#we spotted her for rent!we took a bigger share of the costs! because we fucking cared about her and wanted her to have a fucking home!

[ghostmartyr]

how a life can move from the darkness [2/?]

|1|

Brief summary before the cut: Two drug addicts (Eren and Historia) meet in group and decide to be roommates to make their living situation slightly less weird. From there we do the slow burn found family dance mixed in with the struggles and agonies of recovery. Heavy on friendship feels, especially EMA. Eventual yumikuri.

Frieda’s first real visit, where she was actually visiting her sister, not being their babysitter, ended with orders for them to invest in a pet. She didn’t phrase it particularly demandingly. She only said it once, and didn’t bring it up the rest of the night. She barely raised her voice loud enough to be heard over the stove.

She’d walked in on them during one of their mutual wall/ceiling viewing parties.

It was an order.

“No dogs.”

“Okay.”

“Or cats.”

“Okay.”

“Or ferrets.”

“Okay.”

Eren pulled his jacket tighter. The zipper was broken. He should have worn a sweatshirt. He walked down the sidewalk, foot hitting every crack and head wondering if his mom would have preferred a broken back to a broken heart. “Nothing that can get out and crawl around the apartment.”

Historia, behind the personal barrier that used to be the map to the pet store, said, “Eren, we’re getting a fish.”

“Oh,” Eren said. “Okay.” Pause. “Just one?”

“Do you want more than one?”

Eren wasn’t sure he wanted one. He wasn’t sure he wanted one of anything else, either. He mostly wanted Historia’s sister to worry less. He felt like he had two moms these days, and he was letting down both of them. “I… do fish get lonely?”

“Don’t know.”

That made two of them.

An hour, a very talkative employee, and five pamphlets later, Eren still didn’t have an answer to his question, and knew more about nitrate cycles than high school or Armin had ever bothered with. He also found out that the same yearly school field trip to the aquarium each year had taught him nothing about aquariums.

Pumps, vacuums, filters, water treatments, thermometers. Food. Tanks bigger than he could lift.

Armin would have loved this.

One text and he’d probably explain exactly what they wanted and what kind of fish to look for better than the sales guy, and ask if they wanted him to come help out in person with the selections. The trip wouldn’t be giving Eren a headache and he wouldn’t have visions of all the fish they were going to fail dancing in his head.

Armin wasn’t there, and Eren would have to read one of the hundreds of texts from him to find out if there was even a chance of changing that in this reality. Without hating himself so much he couldn’t breathe.

Historia was in the same leaky boat he was, so by the time the sales guy let them go with instructions to look around the store and figure out what kind of aquarium they’d like, Eren really had no idea why they were getting a fish. Besides the merit points from a successful purchase. If they pulled this off without anything dying, it would be like a giant neon sign announcing to the world that they were sort of functional.

The neon sign would not be going near the fish, because that screwed with the lighting, and that, according to the midpoint of their free lecture, would be bad.

“Did you have a breed in mind?” he asked Historia. The damp, weighty smell surrounding them made him feel like he was underwater and drowning. “Or a color?”

“You can pick,” Historia said.

Eren hadn’t met their new fish yet, but he felt sorry for it.

One of them had to put some kind of executive effort into this. Historia was paying for everything. That left him. He could handle walking around and figuring out which fish they were going to try like hell not to kill.

Sometime during their tutorial, they’d ended up in the tropical section. Everything was bright and smelled like the ocean. Eren’s eyes had spent the last ten minutes burning, and now that it was just him and Historia, he was having trouble keeping them from leaking.

Armin and Mikasa should have been there.

They weren’t, and they couldn’t be, and that was his own damn fault, and he didn’t want them there—

“Eren?”

He looked up from the stained concrete floor.

Historia had zoned back in, and was watching his clenched, shaking, fists. He tried to relax them. It didn’t work. He was standing in the middle of a fish store, trying not to cry, and he couldn’t hit anything because then he probably would kill a fish, and Historia being filthy rich wouldn’t fix how awful and pissed that would make him feel, and before he knew it he’d be back behind Zeke’s batting cages, hearing all of the offers the dealer was making and actually listening.

“Eren,” Historia’s voice said, firmly.

“Yeah.” His was too far away, somewhere under the waves of the ocean. But he blinked and he was looking at the bright colors, not the floor, and a quick swipe cleared the damp spots away from under his eyes. “Salt water’s okay, right?”

He could see her nod. Her footsteps followed him down the aisle, and he concentrated on looking at the damn colorful fish. He had no idea what to look for. The sales guy had set them loose with a happy smile, telling them that if they found something they liked, he’d help out with the step-by-step of what to buy first.

There were more steps to this than Eren ever wanted to think about, which probably meant it was healthy to try.

His eyes floated over to a tank on the other side of the aisle. Less colorful, and full of rocks. A lone fish roved back and forth inside, dark spines the size of his fingers swishing along with it. It looked like someone had chopped up a sea urchin and glued its spikes to a large brown goldfish with streaky frills. A lionfish, someone else’s happy voice reminded him, carrying the sound of hurriedly flipped pages.

He didn’t hate the thought of caring for one of those.

He walked over to the tank, crouching down to stare at the thing properly. The card sitting by the tank agreed with his memory. And the fish was too big to mistake for an art fixture. It looked like a real creature; a real pet, not just something to lock away and call personal growth. Alive and fierce. Frieda would approve.

“What do you think?” he asked Historia.

She watched the lionfish swish into one of its rock caves. They both did.

“Okay.”

By the time they were back in their apartment, and the giant tank with all its mixed water and pumps and gravel and sand and rock features was set up, and they were staring at it instead of a blank wall, Eren understood a little better why they were getting a fish.

He doubted it was the upgrade Frieda was aiming for. He also doubted they could do any better.

---

A week into cycling the tank, Eren found the will for the conversation he’d put off since moving in.

Eren wasn’t big on letting people take care of him. His mom could attest to that. To hear her tell it, the day he started crawling, he’d spent all his time crawling away from her. Bandaging his skinned knees as a toddler had taken an hour of convincing before he’d let his—

He didn’t like being kept, or treated like he couldn’t handle his own life. After rehab, he lost the right to that mattering. His mom wasn’t going to accept her grown son’s rent when he needed babying, and he didn’t have the energy to push past the shame and argue.

Things were different now.

He hoped.

Historia was his sponsor, not his mother, and he was hers. He’d seen the bill for their aquarium. Pre-fish (they were giving the tank a month before they picked up its resident). He’d lived in their apartment. He’d seen Historia throw things into their shopping cart without checking prices. She paid for it from a wallet full of holes, but she never cared about the cost or bothered with coupons.

He knew Historia and her family had more money than he would even know what to do with. He knew he couldn’t afford his share if they split it honestly. He didn’t care. He was an adult. He worked. He could help pay for his own sad life.

It was important, Petra had said once, to remember that they were still part of the world. Addiction was what kept them out of it; recovery meant finding their way back in.

That was one of the first meetings he went to. He’d broken a fingernail gripping his chair and acid had boiled up his throat. Petra’s cookies had been too soft, and he ate three to make the taste go away.

Things were better now. He was cutting up carrots for dinner in an apartment that he didn’t share with someone he had hurt.

“I want to start paying rent,” Eren said.

Historia, alternating between reading her textbook and watching a pot boil, briefly added him to the rotation. “I told you, you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Eren repeated, wincing at the extra volume his voice picked up. “I’m not some helpless little kid who needs handouts. I can pull my own weight.” Even if he’d been happy acting like he couldn’t up until now. What the fuck was wrong with him. He kept talking, trying to skid over that thought before he crashed into it. “I can’t keep taking advantage of people.”

“You’re not,” Historia said. She leaned against the counter, frowning. “I’m the one who asked you to move in so I could stop worrying my sister. You don’t need to pay me for being selfish.”

“That isn’t the point,” Eren said.

Historia continued as if she didn’t hear him. “Besides, I’m not paying for any of this either.”

“That’s—look, Historia, I’d just…” Eren took a deep breath, because breathing exercises were supposed to help. They didn’t, but they were supposed to, and he couldn’t say some of the horrible things his mind came up with if he was inhaling. He screwed what was left of his useless courage and doubled down. “It would help my recovery a lot if I could help out with some of this.”

The words were terrible and lifeless, straight out of the meetings they both hated, and he should have stuck a thank-you somewhere in the middle, because he owed her everything for the help he was squirming out of.

Historia was looking at the ceiling. Her mouth was half-open, and Eren thought she agreed that he was back to saying all of the wrong things.

“My father’s paying for it,” she said quietly.

A block of ice coalesced in Eren’s chest.

“Oh,” Eren said, because even if she wasn’t talking about the dead one, she’d only ever mentioned the dead one before, and they both had dead ones and—he swallowed. Breathed. They’d never really gone over it, but Historia was easy enough to spot, and he’d gone to enough protests and rallies to know that blank silence was the worst thing he could do here, even if they weren’t talking about her. He smiled, jaw creaking with effort and soul cringing. “Your dad was gay?”

Timing meant he was expecting pain to get in the way of any relief. He was sure he was intruding on memories that weren’t any of his business, and even if he was trying to be a supportive friend, he was terrible at it, and they were now back to a place where he knew he’d be making things worse.

What he got was perplexed bewilderment.

“…What?”

He was definitely going to make this worse. “You—you said your dad was dead,” Eren said, slowly enough to be insulting on its own, “but your dad’s paying for the apartment, so that means you have—had, sorry—two?”

Historia stared at him.

She blinked, once, mouth forming a legion of unspoken words.

Eren, realizing he should have just shoved checks under her door each month, stayed standing awkwardly in front of the cutting board, waiting for the axe to fall and fervently regretting the lack of pills nearby.

“Eren,” Historia said at last, words warbling furiously, “my inheritance is paying for all of this. He put me in his will. Frieda wouldn’t let me—she thinks using it is good for my—” She looked across the room at the fishless aquarium.

“I’m supposed to spend it,” she said. Her mouth twitched, a muffled sort of chuckle escaping. Followed by another.

A peal of laughter whimpered from her lungs, ragged and horrified, and Historia was sliding down to the floor, hand pressed to her forehead while the fit of hysteria took over, giggles turning to honest cackles, tearing through the kitchen. Eren watched. He just stood there and watched.

Because she only had one dad, and she’d killed him.

He was dead.

The sob waiting in Eren’s chest came out wrong, not matching the horror and helplessness swirled in it, or the feel of blood warm in his hands as he tried to stop it all from spilling out even though it was too late, and he slipped down to the floor next to Historia, biting down on his thumb to keep from laughing.

By the time Frieda came by, bringing her weekly gift of ice cream, they were both crying.

---

Historia said they could work out splitting the fish costs and groceries, and there really wasn’t a reason to bring it up past that, so they didn’t.

Frieda didn’t, either.

Eren had the disturbing feeling that she understood.

---

Reiner wasn’t outside when Eren showed up for their run.

That was weird to start with. Reiner was as fanatically devoted to taking care of himself as he had been to heroin. Not just physically. He had a day planner. He’d offered to buy Eren one. The guy did not know how to flake.

Standing out in front of the house in Reiner’s usual spot was a woman Eren recognized from some of Reiner’s pictures. He’d flipped through them every single day of rehab, and Eren had wanted him dead.

