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palbabor-writes · 3 years

Text

Latibule

Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, panic attacks & hypochondria, adult language, eventual SMUT

Words: 9790

His usual spot at the cafe is taken, and he’s already decided to keep walking on, but somehow, somehow, he manages to catch your eye.

His feet are slowing, a stuttering breath stagnating in his lungs, all at once hopeful and bewildered, but before he can examine his fluttering emotions, you’re alongside him on the noisy sidewalk, passing him his usual evening drink, a pleased smile on your soft lips.

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you.

Notes: hi. this is my first real foray into the world of Haikyuu!! & i’m so excited to branch into this fandom! if this is your first time reading my stuff imma warn you, i take things slow, so expect some slow burn.

this will be a multi-chapter fic with eventual NSFW/18+ only content. i will post warnings for each update. i’ll also link other chapters on this page and any other pages that come up, so keep in mind that there will be edits to links as things progress - i wasn’t planning on this being anything more than a one-shot, but this first exploration of Sakusa’s character turned into a monster & i wanna really hone in on that sweet, sweet build up.

big, huge shoutout to @wickedfaerytale & @albinoburrito for their edits and suggestions. y’all are amazing and i love you both so much, this fic wouldn’t be what it is without the two of you.

Latibule /lat-i-bule/ noun a hiding place; a place of safety and comfort

pt. i: an opening

[ pt. ii: four set ] ||

It’s a quiet coffee shop.

He likes that about it. He likes it almost as much as the simple fact that he can tell what day of the week it is by the smell of the disinfectant and bleach that’s being used behind the counter.

There’s a strange comfort to this place’s consistency and Kiyoomi Sakusa likes to linger here, propping his MSBY issued volleyball bag beside his usual table. He’s already placed his coffee order with the cheerful man who guards the cash register, watching as his paper cup is marked with a fresh sharpie and placed on the bartop, beside the elbow of that barista who always attentively turns to wash her hands before making each new order.

He had stumbled upon the shop his senior year of college and he’s haunted it ever since, content to sip on a smooth cortado as he watches over the latest plays from the MSBY games, mapping out his overestimations, his successes, and his flukes in his notebook– carefully lined kanji listing out what worked and what needs some extra practice. The caramel sweet flavor of the ristretto shots always helps to relax him, his broad shoulders lowering, the ache of self-induced tension and overworked muscles easing as his drink cools between his fingers, finally sinking fully into the plush leather seat of his clean chair.

The young woman, he should know your name, but he’s never caught a proper glimpse of your name tag, because you’re always moving, gives him a familiar lifting of smooth lips and places his completed drink on the handoff plane. You know his personal preferences well enough that you’re already moving the caddy of lids and cardboard sleeves forward, so he can select his own from the neatly stacked row. He gives you a cursory nod and his calloused fingertips pull the frothy beverage into his hands, cupping the curved sides and taking a deep drag of air through his masked nose, inhaling the bright smell of fresh coffee.

And…vines…or is it a tangy pine?

There’s something else that’s tickling his senses, and he blinks toward you, dark brows knitting together, a misplaced curl of inky hair brushing against his forehead, trying to make sense of the smell. His chin lifts and his head tilts, eyes watching your polished movements as you move onto the next drink in line. It’s definitely got some floral notes, but it’s not cloyingly sweet, like honeysuckle or gooseberry–no, it’s got some kind of balmy spice to it. It returns when you move closer and he swears he can taste summer when you shift back.

Odd.

When you look up at him again, he’s already stepping away, his running shoes squeaking across the slate tiles, making his way back to his bag and table. The aroma of your perfume is half forgotten when he cracks his laptop open, squirting some hand sanitizer across his chapped palms before he starts to clack his fingertips across the dark keys. He needs to get more lotion; he thinks as the sterile solution cools between his splayed fingers, this weather always dries his skin out.

The next time he comes in he spies you at the back of the shop, jotting something down in a large binder before kneeling behind the counter, returning with a sparkling, grated drain top. The white gleams under the accented lighting and he watches as you thumb at the paint, denoting a splotch of rust that rests under the dip of the metal. You return the cover to the ground and immediately twist to the hand washing sink that rests behind the bar, lathering up some dispensed soap and methodically stroking from the tips of your fingers to your wrists. A steady puff of steam is rising around you as he places his order–

[ a oat milk smoothie, with an extra scoop of protein powder, chia seeds, turmeric, kale, cucumber, dash of dates for sweetener ]

and by the time he’s paid and padding toward his usual spot, you’re finishing up, yanking a few disposable paper towels from the overhead dispenser and gingerly drying your damp hands.

He’s seen you wash your hands plenty of times before, but he finds himself distractedly following your movements this afternoon as he waits for his order and his computer to finish booting up. You catch his obsidian eyes when you turn around and give him a brief smile; a flash of teeth peeking through your lips before you move back to your binder. You jot down a few more notes as you move onto the fridges that sit under the countertops, pulling and prying at the gaskets that line the doors of the whirring chillers, speaking softly to a fellow employee, pointing out the missed stains and chipped flecks of ice that like to hide within the folds of the protective plastic.

You’re not overbearing in your coaching, keeping your tone even and friendly, focusing on what can be done going forward, rather than lingering on the ‘what if’s’ and ‘why wasn’t’ of the situation.

Practical, efficient, thorough with your work, and careful with your craft.

Those descriptors float to the forefront of his mind as he takes his smoothie from the barista that’s standing beside you. He lets his gaze hold against your half leaning form, watching the lead tip of your pencil mark over the stark red checklist that you’re working your way down.

He’s not sure why he’s so focused on you. He’s never thought much about you. You’ve been someone that exists in the background, part of his routine to be sure, but he justifies that your attention to detail is likely the reason why he prefers this shop to the dozens of other coffee houses that litter the main street by the MSBY training facilities and stadium. Your head shifts, and he can tell you can feel his gaze, so he swiftly plucks up his icy cold cup, his nose involuntarily trying to seek out that perfume you’d been wearing the other day.

Strange. His brow furrows, and he hunches into his sports jacket, walking back to his chair and his glowing computer. He can’t smell it today. Maybe you’re too far away, or perhaps you’d forgotten to put it on before coming in.

Pity. He’d liked it.

“Running a little late today, I see,” your voice snaps him out of his stupor, onyx eyes lifting to rest against your open expression.

“Kind of,” he replies blandly, his deep cadence muffled by the pull of his mask.

“Damn, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be late! Want me to push your drink to the front of the queue? I’ve got the power to do that, you know,” you tease, tilting your head as a mischievous grin settles over your quirked lips. Kiyoomi blinks impassively down at you and shakes his head. How would he even reply to something like that? You were joking, right? You must be. And if you weren’t, the people who are clustered around the handoff plane would certainly realize that he was being given his drink first, clearly ahead of all of theirs, and they’d probably toss him a few disgruntled stares or mouthy jabs, and likely accuse you of playing favorites.

Wait. Favorites?

Does he count as a ‘favorite’ here? He looks away, lips drooping into a pursed line. You’ve always been…nice…but there’s no way he’s a favorite of yours. He’s hardly spoken to you in the year and a half that he’s been coming here. But is that all it takes? Just take up space in the cafe a few times a week and get special treatment?

No. You must be joking.

All the same, your jovial tone and that welcoming smile is a little intriguing.

He shuffles closer to the heat of the espresso machines, easily lifting his head over the lip of the bronze metal, watching you. You’re looking down now, fingers gripping the dark handle of the portafilter, holding it under the buzzing grinder to gather a fine sprinkle of dusky espresso grounds into the waiting basket. Then, you lift a lustery tamp to the heaping mound and press expertly against the delicate remains of the arabica, packing them to an even level before clamping the filter under the display of the machine. When you flick the switch that activates the group head you must sense his stare and lift your eyes to his, eyelashes momentarily fluttering against your cheeks when you spy his unabashed observations of you.

For a second, your hands falter, trapped within the unexpected intensity of his curious gaze, and you pat blindly for the cup that’s sitting to the right of your curled arms, embarrassingly disarmed by his transparent focus. But once your grip wraps around the waiting plastic, it seems to ground you and you let out a huffing chuckle, eyes crinkling up at his half obscured face.

“I’m only kidding about moving your drink up, don’t worry, I won’t get you in trouble. Besides, it’s against our policy. First come, first serve and whatnot,” you assure him, halting the stream of water that’s pouring the carefully timed flow of espresso into the clear shot glass that’s waiting against the gleaming metal of the drip tray.

“You’re busy today,” he notes, jerking his curly head toward the gaggle of college students sprawled across some of the bigger tables, their laughing voices and overly loud conversations easily drowning out the hum of lofi jazz that’s playing from the recessed speakers.

“Ah, yeah, finals are coming up for a lot of us that go to the university. I know my classes are starting to gear up for that last push and sometimes you just need a pick me up and coffee is great for that. We also get a big boost from the smoothies and frappes that we sell in the afternoons, so we get a little packed. Most of our sales happen during the weeks leading up to finals and midterms, uh, anyways, not that you asked for an economic lesson on a small cafe’s profit margins.”

“You’re a student?” he asks, head dipping back, eyes glittering in the lights. Wait. How old are you? Not that he can boast any sort of seniority on that front, he’s only 24 after all, but you just seemed, hmm, more mature? He didn’t picture you as a co-ed. Not that he’s actively picturing you when he’s not here. Well, he is a little recently, but you’ve always felt sort of timeless? Ageless? Is that the right term? You give off an air of confidence. So he’d assumed that you were older than him. Not in a bad way, in fact he’d sort of like it if you were. Why, that is, he’s not willing to look too deeply into, at least, not right now. Maybe later, when he gets back home and can…oh, you’re talking again.

“I’m a graduate student, but not for much longer. I’m finishing up my dissertation this week! Thank God. This semester has been the pits, I’m so ready for a break!” You sound genuinely happy and he can smell that faint aroma of your perfume each time you move.

“Congratulations,” he murmurs, unsure if you’d heard him since you’re stepping away from the machines that he’s posted himself behind. He watches you set up two steaming drinks, topping them with a lazy swirl of silky, housemade, whipped cream, a crosshatch drizzle of caramel, carefully snapping a set of black plastic lids on top, before calling out the handwritten names and handing them off to their respective owners. Then you’re back, hands already unhooking the portafilter, knocking out the used espresso pucks into the trash and bringing him back to that spicy smell of summer that sits on your skin.

“Haha, it’s a little early for a congratulations. Don’t jinx me, will’ya? But seriously, thanks, that’s nice of you to say,” you continue, flowing easily back into this half-hearted conversation he’s accidentally struck up with you. He winces at that thought and dips his hands deeper into his jacket, hunching his shoulders into a habitual slouch that he instinctively imposes upon himself when he’s out in public.

“You want a lid?” you question over the hiss of the machine, and he lifts his head, finding your bright eyes through the misting remains of the cleared steam wands.

“No.” His response is clipped, and he gulps down a sudden burst of hazy anxiousness when someone brushes past him, jostling him closer to the low wall that divides the bartop from the cafe floor. He braces himself against the warming top of the machine, his large palm steadying himself, shoulders caving forward, his dark curls falling over his eyes, obscuring his face further. He clenches his jaw, a scowl blooming over his lips.

His social anxiety isn’t anything new, and it’s likely exacerbated by the bustle of the nearby college students, who seem to be getting louder by the second. The noise is needling under his skin. He starts his carefully ingrained breathing exercises, tugging in a deep stream of air through his flared nostrils.

But the smell is coffee is too overwhelming and suddenly his ritual doesn’t help much.

He can feel blood leaving his fingertips and toes, or as his cousin Komori puts it [ the inescapable dread of some imagined ailment, which is making him think that his body is rushing blood from his extremities to his vital organs, his fingertips cold, hands shaking, when in reality ‘you’re just feeling unsure of yourself, man. It’ll be ok in a minute, promise!’ ]

But in the end, it doesn’t matter what anyone calls it, or how they think he should feel during these heart pounding moments, he just knows that he wants to get out of here, now.

His agitation must have twisted the top half of his expression because the feel of your warm fingertips against his wrist jerks him out of his head, causing him to suck in an unsteady breath as he lurches backwards, pulling away from your offending touch.

“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t think…I just…” you bite your lip, a look of stark worry passing over your usually open features. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Are you…are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, teeth clenched, right leg bouncing in place against the tiles. Shit. It’s not like he could have predicted that you’d try to touch him, so you can’t really blame him for his misplaced reaction. Just get him his coffee and he’ll be on his way…

Come on…come on…

“Here you go. Sorry for the wait, Sakusa,” you lift on your tiptoes, the stretch of your legs and arms apparent as you hold his cup out, careful to balance yourself against the lever of the steam wand. He takes the proffered drink and nods his thanks at you, his gaze dark. The gesture might be a little strained, and he knows you likely think he’s some kinda freak at this point, but he’s glad to see your customary smile before he turns, shouldering his way out the door and into the promise of open air.

“Stop being so secretive about this place. It’s not like you can’t search for it online, Omi Omi. I saw you come in with the logo of their shop last week and I wanna try it out. Don’t cha’ gimme that look, I deserve to have good coffee too! And if it’s close by you can’t just keep it to yourself! Think about the rest of us, huh? Besides, I think they’d like to see something other than yer’ prickly face every once in a while.” Golden haired Atsumu Miya, his fellow teammate and setter for the MSBY Black Jackals, has been walking beside him for five blocks, jabbering on about the bland offerings of the big box coffee chains that surround their home gym, and how he hasn’t had a good cup of coffee in days. Tch, he’d said months originally, but that was an obvious lie. After all, Kiyoomi pointed out, slipping his mask on before the two stepped into the strong midday sun, he’d come in with an iced coffee two days ago, proclaiming to the whole team it was the best he’d ever had, bar none.

“It’s a small shop,” Kiyoomi glumly elaborates, his dark hair soaking up the rays of sunlight as they crossed the bustling pedestrian walkway. “I think it’s run by an American. The staff speaks English, besides Japanese. There’s one barista in particular, a young woman, she has–”

“English? Oh, hell yeah! I can practice! This is perfect! They got any specialty drinks? I couldn’t see any from the menu that they had online, but I told ‘Samu I’d send him a picture of the place.”

Hmph, what’s the use of bothering to hold a conversation with this guy, Kiyoomi thinks, obsidian eyes narrowing as his brows furrow over his scrunched face, watching Atsumu chatter on about the vague sampling that he’d seen on their website. He’s not listening, anyway.

The coffee shop bell dings as the two of them step into the space, greeted by a waft of freshly ground coffee and the sharp tang of disinfectant. “Ahhh,” Atsumu says, propping his hands on his trim hips and fixing Kiyoomi with a pointed look, “totally see why you like the place. It smells like they have a freaking bleach, whaddya call those, ah, an air freshener! Yeah, smells like they have an ‘eu de bleach’ wall plug in.”

“It’s clean,” Kiyoomi affirms, his own hands sliding into his pockets, fingers wrapping around his wallet as he steps into the line. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not at all,” Atsumu grins, resting an arm on Kiyoomi’s shoulder as he glances over the chalkboard menu. “Just can tell that must be why you like this place so much. Bet you huff cleaner as soon as you get home.. Speaking of, I still need to see your new apartment, heard you let Ushijima come by and that’s not fair at all. Kinda– ow! Omi, ya’ friggin ass!”

Kiyoomi jerked his arm upwards as he stepped toward the register and the abrupt displacement sent Atsumu’s hand flying up, managing to perfectly strike himself on his nose as he attempted to counterbalance his sudden shift in momentum.

“HA-ah, ahem, I mean…hello! Nice to see you again, sir!” the barista calls out, poorly concealing his mirth at Atsumu’s fumbling behind a gloved hand. Kiyoomi nods curtly, his order on the tip of his lips, but before he can utter anything Atsumu is beside him again, leaning against the well lit pastry case and peering over his options critically.

“Hmm, ya’ got any of those little madeline cakes? They’re vanilla, kinda look like a shell? Saw em’ on yer’ website.”

The barista gives Atsumu a broad grin and twists to talk with someone who’s below the arched dome of the food case, quietly asking a few questions before looking back at the blonde man. “Yeah, we do! We’re actually just putting them out, my manager is checking for the–”

Atsumu steps impossibly closer to the gleaming glass and pops his head over the dome, peering down at whoever is restocking the sweets. “Oh! Hey there!” he chirps, lowering his chin, his face pulling into an exaggerated, cocky smirk. “Ya’ know what I mean, right? It’s kinda like a cake, but it’s small, like a cookie. It’s French. No, it’s not that. Maybe on the next tray? What? I can’t hear ya’. It’s smaller. I can step around, see if–”

A familiar voice pipes up before Atsumu can move closer and Kiyoomi turns, ears instantly pricking up at the sound of your reply. “I said, I know what a madeline is, sir. I’m rearranging and organizing my cart at the moment and, if you’d like, you can order your drinks first. I’ll have the madeline waiting for you on the other side of the bar.”

“Lemme just see one,” Atsumu grins, resting his hands against the glass. Kiyoomi’s lips curl at the sight, watching Atsumu’s hands leave lingering prints behind. Great, now they’ll need to clean and re-polish the display. Besides, you’d said you had them. Why keep pushing the issue? Ugh. If he wasn’t regretting his decision to show his fellow teammate the shop before, he certainly is now.

“Just wanna make sure we’re on the same page, is all. Ya’ might give me something else by mistake and that’s a waste of time for both of us!” Atsumu’s smile broadens, a shadowed look falling over his angular features.

You hop up from your crouched position, a wrapped package with bright blue lettering that clearly says [ French Vanilla Madeline ] on the side, clutched between your fingers. “Oh no, I get it,” you begin, mimicking Atsumu’s cheshire grin with startling accuracy. “You just want to double check! I mean, the words on the packaging do say: Madeline. So unless you mean something else, something that’s not called ‘A French vanilla madeline, made with real vanilla extract and buttery goodness,’ I think we’ve got you covered.”

Your voice is saccharine sweet, lilting over the words, a well-practiced smile lifting your lips. You’re still clearly mirroring the one Atsumu is giving you. It’s the snappiest your tone has ever been, and the fact that it’s being used against his annoying teammate is priceless. Suddenly, he can’t help the laugh that’s already snickering its way past his mask.

“Oi!” Atsumu cries, pushing himself off the case at last, his teeth gritted at Kiyoomi’s obvious amusement. “I just wanted to check! And you, manager lady, don’t be so mean!”

“Pfft, manager lady? It’s (Y/N). And me? Mean? I was not mean, I told you that we had them! I just needed to FIFO some of the other pastries first,” you defend, a surprised exhale falling from your lips.

“FIFO? What is that? Don’t use that food jargon on me! I get that enough from my brother. He does that crap all the time, like it’s some sorta secret lingo. ‘Don’t do that ‘Tsumu, gotta make sure it’s in date’. ‘Don’t come on the line!’ ‘Gotta wear a hat or a hair net if yer’ gonna be back here!’ ‘Don’t mislabel the rice!’ On and on. What’s with you food people? So uptight. Look, I just wanted to try one. Yer’ reviews said they were good! Here, tell you what, give me two. Don’t laugh! Omi, help! She’s picking on me!”

“Stop it, you’re making a scene. Any other inane questions? Or anything else you’d like to order, because I’m certainly not buying any of this for you,” Kiyoomi replies, sneaking a glance at your bemused expression. You catch his eye and give him a quick wink and he finds that his smile stays with him long after he, and a chastened and satiated Atsumu have left the warmth of the coffee shop.

“Mmm, these are pretty good,” Atsumu mumbles between bites of his madeline. “Ya’ want some?”

He stops by after his evening practice, when the sun has long since fallen past the horizon of the city, but as soon as he rounds the corner he regrets his decision.

The cafe is brimming with people. They’re everywhere; outside, they are clustered on the pavement, sitting on the collection of iron wrought chairs, and gathered in groups. Inside, most are sprawled close to the hand off plane, or draped over the couches and tables. They appear to be animated, with computer screens and voices bright, too bright. His usual spot is taken, and he’s already made up his mind to keep walking on but somehow, somehow, he catches your eye.

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you.

“Hey! Glad I could catch you. Wanted to tell you good luck on your upcoming game! I think I saw on the news that it’s tomorrow? Right?”

“Yes, we’re playing Azuma Pharmacy. They have a good starting lineup. It’s entirely possible that we’ll lose.”

“Jeez,” you exhale, cocking your head at his serious expression. “Kind of a pessimist, aren’t you?”

“I’m a realist. I’m perfectly prepared to beat them, but things always play out differently on the court, no matter what your personal expectations are.”

You give him another smile. This one comes quickly, and it’s bigger than any of the others, the pull of it lighting up your face. It’s different, and he can tell that the way you’re looking at him has shifted; that you’ve liked this answer. He’s not sure why, it’s the truth. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Good point. Well, win or lose, you’ve got my luck! I better get back inside. Your drink is on me by the way, for the other day…when I touched your hand…well, I’m sure you remember. Anyway, see you, Sakusa!”

He watches you slip past the packed lines of students, already rolling up your sleeves so you can wash your hands. Once you’re behind the espresso machine you’re hidden by the burnished copper and he walks on, shouldering his MSBY bag higher, lifting his coffee to his lips. It’s got a rich flavor, well balanced and expertly poured. Once again, he’s reminded that you’re good at what you do and, despite the balmy heat of early spring, that makes his fingers tingle and his skin break out in gooseflesh.

Later, when he’s falling asleep, he keeps seeing your eyes. Watching as your colored irises come alive in the moonlight, hopeful, shining, and wholly focused on him.

At practice, Atsumu insists on completing his post workout stretching next to him. He’s used to Kiyoomi’s sullen silences and barbed retorts, content to chatter however he pleases, flitting from topic to topic as he eases into his cool down routine.

“I need to go back to that coffee shop. Ya’ been back lately?”

