#Modern Man in Search of a Soul | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flowerandblood · 7 months

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Rip my heart, heal my soul

[ Jack the Ripper • modern!Aemond x female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, stalking, violence, mention of murder and body mutilation, manipulation, obsession ]

[ description: Driven by his hatred of women, who in his opinion are mere whores, Aemond delights in killing them when they least expect it - during their rapture with him. He meets a girl whom he chooses as his next target, but it turns out that this time he is the victim of a feeling he has never known before in his life. Murder, mutilation of his victims, obsessive, poetic, dark!Aemond. ]

This oneshot is an Anon Request and is created with Halloween in mind, so unlike what I usually write, these fisc will be very dark and uncomfortable. Keep this in mind before you start reading.

Next chapter: Rip my heart, heal my soul (2)

Aemond Inside Alphabet

*English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy!*

My others works: Masterlist

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He hated how two-faced women could be. With what ease they pretended to be sweet, innocent, warm, looking at him with dreamy eyes, only to fuck him a few hours later like common whores in their flat, moaning loudly like butchered animals.

He loved to see their expressions of surprise when they suddenly felt a fishing lines tighten around their neck as he fucked them from behind, choking them while smiling broadly, pleased to hear them stop making those sickening sounds, trying helplessly to grab air in their lungs and only then did he cum with a sigh of relief.

He loathed them.

He abhorred them.

Women like them laughed at him when he was in highschool, when he lost his left eye. They avoided him, calling him a cyclop, a monster, considering themselves superior, beautiful inside and out.

He knew how simple their mechanism of action was, all they had to do was meet a well-built, mysterious, charismatic man and they were all wet, suddenly forgetting about his artificial eye, ready for him to fuck them anywhere and any way.

They wanted to be the unique ones, the special ones.

They kept repeating to him that "they weren't like other girls" and he looked at them with a smile, nodding.

He'd gouge their eyeballs out of their eye sockets, grinning to find that it suited them to look like this. Suddenly they seemed to be some kind of terrifying beasts, demons from the innermost abysses of darkness that had come to devour him.

He quartered their bodies with cleavers, packed them in great black sacks into which he placed stones and drove many hours ahead, finding some lake into which he threw their remains, their empty shell, as he liked to think of them.

His first target was his schoolmate who mocked him, but then he began to observe women and girls outside clubs, hunting down those who behaved similarly, pretending to be inaccessible, hard to get.

He knew this was nonsense, a cover for a guy to want to try harder.

Because of what he did, he changed his address frequently, catching light seasonal jobs. Mostly he was employed in cafés, because there he could observe people, often finding new targets. Women would frequently pretend to come to work there with their laptops, but would glance at him surreptitiously, checking if he was looking at them.

One day he heard the ringing of a bell hanging over the door and felt hot in his chest at the thought that this girl was perfect.

She was wearing an oversized pastel jumper, light-coloured shorts and mid-thigh-length woollen socks, her hair partly pinned back. A typical sweet pastel girl making big eyes, thinking he didn't know who she really was.

She smiled warmly at him as she approached the counter, but he didn't reciprocate the gesture and looked at her expectantly, throwing a cloth over his shoulder in a gesture of impatience.

"Good morning. A large hot chocolate, please." She said softly, pulling her small rucksack off her back, searching in it for her wallet.

As she opened it, looking in it for banknotes, he saw out of the corner of his eye a student card from a university an hour away from their town and pressed his lips together, thinking it was a perfect match. He scooped her order onto the till and glanced down at her, she reached his shoulder height.

"Anything else?" He asked indifferently and she shook her head, undeterred by his coolness she was still smiling.

Stupid bitch.

"No, thank you." She said calmly, and he told her the amount she had to pay. She placed in front of him exactly as much as he had said, and he walked over to the machine and busied himself filling her order.

"Did you come here on holiday?" He asked her, standing with his back to her. He felt her move uncomfortably, surprised by his question.

"In a way." She said lightly, but added nothing more. He handed her a cup and she took it from him, looked him in the eye and thanked him, then sat down by the window, setting down her chocolate, pulling a laptop from her backpack.

He wandered between tables cleaning them and collecting orders from other guests, glancing at her screen out of the corner of his eye each time, wanting to find something that might give him a clue as to who she was, what she was doing.

He saw that she was constantly typing something in an open text document with quick, sure movements, clicking loudly on the keyboard, taking a sip of chocolate once in a while. When their gazes met she smiled slightly at him, but immediately went back to work again.

Despite his hopes that she would order something else, after half an hour she packed up and left, wiping her table with her handkerchief beforehand and bringing him her empty cup, throwing over her shoulder to wish him a good day.

He felt all tense and bit his lower lip, knowing exactly how he would spend the evening.

As soon as he entered his flat he opened the internet browser on his laptop and typed in the name of her university. It was a private institution of higher learning, so she either had to have an outstanding academic record or a great deal of money.

Another fucking nepotistic child, he thought with amusement and mockery.

He started browsing the university's website, her Facebook page and Instagram hoping to see her somewhere, but found nothing. The only thing he found out was that the university specialised in the humanities, psychology, history, literature.

That would explain why she wrote so much.

He felt impatience and frustration when she didn't come for days, unable to concentrate, thinking only of her. Standing outside the club, smoking a cigarette, he caught himself not observing what was going on around him at all, replaying for the hundredth time her visit to the café, her smile, her cordiality, the fact that she had cleaned up after herself so he wouldn't have to.

He knew it was all just a shell, underneath which there was only disgusting meat.

He couldn't hide the gleam in his eye, the grimace of satisfaction that ascended suddenly on his face and disappeared a moment later when he saw her again in the doorway of the café, this time she was wearing a summer blue dress, her hair tied up in a braid. She walked up to the counter and ordered the same hot chocolate again with a smile.

He felt he needed to start any light conversation.

"Wouldn't you prefer something cooler for such a hot day? We have freshly squeezed juices." He suggested, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, and she turned her head, curious, and hesitated, involuntarily pressing her lips together.

He looked at them, at their pink, fleshy, moist texture, at her slender, long neck, and swallowed loudly, feeling his trousers pulsing at the thought of tightening the noose on her.

"Do you also have orange juice?" She asked softly and he nodded.

"Of course." He replied lowly.

"In that case, I'll have the juice." She said, taking out her wallet again, this time his attention was caught by the small photos she had slipped into a translucent pocket, a picture of some boy, a dog and an older man.

He wondered if she had a boyfriend and furrowed his eyebrows as he pressed half an orange to the juice squeezer, recognising in his mind that this would complicate things a lot. He set the glass in front of her and took the banknote she handed him.

"Thank you very much for your suggestion." She said lightly, with a wide, warm smile, satisfaction in her eyes. She moved ahead to the same table as before and took out her laptop again, starting to type something.

He circled around her for half an hour until he finally decided he couldn't stand it.

He walked over to her table with a cloth and spray, pretending he had to wipe the top, and she picked up her laptop, wanting to help him and make some space.

"Do you work even on holidays?" He asked her indifferently, and she blinked, surprised by his question, and grunted quietly, correcting herself in her seat.

"I have to publish academic articles if I want to keep my place at university. But I like doing it." She said, shrugging her shoulders, not even a trace of displeasure on her face. She put her laptop back on the table when he had finished, and he analysed quickly what she had said.

So it was a scholarship after all, she wasn't paying tuition fees.

"What are you writing about this time?" He asked feeling that this was his only chance, glancing at her nervously, wondering if he was crossing the line or being too persistent. She lifted her gaze to him and turned her head.

"I'm writing an article on the prose of Edgar Allan Poe. Do you know him?" She asked lightly, and he involuntarily bit his lower lip at her question.

Prose in which men cut out their beloveds' entrails, collected their teeth, confessed poems over their cadaverous faces, professing infinite love for them, raging with desire, with despair, with the darkness that was tearing them apart.

Of course he fucking knew him.

"Yeah. It's a pretty dark choice." He admitted, looking at her, recognising with surprise that it didn't match either her clothes, her manner or her personality. She giggled at his words, placing her elbows on the tabletop, not taking her bright gaze off him.

"It is true, however, there is something captivating about him. His darkness is filled with pain, his inner struggle, as if he still lived in agony even when he loved, even when he seemed happy. Each of his poems, each of his stories, is a dark work of art that I could analyse endlessly. He is an inexhaustible source of inspiration for me." She finished her explanation and he stared at her with his lips tightened, feeling the heat in his lower abdomen and the pulsing in his trousers at her words, feeling like he was about to throw himself at her like an animal.

She was perfect.

"Which of his stories do you like the most?" He asked finally, feeling with surprise that his voice trembled slightly, his heart pounding like mad, he had the feeling that he was looking at her as if something possessed him.

She thought about his question, lifting her gaze upwards and hummed under her breath.

"Black Cat. This is his first story I've read. I couldn't get over it, had trouble sleeping afterwards. I promised myself I'd never go back to it again, but I couldn't stop thinking about it and ended up reading the whole book." She said with a smile and some kind of excitement.

"And yours?" She asked, continuing their exchange, and he felt a tightening in his throat at the thought that he had succeeded, that he had intrigued her.

"The Fall of the House of Usher." He whispered, thinking of the woman locked in the coffin alive, unable to get out, whose moans were heard by her own brother, but he chose not to help her, horrified by what he had done.

He thought that perhaps he too could lock her up like this, keep her to himself, only not underground, not in a coffin, but in his arms. He shuddered when an impatient customer called out to him if he was going to serve her, and he gave her a furious look.

"Of course." He said lowly, walking up to her, asking what he could help with.

Usually if someone frustrated him so much, spoke to him in the way she did when she paid him, complaining about his tone of voice, the way he looked at her, he would find her and do to her what he did to everyone else.

However, now that he had met her, he didn't want to have to change his residence again and decided to hold back.

He saw with a squeeze in his heart that she had closed her laptop and started packing.

He didn't want her to leave.

She approached the counter and he felt a tightening in his throat, his whole body tense.

"I'm very sorry this woman treated you this way. I worked as a waitress last year too and I know what a thankless job it is. Don't worry about it. See you later." She said lightly and waved at him and he led her away with his eyes, watching as she disappeared around the corner throwing him another happy smile.

From that moment on, he felt that he was completely crazy about her.

He stopped going under the clubs and stalking other women, decided he didn't need to waste his time with whores when he found her, his Berniece, Morella, Eleonora, his muse, his dark inspiration, his elusive lover, the object of his desire and desperate, hot affection, his obsession.

Never before in his life had he felt so wonderful; he felt as if his insides were filled with fire.

After what she had told him, he realised that she must have been studying fiction, and he searched for academic works published on the internet about Poe's poetry, hoping to come across her name by chance.

He was not mistaken.

He licked his mouth involuntarily as he typed another name into the browser and her Facebook profile picture came up.

He bit his lip as he entered her profile, seeing that apart from basic information as he wasn't friends with her he couldn't see much else. However, he already knew that she was three years younger than him and that she was in fact studying fiction.

He went back to her article, starting to read curiously, wanting to see if she really was that good, if her words weren't just haughty, populist feminine gibberish.

The Black Cat is the story not of a madman who murdered his cat in an act of rage. It is the story of a progressive illness and trauma, a proceeding inner agony and schizophrenia that the main character is unable to cope with, his mind and his feelings measured against his animal aggression, his desire to vent his urges and frustrations purely physically. He begins to lose his memory, able to wake up suddenly in a different place, not knowing what he was doing a few days before, losing his grip on reality completely. It is very likely that the other cat he sees does not exist at all, is merely a figment of his imagination, his remorse, his progressive illness. The protagonist, falling into a spiral of his own madness, is unable to distinguish between his imagination and reality, terrified and filled with aggression like a feral animal he collapses into himself, eventually leading to tragedy, in his madness walling up his beloved wife. We observe a phenomenon of slow dehumanisation, the protagonist discarding piece by piece all sorts of brakes that on a daily basis stop us from sudden, brutal, cruel acts, leaving only pure reactions, filled with anger and frustration. Despite his actions, the reader, being inside the protagonist's head, involuntarily sympathises with him, understanding that he cannot control how his own mind, that he cannot stop the inevitable, that he is doomed to fall apart completely.

He swallowed loudly, feeling the dryness in his throat, stroking his chin with a nervous, anxious hand gesture, wondering why his heart was pounding so much, why he was so tense.

He thought he felt as if she had written about him, as if she had looked into the depths of his inner emptiness and described with tenderness and care what was happening to him. He bit his thumb thinking that he felt understood, not judged, that there was warmth emanating from her text and what she wrote.

He thought with horror that he might have fallen in love with her.

He waited for her every day, taking more shifts at work than he had to, afraid that he wouldn't be there that day when she came again. He felt a tickle in his fingers at the thought of seeing her again, of talking to her again, of looking at her soft, happy face.

When, a few days later, she walked into the café in a black top and shorts, he felt immediately what he saw in his trousers, ready to fuck her in his back room.

He thought he couldn't treat her that way, she hadn't done anything through which he should show her such disrespect, treat her so objectively. She approached him with a slight, pleased smile, her eyes shining, and he thought, feeling heat in his chest, that she was glad to see him.

"Good morning. I'll have the same delicious juice as last time, please." She said in a soft, warm voice and he swallowed quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smile, which didn't escape her notice.

"Coming right up, ma'am." He said softly, and she blinked, shifting from foot to foot, he had the impression she was blushing, she lowered her eyelids meekly, her eyes covered by a veil of her lashes, looking down at her hands.

He tried to focus on his task and prepared her juice, handing it to her and she gave him a banknote.

"Further article writing today?" He asked her in a calm, light tone and she nodded.

"Yes. Would you like to read it? I like to hear other people's opinions, maybe give me some advice, or hint at your observations." She said softly, no undertone or attempt at flirtation could be heard in her tone of voice.

This turned him on even more.

"I would love to. Unfortunately, working here, I won't have as much time to sit down and read everything at once." He said uncertainly and she waved her hand, smiling broadly.

"I don't mean to disturb you while you're working. Give me your email if you want, I'll send you my file." She said with a smile and he nodded, pulling a piece of paper from a drawer and quickly writing down his address, feeling his hands tremble.

He couldn't find the words with what excitement he was waiting to hear from her. He paced around his flat taking deep sips of coffee, feeling the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his heart pounding like crazy.

He refreshed his messages once in a while, and when he finally saw a message from her he sat down rapidly at his laptop, opening it quickly.

Hi, thank you very much for deciding to devote your free time to me and reading what I have written. Feel free to write me what you think, perhaps you have some comments or suggestions. I am sending a PDF of the article as an attachment. Greetings!

He swallowed loudly, immediately opened the document she had sent him and began to read. This time she was dwelling on Poe's love literature and he felt hot at the thought. She wrote about how he describes women in his prose, seeing them as phantoms, statues, demigoddesses, elusive to him, being his constant object of boundless adoration bordering on madness.

He agreed with everything she wrote, but one thing caught his attention. He thought for a long time how to put his thoughts into words so as not to scare her away.

Hi, you've done a wonderful job, I'm very impressed. It's great to read what you write and I agree with practically everything you've written. However, I am puzzled by the wording you used when you question the sincerity of his feelings, assuming that what the protagonist felt towards his women was not in fact love, but only an obsession for an unmatched ideal, that he did not see human form in her. I disagree with this statement looking at the fact that when she ceased to be this ideal, when she died his interest in her did not diminish, his feelings did not fade and his despair only widened. I think his obsession stemmed from his emotionality, from loving her too much, from not being able to draw a line, sinking into his feeling instead of taming it. I hope you don't find what I've written upsetting and don't take it as criticism. Once again, very well done. Greetings.

He sent it at last and stood up, walking around his living room as if in a trance, on the one hand filled with euphoria that he had had contact with her, that he had been able to talk to her, on the other terrified by what he had written, that he had evinced in those words a hint of who he himself was, that he had shown her too much.

He started to feel anxious when he didn't get any reply for half an hour and literally threw himself at his laptop when suddenly an unread message from her appeared glowing white in his inbox.

He clicked on it quickly and began to read, licking his lips.

Your observation is quite interesting and I partially agree with the statement. I think it is true that a feeling on the part of the protagonist cannot be ruled out, as his inner dilemmas often concern matters of beauty, his remarks on the smallest details of their appearance or behaviour that rejoice him every day. Indeed, perhaps my assessment was too harsh. What I mean is that I believe - but this is my subjective opinion - that when it comes to true love, even when it is wrapped in obsession, the safety of the beloved should be the overriding thought, the priority, and yet sometimes the protagonist chooses his desire, his psychosis at the expense of the object of his adoration, who, after all, he supposedly loved. If I were to be loved I would want to be able to feel safe and not wonder every night if my beloved would clamp his hands around my neck and strangle me whispering that he loves me.

He felt a shudder reading her last sentence, reading what she had written again and again, feeling the heat in his chest, his heart pounding like crazy, feeling the tension in his trousers, his cock pulsing hard.

If I were to be loved I would want to be able to feel safe and not wonder every night if my beloved would clamp his hands around my neck and strangle me whispering that he loves me.

He thought that he would never hurt her.

That he would make her feel safe, kissing every inch of her beautiful, soft body with adoration every day, enclosing her in the embrace of his arms, protecting her from the darkness of the whole world, including his own.

He didn't know what he should answer, what she had written seemed so private, intimate, his hands hovered over the keyboard in uncertainty. If he could he would find her, go to her and not fuck her, but make love to her all night.

He would have cuddled her close and whispered reassuringly to her with each deep, peaceful thrust of his hips, stroking her soft, warm skin, sinking his hands into her hair, drawing in her scent with his nose.

He quickly unbuckled his belt from his trousers and unzipped them, put his hand under the material of his boxers, grasping his throbbing, hard manhood, the tip of which was already leaking his wetness, and began to massage himself with quick aggressive movements, panting hard, closing his eyes, thinking about what he would do to her, how tender he would be, how much he wanted to be affectionate, for her, just for her.

He came with a low, helpless moan, panting loudly, resting his forehead against the top of the desk he was sitting at and swallowed his saliva loudly, concluding that he had never felt anything like this before in his life.

He took a quick shower afterwards, thinking hard about his answer, and sat down in front of his laptop in only his trousers, his hair still wet, opening the window beforehand and lighting a cigarette, taking a drag thoughtfully, then began to write.

In this case, too, I have to agree with you. You don't really love someone if you can't protect them from themselves. The protagonists fight each other and fail, but does that mean that they didn't really love, or however, is it simply madness that prevails, the fear that fate will take their beloved away from them, so in order not to feel that fear anymore, they end their life first? Whatever it is, they are driven by despair.

He finally wrote and sent the message, letting the smoke out loudly with his mouth, shaking the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray standing by his computer. He received a reply from her after about fifteen minutes and managed to make himself a cup of tea in the meantime.

I think that's the key word in understanding their dilemma. Despair. Their beauty, their wonderfulness frightens them, they can't bear how much they love them. They are despairing that while their affection may be eternal, their bodies are not so, cruelly destroyed by time, that every second brings them closer to their death. This realisation seems unbearable to them. I will amend this paragraph and expand on what we have been talking about. Thank you very much. Will you be at work tomorrow?

He blinked, reading the last sentence, tightening his lips, writing back quickly.

You're welcome, it's been a pleasure. Yes, I will.

She wrote him back after a moment.

In that case, I'm glad. See you tomorrow!

According to what she wrote she came the next day. This time it was he who smiled at her first, and she reciprocated the gesture, walking up to the counter with a light step.

"The article has been sent. Thanks to you I think it's perfect. If you don't mind, I would like to invite you to a temporary exhibition at the museum as a token of my gratitude. It concerns neo-Gothic illustrations for horror novels, including Poe's, and I thought it might interest you." She said, lowering her gaze with a kind of embarrassment, playing with her fingers, and he felt a shiver go through him, his legs suddenly as soft as cotton wool.

Was she asking him out?

He swallowed loudly at the thought feeling like his heart would rip out of his chest.

"When?" He asked absentmindedly, glancing down at the glass he had just poured her juice into, his hands trembling. He saw that she lifted her gaze to him, hearing with hope that he hadn't declined her offer.

"And when do you have the day off?" She asked softly, he could see from the corner of his eye that she was smiling, embarrassed and happy at the same time. He felt a tightening in his stomach at the thought and a heat in his lower abdomen.

"Tomorrow."

Women often invited him to meetings and he came to them with relish, braiding them into his web, but this time he was terrified and flustered inwardly, outwardly maintaining his icy mask.

He combed his fair hair back, wore a black turtleneck and black trousers and a watch, and decided he looked good enough, elegant but at the same time not pompous.

When he arrived at the agreed place she was already waiting for him in front of the entrance, waving at him, she was wearing a light summer strapless dress, a small rucksack on her back, part of her hair braided at the back of her head.

She ran up to him with a smile and they stood in front of each other, unsure of how to greet.

"Hi. Here, this one is for you." She said, handing him his ticket without suggesting a hug or a handshake.

Her approach was very open, but physically she kept her distance.

The fact that he couldn't touch her was driving him crazy.

They both entered a beautiful neo-baroque building that must once have been a small noble residence and followed the signs. They stepped across the creaky wooden floor into a black room lit only by spotlights set on each of the works on exhibiton.

For the most part, they were etchings and lithographs with depictions of agony, death, loving embraces, figures full of anxiety, ghosts, symbolic scenes, executed with great precision and care. They both bent over each work, looking at it carefully, not rushing anywhere, wanting to analyse exactly what they were seeing.

"Amazing how artists can capture the spirit of prose, isn't it? Looking at it I immediately feel what the author wrote about, the same anxiety even though I don't have the text in front of me." She said quietly with some kind of admiration, he listened to her but had trouble concentrating, smelling the pleasant scent of her girlish, floral perfume.

"Mmm." He hummed under his breath and nodded in agreement, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. He saw that she was looking at him too and they both turned away, embarrassed.

He couldn't help himself, his hand involuntarily mussed hers as they moved on to the next piece of work, he felt her flinch, but she didn't move away.

He heard her quietly draw in air as his fingers tentatively intertwined with hers, he felt like his heart was going to jump out of his chest. He pressed his lips together as he felt her fingers spread, allowing him to grab hold and they watched further.

He didn't let go of her hand then or when they left the building, talking about what they'd seen, pretending that nothing had happened between them, that it was a simple friendly gesture.

He saw that her face was all flushed, her gaze lowered, a gentle, warm smile of happiness on her face. He felt a squeeze in his heart at the sight, at the thought that he was not repelling her, that she was not disgusted by him.

He walked her to the tenement where she rented a room and immediately memorised the number, knowing in the back of his mind that he would surely be passing this way often over the next few weeks. They looked at each other and he wondered if she would want him to kiss her, to go inside.

He wanted it and didn't want it at the same time.

"I hope you had a nice time. Thank you for everything." She said softly looking at him at last, her eyes big and filled with something that made him hot, their fingers still entwined in a light, non-committal embrace.

"Very nice." He murmured, looking down at her thoughtfully, at her soft, pleasant face, at her pink lips and red cheeks. She swallowed loudly and let go of his hand, embarrassed.

"Goodnight." She whispered and opened the wicket, closing it behind her.

"Goodnight." He replied and led her away with his eyes, watching as she opened the door and disappeared behind it. He stood and waited to see where the light would turn on, and after a moment the warm glow of the night light illuminated a room on the second floor of the house.

From that day onwards, she spent long hours every day in his café, not knowing that every evening he arranged to walk around her townhouse, watching her window from afar, sometimes seeing her silhouette as she walked from place to place, or as she opened the window to let in some cool, fresh air.

Since he met her he has not killed anyone.

Since he met her he had felt no need to kill anyone.

She filled his every thought, his every breath, the vision of her and her face brought him sweet relief, the touch of her hands, their entwined fingers kept him awake.

He felt that they had formed a bond, he felt that she reciprocated his affect, he could see it in her gaze, in the way she smiled at him as she crossed the café door and spotted him behind the counter.

One day, he couldn't stand it and such a direct proposal came out of his mouth that he felt embarrassed for himself.

"I need to spend an evening with you or I'll go crazy." He said standing over her table and she looked at him surprised, her cheeks lit up with a hot blush.

She lowered her gaze, knowing exactly what he wanted, what he was implying, and swallowed loudly while he looked at her helplessly thinking only of the fact that he was an impatient idiot.

"I need that too." She confessed and he tightened his lips at the words.

That same evening he found himself at her door.

When she opened it for him he clung to her lips as if starved, enclosing her cheeks in the tender embrace of his hands. He pulled away pressing his forehead to hers, her gaze at once fearful and thirsty, warm and dreamy, her lips twitching slightly in uncertainty.

"I know." He whispered, kissing her again, capturing her lower lip between his own, releasing her with a loud click, her fingertips running through his hair. "I know, I won't hurt you. God, I would never hurt you."

He was delighted by her sweet, innocent sounds as he placed slow, tender kisses on her neck, her shoulders, as he laid her down on her bed, running his fingers over her body, taking his time, letting her calm down, letting her feel that he would not take her by force, that he would wait as long as she needed.

"It's okay. It's okay." He whispered soothingly, running his hot lips, swollen with desire, over her soft skin, laying between her thighs, letting her feel how hard he was, how much he needed her.

"Oh." Rippled out of her mouth when she felt it, and he chuckled under his breath, delighted by her reaction. He raised himself up on his elbows and looked at her face, then ran the tip of his nose over hers.

"Will you let me kiss you down there?" He cooed, lowering his hand to her bare thigh, running his fingertips over it, feeling goosebumps forming where he touched her. She nodded, and he hummed before kissing her again.

They undressed slowly, unhurriedly, as he lowered the straps of her dress and exposed one of her breasts he began to place tender, light, butterfly kisses on her skin, barely brushing her with his breath, feeling her breathing fast, her lips parted in delight.

She helped him pull off his black t-shirt and his trousers, and after a moment they were both wonderfully naked, like Adam and Eve in paradise before they picked the forbidden fruit.

He looked at her adoringly and kissed her deeply, passionately, and she reciprocated his gesture, weaving her delicate hands into his hair, drawing him close, his chest pressed against her breasts.

He began to slide his lips down her sternum, to her navel all the way down, leaving a moist, sticky trail of his saliva, feeling her writhing beneath him with arousal.

With a gentle, slow movement, he spread her thighs in front of him and noticed her glowing, sticky moisture dripping onto the sheets beneath them.

He didn't hesitate for a moment, with a groan of pleasure he pressed his lips to her folds, running his nose over her clit, his tongue slipped tentatively and tasted in a circular motion what was between them, her wetness and her taste spilling over his palate, her whole body trembled, her hand tightened on his hair, a cry came from her throat.

"− shhh −" He hushed her tenderly, sinking deeper into her hot flesh, his tongue with sure, intense motions began to invade between her throbbing walls, licking and rubbing her upper wall just at her entrance, feeling her hidden spot from which her thighs trembled in his hands.

"− please −" She mumbled, but he shushed her again, knowing exactly what she needed, how he should caress her.

He'd been thinking about this for weeks.

He let her come on his face, felt her body lean back with a loud, pleading whine, trying to push him away, she was panting loudly along with him, a purr of satisfaction escaped his throat when he felt how much of her moisture flowed out of her and he licked it all off with devotion, teasing her over-stimulated, throbbing walls.

"− such a good girl − you did so well −" He praised her with admiration and heard her sigh of pleasure. He kissed the inside of her thigh rising up, wiping his face, placing his hands on either side of her head.

"− I need to feel you − alright? − I will take it slow −" He breathed out and she nodded, allowing him to grasp her hips in his hands and entwine her legs around his waist.

When he guided the tip of his cock against her insides she moaned helplessly and he kissed her tenderly, pushing against her, stretching her throbbing wet walls with himself.

"− that's it − ah − I know, baby − I know −" He muttered, hearing her moan of effort, trying hard to take in what he was trying to slide into her, pushing her insides to their limits, her body tensing like a string, one of his hands on her hip, the other holding her cheek, his forehead pressed against hers, her hands entwined around his neck.

They both sighed loudly when he finally entered her fully, feeling her clench hungrily against him on all sides. He slipped his tongue between her lips as he slid out of her slowly, only to fill her to the brim again with the movement of his hips, their hands clenched tightly on their bodies.

"− yes −" She gasped and he groaned into her mouth, feeling his cock pulsate inside her hungrily at her words, his movements faster but still calm, deep, his thighs slapping against her hips with a sticky click.

"− just like that − oh, baby −" He groaned loudly losing control, moving faster and more aggressively inside her, her head tilted back, her eyes clenched shut, her mouth wide open trying to catch air loudly, her breasts waving up and down with each of his thrusts.

He felt her hands tighten on his hips, her body reaching out and literally impaling herself on him, her walls clenching against him driving him crazy.

"− yes − please −" She sobbed pleadingly, as if she was going to cry, as if she was going to die if she didn't experience fulfilment with him.

He pressed his tongue between her lips, their kisses sticky, greedy, the tips of their tongues teasing and licking as his cock fucked her brutally with every sure, deep thrust of his hips.

"− fuck − m' close −" He uttered, and she stroked his hair, reciprocating his kisses with tenderness and devotion, clamping her hand on his buttock, directing him deep inside her, as if that was where he belonged, as if the fact that he was taking her would be the most natural thing in the world.

"− yes − please − inside me −" She mewled, and he growled loudly at her words, letting go at last and coming inside her so hard that for a moment he went dark before his eyes, their bodies still moving towards each other in involuntary motions, his hot cum spilling into her hot core, giving him a feeling of fulfilment and peace.

He opened his eyes with difficulty and looked at her face, finding to his surprise that she was still alive, that he had not strangled her, her breasts rising and falling in accelerated breaths, her gaze warm and hot, her lips trembling slightly. She lifted her hand and touched his scarred cheek, running her fingers over it.

"You are so beautiful." She whispered, and he felt a tightness in his throat at her words, unable to get the phrase out, enchanted by the sight of her, so he merely breathed loudly, letting himself be touched by her.

He couldn't find the right term, the right confession to describe what he felt for her.

He kissed her all night, finally feeling accepted, beautiful, loved, her tender hands stroking his hair, his cheeks, his body all night, praising him, telling him how good he was, how tender he was.

He whispered to her that she was beautiful, that she was his Eleonora, Ophelia, Helena, that he would never hurt her, that she would always be safe with him.

When he returned the next day to his flat, he packed his knives, his fishing lines, his photographs, his mementos of the murders into a big box and drove for hours, finally turning into the woods.

He poured everything he had into a big hole, dozens of blank white eyes, photos of women, their documents, phones and doused it all with petrol, then threw a light inside and watched his past burn.

Finally, he buried it all back, covering it with mulch and moss and drove back the way he came, promising himself that he was done with it, that he would change for her.

That he would protect her.

From the world.

From himself.

_____

Next chapter: Rip my heart, heal my soul (2)

586 notes · View notes

hwaightme · 20 days

Text

Panacea

(masterlist)

🌊pairing: poet!seonghwa x doctor!gn!reader 🌊genre: fluff, slice of life, slow burn, healing, strangers to lovers, comfort 🌊summary: what do a poet who lost his inspiration and a cosmetic surgeon who lost their empathy have in common? when you make an escape from the city to a memory-filled cottage on the edge of the world, you meet park seonghwa, a poet who, after growing fatigued of shallow critique and unwanted attention, is on a search for true beauty. you, a surgeon who cannot bear to hear nor assess another patient , abhor its twisted definitions. as the seasons change, storms abate and your paths entangle, you discover a new, unparalleled kind of beauty. 🌊wordcount: 32.8k 🌊warnings/tags: semi-edited, attempts at sijo (forgive me), discussion of beauty standards, mention of surgery/clinics, weather imagery, nightmares, discussion of life and death (jokes relating to death), talk of oc death, urban/rural comparisons, isolation, burnout, philosophy, judgement of media, seaside, cliffs, dialogue + inner thoughts, perspective switching, falling in love, loving another's mind, talk of what is 'real' beauty, food (incl. meat), eating, cooking, implied anxiety, implied impulsive thoughts, sneak into home, lmk if anything else 🌊author's note: happy birthday, seonghwa, wishing for you and for atiny alike to have a cherished panacea and a love brighter than the stars <3 hope you enjoy, all reblogs and notes appreciated~

🌊playlist: 'unreal unearth' and 'unheard' by hozier, 'dark corners and alchemy' + reason to live by mehro, love letter from the sea to the shore by delaney bailey, okinawa by 92914, yeti + village song by paris paloma, exhale inhale by aurora, butterflies by tom odell, house song by searows, cornflower blue by flower face, icarus and apollo by ripto, the view between villages by noah kahan, my love mine all mine + i'm your man by mitski, when i c u by pomme

⋆✧. seonghwa .✧⋆

Art. Expression, embodiment, eternity. The world was art. From how the leaves trembled in the wind to how the water rippled, from a heartwarming smile to an earth-shattering glare, everything could be immortalised with an inspired, skilled transition. A perception of the eyes or the heart or the mind could be turned into anything from what might have been virtually nothing. Internal palaces, interpretation, innovation all were crafted and translated through art, onto canvases - trillions of brushstrokes, onto countless pages - trillions of priceless words, onto generations - wisdom and creation passed from one to another, all throughout history, leaving no stone unturned. To study and perceive art was to learn of the beauties of the universe, with beauty being a reflection of both aesthetics and terror. Such was life, and it breathed through the arts. From the beginning of time all the way to the modern era, art was a human’s true loyal companion. And even after the human would pass, art remained, loyal, vigilant, forever telling the tale that was cast onto a medium. One does not create art, one breathes it.

This is exactly why when an artist cannot create, it feels as though air has been knocked out of the lungs, a boulder weighed down on the chest, and the priceless essence of inspiration’s air could not be further away - a lost soul sinking into the hopeless abyss. The world grew darker and darker, until it fell silent. The artist, the art - a relationship of worship and boundless adoration, but also that of treachery and misery. Such was the fate of the one who stepped onto the thorned path of creation. One such humble human who, unlike a myriad of others, stumbled into the realm by accidental interest and longstanding innate passion, and due to the spontaneity and retained connection with the self had achieved relatively impressive success, was none other than Park Seonghwa. The poet. The visionary. The artist. Blessed with the spoken and written word, craftsmanship in rhythm and rhyme, grace in prose, he was a promising rising star in a progressively shallow world. As the consciousness melted into brevity and emotionlessness, he fearlessly dived into what made the soul, picking it apart, analysing it, and pouring the golden threads onto paper. An observer, he loved the colours of nature with all his heart. Every season, every day retained a magnificence for him which he tried to depict and incorporate in his work. Both experimental and traditionally sound, his “studies of daily life miniature wonders”, as he called his poetry, resonated.

But, as known far and wide, resonance brings expectation, and Seonghwa could not escape it either. Invitation after invitation, interviews and talk shows, signings if he was lucky to find a group of those truly interested in his craft; events all came clawing at him, tearing at his energy and soundness of mind until there was barely anything left, and even then, the droplets remaining were only thanks to his suddenly rediscovered harshness, followed by a series of declinations and digital disappearances. He made people feel, and in turn, the people felt like he owed them. The so-called success, or, in other words a nightmarish scrutiny that he could never foresee in the midst of his art, did not come without unrelated commentary either. From his attire to his physique to his facial expressions during public events - and on the occasion someone would recognise him on the street: his neutral, perfectly relaxed face, were all now considered to be public property. He could not breathe. Seonghwa’s hand shuddered whenever he would lift it in an attempt to write, aching, a nervous tremor turning into an earthquake the more he strained himself.

It was an impossible venture. Everywhere Seonghwa looked, everywhere he went, there were eyes and opinions, louder than his mind could ever be. The wind was no longer whistling a melody, returning to an indecipherable cacophony. The strawberries that the poet had purchased in the super store on the way to the edge of nothingness, where he was staying, were no longer sweet, crimson warnings left to rot in a bowl on the windowsill as he scurried from room to room out of fear of being spotted from the outside. There should be no one where he escaped to - an ancient cottage that belonged to a relative whom he had never known, but had spontaneously gotten close to out of necessity - was it a cousin?… leading to a spot where nothing ran, life was but a stillness, obedient to the sun and rain, lifting sorrows with the fog, falling into a slumber with the blanket of the pitch black night. In an effort to avoid the crowds and the rashness of his own potential future actions, Seonghwa had made an escape to what he would call ‘the void’. Forest, barely a hamlet to house civilization in the distance, sea. Infinite expanse of grassland, cliffsides, seagulls ceaselessly patrolling the skies. Within the first few days he had already forgotten where he was, and where he had come from. Such was existence without inspiration and purpose.

Rise and pretend to follow rhythm. One word on a page, floating towards abandonment. Ink drying. Lukewarm tea descending into the mouth of the sink. Swaying tulle, the only reminder that there was movement. Seonghwa collapsed onto the cream-coloured sofa, his dark tresses which had gotten considerably longer over his period of hiding after the astonishing battles with too many opinionated ignoramuses spilling over a throw pillow. He shut his eyes, a dull pressure behind them and of his temples becoming more pronounced. When was the last time he had a truly restful handful of hours of sleep? It would be bold to assume that he could answer that question. He could hear the creaking of the fence gate outside - the construction had a mind of its own, having sagged under its age and the salty air. Now, one of its corners sometimes dragged along the gravel path leading from the cottage out, and to the vistas of a tumultuous seaside. No one in sight except himself, and even then, Seonghwa avoided mirrors, terrified that he, too, would begin to repeat the utterings voiced to him again, and again. Black tar that stuck itself to his brain. He rubbed his temples, pinched the bridge of his nose, massaged his forehead, knowing full well that whatever he was planning to do was futile. There was no cure to this kind of sorrow. Only time. Fatigued from deliberation and heavy dread that plagued him, reducing function to nil, Seonghwa drifted, only the echoes of a suppressed catharsis haunting him.

It was a lulling ripple. Susurration of the shimmering waves, languidly guiding the timid moonlight. As the wind picked up, so did the infinite blanket of deep midnight blue, decorated with threads of pure silver. The whispers soon transformed into a harmony of echoes, filling the air with a chilling premonition. The quietude – the chosen one, to be sacrificed to the orchestration of natural disorder, a cyclical necessity. There was no rule, no need. Only the endless expanse of the living, breathing, turbulent waters. A storm. A roar engulfed the atmosphere, and all that dared oppose the metamorphosis. Imminent destruction of aquatic grace, devolving into a nightmarish, ghoulish madness. Reminiscent of a clamour, the waves crashed against your consciousness, persistently, repeatedly, threatening to tear away at your cranium and pour over into your lungs, taking ownership of your paralysed form.

Seonghwa struggled to catch a single breath, heaving, and yet running on empty, a shallow, superficial hint of oxygen lumped in his oesophagus. An unforgettable burning – his eyes, his nose, his lips, all enslaved by the agonising salt that penetrated their protective membranes and made him shriek as it buried itself in his cooling bloodstream. Seonghwa was losing to the elements, succumbing to the fatigue that was seeping into his aching, overstrained limbs. On the verge of giving up and letting go of the spirit that had driven him to struggle in the first place, he tried to shut his eyes just as he had done to his art, praying he would be let down slowly.

In futility and a sudden moment of clarity, the world went silent once more, only with a soft bubbling to accompany as he descended further and further down into the dark abyss, bidding farewell to the omniscient, looming and cruel sky. He was unsure whether what he was experiencing was a hallucination or a reality, however he distinctly felt gentle arms wrap around him, and pull him close to the body of another being, cradling his drowning form. The young poet allowed himself to relish in the sensation, lest it be the last, ignoring the light that was approaching once more. It was impossible to assume for it to be anything except the path to divinity, and for the trusted guide of the currents to be a guardian angel, carrying him through the sea to his final judgement.