He didn’t remember the woman’s name. She was scrolling through her phone when he jogged up, and the nod she gave him wasn’t very inviting. Dark circles shaded her freckles, but she was wearing workout clothes. Maybe Eren had missed a text, and he was helping out both of them today.

“Reiner still inside?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the woman said, pocketing her phone. “That’s where he’s staying, too. Bastard’s too sick to be conscious, forget running around the block.”

Too sick to warn Eren, too.

He was paying Eren. They were only sort of friends. Missing out on a run with him still made Eren want to crawl into the nearest hole and not come out. Reiner wasn’t exactly a bright spot to his day, but his day had started with a text from Armin. Reiner never made anything worse. Him and his normalcy had been something to look forward to when Eren woke up and threw his phone through his pillowcase.

World much gloomier than it needed to be at six in the morning, Eren said, “Is there anything I can help with? There’s a drugstore—” he wasn’t going to think about it, he wasn’t going to think about it— “a couple miles out I could hit for him.”

“Thanks, but I think Bert’s got the panicked nursing covered.”

Bertolt, Eren had met. He was usually watering the rosebush outside the house at the end of their morning run. “Great,” Eren said.

That left him… where? Needing to send a get-well text?

He made polite eye contact with Reiner’s friend. Like a person. “I’ll head off, then,” he said. “Let Reiner know today’s on me.”

The woman smirked at him. It might have been meant as a smile, but the glint in her eyes and Eren’s mood said smirk. “You have a side job exercising strangers,” she said. “Don’t volunteer to throw away money.”

Before Eren could point out that he wasn’t a dick, even if she was, she added, “Anyway, that’s what dragged me into this. Reiner thinks routines are part of the ex-junkie bible, and he didn’t want to screw you up just because he forgot to wash his hands. So I’ll be palling around with you this morning to assuage your mutual guilt complexes. You’re welcome.”

Eren had to unclench his jaw before he could speak. He wanted to go back to bed. He also wanted to go inside the house and wring Reiner’s fucking neck. The happy chittering of the birds sounded like cheaply ringing tin in his ears. “Reiner told you?”

Reiner told anyone?

Eren didn’t tell his friends that his client asked for makeup advice he didn’t have to cover up his track marks. He didn’t talk about Reiner’s lifelong fear of needles not holding a fucking candle to his snowballing drug habits. He didn’t breathe a damn word about any of it, not even in group, not even with the names taken out, because why the fuck would he do that to anyone.

“Don’t lose your head about it,” the woman’s voice echoed. “It only came up because he was already wetting himself over missing your appointment.” Her shoes thumped across the concrete, and Eren felt a slap against his shoulder. “He was worried, and hurling too much for his brain to keep a lid on why. He freaked out all over again when he realized what he said. He was trying to be a good friend, not an asshole. He just has a bad habit of mixing the two.”

Eren’s fingernails were digging into his palms. He had to concentrate to make them stop, but they stopped, and without the sting that said he broke the skin.

Deep breaths. The ones that never really worked.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“Right,” said the woman. He could feel her watching him. The scrutiny reminded him of the rehab shrink. Or a more hostile Petra. “Sorry. Usually I only bring up sensitive subjects on purpose.”

Eren didn’t know how much of a joke that was. He decided it didn’t matter. He reeled his head back to a zone where he knew how to handle all of this, even if he didn’t, reminded himself it was too early in the morning for him to shoot Historia a text asking for commiseration, and breathed normally.

“Do you need some time to stretch, or are you good to go now?” Eren asked.

The woman gave a one-armed shrug. “Feel free to run away from me at your leisure. I’m just here to take up space.” She watched him another moment before sticking out her hand. “Ymir, by the way.”

Eren shook it with as much heart as he didn’t have. “Eren.”

Her smile was all teeth. “Nice meeting you.”

----

Reiner wasn’t the only person who was sick, it turned out.

Eren knew he had to do something about the phone problem. This was a marked improvement from not thinking of it as a problem. He didn’t think he could steal credit for that. The outside world was screaming it at him. Armin had taken up regular texts like clockwork, and if that meant something was wrong, Eren didn’t know how to check without losing his mind. Being a fuckup and a coward would do that. Mikasa’s daily texts had never stopped. Hannes had gotten back to him about supervising some free climbers over the weekend. His first since his broken leg.

His pulse hadn’t dropped a beat when that conversation ended and a disaffected buzz announced a message from Zeke.

Zeke had barely spoken to him since the funeral. He’d walked him in and out of the rehab facility doors and left him alone. It wasn’t that different from the way things were before their dad died. The only change was him not dropping by unannounced to take Eren off on some adventure. If he’d tried that recently, no one had mentioned it. Eren wasn’t sure anyone had even bothered giving him his new address.

A text from Zeke out of the blue was a danger sign. Eren couldn’t just ignore it. He also couldn’t click on it.

Pacing the entire length of the apartment back and forth and back again, Eren could admit he had a problem. Step one. The last time that revelation had crept up and slammed him into a gutter, it was one of the worst moments of his life. This didn’t compare, but it left him feeling lopsided and tired. He couldn’t ignore his brother. Zeke had never ignored him. He had every reason in the world to, but he never had. Eren owed him.

He couldn’t open the damn text.

He made another agitated circuit around the apartment. His phone wasn’t set to tick down seconds, but they were playing back in his head fine without the help. He was rounding the couch, checking the aquarium and wishing they already had a fish to stare at—like that had a chance of helping, but maybe it did—when the loud clap of a slamming textbook stopped him in his tracks.

Historia, who he hadn’t noticed, was lying on the floor. Until a millisecond of time passed for her to gather her temper and she stood up from the rug, swept over, and threw out her hand.

Eren, who hadn’t come up with a better plan yet, gave her his phone. She almost took his hand off with it.

“Under Zeke,” he said. In case she mistook him for someone who had decided today was the time to finally go through and acknowledge the hundreds of unread texts Armin and Mikasa had sent him.

Historia scanned the screen in slow motion. “Someone’s sick,” she said, and visions of hospitals gone by and panic started up before she filled in the rest. “He wants to know if you can sub in for the game on Saturday.”

Baseball. No emergency. Baseball.

Eren breathed out, sighing. Relief was missing from it. He didn’t know why he had expected anything else. A quiet, petty hole that rehab hadn’t filled all the way was still waiting for Zeke to say something about what happened. He never would, and he was an ungrateful bastard for wanting more than what he’d got. What he’d got was more than he deserved. If Zeke never talked to him about anything but baseball, Eren would live with that.

That could really happen, too. Zeke loved baseball like he’d never loved anyone in his own damn family—

Eren moved to take back his phone before his head started something his fists couldn’t finish. Historia’s temper flare had vanished, and she dangled the device between them like it was the bomb about to go off instead of them. She made it look as large and unwieldy in her hands as it felt in Eren’s thoughts. He didn’t know why that helped. He wasn’t even sure if it did.

With how the day was going, Eren couldn’t be surprised when it buzzed with another text the second his finger brushed the casing. Historia jumped slightly, and Eren hated his eyes for catching the name on the screen.

Because Armin had started texting him again.

Great.

He was looking at the floor. Historia kept holding the phone. The bomb.

Great, great, great, great.

Eren could feel his breath shortening, his blood pumping faster, and he was supposed to be getting a grip and trying to be better than all of this and he wanted to break something. More things than he had the first time, or the second, or the third, or the twelfth, because all of those times hadn’t made the right impression, Armin was still trying, and so was Mikasa, and he was so sick of it, and himself, and Zeke, and—

“Have you ever been to a batting cage?” Eren blurted out.

Historia took a moment to answer. “What?” she said.

“Batting cage,” Eren said, feeling a tension headache building. “Have you ever been?”

“No?”

Ten minutes later, Eren didn’t think he felt a whole lot better, but nothing was broken, he hadn’t hurt anyone, and Historia wasn’t complaining about the sprinters’ pace they were walking down the sidewalk at. He didn’t think that last one was a point in his favor. She hadn’t given him his phone back. It was still a good thing. Someone was around to keep him from being stupid.

He led the way with a nervous energy that he hated. He knew how his body was supposed to work. It wasn’t a natural like Mikasa’s—and that turned the notch up on his leg speed one more time—but he’d spent time on it, and he knew how he liked to move. Purposefully. With real energy that came from the core. Not nervous sweats and clenched fists.

There were two batting cages within walking distance of their apartment. One, neither of them needed to be anywhere near. The other was fine, and normal, and open until midnight. Glazed lights decking a row of fence were visible from the street. The padded green of the fake grass stapled to every inch of the facility’s floor wasn’t. Two pairs of feet thumped across it to the cashier’s window out front.

Eren forked out the cash from his wallet to the drowsy employee manning the entrance before Historia had a chance to object. They marched on through without a word.

It was cool and dark outside, even with the glare of the lights, and Eren stuffed a helmet on his head from the rack and grabbed a bat before his thoughts slowed down enough to race in coherent circles. He couldn’t hit people anymore, but he sure could hit objects.

Historia was still trailing behind him, and she’d never been and he would help with that in a second after he took care of him, and watching was where it all started anyway it wasn’t like he was that great with words like—

He smacked the start button. His other hand clasped the bat, touching metal where the glue had peeled away from the grip. He raised it over his shoulder, a million lessons from a man who looked too much like his father coursing through his veins, and he was holding a metal pole and watching the blood spurt over it and his hands and

and

He remembered to hit the emergency stop and he made it to the trash can. That was the important part.

Fuck.

He didn’t know where the bat was, but all his hands were holding was the plastic bag around the rim of the trash can. His head was dipped down next to a collection of empty Styrofoam cups, gum, and vomit. The acidic burning in his throat waited for a swallow. The rest of him stayed still, waiting for the next hit.

That hadn’t happened before. He’d thought of it happening, but it never did. He hadn’t thrown up since he bet Jean he could drink an entire case of soda in first grade. He won. His mom still had a special sigh for that stain on the carpet.

Eren pulled himself out of the garbage. His knee was shaking. Badly enough to bring up more problems, so he sat down on the fake grass and let it scratch his fingers. He swallowed through the burning, and pressed a fist to his forehead.

Fuck.

Footsteps approached. Another cup showed up by his head. Not empty. Eren took it and sipped the water, and it was just like any other workout.

The only thing he could think of that would make it any worse was if he started crying, and he felt like he was going to.

Historia sat down next to him.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” she asked. She sounded like she was reading off a script. She was still holding his phone.

Eren hated his fucking phone. He wanted to throw it into a landfill.

He took a breath, and another sip of water. Besides the phone, which could go to hell, the hate felt cooler. Like all the lava out under the sky was turning into something solid. He’d liked Armin’s volcano phase. It’d been his phase, too. Like with the dinosaurs, and that one summer with pelicans.

He’d kill to be talking to Armin about pelicans right now. Instead he was sitting on a batting cage floor, the only support system he was strong enough to bear sitting right next to him instead of studying for her test like she was supposed to, and his lips were covered in drying bile, and he’d killed his dad.

Admitting he had problems wasn’t too hard when they were this obvious.

Eren opened his fist and dragged his hand through his hair.

“Do you have anyone?” Eren asked quietly. “That you have to make amends to?”

The answer was instantaneous, and not much of a surprise. “Frieda.”

Eren twisted his bangs around his fingers. Only a little of him wanted to tug it all out by the roots. “Not family. People you screwed up because they liked you and liking you meant they were around when you fucked up your life. Friends.”

Historia didn’t say anything for a whole minute.

“No,” she said.