“No,” Kiyoomi lies, brushing a stubborn wave of curls out of his sweaty face.

“Too bad. Maybe after Friday’s practice? That girl really knew her stuff. Made some great coffee, too. What was her name? Ah, that’s right, (Y/N). She’s cute, what’s her story?”

Something twinges against Kiyoomi’s rib cage at the word ‘cute.’ Hmm, that’s not normal. He flips to his left side, facing away from Atsumu’s greedy eyes and leering smiles.

“How long has she worked there?”

“Not sure,” Kiyoomi replies, flattening his palm against the cool flooring of the gym. “At least a year, maybe more.”

“That other barista said she was a manager. She’s not one of the owners, is she?”

“Dunno.”

“Is she a student? Kinda strange to see an American working in Japan, and she’s definitely an American. She’s good with the Japanese, but her accent is off.”

“Your accent is off, so I’m not sure what your point is. I can understand her, and I can’t say the same for you.”

“Jackass!” Atsumu snaps, flopping up from his splayed stretch to butterfly his muscled legs. “It’s called a regional accent, and it’s perfectly normal. Ya’ got one too, city boy!”

“See? No one says things like that. You sound like a cartoon character. Sometimes I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Yer’ full of it!”

“Hmph,” Kiyoomi hums, curling himself onto his haunches and flattening the tops of his hands against the floor. The satisfying crunch of his wrists as his fingers settle makes Atsumu visibly shudder and Kiyoomi flashes him a quick smirk of his own, hoping it will spook his stretching companion enough that he’ll leave him be. He prefers to do his cool down in silence.

“She do anything else? Other than diligently slaving over yer’ coffee, that is?”

Tch. It seems that luck isn’t with him today. “She said she’s a graduate student.”

“Oooh, what’s she studyin’?”

“Not sure.”

“Yer’ about as fun to talk to as a stack of bricks, ya’ know? Bet if I’d asked you what her name was the other day all you’d say was, ‘I use’ta just call her barista: first name: cute, last name: girl.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply. Something about these questions is bothering him. He doesn’t like that he can’t answer them properly– it’s frustrating, really. All he can honestly tell Atsumu is that you’re neat and efficient, that you have a smile that he can’t quite shake out of his head, a perfume that he wishes he could place, and that, to date, you’ve given him one free coffee. The fact that he knows that you’re a graduate student is sheer luck, information that you’d happened to share with him, not that he’d asked you about. He uncoils his hands and flips them over, letting his eyes rest against his reddened palms. Oh, and you’d touched his wrist once and the sheer metaphysical weight of that contact had nearly sent him stumbling backwards.

It’s stupid; he’s stupid.

It’s not hard to talk with people. It’s just…he knows he’s not good at it. Besides, when would he practice? He’s surrounded by extroverts; extreme extroverts. Extroverts who defy all sense and who usually can’t be silenced unless they’re tucked into a deep sleep, and even then it’s doubtful. Both Hinata and Bokuto have demonstrated that they can, and will, talk in their sleep. Still, it’s frustrating to find himself boxed into a corner, completely at a loss and unaware of the most cursory, mundane, simple, facts about you. For almost two years, he’s seen you at least twice a week, shouldn’t he know more? Why doesn’t he know more?

“Why not give her a ticket to a game?”

Atsumu’s question makes him lift his head, abandoning his musings as he lets the weight of that suggestion sink in. The setter is crinkling his eyes at him now, that all knowing smirk back on his lips, umber eyes hooded, mischievous. “The front office can do that, ya’ know? We’ve got extras. They keep em’ for that purpose. Just say she’s a special guest, or a potential sponsor. They ain’t gonna question you.”

Kiyoomi looks away, crossing his legs and leaning to his right side, feigning disinterest as Atsumu tells him who he can speak with, where he can see the upcoming calendar, and what seats might be open. It’s a good idea, a great idea, and he can’t help but loathe that Atsumu thought of it first.

The ticket is good for a first row balcony seat.

It’s situated in the best spot. He’d picked it out himself, carefully looking over the colored diagram of the stadium and belaboring the proximity of the sight-lines, wanting to let you have a bird’s eye view of the court. Where would he like to sit, if he could watch a game? What works? What doesn’t? Too high and you can’t catch the movement of the ball. Too low and you can’t see the players. Too far to the right or left and you can’t see the breadth of the court. It’s tricky, and he’s cautious with his selection. He can’t help it.

Kiyoomi only considers you not even liking the sport when he’s placing his order, watching as you carefully tuck his empty cup down on the polished steel of the bar. Shit.

The cafe is quiet. The students are gone, and when the register barista goes to the backroom it’s only him and you in the well lit space. The click of the burr grinder almost makes him jump, and he compromises with his nerves by shifting toward his usual table, resting his bag in the chair and taking in a deep breath.

The gentle press of the tamp is audible over the low beats of the music and he hears you knock the side of the portafilter, no doubt leveling off the crushed arabica before you hook the device under the grouphead. Seconds later he sees you flip the switch for his shots, already grooming his heated, foaming, oat milk in the short pitcher, popping the liquid free of any errant bubbles. You’re gentle with this part, and he’s always loved to watch you pour his cortado, liking the raise of your arm and the flick of your wrist as you let the creamy milk flow into the paper cup, swirling a rosetta design through the ochre of the waiting espresso.

Usually, this well-oiled process of yours calms him, but today he feels fidgety and his head is buzzing. The sooner you finish the drink, the sooner he’ll have to talk to you. Shit, shit. When you move the dark lids forward, his hand feels like it’s heating around the slick paper of the ticket, making it clammy and tacky. He bites his lip and removes his hand from his jacket, wiping his palm against his dark jeans.

You’re already looking up at him, nodding toward the fragrant cup that’s waiting at the edge of the handoff plane. Automatically, he lurches forward, completely in-sync with his familiar routine. The question [ would you like a ticket to one of my games? ] is resting on the tip of his tongue and his fingers are hovering beside his cup. He can see that they’re shaking and that sight doesn’t ease him. Then you ask him something and he feels everything skitter to a halt. Why is this happening? It’s just a ticket, it’s just a game.

Wait. You asked him something?

He does his best to ignore the humming of anxious tension that’s filtering down his fingertips and lifts his bowed head. “What?” he mumbles, lips unsticking at last.

“Just asked how your game went the other day. I tried to record it but my stupid cable box isn’t working. I need to try and see you guys, I know I’ve probably said that before, but it’s pretty pathetic of me to not catch one game when the stadium is only two miles away. Plus, I know y’all are a great team! Heard you made the playoffs last year, that’s so awesome!”

It’s a perfect segway.

But he feels like he’s rooted to the spot, like his tongue is trapped against the roof of his mouth, and his hands are too heavy to move, content to shake beside his cooling drink as he whittles his time away, too filled with the what if’s to do anything about the here and now. He’s going down a mental checklist, mulling over each possibility, cautiously tampering with that heady rush of excitement that’s threatening to bubble out of his masked lips. Shit.

He’s gotta check his vitamin intake, maybe he’s low on omega 3s? The team has a general practitioner on standby. He really should call him after this, maybe run by his office before the next practice.

Something’s off with him.

Wait, that worked.

That shift in his whirring thoughts broke him out of that suspended state and then, before he completely fucks this up, the ticket is down against the counter and he’s muttering something about unlimited uses, that if you can’t make it now, then you can always switch the date, or add someone on, if you have a [ boy ] friend you want to take; the next game works best with the seat that’s listed, he’s checked. He knows it’s open. Again, zero pressure and no worries if you can’t make it. See you around.

You might have responded, you might have smiled, fuck, you might have laughed at him. He’s not sure.

All he knows is that as soon as he is out of the shop he’s calling the team’s gp and confirming an appointment for tomorrow morning. It’s not natural for his heart to stutter and thump like that. It could be an arrhythmia.

It could be any number of things.

He hasn’t felt this nervous about a game in years. Sure, it’s a good team, and they have four players that are of his generation, most of them powerful outside hitters that will probably give the Jackals a good run for their money, but they’re not insurmountable. They can beat VC Kanagawa; they’ll have to if they want to advance further in the lineup for the playoffs.

It’s just…

He keeps looking for that seat. Your seat. He’d gotten to the stadium early; opting to forgo the first team meeting, saying he needed to practice his wall drills, work on his spin, but that’s not the real reason. The real reason is something that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. At least, not before a game. He steadies himself, reiterating that it’s not practical or helpful for him to worry about things like that.

Nevertheless, he’s pinned the seat in his mind. He studied it as the lights shuddered on, the maintenance staff flashing him bewildered looks as he stepped into the empty brightness of the court. He’d found it again during the pre-game warmup, onyx eyes committing the location to memory, searching for the little details that he could watch for if he wanted to find it again, later, when the arena was packed with thousands of eyes and waving signs.

As they open the main doors and the seats fill up, he’s still looking at the seat.

“Whatcha looking at?” Hinata asks, his burst of orange hair already slicked with sweat, vivid eyes sharp.

“Nothing.”

The results of Kiyoomi’s physical had shown no outliers, no cause for worry or concern. Everything was fine. He should just get a little extra potassium in, maybe eat a few more bananas in the morning, or after his practices. He’d been a little miffed when he opened the manilla folder, eyes hunting for abnormalities, for a reason, an explanation. If nothing is wrong, then why does he feel like he’s tingling with adrenaline all the time? It makes him light-headed, sluggish, and that’s detrimental to his playability, to his value to his team.

He looks away from Hinata and paces past Atsumu’s arched eyebrow, ignoring the implications of that wicked grin that’s resting on the setter’s quirked lips. It’s fine; he’s fine. His eyes look up to the balcony again. He really shouldn’t be doing that, he reminds himself. It’s a distraction, and he doesn’t–

Oh. There you are.

He can’t make out details, not from this distance, and he suddenly feels self-conscious about his face. There’s no mask. He doesn’t wear it when he plays, and this will be the first time you’ve seen him without it. Suddenly, he wishes he hadn’t cared so much about the visibility of the court. Why did he plant you so far away? If he can’t see you, then there’s no way you’ll be able to tell which one he is either…oh…wait…his name is on the back of his jersey and they’ll announce his number. Nevermind.

The referee calls for the teams to line up and he diligently follows his teammates, standing in his usual spot, ignoring the dull thump of his heart as it beats a ragged tattoo under his ribs.

They won.

They won, and he’d racked up a whopping 23 points for himself, a personal milestone. It’ll be something that will go down on his athletic record, that the local and national news reports will chatter about, that he can feel proud of. He’s glad; you always show him your best, so it’s only fair he does the same for you too.

He’d peeked up at your seat during each time out, each break, every time the momentum shifted, and before he hit every serve. You looked like you had your feet propped up, resting against the metal barrier of the balcony, and he could see that your arms were wrapped around your knees. You were paying attention, and that knowledge made his lungs swell and his pulse quicken.

Now, after he’s finished toweling some of the clinging sweat from his brow and the matted droop of his obsidian curls, he twists back, facing your seat, but you’re not there. An empty curve of plastic greets him and his heavy brows furrow, his fingers dropping the towel onto the bench as they curl up into his palms.

Did you leave? It would make sense, he supposes. The game is over. He just thought you might come down. Might want to talk. Not that he’d have much to say. He never does. Stupid; what would he talk with you about? See the game? Yeah, duh.

The distant voice of MSBY’s public relations manager is calling for him. He’ll worry about it [ you ] later, he thinks, he’s still got a job to do.

During his interview he can hear Atsumu’s voice. It’s annoying. While the setter doesn’t attempt to tone himself down, he rarely talks that loudly. Kiyoomi glances over at his straight back, watching as his hand cups against the back of his golden head, an infectious laugh bursting from his turned lips. Strange. It’s not like him to chat with someone for that long, not when he’s got his own post-game interviews to conduct. He usually–

Ah, it’s you.

Suddenly, questions like: [ how does it feel to be considered for the 2025 Japanese Olympic team? ] don’t matter. His head is half cocked now, dark eyes following the two of you, his comments to the national reporter falling into clipped monosyllables. This is unprofessional; he should focus on the matter at hand, it’s not like him to be distracted.

He’s been thinking about that a lot lately. That so many things are suddenly not like him.

When you push playfully at Atsumu’s shoulder, he lapses into a stormy silence, nails biting into his clenched palms, pressing half moons into his calloused skin. After answering one more question: [ something about his future plans - how’s he supposed to know? That depends on trades, on opportunities. And right now he’s not in the correct frame of mind to answer honestly, not when he can see that you’re right there ] he bows to the smiling face of the reporter, formally concluding his participation in the interview. He knows it’s abrupt; he knows he’ll likely get an earful from the MSBY PR director, from his coach, and from himself, when the full weight of his uncharacteristic rashness hits him, but right now he doesn’t care.

His feet feel like lead and the steps that he’s taking shudder against the gym’s polished flooring. He’s usually smoother than this, more collected, but can’t will himself to stop lurching forward. He tucks his hands into the darkness of his team jacket, coiling his numb fingers into tight balls, and hunches his shoulders. He likely looks like thunder and this suspicion is confirmed when a ball boy scuttles out of his path, eyes wide, but Kiyoomi doesn’t care.

Atsumu hasn’t noticed his approach, but you do, and that shy wave and familiar smile makes his breath catch in his throat. Damn it. What’s going on with him?

Atsumu notices your wandering attention and turns, following your gaze. Once he spots Kiyoomi, he gives him a cheeky smirk, dipping his chin, lazily fixing his amber eyes on Kiyoomi’s arched figure. “Look who caaame!” he calls, lacing his tone with poorly concealed glee. “She said you gave her a ticket. What a great, absolutely original, idea! And you had your record breaking scoring streak today too! Hey! Maybe she’s good luck! Watch out (Y/N), pretty soon we’ll be hooking you up with a personal mascot job if ya’ can light such a fire under our stoic hitter’s ass. Must be something special in that coffee yer’ serving him.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at Atsumu’s blatant needling and the setter chuckles, flipping his focus back to you, sensing the rising agitation that is rolling off of Kiyoomi in waves now. “Well, sure was good to see ya’ again! Talk to me next time, huh? I’ll get you a boxed seat. It’s much better than those nosebleeds in the balconies.”

You shake your head, a smile pulling at your lips, and make a show of rolling your eyes. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, you know? And what boxed seats? Feels like I’d see them if you had them,” you tease, earning yourself a last laugh and Atsumu’s back, a friendly hand waving a last goodbye as he finally strides toward the waiting cameras. Kiyoomi watches him go, his shoulders tense, a feeling of unease settling in his gut. Is Atsumu doing this on purpose?

He almost snaps a retort at his retreating figure, but the sound of your voice immediately snatches his attention toward you. His dark gaze meets yours and the look in your eyes makes his palms feel itchy and his feet scuff mindlessly against the floor.

“This is gonna sound so dumb, but it’s been on my mind since I got here…”

Kiyoomi’s fingers twist in his pockets, coiling over each digit, and his pulse feels like it’s speeding up again. “What?”

“It’s just…well, you look so much younger without the mask,” you let out a small laugh and duck your head, teeth pulling at your lower lip as you face away from his widening eyes.

“Is that bad?”

“No! You look good! Uh, I mean, not that you didn’t…I just wasn’t sure…not that I’d thought about it…a lot…uh, I…yeah, I’m…No, it’s not bad!” You press your hands against your mouth, steepling your fingers under your nose and fix him with a sheepish grin. “Anyway, I know you’ve got things to do, but Miya was right about one thing, you had a great game. I had a lot of fun and it was so nice of you to get me that ticket, and well…”

You pause, lowering your hands to yank your purse forward, fingers digging into the leather before you right yourself once more, returning with a small, zipped bag, and a plastic card that’s balancing atop the metal teeth. “It’s a…well…I sorta tried to think of some things that you might like. To say thanks! It’s nothing fancy. A nail filing kit, because I read that volleyball guys like to keep their hands in tiptop shape, one of those portable ball pumps and some masks.

The masks are from a great company, back home, er, in the states. Well, at least I like them, they’re super durable. And the card, uh, ha, um, the card is to the cafe. I know it’s not super original, but I didn’t know if you liked any other places. And I didn’t wanna assume or — Haha, oh God, I am talking your ear off. Just…here! Take this from me so I can get my foot outta my mouth, okay?”

You press the bag forward and before he can tell you he doesn’t accept gifts from fans, his hands are already out of the safety of his pockets, firmly wrapping around your offering. “Thank you,” he bows. He wants to say more, but he’s not sure how.

He didn’t mean to come by the cafe.

He thought he’d go for a quick run before practice, maybe loop the block, or jog toward the university. None of these things are close to the cafe, but apparently his feet had other ideas. The shop bell rings when he steps inside, wiping some hand sanitizer against his heated palms, onyx eyes alert, already searching for you.

A male barista [ is it Kane? ] greets him and before he can stop himself, he’s asking if you’re there. “Oh, (Y/N)? Nah, she’s off today. But I can make your cortado, you get almond milk, right?”

“Oat,” Kiyoomi replies, voice muffled by his mask. Damn. Why did he come here? He didn’t mean to and now it’s looking like it was a wasted trip. A useless instinct. He’d wanted to thank you properly for your gift, which had been on his mind a lot the past few days. Perhaps that’s why he felt so compelled to jog the extra mile, why he can’t seem to keep away, why he keeps looking for you as he waits, even though he knows you’re not here.

Maybe he can text you his thanks. That would make all of this easier. Oh, wait, does he even have your number? He pulls his phone out of his pocket and examines his contact list, searching for you. No, nothing under your name. Maybe he put it under something else? [ barista? cafe? ] Again, there’s nothing. Damn. Why didn’t he ask at the game? Or when he gave you the ticket?

When he picks up his drink and paces back into the sunshine, he’s still kicking himself that he hasn’t asked for your number yet. It would have made things so much simpler, he reasons, sipping at his coffee; now he’ll have to come back.

But days pass, and he hasn’t returned.

There’s just too much going on. Too many team meetings and late practices. Too much preparation. The pace of his schedule has never bothered him before, but now he keeps hoping for some kind of reprieve.

The other morning Atsumu strode into a meeting with a cup from your cafe, proudly flaunting the familiar label. It made Kiyoomi’s blood boil [ did he see you? talk with you? Did he get to see that addictively pleasing smile of yours? ] and later that afternoon he experienced his first scolding.

“What’s going on, Omi? Five missed digs? This isn’t like you. You look like your head is in the clouds. Come on, get it together. Big game in five days.”

“Sorry, won’t happen again.” It’s all he can say.

When he’s heading toward the team showers, he catches sight of Atsumu’s knowing leer and he grits his teeth, ignoring the huffed snicker and scoffing head shake that the setter sends his way.

Finally, two days later, he’s got some free time. There are other errands he needs to run, things he should do, but the only thing he can think about is you.

He’s walking up from a side street, one he rarely takes, when, at long last, he catches sight of you. You must be on a break. You’re sitting at a bench, facing a small, but well laid flower bed, flipping the pages of your open book languidly as you read under the cool shade of a gnarled tree.

He’s glad he’s wearing the mask that you gifted him.

You’d said that they were durable, and their quality had genuinely impressed him. When he got home, after the game, he slipped them out of their individual plastic cases, fingering the thick, well made materials before washing one. He’d left the others in their containers. He’ll use them, eventually, but not right now. He wants to savor them. He wants them to last.

Kiyoomi is almost to your side when you look up and he bites against his lower lip as soon as you give him that friendly smile of yours, already closing your book and standing, waiting for him to step closer. He comes to a stop in front of you, peering down at you through his dark lashes.

You always smell so nice, he thinks, unconsciously shifting closer, seeking more. You must have showered before coming into your shift because the crisp scent of peppermint and gentle lavender makes his nostrils flare hungrily under his mask.

“Hey there!” you begin, tucking your book into your arms. “Long time no see. How have you been?”

“Fine. I have practice later. I came by the other day. I…” he lapses into frustrated silence, dark brows falling, letting his hands grip at the material of his jacket. Why is this so hard? You, all the others on his team, Motoya [ hell, even the notoriously impassive Wakatoshi has come out of his shell over the years ] can slip into a conversation. Damn it, how can everyone else make this look so easy?

“Saw you’re playing the Adlers soon. They’re the team the Jackals have a sorta rivalry with, right?”

He blinks down at you and lets out a shallow exhale. There you go again. You’re giving him a life raft, a conversation he can fall into, something he enjoys talking about. He remembers his stilted conversation with Atsumu, the one where he did not know about any of the basic things, the obvious things, the things that made you, you. It’s nice that you’re looking out for him, that you’re helping him along, but he doesn’t want to talk about volleyball, not right now.

“We do. How did your finals go? You said you had a dissertation?”

“Oh!” you blurt, your eyes widening, but you’re clearly pleased, even a little excited that he’s asked. “You remembered! Finished it up last week. Now I just need to knock out my revisions and I’ll either go back to committee, or they’ll approve it! I’m hoping they approve it. I’m sick of looking at it, haha.” Your fingers tap against your book and you duck your head, a quick smile passing over your smooth lips. “Uh, did you want to come in for a coffee? Not trying to hold you up, if you’ve got practice to go to.”

“I was the one who came over.” He sounds a little harsh, he thinks, nose wrinkling under his mask. He’s never worried about being blunt, but that doesn’t work here. He doesn’t want to be, not with you. “I mean, I wanted…wanted to say thanks, for the masks and the other things. I like them.” He points to his covered face and you let out a chuckle, gleaming eyes crinkling as you look up at him. Damn, you’re pretty. How has he not noticed that before? He wants to see you laugh again, he’s just not sure how to go about it. Does he even know any jokes? Shit.

