as if it were you. “Sweetheart, I never intended for you to feel obliged to love me, yeah? And I know sometimes you don’t but—“

• you turn your face underneath the white veil over your head and place a hand over his,

• the rumble of the stick that controlled the car and controlled him relaxed underneath your touch.

• his fingers grips get lost between fighting to hold yours and keeping the stick in it’s right place.

• you don’t flinch even when he moves it back to first gear, eyes stuck on him.

• “Let’s just drive okay?”

• the car gets quiet while you hold him steady.

• and when you reach the destination, he seems afraid to let the car go.

• “Come with me.” you move yourself out of his vehicle and out into what feels like freedom,

• looking down at the city you found him in, wondering how you could’ve been so lucky.

• yet why you can’t decide over where you want to be and who you want to love.

• “Maybe I’m selfish.” you whisper, white lace touching the swollen parts of your moving lips. “Maybe I don’t want to spend my entire life in the confinement of your damned car and your damned house.”

• Wooyoung stands behind you, hands buried in his pockets wondering,

• — seeing the gorgeous night beyond your beautiful figure,

• why his eyes solely bound to you.

• “Maybe I can’t stand who you are and what you do.” you fight back the remaining tears you had to appreciate the view right in front of you. “I don’t know how you do it, Woo. How you could love two things at once.”

• he wants to say it’s not his choice.

• that it’s not in his control when actually that was exactly what was happening.

• he could make sacrifices for you but their too little for comfort.

• to put it frankly, it’s not enough.

• “I fell in love with the city before you.” your eyes close softly when the autumn night breeze hits your bare skin. “I fell in love with the stars. And then god forbid I ever choose a man in place of those— no, I fell in love with you.”

• Wooyoung’s tongue runs across the surface of his teeth wondering when he should stop leaning against his car and start leaning over you.

• “The moment I got in your car that day, I was thinking how ugly of a thing it was. The sound it made and how it ruined my night.” your lips curl in devious remark. “I can’t stand your car, babe. It’s just not for me.”

• he feels the heat of the hood start to burn his fingertips,

• suddenly realizing that sometimes he’s got to sacrifice the other things he loved in order to have you.

• “I love the stars. I love the sky, the sound of the city, the freedom I get.” your own fingertips feel cold, bare in the the evening breeze, looking for some kind of warmth out of nothing at all. “If I had to choose.. between loving you and getting the rest, baby, I don’t what to do.”

• Wooyoung finally lets go.

• rushing to hold you when you look like you’re about to fall.

• never trusted the rusted rails you leant on as much as he did himself.

• but he reached for you and whips you around to look at him the way you look up at the night sky.

• the only way he’d be able to appreciate the beauty of the stars is if it was right there—

• reflecting off the eyes of the woman he loves.

• “I know– Fuck.” Wooyoung’s rasp gets thicker when he speaks. “I know this isn’t easy. I know loving me is hard for you, sweetheart. Driving my car means more to me than anything. You know that.”

• your breath hitches at the back of your throat wanting to say, choose me or you’ll never get to have me.

• an ultimatum based solely on retaliation.

• pain.

• but you’re lost in his eyes the way the stars lose you.

• the moon the only thing ironically keeping you sane right now.

• “I’m gonna fucking break that thing apart one day, Woo.” your voice cracks in place of comforting words. “I don’t trust myself to be living with that stupid thing for my entire life and having to share it with you. Believe me, I’m gonna smash that thing to bits.”

• Wooyoung’s lips curl, hands crawling over your cold skin. “Then break it. How many times you want, I’ll give that to you.”

• “Why?” a silent sob escapes your lips while he fights to keep your eyes. “Why would you let me do that? Why would you let me hurt something you love so much?”

• you want him to tell you he’s gonna choose that thing—

• his cars.

• his life.

• but Wooyoung never makes it easy for you.

• being able to drive his car x mph.

• driving your heart ten times faster than horsepower at this point.

• “That thing I love, my cars. Y/n, I can fix those things. I can pick up the pieces if not buy a new one.”

• he brings the veil from over your eyes, over so he get a good look at you.

• and it may not be at the alter where he wanted you but if it has to be here,

• if he has to promise to have and hold you till death do you both part right here then so be it.

• “I can’t fix you.” the black haired vixen leans his forehead against yours as you finally warm under the cold breeze of the night. “I can’t buy a new you— something my power, my money can never buy. If I had to choose right now what I love more, y/n, believe me you’re first in line.”

• you cry when his lips brush against yours.

• feeling your heart suddenly tugged in a single direction.

• that direction being towards his.

• “I love you so much.” Wooyoung’s about to break right in front of you afraid to lose you to the night. “My car gets me to point a and point b.”

• “Then why do you need me?”

• “You take me beyond my dreams, sweetheart. And you still want to ask me why I need you?”

• he kisses you and maybe you were wrong.

• maybe you shouldn’t hate his car that much.

• in fact, that stupid retched thing was the reason you managed to find him in the first place,

• without it, never being able to meet the man you love.

• and maybe you did love the city and the freedom you get in it.

• but maybe you’re okay with settling in his arms instead.

• “I want to kiss you until my lips bleed.” you pout bending into his height like that’s where you were meant to be. “I want you to hold me until you don’t want to do anything but hold me forever.”

• Wooyoung chuckles over your breath before spinning you around in his arms, chin laying against the crook of your neck.

• “We were supposed to get married tonight.” he mumbles against your skin. “I don’t know about you but I’m suddenly not in the mood to go back just yet.”

• you lean your head back against the rising and falling chest of your fiancé,

• his heart feeling like a steady metronome.

• “I kind of want get out of this dress for a little bit.” your chin tilts up to look at him. “I don’t know about you but I was thinking your car serves more purpose than just driving it.”

• Wooyoung’s eyes darken but his lips move a different way.

• “The moon takes a toll on you, sweetheart.”

• “Take me while you sit in the drivers seat.” your fingers slowly move to pull the suit jacket right off his shoulder blades. “Show me those hands can do more than just shift gears, baby.”

• “As long as I get to marry you tomorrow, by all means, I’ll show you what these hands can do.”

• not like he’s never shown you before but hey,

• nothing’s ever wrong with a free ride.

@atinybitofau

[realmwrites]

To Wire, to Dust

[ read on ao3 ] 

Day 4: AU -- @aphrarepairsweek 

“Get down!” Ludwig presses down on Alfred’s shoulders.

They duck behind a rusting storage crate and drop to their knees. An explosion rings out in the distance, vibrating up his chest as the ever present ash burns like poison kisses onto his skin. The fallen shrapnel cuts through his pants to his knees, and Alfred’s breath is hot against his neck. It raises goosebumps on his skin and sparks circuits in his wires. He’s too close, and while Ludwig knows this is necessary for their survival, he finds himself wishing he hadn’t been programmed with an ability to feel. It serves him little purpose to feel like someone’s lit the coolant in his veins each time Alfred smiles. It does no good to for his synapses to fail at every brush of Alfred’s hand.

“Ludwig.” Alfred hisses, yanking him from his thoughts. “We need to get out of here. They’re getting close.”

Alfred takes his hand in his, standing with one quick push and pulling Ludwig up with him. The blood rushes towards his head, heat flaming in his cheeks, but before he can protest, Alfred is tugging him past the next container.

He crouches out of instinct, too aware of the myriad of dangers around them. He’s running numbers faster than he can see them, simulations and scenarios bouncing past his scrolling eyes. He knows already that they won’t both make it out alive, and he suspects that Alfred knows as well. His hand has not been released. Alfred is still close, puffing warm air against his cheek. Never does he stay this close. Never does he squeeze Ludwig’s hand gently by their thighs. Ludwig hates goodbyes, but he almost hopes that this is Alfred’s. He almost hopes that this is his way of saying he cares, he cared, he will care when Ludwig is inevitably blown to wire and dust.

Because that is what will occur. It’s obvious which of them must die- if you could call it that for a thing like him- for the other’s sake. Ludwig frowns into the dusk.

“This way.” He murmurs, guiding Alfred up, their hands still linked between them.

They hurry between the stacked boxes. Another explosion flares, red heat and black smoke. It’s closer. They’re closer.

Alfred wrenches his hand from Ludwig’s and claps his hands over his ears, wincing, and Ludwig prods him on. He’s scanning for the easiest exit. They’ll be watching, but if he stalls them, if he lets them shoot him down, maybe Alfred will have the chance to escape.

Behind him Alfred coughs, beaten red dust thrown up around them and into Alfred’s lungs. The dry heat is pushing his cooling system into overdrive, and his processor is overloading with rapid fire calculations of their abysmal situation. Alfred swipes his hand across his face, streaked with sweat and grime, and leaves a stripe of dirt where his palm hits his forehead. He’s bruised, a panging reminder of his mortality, and grimacing, the steady fire of drive burning hot behind his eyes. He still looks like the sun, like he always does. Too much, too bright, too generous to a cold, heartless galaxy and too kind to an inhuman hunk of wires and code; to Ludwig.

It hurts too much to look. Ludwig presses on.

“Lud. Lud, we can’t go this way. We’ll be cornered. We’ll die.” Alfred’s voice is taut, drawn downwards like his brows.