That one was more of a surprise. It shouldn’t have been, because she was his roommate, and he had a pretty wide window into her life, but it was, and now Eren felt like even more of a dick. He dropped his hand into his lap and silently added Historia to his list. Maybe she’d be one he could actually cross off.

He didn’t know what to say next, because ‘sorry,’ was more of a distraction than he could deal with while being this useless, but as long as he was sober, he wasn’t the kind of person who wanted to just leave that bombshell alone.

Historia took pity on him and sighed.

“I had a fiancée in juvie.”

Eren blinked. He lifted his head. “You can get engaged in juvie?” he asked.

“You were in juvie?” was close behind, and he felt stupid enough thinking it to avoid saying it, because no matter how tiny she was, saying he had trouble picturing his drug addicted, father-murdering roommate doing time was…

“It’s not something you have to fill out paperwork for,” Historia said, continuing blithely on. “It’s just a promise. Words.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. She was older, so she got out before I did, and after that, I never heard from her again. We never even—” Historia stopped herself. Her eyes shut. “She probably didn’t even mean it. It started as a joke.”

It didn’t sound like it came from any sense of humor he’d known. Historia wasn’t laughing. Neither was Eren. He took another sip of the water she’d found him before he crushed the cup and it spilled all over his jeans.

“She doesn’t even know my real name,” Historia said, almost inaudibly. Her blinks sped up. “She was gone before my drug habit could disappoint her. She would have—” Historia snorted and there was something dark and chaotic in her smile.

“She would have killed me.”

This was a joke she got. Eren didn’t.

They sat in silence for a few moments, sitting on the scratchy fake grass. Eren spotted his bat on the floor next to the open cage.

“I have these friends,” he said, “that I don’t know how to…”

Trailing off was as close as he could get to articulating it. Historia could probably figure out the gist by living with him. Tonight wasn’t the first time his phone had caused problems, it was just the first time he’d made them her problem.

“The text before we left looked like some sort of science fact-a-day,” Historia said. “Frieda has a subscription to a few things like that.” He could feel her watching him. Months of feeling like everyone was watching him had honed the sense. “He’s probably copying you on them.”

That sounded like Armin. The perfect way to start talking without saying anything.

He waited for anger to spike with the thought, but he just felt tired.

He looked at the baseball bat. Historia followed his look.

“Zeke’s my half-brother,” he said. “I owe him, but if Saturday’s anything like this I’d be better off not showing up at all.”

Historia said, easily, “I’ll fill in for you.” Like any of his friends would have after he dragged them out of their apartment in the middle of the night to have a panic attack in front of them.

Being too stubborn to admit that he needed help was what had gotten him here. He didn’t want to stay. He didn’t think anyone wanted him to.

“Have you ever played baseball?”

“No.”

Zeke was going to love this.

---

Zeke did.

He’d also shaved.

Eren hadn’t seen him without a beard in years. It was weird, made him look like he belonged at some sort of board meeting, and every time they made eye contact Eren needed a second to find his brother in the face.

What he didn’t find, and what he’d been scared of seeing, was their dad.

He didn’t know if he was allowed to say thank you. They didn’t really do that. Zeke hadn’t said anything about Historia showing up as the sub for his sub. He was grateful, since the tiny adult baseball league was his entire life, and he’d be heartbroken if he missed out on any of it, but he didn’t say it. Not with Eren. There was just this quiet expectation that it would all work out, because they were brothers. No thanks necessary.

Not being the one playing, Eren had too much time to think about that.

Now, after the game, sitting across from his brother at the pizza parlor Zeke had selected instead of the bar he’d taken his team to every game day for at least five years, Eren was still thinking about it.

“Your roommate doesn’t have a bad arm,” Zeke said. “Do you think she’d want to join up?”

“You’d have to ask her.” Historia had gone outside when Colt ordered a beer, and he didn’t know if she’d noticed that Yelena had spent the entire seventh inning stretch and drive over asking too many questions, but it was mostly going okay. She’d caught a fly ball and gotten a hit, and their team won. They’d both had worse days.

“I might, if you can’t play.”

Eren’s hand tensed around his drink.

Zeke wouldn’t ask. Somebody had shown up, so he wouldn’t ask. Eren still couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew. Even if there was no way he could. Zeke was like that. Hide and seek had turned into a banned game the nights Zeke babysat. No matter how hard Eren tried, Zeke always found him, and his mom had gotten sick of coming home to him exploding in frustration.

Eren wanted him to ask. Zeke came to Eren instead of hitting up Mikasa when he needed a sub. He cared. Eren wanted to feel it instead of just knowing it, for once.

He was an ungrateful brat, in a lot of ways.

Zeke paid for the pizza. Historia eventually walked back in and sat with them. Zeke asked about school, and rock climbing, and what they thought about the batting order they’d tried.

He didn’t ask about Eren.

Which was fine. What would he have said, anyway? He was ghosting his best friends in the world while they tried to keep him in their lives. He didn’t get to miss his big brother for having the brains to stay out of it all.

[next]

#drug au #fic #mine #long post

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

Dear Hannah,

Pairing: technically Destiel, but that’s not what this is about Word Count: 4.9k (wow wtf) Warnings: mentions of self-harm, cancer, shitty father John (as per usual), angst and angst and father-daughter love and angst. Summary: When Dean, strapped to a bed, coughing up a storm, catches sight of his newly-adopted baby girl, he decides that, if he is to leave this world, he has to leave something behind for his favorite person. So he writes a booklet, trying to tell her all the things he would’ve if he was alive. Author’s note: This was originally done for @welldonebeca​ ‘s 2019 Song Challenge but I fucked up thinking the deadline was the 31st of October instead of the 15th. Whatever the case, my prompt was movement, by Hozier, which I interpreted as Dean being fascinated by his daughter enough that he’s inspired to write a letter book to her. Of course this wouldn’t be the entire thing, but I had to keep it under wraps.

Feedback is always welcome! No beta, all mistakes are my own.

~~~~

Hannah,

Christ, it’s the third time I’m starting this. The truth is, I’m coming up with blanks as to how to actually start. This has got to be the best I’ve got.

I’ll tell you the moral of this story, my story,  from the get-go. Life’s a fucking bitch, okay? I want you to know that from now. I’d try to hold back on my swearing, but I want you to know me as the person I am, the person I’ve always been. I know what having an absent, terrible father’s like, as you’ll soon see, and I don’t want that for you. I wish I could tell you all this up close, give you advice, tell you all my crazy-ass stories as the dumbass of the teenager I was, and all the shenanigans your uncle (wow, Sam really is a friggin’ uncle!), by a campfire, while you drink your first beer.

Sadly, my odds aren’t looking so great, honey. So this is all I got. I know it’ll never be enough but something is better than nothing.

Enough with the chick flick introduction, though. Let’s start.

The pen’s heavy in his hand, and it’s equal parts the mental heaviness, the weight of the task, as it is his fatigue. Dean’s really just started this. He can’t believe it. The heaviness of uncertainty, of whether or not he’ll get enough time to finish it settles on his chest like an anvil. There’s a solid chance he doesn’t make it before his time comes.

Hannah’s sitting right there, carelessly looking at the plastic, grinning stars above her crib. She’s so innocent, skin creamy, chocolaty and bright, a young, fearsome woman that’s gonna turn out to be so incredible, he’s certain. A small baby who’s soon to walk.

Dean already knows, this kid is destined for great things.

She’s gonna grow up, past the tutus and the miniature racing-car collections, she’s gonna have a movie she’ll play on repeat for ever and ever, with a song that he’ll learn by heart after having heard it so many times. She’s gonna go to high school and she’ll be bullied but she’ll learn to kick some serious ass. She’ll develop interests, she’ll have mediocre grades but a fiery passion and a love for anything alive.

She’ll, then, go to college. She’ll fall in love, with people and life itself. She’ll do what she loves most and she’ll be so damn good at it, she’ll excel.

And Dean… Dean will be nowhere near her to see all of it.

The bitterness… it makes his eyebrows stitch together, his lip curl in clear frustration and sadness. After everything he’s been through, finally finding the person he loves most and creating a full-ass apple pie life, and it’s all gonna be gone as soon as it started. Because, as he told his favorite Hannah, life’s a fucking bitch, and there’s no denying it.

As he lays there in his bed, pale as a sheet, watching her giggle for a while, reaching for the stars, soon yawning, small eyelids shutting softly and rocking just slightly, he… he falls in love with her. This tiny, tiny happy-beyond-words creature that could ask anything of him, and he’d do it, god damn it. He really would.

A giant bubble grows in his chest, a bubble that makes him feel like he’ll protect her at absolute all costs. He’ll grab the moon and fucking move it if that’s what she needs. And all she has to do is yawn and fall asleep.

A tear appears in the corner of his eye, lingering and falling down his ashy cheek. He can’t believe he brought this bright ray of sunshine to this world, and he’s about to make her live with an absent father. That he won’t get any memories with her at all. It’s torture. All of it.

He doesn’t know what else to do, so he grabs his pen with more determination. If he’s to leave her with something, it’ll be a part of him and that is that.

~~~~~

I was born on January 24th, 1979, the first son of a, dare I say, colossally unlucky family. Your uncle, Sam, my brother, is four years younger and will ALWAYS be a wimp, don’t let the height fool you. He always had terrible, shaggy hair and was always the sharpest tool in the box. Hell, the boy went to freaking LAW SCHOOL of all places! That’s kinda crazy!

My parents, your grandparents, were Mary and John.

Mary was a sweet, incredible, fearsome blonde woman, kindest of them all. She’d cut the crusts off my toast, sing Hey, Jude to me before bed and tell me angels were watching over me. (While we’re on the topic of the Beatles, make a note to listen to them. “Hey, Jude” must be your first song, but beyond the classics [Let it Be, Hard Day’s Night, I Saw Her Standing There, I Wanna Hold your hand etc] I hope “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds” will hold a special spot in your heart, much like me.)

So, Mary. Sweet Mary. She was a real badass, you know. This one time, Sammy was hungry, so I decided to make, get this, French fries. I think I was seven. She caught me getting ready to pour oil in a very hot pan. When I say she swooped in, I mean it, quite literally. I think she saved me a hand that day.

Now, about John…You’ll have to forgive the mess that I’m about to make with this, but John was a fucking sorry excuse of a father, alright? He got piss-drunk every night after Mom died, and naturally, Sam and I were the punching bags, sometimes literally. The best nights were the ones he wasn’t home.

For years, the house was silent. Sam and I tried to keep everything clean, stock up on canned food, because at times we would only have ten bucks to hold us for over two weeks. I took him to school, fed him, made sure he studied –not that I really had to- and kept John of his hair. At sixteen I picked up a shift at Bobby Singer’s garage, a man that, at this point, deserves the Dad title significantly more than John.

Whenever Sammy was sick, it was my fault. Was anyone loud? Dean’s fault. House dirty? Dean’s fault. Did we wake him up? …Let’s just say we learned not to do that.

I tried to put myself before Sam, did anything I could to protect him. There were times when that wasn’t even enough.

I dropped out of high school at seventeen. The second I saved up enough money, I rented a hole of an apartment at the other side of town, in an attempt to help Sam have a normal life, and we hauled ass out of there.

