#''YOU CAN TAKE YOUR FISH AND SHOVE THEM SOMEWHERE UNPLEASANT'' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

onecanonlife · 3 years

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careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 7,295

Chapter Warnings: swearing, injury, blood, aftermath of (temporary) character death, mild disassociation, slight s.uicidal ideation, references to past abuse

Chapter Summary: The emotional fallout is intense, but they don’t have time to stop and deal with it. Wilbur doesn’t particularly like where they decide to hole up, but beggars can’t be choosers.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Twelve: nowhere to run

The sun is too bright in his eyes. Too bright, and wrong, somehow, that it should be shining like this. Should still be shining, after the loss they’ve just suffered, after watching his brother crumple to dust in front of him. But the sun hardly cares for things like that, so they all stumble out of the hole in the ground that serves as the entrance to the spider spawner and beyond, and the daylight surrounds them, unforgiving.

“Where do we go, what do we do,” Tubbo is chanting, and Ranboo is muttering under his breath, a continuous litany of, “I can’t believe he’s gone, I can’t believe that happened—” His own lips feel glued shut, his throat devoid of sound. His skin buzzes.

(the two images interpose: Techno hanging from the vine, head at an unnatural angle, Techno wavering on his feet, blood pouring from his throat, and there is a flash of light and there is ash all at once, as if the first caused the second, as if instead of healing him, shoving his soul back into a body clinging to life, the totem burned him up from the inside out, and unlike the phoenix there was no rebirth)

“We can’t stay here,” Puffy says. Her eyes are wide, and her hands are shaking, but her voice has the same determined cant to it as it always does. “We need somewhere to hole up.”

“And where is that supposed to be?” Sapnap demands. His breathing is unsteady. “Where the fuck are we supposed to go after that? Where isn’t the thing gonna be able to reach? With, with Dream being, being, what even was that? Why was he—how was he—?” He breaks off, sparks crackling at his fingertips, and his face is a mask of distress, of questions

(was he always like that and did I not see or did something happen to him did something make him like that is that my friend or is there something inside of him something behind his eyes that is not him at all and if that is the case how did I not notice how did I not notice how did I not save him)

that Wilbur feels he recognizes. Or would, if he let himself. If he let himself care.

His eyes drift over to Phil. Phil, who stands silently, blood dripping from his wings, a thousand old injuries reopened by thrashing thorns. Who stands with Tommy in his arms, Tommy, who is curled up as tightly as he can reasonably manage, his face tucked into Phil’s shirt. Trembling. Quiet.

(he will die and I will kill him, the Egg says, and I have already begun, and you cannot protect him, you do not have the strength, except by what I can grant you)

“Church Prime,” Puffy says. “It’s the only place that might be safe.”

“Who’s to say it would be?” Sapnap snaps. “You saw it in there! The vines have never moved like that before, and Prime knows what else it can do now. And maybe the Egg wouldn’t be able to get in, but who’s to say that would stop—” He cuts off again, face contorting.

His leg is beginning to hurt, now. All of him is, actually, now that his adrenaline is wearing thin, now that the horror is sinking in, but it’s concentrated in his leg in particular, and he looks down to see that his left pant leg is all but shredded, blood dripping down in steady streams and splattering on the grass by his feet. The vines got him worse than he thought, then, and he bites his lip against the sting.

He’s had worse, though. He’s had so much worse. This is practically nothing, and Puffy and Sapnap are still arguing, and Tubbo and Ranboo are huddled together, eyeing the vines around them with deep suspicion, unmoving as they are just yet, and Phil is silent, and he’s going to stay silent, because Wilbur recognizes all too well the strain in his eyes, the way he’s holding onto Tommy with a death grip.

(he’s watched two of his sons die, now, and Techno will be back, will still have two lives left, but that does not heal the hurt, does not assuage the pain of seeing your brother, your son, your family die in front of your eyes before you can lift a finger to stop it, and Phil’s eyes shine with a grief almost beyond what Wilbur can understand. except he understands all too well, in the end)

He’s had worse, and someone needs to step up.

(the old mantle settles across his shoulders, and if he closes his eyes it’s like nothing’s changed at all, and the sun sets on the city he is determined to give everything for, still standing, walls still strong)

“Boxed in like a fish,” he croaks, and Puffy and Sapnap turn to him as one. “That’s what we’ll be, if we go to Church Prime. Whether it protects us in the moment of not won’t matter once we run out of supplies. We need somewhere better situated. Somewhere we can defend, that might withstand a siege, if it comes to it.”

Puffy makes a frustrated gesture. “I’m open to suggestions,” she says. “The prison, maybe, if we have to? We could probably keep people out as easily as—ah, shit, Sam.” She pulls her communicator out and taps out a quick message, and then frowns. “It’s telling me it can’t go through. Why isn’t it going through? Sam had all three lives, he should be—”

“Admins can read private messages,” Phil murmurs. “Wouldn’t surprise me if Dream could fuck with the whole system, whatever the fuck he is.”

Wilbur reads between the lines. Techno, for the moment, is unreachable. He processes the information and moves on, refusing to let it get to him, refusing to let himself be overpowered by

(Techno’s unreachable Techno’s unreachable Techno’s respawned and he’s on his own and they can’t talk to him can’t get to him quickly and what if something went wrong what if something happened)

emotions.

“Sam will make his way to us,” he says. “I’m vetoing the prison. Like hell are we staying in there. Other thoughts?”

“What gives you vetoing power?” Sapnap asks.

“Somebody needs to make a decision,” he says, and it is with strength he doesn’t feel, confidence he is only pretending at, a force of command that comes from some unknown place, since he feels as though he is miles away from himself, “and I don’t see you coming up with anything. Either help or stop complaining.”

Sapnap’s face reddens, and he opens his mouth, to argue, no doubt, but then Ranboo breaks in with, “Foolish, maybe?” and hunches his shoulders when attention turns to him. “Sorry, it’s just, I’m pretty sure Foolish isn’t, um, a big fan of the Egg or anything, so maybe he could help?”

Wilbur has no idea who the fuck Foolish is.

“Nah, he’s too far out,” Tubbo says. “It’ll take ages to get to his place. And we need somewhere close, but not too close, so we still have a good place to fight back from, right, Wilbur? If we leave now, the Egg’ll just take over the whole SMP with nothing to stop it.”

“My thoughts exactly, Tubbo,” he says, and again, it is just like the old days, and they are standing atop the L’Manberg walls, and Tubbo has just said something particularly clever, and warmth and pride curl in him before he remembers where they are, what they’re doing. They need to decide, and soon. They’re just hanging around near the entrance, and sooner or later, someone’s going to come after them, whether they let them go at first or not. “Is there anyone else who has a good position, location-wise and resource-wise?”

“Wait,” Puffy says. “Eret’s castle.”

“Eret’s castle doesn’t have doors,” Sapnap says.

“No, but I stopped by earlier to see if they wanted to join us,” Puffy says. “They weren’t there, but the grounds were completely free of vines. And sure, there aren’t any doors, but between all of us, I’m sure we could make some. Eret’s got plenty of supplies, last I checked.”

Eret. The name evokes a wealth of associations, most of them unpleasant. His first instinct is to reject this idea like the last, to avoid placing their lives in the hands of one who has already betrayed him, who led them all into a death trap, who almost ended their revolution in one fell swoop. But Puffy has a point. Eret’s castle ticks all the right boxes: it’s defendable, well-supplied, and if there are no vines to clear, all the better. They’ll have to build doors, but between the lot of them, that’s easily manageable.

(a wealth of associations and many unpleasant but there is Eret offering them supplies offering their fragile rebellion help and they tried so dearly to redeem themself and he could not have seen that then wrapped in his own shadows as he was but perhaps he can see it now perhaps he can better appreciate it, give a little more benefit of the doubt, and if he is given a second chance after everything after committing the worst crime of all then who is he to deny them absolution?)

(another memory, more blurry: he is scared but stalwart as they go through the motions, and he does not want to die, is terrified of that endless void, but he knows that the server needs a leader and his living self must be that leader, and Eret is here, and Eret agrees, and Eret acts out their part, and Eret is trying so hard, and he cannot see their eyes behind their glasses but he imagines that if he could, he would see a fool’s hope in them)

“Eret, then,” he says. “We go to Eret.”

And no one disagrees. It’s strange. They have no reason to listen to him, really. They have far more reasons not to listen to him, more reasons to think that following his lead will end in disaster than otherwise. But Puffy nods, and Sapnap backs down, and Tubbo and Ranboo both look to him for direction like it’s the war and he’s in charge of child soldiers once again. Phil looks to him, too, but his expression is inscrutable, and only a slight tightness around his eyes shows that he’s in any pain at all.

So they go to Eret. Staggering through the grass, tripping over vines that still don’t move, thank Prime, and then along the Prime Path, and his leg hurts worse with every step, pain jolting up into his hip, it seems, and it’s not long before he’s walking with a limp. But they’re all hurt in some way, so he hides it as best he can. He can deal with it when they’re safely behind stone walls.

And then, Tommy says, “Put me down, I can walk.”

Wilbur glances over. Tommy’s face is still buried in Phil’s shirt.

“You sure, mate?” Phil asks softly.

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” Tommy snaps, louder now, turning his face outward, pushing against Phil’s chest. His cheeks are flushed, his breaths coming short and fast, and he’s trying to pass it off as anger, and maybe part of it is. But Wilbur knows him better than to think that that’s all. Knows him better than to think that he would have let Phil carry him in the first place if he was alright.

“Okay, then,” Phil says, and swings Tommy down. Tommy wavers for a step, but slaps away Phil’s hand when he extends it, muttering a sharp, “Fuck off.”

And then they keep going. Tommy doesn’t say anything else. Wilbur keeps glancing at him, but he’s refusing to meet anyone’s gaze, even Tubbo’s. And—that’s another thing that’s going to have to wait. He wants nothing more than to stop now and make sure that Tommy’s going to be okay, but they don’t have time, and the general in him will not call for a halt until the retreat is over, until he is sure the enemy is not biting at their heels.

(retreating from Dream once again, and it is familiar and not, the same and not, and history runs in a circle, echoes and rhymes)

Eret’s courtyard is indeed free of vines, just as Puffy promised. Wilbur half-expects them to be nowhere in sight, based on what Puffy said, but they are standing right there, next to a skeletal horse they’re frantically saddling, and they’re checking their communicator every now and again, with the jerky motions of someone who doesn’t particularly want to but can’t make themself stop.

Then, suddenly, they look up at the sky. Wilbur follows their gaze to the flock of crows wheeling overhead, a dark mass of beating wings, each bird barely distinguishable from the others. All of them completely, eerily silent.

Eret stands there a moment. Just staring. Wilbur can’t tell what the look on their face is, but their shoulders are tense. And then, they look back down, and realize that the lot of them are there, stumbling in under the gate, and they visibly startle.

“Hey, Eret,” Puffy says, before they can get a word in. “Can we crash? And build some gates?”

“What,” Eret says. “What is—Puffy, what is going on? How did Dream manage to kill Sam and Technoblade? Is he—” They run a hand through their hair, and then start striding forward, their cape flaring out behind them. They haven’t said anything about him yet, haven’t reacted to his presence. “He’s out, isn’t he? I was going to come and see, but he’s out?”

“He’s out,” Puffy agrees. “We were kind of hoping you’d help us out on this one.”

“Of course,” they say quickly. “Of course, anything you—anything you need.” They’re rattled, clearly, more than Wilbur has ever seen them, perhaps. “I just—how did this happen? I thought the prison was secure, I thought—are you all okay?”

“Aside from the obvious?” Puffy says. “Yeah, we’re great. You haven’t been around much lately, I don’t know how much you know about the Egg and all of that, but that’s an issue too, along with Dream. And some other stuff that I’ve got no idea about, that we really just kind of need to all sit down and talk about.”

“The Egg? I’ve—I’ve heard of it, I think. I’ve been elsewhere for a while.” Their lips twist into a smile that isn’t quite a smile. “Doing a bit of soul-searching, you might say. Found more questions than answers, unfortunately. Alright. I can get you all whatever you need, you can absolutely stay here if that’s what you’d like, but what was that about gates?”

Right. This is taking too long.

Wilbur still feels a bit outside of his body as he steps forward, but that’s alright. He’s limping, but the pain is distant, and he can let his brain work on autopilot, let his mouth move on its own without regarding the consequences, without thinking too much about

(this is Eret and you know them and they betrayed you and you hurt them and now you’re back and here is a test here is a true test it shouldn’t matter how they react to you you shouldn’t care for their opinion but you do you know you do though you pretend you don’t pretend they’re nothing but a traitor to you but you are a traitor to yourself and you know that between the two of you you are the worse and here you both are and you only need one more and everyone will be back together again like the old days like the old days those good old days)

what happens next.

“Right, then,” he says, straightening his spine and stepping up to be visible just behind Puffy, to the side and a few feet back. Eret’s head whips toward him. “To summarize: the Egg is bad, Dream is also bad, they’re now working together, also with Bad, Techno is gone, we’re all in rough shape, a mind-controlling potentially demonic entity is likely to try to take over the server, and also, I’m here, despite my best efforts. Does that paint enough of a picture for you, or should I elaborate further?”

Eret stares at him. He stares back, doesn’t let himself fidget. He’s putting the general on display, and it has never felt more like a disguise, like yet another mask,

(and didn’t he tell Tommy he wasn’t going to do this anymore?)

but a familiar one, one that’s almost comfortable. He can force himself into the general’s shoes and worry about tactics and battles and numbers and strategy, and tuck the rest of himself away for when there’s time for it. Can think of this as just another alliance to be made, a debriefing to be held rather than

(Eret traitor friend ally enemy the place in your heart is curdled and sour and you do not know if you are capable of starting anew)

and his losses are statistics and cold facts rather than

(Techno’s eyes golden and glittering and then they go dim and pale red pale and staring the light in your brother’s eyes gone out and it is not the first time you have watched a brother die in front of you but Technoblade never dies is never supposed to die never to go to dust never and you cannot make sense of it cannot make sense of the world turned on its head)

“Wilbur?” Eret asks, after a very long moment, and he doesn’t understand why their voice breaks in the way that it does. “You’re—it’s you? Not Ghostbur?”

He spreads his arms, lifting an eyebrow.

“Do I look like Ghostbur to you?” he asks.

“No,” Eret answers right away. “No, that you do not. Um, has this been a thing, or…?” They trail off, and Wilbur can’t figure out exactly what their feelings are, but it’s too late to back down, even if he wanted to.

“For a bit,” he says. “Not for too long. Can we move on? We’ve got bigger issues to deal with at the moment.”

He means multiple things, with that. He means, there’s bigger things to worry about than why I’m here. He means, there’s bigger things to worry about than our history, and as so long as we’re on the same side for the moment, it can’t matter right now. He doesn’t know if Eret catches all of that, but whether they do or not, they nod, seeming to steady themself.

“Of course,” they say. “I—for the record, it is good to see you, Wilbur.” There is genuine relief in their voice, a tone that says they’re actually glad he’s here, more than glad, even, and he really doesn’t have time to unpack that at the moment. They need a plan, and fast, and they need some goddamn gates. And medical attention, probably. The cut on Puffy’s head looks nasty, and Phil’s wings are still dripping blood, and it’s difficult for Wilbur to look at them for too long,

(grief rises up guilt rises up crushing choking your father is grounded and it is your fault)

but it concerns him, how little Phil appears to care for their current state. So there’s that to handle, and it’s almost too much, almost. Almost too much for someone who has spent the majority of the time since he’s been brought back to life cringing away from meeting people, all the confidence he once displayed gone, shrinking, left in the void or in Pogtopia or on the podium from which he announced his own defeat, perhaps. But even still, he remembers how to be the general. He can hide in the general, present the general on the outside, be useful even while he thinks he might be on the verge of collapse, internally. He has been a general, and so he shall be again.

What comes first, then?

He pulls out his comm, scrolling through the messages. There are quite a few in the general chat from just after Sam’s death message, people from all over the server demanding to know what’s going on. His eyes drift over Techno’s, then, and he winces, but keeps reading. There are even more messages after that, capitalization usage increasing dramatically, and his eyes trace over familiar names, a pang in his heart. Niki. Fundy. Quackity. Several from Eret as well. Some from names he doesn’t recognize, like this Foolish person, and someone named Hannah.

But then, they all cut off. There have been none in the past half hour. Since they escaped from the Egg.

Out of curiosity, he taps out a few words: dream and egg have teamed, regrouping at eret’s. Upon hitting send, the screen goes fuzzy, giving him an error message he’s never seen before. So comms truly are down, then, and it’s probably just as well; Dream likely knows where they are, but if he doesn’t, there’s no reason to give him the information.

(and do these old allies old friends deserve to learn of your return from cold words on a screen do you not have the courage to face them yourself face your son your son you have not seen your son)

(the last time he spoke to Fundy, he disowned him. he doesn’t know if he still has a son)

(if he does not, he has no one to blame for himself, and perhaps that is why he is too cowardly to check)

“Right, then,” he says, looking back up. “Gates are the first priority. They might not do much against whatever the fuck that thing is, but it’s better than nothing. Eret, I assume you’d know the best way to go about it?”

Eret’s lips quirk into a slight smile, one that is, perhaps, slightly sardonic.

“It is my castle,” they agree. “The more hands I have, the quicker it will go, but I can get it done.”

“Anyone who’s not bleeding profusely, help them with that, then,” he says. “Anyone who is bleeding profusely—I assume you’ve got pots somewhere, Eret?” Eret nods, gesturing toward the inside. “Anyone who is bleeding profusely gets a pot. Once we’ve got that all covered, we’ll reconvene, come up with a plan for where to go from here. Everyone got that?”

He gets a few nods, and no one dissents, so he’ll take that as a yes. His gaze travels to the kids then, standing clumped together, and Tommy’s eyes are still shadowed, and Tubbo is shifting his weight between his feet, and Ranboo looks lost, awkward, and he wishes he didn’t have to ask anything more of them. But that’s not how wars work, and this has certainly turned into a war.

(child soldiers once again, and how history echoes)

“Tubbo, Ranboo, I want you on the gates as well,” he says, and tries to soften his tone at least a little bit, even if that’s all he can do. “And then afterward—Tubbo, I need you to go through with all of us exactly what you know about—what did you call them? Dreamons?”

Tubbo looks slightly miserable, but he nods. “Right,” he says. “I can try to ward the gates if you want. With, um, anti-demon stuff. I don’t know if it’ll work. I guess last time we didn’t manage to do much of anything at all.”

“Anti-what,” Eret says, but Wilbur shakes his head.

“We don’t have time for that. Tubbo will explain later. We—”

“The fuck am I supposed to do, then?” Tommy breaks in, crossing his arms. “You haven’t given me a job.” He glares, but it is so very obvious that it’s all a front, all a show, and Tommy’s expression dares him to challenge him, but Wilbur thinks that if he does, he just might break something in him. Tommy has always been so much more fragile than he presents himself as, so much more fragile than he likes to believe he is.

(despite it all, despite it all, he is only sixteen, only a child, a child grown old before his time but a child nonetheless, and now a child who watched his brother die for him, an estranged brother perhaps but still a brother, and Tommy has always cared so much and so deeply, no matter how much he pretends otherwise)

He hasn’t given Tommy a job, and he doesn’t really intend to, because Tommy, of all people, needs to sit the fuck down and rest for a moment. They all deserve a break, but in this moment, Tommy is the one who needs it most, and also the one least likely to accept as much.

If the general gives the order, Tommy will follow it, he knows that much,

(because he made his brother into a soldier he made his brother into a soldier and soldiers follow orders)

even if he’ll be angry at him for it, but Tommy angry with him is a sacrifice he’s willing to make. And perhaps directing his anger at him will help. Perhaps it would be better for Tommy to be angry with someone within reach rather than someone out of it.

(because Tommy is hurting, and the cause of that hurt is not here, and so perhaps if Wilbur offers himself he’ll feel better, will feel more in control, because Tommy needs control, because his abuser is out, is wandering free, and his abuser has killed their brother and told him that it is his fault)

But then, Phil breaks his silence.

“I’d like him to stick with me,” he says, with a smile that is obviously strained. “I’m not going to be able to reach everything myself.” He makes a vague gesture toward his wings, still dripping blood, and there is so much of it already drying on his feathers, sticky, tacky, almost blending in with the darkness of the feathers

(but stark against the grey-white of exposed bone)

“Why the actual shit—” Tommy starts.

“Good idea, Phil,” he cuts him off. “Tommy, help him with the wings, would you?”

“Why do I have to—”

“You too, Wil,” Phil says, and his mood sours immediately. “You think I don’t see that leg? C’mon, Eret, show us to the pots.”

When faced with that, he has no choice but to agree, really.

(he wouldn’t have ignored it. he wouldn’t have. He knows better than to leave a wound untreated in wartime. Even if something whispers at him that he deserves the pain, even if the bite of it brings him closer to reality. But his better sense knows: pain is not the penance that is asked of him, not a recompense that will do anyone any good)

**********

They meet again half an hour later in Eret’s throne room. Half an hour later, and his leg is bandaged and tender and no longer an open wound, and Tommy is frowning and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, and the state of Phil’s wings is still bothersome, because he didn’t let either of them touch them beyond what was necessary,

(and he recollects countless nights spent running his fingers through soft, silken feathers as his father told him how to preen them, told him that it was a sign of trust, an activity that only family, only flock is allowed, and now Phil will no longer let them near him, will no longer even take care of them himself and it makes him sick to his stomach to think of what has been lost)

but they are no longer bleeding, and that has to be what matters.

The throne room is not the best location for this, he thinks. It feels awkward. But it’s a room big enough to fit everyone, which is the point, big enough to fit Puffy, presence looming and forehead now bandaged, to fit Sapnap, fidgety as he is, like a caged, snarling animal, all restless energy. Big enough for Tubbo, for Tommy, for Ranboo, for Phil, for Eret and for himself, and big enough that there is an obvious gap at Phil’s right side where someone else should be standing.

Eret eyes her throne, glances at everyone else in the room, and then seats herself at its base. It’s a pithy gesture, meaningless, but Wilbur has more important things to do than to call her out on it, even though the existence of the throne itself grates against him.

“Let’s call this meeting to order, then,” he says, and Eret frowns. Perhaps she doesn’t like that he’s calling the shots in her own

(ill-gotten, dearly kept)

castle, but tough. He’s brought out the general for all of their sakes, so the general is what they’re all going to get.

(it’s a mask again and masks crack but he can keep it up for long enough he can he can they need a leader so he will lead he will lead them)

(you were so good at compartmentalizing, once, go good at shoving it all away in boxes in dark shadowy corners never to be opened to gather dust and cobwebs and faded recollections but the boxes cracked and the demon’s escaped and Pandora was too weak to stop them and it all ended in a bang and he cannot tell if hope remains but that isn’t the point because the box is opened and once opened it is not so easily closed and you are putting on a show a lie and lies come back around again they always do and you should know better than to pretend at strength you do not have you will lead them to ruin again ruin and gunpowder smoke and what gives you the right)

“Yeah, alright,” Puffy says. “Can we start by talking about—whatever that was? What were you talking about, dreamons? What’s a dreamon?”

“That sounds like a made up word,” Tommy mutters.

“I wish it were made up,” Tubbo says, and he winces when all eyes turn to him. But a moment later, he straightens, setting his shoulders squarely, holding his head up high. “I’ll tell you all what I know. Even if that turns out to be not as much as I thought.” He pauses, clearly struggling for words.

“Start from the beginning,” he suggests, and Tubbo nods at him gratefully.

“Okay, right, the beginning,” he says. “In the very beginning, me and Fundy were messing around, and we found some old books. We went through them for a laugh, and we learned about these things called dreamons.”

“Wait, that’s what they’re actually called?” Tommy interjects. “Like, properly?”

Tubbo shrugs. “It’s what the books said,” he says. “We weren’t about to argue over names. Even if it did seem like a weird coincidence. But yeah, that’s what they’re called.” His voice falls into an odd cadence here, recitative, like he’s telling a story, and Wilbur crosses his arms, gripping at his elbows. “They come from the darkness of the void, lurking around the edges of a server’s code. Once they get in, their only goal is to cause chaos and destruction. They corrupt everything they touch, and they can possess people and turn them into their puppets. They have unknowable powers, because they’re a sickness, a rot, like an infection in the code of the server itself. It’s really, really difficult to get rid of them, but it can be done if you have the right tools. Or—” He blinks, stuttering a bit, his voice landing more naturally. “We thought so, anyway.”

“What does this have to do with Dream?” Sapnap asks, stopping his pacing, looking to Tubbo with an expression in his eyes that hurts to look at, a bit, wobbly and desperate and pinched, like he already knows the answer but hopes that he’s wrong, hopes as much as he is able, even though he knows it will be fruitless.

Wilbur has put the pieces together. As best he can, anyway. And Sapnap’s not a stupid man. He can see where this is leading.

“Dream got possessed.” Tubbo sighs, gaze drifting toward the floor. “It was a whole thing. Honestly, we were surprised nobody else noticed. But we—we performed an exorcism. And it was really scary, to be honest. But it worked. We could see it leave, all oozy and black and gross, and Dream was better afterward! He was! So we thought we got it out.”

“But it tricked you?” he asks.

“I don’t understand how it could have,” Tubbo replies. “It’s not—it’s not like the kind of possession that you see in a TV show, where the demon can pretend to be the person or something like that. It’s obvious. It’s too—it’s too wrong to blend in, if that makes sense. It made his voice go all funny and deep, and the way it moved—” He shudders, and then continues, miserably, “The way it moved, there’s no way you could mistake something like that for a human. That’s why we were so sure it worked. Because afterward, he seemed back to normal.”

Something about this doesn’t make sense.

“Tubbo,” he says, wheels spinning in his mind, “when was this?”

Tubbo blinks. “Manberg days,” he says. “Um, that’s why we never told you about it, I suppose.”

He barely bats an eye at the reference. It doesn’t make sense. Because he has sensed that wrongness, as Tubbo puts it, has been sensing it from the moment he set foot in that prison cell for the first time. On some level, he knew that something was deeply wrong, even if a demonic presence was the last thing he would have guessed. But if the whole thing happened during—during that time, and the signs of possession were as obvious as Tubbo says, he would have noticed, wouldn’t he? He had plenty of interactions with Dream during that time.

(unless his own shadows stretched long, stretched far enough to cover Dream’s, to cover the thing piloting him)

But no—his shadows were of his own making, not supernatural. If anything, his mindset should have made him more receptive to suspicious wrongness, not less. So what—

(Dream smiles, and you know what it’s like, to have something whispering in your head, he says, once you let something in, there’s no going back)

“Maybe the first bit was a fakeout,” Phil suggests, arms folded, head tilted. He’s perplexed, which is worrying; it’s rare to come across a being that Phil knows nothing about. “It made itself obvious to lure you in so it could slip under the radar. Faked leaving to put your guard down, maybe.”

It’s plausible. But somehow

(and Dream stands atop the Egg and he says, he says, I tried to fight at first, but it turns out it was right all along, and he says it he says it like it’s separate from him like there is not something else something other speaking from his mouth after all and he tried to fight it he tried to fight it and what does that mean)

“They’re the same,” he breathes, and doesn’t know what he means, not quite yet, “they’re the same, and the Egg controls people, and he was talking about fighting something, about giving in—”

He runs a hand through his hair. Shakes his head.

“Wil?” Phil asks.

“Oi, Wilbur,” Tommy says, almost at the same time. But he needs to—he needs to focus as the pieces click into place, faster than he can process, and he has a conclusion but not the words yet—

He holds up a hand.

“Tubbo,” he says, “you said it can corrupt things. What did you mean by that?”

“I dunno, really,” he says. “It talked about it in the books some, but it was all weird metaphorical language. Couldn’t really makes sense of it. We were more focused on the bits that told us how to get rid of them.”

(he says, you know what the void is like, and Tubbo says that they come from the void, and)

That’s alright. He’s not sure he needs a hard answer to that, because he thinks that if one were to describe the feeling of the corruption, it would be

(it is dark and it is peaceful and there is static at the edges eating away at what makes him himself eating at his soul at his sense of self and it is what he wants, to be nothing, and he does not imagine what it would feel like if it were not what he desired, if he tried to resist it, resist the void all-consuming, all-devouring, resist the void that takes all things into itself and is never satiated)

something familiar.

“Alright,” he says, and steeples his fingers together. “Let me paint a picture for you. Someone gets possessed. You exorcise the thing. But these things can corrupt, you say. So maybe you get rid of the thing itself. Maybe Dream’s pretty much back to normal. But maybe it leaves little bits of itself behind. Maybe he’s not possessed, but maybe that doesn’t matter so much anymore. Maybe it changed him regardless. Maybe it’s still changing him, even though it’s no longer there. Maybe a corruption took root, and there wasn’t any going back from it.” He tilts his head, closes his eyes. “Suppose that the Egg is the same type of thing. Something that forced its way through the cracks of the server, something that’s been smart about it, biding its time. The things that Dream was saying reminded me a lot of what the Egg was doing, you know? Manipulating people, making them into things they aren’t, or into their worst selves.”

He strings the words together as he goes. He’s not sure he’s getting his point across. He used to be so much better at this.

“Wait, so you’re saying you think he isn’t possessed?” Sapnap asks.

“I’m saying we don’t really know,” he answers. “Not unless we get it from him. But Tubbo’s the expert here, and if he says Dream’s not acting like he’s possessed, I believe him. But even if he’s not possessed outright, that doesn’t mean there’s no—influence, perhaps.” He keeps his eyes shut; the darkness on the back of his eyelids is a natural one, but he can almost pretend that it isn’t. That it is darker, deeper.

