#Sometimes art is a six hour piece made with sweat blood and tears

[notemaker]

He has the vibes, the sarcasm, the STYLE. Forget Green, mad and mutant-ey, what about his autism sWAG

#Sometimes art is a six hour piece made with sweat blood and tears #other times we get this #oh to be a green giant mutant turtle with an ego complex #out there simply living the dream #rottmnt #note draws things #questionable things #art post #basically shitposting at this point huzzah #donnie #donatello #tmnt

[whump-town]

Stubborn

Everybody taking care of old Hotch because... I don't like it when old Hotch gets left to just die on his own :( don't ask why that's where I draw the line

No pairings

No warnings

In Jack’s second semester of his junior year, Hotch collapses again. He’s home this time, out in his garden under the glaring sun. The day had begun no different than any other. The birds on the powerline chirping and causing their disturbances, as eager for the day to begin as the school-aged children shouting in the street. He’d watched them from the sliding glass door facing the street, his tea warm in his hands. He’d waved at a few, the older ones who recognize him as a mystifying adult with stories to be unlocked. The younger children give him a face akin to a monster’s, his mystery horrifying in their already confusing enough lives.

It’s an hour before lunch. Two hours before Spencer shows up because it’s Thursday and he teaches a class on this side of town every Tuesday and Thursday at 2. One that he occasionally asks Hotch to attend -- as a guest lecturer, as a treat to his students, or just for the company.

He could call just about anyone.

Emily’s downtown, on her way back from a meeting with the Department of Justice. She’d be thrilled for an excuse to not go back to the office and spend an hour or two in his kitchen telling him about those pretentious assholes.

Garcia’s about ten minutes away, working at a nonprofit teaching “at-risk” kids how to code. Being the guiding hand she’d needed as a teenager so that they might not repeat the same mistakes she made. She was lucky, Hotch saved her but he’s not around to catch any more kids like her.

Morgan got hired by a family two streets over to fix up their house before they move in. He’s there now, tearing out rotting beams.

This collapse is not of the life-threatening kind. Not to Hotch at least. There’s no internal bleeding, no emergency surgeries. He doesn’t even need stitches but he’s on so many medications that thin his blood that it’s just on the safer side. From the hospital, he calls who he needs to. Reid first, he’ll worry when he gets to Hotch’s house and sees his truck gone. Then, Jack, it’s better to hear this sort of thing from him and not Emily in half an hour when she needs to yell at someone and who better than the son of the idiot she hates right now? Dave and Emily follow and he trusts them to carry the news the rest of the way. Rather, he simply doesn’t want to talk about it anymore and he’d rather Garcia and JJ and Morgan and everyone else just be mad at him than go on to have another conversation about how he’s feeling.

Fine. He just got light-headed. It was the heat and his perpetually low iron and probably his thin blood (the killer had been his blood pressure but they’re working on that). He just needs to get better about remembering to eat breakfast -- a larger breakfast than just tea and toast. Fainting, he assures Dave, happens. Jack’s seen it happen. The heat makes it worse, the summertime drains him. He’s come in from the garden and gotten weak in the knees plenty of times. He actually moved some chairs around the sliding glass door to the yard, prepared for this exact problem.

This over clarification does not help.

Made only the more complicated when he explains his head is fine. The fainting thing really isn’t a big deal, he just needs a ride home. He’d landed weirdly and pulled his back. He left with a new problem entirely, a torn ligament in his shoulder. That is a problem for a different day.

The surgery is set for the week just before Jack’s finals. Armed with a suitcase full of textbooks, his laptop, notes from this semester (and a few from last), and just enough clothes to recycle a few and still be fine, Jack shows up on his father’s doorstep. “I mean, the hospital isn’t exactly the library… but it’s not the worst place I’ve studied.” It’s far too late to send Jack back but Hotch is reluctant to let him stay. Even if he does prefer Jack be his ride rather than the likes of Penelope and that tiny green eye-sore of a car she drives or leave him to Reid and his defensive, jerky driving.

To the sound of “Aaron Hotchner November 2, 1971”, Jack settles down with his books. He tries to put himself in the right headspace for studying but it’s harder than he anticipated. The constant motion of the room unsettles him and he looks up several times to see his father’s reaction. To gauge the anxiety in his face, in the deep breathes that he pulls in through his nose. In how tight his fists are holding the sheets underneath him. It’s a simple surgery and they’ll be out of here in no time.

“Young” his heart had not handled the heavy sedatives and morphine well. Then again, those incidents are always hard to measure against a thing like this. Rushed into the ER with nine chest wounds and having nearly bled to death, it’s natural to conclude the stress of his depleted blood supply and his very recent trauma had caused his heart to stop on the table. That said trauma was the reason his heart had maintained to be a steady problem up until they released him. Again, when he was brought in with some of the worst internal bleedings the staff had ever seen. His heart had given them trouble too.

Jack is staring blankly at his flashcards when the doctor comes out.

Hotch had gone to Georgetown to be a lawyer like his father and his grandfather. Jack went to Georgetown to get an Art History degree. He was lead by something else. Not chasing some shadow, clutching at a lie he spoonfed himself. Jack didn’t live in anyone’s shadow, never felt the pressure to look and act a certain way. Was never beaten into submission or told to hold his tongue. Jack went to museums every Saturday with his father, preferred them to the aquariums and the zoo. Hotch held him close to the artwork, pushed his dense schedule around to go to new shows, and learned the names of pieces just to recite the knowledge back to Jack.

In his lap, Jack is memorizing pieces of art like his father had years ago for him. He’s stuck on The Anatomy Lesson, eyes glued to the details. The way colorless skin is held in forceps, peeled back to reveal angry red. He can feel the pinching teeth on his own skin, feels the heavy flow of hot blood spilling down over his arm.

“Hotchner?”

Jack flinches, caught completely off guard. He stands, flushing as he tucks his notecards into his textbook, and stands. “Ugh, yeah. That’s me.” He wipes his hands off on his pants, rubbing away the nervous sweat he’s built up.

The doctor recognizes him from earlier. He’d watched Jack and Hotch get out one last goodbye. Jack pulling up a nervous smile, dirty-blonde hair, and light eyes a complete contrast to Hotch’s ever-darkening features. Somehow more solemn, voice taken by the sedatives already working through his body. He hadn’t said a word, eyes vacantly following Jack’s movements but unaware.