The foreign warmth unwound Seonghwa, and he was in a blissful state of somnolence. Nothing existed except him and the sea that embraced him, sheltered him from the squall above the surface. The state was reminiscent of an embryo, yet to experience the harsh realities, beatific and unaware of what was to come. A mysterious stranger, a figure of grace made of sea foam, erasing his terrors and returning him to the terrestrial realm where he belonged. The sea, bewildered and endeared with his feeble mortality had bestowed mercy upon him - a foreign act, and yet it turned into a saving grace from the treacherous domain. He was not a being of the prejudiced, ravenous ocean. As his back felt the wet sand beneath, and a pressure on his chest, expelling water that was ravaging his lungs grew stronger, he was more confident in his livelihood, despite having lost his breath, his sight, his hearing. Nothing existed except a storm somewhere far from him, and a brutal stinging of salt that consumed the arteries. The liquid trickled from his frozen lips and down his cheeks, absorbed by the grains that were already sneaking into his hair. The pressure was getting more intense, bordering on unbearable. His ribs, subdued by agony, were begging for relief. His mouth opened in a silent scream, a hand shot out into the darkness. A snap. A crashing of a wave.

Seonghwa jolted awake, feeling his chest and looking around. The window, which had previously been left open only a crack, had swung open fully, and the tulle had flown out with what had to be an oncoming gale. A drumming resonated from the inner walls of the house, one which he decisively ignored and let it be consumed by the chaos outside. Leaning over to take a cautious peek, the young man rapidly discovered a downpour that was soaking the thin, white material - a flag begging for forgiveness from nature. He hurried from the sofa, almost stumbling over his feet and the carpet, careful to not slip on the puddle that started to form below the sill, on the aged floorboards. Cursing under his breath, he fought against the creaking wood that was ruthless in wishing to hold the window in place, until, in a final fit of frustration, Seonghwa pulled wildly, nearly tumbling back as the frame slid into its rightful location with a stubborn shake. He hit the curved iron handle back into position, noting how even more of the white paint on the frame had chipped off, and the wood beneath was starting to show signs of potential rot. Since he was merely a guest, though it was nearly approaching half a year that he had been residing in the cottage, he would have to call someone in his family about this, wouldn’t he? A stray finger glided over the damage, and he pondered how long it had been since the wear and tear had started. Who was it that left this cottage to abandon, for people who were virtually strangers to occupy for a temporary retreat?

He placed a hand to his chest, feeling the beating of his erratic heart, not yet calm from the nightmare. Curious, how the sea had crept into his mind so strongly. The guardian and the destroyer of the surrounding grounds. A mirror of the skies with a presentation and strength of its own. Undoubtedly scornful of his hollow presence - an artist who ceased to create. What could be more tragic and distasteful? He pulled at the loosely woven white sweater that hung loosely on his body, pinching the white sleeveless tee underneath when he spotted a speck of dust, or was it a grain of sand? He raised an eyebrow, trying to contain the particle between his fingers but failing to do so as it rolled down until it disappeared against the floor. Right, he had cleaning to do. He shook his head and led himself to the kitchen, where he grabbed rags, a bucket, some supplies to aid him in fixing up the attacked corner of the living room.

With an anxious swiftness, Seonghwa took down the translucent curtain and wiped the floorboards, the wall, the window sill, sighing at the scenery outside. Steely grey skies and thunderous clouds the colour of smoke and ash, diagonal rain rendering it almost impossible to see the rocky cliffs and hills that otherwise highlighted his vista. Waves took on a hue that was reminiscent of a mixture of emerald and onyx, with thick streaks of foam the colour of melancholy. Rocks, eroded and reshaped by the waters, were splotches of black in the landscape, and the tall grass - golden and green from the tedium of perpetual beatdowns by the sun and the storms, brushstrokes that blended with the speeding droplets. He paused. How marvellous it was, to become one with the sky. A connection to the heavens as it weeped, mourning the mortal motion of the earth. He squeezed the rag feeling the clouds’ tears well up between the digits. Surely, if he had been saved in his dream, there was hope? Seonghwa tilted his head, still, ensnared by the scenery outside, not too dissimilar from what had been his unconscious battle. The sea saved him. His beloved nature, void of humanity, of quotidien illness innate to every being. Those graceful hands, sending him in a spinning dance through the grand depths, a soothing drowning. Blind to the temporary, he had the pleasure of consuming eternal presence. Perhaps this was a sign, and not a horror that he had lived through.

After wiping the last of the moisture and taking the items back to the kitchen, he ambled back to the room. There was nothing stopping the waves. Untouched - not by the fishermen who he would see from time to time, not by the adventurers tourists who wanted to take in the views of the rising sun, not by those who, at least on paper, owned the neighbouring lands. Everyone was subordinate to the sea. Including himself. The dream was a call. It had to have been. He put a palm over the centre of his ribcage, the bone whispering what had unfolded a mere few minutes ago. The intensity of what reminded Seonghwa of an exorcism was nothing short of a twisted blessing. A shy smile crept onto his lips as the cottage took the brunt of another gust of wind and spears of rain and a ghost of a plank somewhere in the house groaned. Or perhaps it was the cottage itself, mumbling a greeting to its waking occupant. Swaying of the history contained within the building, time in every chip of paint, in every brick.

There was not much to fear in the sea’s cradle. In the middle of nowhere, with only himself and the coming autumn to keep him company, Seonghwa sensed the ebbs and flows of his soul start up again. He raised his hand to eye level, stretching it out until the fingers were splayed apart and the palm was flat and facing the floor. Much to his unexpected delight, it remained steady, obedient, attuned to his present musings. His legs led the way, guiding him to a door that was located almost under the stairs. With a click of the handle, the room he had made his office and study was revealed. An antique lacquered mahogany table, much too large for the space available, had been a formidable foe for the last few months, and now, was shining a different colour. Seonghwa ran a hand over the intricate detailing of its edges as he pushed the matching chair back. Glanced up, took in the scenery on the other side of the window - much smaller than the one he had fought against, but allowing him to behold the memorable landscape nonetheless.

Gingerly, he pulled at the iron hook of the top drawer, revealing a black, leather bound notebook and a pen - his favourite, from the little shop down the street where he lived in the city. Glossy chrome silver, ergonomic, and made to be a medium for the arts. Seonghwa noted the dryness in his throat, and adjusted the collar of his sweater absent-mindedly. It was easy, right? Just pick up the pen, take out the book and open it, sit down and- and what next? He paused, hand hovering over his tools. What was next, indeed? Flutters of ideas like fragile butterflies suspended in the mind palace, wishing for transition into the world of the living. Could he do it? Upon asking himself the question, he swore he heard the sea roar louder, and the cottage creak in response. With a shake of the head, he decided. Enough was enough. He had to try - it was now or never. He fell into the seat, holding his breath as he clenched the pen, letting it dig into his skin - a lethal blade. A blank page scrutinised him. On instinct, he decorated it with ink, flowing into the barren landscape, introducing himself.

천둥과 회색 바다, 갈매기 울음소리 (the thunder and the grey sea, the crying of seagulls)

폭풍은 심장의 리듬을 만든다 (the storm makes the rhythm of the heart)

입술과 볼에 소금이 행복한 추억이다 (the salt on the lips and cheeks is a happy memory)

The rain was still pouring when Seonghwa woke up again, having resorted to resting his fatigued body on the same sofa rather than carrying it upstairs. It was quieter that way, without the tears pouring directly on the roof above. Having dipped his fingertips back into writing, and dabbling in a more liberal interpretation of sijo, he was spent, as though he had gone through a war, crawled under barbed wire to find his own reflection on the other side. The poet ran a hand through his locks, still messy from the tossing and turning that he had undoubtedly done while asleep - at least this time he had no dreams, even if it was exactly through such a manifestation that he had discovered the urge to try and revive his calling and skill. He checked the time, the antique clock on the other side of the room idly ticking away regardless of what happened around it. Early dawn, and yet the surroundings remained immersed in grey. He stretched, not caring for the wool throw that he had used as his blanket sliding down to pool on his lap. A strain in his neck - he tilted his head to stretch the sleepy, insubordinate muscle, wincing as he seemed to have struck a painful point of tension. It was time to rise with the rainclouds. Seonghwa shuffled into his slippers, the chill creeping across the floor discouraging him from forgoing the action, and grabbed the throw, folding it on reflex.

One foot in front of the other, eyes still half-shut, the walls served as guides towards the staircase, and the wooden handrail was a direct lead that let him doze as he felt for each new elevation. The rain pelted the skylight that shed some light on the stairs, the thrum an intense melody. And to think that it was sunny and warm - the epitome of summer, only a mere few days ago. Well, he said few days, but that was more a liberal interpretation than anything. Stuck on the edge of early spring, the seasons had passed by him at a menacing pace, summer, autumn, winter all blending into one monstrous creature. When he reached the second floor, something prompted him to pause. Seonghwa squinted, focusing on the door at the far end of the corridor, more specifically, the decorative woven carpet that was hanging off a neatly hammered nail right into its centre - ornate, depicting a lighthouse scene that had instantly made the young poet wonder if there was one in the vicinity of the cottage. But it was not the carpet itself that momentarily disturbed him, but rather the angle at which it was hanging. Over the time of Seonghwa being in this property so far, he had already done his fair share of cleaning and adjustments, as one would expect, but not a single time did he see the item move off the centre of the thread that was hooked onto the nail - perhaps only when the door itself was used. Since Seonghwa had selected a room that had windows that looked in the direction of the fence gate and main entrance, rather than to the side and towards the cliffs, he had no need to enter the darkness, only for general upkeep. What had made the item move? Raising an eyebrow, he approached the door, creaking of the floorboards accompanying him. No sound from behind the door. Only the heaving of the house that saw many storms in its day. A chuckle involuntarily escaped him as he adjusted the carpet - he must still be under the impression from the dream, that must be it. Everything was suspicious; but that was how he usually got when he was in the depths of ideation. Sensitive, responsive, one with the world. Patting the rough fabric, he turned, making his way to his quarters.

The decor was simple, minimalist, with echoes of nautical and rustic themes. A tiny model of a sailboat in a bottle, displayed on a slab of wood that must have been cut and taken from the forest nearby. A laundry basket made out of a rope so thick that Seonghwa assumed that it used to be on a ship before settling in the cottage for retirement. White sheets, with a line of pale baby blue chequered fabric running through the very top, marking its direction. Matching chequered pillows - large, soft clouds stuffed to the brim with feathers, perfectly made. The bed had been left untouched by him that night, and remained in suspense. He ran a hand over its edge, feeling the soft fabric. Carefully, he placed the throw at the end of the bed, and turned towards the double wardrobe - well, he was being rather kind to call it that. Not quite a single, not quite a double, the piece which looked to have been made by whoever had been the owner of the land a while back stood proud, without any particular definition. It served its purpose, and was happy to do so. From the carved patterns around the handles to how the doors easily swung open, this piece of furniture was nothing like what he would see in the city. It contained love, care. Was one of a kind. Perhaps that was another issue he would have to take care of, should he return to the metropolis soon - change his interior. There was enough standard decor for him to turn into an automaton. An apartment like everybody else’s. Enough space, but no room to breathe - existing only to live up to or fulfill expectations.

He changed into a pleasant neutrality - in fact, most of the clothing that Seonghwa had brought with him retained a quality of muted bliss. Beige and cream, black, white, shades of grey, a few patterned pieces containing navy, diluted pinks here and there, he wanted to blend into the scenery. Shake with the tall grass. Stretch his arms out and embrace the sky, floating towards it. But for now, a white shirt would have to do. He made a couple of small adjustments while looking at the mirror that hung above the cabinet directly at the end of the bed, flush against the wall, flicking the dangling silver earring that he had left in since yesterday, used to napping with the accessory. A couple of brushes with the comb he kept on said cabinet, and finally, the look was manageable. Knowing he would be careful, Seonghwa decided to wash up before continuing on with his day; more adventuring around the house, down the stairs and off to the side past the kitchen. He stared at his reflection, dismissing the hints of stubble that were beginning to show themselves - as if anyone would care if he scrapped shaving altogether. No one except himself. The rest of the steps he could not skip over, diligence and habit taking back the reins. Routine, but in the house so far removed from places where routine was king, it was reassuring.

Soon enough, there were scrambled eggs on a plate, fork lying to the side, and a steaming cup of black tea in his hand as he flicked through his midnight musings. Not too bad. Certainly not the best. At least not to him. His hand was rash, his thoughts unclear, his rhythm lacking. It had to be better than this; the voice of judgement returned to him and struck him like lightning, only this time, the current of the bubbling waves dampened the effect. Why was it that he began to sound like those he grew up and returned to listening to? So much running, and to return to the same vocalisations? Enough. He set the notebook down, and took a sip of the still hot tea. Clarity, that was what he had to practise. Since he was alone, he had no other opinion to fear, and could work on his reconnection with art to his heart’s content. Seonghwa was lucky enough to not be tied to anything nor anyone in particular, and the continuously rising popularity of the songs he had worked on as a poet and lyricist a little while ago ensured that if need be, he had financial cover.

A stray thought about the outside world passed him. Did he still matter, or was he gradually being forgotten? One wave after another, one artist was bound to surpass another. Such was the harsh reality. His breakfast was cooling as he stared at the pristine table cloth, mulling the notion over. Time ran differently here, that much was certain. Could that mean that out there in the city, centuries had already passed? What was he missing? A mild panic started to rise in his throat, and on instinct he stood up, foregoing the rest of his meal in favour of a stroll within the confines of the walls but not before grabbing the tiny black notebook.

One step, another, and soon he fell into a rhythm, traversing the territories of the kitchen, dining and living room area, ambling into the miniature office space, back out again until he was retracing the same patterns, writing characters on the floor with each footfall. He was ink, combatting resistance to absorption into the primordial canvas, towards artistic immortality. Seonghwa wanted to push himself at first opportunity. He had to write, had to provide the listening curtains and chairs with fresh prose or poetry, whatever came to mind and was reasonable first. He was Park Seonghwa, for goodness sake. It should come easy. The months were just a pause like that when one holds their breath. Each day a microsecond. The shake, starting from deep in his upper arm and trickling lethal poison down to his wrist and fingers, started to give signs of its awakening. No, it could not be! The poet stopped, not dissimilar to how a car would stop at the edge of a cliff. What was happening to him? The book found recluse from his spiritual agony above a fireplace, one of the elements of the house Seonghwa had had no reason to experiment with, not being bothered by the howling cold drafts. Toying with the edge of his sleeve, he succumbed to pensive disorder, eyes locked on the unassuming object.

"Not today then…" the utterance melted into the ambience, "fiendish creature."

Determined creaking of wood and its crash jolted him off the spot, and Seonghwa was almost pulling himself up the stairs. The house was old enough to need repairs, but this could be major, and all the more disastrous if the rain bled in. Heart jumping out of his chest he skipped steps, alarm bells ringing in his ears. He had been submerged in his philosophies for so long that he could have easily missed some more complex deteriorating hazard of the cottage, particularly since he never had to even consider such a thing back in the capital. Maintenance, checks, security… all automatic and managed by someone he would never see, while here, he was the one responsible. He, the pseudo-owner for the coming season, had to see the outcomes, and admonish himself in the mirror should anything go wrong, which was probably one of the reasons why he preferred to not use the object more than necessary. He turned his head side to side, to the skylight, behind him, all for nothing. Only the drizzle, and the decorative carpet, tilted. Like it had been pushed on purpose. He inched towards the door, looking for any shadows that may fall through the crack at the bottom and stretch outwards. Stopping right in front, he put an ear to it, while pretending to adjust the piece of fabric. Nothing, or the house was keeping secrets from him, too. Fed up with the mystery, he yanked the handle, and then gave it a violent twist and push, all to no avail, meeting a secure lock. Did he accidentally lock it the last time he had been in? Seonghwa could not remember, but the curious appearance of this issue was more than inspiring. The storm was playing tricks on the poet again, whispering devious tales in his ears. A late night fog, he descended to the ground floor in search of his weapons to carve the enigma, not hearing the sigh that carelessly escaped through the keyhole.

차가운 강철 바다가 겨울을 삼킨다 (the winter is swallowed by the cold steel sea)

모래는 신성한 행위의 비밀을 간직한다 (the sands hold the secret of the sacred act)

장난꾸러기 봄은 또 무엇을 가져올까 (what else will the mischievous spring bring?)

⋆✧. you .✧⋆

It wasn't that you were tired per se, it was just that if you were to spend another day doing what you had been doing, you would make it a personal goal to destroy the world. But you were smarter than acting on the manic rage that lapped at the shoreline of your consciousness, and so you did what any good citizen would do and removed yourself as cleanly as quietly as possible. On paper, there was nothing wrong, and a sabbatical did not seem to be out of order, especially considering the hours you had been putting in for the last few years. Some of your longer-term patients did have to be reshuffled of course, but you did not mind that one bit - they would not be haunting you anymore, at least not for the time period of professionally approved evaporation. There was no greater joy than shoving your identification badge into a drawer and ridding yourself of your scrubs for longer than a few hours.

Bare essentials in a rucksack and a train ticket was all you needed, and once you arrived at your safe haven, it would be piece of cake to hitch a ride from one of the farmers you had befriended - who knows, maybe this time around you could get on one of the fancy new tractors. When the prospect of returning to your favourite place was feeling more real, you could not help yourself but turn back to your tendencies of being a dreamer. It was always more delightful to live in the clouds to the rhythm of the sun’s rays rather than to a beeping of the heart monitor. You could almost imagine the journey, the beauty of it all.

But that turned out to be the farthest from the washed out reality that was possible. Somewhere around two thirds of the way to your sacred destination, right around the time when a toddler - evidently born and raised in the urbanscape, had finally stopped whining about going to some place where "there was nothing", and dozed off, huge storm clouds started to roll in from the direction of the coast. Just peachy, especially when your destination was a cottage that might as well have its address quoted as 'the sea'. But you were not made of sugar and could stand a couple of angry raindrops on your waterproof jacket, and besides these problems were ones you much preferred to deal with, unlike the constant barrage of everything at once back in the concrete cage. Less yammering, and the words that were exchanged in the country were compact, concise, meaningful. No beating around the bush or claiming ownership of other people's business, so long as you didn't interact too closely. But that was what the distance between the beloved cottage and any more major settlements was for - the most secure barrier of them all was time and energy, and very few would want to waste that on an extra trip that would be entirely fruitless.

A couple of droplets was an understatement as your soaked clothes were quick to tell you. Thanks to the unusually strong storm for this time of year there was no way for you to get to your asylum easily either. No one was out, and no good person would let even their work dogs out in such weather. You, however… you could not care less about it, or about anything except getting to the cottage for that matter.. Some sacrifices were worth it. And so after getting to the tiny village thanks to the same family with the toddler since it was on the way - the last remotely reliable collection of society before natural and non-human wilderness, through sludge and torrential downpour you tread, practically having to feel your way forward since the downpour painfully obscured your vision. Your feet knew the right path at least, and after you had donated the last of your social supplies to those metropolitan holidaymakers for your own benefit, with every metre you conquered you ended up striding faster and faster. Until you saw the lights. They could only mean two things. Either Old Man Yang came back to life and was perusing his grounds like Old Hamlet, or there was a guest. As much as you wanted the answer to be the former, it was obvious enough that the occupant was somebody else. Not that you were too bothered. You knew this house like the back of your hand, and were aware of how to get in and out pretty much unnoticed. Plus, it would not be the first time you would be doing so. Most people limited themselves to a couple of rooms, fearing that they would be overstepping should they actually ‘make themselves at home’ - a huge advantage for you when it came to climbing in. Little did they know that they would make Old Man cuss them out for their timidness if he were still around.

The first step was to avoid the front gate - a flimsy construction that had been installed without much skill nor effort, and so performed what you would generously call the bare minimum, only just holding itself together. Slanted and chipped, the fencing was in an abysmal state, off-putting, marking anyone who needed to stay at the cottage as truthfully desperate. You smiled bitterly - what a realisation. You continued on your way to the other side of the plot, barely guarded by a bush fence and the occasional appearance of proper stone fence pieces. This was mainly for show, to mark that the owner, or well, previous owner of the house was aware of what was ‘standard practice’ around these parts. Outward aesthetics was something that you had grown to despise over the years, hence why the tongue in cheek mockery of it in this construction spoke to your soul, and made the haven that much more homely. It was good to be back.

You navigated to the back of the house and ducked to squeeze through the hole on the wall. Much to your fortune, the room that was the speediest to access from a stealthy climb onto the shed located to the side of the building and a couple of shuffles of boxes was empty, though shockingly clean. It was obvious to the naked eye that the bedroom was visited quite regularly, at least to keep things neat and dustless. You nodded to yourself as you took off your shoes and clothes, shoving them in an oversized plastic bag that you had packed, originally for future laundry, now as a way to keep the items from bringing the rain indoors. The cold air hit you in one swoop, sending a series of shivers over your bare body. Hopping to the chest of drawers, you haphazardly went over the contents of each one until you found the towels, wrapping yourself in the largest one and throwing another onto the floorboards, roughly shoving it over to the puddle that still had formed under the bag. Once satisfied with the half-hearted drying, you changed into a fresh and remotely warmer set of clothes and hopped under the covers, drowsy and worn out from the impromptu hike and battering from the violent skies.

Just as your eyes started getting heavier and heavier, and you were losing yourself in the sound of the rain against the roof - a favourite of yours when it came to forgetting the nonsense you had to work towards back in the capital, the creaking of the footsteps jolted you from the somnolent fall and back to high alert. Was the guest brave enough to venture onto the second floor? Really? You concluded that they were comfortable using one of the other bedrooms, and that they were alone - the latter was a commonality among the guests of Old Man’s home, however, so that conclusion did not take much work. The steps ceased to resound across the corridor right behind the door, leaving shadows through the creak below. You froze and inadvertently held your breath, waiting for the guest’s next move. It was not that you were particularly scared of the potential interaction, but you did not want to deal with the terror that they might experience of having a random stranger appear in a house that was in the middle of nowhere. To a person ‘not in the know’, your presence would be more than horrifying. And so to do the other party, and your sleepiness, a favour, you stayed put.

More shuffling, a tug on the decor on the other side of the door - so sensitive that it probably shifted because of your jumping about, and in what must have been a quarter of an hour, maybe even less, the guest disappeared downstairs. The rain had gotten lighter since the time when you had just arrived. Rustling. Pots and pans clinking against one another. Opening of the fridge - so the stranger was making breakfast. You grinned into the bedsheets and snuggled into the warmth. How you missed this place. Its sounds, its welcoming nature, its beauty that defeated all definitions of the word. There were no standards that you needed to abide by while safely by the sea. No roadblocks, no arguments, no regrets or shame on people’s faces. Perhaps this was another reason why you did not want to interact with the guest - that would mean you having to stare at them, and goodness forbid you would be unable to turn off your work brain and end up micro analysing them. No, you needed to sleep that off. At some point while you were drifting in semi-consciousness the pacing that the stranger had commenced had stopped, and a concerning silence washed over the property. Eyebrows furrowed, you lifted your upper body. When no other sound came, you slid out of the bed, too curious to try falling asleep now. One step, another and you were already turning the door knob, cautious to push the door discreetly. You listened. Creak, sigh, so they were still-

That deep and smooth voice? So the guest was likely male, okay stay calm. You tried to reason, but the phrase kept replaying in your head, and you found yourself being ashamed to admit that, at least from this distance, the tone was more than pleasant. Perhaps you should try introducing yourself - at least to have a conversation. What were you thinking? This was someone who you did not know, someone who could be dangerous, who could attack you - no, not today, not ever. At least not until you were to run out of crackers, apples and water in your bag. Rapidly, you reversed into the living room and without a second thought, shut the door like you normally would. Clearly, you could not think straight after lateral human interaction as almost instantly you heard chaotic shuffling from downstairs. In one last strive to protect yourself you remembered the key to the door that was located on a tiny table set right by the wall to the right. One swipe, one twist, and you launched yourself into the bed in an effort to hide and minimise any movement for when the man arrived. And just in time, because just under quarter of a minute later, the stranger was back, and was attempting to enter the room while you were damning your curiosity. It was comical how the only thought that crossed your mind was the hope that if you were to cross paths with him eventually, that you would not have to cut your getaway short and go back to the heartbreaking world of expectations, regrets and erasure. Perhaps it was selfish to say, but here, in the cottage, you could live for yourself and think for yourself for once and not feel as though you were overstepping.

At some point between then and the moment you realised that the rain had stopped, you had fallen asleep, missing the entirety of the morning. You were gazing at the walls, the light from the window, the silhouette that your items strewn about on the floor, with different eyes. A revival. You were finally home. And that was when your own behaviour hit you; indeed, you were home! No matter who that other person was, you knew the ins and outs of this house better than anyone else, and just listening to the man walk around was enough to make the conclusion that he was definitely a newcomer. Probably was here for some weeks, maybe a month at most, but that was not enough to be aware of the creaks in the stairs or where all of the emergency supplies were located - the shed had been left untouched all this time, as you had spotted out of the corner of your eye. He was being cautious. Not quite living. Well, at least he was being respectful.

You patted the bed and slid out from under the covers with a stretch. The hints of sunshine were protruding through the clouds, transforming the views from your window into an infinite stretch of dewy, silvery green and a glistening and bashful blue, protected by the rolling behemoths of cloud up above. For once, you were looking forward to the coming day. You pushed yourself off the bed and stepped closer, now having the fence that you had recently infiltrated the cottage through in your sight and beyond it - the same gorgeous grassland that broke into a shallow, albeit fragile dockside. Technically, it was still part of a long series of cliffs, revealing limestone and chalk and iron from all ages, but that was a two or three hour walk down the coastline. Here, those titans were friendly pets that you could easily scale and hop down from. Nonetheless, they did a brilliant job in separating the marine from the earthly, reminiscent of the mythical division of the mortal and heavenly realms. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a certain someone treading that legendary midpoint, dressed in a simple shirt and wide, skirt-like trousers. You leaned onto the window sill, well aware that it was not going to do much in helping you discern the details that made up the enigmatic figure, but you were going to pretend like you were confident in your assumptions about the aesthetic appeal.

Dark hair, falling to somewhere close to the shoulders, tall in stature, of a thinner build, or at least that was what you guessed when the figure turned to step closer to the edge. They were holding something in either hand, and whatever it was appeared important, but the distance concealed such tiny details from you. You couldn't quite form a complete picture, but it was easy enough to put two and two together from the silence that currently reigned over the house and the stranger out for a stroll, that this was probably your impromptu housemate. Not too bad, a nice blob in the distance that you could appreciate through the horizon's blur. More importantly, this person with dark hair and a deep voice was giving you control over the ground floor for a short while, and you desperately needed to make use of the resources located there. You laid out a high speed itinerary for yourself and made a dash for the door, counting the seconds that each task took you. This behaviour was something you were unlikely to ever get rid of - your studies, and then your job both permitted you too little time to have the luxury of wasting it. How long could an inhale and exhale take?

It was astonishing just how neat the cottage was - you dared to say that it was the neatest that you had ever seen it - major refurbishment and repair requirements aside. So this guy was detail oriented, clean and homely, huh? You ran a hand over the kitchen counter while passing it to rush to the shower raising your eyebrows at the lack of dust. Damn, you might have underestimated what kind of guest this individual was. Your surprise was not limited to the main living area - the bathroom almost reminded you of the scrub room and theatre with how spotless it was. Not a single timescale stain on the glass or mirror, perfectly arranged decorations, laundry basket and towels. Even the bar of soap was turned to the smaller side so that it would be easier to use and not linger in moisture. Inadvertently, you shivered, almost slamming the bar down and moving to ruffle the towels just the slightest bit so there would be a breath of life in them. You kicked the bath mat slightly off centre, disturbed by its impeccable alignment with the tiles. Oh, this man might become your enemy. This was about to become a crisis.

One purposefully careless shower later, you had drawn a smiley face on the mirror and were now unceremoniously raiding the kitchen, claiming that you were famished and urgently needed to make the most chaos-inducing meal of all time, which given the available ingredients just so happened to be a monstrous apple pie. You were not sure what exactly provoked you and caused you to ignite the oven with a fire of rage, and channel a palette of negativity into beating butter and sugar, but this was most certainly the most ‘vigorously’ that you had ever made a pie. Whizzing through the stages of making the pastry and sending it away to cool, you took to making the filling, whispering each one of your actions out loud, narrating as though you were back in the operating room. You needed the knife, you needed the cinnamon, you-

Slamming the utensils onto the cutting board, nearly sending a small ceramic bowl flying in the process as your sleeve slipped over its rim, you groaned in disapproval. This was exactly what you were trying to escape from, and yet anything you did was simply returning you to your daily life. Why did your hands, your mind have to live in just one place, erasing the moments when your body as a whole experienced joy? Why was it so easy to retrace the steps back into personal nightmares? Damn your steady hands, your unbreakable focus. To hell with it all. On the verge of throwing the knife at the neighbouring wall, you toyed with the handle. You were tired. So unbelievably tired of the nonsense that had accumulated over your time back in the city. While anyone else would say that you had been lucky to receive what you had - an education in a prestigious university, renowned across the nation, residency in high ranking hospitals, settlement in a private clinic in an expensive district, a career in the medical field that was deemed ‘not too intense nor too gory’... you could not help but wish to burn it all in favour of the paradise that you ran to.

Your childhood. Carefree, in a small town by the sea. In fact, on a clear day you could see the outlines of it from here - on many occasions you had stood by the fence gate with Old Man, who had taught you how to read the clouds, the forests, spot things no one else could. How he, with his wrinkled, dry hand pointed in the direction of what were your roots. But not your home. You had hugged him tight that day, muttering that it was in the cottage that you were happy. Old Man never forced you to leave. In fact, the room that you were staying in had always been left ready for a guest - you. But of course, in the eyes of everybody else, this was not what was considered successful. Study, take exams, study, do extracurricular activities, fix your pronunciation, change your look, change yourself to be like someone else, for what? To appease others, as you had realised in the middle of your time at medical school. You were a talking piece, a conversation starter. Nothing more. And so, with every opportunity, you stepped farther away from those who had taken your clarity and safe haven.

Old Man died when you were about to graduate university. You found out only two months later. Since then, you were on your own. You clenched your hand into a fist until the knuckles turned white, while tears inadvertently pooled in your eyes before you dabbed at them with the corner of your sweater. Your childhood home did not exist anymore - you checked two summers ago. Deemed too rundown since no one had moved in after your parents made a mad dash for the metropolis, it was now just a bitter memory. At least in the act of honouring the past you were victorious. Your body began to move on its own accord, floating through the instructions, from one step to another, at ease since your thoughts were preoccupied by reminiscence. For a person whose livelihood majorly relied on their hands, you were terrifically remiss about what you subjected them to; some of your colleagues were known to wear gloves almost all hours of the day, others refrained from doing anything physical unless it was lifting a scalpel. To put it simply, this drove you mad. Every single one of them: self-important, unaware, isolated. Let this pie be baked in hellfire for all you-

Mid-spin, just as you were finished with making the filling and were in the process of lining a baking tin with some of the pastry, the front door creaked open, revealing the figure that you had spotted outside of your window, walking alongside the beginnings of what would be a cliff’s edge. You stood still, holding the pie tin, feeling the grooves of its edges, balancing the dough that was still wrapped in clingfilm right in the middle, as though if you were to not move this man would not see you. Heart quickening to a nauseating pace, the intense scrutiny that you were receiving made you want to collapse behind the counter. Before this moment, you had convinced yourself that you had fully adopted a devil may care attitude, and that you were ready for whoever you would encounter, having prepared the humble abode for a you-style reception and to assert who truly was deserving of ownership of this property. But something about this enigmatic persona who, just like you, remained unmoving, echoed the seastorms. A roaring of the waves was contained in his orbs, so dark due to the light being behind the man’s back that you could barely detect the transition from pupil to iris. A nose worthy of being depicted in renaissance paintings, in fact, if you had to pinpoint one way to describe the stranger, is that he reminded you of subjects that graced the walls of art galleries, selected by masters to be immortalised in the artists’ name. Nameless, much like he was to you in this present moment. His lips, ever so slightly parted as if he had been on the verge of saying something to you, only for the aim to fall short of execution, voice drowning in doubt or disgust. The corners of the man’s mouth were gently downturned - not unpleasantly so, but rather giving him an aura of intimidation that intrigued you. Shadows on his face suggested to you that he was unshaven, though, you had to admit that it was not too bad of a look. In fact, an interesting edge of ruggedness that balanced with his longer locks gave the man a new form of allure, and in turn, forced you to keep your eyes on him despite feeling inklings of terror. The scene reminded you of a faceoff between two territorial wolves - whose domain was this? Only time and a match of resolve would tell.

He was the first to break eye contact, sighing and moving to take off his shoes and trench coat. You remained still - a hostile animal that was expecting aggression at any moment. The man was silent, unphased by your ‘out of the blue’ appearance at least outwardly, and you were not certain whether his lack of reaction was something to be taken with gratitude or suspicion. As you inspected his motions, how he stretched out his arm to hang the trench coat on the rack that was hammered to the wall, with the right nail ever so slightly lower than the left, how he ran a hand through his hair, casting shadows over what hinted at months of fatigue. Not quite pallid, but definitely tired skin, holding times of discomfort, sleeplessness. Dark circles under those deep, pensive orbs, cheeks that were somewhere between sunken and youthful. The man stood before you in a white shirt, the colour a last cry to some form of purity and hope. You could guess why he was at the cottage, since it was not too challenging to see your own reflection in the corners of his soul, much like you could sense that he was reading you. He reminded you of an angel who was tired of praying, barely capable of carrying his body. Pressed down by the story that had been written for him, he was likely here for an escape, to drown out the sounds of whatever he was running from. Perhaps you should be friendly, and welcome this lost soul. After all, he could be unaware of where he is nor of what unspoken rules exist around here. The least you could do is make him feel at home-

“You made a mess,” and just like that, all desire to be amiable flew out of the window and into the sea. His curt comment was like a burning cold scalpel, words too familiar to be neutral and well-received.

Before you could respond, the man was well on his way to the bathroom, and judging by the slam of the door, he was not very pleased to see the rearrangements you had made. No comments followed, however, and instead, the pause was filled by the sound of running water, followed by a muffled mumbling when following a couple of rattles, the pressure inevitably dropped and there was barely a trickle. You shook your head, amused by how this man had been living in this property without the basic knowhow. Clearly, he was one of the many cityfolk who wanted to try his luck while on holiday. Exotic stay to talk about with his glamorous friends, you bet. For him to explain how ‘the bucolic was not even as appealing as literature made it out to be’. Standard. Faceless. You would forget him in no time, especially since he would probably leave before it got less fun and more mundane to stay out in the wilderness. That pretty face should not know harshness. With a huff, you set the tin down onto the counter and set the oven to preheat. With swift, irritated movements, you took to lining the metal with the dough, and in no time shifted to ladling the filling inside, halting to watch the last of the fruity cinnamon remnants dribble from the bowl down to join the rest of the sweet and sour promise.

The man returned when you were in the process of lacing strings of dough together to structure a coherent design. With an embarrassing surgical precision, you focused on the patterns - culinary sutures, almost horrified by the technique that you could not prevent from channelling itself through your body, to your very fingertips especially now that there was an audience. If he wanted to give you a stern talking to, it had quickly dissipated and mid-stride, the stranger was observing you as though you were carrying out a sacred ritual. The spotlight was on you as you demonstrated how to put the flesh back together. Piecing the skin bit by bit so as to ensure minimal scarring, careful now, people come to you to make themselves feel beautiful after all. String by string, the pie was looking more like itself, a recipe book photograph, something worthy of immortalising as the model step before baking. A beeping confirmed that the patient was relaxed, steady, with a perfect heart rate - good, all the readings were steady, now all you needed was to make the final - you felt for the tray finding empty space. Did someone misplace the tools? Panic shot into your nervous system and with a jolt you pushed yourself away from the table, only to find yourself gazing, startled, at someone who you had begun to assume was an intern. The guest, or cohabitant? An eyebrow raised, the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he took in your state. You clicked your tongue, finally putting two and two together and grabbing the timer behind you, purposefully taking your time so that you would not have to look at your newfound personification of madness for longer than necessary. So much for an introduction; the figure who was still a mystery to you slinked back into the shadows, with only the click of the office door serving as a confirmation that he was real. You rubbed your temples, the distant thrumming of a headache resembling a thunder that crawled over the horizon. Demonstratively, you sprinkled some flour onto a previously clean spot on the wooden countertop, only to automatically reach for the towel and drop the action again. No, it was time to bake. You needed to bake. You needed to make this place feel like home for the next couple of months, even if this peculiar character was going to be sharing it.

When you finally slid the pie into the oven and shut the door, giving it one last look before setting the timer for forty-five minutes, a curiosity crawled from the crevices of your mind and poked at you. Were you really going to avoid that man for your entire stay, assuming he was leaving soon? You had already admitted to yourself that he was objectively… and subjectively attractive. That much you had to give to him. Attitude - you were not quite ready to make judgments about, considering that if it were you in his place, you would have been chasing yourself around the house with a frying pan. It was comical, really; a stranger in a house, baking like they own the place. In spirit you might, to a person not in the know you were the official owner, but to the family who inherited the place you likely were nothing but a pest or an echo of the past that they were trying to forget. At least they did not demolish the cottage yet.

With a side step, you headed in the direction of the couch, but moved on when you noticed more damage than you had been used to on the window off to its side. Running a hand over the edges, it was clear that a certain someone had not shut it properly when nature had played up outside. So you had your tasks being planned out for you; with a grin, you nodded at the prospect. Nothing like good old maintenance of a castle in the sky to do the trick of dissociating you from your own life and responsibilities. All you needed was the right tools, perhaps some wood, and some paint. And then the fence gate could do with some tender love and care… you listed off parts of the house that you wanted to renovate or check on, imagining something greater and better than yourself. You noted the gentle breeze outside, and even though a greyness prevailed, it was far more promising for a brighter day than the performance the clouds had put on yesternight; maybe this autumn would not be too rough, and would show you its beautiful colours.

You did not see the mysterious guest until it was approximately dinner time. The pie was being kept safe and warm in the oven, and you were idly leafing through an ancient magazine - the remnants of days that you had spent at the cottage back when Old Man was still around. Another thing frozen in time, to be forever beautiful until you were to forget it. The shadowy presence commanded your attention almost immediately, and you lifted your head only to peer into a solemn darkness in the shape of a scowl, etched out on exhausted elegance. The man sighed before crossing his arms, and leaned against one of the few segments of the wall that was not bowing under the weight of framed memories, pins and nails.

Just what was this person thinking? As the clock marked your shared awkwardness with every tick, you grew more self-conscious. Was there something so repulsive about your presence, that the guest, or rather… the present resident, could not bear to function without hostility? Letting the pages fall onto one another, forming a yellowed stack, you rose from your position, having been hunched over the combined kitchen and dinner table.

“Some pie?”

The words landed somewhere between your two forms, unusually shy, a request so timid and tentative that it might as well have been the wind outside. One tick of the clock, another, and another. It was easy to wonder if you appeared untrustworthy. It must be the way in which your brows were positioned, or how the corners of your mouth naturally curled ever so slightly downwards if you were not paying attention. Or maybe-

“Sure. Thanks.”

That same tone. Words, curt, unforgiving, but a step towards proper introduction. Who knew such coldness could evoke a wave of joy in anyone? As though on command, you hurried to the kitchen, a childish excitement overtaking you as you imagined the reaction he might have to your baking. It was one of the few things that was your safe haven - although you did not indulge in the activity too often, you had experienced the euphoria that came with it enough times to elevate it above the usual hobby. He had to enjoy the apple pie, surely.

As you grabbed the towel to use as makeshift heat protection, and prepared a mat onto which to set down the perfectly warm pie, you noticed the dark haired man match your movements. Narrowly missing your elbow, he navigated the space with calculated reach, and produced cutlery, plates, and a couple of mugs. Without any consultation, his selection of items was soon on the table, and next, the kettle was obediently bubbling up with excitement for another steaming cup of tea. You raised your eyebrows and huffed, balancing the pie in your hands as you walked around the counters and gently set it down. With a nod you confirmed your own satisfaction and gestured to your partner in table-setting to take a seat. He refused, instead remaining standing stock still by the lonely piece of furniture, pupils gliding along wherever you went.