(void)

“He was right that I know what it’s like,” he says. “I’ve felt the Egg in my head. And I was in the void for—a long time. It felt like forever. I know what it feels like, and there’s some of it in him, I think. Him and the Egg both. They’re the same kind of wrong, the same kind of unbelonging. I’ve never been possessed by a demon before, but if it’s made up of void stuff, that’s the sort of thing that stays with you. Whispering.”

He opens his eyes. Everyone is staring at him, varying expressions of horror on their faces.

He goes back over his words. In retrospect, he can see how they probably came off sounding.

“Wil,” Phil says softly.

“I’m fine,” he says, not at all convincingly, he’s sure.

(once he starts thinking of the void of the peace and of the rest it’s hard to stop even though his desires are now tinged with red and he knows better than to listen but he cannot help himself)

“This is all speculation, anyway,” he continues. “Might not matter at all, in the end, what the particulars are. We just need a way to stop them. Can dreamons be killed, Tubbo?”

Tubbo takes a moment before replying. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Fundy might remember better. But I think the only thing in what we read was the exorcism.”

“Which doesn’t help us much if Dream’s not actually possessed,” Puffy says. “Unless it might work on the Egg? If the Egg’s a—a dreamon too?”

“Worth a shot if we can get to it again,” he says, “but I don’t like risking so much on a maybe.”

“The less we mess with forces beyond our understanding, the better,” Eret says suddenly. She frowns, pushing her sunglasses further up her face. “As I said earlier, I’ve been away a good bit recently, so I haven’t been tracking the Egg’s progress as much as perhaps I should have. But I did notice an increase in activity—well. It was shortly after we tried to resurrect you, Wilbur.” She inclines her head toward him. “I fear that in our efforts, we might have interfered with something we shouldn’t have interfered with. Weakened a barrier of some kind, between our existence and—something else.”

She speaks with a strange kind of gravity. But her words make an unfortunate kind of sense.

He doesn’t look at Phil.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tommy states. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“I’m with Tommy on this one. What are you talking about?” Sapnap adds.

“We’re getting off track,” he says, snapping his fingers. “We’re going about this wrong. We don’t have enough information, and we don’t have enough power. Those are our problems. How do we solve them?”

“The obvious would be to get the word out,” Puffy says. “Comms are down, but we can go by word of mouth if we have to. Kinda risky, with the amount of vines on this server, but the nether portal’s right across the way. No vines in the nether, I think.”

“I have lots of old books myself,” Phil chimes in, eyes skyward. “Might be something in there to help that I’ve read and forgotten about. And I’ve got another source of info I’ve barely begun to go through. Old shit I found. It might be worth a shot.” He looks back down. “We need to go get Techno anyway.” He says the last in a tone that brooks no argument, and Wilbur doesn’t try, even if it’s perhaps not the most tactically sound option.

(he wants Techno back too, wants to lay eyes on him, hold his wrist in his hand and count his heartbeats, each one a reassurance, because he knows what it is for a brother to die and come back but that has never made it easier)

“It’s better than nothing,” he says. “Alright, I’ve got a plan, then. Some of us go to the tundra, get Technoblade, and go through whatever books Phil has. Some stay here and fortify the defenses as best we can using what Tubbo can remember that he thinks might work, and a couple of us go around through the nether and tell as many people as possible what’s going on. Gather allies, resources anything else we might need.”

It’s not much of a plan. But based on just how outclassed they are, just how little they know, just how much exhaustion shows in their faces, it might be the best plan they’re going to get for now. To throw themselves back into a battle so soon would be folly.

It never sits well with him to bank so much on a hope, though, a mere possibility that things will go their way.

(but certainties were ripped out from under him the moment Dream killed the unkillable, the moment he saw his brother crumple to ash before his eyes)

“Great,” Puffy says, grimacing. “What could possibly go wrong with that?”

The silence that greets that statement serves perfectly well as a response.

He closes his eyes again. The darkness is no comfort.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #philza #tubbo #eret #ranboo #captain puffy #sapnap #alivebur #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #c!wilbur angst tag

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umbralsound-xiv · 3 years

Text

Kitten.

[With Blood On Her Hands] Previous <<< || >> Next [Pieces]

She walks with confidence. With a limp.

Broken, battered, and bruised. The blood that spilled from her crown still sticks her hair to her cheek, even after all the time it had been, for it to dry and flake against her skin.

But four guards had become six. And she was no longer allowed to walk or rest unbound.

Little victories, Bexy thought. Even as her ribs rang with the pain of every breath, she didn’t give him an ilm of satisfaction as she was escorted to his presence. Her stomach ached with hunger, lips parched and begging for a drop to drink. It had been suns, now.

As his glaring, mismatched eyes settled on her form, she was promptly shoved to her knees before him, as her escorts fell back; Only E’sehri stayed close by. He stares. And she smiles. The sort reserved for a darker purpose.

“Y’vhala.”

She’s the first to speak for a change. And he doesn’t like it one bit.

He responds with a sharp kick to her ribs that is enough to skid her across the dirt and wind her. With a long, deep breath, he gives an annoyed huff through his nose as he walks over her, turning her head with the toe of his boot.

“The next time you say my name, you’ll be begging with it. I want you to remember that.”

His teeth grit his words as he pushes her face into the dirt, pulling back only when he was satisfied his they had sunk in. He is met with an indignant gaze as much as a defiant one.

“I won’t keep you long. Maybe i’ll even feed you, depending on how you do. E’sehri?”

The woman turns her head full of pink curls to a figure somewhere out of Bexy’s vision, and beckons them over.

“Please... Please don’t make me do this...” He whimpers, but his feet bring him forth regardless. A Seeker perhaps half Bexy’s age stumbles out of the dark, sandy brown hair reaching a bloodied, misaligned jaw. Torn clothes wrapped tight around his limbs as crude bandages from where he’d been cut and beaten. He clutches a small, writhing sack that hisses and cries.

“You should’ve thought of that before you caused me so much trouble, D’hari!”

A fist collides with the aforementioned jaw, and the younger man screams in pain. The sound of a fist beating against flesh over and over. He wasn’t in immediate view, and Bexy was glad for that; not that the sounds him whimpering and crying out had made the ordeal any better.

“You should thank him, Bexy! Had he not decided to act up the same night you tried your little escape attempt, i might not have stopped!” He wrenches her up by her bindings, and cuts them free with a knife before shoving her back down to her knees. Her eyes meet the man before her with some gratitude.

Y’vhala very well might not have stopped that fateful night. She’d seen him do much worse in anger. She gives the faintest, most fleeting of smiles, and the room falls into a fragile silence.

“Right! Down to business.”

The squirming sack is dropped in front of Bexy, and she eyes it with some suspicion as a knot forms in her stomach. Her newly freed hands are rubbed at the wrists to get some proper feeling back into them.

“You said you could freeze anything you came into contact with. I don’t doubt that. You so annoyingly proved it.” He half-growls his last sentence, and pulls free the drawstring on the sack.

“And you said you could unfreeze things, too. That you could---”

“I said i was practising.” She corrects with a glare. She knew what he was going to ask. And the thought of it made her sick to her stomach. Two bright green eyes meet hers from inside the sack, and the tiny kitten within hisses at her.

“Good.” Y’vhala sneers, now holding the now weeping young man by the hair, wrenched up to watch. “Then practise.”

Bexy glares at him hatefully, which softens as her eyes meet that of her fellow victim.

And then to the kitten.

Ears pinned back and teeth on show, the tiny creature was clearly terrified. Bexy reaches and takes a gentle but firm hold of it, as it writhes and sinks it’s teeth and claws into her hand. With how lacerated from glass it already was, it barely registered as pain.

A squeal. A scream. As her aether surged and took it’s tiny body. It writhes, and slows, and... Stops. Bexy takes care not to move her hand for fear of breaking anything. The man in Y’vhala’s grasp begins to sob, as Y’vhala himself gives an impatent gesture to continue.

The kitten. It’s eyes open. Unblinking. Mouth open in a frozen scream. Bexy takes a breath, and concentrates.

She’d only ever tried with fish. Fish couldn’t scream or make noise, and at least if she failed, she could always eat them. Nothing with fur, flesh, blood and bone like this. Nothing with a terrified racing heartbeat she could feel against her palm.

Slowly, she attempts to pull her aether back. Little by little. Much, much slower than she’d ever poured it in. The ice leaves the tiny body, but the cold doesn’t.

It just lays there. Unmoving.

And breathes.

“Good... Good!” Y’vhala’s words of praise were foreign and bitter to her ears. “Well done, Bexy. You are good for something. Here!”

An apple is tossed into her hands, and Bexy wastes no time in devouring it, core and all. Her stomach groaned and lips stung at the long awaited sensation of food, as D’hari was thrown into the dirt beside her. His hands reach to cradle the kitten, which slowly comes round with the warmth of his touch.

Y’vhala frowns. The entire heartwarming scene sickened him. He hadn’t been entirely sure if she’d succeed, but was prepared enough either way.

His lips curl into a smirk.

“Okay. That’s enough of a rest. Next task.” He grabs D’hari by the hair again, and drops him in front of Bexy.

And she stares.

“Y’vhala, No---!”

“Do the same with him. It shouldn’t be much different, no?”

“Y’vhala!” Bexy did indeed plead with his name. That brought another sick smile to his lips.

“Y’vhala i can’t do this! Please, this is too much!”

He laughs, taking a handful of her hair and dragging her closer to D’hari, who flinches and whimpers at the thought. Running doesn’t even cross his mind.

“You can, and you will. You do remember the price for defying me, don’t you?”

Her eyes widen, and it’s all she can do to not give him the satisfaction of tears.

“You do. Good. Then get to it.”

Bexy and D’hari exchange glances. Her torn and bloody hands reach for his. She is gentle. Calm. Just as she was with the kitten, who lays just out of reach of both of them, moving shakily on tiny feet.

“I’m so sorry.” Whispers Bexy.

D’hari is afraid. Pale yellow eyes meet hers; he never deserved this fate. Wrong place, wrong time. Just like so many others in his clutches. He holds her arms, even as tears spill over his cheeks. And he smiles.

“...It’s okay.” He whispers back.

Bexy sends her aether into his body. D’hari screams. She’d expected that. He wailed - But didn’t fight back. A sob finally leaves Bexy’s lips as the loud crackle and pop of ice smothers his form, and leaves him still and rigid in her grasp.

His eyes, wide and round, and much too young to die.

She pulls her ice back. Slowly. But it was too much, too far - And with her grief, she could barely control it. His arm splits and cracks at the shoulder as a crumbling ruin, hitting the ground with a hard, unpleasant sound.

Silence. Nothing but silence. Bexy’s face is obscured by a veil of hair as she hunches over him.

“Perhaps i was wrong.” He spoke like expected her to fail. The wicked smile curls his lips again. “You aren’t good enough. E’sehri. Show her the price for failure. Kill more of them.”

More of them?

The crunch of Y’vhala’s boots against dirt rounds her, to get a better look at her grief stricken features.

How many had he killed?

And he gets a little too close.

“You BASTARD!”

Bexy screams, and lunges at him, knocking them both into the dirt. It’s all too fast for him to react, as her hand reels back and strikes at his nose, busting and breaking it with a single hit, as she wrenches his shoulders back and slams his head into the ground.

“E’SEHRI!”

He screams for her help, and fights her hands away from his neck in a desperate power struggle, her aether beginning to bite it’s way into his flesh as only murder and vengence set like stone in her gaze. She didn’t care how much using it hurt; it was only as E’sehri’s lightning hits her square in the chest that it launched her and sent her world spinning again.

She fights to take a breath, as the air was beaten out of her lungs by something long and wooden. The seething pain in her back worsened, and she was soon surrounded; a strike to her temple steals her vision, but not before she saw Y’vhala stagger to his feet, soaked in blood.

Blow after blow strikes her body. Her arms. Her legs; they left the important parts alone; she feels an arm break under the weight of a particularly vicious swing; the snap of bone audiable even under the commotion.

“That’s... That’s enough...” Y’vhala breathes, rage clinging to his breath.

“E’sehri! You know what to do!”

The unpleasantly familliar sensation of his hand balling in her hair is felt again, as she’s dragged across the floor.

“Every last one of them. And if you find the damned runaway, bring him back alive.

I’ll deal with him myself.”

Her conciousness ebbed from her mind, as every nerve stung with pain.

Please, she thought. Please be safe.

Bexy is dragged unceremoniously by her hair down the corridor.

It didn’t matter what she did.

He’d have gone after them anyway.

She only cursed herself for not realising sooner, as her thoughts fade into darkness.

#Muse: [Bexy]#Chapter: [Until Death Do Us Part]#FFXIV #Writing #Short Story #TW: Animal Cruelty #TW: Violence

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

7. Leshen Indruck your choice of rating!

Here you go! I went with SFW

It’s old wisdom that humans fear that which they do not understand.

Indrid really hoped he would never learn the truth of that wisdom the hard way, but here he is. One misplaced attempt at aiding someone using his foresight and he’s been caught, blindfolded, and dumped in the middle of the vast Monongahela Forest.

He just wanted to help.

His foresight renders him less fearful than he’d otherwise be; he’ll be able to see threats coming and locate the resources he needs. If he takes his time, he might be able to use his visions to locate the nearest (friendly) village. And, like anyone who grew up near the woods, he knows how to hunt, fish, and forage. For someone who’s been left to die, he’s rather confident.

Still, it sting a little.

After a few moments of rightfully-earned self-pity, he buttons up his coat and starts the slow, halting journey towards safety.

Two days later, he’s pushing his way through branches and miserably pointing out to himself again and again that a town where everyone grew up with basic forest survival skills would exile one of their own somewhere that required high-level survival skills.

The topography and scenery is so disorienting that he may have better luck if he covered his eyes, spun around ten times, and chose his path from there. It’s a dense landscape of deep greens and browns with splashes of bright color that he’d no doubt enjoy were he not constantly snagging on branches or catching his toes on roots.

Worse, he’s had no luck catching food, and cannot for the life of him locate water. The fact it rained last night is the only reason he’s not dangerously dehydrated.

A sharp, high chirp draws his eye to the foot of a tree. Flapping sparsely feathered wings, a baby bird hops through the mud, her nest visible but unreachable. A meager meal, but a meal nonetheless.

Indrid scoops her into his palms, clambers into the lowest crook of the tree, and sets her back among her siblings.

His stomach chastises him the rest of the day, though the rest of his body rejoices when he finds a hollow in the base of a tree large enough for him to shelter within. From within the trunk, he spies vine sprawling across the ground, berries glinting in the light rain. Deep purple, meaning they’re Brambleberries.

The handful he shoves into his mouth brings tears to his eyes, even though they’re not the ripest. How else do you explain the bitterness chasing the sweetness down his throat.

Wait. Brambleberries don’t go purple until mid-summer. This is early spring. Which means those were-

“Chokeberries.” He curses himself, darting outside the tree once more, finger down his throat until his meal comes back up. Maybe he was fast enough.

His throat tightens in a prelude to closing. Sinking to his knees, gasping for air, he swears the ground vibrates with heavy steps. His eyes flutter close as he falls forward. As darkness slips over his eyes, he thinks it’s taking him a long time to hit the ground.

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

Bitter metal on his tongue.

“Nnnnf” Eyes still shut, he pushes at whatever is holding the spoon and it’s vile contents in his mouth.

“None of that. You’re gonna need two more doses of this before that Chokeberry is outta your system, and they were hard enough to get into you when you were passed out. Swallow.”

He swallows.

A large hand pats his head, “There we go. I know, shit’s gross, but if you were fool enough to eat those berries, might stun some sense into you.”

Indrid sits up, rubbing his eyes, “I was delirious with hunger, forgive me for not remembering the exact seasons of fruits. Did you heal me only to insult me or-” his visions flicker back full force, revealing his host before he opens his eyes. He scrambles back, but instead of a wall or an edge he just finds a vast expanse of bed.

Watching him with an amused set to his lips is a man three heads taller and much bulkier than Indrid, dark hair streaked with grey-green moss, eyes the dark green of pine needles, and nails like treebark. He crosses arms tattooed with green, gold, and bronze swirls, waiting for Indrid to collect himself.

“A Leshen.”

“Yep.”

“Are...are you going to eat me?”

“What? No, I’m not gonna fuckin eat you. I don’t know which of my kind chowed down on humans but if I ever find out I’m gonna give ‘im a piece of my mind. Ain’t great to have people thinkin I’m a man-eater when the worst I done is throw a tree at someone.”

“That is still very alarming.”

The Leshen shrugs “I’m a forest guardian; I’m gonna guard.”

Indrid studies him, wary, drawing the covers up his chest without noticing.

“Look” the Leshen sighs, “I ain’t tryin to scare you. Hell, made myself the smallest I can so I could be all comfortin. Noticed you in the woods earlier today and kept an eye on you, since humans-”

“Don’t often come here, yes, I am aware. I was extremely, forcibly exiled into your part of the woods.”

Green eyes blink, “Huh. Well, point is it didn’t seem right to leave you there to die, so I brought you here. Chokeberry is real easy to undo, assumin you got the right herbs.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t know what else to say. His foresight tells him the Leshens promise of no harm is true, but there are so many timelines for what he could say and how his host could respond that he freezes.

“You’re welcome. You got a name?”

“Indrid.”

“You oughta rest up more, Indrid. I’ll be back with the next dose in a bit.” His host steps out to the hall.

“Wait, do I, ah, get to know your name?”

“Duck.”

He snickers, replies to the raised eyebrow with, “Apologies, I expected something tree-related.”

Duck smiles, “It’s a nickname.”

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

“What’s your plan?” Duck asks from across the breakfast table. The morning found Indrid well enough to walk and to eat without feeling ill, so he’s been perching awkwardly on a chair that’s too big for him as the Leshen makes plates of toast and eggs that don't come from any bird Indrid is familiar with.

“I, ah, I don’t really have one other than ‘avoid going home’.”

“You were just gonna wander around until you found a village? I hate to tell you this, but there ain’t one for at least fifty miles, and I’m guessin that’s the one you came from. They must’ve used and enter to navigate here, because this part of the woods is hostile to travel by design.”

“Yours?” Indrid sips his tea, face to hide his distaste for its bitterness.

“Yep.” Duck slides a jar over to him, it’s copper lid revealing sugar cubes within, “Don’t much feel like runnin into humans every damn day, and it means that even as y’all sprawl out more and more, there are parts of this wood that stay wild.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but it does little to improve my situation. Unless…” he bites his lip.

“Unless?”

“Unless I could stay here. I’m not bad company, and I have some skills which could-”

“No” Duck shakes his head, “savin you is one thing, takin you on as a roommate is all whole other kettle of fish.”

“Ah. Right. Of course.” He sips his tea, reflection crestfallen. Maybe he’ll just finish this and then go back to sleep.

Duck sighs, expression one of someone who already regrets the offer he’s about to make, “You can stay here for a month. After that, I’ll get you as close to a safe village as I can, and you’re on your own. Deal?”

Indrid grins, appetite returning in full, “Deal.”

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

Duck has a good guess as to what’s making all the scratching and clanging in his kitchen, but it’s still a surprise to see Indrid moving from counters to chairs doubling as stools to tend a pot that he can barely peer into.

The human’s gotten nimble over the last week and a half, thanks to his routine attempts to help Duck around the house. Everything is scaled to Duck’s smallest possible form, but that still leaves Indrid at a disadvantage.

He’d be more inclined to help him if it wasn’t so obvious that his help is a ploy to convince Duck to let him stay. Look, he feels bad for the guy, but humans don’t have a great track record with his kind and he generally likes his peace and quiet out in the woods. He also notices that, left to his own devices, Indrid is messy. The area around the couch he uses as a bed is strewn drawings and unfolded clothes that Duck conjured up. Which means this is about Ducks favor, not a commitment to household cleanliness.

That’s not to say having Indrid around has been unpleasant; the human is good company but also understands Ducks' need for space. He’s odd, and even though the foresight was the given reason, Duck suspects his fellow villagers would have found reason to exile him regardless. Indrid even said that living with Duck was the happiest he’d felt in some time. That wasn’t a ploy; Indrid is prone to saying unnerving statements without registering them. Thorns pricked Duck’s heart when he heard it and, that night, when Indrid fell asleep on the bed during their conversation about deer, he didn’t move him. Just brushed the white hair from his eyes and laid down a respectful distance away.

“Oh! We’re in the timeline when you’re early.” Indrid waves distractedly as he wrestles open a jar, “I checked on you during the day through my visions and it looked as though you got drenched, so I thought something warm was in order.”

He’s smiling, and Duck’s gaze lingers long enough to see there’s no trickery in it. Yeah, being a forest spirit means storms are refreshing more than freezing, but the one today was so relentless he felt like it was eroding him away.

“Thanks, Indrid. I’ll join you in a sec.”

The next morning, before he leaves he forms some nearby stumps into a proper step-stool, and transmogrifies the minerals of the earth into a solid set of human sized pots and pans.

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

“I know you’re there, Duck. I may not have eyes in the trees, but I do have visions that tell me when someone is dithering about coming to speak with me.” Indrid smiles, checking the fishing pole he’s dug into the shore. He feels rather than hears Duck approach; in spite of his size, the Leshen moves through the woods more softly than a butterfly.

“Guess those visions do make you harder to spy on than the average human.”

“A not at all creepy statement.” Indrid teases, then tips over when Duck playfully shoves him.

“Shit, sorry.”

“It’s alright” he brushes off his arm, “the sand is nice and warm.” He picks up his sketchbook (stray pieces of paper sewn together) and pens (Duck turned flowers, fruit, leaves, and wood into them until Indrid had every color) and continues drawing. Half the reason he likes fishing is that he can draw futures (and for his own pleasure) while he does it. The other half is that he doesn’t want Duck to view him as a parasite in his home. Yes, for the first week, he did everything he could to demonstrate that he would make an excellent addition to the house made of twisting trunks and mossy floors.

Now, though, he just wants to enjoy his time with Duck, even if that means not tidying constantly or cooking every meal. He hopes Duck enjoys it too, regardless of whether he lets Indrid stay. The Leshen is lonely, even if it only comes through on those days when his voice is like the wind through a weather-beaten log. Indrid wishes he knew how to assuage it, but a month is not long enough to learn such things.

He’s slept in Duck’s bed these last three nights. It’s not purposeful, Duck is just so interesting to talk with and Indrid will lose sight of the time, will slump sideways and mumble that he ought to turn in, and then wake up in the early hours atop his host. It didn’t occur to him until this morning that Duck does that to keep Indrid from being uncomfortably squashed by his larger bedmate. And that Duck chooses to do that rather than carry Indrid to his own bed.

“Hey, uh, ‘Drid?” Duck’s voice brings him back to the riverside, “would you, uh, wanna come with me on my rounds sometimes? Might be some nice things to draw, and that foresight of yours could be real helpful with some of the stuff I need to keep an eye on.”

His host looks nervous until Indrid nods, “I would be honored.”

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

Never has the folding of clothes made him so miserable. Yet still he tucks the garments into the large-but-manageable rucksack Duck gave him, placing his sketchpad safely between the layers of fabric.

“Weather oughta be good tomorrow.” His visions show Duck behind him, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s going to miss that voice, the way leaves rustle underneath the drawl.

“That’s good.” He pulls the ties on his rucksack, sets at the end of the couch but doesn’t turn around.

“I’d, uh, say you’re welcome to visit but, uh, well, you know how fuckin hard this place is to find.”

“Mmmm.” Indrid wants him to go, wants him to be brusque or happy, not awkwardly fond in a way that gives false hope of shared affection.

“‘Drid there’s, there’s somethin I wanna, that is I’m thinkin...aw, fuck it.”

Indrid yelps as arms nearly as big around as he is scoop him up. Duck’s lifted him to examine flowers or see over trees, but the hugging is new.

“Duck?” Carefully, he drapes his arms over his shoulders.

“Don’t go.”

“I don’t want to.” Duck always smells faintly of pine needles and green wood, and Indrid buries his face in his neck, inhaling in hopes of remembering it forever.

“Then stay. I changed my mind, ‘Drid, life is so much better with you around.”

“Okay” Indrid can’t get his voice above a whisper; this wasn’t in the timelines, which means Duck changed his mind at the literal last moment.

“Really? You wanna stay?” Duck shifts him back, Indrid functionally sitting on his forearm with his legs half wrapped around his chest.

The seer summons his courage, finds it lacking, and so closes his eyes before going in for a kiss. His lips find Duck’s cheek until a firm hand cups the back of his head, guiding their mouths together. At this size, their mouths are compatible even as Indrid remains pleasantly dwarfed. Duck breaks the kiss first but Indrid, hell-bent on making up for lost time, continues kissing his face until they’re both laughing.

Duck kisses his forehead, “I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

#indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #monster march #reader requests #leshen

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self-proclaimed-chaotic-good · 4 years

Text

The Enemy of my Enemy | Eddie Brock x Reader (Oneshot)

Prompt: Bunnies

Fandom: Venom

Warning: Minor swearing

Words: 1054

You heard from the grapevine of all the unethical activities happening in Life Foundation. As an Animals Rights activist, of course you were going to check it out. You had disguised yourself as a regular civilian, taking the tour around the facilities with a small group. A group of grade school kids walked passed, following their teacher and the man that ran the show. Carlton Drake. He had made amazing breakthroughs in the medical field and decided to venture into space exploration for more resources. At least, that’s what he claimed.

You moved along with your touring group, noting the security guards strolling on every level and the areas that were clearly restricted. The labs have to be here somewhere. If only they provided a map for this big place.

After a half an hour, you hear a commotion from the floor below as Eddie Brock was being dragged away by two security guards. He shouted at Drake, accusing him of building a facility on a pile of dead bodies. Of course Eddie Brock knew something. He was one of the best investigative journalists you knew. You wished you could go to Eddie for help, but after an article he wrote about an extreme Animals Rights activist group, you were unwittingly linked to them by the police as you were seen speaking to one of them. You were sure that Eddie hadn’t known, but his wording in his article led you to be arrested and held under the suspicion of arson and affiliation. You were merely warning the group not to take things too far before the community paid for their mistakes. It was a very unpleasant experience and your brief friendship with the reporter was gone.

Weeks later, you heard of Eddie’s fall from grace. After what he did during his interview with Drake, his life was ruined. When you told your fellow activists about the suspicious activities happening in the Life Foundation, even they didn’t want to mess with Carlton Drake. You weren’t sure whether to be surprised or not when you found Eddie at your door.

“Hey, long time no see,” he said casually.

“Brock,” you greeted back, leaning against your door frame.

“So, uh, how’ve you been?”

“What do you want, Eddie?” you sighed.

“I, uh, I got something that I think you’re interested in. Well, I know you’re interested in,” he said. You raised an eyebrow. “Look, I saw you that day at the Life Foundation. You were looking into him, too, right?”

You sighed again, looking down and sorted through your options. You could close the door on him and have to find another way to get dirt on the Life Foundation or let him in and possibly get in trouble right away, but at least find something.

He pleaded with his blue eyes, adding a pout for good measure. You rolled your own eyes and opened the door wider for him. He grinned, strolling passed you into your apartment. He spun in a circle, taking in your interior designing.

“It’s so clean,” he said.

“Never seen a clean apartment before?” you asked, taking out two cans of beer from the fridge.

“No, not since I got kicked out of a clean apartment. After that, I got too depressed to leave the couch.”

“Understandable. Carlton Drake did ruin your life-”

“Thank you!”

“-But you did give him the opportunity to do so.”

Eddie sighed, slumping down on your couch. He sniffed the air and gave a pleased hum, leaning forward to read the scent on your candle.

“You showered, right?” you asked, handing him a can before sitting on the opposite side of the couch.

“Um…” He frowned, genuinely trying to recall the last few days.

“Okay,” you said with a wave of a hand, cutting his trail of thought before he hurts himself from thinking too hard, “Anyways, what do you got so far?”

“So, one of Drake’s researchers contacted me and gave me access to the facility,” he said, shifting his body to face you.

“Are you serious?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah, you were right to suspect animal experiments, but apparently they’ve made some progress and gone a step further.”

He fished out his phone, wiping the screen of sweat, then pulled out the pictures he took. Photos of caged bunnies next to a row of empty ones, larger glass cages with crouched figures inside, and then the final one. A woman screaming as she pounded against the glass. You grabbed the phone from Eddie and flipped through the photos again of the other human subjects.

“These are the homeless people around San Francisco,” you realized, frowning as you recognized a few familiar faces from your morning walks around the streets. “What are they doing to them?”

“It’s connected to Carlton Drake’s little expedition in space. They brought back something. Something bad, (Y/n). I’m talking Alien’s facehuggers parasite shit.” Eddie flinched back, his face shifting a gooey black with large white eyes before shifting back to normal.

“The fuck was that, Eddie?” you demanded.

“I, uh, it’s, um, I’ve got a parasite.” He stumbled over, slamming his face against the coffee table and breaking one of the legs. “You got this from Ikea?”

You huffed, catching the candle from sliding and tipping over. “You mean to tell me that whatever they’ve brought from space is inside you right now? This… parasite?”

Eddie waved his hands then held a finger to his lips. “Okay, we should stop saying that word. He does not like that word.”

“He? He’s… he’s a sentient gooey alien inside of you?” You stood up and started to pace around with your hands on your head. “Jesus, Eddie.”