Jack expects the same monologue he hears every time. The one that comes out so dry and perfect that they must practice it in front of the mirror, say it softly to themselves as they as they get ready each morning. He’s got it memorized himself -- the bits about recovering in post-op, make a full recovery, and whatever on the fly timeline they give for access back to the room.

“But he’s-- He’s okay? He’s--”

Jack feels impossibly childish. Five years old and Emily’s chilled fingers brushing his tears away, “baby, I know you miss your mommy. But you’re being so terribly mean to your daddy.” He had been, a terrible little monster squirming away from his father and refusing to eat anything. Throwing tantrums about nothing and everything. Screaming and crawling under his bed every chance he got. Pushing himself to the wall knowing he couldn’t be reached.

Now he can remember Hotch just sitting at the edge of the bed. There on the floor for hours. Sometimes he read, would pick up a book, and just start from wherever just to make it so his voice was reaching where he couldn’t. He slept there too, on the hard ground just to make sure Jack knew he was there. Slipped strawberry pop tarts on crazily designed animal plated under there, offered bites of his own food to the darkness under the bed. Sippy cups full of chocolate milk and juice.

He feels like a little boy again, getting news that he has no idea how to handle.

“He’s okay?” Jack stammers. “He’s going to be okay? I can see him?”

Hotch remembers those days under the bed too. Waking up in the middle of the night as Jack groggily curled close to him, still under the bed but crawling under his blanket. The ends of those awful sobs, Jack’s little chest jerking as he hiccuped. The force of his sorrow was too much for his little body. And Jack would fall into his lap, exhausted and needing comfort. His little fingers tracing the scars on Hotch’s face. How he whispered “thank you” and “please” from underneath the bed and how he’d pop his head out to say, “Daddy, I’m going to potty. I’ll be right back.”

Jack’s legally old enough to drink now and Hotch still sees that little boy. The three-year-old wiping his snot on Hotch’s dress shirt. The six-year-old holding his hand and reminding him to look both ways twice before crossing the street. The eight-year-old he left the hallway light on for, old enough now to think he needed to brave the night without a nightlight. So Hotch would offer to keep the hallway light on, not for Jack but for him because he doesn’t like the dark. The ten-year-old sheepishly offering him a father’s day gift he bought with saved allowance, a t-shirt he’s now worn the words off of. The fifteen-year-old curling up beside him on the couch, seeking his comfort but not sure how to ask anymore. The eighteen-year-old as tall as him talking his ear off while he tries to get dinner ready, sticking his fingers in the pan and sitting on the counter.

How did he grow up so fast?

He’s not a little boy anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.

The creaking of a chair moves Hotch’s attention and he looks away from Jack. Away from the sight of his little boy curled up on a cot, drooling onto a pillow and notebook still open, a pen dangling from his fingers. He looks over and Emily’s sitting up, her reading glasses precariously sat on the tip of her nose. “Oh look,” she mumbles. She stretches out, groaning as her joints complain from being held in this miserable hospital chair for hours. “You’ve decided to join the land of the living.”

Hotch watches her fold the thin black frames of her glasses up, gently sits them down by his hand as she stands up. Jack had called her, even though he promised he wouldn’t worry anyone. Hotch didn’t want anyone else coming to the hospital over something so small and though Jack protested that their concern wouldn’t be because he was bothering them but because they love him. The very same reason he’d come home is that people gather after these sorts of things. They need reassurance that he’s alive and he’s just going to have to accept that. They compromised in the end, everyone could come to smother him in worry after he got home from the surgery.

But Jack was scared. He called the only person he could think to, the woman whose role in his life that was never really clear. She’d gotten on him about his grades, smacked the back of his head when he said something stupid, and always let him taste-test her wine at Thanksgiving dinner. Emily knew things that not even Jessica knew and she could be sterner than both Hotch and Jessica and also more relaxed, more understanding. She was always there for both of them, in the same capacity as Jessica and yet her own unique one. A friend Hotch trusted and loved and Jack could understand that. His friends always wanted to know if they were dating and he knew intuitively that the answer was no but he would hesitate to try and explain. But he didn’t understand the gravity that pulled them together, adults and their relationships far too complex to fit it into his simple understanding of love.

He did understand she was the only person to call.

“What’d he do this time?” she asked and knew she was playing the wrong role for the wrong Hotchner because no sooner than she could ask she had an armful of Jack. She sat with Jack for hours, let him get his fear out. Held him while he sobbed, felt pulled to the past. When it was Aaron on her shoulder, terrified he’d lose his son. Life has this very odd way of bringing everything full circle.

“I bet you’re hurting.” Emily moves to the table and pours water into the little paper Dixie cup left by the nurses. “Been right dramatic this afternoon,” she informs him, a dissatisfied matter-of-fact tone in play. “I know you find that to be particularly taxing.” She holds the cup for him, gentle despite her annoyance. She’s close enough to see the iodine on his skin. Dark orange swipes across his pale skin, the smell burns with its strength.

He pulls greedily from the cup, mouth impossibly dry. Stopped only by how little she poured, he sinks back heavily into the pillows behind him. His shoulder hot and angry from forcing himself upright.

“They’re going to let you go in the morning,” she says, sitting back down. He won’t remember this in the morning. Emily holding his hand, whispering thickly how angry she is with him as tears fall down her face. How scared she was getting that phone call from Jack, racing down here to be a composed person to comfort his son thinking her best friend was in the morgue.

He’ll wake up with a pit in his stomach, residual feelings from the night before he can’t tie down to memories. Emily shows no inclination to repeat herself, just coldly informs him that she’ll have Penelope make him a cardiologist appointment (it’s unspoken that no one trusts him to do this himself). Jack walks on glass, close by but terrified of being pushed away. Hotch is too out of it to put up much of a fight, by the time the morning shift has their hands on him he’s silent. Properly dosed up for a ride home and out of his mind.

He’s groggily propped up on pillows, watching Jack and Emily fight over if he has the right to wear shoes or not. Emily wants to hold them captive, he won’t run off or refuse the wheelchair without them and Jack shakes his head, “he’s not our P.O.W, Emily. He’s even going to get that far if he does try to run.” He’s given his shoes but Emily makes a point to collect his cane, holds it while the nurse helps him into the wheelchair. He’s a flight-risk and she’s not going to trust him, he’s run off on her too many times for that.