Those deep eyes, a blended mahogany and sienna, depending on how downcast the lashes appeared to be, remained trained either on you, or were burning holes in the tablecloth as you picked at your respective slices. The wisps of flavour and freshness escaped the filling, an unfathomably lush aroma clinging desperately to the air in the search of a satiated appreciator. But to no avail. No lips uttered a single word of praise, nor did you dare ask for it. It was a habit that you had been forced to break away from come adulthood, not that it had ever given you much satisfaction before the fact. You tried to convince yourself that the culinary feat was as delicious as Old Man had told you it had been, but in the gloom of your company and circumstance, it tasted bland, colourless, miserable. As though you were eating your own forlornness. You rested your fork on the edge of the plate, no longer having the courage to take another bite.

Just when you were about to give into your impulses and storm out, only pausing to consider if you should permanently borrow the rain coat that was hanging by the front door, the man quietly raised a piece of the dessert to his mouth, not minding your not quite discreet gawking. Savouring every bit of texture, the harmony of ingredients that collaborated to produce the bucolic ideal in gastronomic form, he revelled in the taste of home. You noted the subtle changes in his appearance as he roughly sliced away another bitesize piece with his fork, then another, features relaxing into the experience as though finally after many days if not weeks he saw the sun. You melted into a close-mouthed smile, turning away to let your gaze aimlessly wander across the living room.

“It’s good.”

“Thank you.”

There it was. Your first exchange. The beginning of something. Or the end. Perhaps both. When you turned back, no longer did his face appear as dangerous, instead sustaining an almost amiable curiosity.

“Why aren’t you eating?” his question held genuine concern as he paused, darting down to your hands and back upwards.

“I- oh, sorry, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” settling in what you assumed to be the safest option, your trained clinical professionalism you responded and started to hack away at the pie before you. Your choice of words provoked a chuckle - an unexpected sound that echoed in your ears for a little longer than you would have liked.

“Not at all… I think the two of us are even,” ever so enigmatic, your interlocutor responded. You let a slice of apple melt on your tongue, fructose and syrup clouding your nerves over choosing the right way to respond.

“...In?”

“Two people caught adrift in the middle of a storm, unsure of whether to keep holding on, or to let go. Are we not alike?”

Peculiar expression, unsettling, piercing through you and laying you bear until the pie left a bitter aftertaste. But of course, you could not do anything except pass it off as nothing. It was only natural for your self-acknowledged and accepted self-denial. Moreover, how could you two be similar? Obviously from different places, with different visions, the only thing that brought you together was this little cottage by the sea. At the same time, the words planted a seed of curiosity in your mind. Old Man liked to say there existed no coincidences, only well-hidden strings of fate and twists of certainty. You peered at the man again, gaze inadvertently settling on the freckle that was positioned almost perfectly in the middle of his collarbone - even what some of your clients considered to be an imperfection contained balance and elegance. Like hell would anyone ever be able to replicate that. Out of habit, you measured angles, sized up the man sitting opposite- at least you were not giving him the doctor smile yet - staying at the cottage was already doing you some good.

“So…” you began, but the words died away faster than flowers in early spring before you could deliver them, joining the disappearing wisps of heat from the pie.

“What brings me here? I assume that is the question,” so the delivery was successful. You nodded, attempting to ignore the hint of smugness tugging at the stranger’s lips, “I needed a break. So… I looked for a place. Remembered some relatives, then… ended up here. Yourself?”

“Oh,” you revealed your surprise, the phrases playing back in your head. ‘Relatives’... so Old Man did have someone inherit the property after all?

“Oh?”

“Sorry. You just said, ‘relatives’?”

“Well, yes,” he set his cutlery aside, gracefully picking up the cup of tea to take a sip before continuing, “this cottage is under the name of one of my cousins, however, as you can see… they have no use for it. Hence why I was told I can stay here for as long as I like.”

“Luxurious.”

“Hardly.”

“Limitless time off? A rarity in this day and age,” you sighed, giving a bittersweet smile.

“Everything is measured by time, be it days or bills. Runs out eventually.”

“That-” you paused, “is true,” it was difficult to admit that the smile you received from your fellow dessert buddy was charming, but there was simply no other way to describe it. Except perhaps ‘dazzling’ would do, but you did not wish to get ahead of yourself and swoon over a man whose name you did not even know.

“So, dare I ask the same elaboration? What brings you to the edge of the world?”

The clock ticked loudly in your ears, and you swore you could sense the draft creeping across the floorboards and over your feet. The moment was surreal, and not in a million years you would think you would find yourself in a situation such as this. At least not when considering the gruelling cycle you had subscribed to since you were young enough to give up your dreams in favour of others’. You were here because you were re-tracing your steps back to a time when you still had air in your lungs and a fighting spirit that had not been charred by a bleak reality and troubling conventions that society hammered down on everyone without exception. In some sense, for a little while, you did not wish to be yourself, but a version that you kept hidden away.

“I suppose I needed a break too, so I came back to the one place that I know as a paradise.”

“Intriguing. Did you know great uncle Yang?” he followed, tilting his head just a little.

“Yeah. Quite well, actually,” you were curt. Unwilling to share too much, but the man pressed on.

“How?”

“Came ‘round quite often,” you poked at the remnants of your pie slice.

“I wish I could have,” caught off-guard, you lifted your head, perplexed, “I have only heard about how amazing of a man he was. Distance proved to be unconquerable for me, and excuses far too strong to rebuke. Am I correct in assuming that you were closer?”

“Closer… I guess. I… well. I’m from this area. Grandpa, he- him and Old Man Yang were friends so…”

“Is your grandfather from the village-”

“He was… he had resided in a neighbouring house before it got torn down.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for bringing the mood down.”

“The mood is how it is - like the weather, sometimes you need a little rain to appreciate the sunshine.”

“A poet, aren’t you?” you half-joked, trying to turn the situation around. The memories were flooding back at a fast pace, and you were struggling to keep up with them. The guest, however, was instead taken aback, as though your jesting was an accidental truth. You raised an eyebrow.

“How did you… do you know me?”

“I feel like we have been apologising back and forth but, really sorry am I supposed to-”

“Oh no! Not at all! It is just that you are right, I am a poet. Job-wise, I mean,” taking notice of the way in which he started to attack the edge of his shirt sleeve.

“It’s cool.”

“Hm?”

“Your job.”

“Ah, it’s just throwing words on a page and hoping they make sense-”

“If that’s what it is then you’re gifted. Hoping is already an art. Hardly anyone does that anymore,” yourself included. Finally, you were more at ease; whether it was with yourself or with the situation at hand, you could not be bothered to decide.

“Thank you… are you in the arts?”

“Maybe some people would consider what I do a sort of art, but at the end of the day it’s far, far from it. Surgeon. Cosmetic.”

“So the science side of beauty?”

“Science and human opinion collided. Thankfully, there’s plenty of nature here for me to rest my eyes,” you gestured around you, suggesting the quietude of the cottage, and absence of any community in the immediate vicinity. The man nodded in understanding, choosing not to comment further.

“I… I do not think I have introduced myself yet. Park Seonghwa. Though, Seonghwa is absolutely fine seeing as we are friends by circumstance.

“Well, fantastic to meet you, Seonghwa. L/N Y/N. I hope we have great times ahead of us.”

“This time is all ours.”

⋆✧. seonghwa .✧⋆

As Seonghwa watched you redo the fence gate, he could not help but wonder if you really were a surgeon or not. Perhaps he was being a little prejudiced, but the image he had held in his mind of doctors and nurses was vastly different to how you carried yourself. Starting from how lacking in enthusiasm your descriptions of what you did were - without an ounce of pride, you simply listed off a couple of facts about your workplace like address, services and your responsibilities, and then returned to pondering housework and searching for tools. Seonghwa had assumed that any cosmetic surgeon working in a private clinic that was located in one of the most coveted and famous neighbourhoods of the capital would have a lot more of a well-meaning snootiness, or at the very least an eagerness to share their experiences. After all, the years of study and training had to be a mark of lifelong dedication, no?

You were anything but delicate with your hands as they aligned wood against wood. However, these same hands were steady, each movement calculated, deliberate, precise. There was not a single bit of power wasted in how you realigned the gate to not sink at the hinges. Tools arranged on a miniature mat did remind Seonghwa of what he had seen in medical dramas - neat operating chambers, every piece of equipment counted and arranged in a very specific order. So far, your actions and habits had been the most telling, making him choose to believe you. It was highly probable that you were exactly like him, hiding from yourself, from your immediate responsibilities - the weight on your shoulders having gotten increasingly overwhelming. It was not as if he had been fully open, heart on sleeve, with you and you were not returning the honesty; both of you had chosen to remain observers, walking in a circle as though there was an unspoken showdown, suspense in which both of you were waiting for something to go wrong. He did not wish to reveal his weaknesses, and neither did you.

In no time at all, you were done with the gate, marking the success by standing up straight and wiping your hands with a towel you nicked from one of the closets that Seonghwa had never yet dared to open. Catching his eye, you smiled and gave a cheerful thumbs up, one which he instinctively returned from his viewing spot by the front door. You picked up the equipment, roughly shoved it into a bag, and upon a quick adjustment of your jeans swiftly made your way back into the house. As you were kicking off your shoes, using your feet to position them in a reasonable spot that was out of the direct way into the house, Seonghwa spotted a little stain on your sweater. It could have been easily avoided with a rolling of the sleeves, however given your determination, it felt intentional. He bit his lower lip, musing the meaning behind your numerous deliberate actions over the last few days.

It was easy enough to notice that out of the two of you, Seonghwa was far more neat and pedantic about maintaining said ‘clean’ environment, while you were all for a freer living situation, not bothering to readjust the bathroom towels, or straighten the chair after pushing it back. Without a shadow of a doubt, you were very much in control of what you were doing - it was obvious. Sometimes, the young poet was sure that you were reminding yourself to not be organised, and only at critical times, such as the maintenance works on the gate, did training and composure characteristic of a highly skilled medical professional shine through. Without any explicit mission or goal, you appeared to be running from order, an act previously unimaginable to Seonghwa, but one he could understand, having been doing what was essentially the opposite. He resisted further moving your shoes when you walked into the living room, and bit back a comment about how you set the tools off to the side on the floor, instead continuing to watch you float to the kitchen to wash your hands. You were refreshed, a little sun in the departure of the cold season, your pink cheeks and grin that was threatening to take over all of your features returning a bashful youthfulness to you - something that he could not spot in the slightest upon first meeting. He did not know you yet, but he could sense that this was much more like the real you than the exhausted shell of a human who was suspicious of everything and everyone.

Seonghwa ran a hand through his hair before crossing his arms and leaning against the arc that separated the kitchen and living room, studying your approach to the window that he had combatted some days ago. You were in your element, fluid, determined. As much as you probably would have hated to hear him say, you were very much a surgeon before an operation, plan in the eyes and stable hands raised in front of you as you assessed your metaphorical patient. Was this a cosmetic procedure? Or a lot more invasive? Terminology he had picked up from perusals of the news and media plagued Seonghwa’s mind as he watched you carefully unlock the window, click your tongue and get to picking at the rotten frame, a replacement sitting patiently under your feet. How and where from - you were not too inclined to reveal all secrets of the cottage, but he could gather that there was some underlying rhythm or internal network of miscellaneous tools and ‘thingamajigs’ that all harmonised to create the cosy domestic paradise he had come to enjoy in his undetermined stay.

It was enthralling how, out of the two of you, you seemed to be more in harmony with the place. Well, perhaps not so strange, considering you were the one who had practically grown up in these walls. And much like Seonghwa could only guess about the inner workings of the house, the same came to you. Without any particular desire to be welcoming or amiable, you were focused on tending to any impending ruin rather than entertaining a stranger. This, however, made the poet all the more intrigued. You had to be running from something, maybe something similar to his own demons. Maybe something much darker. The nature of your work was a double-edged sword, after all. What were you seeing, or decisively ignoring by making this grand escape to the end of the world?

“Right, this should last a while. Seems the winter was pretty harsh this year, so I’ll have to check the rest of the windows too. You know what, maybe the attic as well,” you explained as you stood up straight, wiping your hands with the cloth you had retrieved from the toolkit.

“There is an attic?”

“Uh, yeah. You can get to it from my room.”

“You mean the guest room that you raided?”

“Hardly a guest room when there are no guests here, don’t you think?” you raised an eyebrow, sauntering past him, clearly searching for a way to set your words in stone with a pointed physical gesture.

“Mm, you’re right,” the last thing Seonghwa wanted was trouble on an already stormy horizon.

“Ah… Seonghwa?” you tentatively uttered his name, as if still testing how it sounded.

“That’s right.”

“What were you planning on doing?”

“Huh?”

“Right now.”

“...Probably returning to the office-”

“-ah, so you are going to hole yourself up. Got you,” without giving as much as a second to process or retaliate, you continued, “could you figure out food? If you don’t mind, that is. When I was getting the kit I saw something I wanted to check out. Shouldn’t be long, though.”

“I’ll see what I can put together.”

For what had to be the first time, Seonghwa noted the hint of a genuine smile ghosting over your lips. As you responded with a quick ‘thank you’ and left the cottage once more, already on another mission, he could not help but pause and tilt his head in confusion.

“Well wasn’t that awfully domestic…” The terrifying part was that he was not entirely opposed to the gesture.

Newfound vigour spread over his body and ignited a gentle flame in his heart. With purpose, he moved across from the living room back to the kitchen, beginning his search and preparations. This could also be a chance to get to know you better - your likes and dislikes, any quirks and habits. In turn, he had an opportunity to tell you wordlessly about himself. Brushing loose hair out of his face as he leaned over to grab a cutting board, he exhaled, amused. Care. Expression of care. Soothing waves of comfort and affection in the form of acting to provide some form of relief for another. This was something he had entirely forgotten in the blur of his day to day, and abandoned the possibility of returning to the notion by making an unplanned escape, only to find the lost memory right here, in this cottage. Doing, without wanting something in return except harmless conversation.

Time went by swiftly when it passed with purpose. Mind left unoccupied by hauntings of rhyme and rhythm thanks to a pleasant sense of urgency, Seonghwa could concentrate on making something out of whatever he had found in the cupboards and fridge. Back in the city, particularly towards the last few months before his sudden departure, he rarely cooked, be it due to lack of time or of energy. Instead he relied on restaurants where he had to survive loud company, or takeaway orders which, eventually, had all come to taste the same. Solitude had woken him up, and your appearance was another jolt to the system. Curious, how the mind worked.

The afternoon crawled towards the evening with certainty, and as the horizon turned to a murky grey with the hints of sunset, you returned, tired, but triumphant. Quietly, as though you were old friends who had exhausted all conversation, you made final preparations and dined. The occasional compliment escaped you, much to Seonghwa’s joy, but other than that, he was left to spin stories about you and leave it all up to overly elaborate guesswork. Asking about the shed did not do much, either. Brushing everything off as though the fixes had been but a mere ‘walk in the park’ was your well-measured defence. They could be, compared to whatever you did back in the city. Eventually, Seonghwa mustered the courage to attempt to satiate his curiosity, and left a question hanging in the air.

“Could you… tell me more about yourself?”

“That’s quite broad. What do you want to know?”

“Mm… cutting straight to the chase, huh.”

“I’m not one to enjoy wasting time,” you emphasised, setting down your fork on a cleared plate and leaning back in your chair, clearly in anticipation of an unpleasant interrogation. Seonghwa had to tread with care, but could not help the stirring of his inquisitive nature.

“Right, I figured. Barely arrived and the cottage is already pristine,”

“Hardly. Much work still left to do.”

“Well, give yourself at least some credit-”

“-So, the question?” you interrupted, putting your elbows on the table and tilting your head. No optimism or kindness in your eyes as you regarded Seonghwa. Just what were you thinking he was going to say?

“Ah, yes. Uh… how do I say this… considering we are both in, hm-”

“In the middle of nowhere, you can say that. I won’t take it personally,” you nodded urging him to get to the point.

“Thanks. So, since we are here, I have been thinking if our reasons for being here are in any way similar. Or, if not, just how different,” when you did not respond, or even acknowledge his thoughts, he persisted, “that’s about it… I mean, if you want to talk about it, that is.”

“Not really-”

“Oh! Okay, I- sorry,”

“No, you’re fine. Just because I don’t really want to doesn’t mean I won’t. It’s all part of getting to know a person, isn’t it?” turning to the side, you stared at the freshly redone window. It was holding up well. Beautifully, even. Seonghwa hated to keep making the comparisons, but he could not rid himself of the image of how you could be like professionally. Perhaps this was because this was the only concrete thing he had found out about you, but you were, in his eyes, every bit a representation of the medical field. Just as he assumed you were going to bestow upon him more discoveries, you shot him a side glance, “besides, it’s not like you are an open book either. For all I know you might be on the run from the police.”

“What?” he exclaimed a little too loudly to consider calm.

“I’m just kidding. Or am I?” you quickly raised your eyebrows, clearly finding amusement in Seonghwa’s discomfort, “Anyways… what brings me here… well, I am on a break. I’d like to think it is a well-deserved one.”

“Annual leave?”

“I guess, though, in medicine… is there ever such a thing? We’re not exactly corporate are we.”

Seonghwa finished the last of his meal and took a quick sip of his tea. While you were not looking directly at him, he could feel your scrutiny nonetheless. Suddenly, he felt the need to redo his hair, check his face in the mirror, adjust his clothes - anything to feel more presentable, even though it would not make much of a difference. Cold, but not hostile. Thinking back to how he had greeted you, he cringed. Was this the impression he had inadvertently given? Maybe. Very likely, actually, considering that for the first while he wanted nothing to do with another individual in the house. And now what was he expecting, an immediate shift into being best friends or at least allies? Biting the inside of his cheek, he mumbled:

“Might be foolish on my part, but I suppose I thought clinics would work differently.”

“Oh they do, that’s correct. But since money has to be made, we have to do a bit more negotiation to have a nice, unbroken holiday.”

“Two weeks?”

“See, that’s what employers want. More like four to six. Paid. I did my time in that place and I would say me being away would benefit all of society.”

“You’re making it sound like torture,” with a bitter laugh, you accepted his joke.

“How much would you like me to tell you about what I do? Until you agree?” your tone was flat, unnerving.

The wind was, once again, picking up outside, and whatever patchy thin wisps of cloud had been hovering around the area already disappeared, to be replaced by thick storm bringers, looming, menacing. An all-consuming darkness was rolling across the horizon and right towards the cottage, and Seonghwa could only hope that you really did know what you were doing when it came to mending. Out of habit, he adjusted the shorter strands that fell over his face, and took another sneaky glance at your features. Drumming out some unknown rhythm on the table, your fingers danced across the tablecloth. You were daring him to agree. And who would he be if he did not accept the challenge? Most certainly not an artist.

“I… I suppose you can tell me anything.”

“Heart to heart with a stranger?”

“Sure. If you are okay with that.”

“Then tell me this, Seonghwa,” you turned towards him again, only this time, you did look angered, “are you here because you are an eccentric, or because celebrity life got too much?”

“So you do know me,”

“While I was outside I remembered seeing your face on top searches or something. You sure know how to build up a following.”

“I call that a fluke.”

“Collaborating with a famous singer to write songs for their album is a fluke?”

“We have a mutual friend. Mutual friend reached out to me, said ‘hey you write poetry, how about you help out’ and so I did- hey, wait, why am I defending something normal-”

“I don’t know, but something is making you antsy, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, it’s probably the fact that you are attacking me out of the blue.”

“I am just asking a question.”

“Sounds like you are judging me,”

“Aren’t you judging me?”

“Aren’t we both judging each other?”

“True.”

With a huff, you crossed your arms and looked at your empty plate. Seonghwa followed suit, agitated. Neither of you had particularly good points, but nonetheless managed to bring to light issues that you and him were denying. Without a single word, both Seonghwa and yourself were going through the skeletons that were in the closets of your minds. He cleared his throat.

“It’s the latter. You hit the nail on the head.”

“I see.”

“People might pretend to know one thing or another about lyrics, but no one ever cares to read past that. I’ve had maybe one, two people ask me about my poetry, and none about my post graduate work.”

“Post graduate?”

“Yes.”

“Linguistics? Literature?”

“Something like that.”

A pause. The first few rain droplets hit the roof of the cottage and splattered against the windows facing the shore. It had to be another downpour coming. The clock continued its dedicated beat, and you were an immovable statue, as if you were storing away all he had told you about himself. Though he had not offered a resume to you, of course he wouldn’t, it was probably easy enough for you to put one experience with another, and paint his whole life.

“A scholar,” Seonghwa sharply exhaled, wondering how you had come to this conclusion.

“Trying to be. Probably more accurate to say that I am a poetry nerd who wants to become an academically accredited poetry nerd.”

“Hey, you’re passionate. That’s commendable,” your eyes softened, reminding Seonghwa of how people regarded something fragile. All because of hope? The same hope and inspiration which he had lost and was trying to discover again?

“I should be saying that to you. I mean medical school, and then launching into active practice right after is no easy feat.”

“That… is true.”

“But something’s off?”

“Bingo.”

“And you are running from it.”

“Hm… probably. Actually, you know what let’s call things like they are. That’s right.”

“And this thing is…?” he trailed off, encouraging you. You stared at the view outside the window, shapes now barely distinguishable as the droplets turned into bucketfuls and the streaks across the glass transformed into an unbroken blur. As your gaze settled back on the man sitting across from you, he saw a resemblance between the weather and your expression, and could not look away out of fear that he could miss the ever-changing emotions, musings, revelations that etched themselves on your face, only to disappear in a split second.

“You know…answer me this. I think you are the perfect person to ask.”

“Ask away.”

“What is ‘beauty’?”

“Beauty.”

“Yes. Beauty. What is it?”

“To me, or-”

“Whatever way you want to answer. What is it?”

“A feeling.”

You tilted your head and squinted in response to him. Truth be told, Seonghwa surprised even himself by the speed of his outburst. Feeling. He could not define beauty, and he did not believe that he was in a position to ever do so, but based on the callings of his heart, based on the changes of nature, of how words flowed from pen to paper or how they felt on the tongue and on the lips, he could sense beauty, and he was sure of it.

“Interesting. An artistic answer, I’ll give you that.”

“Were you looking for something else?”

“Something more clinical, potentially. But I like how you put it better. It’s more alive.”

“Are you running from beauty?”

“More like, I don’t know what it is anymore. And so my feet led me to the place where I think it existed. Or as you say, the feeling existed.”

“But… beauty is everywhere, no?” He knew he was being hypocritical, having cursed his own environment - both animate and inanimate, time and time again, but the mantra of any dreamer was the only thing that crossed his mind in this moment.

“Not in a cosmetic surgeon’s office, it’s not. Everyone either walks in there thinking it doesn’t exist, or walks out thinking that way. Aesthetic beauty, visual beauty is such a lie that I sometimes wonder if I see at all. Don’t get me wrong, I love nothing more than to make someone feel like they really are in their own skin, and countless times I have seen people gaining their happiness and their whole lives back after a visit to our clinic... but... beauty. Beauty itself is so, so strange.”

Your voice wavered. Any previously existing hard exterior was but an illusion, and Seonghwa could see the faint glow of a young spirit who wanted to do better for the world, but was beaten down, deciding that it had enough for a long time. In the effort to save it, you came here. To find your so-called muse, your safe space.

“I want to hear more… about this. If you don’t mind.”

“About people putting themselves down?” you sighed, ready to stand up and take your leave.

“No, no! Goodness, no. More about beauty. And what you think of it. And why do you think you ‘lost’ it, in a sense?”

“I’m starting to think we really are on the same boat in the same storm…” you mumbled, glancing at the time, and then rocking in the chair to finally lift yourself up, “... then I say we need more tea.”

“Consider it done.”

Some shuffling, dishwashing, and side glances later, both of you were settled on the edges of the sofa, preferring to find a reason to not stare at one another rather than adopt a position akin to that at a therapist’s office. Neither of you wanted to pretend you held answers to the mind’s mysteries, and neither of you wanted to come off as some complex character. Instead, you slowly but surely began to lay all your cards down on the table as the barley tea cooled in your cups. Seonghwa silently nodded as you elaborated on your frustration with the perfectly in line plates, the crisp and straightened towels, and the spotless counters. Unsettling, inexplicable, but the sensations you experienced when you stared at the lack of chaos were more than real.

“It’s the uniformity that puts me off.”

“So… things being in order, organised, in their places… annoys you?”

“Well… I cannot say it annoys me, because it doesn’t… this goes away after a while. But for the first little bit of time I will probably freak out whenever I see things that look a little too clean.”

“Got it. I shouldn’t clean up messes. See? You have something you find beautiful,” Seonghwa pointed out, a soft smile gracing his lips. As the conversation took on a more abstract, philosophical tone and your dispositions ceased to be so formal, he felt himself relaxing more and more by the second, and decisively taking the lead in conversation.

“Hm. A little chaos couldn’t hurt anyone. But I am sorry though, it must have been unnerving, considering that you are doing the opposite,” you responded, a genuinely apologetic look on your face. So you did notice. You were quick. Or simply very observant. Seonghwa shook his head to try and dismiss the little positive attention, but to no avail, “no really, it is nice to see you feeling at home here. I mean this.”

“This really is your place, isn’t it?” he narrowed his eyes, appearing rather feline as he tilted his head, hair flattening on the back of the sofa.

“It holds a lot of memories.”

“Tell me, did you come here to look for memories, or to change your present?”

“A bit of both. So, like I mentioned. Beauty. It’s sort of been a sore topic for me since I was a kid. Be it to fit a standard visually, or academically, or whatever else. Success was beauty, beauty was success. But there comes a time where, when you hear about beauty a few too many times, it starts to lose meaning,” you stopped for a moment to gather your thoughts and listen to the howling of the wind outside. With a click of the tongue, you continued, “You know how when you repeat a word again and again, it starts to sound and feel weird?”

“Yes.”

“Same with anything. If there is no variation, if there is no real value behind a given repetition, beauty is just some random ‘thing’ that cannot be achieved.”

“Value behind repetition?”

“Yeah. We breathe right?”

“Right.”

“Heart beats, right?”

“Right…” Seonghwa momentarily shut his eyes, focusing on the sensations you were describing, feeling a little more alive.

“Those are all valuable repetitions. And even then, we feel them so differently. But… what is something ‘beautiful’? It could be like you said, a sense. But saying ‘beauty’ this, or ‘beauty’ that… the concept ends up being void of meaning to me.”

“Hm… could it be that… in that context - the context of your job, the context of your day to day, how beauty is presented to you... is something you disagree with?”

“Ah! That, yes, exactly-” setting your cup down on the coffee table, you clapped your hands, happy with the encapsulation.

It felt easier than it should have been to establish something artists chase after and die for. A diagnosis uttered by a ruthless analyst marking the withering of beauty in another’s life. With the presence of a dulled, uninspired eye came the ability to see past mere feeling, and evaluate the essence of what had been plaguing you, and apparently, Seonghwa as well. He was in muted shock, both delighted and horrified by the conclusion. Loss of beauty because of the world in which he lived - how could a poet survive, if not by translating their works to terror? In the blink of an eye, the discourse was abandoned, and Seonghwa found himself floating in his own mind, the dark ocean waves crawling through his ear canals - a deafening roar marking the coming of his nightmares. Ever since he had become interested in poetry, he was fond of what he could experience with his five senses, and then added a sprinkle of inferences with a mystical sixth. Flowing from line to line he felt, and admired what surrounded him in syllables until the world began to darken, and his wrist and brain transformed to lead. In the absence of what he thought was beautiful, was he truly surrounded by something utterly vile? If extrapolating from your conclusions, it could very well be the case.

“...-hwa, Seonghwa-” startled, his eyes darted side to side and then settled on you. He did not realise he was clenching his cup with a white-fisted rage and, embarrassed, set it down beside yours on the table, “what had you so pensive?”

Your worry was charming, the young poet could not deny. How your lips, slightly parted, were waiting on what to say. How even though you were clearly fighting your own battles, you immediately pushed them away. No wonder you were tired. And no wonder Seonghwa felt a resemblance to you. Feeling. And feeling too much. Even when you were clearly burned out from doing so, you were ready to do it again, and again, until you were nothing but a trembling stalk of grass on the cliffside, swaying with current affairs and mundane happenings everyone had to abide by. Going with the flow was something neither of you could settle for, and that was what ended up bringing you together.

“When we think beauty is gone, does it mean there is not even a likeness to it, or does it mean we are not looking hard enough?”

“Mm… good question,” you traced abstract shapes on the pillow you took into your lap, maybe for comfort, maybe to have at least an illusion of a barrier between you and him. Seonghwa kept quiet, picking up the tea and masking his concern, “Since we both ran as soon as we’ve had enough, I think the former. An optimist would probably say the latter but based on what I have seen… I find it damn hard to believe in a happily ever after.”

“Did something happen?”

“Hm… did it?” you echoed, gaze fixed on the floorboards.

“Cleary. I am all ears.”

“You are doing too much.”

“This is the least I can do,” judging by the way you regarded him, being heard was a rare occasion for you, and sent a strange ache into Seonghwa’s heart. How many of your stories were left untold?

“Where do I even start… let’s just say this holiday was not fully on my own volition.”

“That rebellious, huh?”

“That’s what happens when you convince someone to leave the clinic, I fear.”

“You told someone to leave?” perplexed and fascinated, Seonghwa turned to fully face you.

“I mean… when you have a sixteen year old girl sitting there in front of you telling you she has one thing after another to fix and got a giftcard for eyelid surgery from her family… that’s the best option, in my opinion.”

“W-what?!”

“Happens more often than you’d think,” you dismissed his shock with a melancholic coldness, “we try our best to find compromises, best plans, bring happiness into a patient’s life, but when you can clearly see they are being pressured or are at risk of a plethora of other things both physical and mental… I draw the line.”

“You just have your morals set, and want what you feel is best.”

“And that is bad for business. Maybe I’m missing the plot. Maybe I should actually let people carve themselves up however they wish.”

Resigned, you stood up and walked towards the window, each step heavier than the previous one. Seonghwa observed your motions, seeing in you a tired sun that could barely lug itself across the heavens. Wrapped up in smoky grey, your shine slumbered, and you regarded the dull landscape with a matching passivity. For all you cared, at least in this moment in time, the stormy weather could last an eternity. An angered muse on the verge of giving up; an ancient legend on the verge of extinction; a sacrifice in the midst of the bloodbath that was the strive for perfection. A lost voice. You were not the first, and most certainly not the last to suffer this cruel fate and its many variations. In fact, if Seonghwa were to look in the mirror, he knew he would discover in his inky pupils the same resolution. If he were to look into a million faces, they too, would bear the traces of antithesis to childhood dreams. Disillusionment - the bane of existence, and the band to unite it.

He wished he could memorise this scene with every intricate detail remaining intact. The way the light flickered across your face as raindrops strengthened their barrage was downright haunting, and reminiscent of a television’s unsettling static that could make a room glow white. You delicately hugged yourself, lost in thought. Voice barely above a whisper escaped you, a string of apologies as you appeared to allow yourself to feel regret over being your true self around someone who was barely an acquaintance.

“I’m sorry… I… I talked a lot didn’t I? Complete nonsense too. I mean, what the hell is the point of taking something untouchable apart, as if we could ever understand it?” you bit your lower lip. Seonghwa imagined the sea foam decorating the shore, the ebb and flow of the erratic waves while he studied the patterns in your hair. The odd wave, the styling of stubborn locks all amounting to acceptance of its unruliness. Was that not beautiful?

A tender blossom in the earliest spring, wavering and inching its way upwards, filled with hope. A budding, pale green leaf, only just unfurling, tentatively feeling the first breeze, trembling with anxious delight. Seonghwa remained still as he let the progression of scenes dash past him while he gazed at you. Shyly smiling to himself, he greeted his own sleepy heart. It stirred, intrigued by the unpredictable series of events and serendipitous meeting, recalling words that had turned foreign to him not too long ago. While there were millions of characters, thousands of lines and an infinite number of ideas, the root remained a timid secret, one Seonghwa did not wish to explore quite yet. In the absence of beauty, or the stalling of its perception, remembering beauty was more than enough.

“You’re doing well.”

“Hm? You mean, uh, the window?” confused, you pointed at the frame, earning a chuckle from the wistful poet.

“That too, of course, but I meant in general. You are doing well,” before you could speak, he interrupted your doubt, “you are not failing, you are planning ahead. There is only so much we can do, and sometimes, pausing is the only right decision.”

Seonghwa hoped that by saying this out loud, to you, he could take his own advice. But it was never easy to listen to oneself, when he knew of all the noise that stuck to his brain, knew of the taunts and the mazes. It was more simple to wish that the verbal sword could cut through someone else’s worries, and in turn, shine a light on his own and let them evaporate. You grinned; you could have guessed that this was one of his mantras that he tried to learn how to believe in, or there was a sliver of a chance that you agreed. It was beautiful to wait.

구름을 은빛으로 물들이는 눈물 처럼 (like tears that colour the clouds silver)

바다와 하늘을 잇는 수많은 실이 있다 (there are many threads connecting the sea and the sky)

태양이 보이고 당신의 눈에 반사된다 (the sun is visible and reflects in your eyes)

⋆✧. you .✧⋆

An oversharer, a wildfire, taken and enchanted by a glimpse of the silver mystical lining. In every storm there was a fair share of this metaphorical metal - hints of hope that anyone stranded could hold onto. To your dismay and horror, you found solace in a stranger… or could you even call Seonghwa by that title anymore? Having poured more from your life’s cup than you had done at catch ups with your city friends, you were terrified of the amiability you possessed, and the open-armed rush of confidence you had experienced when engaged in deep conversation was quickly replaced by fear. What if you were digging your grave? What if you had signed yourself up for demise? It was so unlike you to share so much… and yet it felt so comfortable. You were alive for once, and the cottage was beginning to warm up to you again, voices of more than one echoing off its walls. But how could you know that Seonghwa had good intentions? You could not remember much of what you had seen online, except some tiny excerpts about the title track on which he had worked, but other than that - nothing. You had over-exaggerated your knowledge of his ways and his work as a silly flex of superiority, but… the more you thought about it, the more guilty you felt. You were a liar. A fiend. Seeking company, but writhing like a snake.

Ever since that first heart to heart, you remained distant, despite Seonghwa’s consistent efforts to get to know you better and better. He was not pushy, kept his jokes lighthearted, but you saw every attempt to learn more about you and your stories as a threat. You were in the same house, but it was as though the walls were closing in just on you. With a violent tug, you forced the towel off the hanger and let it pool on the floor, fleece resembling the perfect sands on faraway islands that you had seen advertised an astonishing number of times, but chose to believe in it being some business-crafted utopia. You could not bear picking the towel up from the ground. No matter how many times you would try to hang it, it would not look conventionally pretty. You tried, you really tried to arrange things how Seonghwa arranged them, be it out of respect or to conform, but your hands would produce something akin to a tremble, and at the last moment, the final product - destruction, was before your eyes. Slowly, you sank to the floor, feeling cold tile. Struggling slightly, you crammed yourself against the wall, and pushed the door a little to leave nothing more than a tiny creak. One last razor cut of light to be a guiding thread back to hollow function.

Leaning against the wall, you found yourself trying to escape your own thoughts, but the more you stared into the darkness, the more futile this race was. Inevitably, you were your own limit. At times, it was a good thing - you could go as far as you could. But other times… it meant falling and falling deep down until you were in the state you were currently in. Hands shaking just enough to send a wave of panic crashing into you, eyelids heavy from questionable and ever-changing sleep. It felt strange, having someone new know of your concerns and information somewhat beyond your day to day. Unlike regular ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’, you had inadvertently let Seonghwa see the root of your worries, and it was astonishingly hard to bear. In the dark looming corners of the bathroom, you could see your reflection. The crumpled towel taunted you, and in a spur of rage, you kicked it, immediately curling back up, arms hugging your legs. What was so hard about sharing your mind? Was it because he looked like he understood? Or was it because you were afraid that he actually did understand, and now you were at his mercy?

Vulnerability - a muse for artists, a disease for those favouring logic and wishing to move through life as an invincible figure. You were in a position where people trusted you, or rather, had to trust you if they wanted a job well done. True, you were not quite senior enough in your career to carry out the more complex procedures, but you had done your fair share of scalpel holding to curse the anxious tremor of your hands at this present moment. The fear was becoming unbearable, and it was all because of some silly conversation about what made things beautiful, and what beauty was. Ridiculous. The words blended with the heavy rainfall outside, and continued to return like the tide, higher and higher each time. It had been quite a number of days since the seemingly simple and friendly talk, and yet it gnawed at you. You wanted out, no, you needed out of this mess. Out of your own head. Old Man would have undoubtedly laughed at you, called you a feral wild and untamed beast, incapable of letting a little sunshine in your life - something of a nickname that you had acquired in the last years of his life, when you were already deep in the river of souls in the capital. But he was not here to reassure you, not here to crack a joke at the right time or to offer you protection. If there was any way you were going to survive your sabbatical, you had to hold tight and keep to yourself for the remainder of the weeks. You were going to pretend you knew his motives, and at any opportunity would tell yourself that you were staring at evil’s beautiful eyes-

Beautiful. No. You shook your head in disapproval. Eyes. Just. Regular. Eyes. In the dim evening lamplight, when you two would silently share the living room, both of you preoccupied with your own version of dawdling, they held little fireflies. Reflections of warm gold and a stunning white on a near onyx sky. Just eyes that you could not read, windows through which you did not want to look in search of a soul. Some part of you hoped that this entrancing vision would remain with you, and you would never have to see him under nauseating fluorescent lights; the scene was a professional instinct, but if there was something which you approached with more aggression than even your own paranoid self-preservation, it was to detach your present, and your continuous. Seonghwa was Seonghwa, and did not need some nobody like you to pretend to know how he should look. You exhaled, a shiver running over your form as the chill from the floor became more noticeable. A poem popped up in your mind, or rather, the few lines that Seonghwa had quoted to you the other night. Something or other about flowers, how they bloomed and wilted. While you could not grasp the exact words, your heart kept the poem safe and whole, with such diligence that it hurt. It was another one of his tries to get you to inch out of your shell. You shut your tired eyes, only to see how the shadows fell across his face as he had turned to you, lips remaining parted when he trailed off, glimmering orbs regarding you so sincerely and gently that you wanted to howl in agony. With a rub of your palm, stopping at your mouth, you wished to wipe the memory physically - your mind was too unwilling to do so. No, Seonghwa had to be some tragic, cruel joke the universe was playing on you. He simultaneously was indescribable and yet so, so simple, but if you were to be tasked to put him into words, you would sooner learn how to fly than to be capable of achieving such a feat. On the tip of your tongue were so many phrases and solutions to mysteries but none clear enough to be whispered into the early dawn. Seonghwa was who he was, and that was what scared you. You could not let him get to you like this.

Reluctantly, only due to the cold starting to become unbearable, you pushed yourself off the floor, and were once again faced with the task of picking up the pitiful puddle of fabric. With an apparent scowl, you bent forward, lifting the item and throwing it over the hook, determining that this just had to do. No one was going to throw a fit over this - and if Seonghwa was, well, you would just be happy enough to have decided to try and maintain distance. The more evidence or actions to support your desires the better. Cautiously you slid out of the bathroom and made your way down the corridor, avoiding creaky floorboards. Seonghwa was probably still asleep, and you were supposed to be. The early dawn was creeping through the lazily drawn curtains, and painting the floor in a hazy blue and grey. Hints of sunshine, tentative, shy, could be spotted on the very edge of the horizon. Maybe, just maybe, the weather would start looking a little more like spring. One step, another, and you were nearly at the dining table, front door ahead of you. Technically, if you so wished, you could spend the day in solitude; a visit to the nearby village was long overdue and it would almost guarantee an entire day outside of the cottage and away from the man who had taken residence in your brain as if out of spite. In addition, you could run some errands, and that definitely needed an early start. Your mind began to craft an itinerary, happy to abandon worries one by one. The market, the bakery, an obligatory visit to the post office to greet Old Man's and grandpa's friend… much to do. So much to do, in fact, that you only narrowly missed a ghostly figure appearing and stopping right in front of you, and had to rely on its sleepy reflexes to prevent you from colliding head on. You yelped as hands grasped your upper arms, and in an effort to escape you stumbled back.