Ludwig doesn’t stop. He swallows down the lump in his throat. He walks, one foot in front of the other, and takes Alfred forward by the hand. A barrage of shots cut through the chaos. Someone screams, and Ludwig keeps his eyes trained ahead. Dust, rust, sweeping red wasteland- He pretends the next cry doesn’t cut through whatever thing in him is calling up this empathy when he shouldn’t, by any law of nature, be capable of any.

Alfred pulls back on his hand, gripping tight. “Lud. Ludwig. Stop. We can’t go that way. We have to try something else. That’s just- that’s fucking suicide.”

“We have to.” Ludwig’s voice breaks, and he curses himself internally. Defective. Defective rings through his head. He cannot be afraid. That isn’t his right.

“No, we have to.” He asserts and pulls Alfred on. “This is the only way to a ship.”

“They’ll be on us in seconds.” Alfred’s voice hops up.

Stress, Ludwig’s processor supplies. He’s experiencing stress. Ludwig’s chest contracts at the reading, and he shakes his head. No help; it’s no help. Ludwig knows this already, knows what the pressed lips mean, knows what the wracking coughs imply, knows every goddamn effect this hellish planet has on Alfred’s painfully human physiology.

“Ludwig, listen to me! There won’t be enough time to escape, and the escape pod in there only fits one fucking guy! One small guy!” Alfred yanks back on his hand.

And it hurts. Not the hand, but his voice. It sounds like thinly veiled panic, like a try for strong when your chances burn to wire and dust before your eyes. And it hurts. His words. Of course, Alfred expects them both to live. Of course, he expects them to fly victorious to their ship and leave this system’s hell for at least a day. (But he’d return. It’s what Alfred does: fights the impossible with reckless hope.) It’d be too easy for Alfred to expect Ludwig to simply do his job. It’d be too simple, too kind of fate.

“I have a plan. It will work, I promise.” Ludwig frowns, stopped and staring Alfred straight in the eyes. They’re blue, warm blue, beautiful and gripping, and he wants this to be the last thing he sees before he joins oblivion because he doubts there’s any salvation for androids. Ludwig curses. Not now.

Alfred hesitates. He stands stock-still in the shadow of a crate, the desert sun casting him and the dust in shades of blue. Another cry goes up, and the sound of shouting rises above the din. Ludwig freezes. They’re running short on time.

“Fine. It better not be some risky shit for you.” Alfred nods, quirking briefly in a smile. His expression falls determined, and he hurries out towards the home of their pod. Ludwig stumbles after him, a new lump in his throat.

The barn stands beaten by the wind. It’s rickety wood, nailed here and there, and the door swings in and out on rusted hinges. It should be simple to reach. It can’t be more than a hundred meters. Only there aren’t any boxes or scrubby bushes or crates to hide behind, and the shouts are growing nearer.

“We have to run.” Ludwig manages. His voice sounds as dry as he feels. “We have to run as fast as we can.”

“I trust you.” Alfred murmurs.

Before Ludwig can process, they’ve taken off towards the barn. A cacophony of voices erupts behind them, and if Ludwig tilts his head just right, he can hear the sounds of reloading guns. He wants to look back, wants to see how close they are, but every second is precious. He doesn't look back. He keeps right behind Alfred even though he knows he could go faster and prays to whatever higher powers there may be that they’ll shoot him, not Alfred.

The first shot grazes his cheek, whizzes by his skin and cuts cold, silver coolant welling up from the cut. The wetness comes seconds before the pain, but it’s not much, just stinging, and Ludwig knows it’s the program simulating adrenaline working magic through his wires. He can hear the bullets, see them slice the dust-laden air if he slows his processing down long enough to watch, but no others hit him, and they scramble into the building.

Alfred stops, turns. He stares at him, wild-eyed, until he spots the cut on his cheek. He reaches out to touch it, but Ludwig is faster than Alfred at reading situations, at reading him, and as much as he wants Alfred to cup his cheek and ask him if it hurts, Ludwig knows they have no time.

He pushes his hand down. He can still hear the guns going off in the distance. “I’m fine. Hurry, Alfred.”

“Shit. Yeah.”

Alfred sprints towards the pod. He’s in within seconds, mashing buttons and murmuring sequences beneath his breath. Ludwig can’t see him behind the wood stacked thick in front of the pod, but he doesn’t need to see to know. He can hear, and he can guess. He looks out the door, squinting into the sunlight. He can make out the men rushing forward, guns loaded and cocked. He reaches forward, slamming closed the door and pushing in the lock. If he was human, his heart would be racing.

“Ludwig, get over here! I just-” Alfred stops. Something begins whirring in the engine.

Ludwig hurries over. They have a little time yet.

“Slide in. I think-” Alfred presses up against the side, gesturing to a space clearly too small for the both of them. “-I think we can fit.”

“We can’t.” Ludwig states. He sounds robotic, calm and detached, and it’s funny. He was programmed to be not, to be human, and it worked, but almost too well.

Alfred groans, standing with his legs still in the pod, and tugs Ludwig forward by his shoulders. “Don’t be a dick. Come on, Lud. Once this warms up, we’re good to go.”

He still sounds strained, and Ludwig hates it.

Ludwig can hear their voices. Gunshots have begun to pepper the walls. It’s sharp and loud, and he’s wondering if it’s hurting Alfred’s ears. He scans the boards piled up in front of the pod, brows pulling down as he evaluates the structural integrity. The sunlight filters in through the holes in the ceiling, cracked wood and heavy beams, and the boards are alright. It’s alright. It’ll hold long enough. They’re shielded for now.

Alfred’s hands stay planted on Ludwig’s shoulders as he frowns in the dimmed light. The sunlight cuts in shafts across his light brown skin, and though his brow is crinkled and dirt is smudged across his face, he’s still handsome. Ludwig only wishes he would smile, and though it’s selfish, Ludwig doesn’t wish to die with the memory of Alfred’s frown.

The gunshots have bored holes in the barn. Bullets hit the panels to their front, hiding them from the door, and the screaming becomes coherent. Curses, insults, unfounded accusations- they’re the voices of mad men, but Ludwig is so, so far away. He’s left the dirt floor, the sunlight, the carnage and terror and blood, blocked off the deafening uproar because there is them.

And there is Alfred.

And Ludwig is irrevocably in love.

He swallows, still held beneath Alfred’s grip. Near death is commonplace enough for them that this situation is more numbing than freezing fear, but Alfred is verging into panic, and Ludwig can feel it. This time is different. Worse.

Alfred starts with a noise of frustration, hands gripping at his shirt and his light eyes narrowed in the sunlight. “Lud, what are you thinking? God, I fucking swear if you-”

He never finishes.

Because Ludwig kisses him.

Alfred’s lips are chapped. He tastes like dust and salt. His arm is burning where Ludwig’s hand has reached for him and found him. It’s overloading Ludwig’s sensors, a mix of desperate, hopeful and sad, but above all, Alfred’s warm, and it’s odd. He’s grounding and bright and so very him in his scent and his skin and his wide-blown eyes, but he’s warm and so human, and it’s odd, and Ludwig has forgotten which way he’d meant to think. One thing clicks. Alfred does not react, so Ludwig pulls away, his hand falling with him.

Alfred is wide-eyed, jaw hanging and fingers fidgeting where they’ve dropped to his sides. It hurts. Some. But it’s what he expected and still more than what he deserves. It’s death in his face making him crazy. Or maybe it’s just Alfred.

He wants to take him up in his arms, hold him tight to his chest and say sorry a thousand times for ruining the last moments they have together. But he can’t. The men are close, and his projections never lie.

Alfred swallows, touching his lips. He looks like he wants to speak, but Ludwig knows he won’t be able to bear it. He shakes his head.

“Please. Leave now,” he says.

And then he runs, the image of Alfred standing slack-jawed and tense burned forever in his mind.

The door flings wide open. Men stand armed, shots fired in the direction of the pod and towards him but miraculously they don’t hit. Someone yells. Gunshots ricochet. There is fire, and there is sunlight, and just as he’d guessed, there’s a little black ball rolling straight towards the pod and Alfred.

It rips from his lips in a desperate last plea. “GO NOW!”

Bomb is the only thing he thinks as he lands atop it, and the world bursts red.

Alfred forces up the wheel. He bursts through the roof, home free, but the sunset is lost to his tear-filled eyes. His ears are ringing, filled still with the gunshots and the screams and the last frantic cry. He takes one look back to the dark, little barn and accelerates hard.

“Fuck.” He whispers. “I loved you, too.”

[chibalein]

Kalafina Live Review - 10th Anniversary

Finally it’s available and I watched the whole 10th Anniversary Live (again and again), so I thought I’d give a review on it. Here is my original Live Report -> click. My opinions didn’t really change much, though, so I’ll be repeating myself here and there :p Here we go!

Ring your bell ~ in the silence

I love that intro, especially with those flags opening

other than that, boring entrance -> the 9+ONE intro would have PERFECT for that occasion

Ring your bell

fuck that song

However, I like the performance, surely one of their best, I love their bright smiles and movements

 BUT it gave me reminder of why I don’t like this song: the final “ring your bell”s, Wakana always makes me cringe

Quick opinion: I really came to hate Keiko’s dress. Not the colors or the golden/black pattern, that’s pretty cool: it’s those lace shoulder pads and the leather corsage. They make her chest area look super bulky and the chest part of the dress is not form-fitting at all. She has such a beautiful body but this dress just doesn’t support it.