At the house the other’s have gathered up, having nothing better to do evidently on a Wednesday at ten in the morning. Penelope’s frying eggs and bacon, the carnage it takes to feed their brood spread out on his kitchen counter. Reid sitting on the counter, Hank in his lap, and the two of them watching Penelope. Derek’s on the sofa, feet kicked up on the coffee table, and Savannah learning on his shoulder. Dave’s getting orange juice from the store declared them all lawless, and didn’t trust them to get the right kind.

Hotch is granted his cane to get back inside the house but Emily threatens to kick it out from underneath if he tries anything fast. He smacks her ankle and Jack has to actually step between them to keep them apart. It’s in times like these where Jack finds himself wondering how these two ever had any role in raising him at all.

“Don’t you have jobs?” Hotch asks, hooking his cane over the coat rack and toeing his shoes off. He ignores the hand Emily places on his arm, afraid he’ll knock himself over. He manages just fine, has the whole house set up so that every other step is within arms distance of something to lean on. Fingers trailing the back of the couch he limps past Derek, smiling when Savannah offers a soft “glad you’re okay”. She pats his hand and he nods back.

“Up for some food, sir?” Penelope asks and she’s not taking no for an answer. They might be having heaping servings of eggs and bacon and gravy and orange juice but she’s made two small bowls of oatmeal. She takes the medicine Jack tosses up on the counter, puts it at the end where the rest of his medication sits. “I cut up apples,” she tells Hotch with a wide grin, sliding the bowl in front of him. “Dashed a little cinnamon and sugar in there, it’ll stick to your bones. Keep you healthy.”

He’s at a healthy weight at the moment, not as thin as he leans to when he’s sick but with Hotch, it’s always a good thing to have some collateral weight for the “in case”. Lifting the spoon in his left hand he scoops some of the oatmeal up, doing his best to hide his annoyance at how weak his extremities still are. How his hand shakes under the light strain of the oatmeal. He looks up, watches Spencer carry Hank over to the highchair sitting at the table beside him. He’s distracted so Emily swoops in, takes his spoon from his hand, and tries his oatmeal. He lets her do it. He raises an eyebrow and she shrugs. She likes it. He nods, it’s pretty good.

Hank immediately knocks his spoon on the ground and makes a low whining sound in the back of his throat. “Hop help,” he whines, pointing down at his spoon. His speech is still developing so he pronounces help and hop nearly identically but Hotch understands the difference. He just can’t bend over like that. His right arm is still pinned to his chest in an intricate web of gauze and this sling.

“Reid,” Hotch calls. His voice is deep, strained from intubation and anesthesia. It makes him sound sick. “He’s dropped his spoon.”

Reid nods, he already knows.

Hank points to his shoulder and frowns, “Hop fall down?”

Hotch nods, that is pretty much what happened and at the same time, Emily sweeps in and tickles Hank. She presses kisses to his face and making him laugh loudly. “That’s what happens,” she says. “Hops is just old.” Hank is too distracted by the ongoing attack to defend Hotch not that a toddler rising to his defense is very helpful.

Hotch sighs as Jack comes up behind him, stealing his spoon too. He takes a bite of the oatmeal and deems it nearly as good as the kind that Jessica makes. Hotch wants to be annoyed by it and yet all he does is nod and finds himself smirking just a little.

Penelope calls everyone in for breakfast and Hotch ignores the kisses pressed to his cheek as people drag chairs to the table around him. To the hands that slide over his back, assurance of life he remembers Jack calling it.

Derek slides him a mug of tea, made exactly how he likes it. He sits across from Hotch, close to Hank in case either needs assistance. Emily sits to his left, slides her coffee up beside his tea so he can have some if he’s quick about it. Jack sits beside her and the rest is a blur, too much motion at once for him to take in without his contacts or glasses. Penelope slides a tea plate to him, his medicine on it, and kisses his head while he’s still scowling at the plate.

They don’t leave him alone all day.

He ends up taking a nap with Hank, the toddler’s sticky little fingers holding onto his shirt as he finds himself unable to fight off the effects of the medicine and his full stomach.

He’s squished on the couch between Derek and Dave, forced to watch baseball because he can’t worm his way upright again just yet.

They change the dressings on his shoulder, his teeth clenched tightly so that he doesn’t let anything slip.

At midnight he wakes up on the couch. Jack’s bedroom door is shut, he’s sleeping peacefully inside. His heating blanket is pulled up to his chin, the heat turned up all the way. He can’t remember getting into this state himself but he has a fate memory of JJ helping him move his hand to his mouth, encouraging him to take the pain killers before bed. Of Derek making sure he didn’t just fall straight over onto his side. He manages to find Dave stretched out on the Lazyboy -- the chair he got Hotch for his fifty-something birthday. He’ll wake up in the morning to more food being made in his lonely kitchen, JJ this time. She’ll make blueberry waffles.

If he’d wanted attention, Emily will tease the next morning, he could have just asked. And he didn’t even know he wanted this. He never finds the words to ask for it to continue but every Saturday morning it happens anyway -- his kitchen and living room full of pajamas and suits in varying degrees depending on who has what to do that morning. The fainting thing is not cool but he considers this to be a good trade.

#criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #savannah hayes #hank morgan #jack hotchner #emily prentiss #david rossi #penelope garcia #spencer reid #jennifer jareau

[yourdeepestfathoms]

The Crucible (part six)

[UK Tour; Carrie AU]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Word count: 10,030

TW: Animal death, blood, the r-slur

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

-Something’s In The Air-

  “I’m impressed, Thomas. I am impressed.”

Brown, oily bangs gently hung over a craggy, charming face. Round green eyes, set lightly within their sockets, watch the detective closely. A knife left a mark reaching from the top of the right cheek, running towards his upper lip and ending on his forehead, leaving a permanent memory of mischief on nineteen year old Thomas Culpeper’s face.

  “Four counts of possession, one with the intent to sell. Vandalism, disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly.” Mulaney read off from the folder with information on the newest victim of interrogation. “Boy, your parents must be awfully proud of you.”