“Hey, careful-”

That honey-sweet, deep voice forced you to glance at the so-called ghost. Perplexed, you saw none other than Seonghwa, who had been on his way out of the cottage office, stopped by the crossing of your somnolent paths. Dressed in a black turtleneck and black slacks, it was evident that he had been awake for at least as long as you, if not more. Like a deer caught in the headlights, you could only stare.

“You… you alright? Sorry if I scared you… it’s just… you know…”

“Oh no, I’m fine just… didn’t think you were awake, is all…” you mumbled, eyes starting to dart in all directions.

“Yeah, I get that. I didn’t sleep too well so I decided to get an early start to the day… same for you?”

“Sort of,” you were anxious under his burning observation. The shapeless, oversized hoodie that hung over your figure was your only salvation. Subconsciously, one of your hands reached for the opposing upper arm, forming something akin to a barrier between you and Seonghwa. Your legs protested, and you remained rooted to the same spot, only capable of a barely audible mutter: “I was thinking of heading out today. To the village. Will be out for a while.”

“Village? I have not been there yet. May I come with you?” eager, Seonghwa asked, smiling softly.

“Then how did you keep everything stocked up?”

“I’m organised. And visited that one super store that is on the way.”

“That’s even farther than the village?”

“Like I said. On the way.”

“Resourceful,” you knew you were stalling giving an answer to his request, but Seonghwa persisted.

“So… may I come with you?”

With no rain or violent dancing of the ocean waves to save the awkward quietude, you were in a situation no different to the one you were in a mere few minutes ago. Bathed in darkness, wisps of thoughts about the young poet permeating through restless meditation. He styled his hair differently today, you noted - most of it was brushed back, with a few elegant strands remaining over his face, approximately reaching the length of his nose. No wonder the media had clinged onto him; Seonghwa had undeniable appeal, and that on top of what was a unique form of artistry in the world of popular and quick entertainment, he was a dream for any agent, should he have found the limelight exciting. But clearly, he did not wish to risk going blind, and here he was, the muse and the poet in one form, trying to find peace.

“If I will be a nuisance, then it is okay I can-”

“Why not?” your swift interjection pushed Seonghwa into a long pause.

“Yeah. Why not, indeed. Thank you. Then, hm… may I quickly grab a couple of things? You were planning on leaving now, right?” You nodded, and watched him rush upstairs, revived.

The response, a little boyish, rough and carefree, brought a hint of a grin to your face. Simple pleasures in life were hard to find, and you had persuaded yourself to not acknowledge them, but you could not deny just how endearing it was to see Seonghwa glowing from the inside because of a couple of words and a trip to do some chores as if it was to be an adventure. You spun on your heels and ambled towards the front door. After throwing the hood over your head, you tugged on a puffer coat which you had rediscovered in one of the wardrobes - it had been a hand-me-down from Old Man when you had none of your clothes which were more suitable for rural life left after a strong push from your parents to forget your days on the shoreline. The coat had been one of the many secrets you shared with Old Man, and had been a small but certain happiness. Smelling like rain storms and sea salt, it was comforting, and still much too big for you. But it felt like home.

“Right, so, what exactly are we doing?” Seonghwa’s voice rang out across the room as he approached, having added a wool trench coat and pale scarf of an indistinguishable colour to his ensemble. You chuckled, stepping into your boots and gesturing for him to do the same.

“I was thinking we could hit the shops. Get some fresh produce if it’s been brought in already. That’s essentially the main goal. Oh, if you have anything digital to do, I know a place.”

“Really?”

“You have your phone in your pocket, right?” you pointed at his right hand which was stuffed into the mass of his coat. Seonghwa nodded.

“A standard representative of our generation, aren’t I?”

“I’d do the same if I had something urgent going on,” a flash of pained regret did not go unnoticed by you. Biting his lower lip, he suppressed whatever association he had made.

“Thank you.”

“Shall we?”

Seonghwa shifted his footing to reach around you, and turned the door handle. The early morning yawned out a pleasant chill. Pale green leaves of the shrubbery surrounding the house trembled with excitement, and the gate stood proud, awaiting its next command. Your hand hovered above the wood for a couple of seconds. You turned your head towards the poet.

“It might take us an hour or more to get there, are you fine with that?”

“More than fine. I guessed it wouldn’t be a five minute convenience store trip.”

“Alright then.”

As you embarked on your trek to the village, you decided that the landscape had finally started to take on more springlike hues. Previously barren trees which were bent by years of gales and hurricanes were now dotted with adorable buds of white, pink and green, while the grass that survived the winter was giving way to thriving youth. The Earth was turning, waking up and stretching in its celestial bed, starting to peek out from under its star-patterned blanket. You tugged on the hood and stuffed your hands into the pockets of Old Man’s coat, content with your split-second plan-making. While it was not ideal to have Seonghwa as your quest buddy, you could not exactly see him with the hoodie blocking out your peripherals. Only the crunching of gravel under a second pair of shoes marked his presence.

The scene was faintly nostalgic, but you could not put a finger on the reason why. As you wordlessly followed the winding road and veered off onto a trail that cut to the village, you simply accepted the comfort. The cherry blossom season must be coming here soon, and then the sun would surely roll out of its bed and the seas would be tranquil. You made a mental note to try to walk past the more residential outskirts to see if the gardens of the brave few still had the fragile flowers - the only marking of this representation of spring in the near vicinity. Gravel gave way to a sparser smattering of pebbles, and soon enough only rocks pressed deep into dirt from years of steps and bicycles were left for you to scrutinise. Occasionally, you caught a glimpse of Seonghwa’s shoes when he took a slightly longer stride - expensive, without a doubt. But even in a landscape that served as the antithesis to cosmopolitan luxury, you had to admit that Seonghwa wore them well. Gingerly, you peeked out from the side of your hood, eyes darting to a random point up ahead as soon as your walking partner’s head began to turn. Your assumption was right - he was every bit the character of a dark and dramatic novel; dressed in all black, halo of pale light gracing his locks. You hated how easy it was to question your morals in his favour, or rather in favour of your wanting to be more carefree and open around him. What other stories would he tell? What soft prose would dance on his lips and tantalise you?

You gasped, hands clenched into fists, pockets tightening as you pressed against the fabric. A surprisingly cold gust of wind hit your face, and you were too slow to react. The hood flew back, allowing your hair to be tousled by the elements. You should stop getting so lost in your thoughts - you reprimanded yourself, and began to reach upwards. Seonghwa slowed down to match your pace, waited, and voicelessly pinched the edge of your hoodie, halting any further movement until you understood his intentions. Too confused by the sudden affection to care, you brushed your fingers through your hair and held it in place, allowing the hood to slide back on without further resistance.

“Thanks,” you huffed, stuck in an automatic bow.

“Don’t worry about it,” Seonghwa continued to walk, unperturbed, “it seems the wind is picking up again.”

“At least it’s not as cold anymore.”

“Good point. Refreshing. Let’s call it that.”

“Mm. Oh, Seonghwa-”

“Yes?” you paused to breathe, much too affected by the response speed Seonghwa had to his name. After telling yourself that this was his usual self rather than particular attention, you resumed.

“I have a beanie. If you want it.”

“Pardon?” you met the young man’s perplexed look, and patted the many pockets of the coat until you found the right one. After unclasping the metal button, you revealed the tip of a wool hat. His grin made the pang of embarrassment worthwhile - dazzling, sunny, so very Seonghwa that your heart hurt a little.

“Wind. Hair. All that. You know. Ahem. You get me,” you stumbled over your words, much to what appeared to be Seonghwa’s delight.

“I do. Thank you. I am okay for now,” he stopped you before you could close the pocket again, “but, if you don’t mind I’ll take the beanie. I have pockets too.”

“It’s supposed to stay in this coat.”

“Why?”

“Tradition.”

“Ah. Understood.”

You regretted your awkward gesture of friendliness, but you had to cancel out his approaches somehow. It would be strange to owe him. Was there such a thing when it came to emotion? Not wanting to dwell on the thought, you made yourself speed up, steps growing heavier against the uneven ground. Seonghwa followed suit, but you could only imagine his face at this moment, probably holding back a laugh, withholding some snarky comment out of sheer pity. That was normally how it was, so when what had to have been at least a couple of minutes passed, you were frustrated. Where was his voice? Could you simply not hear it over the wind? Was he intentionally being quiet?

“Seonghwa?”

“You are speeding along, Y/N, wow-”

“Sorry-”

“I’m just curious,” you slowed back down, allowing Seonghwa to catch up and join you on your side, “why that specific pocket?”

“That’s just how it has been all this time. This coat was passed down to me, and with it came a set of safekeeping and storage rules.”

“Rules?”

“Yep. From what pocket to keep what in, to where to hang it in what season. Couldn’t really do the latter properly but I think the coat held up well enough,” you inspected whatever part of the coat that you could spot from the safety of your hood, and peered to your right when you heard an approving hum.

“Looks like it could survive anything.”

“It probably could, if I’m honest. In my memory alone it survived being thrashed about on a clothing line in what had to have been some crazy strong cyclone and survived being abandoned on the cliffs.”

“How does this even happen?”

“Sometimes I do think Old Man did some things just for laughs, but he always had a fun story to tell and if he had to make some sacrifices for it… maybe it was worth it in the end,” you sighed and finished your philosophising.

“We all set our worths and prices, don’t we?” gradually, your stride turned into an amble, making Seonghwa get ahead. To your surprise, he halted almost immediately, and turned. When he spotted your unease, he furrowed his brows and stepped closer. He was searching for something in your stance, or in your expression - be it a change or a revelation, but clearly whatever you were doing was not enough. In the blink of an eye, he was a lot closer than arm’s reach. Inadvertently, you held your breath.

“What?” the question slipped from you as Seonghwa stretched out his hand, palm upright.

“I think I’ll have the beanie, if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds like you are doing me a favour.”

“I am just appreciating an act of kindness,” he gingerly picked the item from your grasp, “and besides, if you are going to be racing how you are now all the way to the village, my ears might freeze.”

You wanted to wipe the dorky smirk from his face, but even then you appreciated his undeniable charm. The ever-changing palette of expressions on his stunning face fascinated you, reminiscent of the metamorphosis of a flame or silver waters. You would hate to use the exact word which you were running from, so you settled to mutely acknowledge Seonghwa as ‘interesting’. Interesting, and all-consuming. You looked at the horizon, his silhouette still dancing in your vision. It was just because he did not question yet another of the many quirks of Old Man that you still honoured. Had to be. You were simply under the influence of a tiny sliver of positive emotion; nothing to worry about.

Soon enough, you were met with the main road - or what could be called a road in a rural no-name settlement, and the ghost-like buildings that marked remnants of local life. As more and more people left the place in the hopes of a better life in a bigger, more modern city, only memories and the past remained, sentenced to erode into the earth with every new season. You could recognise the buildings, of course. The colours faded, and the structures grew weary with time, but they were still standing, just like you. Waving with a tired, invisible hand. You trudged along, cursing under your breath when you saw Old Man’s friend’s house up for sale. In other words, eventually up for demolition. This village was surviving and existing until the countdown to its erasure would be completed, rather than hoping that one day, something or someone would breathe new life into it. Boarded up windows and dull grey fences; withering gardens and exhausted roofs that damned every new rainfall. There was no spring here, nor was there a winter.

“Pretty quiet…” Seonghwa commented, taking in the sorrowful and glum surroundings. You could not offer any counter-argument.

“Indeed it is… Maybe because it is an off season…” you caught your own words and exhaled, bemused, “but when is there ‘a season’ in this place?”

“May? October?”

“Could be the case. But then people prefer to go to the tourist town further south, don’t they?”

“More space for us,” with a shrug, Seonghwa responded. It looked almost as if he was reading the village’s history through the cracks and crumbling stone. Eyes travelling from side to side and sometimes stopping to scrutinise something of interest that you could never spot, he looked like he was trying to find and remember every detail, akin to a pre-op examination.

“The market is down the street.”

“Got it.”

“And then we can stop by the cafe.”

“Can do.”

“You don’t need to?”

“I could, but I don’t have to.”

“Whatever works for you. But I need a nice hot chocolate and the awareness that the world has not exploded yet.”

“Or maybe it did,” Seonghwa added, making you chuckle.

“Or maybe it did. This place certainly has a surreal other-worldly barrenness to it.”

“How appealing.”

“Home sweet home.”

A home you could barely recognise. The deterioration was abhorrent, and truth be told, when you had been on your way to the cottage and managed to catch a ride with a family, you were surprised they had any business in the village. They must have left already. No one in their right mind could survive more than a few days in a place like this, unless this was the lesser of a wide selection of evils.

Seonghwa remained quiet as you stepped into a tiny two-story building that was called ‘the market’, but was just a reminder of what had been in its place before. The stock was good enough, from fresh produce off by the windows to the refrigerated and frozen goods lined up by the walls, and the cashier who was hunched over a crossword puzzle finally showed that there was some life remaining in the village. You picked up a basket which still possessed the logo of the superstore nearby - a permanent souvenir, and with Seonghwa in toe, browsed the shelves. Occasionally Seonghwa would stop you to point at an item, or you would exchange a couple of words to debate the necessity of one thing or other, but progressed through the maze fast enough and ended up at the ancient table converted into a register.

With a vexed huff, the man behind the desk put down his pencil, and began to hammer out the prices on the old cash machine. The buttons creaked in protest, so worn that you could barely see the numbers on their faces. In one swift motion, you produced a canvas bag from another pocket, and signalled to Seonghwa to start packing while you held it open. You tried to avoid brushing your hands against his, and he politely ignored the awkwardness of your movements. Before you could ask for the total, he was already setting a couple of bills down on the counter, shaking his head at you to not argue. You narrowed your eyes, but continued to watch as the cashier counted the money, slammed another few buttons to unlock the register, and produced some change. The door of the shop shook from the wind outside, but he paid it no mind, only caring for the next word that he had to guess for his puzzle. The two of you swiftly departed, Seonghwa striding ahead to stop in front of you and try taking the bag out of your grasp.

“I could have paid, Seonghwa.”

“I could have, too. And I did. What of it?”

“How much do I owe you?”

“We are living together, aren’t we? Consider this to be my household contribution, and this-” using your moment of disorientation he yanked the handles and tightly grabbed the canvas bag, “is just me being nice.”

“You’re making it sound strange.”

“How?” he was jittery, you could tell. The reason was a mystery, but he was awfully chipper compared to even fifteen minutes ago.

“Tell me, are you nervous?” he licked his lips - a habit you had noticed within the first couple of days, and knitted his brows.

“What… what makes you think so?”

“I think I have seen enough of you to catch the gist of how you’re feeling,” you deadpanned, and turned to continue walking towards the cafe, “this village isn’t haunted if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s been ages and as you can see, I’m still alive and kicking.” The joke was not received too well judging by the forlorn tinge to Seonghwa’s disposition, but he did not put up a front or argue. Out of the blue, you heard him grumbling:

“I’m not scared of ghosts…”

“Sure.”

“Hey!”

“What? I believe you!”

“Okay! Fine! Not ghosts but… something like it,” weighing the phrase, Seonghwa wondered how to continue. When you reached the entrance to the cafe you halted, and stood fully facing your partner in existential misery.

“Which is?”

“...Emails.”

“Can’t blame you. Scary buggers. Right, shall we?” you pointed at the door and tried the handle. It gave in easily and, announced by the sound of wind chimes strung up above the door right by the frame, you entered.

If only there was someone to greet you. You tapped the counter a couple of times and reread the message left on a sheet of paper that had been roughly ripped out of a notebook.

“Stepped out, be back later, for internet leave fee in box. We are not getting any warm drinks today, unfortunately. Owner won’t be back in a while.”

“Didn’t they say they will be back later?”

“The definition of later is warped here. It means they’ll be back later to close up shop.”

“Odd.”

“Not when there are no customers for days on end. I mean, there probably are some, but they are more than likely after the internet and not the coffee.”

You dropped the paper and passed by the dozing barista machine towards the table pressed right against a barren, rusted orange or brown coloured wall - unappealing, but it had been this shade for a s long as your memory would allow you to think back, so at least it had the brand of continuity. The table itself was a little more experimental: instead of a traditional approach with legs, the piece of furniture was a thick converted shelf, positioned high enough to be like a bar. On the far end and somewhat masked by the lack of lighting stood a rickety old monitor from a bygone era, with equally ancient wires protruding out of it and escaping into amateurishly drilled holes in the wall. The keyboard: a black-coloured classic with keys thicker than a finger, was tucked under the monitor, along with a matching mouse. After pulling out the bar stool in front of the makeshift computer station but not sitting down, you lifted a foot to rest on one of the many horizontal metal bars that linked the legs together, and scanned the fees which were written with a shaking hand on a piece of paper, stuck on the wall probably while you were still a kid.

“Huh, the prices are higher than I remember.”

“Inflation,” Seonghwa offered. He had set down the groceries on the shelf-table, and stood beside you to watch the screen come to life after a couple of attempts to click the power button.

“Seems the economy reaches these parts of the country too. Is fifteen minutes going to be okay?”

“More than-” Seonghwa began to reach into his coat again, only to be stopped by you.

“Let me take this at least,” you stuffed a couple of bills into the small box that was right next to the computer and detracted your attention back to the almost-complete loading screen.

Finally, the machine went out of its slumber. You looked for a browser engine, chuckling when you saw an outdated logo marking no change from what had to be the last decade, and proceeded to search for the news. After a couple of minutes of navigating from page to page, you concluded that society had not done anything particularly remarkable, nor atrocious. A reassuring kind of ‘boring’, which was more than you could hope for. You stepped away from the stool, gesturing for Seonghwa to take a seat. He hesitated, unwilling to spare as much as a glance to the email login screen.

“Didn’t you say you-”

“Is it strange to say that I am scared?”

“Of?”

“I’m not even sure, to be honest,” he took off the beanie and ran a hand through his hair. Seonghwa was restless, and while he did defeat himself and sit in the chair, a daze took control of him before he could as much as click.

“Are there some things that you hope not to see?”

“Maybe… or… how do I even explain this?”

“How it is. Saying anything is already a start.”

“So you know how- well, of course you know- I appeared on television, and did some other interviews?”

“Uh-huh, and congratulations, by the way,” your earnest commendation was met with a nervous twitch of the lips - not quite reaching joy, but Seonghwa was nonetheless touched.

“Thank you. So, hah- just, after that there have been numerous emails, phone calls, even physical mail, asking the same things and trying to shove the same answers in my mouth. My agent was thrilled initially since it is publicity, and kept on forwarding one opportunity after another but… at some point it hit me that the press do not need me,” he finished typing in his details, but could not bear to click ‘log in’.

“Do not need you?”

“No. What they need is an image that they crafted based on their perception of me. It is true that a person forms their first impression in half a second or something like that, but when representatives of prestigious outlets do not know a single thing about my poetry which, mind you, is my main job, one does begin losing hope.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want to see the empty flattery and shallowness, right?”

“Sounds about right.”

You pondered his concern. Everyone deserved sincerity, especially when it came to things that quite literally formed a large part of one’s life. It would not be an overstepping of personal rules to empathise, would it? If there was a person in need, it was another’s duty to help them through difficulties. It was the least you could do. At the same time, you felt like you were falling, and fast, into the grasp of confusing emotions, and the more you studied Seonghwa and thought about his beau- -interesting mind, you wanted to delve into it more. You wished to understand his curves and edges, read the miraculous flame which even in times of difficulty was never extinguished in his dark irises. You stared, and Seonghwa did not mind it. In fact, if anything, he was enjoying your nearly overwhelming concentration on him. Compared to the last few days when you would actively isolate yourself, this was the most time you had spent in such proximity, and toeing the line of a heart to heart. You despised the fact that you understood Seonghwa a little too well, and that, beyond the surface, you two were much the same. For some strange reason, it hurt you to see him distraught or inconvenienced. In this place which bore the traces of both your stories, be it personal or through relatives, you wanted to maintain a safe haven, if not for yourself then for him. There were always bound to be disappointments, and when both of you would inevitably have to return to your humdrum routines and unfounded chaos, they would only amplify. So why not try to cultivate a little happiness here, in the middle of nowhere? You bit the inside of your cheek as a disturbing, but astonishingly serene resolution bloomed in your musings. To hell with your rules and boundaries. Either way your heart was going to ache, but at least like this you could make the cause of it be a little more… poetic.

“Let’s sort through your inbox together, and then we can have a nice and quiet rest of the day,” you leaned over, and clicked the mouse. The screen illuminated both your faces. You tried to ignore just how close yours was to Seonghwa’s.

He let you take the lead on scanning through the items, only sometimes providing whatever guidance he could offer. As the number decreased, so did his worry, and soon enough, you were exchanging jokes as you deleted or archived more and more emails. Neither of you commented on how your hand which you had set down on the table for a little more balance was pressed against his own, nor how you were practically shoulder to shoulder. Beyond an initial awareness both of you wanted to remain quiet in an effort to preserve this safe space. No rumination, no questions, nothing. Only what felt right. And it just so happened that in the moment when Seonghwa turned to gaze into your eyes, relieved and cheerful, it felt natural to put his hand over yours. And who were you to go against the universe?

“Thank you, Y/N. This was so silly, I really should be able to handle this but… I dare say you are my saviour.”

“Not at all. I just want to help as best as I can,” you felt him softly squeeze your hand. You couldn’t look away.

“It’s the little things. I am very grateful,” you wished you could say something grand or quote something in response, but you were afraid that a medical encyclopaedia would not fit the mood.

“No phone checking today, I think we’ve done enough.”

“Sure, Hwa.”

It was the little things. How his eyes caught the rays of light that slipped into the cafe. How he expressed himself so wholeheartedly and openly. How he wanted to be himself even when so many people were against him. In him you saw an inspiring strength; the spring after a freezing winter. Just like you had helped him with emails, he was unknowingly helping you clean up your struggles and doubts, prodding at neurons and metaphorical cobwebs until problems did not seem quite as monstrous as before. For the first time in a while, you wanted to be okay.

“Home?” The only word that fit the cottage, for you and for him. Seonghwa gleamed in response.

“Home.”

⋆✧. seonghwa .✧⋆

“Let’s go to the cliffs.”

“Sounds suspicious, what are you scheming?” you raised an eyebrow, but, nonetheless, closed the book that was neatly positioned on your lap - the aftermath of you two having grown more relaxed around one another, and you venturing into the office and asking for recommendations from Old Man’s library. Seonghwa was more than happy to offer a couple of titles which he could spot hidden on the shelves, and now could discreetly enjoy the sight of you being fully immersed in one of them.

“I just think we could use a good break,” he crossed his arms and nodded to himself. He did not want to reveal all his plans just yet, but it was hard to remain cryptic when anything to do with a location could raise questions.

“Again, suspicious. What are you on about?” Seonghwa watched you look for the old postcard which you had been using as a bookmark, smiling when you finally discovered it had fallen beside you on the sofa.

With each day, Seonghwa was getting a chance to see more and more sides of you, and he would not stop it for the world. He found himself grinning like a fool when you would be even the tiniest bit clumsy, endeared by vulnerability that you did not dare show him before. He lost himself in the sound of your voice as you formulated analogies between art and medicine, explaining concepts in such a way that it felt like poetry. His heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings when, after a day of chores, the two of you would settle down to simply be in each other’s company. As such, with the newfound lightness in his soul, Seonghwa wanted to help you feel at least a fraction similar.

“Mm… I do want to keep this a surprise, but I get how this sounds like a different type of pact, doesn't it?”

“You can say that again.”

“Okay… hm… if I say, with one hundred percent guarantee we will be getting home safe, in one piece and hopefully feel a lot better, will you agree to satisfy my spontaneous caprice?” You pretended to mull over his request, your pointer finger resting on your chin.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes. Fine.”

His megawatt grin nearly blinded you as he approached you in a couple of steps and reached out his hands towards you. You glanced up and down, amused by his excitement. Seonghwa swore that all his organs flipped in his body as you clasped his hands, palm pressed to palm, and let him lift you off the sofa. When you nearly collided with his chest, he steadied you, shaking his head when a thank you fluttered from your lips. It was a shame that he had to let go. Patiently, he waited by the door as you changed into an outfit more appropriate for the weather; while the days have seen a pleasant rise in temperature to balmy spring, the occasional seaside gust was quick to remind of the earliness of the season. The cherry blossoms must have already bloomed further south, Seonghwa mused. But for once, he did not feel rushed to see them or take obligatory photographs, content with the beauty he was living on the coast of nowhere. He adjusted his cream coloured hat and matching sweater, reaching to flatten the under shirt that started to peek from under the knit collar.

Whether it was on purpose or not, he noticed how you had matched him with your outfit - flared jeans matching his jeans-skirt combination, and a determined selection of beige boots. Seonghwa was, by nature, something of a hopeless romantic, but it was moments such as this that made him both flustered and proud of his nature. As you stepped out of the cottage, bathed in a rejuvenating sunlight, he squinted and made a visor out of his hand to look more closely and try his best to remember the scene. Your head was held higher, your steps were more confident, and when you looked back to check if Seonghwa was following you, you had a mischievous glint in your eyes. He sped up, softly tapped your arm and beamed.

“Right, mystery boy, lead the way. Something tells me that you have a very particular location in mind.”

“That, I do. Spotted it some time ago. You probably know it, but I want to share it with you nonetheless.”

“Well, it would be my first time seeing it with you, wouldn't it?” Your mouth pressed into a fine line before you burst into a giggle after having considered your words for a fraction longer, “Goodness, sorry-”

“I like that,” Seonghwa smirked, enjoying the subtle flirtation.

“Pardon?”

“First time for everything. Quite the celebration, is it not?” When you did not answer, par a joking eye roll, he pointed to the right, elaborating his planned route, in the direction opposite to the village and right by the sea. After a couple of beats of silence, you turned to him.

“Celebration? Seems like you are thinking of something specific.”

“Mm… maybe.”

“Oh… is it your birthday? Oh no I have nothing to-” your face fell.

“No! No, I'm touched that you care this much though, darling,” half in jest, half testing the waters, Seonghwa let the pet name slip. Though it appeared to have been wasted nerves worrying about your reaction, as you did not bat an eye. He looked ahead, “it's in two days.”

“So you aren't much of a birthday enjoyer? Judging by how you are here… and not in the city.”

“There are different ways to celebrate. And, if you don't mind. This is how I would love to celebrate mine.”

You looked magical in the golden rays. With half the sky a hazy white, the other promising a gloomy grey storm, you were his good and evil, his battle.You came to him like nightfall, and made him learn of shimmering sunrises. The speckles of bright light in your irises were downright enchanting, and only grew more captivating as you tilted your head, inadvertently capturing more sunlight. His April wishes, muted prayers for one moment to turn to another, and another after that. He did not dare voice his true perception of you, knowing that the one word to come to his mind was one you did not favour, and as such, stuck to walking onwards, to the cliffs, in anticipation of what he had been hoping to do with you for a considerable amount of time. You did not answer him, instead choosing to study your shoes and continue to follow his footsteps closely. The wind caressed your hair like a loving relative greeting and doting on their favourite child. You hid your hands in your sleeves, fists closing over their edges, in an effort to protect them from getting cold. No attempts have been made to guess what Seonghwa wanted to do, much to his surprise; considering how hostile you two had acted towards each other in the very beginning, this level of trust was akin to the greatest of honours, and reminded him of the unfurling of a flower that had initially been guarded by thick grey leaves, only to reveal a tender yellow white and reddish heart along with a gorgeous adornment of pastel pink petals. Fragile, vulnerable, far from eternal, but because of how temporary their natural perfection was, they were all the more beautiful. Seonghwa looked in the opposite direction from you and scowled, scolding himself. He should not think of the future, at least not just yet. It was all too soon, all too fast, anything could happen and he should not get his hopes up even when his entire being was burning into an enamoured cloud of ash.

The sea glistened, waves showing off magnificent adornments of regal silver and gold, dolled up with white lush fur-like foam. Playfully, they lapped at the shore and urged the two of you to keep going. Rolling hills soon gave way to the cliffs which with every few minutes of your journey grew taller and taller, revealing stunning white chalk faces and decorations of limestone. A number of weeks ago Seonghwa had made it his mission to explore the expanse, thereby finding what had to be the real end of the world. A terrific, breathtaking drop together with violently shaking grassland and treacherous edges, by far the tallest point on the cliffside was nothing short of freeing. With everything he had lived through being forced to stare at his back, and only the sea in front of him, he need not be concerned, at least for a few breaths, with what battles he was yet to face. After a couple of ventures to the cliffs, he found a new perspective, one that had been solidified when he had destiny bring him to you, or you to him. Had there ever been a muse, or was it simply an excuse for him to not try even when he was certain he could not achieve anything? Now, he knew he could fly freely on the wings of his own inspiration and wanted nothing more than for you to feel the same.

As the two of you approached the peak, Seonghwa became a little agitated, concerned with how you were going to react to his proposition which he had planned to utter only once you had arrived. You were quiet, occasionally looking left and right to study the brightening landscape. The steely horizon engulfed the sea, infinite, invincible, and met two pairs of eyes. Two people, who, with time, came to be undefeated. You had not voiced your concerns often, but he had seen them weighing you down, serpents tightening around your throat until you had nothing left to do but to rush out of the cottage under the pretence of ‘needing to check something’, when in fact all you wanted was air. Time and time again he could see how this, and only this place was home to you and was the soothing balm that could heal all wounds. Now as you stood to his right, occupied by your own ponderings, he saw you combine with your surroundings, making one gorgeous painting. You belonged here. Thanks to you, he felt like he did, too. The beginnings of another plan started to take root in his mind as he recalled familial logistics and the cottage, but pushed the matter for a later time; this needed the city and iron resolve. Seonghwa rubbed his hands together and rocked back and forth a couple of times.

“So,” you began, still observing the waves.

“So,” he mirrored.

“What’s this grand scheme of yours for which we needed to hike up here?”

“Not liking the views?”

“Of course I do. I’m just trying to understand.”

“Okay. Then… how about this,” he took a deep breath, stifling a nervous laugh, and with all he had, yelled at the sea, trying to drown out the sound of the Earth. He screamed with his heart, expelling all its ache and giving it room to mend itself with golden thread. He stretched out his arms and shut his eyes, embracing a better tomorrow.

Taken aback but thrilled, you spontaneously began to laugh. Wholly, without any barriers; your genuine full-body laughter overtook you, and you were half-bent, ecstatic from Seonghwa’s sudden chaos. You cackled until tears started to well up in your eyes and you needed to remind yourself to breathe, and only laughed harder once Seonghwa joined you, him just barely retaining balance and not collapsing on the ground. His shout was still ringing in your ears as you lifted your head and through airy chuckling called out to him.

“Is- is this what- you were- thinking of all- all along?”

“Go on, show me what you’ve got-” he challenged, squeezing the words out between wheezing.

“W-what? Like… right now?”

“No better time than now! Go!” He encouraged you, prayed for you to let your darkness go.

There it was. As the wind picked up and the sea roared, you joined them with your own warrior cry, stretching your arms out much the same as Seonghwa had done. You stared at the sky, squinting only to stop your eyes watering from the laughter and the gusts. He gazed at you with adoration and pride. As soon as he heard your scream start to die down, he recovered and made a beeline towards you, repositioning to face the sea, and poked you.

“On the count of three. One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

Together you let joy into your lives, cursing all that had harmed you before, and bravely took on the challenge to exist. There was always going to be trouble, there were always going to be disagreements and so-called ugliness in the world around you, but in your vision, even if just for a flash, there was guaranteed to be beauty, if not in the representations of small but certain happiness, then in the self. As Seonghwa and you shouted again and again at the skies, you knew your next inhale would be the freshest.

Lightheaded, you searched for his arm, apologising when your own crashed into it. Rapidly, his hand found yours, and Seonghwa, in a moment of what could possibly be foolish courage, intertwined your fingers together. Your eyes widened, and initially he thought he had made a mistake. But doubt evaporated faster than rain on a scalding hot day; you held on tight, lowered your arms, and swung them back and forth, before launching into another cheerful scream. Your hand in his, the perfect match. He had hesitated the last time, back in the cafe, but now he was sure that it was worth the wait. This was his home. His healing.

돌풍과 절벽에 부딪히는 파도 소리 (Gusts of wind and the sound of waves crashing against cliffs)

새로운 시작을 의미하는 수많은 소리 (The many sounds of a new beginning)

당신의 웃음소리가 가장 크게 들린다 (Your laughter is the loudest)

⋆✧. you .✧⋆

You had shooed Seonghwa out of the kitchen as soon as you heard his sleepy, post afternoon nap descent down the stairs. Despite his protests after you had waited until midnight and wished him a happy birthday, which mainly consisted of him worrying over your potential lack of rest and whether anything was necessary, you wanted to try your best. It would have been most certainly easier to follow his advice and treat this day and evening like any other, but that would not have been a representation of you, nor of how you felt towards your friend. Countless times he had given you strength and support that prior to meeting him you could have only imagined. More than that, he never asked for anything in return except your company, and for you to allow yourself to feel happy; such behaviour and way of thinking was rare, so on many occasions you second-guessed or doubted him, but each time you had been proven wrong. Seonghwa was a warm person who left a deep impression on everyone, and most certainly left an everlasting one on you.

As you let meat and seaweed simmer in sesame oil, you laughed at yourself. Had you from a month ago been here with present you, present you would have definitely gotten an earful. Who were you, showing so much kindness to someone who you had not known for a long time? But then again, there were enough people who you had known for a long time who were far from deserving of kindness, and yet you forced yourself to tolerate them anyway. At least in this case, your affection was coming from the heart and not from obligation or some twisted version of filial piety based not on love and respect but on fear and manipulation. Caring for someone was simple when it was the natural thing to do. You twisted your head when you heard more shuffling, and noticed Seonghwa, dressed in loungewear as opposed to the more formal outfit he had chosen to wear on his venture out to the village earlier, speed-sliding across the living room and to his office. You chuckled when he raised his hands in the air and mouthed that ‘he is innocent and does not see anything’. It was easy enough to guess what you were making. Seonghwa could probably guess from the smell alone, but nevertheless he played along and remained patient.

Soon enough, the soup base was in and bubbling away, filling the cottage with mouthwatering fragrance. The home that only you and Seonghwa knew felt complete and was blooming like the gorgeous flora in early April. Threats of a storm had been false alarms and instead a warm sun settled on the magnificent light blue and ultramarine. The occasional white ball of cotton would race across like a tiny woodland rabbit away to wonderland, but nothing could dispel the euphoria that enveloped you. It was simple to imagine the cottage disappearing, but that made every second more precious. For all you knew, in a couple of months the real owners of the property could decide to demolish the priceless history and sell off the land to some magnate for the building of a resort or a private mansion; such an outcome was far too plausible, and you could only clench your teeth and pretend to not be affected. Old Man would have locked himself in this cottage if anyone were to try and destroy it. Now, more than ever, you understood why. The walls had seen decades of history, both of the planet and of the humans who had visited or inhabited the cottage. Tears of sadness and of laughter, bitter love and sweet loss, paradise and purgatory. The cottage, apart from bricks and mortar, was built with memories and the souls of everyone and everything. Wherever you looked, you could recollect something associated with the items in your vision, be it a clock or a creaky floorboard. This, if destroyed, would never be recovered, and would be sacrificed to fading memory. Of course, the human mind was the most powerful when it came to reflecting on the past, but there was only so much it could do when society was as fast paced and as demanding as it was. You did not want to forget, and so wanted to desperately cling to what little you had left of a precious safe haven that had now been fully revived. Wasn't the past always more beautiful when it blended with the present and gained deeper and more vibrant colours?

“Seonghwa! It's ready!”

“Hello I am here-” almost immediately, he rushed out of the office and strode into the kitchen, “did you make seaweed soup? For me?”

“As if you did not guess.”

“Hey, hey, I saw, heard, and said nothing. My goodness, Y/N, I am touched beyond words…”

“It's not too big of a deal, really. I just wanted to make a little something for you and again, wish you a happy birthday,” you attempted to wave him off and stirred the soup once more before turning off the gas and setting the spoon down.

“I hope you don't mind this very forward expression of affection, but may I… hug you?” arms ever so slightly lifted from his sides, Seonghwa waited.

“Woah Seonghwa, so daring,” you teased, “ah come here, birthday boy,” you invited him, heart beating just that little bit faster when he gave you a boxy wide grin and stepped forward to close the space.

Your arms wrapped around his torso, sliding down into a more relaxed position on his waist while his had snaked around you, condoning you from the world. You were careful to not tarnish the impeccable white fabric, but inevitably gave in when you sensed Seonghwa's hand hovering behind your head, as if saying that you could relax into him fully, without any worries. A dazing softness consumed you as your cheek met his shoulder - one last effort to maintain at least a bit of distance between your faces and to hide your quickly blooming blush. He was what you imagined a daydream would be as a person: sweet and comforting, with subtle floral notes and a deep lasting undertone with an indescribable complexity. Honey and the most decadent coffee were the two things that came to mind, but they lacked the original heaviness of the taste and aroma. So heavenly, so surreal, so Seonghwa. Like the setting sun when it hit the waves.

“Thank you,” he whispered into your hair. You suppressed a shiver. Rocking side to side, you stood in the kitchen, neither of you wanting to disturb this bliss.

“Mm, it’s fine.”

“More than fine.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

“Shall we eat?”

“Yes please,” he uttered, but showed no signs of moving. His arms remained where they were; if anything, they were holding onto you with even more determination, as though you were so fragile you had to be protected from even a speck of dust.

“Are we… uhm, we kind of… need to move to get everything set up.”

“Ah, right,” flustered, Seonhwa detangled himself from you, and rushed to open a cupboard, producing a pair of bowls. A hint of red was visible on his cheeks and the tips of his ears; you were not alone in being a tiny bit shy from the obvious reciprocation.

You had learned each other’s patterns, who tended to move in what order, who reached where, who minded what. The two of you moved in perfect synchrony without trying, following newly acquired instinct. How could you ever not adore the cottage and all the events that led up to now? Not all had been sweet, but without the sour and the atrocious, you would not have been able to experience what you were experiencing as you settled down across from Seonghwa. Or rather, in close proximity to him, since almost instantly, he stood up from his seat and gestured for you to rise again only to take your chair and bring it closer to his side. Accepting your adorable fate, you took your bowl and cutlery and repositioned them.

“There. Now I approve.”

“Wait a second!” you searched in your pockets for an item you had discovered in the midst of your cooking frenzy. Seonghwa was patient, albeit confused, and waited until you produced a box of matches and balanced it on your palm, “not a candle, but you can make a wish!”

“My word, this is, hah- I love it.”

“Perfect. Then, here we go!”

You took out a match, and struck it against the side of the box, gasping as it burst into flames - luckily not too intensely or you would be short for time. You started to sing while Seonghwa joined you by mouthing the lyrics and accompanying with rhythmic claps. The fire started to move down the match, the tip of it having already burned out. Saved by the final notes you saw Seonghwa briefly closing his eyes. He reached out his hand and softly rested it on your wrist as he blew out the flame right before it reached your fingers. As suddenly as he had touched you, he let go, not too dissimilar from the dancing red and orange flickers which had just been illuminating the birthday table. For good measure you shook the match and excused yourself to dispose of it after running it under some water. After drying your hands, you straightened out the towel without a second thought. The rest of the meal was quiet aside from a phrase here and there. No longer was there a need to fill the pauses. Companionship was enough. Only when you were almost done did Seonghwa address you, gingerly as though he was scared of breaking the calm.