“Look, this is more than just a story, now, (Y/n). He’s planning to bring more down here and shoving those things up people’s asses. I understand if you don’t want to… this is a lot to take in, but I don’t know who else to go to and-”

“What do I do? What can I do? I don’t… I can’t… “

“Hey, hey, hey,” he shushed you, approaching slowly and awkwardly with outstretched arms, “We’ll figure it out.”

You walked over to him, ignoring his sweaty body odor and hugged him. “Okay, I’m in. But please take a shower first.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

#WritersMonth2020 #eddie brock x reader #eddie brock #venom imagine #venom movie #venom #oneshot #might continue this in another prompt #marvel #I love how much of a mess Eddie is #and we all love him

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enby-hawke · 3 years

Text

Rating: Mature

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Category:F/M

TW: Graphic depictions of violence, exploration of race and class dynamics, eventual smut

So here it is after 3 years of talking about it and then trying to turn it into a comic, I’m kicking it out because it doesn’t pay rent and I have other stories to tell. Here it is. Hope you enjoy.

----

“I still do not understand what taste is,” the spirit somehow huffed. Malcolm knew it was a mistake to respond at all. The red specter hovered on the edge of Malcolm’s bed, it’s angry red glow a contrast to the murky green that the Fade was hazed in. It had somehow got in again, into the sanctum where he allowed his mind to rest as he guarded the dreamers of Kirkwall. Malcolm could have made his sanctum look like anything, but he didn’t bother giving himself the illusion he was anywhere else but his Circle cell. The thin sandpaper sheets did nothing to soften the metal bed underneath him. The cell had barely enough room for his dresser and desk that he used to do his studies, which he spent more time doodling on than learning. Even here he could still smell the faint aroma of the toilet that was next to his bed. Still, as unpleasant as his sanctum was, he needed a strong sensation to anchor his body, especially if he was going to battle a demon tonight.

Malcolm took in a stale breath, held it for 4 seconds, and gently let it go. It was important that no matter what happened, he remained calm.

The shimmering of the phantom became more urgent, more vibrant. Malcolm continued to ignore it, even turning his head and body away to make a point, but it didn’t seem to stop the creature from trying to dart into view, insistent on having his question answered. After the third turn of his head, the demon reached and gave one of Malcolm’s pointy ears a firm yank, screaming, “Can you hear me?”

On instinct, Malcolm swiped at the demon with a crackling fist, but the demon darted away. The sparks in Malcolm’s hand arced wildly as he leveled it at his target. “Fuck off, demon. I told you, one question.”

The wraith started to warp along with the Fade as anger emanated from Malcolm’s body. Claws started sprouting from it’s fingers and through it’s translucent skin, he could see it’s teeth starting to jut out at odd angles, but the demon made no move to fight him. “Were you listening? I am not a demon. I’m a scholar. And you are the first somniari I have come across in ages.”

The demon kept it’s distance but became more animated, gesturing with it’s gangly arms. “The last somniari only survived long enough to tell me about eating, but though I’ve tried it, the phenomenon remains perplexing.” Malcolm jumped as the demon inched closer. “Sometimes eating brings joy. Sometimes eating brings sorrow. Sometimes eating brings no emotion at all.” Quivering in curiosity, the demon then sprung forward so close to Malcolm could easily punch it. “Why somniari?”

The sparks in Malcolm’s hands died down as his eyes glazed over, caught in a memory. He saw his mother, with dark freckled brown skin, and beautiful curly hair that cascaded down her back, but her face was blurred as he failed to recall the details. Still, he remembered the smell of the plate of piping hot pancet that she placed in front of him, how the steam coming off of the unending noodles made his mouth water. She brushed his mop of curls from his eyes and kissed his forehead with a warm smile. “Happy birthday, Malcolm.”

The creature sniffed at his head as if he was about to take a huge bite. “Oh, what is that? That smells delicious!”

Malcolm swatted at the spirit as if it was an annoying fly. “Stay out of my head!”

But the spirit had already plucked the memory out of his head and dashed away a safe distance from the room. It wiggled in delight of it’s prize, and in it’s hands it materialized into a bowl of pancet. Malcolm felt a sick twist of envy as the spirit grabbed a handful of long fried noodles and shoved it into it’s mouthless face, slurping it down with wet smacking noises. “This,” sluuuurp, “memory tastes both,“ sluuuurp, “happy and sad, though the sadness is fresher.”

Malcolm, quaking in anger, rose to his feet, summoning threatening flames so high, they licked the ceiling. “Were you not warned of who I am?”

The spirit continued to eat in bliss, Malcolm’s threat no more than an annoyance. “The wisps call you,” sluurp, “Spirit Slayer.”

Malcolm raised a thick eyebrow, wondering why this spirit had no sense of self preservation. Or was this demon stronger than he thought? “So why do you risk pestering me?”

At this, the demon lowered the bowl, a mess of sauce dripping down it’s face. “Because only you can answer.”

The demon looked sadly at it’s last noodle and picked it up between it’s claws. “I, too, have lost much, somniari. I had a name once. I’ve given up trying to find it.”

“I’ve asked every stone, every wisp, but so much was lost after The Sundering. What I am, is what I have left.” The demon turned to Malcolm and though it had no eyes, he could feel it looking through him with earnest that he could feel thrumming in his heart. “So if this quest is my end, so be it.” Then it ate the noodle, looking oddly like a worm being sucked through a hole.

The flames died in Malcolm’s hands, his anger deflating with plumes of smoke. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to spare a moment.”

The words had barely left Malcolm’s mouth before his pocket started to buzz with a generic ringtone, that vibrated the air of the Fade like a tinging glass. The spirit cocked his head, confused as Malcolm dug through his pajama pockets and fished it out. “Sorry, demon, duty calls.”

“Scholar,” the spirit corrected, but Malcolm shushed him as he put it to his ear.

A terrified voice began sobbing through the speaker. “Help! Somebody help!”

Malcolm didn’t recognize the voice, so they weren’t one of the Circle mages being plagued for a meal. An apostate perhaps?

“Hello? It’s going to be alright,” Malcolm began like he always did. He raised his free hand to feel the cords of the Fade that were weaving together, trying to connect to the dreamer who rang his phone. The air around his hands shimmered like sparkling dust, faint harp-like threads connecting from the tips of his fingers.

“Hello?” the voice answered back, full of confusion. “Who is this?”

“That doesn’t matter. Can you tell me where you are?” He stepped off his bed and towards his bedroom door.

“Where I am?” the voice repeated, slick with tears. “I’m…I don’t know.”

He could feel that she was panicked, confused, disoriented, and that there was a dark aura surrounding her, stronger than he had felt in awhile. Malcolm had been sure that he had cleansed this area of the Fade of demons, but this just meant that more would come in to feed on the remnants. Malcolm closed his eyes, reaching through the phone to try to peek at her dream. “Yes, you do,” his soothing voice taking a commanding tone. “Just open your eyes and describe what you see.”

He heard her gasping for air as she struggled to breathe but eventually she sputtered out. “I’m in my bedroom. It’s filling up with water, fast. You have to hurry.”

He put his hand on the door. Through the darkness of his eyelids he began to see light, and the running rush of water filled his ears. “Describe your room to me.”

“What would it matter!?”

“It matters if I’m going to find you.”

A beat of silence registered on the phone, before she continued. “Well, it’s a room…with a closet and a bed.”

“Helpful,” Malcolm snorted before he could stop himself. Still, a misty silhouette of a closet, which was more like it’s own room, and a grand bed with a flowing cloth canopy started to form. There was a body tucked within it, nestled on a throne of pillows.

“Well I’m in a state of panic right now! Can you blame me? My clothes are getting ruined. It’ll cost a fortune to redo these carpets, not to mention-”

Malcolm sighed, trying to press on as she chattered. It never did any good to argue, but this monologue wasn’t helping. “What color are your blankets?”

“Cream…embroidered with gold thread.” The vision in his mind began to fill in with color.

“And the pattern of the embroidery?”

“Really?”

“Messere,” Malcolm gritted his teeth. “It’s important you stay calm. The more you panic the faster the water will flood.” It wasn’t a lie, but he also needed her to hurry.

She relented with a sigh, and said, “a gold-leaf rose spread.”

It took a little more coaxing, but eventually Malcolm got her to describe her wallpapers, floral and pink, and her carpet, which she insisted before the flood was a beautiful white color. She also described a bookcase, her lute, and a vanity mirror where she would get ready for the day each morning, a family heirloom, made from wood of the grove of the Emerald Graves, with brass knob handles and the symbol of her family’s crest that was carved into the wood, that showed either two ravens perched in angular stone columns, or a dragon head, depending on how you looked at it. Soon he could see the room, and could finally solidify the flimsy connection.

He pressed his forehead against the bedroom door, eyes still closed, the hard metal cold and unforgiving. “Now I need you to walk up to your door and let me in.”

“Are you crazy?” she shouted so loud that Malcolm had to take his ear away from the receiver. “It’s going to let all the water in!”

“No,” Malcolm said calmly. “Because I will be on the other side.”

“You know that makes no sense.”

“You’re talking to a strange voice in your head, your room is flooded, and from my estimate about the cost of that vanity mirror alone, you live somewhere in Hightown. Does any of this make sense?”

This time she whined, which sounded more cute than annoying. “But I’m going to get wet.”

Malcolm burst out in laughter. He had run into a lot of dreamers, but while most were suggestive, she seemed to easily resist the strings connecting them. He could see deep into the pit of her heart that she was as stubborn as he was, which was saying something. It was intriguing really, but before his curiosity could run away with it, his sensible self reminded him that she was in danger. And with how long it took for him to find the location of her dream, the demon had now sensed him coming.

“Look, the door is locked, and only you can open it.”

“Can’t you just break the lock open?”

“Sure,” Malcolm said, “but that door represents the connection of your body to your slumbering mind. If I break it open, it would hurt…a lot.”

Silence filled the air except for the splash of rising water and the slurping noise of Scholar licking the last remnants of sauce from their bowl.

“You promise you’ll be on the other side?”

“Promise.”

She heaved a huge sigh and after a few moments, he could hear the sloshing of water as she started to wade her way through her bedroom, but Malcolm could not only hear it from the speaker, but the other side of the door as well. Malcolm shoved his phone back into his pocket and placed his hand on the doorknob that would normally be electronically locked, but right now, it was just another illusion of the Fade. As the lock clicked open, Malcolm turned the doorknob, blissfully unaware of how his life would change until he met the girl’s black doe eyes.

Read more on A03

#dragon age fic #da fic #hawke #malcolm x leandra #leandra hawke #malcolm hawke #my writing #It's finally here and I'm nervous as hell #I'm going to work on Chapter 3 after I feed my animals #Yes I'm in Chapter 3 #yes I can't stop writing #yes I need to do other things my life is falling apart

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 3 years

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Speak No Evil (Part 20)

When Seicho mentioned that her brother had a ship and was a captain, she had anticipated a much larger vessel. What she comes to discover is that it small and that there are only two beds (and the one in Zhang-Zin captain quarter) and Seicho, vicious as a tigerdillo, has already claimed one of them. Not only has she claimed it but she has spread herself out upon it like a starfish and whenever either she or Zuko gets near, she snaps up and tackles them.

Azula thinks to fight the woman for it, but she is also beginning to think that it will be more trouble than it is worth considering how short the boat ride to the mainland will be anyhow. She thinks that she is letting the woman get too brave around her. She doesn’t want to be off puttingly intimidating but she also can’t have Seicho thinking that she is in charge.

No less she finds herself wandering over to the remaining bed. Zuko refuses to leave it and she refuses to sleep on the floor. “What are you doing!?” He jolts up right as she makes herself cozy under the covers.

‘Oh relax, Zuzu.’ She mouths as she fishes out her parchment. ‘It’ll be like when we were kids and you climbed into my bed after one of your nightmares’.

Zuko groans, “fine, whatever. Just don’t hog the blankets.”

She will make a point of collecting as much of the blanket as she can possibly wrap around herself. Regardless of how many blankets she has herself swaddled in, she isn’t exactly comfy; Zirin snores and Zuko has smacked her stomach at least thrice now--and once, very nearly in the face--while thrashing about in his sleep. He hasn’t even noticed that she has taken all of the blankets for herself as some form of payback. It is less payback now and more so extra padding to take the brunt off of his sleep kicks.

Most of them are only mild annoyances, but when he gives her calf a decently hard kick she elbows him in the ribcage until he wakes up. And he does so with a start. “What’s going on? Where are Zhao and his koi fish steed?”

Azula quirks a brow and writes, ‘as far as I’ve been told, he’s at the bottom of the ocean somewhere in the poles.’

Zuko rubs his face and shakes the sleep from his head. “You didn’t have to wake me…”

‘I did.’ She insists. ‘You kept punching me. You’re lucky that I didn’t shove you off of the bed.’ She frowns.

Zuko rubs the back of his head and grumbles as apology. Azula inhales through her nose, grabs a handful of blankets, and flops back onto the mattress.

“We’re not going to be getting any sleep tonight, are we?”

Azula feels for her parchment, missing several times before she finally takes hold of it. Without looking at him she holds up a big and bold, ‘No.’

Albeit, she has had worse nights. At least this time, the things that keep her awake are external rather than an onslaught of unkind, miserable thoughts. Though being awake gives plenty of time for those to work their way in, steadily and creepingly.

The thought of going home is suddenly very unpleasant. No doubt she will run into Mai--a fury builds in her chest and heats her face. No doubt she will run into TyLee--and that resentment turns into regret and dread. And hurt.

And maybe she deserves hurt, as much of it as life can give her. She grips the blankets tighter, she could have sworn she was over this feeling. Yet, she had never truly confronted it at all, had she? She scrawls another little something on the parchment.

‘Are you still awake?’ She dangles it in front of his face, occasionally flapping it about.

“Yes, I’m awake.” He snactches the parchment and rolls over to face her. “What?” His annoyance would be laughable if she wasn’t feeling so uneasy and distraught. His face seems to soften, “what’s wrong?”

Azula glances over at Seicho, she thinks of waking her up too. The spoiled little beast.

“Having second thoughts about going home?” He guesses. She wonders if he finds it entertaining to see her expirening the same conflict that he had so long ago. But then, it isn’t home that she dreads, it is old friends. Old lovers.

“We don’t have to go home right away? We can just get some things and we can head off to find the spirit.”

But that’s just it, she wants to get it over with. She wants to see TyLee and Mai again. She wants it as much as she dreads it and she writes as much. Zuko nods, “yeah, maybe it would be better for you to get some closure first so you can take the jungle with a clear head.”

Azula nods. And maybe she can finally shake away some of the guilt and anger that has been weighing her down. That has been eating away at her without mercy or pause. He doesn’t understand how truly crushing it is…

She supposes that she can get him too. She feels like she has to. Because every now and then she still thinks of pitching herself overboard. Mostly when there is no one to talk to her or keep her mind occupied.

‘Can I tell you about my hike?’ It is a stupid question. Of course she can’t tell him, she will have to scribble it all down.

He gets the point, “yeah, go ahead.”

She has already begun detailing her adventure with Zirin, right down to her death wishes and her grand failed attempt to fulfill them.

She knows exactly when he gets to first mention of death because his eyes go wide. And she knows when he comes to suicide climb up the side of the volcano by his cringe and the tightening of his grip on the parchment. He sets it aside, “you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t?”

She holds up her arms, still scraped and bruised from her careless ascent.

She doesn’t expect him to take her into his arms and squeeze her tightly. She doesn’t expect it but she doesn’t resist when it happens. In face, Azula fiend herself sinking into his embrace. It settles once and for all, as he rubs up and down her back with Zirin’s snores for background noise, that she doesn’t want to die. That she just wants to feel loved. Loved and happy and, if she is lucky, safe.

“It’s going to work out, you’ll see.”

She isn’t so sure, but at least she has one thing now that she didn’t have before.

Support.

“TyLee isn’t the type to stay mad, I think that she just wants you to realize that you hurt her and that you can’t do that. She doesn’t hate you, she told me that much.” Zuko smiles.

And Azula realizes that she had two things that she didn’t have on her first journey.

Support and hope.

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #TyLee #TyZula #Azucho #Zuko #Fanfiction

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phantomphangphucker · 4 years

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DannyMay Day 25: Break - What’s The (Brain) Matter With You?

Danny gets graphically injured, freaks out his class, and possibly changes the definition of ‘dead’; all in one unassuming English class.

Why does bad shit always have to happen in English class? Knowing Danny’s luck it was probably because Lancer was the one teacher that still actively paid attention to him and cared. What was actually surprising is that this time it had nothing to do with ghosts. Well okay, it did have to do with ectoplasm and it was partially Danny’s fault and he was a ghost. So ghosts were sorta involved. Kinda. Not really though.

Now see the reason the explosion was partly Danny’s fault was because of a particular very explosive reaction certain chemicals have with ectoplasm; and Danny was dumb enough to just assume there wasn’t enough ‘plasm in him to be an issue. Course his dumbass was wrong. Figures. That was his kind of luck after all.

It was also technically his health teacher’s fault though, wanting to do that ‘lets take samples of our blood and look at it’ class project. Which yes, had made Danny more than a little worried, since his blood has some strange shit. But apparently the class rule was you could only look at your own, so it was whatever. He still destroyed his slides though. But of course the science class had to share a biohazards and chemical waste trash bin. Of course. And of course there had to be enough of his ‘plasm to react with things violently but belatedly. And of course whatever they did with the waste bins happened to be located right below his English classroom. And finally, of course, said explosive reaction had to happen directly below him and absolutely with enough force to kill someone.

Considering how the explosion had torn a hole through the floor, launched him with a yelp into the ceiling, blown his desk and chair to smithereens, blew out half the classroom windows, put another hole through the ceiling, and that’s without mentioning any injuries. Which, in predictable fashion, Danny was the only one with serious injuries. Sure, Danny preferred it that way. All things considered. But still. No one liked broken bones, or getting impaled, or cracking their fucking skull open. Fucking Ancients. Danny’s pretty sure he had actually seen brain matter go flying into a wall. And by broken bones, he mean so mostly his neck; which is at totally the wrong angle right now. Oh and his arm, which might actually be missing. And honestly, he’s pretty sure, like, all his spine is super fucked up. Couple toes for sure. Maybe his jaw too. Also can’t currently see out of one eye, so there’s that.

Danny wheezes slightly from the ground, spitting out bits of debris or dust or whatever out of his mouth. He’s not even going to bother with finishing mental self-assessment. Because fuck his organs are a mess and he is absolutely just making a pool of blood right now. He should probably cut that out before passes out or something. Maybe. He’s not sure if he even can pass out from blood loss nowadays.

He’s definitely glad for the ringing in his ears to cut it the Hell out. Even if that gives him the very unpleasant reminder that his is currently surrounded by people, people he knows at that.

Needless to say, everyone’s freaking the Hell out.

Lancer’s doing his best to keep the class calm or at the very least calm enough for him to be able to check that everyone’s alright; while the dust and bits of debris settled enough to actually see. “Alright everyone! Please come over to the door slowly and let me check you over. Then head outside”.

The teens, predictably, do not go slowly. Most practically rushing over to him, but thankfully the first few seem fine and are more than eager to get out of the room.

Lancer gets halfway through his class when the dust settles enough for him to notice the absolute carnage in the back of the class. The hole in the ceiling letting in extra light and practically highlighting the blood splatter. Lancer abandons his task at spotting a mangled pale arm speared on a piece of the broken window glass. Gaping at blood dripping to the floor with a chunk of white and red fabric from the severed end.

Everyone following Lancer with their eyes as he basically shouts, “Daniel!”, and moves as fast as his overweight and old body will let him, to the back of the classroom. Mentally trying to ignore the blood and even bits of flesh while fanning away dust. Fanning more away after finding and grabbing a red and white shoe, feeling frankly stunned but also deeply relieved at hearing a, “hey ow, that’s, like, definitely broken”, at least the teen wasn’t dead.

Lancer promptly exclaiming, “Chicken Soup For The Soul!”, and scrambling to back away, followed by a bunch of shrieking and gagging sounds from the rest of the class, when Daniel pushes himself up on one arm and is missing half his head and face; said head is also rolling around his shoulders limply.

Lancer finding his voice and sputtering, “h-how?”, because this was impossible.

Daniel just grabs a piece of shrapnel, that likely was once a chair leg, and just wraps it around his neck; effectively making a hard brace and forcing his head to stay upright and blinks his one eye at Lancer. “Uh, could use some help here”, when no one moves and just openly gapes at him (or in Jesse’s case, throws up), Daniel just leans on his one arm, “that’s alright, I got this”, and grabs a corner of a desk to start yanking himself to stand up with a bit of grunting. Everyone watching his back making some seriously strange movements.

Lancer shakes himself off when Daniel repeatedly falls on his ass after letting go of the desk, his back basically crumpling in on itself every time, grumbling, “Ah dammit”. Lancer actually physically shakes his head and moves to grab Daniel and hoist him up to be laying on an intact desk away from the hole in the ground and glass shards scattered around. Daniel grumbling some more, “the goal wasn’t to just lay down somewhere else”.

Lancer swallows, “Daniel, I don’t think you can stand right now”.

Kwan just loses it at this, “how the fuck are you even alive. You’re missing your face!?!”.

Lancer has to seriously resist gagging himself at Daniel patting at his face, even touching exposed bone and shredded muscle, “oh shit, so that’s why I’m missing an eye. Huh. Fancy that”. Then sticks his one arm out, “someone hand me a pole and strips of fabric”. Brittney doing exactly that with very shaky hands.

Lancer just numbly moves to hold the teen up by his armpits, pointedly ignoring all the blood getting smeared on him in the process; just how much blood could one body hold??? While Daniel makes the motions of attempting to tie the pole to his back. Three other students jerkily moving to help him, two with tears in their eyes and clearly trying not to just break down.

Lancer joins everyone else in openly gaping some more when Daniel actually stands up, kicks a bit of debris and mumbles, “oh yeah, totally broke a few toes”.

Lancer clears his throat and grabs Daniel’s arm, “Daniel, how are you- you need you stay sitting”.

Daniel blinks, moves the arm with surprising strength and scratches the inside of his head, “uh, but I’d like to have something back where it belongs. I don’t know ‘bout you, but not having a brain makes it kinda hard to think”.

Quite a few people mutter, “what the fuck”. And Lancer can’t help but agree, he’s not even going to chastise them for swearing.

While Daniel wobble walks back over near the hole, Lancer muttering disbelievingly, “careful”. Daniel predictably just waves him off over his shoulder and makes his way to the window.

Quite a few more people gag or mutter, “this is disgusting”, but clearly keep watching anyway; while Daniel rips his arm off the chunk of glass, blood splattering down from it, and shoves it in his mouth. Even Lancer has a seriously hard time not throwing up at that. While Daniel starts searching around and picking up pale red chunks off the ground.

Everyone’s dead silent while Daniel makes his way to a desk near them while cradling the fleshy bits in his attached arm, which Lancer’s has now realised are probably chunks of brain matter. The teen flops into a desk and spits the arm onto the desk top, causing more gagging sounds from the class, as it flops around with notably limp fingers.

Lancer blinks, “Daniel... what are you doing?”, shaking his head while Daniel starts shoving bits of the Probable brain matter inside his head using the missing part of his head as an easy entry hole. Lancer doesn’t have any words for any of this and shakily fishes into his pocket, “right, I should probably call an ambulance”. He should have done that a while ago. But this was- Daniel should be dead.

Lancer actually jumps a little from Daniel snapping his head around using his hand, since his neck is clearly broken, “I'd rather you not do that. In all honestly”, one of the brain chunks flying out of his head due to the speed with which he turned his head to splatter against the wall. Daniel turns his head to look at it, then back at the class, “uh, anyone wanna get that?”.

Todd walks over to the piece while maintaining very disbelievingly eye contact with the teen and picks it up using his jacket sleeve, awkwardly saying, “here”, as he hands the bit over.

Daniel grunts like the guy had just picked up his pencil, “thanks, ‘preciate it”, and dust it off before just stuffing back into his head.

Lancer swallows and looks from his phone to Daniel, “uh, I think I should call. Why shouldn’t I? Daniel -Call Of The Wild- you are missing your arm and half your head”.

Daniel shrugs, “your point being? Me and hospitals have a rocky relationship. Meaning a nonexistent one. I’m kinda too weird for ‘em”.

Kwan parrots, “‘kinda’”.

Daniel nods, “yup”, and freaking pops the ‘p’.

Dale sticks his hands out to the side, “do you feel like expanding on that? Like, seriously”.

Lancer nods, “again, why shouldn't I call?”. If Lancer has to make some form of a guess, it would have to be something to do with the fact that Daniel shouldn’t be alive right now.

Daniel just haphazardly shoves the rest of the chunks in his head, which looks to be reforming parts of his skull and even flesh. War Of The World’s, this was beyond strange and frankly, incredibly disgusting.

Daniel responds while literally holding the chunks of brain in place with his hand, “well, I mean, they kinda would freak over my vitals and my blood’s some strange shit”, looking down to his arm and nodding at it, “someone wanna hold this up fer me, rather get that reattached before it gets all melty”.

Todd jerks to pick it up and continues giving a disbelieving look at Daniel but with a slight questioning look added in. Daniel rolls his eyes, “just hold the ends together, dude”. Todd glares but does as he’s told. Everyone gapes and Lancer drops his phone on the floor, watching as the flesh, muscle and blood from the two ends start meshing back together and bubbling; his fingers even start twitching.

Lancer swallows and clears his throat, this kind of healing? wasn’t even possible. People can’t reattach limbs. Lancer’s pretty sure no creature can do that actually. “Daniel, that explains nothing. You shouldn’t even have vitals right now. You should be dead”.

Daniel glances his eye around and shrugs a little, “well, uh, cats outta the bag I guess”, then looks Lancer right in the eyes, which Lancer has to try very hard not to gag over because the teens eye socket is reforming grotesquely, “don’t gotta worry ‘bout me dying, cause I’m kinda already dead”.

Lancer joins the class in sputtering, “what???”.

Kwan squeaks, “so you’re a freaking zombie?”, looking more than a little freaked.

Daniel tilts his head and chuckles, “no. Close though, I guess”, Daniel physically turns his head with his hand to look around, “anyone seen an eye by chance? Takes a lot more energy to reform than reattach”.

Lancer blinks, arms limp at his sides, “no one has been looking, Daniel”.

Daniel shrugs, “fair enough. Probably crushed anyway”, shrugging again, “least I got my brain stuff”, chuckling, “you know how much energy it is to put a brain back together, the human body is so complicated”.

Lancer gives a very awkward, “yeah. It is”.

Jesse tentatively pokes the boy when he uses the reattached arm/hand to pat at the reformed skull and skin, hair starting to seemingly regrow off of it. Jesse asking, “so, about the dead thing?”.

Daniel blinks, “yeah?”, continuing when everyone glares at him, including Lancer, “it’s been, like, two years. It’s not my fault you never noticed. I’ve got some ‘plasm that keeps me going”.

Lancer blinks, “as in ectoplasm?”, shaking his head and scrunching up his eyebrows. Come to think of it, Daniel had been weird ever since that electrical accident that kept him from attending school for a bit. “That electrocution?”.

Daniel nods and points at him, smiling; which is seriously off-putting, since this situation and topic does not call for smiling. “That’s the one! Totally didn’t survive that shit. I mean, it was what? four billion volts? Pretty sure it’s impossible to survive that”, shrugging, “but I had some ‘plasm to keep me goin’, so here I am. I’m not complaining. Though yeah, this is supremely fucking painful. So if anyone’s got, like, some narcotics, that’d be great”.

Lancer walks a bit stiffly to his desk and pulls out a bottle, “it’s... not much, but I have some Advil”. Daniel just shrugs and takes it, removing the bent metal chair leg from his neck after and bending his neck around. Lancer shakes his head, “‘four billion’ that's Four times the amount in a bolt of lightning”.

Daniel nods, “sounds about right”. Earning more gapping from the class.

Everyone looks up then as the class over bell goes off, then looks to Lancer. Who immediately says, “everyone’s free to go home”, looking specifically at Daniel, “and you can just stay right there till you’re done...this”, shaking his head, “are you seriously going to be alright? And you are... dead?”.

Daniel nods, “yup. Just need a bit to rearrange my spine and some organs. Kinda probably soup on the inside”, shrugging, “but uh, I guess be happy that was me who got all mangled and broken. Anyone else and you be dealing with a corpse. Well, a non-responsive corpse anyway. I’m not really sure if I count as a corpse or not”.

Dale mutter, “oh my Zone. This seriously messed up”.

Daniel chuckles, “yeah, welcome to my existence. It’s usually pretty messed up. Shoulda seen the first time I got decapitated. That was wild. Don’t recommend”.

Quite a few people gag and mutter about going home. Which seems to amuse the teen, based on the smirking. Lancer shakes his head, “I think I don’t really want to know”.

All the people still left turn their heads to the door when Tucker appears, points at Daniel, laughs, and says, “dude, your hair is fucked up”.

Daniel chuckles, “yeah, kinda lost my head for a bit there”. Lancer’s just going to assume Daniel’s friends know about his... dead state, since Tucker just chuckles and shrugs.

Tucker points to the hole, “someone mixed your blood with some of those reactive chemicals, by the way. You really can’t help destroying shit, can you?”.

Daniel smirks, “no”.

Todd’s blinks any Daniel, “your blood’s explosive?”.

Daniel just shrugs, “can be, under the right circumstances. There’s kinda ‘plasm mixed in it, and that shit is super reactive. Not to mention corrosive, and toxic, and ecto-radioactive. My blood’s like, technically pretty dangerous stuff”.