Mirai

Fuck that sooong and everyone who voted for it

But even I have to say, I have a lot of fun watching them perform, they move around, interact with the audience, it’s lovely and more carefree

Lirica

Definitely one highlight of the night

I realized for the first time that the Strings are actually plucking their instruments lol I thought it was a background sound by the manipulator

I barely hear Hikaru in the chorus, is she singing high or low? xD

Keiko is the best here, so deep and dramatic!

Booooring stage show. No movements by the girls is one thing, but no special light show or anything? They could have been so creative with this dark piece..

Manten

OMG some choreography

Wakana is greeeeeat

Yane no mukou ni

First performance where I almost cried during the actual live, perfect and emotional

Still don’t like Hikaru here, she sounds like she is shouting which kills all emotions she might have had while singing

Cool plucking violins at the end, never noticed they do this

Hikari no senritsu

overplaaaayed

OMG light dude, DO SOMETHING

Best flute solo of all time

Quick opinion: all the performances where I criticise the lack of creativity, movement etc. look actually great on the DVD, because we have the cameras. Changing angles, focus on each girl, their faces, the audience and the band give variety and it makes it look a lot more interesting. But sitting in the actual audience is absolutely tiring, because there is just nothing happening on stage. It’s just like you listen to a CD, especially if you had a seat in the far back and could only rely on the screen. Such a shame and waste.

Storia

oh god no

their steps in the middle part are all over the place XD

fun and good performance

Quick opinion: almost all songs by now have been completely or partly illuminated in blue light. Uncreative? Yes.

Natsu no Ringo

Hikaru again sounds strange and shouting, she definitely was edited

Other than that super beautiful performance, Wakana was in top form that night

Serenato

Another big highlight, one of the best performances Kalafina ever did

Actually a nice, refreshing intro by the accordion, but I personally find it kinda dominant throughout the song, which was a bit distracting and which I didn’t really feel in the actual live

ARIA

Hikaru sings lower and I like it a lot, although they definitely enhanced her voice to sound a bit “prettier”

she did such an emotional and sad performance, you could see that is not struggling as hard as e.g. in Red Day

Sprinter

that Keiko hug

finally some action on stage and interaction with fans!

super fun to watch and OMG Keiko is using the pedestal

Oblivious

still bad place in the setlist

great AMV and surely also a highlight, sadly this is the only special treatment for their debut song, should have been celebrated more

Poor Hikaru gets always ignored during WaKei duet lol

Kizuato

Great performance, I adore that song

Keiko’s voice a bit too cute for me here

Kimi ga Hikari ni Kaeteyuku

Keiko’s stupid cutesy voice

Very emotional and those sad faces at the end kill me every time

I just realized that they have sung all Kara no Kyoukai songs in a row XD

Quick opinion: It’s like they only have red, white and green filters, all while the light technician’s finger is apparently stuck on the blue light button. This is BUDOKAN! This is ALL you can deliver?!

Kantankatan

I honestly wonder why this song made it into the setlist. Hyakka Ryouran sure, being their most recent single, but why this B-side song (and e.g. why not Tombo?). Since fans couldn’t vote for it, it makes me think that the girls just really love this song and wanted it included in their last recorded live performance.

Wakana is simply perfect, Hikaru... well... she’s there. Where has her “neverending” voice gone to?

Where is the second violin dude? Toilet break?

This song becomes so much better when the Strings join in the last part

Symphonia

I still hate Keiko’s dress

omg girls, please move around or something

good and nice performance

Red Moon

finally SOME DARK SONG and finally something for the eye with the video

Hikaru still sounds kinda weak, but during the actual live she was barely audible, so I guess that’s a plus here

Keiko is amazing, you can hear her so clearly! Wakana too! Epic performance

Waaaaay too much blue for a song called Red Moon

Adore

Flashback to After Eden with Red Moon -> Adore xD

Wakana is suuuper!

What the hell is wrong with you Hikaru? What happened after After Eden? She’s sooo shouty, this is definitely her weakest performance of the night

Great violin solo

OMG they use the pedestals FOR THE FIRST TIME and they use it for GODDAMN 12 SECONDS

And I noticed they actually played some video -> good!

To the beginning

finally after way too long, an upbeat song since Sprinter (which is 6 songs ago)

It took me years to realize that they sing “down to zero we go”, however Hikaru sounds suuuper strange singing that line

finally some light action, took you long enough, eh

That Keiko punch at the end xD Not enough of those cool shots

Progressive

YEAH SOME REAL ACTION

also one of the best performances of the night, I love Keiko here, she’s moving so much and having so much fun, it’s infectious

Hikaru killed it and that very last line is awesome

Ongaku

Aaaaw that hug in the beginning

of course, Ongaku is a must, I still think this would have been a better entrance or encore song

look at this power, fantastic

those band solos are the best thing of the whole concert, honestly I love them so hard

however, accordion solo is so out of place and unnecessary beyond belief

Bongo duuuuuuude, LOOK AT HIS FACE I can’t even xD

KONNO HITOSHI VIOLIN EPICNESS!!!!!!! With great justice he got the best reaction from the audience

They edited that Keiko jump/hug, it took her much longer to reach Wakana xD

The interaction between the girls is gorgeous, something we have been missing overall a bit

they included the flute at the end too, very nice (I suppose the accordion too, but fuck that)

that was the best Ongaku performance they ever did

Heavenly Blue

they still should have gone to MC after Ongaku

other than that, good performance I guess

Into the World

well hello there blue filter, it’s been a while

is it just me or has Keiko been made more dominant than she is supposed to be in the beginning?

Nightmare Ballet

come one, at least do that Zaregoto BGM THAT SOME ASSHOLE CUT FROM 9+ONE!

Great intro by accordion though, her duet with Sakurada is so cute

I feel I should take that blue spotlights to a date by now, because I have spent more time with them today than with my boyfriend

Great performance by the band, though too late into the concert in my opinion

Hikari Furu

best performance of this song of all time

Wakana kills it so hard, I feel bad for the others

fantastic mix of normal and acoustic version

that epic pause, THAT EPIC PAUSE

Quick opinion: I am not the biggest fan of those white “wedding” dresses. While their “final” version is pretty cool, I don’t like the veils, simply because they serve no purpose, especially since they’ll be thrown away immediately afterwards.

Hyakka Ryouran

nice flute intro

Red-Blue-Red-Blue-Red-Blue FUCK YOU

Ah, that middle HiKei dance, now you finally can see what I was talking about in my live reports. Wakana would have been better standing on the middle stairs though... #needless nitpicking

the flags are waving, that’s admittedly pretty cool

great performance of everyone, good that this song made it into the setlist

Alleluia

this doesn’t have many live recordings I think, so I am really glad that Alleluia made it as the last and most popular song of the night

definitely a marvellous farewell song for Keiko

look how powerful she sings, she knew this was her last big performance and she delivered

- Why is the manipulator celebrated to heavily? Is he particularly popular or something? XD

- Ehm, Wakana’s dress are actually pants? Do I have that correct? XD

- They should have thrown in “snow falling” as a surprise encore, just for the joke

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

+ the musicians brought in so much variety and creativity even in highly overplayed songs, they made this truly a special concert

+ very good camera work, some great and cute shots and not so many cuts like in 9+ONE for example

- apparently an intern did the lighting here, I can’t explain this amateur work otherwise

- it’s a pity that there wasn’t any extra content included like some kind of Making Of or something on the Commemoration Lives. Sure, they reserved it for the movie, but still, at least something would have been nice

I really love this Live, although I had a lot of criticism. Kalafina delivered and they gave some of their best performances of their career. It was worth it all and it’s simply sad that this is their last concert. They deserved better treatment for this and it should have been even more special, with more effort and creativity by the staff/the agency.

Oops, that became longer than intended, sorry! Thanks for reading!

[tobiologist]

sincerity

Keith/Lance // canon divergent // 4.3k // sfw

Summary: "If not for the alien symbols etched into the spines of the fortune teller's books, Keith might have thought he was back on Earth.

'Why have you come here?'

And that’s the real question, isn’t it?"

or: Keith revisits the space mall to have his fortune told and gets more than he bargained for.

Keith is far from a skeptic.

 From a young age, he’s believed in most things the general public deem ‘unconventional.’ Aliens, ghosts, Mothman—conspiracy theories are Keith’s guilty pleasure. And, after the Garrison lied about Shiro’s disappearance, Keith put an even greater stock in government conspiracies than he used to.

 Does he believe in magic? Maybe. Okay, probably. Werewolves transform under the full moon, and fairies have the power to become invisible, some even heal people. Allura and Coran are always telling stories of abnormally strong Alteans or aliens with witch-like abilities, casting spells and changing form. And, of course, there are the Druids. Magic seems to stretch to every corner of the universe.

 So it comes as no surprise when Keith glimpses a fortune teller at the infamous Space Mall.

>> READ THE REST ON AO3 <<

 Keith spots the shop, only a few booths over from the knife salesman. Purple curtains hang down in front of the entrance. A massive wooden sign is fixed overhead, but the name is scrawled in an indecipherable alien language. The crystal ball situated alongside the text is the only indication of what’s inside.

 Keith dismisses it. There’s no time and no reason that he can think of to stop .

 (At least at that time.)