Before I tell you about our shitty apartment, let me tell you about the highlights of my high school career. Starting off with me “unintentionally” kicking a ball at my least favorite teacher’s face (and hitting him) ((Don’t take your father’s example, kid, violence isn’t the answer.)) (Did feel pretty good at the time though), making out with Jenny in the Janitor’s closet and with Arthur at the locker rooms afterhours (I don’t know what age you’re reading this at, but I sure hope it’s over 16). Also, that one time I pulled a prank at my friend, Cole. I spray painted his entire locker. He didn’t like me very much, to be honest…

~~~~~

An important story I feel inclined to share with you, would be the fact that I was once a bully.

Kids are just mean, but also, I couldn’t understand that troubles at home, traumatic pasts and anger are not to be taken out on other people who are not at fault. Instead of finding a healthy way to deal with everything that was happening at home, I decided that every happy person that was weak enough to meddle with, didn’t deserve any happiness.

I picked on a couple of people, but I think the one I will always regret will be Kevin Tran.

Kevin was a freshman when I was in junior year. He was in the Math club, the Science club and the Robotics club. He had maybe two friends, he was skinny, short, shy as hell, he drowned himself in oversized clothes and always carried a neon green book bag around, that worked on me like red cloth to a bull.

Every time I spotted the bag in the hallway, the drill would start. Shoving the poor kid against the locker, calling him names and laughing at his face for no apparent reason. I’d steal his calculators when I found out he had chemistry tests, spray paint the door of his locker and cause rib bruises from my shoving him against walls and furniture.

I soon find out Kevin was severely depressed. In fact, I saw him in the back of the school, where I’d usually go out to smoke because I thought it was cool (it’s not, it makes you light headed, unfocused and struggle to breathe. Just an all-around terrible experience, but this is just a side-note.)

It was a Friday after school. I didn’t wanna go straight home and Sam still had one more period, so I decided to go smoke and listen to some music in the back of the school building. And that’s where I found him.

I don’t know into how much detail I should go here, but Kevin was harming himself. With a small pocket knife, he sat on an old basket and made incisions on his arms, tears running down his face like a faucet. My God, Hannah, I’ve never felt like a bigger piece of shit in my life, because I knew, and I knew very well, that at least part of those incisions were caused by me.

I called out to him, and the look on his face, as he scrambled away from me, made me feel so much worse. I was the scum of the earth at that moment. I was the biggest asshole on the planet.

My initial reaction, I’ll admit, was pretty harsh. I grabbed the pocket knife out of his hands and threw it as far as possible in the grass. I grabbed a small first aid kit I had in my bag (in case anything happens to Sam), made him sit down by force and bandaged him up. He’d been reduced to sniffles by the time I was done.

Somewhere in between, I remember, he asked me why I was doing this. I didn’t answer.

Eventually, when I was done, I sat on the ground in front of him, ripping blades of grass from the ground. I apologized. Something along the lines of “I didn’t know, not that that’s an excuse. What I’m going through is not an excuse, but I hope it makes you understand that it was nothing to do with you. I’ll stop. I’m sorry. Don’t do this to yourself, man.”

That evening, Kevin was one of the very first people who found out about John. His own dad had passed away, and things at home were rough with his mom. That, along with the whole depression thing… it wasn’t a good combo.

After a solid two hours of talking with him, making amends, apologizing profusely and getting my apology accepted (which I absolutely didn’t deserve by the way,) we made it back out front.

From then on, I stopped picking on anyone. Kevin and I actually became really good friends, though we drifted apart eventually. I think he works in Google now.

This is really important. I want you to pay attention and take heed of my words. There are a couple lessons in this story.

One, be kind. Always  be kind. To everyone. It doesn’t matter if they’re going through a rough time or not, the same way it didn’t matter that Kevin’s father was dead. You don’t know the other person. There’s never a reason to not be kind, if the person has done nothing to you. A smile can make somebody’s day, a compliment can go a long way, and being open and honest and kind will make people who are looking for help find you, it will make other’s lives better, and if you’ve helped even a single person, your life has been successful.

Two, never, and I mean never take your emotional pain out on yourself, or others. There are healthy ways to deal with ugly emotions. There are people who can help. Find a new hobby, as silly as it sounds. Start doing something creative, something that draws your attention elsewhere, like art of any kind, or, in my case, fixing cars. Something to keep you busy. If you’re in trouble, emotional or otherwise, there are people who love and support you, who will do their mightiest to be by your side, and if those aren’t your friends, they’re definitely your family.

Bottling up emotions, or dealing with them in horrible, unhealthy ways has been my go-to. Don’t be like me. Express yourself in different ways, and don’t keep your feelings shoved under the carpet, because it will, absolutely, unceremoniously explode, and you’ll take people down with you. And that’s when you’ll feel like the worst person in the world. The guilt, the residue of said ugly feelings isn’t worth it. Trust me.

If you make mistakes, if you hurt people who don’t deserve it, learn from it, grow, be better. Do not sink into yourself , don’t hate yourself. Apologize, make amends and move on, try to never do the same thing. It’s okay. We’re all human. The only thing that matters is that you try to be better.

No matter what, remember that I will always love you.              

~~~~

So. Our apartment back in Kansas was, as I told you, a real dump. It had a tiny-ass kitchen with a miniature stove, two mattresses that were creaky and lumpy and were left there by the previous owners, as well as the TINIEST bathroom you’ve ever seen. It didn’t have shower walls, it had a shower head and a drain on the floor and was not in any way separated from the toilet. The walls of the place were peeling, the floor was tiled and cracked in a bunch of places and the humidity must’ve been over 80%.

I fucking loved that place.

On our third day there, I borrowed some spray paints from Cole, carried them in a cardboard box up the claustrophobic, green stairs, and opened the door in absolute triumph. That day, Sam and I opened the two windows, scratched the paint off the walls with two spatulas and went WILD. It must’ve been the only day Sam didn’t study.

Actually, no, now that I think about it, there was another time, when little ol’ ten-year-old Sam fell off a ledge and freakin’ broke his arm. I dumped him on Cole’s bike and pedaled to the hospital like a maniac. That was the first day he didn’t study.

Anyways, that apartment wall made our crappy little living situation a home. Our own sanctuary. We finally got agency over our lives, from staying up late, to choosing which type of dish soap we’d use because it smelled better and didn’t remind us of the terror chores once were. Eventually, we got soft blankets, books, board games, decorations… Finally, after 18 years, we’d started our lives.

I think one of my favorite memories would be coming home from my first date with a guy. I was just 18 and Benny, the dude, kissed me before I left, his fists clutching at my flannel. I was driving home with a giant, dopey-ass smile, stretching from one ear straight to the other. That same night, with new-found confidence, I told Sammy to drop his book, bought ourselves some beers and snacks, and drove to my favorite clearing.

There, right under the stars, with Sammy trying out his first beer, I told him I’m bisexual, and the cute bastard hugged me and told me he loved me no matter what. That same night, he thanked me for everything I did for him while living with John. We talked until the sun was rising.

I’ll tell you this right now, kid, in case you haven’t gotten it yet. I love Sam. Love him to bits. I raised that kid all on my own and will do anything to protect him. I know he cares for me, I know it kills him to see me like this, in a bed, pale, miserable and coughing every three seconds. I just want you to know, honey, that whatever you need, anything at all that, for some reason, you don’t want to tell Dad, you go to Sam, okay? You can trust him to be supportive, loyal, to be there for you when no one else is and to love you like you’re his own daughter and best friend. I promise you, he will always, always be there when I’m not.

That night made us grow so much closer. The lesson here, I’d say, is be bold and confident in what you believe in and who you are. Be your own, unique self, be brave, and love whoever you choose to fully and with your whole heart, without shame, ever. If you are yourself, I promise, you’ll find the people that love you for you, not the person you’re pretending to be. You’ll inspire other to be themselves.

A good example of this would be my best friend, Charlie. When I came out, I was armed to the teeth to deal with whoever wanted to bully me for that part of me. To tell you the truth, my school coming out was a mishap. It takes nothing but a risky make-out session in the janitor’s closet and nosey students that rip doors open far too violently. Nevertheless, I was literally out of the closet, fists up. And that’s exactly when I met Charlie.

With her comic book stories and her books, her bubbly personality and bright smile, she wiggled her way into our lives and permanently stayed there. She was a freshman when I was a senior, but she seemed to find sanctuary by my side, as I did by hers. She was just one of those people who clicked, you know? Far too mature and interesting for her age, with an obsession with computers, even back when they were barely even a thing.

She now lives with her long-term girlfriend, Gilda, who owns the best bakery in the state. Ask for the apple pie, you will not be disappointed.

Charlie demanded of me to tell you, first off, to watch Marvel and screw DC right to hell (with which I have to agree, though Batman still remains one of the coolest Superheroes of my childhood (and Joker, the coolest villain)). She also told me that, if you read this, go ask her for her comics, She’d love to let you borrow them and she’s certain you’ll love them. Second off, she asked of me to tell you the Impala story…

It’s not as grand as she makes it out to be, honestly. However this is the part where you’ll learn all about the one and only Bobby Singer.

Bobby was my boss, an old friend of dad’s John’s and the first person who ever saw the bruises under my sleeves. He gave me a job, a family, and later on… a car.

Bobby owns a scrapyard. He taught me everything I know about cars, including driving, and for my seventeenth birthday, he brought a dusty, beat-up car in my workspace. The hood was bent, the seats were torn, and the engine needed immediate replacing. The customer never paid the price for the compartments the garage had paid, so under store policy, the car was ours.

Hannah, I can’t exactly describe to you how long it took me to repair that car. Buying the spare parts and assembling them would’ve probably taken less time. I built her from the ground up, it took me almost a month and a half of daily, eight-to-six work, but I made it. I fixed her up. She was in prime condition, and I had completely fallen in love with her.

I finished working on her early January, dreading the moment I would see her drive away. Bobby had seen all the effort, by then I’d worked at his place for over a year. So, on the day of my birthday, I opened my locker to put on my jumpsuit, when I saw a box placed on my neatly folded clothes. I’m sure you’ve guessed it by now. Yes. It was the keys to my dream car. A beautiful, sleek, black 1967 Chevrolet Impala, the one I had brought back to life. And it was all mine.

I don’t think I’ve hugged Bobby any tighter since then. Hell, I don’t think I’ve hugged him period.

That car… That car is probably the most stable thing in my life, apart from Sam, obviously. I’ve cried in that car, I’ve escaped from my terrible past, I’ve laughed, I’ve had my first time, I’ve been through breakups and I’ve spent my best days with it. I cherish it more than any other item I know. It’s not even an item, it’s my baby. I love it almost as much as I love you.

I met your dad, and kissed him for the first time in that car.

It’s actually a pretty fucking hilarious story. Cas was on a date with this guy who was completely disgusting and creepy as hell, so in true  movie fashion he decided to, get this, jump out the bathroom window and escape.

Yeah.

So just as he was running out of the bar, the guy must’ve caught wind of him or something, because he stepped outside in order to find Cas. What did your dad decide to do, I hear you ask? He ducked behind a car in the parking lot, opened the first unlocked door he found, and jumped in.

Spoiler alert. It was my car.

I was sitting in the front seat, fighting with Sam through text when the door opened. It was highly comical, watching this guy duck behind the bench seat, mumbling “oh God, oh God, oh God, please don’t see me, oh God.” I cleared my throat.