Dale tilts his head, “so that’s why you didn’t really want to do the blood examination thing”.

Daniel nods readily, “exactly, guess I really shouldn’t have. Really blew up in my face there”. Then unties the metal pole from his back, gets up, and stretches out. Looking down at his heavily bloodied clothing, “well, I doubt the school would be okay with me walking around in this”.

Tucker waves him off and walks over, stepping over debris like it’s nothing, “eh whatever, fuck ‘em”, and grabs Daniel to pull him out of the classroom.

Lancer calls after them numbly, “just go home”. The boys unsurprisingly shrug, the rest of Lancer’s students leaving shortly after. Leaving Lancer looking around his destroy classroom disbelievingly. Eyes settling on the blood splattered everywhere. Daniel’s blood... which he literally just said was basically an extreme hazard.

Well there’s nothing for it, moving to grab up a mop and bucket, and getting to work. Having to seriously force down bile and trying to not think about any of this; but considering the little specks of green he can make out here and there, Daniel wasn’t lying.

End.

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browneyedhimbo · 4 years

Text

Like Father Like Daughter (2/?)

Paring: Tony x Daughter!Reader

Summary: Tony and Stephen bud heads as the need to come up with a plan ensues, causing some unpleasant memories to arise as well your sarcastic humor.

Warning: Slight angst, fluff, swearing, mentions of blood, mentions of cacw

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: I finally got the inspiration and motivation to write chapter 2! I'm so so sorry it's taken long loves. I'm looking to write chapter 3 as well so hopefully that'll be out there soon. As always, I hope you enjoy!

▪︎LFLD Masterlist▪︎《MASTERLIST》

You looked between the three men, your thoughts racing away in your head. You bit your bottom lip, casting your gaze to the floor. You steadied your breathing and made eye contact with your father.

“This is it.” You got up and stood between Tony and Bruce. Arms crossed loosely over your torso, you looked over at Bruce and took in his appearance again. His eyes were so haunted, fear and logic battling within. Hulk fought Thanos, you concluded. But Hulk lost big time.

“What’s our timeline?” Tony voiced, already trying to come up with a plan.

“No telling.” He made his way closer to Tony. “He has the Power and Space Stones, that already makes him the strongest creature in the whole universe. If he gets his hands, on all six Stones, Tony…”

“He can destroy life on a scale hitherto undreamt of.” Stephen finished, squaring his shoulders. You and your father shared a look as he leaned against a cauldron, stretching.

“Did you seriously just say "hitherto undreamt of"?” Tony scoffed, looking at you and then then Strange.

“Are you seriously leaning on the Cauldron of the Cosmos?” Stephen fired back. You quirked an eyebrow at the exchange.

“Is that what this is?” Tony smirked slightly, looking at the thing. The cape thing Stephen was wearing slapped Tony’s arm, causing him to stand straight. You cleared your throat trying to suppress your laughter. “I’m going to allow that.” He tried to waver his offended look with a glare only making you want to laugh more.

“Laugh it up Y/N/N, laugh it up.” You shook your head, a big grin plastered on your face. You coughed and tried to get serious, but the laughter inside kept trying to bubble to the surface.

“Whenever you two are finished. It’s not like the fate of the universe is at stake or anything.” Stephen glared at the both of you, clearly not having any of it.

“Look, if Thanos needs all six, why don't we just stick this one down the garbage disposal?” You proposed, pointing at the necklace around Stephen’s neck.

“No can do.” He shook his head.

“We swore an oath to protect the Time Stone. With our lives.” Wong said, stepping next to Stephen. You groaned and rolled your eyes.

“And I swore off dairy, but then, Ben & Jerry's named a flavor after me, so…” Tony trailed and you smirked.

“Stark Raving Hazelnuts.” Stephen sighed looking at Tony.

“It’s not bad.”

“A bit chalky.” You stared at the two men shaking your head.

“Junior Stark Strawberry Blast is my favorite. Personally it’s the best one,” you mumbled earning a few side glares.

“A Hunka-Hulka Burning Fudge is our favorite.” Wong stated, nodding his head. You playfully rolled your eyes, small smile playing on your lips.

“That's a thing?” Bruce asked incredulously. You turned to him and nodded happily.

“Sure is. When we get out of this we’ll head over and grab some cones.” You pat his shoulder.

“Only if you're buying.” Tony turned to the both of you, causing you to laugh.

“Does fate of the universe mean nothing to you?” Stephen glanced between you and Tony.

“Listen,” you started making your way to stand in front of the doctor. “You’re talking about saving the universe right? You’re talking about fighting this mad titan right?” Stephen nodded. “Then maybe humor is my way of coping with the idea of possible untimely death. Got it doc?” You spat. He sputtered as he looked to Tony who only shook his head.

“Well you know what they say, mess with the bull you get the horns.” He smirked, hands shoving into his pant pockets.

“Anyways…” You trailed.

“Right. Point is: things change.” Tony stated, glancing at the necklace briefly before making eye contact with Stephen.

“Our oath to protect the Time Stone cannot change. This Stone may be the best chance we have against Thanos.” Stephen said, taking a step closer to Tony.

“And still conversely, it may also be his best chance against us.” Tony took a step to Stephen, squaring his shoulders, trying to appear taller.

“Well, if we don't do our jobs.”

“What is your job exactly, besides making balloon animals?” Tony asked condescendingly.

“Protecting your reality, douchebag.” Stephen smirked slightly, as he calmly fired back. You rolled your eyes for the millionth time that day and crossed your arms.

“Oh god there’s two of them.” You groaned, leaning against Bruce’s shoulder dramatically.

“Okay, guys, could we table this discussion right now?” Bruce sighed, getting their attention.

“Thank you.” You whispered standing up straight and putting your hand in your pockets.

“The fact is that we have this Stone. We know where it is. Vision is out there somewhere with the Mind Stone, and we have to find him now.” You visibly cringed at his words and ran a hand through your hair.

“What? Y/N what’s wrong?” Bruce questioned, extending a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah, uh, that’s the…” you chuckled dryly. “That’s the thing.” You scratched your forehead, not knowing how to phrase the words.

“Two weeks ago, Vision turned off his transponder. He's offline.” Your dad stated. Bruce’s hand fell from your shoulder and slapped against his hip.

“What?” His jaw dropped “You two, you lost another super bot?”

“Okay technically Ultron wasn’t my fault.” You pointed at Bruce and he deadpanned.

“We didn't lose him. He's more than that. He's evolving.” Tony said, breaking up the soon to be argument.

“Who could find Vision, then?” Stephen asked, looking between the three of you. You and Tony shared a look.

“Probably Steve Rogers.” You clench your jaw and close your eyes, looking up at the ceiling as your hands landed on your hips.

“Oh, great.” Stephen sighs exasperatedly.

“Maybe, but…” Tony runs a hand through his hair. You look to the ground before your gaze locks on your father. For a split second you saw his face bruised, cut, and bloody; just the way it was back in Siberia. You blinked and it was gone.

“Call him.” Bruce encouraged. You scoffed causing a look of confusion to take place on Bruce’s face.

“It's not that easy. God, we haven't caught up in a spell, have we?” Tony shook his head. Bruce stepped closer to Tony.

“No.” He looked between you two, patiently waiting for some sort of answer.

“The Avengers broke up.” You stated, a sad tone to your voice. “We're toast.”

“Broke up? Like a band? Like The Beatles?” Bruce’s voice slightly went up an octave due to the tremendous confusion.

“That’s one way of putting it.” You bit the inside of your cheek, hands stuffed in your pockets, nervously playing with the fabric.

“Cap and I fell out hard. We're not on speaking terms.” Tony looked at Bruce, pain evident in his eyes.

“Tony, listen to me.” Bruce outstretched a hand to him. “Thor's gone. Thanos is coming. It doesn't matter who you're talking to or not.” He pleaded. You and Tony locked eyes. You sighed and he shook his head. You both didn’t want to do this, but if it meant saving everyone…

With a heavy sigh, Tony fished his pockets for the black flip phone Steve mailed him. You walk closer and put a hand on his shoulder. He looks at you again and you nod, a silent encouragement. There was a rumble and you felt the ground shake.

“Say, Doc, you wouldn't happen to be moving your hair, would you?” You looked up and noticed Stephen's hair gently moving against a breeze.

"Not at the moment, no." He responded looking up at his hair.

You looked up at the hole in the roof and saw pieces of debris flying over it. You turned your attention to the doors and saw they were rumbling a bit. You sighed as you rolled your shoulders back, getting ready for a fight.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

LFLD Tags: [OPEN]: @ilovetomatoes3000 @nerdy-bookworm-1998 @dianadov @rinthehufflepuff @seasaurusrrex @sebbbystaaan @wwwwyamd @blaizeannyt @honeyvbarnes @fading-mentality-bouquet @miss-liliths-madness @lizlil

Permanent tags: @becausewhyknotme @disasterbuckley @imma-new-soul @justmebeingtheweirdmeiam @officialtonystarkprotectionsquad @theladyoffangorn @itsunclebucky @mushyjellybeans @writingforhoursonend @this-kitten-is-smitten @agentpeggybarnes @fangirl-introvert @ninjabucky @cosmicbucky @yougottakeeponkeepinon

#tony stark x daughter!reader #tony x daughter!reader #tony stark #bruce banner #stephen strange #wong #avengers infinity war #avengers: infinity war #infinity war #tony x reader #tony stark x reader #daughter!reader #stark!reader

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we-live-in-a--society · 3 years

Text

Nulla dies sine linea

Line.

A blunt, straight-edged cut that divides the surface into twain separate expanses, or a curve, soft and feminine – a contrast for what is stern and malevolent – a pair that undeniably completes itself, deprived of all the flaws, yet soaked within, exemplary balance of two factors.

Equilibrium.

Turmoil, sleeplessness that is supposed to bring answers – a foolish hope of an at-halt man.

Outdated ways of thinking, of perceiving reality, the ones that prevent a person from seeing any alternative, an entirely new approach, a breakthrough that results in remarkable success.

Uniqueness – a pursuit never meant to be achieved.

Truism that holds all the components of the world, a design of another restless demiurge, a greater one maybe, yet a parallel for every single creator, architect of his own destruction.

The Lambs, lost in post-delirium state of an incompetent mind.

* * *

Smoke has never ceased to mesmerize him, the fluency of transferring into billowing shapes that it acquires, only to evaporate moments later – a fleeting notion, so difficult to capture, which might be the exact factor that makes it so appealing to the eye, so desired, a conviction that it is only a matter of seconds required for the vapor to dissolve. Fire has always hit him with a similar impression – hypnotizing, yet fascinating, in possession of a power that he could only dream of obtaining, the one that could easily destroy acres of land, leaving only the grotesque stumps behind – remains of prior imperiality.

Crystal used to rant about how ‘those cancer sticks’ are going to kill him one day, how each of them reduces his life expectancy, how it is even possible for a person to be so blind, so ignorant, so coarse... Truth to be told, he doubts whether she, indeed, cared about his well-being that much, suspecting an entirely different outcome, even more straightforward; she liked to stand out of the crowd, a single woman bathed in the mist of smokers, inhaling the pungent scent either way, as if her perseverance, or maybe stubbornness is a better word, made any difference here – a gloss of irrationality.

Simplification: she was just a pain in the ass.

Past tense.

Either way, he somehow managed to tolerate such behavior for exactly fifteen days, then broke up with her, though she never failed to amuse him, such a frivolous, little girl who took a liking into playing adults, not even referring to her age. He has never believed in such absurd concepts, age as a life-defining factor, ultimate description, featuring every single aspect imaginable – paradox, blatant simplification, something that people seek out in their free time to paraphrase the reality – a trait of the weakest, majority of population.

Such a shame to be a human.

Deep in his reverie, he fails to notice that the cigarette is almost smoked to the filter until it literally burns him, a telling sting in between his fingers, slight but still unpleasant, enough to toss the remains on the street – a dole to society. He catches a glimpse of the smoldering tip, before it disappears into the night, swallowed by the darkness, blinded by the city lights – another contribution to the transience of the temporal world.

Truth to be told, the rooftop has always been his favorite place in this fungous building – a coalescence of equally moldy flats – with the view spreading across miles of urban estates, skyscrapers, and parks. It bestows him with a certain understanding that in spite of his lifelong inhabitance of said space, he is never meant to reveal all of its mysteries, cover every square meter of land, which in turn evokes this peculiar feeling of pettiness, the one he absolutely loathes – helpless man within a harmful world.

Nevertheless, he can either accept, or deny it, while keeping in mind that the latter is a trait of permanently stupid, close-minded people – a group that he wishes to collaborate with at last, if ever. It reminds him of a sect, less formal obviously, yet the analogy is obtuse: one sacrifices the prospect of self-development on behalf of leading a facile life – a blessing as some of them might say.

But not him.

What is beneficial about flatting out one’s existence? Rolling it out to the point where it is almost impossible to surmise whether there is a carpet sprawling on the floor, or the woodblocks are just bumpy? To make sure that there will not be any need to pay the professional to deal with said issue?

Worthless.

Aside from the cult-related illations, he senses yet another alteration lingering in the air, a distinct notion that shifts his focus, akin to a smell of a freshly cooked bacon that tickles one’s nose in the morning, prompting to lift the heavy eyelids, a burning sensation of being watched, even if for a split second, spreading over the flesh of his back, until he is forced to break the logy lull.

“Fancy a cigarette with me?” A thick timbre that slices through the silence, clearly startling the intruder, evident in a startled gasp that the person utters.

“I thought no one comes here,” a silvery voice, definitely female, accompanied by a telltale clink, signalizing that the woman is approaching his sitting spot.

“That would be ignorant, don’t you think?” He remarks, fingers dipping inside a package for another cigarette. “To deprive yourself of the opportunity to see the city from such exceptional perspective.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugs, flopping down on the concrete beside him, gaze flicking to meet his – green interfering with grey – topping it up with a subtle, polite smile thrown in his direction. Her face seems familiar: unlined, with round eyes and shapely nose, prompting that their paths must have crossed somewhere in the past, which evokes a burning need to ask about said issue, followed by a blunt query.

“You live here, don’t you?” He mutters indistinctly with another cig pushed in between his lips, flicking a lighter to ignite the flame.

“I do,” she affirms with a refined nod, hand reaching out to draw the coattails together, as if to keep herself warm, exhaling a billow of air through her nose, visible due to the low temperature. “Is the cigarette still available?”

“I think so,” he flashes her a fleeting smile as the package tilts in her direction, inclining the woman to help herself, to which she complies, fishing out a single fag. He lights it up for her with seemingly no effort – a proficient manner of a long-term smoker – watching her drag on the cig as if anticipating her to choke on its contents, but nothing like this happens. Instead, she lets out a puff of smoke that forms another bizarrely shaped cloud, soon to evaporate with the cool, autumn breeze – another ephemeral prove of world’s temporality.

“You are that painter, am I right?” She conjectures, glancing at him briefly, as if his reaction was supposed to affirm the surmise.

“Should I be concerned that you know about my trade?” He cocks an eyebrow at her – a cunning, seemingly playful banter.

“I thought artists aim for being renowned,” she remarks with a sarcastic tingle that he subconsciously notices, either way decides against acknowledging for now. “But no, I’ve been told that someone with such occupation lives here, and it someway fits you, I mean in appearance.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he laughs, a throaty chuckle laced with a hint of harshness that comes from smoking.

“I wouldn’t say it surprises me,” she mimics his manner – a refined smile playing upon her lips – although not daring to crack yet. One of his friends would claim that if someone is interested, he, or she in this case, will subconsciously attempt to copy your gestures – knowledge that is supposed to be a key to success, at least according to his assertions.

(“I guide others to the treasure I cannot possess.”)

“You never told me why you chose come here,” he interjects after a few longer intervals, enlaced in a peaceful silence, if one excludes the metropolis din, dull and monotonous.

“Well, you didn’t ask,” she eludes, but carries on either way, her voice oddly tranquil in the mist of hectic city. “The explanation is simple: look down. They all seem so far-away, departed from our reality, unable to perceive the world in terms of integrity. I think sitting here gives you an entirely different perspective, allows you to see all the obvious correlations, the ones that they consistently miss.”

“In case someone would want to involve more deeply, am I right?” He retorts – a question that needs no verbal answer. “I think of it more like a paradox: we see more, yet less at the same time, the details long forgotten at such altitude.”

“Are any of those important to you?” She carries on with the queries, glancing at his briefly, as if to affirm whether he is serious. “Those, people, those trifles?”

“Nah,” he counters, flashing her another teasing smirk, “I disagree for fun.”

“Is ‘disagreeing for fun’ a trait of artist in general, or just your trait?” She laughs this time – a pearly chuckle that he finds oddly charming – as the cigarette slips from her fingers, following its path on the concrete sidewalk a few floors below. “Don’t take it personally, or even seriously. I don’t generalize, and to be honest I think it’s a holdover.”

“Trust me, I don’t,” he throws her a mild smile, his ember quick to follow its twin traces. “Also, sorry I haven’t introduced myself earlier,” he adds, luckily without bothering to shake her hand; she doubts whether there is anything worse than that, “Alexander.”

“Serena,” she reciprocates, holding the eye contact for a few longer moments – an affirmative gesture.

“It suits you,” he remarks, eyes glinting with an emotion she is yet unable to place, and so decides to shove aside for a while, soon to be back on the abandoned track of thoughts.

“Alexander…” she begins, letting it reverberate for a little while – time required to formulate a surmise, “like Alexander The Great?”

“Nah,” he chuckles, “like Graham Bell. My mother was particularly fond pf telephones, ‘such life-changing devices’, she would say.”

“To be honest I’ve never given names much thought,” she professes, running a single hand through her windswept hair, their texture silky in between her fingers, “I take them more as a-”

“Form of classification, I know,” he interrupts, spurring her to glance at him, both eyebrow raised, visibly caught off guard. “Quite a rare point of view if you’re asking me.”

She only hums in response, her eyes glued to the cityscape ahead, a bunch of high-rise buildings with most lights already extinguished, considering all the ‘sane’ people are fast asleep by now, with yet another question lingering on the tip of her tongue, curiosity waiting to be satiated.

“Why have you chosen to be an artist?”

“I wouldn’t say this is something you ‘chose’,” he frowns, two thin lines stressing out his relatively youthful face – an inclination that he might be right at the cusp between mid- and late-twenties. “It is more about going with the flow, doing things because you find certain pleasure in them, not a formal occupation with all those scraps of paper that people like to label as ‘employment contracts’. Plus it’s not my only ‘job’, considering I manage to pay the bills on time.”

“Okay,” she acknowledges with a fleeting nod, so subtle he suspects it to be yet another half-conscious implication of his mind, “but that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“Patience is a virtue,” he teases, an expression comparatively close to amusement enlightening his features. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Never heard of it before,” a flat response, betraying her mild impatience, “but do go on, I’m all ears.”

“Before I move on to the due story, it’s essential to know that my old man was a hippie,” he begins, green enlacing with grey once more. “During my childhood, I barely saw my father, so I used to idealize him as any kid would do, considering his constant absence – quite a simple mechanism if you’re asking me,” another fleeting glance thrown towards her, “and yet, when he wasn’t busy doing hell knows what, he taught me about aspects that appeared more useful to me at that time than all those school rules and down-to-earth expectations from my mother. He taught me how important it is to be free, to go your own way, and stand for what you consider essential, so I did that and almost got kicked out on the street for falling behind on rent.”

“Well,” she shrugs, as if not quite sure how to react, “some social standards are impossible to outrun.”

“It’s not even about that,” he contradicts with a graceful flick of his wrist, too dapper to appear as dismissive, “he was… how to formulate this properly… detached from reality, which is something that I realized during my teenage years, yet was unable to make a use of at that time,” he explains, quick to resume after a brief interval of silence. “Summing it up, I paint because I find certain pleasure in the activity itself, not to make some real money.”

“So are you working on anything particular?” She carries on with the questions, as if genuinely interested in what he is saying, not that he finds said aspect surprising. Something about him has always seemed to attract various kinds of people, maybe encouraged by his pertinent remarks, quick wits, or the general charm he oozes with, as if an intrinsic part of his body’s chemistry.

“Currently? Nah,” he shakes his head in denial, longish hair flowing around, skimming the tops of his shoulders, and luring Serena to run her fingers through the beach waves, to finally verify whether they are, indeed, as silky as they look like.

(Quite a weird thought if you are asking me.)

“Creator’s block? Is that so?” She nags further, as if irking him up already managed to situate itself in between her very special penchants.

“Something like that,” he huffs dismissively, pique evident in his manners, evoking the need to carry on with said intension.

(Mmm… that’s a bingo!)

“I hit the nail on the head, haven’t I?” She teases, too impudent for his tastes – a matter meant to be rectified in due course, another conception already blossoming underneath his skull, a brainchild soon to be implemented.

“Um, maybe you have,” he mutters indistinctly as he slips an unlit cigarette in between his lips, “which gives me a wonderful idea, if I’m being honest.”

“What kind of idea?” She inquires further, aware of the indispensability of said contribution, and despite knowing him for less than half an hour, she would have to be blind and deaf to miss his performative tendencies, topped with self-centered attitude – a form of paradox in itself: decoy and deter.

“Would you mind if I painted you?” He proposes, out of nowhere, snorting when he hears her choke on own saliva. The variety of reactions in this case is something that he still has not fully gotten used to: from the bewildered silence to excited squeals, each of them beautifully exceptional in some sort of way, or at least not overly repetitive.

(Uniqueness is for fools.)

“Excuse me?” She utters a brief moment later, as soon as she manages to compose herself, voice tremulous – a display of confusion and fuel for his amusement, gasoline to put out fire with.

“You’ve heard me,” he replies bluntly, exhaling a ring of smoke through his mouth, as if her response was not even included in the list of all current subjects of interest.

“I mean, um, I don’t know,” she fumbles with the words for a couple of seconds, as if not quite certain which one to pick. “I didn’t expect you to make such request.”

“Think it over then,” he suggests with a carefree banter that she finds a little annoying at this point, “I’m in no hurry.”

“But when-”

“Save the w-questions,” he cuts in, shushing her with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “It’s a simple, yes-or-no matter, plus I have no answers to any of them yet.”

“I don’t know if I should trust you,” she admits, long nails scratching the side of her face, as if it was supposed to relieve the tension and reclaim the focus.

“That’s okay,” he shrugs with suggestive smile adorning his lips – a prelude to whichever impure thought he is just about to verbalize, “I don’t trust myself either.”

“That’s not as reassuring as I would like it to be,” she chuckles – a girlish display of nervousness, or maybe a part of well-developed play, considering his doubts when it comes to whether he is able to read her like an open book by now, not that it lies out of his ability range in general.

“Okay, S,” he disrupts, dumping the half-smoked cigarette aside a brief moment later – a signal that he is just about to leave her here to own company, as if standing up was not clarifying enough. “no pressure. Supposing you make up your mind about this, you know where to find me.”

And with that he walks away, swallowed by the gloom prevailing the staircase, steps echoing in the dusty corridor.

Damn him.

* * *

To begin with, there are a bunch of aspects that can be easily associated with empty flat, solitude being the very first one of them in his case – room bathed in a daylight, clear and bright, such an unusual occurrence during the fall season. Almost blinding upon his face, eyelids forced to shut, as he decorates the ashtray with leftover ember, mashing in into the glassy surface, all remains turned to dust, black powder meant to be taken with the city breeze.

The habit of smoking by the open window should not concern him anymore, since the lingering smell makes no difference for the lone smoker, and still, each subsequent attempt to drop the subject ends up with following the well-known path either way. Said inference entails another one: certain aspects appear to be labelled with a transcendent meaning that walks one through life, upbringing for instance, what parents pass on their children – questionable balance of benefits and burdens – a lead to the final conclusion, a reason why he has to catch a cold every fall season, considering he rarely bothers to put on a coat – ludicrously futile pursuit.

A passing opportunity, bright daylight but no brushes, no easels, no paints, just a half-empty space, the aforementioned objects nestling in the corner, as if intending to express their permanent resentfulness, a silent question why he does not bother to flash them even the most insignificant glance. In the late night hours, he can almost hear their faint whispers, pleas for attention, paired with the jeering mockeries, all addressed to him, reminders that he is heading straight towards the inevitable lunacy, unless, of course, he gets back on track with all the abandoned works.

Highly improbable, considering the time expanse dividing his encounter with Serena from the present situation, rather unfavorable in his case, but also immune to any significant changes – such a life-defining paradox. At some point, he even dared to ponder asking her to come by, but then again he has formed a conclusion that the outcome might be his last intention, if not entirely omitted, having her perceive him in terms of some pathetic desperado who he is unable to sense when is the right time to let go.

People are truly the oddest creatures.

Final verdict followed by something else – a ring, a tearing noise that slices the lull into twain harsh pieces, all blunt, sharp edges, an exhortation to open the door and whisk away the thoughtless intruder, foolish to disrupt him during his time-out. With an exasperated huff, he moves towards said object, unlocking it with a deft flick of his wrist, and so revealing the visitor – a woman, moderate in her motions, hands shoved deep inside the pockets of her trench coat.

Speak of the devil.

“Seems like you’ve made up your mind, huh?” He greets her, first words that come to the mind as soon as his eyes land on her silhouette. The garment itself reminds him of one of his past girlfriends, or rather her clumsy attempt to surprise him with lack of clothing underneath back in his college days, times when he considered most of the career opportunities to lie sprawling within his reach, followed by the caustic awakening soon after the glorious drop out.

“Seems like I have, indeed,” she affirms, chin tilted upwards to meet his scrutinizing gaze, laced with undertones that she is unable to define yet, a manner that she has always associated with botanist examining his subject, spotted merely a few minutes ago.

“Would you like to come in then?” He proposes in time with a graceful step aside, exposing a sliver of his flat to her curious eyes – a bright room, lacking in almost all furniture that have a wide appeal in most houses, at least according to her observations, as if the oddity itself was calling her in.

Intending to find out what else might be hidden inside, she accepts his informal invitation, stepping past the doorway, her surmise soon to be confirmed – an open space with celling-high windows, oriented to the east, and a bunch of objects propped in the corner. On the side, a simple bed pushed up to the opposite wall, adjoining the compact kitchenette – a view that leaves little, if anything, to her imagination, display of exemplary minimalism.

“Tempting, isn’t it?” She cannot help but flinch at the low rumbling of his voice from behind her, a distinctive word, as if signifying a pending promise, an implication impossible to ignore.

“What precisely?” She manages to utter, concealing the incertitude evoked by the odd emphasis, all while he appears to be perfectly aware of her inner perturbation as his hands ghost over her shoulders, eliciting a surprised gasp from the woman.

“The liberty of open spaces,” he clarifies, smirk audible in his voice – a component that she finds rather annoying – blatant amusement, purposely on full display. “Let me take your coat.”

“I’ll manage,” she flashes him a brief glance, immediate to slip her arms out of the sleeves and hand over the garment, leaving him with no other choice than hang it in the wardrobe.

Deciding to have waited long enough, she walks towards the middle part of said main room, indicating to familiarize with the view sprawling just past the windowsill, while he is busy with all the essential preparations – a part that remains almost unnoticed to her until the jarring scrape reverberates in the air, enough to attract her attention. As he moves the easel towards its designed spot, she wonders how many people, or more precisely – how many women, he has brought here before he met her, intending to capture them even in the most vulnerable state, a fleeting expanse of time branded on the blank canvas, an opus for the clueless generations to ponder upon.

“So,” she clears her throat, following the query, “how are we gonna do this?”

“Without making you feel uncomfortable,” he mutters, in process of tying his hair in a messy bun on the back of his head, features now on full display: high cheekbones and sharp jawline obscured by the reddish stubble. “It’ll be visible, trust me.”

“No, I mean-”

“No?” He interrupts, lips laced in a teasing smirk, head tilted to the side, cocking an eyebrow at her in a manner that reminds Serena of some posh aristocrat, flirting with his love interest, but at this point she suspects it might be just an inherent part of his demeanor, approach towards women in general.

“I mean, where am I supposed to stand?” She queries, followed by a refined, although not suppressed, laugh – something that he has learned to associate with her mannerisms overall.

“I’m not sure yet,” he scrapes his nails over the chin – a signification of wonder. “We’ll try a couple of settings, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” she nods in affirmation, albeit quick to verbalize a newfound doubt. “Should I change?”

“Nah,” he waves her off with a dapper flick of his wrist, “I believe your personal choice of clothing is a form self-expression, and I want my models to look more organic, and by saying ‘organic’ I mean comfortable and self-assured with their appearances,” quite a fair explanation, she thinks. “Of course, if you are willing to strip, you can strip, that’s neither an issue nor something new to me, but there’s no pressure, as I mentioned.”

“Mmm… how diplomatic,” she almost purrs, sarcastic manners that fit in his tastes quite dearly, captivating yet caustic, enticing yet eerie, with an underlying promise, bulging just below the surface, meant to soak through the papery layer.

One of many reasons why he has always troubled with finding the right person, although is far from considering himself in terms of a delirious perfectionist with non-satiable cravings, searching for one sublime muse that would give his works meaning, pristine essence, remedy for all maladies, liquid to wash away the dirt. Truth to be told, the situation presents itself as no more no less than a mere cakewalk, which might as well be a polar exaggeration in such case, but either way it never appears to deny the existence of one distinctive aspect, appealing to him in almost every setting possible – freedom of speech, sparring match of two equal opponents, field for discussion, for development, for enrichment, mutual agreement laced with a hint of disparity, merely a flick of a lighter.

Ignition. Initiation.

Inception.