“Awe, I’m glad you like them! Speaking of, Atsumu came by a few days ago, I guess you must have worn one around him because he was trying to sniff out if I’d given them to you. He’s a funny guy, but I cannot get a good read on him. It’s almost like he’s doing stuff on purpose, but he’s never blatantly obvious about it. The way he was talking, I was kinda worried he was trying to play a prank on you. Does he like to get under your skin or something? He’s–”

Kiyoomi’s not thinking when he leans down. He’s been doing that a lot lately, not thinking. It makes his skin prickle. Or is that the smell of peppermint on your clean neck, the fragrant lavender in your hair? The kiss is soft; more of a press of his lips than a real caress. But it’s nice, and he actually likes being this close to you, but something feels off and, ah, damn it.

His dark brows knit together, furrowing his forehead, when he realizes what he’s done. He didn’t take off his mask. How stupid. But that shaky gasp of air that you let out when he pulls away, and the following upward lift of your body, your lips chasing his, clearly wanting him to come back, oh that’s so worth it, mask or not.

Your eyes are the first thing he sees when he looks back down, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so perfect. They’re bright, vibrant, and rich with an excitement that makes his toes curl.

The smell of lavender and peppermint, of you, is almost overwhelming, and yet somehow it’s all together, not enough. He doesn’t say anything and neither do you.

What is there to say?

That one, half-formed, touch said it all. It expressed every frustration that he’s felt over the last few weeks, every faded memory of your voice, of your playful smiles, of those hesitant conversations you’ve helped him through. It’s all there, sitting quietly between the two of you, shimmering in the sunlight as you take a step closer and his hands finally fall out of his pockets, waiting, hoping for yours.

“(Y/N)! Break’s over! Coffee’s not gonna brew itself!”

The distant voice of your coworker shatters the euphoria and you tense, pulling away, your head turning toward the barked command as you call out your reply. Kiyoomi huffs out an impatient breath. He wanted to try that again. Do it right this time. How pathetic is he? Kissing you through a mask? But his annoyance dies when you face him again, slipping your hand tentatively into his.

His digits fall limply around yours and he can’t help but marvel at the softness of you. One of his thumbs lifts and he traces the skin along your knuckles, unsure if he’s even breathing anymore. “Come on,” you say, looking down at his touch before lacing your fingers through his, showing him how to hold you. “I’ll make your coffee.”

You’re walking forward and he has the inane urge to snatch you back, wanting to see how the rest of you feels, wanting to know how you’ll fit into his arms, but he distracts himself by following you. There’s a budding warmth that’s spreading from his palm, where your hand rests inside his, to his chest. It feels like a low burning fire is coursing along his veins and his heartbeat thuds out of rhythm, but for once he doesn’t care.

In fact, he thinks he likes it.

He sits in the cafe for too long, his coffee cold, the cup almost empty. But before he leaves [ already so, so late for practice ] he gets your number.

He taps the unfamiliar digits carefully into his device and you watch from the counter, your chin propped in your hand, a gentle smile kissing against your palm. Then he stands, pausing beside you and you run your index finger down his arm, lingering your touch beside his wrist, making him shiver in the warm sunlight, a pleased grin hidden behind his mask.

notes: this man has what, 10 pages of interaction? idk why and idk how, but he is stuck in my brain - like, seriously send help, i think i’m in love.

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7-wonders · 4 years

Text

As Above, So Below Ch. 22

Summary: Your average, mundane life as a college student is flipped upside down when the man you thought you knew as your next-door neighbor turns out to be the God of the dead. When Michael lures you down to Hell, everything that you thought you knew about the world is proven wrong.

Word Count: 3165

A/N: Thank you all so much for being patient with me. I’ve been working on this chapter for a couple of weeks now, and I really hope it lives up to your expectations (yes, there’s smut). Feedback is always appreciated, and I would love if you liked, commented, and reblogged if you enjoyed this.

Although the news that the golden apple that will grant you immortality is on its way to the Underworld should cause you to hurry back home, you and Michael take your time in gathering your belongings. Cassius had left just as quickly as he arrived, the demon having nothing more to do than to serve his master. After fulfilling his duty of telling Michael the news, he had no reason to remain Above. Michael’s right hand preternatural being had given you both an odd look upon your lack of haste, but wisely chose to remain silent on his opinion of the matter.

“Are you nervous?” Michael asks, watching as you fold the picnic blanket up before deciding that it’s not even and starting again.

“No, not nervous.” You’re certain that you’re not nervous. The ball of nerves that settles in the pit of your stomach and refuses to go away is nowhere to be found.

Michael tilts his head, examining you as you pack away the rest of the supplies and carefully shut the basket. “You’re scared.”

Biting your lip, you turn to look at him. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

“Why would I ever make fun of you?”

“I don’t know, because it’s dumb to be scared in the first place?”

“My love, nothing you could ever say, do, or feel is dumb.”

“Not even when I ran away and nearly got eaten by that monster?”

Michael rolls his eyes at the reference of your first night dining with him. “Okay, I amend my previous statement. Nothing that you could ever say or feel is dumb. Some of the situations you get yourself into, however…”

“Okay, I get it! I do dumb stuff.”

Michael chuckles, gently removing your hands from the basket that you’re about to pick up and wrapping his arms around you. “Why are you scared? You know that there’s nothing to be scared of, right?”

“I worry that I’m going to end up rambling if I start to list the reasons why.”

“Ramble away.”

That’s all the encouragement you need, your fears spilling out of you like your mouth’s a broken dam. “Just...what if it doesn’t work? Or what if I die in the process? What if I eat the apple and you decide that you don’t love me anymore? That I’m not the girl in your prophecy? What if it does work, but immortality makes me a completely different person?”

Michael frowns as you brokenly finish listing your worries, eyes shining with tears when you look up at him. He had known that this was weighing on your mind, but not this heavily. “Hey, please don’t cry. It makes my heart ache to see you cry.”

“I’m sorry--”

“There’s no need to apologize.” Pulling you into his lap, he strokes a hand through your hair as he holds you to him. “I wish that there was some sort of precedence for me to draw on that would help to rid you of your fears. All that I know is that Violet would not have agreed to this unless she was absolutely certain that no harm would come to you. As for your fear of me not loving you anymore, I can assure you that that is impossible.”

He looks at you with a tenderness that would shock anybody who knew Michael as the God of the Dead. All that he wants is to make sure that you’re okay, even if that means shedding his stoic persona in order to reassure you. When you finally nod, wiping the tears from under your eyes, Michael slowly smiles.

“I hope that made you feel at least a little better?” Michael asks.

“It did. I’m still scared, but I’ll be okay as long as you’re next to me.”

He smirks. “I wouldn’t leave your side unless I was forcibly dragged away from you.”

“I love you,” you mutter into his shoulder. Regardless of the barrier, Michael hears your words loud and clear.

“Not as much as I love you.” Pulling you up with him, Michael runs a hand across your cheek and assesses you. “Are you ready?”

“No, but we’re doing this regardless.”

“That’s the spirit.” Before you can protest, Michael throws you a wink and transmutes with you back to the Murder House.

Your jump with Michael into the Hellmouth is much more willing than the last time you made this journey with him, neither of you wasting any time before stepping off the ledge and falling through dimensions. He lands gracefully, although everything that your fiancé (it’s going to take a bit to get used to being engaged to this literal god of a man) does is graceful. You, however, have to grab Michael’s arm to keep from stumbling to your knees upon landing. He bites his lip to keep from laughing, dutifully making sure you don’t fall over.

“I hope clumsiness is something that I lose in immortality,” you mutter as you straighten yourself up again.

“I don’t.” You look at Michael questioningly, and he elaborates. “I love how you trip and stumble. It’s...cute, and very uniquely you.”

You stare at the ground to avoid Michael seeing the bashful expression on your face, waiting for Michael to give the guards the signals to open the doors to the Great Hall. He chuckles beside you, amused at your silence, but nods at his servants and leads you into the room.

The dark shades of red and black that decorate the room makes it difficult to fully light up the room, which is probably why the Inferno that Dante had so famously written about is conveniently located on the other side of the room. The flames provide more light than 30 bright overhead lights, but still cast ghoulish shadows on the walls. Somehow you’ve managed to get used to seeing the entrance to the nine circles of hell whenever you need to visit Michael officially, but you don’t think you’ll get used to the screams the echo from the pit and the ever-present smell of brimstone that permeates the air.

A woman with coiffed blonde hair stands at the foot of Michael’s throne, her pastel Easter dress a stark contrast to the doom-and-gloom of the Underworld. She holds a cigarette in her grip, the paper stained with the pink color that’s painted on her lips. As you and Michael ascend the steps to his throne, she appraises you both with a cool gaze.

“Lord Hades,” she greets, curtseying to the man now sitting on his obsidian throne.

“Hermes.” You’re only mildly surprised to learn that Hermes is not a man, as has been depicted for centuries. If this was the information you were learning prior to meeting Michael, you would be freaking out right now. “As always, you are welcome in my realm.”

She smiles at him, the conventions that the gods and goddesses must engage in upon meeting melting away. “I bring a gift, although I’m sure that you are already aware of that.”

“Thank you for being so prompt with this matter.” Michael looks up at you and takes your hand, meaning for you to step forward. “I don’t believe you’ve had the chance to meet my beloved. (Y/N), this is Billie Dean, god of border crossings and guide to the Underworld, among many other patronages.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” you say softly, shaking her hand.

“The pleasure is all mine. After all,” she casts a wry glance towards Michael, “we’ve only heard stories of what the Fates had told Michael about you for centuries.”

“I hope I live up to those stories, then.”

Billie Dean smiles at you, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “You’ve already surpassed them, my dear.”

Your cheeks heat up as the two mythical beings get back to business, Billie Dean producing a small package from the bag on her hip.

“That’s it, then?” Michael asks, staring at the box.

“Violet requested that I transport the apple as inconspicuous as possible. This was the best I could come up with.”

“You’ve done well.”

“And with that, my work here is done.” Billie Dean nods to both of you, backing away so she can transmute without any collateral damage. “I assume I’ll be seeing a lot more of you, (Y/N). I look forward to it.”

With that, she’s gone, and you look at Michael as you process the whirlwind interaction with a woman who manages to embody the American South. “Wow, she’s…”

“She’s definitely a character,” Michael agrees.

“Why has she always been portrayed as a man?”

Michael gives you a look that says you already know the answer. “Surely a woman would not be able to lead others, even if it’s just to the Underworld.”

The sarcasm is evident, and you roll your eyes. “Thousands of thousands of years of sexism, all wrapped up into one goddess.”

“Discouraging, isn’t it?”

“So she’s the only being who can come and go from the Underworld as she pleases?”

“Besides me, yes. Otherwise, it becomes impossible to find. Many have tried and failed to find a way into the Underworld, but the magic that surrounds this realm means that the mortal plane’s entrance seems to always be moving and changing.”

You nod, already appraising the box with a calculating eye. “Should we...open the package?”

“In my chambers. That will give us more privacy.”

It doesn’t even register that Michael’s standing and leading you to his rooms, your attention so focused on the literal life-changing fruit that’s contained without its small cardboard home. As he closes the bedroom door behind you, you realize that you’re no longer scared. Indeed, you only feel fascination, a determination to get your hands on the legendary apple and see just what’s made so many of Ancient Greece’s heroes lose their lives in the process of earning.

“You know, I’ve never actually seen one before,” Michael says as he sets the package down on the bed.

“Seriously?”

“After what happened with Heracles, she nearly burnt the orchard down. She thought nobody was worthy of earning the gift of immortality.”

“What convinced her not to go through with it?”

“The thought of forsaking such a powerful and rare gift directly contradicts everything she stands for.”

“No offense, but if I were her and my husband, who had cheated on me, told me to grant his son immortality, I’d burn the tree to the ground.”

Michael grins, pulling you onto him as he sits on the bed. “And that’s why you’re my perfect match. I’m not interested in people who would savor the fruit of that tree. I look for people who would cut down the fucking tree and use it for firewood.”

The dark look in his eyes makes arousal pool in the bottom of your stomach, and you hungrily kiss Michael as a result. He’s more than happy to reciprocate, but pulls away far too soon for your liking. You want to complain, but his pointed look reminds you of what needs to be done.

A flick of Michael’s wrist has the sides of the box falling open, revealing the prize hidden inside. For all intents and purposes, the apple looks like a normal apple. Besides, of course, the fact that it appears to be solid gold. The light of the chandelier reflecting off of the surface confirms that it is what Violet described it to be, and you can feel the intoxicating call of immortality wafting off of the fruit. Michael holds the apple up to you, and you take it from him wordlessly. What is there to say when your entire life is about to change with a single bite?

“I’m right here next to you the entire time,” Michael says, grasping your free hand tightly.

Taking a deep breath, you lock eyes with Michael as you bring the fruit up to your mouth and pierce your teeth through the skin. It’s sweeter than any normal apple that you’ve had before, and you savor the taste as you take another cautious bite. Violet didn’t say how much or how little to eat, so you figure that means to just eat until something happens.

You let out a gasp when your heart starts to speed up, body going limp as you fall back against the mattress. Although your eyes are open and appear to be staring at the ceiling, your vision whites out and stars flash in front of your eyes. Liquid gold runs through your veins, the warmth coursing through your body sending you into a euphoric state.

Michael watches you intently, studying you to make sure that nothing bad will happen to you. He doesn’t see any physical changes, which doesn’t surprise him. However, he can feel the changes that are happening. The air seems to spark around you, like you’re a live wire ready to electrocute whoever may touch you. It’s almost like he can see the change occurring inside your very cells, fortifying themselves in the eternal youth that eluded history’s greatest conquerors.

The ecstasy clouding all of your senses reaches a fever pitch, the sensory overload making it difficult for you to even feel Michael’s grip on your hand. Your heart beats at a pace to rival that of a jet engine, chest heaving as you try to remember to breathe. When the fog starts to clear, it happens sense by sense. First your thoughts, followed by your nerves and your hearing.

Michael can tell that you’ve fully completed the transition when the glaze over your eyes disappears. You blink rapidly, pupils dilated as you try to adjust. Everything’s the same, and yet nothing’s the same. Everything seems so much clearer, as if you’ve just had Lasik surgery. You’re marvelling at how the fabric of the bed feels against your skin when Michael’s chiseled face appears in your line of sight. You had been so enthralled with experiencing everything as if for the first time, that you had nearly forgotten who was sitting right next to you the entire time.

“(Y/N),” Michael whispers, and you could nearly cry at how heavenly your name sounds on his lips. “How are you feeling?”

Your lips part as you try to come up with the words to answer Michael’s question. Finally, after a long minute, you manage to breathe out a simple, “radiant.”

Michael smiles at you softly, which proves to be a surprising trigger for you. All of your emotions are running haywire, and each emotion that you feel is experienced on a level that you’ve never felt before. When Michael’s piercing blue eyes deftly analyze your face, an intense feeling of lust overcomes you.

You catch him off guard when you surge up to kiss him, a soft gasp escaping him as your lips meet his. Using the upper hand to your advantage, you hook your legs around Michael’s waist and flip your bodies over so you’re on top of him. He stares up at you, a delightfully bewildered look on his face.

“This is...new,” he comments, threading his hands through your hair.

“Are you complaining?”

“Never.”

Rolling your hips against his, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth upon feeling his bulge against your clothed core. Although you’re both used to Michael being in charge, the new position is a welcome change for Michael as well as you, if the sparks of arousal forming deep in your abdomen are anything to go by.

“You’re a tease,” Michael mutters as you kiss down his neck, sucking purple bruises onto his beautiful porcelain skin.

“Mm, I learned from the best.”

His hands loosen around your hips so that he can remove your shirt before returning to their designated spot, helping to guide your pace. You have no time for the tedious removal of the rest of your clothes, and a wave of your hand leaves you and Michael bare.

“Never the patient one, even in your newfound immortality,” Michael remarks.

You roll your eyes, kissing him harshly to shut him up. Michael lifts your hips, making sure you get the message as he lines himself up with your entrance. You slowly sink down on his cock, both of you groaning as he stretches out your walls. Wriggling your hips to get comfortable, Michael stares up at you with blown-out pupils, biting his lip while he waits for you to start moving.

You begin to slowly ride him, rolling your hips against his and delighting in how wrecked he already looks. Tossing your head back to rid yourself of the hair that’s fallen in your face, you lift yourself up until just the tip of Michael’s cock remains sheathed inside of you before sitting yourself back down. Michael’s hand moves up from your hip to caress your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers before wrapping his lithe fingers around your throat.

Shuddering in pleasure, you ignore the burn in your thighs as you begin to ride him faster. Michael’s eyes darken even more with lust as your own hands trail up to fondle your breasts, soft gasps escaping you as you tweak your nipples harshly. Beads of sweat begin to pool along your collarbone while you bounce on Michael’s cock, your walls fluttering around him as you begin to lose your rhythm.

“Are you close?” Michael coos, giving your neck a harsh squeeze. “Are you going to cum from riding me, my queen?”

“Yes, my king,” you gasp, grinning when Michael lets out a surprised moan.

“Fuck,” his hands grab your hips tightly again, beginning to harshly thrust up into you. “Say that again.”

“Say what again?” you tease, crying out when he hits your g-spot. “My king?”

Michael’s jaw goes slack, and you lean down to kiss along his jaw. “Yes.”

“You fill me so well, my king, better than anybody ever could.” The praise starts a fire within Michael, and he starts to rub his thumb against your clit as he works to bring you to orgasm. “Fuck, I love you. You’re an amazing king and you’ll be an even better husband, I-oh!”

You cum suddenly, hips stuttering to a stop as the pleasure that had been building in your abdomen explodes throughout your body. Michael’s eyes are alight as he watches you lose yourself to the pleasure that he brings you to. He continues to fuck you through your orgasm until he finally reaches his own, cock pulsing as he releases inside of you.

Michael pulls you to his chest, both of you breathing heavily as you come down from your highs. His bedroom is silent, the sheets a mess around you and the half-eaten apple lying discarded on the floor. You lock eyes with Michael before dissolving into giggles, the sound of your laugh leaving him no choice but to laugh too.

“Welcome to immortality,” Michael says against your bare skin as you nuzzle into his neck, more than satisfied with this welcome party.

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#michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x you #american horror story #american horror story imagine #american horror story apocalypse #american horror story imagines #AHS #ahs imagines #ahs imagine #ahs apocalypse #michael langdon au #hades and persephone au

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spider-manholland · 5 years

Text

It Was Always You | Peter Parker

Pairing(s): Peter Parker x Female Reader, mentions of Peter Parker x Michelle Jones

Warning(s): angst, swearing, fluff at the end, FFH spoilers ahead

Summary: Peter Parker thought his trip to Europe would be the time he’d finally tell MJ how he truly felt about her. That was until he learned about your true feelings towards him. Now he’s finds himself second guessing on where his heart truly belongs.

Requested: Yes / No

Author’s Note: I finally just watched Far From Home and this idea immediately came to my mind so I had to do this before I lost it. Hope you guys enjoy it!

Masterlist

You honestly didn’t know how you really felt about the class trip to Europe. There was a part of you that was excited, loving the idea to see all the beautiful monuments and museums. But there was also a part of you that hated the trip because of Peter’s plan.

Yes, you knew about his step by step plan on finally telling MJ how he felt about her and of course you were going to support him. You were his best friend and that’s it, even though you wanted to so much more. But you knew how strong his feelings for MJ were so you had no chance at all. It sucked though, you could practically feel your get ripped out of your chest over and over again whenever you see the starstruck glint in eyes whenever he was staring at MJ, knowing that he’ll never look at you that way.

“Hey Y/N,” You were taken out of your thoughts at the feeling of your shoulder being nudge, seeing Peter staring at you, causing you to blush slightly. Just a simple glance from him sent your heart into overdrive and you knew he could hear it, so you didn't know why he never mentioned it. “I need to asking you something...”

Oh my god is this the part where he tells you that actually likes you instead of MJ, you began fantasize, your lips curling up into a small smile. “Can you switch seats with MJ?” And that’s when you felt your heart shatter into a million pieces, your smile dropping instantly. “I would've asked Ned but you know how he needs the window seat-”

“Y-Yeah,” You cut him off before he could say anything, getting out of your seat and taking your bag out the overhead bin. When you began to walk away, you noticed the sympathetic frown that was on Ned’s face. He knew about your feelings towards Peter and you told him not say anything because you didn't want to damage your friendship between you and Peter.

You walked down the small isle until reached MJ’s seat and gently tapped her shoulder, getting her and Betty’s attention. “Hey MJ, do you think we could trade seats. Me and Peter got into a small fight and I don't really want to sit with him, and Betty is the only other person on this plane that I’m actually friends with.”

“Yeah, sure.” MJ nodded, getting up from her seat and letting you sit down. You watched her walk down the isle until she got to your seat and sat down. You then immediately plugged your ears with your headphones, blocking out all surrounding sounds and hoping that the sweet sound of Katy Perry can help you forget about all the pain you were currently feeling.

Peter on the other hand, his heart was beating out of his chest when his eyes landed on MJ, the palm of hands becoming sweating as he watched her sit down beside him. “Sup loser,” she greeted, pulling a book out of her backpack. “H-Hey,” Peter stuttered, his cheeks heating up from anxiety. “So, what did you and Y/N fight about?” MJ suddenly asked, causing Peter to look at her with confusion clear on his face. “What? M-Me and Y/N didn't have a fight.”

“Really?” MJ raised a brow at him, “Because she told me that you guys fought and that’s she wanted to switch seats with me.” Peter opened his lips but no words came out. He turned around in his seat to search for you, his heart sinking when his eyes finally landed on you. You were sitting in your seat with your headphones on, staring at the small screen in front of you. You looked completely fine but Peter knew better, he knew you better than anyone. He took in the small details of your face, like how your lips were curled down into a small frown and your e/c eyes were glistening with tears but you were quickly blinking them away, hoping that no one would notice, but he did.

“Y-Yeah,” Peter turned back towards MJ, his own lips now dropping into a frown. “We--we had a fight...”