 Months later, when Shiro has disappeared for the second time—Keith hates having to acknowledge the fact it’s the second time—Keith finds himself in the worst possible position. Shiro brought up the issue for what felt like the thousandth time back when the two had been isolated from the rest of the team, cast away on an alien planet.

 “Keith, if I don’t make it out of here…” Shiro hesitated, and Keith couldn’t divert his gaze from the bags under his eyes. “I want you to lead Voltron.”

 The sentiment sent a chill down Keith’s spine. There were many occasions Shiro alluded to Keith taking over his position as leader of the team. But never before had the need felt so real, so immediate— like Shiro could die at any moment.

 When he vanished without warning, Keith felt obligated to honor his request and appoint himself as the new leader.

 Well, co-leader if Keith is being totally honest with himself. Recently, Lance had really stepped up to the plate. Whenever Keith needed a second opinion, Lance was there to chime in. During battle, he carefully watched Keith’s back, and, during mission briefings, Lance clung to his side and helped explain parts of the plan Keith didn’t quite understand himself.

 Considering the previous state of their relationship, it was… weird. But not totally unwelcome.

 It isn’t a problem. Except for the fact Keith can’t ignore his stupid fucking crush on his right-hand man and former rival.

 Yeah, it’s pretty awful. Keith can hardly be in the same room as Lance anymore without wondering what kind of beauty products he uses to maintain his appearance. On the rare occasions they’re relaxing, Keith closes his eyes and listens to Lance speak, savoring the sound of his voice and the underlying passion. On the nights neither of them can sleep, they sit near a particular porthole with the best view of the stars, sometimes in comfortable silence and sometimes exchanging stories from Earth.

 Of course, that’s on the more innocent end of the spectrum. The tiny hormonal Keith residing in the dirty corners of his mind has totally different concerns. Such as what Lance’s lips feel like and the taste of his skin.

 Keith just loves having feelings for someone. Definitely. His absolute favorite.

 In other words, Keith’s life is a mess at the moment. As if the whole ‘new black paladin’ thing isn’t bad enough, the ridiculous fluttering in his stomach whenever he’s around Lance only serves to make the situation worse.

 Lance, totally oblivious to Keith’s emotional turmoil, has been hanging out with Keith more often. And doing horrible things like teasing Keith and surprising him with casual touches and, God, sometimes he even hugs Keith after a particularly grueling battle.

 It’s suffering. The whole damn thing is suffering.

 “Why don’t you just… I don’t know, tell him how you feel?” Pidge suggests. She leans back in her chair, fixing Keith with a withering stare. “By the way, you came to the wrong person for romantic advice.”

 “I didn’t know who else to ask,” Keith admits. “Hunk and Lance tell each other everything so there’s no way I could talk to Hunk. Allura and Coran would probably tell me to be upfront with Lance. And Shiro might tell Lance for me.”

 “He would do that?”

 “Well, in his own, ‘I’m Shiro and this is supposed to be me subtly hinting at Keith’s crush on you’ kind of way.”

 “Oh wow…”

 “Yeah,” Keith sighs. “You and I talk about other stuff so I thought… why not?”

 Pidge groans and turns her attention to the computer monitor. Lines of green code fill the screen, reflected in her glasses. “Fair enough, I guess. I’m not sure what to tell you, though.”

 “Do you think there’s any chance he actually…?”

 “Feels the same?”

 “Yeah, uh.” Keith clears his throat. “That.”

 “I’ve never asked Lance. The only way to know for sure is if you ask him yourself,” Pidge replies. “But, I mean, if you wanna know the truth… I think he—“

 “You know, um. Actually.” Keith jerks to his feet. A flash of lavender gauzy cloth pushes to the forefront of his mind. “I think I have this under control. But thanks for listening and good luck with your… programming.”

 Before Pidge can try and bar him from leaving, Keith darts out of the room. He somehow navigates the tangled web of wires littering the floor without tripping. The door slides shut behind him, and Keith swears he can hear Pidge yelling after him.

 A tiny part of Keith is sorry for leaving Pidge in the dark. But a greater part knows he has to do this alone.

 —

 There’s something intimate about the soft light and tight quarters of the fortune teller’s booth. Slender ivory candles line the walls, arranged on shelves between thick, ornately bound books. A small table sits at the center of the room with a rich crimson cloth draped over it. The crystal ball sits on top, brilliant indigo surface glimmering under the candlelight, encircled by a gold design embroidered into the cloth.

 If not for the alien symbols etched into the spines of the fortune teller’s books, Keith might have thought he was back on Earth.

 “Why have you come here?”

 And that’s the real question, isn’t it?

 Keith shifts awkwardly in his seat. It’s hard to speak to someone when he can’t even see their face. The voice on the other side of the maroon veil is raspy, thick with curiosity. Their hands rest on the table, knobby fingers adorned with rings, nails sharpened to dangerous points eerily similar to claws.

 “My… future?” Keith settles on. Because, Shouldn’t you know why I’m here? would make him sound like a gigantic douchebag.

 “Of course. But there is more to your visit than a simple reading.” They pause, and Keith can practically hear them smirk. “Is that not right, paladin of Voltron?”

 His breath catches in his throat. How did they recognize him? Regardless of how ridiculous Keith finds the space pirate costume, he assumed the scarf, mask, and hood would serve their rightful purpose. The last thing he needs is to cause trouble for the team because he couldn’t put together a decent disguise.

 They probably use magic, dumbass, of course they know who you really are. Keith forces himself not to visibly panic, hoping he can still maintain his cover.

 “I’m sorry, Voltron?”

 “You act me a fool,” the fortune teller scoffs. “The aura of a paladin, especially Red, is far different from other customers. Scarlet clouds surround you like a blanket, young one. It is a shame you cannot see them for yourself. They are breathtaking.”

 Keith is completely and totally screwed. So much for masking his identity.

 ”Please, you can’t—“

 “I do not plan to spread word of your visit, if that is what you fear. Such an announcement would only serve to bring the Galra here.” Another scoff, far more disgusted. “I would rather not deal with those scum.”

 Keith bristles. “They’re not all scum.”

 “Easy, young one.” The fortune teller swishes their hand as if shooing a pesky fly. “I know of your heritage. However, there are few exceptions such as yourself.”

 “The Blade of Marmora?”

 “More exceptions. And not many.”

 “But they’re expanding—“

 “As much as I would love to debate with you, Red Paladin, you are not here to speak of political or ethical matters. You and I both know this.”

 A deeper wisdom than Keith could ever imagine seems to seep out of the fortune teller’s pores. It shrouds Keith, heavy and overbearing. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right.”

 Thin fingers settle on the crystal ball. “The Black Paladin? You wonder if you will ever see him again.”

 Keith stiffens; he hadn’t said a damn thing. Not out loud, at least.

 “I just need to know whether he’s alive,” Keith stresses. “I can’t… the thought of something happening to him…”

 “I cannot say much, but I will tell you this: he is alive.”

 A swell of joy engulfs Keith, and he just barely quells the urge to celebrate, feigning indifference. Shiro is actually alive. That one single bit of information changes everything. Now when Keith pushes the team to keep looking, he knows their search isn’t fruitless. He feels like a dog chasing a car it knows it’ll catch. Maybe not now but… but soon. As long as it keeps trying.

 “On the matter of whether and when you find him, I am not permitted to share. We who hear the universe’s voice have a certain pride to uphold.”

 “Is this how all of your readings go?” Keith blurts. Dammit. “Wow, sorry. That was rude.”

 “It is quite alright. As I said before, you are young. Considerably young.” They drum their fingers on the twinkling crystal orb’s surface and sigh. “Humans do not live long and, even with the Galra blood running through your veins, you will never outlive a creature like me, centuries old… withering away...”

 Centuries?!

 “And yet…” they trail off. Keith watches in silent horror as the fortune teller’s fingers flutter and then freeze, knuckles white with strain. A low growl rumbles up their throat. The noise is grating and inhuman and, oh God, this is where he dies. Sitting in the booth of an ancient fortune teller in the middle of a space fucking mall.

 Then, suddenly, they go quiet. Keith opens his mouth to speak, to maybe try and redeem himself, when—

 Laughter.

 Like tires rolling over gravel, the sound echoes throughout the tiny room. A thunderous laugh, booming, unbridled and genuine. Startled by the outburst, Keith flattens against his chair. His first instinct is to grab for his bayard. Without his usual suit, Keith settled for stowing it in a makeshift holster attached to his hip.

 Keith is seconds away from actually pulling his weapon on the mysterious alien when they raise a hand, signaling him to stop. Slowly, he lowers his bayard.

 “I was… under the impression that—oh my. This is… unexpected,” the fortune teller manages between bouts of laughter. They keep their hand out until their childish snickers eventually die down. “He was not your sole reason for coming here.”

 Shame and humiliation boil up inside Keith, coloring his cheeks. The fortune teller was only supposed to pick up on his fear over Shiro not—fuck, of course, they picked up on that, too.

 “I… well—“

 “The paladins of Voltron certainly are fascinating,” they carry on. “Admittedly, your subconscious managed to keep that hidden from me. I am impressed, considering the strength of such an emotion. So powerful. Very suited to the temperamental Red Paladin.”

 Keith swallows nervously and, yep, his cheeks are on fire. Great.

 “I don’t know what you’re, um. Talking about?”