  “My parents died when I was six.” Thomas spat.

Mulaney stared at him in horror. Thomas huffed out a breath and leaned back in his chair, glaring sharply.

  “Not so funny now, is it?”

  “Well, it sure is funny odd,” Mulaney said, “because I just talked to Constance and Alexander not an hour ago, both very much alive and very concerned.”

Thomas growled softly and looked away.

  “Thomas, do you ever pal around with a girl named Anne Boleyn?” Mulaney asked.

  “She’s a distant cousin,” Thomas answered gruffly. “We sometimes hung out.”

  “What about Catherine Parr?”

Thomas shook his head.

  “Katherine Howard?”

Nothing.

Mulaney walked around the table and over to his side, opening the folder in his hands again. “Hey, have you ever been to Irwin Henty’s pig farm up north?” 

  “No.” Thomas muttered.

  “You’ve never been up there?” Mulaney humored him. “Well, see, Henry had no security system, so people were knocking fences down and stealing hogs and all kinds of things!” He laughed. Thomas was sweating.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah,” Mulaney said. “So what do you think he does?” He doesn’t wait for an answer- not that Thomas’s pallor makes him look up to even giving one. “He installs one of those expensive, high-tech security systems. Oh, man, he’s even got one of those really cool cameras that take pictures in the dark! Doggone it, they look like they were taken in broad daylight!”

He slipped out some green photos taken with a night vision camera and slid them over to Thomas.

  “Look at this. Look at the detail on that!” Mulaney went on, pointing to the clear image of Thomas, Cathy, Anne, Maggie, Maggie’s boyfriend, and another kid named Thomas Cromwell sneaking into Old Man Henty’s pigpen. “You can just about count the hairs on that pig’s snout, can’t you?” He showed a photo of a closeup of Thomas's face. “I thought this one was particularly good of you.”

Thomas looked away, biting his lip.

  “Of course, here’s another one of all six of you. Looking pretty chummy!” Mulaney said with a slight laugh. “Say, how come there’s no pictures of Katherine? Was she waiting in the truck?”

  “How should I know?” Thomas asked softly. “She wasn’t even there…”

Mulaney furrowed his eyebrows, exchanging a quick glance with Madeline. He sat back down across from Thomas.

  “Well, it was to my understanding that Katherine and Anne planned the whole thing.”

Thomas scoffed lightly. “Dude,” He said, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

------

The gym early Thursday morning was flurry of activity as kids moved to and fro to get ready for the prom in two days. Paints splattered, ribbons unraveled, fairy lights flickered, and everyone acted as if it were the end of the world if even the slightest decoration was off. Watching it was entertaining, but now that she was actually a part of the decoration committee, Katherine could see why it was so stressful.

Since she wouldn’t be going to prom, Katherine had decided the least she could do was help set up for it. Their theme that year was Springtime in Greece (whose idea was it to have themes for prom, Katherine wondered), so huge murals of Greek temples were drawn by the art kids on giant canvases and were currently being painted by several other volunteers. The stage, where the band would play and prom king and queen would be announced, was being set up in a way that made it look like the ancient Parthenon, fit with grooved columns, dressings of leaves and flowers, and swathes of white and gold silk. Sculptures were being carved away by extremely focused students, whittling the plaster or rock or ice away into the distinct shape of hands and heads and legs. Katherine walked over to one of them, Maria, who was sweating buckets trying to get what seemed to be a wave to look just right.

  “I can’t believe--they’re only giving us--two days,” She grunted, not looking over at Katherine, but hearing her coming over.

  “Can you finish it?” Katherine asked. She circled around one of the decorative pillars sitting around and began to smooth down the grooves.

  “Yeah,” Maria nodded. “But it’s still STRESSFUL.”

  “What even is it?” 

Maria frowned at her, then looked back at her sculpture. “It’s a tidal wave of human hopes and dreams. I will be filling it with pieces of writing once it’s done.”

  “And what does that have to do with Greece?”

Maria ruffled. “It could fit!” She barked. “Why are you slaving yourself in here, anyway? You’re not even--...” She trailed off, clearly still upset about the news.

  “Going?” Katherine finished for her. She shrugged. “I still want it to look nice. And it looks like you guys can use all the help you can get.” She nodded at a puny red haired Year 10 kid wrestling with coils of ivy and vines on the stage and losing the battle. Bessie, head of the Decoration Committee, watched on with a dismayed expression.

  “Can I ask about it?” Maria asked softly.

  “Sure,” Katherine said, then laughed slightly. “You don’t have to whisper, Mars. It’s not some big secret.”

  “Well, thank god,” Maria said. “Because EVERYONE is talking!”

Katherine quirked an eyebrow with a light snort. “Oh, really? What are they saying?”

  “That you and Joan Seymour are having a lesbian affair, and you’re having Anna take her to prom to throw people off,” Maria said languidly. Katherine leaned over to a nearby canister of paint and flicked the paintbrush at her face for that. She sputtered, scrubbing viciously and leaving light purple streaks all over her dark skin. “Okay, okay-- I deserved that.”

  “Well, you’re right…” Katherine sighed. “It’s just that--Joan satisfies me in a way no other woman or man possibly could.” She finished her sentence with a lewd touch to her breasts; a Year 11 girl that was helping paint the mural looked over at that moment and furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. Katherine dropped her hands quickly, and Maria burst into laughter.

  “Oh, I bet!” Maria said. “Does she use her crosses as a dildo? Because I bet Jesus’s face feels GREAT against your clit!”

Katherine flicked more paint, this time orange, into Maria’s face. Once again, Maria spluttered and clawed at the colorful tears rolling down her skin. Katherine peered at her thoughtfully.

  “Orange really is your color,” She observed.

  “Just like how Christian semen white is yours.” Maria replied.

Katherine rolled her eyes and nudged Maria’s side with her foot, earning her a cheeky, paint-splattered grin. 

  “I just feel bad about what happened,” She said. “I’m hoping it’ll bring her out of her shell a little, you know? Knock down some of those walls she has up. It’s the least I could do after what happened in the showers.”

  “Great! So you’re a saint and we’re all bitches!” Maria said.

  “Pretty much!”

They both laughed.