“Oh, I see you, buddy.” That’s the first thing I told him. The look on his face and the genuine yelp, made me laugh a full belly laugh, and completely forget about my fight with Sam. He apologized profusely, explained panicked what had happened and begged me to stay in my car just for a couple minutes so the guy can lose him.

Long story short, we ended up going out ourselves. I don’t know how to explain it… we just clicked immediately. Like, there was a connection. Him and his big words, his baby blue eyes, his steady, deep and rough voice… I knew right away that all I wanted was to spend time with him, learn everything he was willing to share with me.

I’m so glad to have met your Dad. He was, is and always will be one of the best, kindest, most humble and genuine people on the planet. He sees the world from such a beautiful point of view that contradicts my eternal realism (he enjoys calling me pessimistic.) He’s a genuinely great person, and I can’t wait for you to figure so out yourself, if you haven’t already.

Of course, it wasn’t all fine and dandy. Meeting his parents was hellish. Let’s just say, Chuck and Naomi aren’t… the best people. They tried really, really hard to stop us from seeing each other, and eventually, they completely disowned Cas. He doesn’t like to talk about them much. His brother, Gabriel is an asshole, but a loveable one, while his other brother, Michael, you probably don’t know about. And you shouldn’t. Let’s just leave it at that. If Cas wants to share that story with you, he’ll do it at his own time.

I’m sure there’s a lesson to be learned here. Something about, when finding your person, to keep them, fight for them, don’t stop loving them because everyone else is telling you (unless of course that person is toxic). But I don’t think I can give you solid love advice through a dumb book. Every relationship is different, and your Dad’s better at this than me anyways.

--

I don’t know exactly how long this thing is, by this point, but I’ve almost finished the pages of this booklet. I was really, really worried I wouldn’t finish it in time, but here we are. However many thousand words later, and I’m clueless as to how to wrap this up.

My life isn’t over yet, however it looks like it soon will be. I will confess to you, I’m scared, but most of all I’m angry. I’m angry at the world, at life and fate, if that’s even a thing, at God even. I’ve fought my whole life for peace and quiet, and right when I have found it, it’s being ripped from under my feet. Cancer fucking sucks.

No matter, my chin is up, and so are my fists. Winchesters don’t give up easy. I will fight this until my last breath, even if the chance of watching you grow up and being able to tell you everything I’ve written face-to-face, is nothing but a sliver. After all, impossible odds were always my favorite.

Sweetheart… I don’t know what to say. This might be the only thing you have left of me for the rest of your life, and it tears me up inside. Of course, I will not be able to write thirty five years of experience in a small book such as this, but this is a part of me, memories you can keep all to yourself. Ask Dad or Sam about any of it, I’m sure they’ll fill some gaps, tell you things I haven’t written.

I don’t want you to cry much, even though I’m not sure you will at all, given the fact that you’ve never met me. Either way, whether you feel or think anything of me or not, I want you to know that I love you so much. I’ve only known you for a couple of months, and, already, you’re the brightest ray of sunshine in my life.

I promise I will be by your side no matter what happens, through every milestone and hardship, I will love you from wherever I am.

Honey, please stay true to yourself. Never give up, no matter what curveballs life throws at you. There’s always reason to keep going, even if you can’t see it. Always keep fighting, ‘till your last breath, ‘cause you’re a Winchester and you’ve absolutely got this.

If there is something I want you to remember from the scribbly mess I’ve made, it’s this:

I love you. I’m proud of you. I believe in you.

Go get ‘em, tiger.

 Bonus:

Tears streaming down velvety soft cheeks, dainty fingers gripping the book tightly, like her life depends on it, Hannah stares at the ceiling and groans at the mess she is. It’s the second time she read that last bit, and just as she thought she’d gotten over it, here she is, crying just as hard as the first.

She gets off her bed, pulling on her sweater sleeves. Feet in slippers, she makes her way down the corridor, knocking on the door, and opening when she gets an answer. Her fingers grip the doorknob, the other clutching the book, and she stares at the bed, watching as green eyes look up from his laptop.

“Why did you give this to me, you ass, you’re not dead,” she sobs, and Dean pushes his laptop to the side, arms opening wide to invite her in them.

“Aw honey,” he coos, a gentle, loving smile on his face. Hannah climbs on the bed and slides to his side, curling up in his arms. “It’s okay.” Fingers stroking her hair gently, as sobs wrack through the poor girl’s body. Dean almost feels bad.

Just then, Cas appears in the doorway, having heard Hannah’s cries. He sees the booklet clutched in her arms, her face buried in Dean’s neck, hidden behind her spring-curly hair. He makes eye contact with his husband, a knowing half-smile on his lips, as he leans on the doorway.

“I love you,” Hannah says, nose stuffed and running. “Thank you for not giving up on a relationship with me, even when you didn’t think you’ll survive.” Tears wet Dean’s eyes, as he presses a kiss on the crown of her head.

“I love you too.”

#dean fluff #dean angst #destiel #daddy!dean #destiel dads #supernatural au #spn fanfiction #supernatural #spn angst #spn fluff #oc

[derekmsheen]

The Death Of Michael Sheen PT.1

"Hi Derek, it's your Uncle Bob. I'm at the hospital and I wanted to let you know that your father finally passed away about twenty minutes ago. I'm so sorry. We're all here now, do you think you can meet us in the next hour?"

I closed my voicemail and hit "redial". The phone only made it past half of the first ring before he answered.

I told him I was just leaving a club and would rush over immediately. My stomach began to ache and my throat went dry as I thought about having to share this moment with my family. How was I supposed to react? I was suddenly overcome with a wave of confusion and mixed emotion as I tried quickly to reconcile the absolute finality of it all. This was the end.

I remember listening to "Crazy", by Gnarls Barkley, on repeat all the way to the hospital as the numbness washed over me.

I pulled up to the ticket machine at the entrance of the underground parking garage and immediately started to panic at the thought of having to take two separate elevators up to ICU. I took a deep breath, took my ticket and drove down two ramps until I found an empty spot. I walked to the first elevator, made sure I had my phone to keep me focused on something other than the thought of the doors never opening again and trapping me between floors.

The main floor lift was in much better shape than the one that went from the garage to the lobby: the doors were bigger and opened from both directions. There was room to move around and I even spotted a visible ceiling hatch, in case my nightmares came true. "Always know your exits" is a constantly playing mantra in my head, in any situation where I have little control over the space.

As the elevator doors opened to reveal the cream walls of the ICU floor, I could already see the cluster of family huddled near the end of the longish hallways. I took a breath and stepped out of the kill-box.

My Uncle saw me first and broke from the group, which included my Grandmother, my older sister, younger sister, my aunt and my cousin Lisa (who would pass away, unexpectedly two years later. I loved her so much. Very funny).

His face was pale and exhausted. He'd been at the hospital most of his free time, while my father lay in a coma.

I feel like I should explain the events leading up to my father’s fall down the rabbit hole: it's a real doozy.

The week of our wedding (August 12th, 2005) my dad called and wanted to get together beforehand. He said he had our wedding gifts and wanted to catch up: we hadn't really talked or seen much of each other since, what we both came to term as, "the thing that happened".

THE THING THAT HAPPENED:

Sometime around 1998 I was living in a small two bedroom house, close to the airport. I was working at a tiny percussion shop and teaching music in my spare time. It was about this time that my sister called to tell me that she had been diagnosed with the AIDS virus.

She cried into the phone as she told me that dad and grandpa had hung up on her after calling it a "fag disease".

I angrily called my father and I'll never forget the fight we had. I screamed at my grandfather and dad over the phone: how could they be so cruel? How could they leave her out in the cold at a time like this?

“She was your CHILD!”

I broke the handset of my phone, slamming it against a wall and the last contact I had with any of them, for a while anyway, was when my father pulled into my driveway with a pickup truck full of refrigerator sized cardboard boxes.

"You wanna be her friend? Here, you can take care of all of the shit she left behind!" as he unloaded the contents in my driveway and drove away, out of my life again. We wouldn't speak again for almost two years.

As I dragged the giant boxes into the back of my house, I realized it was mostly clothes. So many clothes.

She was a working model and had a lot of designer labels and runway pieces. I spent days trying to organize it. My sister would call me from Florida, twice a week, and tell me how her treatments were progressing. I'd started sending her money to help pay for some experimental treatments and eventually took on some extra students to help out with rent and food. I was wiring her around $300 or more a week and I was happy to get the calls where she had good news on her T-Cell count. Sometimes I got the opposite calls, where her energy was so low she could barely muster words.

Those were the nights I would weep into my hands after hanging up the phone.

After a few months, her roommate would start calling me with updates as my sister was too weak to talk. I wanted to fly out and spend some time with her, but she insisted I stay in Seattle because she didn't want me to see her at her most vulnerable. I understood and continued helping take care of the bills. She eventually wanted me to send her some of her clothes and I was able to send a few small boxes, but with Summer coming, my student load was getting cut in half and I was on a much tighter budget. A 30lb box of clothes to Florida was roughly $140 and I easily had eight monolithic boxes filled with heavy cotton, boiled wool, silk and rayon. Between the money for treatment and shipping I was starting to feel the squeeze, so I took on another job to help ease the burden.

Then I got the call.

She had passed away from complications due to the AIDS virus.

Her roommate spent an hour on the phone with me, while I cried and shared some stories. She let me know they had already planned for a small service but still could use some money for burial costs and arrangements.

I made a couple calls to my grandparents and other family to let them know what happened and to ask if they could help with the funeral costs. It was a resounding no. By this time I wasn't surprised.

The next day I cleaned out my savings and sent her a check for $2500.

I received a call the day of services, from my sister's roommate, that it was a small but lovely wake and several of her friends made it by and there were beautiful things said about her and we both cried. She thanked me for all of my help and wondered if I could send the rest of her belongings to Florida? She would need help with the rent, now that my sister was gone and she could sell a lot of the designer stuff to help cover costs. I wasn't sure how to tell her that I literally had no money left? I couldn't buy a stamp or an envelope to stick it on.

I could hear the disappointment in her voice as I calmly tried to explain just how strapped I was, but she eventually let me go and said she'd check back in a couple of weeks.

In the meantime, I got a call from my cousin Lisa who wondered if she and my older sister, Tammy, could come over and look through some of the clothes. Since my sister had officially passed between worlds, it made sense to start getting rid of the five refrigerator boxes full of clothes. I told them to ABSOLUTELY come over, take whatever fit and I began the process of separating the higher end designer labels into a pile to send to Florida.

When they came over it was a relief: the last few days had been a real downer and I was so angry that no one else in my family seemed to even give a shit.

When Lisa and Tammy arrived, the dark clouds instantly lifted and laughter filled my little house for the first time in weeks. We shared stories as they went through the boxes, holding things up to see if they fit or just making fun of some of the crazy stuff she had in her collection. They eventually helped clear a quarter of the room and the cigarette I enjoyed, when they left, was an almost religious experience.

The shock had the same effect as deep heating rub: at first it covered my whole body in an icy chill that felt almost pleasant before a stinging, inescapable hotness blistered every nerve in searing pain. I set the phone back into the cradle, calmly walked into my bedroom and punched through two sheets of drywall.

Directly preceding my drywall attack , my grandmother had called out of the blue (since the embargo, we hadn't talked in months) to let me know, calmly and with a touch of mean-spirited glee, that they were just so glad that my sister was back from Florida, safe and sound. In fact, they were so happy she was alive that they were going to help her get on her feet and co-sign a home loan for her and wasn't that just marvelous that she wasn't dead and isn't it funny that you thought she was dead and we all had a feeling she was faking it?