- - -

You stood in the back of your class as all of you slowly poured into the opera house in Prague, no one showing any sign of wanting to be here. Except for you. This was actually one of the places you wanted to visit on your class trip and you were happy that you finally got to go. But of course, your thoughts got the better of you as you began to think about Peter. Neither of you have spoken to each other ever since the plane but you noticed the small glances you got from him. When you entered the theatre, your eyes immediately went towards Peter, hoping that there was a chance that he wanted to sit with you. But of course, your heart was hurt again when you saw him and MJ talking, smiles on both of their faces.

He probably asked her to sit with him, you thought. Sighing, you walked towards the other side of the row your class was sitting on, deciding that you rather sit by yourself than with anyone else.

On the other side of the theatre, Ned was standing by the entrance with Betty, MJ, Peter, his eyes staring you with sympathy. “You’re an idiot...” He whispered towards Peter as MJ and Betty both walked over to their seats. “What did I do?” Peter asked, staring at his friend confusingly.

“I promised her that I wouldn't say anything but your stupidity is tearing your friendship apart.” Ned rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Y/N has been in love ever since ninth grade, Peter!”

Peter’s eyes widened at his friend’s words, his mouth opening but no words coming out. “W-What? No she doesn't, w-we’re just friends.” Ned groaned loudly and ran his hands frustratingly over his face. “Yes she does! She’s been trying to tell you for so long but there was never a good time. First you were obsessed with Liz, then the blip happened, and then you started obsessing over MJ, and Y/N was just pushed to the side the whole time. Do you know how shitty you’re making her feel? Especially after what happened on the plane, making her switch seats with MJ and sitting by herself the whole plane ride.”

“She had Betty-” Peter tried to explain but Ned just shook his head, “Dude, you and I both know that she and Betty aren't even that close. You made her sit basically alone for nine hours so that you could sit next MJ, who you barely even talked to through the whole plane ride.”

Peter bit down his bottom lip, feeling strong waves of guilt finally hit him, realizing now all the pain he was caused and made you go through. Peter was about to walk over to you but the sound of his earpiece going off made him stop, Nick Fury’s voice filling his ears again, telling him to get in position. “Listen Ned, I gotta go. We’ll talk more about this later.”

Peter patted his friend on back before running out of theatre. But ended up glancing back, and this time his gaze wasn't settled upon MJ. Instead, it was on you.

- - -

Peter found himself doubting everything as he sat on top of the Opera House, staring down at the Light Festival happening below. He didn't how to feel. He just learned that you, his longest and closest friend was in love with him and he had no idea. “I’m so stupid...” Peter scoffed, shaking his head.

“What’s got you all bummed out?” Peter glanced up to Quentin Beck, the man he has been working alongside with on this trip hovering over him before taking a seat beside him. “It’s--nothing.” Peter sighed, playing with his fingers. “Peter,” Beck said more sternly, causing the young hero to stare at him. “You can talk to me.”

“It’s just--girl problems.” Peter simply said, causing Beck to chuckle. “Oh really, so who’s the lucky girl?”

“There’s actually two,” Peter added, running his hands frustratingly through his hair. “Tell me about them,” Beck said, leaning his body slightly forward and resting his forearms on his thighs. “There’s MJ,” Peter started, “She’s this incredibly beautiful, smart girl that I’ve had a crush for months.”

“That’s the girl you wanted to tell how you felt on this trip, right?” Beck mentioned and Peter nodded his head. “But who’s the other girl then that’s got you all second-guessing yourself now?”

“Y/N...” Peter’s voice trailed off, the image of your smile and your beautiful e/c eyes filling his mind. “S-She’s--she’s everything to me. We’ve been best friends ever since we were toddlers and I just learned that she’s been in love with me for years and I don't know what to do.”

“You do nothing.” Beck answered, shrugging his shoulders. “Like you said, you’ve been crushing on his MJ chick for months and this Y/N girl shouldn't change that.”

“But she isn't just some girl, she’s Y/N.” Peter spoke as if it was obvious. “We’ve been through everything together. She was the first person that I told about my powers, she was there for me when my Uncle Ben died, and here I am being such a terrible friend to her. I knew she was terrified of heights but I still made her switch seats with MJ so I could sit next to her. And this whole trip I’ve been abandoning her because I’ve been so occupied with confessing my feelings with MJ and she wanted to do so many things with me and-” Peter didn't know he was crying until he felt Beck grab his shoulder, causing him to stop talking.

“Let me tell you something kid,” Beck started, “The best kind of relationships are built up from friendships, and tell me, do you and MJ have the same connection that you and Y/N have?” Peter shook his head, refusing to look at Beck as his eyes were still stained with dried tears. “Relationships with girls like MJ, someone you don't have a strong bond with never last, Peter. But relationships with girls like Y/N, ones where they are built from trust, love, and friendship, they last forever.”

“But at the end, it’s your decision Peter. Who do you want to be with?”

- - -

You hated that your class trip to Europe was ending so soon but you completely understood why. Everyday you’ve been here there’s been an attack and everyone’s parents were losing their minds. But that was not the only thing that was bothering you. You knew Peter was a part of the attacks, hearing from Ned that he was helping Nick Fury deal with those monsters and that got you worried. You wanted to go to his hotel room and ask if he was okay, if he was hurt or something but you were scared. You were scared that if you stared into his eyes you’d finally break and you didn't want that to happen.

The sound of someone suddenly knocking on your room’s door caused you to break out of your thoughts, zipping up your suitcase as you finished packing the rest of your clothes. “Don't worry Mr. Harrington, I’m done packing.” You shouted.

“It’s not Mr. Harrington.” You froze when you heard Peter’s voice instead. You walked over to your door and pulled it open, your eyes immediately landing on the bouquet of flowers he was holding in one hand and a small bag in another. “H-Hey,” your voice stuttered, smiling softly. “H-Hey,” Peter stuttered back, his lips curling up into a small smile as heat traveled up into his cheeks. He didn't know he could become so smitten for you so quick. Your smile used to make him feel nothing but now, it made his stomach do flips and his heart burst into butterflies. “C-Can we talk?”

You only nodded your head, stepping aside so that he could enter your room before closing it behind you. “So, what is it that you wanted to talk about-”

“I’m sorry!” Peter interrupted, turning to face with guilt clear on his face. “I’m sorry for treating you so horribly this whole trip, and I’m sorry that I’ve been gushing to you about that stupid crush I had on MJ when you were in front of me this whole time.”

“W-What?” Your voice cracked, stunned at his words. You felt your heart leaping around your chest as Peter took another step towards you, to where you guys were inches apart. “I’m sorry that I’ve been so blinded by my stupid crush on MJ that I never realized that I was in love with you too.”

“Y-You love me?” You asked, your eyes filling with tears as you stared at the boy that has had your heart for years. “Yes,” he smiled, placing the bouquet of flowers onto your dresser before taking your hand into his, rubbing the back of it with his thumb, sending sparks through both of your bodies. “Yes I do.”

You had the largest smile on your face as tears of happiness began to stream down your cheeks. “I-I don't know what to say...”

“I got something for you,” Peter said, opening the small bag that he held in his other hand and taking out a necklace that was shaped as a clear glass heart that had red gem in the middle of it. “I saw you staring at it in that jewelry store by the opera house.”

“How did you get it?” You asked, taking the necklace into your hands. “I returned the Black Dahlia necklace so that I could you get this.” Your eyes widened at his words, “But Peter, what about your plan and all?”

“You are my plan.” Those four words managed to make your heart explode into fireworks, sending sparks erupting in your chest and another happy tear to escape from your eyes. “It was you, Y/N. It was always you.”

Without saying anything you leaned in and pressed your lips against his. Peter’s eyes widened at your sudden action but didn't hesitate to kiss you back, his arms circling around your waist as your hands wrapped around his neck. Your lips moved in perfect sync with his, sending both of your hearts beating out of control. You were the first to pull away, both of you breathing heavily, your lips swollen and cheeks bright pink as your foreheads rested against each other.

You were staring into each other’s eyes as you both tried to catch your breath. You then couldn't help but smile as those four words that came out of his mouth a few seconds ago filled your mind again, making you realize that this was real. Peter standing in front of you, holding you, kissing you, was real.

It was always you

Drop in any Peter Parker/Tom Holland requests you guys have for me!

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #spiderman x reader #spiderman #spiderman x y/n #spiderman x you #spiderman far from home #peter parker angst #spiderman ffh #peter parker imagines #peter parker oneshot

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mail-me-a-snail · 4 years

Text

Pink in the Night

Hugo Wallace’s story continues! in this chapter, we learn of the baker’s real name, and finally settle this emotional debacle

tag list: @txmmy-rose @immabethehero @spoken-paper-plane @cryptic-phantom17 @iv0ry-keys tw: mild nsfw, brief description of broken bones read pt.1 here

The rain beats against the ground. Somewhere, thunder cracks and lights the world up for one moment. The trees rush past Hugo Wallace in a wild blur as he races through the forest, trying his best to keep his footing as hot tears muddle his vision and the ground becomes muddy.

"Stupid," he berates himself, "Stupid, stupid, stupid. The one you love doesn't love you back, even though you knew he wouldn't, so you run away, crying like a child. Stupid, stupid—" "Doctor Wallace!" yells the baker from somewhere behind him over the rain. "I told you, don't follow me!" His voice cracks on the you. "Doctor Wallace, please, listen—" The ground gets rockier and muddier and it’s harder for him to maintain his balance. There are more trees now, crowding the edges of his vision. He's stumbling in the dark because he left his lantern in the grove. Another stupid, stupid decision, all because of this Bird Man nonsense. He isn't even using his cane; it's swinging as his arm does, like he's ready to hit something, because he is more than ready to. His clothes are sopping wet. "What do you want me to say, doctor?" The baker persists, footsteps closer, followed by the sound of branches being moved aside. "Do you want me to tell you I don't love the Bird Man? Would that help things?" Hugo wants to say yes, but the confusion drips so strongly from the baker it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. "Drop it, please, for the love of God, drop it!" Hugo shouts, "Clearly, you're in love with a silhouette!" "That's not—" he growls in frustration, "Where are you even going?" "I'm going home. I'm tired and angry, a-and upset, and I just want to go—" "HUGO!"

Hugo's stomach dips as he falls straight off the path's end. At first, he thinks that this is it, that this is his end—a less than satisfying death at the bottom of a cliff. Oh, well. At least this emotional debacle would be over. The pain that comes with his jaw smacking hard against the forest floor, rattling his teeth, his mask scratching his face, and the bruising along his body reminds him he is very much alive. The breath is driven out of him and he struggles to breathe, but he is alive for the most part. His cane falls beside him. Dirt and rain shower him. He's covered in mud and his robes stick to his body. He looks up. He had fallen into a ditch, maybe five or six feet deep, and can see the trees overhead. He could climb out. His head hurts like hell and what's worse is that he can't see a thing in the darkness. "Hugo!" The baker's face pops over the lip of the ditch, eyes bright with worry. "Are you okay?" "Baker?" He groans, sitting up. Two of the baker's face shifts in and out of his swimming vision. A severe flame erupts in his left leg as he tries to stand, and he swears loud enough to scare away all the animals. As a physician, he knows his leg is broken. He feels around his pant leg for blood. The skin isn't broken, thank God, but the bone—his fibula, by the source of pain, it seems—is still shattered. The skin around it is already swelling. There goes climbing out. "M-My leg; it's broken." "Shit," the baker breathes, then slides down the hill to meet him. He leans down on one knee. "Tell me what to do, Hugo. I'm no doctor." The pain is already fading into numbness. Not good. He's going into shock; the edges of his vision are already turning a fuzzy black. He drops onto his back, feeling weak, sending a puddle splashing up around him. "Hugo!" The baker's strong, calloused hands help him sit up. One of his hands is placed right against Hugo's heart, which is thumping rather slowly, despite his wish coming true. "Hugo, stay with me. Tell me what to do." Hugo's head lolls and turns to the baker. He can see the anguish in those beautiful hazel eyes. It hurts him to see the baker so worried. His red hair and beard are wet from the rain, hanging around his face, making him look like a sheepdog with long jowls. Hugo's anger dissipates in a matter of seconds, though it might just be the shock. "F...first," he slurs, "Get me out of t-this hole." The baker hesitates, then puts one hand under Hugo's legs, careful not to jostle the broken one, and the other on his back. He lifts the doctor up without strain. Hugo throws an arm around his neck. "You weigh no more than a sack of flour does," The baker observes, "You should really eat more." "I-Is now r...really the time?" He lifts Hugo onto the other side of the ditch. He then hoists himself up and Hugo can't help but watch his muscles bulging as he does it, giggling to himself in delirium. Thunder claps again, and he can see the way the baker's wet shirt leaves little to the imagination. The baker sits beside him, unperturbed by his giggling. "Y-You must set the bone," Hugo undoes the clasp around his jaw and lifts his mask just until his mouth is exposed. "C...cane, give me my cane." The baker goes back to the ditch, climbing out with the cane in hand. He wipes it against his shirt, staining the cotton black with mud. Hugo wrinkles his nose; he doesn't exactly have many options here. "This will hurt," The baker warns, as if Hugo doesn't know that already. The doctor puts the cleaner part of his cane in-between his teeth. The rain coursing down his chin makes it hard to keep a grip, but he just bites down with all the strength in his jaw. He gives the signal. He tries to hold onto both the cane and the feeling of the baker's hands on his exposed leg as he nearly loses his mind in the pain and screams into his cane. Once it's over, he lets the tool drop and nearly drops down himself. The baker's hand on his back is the only thing grounding him. He's become deaf to the sound of rain and thunder because if the world's mad, then so is he, so the world has no right screaming like this. "S...Splint," Hugo blinks slowly, trying to get the words out. "Sticks. Two. Wrap." "O-Okay." The baker forages for sticks and finds two of roughly the same length. He tears fabric from the hem of his shirt. Following Hugo's instructions, he splints Hugo's leg. Then, the doctor promptly passes out. -- Everything is warm. Too bloody warm. Hugo wakes up covered in a sheen of sweat. He tries to move the heavy blanket off of him, but his motions are sluggish, like his brain and nerves aren't communicating. There's something cold and wet across his forehead. He relishes it. Every part of his body hurts and even blinking does, too. He wants to say something, but the sound that comes out of his chapped lips is a rasp. He realizes, with a start, that he's not wearing his mask, or his uniform. He's wearing a cotton shirt that isn't his, plastered to his chest because of the sweat. The room itself is cold, even with the fireplace roaring pleasantly and casting light on everything. The window outside shows the chaos of a thunderstorm. Rain pounds the roof. The walls are painted red. The bed of his is comfy, pillows presumably filled with goose down. The blanket is woven and threadbare. His mask is hanging on a coat rack in a corner of the room, along with his hat. He tries to adjust his position, but his left leg is in severe pain. When it flares up, he remembers why; the chase through the woods and subsequent fall into a ditch, where the baker splinted his leg and carried him out...this was probably the baker's house. The thought warms his cheeks more than the fever does. He shivers. He startles when the baker walks in, sporting a similar cotton shirt. He's holding a bowl with a spoon. Hugo can see the steam rise from it, but he feels nauseous at the thought of digesting anything. "You're awake," the baker says softly, lacking his usual gruff. "How do you feel?" He pulls a chair towards Hugo's beside and sits down. "Like s...shit," Hugo replies, every word sluggish. He squints at the baker, the firelight behind him burning his retinas. He looks away. "I expected as much." The baker presses a hand against Hugo's neck and the doctor prays the other man doesn't feel his pulse quicken at the contact. The baker draws his hand back. He has to hide his sore disappointment. "You're burning up, doctor. Come on, I know just the thing." He props Hugo up to a sitting position and takes the cloth from his forehead. The doctor's head hangs, and to his embarrassment, leans into the baker's shoulder. The baker isn't surprised and keeps a solid hand on his nape. All this touch—it's so new and scary to Hugo and yet he craves more. More of calloused hands. More of being held. More of him. Even breathing hurts for Hugo, and his breathes come out shallow. He hates being so weak. He's been attending to plague victims for a straight year so far—he's never gotten sick until now. Of course, it's not the plague, though. No one in Honeycliff has been infected...yet. "You must eat, doctor," the baker holds a steaming spoon in his other hand. "When I was a boy, my sister would have me eat this when I got a fever. Besides, you're too skinny. You can't fight the plague without some meat on your bones, now can you?" He holds the spoon to Hugo's lips, but the smell, as warm and comforting as it is, with hints of rosemary and thyme, spins his stomach over and he turns his head and buries it further into the baker's shoulder. The baker sighs, right next to Hugo's right ear. It shakes his messy hair. "I did the same, when I was younger," he chuckles, then grows serious. "Please, Hugo, you must eat." Hugo pauses. Then, he looks up at the other man, squinting at him with shiny eyes. His freckles pop out like stars. His beard is fluffier now that it's been dried. "Why do y...you do that?" He whispers, because anything above so hurts his chest. "Do what?" "You s-switch from 'doctor' t-to my name. You did the same thing in the forest...when I fell, you called my name. Every other t-time before this, it has always been d-doctor, or 'Doctor Wallace'..." He plops his head onto the baker's chest, gripping the blanket tightly. "...I don't understand you." A bead of sweat rolls down his nose. "I don't understand it, either, d..." He catches himself. To Hugo's surprise, he starts stroking the back of Hugo's neck, fingers tangling in his messy hair. "...Hugo. It just happens—spontaneously, then I remember that there's a pretense that comes with knowing you, so it—I correct myself..." "There's no pretense with the man you saved," Hugo picks at his shirt. "And whom you gave your shirt to. Did you..." He hesitates. "...undress me?" The baker is silent for a moment. "Yes," he murmurs, then adds, "But only your shirt. I kept the pants on. They dried well enough by the fire." "Oh. Good, good." He blushes a red bright enough to rival even the baker's wild locks. He's glad the other man can't see his face. Those hands being so close to his chest...it's enough to make his whole face red. "Will you eat now?" Hugo resists groaning and nods. It would be better to get it over with. He leans away and sits up properly. The baker's hand goes back to his back. He opens his chapped lips and takes a sip from the offered spoon. It's not entirely bad, and his stomach doesn't feel like a waterwheel, so he keeps eating. He was right, of course, about the spices; rosemary and thyme, with the slightest hint of lemon. They don't speak. The fire, the rain, and the clacking of the spoon against the bowl are the only sounds that make up a conversation. They leave things unsaid; this kind of thing doesn't just end in a ditch. He's much hungrier than he thought. The bowl gets finished much quicker than the plague spreads. "There you go," the baker says with a fleck of pride, and Hugo can't help the way it makes his heart flutter. The baker leaves the bowl on the mantel, then comes back to sit by the doctor's side, grasping his hands in his lap. He's about to speak, but Hugo cuts him off. "I...I don't think I know your name," he admits sheepishly, "I'm sorry. I lo...I love your bakery, so it's, um, strange I never got your name." "It's Thomas," Thomas says, "Thomas Gray. It's alright. I don't suspect you know the farmer's name either, nor his wife's. You've been here with us for all of—what is it now—three months, and you hardly know our names." Thomas's tone isn't accusatory, but observational, even humorous. Hugo's glad he finds it so funny, because he's embarrassed. He couldn't give a shite about the farmer or his wife or their kids, so he's more embarrassed about not knowing the name of the object of his desire than their names. Being a plague doctor isn't a highly personal job, after all. "Thomas," he tries the name, and it feels right, that it should be coming from him. "Thomas, you're Scottish, aren't you?" "Yes. The plague did start with our sailors. My family and I hopped onto the nearest wagon and made it here, in Honeycliff. We separated, however, so my father's serving as a plague doctor in another town and my mother as a seamstress in London. My three brothers have gone off to do odd-jobs in the villages." "You're the oldest?" "The youngest, actually." At Hugo's odd look, he laughs. "Yes, I am the youngest. My older brothers are all titans." Three other men built like Thomas. Hugo thinks that's the closest thing to heaven he'll achieve in this world. The silence returns, if only for a moment. "So, about last night—" The baker starts, but Hugo is quicker. "The soup was lovely. Y-You should give me the recipe, sometime." "I-I suppose. Hugo, last night—" "Would you look at that, the rain's stopped!" "It very much hasn't. Will you please let me speak?" Hugo opens and closes his mouth, struggling for a reason why they shouldn't have the conversation Hugo's been dreading since he woke up. He finds nothing. He motions with one sweaty hand for Thomas to continue. The baker takes the hand in his own. "Hugo Wallace," he says, "You were right when you said I was in love with the Bird Man. Because I was. Because I knew it was you." "W...what?" He looks up at the other man. His hazel eyes are honest. "Honestly, did you think I was just some big Scottish oaf who couldn't connect the dots like everyone else in this village? There is only one Bird Man around here, and it's the man with the very obviously bird inspired mask." Okay, he did used to think of Thomas as stupid, so color him surprised, but he still doesn't understand it. Hugo shakes his head. "I don't—then why did you answer me the way you did? That you 'didn't know' if you loved me?" "That," Thomas sighs, "I was very stupid to say. I didn't want to confess yet because it was all so...so sudden. I wasn't nearly prepared and I didn't even know if you felt the same way." You have no idea how much I love you, he almost says, but stops. How much does he actually love Thomas? In a wonderful display of hypocrisy, he's fallen in love with Thomas's image, with his body. He doesn't know the first thing about this man besides the fact that he is Scottish and has three brothers. "I do," Hugo admits, "but in the same manner I thought you had loved the Bird Man. I don't...I don't know you as well as I w-want to. And I do, I want t-to know you. I want to get to know you. We can start over. Will you...will you have me?" Thomas's other hand props up his chin, making the doctor look up at him. His thumb brushes Hugo's lips. The look in the baker's eyes is gentle, but serious. "There is no question of it, Hugo," he whispers, "I love you, Dr. Wallace. I have, ever since you moved into the village. I have loved you since the time you first came by my shop, looking in from the display window, and I knew how much you had wanted to go inside but you couldn't because of the plague, so I set up the delivery service especially for you. And...And I will love you, even if you don't feel the same once you get to know me." Hugo's eyes drift to Thomas's lips. He licks his own, and grabs the hand under his chin with both of his. Their freckles mesh together in one big pattern of stars. "I love you, too, Thomas," his voice cracks on the baker's name. There's a stone lodged in his throat. "Tell me you l-love me again, just once more." The baker chuckles. "I will make sure you don't forget it." Thomas tugs him forward and kisses him. Oh. He closes his eyes and leans into it. Oh. He has never felt such warmth. Their lips press together, pushing and pulling like waves. Hugo tastes thyme and rosemary, sweet on those lips, familiar on his. Something tugs at his fingertips, at his toes, at the bottom of his stomach. He curls his hands into the front of Thomas's shirt, trying to rid himself of the pins and needles that build up underneath his skin. They pull apart for a moment to breathe. Gasps. Soft breaths. Hugo's lips are not so chapped now. He's so eager that he's the one who pulls Thomas back into the kiss. He throws the blanket aside. He tilts his head, grasping at the other's lips, wanting so much more. A muscular arm wraps around his midsection, pulling him closer, and the other keeps a hand on his thigh, squeezing just that much. His touch is electric. It's like every nerve in Hugo's body is a firecracker. He's finally getting what he wants. So, why does the stone in his throat and the heat behind his eyes get harder and harder to ignore? He pulls away, trying to stifle a sob. "Hugo," Thomas murmurs in concern, cupping his cheek. Hugo leans into it. "Are you alright?" "I-I'm sorry," Hugo sniffles, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "I don't k-know what's come over me. It's been a v-very long time since I've been...touched like this. I have been starved, so to say." "I understand." Thomas's smile is full of patience. "I k-kissed you," Hugo starts to smile despite the tears, "but I don't think I did it right. Can I try again?" "And again, and again, and again," Thomas presses a kiss to his forehead. "As much as you'd like to, doctor." And he does. He kisses Thomas. Again, and again, and again. "I love you, Hugo Wallace," the baker says while they're pressed against each other, gasping for breath, "I love the way your eyes are a different shade—blue and hazel, just like m-mine. I love..." Hugo tugs at his bottom lip and he growls, losing his train of thought for a moment. The doctor is trembling. "...I love your bravery, y-your strength. Even if you are snarky on the outside, your heart is tender." Hugo's hands, with hungry minds of their own, lift up the hem of Thomas's shirt. They touch the muscles there, then travel upwards. The other groans; he is just as needy as Hugo is, he knows it. He wants so badly to take off those trousers and empty this pool of warmth in his stomach. His eyes are distracted by the wonderful V that is formed by the baker's hips and the orange fuzz that peaks out from under. Thomas's lips press against his neck, leaving cold, cold kisses against his flushed skin. He nibbles a bit, before eventually biting down, long and tense, savoring the moment. He groans, the sensation setting off another few firecrackers, and grips Thomas's hair tightly as the other man's tongue laps at the spot. "A reminder," he hums against Hugo's neck, sending shivers down the man's spine. "And a gift." The baker's calloused hand holds his waist under his shirt, thumb rubbing into the freckled skin. The other is still teasing his thigh. "You are so precious in my shirt," Thomas whispers in his ear. The hand under his shirt wanders, and Hugo sucks in a breath. Just as quickly as it came, it's removed. Hugo hisses, partly out of frustration, because he just wants to be torn apart. Just as his hands are about to tuck into Thomas's trousers, the baker pulls away and stands, fixing his shirt and hair. Hugo blinks slowly, not understanding for a moment, before he gasps. "Thomas," he whines, breathless, grabbing the hem of the other man's shirt. "Don't leave it at that. I...I want t—" "I know you want more, my love," Thomas says, amused, patting Hugo's messy hair. "But your leg is broken and you've got a fever. I don't want you to strain yourself." "T-This old thing?" He gestures to his left leg, which is in a rather well made homemade cast. "It won't stop m-me, Thomas. Please." "You are sick," Thomas shakes his head firmly, hands on his hips. "You need rest." Hugo pouts, then flops onto his back. The disappointment and warmth are already starting to ebb. Thomas draws the blanket around him and brushes the hair out of his face. He kisses his forehead softly. "Goodnight, Hugo," he murmurs, "I'll see you in the morning." "Goodnight. I love you." "I love you, too." The baker leaves the room. The doctor touches his neck, pressing his finger into the bruise the baker had marked there. It stings pleasantly. He grins. As he drifts off to the sound of rain tapping against the windows, he thinks of the kiss between two silhouettes, and thinks of the ones that are yet to come, when they start over and become people, become more than just lips and breath. He thinks of the canvas-like palms of the baker holding him close—not destroying him, like he had wanted. Thomas is far more than muscular arms and hearty laughs. He is gentle. He is kind. He is not afraid of contact. That is all Hugo can ask for.