  “I can’t believe Anna’s going along with it,” Maria went on. “She really wanted to bring you.”

  “Well, she’s been very agreeable since we started having sex.” Katherine stated bluntly.

  “Ooh!” Maria cooed. “You go girl!”

Katherine was about to reply when a momentary hush fell over the gym. She turned to see her cousin walking in, back to school after her three day suspension, her head held high. She glared sharply at a Year 10 boy dripping yellow paint all over his hands, and he nearly keeled over dead instantly. Katherine looked away quickly, not wanting to face Anna after their falling out at the pub. Her words began to echo in her ears again.

  “That’s why you had this bullshit change of heart. You don’t give a shit about Joan Seymour, and everybody knows it…”

She stamped them down and silenced them.

  “Has Anne said anything?” Katherine asked Maria.

Maria thought for a moment. “Only that she hates your guts.”

  “Ah,” Katherine said, not surprised. “Think she might try something?”

Maria tilted her head at her. “I don’t know.”

A whirlwind of thick brown hair and green polo shirt whizzed by- Maggie scuttled over to Anne, eyes wide, clutching a dark brown folder in her arms. Katherine turned her attention to the pillar she was sanding down, so she didn’t see the way her cousin was pulled to the side and out of sight behind the mural.

  “Got your 999,” Anne said, holding up her phone. “Ever so dramatic.”

  “Let me reiterate-” Maggie said. “Oh my god!”

  “What?” Anne asked, amused. She could see the mischievous light in Maggie’s eyes, and that filled her with a deadly thrill.

Maggie pulled a small slip of paper out of the folder and waved it in the air. 

  “This,” She declared, “is the ballot for prom king and queen!”

  “What?” Anne’s eyes widened in interest. “Let me see!”

Maggie handed Anne the piece of paper and they began to read from it, nitpicking all the choices.

  “Jackson and Georgie,” Anne said. “No way, Jackson’s in marching band.”

  “Ruby and Leila,” Maggie read next. Their school was very open to LGBTQ+ relationships, so it wasn’t a surprise that a lesbian couple was a choice for prom king and queen.

  “Maybe. Everybody likes them.” Anne said. “Miller and Jessie, no. Ren and Alex, maybe. Anna and--”

Her eyes go wide.

Right beside Anna von Cleves’s name was her cousin's name--but scratched out and replaced with “Joan” over the top. Greedy intensity began to bubble up inside of her. She giggled darkly.

  “Anna and Joan!” She exclaimed.

  “I know!” Maggie agreed enthusiastically. “What are you gonna do?”

A twisted grin curled on Anne’s ruby red lips like a bloody smile.

  “Give everyone a night they’ll never forget.”

------

First period with Anne back was...awkward, to say the least. Maggie talked to Anne as she always did, being the loyal little imp that she was, but everyone else was slightly unnerved by the smirk that never disappeared from Anne’s lips for even a second. 

About halfway through the class, when Anna got up to go sharpen her pencil, Joan leapt up from her seat to go talk to her. Katherine pricked her ears to hear their conversation.

  “Hey, Joan,” Anna said, smiling at the younger girl. “How are you?”

  “Good,” Joan answered quietly. She was fidgeting with her sleeves, pulling them over her hands and bunching them into balls, clearly anxious about something. “Umm-- I-I just-- I had to t-tell you that I need to be home by eleven.”

Katherine saw Anna frown slightly. Joan lowered her head, guilt practically radiating off of her body.

  “I’m sorry,” She whispered. “B-but my Mama-- She’ll worry if I stay out too long and-- I’m really sorry. I don’t want to spoil your fun, but--”

  “Hey, no, it’s okay,” Anna calmed her, noticing that she was getting worked up. “I understand completely.”

Joan nodded slightly. “O-okay…” 

  “Did something happen?” Anna asked. She gently lifted Joan’s chin and ducked her head slightly to look at something. That’s when Katherine noticed indigo and violet splotches of bruises under Joan’s lower jaw.

  “Oh--” Joan looked a little uncomfortable, but didn't pull away from Anna’s hand. “Yeah. I just--fell. On a chair. Yesterday. And I hit my mouth.”

Anna pursed her lips. “Looks like it hurts.”

Joan shrugged. “I’m used to it.” She took a small step back. “Umm-- I’m gonna--go sit back down. Oh, and th-thank you. For not getting mad.”

  “I wouldn’t be mad at you, Joan.” Anna said honestly.

Joan ducked her head with an adorably shy blush. She nodded and shuffled back over to her seat.

Katherine didn’t miss the way Anna smiled fondly at her.

------

  “Um, 15. High school. I’m in Year 11.”

Joan held the phone close to her ear, listening intently to what the operator was telling her. She kept shifting from foot to foot, trying to keep her nervousness quelled inside of her.

  “What kind of counselling? Like a guidance counselor?”

Miss Aragon’s office smelled like apples and cherry blossoms. It was a comforting scent, so different from the locker room just outside the door. And outside that door, was someone coming in. Someone who wasn’t the coach.

  “Oh. No. Nothing like that. Would they know what’s happening with me?”

Footsteps, the rustling of clothes, soft clangs against lockers- Joan heard none of it.

  “Um, so, if I just think it’s real and it’s not, how would I know? I mean, it feels real.”

  “We’re not supposed to use that phone.”

Joan just about jumped out of her skin when she heard the voice. She slammed the phone back down onto the receiver, missing it the first time, nearly flipping it off of the desk the second, and then finally smashing it into place so hard it’s a wonder the entire thing didn’t crumble to dust the third. She whirled around to face Anne Boleyn standing in the doorway, looking like a disdainful emerald with her sparkling green dress and darkly amused expression. Joan swallowed thickly and shuffled back slightly, pressing her spine against the sharp edge of Miss Aragon’s table.

  “I-I was talking to my mum.” She stammered.

  “Didn’t sound like you were talking to your mum.” Anne said.

  “We were having a fight…” Joan said awkwardly. It was the best excuse she could come up with under pressure; telling this girl that she was actually calling a university over the psychic powers she had would probably sound a little strange.

Slowly, she bent down and picked up her belongings off of the floor. As much as she wanted to stay longer and talk more with Miss Aragon when she got back from her current class, Anne was making her extremely uneasy and on edge. She didn’t feel very safe being alone with her.