“Again, thank you so much, this is the best birthday I ever had. I even got to make a wish!” he chuckled.

“I highly doubt it, but I’ll accept your kind words.”

“Humble, so humble,” he paused. When you lowered your spoon to give him your undivided attention, you noticed his miniscule pout.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Ah, nothing. Nothing much.”

“About all the birthday wishes you read, right?” you nudged him.

“Hm, there were some…” he recollected.

“And?” you tried, sensing that he was purposefully leaving some things unsaid.

The question hung in the air, a time bomb. Seonghwa bided the seconds he had to himself before he inevitably had to respond by tasting more of the seaweed soup and nodding in approval. You gave him a brief nod and were about to let the matter go for the sake of a celebratory evening, however it seemed that Seonghwa had other plans. He never could lie, you realised. Or speak in half-truths. He was sincere to a fault, but it was one of the many things you had come to like about him.

“So there is something.”

“Yes.”

‘Say it.”

“I... I don’t know. It might be a little... sad?” he was careful with his words, evidently not wanting to make a big deal out of whatever was plaguing his mind.

“Go on. Say it. It’s okay,’ something told you that you knew what it was going to be anyways. You pursed your lips, ignoring the sinking feeling in your chest.

“I’ll... I’ll have to leave. In a couple of days? Yeah... Hm... I- yeah. in a couple of days,” he fumbled his words and could not face you, instead staring at his own reflection in the soup.

It was bound to happen someday. Your time was not eternal, either. If not today, then you would have had to have this conversation at some point either tomorrow, or the day after that... or could you have pushed it until much later? Would have Seonghwa forgiven you if, on the day of your departure, you would have dropped the news that your sabbatical had run out? If not him, then it would have most certainly been you starting the conversation.

“Oh. Okay,” you mumbled, heart and mind in conflict. This was your fault - had he remained a stranger, you would have had an easier time now. How he had suddenly appeared in your life, he would have disappeared, but now? The inevitable parting was like a high risk, invasive operation which no matter what was going to have aftershocks and side effects.

Seonghwa did not look any better. Misty-eyed and regretful, he inadvertently slumped his shoulders and curled into himself, appearing smaller and more feeble. You wished he did not care, so that it would be easier to learn how to hate him, but you could not ignore how the knuckles of the hand with which he was holding the spoon were turning white. Tentatively, you reached out to him and rested a hand on his shoulder, an action that took him somewhat by surprise judging by how quickly his head turned towards you. His dark eyes bore into yours, shimmering with intense emotion, threatening to overspill.

You realised: this was it. The crossroads. You were faced with a choice, and it was up to you to decide what was to be the absolute right. You could hold a pause and then resort to exhibiting an astonishingly unperturbed stance; he had his life and his path to follow, you had yours, so what if you had poured your souls out to each other and he had rekindled something which you thought you had lost forever? Or you could take a risk and potentially condemn yourself to hurting, if not for the rest of your life than at least for a long, long time, after which all you had seen and lived through in these few weeks at the cottage would have been the one memory to stick with you no matter what you were to do. You knew that wherever, be it under fluorescent lights, or while planning a correction surgery or attempting to discourage a patient from following a fad, you would see him. You bit the bullet, and, for what had to be the first time, followed your heart. Because tragedy, too, could be beautiful.

“Let’s make the most of what we have left. And then see what the future holds. We are two people who are very alike. Caught adrift in a storm. That is what you told me when we first started getting to know each other, right?”

Seonghwa's eyes conveyed a delicate balance of tenderness and nervousness. His gaze, though wrestling with melancholy, flickered with a charming intensity that spoke volumes. His free hand that rested on his leg that he had begun to shake out of unchangeable habit betrayed a subtle tremor, a silent testament to the whirlwind in his mind. Fingers danced nervously, tracing invisible patterns or perhaps echoing poetry that floated in his heart. You could only guess what he was grappling with, but, in the end, when you put your hand over his to abate some of his tension, a reciprocation of your determined decision was undeniable. As he stilled, you observed a serene reassurance. A quiet confidence that spoke of an undeniable care for you, of what could happen to the two of you, and of how worth it the risk was in the end. His heart beat in harmony with yours, mutual melodies rang out in time to the day rushing past the cottage. You shared a longing that was born out of the fear of what could be lost if words failed. But were words even necessary, when this bouquet of delicate emotions was so unbelievably easy to read? The truth was unwavering, and it, too, was beautiful.

“How does the storm look like to you?” he whispered, turning his hand palm up to clasp yours. You knew what was on his mind, and he was aware of what you wanted, no, needed to say to defeat a part of yourself that was scared to ever feel.

‘Beautiful. So, so beautiful.”

“Could you tell me more about it?”

“Hmm...” you thought for a moment, before pointing to Seonghwa’s shoulder. He nodded, and in no time, your head was resting on him while your fingers tightly intertwined, “...where should I start?”

“Anywhere.“

“You’re a poet and an academic, for goodness’ sake, I’d like some expert advice,” you retorted, your voice remaining light, bright and playful.

“Hardly the latter.”

“That’s what the future is holding for you, isn’t it?” you felt his cheek brush your crown, and smiled to yourself when you heard a low chuckle.

“I sure hope so. Much better than whatever was happening before.”

“It’s all part of the journey.”

“I see someone’s very optimistic!” Seonghwa’s exclamation was void of any malice. Genuinely cheerful and proud of your metamorphosis from a sardonic and grim misanthrope to a hopeful doctor proud of who they and those they loved were, he considered it to be the greatest gift. Laden with meaning and stemming from unfathomable effort, you allowed yourself to flourish and find reasons to live, rather than reasons to not die.

“Maybe because, while there are certain things we cannot change, I have come to realise that there is something sweet about it. Take leaving the cottage for example. Technically, we could stay. But in the long term, it is only going to result in a far from happy ending. So what does that mean for both you and me? We cannot change the fact that we have to leave. However in this we confirm to ourselves and each other that this is not a dream and that our time here... yeah. Yeah,” you cut yourself off, embarrassed by your own words, earning yourself a tiny shoulder nudge and a squeeze of the hand.

“Yeah, what?” Seonghwa’s curiosity was piqued. Too late. No going back for you. You bit your lower lip and inhaled deeply in an effort to stop yourself from cringing.

“Please forgive me for the insane cheesiness, but-”

“Only the highest quality cheese could come from you, don’t you fret.”

“Seonghwa!”

“What? Accept it. Now, as the people say, ‘spill the tea’.”

“A modern poet, truly.”

“Of course, of course, I try my best.”

“Anyways,” you interjected, returning to your train of thought, “ I just wanted to say that I am happy...”

“With what?” you could catch a note of teasing in his tone, but chose to let it go.

“With... this,” you gestured to him, to yourself and then to the surrounding rooms, “this is by far... the best I have felt. In a long, long time.”

“Oh? Someone made you feel this way before?”

“Shush, you get what I mean,” you glared upwards and twisted to lightly slap Seonghwa on his chest, which turned out to be a mistake in the making since he did not miss the chance to capture you fully. And so you were stuck, semi-suspended and essentially at Seonghwa’s mercy with how he was supporting your balance, blinking in surprise at his coy smirk.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. What are you ready to say?”

“Considering how we keep switching topics, I don’t think I can answer anything.”

“Okay, okay, the storm then. What does it mean?”

“What storm?” you furrowed your brows.

“Y/N we just discussed it-”

“Ah, right. Actually, you know what, everything might be linked,” you tried to shuffle to get a better angle and not feel like you were about to topple at any moment, but Seonghwa was not so eager to stop practically cradling you.

“Hm?”

“I mean, the books you recommended, the things you write, hell, even the cottage and you and I... isn't this all like the weather?”

“Curious observation, but yes, I can see where you are coming from. Do go on,”

“If you let me sit down properly, and maybe... finish your soup?” you pointed your chin at the cooling dish.

“Right, sorry, but hey! You too! I see the-”

“Eat, Hwa, then I promise you I will give you a full rundown of my chaotic analogies.”

You were shocked from how speedily he inhaled the soup and then, with a proud look on his face, flung his arm over the back of your chair and announced that his mission was accomplished. As you chewed on the last of the seaweed and ladled the last spoonful of broth, a tiny voice in your head made you want to return to the cliffs and yell louder than before: this conversation, everything that was happening now was because you had accepted that something was beautiful to you. Or rather, instead of connecting beauty to something concrete, you now were comfortable with beauty being an ever-changing continuum. Thanks to what?

“Okay, I’m done now. So, the storm. We were running from them, weren’t we?”

“Mhm.”

“But now... I don’t know if you think the same but I dare say those storms are not so spooky anymore,” if only you could have taken a picture then and there to keep in your wallet. The precious glimmering joy visible across every feature was contagious, and your doubt was forgotten.

“Not spooky at all,” you could hear the gears moving in his head as he regarded you.

“What?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason,” he sighed and hid his gaze, “...shall we clear the table?”

“Let’s do it.”

He did not miss the chances to brush past you, or to steady himself after reaching across for something by tapping your arm or your waist. Not that you minded, but his amplified affections were dizzying. It was as though he was doing everything in his power to ensure that he would be missed so strongly by you that you would end up snapping and attempting to find him in the big city. That was when it hit you - you did not know where he lived, nor where location-wise he worked, nor his contact details. It had never come up in conversation - neither of you were terribly fond of delving too deep into how life was in the metropolis and had shared what was necessary for the present, and considering that in the weeks you had been here you two were always in close proximity, things like phone numbers or social media details were obsolete. When you finished washing up, dried your hands, and waited for Seonghwa to complete his task of putting the dishes away, you were astonished by your own lack of foresight. You had always been a planner but following your time at the cottage you wanted time to stop.

“Hey may I ask something? Or rather for something?”

“Go on ahead- wow, the sun sure is doing its magic,” you followed Seonghwa’s gaze and stepped after him into the living room.

The window. A little old thing. The frame was holding up impressively well, and the paint had remained pristine even after you had opened the window a couple of times to let the fresh air in. Beyond it, between the shrubs and above the stone wall was a never ending golden steppe, rippling and rolling in heavenly rays. It was rare to have a day as good as this on this part of the coastline. Leaves shimmered like coins, and the clouds took on yellow, orange and lilac hues, waving from up above.

“Truly.”

“Anyways, as you were saying?” he turned, catching some of the sunlight on his regal form.

“Let me borrow the horrendous phrase for a second... ahem, may I get your number?” Much to your delight and amusement, Seonghwa did not bat an eye, and instead dug in his pocket.

“Ahead of you, but thank you for reminding me. Here. I put down my number, my home address, the publisher’s office... and my private social media if you want to connect on there.”

“How-”

“I want to... hm... I didn’t think that, when I come to actually saying what I want to say, that it would be kind of hard,” cryptic, as ever when he was about to shake you to your core with something profound. You took the piece of paper from him, carefully refolding it after checking the written contents and sliding it into the pocket of your cardigan.

“Time for me to inquire. Whatever do you mean?”

“I want to keep this going.”

“Oh?”

“Interesting thing to wish for after we literally lived together, but... I want to see you. Officially see you. What do you say?”

“Ever the gentleman,” his lopsided grin made you wish you could squeeze his cheeks. Perhaps down the line you could have that privilege, “I accept.”

“You do?”

“I too, really want to see you. Often, I hope,” Seonghwa’s vigorous nodding, paired with his undivided attention was like a thousand suns, brilliant and beyond anything you could put into a sentence. He approached you and peered into what had to be your very soul.

“May I spoil a potential gift? And, sort of, the reason why I need to depart?”

“Go on, I am all ears.”

“You know how,” his pointer fingers hooked around yours, and you were subconsciously pulled to him, “my relatives own this cottage, right?”

“Right,” you were aware, and had accepted it. Such was life.

“Well... I may or may not have gotten in contact with them, and am starting a legal process to put the property up for sale.”

“For sale? Excuse me? Are you mad? It will be- no, I cannot let this, no, they will bulldoze this place into the dirt I-” you began to panic, voice rising higher and blood beginning to boil.

“I did not say to whom the property will be sold.”

“Some mogul or billionaire who does real estate for fun.”

“Are you either of the two?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you a mogul or real estate fiend?”

“I? No?”

“The sale is a formality anyways. The cost will be put down as one won, which I’ll just pass to my cousin with a handshake. Your job, should you wish to be the owner of the cottage, is to sign some papers, and attend some meetings.”

“Am I dreaming?”

“This place does sometimes give the surreal sensation of floating in space, but I promise you, you are not. In fact, tomorrow we can go to the cafe again and I can show-”

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you thank you thank you-”

“Glad I can help in some way. This is your cottage, after all-”

“I am on cloud nine... how is this- how did you?” you swung your arms, with Seonghwa’s following.

“Easy. I just mentioned you. That was enough to seal the deal. Old Man talked about you, you know.”

“Oh, I- may I hug you?”

“You do not need to ask me for permission to do that,” you did not need to be told twice.

Your thoughts were racing. This could not be. You shut your eyes until you saw phosphenes. Opened them again. You were still in Seonghwa’s arms, in that sweet-scented paradise, caressed by a tender flame. All emotions that had been slumbering over the years have fully awoken, and were threatening to come to the surface to rejoice in what could only be called the reclaiming of the self. Your history, your identity that was stored in these four walls was now promised to be yours. Was that not to celebrate?

“Seonghwa… it is your birthday and you are giving me the gift of an infinite number of lifetimes...”

“My gift is seeing you so happy,” you inhaled sharply, and peered at his dark chocolate irises.

“Come on, you cannot be serious.”

“I am more serious than you could imagine. And I hope to keep proving it to you. Day by day. Again, if you let me.”

“I don’t know what to say or do right now. I am a tiny bit overwhelmed... this... this is as if I walked into a magical house, met a magician, and he tapped me on the head with a little wand and here we are, wish granted,”

“I knew I was missing something.”

“What?“

“A wand,” you beamed and floated into bliss, focusing on Seonghwa’s heartbeat, endearingly close to your own both physically, and rhythmically. Right here was beautiful, right this moment was beautiful. The promise and plan was beautiful. But one note of misery remained, one that you were determined to vanquish.

“Seonghwa?”

“Yes?”

“I am a little anxious about something...” he hugged you closer, but instead of it being soothing, it made you want to cry despite the euphoria you were experiencing.

“What is it?”

“What if it goes away?”

“What goes?”

“What if beauty disappears when I go back?”

You knew it was a silly question, you knew that it was all in your head and that you sounded like an absolute desperate fool while asking this, but it was sickening, a lump in your throat that you could not swallow. The first light of love and of freedom, so pure and so unconditional, was addictive and sweet. You did not want to consider its falsities or ponder potential disillusionment. You threw away even the inklings of paranoid suspicion that Seonghwa, too, could join the ranks of those who laced their kind words with malice or with judgement, and might have wanted to play with your feelings, both romantic and historic. At least right here, right now, you wanted to believe in there being someone who could love in both the presence and absence of beauty, whatever any given individual desired to define it to be. You wanted to know that he was on your team, and that this place really was a key to real life wish-fulfilment. Seonghwa’s hand slowly glided down your back, disappeared, and slid down again. In this perpetual motion he silently offered some stability.

“You know it won’t.”

“How?”

“Because you are you. Your soul is beautiful. And if you ever think that the world around you is starting to strike you like the cold winter months, remember that, now, I am just one call away. Always.”

“But it- goodness, sorry,” you were choked up and had to pause. Seonghwa did not make you hurry, instead, he brushed away the strand of hair that was about to get in your eye, and looked at you as though you were his future.

“Don’t apologise for feeling, my angel.”

‘Stop, Hwa, you’re going to make me bawl in a moment,” you exclaimed with a groan, trying to laugh your concerns away. Seonghwa chuckled, but kept holding onto you, rocking on his legs, swaying side to side like the eternal, unstoppable clock that governed your entangled lives.

“Oh no, we don’t want that, do we?” his voice vibrated across his chest, and in turn, struck your heart like a dozen healing melodies. ‘We’, it was now ‘we’, rather than everyone being left to scramble for salvation, against everybody else who surrounded them. You repeated the word in your mind once, and again, and again, until it turned into wind chimes twirling in a waltz with a serene breeze.

“I’d like to smile more with you.”

“I’d like that too. I never get tired of smiling with you,” you pushed your upper body away by a fraction to admire Seonghwa more.

“I am afraid, Seonghwa. You make me so happy. I- I am so happy. But so, so afraid that all of this will vanish.”

“Y/N,” his hands clasped around you, relaxing - a gentle salvation from all dark secrets the coming months undoubtedly contained, “Beauty shall never vanish. Because love is beautiful. There were times when I have been shaken even by the weakest of winds, and times when my breathing was unbearably heavy. One single comment or event... anything at all could turn a bright summer day into a biting winter. Storms shall always remain, even if we try to bid them farewell...”

He waited for you to steady your breaths before continuing, and upon your brief nod, pressed his forehead against yours. His hair tickled your skin the tiniest bit, but it only made you more aware of him, more connected to him. More loved and seen.

“Our pasts and our steps through our years brought us towards each other. And... I am... so, so honoured and so happy that a person like me can bring happiness to your life, and can only hope that I can give you as much love. I am stunned by how we do the little things together, how you ask about me, how you, you wonderful angel, give me love for no reason as if it was only natural,” tears welled up in your eyes, only to be caught by Seonghwa’s thumbs and erased before they could form a river, “Maybe my greatest gift is you, and all the little things that make you, you. Because you are here, in my life, and are part of my world, I am learning the feeling of love again. Now,” he noticed your urgency as you were about to interrupt him, and tapped your nose with his own, “Thanks to you, thanks to us, I am finding beauty. I cherish our past, our spectacular present, and pray for our future to exceed eternity.”

“Seonghwa...”

“Spring comes and goes, but I will always ensure that your heart stays warm. If you will let me.”

“If you will let me do the same,” the gap between you grew smaller and smaller, until was a mere memory and you tasted the coffee and honey, the many sunrises and sunsets to come, the sound of the waves and the rustling of the grass on the cliffs.

The cottage, while it was a real place with its many wonders, was more than that. It was a panacea, a safe haven in one’s mind or a world for those whom one loved. The cottage could be anything, could be anyone, could be anywhere.

And that was truly beautiful.

⋆✧.✧⋆

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rookthorne · 3 months

Text

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐀 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐰𝐨, 𝐨𝐟 𝐄𝐧𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

They said fate worked in mysterious ways; the strings of destiny plucked and pulled and snapped at the leisure of those they controlled, but not you. The delicacy in which you handled the woven web was forever unseen and unprecedented, and your patience was to be rewarded in a way you least expected.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ʚɞ Modern!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ʚɞ 4.3k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ʚɞ Fluff, angst and emotional conflict, protective Bucky, perceived unrequited feelings, big confessions ჻჻჻ TROPES: And they were roommates, oblivious best friends to lovers, my own take on soulmates, mutual pining

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ʚɞ Something that I have not attempted before now — for @sebstanwhore. 💜

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔 ʚɞ What Was I Made For? by Billie Eilish ʚɞ Only by RY X ʚɞ Let's Hurt Tonight by OneRepublic ʚɞ illicit affairs by Taylor Swift

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 ʚɞ @anyfandomfluffbingo 𝗚𝟰 — Roommates — Masterlist ʚɞ @sebastianstanbingo 𝗕𝟭 — Idiots to Lovers — Masterlist

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It had been this way for as long as you could remember.

For years, you crushed hard on Bucky — the man that had been your rock, your partner in crime since childhood. So rare it was to have a connection from so long ago, let alone be as formidable as the two of you were. Interwoven and weaved together stronger than steel.

Time had wound you both so close together that wherever one went, the other followed; always joined at the hip.

It was only natural that in the end, you found an apartment together, becoming roommates and best friends — facing the challenges of life together.

Through the time that you spent with Bucky, day in and day out for all of those years and up to now, your affections and attempts at flirting with the man that held your heart were brushed off or they flew over his head completely.

Bucky was oblivious like that. For all of his charm, his wit and intelligence, the man could be thick.

And that was how, after psyching yourself up for weeks, you landed in the dating scene. It was a long shot, but you figured if Bucky wouldn’t (or couldn’t) pick up what you were putting down, you were at least going and getting out there — even if your heart and soul was already taken by the man that lay haphazardly sprawled over your bed, staring at you with a disapproving scowl.

“Nope, no, you– Why don’t you wear those jeans?” Bucky huffed, exasperated after you threw the umpteenth pair of dress pants over your shoulder, only for them to land directly on his handsome face. “Boo, c’mon,” he groaned as he pulled the fabric off of his face. “You’re gonna look amazing no matter what.”

At the use of your nickname reserved only for him, you looked over your shoulder and frowned. “I have to look good. I have to.”

Bucky sighed and rolled off the bed, his stature broad and muscled as ever. The tattoos that covered his arms and hands distracted your train of worry, and you stared as he neared; more artistry visible from the collar of his shirt to spread up one side of his neck.

“C’mere,” he said, and you felt his hands grab ahold of yours. The touch he provided you ground you back on earth; the proximity reassuring, more than any words would be able to replicate.

You could feel his eyes as he searched your body, the subtle way he picked up your cues or anxiety and dread, and you felt that there was no way you could meet his gaze — the intensity of it burned your skin while you stared determinedly down at his hands, observing with a keen eye how his deft fingers felt running over the skin of your palms, and how his rough, callused thumbs ran over your knuckles.

“Honey.” His deep voice was softer than silk. “Can you look at me?”

You took a deep breath to steel yourself. From his hands, you looked up into his eyes — they swam with untold emotion, raw and unbridled in his adoration, and if you didn’t know any better, you would have sworn that was how he would look at a lover. That thought did nothing to quell the roiling nausea in the pit of your stomach.

“There y’are, my pretty girl,” he cooed, smiling. “What’s got you all upset, huh?”

That it’s not you I’m going on a date with, you answered in your mind. Before that thought could be spoken aloud, you replied, “I’m just nervous.”

The nervous waver in your voice made you grimace, and you cursed.

Bucky sighed. “That’s normal, Boo—you’re gonna knock ‘em dead. They’re not gonna know what’s hit ‘em.”

An ache, intense and painful, bloomed within your chest, and it consumed your heart whole. From the safety of your mind, you screamed out for him to just see; to know what you were thinking.

The courage to speak up had long ago waned and worn thin, vanishing with the days that passed.

“Okay,” you whispered, and you took your hands from his to turn your back on him. The litany of cries that built up in your throat only blocked by the tears that threatened to beat them — Bucky was looking at you with the adoration of a best friend watching their partner in crime strike out and try something new, you reminded yourself.

A heavy, poignant silence filled the room while you shuffled around your closet for that perfect outfit, but you did your best to ignore it — the internal war to determinedly keep your shoulders straight and your breathing even was close to impossible, but you put every last ounce of effort into it.

You weren’t to see the way Bucky’s eyes clouded over, or how low his shoulders slumped in defeat; the way his heart cracked just a little bit more behind you.

His heart knew, and so did yours. It was only a matter of time, they whispered — unseen, but oh so wise.

The next day, you awoke with the sun — golden rays peaked through the blinds of your window. You yawned and sat up to look around your bedroom and the state it was left in from the night before. It had been rough, the date far less than ideal or any semblance of fun, but the sanctuary of your space healed what sadness you felt.

Your bed was strewn with soft, comfortable pillows and blankets. The bookshelves along one wall were full to the brim with books and knick knacks you’d accumulated over the years.

One of which in particular stood out. The smooth, clear glass of the statue shone in the morning light, but the structure was unaffected by the golden glow in its beauty — a pair of jellyfish, intertwined while they danced, stood proud at the front of one of the larger shelves.

Right next to it sat a framed photograph of Bucky and you. It was taken when you first moved into the apartment.

Bucky stood behind you, his head next to yours while his arms wrapped around your middle to hug you tight — the grin that pulled at his lips was priceless with its show of joy. Brown hair covered his forehead in stray strands that stuck to his forehead, and the rest flowed down his neck.

You could see the unpacked boxes behind the two of you in the background — it had been a scorching day and Bucky insisted on being the one to bring them all in, much to your annoyance. You remembered making him the biggest drink to help him feel better once he collapsed onto the couch in what was now your living room.

The memory was one of your favourites; it never failed to make you smile. And if you could still feel the ghost of his lips on your cheek after he said, “We did it, honey, we fuckin’ did it,” you weren’t going to share that with anyone.

Your gaze shifted to yourself in the photo — exhaustion was evident in the bags under your eyes, after so many late nights from stress and packing, Bucky never failed in his mission to cheer you up. Then, you looked at your mouth, and you found yourself imitating the blinding smile you flashed at the camera.

Longing pulled at your heart, the ache of it far too real and material to ignore.

The sudden sound of pans moving in the kitchen caught your attention, followed by the low hum of the fridge while it was opened and closed, then the sizzle of a frying pan over the cooker. You looked at the clock on your bedside drawers and saw it was still early — the reminiscent memories felt like they had taken hours from your day.

“Breakfast,” you mumbled sleepily. The covers shifted as you sat up and rubbed your eyes from the sleep that formed overnight.

“And if the sun starts setting,” a deep voice sang from the kitchen, “The sky goes cold, then if the clouds get heavy and start to fall.”

You froze — the world continued on its axis as though it hadn’t left you behind, reeling to comprehend what you were hearing. “Bucky?” you mouthed confusedly, and you strained your ears to hear the rest of what he was singing.

“I really need somebody to call my own, I wanna be somebody to someone,” he continued quietly. “And if you feel like night is falling, I wanna be the one you're calling; 'cause I believe that you could lead the way.”

Did Bucky really just–? The song died away just as you heard footsteps approaching your door from the hallway. “Shit.” You schooled your expression into something you hoped was neutral after the disorientating disbelief of what you heard.

The door handle rattled gently as Bucky gripped it on the other side, then he knocked softly. “Boo? You awake?” It creaked open. “I’m makin’ breakfast–”

“Hey,” you rasped, still sleep-addled. “I’ll be out in a bit—thanks, Buck.”

Bucky peered around the now open door, and his expression lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. “Hey, you,” he greeted, and he stepped into your room to lean on the door frame. “How was last night, honey? You got back pretty late.”

“You waited up for me?”

He nodded. “‘Course I did—I didn’t wanna step in on the happy glow after a date, so I just made sure you got to bed alright, that’s all. You’re not exactly a quiet one,” he teased with a wink.

Heat crept up your neck at his thoughtfulness and playful comment, but you powered on. “Oh– Oh, well, it was alright, I guess,” you offered.

Bucky raised a brow and inclined his head, willing you to go on.

“Actually, I ended up–” You hesitated, clearing your throat. There was no way of knowing how he would react to what happened, and it made you nervous for what he would say — always so protective, he was.

“There was a reason for that,” they whispered while they watched from above.

“I ended up, uh– Walking off, you know, away from them.”

The billowing silence that filled the room after your admission faltered your explanation and you fell quiet, unable to explain anymore of what happened.

Bucky stood frozen in the doorway. “I’m sorry—I, uh– I can’t have heard you right, Boo. Say that again?”

In one breath, you said, “I walked off—away from them—because they wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise and I got sick of it.”

He advanced slowly, footsteps muffled and quiet over the floor. “What?”

“I know and I’m sorry–”

“Why the hell didn’t you call me!” Bucky exclaimed, his bright eyes wide. He gestured at himself and said, “I would have come and got you—you know that I would do anything for you!” The panic in his voice truly didn’t fit the situation and you stared at him, dumbstruck by the fear in his voice. “I– I can’t believe you didn’t call–”

He seemed lost for words as he ran his hands through his hair. “I would have run–”

“Bucky, please,” you rushed, holding a hand out towards his heaving chest to soothe him. “Please, it’s okay. I’m alright. Besides, I have a date tonight with someone better—well, I hope they are.”

The sharp stare that he gave you at the reveal of your plans shocked you to your core. It was full of hurt; a sadness that you would give anything to never see again. “What–?”

He shook his head, the soft strands of his hair covering his face for a brief moment. “Nothin’, honey. I’m just glad you’re home.” There was a pause as he turned back towards the hallway; a flash of something in his eyes, but what, you could not fathom. “C’mon you, breakfast.”

There was another heavy, sombre silence as you watched Bucky retreat towards the kitchen.

The change in Bucky’s attitude made you frown with worry. He was the stronger one of the two of you, that you knew for certain — always steadfast and strong, unwavering in his determination, and this outburst made no sense. He never, ever reacted this way before to any news of a potential date or night out, and the fact that he started now was far too confusing and overwhelming to comprehend.

“To hell with this,” you muttered, and you threw off the covers to get up and get dressed for the battle that awaited you — to get to the bottom of this, you realised, you’d need a warm drink, and some of the breakfast he was preparing.

Rather than dressing in your own clothes, you threw one of Bucky’s shirts over your undergarments and smiled softly as the worn, soft fabric brushed against your skin — a calculated move.

The strong smell of your favourite warm drink wafted down the hallway, enticing you onwards towards the kitchen, where the clang of pots and pans sounded. You slowly padded towards the counter to fetch it, but when Bucky saw you approach from around the corner, he briefly hesitated. “What time do you go–? To your date tonight, I mean,” he asked before he quickly turned away from you.

You narrowed your eyes at the back of his head, where his hair fell loose and long down his neck. “Uh– It’s at six, I think.” The warmth of the drink made you feel a little better while you sipped at it. “I can check in a bit, if you want.”

Bucky hummed and flipped a pancake. “And what are you two doin’?”

The mug made a quiet thump when you placed it down on the counter next to you. “They’re taking me to a Christmas fair—the market in the park?”

“I know the one,” he mumbled, and he didn’t elaborate or continue.

You stared at his broad back, watching as his shoulders flexed and relaxed beneath his shirt while he worked resolutely on preparing breakfast. Suspicion lurked in the corners of your mind — why was he suddenly so interested?

An infinitesimal flicker of hope from his driven curiosity sparked itself to life in your stomach, and you tried your hardest to stomp it out, though it proved difficult. Quietly, you asked, “Are you asking me all this because you’re curious, or–?”

There was no reply — only the sound of the pan in his hand shuffling over the burner and the simmer of pancake batter.

You cleared your throat and stepped closer to him. “Buck–?”

“Nothing.”

“What–?” you stammered, and you placed a hand on the back of his shoulder. Your heart seized like a vice had fastened around it when he stiffened under the soft touch. “Bucky, what’s wrong? You’re acting strange—has something happened?”

“No,” Bucky said tightly, and he shrugged off your hand. That alone had you close to tears. “It’s almost ready, go get–”

“Bucky.”

Stormy blue eyes met yours, and you were shocked to see such a mix of fierce emotions swimming in the depths of his normally stoic gaze. “What?” he snapped.

“Talk to me,” you urged, “What’s wrong?”

Bucky turned back to the stove top, determinedly continuing on with his cooking. “It– It’s nothin’, I promise. Can you pick a movie to watch while we eat?”

The walls he built to protect himself from outsiders were rapidly falling into place against you, blocking you from all of what you knew and loved. The pain of such a realisation made you back off; tears in your eyes as you stepped back from his presence to lean against the counter.

There were no triggers that would make him act so brash, not from what you could parse or define from the past day or night; not any that you witnessed or heard.

“Okay,” you said shortly, and you frowned at him while you walked away.

The two mugs, one of them yours and the other Bucky’s, were warm against your palms while you carried them into the living room. Steam curled in the air under your nose, and you breathed in the spiced scent of Bucky’s drink. From the corner of your eyes, you saw the Christmas tree in the corner of the room as it twinkled, the lights winking and dancing in ignorance of the pain that filled your heart.

Now out of Bucky’s eyeline, you turned and stared at where he would be standing at the stove top. The heat of your stare was weak against the walls he built; unable to pierce through the foundations of his anxieties, nor barrel through them like a wrecking ball to expose the cause.

To see Bucky in such a state of distress plucked at the strings of your heart, and you couldn’t help but feel as though you were to blame — the thought was absurd, but it did not stop the burning broil of shame and anger in your stomach. “Nope, no,” you murmured, squaring your shoulders and balling your hands into fists. “I won’t let this go.”

Your feet carried you towards the kitchen, blissfully ignorant of the way your heart pounded in your chest; a rhythm you were sure that couldn’t last.

Bucky was leaning on the counter, his tattooed hands either side of the stove top, and his fingers, a few adorned with shining, silver rings, were still on the counter. His head hung low between his shoulders that shook minutely from aborted breaths.

“Bugs?” He didn’t move; the nickname did not even stir a reaction.

“I know you’re hurting,” you continued cautiously, and you stepped closer, replacing your hand on his shoulder to rub up and down his back. “Talk to me—let me help.”

“You can’t,” Bucky croaked, his voice strained and oh so pained — like glass was lodged in his throat. “Just– Just go into the living room. I’ll bring the food in a minute.”

“No. No, Buck.” You stepped closer, plastering your front to his side. “Don’t push me out, honey, please.”

Something shattered in his expression, and his bottom lip trembled — a sight you never wanted to see again. And he broke. “Oh, sweetheart,” you whispered, and you pulled him closer to place your forehead against his temple, so your breath fanned over his stubbled cheek. “What’s happened?”

The urge to protect and soothe well in practice now, and you felt the muscles in his face move, as though he was saying something. You couldn’t hear it over the blood roaring in your ears from adrenaline. “I didn’t catch that, honey,” you said softly, stepping impossibly closer. “What was that?”

The next words that fell from Bucky’s mouth tore your still beating heart from your chest. “Please get off me.”

You flinched and stepped back. A vicious, all-consuming ache in your chest took hold, and you stared, wide-eyed and tearful, at the side of Bucky’s head. “Why are you acting like this?” you pressed, still staring hard at him — the way he was breaking apart before you was as tragic as a car accident but you could not look away. “What’s happened to you? Did you have a nightmare–? Did someone say something?”

Bucky’s tattooed, callused hand moved to wipe his eyes, and he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just– Please,” he implored, glancing at you then back down at the pan on the stove. “Go get a movie or a show goin’—I don’t care which.”

The frustration boiled over. “Like hell I will,” you snapped. “Not when my best friend is pushing me out—I won’t leave you to wallow, Bucky.”

He groaned and hung his head. “You and your fuckin’ stubbornness, I swear–”

“You swear what, James?”

The look he shot you was full of a bitterness that did not belong on his handsome face. “Don’t do that–”

“Let me help you,” you interrupted, and you felt the claws of desperation sinking deep, gauging marks on your frail heart; the strength of it obvious in your shaky voice. “Please. I just want you to be–”

For a single second, you swore you saw Bucky’s body shift and turn inwards, protecting himself, but when you blinked a budding trail of tears back and it was gone — replaced by his posturing and an expression you could not decipher in your franticness.

It was inevitable that as best friends that the two of you would fight, argue, even disagree heatedly. There had been many times in the past you both had made up and returned to being like you always were, joined at the hip and inseparable, but something broke.

The damage felt well beyond what you thought you could repair, the finality of his hurt the final nail in the coffin, and hell…

There was, not for a moment, where you would not go down without a fight. You held his stare fiercely and started to demand, “What–”

And to your absolute surprise, he held up his hand to stop you and your tirade. The audible click of your jaw as it shut against the words that threatened to spill over echoed around the kitchen.

Bucky stared into your face, his stormy eyes flickering between your own. “You wanna know what I want?” The anger in his tone was something you had never heard from him; always so softly spoken with you, he had never raised his voice when he addressed you. “Do you?”

“Yes,” you replied. “I’m worried about you. You never, ever act like this and it’s scaring me, Bucky—it’s scaring me, you’re scaring me!”

The silence that followed your words and admittance of fear reverberated off of the kitchen walls, figuratively gauging the paint and cupboards and tearing it all to pieces.

Bucky opened his mouth, his lips parting in a grimace. “Boo– Fuck.” His hands combed through his hair, the tattoos on his fingers peeking through the strands; the rings glinted from the downlights above him. “Fuck.”

Raw, pure emotion pounded through your veins, unfiltered and unwanted — he was hurting, and here you were, selfishly digging to find the cause.

The blue of his eyes turned grey while tears built along his own lashes.

Your heart was in your throat, forcing its way up to land in your hands, an offering to him.

Take it, it’s yours.

“Please, please tell me how to help– I can’t let you hurt anymore,” you begged quietly, looking into his face. You stretched out a hand, and Bucky took it. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t tell you,” he rasped, wincing at the sound of his own voice. “Not now—I can’t do it.”

You frowned at him. “It’s okay, Buck—tell me what’s wrong so I can help–”

“Because–” Bucky hissed, cutting you off abruptly. Even louder, he continued, “Because all I have ever fuckin’ wanted was you!”

The claxon-loud silence rang so sharply in your ears that you flinched.

Never before had you heard Bucky shout — never before had you seen the tears stream down his cheeks to collect at his collarbones, staining the collar of his shirt.

Never before did you think that you would hear the words you dreamed of; not now, not ever.

Your lips moved before your mind could catch up. “You– You want me?”

Bucky looked at you, really looked at you, and you realised that he was staring at you with something akin to wonder, a deep fondness like you were the stars in the sky; the lights on a tree at Christmas time — the very same one in the living room.

“I’ve wanted you for so fuckin’ long,” he answered finally. “I’ve just been too much of a fuckin’ coward to say it.”

Blinking back tears, you screwed up your face with a self-loathing that burned hotter than a wildfire. “So, every time I went on a date with someone else–”

“You didn’t know,” Bucky whispered. “How could you have known if I didn’t say shit? How could you have known that I thought you were the one for me if I kept my mouth fuckin’ shut ‘cause I was scared?”

Tears tracked down your cheeks freely, the restraint vanishing as fast as your composure, and you swallowed thickly. “I didn’t know–” You coughed from the sudden parchedness in your throat. “Why–? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He didn’t answer; you rambled on. “I– I wish I knew, I have kept it hidden– Oh, god, Bucky, I’m so–”

Your words — an apology you felt was desperately needed — were cut off by Bucky’s lips on yours. His hands cupped your face, the pads of his thumbs brushing your cheeks to wipe away your tears.

It was a chaste press of his lips on yours, but it was enough to steal your breath from your lungs.

He pulled back from your lips but rested his forehead against yours. Blue eyes bore into yours, once so filled with an unknown agony; now elated, weightless at the confession. The pads of his thumbs continued to brush over your cheekbones, and in the silence, your thoughts reeled.

“I’ve had a crush on you for so long,” you whispered brokenly, barely holding in a sob. “Bucky, I– I wish you told me—I tried to tell you–”

“I’m sorry, Boo—I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” Bucky said softly, and he sniffed. “I didn’t– I should have said somethin’.”

You stared at him, then nodded gently. “Yeah,” you breathed, a half hysterical sound. “You fucking should have, you big, dumb idiot.”

“Well yeah, okay.” Bucky shrugged. “I earned that one.”

The two of you surged forward, kissing with a fervour unseen and you couldn’t stop the way your heart and spirits lifted. How what felt like a helium balloon had been tied around your middle to sweep you off your feet, when, in reality, it was truly just your best friend, the very same one that you had harboured a crush on for a lifetime.

Bucky was the first to pull away, his breath heavy and hot on your lips. “Why don’t I take you out?” he asked, smirking. “There’s a Christmas fair, and I wanna see the way my girl’s eyes light up, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, grinning widely at him. “But first? Pancakes.”

“The time had finally come,” they whispered, victorious and proud of the endgame — their smiles remaining unseen, but they were shared, nonetheless.

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fluff #rookthorne's works

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symphonyoflovenet · 2 years

Quote

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.

Carl Jung, Modern Man in Search of a Soul

#Carl Jung #lit #literature #quotes #quote #Modern Man in search of a soul #love #relationships

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dotster001 · 5 months

Note

Requests are open!! May I request a Lilia x reader that is lovers to enemies?? (You can choose why or if the ending is angst or fluff.) stay safe!!