 “You do not have to play coy with me,” they insist. “The feeling itself is there. I am not sure how I missed it earlier. A dazzling blue, much like the briny waves of the Reustean oceans. How beautiful…”

 Blue.

 “You have felt this way for a while, have you not?”

 “Felt what way?”

 The fortune teller shakes their head, clicking their tongue. Keith pictures it as the forked tongue of a lizard. “These… emotions you feel toward the Blue Paladin. They are far too intense to have been born overnight.”

 “Intense?” Keith’s voice cracks. “Uh, I don’t really know if intense is the word I would use…”

 “And you wish to know if these feelings are mutual.”

 “I mean, that’d be a stupid reason to come all this way to see a fortune teller. Right?”

 “Because you are too frightened by the prospect of rejection to ask the paladin yourself.”

 “Okay, I never said—“

 “His demeanor intimidates you.” They slap their hands over their mouth. Well, over the veil where their mouth likely is. “What an unforeseen turn of events! The hot-headed red, daunted by the outgoing blue.”

 “I’m—that’s not true!”

 “You are afraid he will reject you. And yet—how amusing.” The fortune teller is basically giggling at this point. It reminds Keith of a teenage girl, gushing over the juiciest piece of gossips she’s discovered in years. “I am so glad that you have come.”

 What, so you can laugh at my shitty unrequited crush? Keith crosses his arms over his chest. ”Then I guess you have an answer for me.”

 “You are always watching him,” they mumble, as if they didn’t hear Keith. After a momentary pause, they bounce a little in their chair. “And he… ah yes. Although neither of you are aware—the universe is so very cruel at times. I had no idea.”

 Keith finds himself caught on a single word.

 “Why… cruel?”

 In the blink of an eye, the fortune teller deflates. They sag against the back of their chair. “In regards to this matter, I am not able to impart much knowledge onto you, young paladin,” they explain sadly, “although I would very much enjoy resolving this issue once and for all.”

 The reading has taken a turn for the ominous, and Keith doesn’t like it one bit. “What are you talking about?”

 “Much like with the rest of my prediction, I must remain… vague is not exactly fitting, but it will do. I shall offer you this: pay close attention to his sincerity.”

 “His sincerity,” Keith repeats.

 “The thoughts he voices.”

 “Listen, I know you’ve never met La—the Blue Paladin, but he voices a lot of his thoughts. How the hell do I know which ones to pay attention to?” Keith blanches, realizing his word choice. “I’m sorry, excuse the, uh. Language.”

 To his astonishment, they seem unfazed. “You will know, young one.”

 “I—“

 “Now, I know you have plenty of concerns as the temporary leader of the paladins of Voltron, but I must ask that you leave now.”

 “Temporary?“

 “And you may be very young, but the truth will reveal itself to you soon enough.”

 Before he knows what’s happening, Keith is being hoisted out of his chair and guided purposefully toward the exit. He tries to set his feet, but the fortune teller easily overcomes his strength. There’s more muscle hidden underneath their cloak than Keith surmised. He almost trips when he’s given the final shove out the door, catching himself just in time.

 Did they really just…? Keith swivels on his heel, ready to give the fortune teller a piece of his mind. But all insults escape him.

 The unnervingly cryptic alien has pulled back their veil. Their skin is tinted pink, clear and free of any blemishes or scars. Slits like those of a snake are situated between two round eyes. The irises are a mix of lively greens and reds, encircling inky black irises the size of pinpricks. They have fine facial features, pixie-like.

 Keith can’t help but note how beautiful they are.

 And the jealous side of Keith—a monster, really—heaves a sigh of relief because Lance isn’t there.

 “I have faith in you,” they whisper, gravelly voice dripping with honesty.

 Keith doesn’t trust himself to speak and, instead, offers a nod. As he turns to leave, his mind wanders. What would it be like, seeing the future? Keith thinks, especially after this bizarre encounter, that he would hate it.

 The fortune teller is almost out of earshot when he hears one last thing.

 “Good luck, Keith Kogane of Voltron.”

 --

 When Keith returns, the castle is blissfully quiet.

 It had been the middle of the night, by the castle’s clocks, when he left. The longer he sat with the fortune teller, though, the more he was convinced he’d come back to a confused and angry group of paladins. But, as he climbs down from Red, he notes the emptiness of the hangar.

 Keith crouches low to the ground. With every step he takes, he inwardly cringes at the loud thud of his armored feet hitting the floor. Keith hadn’t seen anyone but that doesn’t exactly mean he’s alone. Pidge would totally hide behind her lion and wait for the perfect moment to jump out and interrogate Keith.

 “Where the hell did you go?”

 ”Just to visit a fortune teller from the space mall. The one where we rode around on a giant cow? Yeah, that mall.”

 “Because that would go over so—“

 “Keith?”

 “What the f—“ Keith nearly collides with the last person he expected to see here. “Lance?”

 “There you are,” Lance cries. One hand goes to his hip, while the other angrily flourishes and gestures at Keith. “What do you think you’re doing?”

 Dread swells up inside Keith. “Going… back to my room?”

 “Okay, and what were you doing before that?” Lance demands. His pajamas swish with every frustrated movement, lion slippers planted firmly.

 “Flying around in Red.”

 “In the middle of the night?”

 “I don’t have to explain myself to you, Lance.” Keith winces; it physically pains him. “I’m going to bed now.”

 Keith fully intends to stride past Lance and back to his room, but the iron grip on his wrist stops him dead in his tracks. Caught off guard, Keith doesn’t even attempt to resist. Flames dance behind narrowed blue eyes, fixed on Keith and totally immobilizing him. Oh fuck.

 “I think you do,” Lance disputes, voice low and dangerous.

 Keith hates how attractive he finds that.

 “I think as the new leader of Voltron and as my”—Lance stutters over the next word—“friend, you have a right to tell me what’s going on. I help you out all the time. Don’t I?”

 “Yes…”

 “So you can’t just… shut me out like this! I may not be the leader-leader, but I’m like, I don’t know, the co-leader? And if something had happened to you, I—“

 Keith waits, ready for a full tirade. He recognizes the flailing arms and running mouth. But Lance’s voice, thick with desperation, is new. The fiery glint in his eyes, the flaring nostrils, and the way he keeps encroaching on Keith’s personal space—all of it is new. Quite frankly, it scares Keith.

 “Take me with you.”

 Keith feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “What?”

 “Next time, take me with you,” Lance insists. Their faces are only a few inches apart now and, wow, how had Keith missed that? “I always watch your back in battle so… why should this be any different?”

 Keith is almost definitely blushing. He feels like he’s burning from the inside out. “Lance… it’s okay. You really don’t have to worry about me.”

 “But I do!”

 “Because of the rivalry, right?”

 “Wh—you’re kidding.”

 “You’re the one who kept bringing it up!”

 “I haven’t in a long time! Not since Shiro left.”

 “It makes sense, though. Since—“

 “Oh my God, it’s because I care about you, dumbass!”

 Silence.

 If one of the mice were to drop a pin, Keith is sure he’d be able to hear it. There’s no way in hell he heard Lance right. For months, Lance went on and on about their “rivalry” and about how “anything Keith could do, he could do better.” Lance seized every opportunity to profess his undying hatred for Keith. And, sure, it’s been awhile since he pranced around spouting insults.

 But this?

 Keep calm, nothing to lose your shit over, Keith silently chastises himself. Then, he remembers what the fortune teller said. About paying attention to Lance’s “sincerity.”

 “Oh God,” Keith blurts and lurches in Lance’s grasp. “No. That would be… no.”

 Anger quickly gives way to worry, and Lance’s features soften. “You alright, buddy?”

 “Was that—would you say you were being sincere? Just now?”

 “Um.” Lance blinks. “Yeah? I thought that was obvious?”

 “Oh. Cool, cool.” Keith’s entire world is falling apart, but, you know, no big deal. Meanwhile, Lance regards him like he's a madman, ten seconds away from snapping and going on a killing spree. “Cool.”

 “You said ‘cool’ three times,” Lance points out. Cautiously, he takes a step closer. If not for their shoes, their toes would be touching. “I’m starting to think you’ve been brainwashed or something.”

 Keith lets out an ugly snort of a laugh. His mouth opens and closes uselessly. It’s like he’s forgotten how to fucking speak, and, with that, he officially wants to die.

 “Why did you ask me that, dude? Not gonna lie, I’m legitimately freaking out over here,” Lance prompts, voice laced with concern.

 “You’re sure you were being sincere?”

 “Yeah, what the hell? I lowkey poured my heart out to you! Of course I was being”—he bends his fingers into air quotations—”’sincere.’”

 “Right, coo—“

 “If you say cool one more time, Keith Kogane,” Lance warns. Another horrifying laugh falls from Keith’s mouth, and apparently that’s it for Lance. He slaps his hands to Keith’s cheeks, resounding smack bouncing off the hangar walls. “What. Happened?”

 “You care about me,” Keith deadpans.

 “That’s been established, yes.”

 “And you’re not lying.”

 “God, you’re making this way more embarrassing than it has to be… No, I’m not lying.”

 “Then please don’t kill me for this,” Keith breathes and, before he can lose his courage, pushes up on his toes and kisses Lance.

 Well, tries to kiss Lance. Their teeth clack, noses bump, and their actual lips only touch for a second or two before Lance squeals and pulls away. He holds Keith at arm’s distance and gives him a quick onceover. The entire time, Keith stares at a random spot on the wall behind Lance’s head and struggles to remember his own name.