#oc #writing #plague doctor #plague doctor oc #fiction #my writing #mine #note: this is alternate history #so #its not entirely based on the bubonic plague

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rhotano-rose · 5 years

Text

The Lines I’ll Cross

The Great Gubal Library of old, crumbling Sharlayan was certainly a place to be feared. It attracted both foolhardy adventurers and those with the well-earned title of 'hero' alike. And no matter who dared step inside its halls, no matter their experience or lack thereof, the cursed repository confronted them all with creatures beyond the norm of imagining, beings hailing from twisted dimensions of depravity.

Despite the terrors and dangers housed within, the promise of nigh-infinite knowledge was ever an attractive one. Rare were the reckless few who managed to smuggle out anything truly worth all the trouble. As was often the case with any reputable archive, the quality material was always to be found in the back. In the safety of the shadows, easily overlooked by the clumsy, half-witted masses.

Yet Rosa walked with purpose through the dark; she did not fear it, not anymore. Though the thick dust and musty scent of aging leather and parchment did a number on her eyes and airways. As she traversed the marble halls and long stairways, the dying sputter of oil lamps barely provided enough of a glow to light her path. More often than not, she was simply following the weak, muddled rays from towering windows upon the walls and overhead, betwixt innumerable shelves of long-forgotten texts.

From the blackness came the wretches of the void to deter her, and from the crystalline focus of her staff came blinding, scouring light to cast them back. Wild, deafeningly shrill cries echoed, echoed, and faded.. Yet she could feel them watching. So very many eyes hungered after the White Mage, as the purity she wielded steadily carved a pristine path through the gloom.

A previous escapade through the expansive corridors - many moons past - served to help in leading her to the section she sought. A dark, unassuming chamber. Yet the moment Rosa passed beyond the threshold, the air within shifted, seemed to thicken, a shawl of invisible weight borne upon her shoulders. As foreboding as the rest of the place had felt, the room she had entered easily tipped the scale.

Reality and awareness as she knew them seemed to waver here. Akin to stepping into a lucid dream, she stood within a corporeal vision where her surroundings could easily dissipate if she dared to question their existence. It was as real as she could grasp it to be-- and if it meant she could acquire what she came for, she was content to dream. Thus, taking a breath and focusing upon her goal, she proceeded further in.

The high-reaching shelves against the back wall were host to a myriad of various tomes, scrolls, stray pages separated from their bindings. Rosa caught the writing upon a few of them, and odd, illegible passages met her gaze, symbols crammed together in chaotic scribblings. They were not what she was looking for, thankfully; she didn't envy anyone tasked with transcribing that mess.

With a loft of her hand, motes of light arose into being, floating about like fireflies to illuminate - as well as offer warning to anything that may approach from behind. She could still feel their eyes, and the imposing statues that flanked the room were no exception. For better or worse, she was being watched-- though for the time being, they kept their distance, likely for fear of getting burned.

Titles shifted and blurred upon the spines. Faint whispers of indistinguishable words tried to cling to her hand as it traversed the rows. Whole tomes flickered in and out of being, the thread connecting them to the physical plane frayed to the verge of snapping. All the while Rosa's brow furrowed in her search, not a hint of surprise to be seen upon her features for all the peculiarity. She already understood the purpose of this room, after all.

These texts did not belong, did not originate upon Hydaelyn. The Mother Crystal was not the only world to be; the existence of the void suggested that much. But between late night mirror scryings, and aetherical readings from a certain makeshift altar, the fact of more was only further confirmed. To what extent these other worlds or realms stretched, Rosa didn't know. All too likely she would lose herself in the search for knowledge of them all if she tried. But she only needed one.

Words rung endlessly within her mind, words that challenged her, and ultimately led her to seek the truth. 'You will not find my name in the books or parchments scattered in the lands of Eorzea or this plane.' And it was true. No matter where she looked, no matter what scraps she had scoured for and salvaged.. the Jackal remained a most infuriating enigma she had the misfortune to barely begin to understand, let alone keep in check.

But here, maybe here..

She felt it, more than saw it. A sickly familiarity, like a nightmare she dreaded to remember. The tome her fingers paused before held an unfortunately similar aura, of the wretched creature she had glimpsed upon the first summoning, before it took on the face of its chosen vessel. Her fingers clasped the spine and pulled, unpleasant prickles sent up her arm as she drew it free. Clad in a thick, dark cover made of material she didn't recognize, the front bore no title, no emblem, nothing.. save for a faded name handwritten on the inside. ‘E. Felo'melorn.’

She could only surmise it to be the author’s-- though in truth, the book had the look of a journal or other manner of written account rather than a published work. The pages were yellowed and stiff with age, and Rosa took care in turning them. When she came across a loose one, she gently settled it back against the binding, ensuring it fit with its fellows as she moved on to the next.

She read, and read.. and nearly forgot exactly where she was as names and events slowly came to light. The Land of the Drifting Sands. The prophecy of the Great Maw. The last Pharoah. The Wishmaster. The Jackal.

With great reluctance, Rosa closed the book, and tucked it close, as much as her body protested the presence of it. She did not receive the same sense within the rest of the collection left sitting within the shelves.. at least not for now. She needed to ensure this one clung to the physical realm.. and letting it stay within this space, where the lines of dimensions blurred, could easily jeopardize that.

She turned her back upon the rest, the evidence of the beyond, of knowledge unknown.. and walked her way out of the dream. The book went into her bag the moment she crossed the rift, and swiftly she departed the way she came, with sacred light to guide and protect her as she fled.

And the curious book stayed with her, solid and real; she checked, double and triple-checked to confirm it. She dared not risk taking it with her through the aethernet. The good, old-fashioned way of chocobo-drawn carriage served well enough to ensure her find would not slip elsewhere. But she had to admit, the trip from the cold, rocky mountains of Dravania to the lush forests of the Black Shroud was a lengthy one indeed.

By the time she reached the Lavender Beds, the blanket of night had long-since settled over the land - but it was far from quiet, at least for Rosa's ears. The elementals thoroughly disapproved of the book she bore back to their domain, and made sure she knew it. ‘A blight! A stain! Be rid of it, seal it away!’ "I will, I will," came her weary response to the angry, swirling whispers. She would need to contain the thing properly, and make offering for her transgressions no doubt.. But she would do it on the morrow. She was simply too exhausted now.

A reassuring transmission over her linkpearl to Ajax promised her return before dawnbreak; she had another stop to make first. A quaint cottage upon a hill was her destination, a place she had recently secured to conduct her research without toting the more dangerous acquisitions - such as the one in her bag - to the apartment she shared with her beloved.

Once inside, she drew the tome back out and planted it upon the desk sat nearby, already covered in scattered papers, texts, a long-cold coffee mug.. and an unfamiliar bit of parchment - tattered and incredibly ancient. It had been faced away from her seat on the other side, like a note left by another hand for her to find upon her return. Puzzled, she took it up, eyes scanning the lettering upon it.

Abstract imagery met her gaze, what she could only take to be protective seals. Intricate engravings and symbols she could only barely understand with her rudimentary knowledge of runes and ritualistic circles.. but somehow they were familiar at the same time, tickling at her memory. If she could only remember.. but her tired mind provided little assistance. But the text that accompanied the curious markings did clue her in as to the sender.

Iados was always watching, after all. From the day he had protected her from harm, stood sentinel outside her recovery room, and continued to aid her efforts whenever she needed. Like a silent guardian, she knew he was often in her shadow, and held no doubt he already knew what she was doing. Why he was helping her this time, considering the man's own experience with the traumatizing influence of 'Jack', was a question she couldn't begin to solve.

Perhaps a proper meeting was in order. But again, another matter for a later time. Adrenaline had carried Rosa throughout her journey - along with a fair dash of stubbornness, perhaps. She could feel herself wearing down, and admittedly longed to crawl into bed for what few bells she could before Ajax's own workday began.

With the acquired texts secured within a substantially thick safe behind her desk - and no mirrors for any riddle-tongued demons to peep through - she took her leave of the cottage with the door equally locked behind her. As tired as she was, she expected a long, long rest.

But after that, she had a lot more reading to do.

(mentions: @elibraddock)

#ic writing #plot things #wheeeeeeze #been so long since i cranked out something like this #technically these events aren't the most recent #rosa has made significant progress since #and she's Not Happy about it #Rosa Knows™

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max-neverland · 6 years

Text

Harry Potter: Flight Over Bristol

Dawn was touching the horizon as the little village of Godric’s Hollow lay in slumber. The street lamps glowed softly in the gloom, casting thin shadows over the quaint buildings. Faux spider webs clung to the cottage faces and large carved pumpkins rested in the gardens. Autumn leaves littered the streets, crunching under the massive feet of the lone figure hurrying through the square.

He was a giant of a man. He filled the whole breadth of the sidewalk and was forced to stoop under every shop sign. His black hair was a wild mane and his untamed beard spilled over his chest. He wore an old brown coat that brushed his knees and the toes of his leather boots were heavily scuffed. Poking out of the folds of his coat was a bright pink umbrella.

Rubeus Hagrid reached the house before the muggles awoke. It was identical to every other cottage in the town but for the gaping hole in the side of the second story. A chill ran over Hagrid’s bones and he shook himself; there was no time to dwell on what he was seeing. He blinked back the tears that pricked at his eyes and stepped over the little gate with one smooth stride. A cobbled path ran up the garden, lined by tended flower beds; a toy broomstick had been crashed into the middle of them. The front door was ajar.

He found James first. The young man was sprawled on his back in the living room, glasses askew, hazel eyes wide and unseeing. A howl tore from Hagrid’s throat, rough with pain and thick with grief. He fell to his knees beside the body and pulled James’ head into his lap. He gave himself one minute; just one minute to gently close James’ eyes, rearrange his glasses, and place a wet, whiskery kiss on his brow, and then Hagrid was up and climbing the stairs.

The destruction began at the top of the stairs. Mounds of debris and chunks of splintered wood littered the carpet, and the roof was on the verge of caving in. The walls around the nursery were in crumbling ruins at the end of the hall. Hagrid stepped over the remains of a door that had been blasted off its hinges and something snapped beneath his heel; looking down, he saw the splinters of a large wooden snitch painted in glittering gold that had once been mounted to the nursery door.

He found Lily next. She lay face down on the nursery floor, her dark red hair a fiery halo around her. Her arm was caught in the cot bars and a fresh sob shook Hagrid as he saw that a baby boy was sitting up in the cot with one chubby fist wrapped around his mother’s cold finger. The child’s face was stained with tears, and snot was smeared on the front of his pyjamas, but his big green eyes were clear now as he gazed up solemnly at Hagrid. Under a tuft of black hair, bright against his pale brow, was a fresh cut in the shape of a lightning bolt.

“Yer okay, Harry,” said Hagrid kindly, picking his way through the wreckage to reach the cot. “Yeh’ll be alright. I’ve got yeh.”

He took Lily from her son and quickly but gently tended to her as he had James, speaking to Harry all the while. His voice, although naturally rough, was filled with warmth, and when he laid Lily back down and reached into the cot, Harry fearlessly stretched out his arms towards him. Hagrid wrapped him snuggly in a warm blanket.

“Time ter go, Harry.”

With the little boy tucked safely in his massive hand, Hagrid hurried from the cottage. The village was beginning to wake and they passed a newspaper boy on his bicycle as they headed for the outskirts of town. Harry gazed up and gurgled happily when the sound of an aeroplane rumbled overhead. Hagrid, focused on his task, paid it no heed until he suddenly realized that the sound was drawing alarmingly close. He peered up and with a start saw that the dark shape rattling down towards the edge of town – right where they were heading – was in fact a huge flying motorcycle. Hagrid’s free hand snapped to his pink umbrella, ready to spring into action, before he recognized the young man sitting astride it.

Sirius Black landed as they passed the very last cottage. His motorcycle all but crashed to the ground and he threw himself from it before the engine had even settled. His dark hair was wind swept and his grey eyes were wild; there was no trace of his usual casual elegance as he stumbled towards them.

“Hagrid, what happened?” he cried. “Why do you have Harry? Where are Lily and James?”

“I’m sorry, Sirius,” replied Hagrid sombrely, fresh tears forming in his eyes. “You-know-who found ‘em. They’re gone.”

Sirius fell to his knees with an anguished cry, his handsome face distorted with grief. He punched the ground three times in quick succession, leaving his knuckles torn and bloodied. Harry began to wail and Sirius immediately sprung to his feet, reaching for his godson.

“It’s okay, Harry. Hagrid, give him to me – “

“No,” said Hagrid abruptly, stepping back and pulling Harry to his chest protectively. “I can’t.”

“What are you talking about? I’m his godfather!”

“Dumbledore’s orders – “

“Dumbledore’s orders,” scoffed Sirius. “I don’t care what the old man says. Harry should be with me! I’m the only family he’s got left!”

“Dumbledore said he has ter go ter Lily’s sister,” argued Hagrid. “She’s his blood aunt.”

“Lily’s sister? You mean Petunia?” said Sirius incredulously. “That muggle woman hated Lily, hated everything about our world. Harry can’t be raised among people like that! He needs to be with his own kind. He needs to be with me.”

“I know yeh care for him bu’ I can’t do that,” persisted Hagrid. “I have ter take him ter Dumbledore. Yeh can take it up with him. I’m sorry.”

Sirius was visibly crushed. Longing filled his face as he gazed at Harry, who was half-hidden in Hagrid’s beard and sucking loudly on his thumb for comfort.

“I’ll say goodbye, then,” he said at last.

The giant nodded and Sirius approached them. Hagrid carefully placed Harry in the young man’s arms. The child beamed brightly and grabbed playfully at Sirius’ face, love for his godfather shining in his eyes. A quiet tear slipped down Sirius’ stubbled cheek but he quickly brushed it aside and ruffled the baby’s hair.

“I’ll sort this mess out. Don’t let the muggles get you down, kid,” he told him, and then spoke to Hagrid as he handed the child over with obvious reluctance. “I’m going to see Lily and James and then there’s something I have to do. I won’t need my bike so why don’t you take it?”

“I won’t say no ter that,” replied Hagrid, admiring the motorcycle. “I’ll drop it off once Harry’s settled.”

“Sounds good.”

Sirius cast Harry one last look, nodded to Hagrid, and then set off at a sprint into the village. Harry began to fuss as his godfather left, so Hagrid quickly mounted the huge motorcycle and started the engine; it was just big enough to accommodate for his giant size. He balanced Harry on his knee and delved into his deep coat pockets with his free hand; after a minute of hunting, he pulled out a large handknitted scarf and a pair of goggles. He set the goggles over his own face and fashioned the scarf into a sling beneath his coat which he then secured Harry in, placing him deep inside so that the thick wool covered his ears.

The motorcycle took to the skies as a shrill siren erupted from Godric’s Hollow; the muggles had awoken and discovered the Potters. Hagrid steered the motorcycle into the shadows of the clouds so that the muggles on the ground would pass them off as being a large bird or a distant plane. Snug in his sling under the coat, the baby popped his thumb in his mouth and tangled his other hand comfortingly in Hagrid’s beard.

Harry fell asleep as they were flying over Bristol.

#maxneverland #fanfiction #harry potter #rubeus hagrid #the boy who lived #godrics hollow #sirius black #philosophers stone

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dancerwrites · 7 years

Text

for all the love that we’ve known

written for: Day 4 of CR Ladies Week - Guest Characters, NPCs, and Villians set just before Episode 94 summary: The world moves on, and Cassandra remains. words: 1.3k

The day comes, not entirely unexpected, when the city starts to empty again. It wasn’t only that Vox Machina came and went as often as the sun passing overhead, but eventually those who had fled Emon and dragons and fire for the cooler safety of Whitestone had something to return to.

It’s not that she begrudges them a home, or some semblance of one, but there’s something to be said about the growing bustle of the city that begins to dim again only a couple weeks after Thordak’s fall.

Several families decide to return home. Cassandra doesn’t know if they received word of living family back in Emon, or perhaps somewhere else, and she doesn’t ask when they come knocking on the castle door. They thank her for her kindness, for allowing them to stay, for being “hospitable”, and she wonders if that’s part of being a leader – getting thanked for things you didn’t entirely contribute to. She’d let them stay, yes, but the last few months had been busy and she hadn’t taken a vested interest in any family’s living situation whilst mages were trying to rid them of the ominous presence below ground and illusory forms of allies seemed to pop up every day.

But, as it is, they thank her and they begin packing the same day, and when she makes her way down through the streets, empty of those who are preparing to leave, she feels like the city hasn’t been so empty since undead and giants roamed the streets. It hasn’t been so quiet since fog laid like a woolen blanket over the houses, terror keeping anyone from lingering in the open.

The former Empress and her children do not come to her directly, but Cassandra notices the familiar restlessness in them and asks when they will be returning to Emon over a cup of afternoon tea.