A Lesson in Humanity

Summary: Lilia x gn!reader

CW: death, war (not on screen), injury, (how do I say this next one without spoiling the whole thing? Um...) There are drugs involved, angst, alternate universe

M/F=whichever parental term you'd have Silver refer to you by.

A/N: this ask....when I started it I thought it would be short and easy.... 😂

Your kingdom was on the outskirts of the Valley of Thorns. Despite the fact that in the last century, nobody had even heard from the queen, let alone glimpsed her army, tensions were always high, both for the fae who lived within the human kingdom, and the humans who lived in the fae one.

But a new era was dawning. And you'd worked hard to get here. You'd quickly risen through the ranks, and become your Queen's favorite diplomat. When you shared your dream of peaceful relations, she had fallen into the dream right alongside you.

So here you were. At the palace in the Valley of Thorns. Awaiting an audience with the Queen of the dark fae. You were surprised to see an older woman, similar to what the Queen was described as, but aged like a fine wine, and with an aura of power that nearly sent you to your knees.

As she walked in, behind her walked a boy, no less formidable, his emerald eyes icy and piercing.

And behind him, with a light hearted skip in his step, a man. His dark hair in a loose braid that exposed the magenta streaks in his hair. His eyes were just as incisive as the boys, but his face was less lined, less tense. He seemed to be enjoying things.

“Y/N L/N. Welcome to our kingdom. We are most excited to see what changes you can bring to our court,” the queen (?) said.

You bowed deeply, taking the opportunity to collect your thoughts in the midst of these very intimidating people.

“I am honored to be given this opportunity. I hope I don't let you down,” You said as you rose from your bow.

“See that you don't.”

The first visit was spent with you doing most of the talking, discussing where your kingdom was at in the modern era, discussing ways you hoped to improve relations, offering up various items you'd been given permission to trade in order to set up a trade route between your nations. You were exhausted. The two pairs of emerald eyes seemed to be searching your soul, while the magenta pair seemed thoroughly amused.

At length, you were dismissed for the evening, and the man with magenta eyes escorted you to your room.

“Chin up. You did well,” he said lightly as you walked.

It was the first time you'd heard him speak, and you were startled by the deep tone.

“Oh. Uh, thank you,” you choked out.

“Fu fu, you can relax around me. I'm trying to achieve the same things you are.”

He stopped walking, and held out a hand to you.

“Lilia Vanrouge,” he said.

You knew that name. Why did you know that name?

“Y/N L/N,” you shook his hand in return.

“Word of advice, don't give the fae your name,” he grinned maliciously.

You held back an eye roll. “Aren't we trying to do away with the old stereotypes?”

His grin deepened, and his eyes darkened. “That's not a stereotype, darling human.”

You didn't believe him, you really didn't. But he was definitely holding onto the bit for a slightly uncomfortable amount of time. Maybe fae humor was just different.

“Anyway, I'm sure you'll learn all about that during your stay here. Just as I'll learn about your human customs when I live with you.”

“Are you the fae diplomat, then?” You asked.

“Of course I am! Don't I seem so reliable?”

He began walking again, and you hastened your gait to catch up. For someone with such short legs, he was fast.

“In the spirit of honesty, Y/N, the reason you recognize my name is because you have heard of me.” He stopped abruptly, turned to you, and gave a mock salute. “General Lilia Vanrouge of her majesty's armies.”

You knew fae lived for a long time. But this man was a murderer. He'd killed many humans in his time. He was the Boogeyman that parents told their children about. And now he was fighting for peace?

You almost couldn't believe this was the person whose name was only spoken in whispers.

“You're confused. But that's fine. You're young. When you live a couple hundred years, you gain a perspective on things. Rest assured, I am the largest proponent of peace in this kingdom. I am your ally. And I will do what I need to do to make things right,” he said firmly. And you believed him. Seven help you, but you really believed him. So you nodded, and he smiled brightly. He pointed to the door down the hall.

“That's where you'll be staying. If you need me, just say my name, and I'll be there.”

And in a cascade of pink sparks, he was gone.

….

You'd both fallen hard. Perhaps it was your shared passion for a similar goal. Perhaps it was the allure of being from different species. Perhaps it was the day you'd seen him training shirtless, and couldn't look away.

But your relationship was a fire that only fueled the desire to bring the relations between your kingdoms closer. You complimented each other. Brought out the strengths in each other. And the last three years had breezed by, both of your dreams coming closer and closer to fruition.

Lilia broke the kiss you'd been trapped in for the last five minutes, and breathed against your lips.

“You should come live with me.”

“You say that everytime we're alone together,” you giggled, chasing his lips, him playfully dodging.

“And I mean it every time. Come live with me.”

“I don't think that my queen would be pleased to lose her favorite diplomat.”

“Sometimes I think she's in love with you, too, and she's using your position to keep you from me.”

“Very funny,” you snickered, “she'd rather the three of us be a package deal.”

“Fair,” he whispered, kissing you again, seeming to distract himself with you by accident, before pulling away again.

“But I'm really serious this time,” he said sternly, reaching into his pocket, and pulling out a black ring.

“Lilia,” you breathed out.

“I've been thinking about how we aren't getting any younger.”

You held back a snort at that. He looked exactly the same as the day you met him. But you remembered like it was yesterday the day he'd noticed a single silver strand in your hair. Just one. That's all it had taken for him to lock himself in his head for an hour as he held you tightly. You hadn't had any since, and you'd been pretty certain it was probably from stress, but Lilia had been a little shaky ever since then.

“We love each other. We shouldn't let that slip away,” he whispered.

You found yourself nodding, giving into his love filled eyes, but as you felt the cold ring slip onto your finger, you spoke up.

“One condition. We'll be engaged, but we won't get married until we've brought about peace.”

He groaned. “That could take forever!”

“Think of it as a way to celebrate the future unification of our people.”

He whined, imitating a child.

“Fine, but only if you live with me,” he pouted.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't hold back a grin.

“Okay, Vanrouge. I think we can work that out.”

….

The letters from home were….concerning. You'd thought you were making progress, but the queen had just announced her engagement to a fae duke she had met during one of her visits to the Valley of Thorns. And the reactions were less than ideal.

You put away the reading glasses that you were using, and rubbed your eyes with a groan. It always felt like one step forward, ten steps back.

Lilia would not be excited to postpone the wedding again. When you'd gotten the newest prescription of reading glasses, he'd been far more insisting about getting married sooner rather than later. But you intended to make him keep his promise.

“Why are you so distressed?” A voice called.

You turned to see the young fae prince, watching you expectantly.

Over the years you'd learned that he seemed cold, but that didn't mean anything. He was a sweet kid. He viewed Lilia as a father. It was endearing. A glimpse at a future you could have one day.

”I'm alright, your highness. Just feeling overworked.”

He tilted his head to the side, thinking. “Perhaps grandmother would allow you and Lilia to go on a trip.”

“That sounds nice, your highness, but I don't have time for-” you trailed off as you heard shouting in the hall outside, some knights bursting into your study and talking over themselves.

That is until they saw the prince, and shut themselves up, bowing deeply and apologizing to the prince.

You sighed internally. Both you and Lilia knew that treating the boy like a god was leaving him very lonely. You'd both been discussing ways to socialize him a bit more, but it was just as difficult as bringing lasting peace. And it didn't help that, despite his youth, he already possessed unmatched power.

“What's going on?” You interrupted, making the knights turn back to you.

“General Lilia, he-”

“We tried to stop them-”

Thunder boomed outside, and you quickly turned to the prince.

“Your highness, I'm sure he's fine,” you assured, trying to calm down what was already a torrential downpour. He turned to you, eyes distressed, and he nodded, only to be interrupted by the knights.

“He's not.”

“We're doing what we can, but-”

“It looks bad.”

“Where is he?” You asked, grabbing Malleus' hand as you stood.

“Medical wing.”

You intended to walk Malleus and yourself to the medical wing, but the world around you burst into green sparks and darkness, and the next thing you knew you were looking at a non responsive Lilia.

“Thank you, your highness,” you groaned, trying to catch your bearings again.

He didn't respond, simply staring at Lilia. You looked over at a doctor, and they shook their heads. You released a sob, and fell to the floor, crying into his stomach. Thunder boomed, and you felt Malleus' much smaller hand fit into yours, squeezing it tightly. You sat up, and pulled him into what you hoped was a comforting hug. He didn't cry, but you could feel him shaking.

“Oh crumbs!” You heard a shout, followed by a sharp intake of breath, as the bed next to you jostled.

You looked over and saw Lilia staring at you with wide eyes.

“Sevens! You scared the hell out of me!” You sobbed, throwing your arms around him. “Don't ever do that again!”

“I don't intend to. The underworld seems very boring,” he groaned. Before you could ask, you were unceremoniously pulled away as the medics began to work on him again.

You turned to Malleus, but he was gone.

“What happened?” You asked over the hubbub.

“Apparently the Queen was betrothed to a human lord, when she was just a child, and he's not happy that she broke it off for a fae. He's sending an army, and I got run through by his scout,” he laughed bitterly. “I'm getting old, Y/N, I'd never have missed him in my heyday.”

“Oh hush, middle aged is not old,” you laughed through the tension, brushing away more tears. This was not good. Not for Lilia, not for you, not for your dreams….and not for the kingdoms. But at least he was alive.

Green sparks filled your vision, and Malleus had returned.

“My grandmother wants an audience with you when you can move, Lilia.”

Lilia nodded, and reached out for Malleus. “It's going to be okay. I promise.”

The next week went by in a blur. Even though Lilia had assured you that now that he'd seen the underworld he had no intention of going back, there were several rough nights, where he was racked with fever as infection came and went.

The second he was allowed to leave the bed, he took his requested audience with the queen. After a tense hour, he had sat you down on the sofa in your study, as he paced. At length, he sighed and turned to you.

“An army is indeed coming. It's nothing we can't handle, but considering how injured I was, the queen is rightfully concerned.”

You nodded.

“She has asked me to take the prince, and live in the forest with him until she deems it safe. In the meantime, I'm supposed to teach him, train him, and make sure that I heal properly. Come with me.”

You bit your lip. “Is that an option right now? Won't they need me, at least on the human side of things?”

“This isn't the time for a diplomat. This is the time where the royals have to hold the discussion. This is the time where advisors write up a peace treatise, and make promises. They don't need diplomats until later. And I'm certain your queen would rather know you were safe with me until she needs you.”

He made good points. And you had no idea how long this would go on. The thought of being without Lilia after having to see his dead body was not a thought you enjoyed having. So you agreed. Despite your hesitation, you decided to trust him.

….

The cabin was quaint. It was cozy, very domestic, and, after banning Lilia from the kitchen, it was very safe. And with Malleus, you could almost pretend the three of you were the picture perfect family. Lilia handled the magic training, you handled the literature and the manners, and the emotional aspect of parenting. (Lilia had tried that last one, but had ended up making the young prince cry. Now only you are in charge of emotional development.)

A warrior-strategist, and a scholar. The perfect parenting team to make one well rounded individual. Hopefully.

Lilia was in contact with the queen, but evidently the army had been more formidable than anyone could have expected from a rebel offshoot. Evidently, some fae had joined this human in his crusade, also unhappy at the attempts to bridge the gap.

You had attempted early on to keep track of the passage of time, but soon lost track. It was long enough that Malleus had had a growth spurt, and now towered over both you and Lilia. He was, evidently, in his angsty teenage phase, despite being a couple hundred years old. But in this time, he'd grown strong, learned self defense, and gained control over his magic.

It was wonderful to watch him grow. But the longer you were here, the more concerned you got for the future of your dreams.

“Y/N, I'm back,” Lilia called. You and Malleus were in the kitchen making dinner. Lilia had been out scavenging for berries as a treat for after dinner.

“In the kitchen!” You called. He peaked in.

“Can you come out here, please? I need to talk to you.”

His expression looked serious, so you gave Malleus a couple instructions on what to do next, then walked out into the living space with Lilia. He was facing the window.

“Is it news from home?”

“No. Please sit.”

You sat down, waiting with nerves on edge about what he didn't want to say in front of Malleus.

He turned to you, and you noticed a bundle in his arms. Then the bundle moved.

“What is seven's name?” You stood up, rushing to him.

A child. Not just a child. A baby.

“Lilia, what is this?”

“I would think that was self explanatory, my love,” he snickered, gently passing you the baby boy. He was beautiful. And very asleep.

“His parents-”

Lilia shook his head, removing his coat, and setting down the basket of berries.

“I can't explain it, but he's been abandoned for a long time. No one is coming for him.”

“How do you know?”

“The magic on him serves a very specific purpose. No one is coming for him.”

The boy opened his eyes, his auroral hues blinking up at you sleepily. You were so absorbed in them, that you were surprised when you felt Lilia 's arms wrap around the both of you.

“You're a good parent. You've proved it with Malleus.” He whispered in your ear, a seductive lilt in his tone. “And a human child raised by a human diplomat, and their fae general husband, alongside the future fae king, would further the relations of our people.”

You nodded slowly.

“Can we keep him?” He whispered, his lips pressed directly to the shell of your ear.

You looked at the boy, then at Lilia, who was solely watching you, fixing you with the saddest expression.

You smiled softly, leaning in to kiss him.

“Of course we can.”

…..

It had taken Malleus some time to adjust to the new baby. But soon he was reading to it, telling it all about his kingdom, promising to take care of him forever.

Within a couple years(? To be honest you couldn't be sure, time living with fae went differently) Lilia insisted that Silver start training with himself and Malleus. You protested; your son had difficulty staying awake, and didn't have nearly the power that they both had, but both Lilia and Malleus had been insistent. They could feel the magic inside the boy, they assured you. And besides, with his build, and clear intelligence, he would make a great knight. Malleus would want people he was close to as his advisors in the future, and for that they would need experience. And with Malleus and Lilia pouting at you like that, and Silver just happy to be included, you couldn't say no for long.

You knew time was passing, but only because Silver was growing. You were told Malleus was probably at his full height and appearance, but you could barely test the passage of time that way anyway.

One day, an unfamiliar man arrived at the cabin. He slipped you a business card, that read,

Dire Crowley, Headmage of Night Raven College

“I'm here to observe your boys. Both of them will be old enough to attend not that far apart, and we like to scout early. The Dark Mirror says both show a lot of promise.”

Lilia seemed ecstatic, so you nodded along. They wouldn't be ready for college that soon, would they?

The scouting went well, but you found yourself increasingly concerned when you heard some of the things that both boys had done to train. Things you hadn't heard about.

But you didn't say anything. Not until the boys were in bed, and the Headmage was gone.

“When did you take them to the middle of the forest and leave them?”

“Oh, that, don't worry about it, they're fine.”

“And what's this about you going with them? Wasn't the whole point for them to build relations with their peers and gain independence?”

“It's just for protection-”

“So, Silver and I will be alone for a year, then Silver will leave me the next year, and I'll be all by myself, when the boys are supposed to be figuring out how to live without you, and you are supposed to be helping me clean up after the war?”

“There's a long time before then-”

“Is there?”

“Yes. And you can come with me. When we're married we can get married student housing-”

“We don't even know if we'll be married yet!”

“Why not?”

“Look at us, Lilia! We've been living in the woods for who knows how long, because of the dangers back home! Do you call that peace?”

He stared at you, then said, “Let's call it off. The promise. Let's just get married now.”

“First off, that's a terrible idea, based on how different our parenting style appears to be. Which, again,” this brought you back to what started the conversation, “how did I not know about your training exercises?”

“The boys and I knew you wouldn't like them, so we all agreed not to say anything.”

“I would have noticed if my sons were missing for a week!” You shouted.

“M/F?” You turned around, and there was Silver, looking at you with sad eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he whimpered.

“No, it's not your fault, baby, I just get worried about you, that's all,” you hugged him close, noticing Malleus staring at you from within the bedroom. He didn't move to get up, just looked at you for a moment, then looked away.

“You go back to bed, love, Father and I are done chatting,” you said. You watched Silver walk back to bed, shutting the door behind him. Then you walked to your bedroom that you shared with Lilia, hearing him follow close behind.

You snatched a pillow off the bed, grabbed your sleep wear, and walked back out, shutting the door behind you before he could say anything, and setting yourself up on the couch for the night.

It was three days before you spoke to Lilia again. Not that he didn't try. And not that the boys didn't seem to be trying to guilt you. You just…had to reflect.

Perhaps you weren't on the same page anymore…

That third afternoon, you went out on a walk to clear your head. Perhaps this was your fault. You'd lived with fae for so long, that you'd forgotten that there would be things you disagreed on, based on your species, and cultures. Perhaps you should have just talked to him, instead of being angry. You sighed, and returned back to the cabin.

When you stepped inside, you were greeted with soft pink lighting, and roses lining the walls, and windows. And standing before you, was Lilia.

“Before you yell at me again, the boys are camping outside tonight. I didn't drop them in the middle of the woods.”

You smiled softly. Until the smell hit you. Sevens. Lilia had made you dinner.

“I made you a romantic apology meal. Just for the two of us. And the boys were so sweet, they insisted on making things for themselves so that you and I could have all of it.”

You bit your tongue. He was trying to apologize. No need to say anything.

“Well! Dig in!” He said excitedly as you sat at the kitchen table.

The dinner was silent at first, Lilia eating, and you trying not to die.

“I heard from my queen. We can come back now. Though,” he groaned bitterly, “you have a lot of work cut out for you on your end, from the sounds of it.”

“I always do. Did she say why?”

“No, just that it wouldn't be easy to handle.”

He went quiet again, then put his silverware down, looking directly at you.

“I meant it. We should throw out our initial deal, and just get married when we get back.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off.

“Even if we get a lasting peace between our two kingdoms, it won't really do anything. Not right away. It'll take years and generations for our nations to fully achieve the dream across every nation of fae and human. I can't wait forever. And neither can you.”

“Of course I can wait,” you laughed. “Until we live in a world where children don't have to hide in the woods, it feels selfish to get married.”

He huffed. “I get that. I do. But what happens if it doesn't happen in your lifetime?”

“Lilia,” you sighed tiredly. “I'm asking you to respect this one request. I let you do a lot, live mostly the way you want me to, all I ask is that we wait. In the meantime, we teach our boys how to be good men.”

He looked like he wanted to fight, but seeing the certainty on your face, he fell into silence, eating the rest of the dinner quietly, then pushing out of his chair, slipping into your lap, and trapping you in a passionate kiss.

The next day was spent packing, and preparing the boys for royal life, and what that meant for them. And then, just like that, your days spent in the cabin in the woods were over.

The castle looked untouched, but the destroyed landscaping spoke volumes. Everything in your study was as you left it. But you didn't have time to enjoy it, because the Queen had informed you that your Queen had died, and left the Fae duke she'd married, now the king, with a half human child. Apparently, both of them needed you. You were sent on your way before you had a chance to talk to Lilia or the boys.

It wasn't for several more months that Lilia could come join you. He barely wanted to let you go. You couldn't blame him, nor would you try to stop him. You felt so ragged. So worn down. You just needed him to hold you for a while.

He told you Silver had to remain in the Valley of Thorns now that he was officially training, but that he had his birthday party next month, and both his queen and your king had given you leave to attend.

You were so glad. Things around here had finally been settling, so you'd hoped to come see Lilia and your boys in a more permanent capacity soon.

He'd begrudgingly left, his face pained as he separated from you.

You were so tired. And as the next month went by, you began to think to yourself that, if Lilia asked you to go forward with the wedding this time, you'd say yes. You were so tired. So much pain. So lonely. You needed your boys.

And it wasn't until you were at Silver’s party that you realized what was wrong.

You knew it was Silver’s birthday. But how was he eleven already? That….that couldn't be right? You'd barely aged a day, since….

Your eyes widened, and you were rocked with a wave of nausea. Silver looked up from his cake, his eyes wide in concern.

“M/F, are you alright?” He whispered.

“Yeah, I just need to grab something from my study before I forget.”

Before he could say anything, you rushed out of the party room, and into your study. You locked the door behind you, and turned to the mirror you had hanging on the wall.

You stared in increasing horror. You should be showing signs of aging at this point. There should be more lines on your face. More of your hair should have changed color. This wasn't right.

You hadn't heard him enter the room, but Lilia scared you when he pressed his lips to your neck.

“If you're worried, you're as beautiful as the day I met you,” Lilia whispered seductively.

“That's the problem, isn't it,” You laughed dryly. “I shouldn't be.”

You felt him stiffen behind you, before laughing it off.

“Well, you do need prescription glasses now, but I'll always love you, no matter how old you get.”

“Lilia,” you said, feeling empty. You turned to him, horror beginning to overtake your features. “How long did we live in the woods?”

“Listen-”

“Please, I'm begging you. Tell me this isn't something you did. I'll believe you, just explain what's going on.”

“Y/N-”

“There were no mirrors in the cabin, and I had no way of tracking the days…Sevens, you did that on purpose!”

“Now hang on-”

“What the fuck did you do?” You finally screamed out, the full implications sinking in.

He froze, his expression unreadable. Then he began to tremble ever so slightly.

“I can't lose anyone else. Especially not you.”

You sat on the floor, your body no longer able to support itself.

“Oh sevens…”

“I slipped a potion into your food every single day. It extended your life, and froze your body from that point on.”

“Lilia,” you spoke hoarsely, “why didn't you ask if that was what I wanted?”

“You wouldn't even marry me! Why should I have believed you'd agree to immortality?” He shouted, beginning to pace, in anger or fear, you couldn't be sure.

“So, what then? You were just going to keep me drugged on this forever and ever? When did you plan to start drugging Silver? When he's fully grown, or can you even wait that long?”

“That's not fair!”

“I'm tired, Lilia! Without you telling me how long we lived there, I can feel that I shouldn't still be continuing the way I am!”

“That's just because of the withdrawal!” He said, hastily pulling a bottle out of his pocket. “Take some more, you'll feel better.”

“No!” You pulled the engagement ring off your finger, and made your way to the door.

“You're acting like a child,” he shouted behind you.

You ignored him as you opened the door, only to see Malleus standing in front of it, an emerald fireball in his hand.

“Please, Y/N, just listen to Lilia. I do not want to have to hurt you.”

“Step aside,” you said.

“No. You're acting irrationally. You need to relax,” Malleus said firmly, and you began to feel drowsy.

“No, Malleus, this is wrong,” you groaned out as you felt your consciousness fading.

"I thought so too. But Lilia showed me that it was the only way. You both are my only family…”

You wanted to protest that this is not how you treat people you love. But all you were aware of was Lilia’s arms around you as you collapsed.

You awoke to the cold metal of a spoon pressed to your lips.

“Eat,” Lilia said lightly. He didn't seem nearly as distraught as he was during your argument.

“What happens if I stop taking the potion?” You asked with a glare.

He stiffened, setting the spoon down.

“You've already been off it for several months. I'm certain you're already feeling the effects. Your outside will remain the same, but age will quickly catch up to your mind and your inside. I give you three months before you are bed bound.”

He pressed the spoon to your lips again, seemingly believing that the revelation would make you want it. You kept your mouth firmly shut.

He stared at you, the anger quickly returned to his face. He threw the spoon across the room, then buried his head in his hands.

“You can't do this to me. You can't let me watch you die.”

“I'm going to do exactly that!”

“You! Fine! Get out then!” He shouted. “Give up on me and our dreams. I just hope you realize how stupid it is before it's too late.”

You stood up, your legs feeling weak, but you couldn't let him see the weakness. You might lose your only chance to leave. You stormed out.

You hastily packed up the things in your study, then quickly made your way to the training barracks.

Silver was taking care of the horses. He looked up at you excitedly.

“Hello, M/F!”

“Come on, Silver, we're going on a little trip.”

“A trip?” He looked around, but nodded.

“Okay.”

You couldn't leave him with Lilia. Lilia, the one who always claimed to love and care about humans, but who clearly didn't seem to think of them as equal enough to decide, or even be asked, if they wanted their entire life to be altered.

You saddled a horse, and and helped Silver into the saddle with you, then urged the horse to a run.

The sky quickly broke into emerald lightning and thunder, torrential rain soaking the both of you.

Lilia must have told Malleus that you'd left. Just like with Lilia, you'd thought Malleus loved and respected you. And maybe he did. Perhaps Lilia had twisted him to his view point, manipulating that pure love he had in his heart to his own ends.

At this point you couldn't put anything past Lilia.

“Y/N L/N!”

As the voice called your name, you lost all control of your body, pulling the reins and halting the horse.

You sat frozen in place, unable to even look at Silver, who was turning to look at you, asking in concern about what was wrong.

But you couldn't move.

“Y/N L/N,” Lilia floated in front of you, not so gently extricating Silver from the saddle. “Enlighten me. What gives you the right to steal my son?”

Never give the fae your name. You could cry now. The one who had warned you was now teaching you the lesson.

“I thought he was our son,” you spat.

“The paperwork only has me as his legal guardian. And you never married me, nor signed any adoption paperwork. So, what gives you the right to steal my son?”

You choked on a sob. And with a hoarse shout, you spat, “I hate you!”

His eyes went cold. “No. You don't. You will take that back this instant, and properly apologize to me.”

You found yourself dismounting the horse, tears flowing down your cheeks as your free will was gone, your name abused.

“I'm sorry.” You spit out. “I'm sorry that I tried to save Silver from a fate he didn't deserve.”

Lilia's glare sharpened. And with that he vanished with Silver, leaving you alone in the rain.

Nine years later

History repeats itself. Lilia had never expected his young Lord to fall in love with a human.

“I want you to hold onto this feeling. Remember that humans live short lives. That's the way things have to be.”

Now that he was nearing graduation, he was beginning to see what you meant about nurturing Malleus’ independence. Letting him go was not going well.

He sighed, having finally arrived at his destination. He held up the magenta rose he'd brought with him, staring at it. He still felt embarrassed looking at you, even after all this time.

By the time his head had cleared, and he'd realized just how far he had gone, it was too late. He was so tired now. And he deserved it.

This exhaustion. Was this what you felt in your final days?

He looked down at the grave, placing the rose alongside the others that he had brought over the years.

Nine roses. One for each year. None of them showing any signs of age.

Perhaps he hasn't completely learned his lesson.

He supposed he should bring Silver and Malleus to your grave one day. Maybe it would give Silver closure. Maybe it would remind Malleus not to make the same mistakes.

Maybe it would lift some of the guilt from Lilia's shoulders.

He sat down on the grass, sighing heavily. He was getting old.

“I have a lot to tell you. It's been quite a year…”

....

Tag list- @shytastemakerthing @eccedentesiast-sapphic @leoll

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader #lilia vanrouge #lilia x reader

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knightmareaceblue · 4 months

Text

The Amazonian Amethyst.

Since being stolen from its rightful owners by the tyrannical Queen Empress, no one has seen this legendary gemstone. Rumor has it that the Amethyst, like many lost treasures, was taken by the Queen Empress to her tomb, the Red Pyramid, from which no one had ever returned alive.

It'd make the perfect anniversary gift. When Charles of all people presents this plan to his partners, Henry and Ellie are completely on board. An anniversary adventure suits the Triple Threat more than some dinner date, anyways.

And nothing could possibly go wrong… right?

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

Deep in the heart of an ancient jungle, far away from the modern comforts and conveniences of the human world, all was calm. The animals scurried and scattered about, out to hunt or gather for their next meal. The roaring rapids of a nearby river echoed through the tangle of trees, calling to creatures near and far to take their fair share of its fresh water and plump schools of fish. The songs of birds in the upper canopy competing to attract a mate completed the natural soundtrack of this ancient, majestic place.

Then, quite suddenly, the sharp mechanical buzzing of helicopter blades sliced through the melody of environment, causing the animals to scatter in fear of this strange new sound. At least one thousand feet above these scared grounds, three people, oblivious to their disruption, chattered excitedly amongst themselves.

“Man, doesn’t this bring you back?” Spoke the sole female of the group, a red-head named Ellie, who stared out at the jungle with a fond smile, her eyes soft with nostalgia. “Our first mission as the Triple Threat, flying over the Dogobogo Jungle to mess up the Toppat Clan’s day and send their rocket flying off into the sun.”

“Well, actually, Hen sent it to the Wall? But, you know, close enough.” Responded the pilot, one Mister Charles Calvin, who glanced back at her for only the briefest of moments before returning his focus to the wheel. His eyes scanned the canopy, searching for their destination, and a wide grin stretched across his face when he finally found it. “Whoa! Guys, you gotta check this out!!”

Henry, the final and most quiet member of the trio, raced over to Charles’ side first, Ellie hot on their trail. Their crimson eyes scanned the horizon, until they widened when they landed on the group’s destination: a gigantic pyramid, covered from top to bottom in green foliage as nature fought to overtake the ancient structure.

“There she is.” Ellie murmured, entranced by the sight, “The Imperial Tomb of the Queen Empress.”

“Exactly where my contact said it would be.” Declared the pilot, flicking switches and checking gauges as he prepared to descend. “According to him, the Amazonian Amethyst should be buried inside, along with the Empress. But everyone who’s ever gone searching for the tomb’s hidden treasure has mysteriously vanished~” The change of tone from Charles was accompanied by an amused smirk, almost as if daring fate to try and do the same to them. “So no one’s ever found the amethyst hidden inside. Which means it’s all ours for the taking.”

With a sharp squeal, Henry’s arms wrapped tightly around Charles’ shoulders, and they nuzzled their head into the side of Charles’. “This is the best anniversary gift ever.” Henry declared, and Charles felt his heart flutter.

When accepting the Airship mission so long ago, Charles hadn’t expected to fall in love with a criminal mastermind, let alone two of them. But exactly one year ago today, under the gentle light of the moon, Henry had taken both their hands and proclaimed their love to the heavens. The year that had followed had been the adventure of a lifetime; it hadn’t been without its challenges, but ultimately Charles had never been happier. The two standing behind him were his heart and soul made manifest. Of that, Charles was certain.

Of course, Charles’ love didn’t equate to ignorance of who, exactly, he was dating. By the time the government had picked them up for the Airship mission, Henry had become somewhat infamous for their prison break and theft of the Tunisian Diamond, and Ellie was in a similar position, living an outlaw’s life for various crimes she’d committed with a previous gang. And while they’d turned over a new leaf, partially for the benefits but mostly for Charles, it was clear that the transition to a clean cut lifestyle was… difficult, to say the least.

Thankfully the majority of what they craved, the action and adventure and excitement, was quelled by the missions they went on to save the world from whatever bad guy of the week dared to think they could stand up to the Triple Threat. However, the other addictive quality of their criminal lives – the material gains, the glitz and glamour of wealth that people like them could only get through illicit activities – that was another story entirely. Charles couldn’t count the number of times he’d had to drag Henry away from a display of shiny jewelry, or watch Ellie gaze longingly at the security trucks stores used to transport cash. He knew the two of them would never go behind his back to return to their old ways – he trusted them. But it was obvious even to him that they still missed it.

So, when their anniversary began to approach, Charles devised a plan. He’d preemptively gotten them a full two week’s vacation, scoured the dredges of the library and uncovered a lost treasure: The Amazonian Amethyst. A rare, large, and highly valuable purple gemstone that was said to have been stolen from its rightful owners by the very Queen Empress who was buried below them. She had taken many treasures with her to the grave, and for their anniversary, Charles had made all the arrangements necessary for them to go hunt it down. He’d rented a non-government helicopter (none of the bells and whistles he was used to, but the leather seats were a hell of a lot more comfortable than the ones from his usual bird), made sure they had all their paperwork and supplies, and took his two loves deep into the heart of the jungle on a death defying adventure to technically-not-steal a large amethyst from a long dead tyrant.

Maybe not entirely on the up and up, as far as legality went, but seeing the looks on Henry and Ellie’s faces when he told them his plan was totally worth the huge risk.

As their helicopter descended, Ellie scurried about, grabbing any last minute supplies she could get her hands on and tossing them into her personal inventory for later use. Simultaneously, Henry yanked open the door to the helicopter and hopped out as it landed, surveying the area with experienced precision. A practiced hand signal alerted their partners that the coast was clear, and Charles and Ellie soon hopped out after them. Inventories fully equipped, limbs stretched, and helicopter secured, the infamous Triple Threat made their way into the maw of the pyramid, eagerly chasing the adventure it promised.

Behind them, the song of the jungle stilled too suddenly, leaving only the increasingly loud crunch, crunch, crunch of plants being crushed.

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

“Yo, check this place out!” Charles exclaimed as the trio stepped into the main hall. The smile on his face stretched from ear to ear, and Henry could practically see the stars in his eyes as he shook his fists in excitement.

Not that Henry could fault his sunshiny enthusiasm. The main hall was adorned with very ornate murals, each one portraying the Queen Empress throughout her life. From her miraculous birth, with light shining down on her from the heavens; to her childhood of objectively being better than everyone; to the worship of her citizens, despite the blood lust that lead her to raid and pillage and steal from weaker kingdoms near and far. The blatant narcissism on display was staggering. The shiny gems that were used in place of her pupils, however, made Henry’s fingers twitch.

Of course, they wouldn’t settle for those little pebbles. Charles had picked a gem especially for them. Henry was going to get their hands on it if it killed them.

“According to the notes from the last expedition…” Ellie flipped through her notebook pages casually, even as she sidled up to one of the murals and plucked out a shiny blue stone. Unlike Henry, she didn’t mind easy pickings. “In the 1950s, geez… this first area is relatively safe. It’s where the Queen’s followers were expected to bring offerings of food and drink to their Eternal Queen.” Ellie’s eyes, full and bright like the full moon, scanned over the entire room. “Given how open this place was, though, it was probably all eaten by animals.”

Henry openly scoffed. “Wanna bet the people in charge used the missing food as ‘proof’ that the Empress really was there?”

In response, Ellie only shook her head. The trio walked along, making light conversation up until they reached the end of the hallway. The doorway between the Offerings Hall and the rest of the tomb contained a final masterpiece: the Queen Empress, in all her regal glory, being called into heaven by the gods themselves in the same radiant light that had shone upon her at birth. It’d be poetic, if Henry didn’t find it so nauseatingly self-serving. Whoever the woman was, she tried incredibly too hard to portray herself as a literal gift from the gods.

More importantly, the entrance to the tomb was stuck shut. “Notes said it was sealed after the last expedition,” Ellie explained, shutting the book in her hands. “Probably so no more idiots would get themselves killed trying to get that big treasure.”

“Well, they clearly hadn’t counted on these idiots!” Charles proclaimed, pulling the two of them close so he could point his fingers down at the trio, as if that was supposed to be a compliment. Still, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Idiots though the three may be, this wouldn’t even be close to the toughest thing they’d tackled. The three of them? They got this. First they just had to find a world in which they got this stupid door open.

Should they Force it open? No, that probably wasn’t a good idea. Ellie’s powers were strong, sure, but they could be too strong at times. Using just the right amount of Force would require extreme concentration. Henry could see the future play out before their very eyes; Ellie’s powers would pry the heavy door away from the wall bit by bit, pulling at the melted welding keeping it in place until it finally broke free. They’d celebrate for a moment, just a second, before the door would hit all three of them, knocking them back and out. Apparently, there was such a thing as too much force. Who knew?

So that was a no go.

What about some controlled demolition, then? Somehow that seemed like an even worse idea. They would manage to knock down the wall surrounding the door, sure. It was just a matter of applying enough force to remove the stones. Then the whole ceiling would crash down around their ears, their universe ending in a single cosmic crunch. Of course it would. Henry had the luck of a black cat zooming underneath a row of ladders while crushing mirrors underneath its claws. And besides, it was Remodeling 101: You never destroy a load-baring structure.

“You know, we could always just teleport past it.” Ellie teased with a quirk of her lip. This caused an instinctual full body shutter from Henry at just the thought of that infernal contraption. Though they’d never used the device in their own world line, the aches and pains of its future malfunctions still radiated across their skin, a phantom pain from a wound that never was and always had been.

Future sight was a real bitch sometimes.

With an annoyed pout, they scolded her, “Don’t even joke about that.” Henry could see the amusement on Charles’ face as he joined Ellie with an elbow propped on her shoulder, and tried not to scowl. Ellie and Charles took their concerns seriously – Neither of them had ever doubted their future sight even once– but the two weren’t above teasing their beloved about the borderline paranoid raving they could go on. “In fact, new rule from now on: No more bringing the teleporter. It always backfires.”

“So that means we won’t get to see you make that cute pouty face whenever you pull it out of your bag anymore?” Teased the pilot, a grin as bright as the sun stretching along his face. He didn’t even look a little sad at the idea of Henry no longer being burdened by the infernal plaything of cruel fate that was the Teleporter.

“What a shame.” Ellie joked right alongside him. In terms of acting, she was a little better, in that she managed to look a little disappointed at the thought. But her eyes shone like the moonlight, letting her true feelings be known to those who could read her.

All the annoyance melted away at their expressions, and Henry tried not to let this show as they rolled their eyes and spun around to dig through their inventory. “Yeah, yeah. Give me a moment, I think I have something here… aha!”

Henry triumphantly pulled their prize from their inventory’s storage: a blowtorch, which Henry immediately lit up before their red-headed girlfriend dropped a protective mask down over their face. Pausing only to give her a brief thumbs up before going to town, they traced the outlines of the sealed metal entrance and slowly but surely began to destroy the fused sections between door and wall, allowing for the door to be effortlessly removed. Henry turned around and bowed to their sun and their moon, gesturing dramatically to guide them through the newly created hole in the ruin. Ellie, proper woman that she was, bowed back as she passed, her eyes reflecting the mirth Henry felt. And Charles, ray of sunshine that he was, gentle tapped Henry’s nose with a soft boop before all but skipping through the doorway.

They could be walking into death, sure. After all, no one had seen the interior of the pyramid and survived. Despite these terrible odds, Henry couldn’t help but feel at ease. After all, they were already capable of the impossible alone. With Ellie and Charles by their side, they were all but invincible.

Behind them, an ominous shadow shadow spread across the stone cold floor.

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

The Triple Threat were greeted by a long, long hallway on the other side of the sealed doorway. It stretched onward and onward, shadows obscuring the pathway and all its secrets. The only lights came from the dull blue luminescence of the blue spheres embedded into the walls. There were more murals, Henry was certain, but their pictures were obscured by the darkness the entire corridor was draped in.

A darkness that was suddenly slashed through by a beam of light, courtesy of Charles. Now they could make out the plain, cold stone floor, the elaborate detailing on the wall portraying some myth long since lost to the age, the arches on the ceiling that provided the support needed for the heavy stone structure. There were no traps to be seen; no buttons, no spikes, no glowing eyed accursed beast doomed to wander these twisted hallways forever. It looked perfectly safe.

Naturally, Henry didn’t trust it.

Apparently Charles didn’t share this suspicious sentiment, because with a chipper, “Welp, let’s get moving!” He bound forward a few steps, and Ellie and Henry grabbed him and pulled him back just in time to avoid a long and dangerous drop down a pit of spikes.

“Watch your step, dumbass.” Ellie scolded, her hand tight around Charles’. In the meanwhile, Henry quickly checked him over. They’d been quick enough to catch him in this world (Future sight was a bitch), but better safe than sorry when it comes to mysterious ancient ruins and their many traps. And tetanus.

For his part, Charles seemed more embarrassed than scared. “Whoops.” He chuckled nervously as Ellie and Henry, now that they were done making sure he was really okay, crossed their arms and shot him matching glares, flat and unimpressed. “My bad. Sorry, guys.”

“Sheesh.” Ellie uncrossed her arms. On the outside she looked calm and composed, but Henry knew her well enough to see the slight tension in her face, or the way eyes kept darting to view the area behind Charles, as if expected another trap to jump out of nowhere and blot out the sun. “You’re going to be the death of us, I swear.”