“You’re not listening to me,” a sentence that snaps him out of the trance, crawls in between his thoughts and pulls the threads apart – such an odd association – a slide to the temporal reality.

“I’m not,” he reaffirms, a ghost of what might as well be a smirk lacing his lips, as if to keep up with the ‘cheeky bastard’ profile, “so would you be so kind and reiterate that for me?”

“You don’t have much furniture,” she begins, a statement obtusely simple yet seemingly incomplete, gaze skimming past the empty space only to interfere with his in the end, pupils narrowed due to harsh brightness.

“Thank you, darling,” he smiles, seemingly polite – a well-sculptured façade, she has to admit, “I wouldn’t have noticed elsewise.”

“So I thought…” she carries on, not quite bothering to acknowledge the sarcastic remark, “maybe I could sit on the sill, since the light seems to do us a favor today.”

“Let’s try it out then,” he concurs almost at the spot, gesturing towards said window, to which she complies, helping herself up on the narrow seat, back supported by the wall, ruffling her hair to add some extra volume.

(Now that is interesting.)

“Is that acceptable?” She glances towards him, as if his countenance was supposed betray the intensions – highly improbable display of lacking control – although he would be lying if he said it strikes no cord within him, passes by without acknowledgement, without a single though occurring to be verbalized.

“Yes, darling, you look lush. Now focus,” he bestows her with a quick compliment, although definitely short-lived, his main interest now shifting towards more pragmatic matters. “Before we begin, you should know it’ll be exhausting, or fatiguing maybe, I don’t intend to hyperbolize, but tell me if you need a break.”

“Sure,” she nods, wriggling a little bit to find the most convenient position for those few following hours, “but I believe we’ll find a way not to bore each other out.”

“I believe we will,” he hums in agreement, pencil already in his hand, soon to initiate the process, graphite gliding smoothly over the canvas in a manner that reminds her of a longtime dancer in his natural habitat.

“You’re left handed?” She remarks, eyes glued to his movements from behind the easel.

“I vary,” he replies, ever at ease. “Although I happened to be called a communist from time to time in primary school.”

“What?” She laughs in disbelief, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

“It was a catholic one,” he glances at her briefly, with a sardonic smirk playing upon his lips. “I think that explains itself well enough.”

“Okay, but why a communist?” She carries on with the queries – a matter of incredulity.

“For some reasons they associated left-handedness with devilish collusions or, as I mentioned before, communism,” he shrugs, his gaze now glued to her face, although not quite meeting her eyes, quick to add a bunch of adjustments on the canvas. “No idea why.”

“Why did you went there then?”

“Well, I was just a kid,” he explains, impatience striking the chords. “My mother made that choice for me.”

“Seems like you managed though,” she remarks, voice laced with a subtle hint of carelessness, as if mimicking his manners, yet galvanizing them with something else – an act of subduing, partial eclipse, moderation.

“Well, I started smoking in the eighth grade and somehow went through,” he admits in a feignedly serious manner, chuckling at her frowning expression. “Christ, it’s just a joke, although I’m glad to be past that stage. It was too… restricting for me.”

“I think it’s every system’s main purpose – to restrict,” she reckons, glancing at the passing cars a few stories below. “But I also don’t have many fond memories concerning my pre-higher educational stage.”

“So you’re in college now?” She hums in agreement. “Well, I dropped out after three terms, I think.”

“Why?”

“I realized it didn’t matter,” he explains as if it was supposed to be the most evident absolute ever encountered. “At the beginning I thought it would allow me to discover fresh ideas, strengthen my expertise, but the professors mostly kept blathering about things that I’ve already come across at some point in my life, and to be honest it felt like a massive waste of money, and most importantly – time.”

“What were you studying?” She asks, most likely out of plain curiosity.

“Journalism,” he reveals, accompanied by a sarcastic snort, “but I intended to mix it up with sociology at some pointed, then switched to philosophy for a while, which actually helped me realize what a great waste it was, at least in my case.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugs, noticing him switch from the pencil to brush, first few paints being squeezed out on the wooden palette. “If we look at education more objectively, I think we can risk saying that reading is the only necessary skill to acquire, and then you’re good to go.”

“Mmm… it’d be more interesting if you disagreed though,” he hums, as if genuinely displeased with the outcome, brush sweeping over the canvas with almost flawless agility that reminds her of a dancer once again, graceful and elegant.

“Then make me disagree,” she concludes, one finely sculptured eyebrow perking up in a teasing manner.

“Should I take it as a challenge?” He baits, glancing at her briefly as an essential.

“Take it however you want,” she replies, ever so carelessly, almost able to set the bar as high as he has once managed to.

“So what are you studying then?” He resumes after a brief moment, gaze glued to her figure in a scrutinizing manner that she finds slightly disturbing, still uncertain how she is supposed to perceive the given adjective – enticing – as seductive or maybe lethal?

“Criminology,” she informs bluntly.

“And what do they teach you there?” He asks, not quite bothering to look at her this time, engaged in searching for the most accurate color proportions – cinnamon mingling with some darker, much cooler shade.

“They teach me about criminal behavior,” she enlightens, an information so indecently obvious that she would find it offensive if uttered toward her.

“And more specifically?” He continues, as if not taking her point, or at least deciding not to indicate it.

“Its biological, psychological, and social causes,” she clarifies, unable to fight the faint shiver running down her spine as a response for the blatant acuteness he eyes her with, caught off guard for a brief moment, hopefully not long enough for him to notice, “so you can safely assume it’s sociology-related.”

“You think it’s the only place where you can learn that?” He quires, as if aiming to pop holes in her outlook, see if it holds up as sensible as it appears to be now.

“No, but it’s the only place where I can get the diploma,” she eludes, flashing him a refined smirk, as if ready to assume the inevitable victory, “since I would like to pursue with this line of work in the future. Although I believe that certain aspects lay beyond education.”

“Aspects such as?” He mutters, seemingly half-preoccupied with his work, stroking the canvas in formerly omitted areas, lighter shades now in use.

“The intuitive component,” she specifies, while he sets the items aside, abandoning the previously heeded canvas, “you either have a hunch where to seek out the truth, or you don’t, which I think is rather obvious.”

“Exactly,” he agrees, quick to snatch a pack of cigarettes from the kitchen counter. “Although I believe we should equalize the two components, since evidence influences the intuition, or the other way around, and it’s better to keep that in mind for more objective judgments.”

“Yeah, that’s obvious,” she reaffirms, pushing herself off the sill, landing on the floor with a quiet thud.

“I hope so,” he mutters indistinctly, cigarette already slipped in between his lips.

“We’re taking a break now?” She ascertains, quick to step aside in order to make a room for him by the sill.

“Yeah,” he nods, reaching out to open the window, cool air hitting her face, goosebumps rising on the exposed parts of her flesh, “and wait till the first layer is dry so that I could add some details.”

“So you have the background now?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head in denial, flicking the lighter with a barely audible click, “I had it prepared before. It was my very intension to paint you on the sill.”

“What if I wouldn’t have agreed?” She speculates in a teasing manner, ever so subtle he questions his abilities when it comes to judging whether it is a matter of fact, or yet another insinuation of his mind.

“Then we would’ve find a way to make you,” he banters, exhaling a cloud of smoke through his mouth, soon to be taken away with the fall breeze.

“Sure, don’t sweat it,” she replies in a careless manner, as if intending to nip the barely existing zeal in the bud, eliciting a horse chuckle from him. “Mind if I take one?” She asks then, having decided to cut the topic short, gesturing towards the pack of cigarettes on the counter.

“Well, that’s the only one left,” he laughs, glancing at the smoldering fag between the two of his long fingers, stained with carob paint that overlaps four runic symbols tattooed on his skin, “but we can always share.”

“That’s very kind of you, indeed,” she purrs with an ever present hint of sarcasm evident in her voice, nevertheless takes a drag from the offered cigarette, soon to be snatched from in between her lips by the greedy partner.

“I see you’re a man of generosity as well,” she huffs – a display of irritation, extending past the point where she considers repaying him in kind, even if for a brief moment.

“In capitalistic society you gotta work for your expenses,” he retorts, eliciting a pearly chuckle from the woman, outcome that she finds rather odd – his fluency and deftness in evoking contradict reactions from her.

“You’re relentless,” she laughs, shaking her head in amusement, either way leans towards him once more as he brings the cigarette to her lips, cheeks hollowing in time with the inhale.

“Can’t say I disagree.”

And with that he slips it out of her mouth, almost smoked to the filter, stealing one last drag, before he tosses it out of the window, soon to join its predecessors fouling on the streets.

Damn him.

* * *

A few weeks have passed since their last encounter, time essential for him to complete the project, merely disrupted by his mother’s attempts to call him, asking whether he is coming home for Thanksgiving.

Seems like three times is not always a charm.

Nevertheless, life has been good to him, sparing most of the nuisances that never fail to come along at some point, clinging to him like a limpet, until he collects the willpower to tear them all off, adorned with bloody pulp that once used to be an inherent part of his flesh. Some would claim it is not worth it, to sacrifice oneself for any profits, no matter how considerable, no matter how the so-called balance of benefits and burdens presents itself, to pursue but also prepare to face the consequences of one’s choices.

But placing any result above it?

Understanding this attitude has formed quite an issue for him since the very first attempt of cogitation – profound, not periphrastic – leading to one fairly important conclusion – immaturity is what clears out this path, paired with incapability, with imprudence, leaving only cinders behind – matter of self-destruction. Sinfully tempting, to burn it all down and begin as a newborn man – Child of the Ashes, Phoenix that raises from charcoal embers, shaking off the excess dust to despair of all sceptics.

Although he considers it as not necessary the easiest way available, he prefers to let this challenge shun him, regardless how interesting it might come out as in the end, since annihilating his lifelong ‘legacy’ is currently the last intension, supposing it even counts as one. Development has always appeared as more momentous to him, using anything in possession to form what one labels as artwork, not only in the narrow understanding that applies to exhibits and museums but also as an everlasting creation, as satisfactory as possible, reaching beyond the conceptual realm.

An ulterior motive of his.

With reasoning not quite as clandestine.

“I knew I would find you there,” a melodic voice, definitely female – déjà vu, throwback to their first meeting, enhanced by the prevenient notion, inkling that he was being observed, even if for a split second.

“You’re very astute,” he remarks with a lingering tingle of sarcasm, a tune raspier than she remembered, sending an unresolved shiver down her spine, fueled by the cold weather. “But I assume you’ve came here for a reason, haven’t you?”

“Look who’s a wiseacre now,” she chaffs, nevertheless quick to approach him, steps echoing on the dusty concrete. She perches down next to him, gaze glued to the blunt edge for a brief moment, required to restrain from dangling her feet off the edge – devil’s incitement, belonging to the conceptual realm, never meant to be carried out in reality.

(What if I scratched his car? Spilled hot tea on him? Seized his bag? What would he do? Would he make me pay? Scream? Call the cops? What if…?)

“I’ve came to ask if the painting is ready to be seen,” she rectifies, her head held upward, eyes gleaming with some odd determination, unplaceable, obscured yet visible enough for a perceptive man, the one who knows where to look.

“What would you do if your mother asked you to come home for Thanksgiving?” He ignores her question – a fill-in for time, purpose hold-up, verification of her intents.

“Depends on the relationship I had with her,” she bestows him with a rushed explanation, right according to his suppositions.

(Such a clever man I am.)

“If I wanted to signify I take it as an essential, I would come. Otherwise – not really.”

“That’s what I thought,” he nods slowly, as if hesitantly, which might as well be a misconception, not a fit for his usual demeanor, rather drawing out the act for suspensive purposes.

“So you’re not coming?” She attempts to clarify as if her patience was running thin, most likely fueled by an occurrence from the recent past, partially his seemingly never-ending queries.

(What are you hiding from me, kitten? Claws?)

“Nah,” he shakes his head, meaning to carry on with the explanation, “each time I’m around her, I tend to doubt my abilities to remain calm,” he exhales, as if to get rid of all the pent up frustrations, bulging just below the surface, protected, or rather prevented from being discovered by the wrong person. “And so, years ago I came to one conclusion, a conclusion of great significance: unless she accepts me for who I am, I won’t try to negotiate with her.”

“Negotiate?”

“I don’t take things for granted,” he clarifies, throwing her a side glance, a dapper flick of his wrist required to indicate the obvious, “She is trying and yes, I can see that, but the effort doesn’t parallel with the goal. Look before you leap, isn’t it what they say?”

“Tell me,” she huffs, irritation now more than evident, almost palpable, tactile, spread out for a graze – his personal penchant, “why do you even ask a question if you already know the answer?”

“The essentiality of comparison,” he reveals – ultimate truth she had never possessed before, “the importance of rectifying one’s opinions.”

“You’re an odd person, Alexander,” she alludes, not quite bothering to acknowledge his words, with approximately another goal already occupying her mind. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Does it disturb you?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, body turning in her direction for the slightest bit, barely noticeable at this point.

“I wouldn’t put it this way,” she counters, voice odd, distant, dreamy, fingers raking through her hair – a shift he should find disturbing but decides against, even if subconsciously.

“So how would you put it?” He queries further, scooting towards her subtly, still against crossing any comfort zones without an undisputable signal.

“That I like weird,” she avows, a simple statement rolling off her tongue, smooth, thick like molasses, caressing him like the finest silky sheets.

“If I didn’t know you better, I would assume you were flirting with me,” he chuckles, corners of his lips upturned in a teasing smirk – a signature of his.

“Why assume,” she halts, allowing the words to linger in the air for a brief moment, now facing him, her eyes staring, or rather drilling into his soul, captivating, leaving no room for a look away, “if you can find out?”.

“How exactly?” He mutters, a vague whisper, tickling her cheek, faint cigarette scent that fans over her face – lure of agitation, promise of something that is yet to come.

“How would you prefer to?” She leans in further, weight supported on the flat palms, propped on the dusty concrete, bits of gravel biting into her flesh.

“That’s your invention,” he purrs, so tantalizingly close, enough for a taste, tactile and inviting, tempting in his own way – a mannish privilege, sacrifice of fragility. “Surprise me.”

And she does, without a need of further explanation, a clarification, verbal approval, simply accepts the offering, her lips brushing his in a heartwarmingly gentle manner, as if hesitant, uncertain of succumbing to their shared desires. At first it catches him off guard, since he has ever dared to label her with such terms, and although the action itself was rather predictable, he remains still, even if for a brief moment, barely long enough for her to register, allowing the woman to play it out according to her whims.

(What a gracious man I am.)

With a movement too swift for Serena to register, he grabs her by the waist, tugging closer to his frame, which forces a surprised gasp from the woman, hands reaching forward to brace her weight on his chest. Practically seated on his lap, she wriggles a little, feeling the muscles contract just below – an unconditioned reflex to the extra pressure – as his lips work their magic, teasing her in a manner that she has never counted as such, delivering just enough to have her wanting more.

Deliberate. Mercenary.

Bastard.

Who still elicits a breathy moan in response to the harsh bite he delivers, soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue that leaves a lingering nicotine taste behind, a flavor she never suspected to be considered as pleasant. She lets him guide her for a change, curious about his intents, willing to accept the offering in any given form – desire so potent that it sends an inordinate shiver down her spine, never occurred before.

While awaiting for the situation to resolve on its own, she allows her hands to wander, tracing the protruding line on his collarbone, approximately a scar, following the path up his neck, meant to lay a palm flat on the cheek, coarse stubble tickling her fingertips as she examines the texture. Oddly so, his hands remain in place, sprawled on her sides and cradling her ribs, heavy breaths palpable in such position, while the blunt nails dig into the soft flesh, prominent yet subdued by two layers of clothing.

Instead of gliding them up her body, or even slipping his tongue inside, he breaks away, leaving her aching for more, frowning in bewilderment, mouth still agape, as if supposing he is just about to resume, although nothing of such kind follows, replaced by a verbalization – clearly not a fit for her current desires.

“Still wanna see it?” He mutters against her lips, a lingering brush that might as well be result of delirious mind-prompting, adjusting reality to expectations instead of the other way around, of how it is supposed to be in the first place – malady of a sane mind.

“See what?” She almost purrs – a sound he has heard her utter somewhere in the seemingly distant past, eons before their kiss – rationality abandoned long ago.

“The painting,” he clarifies as he departs from her, fully now, all body heat evaporating from the previously compact space, allowing the autumn air to regain the invaded land. However, on this occasion, he allows his eyes to wander, to take in her figure, still settled on his lap, hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

The initial discernment is striking – flesh of her bottom lip swollen, lipstick smudged – prove of his ‘abuse’ – and yet, he restrains from tracing it with the pads of his fingers, an action that he would like to safe for later, for more intimate setting. Her lips part, as if intending to say something although no words leave them, and instead of that her eyes lift, obscured by the curtain of dark lashes and some eyeshadow, color impossible to discern in the dim lightening. For a brief interval, he hold her gaze, misty grey irises delivering an involuntary association with the ongoing season, nevertheless appearing as seemingly calmer than before – steady undulation of a post-storm ocean – lost somewhere far away within her thoughts.

“So what about the painting?” He repeats, obviously to break the reverie, giving her sides a slight squeeze as if to ascertain eliciting the desired reaction.

“You have my lipstick here,” she mutters, hand rising to clear out the remains from the chapped bottom lip, but he is quick to grab her wrist, locking it in a loosening grip.

“Thanks, but I’ll manage,” his thumb replaces hers, wiping it off with a firm swipe, arm immediate to be released. A fleeting frown passes her features in response to his abnegation, although definitely short-lived, soon to be replaced by a contrary one – smile, benign albeit ephemeral, as if evoked by the newfound concept.

“About the painting…” she alludes, a lingering statement, reverberating in the air for a brief moment. “Still wanna see it.”

“Get up then,” he prompts, motioning her with a flick of his wrist. “I’m not intending to push you off.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she laughs, hesitant to rise from the well-accustomed-with spot, nevertheless back on her feet within a relatively short expanse of time, him following briefly afterwards.

They jog down the stairs, one story below, greeted with a sight of his mahogany door, of course in color, not material, and a telltale click of the lock mechanism that preludes entering the flat, unchanged since her last visit, if she excludes a messy stack of equally unspecified objects lurking in the corner. She tags along with him, eyes glued to his figure approaching the easels and a single hand gripping the cloth, soon to be yanked away, revealing the portrayal below.

Her breath hitches in response to the view unravelling in front of her, seemingly unimportant work of some self-proclaimed painter, and yet linked with so many aspects, just like that, on the go, subconscious associations that invade her mind. Truth to be told, she does not find it that hard to believe – a conundrum of emotionality – since it is the very first opportunity for the young woman to get acquainted with someone else’s interpretation of her persona – experience considered beyond interesting.

Blurred lines yet drawn by a deft hand.

Faint fog yet shapes fairly distinguished.

Bathed in lucid daylight, such an unusual occurrence in the fall season.

Fleeting expanse of time.

Guaranteed to perish in the nearby future.

And the central persona, enhanced by the subtle rim of glow.

Distant? Dreamy? Delusive?

Ethereal? Eccentric?

Feigned?

Or right the opposite?

Authentic?

Ceaseless? Classical?

Expressing verity.

Verdict of his virtuosity.

Exquisite.

“I’m sorry,” she shakes her head, as if to clear out the mind, return onto the steady ground. “You were saying something?”

“I was meant to ask about your impression,” he meets her still misty gaze, lips laced in the same unplaceable smirk she has seen him perform a couple of times in the past, “but I believe that’s not necessary anymore.”

“No, it’s fine,” she smiles, as if to substantiate the impression. “I like it.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that,” he nods with a wide grin stretching his features – highlight of his vanity, meant to taunt her, “although verbal affirmation is always welcome.”

She only hums in response, as if in defiance of his indication, still standing in the middle of the main room, gaze alternating between him and the painting, as if unable to pick, maneuvering on the pinnacle dividing twain polar opposites – conceptuality and reality. Seizing the opportunity, his eyes rake down her form, quick to notice a few distinctions, incompatible with her usual looks, the heeled boots for instance, or a tint of eyeshadow applied on the usually bare skin, which eventually leads him to another conclusion.

“You went out today?” He asks, the drape back in its prior setting, shielding the picture from her scrutinizing gaze, as if to ascertain receiving undivided attention from his guest.

“Yeah,” she affirms with a refined nod, eyes alluding towards the floor – a fleeting, almost unnoticeable glance, “but it wasn’t lucrative. I mean, the meeting didn’t go as expected.”

“Why?”

“It was a blind date,” she sighs, as if utterly defeated, displeased with being forced to recall tonight’s events. “Fill in the blanks.”

“Lucrative is quite an interesting choice of words in such context,” he teases, a ghost of proper smile playing upon his lips, eliciting a predictably vexed huffed of breath from the woman, paired with a dismissive eye-roll that precedes his reaction – a subdued chuckle, nevertheless considered unashamed and straightforward, although the latter is still yet to come. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“I would rather forget it,” she laughs this time – enlightenment, end of the never-ending sulking era, considered as the least beneficial possibility, not for only today.

“Yeah, I know how it is,” he nods, leaning down on the sill for support, seemingly fed up with standing in the middle of the room, “all those settled dates rarely line up with the expectations.”

“Not only the settled ones,” she sighs – pensive, distant, invaded with bygone memories – as her eyes settle on his silhouette, illuminated by the city lights – echoes of the past, moonage daydream. “You remind me of my grandfather right now. Maybe it’s an odd thing to say, but I remember he used to spend quite a decent amount of time leaning by the sill, claiming he had his share of sitting, which I suspect might have been linked with joints condition that he didn’t wanna share, but still… he was the only person, excluding my father, who truly supported my cause, I mean moving out from home, going to college etc. etc.”

“Is he-”

“No, he’s alive,” she interrupts with an outrunning clarification, “although I might have made it sound like this.”

“I’m glad to hear that then,” he concludes, with a fleeting smile passing his features “Mine was quite… quite different, which I believe is a considerable understatement, but still…”

“How considerable?”

“Well, my Grandfather was a war hero, at least according to his claims, but also a man of dubious mental condition,” he begins, gaze glued to the cityscape spreading outside the window. “When it turned out my father deserted in Vietnam, he disinherited him, which is probably the main reason why I’m doing what I’m doing, but that’s by the by.”

“Which war did he fight in?” She inquires, ready to join him by the sill in a few languid steps, back supported by the wall.

“Oh, which didn’t he fight in,” he chuckles bitterly, rolling his eyes in the most dismissive manner she has ever seen on him. “His stories make for a saga alone, shoving such absurd concepts as historical accuracy aside, although in reality only the Great War.”

“Sounds fantastic,” she remarks – teaser of a hearsay nothing short of phenomenal.

“Anyway,” he cuts her off with a single hand slashing through the air, immediate to get back on the track with said tale, “he used to tell me a story, a bedtime one, always the same. If I remember correctly, which I most certainly do, it went something like this,” he halts, as if on purpose – suspense playing its part as an ever present speech manner.

“There was a cold, cold night, dark, all stars obscured by the clouds, moon long gone, shying away from the primeval force – Grim Reaper coming to take his toll,” he allows the name to linger in the air for a brief moment, a tribute to the transcendent persona. “With everyone fast asleep, as if believing to find the solitude in the trenches, he had the battlefield all for himself, every soul that still hadn’t left its body, clear as day, granting them a passage to afterlife, a safer one, not coming up to what earthy life granted. He never uttered a single word while he extracted them, soon to be taken by the wind, somewhere far, far away, his silhouette acting as their only guide. It was easy to doubt his existence with rime as the only evidence, but whoever was touched even once, even if for a split second, was marked for eternity – Death’s Protégé.”

“And what’s the twist?” She asks, most certain the story itself requires one as much as he need her query to accomplish the telling process, considering the silence that has settled above them after the statement – a prompt to contribute.

“Well,” he interrupts himself with a brief chuckle – a signature of incredulity, “he would claim I was marked, that I was the reaper’s child, which was before he got sent to asylum, nevertheless it still makes for an interesting story to tell, I think.”

“And that’s the only purpose?” She carries on with the queries, as if meant to extract the very essence of said issue.

“Not entirely,” he counters, soon to rectify. “He used to claim there was a link between this and my artwork.”

“What kind of link?”

“He never explained his motives,” he shrugs, a statement considered offensively obvious, “but I think he was just afraid of aspects he couldn’t comprehend, and so opted for a more straightforward solution, a claim that they foreshadowed some ungodly disaster.”

“No wonder he acted like that,” she remarks, as if to continue the pass of plain conclusions. “I mean pairing it with the background story.”

“No need to state the obvious,” he chides, a considerably calm manner, almost able to omit a lingering hint of irritation that the action evokes, “although I would be lying if I denied his diversity, or rather the diversity brought by his stories, which actually reminds me of something that I was supposed to mention before.”

“It’s incomprehensible how you maneuver through topics,” she chuckles, shaking her head in a display of disbelieving amusement.

“I’ve been told that before,” he agrees –necessity of decent conversation, at least according to his mother’s words. “Anyway, cutting to the chase here – I’ve got two tickets for the drive-in, since my friend has gotten ill and decided to spare me the place.”

“Seems like a merciful man to me,” she remarks, with a jeering hint of sarcasm on the tip of her tongue – wonderful pairing for the biblical word. “But I’m not sure if I’m gonna accept the offering.”

“Well, the title is Reservoir Dogs,” he continues, as if pretending to miss out on the snide comment, determined to elicit the desired reaction, “quite a success in Cannes according to what I’ve heard.”

“In Cannes you say…” she hums, as if pondering the variety of options to spend the evening, “not a guarantee we’ll like it.”

“Then how about you give it a try and then you can tell me if it’s worth it or not?” He proposes, posture indicating his readiness to leave, more than aware what her answer will be at this point, not that he has ever doubted his abilities to predict the inevitable.

“You’re truly the brightest mind of our age,” she rolls her eyes, accompanied by the ever-present sarcastic outline – a scaffolding for all the world’s components.

“Glad we agree on this one.”

A prelude for all mutualities, meant to unravel in due course.

Always the one to lurk in shadows – a promise of what is yet to come, a coalescence of twain factors:

Sinister sensuality?

A surmise shamefully salient.

* * *

Drive-in – a place where the movie screening is supposed to take place, at least according to the tenets, undoubtedly omitting another, quite distinctive, aspect to all of these – an ultimate truth that no component carries one purpose only, a statement renown by all, yet acknowledged by few.

Theirs appears to be invaded by an offbeat amount of people, seemingly not caring about the crisp air and cold weather, as if looking forward to the so-called ‘grand reveal’, cars lined in a couple of rows, more or less equidistant, while the screen remains blank, enhancing the anticipation of those who are meant to actually pay attention to the soon-to-be-presented piece of cinematography. Without a doubt, she considers herself as a relative of the latter group, eyes glued to the outstretched fabric in the central point, glad to see it unravel in front of her as the process is initiated – illumination of said canvas, inauguration of the gathering.

“But ‘Like a Virgin’ was a metaphor for big dicks.”

Delightful.

“Really?” She frowns, glancing towards him, as if searching for a confirmation.

“Do I look like a Madonna fan to you?” He retorts, eyebrows raised in a display of euphemistic irritation.

“Well,” she begins, as if pretending to ponder upon the subject, all for the never-ending purpose of riling him up, “again, not really.”

“So just sit back and watch,” he huffs, accusation evident in his tone, as if genuinely interested in the so-called Cannes successful movie, not that he is the only one.

Hence, she complies to the request, head lulling sideways to rest on his shoulder, leather of the coat chilly against her equally cool cheek, sending an unpleasant shiver down her spine, soon to be followed by another one, much sultrier this time, evoked by his arm encircling her frame. In search for the needful warmth, she leans in to him, the heavy weight draped over her figure elevating said experience to an entirely different dimension: a higher one, encrusted with chaste intentions, although built upon impure thoughts, leading to the simplest of conclusions, a statement reverberating underneath her skull in repetitive cycles.

Certain aspects are easy to deny, without even bothering to acknowledge their existence, nameless components of equally anonymous world, run on secrets. Take for instance the blossoming attraction, one is capable of ignoring it all the way, forget it ever influenced the perception, cross it out and pretend said spot has ever been occupied, or present an alternative approach – bite the bullet – ability craved by all, yet possessed by few.

The latter.

As an ever-present goal.

Any time her gaze lands on him, she cannot help but ponder upon his true intentions – an intelligent individual with whom she enjoys to converse with, and yet unfairly unreadable in some situations, leaving decent amount of room for speculations, doubts blossoming within her mind, invading it akin to a disease, deadly one to be specific. So-called fascination, an inkling that it might lead her to places that should to remain undiscovered, at least for her own sake – a simple analogy to the secluded areas of forests along with all the habitants.

(Keep in mind that hunters do not bother with such absurd concepts.)

“Isn’t he supposed to put pressure on the wound?” She frowns, gaze glued to the scene currently playing on the screen, with criticizing scrutiny, albeit interested in the events altogether. Despite the vanity of using a comb in such circumstances, nevertheless understandable if paired with both personality and relationship traits, she gets an impression that Cannes has opted for quite a judicious mark, especially if focusing on the dialog aspects – astonishing, magnificent.

Exquisite.

“If we’re discussing practical matters, then yes,” he replies, voice laced with an edge of irritation, evoked by her daring interruption.

“And if not?” She carries on with the queries, as if altogether aware of the effect that they have on him, and yet pretending not to acknowledge it.

“Then we oppose,” he enlightens with a dismissive eye-roll, audible in his speech manners.

“Mmm… astute,” she retorts, purring sound that reverberates in his ear, invading his senses like a disease that spreads far too quickly, and yet is oddly anticipated, akin to purposeful cold before school.