“I asked Eskil about it this morning, actually,” Salda says, glancing out over the courtyard where Odessa, Illiya, and Gren are running through the garden playing some form of tag. “I carry little power of my own without my title, but standing beside my husband for years gave me a good mind for the workings of Emon as a city. I believe the Clasp, as much as they might resent my presence, will respect that knowledge, and that the council being established there could use some guidance, with most of their members travelling far and wide.”

Cassandra feels somewhat vindicated by the ill-concealed snub at Vox Machina, but the smugness is somewhat dampened by the sour and tight feeling in her chest. She grips the handle of her teacup tightly to keep it from rattling in the saucer due to the trembling of her hands.

“Will you be leaving soon then?”

“Likely tomorrow, or maybe the day after, once the children have had time to pack their things. I heard a caravan is coming up from the South – perhaps we can join them on their return journey.”

Cassandra wonders where Salda heard rumors of the caravan, and curses the many hours she is required to be in her study, signing notices and reviewing treaties.

“I was thinking we might bring the boys with us as well,” Salda says.

Lost for words for a moment, Cassandra tries to think of which boys would want to go to Emon – surely not Jarrett, for he had become nothing less than the leader of the Pale Guard. But perhaps Kynan, the teen Vox Machina had returned with after her brother’s-

“I just don’t think that being here without a parental figure is right for them,” Salda continues, interrupting Cassandra’s musings. “The gods only know what they’ve been through, poor things. First slavery in the Plane of Fire, then dumped at a castle in the last dregs of winter…”

Salda tuts and shakes her head, resigned, then sips her tea perhaps more aggressively than the situation calls for.

“But what do you think, Cassandra? You told me that Vox Machina was planning on settling down for a while after their current endeavor. Do you know if that’s still their plan?”

Cassandra, who has only just remembered the two blue-skinned boys Vox Machina had brought back with them, straightens to attention and shakes her head.

“I can never tell with them, I’m afraid,” Cassandra admits, willing down the flush beginning to color her cheeks and taking a deep breath. How she could have forgotten… She wonders if it’s a part of being the youngest sibling, or simply from needing to look after herself for so many years, but the care of the two boys hadn’t crossed her mind in nearly a week.

“I continually labor under the assumption that Vox Machina won’t follow the letter of their word,” she says after a moment. “Their plans are too often influenced by the actions of others, and while they don’t go looking for trouble all the time, I think that trouble often comes looking for them.”

“So, no settling down?” Salda clarifies, and Cassandra holds back a sigh by taking another sip of her tea.

“I don’t think it will be settling so much as slowing down.”

Salda chuckles at that, though her lips purse slightly. “That sounds like them… But, in that case, I really don’t think that Hunin and Kyor should remain here unattended as they have been. They have already been playing quite a bit with the children, and joining in some lessons here and there.

“I also have a few friends still living in Emon who know Celestial and will be able to assist the two in their studies. They need someone who can help them understand more Common, who can nurture them fully – don’t you agree they’d have better prospects elsewhere?”

It sounds, to Cassandra, as though Salda has prepared her speech, and Cassandra wonders why she, as the Lady of Whitestone, should be the one to give the woman permission to do anything.

Leading involves less decision making and more approval of the decisions of others than Cassandra had first believed. And while her heart already aches to be rid of the small presence of the twins in addition to the Tal’dorei family, she nods solemnly, forcing herself to take another sip of her tea.

She reminds herself that she will not be one to dictate how others live their lives, and she will certainly not be one to keep people from living to the fullest.

“Wonderful,” Salda says, her voice warmer, her smile brighter, and her back straightening as if a load was falling off her shoulders.

The issue of the Aasimir twins had obviously been a concern of hers, and while Cassandra understands, that doesn’t stop the half-pained swell of emotion in her chest that echoes in Lady Briarwood’s simpering tone: “Wonderful. I’m so glad you’ve decided to stop fighting, dearie. Why, you’re practically our own daughter now, aren’t you?”

Cassandra has spent so much time trying to be her mother and channel that knowledge, that command of Whitestone, that she forgets what it means to have one.

Little Cassandra de Rolo, halfway between a child and an adult, unable to decide which to be.

Making up some excuse about needing to get paperwork done, Cassandra bids Salda farewell, a casual smile not quite as difficult to muster up as it once had been.

She tells the guard outside her room not to disturb her, not unless there’s an emergency, and spends a few moments sorting through the clothes in her closet, trying to find something comfortable.

The only casual dress she can find has rust-colored stains of blood around the collar.

Instead, stays in her more formal wear and curls up on the windowsill, alternating between staring out over the city and burying her face in the duvet she pulls from her bed to wrap around her shoulders.

Eventually silent tears soak the top of the pillow she holds tight in her arms, but that doesn’t stop her from pretending. Pretending that she’s hugging someone who smells of lavender and currants, whose breath is warm and calming on top of her head, and who has a beating heart within, matching the pace of her own.

#critfic #crladiesweek #cassandra de rolo #critical role #salda tal'dorei #i made myself cry writing this guys #sorry not sorry #fanfic #my writing #cassandra gives me so many feels

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celestial-leaves · 6 years

Text

Loyal To The End They Say He Was

“Do you realize what you’ve done, Boy?!”

A thunderous voice, spittle flying out across the floor, and a sharp pain in his wrists where Manfred’s fingers had dug in. the headmaster’s lips were moving, but any words he spat were lost to the drum beat in Lysander’s ears. His fingers felt sticky, his knuckles ached, and his head pounded as it hadn’t done since he was a child. Fingers gripped his shoulders shaking him harshly, but even the swooping it caused his stomach left him empty. He spun, feet following the ritual steps automatically and freed himself. There were dark shapes flickering into view in his peripheral vision, all armed with polearms. Outside, something boomed, and for a moment drowned out the heavy beating. Lysander blinked suddenly aware that is ancestors had circled protectively around him, their polearms pointed outwards. Though he stood firm on his feet and more importantly still they had not disappeared. His gaze flickered about noting Manfred’s angry sneer, Dagbert’s cowering body, the headmaster’s grim look, and finally his own stained hands.

“It’s alright,” Lysander heard himself say but even to his own ears his voice sounded gravelly. “You can leave now, I’m-I’m fine.” Several of his ancestors levelled intangible but clearly disbelieving gazes on him. Still without his will to support then they had no choice but to fade out. His head continued to pound, a steady throb that made him wish he could curl up into a ball and scream.

“You’ll be suspended until further noticed,” the headmaster growled, and Lysander nodded, too drained to argue when they towed him from the room and flung him out into the storm. The teenager remained sprawled out on the steps for a long moment, his head titled back towards the sky as the rain poured down and soaked through his clothing. It wasn’t cold. Eventually the tolling of the afternoon recess bell and a particularly bright flash of sheet lightning sent him staggering to his feet, shivers racking his frame. When questioned later, he wouldn’t be able to recall how he made it all the way up to the Heights nor how many times he stumbled, tripped, or fell along the way. The house was still and blissfully silent when he stumbled into it, his sisters at school and his father at work. he dragged himself inside, the gales rushing down from further up the hillside almost knocking him over. With numb fingers he stripped out of his clothing, leaving them pooled on the tile floor. Still shivering he climbed the great staircase and withdrew into his room, curling up under the blankets and clenching his eyes shut. The gulf that was brewing where his heart had beat that very morning had no trouble swallowing him whole.

Voices, loud and excited drifted up to him, pulling him out of his restless sleep. Lysander opened his eyes to darkness, his blanket blocking his eyesight. He debated peeking out to see what was going on but decided that the meagre warmth he’d managed to collect wasn’t worth the effort. He could hear a steady pitter-patter of rain against the window glass, it didn’t seem to have calmed down much from earlier. He doubted it would ever calm down.

“Ew! Papa! Sander left his clothes all over the floor!”

Lysander burrowed deeper under his blankets and shoved his head under the pillow.

“Sander!” That was Alexandra again, where everyone else had been born with vocal chords, Lysander could swear that hers were instead made up of pipe organs.

“Lysander? Are you home?”

His father’s voice pitched just right to reach him in his room, smoothly cut through the noise. Lysander didn’t reply, when he heard the stairs creak and heavy footsteps come to a halt before his door he belatedly remembered that he hadn’t locked it or even closed. Lysander half-heartedly debated getting up to make a token effort to close it, but a particularly loud crash of thunder had him flinching instead. “Son?” The door swung all the way open as his father made his way inside the room and came to halt by his bed. A moment later a large hand reached out and gently touched his shoulder, it squeezed tightly before the bed shifted as his father sat down.

“Did something happen at school? You’re home a bit early.”

Lysander was torn between snorting at the understatement and flinging himself at his father, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to scream or cry. Arms settled around him and a moment later he was being relocated into a warm and solid lap. “You’re getting a bit big for this,” Judge Sage said, voice still gentle and soothing, a hand gently ran up and down the teenager’s tense back. Lysander leaned against him, thoughts pressing to the fore of his mind, but what came out instead was; “I got suspended from school.”

The hand paused on its downward stroke, before resuming. “I’d gathered,” his father said, “It’s rather difficult to break out of that building.”

“Not impossible though,” Lysander corrected automatically, “Not now that Uncle T’s gone and blown down the front doors.” His father jolted at that, and the boy imagined that he was already planning out the court case that was sure to ensue.

“You didn’t run away, though?”

“No, I got kicked out till further notice.”

“Why?”

Lysander hesitated, hands toying with the edge of his father’s shirt. “I… I might have punch that Dagbert kid and broken his jaw, as well… as his nose, and at least one rib, I think.”

“Why?” His father’s tone was starting to take one that he used during court sessions, his hand had not stopped its gentle movements though.

Lysander winced all the same, and inhaled a slightly shaky breath, before he spoke again, “Because he murdered Tancred, Papa.” The hand froze and a moment later Lysander found himself being pushed back to meet his father’s horrified gaze and questions. “Tanc’s dead,” the 15-year-old repeated, “Emma went and got Uncle T, and that… that monster was bragging, he… he’s gone, papa, he’s gone.”

Judge Sage didn’t say anything, staring into the lost eyes of his eldest child, who for all that his voice was trembling did not look capable of shedding a tear. He pulled him back into his arms, tucking the head under his chin, closed his eyes and prayed.

******************************************************************************************

His head throbbed, a steady ache that caused his vision to flicker in and out of focus. Not that there was much to see, the spiritual planes were dank and empty, the sky heavy with clouds that hung just out of reach. Lysander sighed and directed his gaze downwards, he was dressed in his weekend attire, jeans, and a sweatshirt. The top wasn’t his, it was a huge baggy monstrosity with a giant sun embroidered on the back, that had become a permanently loaned item from Tancred. A pseudo apology for ruining an essay he’d worked hard on with an unexpected rain shower. The teenager stood up, wiping dirt of his pants, and looked around, in the distanced a bright flash lit up the sky. He headed towards it, under his feet the ground felt warm, the grass a bit prickly, he wondered briefly where his boots had gone off too. Another flash lit up the horizon just as reached the crest of a particularly steep hill. Not far away a little boy was standing, arms outstretched, and head tilted back towards the sky. Though the clouds looked threateningly enough, no rain had yet to fall.

Lysander approached cautiously, words flitting through his brain and catching in his throat. Viewed from behind the figure looked strikingly familiar, painfully so. To his surprise he found himself no taller than the other boy. He inspected his hands, they stuck out like little stick figures from the shelter of the sleeves, there was a bandage on his left hand. He guessed that he couldn’t be older than 7 or 8, he’d caught himself badly that year falling out of a tree. He looked to the right and met gray eyes shaded by curled lashed so that they looked as dark as the clouds above him.

“Tancred,” Lysander said, his voice came out higher pitched than he was used to, and he winced. The boy blinked at him, head tilted to the side in eerie imitation of a bird, his hair frizzled and sparked itself into a mess.

“You can see me?” The voice was light, curious.

“You’re a spirit, of course I can see you,” Lysander replied automatically. “What are you doing here?”

Tancred turned away, shoving his hands into his short’s pockets. “Dunno,” he answered sounding lost, “I just woke up here.”

“Do you remember how you wound up here?”

Overhead thunder cracked, and Lysander startled, his friend didn’t look at him. With his head still titled back and in the same lost tone, he continued softly, “I was cold. I didn’t want to be cold anymore.”

The words sent chills down Lysander’s spine, he stepped closed reaching out before he thought better of it and shoved his own hands in his pockets. “Are you cold now?” He asked hesitantly. Gray eyes blinked at him solemnly before flitting away again. Tancred shrugged, he held out a hand, palm facing upwards and a large drop of rain went splat against it. followed shortly by several more until a steady downpour had soaked Lysander to the bone. He sneezed, shifting nervously as the water began to pool and mud squelched up between his toes. Tancred didn’t seem to mind, he had closed his eyes, a look of boredom on his face as the rain ran rivulets down it and soaked his t-shirt into a dark green.

Lysander scooted over and reached out to brush his hand against the small shoulder, when his friend didn’t acknowledge him he gave it a small push. “Tanc, buddy? You still with me?”

Eyes flitted to him and away again, “I’m cold,” was the only reply. Lysander frowned and stepped in front of his friend, under his hands Tancred felt warm and steady exuding the same sort of heat his aunt had the first time he’d visited the spiritual planes. Unlike his aunt though, Tancred didn’t seem inclined to help him. He gave no reaction, not even a twitch when shaken rudely. “Tanc, bud, I need you to look at me,” Lysander tried again, a pleading note entering his voice. “C’mon man, work with me here.” T his horror, he felt a hot ball start to crawl up his chest and settle in the base of his throat, stealing his air.

Tancred stared at him, before reaching out to poke lightly at his cheek, “don’t cry, man,” he mumbled, “it’s unseemly.”

“Don’t cry?! It’s unseemly?!” Lysander squawked. “I’ll cry if I want to, damn you! You’re dead!” He fisted the thin material and shook it harshly. “You’re dead, you hear me?!! Dead! Like Dracula dead! Like ghost haunting dead! Like never coming back dead! You! You’re…” His voice broke off, leaving him choking on words and whimpers, the words failing him because though his best friend was standing right in front of him, it only served as proof that he no longer existed elsewhere.

“I’m dead?” There was confusion in that tone and Lysander wheeled back in surprise. “How am I dead? I’m right here.”

“You don’t remember anything?” At the shake of Tancred’s head, Lysander forced himself to take a calming breath and reevaluate. “You’re here because you died, Tancred. You…you, you know, you drowned.”

The shorter boy scrunched up his nose, looking annoyed, “I drowned? That’s pathetic.” He paused before looking panicked and surging forwards to grip Lysander’s hoodie with trembling hands. “Waittaminute! If I’m here, and I’m dead, are you also dead?!” There was a rarely heard note of pure panic in his friend’s voice, one that Lysander wasn’t sure how to handle.

“No, no, calm down. I’m a spirit-summoner, remember? I can cross the borders.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Lysander assured him, wrapping an arm around the trembling shoulders. “Speaking of, you do look kind of cold buddy, why don’t we go inside?” Tancred stared back at him with an odd look in his eyes, and though he physically looked eight, that expression recalled his older self. Lysander shifted uncomfortably, the sensation that he needed to bring them both back and quickly grew stronger.

“Sure ‘Sander, we can go inside,” Tancred eventually said, still looking at him oddly, his lips turned up into a facsimile of his usual grin. “Lead the way, bud, I’ll follow.” Permission granted, Lysander grasped his wrist, the shirt wouldn’t make a strong enough leash and thought of home. Of his warm bed and his baby sisters, of his mother’s loud laughter and his father’s small smiles. He thought of hours spent whispering with his best friend under the shelter of his massive blanket, and of Homer’s loud comments thrown in at random.

He opened his eyes to a tall ceiling off which hung several flags, their thick cotton barely shifting in the breeze from the open window. He looked around sitting up on his elbows in his room. The door was shut, casting a good portion of the room into shadows, he thought he could hear voices drifting up from below, but they were muted. Lysander slid out of bed wobbling dangerously as his legs protested their sudden activity. Limping slightly, he made his way to the door and flicked the light switch. When he turned around there was a figure sitting in his desk chair. His heart beat out a painful double thump followed by several more in rapid succession. The air got lost somewhere between his lungs and his mouth, leaving him to gasp like a docked fish. He must have made some sort of sound for the figure glanced at him, hair was in spiky dishevelment and eyes were dark, his skin was pale almost grayish, his traditional tan forgotten somewhere where the sun still shone. He was dressed in his school uniform, sitting with his knees pressed to his chest in the swivel chair.

Lysander let out a cry and leapt forwards, slamming into the chair and sending it careening across the room with an ugly sound. As for himself he banged his leg against the corner of his desk and would have taken a header straight onto the hardwood floor if he hadn’t gotten his arms up in time. Lysander shoved himself up onto his knees and looked around desperately. Tancred was standing a few feet away, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“T-Tanc?” Lysander called out to him shakily, “What? How?” He reached out a hand fingers brushing straight through the hem of Tancred’s slacks.

“You said you wanted to come inside.” There was a apathetic tonality in his best friend’s voice.

“I… what?”

“So, I followed you back,” Tancred continued and stepped forwards until he could crouch down in front of Lysander, his heavy boots not making a sound on the hardwood floor, he rested his forearms on his knees. The lost look was back on his face. “The storm’s crying. I’m really dead, aren’t I?”

A knock at the door came before Lysander could formulate an answer. Tancred stood up again and without thinking Lysander tried to grab him, fingers phasing uselessly through cloth and flesh. Tancred looked down at him, “stop that,” he said, “you’re making it hard to keep my form.” The knock at the door came again, a bit louder and more demanding. “You should answer that,” Tancred commented and collapsed onto the bed, the sheets didn’t deign to shift under his bodyweight. Lysander stared at him silently not quite able to form the cohesiveness that would enable him to open the door. His brain was running in over time trying to understand why it was that Tancred, spirit or not, was able to manifest directly into his bedroom. The door swung open, footsteps and then a warm body was pressing against his side. A familiar scent, lemony, drifted by his nose. He turned, his mother was there watching him with concerned eyes. Lysander leaned against her without prompting, distantly aware that now would be the appropriate time to start bawling, but he couldn’t, not with Tancred lying on his bed and watching him impassively. Instead he closed his eyes and hid his face in his mother’s shoulder.

There was something calling him, a flickering warmth at the edge of his consciousness one that kept drawing his attention with sharp bursts of pain not unlike the feeling of a cat’s claws. Tancred ignored it and continued his silent vigil, Lysander had passed out again with the help of Auntie Jess’ special herbal tea. He had no doubt that she’d slipped something else into it. Lysander had been in no mood to sleep when she’d first offered him a cup. The storm bringer scooted closed on the bed, arranging himself so that he had a view of the outside courtyard as well. Not that there was much of a view through the sheets of rain. He wandered how the kids were doing, if Charlie had managed to retrieve his wand and fetch Billy back yet. Emma’s tear-stricken face flitted across his mindscape and he shuddered, shaking his head did nothing to rid himself of the hot flare of guilt that had bloomed. It didn’t matter anyway, he was dead and so she’d never see him again. he’d never see her again. Lysander rolled over, an arm going straight through his stomach. He watched it reform, noting disinterestedly that it now looked like he’d been impaled.

“I’d like a word with you.”

Tancred startled almost sending himself out the wall and looked towards the door. Auntie Jess was standing in the doorway appearing as regal as any matriarch. Tancred winced, he’d forgotten that she could also see spirits, still he hesitated to move. Lysander had asked him to come inside, called him back from that hill top, and begged him to stay. He was beginning to wonder if his friend really understood what he had been asking.

“Tancred.”

There was steel in that voice, Tancred curled in on himself slightly but didn’t move otherwise.

“Tancred Torsson, I will not ask again, come here this instant.”

When angered, his aunt Jess could be just as terrifying as his mother. Tancred scrambled off the bed, stepping through his friend in the process and darted out the door. It closed firmly behind him. He stood nervously at attention, eyes flitting about every which way to avoid is aunt’s gaze. “Tancred…,” there was a vaguely scolding note in that tone, “follow me please.” Smiling weakly she led the way down the hall and into her office, motioning him into a chair, before sitting down across from him. A sharp prick drew his attention to his wrist, it was bleeding, a small droplet of blood squeezing its way out.

“You need to go home, Tancred.”

His head snapped up at that, giving his aunt a wide-eyed look. Aunt Jess smiled at him, though it looked half-hearted at best. “I am not jesting you, it would truly be best if you went home swiftly.”

“I’m dead,” Tancred informed her, thoughts pulling up the feeling of freezing cold water and darkness, he shivered involuntarily. “What does it matter that I go home now?”

“Not exactly,” The matriarch corrected, she hesitated clearly torn before divulging an explanation, but wen he made a inquiring noise she shook her had and looked sad. “So alike you endowed children,” she murmured.

“I’m unique!” Tancred protested automatically, “one of a kind! A~”

“A special little snowflake, yes, I’m aware,” his aunt cut him off. “And you’re now going to march yourself home like a god boy, before the Flames get tired of calling for you.”

“The Flames?!” Tancred yelped, “What do you mean ‘calling for me’?!”

Instead of replying, his aunt motioned at him again. Tancred looked down, noticing upon closer inspection that his skin was starting to become covered with little scratch marks. Under his very eyes, a new one appeared much deeper than the others. “Go home,” Aunt Jess repeated, “and come back during daylight hours.”

“But-Sander!” Tancred said, he flexed his hands awkwardly, they still felt cold and useless to him.

“What about my son?’

“I can’t up and leave him!” Tancred snapped, “I followed him here, I can’t just, just leave.” He collapsed inwards on himself burying his fingers into his hair and fighting down the need to scream his frustrations out at his aunt.

“What about your mother?”

Tancred jolted, snapping his head up to look at his aunt, aghast.

“What about your father? Are you just going to leave them alone?”