  “I always fight with my mum,” Anne mused. “Always hang up on her, too.” She laughed. “So, I take it you’ve leveled out since last Friday?”

Joan stared at her.

(what does she want what does she want)

  “Your little episode.”

(no no go away leave me alone)

  “You went all fetal in the shower.”

In spite of herself, Joan felt a blush crawl to her cheeks. She looked away, shifting her weight onto a different knee. She wanted to hide behind her books and hope Anne would be gone when she looked back up again.

  “What about it?” She asked softly.

  “Well, you have to admit you totally overreacted,” Anne said. She stepped into the room fully. The door clicked shut behind her.

(trapped trapped trapped trapped)

  “You know, we were just messing around!”

(what)

  “We wouldn’t give you a hard time if we didn’t like you.”

Joan raised her head slightly and blinked at Anne in confusion and shock. Was that really how friendships worked?

  “I mean, we all really like you.” Anne said. “You know that, right?”

(friend)

Joan looked her up and down, and could easily locate at least three faults in this statement, but she was so hungry for friends and affection that the hopeful, naive part of her sort of believed it. Still, she kept her walls raised up and tried not to let that vulnerability show on her face.

  “What do you want?” She asked warily.

  “Don’t get all pissy,” Anne said, and she playfully shoved Joan, although it didn’t feel as playful as it should have been. Miss Aragon’s desk scraped against the floor slightly, its edge cutting uncomfortably into Joan’s spine. “I’m only trying to be nice!”

(nice)

(not nice don’t trust)

(nice)

  “So,” Anne examined Joan closely, and Joan wanted to squirm underneath her gaze. “Are your boobs sore?”

Joan blinked at her in bewilderment. She looked down at her breasts for just a moment, then looked back up quickly, opening and closing her mouth like a flabbergasted fish out of water. All she could get out was a dumbstruck, “What?”

  “You look a little bloated,” Anne continued, ignoring her question. She tilted her head, seemingly to get a better angle at Joan’s stomach, and Joan felt like there were eels squirming underneath her skin. “When I’m bloated, my boobs get really sore.”

Joan couldn’t help but glance at Anne’s own breasts when that was said.

  “You’re only supposed to take, like, two Ibuprofen,” Anne went on. “I take three.” She chuckled. “I got that from Kat! She’s, like, a total junkie. Now that you guys are all cozy, she’ll have you tossing them back like communion wafers.”

  “I’m not...cozy with Katherine Howard…” Joan said.

Anne looked oddly surprised, and Joan wondered for a moment if she accidentally ruined a friendship she didn’t even know she had.

  “Really?” Anne said. “She’s acting like you’re her new best friend!”

(friend)

  “Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great. Just...don’t let her turn you into another one of her ‘projects.’”

That made Joan perk up. She blinked rapidly at Anne.

  “Did she say I was a project?”

  “It’s her MO.” Anne said. She looked at Joan pitifully. “Maria was a project, Bessie was a project...I was even a project! She practically talked me into getting Botox last summer. Can you believe that?” She laughed.

  “Maybe she thought you needed it…”

Something twitched on Anne’s face, like her expression was actually just a mask of plaster that was starting to crumble. She resettled her features quickly.

  “I’m just saying that she has a hard time accepting people for who they are.” Anne said. “Being her friend can be a little on the demeaning side, especially when everyone in school knows why she’s being your friend.”

Joan flinched at her words and looked down at her feet. Anne made a sympathetic clucking noise.

  “Well, I gotta dip,” Anne said, heading for the door. “Oh, and you can tell Katherine she can say all she wants about me, but at least when I’m being a bitch I’ll cop to it.”

Joan said nothing.

Anne smiled. “Bye!”

And then she was gone. Joan could finally breathe, and she instantly sunk to the floor, trying to tame all the whirling thoughts filling up her brain.

(go)

(don’t go)

(go)

(don’t go)

(trick trick it’s a trick Mama was right)

A door out in the locker room opened and closed. Miss Aragon appeared in the doorway, a sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead and dozens of water droplets shimmering like silver spider eyes in her hair. Despite the chilly weather outside, she was wearing black shorts and a lemon yellow workout shirt, looking like an angelic wasp in the office.

  “Joan,” She said, noticing the girl on the floor. Students from her current class were starting to file in to get changed, so she stepped inside fully and shut the door. “You really did skip all of third, didn’t you? Naughty girl.”

Joan ducked her head, feeling embarrassed. After what her mother did to her last night, she had been desperate to see Miss Aragon, one of the only people she felt safe around. Something about the coach’s presence was so comforting to her, like she would never be harmed as long as she stayed by her side. So, she went to her, missing the entirety of her third period Geometry class to hide out in the office after explaining that she was feeling very anxious, which wasn’t exactly a lie.

  “Sorry…” She mumbled.

  “It’s alright, sweetheart,” Miss Aragon chuckled. She tilted her head at Joan. “What are you doing on the floor?” 

  “Just...thinking…” Joan replied.

  “About?” Miss Aragon asked, sitting down next to her. Her eyes were so caring and loving; Joan wished she could be looked at like that forever.

  “I got invited to prom.” Joan said, and something about Miss Aragon’s expression told her the coach already knew. She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them tightly. “But I don’t know if I should go…”

Miss Aragon appeared to be a little startled by that. She shifted around and ducked her head so she could look at Joan’s face, and Joan could see all that love and care glow in her eyes once again.

  “What do you mean?” She prodded. “Why not?”

  “I’m not gonna fit in…” Joan said. “I still can’t wrap my head around why Anna von Cleves asked ME. Katherine Howard is so pretty and muscley and smart and tall and confident and pretty…” She trailed off. “Why would she want to go with me?”

  “Because you’re amazing, Joan.” Miss Aragon said, not missing a beat. “Anyone who doesn’t have their head in their--umm--butt can see that.”

Joan giggled softly at her coach’s avoidance of swearing in front of her, but it quickly died off when all her self esteem issues came shoving their way back in. She huddled her knees even closer to her chest and looked down at the floor.

  “But...I’m not as pretty as all the other girls…” She mumbled.