 “You’ve been brainwashed!” Lance declares. “I can’t believe our fearless leader leaves for one night and comes back without any memory of his amazing teammates.“

 Spontaneity is truly Keith’s forte. He secures his arms around Lance’s neck and tugs him down into a second, proper kiss. Lance gasps but thankfully doesn’t tug away. For a moment, he doesn’t budge, and Keith considers pulling away himself, maybe sinking into the floor for safe measure. But eventually, something must click inside Lance’s head and shaky hands settle on Keith’s waist.

 Warm, Keith notes when those hands urge him closer, steady but gentle. Warm, when they adjust the angle of their approach to more comfortably slot their lips together. Warm, when Lance smiles into the kiss and warm when Lance trails one hand up Keith’s spine, curling fingers around strands of thick, dark hair.

 They separate for an instant, and Lance has the nerve to laugh as their lips meet again. Keith mumbles questioningly but refuses to stop, not when he’s made it this far. His heart feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest; it’s one of the strangest sensations he’s ever experienced. A heady combination of the rush of adrenaline during a fight, the fear of losing to Zarkon, and the satisfaction of finding something lost.

 Since an accidental smashing of lips during a training session at the Garrison doesn’t exactly count as a kiss, Keith is out of his element here. Breathing is becoming much too difficult. Thankfully, Lance seems to reach his limit at the same time Keith does and draws back.

 Keith craves the warmth of Lance’s touch and can’t bring himself to put space between them. Slowly, Lance leans and rests his forehead against Keith’s. Their breath mingles, swollen lips close enough to come together again if either of them were to move even the slightest bit.

 “Dude,” Lance gasps, disbelieving.

 “We just… and all you can say is ‘dude’?”

 “Better than saying ‘cool’ a million times,” Lance teases. “Oh, and being all cryptic and shit. I still wanna know where you ran off to.”

 “A fortune teller.” There’s no point in keeping it a secret anymore. “At the mall.”

 “Aw, you went back to the space mall without me?”

 “I wasn’t there to shop…”

 “We would’ve had fun, though.” Lance pouts and then freezes, as if he only just comprehended Keith’s explanation. “Wait, wait, wait. Why did you visit a fortune teller?”

 Dammit. “Uh…”

 And Lance—incredible but occasionally infuriating Lance—interjects. “Oh, I get it. You asked about Shiro, didn’t you?”

 Keith hesitates. He could tell Lance the whole truth. For a second, he considers telling Lance every detail about his visit but something advises him not to. A voice in the back of his head discourages him from describing the reading to Lance, at least not yet. Maybe it’s the universe or magical juju or any semblance of logic he has left after the kiss. Either way, Keith listens.

 “Yeah,” Keith whispers, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah, that’s it.”

[ienveeus]

2 with sugamon?

Sugamon, 2, “You’re too young to hate the world.”

(rebels, arson, mentions of violence) 

The sound of gravel crunching underfoot is what alerts Yoongi to the fact that he is not alone. Smelling of kerosene and questionably more potable liquids, Yoongi turns to regard the newcomer, letting the canister in his hand clatter to the ground. In his jeans pocket, Yoongi can feel his lighter digging into his thigh, serving as a reminder as to why he’s here to begin with.

‘I was wondering when you’d show up,’ Yoongi says, watching Namjoon pause at the mouth of the alleyway, the white street lights haloing his figure. Once his eyes adjust to the light, Yoongi can make out the dimpled grin adorning Namjoon’s face.

Namjoon, with his pressed white dress-shirts and combed back hair, had met Yoongi some years ago in an alley very much like this one. He’d been tentative, didn’t walk with any air of confidence and smiled at Yoongi with a strained grin, wanting to appease him. He’d been scared then, exactly like the Empire wanted him to be, and Yoongi wouldn’t have had anything to do with him normally, but something about this Stray-born college boy who dressed like a Loyalist had tickled him.

Namjoon still wears pressed white dress shirts and combs his hair back, still goes to college where he’s forced to intermingle with Loyalists and pretend like he aches to be one of them. But now, he’s serving a bigger purpose, getting an education and using his brains to infiltrate the Empire from within. He’s clever enough for it, Yoongi believes it, and so do their movement’s leaders. And this purpose has given him confidence, as well as a questionable taste in company, with exhibit one being Min Yoongi.

‘Am I becoming predictable?’ Namjoon asks, taking a couple more lethargic steps into the alley.

‘Afraid so,’ Yoongi shrugs. His face pinches into a frown, taking in the additional blotchy marks across Namjoon’s cheeks. ‘What’s with the bruises?’

Fingers stray up towards the marks in question, brush gingerly over this marred skin. There’s a quiet intake of breath as Namjoon pushes too hard, a fog of breath obscuring his face for half a moment.

‘You always said black was my colour.’

Yoongi scoffs, rolling his eyes. He’s not in the mood for this kinda bullshit, the lighter in his pocket seems to be throbbing, itching to be within his fingertips. ‘Don’t wax poetic with me.’ He’s never liked pretty words about violence, or the repercussions of it. ’You getting into fights again?’

Namjoon frowns, having expected Yoongi to play along as he always did. He puffs himself out, trying to fill out some of that space his body occupies.

‘What of it?’

‘Who started this one?’

‘Me.’

‘Of course you did.’ It’s not sarcasm, more like exasperation. Every few days it seems Namjoon’s getting into some fight or another and Yoongi’s job isn’t to police Namjoon’s behaviour, but at times, it’s hard not to. ‘I’m glad the fucker at least got a few punches in. Though I suppose it didn’t knock much sense into you if you’re here.’

‘I see you’re pleasant as always,’ Namjoon says sourly. He walks over and leans against a dumpster. ‘I can’t believe you’re siding with Loyalist scum over me.’

‘You’re not a fighter, Namjoon.’

‘I’m getting there.’

‘You’re not meant to be there,’ Yoongi snaps. ‘Shit, we’ve got enough brute thugs in our movement, people throwing their weight against the system until it caves. We need people with all their brains in place to get all the political shit underway.’

‘So I just stay in school like a good boy and pretend I side with them?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Fuck that.’

Recklessness is a dangerous quality in a game like this. Yoongi hadn’t seen it on Namjoon when they’d first met, but he’d had that veil of ignorance back then, nowadays he’s forced into the thick of so many wrongs of the world and to act complacent, seemingly dragged along by the tide must be infuriating.

‘This is dangerous,’ Yoongi says. He hadn’t felt scared when he’d laced the place with kerosene but now that Namjoon’s here he can feel his pulse thumping in his ears. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

‘Are you kidding me?’ Namjoon asks, face contorting. ‘I’ve been at your side that many times before, Yoongi.’

‘I shouldn’t have let you,’ Yoongi says, ‘you don’t belong here.’

Namjoon looks like he’s been slapped, wavering on his feet for a moment, face red with indignation. He narrows his eyes.

‘Do you regret getting me involved in all of this?’

Yoongi folds his lips, running blackened fingers through his hair. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re too young to hate the world.’

‘You’re a fucking hypocrite,’ Namjoon hisses. ‘You’re a year older, do you think that means you’ve crossed the threshold? Is twenty the magical age where hatred is real?’

‘Fine,’ Yoongi hisses, matching Namjoon’s aggression because that is his job, to be angry, to be aggressive. He’s brute force where Namjoon was never meant to be. ‘It has nothing to do with age. It’s just you. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’

‘And you do?’

‘Yeah,’ Yoongi snaps, turning back to the building. ‘I do.’

Yoongi hears the crunch of gravel, he can almost delude himself into thinking that Namjoon is leaving. That he’ll go back to his dorm and behave just like he’s meant to.

‘So you’re just gonna light up this building then,’ Namjoon says, voice intimate, shoulder brushing Yoongi’s own and it’s a wonder Yoongi doesn’t recoil from the touch, like he’d do with most others.

‘Yeah.’

‘Who’s is it?’

‘Seokwoo’s.’

‘Jang?’ Namjoon turns to him, Yoongi doesn’t look back. ‘I’m caught between applauding you and calling you an idiot.’

‘Yeah?’

‘He’ll kill you, Yoongi.’

And there’s the show of what Namjoon really is. That quiet concern in his voice as if the threat of death is a new addition to all of this. The fact that he’s only just realising now shows how not right he is for this side of the game.

Yoongi pulls out the lighter in his jeans pocket.

‘You’re not gonna leave are you?’

‘Nope.’

‘I could make you.’

‘Then do it.’

Yoongi holds his ground. Sighs.

‘If anyone asks about this,’ he says. ‘I was the one who gave you the bruises.’

‘Whatever you say, Yoongi.’

Yoongi grunts, reaches for the bag discarded by the side of the wall and fishes out all the contents he needs for a molotov cocktail. Namjoon stands over him, watching, hopefully not absorbing anything, but he probably is and that’s just one more thing that’ll come back to bite Yoongi in the ass later, but he’s so fucking weak to Kim Namjoon.

Once he’s assembled it, he lights the end, pushing Namjoon into a run as he chucks the flaming bottle, no time to watch it soar through the air because he’s bolting for cover, hiding behind the dumpster as he hears a roar and feels the crushing heat as the building goes up in flames.