I managed to barely squeak out a weak protest "...but I helped pay for her funeral?" before I heard my grandfather laughing about it in the background. Then she told me that my sister was very angry at me for giving her clothes away and she thought I should reimburse her for whatever was missing.

They were almost proud of how wounded I was.

What.

The.

Fuck.

...was wrong with these people?

Needless to say, we didn't speak much after that. Until my dad reached out to me, a few days before my wedding, my contact with all of them had been limited to uncomfortable holiday visits or brief birthday calls, but my trust in them had been destroyed.

He walked up to the front door of my work with great effort and once inside he fought to catch his breath leaning on his cane. It was almost surreal to see him like this: his once hulking and powerful body had been reduced to a weakened, skeletal frame and his face was a sallow mask that appeared to be sliding from his skull. His hands were covered in inky bruises, from multiple IV lines and there was a dark purple sore under his right eye.

I hadn't realized just how much time had passed since we'd seen each other, or just how sick he really was.

"Hi son".

His voice was a gravelly, hoarse cough.

"Hey Michael" I returned. I'd started calling him by his name around this time. I knew it hurt him, but seeing him in this state, it didn't bring me that same private joy. His face registered a slight wince and he asked if I was ready to get lunch. I told my boss I'd be back in a couple of hours and I walked him out to the parking lot.

"Hey, before we go, I have something for you and Alanya. It's in the trunk. Can you help me get it out?"

"Yeah...dad" I replied with some confusion.

He pushed a button on the key fob and the Cadillac’s trunk popped open. He painfully lurched towards the car and I could see two paper bags in the otherwise empty trunk.

"I thought I'd bring your wedding presents now, because...well, I don't think I'm going to make it on Saturday?"

"Dad, if this is about Mom, she's fine. Don't let that stop you from coming" I countered. I'd had a feeling he was going to back out, if for no other reason than having to face my mother, who was still full of bitter, outright rage towards him. That thirty four year old grudge hadn't weakened one single bit, if anything, it had become more firmament, like when lava cools and hardens into rock.

He swallowed hard and spoke slowly.

"No, son, that's not it. Look, I'm going in for this surgery tomorrow and I really don't think I'm going to be out by the weekend. My doctor said I'd be ready, but I have a real bad feeling about this and I wanted to make sure I got you guys your presents in case I'm right."

Suddenly and for the first time, I saw something in my father's face that I'd never seen before: regret.

He attempted a weak smile and said “it’s towels and a coffee maker. I know it’s not exciting, but I thought it was stuff you could use.”

(Footnote: as of this writing I still have one of the towels left. I cried the day we threw the other towels away and insisted on holding onto one, just for the memory of it. The coffee maker didn’t make it.)

“Thanks dad, it’s actually exactly what we needed. Grandma must have told you what was on the registry.”

“She did. I just couldn’t afford some of the other stuff, but I wanted to make sure I got you guys something” he countered.

I took the two bags and moved them to the trunk of my car, while he backed the Caddy out and then I jumped into the front seat.

He could barely turn his head, “You wanna go to the burger place up the street?”, he asked.

“Yeah, dad. That sounds great.”

We didn’t speak much, but it was a pleasant lunch.

It was the last time I would ever see him walk again.

The day before my wedding my Uncle called to tell me my dad had complications after his surgery, which I’d just discovered was a routine angioplasty. The complications in question didn’t occur during the surgery, but after when he was being wheeled to ICU. Apparently the nurse decided to take a shortcut through an area under construction. As my father groggily protested, demanding he be secured in the chair, she accidentally hit an obstacle and sent him

Headfirst down two very long flights of stairs. He suffered spinal injuries and required microsurgery to repair the intense fracture of his skull. The prognosis at the time was not good: paralysis from the neck down, speech and vision problems, memory loss. The works.

This would only be the beginning of a nearly unbelievable series of events.

Mere days after my wife and I returned from our honeymoon, I received a call from my Uncle (by this point he would be the only one to call me anymore if there was an emergency. Of which there would be several more) informing me that there had been another accident that had sent my dad back into emergency surgery. Apparently one of the orderlies neglected to secure the side rails and he rolled directly out of bed and his head hit the corner of a side table, before landing on his back. His neck snapped when he hit the table, with the added bonus of re-fracturing his skull, not to mention undoing the delicate spinal fusion surgery when he hit the floor.

In other words: he was officially a fucking mess.

Alanya and I immediately raced down to the hospital, where the rest of the family was. She could visibly see just how agitated I suddenly became when the prospect of having to share space with them was presented. She kept reminding me to focus on my uncle and my dad.

“Remember, it’s not about them. It’s about him” she would keep chanting, over and over like a mantra. Somehow the universe heard her and decided it would be super cool if we all showed up at the exact same time so we could cram into the same series of elevators together.

She secretly grabbed my hand and let me squeeze most of the blood out of her’s. My neck and back were soaked with perspiration by the time the final elevator door opened and I nearly, cartoonishly lunged past my family in order to kiss the floor.

Have I mentioned that I don’t do well in hospitals? Hospitals and elevators.

The entire clan made their way, loudly, down the otherwise serene hallways. Past the rooms of the sleeping, the dying, the infirm, and the attending physician stopped to give us a heads up. Michael had massive spinal and neck injuries and his speech was going to be slow, but he was already making a faster recovery than any of them expected. There were sure to be long term effects as a result of this last round of injuries.

One of those was that he would most certainly be a quadriplegic.

When we made our way to his room I thought I was prepared, but nothing could be further from the truth. His head was covered with stitches and rested inside a metal halo, to keep his spine straight and his head from moving. He looked even thinner than the last time I’d seen him, especially his arms and legs. Christ, it hadn’t even been that long since I’d seen him and he looked like a completely different person and to see him so helpless was hard for me reconcile. He had survived so many times and with an unmitigated streak of luck usually only reserved for fictional movie characters, whose salvation is only written as a plot device to make the hero seem invulnerable. Yet, here he was, broken and handicapped by a flight of stairs and a lapse of judgement.

I suddenly realized the depth of what true comedy really meant:

Life is a series of random circumstances delegated by nothing and with no design, and although there seems to be a pattern, it’s really just our mind’s way of protecting us from the fabric of pure chaos.

Or something like that.

He tried to smile and shared a few platitudes about how the Lord has a plan for him and no matter what the outcome was, he’d just trust in him no matter what his will was. Then, when everyone left the room, he asked me to take him outside and sneak him a cigarette. I had an orderly help him into a wheelchair and Alanya and I wheeled him down the hall, into an elevator and out to the smoking terrace. I had to hold the cigarette in his mouth for him and it seemed so surreal to again help my father break the rules, simply because he asked me and I still desperately seeked that approval from him. When I wheeled him back, his nurse could smell the smoke on him. She took me into the hall to dress me down: his lung capacity was weak, his immune system was lowered and he’d just had minor heart surgery. I tried to appear sincere and apologetic, but underneath, I felt like it was one of the last cigarettes we would smoke together.

I quit a month later, a week before they found him in a coma.

At some point during his convalescence, the hospital administrators (I’m assuming this) felt he was becoming a liability and decided a sound course of action was to move him to a full time nursing facility. His condition had been slowly deteriorating during his stay in ICU and so it was decided, without contacting the family, to move him to a state run home.

This predates Yelp, however. Had they had that handy application to research the quality of the place they’d decided to ship him to, they may have reconsidered. Especially since the Attorney General was already investigating the staff for patient abuse and insurance fraud.

Once they started questioning the why and where of what they had done with my father, the hospital decided to obfuscate Instead of volunteer, which caused a weeks long delay in tracking him down.

Here’s where it all goes off the rails...

Eventually, my grandmother finally succeeded in finding his location and with a sheriff’s deputy present, they found his room bolted shut with a padlock from the outside. Once removed, they opened the door and the smell of rot immediately washed through the hallway in waves of sickness and nausea, followed by flies. Lots of flies.

The curtains were drawn and daylight struggled to punch through the holes in the ratted fabric, as they made their way to the hospital bed where Michael lay on his back on a hospital sheet, now yellowed with sweat and blackened with dried human waste. He was unresponsive and when the ambulance arrived, the paramedics noted that his diaper appeared to have been last changed a couple of weeks prior. The decay was so bad that parts of the sheet and diaper had fused to his skin and the flies had been feeding and laying eggs on and in him. The final prognosis, once he was returned to ICU, was that the necrosis caused by the lack of care had created a staph infection that was now in his bone marrow.

It was very unlikely that he would recover, but they kept him on life support for a few weeks in the hopes that his condition might improve.

I only visited him once during this period. I read a copy of Time magazine to him, as suggested by his attending nurse. She told me that coma patients were sometimes very aware of their surroundings and that any positive stimulus might help them recover.

About ten minutes into an article about Guantanamo, my dad opened his eyes and looked at me. He swallowed and licked his lips, trying to bring moisture back to his mouth in an attempt to communicate. I just sat, stunned, as he struggled to speak.

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

71- and what was ur fave thing about each of them? and for the us, can you do states??

71: Countries you’ve visited?

United States

PennsylvaniaI love the fact that in PA, you just can’t escape the trees. The forest is everywhere. Deal with it.

New YorkI’ve only been to New York a couple of times, and each of those times was to the Big Apple. My favorite thing about NYC I think is how no one bats an eye your way. No one asks questions, and it’s kind of great. (That’s the image I got anyway).

New JerseyNew Jersey is kind of one of those layover states for me- a place that I’m only passing through to get somewhere else. But I did have the chance to stay at my roommate’s house when we were getting ready to head to Newark to fly to London. She’s the granddaughter of some really rich dude- Her house is big enough to fit my entire village in, no lie. She took us to her local mall, and I was faced with the blooming reality that there are actually people out there that can spend $3785 on a single pair of shoes and not bat an eye. She is among those. But she also now knows how to thrift shop like a boss, and I think we really balanced each other out in that end.

MarylandI’ve only driven through Maryland, sadly. But as it stands now, my favorite part is probably that it’s the state where one of my homies lives. Oh! And the Baltimore Barnes and Noble! They had a kickass train set in their children’s section, and I spent a good portion of my afternoon there. Got a full set of Shakespeare there~

VirginiaI’ve been to Virginia once in my life, and that was for my high school senior class trip. We hit up Busch Gardens (where I rode my first upside down roller coaster ever), Virginia Beach (my first time seeing the ocean, where I decided to run as far in as physically possible while wearing jeans and all my outer layers), and Norfolk (where I and my best friend hopped aboard a wedding cruise, were mistaken as wedding guests, and basically completely avoided our classmates as we danced with the wedding party and shared stories under the stars with the bridesmaids.) For Virginia- it was the memories. Good, good memories. But mostly Busch Gardens. I love the way that park is set up; each section is based off another country. Highly recommend the pretzels in their Germany, by the way. And check out the Loch Ness Monster- it goes into a tower and- Yes. Terrifying. Love it.