  “Nonsense!” Miss Aragon reprimanded. “Joan, you are a very pretty girl.” She cupped Joan’s face and lifted her head up. “Just look at those eyes! And those lips! Why, with the right shade of lipstick--”

  “Lipstick?” Joan sputtered. “My mother would never--”

  “Joan, it could be wonderful!” Miss Aragon went on. “They don’t have the glow you have. The-- the charm! Those other girls may as well just wear garbage bags with the word ‘whore’ spray painted on it. And you wanna know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re whores.”

Joan burst out into giggles and had to cover her mouth to try and muffle them. Miss Aragon grinned triumphantly.

  “It’s because none of them will be able to do what you can do,” Miss Aragon said. “You have been hurt for so many years, and yet you’re still getting up and going to the prom, despite it all. If one of those girls out there were in your shoes, they would have given up a long time ago. They wouldn’t have said yes and, instead, cried in their bathtub or something pathetic like that. But you,” She cupped Joan’s cheeks again, and Joan couldn’t help but lean into the warmth of her hands, “you’re not doing that. You’re stronger than all of them combined, you know that?”

  “I-I am?” Joan asked shyly.

  “Yes, silly!” Miss Aragon said with a light laugh. “You’re so brave, Joan. Braver than you let yourself think.”

Joan blushed and looked away. Miss Aragon smiled down at her lovingly.

  “And I, for one, am really looking forward to seeing you kill it on the dance floor,” Miss Aragon added, making Joan dissolve into giggles once again.

  “Thank you, Miss Aragon,” Joan said. She threw her arms around Miss Aragon’s stomach and hugged her, much to her coach’s pleasant surprise. She heard Miss Aragon chuckle softly and return the embrace.

  “Anything for you, sweetheart.” Miss Aragon said.

They sat there together on the floor, limbs intertwined, for a few more minutes until the bell rang, signaling that the fourth period would soon begin. Miss Aragon had to pull away and stand up, but Joan could have sworn she noticed some reluctance in her movements.

  “Are you going to stay in here?” Miss Aragon asked.

Joan nodded. She pulled out a notebook and pencil from her nearby bag.

  “I have something I need to plan.”

  “Oh?” Miss Aragon tilted her head. “What is it?”

Joan grinned. “It’s a surprise.”

------

  “Come on, you hotshots!” Aragon yelled, clapping her hands loudly. “I want to see you sweat!”

Although it wasn’t detention right now, she still thoroughly enjoyed making gym class a little more like hell than usual for the week-long punishment. She had the girls playing a rather fierce game of rugby out in the field. Nothing was more entertaining than watching these daisies slip and slide in the wet turf and barrel into each other to evade her scornful words.

  “Maggie, get those knees up!” She shouted at the brown-haired student.

  “I don’t like running!” Maggie wheedled in response. She narrowly avoided being plowed by a blonde girl much bigger than she was.

  “Maria!” Aragon barked, rounding on the next student she caught slacking. “Question.”

Maria raised her head, squinting through a rain of sweat dripping into her eyes. She replied with a loud, bovine-like, “WHA?”

  “Did you ride the struggle bus to school this morning?” Aragon asked. “Because you are just one hot mess express over there!”

Maria swallowed thickly and turned her attention back to the ball.

  “It’s not a bomb, Katherine!” Aragon said, watching Katherine fumble and avoid the ball so she wouldn’t get hit or run into. “It’s not going to hurt you! Get in there and get some points for your team! You’re better than this!!”

Katherine nodded wordlessly and threw herself into the fray.

  “Bessie, hi,” Aragon smiled at the bleached girl, who slowed down to look at her. “Do you smell that?”

Bessie blinked her big dark brown eyes in confusion.

  “It’s the smell of FAILURE!” Aragon yelled.

Bessie whimpered loudly, and then whimpered even louder than that when the ball flew into her stomach. She fell backwards to the ground and quickly scrambled across the grass before she could get trampled by her classmates. Aragon watched her in amusement, then noticed Anne whispering to two other girls a few yards away. She locked in on her.

  “Anne!” She roared. “Shut your mouth and get back to the game!”

Anne glared at her, but her features strangely evened out and calmed rather quickly. A smile spread on her lips.

  “You’re right, Miss Aragon,” She said. “I am so sorry!”

Aragon was instantly suspicious. It wasn’t like Anne to be so agreeable to her scolding when she was worked up like she had been the past week. There was something off about that smile, too…

What was she planning?

------

Katherine could have spotted her from a mile away- Joan stuck out like a sore thumb in the makeup section of the department store.

Per Bessie’s frantic request, she was out getting more paints and art supplies for the decoration committee. However, she didn’t expect Joan to be there, poorly applying ruby red lipstick to her lips.

It was almost painful to watch. Joan’s hand slipped several times and streaked shiny crimson lines over the top of her mouth. There was even a moment where she flicked her tongue out to taste the gloss and instantly scrunched her face up in disgust. Katherine barely managed to muffle a laugh.

A few people were starting to stare. Two small children were giggling over the spectacle. A woman nearby looking through a selection of eye shadow watched Joan with an absolutely dismayed expression, like she couldn’t believe any girl in this day and age didn’t know how to properly apply makeup. Katherine rolled her eyes. Gender expectations.

Joan’s head swiveled around and she looked like a deer in headlights when she noticed Katherine standing there. Katherine gave her a warm smile as a truce gesture of sorts and stepped out of the art aisle she had been going through. She walked over, setting various paints and paintbrushes in the basket she was holding. Joan eyed her warily, poised and ready to run.

  “Hey,” Katherine greeted casually.

  “H-hi,” Joan replied in a squeaky voice. The overhead lights made her pale skin look very pasty, and the sheen of messy red gloss coating her lips only stuck out even more. She was trying very hard not to look at Katherine, but her eyes kept trailing over to the older girl.

  “You come here often?” Katherine asked. Over Joan’s shoulder, she noticed a trio of Year 12’s from her school gliding out from the next aisle over and stopping to ogle her and Joan. She shot them a severe look and they moved on, muttering to each other.

  “N-no,” Joan answered. She jammed the lid of the lipstick back onto the capsule and set it back on the small rack of gloss that was used for testing the colors. Although, they weren’t meant to actually be put on the lips, rather just the wrist or example board provided off to the side. Joan didn’t seem to know that, though. Katherine guessed that this was her first time ever being in the makeup section of a store.