Sirens. Not ten seconds pass and Yoongi’s lugging himself to his feet, pulling up Namjoon too, keeping his hand in a tight grip for a second longer than necessary before Namjoon’s yelling something at him. The sirens getting louder.

Under the guise of night, together, they run.

[theliterateape]

Hope Idiotic | Part III

By David Himmel

Hope Idiotic is a serialized novel. Catch each new part every week on Monday and Thursday.

A MONTH LATER AT WORK, JUST BEFORE LUNCH, CHUCK BURST FROM HIS OFFICE into the area where Lou and I sat. He ran his hands through his short hair, clawing his scalp.

“Fucking Jesus!” he said.

Lou and I swiveled our chairs toward him and leaned back ready for the meltdown.

“Department meeting!” Chuck said. “Now! Cuba Café! Neal, you drive!”

“I can’t. I have to get gas.”

“Good. Get it on the way back.”

In the car, Chuck kept ripping at his head and cursing under his breath.

“You want to tell us what’s going on?” Lou asked.

“I need a beer first.”

Our department was going to be dissolved. “A restructuring,” is what the Palm Gaming executives called it. Although the three of us loathed the corporate humping we had to do to earn a buck, we had a pretty sweet seat up. While our department was independent and served much like a communication agency to the four Strip properties, the restructuring would require each property to manage its own internal communications. We were being split up. Worst of all, our positions would fall under the umbrella of the Human Resources Department.

Beyond the occasional legitimate sexual harassment problems or veiled threats of retaliatory violence from a disgruntled former employee, HR served little necessary purpose. It existed mostly as an employee party planner. Companywide emails from HR regularly looked like they were written in crayon. Lots of big, colorful fonts and clipart and seasonal-appropriate .gifs of Cupid, leprechauns, jack-o-lanterns and Santa Claus. I once brought in a flyer I received from Stephen’s daycare about an upcoming event. The flyer for young parents with babies looked just like an email HR sent to 70,000 adults employed at a casino regarding changes to the Employee Dining Room’s soda fountain. (There would be two Diet Coke dispensers — part of a new health initiative.)

A lot of the information we dispersed was at the behest of HR, but knowing that we weren’t technically HR employees was important to us. The days of freelancing on the Palm dime, joking around and extended drinking lunches were numbered.

“Melvin Wilson is going to be my direct supervisor,” Chuck said. Melvin Wilson was the company’s diversity golden boy: A mid-forties black man with an ex-wife and five children under the age of seven. He was a reformed juvenile delinquent, having served a stint at age 15 for selling crack to an undercover cop. After prison, he found Jesus, and from there, a job in human resources. If HR had a cheerleading team for the company, Melvin would be its captain. “And they’re making me the senior manager of communications at Tigris. So I’ll have a more hands-on boss to micromanage me while I’m managing a smaller department. The upgraded title is bullshit.”

“It comes with more pay, right?” I asked.

“Fifteen hundred a year,” said Chuck. Lou and I laughed.

“So what does this mean for us?”

“Nothing is official yet, but you’ll probably stay with me at Tigris. I’m worried about you, Lou.”

“Are they going to fire me?” Lou asked.

 “No. You’ll be sent to one of the other properties. And the whispers are that Lancelot’s Kingdom is gunning for you.”

Lancelot’s was Palm’s unloved, ugly stepchild of a property. Built to look like a medieval castle and themed as such throughout, it had become a glorified motel with rooms-by-the-hour since falling into disarray when Vegas outgrew its family-friendly identity. It was where hospitality careers went to die and where visitors checked in with hopes of hitting the jackpot but checked out emotionally empty and financially broke, having realized how hard exploitive capitalist dreams can crash.

“When does all of this take effect?” Lou warily asked.

“Probably by the middle of June.”

“Well then, I wouldn’t worry too much about me.”

“Why?”

Lou took a big bite out of his Cuban sandwich, which had just been delivered to the table. “I’m moving to Chicago at the beginning of June.”

“What the fuck for?” I asked.

“To make something of myself. Become a real writer in a real city,” he said with his mouth full.

“Are you saying I’m not a real writer because I live in Las Vegas?”

“No! Of course not. I was trying to be funny.”

“Because you’d be right.”

“What are you talking about? You’re a real writer. You just published your second book.”

“I write corporate masturbatory dreck and hump editors’ legs for twenty-five cents a word. My book is being outsold 500-to-1 by The Twinkie Cookbook. I’m not a real writer. I’m a hack with a dusty PhD who changes his son’s shitty diapers in his spare time. The only time I see my wife’s tits is when she’s feeding my son. Chuck, you can’t let him do this. He can’t leave us here.”

Chuck was a clawing at his scalp even harder. A few more ounces of pressure and he would have separated it from his skull. But there was nothing he could have done.

Lou’s mind was made up. He was in love and he was going to leave us behind for the big city and the girl. His commitment to the grand gesture surprised even him.

My book is being outsold 500-to-1 by The Twinkie Cookbook. I’m not a real writer.

He had sworn off the idea of love after his last serious relationship four years before. It’s not that he didn’t believe love existed, but that love was a hassle. Back then, he’d just bought his house and had settled in nicely to the bachelor life. Without a girlfriend, he was free of relationship trappings like constant accountability and awareness of someone else’s moods and feelings. Without a girlfriend, he was able to come and go as he pleased, do what he wanted, when he wanted, with whom he wanted. He liked being on his own — alone but never lonely. Girls came and went without much emotional effort from either party, which Lou found idyllic. He never felt anxious or hurt as a result of another person. When he was younger, he wanted to have a wife and kids, but after experiencing the spoils of bachelorhood, he had decided that he would have been perfectly happy never being married or having a family of his own, but rather always be free and available for the excitement of first kisses and the wonderful strangeness of sleeping with strangers. He figured that his friends would have kids, and he could be their cool Uncle Louie.

But then Michelle happened. In only a few months, her affection for him, and his for her, made him feel that real, workable love could exist. They had already been friends for eight years. That meant she knew who he was. She knew his idiosyncrasies, and she didn’t seem to mind them one bit. She may have even loved him more because of them.

And now, as for the move, Michelle was the perfect catalyst. Lou’s return to Chicago had been in his plans since first arriving in Las Vegas ten years earlier. Since he had a job straight out of college, he decided that as soon as his career had outgrown Vegas, he’d make his way home again. The decade was staring him in the face, his career was in the best shape it had ever been in, and Michelle would be at his side. He had what he referred to as trajectory.

“What about your house?” Chuck asked.

“Glad you brought that up. I’d like to sell it and use the money to buy a place in Chicago. Until it sells, how about you live in it and pay me rent? You’re moving out of your place now anyway, so what the hell? You won’t find a better place for the money.”

“And when it sells?”

“I’ll give you thirty days to get out.”

“I’ll talk to Lexi about it.”

“Lexi?” I asked.

“Yeah, we’re moving in together. Moving into your place, Lou, while we look for our own doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“Everything discussed at this lunch sounds like a bad idea,” I said.

We ordered another round of beers before driving back to the office in silence.

✶

AS LOU’S EXODUS APPROACHED, THERE WAS A SHARED ANXIETY BETWEEN THE THREE OF US and especially between Chuck and him. It was more than painfully apparent that their more youthful, troublemaking days were behind them and that their time together was limited. Therefore, every moment together had to be savored. So, on a typically bright spring Sunday morning in Las Vegas, Chuck and Lexi came bursting into Lou’s home while he made breakfast in nothing but white boxer shorts.

“Let’s go!” Chuck yelled.

“Good Christ! What’re you doing?” Lou demanded.

“We’re going to the Grand Canyon today. The three of us. Get dressed.”

“Nice boxers, Lou,” Lexi teased.

“You’re lucky I’m wearing anything at all.”

“I rented a Jeep. It’s goddamn gorgeous out. Come on. We’ll get breakfast in Boulder City.”

It was a day well spent. They walked out onto the new Skywalk and laughed at the magnitude of how disappointing it was. They threw big rocks down and took bets with each other on how many seconds it would be before they heard a thud. They reveled in the idea that they were making changes to the earth through destruction. Lexi took a photograph of Chuck and Lou standing at the edge of a ridge with nothing below it but the absolute bottom. They went off-road through the Joshua-tree forest, and Lou made his case against the band U2 — pompous and riding its own coattails. They stopped at a quiet desert bar for a few beers and a couple games of tabletop shuffleboard. Lexi asked Lou if he thought he’d miss Las Vegas. “I’ll certainly miss being able to have days like this,” he admitted.

✶

A WEEK LATER, CHUCK AND LOU WERE DRIVING THROUGH THE DESERT AGAIN, this time one-hundred-twenty miles north to the small mining town of Beatty, Nevada. This was a routine getaway location for the guys. It was on the edge of Death Valley, so there would usually be a couple of geology students from some university there studying its soil and plant life and temperatures. At night they drank at the Sourdough Saloon, situated on the main road just before the only stoplight in town.

The Sourdough Saloon had a large horseshoe-shaped bar where an Amazonian bartender served cold beers at two-fifty each, whiskey and tequila for four bucks, and generic frozen pizza from the supermarket for five dollars a pie. Old rifles and taxidermied heads of big-horn sheep adorned the walls. The jukebox was loaded with Dion and The Belmonts, and Johnny Cash.