United Kingdom

EnglandMy beautiful, precious England. Lived in the centre of Westminster for about six months, and I had never been happier. I did get to visit a few places outside of London- Rochester, Nottingham, Sherwood, Bath, Dover, Canterbury, Stonehenge- but not as many as I would have liked. For England as a whole, I adored how easy it was to travel around the country- the public transportation there is leagues beyond anything the US could hope to find within the next decade. As for London- I feel I’m a bit more of an expert on this from living there. London- Despite being one of the bigger cities in the world, it never felt crowded? I only was overwhelmed by the size in my first week (then I explored a bit and realised it’s honestly one of the easiest cities I’ve ever had to navigate), My favorite part about England was that, no matter where I was in the country, despite being completely different soil (sometimes brick red, sometimes white chalk), it always felt like I was home. I’ve never fallen in love with a human, but the emotions I feel in regards to London- I find it’s comparible. I didn’t want to leave. I’ve been stateside for over 2 years now, and every day my heart still pangs in longing for the Belgian waffles outside Baker Street station, the roasted chestnuts that are floating around between Tate Modern and the Millenium Bridge, the annoying voice of the lady at Charing Cross always reminding you to “mind the gap,” the houseboats of the Romani in Regent’s canal, Little Venice, the way the hot cocoa from Pret a Manger is so rich that it just melts in your mouth, the peppercorn sauce from Garfunkle’s, the secret gardens in Regent’s Park, the divine massages that come with every new hair style, the salt in the air, the brilliant colours alligning the Queen’s Walk (whether you’re heading towards Southwark or Victoria), and the constant, spontaneous hailstorms that go totally vertical if you’re on Westiminster Bridge.London- London was honestly a dream come true, and as the real world creeps ever closer, I’m becoming more resigned to never having the opportunity to go there again.

ScotlandI only got to spend a couple of days in Aberdeen. We three (my roommate, her boyfriend, and myself) were going to visit Edinborough, but after comparing costs, we realised it was way cheaper to rent an apartment in the coastal city than it was to rent individual beds in the latter. We explored the coast, found a mall, saw a film, I flirted with a cop, befriended a couple of cats, discovered an abandoned castle- Scotland was the most peaceful place I have ever been. I would be entirely content with a small flat somewhere in Aberdeen- The library was very much like one in one of our coal towns, the theatre is active, the shopping district is lively, Primark of course has wonderful selections, and there is a lovely deli/cafe hidden away that makes the best homemade lollis I have ever tasted.

France

I think I would have enjoyed France a lot more if I hadn’t gone in the spring. As it was, I visited Paris (and Versailles!) during my Easter Break, and for the first two days, I was extremely disappointed. Paris itself is amazing; the food at any pop-up stand is to die for (totally recommend the Croque Monsieur served at the open-air stands in Jardins de Tuileries!), you can buy really fucking good wine at any grocery store for less than 10 quid, and there are little secret nooks and crannies you would never expect. However, the city itself smells like shit, and the homeless population is almost overwhelming. It was by far not the cleanest city I toured while in Europe, but it was definitely the… There is gold in most of the buildings, and a certain romanticism that is purely French in itself. My third day, the sun was out, and I did most of my exploration then. If you abandon the Metro, you’ll find gold (literally). You just have to… Learn to ignore the negatives and appreciate the positives. Perhaps one day I’ll return, and give her another chance. When that happens, I’ll take someone with me.

Belgium

Belgium was quiet, there were swans everywhere, I met at least four cats in each of the three cities I explored, and it’s the perfect blend of Germanic architecture and French linguistics to make my heart skip a beat. In Ypres, I found some really cool looking in-ground huts, and a giant wooden cat sculpture in the town square (all cobblestones, by the way). My afternoon was complete when I saw a tractor just roll on through the main streets like it was a normal thing. In Oostende, I was nearly blown into the sea by a squall and found the most romantic little park I’ve ever come across. In Brugge, I danced with an older gentleman playing an accordian, sampled more chocolate than should be tolerated, threw a bottle of beer at a party I wasn’t even invited to, and accidentally found a thrift store and befriended the elderly couple who managed it. I also purchased a watercolor from a local artist and his fiance, both of whom I’m still penpals with to this day. Belgium was quiet, peaceful, and perhaps the most genuinely friendly of countries I’ve wandered.

Netherlands

Another in which I went with my roomie and her boyfriend. We stayed in Amsterdam, and oooh boy there were some moments. At one store, I was mistaken for a local and had a gentleman start talking to me in Dutch. We toured the Jewish Historical Museum; it was the first time I had seen my roomie brought to tears simply by being in a room. There was a carnival in the Red Light District, and we bought a cotton candy that was bigger than our three heads combined. I loved Amsterdam because it was probably one of the most laid-back, cleanest places I have ever seen.

Italy

Spent my birthday in Rome, took a train to Venice. Rome is easily walkable, but be warned that it’s mostly cobblestones and there are a lot of hilly spots; don’t wear shoes you haven’t broken in yet, no matter how cute they are. Don’t take pictures with the guys dressed up; they’ll try to charge you about 5 quid per photo. If you’re craving pizza, there is a tiny, almost invisible pizzeria just across the road from the Spanish Steps. Buy yourself a whole pie; it’s worth the 8 quid. I liked Rome for the mere fact that it felt like a foreign city. It had distinctly contemporary aspects to it, but the orange trees, the heat, the dry air- that was all a new experience for me. I honestly wish I had been there for more than a day. As for Venice- we (my roomie’s bf and me- We scored a deal on Groupon for flights, hotes, train ride for Rome and Venice for two, and we met up with my roomie in Venice with her folks, who had taken her to Florence and Naples) splurged on 1 euro gelato, the best damn apples I have ever found, really bad films- That was just the first night. Our train ride had us sitting across two glorious lads from Brighton- I don’t think they actually had any luggage; their sacks were filled with at least five bottles of wine and half the breakfast buffet. The second day in Venice, we toured the city, moved from our hotel to a private apartment that my roomie’s parents rented, and I discovered the joys of premade toast with nutella, Italian bridal showers, and befriending the local fishermen. The food, the culture, the drinks- well, the wine. I will never do limoncello again in this lifetime. The absynthe in Paris was leagues better, and that’s saying something.- Venice is- There’s something almost mystical about the place. The water trickles all around you, and the wind whispers in old dusty walls. It’s a complete maze, and some corners you turn into have no ending, no life. And’s almost completely walking, which only adds to the whimsy. I- Venice was magical, and I hope I can return to explore on my own before she succumbs to the sea.

Vatican City

Stopped by while in Rome, and I was super disappointed by the hellishly long queue waiting to go into the Chapel. My traveling buddy and I instead opted to explore the mini city within the tiny nation. We found the ATM that has Latin as an option, and played a small round of catch with a young Swiss boy who was there with his grandparents. I feel bad as I don’t really have much feedback on Vatican City, but I can say at least the exterior architecture is ace.

Spain

Oh Spain. Where to begin? Barcelona houses the best gelato out of all the cities I toured (with a small exception to the Gelati Leche I found in Rome, but it still dominates in Vanilla and Chocolate.) The beach is wonderful, the waters were so blue it was almost like looking at the sky again. Our Irish buddy was with us, and it was the first time someone taunted me enough to swim out into the sea deep enough that I could no longer touch the bottom. Again, I always underestimate how much I like being in water, so I didn’t pack a change of clothes that first day. We did do some exploring and some shopping, but the best part after the hours spent on the beach was finding an Italian restaurant that was playing Spice Girls’ music videos in the background, while the owners spoke in French. Spain was the last trip I did while abroad, and the flight home was to Finals Week, and my last week in London. Our flight home brought with it the sunrise over France, knowledge that I was coming to a new chapter of my life, one I still haven’t written yet. But the greatest and most transformative moment came after we had returned.Traffic was fucking shite man. I didn’t get back to school until about halfway through my one history final, so late that I didn’t even go to my room. I hauled ass in with my big backpack, my notes in my free hand, panic written on my face, desperation in my words. Unofrtunately, the professor could not by contract allow me to take the exam. However, in a private meeting later, he asked me to confide what grade I needed to earn full credits back in the States. On account of my earlier performance, he gave me the grade, assured me that I “would have gotten an A anyway; I know you know your history,” and only gave me a brief chiding on poorly timed scheduling.Somehow though, I didn’t mind. I should have been more upset about missing an exam- a Final, no less!- but in comparison to everything I had done that weekend-Spain taught me that sometimes in life, there will be conflicting paths. Both will give you an opportunity, but it’s up to you to decide which one to take. I chose the path that gave me more stories to tell, gave me memories of soft sand and amazing french fries and complimenting strangers over breakfast, gave me a hat and a hand-painted fan that I couldn’t have found anywhere else. I chose to follow my heart, and while I may not have gained the A I wanted for that module, I earned something that can never be replaced.Spain taught me that life is short, and while there are goals you will want to reach, don’t push aside those chances to live a little.In The EndI miss traveling. I want to see more of the US, I want to visit friends and family in Ukraine, Phillipines, Louisiana, Madagascar, Russia, Germany, and Brazil. But for now, I’m here. For now, I’m bettering myself in the small ways. The world is so much bigger and far more wonderful than you could even begin to imagine. I may never see Nepal or Alaska, I might never get a chance to explore the Amazon or wander Kenya. But what I can do is keep collecting each memory, every moment, keep it all close to my heart. Because those little moments?

Those are what make the adventure truly amazing.

[barry429484077-blog]

mature chat sites - 5 Mature Lesbian Seduction Stories Mistakes That Will Cost You $1m Over The.