“So is your question,” he concludes, a dry exclamation of a long-term deceiver.

“That was my very intention,” she admits, voice deprived of proper hesitance, indicating the visionary tendencies – playing a major part in

(spoiling)

her master plan.

A query of ‘could it?’

Oddly so, it has taken him a relatively long expanse of time to get used to having her by his side with the floral smell of her hair wafting under his nose, lily of the valley he believes, nothing more than a reminiscence of his past now. Nevertheless, it stirs something within him, a distinctive hue applied in the perfect amount, oscillating between omitted and overwhelming, hands itching to reach underneath her clothes, check whether the rest is as cold as her palms are, clutching at the cotton of his tee in response to the scene playing in front of them. And yet, even in the face of all these notions, no matter how pleasant, another one is evoked – contradicting polarity – jealousy, bitter possessiveness, referring to who she has gotten all dolled up for – silly idea of a long-retired teenage boy, enhanced by the fact that his contestant failed oh so spectacularly.

Ignorant piece of shit.

Aside from her bygone partner, the current song appears to be a perfect match for his thoughts, father’s favorite, remembrance of grandpa’s tales, tales of a successful man, but only if he opts for reading selective verses, a twain of them in this case, chosen in advance – lie so blatant that it should be considered offensive, personification of his ancestor’s lives. Although seemingly different at first glance, the second, more discerning one, reveals another aspect – veracity, indicating their lack of professionalism, prattling tendencies, and poor life constructs that seem to work only if the rest is omitted, wiped away from the piece of paper in hopes it will be left unconsidered – definition of their compatibilities, denied with such ardor.

Alex

ander.

When you started off with nothing

And you're proud that you’re a self-made man.

“Fucking hell,” she mutters under her breath, unintentionally digging her nails in the firm plane of his chest, “I thought he ain’t gonna do this.”

“Well, you can always look away,” he shrugs, eyes remaining glued to the screen – a nonverbal denial.

“That’s not necessarily the case,” she counters, fingers releasing the hold on his tee, quick to smooth out the material – a manner he would never attempt to associate with her, marking his forehead with a frown of confusion, even if for a brief moment.

“Yeah, I know,” he affirms, emphasized with a refined nod. “It’s captivating.”

“So-called pornography of pain,” she adds, a term he has been all too familiar with for quite a while now, “and by that I mean the phenomenon of violence perception in culture, or even in real life, not sadomasochism.”

“Yeah, sure, everyone would say so,” he mutters, purring sound that catches her off guard for a brief moment, allowing the words to reverberate in the air for a longer while, as if in perfect awareness of said effect. “Anyway, I must agree on this one, although some might be eager to deny it, ‘I’m not a fucking psycho’, they would say, but to be honest I think morality is overrated in this case, unable to outrun the primal thirst for brutality. Since how else would you explain all those bloodbaths in art, cinematic for instance?”

“Time is too precious for such absurdities.”

Terminal conclusion followed by peaceful silence – an expanse ranging from the first, and unfortunately last, appearance of some German Shepherd all the way to the thirst-satiating finale, and her genuine content with the entirety, a relatively rare occurrence to be honest. Whatever has just betided in front of their eyes, appears to be the preface of a very promising phase in the movie industry, a phase she is eager to step into and thus familiarize with its offerings.

“It might have been the worthiest investment of those twenty five dollars that Daryl could ever think of,” he murmurs, stretching the limbs behind his head, fingers skimming the rooftop in a fleeting motion – a contrary to less-than-subtle deprivation of his supportive frame.

“Daryl?” She rubs her eyes – a substitute for proper refreshment. “You mean that nameless friend, right?”

“I do indeed,” he affirms, throwing a glance towards the door – a prelude for the subsequent proposition, “but I think we should drive away now, unless we want to get stuck with all those homespun drivers.”

“We don’t,” she agrees with a fleeting smile passing her features, much to his delight, even though the situation itself required no such approval, considering a man

(Alexander)

will do exactly as he pleases.

“Wonderful,” he concludes, soon to slam the back door and stake out the driver’s seat, while she follows his steps but to the passenger’s spot. With a flick of his wrist, the engine is ignited, and thus he is able to navigate their way through the more or less troubling labyrinth – a composition of cars in various states of decay: some fairly new, while others tend to oppose, their glory days undoubtedly classifying as bygone.

“So what now?” A trite of words that slices through the partial silence, accompanied only by the monotonous hum of engines. “You’re gonna drive me home like a decent man would?”

(No, I’m gonna fuck you like a decent man would.)

“I’ve never taken you for a person with such low expectations,” he remarks with a teasing timbre lacing his voice, glancing at her briefly, albeit long enough to catch the confused expression upon her face.

“Excuse me?” She frowns, their eyes meeting halfway – an occasion for her to get acquainted with the evidence of his self-content, oh so unexpected.

“You’ve heard me,” he shrugs, a brisk response of perennial philanderer – a verbalization of who he has always appeared to her as.

A womanizer.

Possibly a libertine too, which is at least what the more promiscuous part of her counts for, even though she is more than certain that contributing will lead to a bitter aftermath, the one when a man asks more or less kindly to leave, and yet considered worthwhile, which might as well be the reason why her mother used to label Serena with traits such as ‘occasionally self-destructive’. And yet, what would life be if deprived of any risks, decisions made in the heat of passion, meant to be rethought in due course, most likely after the milk will have already been spilled but still… distant future is what grants the vacancies.

(Isn’t it what they say?)

* * *

Her mother is a person of many claims, each more straightforward than the precedent, a person who belongs to the realm of appearances, where anything obvious requires to be verbalized – an unwritten purpose. Said manner never fails to amuse her in some sort of way, assuming the word itself is descriptive enough in such circumstances, and yet she has the tendency to retreat them from the depths of her mind in times of trial, considering the current situation is supposed to be perceived as a relative.

Cutting to the chase, that godforsaken woman would say: ‘he who lurks in the shadows, must be a sinister creature’ – a triviality in its purest form, and yet an appropriate summary for all her maladies oscillating around one person – star of her own planet system.

(Is it possible to dethrone the solar?)

(A question vain to consider.)

“What have I gotten myself into?” She mutters under her breath, seizing an opportunity that he is standing by the counter, pouring himself a drink, the reminiscence of amber waves evoked from seemingly great distance, soon to wash the shore of her lips.

“I’ve allowed myself to fix you one too,” he turns around to face her, both glasses snug in his hands, shiny brown liquor skimming the transparent surface as he approaches her figure, settled on the window sill, “and that’s actually a fairly expensive brandy.”

“You mean the real reason why you live in such a shithole?” She retorts, nevertheless accepts the offering, bringing it to her nose for a sniff, as if pretending to be a seasoned expert in alcoholic field, the one who is able to differ which wine was opened earlier with barely no effort.

“Partly yes,” he laughs – a lighthearted chuckle meant to loosen the tension, evident in her posture and the stagnant air, “but give it a try, it’ll do no harm.”

Without further ado, she complies, tilting the glass to her lips in order to take a final swig of amber liquor, shivering at the newfound wave of heat blossoming within her throat. Whilst the feeling itself is gradually subsiding into a sweet, fruity aftertaste, she even dares to consider admitting the accuracy of his claims oscillating around the liquor’s quality, but in the end opts against it, settling on a refined nod of approval, as per usual.

Over the years, she has gotten a chance to discovered one distinctive aspect that comes with the activity of pondering, more specifically the prompts of polar opposites that exist within each one of us. To set the record straight, she means no mental disorders, but the complex nature of any decision making process, hopelessly linked with all these constant whispers, both subduing and encouraging. Taking a leap of honesty, not faith in this case, since integrating with such ‘virtue’ is not included in her List of Matters Beyond Important, she is capable of admitting that opting for certain choice is rarely so intricate, while keeping in mind that they all appear to be fairly simple – negative for what she is attempting to sort out now.

“Serena,” he calls from seemingly great distance, grabbing her by the hand – a gesture so unexpected that she almost tears it from his grasp, although in the end manages to take a steady inhale and focus on the runic pattern marking his fingers, while he continues, voice ringing within the empty room, “are you afraid of me?”

“No,” she utters a nervous chuckle, squeezing his palm as if to reaffirm the veracity of her statement, “it’s just- I’m thinking too much, that’s all, and sometimes I wish I’d stop. Knowledge is a burden.”

“I must agree with the former, although the latter…” an exclamation laced with a hint of disapproval, emphasized by the tsk-noise, deprecating click of his tongue over the palate. “It’s nonsensical.”

“Well-”

“When I was younger, I used to play chess with my grandpa, and to clarify – that was before he got crazy, at least crazy enough to qualify for any asylum,” he interrupts, finally letting go of her hand, and siting on the cold sill for a change. “Anyway, there’re various kinds of openings in this game, some of them referred to as ‘gambits’. You know what a gambit is?”

“Yes,” she nods, always brisk to prove the point. “You sacrifice a pawn in order to achieve something significant.”

“Yeah, more or less,” he agrees, frowning as he takes a swig from the previously abandoned glass, soon to settle it down once empty, accompanied by a telling clink. “So tell me, can you see a parallel now?”

“You’re such a narcissistic asshole,” she shakes her head in disbelief, eliciting a throaty chuckle from her partner, the one meant to set her nerves on fire.

“That’s why you’re attracted to me,” he shrugs as the laughter gradually dies out, leaving only the remains of so-called smug smirk behind.

“Is this the time when I’m supposed to confess my never-ending love and admiration towards you so that our relationship can be consummated?” She spats bitterly, unhinged with exasperation.

“Nah,” he brushes her off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, more nerve-wrecking than ever. “Let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

“I don’t get it,” she frowns, shaking her head in irony-laced disbelief, “the story about gambits; is this your pick up line? Your big move?”

“Wanna know what my big move is?” He taunts, serious at the first glance, if not for the twitch of his upper lip, meant to betray any actual intentions.

“Yeah,” she nods – a refined one, as per usual, aiming to cover up any possible traces of excitement, “tell me your big move.”

“I paint the girls that I wanna fuck.”

(And tonight’s guest is…)

The greatest, most magnificent, unexpected surprise ever imagined.

A sentence allowed to reverberate in the air for a brief expanse of time, so cruelly interrupted by her pearly laugh, enhanced by the dismissive eye-roll of her partner.

“I know, unbelievable.”

“Well, I gotta say I’ve expected that, and either way I feel honored,” she speaks, clearing her throat as soon as the breathless chuckle dies out, intent to her rid of any unpleasant coarseness, “but why am I your pick, like specifically?”

“You intrigue me,” he bestows her with the merest of explanations as if for the simple sake of getting on her nerves. “That’s why you’re my ‘pick’.”

“And that’s all?” She cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at him, wanting, willing to hear out more details. “You know, ‘it's the details that sell your story’.”

“I can’t believe you’ve just said that,” he huffs, shaking his head in disbelief, soon to rise from the previous seat – an indication of movement, of change, creeping closer and closer until in reach to brush her ankle, swallowed by the dimness of his flat. “But what more can you wish for? You intrigue me, and I’ve wanted to have you since our little encounter on the roof,” he states, without a hint of hesitation scaring his voice, instead some distinctive at-ease carelessness that she has found both exasperating and enticing since the very beginning. “Even though I don’t believe in the qualities such as uniqueness, meeting you was an interesting experience, downright repeatable. Is this specifying enough?”

“Well yes,” she agrees, a hint of uncertainty lacing her voice, most likely linked with the matters yet to be revealed, “but don’t you thinks it’s degrading: ‘wanted to have you’, another term for expressing male domination, claiming a woman like you claim a prize.”

“If you’re so keen on sorting this out,” he begins – an offer she cannot refuse, “we can have a chat about ‘male domination’ as soon as… how did you put it… as soon as… our relationship will be consummated.”

“By that, it appears to me you’re in some sort of a hurry,” another jeering remark, the one he has no intentions in letting slide for a change, “is that correct?”

“Claiming that I’m the only one is an obtuse lie, don’t you think?” He purrs, all of sudden turning around to face her, hands on either sides of her thighs, resting on the cold sill. “And that’s truly degrading, not your whole ‘male domination’ shit.”

She cannot help but let out a reedy squeal at the abrupt turn of events, now trapped between his body and the freezing glass, not literally cornered and yet feeling like so, even more as he leans in towards the woman, breath stuck in her throat. With the cooper waves tickling her cheek, and heated blows on her neck, he begins to speak, words impossible to be distinguished for a split second, molding into a monotonous tone, dark and rich, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. She relishes in the teasing flutter, fighting the innate urge to arch in his direction, until he grabs her by the face, cradling the side of it in his left hand, fingers biting into the cheek, even if for the slightest bit, eyes meeting halfway with reflection of city lights encrusted on the green background.

“… and I want you to lay on the bed now,” he finishes – a garnish that leaves her confused and frowning, both due to lack of concentration – a trait she loathes oh so deeply and has never dared to label herself with before.

“Gonna fuck me already?” She asks in attempt of clarification, eliciting a short-lived laughter from her partner, a coarse chuckle that prickles her skin with goosebumps.

“Why the rush?” He teases, both hands shifting to curl around her thighs as if bracing for the final lift, but instead pulls her body towards the edge, legs wrapping around his hips in order to regain the substantial balance. “Delayed gratification is what does the trick.”

“Well, I thought that saying so is a determinant,” she huffs, eyes glued to the godforsaken furniture as if evading his gaze would help her focus, “but apparently not.”

He only chuckles in response, vibrations palpable in her chest, resonating all the way through, enough to redirect her attention to more carnal aspect, beginning with the plainest closeness, with how her breasts mash against his firm flesh, for instance. It has her wondering why they have not even kissed yet, despite the intimate proximity, just an inch to the left and their lips will brush, all in vain, considering his plans obviously differ, evident in the abrupt hoist up that tears a feminine squeal from the caught-off-guard woman. In a manner beyond desperate, her hands clutch onto the cotton of his t-shirt – yet another reason to laugh for the unfavorable male – although rather quick to drop her onto the more sturdy ground, if mattress can be referred to as such.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this if that’s how little trust you have for me,” he mutters, outwardly on own benefits, while she believes it is also meant to reach her ears, gaze fixated on his towering silhouette, helplessly braced on the elbows.

“Sure,” she retorts, an inseparable hint of sarcasm lacing her voice – a phrasal of personality traces, “like you could stand it.”

“Mhm,” he hums, imitating her tone just to witness Serena huff in exasperation, “tell me about it.”

To that she has no answer, just an awaiting stare following his movements to the kitchenette, confused when it comes to what he is actually looking for there, an assumption about his libertine tendencies rushing through her mind in a frenzied display of nervousness, soon to be mitigated by the following object – a chair fished out from its spot behind the island.

“Who would have thought your flat is full of such useless possessions,” she remarks, rising up to a sitting position, weight braced on the open palms.

“Unbelievable, huh?” He teases with a banter not quite considered as lighthearted, emphasized by the rough scrape on the wooden panels, sound utterly terminal in its fiendish form, skin erupting with goosebumps – titillation and trepidation mingling into a fairly undistinguished integrity. “But I think you owe me a show. So strip.”

Unrepeatable opportunity to observe the medley of emotions manifesting themselves on her face, so calm and straight most of the times – long-awaited variety from the common, day-to-day occurrence. Beginning with the wide-eyed surprise – nonverbal statement, albeit still notably refined – then progressing to the thought-indicating frown – violation of the smooth palette of her forehead – to finalize with mouth-agape attempt to transfer the bizarre concoction into proper words. For a brief moment, he considers teasing her about it – cat’s-got-your-tongue cliché – but opts against it in the end, exchanging it for a less foreseen phrase.

Sure.

“C’mon, I ain’t got all day,” he urges her to comply, taking a seat on the aforementioned chair, backwards, arms rested on the top rail, soon to fish out a cigarette from leftover pack hidden in the inner pocket of his coat, draped over the frame, then toss what is redundant on the table top. He lights it up with a precise flick of his zippo, eyes glued to the billowing smoke for a split second, until he slips it in between his lips, sucking up a nicotine drag.

Downfall of all hedonists.

Guarantee of premature death.

Damnation – opt out from salvation.

Godsend?

Simply obsolete.

“And you want me to do what precisely?” She asks with some odd precaution that almost elicits a direct laugh from him, open-mouthed and blissfully mocking, resembling a skittish animal, dangerously close to leap of the ground and escape for good.

“Strip,” he reiterates, voice seemingly deprived of all emotional layers, if not for the lingering huskiness, a smoky tune that reminds Serena what evoked her perplexing attraction in the first place. “And don’t force me to repeat my request.”

“Request?” She huffs in disbelief – a mocking show-off, meant to taunt him, push his button even now – an everlasting purpose, menacingly deathless. “Now that’s funny.”

Either way, she begins to strip, sitting up straight to get rid of the first layer – a chequered shirt, tied at the waist – clearly taking her sweet time with the knot and those few buttons, while his hands itch to rip it, shred the unimportant piece of cloth in two – a situation he will not allow to happen at current rate, ever-present penchant for delays. With smug, although definitely short-lived, satisfaction, she notices his eyes shift to her chest, breasts still clad in the black bralette – the-best-way-possible definition of classic elegance, underlined by a subtle hint of lace.

The jeans are what follows, paired with the requirement to stand up and bathe her body in the city lights, luminous on her pale complexion, vision glued to the buildings tearing up the horizon, almost undisrupted by the scratchy sensation of denim slipping down her legs. What makes her shiver though is the intensity of his gaze, almost palpable on her back, as if his fingers were right there, skimming over the heated skin – an inkling that prompts her to turn around and flop back onto the bed, searching for any support in the cold headboard – iron railing that bites into her soft flesh.

“Do go on,” he requests, or rather enjoins, calm at the first glance, if not for the smoldering zeal shadowing his eyes – a parallel for the ember at the tip of his cig.

“Why?” She bothers to ask – presumably mistaken about the evoked concept, fool’s pursuit, leading to nothing else but bitter disappointment.

“’Cause I like to play God,” he clarifies – plain instance of an unexpected answer, “at least from time to time.”

“Then c’mere and do it yourself,” she rolls her eyes – deliberate taunt – in hopes to break his resolve, and so impose him to approach her, an unfamiliar thirst for his touch seemingly insatiable.

“That’s not how it works,” he shakes his head, an exclamation laced with a hint of mock disapproval, as if genuinely displeased with the outcome, “first you gotta earn it, and then I’ll reciprocate. Maybe.”

(Maybe?)

Intent to make as quick work of it as possible, elongated only by a fretful huff, her hands reach the hem of said bralette, and pull it over her head in a relatively graceful movement, adding it up to the stack of clothes piling at the foot of his bed. In attempt to ignore the heat of his gaze upon the newly exposed skin, she focusses on the last step dividing her from accomplishment – sliding the matching panties down her legs, the ones that almost land on his face as in a display of blatant irritation, evoked by his shameless gawping. As in response, her limbs close on their own accord, interfering with his nettled countenance: bitter and relentless, prompting the woman to rearrange them, to which she counters, locking their gazes together once again.

“Very well,” he hums with yet another cigarette stuck in between his lips, soon to be ignited, as his gaze skims her figure, expression softer than he has ever witnessed on Serena, as if afraid of what is just about to be uttered, “now touch yourself.”

“Excuse me?” She chokes out in disbelief, brows furrowed in confusion, arms encircling her frame, meant to deprive him of any explicit view, sending a shiver down her spine as the cold digits brush the side of her breast.

“You’ve heard me,” he retorts, blunt and seemingly careless, tapping out the excess ash onto the dusty floor, while his gaze remains focused solely on her, or rather on the heaving chest, its intensity settling a smoldering zeal in the pit of her stomach, and so prompts Serena to enlace the pressing knot. Both the towering position and the distance put between them enhances the subdual, and for the first time in her life she is ready to admit that whatever is going on between them appears to stir something within her too, whatever that ‘something’ is.

Uncertainty?

Trepidation?

No?

(Not all feelings are possible to be classified.)

And with that, she resumes, or rather initiates the whole process, hands lifting to cup her breast, filling the palm quite snugly, while she can only imagine the comparison with his, cradling her ribs just a few hours ago. The thought itself sends a delicious shiver down her spine and before she knows it, the right arm follows its path to the cleft between her legs – movement fueled by the burning impatience, by the hope that it will manage to convince him to finally touch her, to soothe the pulsing ache – when all of sudden he breaks the silence – a lingering denial that infuriates her more than she could have imagined.

“Not so fast darling,” a single exclamation that slices through the smoky lull, meant to halt her pursuit, undermine the control she appears to possess over own body, and to his partial surprise, the woman complies, lying her palm slack on the inner thigh, fingers biting into the flesh – undisputable evidence of all frustrations.

“But-”

“How long has it been?” He interrupts, a puff of smoke obscuring his face, careless and vexingly at ease, as per usual. “Days? Weeks?”

She nods to both of them, which elicits a throaty chuckle from her partner – an exclamation of some sadistic amusement, prickling her skin with goosebumps, but at the same time having the brunette wish he was right there next to her, stroking the heated flesh as in indication of some leisured worship.

(Only two can play this game.)

“Then you can wait a few minutes longer,” he concludes, almost forcing a chocked cry from Serena, disappointment evident on her face, and hell, she even pouts at him – a mannerism he would have never linked with her before.

“So what do I do now?” She sasses, aggravations outrunning any possible consequences. “Sit here and watch you smoke?”

“Of course not,” he laughs, presumably to spur her even further, “I’m not much of a sadist, even though it might seem so right now.”

“Mhm, sure,” she hums in mock agreement, a lingering hint of sarcasm that betrays her every single time – a matter meant to be rectified in the near future.

“So from this point, run your fingers along the inner thighs,” he mutters, sending another intense, rather disturbing, tremor down her spine, nipples pebbling with arousal, and she instinctively reaches to squeeze them, wishing to replace the smooth substitute with harsher texture of his fingertips. Either way, she complies to his request, stroking the tender skin with the very tips of her fingers – teasing replacement for proper touch, lingering breeze that might as well be yet another result of delirious mind-prompting. She sighs, arms itching to reach just an inch to the side, impatience bottling up and ready to explode any second now, akin to a can of coke after decent shaking, and so, to release some of the tension, she shifts her legs helplessly, wanting, willing him to end the decadent suffering.

“Now touch yourself,” he directs, failing to cover up the hint of arousal underlining his voice, as his gaze alternates between her face, eyes shadowed by a lustful fog, and both hands, now occupied with more pressing matters, “but keep it light. And slow.”

(About fucking time.)

With one brisk movement, betraying the eagerness, her fingers shift to the spot in between her legs, forcing a surprised gasp out of her throat, as if genuinely shocked with the amount of wetness coating her fingertips. The act itself, no matter how simple, almost forces a loud moan from her constricted throat, relieved with the slightest bit of pressure, even if more to enhance than to actually soothe the pulsing ache, tickling sensation on her folds. For a split second, she forgets about the male company, a real person just a few mere feet in front of her, until he speaks again, rich and husky tune that elicits a faint moan from her, all to his delight.

“Enjoying yourself, darling?” He queries, to which she nods, maybe a little too feverishly, although her lacking response is certainly not pleasing enough for him, with the subsequent demand to ensure the veracity of said assumption. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” she gasps almost at the spot, hand twitching in attempt to contain the needful rub, light and slow as per his request.

“Very well then,” he purrs, a gravelly sound that has her insides coiling in anticipation for the following words. “I want you to slide your fingers in, one at a time. Good girl. Now crook them and rub.”

The intrusion itself, in consideration of a relatively long expanse of time, draws a pained whimper from the woman, loud enough to reach his ears, lips lacing in a smug smirk, as if on their own. However, the generous amount of slick allows her to smooth out the thrusts, and keep the pace slow but steady, although eager for things to speed up, yet certain that Alexander will interfere in response to her arbitrariness.

Such a fucking hypocrite.

“Eyes on me,” he demands all of sudden, in spite of the fact she has barely registered them falling shut, an abrupt sound that causes her to jerk in surprise. Nevertheless, she is immediate to open them, meeting the jade green of his own irises, visibly darker in the dim light, overlapped with the conspicuous lust shadowing his gaze, luring her to take those few leaps towards him and perch atop his lap, but then again, he will not allow it – a standstill in the worst variant possible.

Therefore, in a final attempt to focus on the carnalities, her attention shifts toward more pressing issue – long nails mercilessly scratching her walls – one of main reasons why she prefers male’s touch, excluding a bunch of few, equally important, aspects. Obliged to work with what she has got, in hopes it will get her off sooner than later, she moves the other hand to her clit, and circles it – an action that sends a promising shiver down her spine, but also prompts him to break the silence again.

“You’re close,” a question (?), either way followed by an approving nod and desirous look thrown in his direction. “Then stop.”

“No- but I’m…mmm… please,” she whines, while her own body seems to betray Serena once more, following his request before her mind registers what is actually going on. Fighting the innate urge to carry on with what has been so cruelly interrupted, she adds another query, full of misery, her lip quivering as she speaks. “Why?”

“It’ll feel much better this way, trust me,” he reassures, voice meant to soothe all maladies, retreating the wish to have him beside her once again, feel the warmth radiating from his body, the skillful caresses of his lips dancing over her skin. “You can go on now.”

Uttering a defeated huff, she resumes the whole process, circling her clit until she is shivering in delight, legs shifting in obvious impatience, until he tells her to stop once again, and again, and again, the amount of disposed cigarettes working as the only time-measuring factor. She is close to bursting into tears by now, needy and frustrated, although unable to deny that every single stroke, even if barely present, feels electrifying, has her wishing to be replaced by another and another one, and yet he denies the climax every single time, drawing all kinds of desperate whines from the woman.

“I know,” he soothes, and she might have even believed him if not for the sadistic inclination hiding behind his gaze – primal pride of possession. “But it’ll feel so good, I promise. Doesn’t it now?”

“It does,” she manages to utter, voice breaking pitifully at the end as another shudder passes down her spine, silently begging him to end the misery. “Can I… please…”

“Yes,” he affirms, smirking as she sobs in relief, her hips jerking in time with each and every movement by now, following the inevitable release, “but keep your eyes on me.”

And so she does, her vision nearly blacking out from the intensity of newfound experience, wave after wave crushing through her body, fingers almost cramping as she clenches around them, back arching in a catlike manner. Trembling with aftershocks, she is only capable of lying slack on the mattress, both hands mindlessly sliding onto the mattress, wiping any evidences of whatever has just taken place on the sheets, not quite bothering whether he minds it or not.

Dazed with the fervency of said experience, her eyes close on their own accord, barely able to register him getting up from the chair and flopping down on the bed, until he brushes the tender side of her breast, nipples still tingling with arousal. Drowsy as ever, she somehow manages to meet his gaze, pupils dilated in evidence of lust, frenzied and unhinged, yet partly subdued, as if in attempt to stop himself from completely devouring the lush partner, at least according to what she likes to tell herself on such occasions.

While lying on the mattress, boneless and spent, he traces the lines of her cleavage, smirking as she twitches in some unconditioned reflex, still a little dizzy and so unable to contain herself, body arching towards him, presumably enough to take a note of. There is something helplessly embarrassing about being so responsive – confirmation of the potent influence, the fact that he is capable of eliciting even the most absurd reactions from her with nothing else than just a mere stroke of his fingertips.

Pathetic.

(Is it?)

She looks – no – is absolutely fucked, he thinks as his palm follows a path down her body, teasing touch that tickles her flat stomach, sends a repetitive shiver down her spine, legs opening to give him the essential access – a shapely female in his bed, all to himself, which paired with the knowledge of how much she will let him do to her now, has his member throb in impatience, with the variety of scenarios running through his head. The whole experience allows him to see Serena in a different light, more as a self-conscious woman than a sarcastic lass, which in turn makes him wonder whether he was even supposed to offer her that brandy for a loosen-up – doubt definitely short-lived on the benefit of more pressing matters running through his mind. It appears to him that he has managed to dig out all the carnal-oriented parts of her, thirst never to be satiated, which in turn fills him with the so-called male pride, desire to push her limits on every occasion possible, such as now, full at his mercy with legs drawn apart.

“Mmm… fuck,” he mutters to himself, failing to notice the corners of her lips twitching in a sly smirk, too preoccupied with the carnival of thoughts rushing through his head. Nevertheless, such momentary satisfaction is not enough to soothe the blossoming ache, sheer desperation for the long-craved attention that has her squirming on the mattress, helpless and miserable, hips shifting to get him where she needs it the most. Unfortunately and much to her lust-laced despair, the cruel hand only hovers over the mound, barely brushing her skin, which elicits a frustrated huff from the woman and prompts her to roll over to the side, ignoring all protests of the weakened body.

Draping a single leg over his hip, she leans in to steal a kiss, the nicotine aftertaste lingering on his tongue, far too intense to be considered as pleasant under any other circumstances, and in spite of said assumption some wicked part of her still longs for more, pressed flush to his body. He allows her to do so, hands grasping her by the hips to prevent Serena from grinding against his thigh, or whatever stunt she is attempting to pull, which elicits a frustrated huff from the woman, one of those that has him chuckling against her lips.

“Can you like… take off your clothes?” She mutters, still less than an inch from him, unfortunately putting their kiss to a premature end. “It makes me feel awkward that I’m the only one naked.”

“I thought you would prefer to receive some attention first, but if that’s what you want…” he cocks an eyebrow at her, even though she is unable to see it at such close proximity, taking special pleasure in the way her hands fall down with a slap– illusion of pining him to the mattress.