This trip, like all the others, was a raucous spectacle. Lou drove them to Beatty in record time. When they walked into the bar, the bartender was in a shouting match with an equally large, though slightly less masculine, patron. From what the boys could tell, things were about to get out of hand.

“What the fuck is going on?” Chuck asked Lou.

Lou noticed a short, older man at the other side of the bar watching them. He must have sensed their confusion, because when he and Lou made eye contact, the man nodded slightly and began to walk around to them. He didn’t look like the average local. Instead of worn work jeans and a tattered undershirt with a trucker hat, this man wore khaki chinos, a blue button-down and a faded blue baseball cap. When he reached them, the bartender had a handful of the enemy patron’s hair and was shaking his skull the way a dog shakes a dead rat in its mouth. Lou whispered to Chuck, “I think this guy is going to fill us in.”

The old man smiled with one corner of his mouth as he reached into his pocket, then brought his hand to his neck and spoke in a slow, humming robotic voice. “iT’S oK. THeY’Re BroTHeR aND SiSTeR.”

Lou at first didn’t see the stoma in the man’s neck because he was too far away. And by the time he was close enough, Lou’s focus was on the battle at the bar. The man had to speak through a mechanized voice box. Chuck laughed. Lou thanked the man and offered him the barstool next to them. “Buy you a beer?” Lou offered.

“BuDWeiSeR. ThaNK YoU,” the man buzzed.

The fight ended shortly after that. Chuck and Lou drank heavily. When the old man was drunk enough and had left the bar, nerdy geology students replaced him. Chuck told the bartender he wanted her to show him her tits. She threatened to kick his ass. Lou offered to kick her ass instead. Then he apologized, bought her a shot and she backed down. They dropped twenty-eight bucks in the jukebox and played Dion’s “Runaround Sue” on repeat for an hour. With the little cash either of them had left — a couple of ones and a five — they scribbled messages on them and stapled them to the ceiling amidst other paper currency. They read:

Help! I’m lost. If found, please call Chuck Keller at 702-353-8068; This dollar bill was once touched by a real live Jew; Figure it out. – CK and LB, May 2007.

At one point, Lou escaped to the bathroom to vomit. When he returned, Chuck was gone. “Did you see my friend?” Lou slurred at the bartender.

“The little bastard was asking to see my tits again. I threw him out. Next time I’ll kill him.” Lou laughed. “Fuck you!” she yelled. “Get the fuck out of here!”

Chuck didn’t make it far after being tossed out on his ear. He ended up passed out in a heap in the street, using the sidewalk curb as a pillow. “Let’s go, asshole,” Lou said, as he kicked him. “We have to get off the street.”

They had enough sense to secure a hotel room before going to the bar, and once they found Lou’s car, which was in the Sourdough’s rear parking lot, Lou drove them to the hotel. He tried to anyway. All the booze rendered his short-term memory and global cognitive ability completely useless. He knew what the hotel looked like — a series of white, aluminum-sided trailers. He knew it was only two blocks from the Sourdough. But instead of driving there, Lou blew through the stoplight and drove away from town, north on U.S. 95 with Chuck comatose in the passenger seat. Where the fuck am I? he wondered.

After an hour of weaving the lane and the shoulder, he saw a small red light ahead and thought, Great, a whorehouse. I’ll pull in, and we’ll just sleep there. He and Chuck had been to brothels before. Not as customers, but as curious journalism students on a road trip to Lake Tahoe. He knew these places had what were called trucker rooms, which could be rented by the hour — much like the girl — for the long-haul truckers in need of sleep who passed by on America’s loneliest road.

But no one answered the door of the small house when Lou knocked. So he went back to the car and drove toward what he hoped was back to Beatty. An hour later, he was in town but still couldn’t find the hotel. He thought, Fuck it, I’m parking it right here and going to sleep.

He woke up to Chuck slapping him in the face. The late-spring desert sun was pouring through the car windows, cooking them both.

“Hey! Wake up, you fucking asshole. Why are we sleeping in the car? And in a gravel parking lot?”

“Because I couldn’t find the damn hotel last night. Drove more than an hour on the highway. Was just going to rent a trucker room for us at a whorehouse, but no one answered.”

“What do you mean, you couldn’t find the hotel?”

“I mean I have no idea where it is.”

Chuck pointed straight ahead through the windshield and laughed. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Lou had given up looking for their hotel in the hotel’s parking lot. The white, aluminum-sided trailers were about ten yards away from the car. It was morning, and they had to head home, but, since they spent the money, they figured they should get some use out of the room. They stormed the place like savages, ripping the bedding apart to get between the sheets catch some proper sleep for a few hours before showering and heading back to Las Vegas.

Dehydrated and hung over, the drive back felt much longer than the ride there the night before. Plus, they had reached the end of what was going to be their last adventure together for a while. Lou was leaving in a week.

“When did you know you loved her?” asked Chuck.

“Maybe when she first kissed me.”

✶  

IT WAS THE DAY BEFORE NEW YEAR’S EVE 2006 — her birthday. Like always, Michelle was back in Vegas to celebrate the holidays and her birthday with her parents. After a birthday dinner at a steakhouse inside the high-end neighborhood casino resort with her parents, she invited Lou to join them at one of the casino bars. Her parents were both smashed and giving away twenty dollar bill after twenty dollar bill to the bartop poker machines. Michelle was drunk, too, but sober enough to refuse to get into the car and go home with her mom and dad in the sloppy shape they were in. Lou offered to give her a lift. On the way home, they made a stop at her favorite taqueria.

“You know, you really missed your window with me,” she said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your window to be with me. All of those times we were each other’s stand-in dates to things, you never once tried to kiss me. And now it’s too late. You missed your window.”

“I didn’t know there was an open window.”

“That’s exactly your problem, Mr. Bergman. You. Don’t. Know.” She flipped her blond hair as she turned her head to look away from him out her window. This was how she flirted — by giving him a hard time.

When Lou pulled into the drive-thru, Michelle unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to face him, her back against the passenger door. “When you finish ordering, I’m going to kiss you,” she said.

Lou looked at her and laughed.

“Welcome to Los Tacos. Order when you’re ready,” the voice crackled from the intercom.

“I’ll have three regular tacos, two chicken soft tacos and…” he turned to Michelle who was still perched against the door. “What do you want again?”

“Two tacos and an order of nachos. And a Diet Coke.”

He turned back to the intercom. “Two tacos and an order of nachos.”

“And a Diet Coke!” Michelle said.

“I know. Relax. And a Diet Coke. Please.”

“That’ll be seven-fifteen. Second window.”

Before Lou could even depress the clutch, Michelle pounced. She swung her right leg around so that she was straddling him. It was a tight squeeze, and their faces were close.

“You’re kidding me,” he said.

She looked deeply into his eyes for a moment, then leaned in and kissed him. It was soft and slow and hard. It was deep and shallow. It was passionate. It was incredible. And when it was over, it left Lou dazed.

Michelle looked at him and said, “Okay. Now that that’s done, we can go back to being friends.” She swung her leg back around, plopped down in the passenger seat and buckled her seatbelt. The car in line behind them honked. Lou looked at her.

“You can do that again if you want.”

“Nope. That’s it. Just showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”

He pulled up to the window, paid and drove her home. As they divided the tacos in her parents’ driveway, Lou asked her, “You’re still going to be my date for my New Year’s party tomorrow, right?”

“Of course. We’re friends. And friends don’t stand each other up. Besides, my parents are going, too. I’m not going to stay home alone.”

“All right. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Then I guess you will. Goodnight, Mr. Bergman. Thanks for the birthday tacos.”

“Thanks for the birthday kiss.”

She smiled at him and headed into the house.

By the morning, he was over the kiss. It was no big deal. He kissed girls all the time. But when she showed up at the party wearing a perfectly fitting little black dress, he felt butterflies in his gut. And at midnight, they kissed again. And when the party was over, they drank the last of the champagne on his bed. And she spent the night with him. And as they lay together, Michelle Kaminski took Lou Bergman’s head in her hands and said, “This face… I’ll never look at it the same again. What have we started?”

✶  

“WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE?” Chuck asked. “To fall in love?”

“Just like you remember. Except better.”

They drove a few silent miles. Then Chuck said, “I met a girl.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her name is Gina Acerbi. She’s that pretty Italian girl who works up in sales and catering. Tiny little thing; great tits. She was in my diversity training class. I don’t know what to do.”

“What is there to do? Nothing wrong with knowing a cute girl.”

“There is if I’m fucking her.”

“Jesus Christ, Chuck. You and Lexi are moving in together in a week.”

“I didn’t plan on it. Jesus, man. Like Michelle, she just came out of nowhere.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I want to feel what you feel. I want to know what it’s like to love someone so much — and know that they love you just the same — that you’re willing to throw away your entire life just to be a part of theirs. I want that. I want that passion of making out in a fast-food drive-thru. I want those goddamn butterflies. You know what I get now? I get to move in with a girl — who I care about, and yeah, I love her — but a girl who reads the Bible in bed. You can imagine what my sex life has been like with her.”

Chuck had a point. He’d always been a sexual animal, often a crazed beast with an enduring tumescence. And whenever he and Lexi had a mini-breakup, he made sure to do as much migratory humping as possible.

“The Bible is sexy. In parts. Violent, too. That ought to turn you on,” Lou said.

“The Bible doesn’t give me butterflies.”

“And Gina does?”

“And Gina does.”

Part I Part II