“I… but, I,” Tancred trailed off thinking of his mother’s face when she’d told him that he used to have an older brother. Outside the storm raged on, and he abruptly felt sick, his stomach turning itself into a tourniquet.

“What about Gabriel, Emma, Billy, Charlie, and Olivia? Aren’t those children counting on you?”

“Enough!” Tancred yelled, his fingers digging into his skull, “Enough, please.”

“Do you really want to watch my son grow up, see him spend the rest of his life without you?” Aunt Jess was intractable, her tone firm and merciless. Her gloved hands settled over his own and forced his head up to look into her eyes. Tancred struggled to focus on her, but she kept blurring in and out of focus, it hurt, this hurt. He’d known that his parents would be destroyed if he left them, but he hadn’t been thinking and had flung himself recklessly at Dagbert despite knowing that the other was a certified drowner. He’d been stupid, but still it hurt, he didn’t, couldn’t…

“I’m cold Auntie,” he said, “it hurts. It hurts.” Aunt Jess murmured a soft sound of acquisition and ran her hands through his hair gently, before pressing a kiss to his forehead and gently pushing him back. Tancred wiped at his eyes angrily, and when they felt dry enough he chanced a glance at his aunt. She had leaned back in her chair and was twirling a stick of incense between her fingers. “Sorry Auntie,” Tancred said, he forcefully inhaled, and stood up. “I’ll be taking my leave now. I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Aunt Jess answered.

Despite it’s fierceness the wind wasn’t much of a hindrance for him when he stepped through the window. Tancred fell, landing on the ground with nary a sound. He broke out into a run, wishing that he could call up his own endowment to boost his speed. The trail was steep, but his feet hardly slipped or skidded, a perk of having no material weight he supposed. His father was seated at the entrance of the compound, his head resting on his knees, the winds, swirling around him in miniature tornadoes spoke of broken bones should a mere human dare to approach. Tancred hesitating, stopping just out of reach, carefully he extended a foot and nudged at his father, it went straight through almost sending him sprawling. Tancred stumbled back, feeling air that he didn’t need rush into his chest, he spun on his heel and bolted towards the house. The heavy door was bolted and barred but he went straight through it, straight through his mother as well who was wearing a rut into the floor and up the stairs. He burst through the wall and found himself face to face with a hissing cat. Though the claws that swiped at him did no damage, the commentary could not have been clearer.

“I know, I know,” Tancred muttered and approached his bed. He was lying on it, a cat, Leo, he thought was pawing at his chest and meowing angrily. It stopped when he sat down on the bed. Tancred looked down, noting with distaste the blueish tint to his lips and the ugly flop of his hair for once lying flat on his forehead. He didn’t relish the idea of returning to a body he already knew would be full of aches and pains. He could feel the water emitting from it, filling his lungs, and stealing his air away. Tancred screwed his eyes shut and brought a hand up to his chest, under his fingers only silence resounded. Aries pressed against his leg and purred loudly tail tip twitching like a pendulum.

“Yeah, I know,” Tancred repeated. He ran a hand down his face, stood up, turned around and flopped over backwards. The pain greeted him like a long-lost friend, reaching up to swamp his mind in its grip. Tancred fought back, desperately trying to claw some sense of being into his body. three sources of warmth pressed up against him, purring so loudly that he thought his eardrums might burst. He concentrated on breathing, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, his chest ached and burned. There was a voice in his ear, whispering to him, telling him that he must, that he wasn’t allowed to give up.

Less than 24 hours after he’d closed them, Tancred Torsson, opened his eyes and screamed.

#Children of the Red King Series #Who Gave Me A Pen?

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pen-masta · 7 years

Text

Peace and Coffee Part 1

This is a spin off of Brotherly Love this takes place several years in the future when Castel is older and this focuses on him and his best friend. It was inspired by the Folgers’ coffee commercial the link is here–> X

Rated Pg-13

Enjoy!

1 2 3 4(Complete)

He walks down the carpeted steps. His bare feet dragging across the fluffy floor before falling onto the hardwood flooring of the kitchen. The rising sun shines its rays through the window of the kitchen and the glass patio door, bringing more light into the room—more so than the overhead. His mom has left the window open and he can hear the birds chirping and singing as a beautiful day begins.

Although the world around him is happy and joyful, he is not. He is miserable, he’s hurt, he’s sad, and in turn he scowls as he walks with his hands in his jean pockets. Today is not a good day. Today is not a happy day. Today is a day to be as unhappy as he pleases, because he’s losing his best friend.

He walks into the kitchen to find Zack sitting at the kitchen table. He and Eliza had stopped by for a visit last night on their way to the south for a holiday. They were leaving later this evening—which is another reason he’s allowed to be miserable today. Zack sits at the table reading over the newspaper with a steaming mug sitting on the hard oak of the table.

Zack spies his little brother out of the corner of his eye and smiles brightly, “Morning Cassie.”

Castel grunts in response as he opens the cabinet door. He takes his mug down—the white one that Joy had given him last Christmas. It’s got bedazzling gems, glitter, stickers, and rainbow hand drawn bubble letters that spell out ‘Cassie’ on it. He had grabbed it out of habit and now staring at the colorful crazy mug he despises his muscle memory.

Muttering to himself he quickly puts the mug back and takes down a plain black mug. He pours the dark liquid from the coffee pot into the mug and takes a seat next to his brother. Scowling down into his mug he watches in his peripheral vision as his brother folds the newspaper and sets it on the table.

“What’s with the look, Tiger?” Zack asks sipping his coffee.

Castel mutters inaudible and reaches for the sugar bowl.

“Out of sugar cubes,” Zack says.

Castel growls and sips his black coffee. He knows it’s not Zack’s fault he’s upset, but he just can’t seem to not be angry. Well…he’s more hurt than anything, but it shows itself through anger. He sets the mug down and stares into it, trying to differentiate between the dark liquid and the darkness of the mug.

Zack’s smile falters a little and he decides to stop beating around the bush. He knows what’s got his little brother in a mood and frankly he can’t blame the kid. He can’t imagine how he’d feel if Eliza would just up and leave for two years. He can’t empathize with his little brother like he has been able to do in the past. Castel is the first of the three brothers to have to deal with this, he knows his brother’s heart is aching…but he can’t ever really know how the kid’s heart aches.

Zack clears his throat, “When does the plane leave?”

Castel pauses a moment before he sighs silently, “Two o’clock.”

Zack’s eyes dart to the kitchen clock, “It’s seven o’clock now. You’ve got time to go see her.”

“I know,” Castel says solemnly. “I will.”

Zack looks at his brother and smiles sympathetically, “It’ll be alright, you know.” He says trying his hardest to comfort his kid brother, “It’s not like you’ll never see her again.”

Castel nods allowing his brother to think his words are helping, but really they’re making it worse. But he knows his brother’s intension are good so he smiles kindly and thanks his brother. The two finish their coffee in silence and Zack offers to wash Castel’s cup for him. Castel gladly takes the offer and heads up to his room—or what his mom liked to call ‘cauchemar d’un inspectur de la santé’ a health inspector’s nightmare.

He opens the door to his room and maneuvers around the several empty bags of chips, empty soda bottles, dirty clothes, caps he’s collected over the years, pencils, journals, textbooks, crumpled up pieces of paper, and discarded blankets. He takes off his Godzilla t-shirt he had slept in last night and tosses it aimlessly to the floor. He rubs his neck wincing at the twinge of pain that shoots down his spine. He had fallen asleep at his desk last night working on a new device to market. Hunched over in his chair, head surrounded by circuit boards and tools was not a good position to sleep in for the young nineteen-year-old.

He looks down at his jeans. Besides the darkened spot on the side of the fabric left by an old mustard stain the pants look suitable for the day. He slips on his belt and his last pair of clean socks before scouring around his room; picking up random t-shirts and sniffing them to find one that didn’t have an odor to it. He finally settles on a burnt orange t-shirt with Optimus Prime on it, in the Uncle Sam pose with the words ‘I want YOU in the Robotics Club!’ written underneath of the picture.

He pulls the shirt on and sniffs the collar again. There’s a faint musky scent to the fabric and he gnaws his bottom lip trying to decide if it’s okay or not. He decides it’s not, so he opens his closet and pulls out a green flannel shirt—promising to be clean considering he almost never wears anything from his closet. He sprays a bit of his cologne on his neck and picks up one of his many caps that litter the floor, before heading across the hall to the bathroom.

He brushes his teeth and tries to tame his curly mop, but ends up leaving it with it’s extremely curly bedhead look. Staring at his reflection he can see how exhausted he looks. He’s been running on coffee and Rockstars the passed few days as he tries to churn out a new line of electronics to start his business.The grant he had received upon his graduation was more than enough to buy all the material and space he needed…now all he needed was something to market!

His face displays four, no maybe it was five nights of no sleep. Dark circles rest under his chocolate brown eyes that have a slight red tint near his lids. His hair is a stubborn mess and the five o’clock shadow he’s got going on brings home the fact he hasn’t been in the bathroom longer than to use the toilet. His nose wrinkles remembering it has been a few days since he’s showered and although his hair isn’t greasy his face could probably use a good scrub.

After washing his face with his washcloth, he pulls on his cap, stomps into his Vans, and heads down the stairs again. It’s almost eight o’clock and this time the kitchen is full of several people that bring life to the quiet house. His mom is busy chattering away with Eliza while Zack and his dad are cooking some breakfast.

He smiles a little when his mom sees him and she stops her conversation to hug her youngest son. He returns the hug and whines like a small child when she kisses his cheek, earning a little giggle from Eliza who watches.

“Glad to you finally out of your cave, ma chérie.” His mom smiles, her accent very thick as she speaks.

“I’ve been down before,” he smiles and rolls his eyes.

“Not for five days,” she says and lets her son go.

“Vous exagérez,” he waves away her comment. “You exaggerate, Maman.”

Eliza and his mom both chuckle and roll their eyes, before going back into their conversation.

“Cassie!” His dad’s booming voice calls out over the sound of crackling grease. He smiles brightly at his youngest, “You’re still alive I see!”

Zack snorts and laughs as Castel rolls his eyes, “Yes I am alive and well.”

“Good,” his dad says and turns back to the stove. “Come help your brother and I.”

“I’m sorry but I can’t,” Castel says. “I need to go over to Joy’s this morning.”

The room falls silent and everyone turns to look at the youngest of the Cubs family. Their faces all look the same—sadness and sympathy. Castel manages his hold his grin and hide the hurt that rips through him. His mom clears her throat and shakes her head.

“Of course,” she says and walks over to her son again. “I forgot that was today.”

“That’s alright Maman.” Castel shrugs.

“You go,” she smiles.

“Yes, yes go ahead.” His dad smiles solemnly and nods. “Give her ours best wishes.”

“I will Papa,” Castel smiles as kindly as he can without showing his inner sorrow.

His mom hugs him again before he heads to the door. He smiles as the voices of his family pick up in conversation again. He heads down the street to the third and last house on his street. It’s a little white house with teal shutters and a short driveway that is surrounded by beautiful bushes of different kinds of colorful flowers.

With his hands in his pockets he walks up the pavement smiling at the oak tree that sits in the front yard. Memories of sitting under the tree as she climbed high above his head only to dangle upside from her knees flood his brain. He remembers long summers spent under that tree and the tree house that sits proudly in the backyard oak. The driveway is no longer littered with bicycles and tricycles and toys of all shapes and sizes. No, now it holds a car and an old worn out basketball hoop—the only clue that children used to play here.

He walks up the white porch listening as the steps wail under his weight; he imagines the steps feeling the pain he does as well. Wind chimes dangle down from the roof of the porch; some have been bought, but most she’s crafted from recyclables, sea shells, and sea glass.

“Anything can be made into something new,” she’d tell him as she’d pick up a discarded glass bottle. “You just need to give it the TLC it needs to get there.”

He remembers walking along the beach with her, helping her find all kinds of shells and sea glass. He remembers the time they found that enormous conch shell that washed up after that bad hurricane. He smiles more when he sees the conch shell proudly perched above the door.

He knocks on the screen door and walks in after hearing a voice calling out from somewhere in the house that he was welcome. Mr. Curtis sits on the couch reading his book, that he looks up from to smile at Castel.

“Morning Cassie,” he says and although he is smiling, Castel can hear the underlying sadness in his voice.

“Good morning Sir,” Castel smiles. “I was just—”

“I know why you’re here,” Mr. Curtis chuckles and turns back to his reading. “She’s in her room.”

Castel thanks him and heads up the stairs. His mind backtracks to last night; he had gone to dinner with the Curtis family to her favorite restaurant. A place she wouldn’t get to eat at for a long time. It was nice, it was relaxed, it was…public. Not exactly the personal time he had desperately needed from her…but they all ate together and talked and laughed, and he masked the pain it caused his heart to sit there.

Shortly after the dinner was over she had jumped in the car with some of her other friends she had made while he was away at college. She did invite him, she did include him, but…he declined. It was hard enough sitting through the dinner, he’d never last if he had to spend the entire night with her and her friends. So he feigned illness and headed home.

But it wasn’t enough, he knew it wouldn’t be enough to sit across from her and hold his plastered smile as they talked over side salads and spaghetti. She had invited him, but the hurt in her eyes told him she might have just invited him out of pity. The sickening feeling tight in his stomach told him she may be still upset with him. And frankly he couldn’t blame her. He’d been such a jerk and so distal the last several weeks.

He remembers the morning she announced she was joining the Peace Corp. They were having their weekly Saturday movie night followed by a sleep over on the floor—a tradition started when they were ten. It was the next morning as they sat with her family eating Lucky Charms, everyone she loved was together and she thought it would be best to tell them all at the same time.

Of course it took her parents by surprise but they were proud and supportive as always. Her sisters—all of whom were home visiting for the weekend—were shocked by their youngest sister’s decision, but they were just as supportive as their parents. It was Castel who had an issue. He remembers being quiet the rest of the breakfast. He tried to process the curve ball she had just thrown at him. And all he could think about was how it did not in any way, shape, or form fit into his plan. The plan he’s had mapped out for their lives since eighth grade.

When everyone had left for work or the mall or what have you, and it was just the two of them it happened. He blew up. They had the biggest fight they’ve ever had in their thirteen-years of friendship. He yelled that she was being impulsive and not thinking everything through. That he’s finally gotten back from college and she decides to run off for two years. He shrilled that she had never mentioned ever have a desire to do this before. The only thing that could have brought this on was just a little whim she had that she wasn’t serious about.

Hurt played in her eyes for a moment before she gathered herself and stood her ground. She snapped that he had done the same thing to her only it was for three years. That it wasn’t fair of him to accuse her that way. The unshed tears in her eyes caused his heart to tighten and he’s hated himself from that moment on. They yelled, they fought, and tears stung his eyes as she hissed that she had been counting on his support.

From that moment they hadn’t really spoken. This being the longest amount of time they didn’t speak to each other. They didn’t text. They didn’t call. They didn’t hang out. He distanced himself from her, sinking into a dark cloud of self-pity. He was losing her for two years, and in turn he drowned himself in circuit boards and screw drivers attempting to fill his pain with some kind of electronic—even though he threw out just about every idea he had.

He didn’t sleep for five nights after their fight. He felt like such a jerk. How could he have reacted that way to her? He’s never put himself before her in the past. Even when he had decided to move up to the college level at sixteen, he had considered her feelings. She had been in his thoughts ever step of the way, and how it’d affect her. In the end he did have to choose his future over her feelings…and he guesses that it’s the same for her.

They each had different goals, desires, wants, needs out of the life they wanted. He wanted to be a successful engineer and she…wanted to help people. Of course she wanted to help people! She always has. She’s always been kind and caring, why hadn’t he seen this blanket sweep coming? He’s known her since he was six-years-old, he should have guessed this would have been the path she’d choose. And why should he condemn her for it? Why did he have to be such a jerk? Gosh, he hates himself!

When she had invited him to dinner he was really surprised. It had been almost four weeks since the announcement…well actually three weeks, four days, eight hours…he’s been counting. Rounding his numbers it’s been a rough four weeks. Four weeks since they had spoken to each other. Four weeks without her sweet voice, her jokes, her laughter, her smile…he’s such an idiot to have let this happen! He thought maybe she had forgiven him, but the look in her eyes was unreadable…he had really hurt her. He cut her so deep, and it was going to take more on his part to make this right.

He walks up the steps and past the doors of her sister’s rooms. He can hear the bass of Cheap Thrills booming from the end of the hall. He needed to fix this and fast, the last thing he wanted to do was have her fly to the other side of the world hating his guts. And he certainly didn’t want to have her leave and be left with the truth that she did hate him. As he gets closer to her overly decorated and colorful door the music gets louder, and he sees the door of her room has been left open letting light and music flood the hall. He peeks into her room to see clothes piled up on her bed completely covering the thousands of stuffed animals that lye on the mattress. Balls of yarn, colored pencils, sketch pads, and colorful stones litter the floor. And next to the pile of clothes sits a bright orange suitcase that lies open with a few shirts in it.

His heart drops into his gut at the sight of how empty her room looks—the reminder of her inevitable departure. Lyrics blast from the speaker that sits on her desk and he can hear her singing—errr well screaming—the words to the Sia song. Although he can hear her, he can’t see her. And he’s a little thankful for it, this gives him a few last moments to gather his thoughts…actually he had no thoughts. He has no idea why he’s really here right now. He knows he has to fix this, but he has no idea what he’s planning to do or say. He can’t have her leave with everything so sour between them. She’s his best friend, she’s all he has. Sure he’s still in touch with his brothers and some guys from college, but it’s different with her. They grew up together, he knows everything there is to know about her. He loves her just as any friend would. He couldn’t leave things like this.

“Ah ha!” Her voice articulates from somewhere in the room, ripping him from his thoughts. “I found you! You thought I was gonna leave without you? Yeah right!” She laughs and her closet door opens.

A curtain of brown wavy locks appears in the closet doorway as she steps out into the room. Her eyes are closed as she begins to sing along with the song again, bouncing and dancing to the rhythm of the music. In her hands she grips a ball of bright red yarn and a crocheting needle. Her lips are pulled back into a smile as she sings and dances around her room.

Two years. Two. Years. Two flipping years! Two years of not getting to speak to her everyday. Two years of not getting to see her every morning. Two years of not seeing her jubilant smile. Two years of her never embracing him for a hug. Two years of not hearing her beautiful voice. Two years of not hearing her loud unashamed laughter. Two years of not being called a dork-osaurs-rex.

Two years of not hearing her swear to avenge Kirby after he K.O.s on Mario Bro’s Brawl; followed by that challenging face she’d make when he’d laugh in victory. The same face she’d make right before she’d tackle him and blow raspberries on his neck until he conceded. Two years of not getting to watch her paint—shortly followed by one of them starting a paint throwing battle.

Two years! No corny jokes. No dancing. No tickle fights over the remote. No food fights. No pranking wars. No random water gun fights. No chasing each other around the yard with silly string. No falling asleep on the couch. No hearing that goofy snorting giggle she makes when she tells him a dirty joke. No late night phone calls. No hot summers in the too-small-for-us-now-treehouse. No constancy.

No Joy.

She’s gonna be gone for two years, on the other side of the globe. And when she gets back she’s probably going to be a completely different person! He can’t do this! He thought he could but he just…his heart hurts, tears prick his eyes, his hands tremble in his pockets. He knows she had to deal with him being away for three years, but he was home in the winter and summer. He would come home on the weekends—and he did mainly to ease the pain of the distance. He texted, he called, he skyped. He did anything to contact her. He could come home whenever he felt like it…she can’t. She can’t call him up in the wee hours of the morning. She can’t text him ‘Hey dork-a-doo what’s the haps???’. She can’t come home for a visit during the week…

He swallows thickly and pushes his sorrow out of his head. He can’t think that way about his immediate future. He needs to be here. He needs to be now. He needs to make this right. Swallowing his tears and forcing a small smile, he watches her bob up and down as she tosses the ball of yarn into the open suitcase.

“I love cheap thrills!” Joy screams and points out in front of her as if she were preforming on stage.

His fake smile turns genuine as he watches his best friend dance around like the goof she is. He decides it’s probably time to make his presence known, so he steps into the room. She hums along to the fading tune and opens her eyes. She picks up a shirt off the bed, accidentally knocking off a stuffed animal. When she turns to pick it up she sees him. Her smile shrinks for a moment, and his heart constricts.

She shakes her head and turns off her speaker. “Hey there Cassie.” She says brightly, but he can’t help but feel the tone in forced.

“Hi,” he says.

They stand there in silence for a while. Her eyes look down from his to focus on the floor, and he’s mentally cursing himself. His eyes wander around the room, falling on the open half empty suitcase.

“Last minute packing I see.” He says trying to make conversation, “Cutting it close aren’t you?” He teases, raising a brow and smirking.

She looks up at him and smiles a little before rolling her eyes. “You worry too much Cassie.” She points to her desk chair where a backpack sits completely stuffed to the max. “I’ve got my main bag packed already.”

“So what’s all this?” He asks and gestures to the bed full of clothes.

“Extra stuff,” she shrugs and tosses a t-shirt into the suitcase.

He chuckles a little, “Didn’t they say bring only what you absolutely need, Jo-Jo?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waves her hand dismissively, “But I’m going away for two years Casanova! How can I not bring just one more t-shirt, or stuffed animal, or yarn ball, or sweatshirt?”

His smile falters a little, but he manages. “Alright I understand.” He smiles and looks the various items that lye on the floor and bed. “So you’re all set to go, hm?”

“Oh yeah baby!” She laughs and punches her fist into the air, “Philippines here I come!”

“I’m not sure the Philippines are ready for you Joy.” He teases with a chuckle and she sticks her tongue out at him.

“Well they best get ready!” She laughs and he nods in agreement, joining in her mirth.

Silence falls again and he feels so awkward. He nervously rubs the back of his neck, before clearing his throat. She looks up at him and he smiles weakly.