“No- I mean-”

“No?” He interrupts, teasing manner that lights her eyes with newfound doze of frustration, clutching at the cotton of his tee.

“Can you touch me first?” She almost whines, the sheer desperation within her voice makes him twitch inside the constricting denim, wish to remove the barrier between their bodies, then, of course, fuck her into the mattress until she is babbling nonsense. “Please.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he smirks, as if genuinely pleased with how the situation has played out, for his own benefits obviously, flipping them sooner than expected, which elicits a surprised giggle from his female partner. She props herself on the elbows, watching him with anticipation written across her features, curious about his actual intents, chest heaving in time with each uneven breath, skin practically glowing in the city lights – a reach-through to the most carnal parts of his brain.

(So, so ready for him.)

Hence, he decides to take some pity on her

(him),

since she has been quite cooperative throughout their whole encounter, yet to reach the end, and so rewarding her for such is certainly fair enough, if only to see the misty eyes light up once more, stormy pools of sensuous lust, luring him to lean in – one step closer to his inevitable damnation. Therefore, he rolls the t-shirt over his head, jeans soon to follow – an action that draws an excited gasp from the female – although the underwear stays on, considering it might be a little hard to contain himself if elsewise, paired with the longing look she flashes him as in response to the unexpected turn of events.

Before she gets a grasp on what is happening, he tugs her by the arm, directing her onto his lap once again, breasts snug against his chest, and a single hand unceremoniously being pushed in between her legs, cupping the whole expanse in one rough palm, which elicits a vocal moan from the woman. Her hips rock against it, seemingly on their own, craving for more blissful friction, as she literally throbs in relief, opening up like a flower underneath his touch – silent plead for more, encouragement to pursue, to reward her for how compliant she has been to him.

“Just like that…” she moans, obviously content with the situation itself, eyes falling shut on their own, as she settles into the position, or rather gets used to the pressure applied by his hand, with a ghost of breath on her neck.

“Like this?” He teases, pressing down on her clit hard enough to draw a pitiful squeal from the woman, hips bucking in response to the rough caress – such an absurd concoction of words – as her hands raise to take a steady grip on his shoulders. His breath is palpable on her skin, tickling akin to the reddish strands, having her wish his tongue would run over the heated flesh, suck at the soft spot just below her ear, in need for any sort of relief, since all he has been performing for quite a while now qualifies as merely teasing, no less no more.

“You’re relentless,” she sighs, as if to spur him with the helpless act, thighs quivering with effort of containing the innate thrusts of her hips, pad of his finger circling the swollen nub with almost inhuman deftness, drifting her thoughts back the drive-in, and the following doubt: which one is she? The thirty-ninth? That low? Maybe fifty-first? This, paired with the ability of turning her mind into a shapeless mush, so clear and brisk at most times, capable of fluent concentration, freaks her out more than she cares to admit, along with the lust-laced submission, the fact that she is past the point of common self-respect, goaded by the primal urge to hit the climax once again – unhinged desire that breaks down far too many barriers, that forces her to…

“Mmm…fuck,” she moans as soon as his fingers reach further south, prodding at the spasming entrance, so close to sliding inside and yet elongating the blissful torture. “Please, I need this so much.”

“Who would’ve thought you were such a greedy, little girl,” he teases, oh so harmlessly, fighting the pressing need to grind against the moist heat, almost dizzy with his own lust, practically bursting as if caught on some high school fling.

(Self-control.)

“Tell me now, what have you done to earn this?”

Now that is humiliating, she thinks, while in consideration how regrettable would be to disobey him, even if for a mere moment, hands twitching with effort of containing the immature idea of pushing him away, then expressing her immense displeasure by twisting his dick off. Possibly the worst case scenario, and yet the only one left when cornered, hesitating between twain of opposite solutions, unable to fit anywhere in between, and accordingly so, she chooses to speak – weak insubordination, mindless babbling of sheer desperation.

“Each and every thing you wanted me to do,” she argues, one of her hand reaching his, pressed in between the tensed thighs, wordlessly prompting him to pursue, “so I think I deserve a reward.”

“A reward you say?” he retorts – a query almost lost in the space-time as soon as he presses down onto the swollen folds, drawing another feminine whimper from her. “Fine, so let’s make it worthwhile.”

And with that he resumes, quick to slide a pair of his fingers inside, which forces a choked cry from the woman, hands once again flying up to grasp his shoulders, long nails biting into the firm flesh. He hisses at the mingling stab of pain and pleasure, unable to contain the subtle shiver running down his spine, especially when paired with the reedy moan she utters as soon as he brushes the g-spot, dizzy because of the long-craved fullness, based on those male preference aspects, squirming upon his lap as the caress grows on intensity. This, or the self-named leakage, calls back to involuntary disclosure of one’s true intentions, hidden desires, cravings never qualified for direct verbalization, popping out to the surface when uncontained, least expected, or simply unfortunate.

“Hear that?” He rasps into her ear, causing the tiny hairs on female’s neck to stand up as the tickling heat begins to spread through her body, skin almost itching to be touched. “Hear how wet you are?”

“Yes,” she gasps, now actually paying attention to the squelching sounds, cheeks burning hot red, as she buries her face in his neck, lips brushing the sensitive flesh as she speaks.

“Look at me,” he demands, fingers grasping her chin, as he tilts it upwards, eyes adverting to the side, prompted by the silly need to hide away from the intensity of such contact, “and I want you to hold it.”

“Okay,” she gulps as her walls clench around his fingers – involuntary response that elicits an amused chuckle from the male, all to her exasperation, not so mild anymore, sweeping away the prior embarrassment. Even so, she considers the smug composure itself in terms of an aspect beyond enticing, exciting maybe, the one that drags her towards the end faster than expected in comparison to what she is used to. Furthermore, she cannot deny him the skills, but at this point also qualifies it as the less meaningful factor, with its lack of extent towards the mental dimension, towards the emotional bond that blossoms into trust as a parallel to relationship development.

Exquisite but eerie.

Verdict of veracity to validate.

Deep in her thoughts, at least as much as the current situation allows her to, she appears as genuinely caught off guard by the pulsing wave of bliss, pre-orgasmic but potent enough to tear a surprised gasp from her throat, meant to shatter the pitiful remains of so-called concentration. With the eye-contact aspect long forgotten, she throws her head back, exposing the slim column of her neck, luring him to finally suck at the creamy skin, glistening in the city lights, itching for extra touch. Despite the pair of fingers, shoved knuckles deep inside her, along with the ragging hard-on, he manages to get the hint, quick to dip down and attach his lips to the tender flesh – an act that elicits a relieved moan from the female – hands tangling in the velvety mass of hair.

At this point she can barely sit still, squirming in his grips as he lavishes her skin with open-mouthed kisses, nibbling and licking until she becomes a quivering mess, longing for the second climax – honeyed tang upon her tongue, as if possible to be tasted. Chasing the inevitable release, she rocks against the heal of his palm, desperate for more friction, frenzied and unhinged, torn between tethering on the cusp forever and tilting forward to the thirst-satiating finale – doubt definitely short-lived, minuscule expanse of time carved from the eternity.

With a final spasm, she arches towards him, lips colliding in a messy kiss, clenching around his fingers, so tightly that his thrusts are forced to a halt, labored breaths exchanged between the lovers – his in carnal desperation, hers as a result of mind-numbing bliss. In attempt to steady her trembling body, one of his arms snakes behind her back, holding the partner upright as she rides out her orgasm, bucking against his hand in languid manner that indicates the gradual ebbing of prior pleasure.

When their eyes meet, glassy and high on post-orgasmic delight, something snaps within him, and despite the discontented whine she utters, he pushes her away to the side, then in one brisk movement gets rid of his underwear, almost ripping the fabric in process. Having discarded it to the side, he climbs back on top of her, prying her legs open with a rushed knee jolt, but she halts him by laying a single hand on his chest, his face now marked with a frown of confusion.

“The protection,” she reminds drily, causing him to roll his eyes, but at the same time reach to the lonesome box chilling by the bed, soon to fish out a single foil package and rip it with one precise flick of his wrist.

“You’re such a mood killer,” he huffs, albeit quick to put the (un)necessary interval to an end by rolling the latex piece onto his throbbing hard-on, groaning when treated by the meager pressure, applied in the cruelest way possible.

Impatient as ever, she watches him jerk off a few times, before he kneels in front of her again, and without wasting any more time, lines with her entrance, the rapid slide that forces a chocked cry from her throat. With dark spots marking her vision, she lifts the gaze to meet his eyes – pools of pitch black with a barely present rim of jade, captivating, almost to the point of hypnosis, burning with unhinged lust – chest heaving with labored breaths.

“Shit…” he groans, delirious, voice laced with newfound desperation, selfish need to get off as soon as possible, especially when she is pulsing around him, once again anticipating the approaching wave of bliss. With his clean hand, he laces their fingers – a gesture she would consider romantic if not for the following exclamation, mindless babbling of incoherent man, lacking in the usual finesse. “Makes me wanna fuck you so hard.”

“Then do it,” she spurs, wriggling her hips as if to signalize that she is more than ready, wanting, willing to find out what he has to offer, but instead of transferring the words into proper actions, he speaks again, rough and husky – gravelly driveway to the dream estate.

“Say that again,” he practically growls – a sound that throws her off the current train of thoughts, even if for a brief moment, primal in the way that sends a chilling shiver down her spine.

“Do it, please,” she repeats, more determined than before, legs wrapping around his hips as if in attempt to drag him closer, heels digging into the tensed muscle. Having him inside her calls back to the long-forgotten sensation – peculiar fullness, linked with the most pristine connection – intended to be relished, but at the same time aiming for a further pursuit, walls spasming around him as if to prove a point. “Please.”

To that, he has no answer, at least not the one she wants to gain, instead keeps staring at her for what seems like forever, but in reality must oscillate around less-than-a-minute interval, with her squirming impatience failing to affect him. Seemingly deprived of the desired ability to make him comply,

(Come closer and see)

she focuses on the distinctive melody playing in the background, coming from the adjoining flat,

(See into the dark)

the one she used to consider as a fit to hear out while you get high, but that was before she has learned the meaning beyond lyrics, beyond the goth-rock tune that she enjoys to replay in her head, so brutally interrupted in the middle by an unknown hand.

(Just follow your eyes)

he says and for a split second she cannot focus on anything else but the lingering tone, leaning to one inevitable conclusion, and all of sudden there comes a time when ‘male’ is preceded by ‘fe’.

“Please?” He croaks at some point, barely acknowledging enough to pierce through the metaphorical barrier, one of his hands squeezing her hip, blunt nails digging into the fleshy part of her side, until she squeals in discomfort, eyes now shifting to meet his – pools of shady lust.

“Yes,” she gulps, struggling to get the words out of her parched throat, one slim leg hooking over his midsection as if to cover up the prior absence, “please.”

In what must take just mere seconds, he releases her hand – a hook to reality – both of his switching to her shoulders in search for a more convenient position, sure to leave bruises as they bite into her skin. She finds it unsettling, the swiftness of his movements, the barely present grasp on changeable turn of events – concern soon to evaporate in the chilly night in time with the first push, hitting her heftier than expected, evident in the stunned cry she utters.

His lips are parted, letting out heavy breaths, tongue flicking over the parched flesh – an action that enhances her want, no – her need, to taste him – while all he contributes in, minus the thrusting part, is holding her down, lost in the mind-numbing desire to feel her clenching around him each time he rubs against her cervix. He keeps the pace slow, allowing him to reach deeper inside his restless lover, her hands now tightening around his wrists, eyes falling shut, as she attempts to grind against him, clit throbbing for attention. She almost sobs in relief when he gets the hint, one of his hands dipping in between their bodies to circle the swollen nub with a pair of long fingers, not quite meaning to grant her the relief yet, instead teases the edges with ticklish touches, parallel to the fluttering of butterfly’s wings. Nonetheless, she is clenching around him, throbbing and squirming, almond-shaped nails biting into the tendons crossing his wrists, as if to stay connected with the runaway reality.

Noting more than a pointless pursuit…

According to Alexander, there is a fair amount of adjectives to label a woman with, selection almost mind-numbing during the initial recon, ranging from the less favorable traits to the absolute heaven of compliments, quite difficult to choose from in such circumstances. Either way, enticing is what he opts for at the moment, skin glistening with sweat, presumably as much as his, breasts swaying in time with each thrust, and the variety of sounds slipping past her lips, now bleeding from excess biting. The crimson mark prompts him to dip down, sweep his tongue across the cut, if only for a taste – a craving impossible to ignore – and finally lean in, kissing the split flesh – an action that elicits a relived mewl from the woman, along with the carnal groan he utters – shaping up a need to verbalize what is on his mind, a bunch of half-coherent words.

“Always so fucking stubborn, such a tough bitch out there, and look at you now,” he groans, breath tickling her chin, a single hand now tightening around her throat, which forces a chocked whine from the female. “You’d do anything I say, anything to cum, am I right?”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” she chants as if in some unspoken desperation, rewarded by the profuse pressure on her clit that draws a content sigh from her, soon replaced by a deep moan, back arching off the mattress as both contraries mingle – inside and outside, downright blissful. She shivers as her breasts brush his chest, hands reaching to squeeze the pert globes, eyes closing on their own as the pleasure begins to build up, not so gradually anymore, rather in comparison with the waves crushing to the shore – rhythmical intensifications that parallel with the involuntarily clenching walls.

“I know, I- fuck,” he groans, spurred by the sight below to increase the pace, even thrusts long forgotten on the benefit of something more feral, pleasure-chasing, nerves tingling, as if to brace for the approaching surge of bliss. Torn between the polar opposites, on one hand willing to reach the thirst-satiating finale sooner than later, while on the other force her to beg once again, if only to maintain the ‘authoritarian’ figure, which at this point also appears as nonsensible, futile, with trembling muscles, tightening sac, and shut-off brain.

Although he can tell that she is tethering right on the edge too, he needs to speed up the process, lips attaching to the sweet spot below her ear – an action that elicits a broken moan from the woman – hand around her neck involuntarily tightening, as he holds himself up. Struggling to breathe properly, her nails rake down his shoulder blades, leaving a bloody trail below, his own teeth biting a sangria-colored bruise on the tender skin until she squeals, akin to some high school girl.

“C’mon, darling,” he purrs against the sore spot, flicking his tongue over the soon-to-form mark, rough stubble scratching her delicate flesh, hips grinding against his hand, caught in some frenzied state of lust. With a final scrape of his palm, or beard maybe, she clenches around him, spine bending as if to form a late triumphal arch – the most anticipated conquest – immediate to drag him with her, bodies spasming in each other’s arms, as their breath mingle, lips trace the flushed skin, and with both eyes closed, they attempt to ignore the black spots making their vision. Unable to keep himself upright, he collapses on top of her, drawing a pitiful mewl from the confused woman, cutting her airflow once again, which forces yet another choked whine from her throat. “’M sorry,” he mutters, although apparently struggling to roll over, muscles not working on his account for a change, but in the end somehow manages to rest on his back, leaving her cold and empty on the side.

In search for the essential warmth, she reaches out to him, half-climbing, half-snuggling to his side, body trembling as the sweat begins to evaporate from the cease of her spine, loose strands of hair ticking his cheek, lips joining in a leisure kiss. While neither of them dares to break the silence, still hazy with the post-orgasmic delight, his thoughts drift back to the events of seemingly distant past, the unspoken whim that has been lingering in the air for quite a while now, satiated by the least expected person.

It all seems so absurd now…

How close she brings him to God.

* * *

“Aren’t you gonna be jealous?” She frowns, her gaze glued to the enormous portrait decorating the snow white wall – a color almost too perfect to be true.

“No, why?” He glances at her, scratching his chin with the inked fingers, freckles manifesting on his skin more than usual in the blinding gallery lights.

“I don’t know,” she retorts, sarcastic as usual. “’Cause all of them will see me naked?”

“That’s only half of a story,” he replies, ever at ease, if not for the possessive squeeze of her shoulder, betraying what is lurking underneath the surface, probably deep enough to remain unacknowledged by the direct ‘stakeholder’ – a mere tincture of so-called jealousy, “only a poor substitute of what we are beyond that, I mean as people.”

“Well, that’d make a lot of sense,” she agrees, hand reaching out to fix the collar of his shirt, purposely scratching the now fading bruise with her nails, “if you weren’t lying, of course.”

“Me? Lying?” He counters with feigned astonishment – an actor in his own theatre of absurd. “In what world?”

“Think about this now,” she begins, hand floating through the air gracefully, indicating the unlimited possibilities. “Someone buys these portraits, every single one of them, to do what exactly? Appreciate art with his family on Thanksgiving?”

“Let him have them then,” he shrugs, calm to the point it drives her nuts.

“What?”

“Think about this now,” he explains, mimicking the prior manners, much to her exasperation. “Family gathering, licentious orgy – a dream come true.”

“I can’t believe you said that,” she huffs, attempting to conceal the giggle, treating to sip through the neatly polished façade – a signature of professionalism.

“Why not kill two birds with one stone?” He continues, almost laughing at the expression upon her face, flawless features marked by the frown of rebuke.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” She glares at him, chewing at the corner of his lip – an indication of surprised chuckle.

“Does it even matter?” He shrugs, with a smug smirk crossing his visage, eyes glistening with the so-called male pride that somehow reminds her of the cinematic philanders with dashing smiles and thick hair. “If you’d want me to fuck you either way?”

“Shut up,” she shakes her head, tormented by the mixture of amusement and annoyance that she has somehow learned to enjoy with him – a turnabout of least expectance. “Just shut up.”

“See that guy over there?” He alludes, motioning towards some poor man, obviously not in terms of money, furthermore lacking in the aforementioned qualities.

“Yeah,” she nods, partly expecting to hear the following answer, and yet it manages to irk her up even this time.

“He’ll totally buy it.”

“Oh fuck off,” she swats him on the chest, gasping when he catches her wrist, fingers digging into the slender arm – a nonverbal warning.

“C’mon, there’s no need to sulk,” he purrs into her ear, lips barely brushing the tender flesh just below, smirking at the feminine gasp she utters in response to the well-accustomed-with caress, “I’ve wanted to show you something anyway.”

“Well… I don’t know,” she drags the words on purpose, gaze following his to the corridor at the end of the hall, “I thought you were supposed to stay here.”

“Agreements are contractual.”

“Mhm… astute.”

Verdict of his virtuosity.

Created: 11/02/20

Completed: 12/28/20

Edited: 12/29/20

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calumcest · 4 years

Text

i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back) - chapter seven

[ao3]

yes i missed last week but i have a good excuse i was in hospital when i was supposed to be posting we’re back on our scheduled bullshit this week also sidenote can we please appreciate that i have actually stuck to this schedule for nearly TWO MONTHS ?? i’m actually dead gassed w myself i really should do this with soulmate au maybe once britpop is finished i will replace monday evenings with soulmate au. do not hold me to that though i work on whims

of course i must thank my lovely @tirednotflirting who has been suffering in this document with me as i struggled through this chapter i cant lie to you sam your little comments and just knowing that you’re watching me suffer feel like a little pat on the head thats like gwarn you can do it so thank u for that <3 and also this chapter owes the life i have forcibly breathed into it to @kaleidoscopeminds who listened to me scream about it for like half of today and helped me navigate part of it i hope i have done it some slight justice

Michael insists that he knows a great local chippy, but when he turns into yet another residential street with no shops in sight after a good five minutes in the freezing cold, Calum frowns.

“Thought you said it was local?” he says.

“It is,” Michael says. “Never said it was local to me, though.” Calum stops, and stares at him.

“Are you serious?” he demands, edged with a little uncertainty, because he’s not quite sure whether they’re there yet, not after one conversation, and Michael laughs, bright and loud. It makes Calum’s stomach flip, and he’s not quite sure whether it’s pleasant or unpleasant, or maybe just because he’s absolutely fucking starving.

“It’s not far,” Michael promises. “Two minutes, tops.”

“This had better be the best fucking fish and chips I’ve ever had,” Calum grumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets and nosing into the collar of his coat. Jesus, isn’t London supposed to be warmer than the north? He’s not inhaling all this pollution for nothing.

True to Michael’s word, though, another street-and-a-half later they’ve made it to the chippy, and Michael shoves the door open with his shoulder, pushing it far enough that Calum can make it through before it swings shut again.

“Fuck me, it’s warm in here,” Calum mutters, pulling his hands out of his pockets and stretching his fingers experimentally, wincing as that horrible burning sensation of a sudden temperature change shoots through them.

“It’s what, maybe fifteen degrees?” Michael says, amused. “What sort of a fucking Australian are you?” Calum glares at him instinctively, and then falters, because he’s still not sure exactly where he stands, but Michael just laughs, turning to the menu.

“They do a good battered sausage,” he tells Calum, who reaches around into his pocket for his wallet as he blinks up at the prices. Fucking hell, two quid for a bag of chips? And Noel and Liam want to move down here?

“Who the fuck goes to a chippy and gets a battered sausage?” Calum says, scanning the menu, and frowning. “Where are the mushy peas?”

“The what?”

“The mushy peas.”

“What the fuck is that?” Calum tears his eyes away from the menu to stare at Michael.

“What the fuck are you on about?” he says. “Y’know, mushy peas?”

“Is that some kind of northern thing?” Michael asks, and Calum frowns. Surely not; mushy peas are a fucking staple of a fish-and-chip dinner, aren’t they? What the fuck do they eat down south if not mushy peas? Mushy capers, or something?

“Can’t be,” Calum says, still frowning, turning back to the menu. “What the fuck else do you eat with-”

“Hang on a minute,” Michael interrupts, frowning. “Is that- is that Liam? ” Calum cuts himself off abruptly, blood running cold.

What?

“What?” he says, and hopes Michael can’t hear the way his heart is in his throat, spinning wildly on the spot and trying to follow Michael’s gaze.

“Over there,” Michael says, sounding mildly intrigued and moderately confused, and nods in the direction of a table in the corner.

Sure enough, there, frowning down at his chips as he shakes out a sachet of ketchup and says something indecipherable to Noel, who’s sat opposite him - Calum would know the back of that head anywhere, sees the top of it enough with the five inches he has on him - is Liam.

Fuck.

Shit.

“D’you want to go over?” Michael says, and Calum swallows.

What the fuck is he supposed to say? He can’t imagine no, because I’ll get kicked out of my band, and you might get murdered will go down well. It doesn’t really matter, though, because his hesitation is an answer in itself.

“They don’t know you’re here, do they?” Michael’s voice is a little heavy, a little bitter, and a little sad. It makes Calum’s stomach curl in on itself, like it’s trying to make itself too small to feel anything anymore.

“They know I’m here,” Calum says. “Just- not to see you.” What’s the point in lying? That’s been the whole point of him coming down here, hasn’t it? Stop lying to Michael, start lying to Liam and Noel instead. It’s like Calum has a limited amount of honesty to go around, can’t keep himself in one piece, has to hand people little parts of himself so they won’t see the full thing. It’s fucking exhausting, especially when he hasn’t got booze or drugs to numb the pain of the pieces he keeps chopping himself into. Maybe it would have been easier if he’d stayed in Manchester, if he’d said no when Michael offered his phone number.

(But, Calum knows, somewhere in the depths of his ragged soul, that no matter how many worlds there are out there, no matter how many parallel universes, there could never be one in which he could say no to Michael.)

“Why?” Calum can’t help but bark out a short, humourless laugh at that as he turns around, heart beating wildly, praying Liam hasn’t seen them.

“They’d fucking kill me. And you.” Michael glances over at Liam again, frowning slightly, and then looks back at Calum, confusion lacing the green-blue of his eyes, like he’s trying to work out what Calum really means by that. Calum thinks he’s been pretty fucking clear, isn’t really sure what Michael’s searching for in his eyes, until Michael opens his mouth, and says:

“Are you ashamed of me?” Jesus. Does Michael really want to do this here? In a fucking London fish-and-chip shop?

“No,” Calum says. “Can we- can we do this somewhere else? Just-” he cuts himself off, and Michael purses his lips, considering, and then sighs, nods, and heads for the door. Calum nigh on fucking runs after him, speedwalks out and halfway down the street until he thinks they’re a safe enough distance away, and then stops, letting Michael round on him.

“Why haven’t you told them?” Michael asks, and Calum can see all the hurt swimming in his eyes and thinks fuck, not now, not just when I’ve got you again.

“They’re-” Calum stops. He’s not really sure how to phrase it. Fucking cunts is probably the closest he can get, but then he’d have to try and explain why despite that, despite the fact that neither Liam nor Noel have a rational bone in their bodies, Calum loves them, and would do anything for them. “Not exactly reasonable, when it comes to this shit.” Michael raises an eyebrow.

“‘Not exactly reasonable’?” he echoes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Calum shrugs, a little uncomfortably.

“They take this whole Blur-Oasis thing very seriously,” he says, and Michael frowns.

“They do?” He sounds surprised.

“Don’t you?”

“No,” Michael says. “Damon thinks it’s a fucking laugh.” Calum almost groans. Fucking hell, isn’t that just brilliant? He gets stuck with the mental northern lads who can’t take anything seriously except the one thing they don’t need to, and Michael gets the sensible southern boys who’ll listen to reason and probably hold hands while they do.

(Calum wouldn’t change it for the fucking world, though.)

“Well, Noel and Liam don’t,” Calum says. “I’d get chucked out of a window if they knew I so much as thought about you.” Michael stares at him.

“They’re mental,” he says, incredulously. “They’re absolutely fucking mental. What is this, fucking Montagues and Capulets?”

“That’s what they’d have you believe,” Calum says, shoving his hands back in his coat pockets. Michael blinks.

“Jesus,” he says, after a moment. “So they don’t even know we’re talking?” Calum can’t help but bark out a short, humourless laugh at that.

“No,” he says. “No. Noel would- and Liam- no. No.” His stomach churns as a number of thoughts flash through his mind - Noel and Liam screaming at him, kicking him out of the band, never speaking to him again - and he shakes his head, half to try and clear his head of the thoughts and half to emphasise just how much Calum can’t tell them.

“So, what, I’m your dirty little secret?” Michael sounds a little bitter about it, and Calum can’t really blame him, but that doesn’t stop his heart twisting a little in his chest at the tone of his voice.

“I- look,” Calum says, a little desperately. “This is my life, Michael.” Michael inhales deeply, doesn’t exhale, just looks at Calum, weighing something up in his mind. His eyes are a little sad, a little angry, heavier and older than Calum remembers them ever being. It sends a tiny shiver down his spine, but for the first time the irrefutable evidence of Michael changing doesn’t make him feel a little queasy. Instead, it’s oddly thrilling, seeing the new self-assuredness and confidence with which Michael makes his decisions, no longer based purely on a split-second emotion. It drives home that Michael’s different, now, that things aren’t the same as they were back then, but in a way that makes Calum think maybe different could be better.

“Alright,” Michael says eventually, on a long exhale. “I- okay. I get it. They’re your band, right?” He pauses, and then smiles, a little sheepishly. “And to be honest, I haven’t told anyone you’re here today, either.” Calum blinks at him.

“Hypocrite,” he says, but it’s soft, tentative, no heat to it. Michael grins all the same, and it just about manages to reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, protesting a little. “They at least know we’re talking.” Calum hesitates.

“What’ve you told them?” he asks. Michael shrugs.

“Just that we’ve spoken on the phone a few times,” he says. “I mean, it’s not like I could avoid it, after Graham picked up your call on my birthday.” Oh, shit. Yeah.

“Oh,” Calum says. “Yeah. I forgot about that.”

“Yeah,” Michael says, grimacing a little.

“Did he ever tell Damon you locked him in a bathroom?” Michael laughs, bright and a little surprised, like he’s taken aback that Calum remembers that.

“No,” he says. “But for the price I paid, he’d better keep his mouth shut about everything I ever fucking do for the rest of my life.” Calum raises an eyebrow, and Michael grins, properly this time, and shakes his head.

“Wouldn't you like to know,” he says, and takes a step back, walking back into the stream of people that have been passing by.

“Oh, c’mon,” Calum says, falling into step with Michael, who just laughs again. “You can’t say that and not tell me.”

“I’m not telling you,” Michael says. “I take this Blur-Oasis shit seriously, y’know? Can’t be fraternising with the enemy." Calum throws him a sharp glance, but Michael’s still grinning, eyes sparkling with something a little mischievous that reminds Calum so much of the Michael he once knew that he falters, almost trips over his own feet.

“Is that why you’re trying to starve me to death?” Calum says, testing the waters. Michael snorts.

“You were the one that wanted out of the best fish and chip shop in London, my friend,” he says, mock-snootily. “Luckily for you, I’m feeling particularly magnanimous today, so I’ll take you to a good Italian place.” Calum raises an eyebrow.

“Magnanimous?” he echoes. “Since when do you know words that long?”

“Damon’s rules,” Michael says. “Have to learn at least five new words a week, and a spelling test on Sundays.” Calum blinks at him.

“Really?”

“No, you fucking idiot,” Michael says, a little incredulously, a lot amused. “Jesus, don’t they do sarcasm up north?”

“Better than most,” Calum says. “It just sounds like something Damon would do, is all.” Michael laughs, turning to grin at Calum over his shoulder as he pushes the door to a small Italian place open.

“He did make me read Siddhartha before he let me join the band,” he admits, and Calum makes a noise of triumph.

“See?” he crows, and Michael just laughs again, and Calum thinks the warmth stealing over him really has nothing to do with the central heating in the restaurant.