With Charles’ near death experience out of the way, Ellie picked up a small pile of loose stones near the side of the passageway and began tossing them, one after the other. With each stone tossed, a section of the floor collapsed underneath the weight, revealing a pitfall that went down for meters. At the bottom, cascading off the floor, were subtle buttons that could only barely be made out in the dark, and entirely less subtle rows of spikes. A ghastly smell rose as the floor fell: a noxious fume of decay and rot that told them, even before Charles’ torch revealed the scatterings of bones both human and otherwise, the fates of all those whom had entered beforehand. An ominous rattling echoed up through the chamber as the light awoke various species of serpents lying in slumber in between the spikes, scattering quickly to hide around the buttons with their tails resonating dangerous warnings about disturbing them further. As the light continued to travel upward, the trio could make out tiny little holes in the walls, just large enough for any number of potentially poisonous instruments to fly or jut out, all the way from the bottom of the pit to the very top of the ceiling.

Now, if this had just been Henry, then they’d use a grappling hook to fly across the chasm, no problem. Or maybe create a platform with something nearby. But it was more than just Henry they were worried about today, and the ceiling was far too old and decrepit to hold all of them if they swung across. And the ruins were far too precarious to support the weight of three people. They’d collapse into the pit, get impaled on the spikes, and that would be the end of the Triple Threat’s story.

Despite the impending death of their loved ones, it struck Henry as more lame than terrifying.

What Henry forgot, of course, was that they were flanked by two equally competent (and equally crazy) partners, and Charles’ face suddenly lit up as he pushed his two partners behind him. “Don’t worry,” He smirked back at them confidentially, “I got this.”

Ellie and Henry were, naturally, extremely worried.

Without any further warning, Charles bolted forward. Henry’s panicked attempt to grab him and pull him back to safety was narrowly dodged, and Ellie’s call to halt was similarly ignored. Upon reaching the edge of the pit, Charles bent his legs down and sprung over it with an admittedly impressive leap, but one with nowhere near enough force or air to make it to the other side of the hazardous chasm.

Ellie gaped like a fish, her eyes following Charles with all the horror of witnessing an impending wreck. Henry winced and somehow managed not to look away.

Just as he reached the peak of his jump, Charles tossed a grenade down into the pit trap. The explosion was instantaneous, almost completely silent, and… purple? A cushion of purple gelatin arose from the torturous trenches, and Charles landed perfectly in it’s center with a boi-oing that echoed through the pyramid. And he bounced. Once. Twice. Each time a joyous laugh escaped Charles, loud and carefree despite the precarious perils underneath him.

A few bounces later – to test the durability of the gelatin or just for his own amusement, Henry couldn’t say – Charles leapt forward again and launched another grenade. He bounced off the cushion it produced and threw another, and another, until there was purple, bouncy path to the other side of the hazardous chasm. He finally, finally landed on the solid ground of the other side, and as he steadied along with Henry’s heartbeat, Charles turned around and tossed his partners a double thumbs up.

Henry stared after him, slack jawed. Words failed them completely.

Ellie, who had always managed to find the words that eluded Henry, commented, “That dumbass is going to get us killed one of these days.” Her voice was steady and strong, but a slight twitch of the eye betrayed her inner anxiety.

“Well? Come on!” Charles, whose ability to read the room was about on par with his risk assessment skills, called across the chasm, “The Amazonian Amethyst ain’t gonna come to you, slowpokes!”

Despite themselves, a grin stretched across Henry’s face. Now that the initial scare had passed, they found themselves more amused than upset. None of the Triple Threat were the cautious type to begin with – cautious types wouldn’t rob tombs, after all – and the heart attacks weren’t anything new, especially in their profession. So, only pausing to shrug at Ellie, Henry followed in Charles’ footsteps and leapt down into the pit of spikes.

They hit the mass of purple dead center, and was surprised to find that it was not at all sticky or mushy, as would be expected of gelatin. Instead it was soft and smooth, the same texture as a rubber exercise ball, with enough strength to hold their weight while standing firm against the spikes. An almost childlike joy came over Henry as they bounced up and down with loud, echoing boings, flipping and posing like they’d seen trampoline artists on the television do, before finally moving forward on the playful path Charles had created for them.

Behind them, Henry could hear Ellie bounce along as well. Her squeals were surprised and nervous at first, but quickly faded into the more melodious sounds of delight and enjoyment. A million ways to tease their moonlight popped into Henry’s head, but for the moment they simply enjoyed the sound of her unrestrained elation and focused on bouncing from one cushion of violet gelatin to the next, putting their signature style into every leap.

Henry hit the ground next to Charles hard, face first. Ellie landed much more gracefully, on one foot and one knee. She was up before Henry could even get to their knees, and by the time they were back on their feet she’d reached Charles and socked him in the arm. Not hard enough to hurt him, but not quite soft enough to be playful, either.

“Hey!” Charles flinched back a little, rubbing his arm. “What was that for?”

Ellie raised a brow at him. “You mean besides the heart attack you gave us when you jumped into a pit of spikes?”

Comprehension dawned on Charles’ sweet, stupid little face. “Oooh… yeah, I can see what you mean. Uh… whoops?” This earned him another hit, slightly more playful this time. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry, alright? I just wanted to show off for you guys.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” Ellie muttered with a glower, but no force in the world could stand up to Charles’ puppy dog eyes, so it wasn’t long before she was fighting a smile as he pouted up at her. “Okay, I forgive you. Just… no more throwing yourself into death pits please?”

“I won’t.” Charles promised, rewarding Ellie’s mercy with a sweet nuzzle and a gentle kiss. “’M sorry.”

Henry watched the tender moment play out between them, transfixed on their two loves from the sidelines, when Charles’ arm suddenly stretched the distance between them. It didn’t reach all the way to Henry, didn’t so much as brush against their skin, but Charles’ hand was open, invitation clear for Henry to accept at their leisure.

“I scared you too, didn’t I?” Asked the pilot, almost rhetorically. “Sorry, Hen.”

Affection flooded Henry’s heart, filling it full enough to burst, as they reached across the distance between them and took Charles’ hand. This was why he was their sunshine; Charles didn’t always have enough awareness to recognize his screw ups (and Henry had the phantom scars of worlds never lived to prove it), but when he did, he always approached them with complete compassion and understanding. He gave them each what they needed; Ellie a laugh to calm her nerves, and Henry the choice of contact and comfort, instead of startling them with a sudden touch they weren’t ready for. Henry relished in his light, the same light that brought the hope of daybreak to the hearts of two darkened criminals.

Instead of voicing their appreciation aloud, Henry accepted the unspoken invitation and allowed Charles to pull them close, peppering their faces with sweet little kisses, causing them to giggle. With his apologies accepted, Charles released his partners and the three turned around to face their next challenge, together.

Another door. Stone this time, a dark and heavy slab that sealed them off from the interior of the pyramid.

“Something tells me we’re not going to blowtorch our way through this one.” Ellie mused, then smiled as she added, in a light, airy voice, “Oh, if only we had some sort of device that could displace us through space and time to get us past this impossible obstacle!” She dramatically flung her hand over her forehead.

Charles tittered dramatically as he played along. “What a shame. Looks like we’ll have to go home without the Amethyst.”

“Knock it off.” Henry scolded, unamused. “Besides, who needs a Teleporter when you’ve got a…” They ruffled through their inventory until they found their prize, and triumphantly pulled out a... “Tire Jack!”

“Tire jack?” Echoed Ellie and Charles behind them, identical looks of confusion adorning their faces.

“Tire Jack.” Henry repeated one final time without elaboration, before dropping to their knees in front of the door. This little baby was a thief’s dream – unassuming, easy to carry, and absolutely perfect for doing things like prying open doors, or… whatever else a tire jack was used for. Henry fitted it to the stone slab, then pumped down once… twice… three times… and managed to create a crack just large enough for the three of them to squeeze through, one at a time.

Ellie nodded in understanding. “Ah. Tire jack.”

“Ooh, ooh! Me first!” Charles called as he ran at door. Henry managed to jump back just in time to avoid being bowled over by Charles’ power slide as he launched himself underneath the door’s crack.

All poor Henry and Ellie could do was gape after him, before Ellie shook her head and mumbled, “Going to be the death of us,” before following suit. Henry crawled underneath the door after them, leaving the chamber in silence.

…

Boing. Boing.

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

Somehow, the chamber they entered after crawling under the door was even darker than what came before. None of the rooms allowed for any sunlight to penetrate the densely packed stones, but at least the previous chambers had the dim glow of the luminescent blue stones on the walls to provide a little bit of light. In this room, however, even that minuscule bit of illumination was absent, leaving Henry and their partners shrouded in complete darkness.

“Eugh, I can’t see a thing.” Ellie summarized, her voice echoing just enough to let Henry know that this was a large, spacious chamber. Her call acted as a beacon, drawing both partners’ attention over to the little corner of the dark expanse where she must have been. “Charles, a little light, sweetheart?”

“Huh?” Either to preserve battery life or to keep from smacking anyone in the eyes with the beam of his torch, Charles had shut it off at some point. The reminder from Ellie, however, caused him to audible scramble to pull it back out. “Oh, right, yeah! I’m on it-!”

The clacking of plastic against stone echoed through the chamber once, twice, three times as the torch hit the ground and bounced away. Then silence.

“…” Henry couldn’t see a damned thing, but they could practically feel Charles wince. “Uh, Yeaah… I’ll, uh, I’ll just…” Shuffling fabric could be heard, followed by a repetition of slap, slap, slap against the cold stone floor as Charles fumbled around. “I’m sure it’s, uh, around here somewhere… Hehe…”

Then, stone sliding against stone. Followed by a painfully loud click.

Henry only had a brief moment to brace themselves for whatever barrage of arrows or spikes or fire was about to kill them dead. Instead, an explosion of white began searing their retinas, forcing their eyes closed and their arms up to defend against the sudden barrage. To their side, Henry could hear Ellie grunt in pain, and the sounds of Charles crawling around had disappeared entirely. Time eased the burden of their pain, their eyes adjusted, and Henry lowered their arms and gazed out into the now lit room.

What greeted their eyes was a circular chamber, far larger than the entrance or connecting chambers behind them, with sunlight pouring through the rooftop. Like the entrance, the walls were painted with spectacular images, icons that had long since forgotten their meanings and portraits of divine beings with names lost to time. Three tables – or, more likely, altars – were set up around the chamber, one underneath each grand portrait of the gods. The grandest of all, however, was that of the Queen Empress, recognizable even to Henry’s history ignorant mind. She was encircled by heavenly light while, to each of her sides, the Gods shifted their gazes unto her.

“Whoa!” Charles, having found the flashlight not three feet in front of him, quickly picked it up and got back to his feet.

“These are amazing!” Ellie gushed, eyes lighting up as she took in the ancient murals. Her aesthetic sense was certainly different from Henry’s – a little flashier, a little more on the romantic side – but her eye for art was second to none. “I wish I had a camera.”

Without even thinking, Henry pulled a disposable camera from their bag and held it up in front of Ellie’s face. It’s primary function was for note-taking and placing identical photos of crime scenes in front of security cameras, but even though they were technically done committing crimes, Henry had never removed it from their inventory.

“Oh.” Ellie blinked, then took the camera. “Thank you.”

“Is this the burial chamber?” Charles asked, then, as if that was a definite yes, excitedly changed the question to, “Is the Amethyst here?”

“I don’t think so.” Ellie responded as she took more and more pictures. The film in that thing wasn’t unlimited, but she’d probably document all she wanted to long before it ran out. “Given that there’s no actual tomb or body here, this is probably a temple of some sort, to honour the gods rather than her.”

To that, Charles and Henry exchanged a glance before gazing up at the image of the Queen Empress, who was larger and grander than any of the divine beings on the wall. “I’m, uh, not a theologist.” Charles said as he quirked an eyebrow at her. “But isn’t imagery like this, like, umm… what the word I’m looking for?”

“Blasphemous?” Henry suggested.

Apparently that was correct, because Charles nodded. “Yeah, that.”

To that, Ellie only shrugged. “Eh, who knows? Maybe having the gods revere you was an old form of worship?”

As they spoke, Henry surveyed the temple. Beyond the portraits and the skylight, the round temple was decorated with ornate columns and intricately carved altars, each adorned with various symbols that had lost their meanings to the flow of time. Their eyes went from mural to mural, from wall to wall, and as they scanned each corner of the chamber a cold feeling sank to the bottom of their stomach.

“Uh, guys?” Henry interrupted, getting Ellie and Charles’ attention. “There’s no exit.”

Indeed, the walls had many things painted on them, but none of them had a door of any sort beyond the entrance.

“Oh. That’s a problem.” Charles mumbled as he too began to look around. “Uh, are you sure this isn’t the burial chamber then?”

“Do you see a body anywhere?” Ellie retorted, then kicked at the ground. The interior of the temple, in the open area just underneath the skylight, was a large circular stone slab inlaid in the floor, again adorned with a symbol Henry didn’t understand. “We entered around the center of the pyramid. The burial chamber and treasure chamber are probably below us somewhere.” Ellie scratched her chin, gazing around, “Which means… to proceed we’ll have to…”

“Dig!’ Charles interrupted, triumphantly pulling a shovel from his inventory. Grinning, he posed to strike down at the stone ground, only to have the shovel nabbed away from him by Ellie.

She spun it in her hand as she shook her head. “Not exactly. There’s probably some mechanism in the room that opens the floor, the same way that button you found opened the skylight. We just have to figure out where it is.” She tossed the twirling shovel into the air, allowing it to whirl before she caught it with ease. “So, let’s start by investigating the room. Charles, see if you can find any more buttons on the floor. Henry, check out the pillars and walls. I’ll take a look at the altars.”

With their tasks divided up, the Triple Threat went about exploring the chamber. Charles dropped to his hands and feet, crawling about the floor like a hound dog sniffing for clues. Henry couldn’t help but smile at the ridiculously serious display before turning to the walls. Like the entrance, the iconography seemed to tell a story. A trickster, a mysterious being cloaked in shadows with a crooked smile, stealing from the gods and causing them to turn their wrath on each other. A divine clash breaking out, a battle of apocalyptic proportions with the trickster caught in the middle. A god of the sky defeated with a necklace, a god of the ocean defeated with song, a god of the mountains defeated with a seed. And the spirits, the innocent bystanders who had perished in the clash, being escorted by the trickster to a new paradise.

Huh. What an odd story.

Henry didn’t have much time to take it all in, however, as a sudden and triumphant, “Aha!” from Charles caught their attention. They turned to find him in front of one of the altars, grinning and rubbing his hands. “Found the button!”

Ellie had been investigating the altar on the other side of the room, but she somehow managed to reach Charles’ side before Henry had. The three of them started down at the button for a long time, contemplating the many, many ways this thing could kill them, before a shrug from Ellie gave Charles the go ahead. It gave a soft click as it depressed all the way.

The Triple Threat tensed, got into formation, and waited for the trap to spring.

And waited.

And… waited…

And there was no trap. Not even a little one. Henry almost felt disappointed.

“Huh.” Ellie mused, getting out of formation and pressing the button down with her foot. Again, nothing happened. “Okay, that’s strange… but maybe…” Ellie stroked her chin as she walked away to the next altar, testing the ground in front of it with her foot until she found what she was looking for and smirked triumphantly. “Ah ha!”

With the same cool confidence as always, Ellie let her foot fall onto another hidden button. It crumbled under her mighty strength, clicking into place neatly.

Henry could sense a pattern here. They quickly walked over to the other side of the room, to the unattended altar, and stared down at where they were certain, based on where Charles and Ellie were standing, that the final button would be. Should they press it? Do they dare risk their life on the mere chance that this button would open the passageway forward?

...Eh, screw it. Henry stamped down on the button hard.

A final click echoed through the chamber. All was silent for one moment, then two, then three. The silence was broken by a rumbling, small at first but then, gradually, getting louder and louder until the whole chamber was shaking. Shadows began to stretch and grow across the floor as stone eclipsed the skylight, slowly, steadily, until nothing but darkness remained.

Henry’s fingers itched. Their every muscle tingled, phantom pains from a world soon to be echoing across their skin, screaming at them to move, move, move-!

Fire burst forth from the symbol on the altar, giving Henry mere seconds to dodge out of the way before the gods could scorch them with divine retribution. Behind them, Henry could hear Ellie gasp as something heavy slammed down way too close to where they knew she was standing, and on their other side, sputtering and coughing and what sounded like a geyser.

Before they could even thinking of running to their partners’ aid, another pillar of fire sprouted up just next to Henry, setting the room alight with a dangerous orange glow. Then another. And another. For now Henry could dodge them, but the streams of fire were going off faster than faster. This was not a matter of if they got burned to a crisp, but when.

In the glow of the firelight, Henry could make out Charles, soaked head to toe, struggling to push against a strong spray of water that had him pinned. Ellie, on the other side, was only narrowly dodging giant stone pillars raining down on her.

“What kind of trap is this?” Henry snapped in frustration. “There wasn’t anything on the walls!” There couldn’t have been, not with those portraits. A button would stand out far too much.

As Charles was too busy battling a barrage of water, it was Ellie who replied. “I have no clue! The way the buttons were positioned – I thought it made sense-”

She sounded genuinely distressed, and that made Henry’s heart ache worse than anything. Ellie was their moon, their constant anchor in an ever-changing world, and they felt her distress as if it were their own. “Hey- hey- it’s okay.” Henry consoled. “If it helps, this is less stupid then, say, jumping out of a bag and directly into an alarm.”

“Yeah!” Charles had managed to keep the extreme stream of water at bay enough to finally contribute – or maybe he was just powering through it. Hard to say with him. “It’s just a little water… and fire… and some rocks… we got this! We’ll just, uh- um…”

As their sunshine rambled on, Henry could see something click in Ellie’s head. Her eyes widened, shimmering with reflected firelight. “Water… fire… and rocks- no, earth…” Ellie’s gaze traveled upward, to the eclipsed skylight. “Henry!” Her force powers kept the crushing stone pillars at bay while she pointed towards the tip top of the ceiling. “I need to get up there!”

Henry rolled out of the way of an incoming stream of fire. They didn’t have a lot of time. Inside their bag were a few things that could get Ellie away from the rocks and up towards the skylight, but what?

There was a pair of boots in Henry’s inventory that would allow for a super jump – just bend your knees and boom! Up you go. Of course, there were way too many ways for that to end horrifically. The flames that were one wrong dodge away from ending Henry were not the greatest source of light. All it took was too much force and Ellie’s head would crack like an egg against the tough stone ceiling. Or too little force, perhaps, and she would fall into one of the various traps spread across the chamber. It was unwise to leap before one could look, after all.

There was a wooden pole stashed away in there as well. One of those nice collapsible ones. Henry could toss it javelin style to Ellie and of course she’d catch it, she’s Ellie, and once she had it she’d go vaulting over the stone crushers keeping her trapped. The wood was very flexible after all, so it wouldn’t be a-

Wait, no. It was made of wood. Which meant, with Henry’s luck, they’d toss it to Ellie only for the trio to watch it be burnt to ash mid-flight. That would be a terrible way for the Triple Threat to burn out.

So, something that wouldn’t be destroyed by the fire, and something that she’d be able to control even under these poor lighting conditions. That left…

A silver chain glistened in the firelight, strong and fierce and far, far more fireproof then the wooden pole. The primary purpose of this thing was to lift and pull, and Henry couldn’t use it for much else. Ellie, however, was far more versatile, and that showed in her shining eyes as she caught the chain in midair, not even looking back at Henry as she did.

Ellie smirked, and Henry knew they were in for a good time.

She whipped the silver chain over her head and out to one of the many decorative protrusions on the rounded ceiling. It stuck firmly in place, and just before a crushing pillar could flatten her into pancake, Ellie launched into a wide swing. Fire licked at her feet and clothing as she came around to Henry’s side of the chamber, but she didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, she held one arm out wide to catch her partner as she swung past, and Henry gripped her hand for all it was worth. They continued their arc around the chamber, and Henry didn’t even need to be told to hold on to Ellie with one arm as they approached where the strong geyser of water had Charles pinned. Henry grabbed him by the collar and held him tight as the soaked pilot got his grip on Ellie.

“You guys okay?” Ellie called down to them, and Charles nodded while Henry gave her a thumbs up. “Awesome! Hang on tight, we’re going up!”

The arc of their swing widened and quickened, spinning them around the room again and again until they built up enough speed for Ellie to launch them towards the spot where the skylight would be. The air rushed past them as they flew upward. Ellie released one hand from her chain, reaching towards the stone covering. They inched closer, and closer…

And something clicked as Ellie’s outstretched hand pushed in the final button.

Below them, the traps disappeared as quickly as they had activated. The fire stopped. The stone crushing pillars retreated back to their spots hidden in the ceiling. The stream of water sputtered to a halt. The trio landed back on solid ground just as the skylight began to open again, illuminating the temple with sparkling sunlight. Just behind them, the ground rumbled and shook before opening up to reveal a spiral staircase into the unknown depths.

“Woo-hoo!” Charles cheered. The fabric of his clothing was drenched and worn from the pressure of the water that had trapped him earlier, but Charles hardly paid it any mind as he threw his arms around his partner. “Way to go Els!”

“That was so cool!” Henry gushed, piling into her from the other side to keep her sandwiched between them. With her two loves surrounding her, Ellie was able to wind down a little, her shoulders relaxing and her smile widening to expose cute dimples on each side of her mouth.

Ellie giggled in response to their compliments. One of her arms snaked around Henry’s waist while the other latched around Charles’ shoulders. “It wasn’t a big deal.” She shrugged, mock bashfulness on her face even as she reveled in their praise. “I just figured, once Charles said that thing about fire and water and stone, that the traps were based on the elements, and from there it wasn’t hard to figure out that there was another button on the skylight.”

“Still! That was AWESOME!” Charles eyes practically sparkled with delight. “The way you tossed that hook and just-” Charles paused to lift both Ellie and Henry off the ground. He was strong enough to do so, but only barely, leaving Ellie squealing and Henry clinging on for dear life. Charles spun as he continued to recount the events that they’d just lived through, thank you very much.

When Charles finally put them down, Henry took the opportunity to link their fingers with Ellie’s, bringing a softer expression to her face. “Seriously. You were amazing.”

Ellie met their eyes. Those purple orbs seemed to glow softly in the sunlight, reflecting every feeling she couldn’t say. All her worry, her joy, her excitement, her pride, her love… she could spill it out in a thousand words like Charles, but that was never her style. She showed her love in her actions, in her worried fussing, in the look in her eyes as she watched after the two of them.

Henry squeezed her hand a little tighter, relishing in her tender gaze.

“-and then you landed perfectly!” Having finished his little tirade, Charles gazed back at the two of them, and his entire demeanor seemed to soften when he noticed their intertwined hands. “So, yeah. That was super cool.”

“It was.” Ellie agreed finally. She gave Henry’s hand a final squeeze before pulling away to jog lazily towards the newly revealed stairwell. “Now come on! We’re so close to the amethyst I can practically taste it!” Charles chased after her, laughing, and Henry followed suit down the long set of spiral stairs. Darkness waited below, but for now they had the beam of light from the opening directly overhead, granting them safe passage. As they descended, the air cooled; from Henry’s limited experience, the jungle was never anything but unpleasantly humid, so it was a nice change of pace. They zoned out as they walked: listening to Ellie and Charles discuss what might lie ahead, feeling the cool air grant their skin sweet relief from the awful heat, seeing the shadows grow across the ground below them, smelling the old musk of trapped air rise-

Henry blinked and looked back down at the ground below the skylight. The rays hit the ground uninterrupted, illuminating the old stones for the first time in centuries. They then looked upward at the skylight, seeing it clearly, without any sort of obstacle that could cast a shadow. But Henry could have sworn…

No, it was just their paranoia acting up again. Henry exhaled deeply and continued onward.

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

The spiral staircase went down a long, long way, extending past what Henry thought would be the bottom of the pyramid. When they finally reached the end, the Triple Threat found the passageway as dark and foreboding as the ones upstairs before the skylight. They had Charles’ torch, but even its beam could only extend so far. Down below the surface the air was cooler but stale, and the walls, while thick and beautifully crafted, had no more stories to tell. Instead a pattern of intricate molding and paneling lead their way to the depths of the tomb.

The silence between them was deafening as each member of the Triple Threat prepared, in their own way, for whatever traps might lay ahead. As it turned out though, the largest trap they had to worry about was the architecture. Each pathway ended with a split in two directions. All it took was two turns for Henry to realize just how lost they could get in this convoluted maze. Luckily, their partners had a solution.

“It’s the same system we use when gaming together.” Charles explained as he scribbled on a piece of notebook paper. “We’ll make a map as we go, and mark shapes into the walls so we don’t get turned around.” As if to demonstrate, Ellie marked an o with a line through it right next to a clear dead end, and Charles made a corresponding mark on the map. “I don’t mean to ah, brag or anything, but we’re basically professional cartographers at this point.”

As if to demonstrate their prowess, Charles turned and proudly presented the map, which was just a jumble of lines with random symbols on it to Henry. Still, they gave the two an approving thumbs up.

So the trio marched on. This section of the pyramid wasn’t necessarily difficult, given that the traps were all laughably easy to dodge, but it did drag on a bit. The labyrinth was designed to confuse and entrap any enterprising thieves, and perhaps it would have successfully diverted one on their own.

Good thing these thieves came in a set of three.

At some point they reached a long sloping hallway, stretching so far forward that Charles’ flashlight could not even illuminate the far wall. The scent of upcoming danger wafted in the air, causing a mixture of anxiety and excitement in the trio. Charles got the privilege of leading the way due to his incredible skill of remembering to bring a torch, but Ellie and Henry were not far behind.

“Keep a sharp eye out.” Ellie warned as they crept down the long, long passageway. “There could be traps everywhere. Be prepared for anything-”

Click.

Henry looked down at their foot, and the slight indent in the floor from where they’d managed to step on a button. Whoops.

“What did I literally just say?” Ellie scolded, looking more annoyed than genuinely panicked. All Henry could muster in response was a sheepish grin.

The whole pyramid shook underneath their feet. Ellie and Charles, somehow, kept their balance, but Henry could not, and it was only after they’d fallen to the floor and were forced to look up that they saw the giant boulder cascading down towards them. They were up and running in an instant, and the screaming behind them told Henry their sunshine and moonlight were trailing behind them.

“Ah, Henry?” Charles called. His voice held a hint of nervousness – just a small touch – as he somehow managed to keep pace with the two thieves. “Now might be a good time for one of your tricks. You know, like that earthbending thing you can sometimes do-” Wouldn’t work. Henry’s skills weren’t strong enough to stop something that big in it’s tracks. They’d create a ramp to launch the blasted thing just above their heads and end up managing to crush the trio like a batch of gross pancakes. “-or maybe one of those Gizmo Gabe things you’re always carrying around-” Nah, Henry didn’t even need future sight to see where that would go wrong. Gadget Gabe (Charles never could get that name right) meant well, but their devices were… well, half-baked. The Float-O-Matic in their pack might get them away from the boulder, but it might also get them stuck to the ceiling with no hope of escape. No thank you.

“Or, you know,” Ellie yelled over the rumbling. Her voice was a little stressed, but also a little teasing, “We could teleport away from it!”

“Get bent!” Henry snapped back at her. “We don’t need that thing! It ALWAYS backfires!”

With that, Henry pulled out a sheet of paper, a canvas about the size of their body, and spun around to face the boulder head on. Ellie and Charles called out behind them, but Henry was singularly focused on the rock speeding at them at high speeds. The paper in their arms crinkled loudly as Henry waved it with both arms, as if airing out a towel, before dramatically bringing it up over their head. They waited for the boulder to get in to place.

Waiting…

Waiting….

Waiting… now!

The paper tore the boulder into tiny little shreds, sending shrapnel flying all around. Henry paid it no mind, driving the giant sheet of paper down further and further. It ground down the boulder until nothing but dust remained.

“See?” Henry looked back, speaking between deep breaths. Using that much force really took a lot out of a person. “We don’t need the teleporter.”

Ellie blinked stupidly at the display in front of her. “What- but- how did you-?!”

Dearest Charles, the only sympathetic party to her confusion, patted her gently on the back as he explained: “Paper beats rock. That’s just logic.”

“That only works in rock, paper, scissors!” Ellie cried out, frustrated. “That’s not how-”

She was shushed gently, and treated to one of Charles’ sunshiny smiles. “It’s Henry.” He said plainly, as if this explained what she’d just seen. “Don’t question it.”

As Henry passed her, listening to her frustrated grunting, they couldn’t help but smile. Mere moments after they disappeared into the darkness, the crackling and crunching of stone debris could be heard behind them.

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

Finally, after long hours of trekking, after all the falls and traps and near death experiences that had protected the treasure within, the Triple Threat arrived at the grand entrance to the tomb. Before them stood a door at least as tall as the three stacked up. It was engraved with the Queen Empress’ visage, grand and imposing as she stared down at the mighty rats who dared steal from her precious tomb. Never one to do things by halves, the Mighty Empress had the door’s framing made of shining gold, which had Henry and Ellie salivating and Charles rolling his eyes. The torches that once illuminated the path to her final place of resting had been damp and cold far longer than any of them had been alive.

“You know,” Ellie looked up at the humongous image of the woman, as grand as she was tall, with crossed arms and thin lips, “I think this might be the burial chamber. Not sure why, but I just get that vibe, you know?”

Charles snorted. “I dunno, we’ve seen a lot of this woman plastered everywhere.”

“Good point.” Ellie agreed.

While they bickered and quipped, Henry took a good look at the grand entrance and stroked their chin thoughtfully. They pushed at the door and, to no one’s surprise, it didn’t budge. So they’d have to pull it open. A difficult task, without handles on a door more than twice Henry’s size, but Henry was a master of work smarter, not harder.

Except for that one time with the bank.

Or that other time with the prison.

Or… you know what? Henry was just going to drop this line of thought before they embarrassed themselves further.

Instead, Henry pulled a crowbar out of their inventory and wedged it carefully between the giant stone doors. Its lodging gave Henry the leverage needed to pry the door open, and the task was made easier when Charles and Ellie finally broke away from their banter to lend their strength. Together they succeeded, as they always did, and the door to the crypt opened with a gust of wind and a pungent odor. Rot and decay caused the trio’s eyes and noses to burn, but they pressed onward. Ellie, in a moment of practical brilliance, handed out air fresheners she’d stolen from the helicopter rental place. The scent of pine was too faint to completely block out the stench, but it provided a little relief.

The entire interior of the chamber was bathed in green light, illuminated by lines of shimmering green stone on the ground. Made from the same glowing material as the murals upstairs, it did such a good job of lighting up the joint that Charles was able to give his poor, overworked torch a well deserved rest. The lines ran up the walls, across the floor, in circles and in straight dashes across dark stone, revealing a room about as large as the temple above, and… largely empty. A few altars were placed in each corner beneath a mural, and in the center of the room was an unremarkable stone box which must have contained the queen’s body.

Charles echoed Henry’s thoughts exactly. “Wait, is this it?”

“Not seeing a lot of treasure here, Charlie.” Ellie remarked. She waltzed ahead to the stone casket, frowning as she mulled it over.

“No, wait, no!” Almost frantically, their poor pilot began zipping around the room, at this point uncaring of any traps he might uncover. “There has to be more! There’s no way this isn’t the place! Unless… they didn’t bury her with it? But that wouldn’t make any sense…!”

Henry idly pat Charles on the back while he spiraled over the misinformation. They were just about to tell him something along the lines of ‘It’s about the journey, not the destination’ (a useless platitude, but one that might make him feel better) when their eyes drifted to the wall behind one of the altars, to the large portrait of a god surrounded by mountains. The divine being’s eyes were blank, painted without pupils, but the rest of their body language – their stance, their expression, the scowl on their face – suggested pure, unbridled rage. Scanning the rest of the room, Henry found two more familiar figures along the walls near the other altars. The Ocean God and the Sky God, each gazing into the room with the same fury as the Mountain God.

Henry had seen this before.

While the fire and water and giant stones had been a very good distraction from what Henry had assumed was just a common legend immortalized upon the walls, they had still managed to take a good look before they’d been forced to move on. Three altars for three gods that had needed to be placated by a trickster.

Just as Ellie had made her way over to join them in comforting Charles, Henry left his side and made their way over to the Mountain God’s altar. How had the mural gone again?

A god of the mountains defeated with a seed. All Henry had on them that could satisfy that condition was some sunflower seeds that Charles had packed for snacking. Taking a breath and praying this wouldn’t get them all killed in some horrible way, Henry took one seed from the packet and dropped it on the altar.

The glowing lines on the floor suddenly shifted, spinning as the mural changed before their eyes. The angry god smiled down happily at the seedling on their altar, placated by the promise of new plants spreading across the mountains. Sounds of awe came from Ellie and Charles, but Henry paid their partners no mind as they struggled to recall the next image. The god of the sky, with storm clouds flooding the air around them and lightning a their fingertips, had been placated with a… piece of jewelry? A ring? No, that wasn’t right… a necklace…? Yeah, that was it.

While Henry had more than their fair share of fine accessories, they weren’t in the habit of bringing those accessories with them, on account of potentially losing them, or breaking them, or being electrocuted when the metal catches lightning or something. So instead of a nice, fancy necklace like in the mural above ground, all they could offer to the sky god was their employee badge from work, a little lanyard with a picture of Henry and a bar-code on it. Nothing like the ornate piece that was offered in the mural, but the sky god accepted it anyways. As before, the lines on the floor changed, transforming the image instead to that a pleased god with calm skies and a sunny smile.

That just left the final mural. The god of the oceans, vast and temperamental, plagued with storms and swells alike, glared down at Henry in clear rage. The last god was soothed with a song, Henry recalled. So how should they proceed?

Henry already knew singing was out of the question. Their throat was already sore from a day of mere conversational talking, and even beyond that Henry’s musical gifts did… not extend to their vocal chords. Breaking out into song would only shatter all their heads like glass. Hitting the high note was not among Henry’s many talents; Their B sharp would only fall flat.

So, instead, Henry produced a long out of date mp3 player from their inventory. How long had that thing been in there? Five years? Ten? However long it took for the once widespread piece of musical tech to become completely irrelevant. Of course, somehow, it still had a charge on it, and Henry’s grin only widened as a familiar hip hop tune, popular in whatever decade Henry had last bothered to update the thing, began thumping out, echoing sweetly in the large chamber.

Charles’ face lit up immediately, “Ooh, I remember this! Aw man, I used to sing this all the time when I was a kid!” As if to prove his point, Charles joined in with the next line. Much like Charles himself, the singing was a little clumsy, a little off note, but so sweet and so enthusiastic that you couldn’t help but bask in the warmth.

Ellie laughed along, reflecting Charles’ enthusiasm with her own uniquely charming mirth, and joined in on the singing. Her voice was elegant and refined, carrying the tune of the song far more easily than Charles’. Ellie would have never sung like this even a year ago, when they’d first started dating, too concerned with proving herself cool and reliable to her new comrades, even if she let her true self slip through once in a while. Now she was unafraid to really let her hair down, matching Charles’s silliness with unrestrained enthusiasm.

And, of course, they’d never leave Henry out. For even though Henry couldn’t sing, they were quite the dancer, and all it took was the gentlest pull of their sun and moon’s gravity for Henry to be sucked into their orbit. They spun and twirled and danced to the beat of the song, Henry guiding their partners through the motions of the rhythm. None of the Triple Threat paid any mind to the change in the green lines, or the appearance of a fourth mural as the beaming trickster appeared to create a fourth line of green luminescent light. It was only at the end of the song, when the trio were exhausted and laughing on the floor, did they catch the tail end of the changes in the room as the lid of the coffin retracted.

Henry exchange a look with their partners before approaching the open tomb. They expected a collection of withered bones and tattered clothes to be laid before them as they peered into the grave, but to their surprise what instead met their eyes was one final staircase.

“So this was a false burial chamber.” Ellie mused from behind them. “Sneaky. Verrrrry sneaky.”

“Hah!” Charles cheered, pumping an arm in celebration. “I knew there had to be more to it! No way my information was wrong!” The melancholy of his earlier disappointment had completely flipped on its head, leaving fierce determination in its place. “That treasure’s gotta be just up ahead! Come on, team! Final stretch!”

He extended out a hand, and it was almost without thought that Henry reached out to place their own atop it, followed swiftly by Ellie. Their eyes met, green and red and violet sparkling with the emerald light of the glowing stone lines surrounding them, and the Triple Threat nodded as they broke their huddle by launching their hands to the ceiling in one final show of commitment to their quest before charging down the secret stairs, energy renewed.

All the while unaware of the silhouetted form shadowing them, silently darkening the space behind them. The figure halted, watching and listening, before descending down after them with slow, tenacious steps.

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

Darkness crept upward as the Triple Threat crept down. The ray of Charles’ torch, now beginning to fade in intensity after several hours of use, was the only source of light in the dank, shadowy crypt. Almost as unnerving as the darkness was the silence, the complete and utter cessation of any sounds other than their echoing footsteps. Tingling sensations traveled along Henry’s spine with each stride downward they took, muscles tensed as they awaited the next trap, the next emergency, the next big bad thing that would jump out from the pitch black nothing stretching ahead of them and their partners.

What instead greeted them was the sound of rushing water.

Each member of the team immediately jolted to a halt as their tired minds finally processed the sound, and once they did Henry spared a glance to first Ellie, right behind them with eyes blown wide, then Charles, whose jaw dropped so low it was practically on the floor. Caution thrown to the wind, the Triple Threat redoubled their pace, going as fast as they dared until they reached the end of the final descent. The bottom of the stairs lead to a hallway only a few meters long, its exit beckoning them with a rainbow of illuminated stones. Charles’ torch clicked off, but the light in the room didn’t diminish enough to hamper the quickened steps of the suddenly elated adventurers. Henry’s heart pounded harder, disbelief buzzing over their bones as hope built in their chest. Was this it? Did they make it?

The end of the hallway opened up, and Charles’ sharp gasp of shock and awe did more to express Henry’s feelings in that moment than anything they could have put into words.

The Queen Empress had built her final resting place atop an underground spring full of crystal clear water carving its way through the spacious cavern. Its forks and twists created small islands, upon each of which was a small mountain of captured treasures for the Empress to take into her next life. It felt like something out of a cheesy movie; piles of glittering gold coins and cups and whatever else the tyrant had managed to snatch away from their rightful owners, stretching so tall one almost couldn’t see over them to the rocky edges of the naturally formed cave. Henry took a few stunned steps forward, only noting the possibility of more traps after failing to be hit by any. A quick glance to their six showed that their partners were in similar states of awe, Charles oohing and ahhing and Ellie practically salivating over the piles of treasure.

With this much moolah, the Triple Threat would never have to work again… they could live in the lap of luxury, servants at their beck and call, all their wishes and desires fulfilled with only a snap of the fingers… diamond jewelry and name-brand furniture and private chefs and golden toilet seats and-!

“Aw man, this is so cool!” Charles chirped up behind Henry, knocking them out of their daydreams, wading across the one of the streams with a carefree swagger. “It must’ve taken years to get all this down here! How do you think they got it all down those stairs?”

Of course. Damned logistics. Well, Henry was certain they could get at least a good chunk outta here before their vacation was up. After they found their prize, of course.

At the center of the spring, surrounded by waterfalls and luscious cave flowers, was the Queen Empress’ sarcophagus. It was delicately carved, much more ornate and intricate than the fake sarcophagus upstairs, which made Henry feel silly for ever thinking that slab of lazily slapped together stone was the real tomb of such an egomaniac. And hovering above her coffin, the centerpiece of a grand chandelier dangling from the ceiling, was the Amazonian Amethyst, shimmering stunningly as light from the glowing stones that decorated the tomb reflected off of its brilliant surface.

“Beautiful…” Ellie whispered, walking ahead of Henry almost as if in a trance. Henry themselves hadn’t even realized they’d paused in a stupor until she overtook them, and then, well, it became a race. They playfully, not too hard, shoved Ellie to the side and bolted ahead, and of course she ran after them and shoved back even harder.

Somewhere behind them, Charles laughed. “Play nice, you two!” He called forward, no doubt fully aware that his demand would go unheeded.