“Would you…ah…would you like some help?” He asks stuttering a little.

She blinks staring at him for a moment before she smiles and nods, “I most certainly would.”

He smiles more and helps her sort through the mass of clothes that sit in an enormous pile on her bed. He tries to rationalize what she should take and what she should leave. She whines at his rationalizing and tosses several items into her suitcase—half of which he convinces her to take back out. They’re talking. They’re teasing each other. They’re laughing. Things are normal. She’s looking at him. But he can see the hidden hurt in her eyes. When silence falls the air gets tense…okay so maybe it’s not so normal. His watch tells him it’s almost eleven when they’ve finally got the suitcase packed. She puts the stuff she’s not taking with her away and sits next to him on the bed. They sit there in silence for a while before she pipes up.

“So how’s Martha?” She asks not looking at him.

“She’s good,” he says looking at his lap. “I haven’t asked her yet.”

She sighs dramatically and smiles teasingly at him, “Gotta move at a snail’s pace don’t cha Cassie-role.”

He chuckles a little and rubs the back of his neck, “Hey I’m being cautious.”

“Oh would you just ask her out already?” She shoves him playfully, “When I get back you better have asked her. I don’t want all my hard work to be done in vein.”

He smiles, “Alright, alright I get it.”

“Do you? I’m not sure I’ve gotten it through that big cranium of yours!” She giggles and pokes his forehead causing him to giggle as well.

“I’ll ask her alright?” He laughs and bats her hand away.

Silence falls again and he sighs a little, knowing he’s running out of time.

“So your flight leaves at two?” He asks looking down again.

“Yes,” she says and plays with the loose string on the hem of her shirt. “But I’ve got to be there two hours before the flight leaves to get through security and all that jazz.”

His eyes dart to her face, “So you’re leaving…at noon?”

She hesitates then nods, “Yes. My taxi will be here in an hour.”

“Why didn’t you say something before?” He asks panic swirling in his stomach.

She shrugs, “I don’t know…I was just…enjoying you being here I guess.” She says looking down at the floor.

The anger pools in his chest again wanting to rear its ugly head, but he won’t let it. He understands what she means. She doesn’t want to address the fact that these are their last few moments together. He can’t mess this up, but the emotions he’s been hiding begin to grow larger. Pricks form behind his eyes and he swallows the lump in his throat.

“Joy,” he says and his voice cracks on the end of her name. He hadn’t meant to say her name with so much emotion, but his heart is swelling and it’s getting harder to school his emotions.

She looks up at him and her eyes show great concern. The sadness gnawing in his chest creeps up onto his face and he quickly gulps it down again, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows thickly. Even though he’s tried to move quickly he was not fast enough, she must have seen it because she winces.

“I just…” he clears his throat and looks down. He can’t look at her, the tears threatening to spill over. “I’m so very sorry Joy.”

“Cas—” she starts to say but he cuts her off.

“No, no,” he shakes his head and smiles weakly at her. “I owe you a massive apology Joy. I’ve been a butt—”

“More like a jumbo major massive butt,” she giggles airily.

He chuckles and rolls his eyes, “Alright yes I deserve that. I have been a jumbo major massive butt the passed few weeks. I’m sorry for the way I reacted, it…it wasn’t right.” He looks down, “I just…gosh Joy!” He closes his eyes tight trying his hardest to fend off his tears. “When you said you were going to the other side of the world for two years it was like I was swallowed up by an endless black hole.”

He smiles weakly and gives a sharp laugh, “That’s really kind of why I’ve been distal and…and…” he fumbles and she smiles a little.

“Acting like a huge cry baby?” She teases and raises a brow.

He laughs more freely and shrugs, “I was going to say sulking, grumpy, moody, but sure huge cry baby works too.” He smiles and she giggles airily.

He can feel the tears pressing against his eyes pleading for the dam to break. His nose starts to run with snot as the bottled up emotions shake and threaten to explode at any second. As causally as he can, he wipes his nose on his sleeve, he will not cry in front of her. He inhales harshly before he continues, ringing his hands in his lap.

“And it’s just…I’m going to miss you so much. But that’s not the real reason I blew up…” he dares to look up at her. Her eyes are wide and glassy, her lips are parted slightly, she’s just staring at him. “I blew up because you’re leaving me. Joy you’re my best friend…my only friend if it isn’t obvious!” He gives a loud sardonic laugh, “I’ve known you since kindergarten and now I find out you’re leaving me! It tore me apart…because I just don’t understand after all these years how you can do it so easily…with a smile on your face.”

His breath hitches and he has to stop because he’s afraid his vocal chords will betray him if he continues any further. His eyes are burning from the built up tears he’s holding back and his hands tremble as they brace against his kneecaps. She sits there for a moment before she looks down. They are both quiet for a minute or two, until Joy laughs weakly.

She sniffles and runs her hand across her eyes, the way she always did when she was trying to manage her emotions. With her eyes hiding behind her hand she has enough courage to say, “And what, you think I’m not going to miss you?”

He looks up at her as she takes her hand away from her eyes. Her nose and cheeks are pink, tears spill over, and run down her cheeks dripping off her chin. Her lips are pulled into a very weak, small, and trembling grin.

“You’re my best friend Cassie,” she sniffles. “And it kills me to leave you here.” She looks down and shrugs, “I haven’t had a good night sleep since I told you I signed up. Of course I care about you, I care how this affects you…but just like how you needed to leave for college…I need to leave to do this.” She slowly looks up at him again. Her caramel eyes big and sad, showing all the hurt she’s hide from him.

His resolve breaks—big, round, fat tears roll down his cheeks as well. Within a second she’s in his arms, burying her head into his shoulder. He conceals his flushed face in her hair and holds her tighter than he ever has in his life. They sit like this for what feels like hours, when in reality it’s only a few minutes.

Joy sniffles and gives a watery laugh, “You’re such a dork-asourus-rex.”

He chuckles and he feels something bubbling in his stomach again…only this time he can’t make out what it is.

“I know you have to go,” he says into her curls. “I’m not trying to keep you here. I’m just…I’m so sorry.”

She sniffles and smiles into his shoulder. Her big sweet lump of dork. “It’s alright Casinator.” She pauses before asking quietly, “So you’re cool with the whole Peace Corp bizz?”

He lets out a sigh of relief and smiles weakly. “Of course Joy,” he lies.

He feels her relax in his arms. He smiles a little more as the tears continue to run down his cheeks. That was it. There it was. All fixed. They had reached a good stopping point, no need to continue forward. Everything that needed to be said, had been said…so why are his lips still moving?

“I love you, Joy.” He lets out like a flock of doves. His eyes widen a little as the bubbles in his stomach explode into butterflies, and he realizes those three words—for the first time in his life—he meant more than just the friendly, platonic way.

She pulls back just enough to turn her head to look at him, “I love you too, Cas.”

The butterflies spin into a hurricane in his gut. He’s had this feeling before with her…years ago…he had ignored it then, and he had assumed the feelings had been smothered out…It’s wrong! It’s wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong! She’s his best friend! He shouldn’t feel this way about her! He knows she doesn’t feel that way about him. Why is this feeling coming back? He’s going to ask Martha out! Shouldn’t he be having this kind of feeling with her and not Joy?

Joy leans back a little more. She smiles and rests her forehead against his. Tear trails streak her pink cheeks and she takes a shaky inhale before she giggles a little.

“You just had to get all emotional right before I leave, didn’t cha Casanova?” She teases and sniffles a little.

He chuckles a little and shrugs weakly, “S’rry, J-bird.”

She giggles again, “S’kay dork-a-doo.” She sniffles, “You know I’ll get sometime each week for video calls.” Her eyes brighten, “And! And, I get some time off!” She smiles, “Everyone normally saves their days off for a big Christmas Vakay, so I’ll be back in just a few months.”

He sniffles and smiles as steady as he can. “You have no idea how much I’m going to miss you,” he says his voice breaking a little—butterflies tickling his stomach as they flutter wildly.

Her caramel eyes soften and sparkle, and her bottom lip quivers a little, “And I you. Two years will go by fast. I’ll be back before you know it Cassie-role!”

He smirks a little and before he can think of what he should do or say next her lips on his. It’s a quick, sweet, chaste kiss and by the time his brain registers it, her lips are pulling away. Wake up stupid! He screams in his head when he feels her warm lips leaving his. Driven completely on primal impulse his lips follow hers, closing the distance again.

His eyes flutter closed as his strong lips crash with her soft ones. It’s a bit more heated than the one she granted him and he savors the sweet flavor of her bubblegum lip gloss. He’s so lost in its succulent taste that he almost doesn’t register that she’s not reacting. Reacting? Reacting! She’s not reacting! Abandon ship!!!

Just as he’s about to pull away and dash out the room in a heated, flustered mess her lips press firmly against his. She pushes back with such force that their teeth clink together—needless to say, he’s a little surprised as she starts to take control. Her soft, plump, warm, lips curl around his hard slightly chapped ones. Her hands slip under his flannel and grip his t-shirt, pulling him closer to her. His hands drop from her back down to her waist, stations just above her ample bottom.

His heart leaps into a racing speed, pounding in his chest, his ears, his neck. His hands are beginning to tremble, as his tongue grazes hers. Their lips continue to entwine with each other and his mind goes completely blank when she moans into the kiss. Never once breaking the kiss she crawls into his lap, straddling him as he runs his one hand up her side and into her hair. Something deep inside him awakens, something that is almost Neanderthal-like. Something so primal, so feral, so aggressively sensual it sparks his brain into numbness.

If his eyes were open they would be dilated and a darker brown than before, as a hungry growl leaves his throat. He pushes back against her taking charge of their embrace. Gripping her tight he almost lifts her up in his lap, he’s not sure why he does this though. His body is not really connecting with his dead brain, his arms doing their own thing. The small lift he’s done she takes as a challenge—and if there’s one thing Joy loves more than art, it’s a heated challenge…especially if her challenger was Castel.

She runs her hand up into his hair, purposely knocking his cap off. Her purple colored fingernails running over his scalp—gently scratching in the most delightful way—as her fingers card through his mop of curls. Her hands make a new home at the base of his skull. She grips the hair on the back on his neck—in an almost painful way—and she pushes her chest hard against his. She pushes against him with so much power and force that he ends up falling onto his back on her bed. And now the two long time friends are in a heated battle for dominance over the kiss—neither willing to relent.

His heart goes into double time. She’s on top of him. She’s squirming as her legs wrap around his—and her merciless wriggling, causes him to have an involuntary reaction below his belt. He lets out a very animal-like assertive growl again; without opening his eyes he finds her wrists, twists his legs, and in one move he’s flipped them over. She yelps a little into the kiss, taken by surprise as he pins her to the mattress.

As more blood rushes south there is less in his brain, causing his thoughts to fog over again—an addicting intoxicating concoction of coconut and orchids surrounds him as he inhales her scent—but he manages to register her cry. Quickly, he moves his hands from her wrists, to rest on either side of her head instead. Her hands snake under his flannel and move up his back, until she’s reached his shoulder blades where she grips the material of his t-shirt.

He runs his one hand down her side, smiling into the kiss when his wandering hand hits that little sensitive spot just above her hipbone. She squeaks cutely and giggles a little, slightly bucking away from his tickling hand. But she moves back when his hand decides to rest on her hip.

She smirks into the kiss and decides, that even though it had been an accident, she wants to return to gesture. Sliding her one hand down, she brushes against his lowest rib with just enough pressure to tickle him briefly. He jolts a little and guffaws involuntarily, she snickers slightly and he growls deep within his throat. He wants a satisfying revenge and bites her bottom lip, dragging a desperate whimper out of her.

She growls a little as well and in defiant retaliation she not only bites back, but she also grinds her hips into his—as if the pressure his zipper is inflecting isn’t enough. She rolls her hips hard into him and the new pressure, combined with the pressure of his zipper peels a deep pleasured moan out of him.

Neither knows how long they’ve been in this heated entanglement, nor how long they would have stayed this way had they not been pulled back to reality by an echoing car horn. The horn blasts loudly and the two break apart immediately, both startled. They stare at each other; their expressions mimic the other’s.

Two pairs of wide eyes stare back at each other, mouths hanging agape as heavy labored breaths beat against the other’s chin. The fog in his brain disappears and his face burns red as he realizes the position he’s in. Fumbling limbs twist as he scrambles to the other side of the bed. They both sit opposite of each other, staring at each other in utter shock. Oh gosh. What. Did. They. Just. Do!?

They both look away from each other for a moment completely embarrassed, before their wide eyes lock again. As embarrassed as he is, his heart still crumbles at the look of pure horror in her eyes and the way her mouth still hangs open in shock, her face flushed a deep red color—most likely matching his.

They both jump when loud lyrics ‘She went down in an airplane, fried getting suntan! Fell in a cement mixer full of quicksand! Help me, help me, I’m no good at goodbyes!’ are exploding into the air accompanied with a buzzing sound. They both look at each other another moment, before Joy blinks, shakes her head, and leans over the edge of the bed.

She picks her phone off of the floor and answers the call. Her face doesn’t lose its shocked expression nor the flushed complexion of her cheeks. Her eyes staying connected with the carpet, and her fingers rest against her swollen lips as she speaks.

“Hello?” She asks her voice shaking. “Oh. Alright. I’ll be…I’ll be down in a second.” She says panting a little.

She ends the call and takes a deep breath, before she stands up. “My taxi is here Cassie.”

He clears his throat and watches her pick up her bags, “A-a-alright.”

They refuse to make eye contact with each other as she stands in front of him, rubbing the toes of her sneakers together. He waits a moment before he looks up at her. Her cheeks are still red, her hair is a little frizzy, her eyes still holding their horrified shock, her hand covering her swollen lips, and she’s breathing heavily.

His heart pounds harder as it shatters into pieces. What has he done to their friendship? From the tips of his ears, down his cheeks, and across his nose a burn covers his face, with a heat that feels like fire. Tears prick behind his eyes. He had fixed it. He had fixed it! And now…who knows if they can ever fix it again.

How could he do this to her!? Right before she leaves! Gosh, what is wrong with him!? Why did he have this sick impulse? For his best friend! Oh gosh, he’s gonna have a break down! If he thought, he was losing her to the Peace Corp? Ha! He’s lost her forever now. He’s sure of it.

“I’ve got to go Castel,” she says quickly her voice cracking on the second syllable of his name.

He bites his lip and looks down. He shouldn’t hug her. Not after that. He shouldn’t…but he wants to! He’s not going to see for two years! He has to do something! She’s going to leave! She’s going to be gone! She’s…she’s…

He takes a breath and stands up. He puts his hands in his pockets and hangs his head, “Good bye Joy.”

Tears well in her eyes and she takes a shuttered inhale, “Cassie…”

He looks up at her and their eyes meet. Her mouth hangs open, words catching in her throat. He opens his mouth, as well, trying to find something to say to her. Both of them fumbling as they’ve just crossed a huge line, into the most awkward area in their lives. Neither knowing what to say.

Joy takes a breath and goes to speak but a car horn cuts her off. They both look towards the window then back at each other. She closes her mouth into a weak smile.

“That’s my cue. I guess, I’ll see ya when I see ya…Casanova.” She says barley above a whisper.

“Y-yeah,” he trembles out and forces a smile. “See ya when I see ya…Jo-Jo.”

She nods and turns to leave, but stops short. She pivots on her heels, spins around, and throws her arms around him. He embraces her for the last time he’ll get to for many, many months. He holds her tight, relishing in the comforting warmth of her body, and the strength at which she holds him. He feels her move away and he pulls back to look at her.

She smiles, “Love you Castel.”

“Love you too Joy,” he smiles. “Stay safe.”

“Always dork-a-doo,” she winks and kisses his cheek.

And just like that it. She’s gone. All he did was blink. She pecked his cheek for less than a second, there was a wave of brown locks, and now he stands alone staring at the spot where she stood moments ago.

What has he done?

==================

He lies in his bed now, staring up at ceiling. It’s late in the evening now…actually it may be early morning, he’s not sure. When I he got home after Joy left he locked himself in his room and tried to drown out his thoughts with electronics. But it was no use. He ended up replaying what happened over and over in his head. What came over him? Why would he do that? With Joy!

He watches his ceiling fan spin around on its lowest speed. He can’t sleep. He runs his tongue along his lips—her sweet taste still lingering in the most taunting way. He can’t stop it. He can’t stop thinking about it. Her sweet plump lips against his. Her body pressed so close to his. Her hands sliding over his body. Her hips rolling into his. The way she—No! Stop! Enough!

He growls audibly in frustration and covers his face with his hands. Gosh he’s sick! Why did these feeling come back? Why now!? He had buried these feelings years ago. What was he? Fourteen? Maybe fifteen when these feelings started creeping into his mind? Sure when he hit puberty he started having more…adult-like thoughts. And when he would crash and burn with trying to find a girlfriend, he had lonelier nights…

But when he turned fifteen his thoughts became more and more inappropriate. And not only were they becoming increasingly more inappropriate there were a few—okay maybe more than a few—nights he had fantasized about Joy. But in his defense, who else was there to fantasize about!? At the time he didn’t have a single shot with Martha and Joy is really the only other female in his life. But he knew it wasn’t right and he did everything he could do to force those thoughts out of his mind. He did everything he could think of! Cold showers, ignoring it, focusing on his marketing projects—or lack there of—anything he could think of. He resisted for as long as he could, but he’d break after so many nights. Since then he’s grown and has a stronger resolve. He’s managed to smother out those inappropriate thoughts of his best friend. And since things with Martha are picking up, he’s had someone else to haunt him on late nights.

But now…he doesn’t know what to make of all of this. All he can think of is the horror that filled her eyes when they broke apart. He huffs and drags his hands down his face. She will never speak to him again. He screwed up. He screwed up big time. Nice going Cubs! You couldn’t just focus on Martha could you!

He closes his eyes as the pricks return with a vengeance. She’s all he has. He doesn’t know how he’s going to fix this…but he has to. He has to! The fate of their friendship depends on him fixing it. She’s his best friend. He’d die for. He’d protect from anything, he always has. He’s always put her first, and things are not about to change now.

He was there for her boy crazy phase. And he was there when Brick broke her heart, and Marco…and Jake. Many nights were spent with ice cream, tissues, hugs, and words of how much he loved her and how stupid those guys were to give her up. And once she was feeling better he stayed to brighten her mood with Comedy movies to make her laugh and violent video games she could take her aggravations out on.

He was there for their adventures in the woods. He was there for all the silly fun games she’s make up for them to play. He was there to run through the field with her and roll down that enormous hill, countless times. He was there to help her across the river when they were kids and played in the woods. He was there to build and decorate their treehouse—their treehouse. He was there in the audience for all her plays. He was there for all her art shows. He was there when they fell out of that tree freshman year. He was there to grab her before they hit the ground so he’d take more of the damage—he ended up breaking his arm and his ankle, covered in cuts from the branches that scrapped him on the way down. While she limped away with her wrist twisted, lip bleeding, and a few bruises. He remembers, that summer they spent everyday watching Lion Fighter and Goofy Goons on the television, and how they had each drawn all over the other’s casts.

He promised himself he’d always be there for her. Protect her from anything and everything. That’s his job as her best friend. That’s his one job. One job. To always protect her from anything that could harm her…even if that thing is him.

He opens his eyes as he replays it again in his mind. But this time he catches something he didn’t before. She had kissed him back. She had kissed him first!…technically. But she was the one who made the kiss more heated first. She’s the one that turned it from an innocent smooch into an intense make out session. She crawled into his lap. She rolled their hips together. Not him! Maybe…could she…possibly be feeling the same as him?

He stares blankly up at the ceiling. No…no she couldn’t. That look of sheer terror in her eyes…that told him everything he needed to know. That look of panic was enough to dissolve any hope of her feeling the same way as him. It’s weird. Their friendship would be ruined…wouldn’t it?

He sighs audible and rolls onto his side, curling towards the wall. He closes his eyes, planning to will himself to sleep when his phone vibrates next to his pillow. He grumbles incoherent words and reaches back behind him. He grabs the rectangular device and taps the screen. He shoots to a straight sitting position when he sees her name on the screen. His heart leaps into his throat, pounding viciously. She had texted him! Probably the last text he’d hear from her in months! She had texted him!

Eager fingers slide the message open and his heart flies down into his gut when he sees it’s just a generic all message. It told everyone that she had landed safely and that she’d see them soon. She had sent it to everyone—family, friends, his family, and him. He wasn’t special. But, come on now, what did he expect? That she was texting him that she had changed her mind? That she wasn’t leaving? That she secretly loved him? That she was turning around to come be with him? Get real Cubs!

He flops back onto his bed. Protect her, yeah. Joy’s feelings before his own, he’s always been there for her and he always will be—as her friend. He’d protect her from everything…including his detrimental feelings. He needed to distance himself from Joy and his sick feelings for his friend. He needed a distraction. A type of distraction his projects would never provide. He needed…

His eyes fall onto his phone again. Fueled by an odd sense of courage he picks up the device and opens a new text message to Martha. She responds almost instantly. Surprised to find that she’s awake he starts up a conversation, like he always did since they’d been talking…but this time he has a goal. A goal he needs to reach tonight. After several text messages back and forth he’s built up enough courage to compose the bombshell question. He’s written and deleted and rewritten it so many time within the passed ten minutes. He stares at the words he’s got written on the screen. Taking a deep breath, he presses send. He holds his breath and waits for her response. After what feels like a millennia her response comes through.

He lets out a long sigh and smiles. After a few more texts she says she’s going to sleep, he agrees and wishes her a peaceful rest. He tosses his phone to the side and smiles up at the ceiling. The perfect distraction. The prefect way to banish his twisted feelings for Joy once and for all. His eyes flutter shut and his smile remains as he feels release.

Tomorrow he’d be going on his first date with Martha.

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