So, my girlfriend was out of town. In fact she was out of the entire country. She had been gone six weeks at the time and wasn’t going to be back for another six. She had been accepted for an Erasmus term which meant she got to spend twelve weeks studying in Italy. I was delighted for her. The only issue I had with the plan was that it meant there would be no sex for almost three months. I tried to keep busy so my mind would be occupied and I had been ‘sorting myself out’ but the longer time went on the more difficult it got and things that would make me horny seemed to be seeking me out. A couple of the lads had arrived back in town. We had planned our holidays so that we could have the time off together to catch up. Since college finished last year we had been growing steadily apart so when we had an opportunity to get together we went all out. We met back in our local and sat in our usual spot. The conversation of turned from work to sport to absent friends and family to women and memories from school. The lights flashed and before we knew it last call was to be ordered. We all decided that the night was still young so we moved on to a club. It was a student night which meant the place was crawling with people but after a few years going through those doors we had gotten to know the door man who just waved us through. It had been a long time since I had drank shots and just as long since I had danced in a club but tonight I was doing both. Some of the lads were wild on the dance-floor. The chatty ones had talked their way into a group of strangers with the help of some liquid confidence. One of my friends had one too many and we figured it would be best to call him a cab. The single boys were on a roll that night, each of them finding a girl on the dance-floor and a corner of the club for a little privacy. With my perception dropping with every shot I didn’t even notice that I had been left by myself on the dance-floor. Well, I wasn’t entirely alone. A young brunette in a silver dress danced alone in front of me. She had been dancing with the girls who were now sitting with my friends. I couldn’t help but stare at her hips swaying back and forth to the beat of the music. When I eventually raised my eyes I saw that she was looking back at me over her left shoulder. She threw me a cute smile and turned around to me. We danced together for a short time before somebody bumped into the back of her or into the back of me. Whichever happened all I knew was our faces were just inches apart. I could smell her perfume as she threw her head back and placed her arms on my shoulders. I felt her thighs grind up the leg of my jeans until her dress lifted up slightly. My cock was pressed to the front of my pants at this stage but I felt that it had been like that for the past six weeks. In my peripheral vision I saw somebody trying to make eye contact with me. I turned and locked eyes with Amy. My girlfriend’s younger sister. She was by the entrance as if she had just arrived. She shot me an unknown expression and walked away in the direction of the bar. I never sobered up quicker in my life. I caught this girl by the hips and pushed past her in the direction Amy went. Shit, what had she seen? What was I doing? Was she contacting Claire right now? I found her at the bar counter with her back to me. Her straight, blonde hair fell softly on her naked back. The baby blue dress she was wearing hugged her body tightly and what a body it was. Her tits were bigger than her older sisters. They were at least a D-cup. Her ass was not quite as nice but held a small firm shape. Her long, athletic legs were even more defined tonight than usual because of her high heels. I had always thought she was quite sexy and I was clearly not the only one because she got a lot of attention from boys. It was her eyes that really made me like her though. She had large, light-blue eyes that always had a certain look in them. It was a look she shared with her sister except I only saw it in Claire’s eyes when she was looking up from her knees with the head of my cock in her mouth. A look that said "I know I’m a naughty girl." Amy always had this look and it made me really curious about fucking her. "Hey Amy," I said putting a hand on her back. "Heya," she answered with a hug "I haven’t seen you in ages. Just because Claire’s gone doesn’t mean we can’t hang out." I bought us both a drink and we sat at a table to catch up. She didn’t bring up the girl from the dance-floor and she didn’t seem pissed so maybe she hadn’t seen anything. I wasn’t entirely convinced. I hadn’t noticed how low cut her dress was until we sat down. You could see she wasn’t wearing a bra and her tits looked ready the burst out of the dress. After a bit of chat about frivolous things I noticed her getting distracted by something over my shoulder. "Oh shit…" I saw her mouth. "What is it?" I asked. "Well do you remember Tom?" "Your ex?" I had never met him but Claire had spent many nights on the phone consoling her sister both before and after the break up. It was a very messy affair. "Yeah, well he’s just after walking in with some slut. He knew I’d be here tonight. Definitely just trying to make me jealous. Ugh, look at her! You can tell it’s a push-up from here and…" "Ok," I chuckled "so what are you going to do about it?" She sulked for a moment before a look of realisation flashed across her face. "Do me a favour." She wasn’t asking. "Pretend to be here with me tonight. Like a new boyfriend or something. You don’t have to do anything. Just dance with me and hold my hand and stuff." I wasn’t sure about it. I had seen the way Amy danced with boys. She must have seen the indecision on my face. "Come on," she pleaded "you’ll be doing me a big favour and it’ll mean there won’t be any other girls tempting you here tonight." She winked and gave a cheeky smile when she said this last part. What did she mean by that? Was she referring to the girl on the dance-floor or was it just a coincidence. If she had seen something then I thought it best to not annoy her while she wasn’t mentioning it. I agreed. Amy jumped blonde milf with big ass up and grabbed my hand, pulling me towards to dance-floor. We danced for a few songs until she leaned in and whispered in my ear "That’s Tom, by the DJ." I saw the couple she was gesturing to. The girl he was with looked very drunk and had a skirt on that only covered half her ass. From where we were dancing he could definitely see us and had made sure we could see them. What a douchebag. "Come on then," I said to Amy "let’s make him jealous." She wrapped her arms around my neck and started swinging her hips to the side. I put my hands on her waist and pulled her in closer. "Is he looking?" she asked. I glanced quickly over and Tom was staring furiously at his ex. "Can’t stop staring," I replied. I really didn’t like the look of this guy and I had heard how upset he had made Amy. I really wanted to annoy him. At least that’s what I told myself but truth be told my cock was doing most of my thinking at that stage. Without thinking I grabbed her ass in my right hand and pulled her into me. Her eyes widened and then with a smile she asked "Is he angry?" I didn’t need to answer because he turned around and saw for herself. My mind was going a hundred miles an hour. Amy was rubbing her ass all over my crotch and making my cock rock hard. He left arm reached up and she ran her fingers through my hair all the while I was staring over her shoulder and watching her tits bouncing. It had been so long since I had sex I felt I could have came right there and then. Amy dropped down low and then slowly came back up pressing her ass hard into the front of my jeans. I was like a wild animal at this stage. I spun her around and pulled her in close so her tits flattened against my chest. I could feel her breathing heavily and I stared into her eyes and saw that look which I took to mean that she was dripping between her legs. She put on hand on the back of my head and the other on the back of my neck. There was no need to explain anymore. Her mouth found mine a second later and I tasted her tongue. I grabbed her ass with both hands a squeezed her little cheeks. She held my lower lip between her teeth and I felt her hand slip down and hold my cock through my pants. I stuck my tongue into her mouth again and she squeezed my shaft. I had to have her. I lead her through the crowd until I found a fire exit. We burst out into a deserted corridor that I imagined would only be used in the case of an emergency. I pushed her up against the wall and we began kissing again. My hands found the bottom of her dress and I pulled it up exposing her ass. As my hand fell between her legs I expected to feel lace but instead was met with flesh. I smiled and so did she biting her lower lip. "Don’t want to slow things down," she joked. Her pussy was soaking wet and my fingers slid inside her with almost no resistance whatsoever. First my middle finger, then my ring. I could hear her moans now as the music had become muffled. I pushed them in as far as they would go and began massaging her clit with my thumb. She pulled the front of her dress to the sides and pinched her nipples between her forefinger and thumb. Her moans grew loud and more intense. I was now rubbing her clit faster and pulling my two fingers back towards myself trying to find her g-spot. One of her hands grabbed the back of my neck hard and I knew she was close. I rubbed her clit fiercely and the energy drained from her entire body with one loud groan. She held herself up by holding onto me. She was sweating and out of breath. She looked up at me and I knew we weren’t finished. "Come back with me," she said. No more than two minutes later we were outside and waving down a taxi. She gave the address of the house she was renting for the college term as we sat into the back. As soon as we took off we were kissing again. I didn’t want to draw attention so I pulled back slightly. It was as though Amy was in a trance. Her hand reached for my zipper and started to open my pants. "What are you doing?" I asked in a whisper. She didn’t answer. Instead she just giggled and pulled my cock out through my fly. There was no hesitation from her. She opened her mouth and tried to swallow the entire thing. My eight inches were slightly too much for her. It had been so long since anybody had touched my cock besides myself that I almost blew my load. The only thing that stopped me was the concern that the driver would discover what was happening in the back seat of his taxi. Amy took my shaft in one hand and swirled her tongue around the head. She flicked her tongue over the hole before taking the head into her mouth. Her saliva began to drip from her mouth and was now running down the underside of my cock. She caught it with her tongue and ran it flat up my length. She started to bob her head up and down slowly and pumped the shaft with her hand. She twisted her hand slightly and worked as much as she could take in between thick milf galleries her lips. Every time my head hit the back of her throat felt incredible. Her pace quickened and I pulled her hair up into a ponytail. I bucked my hips and began to fuck her mouth. I knew I was a about to cum and Amy knew it too. I could feel it stirring in my balls and she was pumping my cock wildly into her mouth. I tried to save the moment for as long as I could because after such a drought I knew it was going to be amazing. When I reached the point of no return I pushed down on the back of Amy’s head and emptied my load down her throat. She didn’t gag and I tried my hardest not to make a sound. After I released my grip she made sure she squeezed every drop out and sat up. I put my cock back in my pants and I heard Amy tell the cab driver which house number. Claire had never swallowed my cum before and the fact the Amy just had turned my on even more. I was getting hard again by the time I was getting out of the taxi. "Is there anyone else here?" I asked as Amy unlocked the door. "No, they all went home for the weekend. It would have been just me tonight. All alone." She somehow managed to make everything sound sexy. She ran up the stairs undressing as she went. She kicked her heels off and pulled her dress over her head. By the time she reached the top she was completely naked. She turned around. "Whenever you’re ready," she teased and disappeared into a bedroom. For a very brief moment I re-evaluated the situation. I was about to go upstairs and fuck my girlfriend’s little sister. I felt so guilty but the arousal was taking priority. She had already sucked my cock so I was already in trouble. I started up the stairs and followed suit by undressing as I went. I pushed the door open and Amy sat upright on her bed, her legs to one side and curled up underneath her. Her hair was in a mess and hanging between her teeth was a condom packet. If my cock was half limp before it was hard as steel now. As I marched over to the bed she got onto all fours and crawled towards me. She tore the packet open and took out the condom. With her other hand she grabbed my cock and began to slowly stroke it. "I have listened to you fucking Claire you know. I could always hear her moaning even when you two were trying to be quiet. She always looked so happy in the mornings when you stayed the night so I knew you must have been a good fuck." Her dirty talk was driving me mad. "Every now and then I would pretend to be clueless about something and ask her how it works just to get some details of how you fuck her. I always wondered did you know how much you turned me on. Did you ever think that whenever we would go to the beach or you would take a shower in our house or made my sister cum when you thought the house was empty that I would have to fuck myself afterwards pretending it was who doing it?" As she said this she rolled the condom onto my cock. I had no idea that she had ever looked at me this way. She turned around and stuck her ass up in the air. She put her face to the bed and her palms flat down. I could see the drops of wetness glistening between her pussy lips. She looked back at me and said two words. "Take me." I ran my head up and down her pussy lips. I wanted to tease her before giving her what she wanted. I moved excruciatingly slowly up and down, up and down. I resisted the urge to just pound it into software assurance maturity model her because I knew it would make the initial entry more intense. "Ooooh, fuck," she moaned "just fuck me, just fuck me." Not just yet. I rubbed her quicker with my dick. "Holy shit, I’m so wet. Oooooooohhh that feels so good. Oh my god, please fuck me. Oh god, oh god." I could see her hands grabbing fistfuls of the covers. "Oh fuck, oh fuck I’m so close. I’m gonna- oooooohhhh!" I thrust into her. In case you have almost any queries relating to exactly where along with the way to employ mature lesbian porn video, you are able to email us on our own website. Her wetness allowed me to push my whole member inside her. The force made her lift her head up of the bed and arch her back. "Oooooohhhhhhh fuuuuuucccckkk! I’m cuuuuummmmminngg!" she screamed in orgasm. I caught the back of her head and pushed it back down. I started to thrust in and out of her. Each time I took my entire cock out except for the head before shoving the whole thing back inside her tight cunt. I hooked my hands underneath her hips and began to fuck her hard. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! That. Feels. So. Good! Fuck. Me. Harder!" each word coming as I slammed my shaft into her. Her petite frame made it easy for me to manhandle her and she was loving it. I pulled her pussy back onto my cock and with every thrust another moan. The sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the room as I fucked my girlfriend’s sister. I could feel her pussy lips tightening around my cock and I knew she was about to cum again. Her hand was rubbing her clit at great speed and I wanted to hold out so that she could finish. I wasn’t sure if I could because I could feel myself getting close. "I’m going to cum," I gasped breathless. "Cum for me," she moaned back "Do it!" I picked up my pace and started to go as fast as I could. The tips of her fingers were brushing the underside of my cock. He moans were getting louder and she more out of breath. With one final release her lips squeezed around my cock tightly. This was too much for me and I came hard. I pulled her hips back into me which I don’t think she was expecting because she let out a little gasp. Then I pushed her off my cock and we both collapsed onto the bed. After regaining her breath she told me I could spend the night. I agreed even though my mind was a whirlwind after what had just happened. "Well I think we definitely made Tom jealous," she giggled before we both went to sleep. 1wEAnms 4NFSW 1LwBrD8 1LwBrD8