The impromptu race took Ellie and Henry swiftly across the pathway through the spring, up the staircase and finally halting just underneath the chandelier. Now, how to lower it? Henry could just jump up and try to pull the gigantic gemstone loose, but something told them that they’d take the whole chandelier – and part of the stalactite it was dangling from – down with it, crushing both themselves and Ellie. Not the kind of bringing down the roof they were fond of. They could try and poke it loose with a stick or something, but it looked pretty wedged in there. It wouldn’t budge for quite a while, and them and Ellie would poke harder, and harder, until they’d used enough force to launch it into the air, where it’d fly up and up and then down and down and then hit their pilot in the head, knocking him out cold. Some anniversary present, eh Charles?

It was while Henry was skimming through their options that the sudden sound of metal clanking and clacking startled them into a jump. Their gaze darted around until it finally rested on Ellie, carefully lowering the chandelier on the opposite side of the sarcophagus with a smile and, once her eye caught Henry’s, a playful wink.

God, they loved this woman.

The chandelier came to rest atop the coffin. Henry and Ellie stood above it, and Henry didn’t need to look over at their moonlight to know that her eyes reflected the excitement as their own. They didn’t even need to speak; Henry pressed down on the chandelier with the full weight of their body while Ellie hopped atop the structure to pull at the amethyst.

“Come on,” She muttered to the gemstone stuck in the structure,” Come to mama.”

Her arms were quivering with the effort it took, but unlike Henry Ellie was strong, so with each pull it came a little more loose, then a little more… then more…

Until, with a pop, it was finally free. Ellie had been using so much force that she toppled off the chandelier and into Henry’s waiting arms.

She looked down at the gem, as if she couldn’t quite believe it was there in her hands, and then back up at Henry to begin laughing in sheer astonishment. “We found it,” She forced out between chuckles. Henry sauntered over to place their own hands underneath the gigantic gem, helping Ellie to support its weight. “We actually found it! Charles! Hey Charles!” Their guy, who had been distracted combing over the mountain of treasures, looked up at them and immediately his eyes popped out of their sockets. The expression had Ellie laughing even harder. “Aw, man, I can’t believe-”

Her mirthful tone was cut short by a bang.

Its echos thundered across the cavern, piercing Henry’s eardrums and stilling them instantly. There was no mistaking that sound, not for a trio of experienced adventurers like them. The sharp gasp that followed, however, was far scarier.

Henry and Ellie whipped their heads down to watch their partner gasp and stumble back, clutching at his leg, Without a second to spare Ellie dropped the gem and began sprinting back, and Henry followed swiftly after. They only halted when Charles’ fall to the ground was interrupted by a pair of large hands grabbing him and forcing him back on his feet. Streaks of red began running down Charles’ leg, staining his clothes, and as painful as it must have been for him to stand on his wounded leg, Charles’ only response was to bite his lip and glare up, past the muzzle of the gun shoved in his face, at the assailant now holding him hostage.

There was something familiar about this man, something that had a name dancing on the edge of Henry’s brain, but in their panic they couldn’t quite grasp it. Rather than try, Henry squared their shoulders and took a defensive stance, eyes darting around as they looked for options.

So far, nothing that wouldn’t get Charles killed.

“I don’t know who the hell you are,” Ellie addressed the attacker with a near business-like seriousness, only a hint of the rage Henry was sure she had bubbling within her lacing the words, “But if you drop the pilot now and begin running, I’ll give you five minutes to get out of here.” Swift as a hurricane gale, the sidearm Ellie always carried was in her hands, drawn and pointed at the assailant. She wouldn’t actually fire it, of course. She’d never risk hitting Charles-

(Which was why Henry hadn’t drawn theirs. With their bad luck, it’d misfire and put a hole clear through his skull.)

-but the attacker didn’t know that. Probably.

“Feh.” He scoffed, his red mustache twitching as his lips curled in disgust. “Ya don’ bother talkin’ about us, Henry?” The sheer resentment in his tone tickled something in Henry’s mind – a life they hadn’t lived, an alliance they hadn’t made, broken by a man they’d never met. If only they could put a name to the face…

Henry forced themselves to snap back to reality. Charles’ needed them in the now, they couldn’t afford to get lost in a life not lived.

“Or do you two actually not remembah me?” This time his embittered query was directed at Charles, which sparked an increasingly familiar protective fury in Henry’s chest, “Ya took everything I had, ruined my life, and ya can’t even be bothered ta remembah?!” As he went on, his voice got louder, his wrath colouring his words more and more, until he was screaming in Charles’ ear. Credit to their partner, Charles didn’t so much as flinch, the stern military composure that he almost never displayed finally being put to use.

That didn’t make it any easier to watch.

“If you’re so ticked about us forgetting,” Ellie quipped, the only clue that she shared Henry’s fear and fury hidden in the tenseness of her shoulders, “Then why don’t you remind us?

The call-out caused the bristling man to cool, at least somewhat. “Tch. It don’t actually matter a lick if ya know why ya need to die.” He pressed the muzzle of his gun into Charles’ neck, and their pilot, their sunshine, only grew colder and stonier in response. “Just that you do.”

He forced Charles to take a step backward, and in response to Ellie’s call of, “Wait, stop!”, he only aimed his gun at Henry and Ellie, forcing them to stop. His grip around Charles’ tightened to prevent escape in lieu of the gun threat; even if he hadn’t, the shot to the leg would’ve kept Charles’ from running.

“Oh, no, you two ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Growled the assailant. “This ol’ tomb is yours now. You’ll both die in this place. Not ‘im though.” Again, the gun’s tip rested against Charles’ skin. “’E’s my ticket to my next target. Can’t kill ‘em ‘til I get my ‘ands on that ringleader o’ yours.”

That one puzzled Henry a bit, but Ellie picked up on the clues faster. “You’re after the General.” She accused.

“Him,” The assailant proclaimed, and for just a moment Henry could see a flicker of red mechanical? light in one of his eyes, “’Is subordinates, ‘is witnesses… everyone who ‘ad a hand in bringing us down. I’m gonna get a little payback.”

Echoes of a voice across a timeline, a fight that never occurred, a betrayal from a man he never met… “Time fer a little payback!”

Without even thinking, Henry’s mind found the name amongst the fractures of futures that never were, and they whispered, “Right Hand Man.”

“So ya do remembah me.” He snipped. In this world, Henry had only really seen the man on the news, back when the Toppats were first being arrested, but he’d changed since then. His hair had grown far longer, his body thin from a diet of delicious prison slop, and his hat didn’t quite match up with the ex-con’s memories. But Henry felt stupid for forgetting what the man looked like, considering his impact in the alternate futures Henry had seen. “How flattering.”

“Know this guy, Hen?” Ellie asked, her brows furrowing at her partner. Henry tried not to think about what that could mean, or, with their mind fractured between timelines, how easily she could pull up memories from a world they weren’t as friendly in.

All they could manage was one word. “Toppats.”

“That’s what this is about?!” Charles exploded, breaking his stoic mask to glare at his captor. Henry’s silent prayers for him to shut up went unanswered, proving once again how the universe hated them, “Dude, we took down the Toppats, like, three years ago or something! You seriously couldn’t have found another clan to-?!”

Apparently this was what it took to offend the Right Hand Man, because he shifted his hold to grab at Charles’ hair and yank hard, causing a flinch of pain that made Henry’s arm hair stiffen. “I may need ya alive fer now,” He spat, “But if ya wanna keep that waggin’ tongue of yers, I suggest puttin’ a sock in it.”

Charles, thankfully, took that advice, even as he was forced to walk backwards on his injured leg. Everything in Henry was telling them to run after the Toppat cretin, to take back their Charles and make him pay for the damage he’d caused, but the gun barrel pointed at Charles’ face kept both them and Ellie painfully still. All they could do was watch as their sunlight was dragged away from them, leaving the duo stuck in the dark of the cavern.

“Dammit,” Ellie growled under her breath, We’ve got to-”

Once again, she was rudely cut off with a bang, this one much grander in scale. The cavern began to shake with the force of a small explosion set off from the very exit Charles and the Right Hand Man had just taken. Rocks began falling from the ceiling and, with growing horror, Henry realized that the Right Hand Man had intended to keep his promise: The exit was being sealed off. They would die here.

Ellie’s voice cut through the air with a sharp, “Henry, move!”

The exit seemed so far away, and the rocks were falling so fast. They wouldn’t make it. Not at the speed they were running at. Henry’s gut sank, and their mind raced as they peered desperately into the future.

A power slide wouldn’t get them enough speed. They’d make it just close enough for their foot to be crushed underneath the falling debris. Miles away from a home run.

Ultra speed shoes would make them go too fast, overshooting their target and burrowing through the staircase on the other side. That would cave in on top of them just as painfully as standing in the entrance would. And them without any power rings.

Time was slipping away. Fast. Soon the clock would run out, and they’d be trapped, and Charles would be- Charles would-

There was one other option. A change for escape that was just fast enough to get one of them out before the passage was sealed off. Without warning Henry grabbed Ellie’s hand, ignoring her sharp shriek as they spun around once, twice, three times… before tossing her like a hammer. Ellie barely had enough time to brace herself as she flew just underneath the falling the rubble, making it to safety on the other side before the final stones fell, sealing off the tomb completely.

A sigh of relief escaped Henry.

From behind the pillar of rubble, Ellie’s voice cried out. “Henry?! Henry!! Henry, are you there?!”

“I’m here!” They called, moving more swiftly towards the barrier between them and the outside. “I’m okay, I promise! Now get out of here!”

“What?! But you-!”

“Have air and water.” Henry cut her off. “I’ll be find until you can send for help. But Charles is alone with that psychopath. He needs you far more than I do right now.”

There was a pause from the other side, but no sound of Ellie moving away, so Henry kept silent until they finally heard her, “I’m coming back for you.” She promised, her voice carrying a rare sense of desperate seriousness. “I promise, I’m not going to abandon you here. No matter what happens.”

Ah, of course. Their Rose, their shimmering light in the dark, had been chewed up and left for the cops by some previous associates. If there was one thing she’d never joke about, it was betrayal. “I know.” They told her with all the trust in their heart, and they hoped that was enough for her. “Now go get our boy and show that Toppat jerk just who he’s messed with.”

“Okay.” Ellie agreed, her footsteps audible even through the debris. Then they fell silent. “I love you.” Her voice called back, and before Henry could respond Ellie was sprinting off into the distance.

Though their was no way their quiet voice could reach her, Henry whispered back, “Love you too, Moonlight.”

They continued listening through the rubble, Ellie’s footsteps becoming quieter and quieter until, finally, the only sound remaining was the babbling of the underground river, slowly flowing by. With no way to follow after their two loves, all Henry could do was drop to the ground, releasing the tension within them into a heavy sigh.

There was nothing they more they could do at this point. As well stocked as they kept their inventory, they’d somehow failed to think they’d need to bring any sort of mining equipment. Forcing their way out was out of the question. And while they could follow the underwater streams, there was no way of knowing how far the channel traveled before emptying itself outside – if it did at all. There was just as likely a chance of Henry finding a flooded cavern, and while they could swim reasonably well, they were far from a seasoned diver. The safest option was to wait for Ellie to save Charles and return to rescue them.

If she managed to catch them at all, a traitorous part of their brain whispered. Henry swallowed thickly around the familiar dryness in their throat.

Instead of dwelling on the what ifs and the fight no doubt going on above, Henry tried instead to focus on the positives, what few they could find. Right Hand Man’s explosion had only been large enough to cave in the entrance; the rest of the burial chamber, sans some debris and a few displaced pieces of treasure, was entirely intact, with little chance of caving in on Henry’s head. Glancing around the cavern, they could also see algae and moss growing along the sides of the river. With luck, that meant fish, so they were not likely to starve before help arrived either. Sushi was far from their preferred meal of choice, but they were used to working with what little they had.

Continuing their observation of the burial chamber, Henry’s eyes were quickly drawn to something out of place; a splotch of bright red in a room otherwise filled with muted blues and greens and golds. A gym bag, made of a rough modern fabric with a dark zipper, sat unassumingly not far from where the bloodstain of Charles’ shooting marred the ground. Alarm bells went off in Henry’s head the second they registered what they were looking at. Bags like this were typically used in the case of an inventory being exceeded, but the only tool the Right Hand Man had used was their gun, a pistol that lacked the equipment requirements to necessitate that much gear, and the explosives that had blown up the cavern. And why leave the bag behind?

Henry forced themselves to stand, an uneasy weight shifting in their gut as they moved. The bag was zipped shut. Henry’s fingers were slowly and shaky as they pulled the zipper up, over, and down…

Exposing the bomb left instead the bag. A much larger explosive with a much bigger yield. Henry’s experience with this particular brand of bomb was minimal, but they knew enough to know that it could easily level the entire pyramid.

The bastard had promised that Henry would die, after all. Of course he wouldn’t leave it to chance.

There was no clock on the bomb, no sign that it would just explode at random. That didn’t mean it wasn’t on a timer, of course, but given how spiteful the Right Hand Man had been so far, Henry had a feeling it would go off at his whim. Either way, however, time was short for Henry Stickmin. They had to find a way out of the mess, and fast.

Attempting to disarm the explosive was a possibility, of course, but Henry didn’t know diddly squat about bomb disposal. Any attempt to cut the wires would just set the bomb off. All the wires might as well be the red one when you have no idea what you’re doing, after all.

Their next thought was to attempt an escape through the river, but their previous logic gave them pause. If the stream emptied out into a completely submerged cavern, then Henry would either have to swim for freedom and hope they could find an exit or… drown. And there was no guarantee a bomb with this kind of yield wouldn’t cause a cave in that could leave Henry trapped without air. Of the many, many ways they’d seen themselves die, suffocating to death tended to be some of the worst, primarily because suffocating was slow. The worst deaths were always the slow ones.

Sighing heavily, Henry plopped themselves down next to the bag. Their eyes scanned it over when they noticed something… underneath the bomb.

No way. The Right Hand Man was NOT stupid enough to leave anything else inside that bag… right?

Very carefully, so as not to set off a premature explosion, Henry inched the bomb aside and took a gander at the contents underneath. Indeed, the Right Hand Man had left other things inside along with the bomb… mostly his trash. Old wrappers, what may have been a shopping list before water damage got to it, a photograph of Henry and their partners littered with cigarette burns that was absolutely not chilling in any way, thank you very much. Growling a little, Henry continued to shuffle things around, hoping that something in this trash might be a little useful. A manual for the explosive was probably too optimistic to ask, but maybe there was some gum they could use to gunk up the interior, or an old radio that could be used to jam the activation frequency, or… or…

Henry’s mind ground to a halt as they reached the bottom of the bag, staring down at the final piece of garbage with their mouth agape. For the first time since bidding Ellie adieu, they spoke.

“You have GOT to be kidding me!”

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

For the second time in a single day, a thousand years of peaceful rest for the dead was disturbed by a barrage of footsteps. The first time Ellie traversed these halls, her steps carried caution, nervousness, excitement, and determination that damped the sounds of her and her partners’ (and their stalker’s) traversal through the tomb. Now, however, those same sounds were louder, stronger, more frequent as they bounced off the walls and amplified ten times over. Just as loud was the steady, heavy breathing that escaped from her gasping mouth as she raced backwards through the pyramid.

Louder still was the beating of her heart in her chest.

Ellie couldn’t’ let herself think. If she did, all her worries and fears, the danger her boys were in, would overwhelm her in an instant. All she could do was keep pace, keep looking forward. Follow her map through the labyrinth protecting the burial chamber and try not to think of the silly look on Charles’ face as he focused on making it. Climb the staircase into the temple and don’t think of Henry’s confident smile as they danced their way through the false burial chamber. By this point the purple jelly… rubber… things had dissolved or something, so Ellie had to use Henry’s metal chain to swing across the pit of deadly spikes and potentially less deadly snakes and not think about whether or not the kidnapper got Charles across unscathed.

At last she reached the exit, the light at the end of the tunnel. Exhaustion was seeping into her bones, but Ellie did her best not to heed it any mind. She ignored the searing pain of fresh sunlight piercing her sensitive retinas as she returned to the land of the living. Ellie’s gaze darted around the jungle, searching for her targets with the same discerning eye that once picked originals out of fakes. In mere moments she found her boy struggling against the grip of his attacker at the very edge of the treeline.

Ellie couldn’t waste a second. She skipped the stairs and slid down the side of the pyramid instead, coming to a halt at the very bottom. She didn’t pause to so much as catch her breath. Instead she flew forward, her lungs burning at the sight of Charles stuck in that bastard’s grip, his pistol at Charles’ temple, and without so much as a cry of warning she shot her pistol with pin perfect accuracy. Her mark, the tree immediately to the left of the captor and hostage, had a smoking hole clear through the center ring, at the same height of the red-headed bitch’s face. A singular warning of just what kind of force he was messing with before things got ugly.

(And if there was so much as a scratch on her Charles… oh, would things get ugly.)

Though she hardly needed to make the demand aloud, Ellie called out to the Toppat, “I’ll give you one more chance. Release the pilot, now.”

The Toppat – what had Henry called him? The Right Something? - took one look at her, at the smoking tip of the gun in her hand, and had the utter audacity to smirk at the sight of it. “Heh. You all by your lonesome, girly?”

Let it be known that Ellie’s boys could never keep a secret from her, and even through his military bravado Ellie could see the truth in Charles’ eyes. The initial wave of relief when her shot rang out, noting her safety, followed by a stunned sense of fear and panic. His eyes met her, the unspoken question broadcasted plainly in the crinkle of his brow, the way his lips pressed tight. Though he dared not speak aloud, Charles was all but begging for the truth.

Never one to let a dramatic moment go to waste, Ellie answered the questions of both men with a smirk. “What, you mean to imply your little firecracker did any actual damage? Hardly.” Charles’ shoulders relaxed just a fraction in response to Ellie’s answer, and her grin widened. “They’re a little caught up though, so I’m sure they won’t mind me having all the fun.”

The Right Hand Whatever’s smug expression only got smugger. Something sour coiled in Ellie’s gut, an alarm bell signaling trouble on the horizon, but despite her suspicions Ellie couldn’t back down. Not when all the chips were on the table, when Charles was clearly struggling on his injured leg. Not when her opponent clearly had an ace up his sleeve, while her cleverly disguised hand was an utter train wreck waiting to happen. All she could do was shore up her grin and keep her poker face strong.

For her Charles, who was hurt and scared and had a gun pointed at his face. For her Henry, who was trapped and alone and waiting for her to return. She needed to find out what this son of a bitch had planned.

“That right?” The Right Something or Other asked cheekily. “You should know something, girl. I was Right ‘and Man of the Toppat Clan. Second in command of the entire brigade. The enforcer to our leader’s brains. I ‘andled every threat that would ever cross ‘is desk.” His one hand, the one that had Charles’ arm in a death grip, began moving up, fingers dancing on Charles’ sleeve, until they reached his shoulders, where they tapped, tapped, tapped away. Ellie could see Charles’ brow wrinkle as he tried not to show his discomfort with the action. “I nevah missed a mark. Even when I did, I didn’t. Because I always, always ‘ad a backup plan.”

Ellie’s very mind went numb as a bone chilling dread set in.

And then, behind her, the pyramid exploded.

The force of the explosion was enough to very nearly knock Ellie off her feet. All she could bring herself to do was stare back at what remained of the ruins. Every thought in her head came to a grinding, crashing halt as she struggled to comprehend what she was seeing. Henry, her gemstone, her partner in crime, her best fucking friend was in there. Ellie left them there, and had promised to come back, and didn’t. And now they’re gone. She wanted to cry. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to scream.

All she could do was stand there and stare, like the idiot who’d let herself be betrayed all those years ago.

Charles did the reacting for her, calling out, “Henry!!” In a bone-chillingly horrified cry that, momentarily, drew Ellie out of her stupor. She spun back around just in time to see the Right Hand Man’s grip around Charles shift so that his arm was wrapped around their sweetheart’s throat, not quite tight enough to completely cut off air but tight enough to choke and hurt, and a new terror grew in her when she saw Charles struggling to break free. Their eyes met.

The hope that had ignited in Charles when Ellie had appeared was entirely gone now, replaced with a darkness Ellie couldn’t quite place in her normally optimistic partner. The tears in his eyes broke free every few seconds, leaving a scorching trail down his face. Ellie felt the sight trigger a burning in her own eyes and bit her lip to try and keep it in. She already knew that was a losing battle.

Then, Charles’ escape attempts redoubled as he shouted, “Shoot him!”

Stunned, Ellie’s eyes briefly darted to her gun, the sidearm she hadn’t lowered once throughout the entire exchange, before returning to Charles, “What?!”

“Shoot him!” Repeated the pilot. His lack of resistance to his captor so far, combined with his injury, must have left the Right Hand Murderer complacent, because he was genuinely struggling to get Charles under control again with only one arm, “Fucking kill him-! Make him pay, he can’t get away with this, he can’t-!”

“But-” Half of Ellie’s remaining strength was channeled into her hands, trying to prevent them from shaking. Her vision was too blurry with building tears to tell how successful she was, “I can’t- he’ll shoot you-” The Right Hand Monster’s weapon had been drawn away a little, but it was still pointed at Charles’ head. He could still very easily get a shot off before Ellie could finish pulling the trigger.

The utter rage in Charles’ voice only made Ellie’s shaking worse, “I don’t care, I don’t fucking care! He needs to die! He needs to suffer for what he did-!”

The murderer was yelling something at Charles, but it flew over Ellie’s head as she swallowed past the heavy lump in her throat. Her eyes burned, her vision blurring so badly she could only barely tell her boyfriend apart from that monster. The pressure of all that had happened in the past two minutes began to crush her lungs, leaving her gasping for air.

Henry was dead. They were gone and dead because of that man, that monster who hurt her partners and if she were a better agent, a stronger person, she could take the shot, take him out and avenge her gemstone but- but Charles was right there. All it would take was one misfire, one mistake, one twitch of her shaking hands and then she’d have lost both her partners.

She couldn’t breath. Her lungs were burning, Every gulp of air she took only fed the fire, suffocating her faster in a smoky haze of grief and terror.

Then, for what must have been the fourth time that day, Ellie was blinded by light.

This burst of light, however, was far more short lived, only blinding the three for a few key seconds. Just long enough for Henry’s fist to collide with the Right Bastard’s face. He flew back from the force of it, head colliding with the trunk of a nearby tree. That accursed gun was launched into the distance and lost amongst the natural chaos of the rain forest. Ellie frantically wiped at her face, desperate to clear her clouded sight and prove this wasn’t a trick of the eyes.

Once she could see, Ellie was treated to a vision of absolute beauty. Her partner, her gemstone, standing tall and proud above the Right Hand Loser, breathing heavily. His one hand was balled into a fist. His other kept hold of a painfully familiar device, and the sight of it nearly brought Ellie to tears of laughter.

“Never bring the teleporter!” Henry scolded the old man with all the fierceness of the drill instructors Ellie overheard back at base. They tossed the offending device far off into the distance, utter disgust written on their face. “It always backfires!”

“Henry…!” Charles called out, having been knocked aside in the chaos. As Henry’s attention was directed to their partner, Ellie noted the Right Hand What’s His Face darting towards the jungle and immediately turned her gaze in his direction. Her hands still, her vision clear, Ellie aimed true and hit the hat clean off his head.

This knocked the Right Hand Bastard off balance, which gave Ellie just enough time to rush him with all the force she could muster. Compounded with the strength of her force power, it was more than enough to knock the monster off his feet and onto the ground.

Her follow-up blow was blocked by his elbow, and when their gazes met Ellie could feel the resentment in his sneer. There was something below the hate, below the anger that brought them to this point, but now that her two lovers were safe Ellie let the full force of her rage out, throwing her fists and her feet into the man’s body wherever she could manage. His arms, his stomach, his head, his legs… wherever her hits could land, they landed with precision and force. Ellie barely felt the blows she got back in return, the punches to her stomach and head and chest that she knew she’d feel tomorrow. She didn’t care. She couldn’t care.

All she cared about was unleashing her pain on this sick, sick bastard.

An explosion of force suddenly hit Ellie’s stomach, propelling her back and away from the target of her wrath. For a moment nausea and vertigo overwhelmed her, just enough that the Right Hand Man managed to get back on his feet and start hurriedly limping towards the jungle.

Gritting her teeth, Ellie twisted herself around to launch herself again, feeling the rocks on the ground dig into her palms, feeling the heat of the jungle sun on her back. She could leap like a lion, could tackle him to the ground and beat him bloody before he even knew what hit him-

“Ellie!”

Henry’s voice gave the once thief pause, and she turned her gaze around to see Henry sat on the ground, Charles’ limp form cradled in their arms. The sight of the bloody bandages hastily wrapped around his leg caused her stomach to start spinning all over again.

Cursing her own stupidity for letting the Right Hand Whatever distract her for so long, Ellie pushed herself up and limped over to help Henry. Looking her partner over, Ellie could tell Henry had escaped by the skin of their teeth yet again. Their clothes were filthy, covered in soot and damaged from the rocks. Their hands, wrapped around Charles and holding him close, were stained with blood. Ellie briefly wondered if all of it was Charles, then immediately shut that thought down. She couldn’t handle any more worries right now.

Henry’s mouth opened and shut in a few false starts as their overly stressed brain struggled to put words in their mouth. Eventually they managed to spit out, “Help. For Charles.”

“Help for Charles.” Ellie agreed. Hopefully Henry remembered more from Charles’ on the fly piloting lessons than she did, because otherwise it was going to be a very long, very dangerous flight back.

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

Ellie awoke to fingers at her face, pushing in her cheeks. Not forceful enough to hurt, but definitely enough to be annoying.

“Henry?” She grumbled, clumsily pushing their hand away from her. Despite their mutual agreement to get some sleep while their partner was being treated, Henry barely looked any better. They’d changed clothes at least, wearing some cheap t-shirt and sweatpants that the hospital had kindly provided, but dark shadows still highlighted their eyes.

But there was a shiny happiness in those ruby red orbs that brought any complaints Ellie had to a grinding halt. Their hands, stiff from soreness, moved slower than normal as they signed to her, “Charles is awake.”

That woke her up more thoroughly than any coffee could have.

Sure enough, sitting up on the bed at the end of the room was their pilot, their sweethearted ray of sunshine, who was too focused on picking the crust off his provided sandwich to notice the two approach at first. But Ellie could see the moment he spotted them, how his excited grin grew so wide it brightened the entire room.

“Yo, Els!” Charles greeted. “How are you feeling?”

“I think I should be asking you that.” She responded, keeping her tone light and playful despite the nerves wriggling within her. “Are you alright? Are you hurting anywhere?”

“Don’t worry, they got me hooked up on some good stuff.” Charles assured her, then hesitated, and something in Ellie went cold. Was something wrong? Had she missed something snoozing away?

Before her thoughts could get away from her, a warmth enveloped Ellie’s hand as Charles took it in his own. The light in his eyes was dim, morose, and it only made her want to hold him tight and never let go. The urge to follow up on that impulse, however, was halted by a single pair of words.

“I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Ellie hadn't been sure she’d heard him right. “You’re… sorry?” At his affirmative nod, she asked, “Sorry for what?” A thought occurred to her, and Ellie scowled, “If you’re blaming yourself for getting shot-”

“No, no, that’s not it.” Charles paused a second, “I mean, I should have been paying more attention-” Whatever he was about to say was interrupted with a light jab from Henry’s elbow into his side “Ah!” He shot a glance at Henry, who merely stared back at him, silent, expressionless. With a sigh, Charles proceeded along his original train of thought. “But I’m talking about what happened when- when Henry-” The words seemed to get caught in Charles throat, so again he redirected, “Uh, when the pyramid blew up, I said some… really aggressive things.”

Ellie forced her face into something neutral. She knew what Charles was talking about. She was trying not to dwell on it, on that unfamiliar rage in his eyes, on the sickening feeling that she was going to lose everything in one single, horrible day. If she looked as bad as she felt even remembering that moment, Ellie was certain she’d only make Charles feel worse.

But her skill at maintaining a poker face must have been out of practice, because Ellie could see the hurt in his eyes anyways.

“And- And I know I made you feel awful. I’m so sorry.” Charles buried his face in his hands and leaned back, allowing Henry to hold him as he continued. “I was just so mad… I thought Henry was- was gone, and I thought it was his fault, and- and- I just wanted him to pay for it. I didn’t care what happened to me, as long as he suffered. But- but that wasn’t fair to you.” Charles sighed, and Henry’s fingers began coming through his hair soothingly. “I’m really, really sorry, Els.”

Ellie exhaled deeply, feeling the tension in her body begin to relax a little. “I get it.” She said, approaching Charles’ bedside and sitting next to him. Curled up into Henry’s side, Charles looked incredibly small, and it made her heart leap. Ellie slipped her hand onto Charles’ knee, rubbing it comfortingly. “When the pyramid exploded, and Henry was still inside… I was angry too. I still am.” Ellie looked down at her bruised knuckles. She wondered if she’d managed to hurt that insufferable bastard. She hoped so. “If I thought for a second he’d have been the only one hurt, I would’ve taken the shot. Hell, if I were in your place…” Ellie could feel Charles’ muscles tense under her hand at the mere thought, and leaned over to lay her head on his shoulder. “I’d have probably done the same thing.”

“Are you sure?” Charles asked, uncertain. “Because you’re supposed to be smarter than me. You remember that, right?”

Henry snorted, drawing both of their attention upward. “If you thought that explosion could take me down,” They signed, grinning smugly, “Then both of you are idiots.”

“Rude.” Ellie snapped back with no bite. One of Charles’ hands came to rest on hers, and she brushed their fingers gently together, hoping the sensation was as soothing to Charles as it was to her. Judging from the pleasant sigh her partner let out, she was right on the money. On Charles’ other side, Henry had taken a seat on the bed and seemed content to have Charles’ weight pressed into their own, eyes a shimmer with fondness as Charles nuzzled into their side.

All was peaceful. All was calm. So, naturally, the government had to step in to ruin it.

More precisely, a small procession of soldiers came through the door with barely an announcement, causing the Triple Threat to scramble to attention, practically throwing themselves away from each other to sit up straight and look semi-professional. They inspected each corner of the room, clearing it inch by inch, before lining up at the doorway and saluting professionally.

When Galeforce walked into the room and dismissed the procession to play guard in the hall, Ellie felt her muscles all simultaneously slump into an awkward half-laying, half-sitting position. She was so done with surprises today. Any more and her heart would burst, Ellie was sure of it.

Once they were alone, Galeforce quickly reached their bedside with long, purposeful strides. “I’d just gotten word through my contacts that you’d been rushed in with a gun wound. Glad to see you’re all alright,” The old man admitted, an unusual softness in his voice. When working, Galeforce endeavored to remain professional in his interactions with his men, but it was not much of a secret that he had a weakness for the little orphan pilot that could. His attention turned to Henry and Ellie, both now recovered enough to sit casually by Charles’ side. “But what happened? I didn’t receive any reports of organized criminal activity in this area- at least, not anyone who would’ve known who you three are.”

“Toppat scum.” Henry signed at their commander. Just those two words had them looking like they’d swallowed something sour.

Galeforce’s sign language skills weren’t quite at Charles and Ellie’s level, but he recognized at least the important word and his shoulders went rigged. “Dammit.” Swore the general. “You all have my sincerest apologies. I should have warned you sooner.”

“Warned us?” Ellie asked, her tone sharpening at the implications.

The General sighed heavily, barely managing to keep his shoulders square with the weight of his guilt on his back. “Just after your vacation started, I’d gotten word that the leader of the Toppat Clan, Reginald Copperbottom, had been assassinated in prison.”

Ellie felt her eyes go wide, and she could feel Charles stiffen in surprise as well. Glancing across the hospital bed at Henry, Ellie found them staring up at the general aimlessly. She’d seen this lost look in their eyes before, when they were gazing into futures that would never happen, and wondered, not for the first time, how they managed with such a heavy burden on their shoulders. Seeing the future was a curse Henry bore mostly with silence, but her and Charles had been learning to pick up on the cues. Ellie’s arm wrapped around Charles, gripping Henry’s hand with just enough strength to anchor them to the present, and a moment later she felt them squeeze it back in recognition.

They’d explain later, most likely. For now, though, the General’s explanation kept their attention.

“Some prison guard had a family history with one of the chief’s predecessors. I won’t bore you with the details.” Galeforce sat on the empty bed nearby, leaning forward with his hands folded in front of his face. “But that very same night Reginald’s Right Hand Man, the second in command of the entire clan, escaped from prison. We’re still not sure how he even knew about Reginald’s death, but he managed to kill the assassin and grab his leader’s corpse on the way out. I thought he’d be more focused on resurrecting the clan than anything else, and with your vacation being out of the country, I decided to bring you into the loop once you got back.” Regret and frustration shone in the General’s eyes as he spoke, his gaze downcast to avoid looking at any of the trio. “I have no idea how he even managed to find you three, let alone pull off something like this. He has nothing; no resources, no allies, not even a penny to his name. I didn’t think-” The old man sighed, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t know how I can even begin making this up to you.”

Ellie took a moment to breath. Her first reaction was the familiar sting of hurt and betrayal, and at one point she may have gotten up in Galeforce’s face to really give him a piece of her mind. Years of unconditional support from her partners, however, gave her the patience to wait out that initial wave and follow up with a much more logical response of understanding. They were on vacation, out in the middle of nowhere with minimal ways to track them down. It wouldn’t have occurred to Galeforce that the bastard would even know where they are, let actually finding them and making them suffer. It would have been nice to have warning, but at the end of the day it wasn’t really his fault.

Henry stared off into space, their eyes clouded with conflict as they struggled between the frustration they were no doubt riddled with and the same logical conclusion Ellie came to. Charles sat slumped in the hospital bed, gazing down as he fiddled his thumbs. Charles had known Galeforce longer than either of them, and the bond of trust they’d built as subordinate and commander was hard to break, but she had no doubt her sweetheart was still upset.

So Ellie took the lead, smiling cheekily at the General, “Well, a few more weeks of vacation would be nice.”

Two pairs of eyes instantly hit the back of Ellie’s head, and she struggled not to turn around and face them. But hearing Ellie let the General off easy must have helped them make up their minds, because soon she felt Charles leaning against her back, his smile tickling the skin on her shoulder as he agreed, “And maybe a bit of overtime? I mean, we did technically face off against an enemy of the state…”

Galeforce chuckled at their responses, the weight on his shoulders lightening up bit by bit. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Henry pushed away from the wall, drawing enough attention to them so they could sign, “I can come up with a trap for the guy.” Their signing was more fluid, more playfully bouncy, and Ellie felt a little more of her worry edge away, “All we need is a few miles of rope, a pool of pudding, the Tunisian Diamond…”

“Now you’re pushing it.” The General joked back, standing with a smile. He seemed lighter on his feet than when he first entered. “I’ll arrange for transport back to base once Charlie is feeling a little better, and you’ll be under guard until further notice. For now, though, just focus on getting some rest. We’ve got protection duty taken care of.” The General began walking back towards the door, only to pause and look back, tipping his hat. “Oh. And happy anniversary.”

Silence rang loudly between them as Galeforce stepped out, quietly opening and closing the door behind him. The moment hung in the air and stretched the seconds into hours.

Finally, at last, Charles broke through the quiet with his usual blunt charm, clumsily destroying the remaining tension in the air with his joking snort. “Some anniversary.” He declared, crossing his arms. “We almost died, an ancient marvel of the lost world got blown up, and we have nothing to show for it!” He huffed, pouted, and then loudly declared, “Whoever planned this trip deserves to get shot.”

And despite all of it, Ellie couldn’t help but burst into laughs.

“It is a shame,” She agreed, wistfully recounting the weight of the amethyst in her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Henry stand, but paid them no mind for the moment. “Still, up until that Toppat clown showed up it was pretty fun.”

“Yeah.” Charles agreed. “Like when you swung over those traps to pull our sorry butts out of the fire? Heh, that was pretty cool.” The stars shimmering in his eyes suggested he remembered the event being way more than cool, and Ellie couldn’t help but puff up a little in pride. It hadn’t been hard – she’d done way crazier back in her criminal days – but something about Charles’ earnest, enthusiastic reactions made her feel like the tallest person in the world. Henry (standing weirdly close, with a weird grin spread across their face) called him their sunshine for a reason, and as much as the two liked to tease them about their choice of nicknames, Ellie had to admit they were right on the money with that one.

“Or how you created a path of freakin’ bouncy balls to get across that weird spike pit.” Ellie recounted. At the time she’d felt her blood pressure spike with each bounce, but now, in hindsight, it had been both impressive and hilarious.

Charles laughed along, as full and bright as himself, and nodded eagerly. “Or- or how Henry broke out into a random dance and that somehow opened the way to the real tomb?” The memory of their dance across the false burial site only caused Ellie to laugh harder, a deep blush growing across her face. How could she have ever wanted to be a serious criminal, when being silly with these two idiots was so much more fun?

The fluttering laughter came to a slow halt as Ellie suddenly noticed Henry’s arms outstretched between her and Charles. More specifically, the gigantic purple gem nestled in their hands, reflecting the harsh light of the hospital to shine brighter than it had in the dim catacombs of the tomb. Ellie’s eyes trailed up Henry’s arms, across their shoulder, all the way up to that stupid smug grin on their face.

The cheeky bastard. When had they even had time to grab that thing?

“You clever little sneak!” Charles yelled out, recovering from the shock of seeing their hard won prize much faster than Ellie. His arms reached out, grabbing for his two partners, and Ellie and Henry reached back without hesitation. Any thought of the Right Hand Whatever, of the dangers past and dangers to come, of anything that could stand in the way of the Triple Threat floated to the very edge of Ellie’s mind, leaving her clear to focus on what was really important.

As far as anniversaries went, Ellie supposed this could have gone a lot worse.

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

As the sun set over the city, a single man sat on a lone rooftop. His gaze was as piercing as the setting sun, matching it’s blinding glare with equal fierceness.

Feh, of course they bloody survived. Nothing could go right for the prior Right Hand Man lately.

Unwilling to let himself drown in his thoughts, the once Right Hand Man removed a crumpled piece of paper from his inventory, directing his ire down at the paper as if it was what had offended him, and not the myriad of names listed upon it.

Dozens upon dozens of people would have found their names upon that list. A small number were crossed out. A worthless avenger, a couple of gossiping jail guards, an old judge with a bad hair cut; a mere handful, compared to the number of names remaining. A thief, a pilot, and, more recently, an ex-gang runner. A general, his personal guard, a witness pulled from the airship’s brig. Turncoats and traitors to the clan, selling out their brothers for a scrap of leniency. Anyone and everyone even remotely involved in the fall of the Toppat Clan and the death of it’s leader were listed on this single scrap of paper.

“Don’ you worry a bit, Reg.” Murmured the enforcer, running his finger down the list like he was running a knife across some traitor’s skin. “I’ll make ‘em pay. Every last one of ‘em fuckers ‘at destroyed our clan. ‘Ey’ll all pay for wot they did. And once ‘ey do…”

His finger finally paused on the list’s final name, the ultimate victim of his revenge spree. The one who’s failure had lead to the destruction of everything the once Right Hand Man held dear.

“...I’ll be comin’ for ya, Reg. Save a spot in ‘ell fer me, would ya?”

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

Aw, yes! More Polythreat!

I'm sorry for kind of being AWOL. I've been active on Tumblr, but was afflicted with some nasty writer's block. It took me a whole year to write this, believe it or not. I'd hoped to get it done by my birthday, but I'm just happy to have it done. Merry Christmas, everybody!

The events surrounding RHM and Reginald are depicted in a comic here on my tumblr: Atychiphobia - Fear of Failure. You can probably find it pretty easily. Neither RHM nor Copperright have been tagged, though. To preserve the surprise. Tags do kind of give away something going down, but it happens.

Thank you for reading! Hopefully I'll come up with something else to write soon.

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