-------

They spend a leisurely hour or two in the restaurant, talking about absolutely nothing of import, skirting around anything that seems like it might get a little too serious, and Calum’s grateful for it. His carbonara tastes all the creamier when Michael starts pointing out passers-by, commenting on their frowns or their fast walks or their hideous coats, making Calum grin and splutter into his drink with every wicked and quick comment he makes. It’s almost like the old days, has the same sharp wit and ease that Michael’s tongue has always been good with, but is a little more refined than then, has something more mellow to it, like Michael’s no longer trying to impress Calum or keep him by his side. It’s oddly heady, actually, the new sheen of confidence that polishes all of Michael’s words before they leave his mouth, makes Calum lose his focus every once in a while as he just stares at the easy self-assuredness held in Michael’s shoulders, until Michael waves a hand in front of his face and says Earth to Calum, a small smile playing at his lips, a slight glimmer in his eyes. Calum can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed, though, still knows Michael well enough to read the smile as a pleased one, the glimmer as charmed, and just grins back, trying to stop his heart from jumping from his chest to his throat to his feet to his stomach and back again.

It’s already getting dark by the time they head out of the restaurant - fucking December, honestly - and they take their time walking back to Michael’s house, wandering down side street after side street as Michael tells Calum about the difficulties he’s been having with his neighbour. Calum just listens, nodding and sighing and calling the neighbour a cunt in all the right places, and by the time they’re back at Michael’s house, it’s fully dark, the two of them bathed in the harsh orange light of the London streetlights.

“When’s your train?” Michael asks, digging in his pocket for his keys and sliding them into the lock.

“I, uh,” Calum says. “Didn’t book a specific one.” Michael raises an eyebrow at him over his shoulder as he unlocks the door, then steps inside and holds the door for Calum to walk in.

“Why not?” he asks, flicking the light switch on, and Calum shrugs, busying himself with pulling his shoes off.

“Wasn’t sure how long I’d be here,” he says. Michael just hums at that as he kicks his own shoes off, like he’s mulling it over.

“When are Liam and Noel heading back?” he asks, and Calum shrugs again, a little more tense this time.

“Don’t know,” he says. “Probably no later than six. Liam’ll want to be on the piss by nine.”

“Not much else to do up there, I s’pose,” Michael says, a little flippantly, heading into the living room, making Calum frown as he follows.

“There’s plenty to do,” he says, a little indignantly, and Michael turns back, throws him a slightly-amused look over his shoulder.

“Proper Manny boy now, aren’t you?” he says, settling down on the overstuffed armchair opposite the sofa again, curling his legs underneath himself. Calum sits down on the sofa, stretches out for a moment to try and crack his back, and then settles back against it with a scowl.

“It’s home,” Calum says, surprising himself with the sincerity with which the words are saturated. Michael cocks his head, and Calum knows what he’s thinking. When did Sydney stop being home to you?

“D’you not ever miss it?” he says, but he only really sounds curious. Calum shrugs.

“Not really,” he says. “I only really- uh. Miss the people.” He averts his gaze, tries to stop his cheeks heating up. He’d almost said I only really miss you.

“Luke and Ashton are flying over in January,” Michael says. “You should come down and see them.” Calum swallows.

“Depends when,” he says. “Think we’re back over in America in January.” Michael frowns.

“You’ll be at the NME awards, though, won’t you?” he says.

“Well, yeah, but so will Noel and Liam,” Calum says, and Michael’s face falls. Only fractionally, so slight that if Calum weren’t instinctively tuned into Michael’s frequency he would have missed it, but he is, so he doesn’t.

“Oh,” Michael says. “Yeah. Right. Well, I know they’d love to see you.”

“Mm,” Calum says, a little uncomfortably. He hates this, doesn’t want to be in a position where he has to pick his old life or his new.

“I told them,” Michael says, and he sounds a little apologetic.

“Told who?”

“Luke and Ashton. About us, y’know. Talking again.” Calum’s stomach flips. Right. So now the entirety of Blur and two of his friends from five years ago know, and his own best friends don’t. Brilliant.

“Oh,” he says, and Michael has the dignity to look a little ashamed.

“They were happy,” he offers, like it’ll assuage any of the guilt that’s bonded itself so tightly to each one of Calum’s blood cells he barely remembers what it’s like to walk around without their heavy burden weighing him down. “They’ve been asking after you.”

“Oh?” Calum says, and hopes Michael doesn’t hear the thickness of his voice.

“Yeah,” Michael says. “Luke’s finished his pilot training, now. He was in Japan the same time as me, so we went for a coffee.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Good,” Michael says, “yeah, good. Misses Ashton when he’s away, but.” He shrugs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Not sure what else he expected, becoming a pilot.” Calum huffs out a laugh, a little bitter, a little amused.

“And Ashton’s a teacher?” he says, and Michael nods. “What does he teach?”

“RE, I think,” Michael says. Calum snorts, but it’s sort of fond.

“Sounds like Ashton,” he says, and Michael grins.

“At least he put all those fucking books about Buddhism and that to good use,” he says.

“D’you remember when he tried to make us all read the entire Bible?” Calum says, and Michael laughs, short and bright.

“I remember him being beside himself when we just circled all the verses about masturbating,” Michael says, and Calum finds a laugh punched out of him by a sudden memory, surprising him with its intensity.

“D’you remember Luke made it through the entire Old Testament?” he says, and Michael’s smile grows, and he nods.

“The things love makes you do,” he says, grinning, and Calum’s smile falters.

Yeah. Love can make people go to the ends of the Earth for each other, or make someone read the entire Old Testament, or maybe even make someone lie to their best friends and put their entire career on the line. Calum doesn't want to think about that.

(It can't be that, anyway. It just can't.)

Michael seems to sense the change in Calum’s mood, because he shifts a little uncomfortably and clears his throat.

“Are you staying home for Christmas, then?” he says, and Calum blinks, and nods.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Is Mali coming?”

“No,” Calum says. “Can’t stand a cold Christmas, she says.” Michael smiles, a little wistfully.

“Took me a while to get used to,” he says. “Fuck me, the first time it snowed? ”

“Oh, God, I know,” Calum says, a little more fervently than he’d intended to. “I thought it’d be all soft, y’know? Liam fucking saw to that misconception. Turned up at my house with a bunch of pre-made snowballs, the prick. Looked like I’d got battered in a pub brawl, or something.” Michael snorts.

“No one ever mentioned how slippery it is, either,” he says.

“Or how nasty it is when it melts,” Calum agrees.

“Or how wet it is in your hair,” Michael says. Calum raises an eyebrow.

“It’s water,” he says. “You could’ve worked that one out for yourself.” Michael rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

“Fuck off,” he says. “Where’s the Aussie solidarity?”

“Gone as soon as you insulted Manchester,” Calum tells him, and Michael laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“S’pose there are a few good things about it,” he concedes, eyes glittering. “One, in particular.” Calum swallows.

“Oasis are pretty good, yeah,” he says, and Michael's eyes flash with amusement.

“Pretty subpar bassist, though,” he says conversationally.

“Is that so?” Calum says. Michael looks at ease, relaxed and sunk back into his armchair, smile on his face and eyes lit up with laughter, but Calum can’t help but feel hesitant, a little afraid to lean too far into the comfortable familiarity of the conversation. What if Michael changes his mind?

"Mm," Michael says. "Personally, I think they just keep him in for his looks." Calum raises an eyebrow, tries not to let the way his heart's just skipped a beat show on his face. It doesn't mean anything, he tells himself. It's just Michael's sense of humour.

"What, with Liam in the band?" Calum says, and Michael scrunches his face up.

"He's too pretty for me," he says, and then unscrunches his face again and raises his eyebrows. "Mind you, though, I wouldn't say no if-"

"You fucking would if you know what's good for you," Calum tells him, and Michael laughs.

"Would I?" he says, eyes gleaming. "Think I'd need a more tempting offer." He's looking at Calum in anticipation, like he's expecting a certain response, and it makes Calum swallow - twice, because his heart doesn't know how to behave.

"I'll see what I can do," he says, and Michael grins at him.

Right answer.

-------

The journey back home is uneventful.

Michael had kindly forgotten to inform Calum of just how much of a rush hour rush hour really is in London, meaning he has to wait for three tubes to pass before he makes it to the edge of the platform, and then has to spend the two stops back to Euston shoved uncomfortably against the glass that divides the seats from the door area. At least it’s only two stops, though, he tells himself, tumbling off the train with a bunch of serious-looking commuters, half of whom seem to be headed back to Manchester. Calum’s train is already packed when he gets on, even though he walks all the way to the end so he won’t have to walk far when he gets to Piccadilly, and he ends up having to sit next to a family of three, an exhausted mother scolding her two young children and trying to get them to sit still. Calum offers her a small smile, wishing he’d brought a book or his Walkman or something, and settles for staring blankly out of the window to the other side of the four-year-old girl on his left, trying to make out shapes in the inky darkness of the night so he doesn’t have to focus on his thoughts.

It turns out not to matter much, though, because even when the train’s whipping through the countryside and the children are still kicking up a fuss about something or other, Calum can’t focus on anything at all, zoning out entirely and feeling a bone-deep tiredness seeping through him, gluing him to his seat. He prefers it that way, though, prefers that he doesn’t have to feel anything but an echo of guilt for a while, lets it steal over him as he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the seat.

He must fall asleep for a while, because it feels like no time at all before a bustle of commotion wakes him up, and he finds everybody on their feet, patting their pockets and reaching for coats and bags. He blinks a few times, rubs his eyes, and then stands up, fumbles around in his pocket for his ticket as he files out of the train with everyone else. It’s surprisingly cold in Piccadilly, and he draws his coat around himself as he swerves around the mother and kids to beat them to the barriers, shoving his ticket in and stepping through. It feels like another threshold, like he's crossing back from a dream world into the real world, and he tries not to think about it too hard as he heads out to the bus stop.

The bus journey back home is cold and expensive, and by the time Calum gets home he thinks he might be in danger of losing a few of his limbs to the frosty air. It’s toasty warm inside the house, though, and there’s a plate of chicken and rice covered in cling film waiting for him on the kitchen counter, and Calum sticks it in the microwave, listens to the muffled sound of the TV floating out from the living room as he waits for his food to finish before taking it out to the table.

The sound of the microwave dinging seems to have alerted his mum to his return, though, because no sooner has he sat down at the table than she's appeared in the doorway.

“Where’ve you been?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“London,” Calum mumbles, through a mouthful of chicken and rice, and scoops another forkful in, just for good measure.

“To see Michael?” Calum falters, and then nods, averting his gaze. His mum sighs, loaded with something heavy that Calum decides he doesn’t want to pick apart. “And?”

“And what?”

“What happened?” Calum swallows, and shovels another loaded forkful of food into his mouth.

“Nothing,” he says, and hopes she’ll attribute the way he winced at the evasiveness of his tone to the fact the food is really fucking hot.

“Calum,” she starts, in that I’m about to give you a lecture voice that only parents (and Noel) can really manage, and Calum swallows again, chokes a little as the un-chewed food almost gets stuck in his oesophagus, and shakes his head.

“Don’t,” he says, a little sharply. “I’m twenty-two, mum.” She sighs again, a little exasperated this time.

“I know, but you’re still my kid,” she says. Calum inhales deeply, and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to have to explain every single tiny movement he makes, not every time he comes home. He doesn’t want to be monitored whenever he comes or goes, doesn’t want to have to answer to anyone. He’s not used to it anymore, not after so long on tour; he’s used to crashing into hotel rooms with a bagful of white powder and a body full of booze, one or two or maybe even three loud and brash Mancunians in tow, vision hazy around the edges from the weed he’s just taken a few hits of, used to sleeping three hours on a bus and waking up in a different city to the one he’d fallen asleep in. It feels oddly claustrophobic, now, coming home. He loves it, loves seeing his mum and his dad and eating proper meals and getting to potter around the house and go down the pub with Liam, but he’s outgrown it as a lifestyle. He’s too big for that little room upstairs, now, too big for this two-up two-down, maybe even too big for Manchester.

“I’m going to look at houses,” he blurts, before he’s even thought about it. A flash of something crosses his mum’s face, but she schools her features into something encouraging before he has a chance to really interpret it.

“That’s a good idea,” she says. “You’re old enough to be gone, now.” Calum nods, and brings another forkful of food to his mouth.

“In London,” he adds, and his mum blinks at him for a moment.

“Well, I suppose it makes sense,” she says, sounding far too brisk, like she’s forcing it. “That’s where the music industry is, isn’t it?” Calum nods.

“Noel and Liam are moving down, too,” he says, and she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s a recipe for disaster,” she says shrewdly, and Calum shakes his head.

“No, not together,” he says.

“Oh,” she says. “Well. You should probably still look for somewhere further away from them.” Yeah, he probably should.

(He won’t, though.)

“Yeah, maybe.” He’s almost finished his plate of food, wishes she would fucking leave, so he doesn’t have to have the rest of this conversation with her. She seems to get it, though, just sighs again, and pushes herself off the doorframe.

“Let us know if we can help with anything,” she says gently, and Calum throws her a tight smile as she leaves.

He’s not really sure where that came from. Okay, he’s been thinking about moving out for a while, but not in any concrete way; it’s very much been conceptual, something that he thinks he should probably do, but hasn’t been bothered to think about beyond that, something that’s stayed very firmly at the back of his mind. It feels right, though, he realises. He’d sort of thought it would be frightening, something that he was doing because he felt he had to rather than because he wanted to, but he feels oddly settled after saying it to his mum, like he's been making do in the dark and now he's turned on the light. It'll be good for him, he thinks, to live on his own.

Plus, he thinks, as he scrapes his chair back from the table, gathering up his plate and cutlery, Liam could probably do with a set of eyes on him, couldn’t he? And the fact that Kentish Town is close to Camden has absolutely nothing to do with it.

-------

Calum’s woken up at ten the next morning by a knock at the door.

“Mm?” he mumbles, not entirely sure whether he’s actually awake or not yet, and the door opens a crack to reveal his mum.

“Noel’s on the phone for you,” she says, and throws him a significant look that he chooses not to interpret. What the fuck does Noel want at ten in the morning?

“Tell him I’ll call him back,” he says, and she purses her lips.

“Tell him yourself,” she says, and tosses the handset at him. He squawks, flinching to avoid getting a hunk of plastic to the head - she’s never had the greatest aim - and then picks up the receiver that’s landed (painfully) on his forearm.

“What?” he says, rubbing his eyes.

“What were you really doing in London?” Jesus Christ. Straight to the fucking point.

“Running errands.”

“Bullshit.” Calum sighs.

“What the fuck d’you want me to say?” he says tiredly.

“You looked like you’d seen a fucking ghost when we came over,” Noel says.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you, was I?”

“You knew we were going to be in London. Liam says he told you.” Fuck’s sake.

“London’s a big fucking place, though, isn’t it?” Calum says. “Still didn’t expect to see you there.”

“Cut the fucking shit, Calum. I know who lives in Camden.” Calum’s blood runs cold. Shit. He should have known that they would have seen them in the chippy, should have made Michael leave faster, hide his face, turn away, anything. All it would have taken would have been one errant look from Liam, and the cat would have been out of the bag.

“Why the fuck are you so convinced this is some kind of conspiracy?” Calum bites out. Fight fire with fire, he thinks. Works for Liam, doesn’t it?

“I’m going to give you one chance to be honest with me,” Noel says. His voice is dangerously even, too controlled, that sort of wound-up serenity he gets a minute before he explodes, and Calum can’t even swallow, can’t get anything past the lump suddenly in his throat. “Were you or were you not seeing Thom Yorke?” Calum stops.

What?

“What?” he says. “No, I- what? What? I don’t even fucking know the bloke.”

“You spoke to him at Glastonbury, didn’t you?” Noel says, utterly hostile. Calum blinks.

“That was- that was six months ago.”

“So?” Noel sounds like he’s bristling. “First Blur, now Radiohead? Are you just working your way through our competition? Were you fucking him too?” There’s a bitter edge to his voice, and Calum’s mouth drops open as he tries to process what Noel’s accusing him of.

What?

“What the fuck?” Calum says incredulously. “I’m not fucking Thom Yorke. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You’d better be fucking certain about that, Calum, because-” Noel starts warningly, but Calum cuts him off.

“Jesus Christ, Noel, I’ve spoken to him once. I don’t know where the cunt lives. Why the fuck do you know where he lives?” There’s a pause.

“Alright,” Noel says, still tinged with suspicion, like he can’t quite let go of the idea that Calum had snuck to London to visit Thom fucking Yorke.

“You’re fucking insane,” Calum says, and doesn’t stop the derisiveness from leaking into his voice. Who the fuck rings someone at ten in the morning to accuse them of sleeping with a random bloke they haven’t seen in months? Noel’s acting like a fucking jealous ex, or something.

“I’m insane?” Noel says, a little coldly. “You’ve got previous, mate.” And yeah, that’s fair enough - more than fair enough, because Calum is going behind Noel’s back, is betraying his best friend and his band - and the thought of it makes the guilt chase the anger out of his veins, makes him slump back into his pillow and rub a hand over his eyes.

“Christ, Noel,” he says wearily. “You need to stop taking this shit so seriously. Let the music speak for itself.” Noel barks out a laugh.

“I take it seriously because none of the rest of you do,” he says.

“Just fucking relax,” Calum says.

“I’ll relax when I’ve made my millions,” Noel says. “Until then, you can get your fucking arse in the studio and make me some money.” Calum rolls his eyes.

“You snort all your money away,” he says.

“So?” Noel says. “Just have to make me more, then, won’t you?” Calum can’t help but huff out a laugh at that.

“You fucking idiot,” he says, but the smile playing at his lips makes it come out fond, and when Noel laughs this time, it’s soft and pleased.

“Aye,” he says. “But I’m no Liam.”

Well. He’s got a point.

-------

Christmas comes and goes without much fanfare, which is just how Calum likes it, and what he needed after all the months of touring.

He gets up early, yawning and rubbing at his eyes as he slaps a hand on his alarm clock to shut it up, and spots a tiny little stocking at the foot of his bed, despite the stern look and the you’re almost twenty-three, Calum, you’re too old for stockings his mum had given him the night before . He grins, stifling another yawn as he empties it onto his bed, collects the little chocolate coins that spill out and unwraps the small present to find a little travel-sized bottle of his favourite aftershave. It makes him smile, that even though he’s a fucking rockstar in the making now, his mum still buys him aftershave, and he tucks the little bottle into his still-packed suitcase so he won’t forget it when they leave for Scotland on Boxing Day.

His parents are both already up when he gets downstairs, showered and dressed and ready to help with cooking dinner, and he throws his dad a quick merry Christmas before heading into the kitchen where his mum is humming along to the tune blasting from the radio.

“Morning,” he says, and she whips around, throws him a cheery smile as she puts something in the oven. “Thanks for the aftershave.”

“What d’you mean, thanks?” she says, a twinkle in her eye. “Do I look like Father Christmas?” Calum tuts and rolls his eyes, presses a kiss to her cheek, and reaches for the carrots she’s been peeling.

“What needs doing?” he asks, and she smiles at him, starts telling him that after he’s done with the carrots he should get some sprouts out of the freezer, please, and then fetch some of that wine from outside - the good wine, mind, Calum, and I know you drank the really good wine and thought we wouldn’t notice - and Calum just grins sheepishly, nods along to what she’s saying as he slices up the carrots, hums along as she switches to talking about Janet and how she’s got a baby on the way now.

He’s halfway through chopping potatoes when the all-too-familiar drum beat of Supersonic starts up on the radio, a little fuzzy from the static. He starts, his heart lurching with adrenaline, and turns to his mum.

“That’s us,” he says excitedly, but she’s already reaching for the volume on the radio, turning it up and beaming.

“That’s you, isn’t it!” she says, sounding even more excited than him. “I like this one, actually. It feels very optimistic.” Calum bites the inside of his cheek, looks back down at his potatoes to try and stop himself laughing. Yeah, it was written while Noel was high as a fucking kite on coke; no wonder it sounds optimistic.

“I like it too,” he says, grinning as Liam’s voice starts filling the room, raw and velvet and a little grimy, just how Calum likes it. Only fucking rock ‘n’ roll star there is, now, me, Liam would say, if he were here, and Calum would roll his eyes, and Noel would probably cuff Liam upside the head, and Bonehead would laugh, and Tony would shake his head and look the other way. God, Calum loves his band, loves their dysfunctional dynamic, loves every bit of the coke and the booze and the fighting and the laughing and the tiny moments of peace where Liam’s curled up against him, fast asleep, and Noel’s throwing him an exasperated but fond look from across the room.

( You don’t love it enough to be honest with them, though, a little voice in his mind tells him, but he pushes it into the back of his mind with as much force as he can muster. Not on Christmas. He deserves one day without guilt, however much of a cunt he’s being.)

They ring Mali after dinner before the Queen, because it’s pushing on for time back in Sydney and his dad sagely points out that she’ll be too drunk to hold a proper conversation once it hits midnight. She’s already well on the way there, shouting and laughing merrily down the phone, but it just makes them all laugh, makes Calum’s heart ache a little bit, but not in a way he particularly minds. He misses her, but he knows he’ll see her soon enough.

After an already fairly lengthy catch-up, his mum wants to speak to her about something to do with her rent which neither Calum nor his dad particularly care about, so they head into the living room and start sorting out potential VHSs to watch that evening. They’re in the middle of arguing about whether or not Blackadder is an appropriate Christmas show when Calum’s mum appears in the doorway, holding out the phone in her hand.

“Mali wants to talk to you,” she says, and Calum scrambles to his feet, grabs the handset off her and heads into the kitchen, hoping his mum won’t follow, will let the two of them have a moment of privacy.

“Hello?” Calum says, throwing a glance over his shoulder to check his mum’s not following. Sure enough, she’s tutting at his dad, telling him Blackadder isn’t a Christmas show, David, be serious, please, so Calum turns into the kitchen, doesn’t bother turning the light on, just leans against the counter in the dark.

“How’s my baby brother?” Mali asks cheerfully, and Calum grins, and shakes his head.

“I’m good,” he says. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Heard you on the radio today,” Mali says, and Calum’s stomach flips. They’re playing Oasis in Australia? Fucking hell.

“You did?”

“Yeah. Sounds really fucking good, actually.” Calum grins.

“‘Course it does,” he says. “It’s me, innit?” Mali laughs, bright and tinny in his ear.

“You’re spending too much time with those Gallaghers,” she tells him. “Where’s my shy little brother got to?”

“Gone with all the coke and booze,” Calum says, and Mali snorts.

“Fair enough,” she says. “How’s the rockstar life treating you, then? Number one album, isn’t it?”

“Fastest-selling debut album in British history,” Calum says, and Mali whistles lowly.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“Yeah, think so.”

“Alright, then, I’m impressed,” she says flippantly, and Calum huffs out a laugh. “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Y’know, fame, and all that. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. Although I’d rather not hear about the sex, if it’s all the same to you.” Calum snorts.

“Good,” he says, “it’s good. Weird, though, getting asked for autographs, and that. Touring’s strange, too. But it’s good. And I’m glad I’ve got my band with me.”

“Good to know someone’s glad,” Mali says. “I bet the rest of the world aren’t glad to have those two delinquents running wild. Mum and Dad don’t know about the number of hotels you’ve been kicked out of, do they?”

“No,” Calum says warningly, “and they’re not going to find out.”

“No, no, I’ll toe the line, Cal,” Mali says breezily. “For a price.”

“Get fucked,” Calum says, but he’s grinning.

“C’mon, you must be fucking loaded by now,” Mali says, but she’s grinning too, just trying to wind him up. “I mean, you played Glastonbury, right? That was a big fucking lineup. Pretty much anyone who’s relevant was there, if my boss is to be believed. She might just be saying that because she was there, though.” Calum’s face drops.

“Yeah,” he says, and bites his lip. He should tell her about Michael. She knew, back then, knew better than almost anyone, and she should know now, really. “I, uh,” he starts, and then licks his lips, and swallows. Mali just waits, though, knows him well enough to know that it’s going to be something important, and Calum takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I saw Michael.”

“Clifford?”

“Yeah.” There’s a pause.

“I wondered how long it’d take,” Mali says, and she sounds a little mournful. It makes Calum blink, makes him frown as he thinks - more than a little upset - what the fuck? She knew?

“You knew? About him being in Blur?”

“‘Course I knew. I’m in the music business, aren’t I? I’m in Australia, Cal, not on the fucking moon.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mali sighs.

“I was trying to protect you,” she says. Calum grits his teeth.

“Would’ve protected me more if you’d warned me before I ran into him at a fucking awards show,” he says.

“Shit,” Mali mutters, and Calum makes a yeah, fucking right sort of noise. “What happened?”

“Liam and Noel nearly fucking skinned me alive,” Calum says.

“With Michael, I mean.” Calum hesitates.

“Nothing,” he says. “Until Glastonbury.”

“What happened at Glastonbury?” Calum stares down at the floor, digs his thumbnail into the countertop behind him.

“Bumped into him,” he says. “And then he rang me a few days later. And then we- uh. We started calling. And I went to his house last week.” Mali’s silent for a long, long moment, so long that Calum would think that she might have got disconnected if it weren’t for the sound of her breathing, slow and considered in Calum’s ear.

“Oh, Cal,” she says, and the words come out sad and heavy. “Are you- are you…?” She trails off, clearly not sure how to phrase it, but Calum knows what she’s asking. He closes his eyes, brings a hand up to rub over his face, and shrugs, even though she can’t see him.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know. Maybe. Not yet, though. But maybe.” Mali sighs again, sounding more sober than she has for the entire call.

“What do the rest of them think?” she asks. Calum swallows.

“They don’t know,” he admits.

There’s a pause. A long, long fucking pause, and Calum sort of wants to just hang up, sort of wants to laugh and say joking, just kidding, can you fucking imagine, wish I could see the look on your face, but he doesn’t. He clenches his fist, waits it out, and eventually Mali exhales heavily.

“That’s a dangerous fucking game,” she says, and Calum can’t help the humourless laugh that escapes him at that. Doesn’t he fucking know it.

“Yeah,” he says. “I just- I can’t tell them. They don’t understand.”

“Even Noel? He was always the reasonable one, wasn’t he?” Calum snorts, and it’s bitter.

“Not when it comes to the music,” he says. “And-” he cuts himself off, biting his lip. He hasn’t told anyone about him and Noel, not even Mali, because it didn’t matter at the time, and as soon as it started to matter, he had no one to tell. But it’s pertinent now, isn’t it, and it’d probably be a weight off his shoulders, so he takes a deep breath, and says: “And, uh, I fucked him.” There’s another pause.

“You- you fucked Noel?” Mali doesn’t quite sound like she believes him.

“I- well-” okay, she doesn’t need to know that technically Noel fucked him “-I mean, yeah. Years ago, though, like, three years ago. But- y’know.” He winces, cringing at his own words.

“Fucking hell, Cal,” Mali says, sounding a little awed. “You’ve made yourself a right fucking mess, haven’t you?”

“I know, I know,” Calum groans, tipping his head back. “It- it didn’t matter, y’know, it was just a one-time thing, but now with Michael back in the picture…” he trails off, and Mali sighs again.

“Does Michael know?”

“No.”

“Jesus, Cal, are you honest with fucking anyone in your life?”

“I- yeah, I just- look, it’d be presumptuous of me to tell him,” Calum says. “We haven’t- we only just made up last week.” Mali hums, a little disapprovingly.

“Well, I suppose,” she says, but she still doesn’t sound too happy about it. “You’ve got to tell your band, though. I’ve seen bigger bands fall apart for less.” Calum’s stomach flips. He knows that, and he knows full well that they could fall apart for less. But he also knows that he’s too far deep with the lie, now, could maybe have got away with the months of sporadic phone calls but hammered the final nail into his coffin in a chic house in Camden, that if he tells them now it all comes crashing down anyway.

“I can’t,” he says, and he hears the desperation in his own voice. “I can’t, Mali. I’d be-” he doesn’t even want to think about it. A life without Oasis, fine, whatever, he can go back to fixing fences and walls. But a life without Noel? A life without Liam? Calum can’t even stomach the thought of that, let alone the prospect of it being a reality. “I can’t. I can’t lose them.”

“What the fuck is the deal with you and those two?” Mali says, a little exasperated, because she knows he doesn’t mean Bonehead or Tony. “They’re nothing but trouble.”

“They’re my best friends,” Calum says, which is a bit of an understatement. Liam’s more of a part of the fabric that makes up Calum’s soul, but it feels a bit dramatic to say that out loud.

Mali’s quiet for a moment, and then she sighs again, long, heavy, resigned.

“Be careful,” she says gently. Her reluctant seal of approval.

“I’m trying.” Mali hums.

“Give my love to Mum and Dad,” she says. “I’m going to get high as fuck and try to forget that someone in my family has fucked Noel Gallagher.” The ghost of a smile crosses Calum’s lips at that.

“Night,” he says. “Love you.”

“Love you most, Cal.” There’s a click, and then she’s gone, nothing but the sound of Calum’s ragged breathing and his racing heart swelling in the silence of the dark kitchen.

Calum sets the phone down on the counter, then inhales deeply, staring up at the ceiling. Mali’s right. He’s made himself a right fucking mess.

Well, he thinks, a little bitterly. Merry fucking Christmas, eh?

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#malum #5sos fic #5sos fanfic #5sos slash #5sos fanfiction #its 23:59 i'm posting it on monday it counts #also i've been vibing so much w electronic music lately if anyone listens to that i want more recs #i'm big into vaporwave/synthwave/ambient/trip hop/big beat/acid house atm #but i'll try anything #also been very keen on the stone roses...what an album #as in the album. sugar spun sister has my whole heart

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