There was an awkward beat of silence between the two of them. Joan was looking through the other selections of lipstick, but it was obvious she was watching Katherine out of the corner of her eye. Katherine wondered why she was so untrustworthy around her and seemingly everyone else, but perfectly okay with Anna.

Strange. Was that...envy bubbling up inside of her?

  “You have trouble coloring in the lines, don’t you?” Katherine commented, finally breaking the tension between the two of them.

Joan blinked at her obliviously, like a little white calf that didn’t realize it had a rattlesnake wound up its leg.

  “Huh?”

Katherine gestured vaguely for her lips. Joan looked in the mirror provided and jolted, only then realizing how messy her mouth was. 

  “Oh--”

She hurriedly began wiping the lipstick off with her arm. Katherine gave her a napkin from a box on the shelf, smiling in a humored way that she hoped didn’t come off as cruel or mocking.

  “You know, you might want to try something a little less drastic.” Katherine said. She wove around Joan to get to her other side and began looking through the selection. After a moment of mentally comparing shades to Joan’s light skin tone, she plucked up a dark pink tube of lipstick. “Like...this one!”

She reached for Joan’s face to apply it, and Joan flinched away as if she were expecting a blow to the head, nearly falling over. Her eyes were suddenly bulging out of her skull in fright. Katherine mentally swore at herself.

Idiot. Of course that would startle her.

  “Sorry,” Katherine said softly. “I should have asked first. Is it okay if I put this on you?” She opened her left hand harmlessly, and after a moment of consideration, Joan tentatively placed her chin into her palm. Katherine felt a strange fluttering sensation inside of her.

  “So, you curve it around the bow of your lips like so…” Katherine explained, dragging the tip of the lipstick across Joan’s pale lips, giving them color so they wouldn’t look as leached as they always were. Joan watched her with wide eyes the entire time, never looking away. “And...now rub them together.”

Joan obeyed, rubbing her lips together and smearing the color into a darker, more prominent shade.

  “And smack them!” Katherine demonstrated with a pop.

Joan blinked and then copied her. Pop, went her lips softly.

  “There you go!” Katherine smiled. She screwed the lipstick back into its capsule and put it back before anyone could realize they were actually putting it onto someone’s face. “You can add some lip liner for a little extra drama…”

She trailed off, watching as Joan used a pad to wipe her lips clean. Secondhand embarrassment surged so strongly inside of her she felt her throat close up and face burn with heat. She snatched the pad away from Joan, startling her into bumping into the display of makeup and causing it to rattle. They both frantically steadied it as customers peered over curiously and a worker restocking some markers from the art section looked at them with an exasperatedly devastated expression. Katherine waved at him dismissively to let him know that they had it under control and everything was okay. He looked away, relieved at not having to confront any sort of issue and run the risk of being yelled at (not that Katherine thought she had any kind of Karen vibes… Joan certainly didn’t and didn’t look up to yelling at anyone).

  “Sorry,” Katherine said to Joan, standing up fallen tubes of lipstick. “I didn’t mean to, uhh, freak out. It’s just--that’s not what these are for.” She shoved the pad into her purse, hoping the flickers of scarlet flames on her cheeks couldn’t be seen.

  “Oh.” Joan said and choked out the slightest laugh, even though it was clear she thought the situation was far from funny. “I-I’m sorry.”

  “No, no,” Katherine said. “It’s okay. Not your fault.”

Nobody told you… Her mind went on, and embarrassment was quickly replaced with pity and sadness. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have her biology and own bodily functions hidden from her for so long. No wonder Joan freaked out last Friday. There was so much blood, too, even for her first period… Even she had to think back on it and wonder if something was actually really wrong. Surely there wasn’t, though. If Joan was internally bleeding, she would be dead by now.

  “I-I, uhh--” Joan started, and then clamped her mouth shut. She swerved away from Katherine and began walking quickly down the main aisle towards the back of the store. Katherine followed her.

  “What?” She questioned.

  “N-nothing,” Joan shook her head. 

Joan turned, and Katherine saw that she was heading to the fabric area of the store. She tilted her head slightly and watched as the girl beelined for a roll of teal fabric, running her hands over it and rubbing it between her fingers. She turned away after a moment of feeling, going to a darker aquamarine shade, then orange, then purple, and then magenta. Both Katherine and the woman working the counter watched her process in a vaguely interested way.

  “What are you doing?” Katherine asked.

  “Looking,” Joan replied distractedly. She felt a roll of black mesh and instantly ripped her hand away with an expression of pure disgust. Katherine couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Don’t like that, sweetie?”

  “It’s too scratchy.” Joan said, shaking her hand in the air as if she were trying to erase the feeling of mesh against her skin. “Do people really wear that? What kind of self-respecting person would put that on?” She touched some fishnets next and recoiled like she had been burned, looking even more appalled. Katherine laughed again.

  “Some people do, yes,” She said. “It’s kind of a gothic look.” She decided to leave out how she had a black mesh top that she liked to seduce Anna with when they were alone.

  “It’s awful.” Joan stated firmly. She tugged off a waterfall of sunflower yellow fabric off of the wall and it all came tumbling down onto her. She tottered backwards, nearly collapsing under the weight of the material, then steadied herself and held out her arm, coiling a lacing of cloth around it. She inspected it for a moment, then began putting the fabric back onto its hook, much neater than it had been before. The woman at the counter blinked at her with an appraising look.

  “So…” Katherine said idly, watching Joan dart over to another rack of fabrics. She’s never seen the girl’s eyes shine so much before. It was like she was in textile heaven. “Have you picked out your dress?”

  “No,” Joan replied after a brief moment of hesitation. She unraveled a veil of iridescent green fabric, took one look at it, then wrapped it back up and put it back on its hook. “But I found a style that I like.” She thoughtfully touched her messenger bag.

  “What color?” Katherine asked interestedly. 

  “I can’t decide,” Joan said, holding strips of saffron and azure and wrinkling her nose at the way it contrasted with her pale skin. “I’m--trying to figure out that now.”

Katherine’s eyes widened a little. “You make your own clothes?” 

Joan looked a touch shy. “Sometimes.” She said. “It’d be cheaper to make my dress myself.”

  “Oh, you are absolutely right.” Katherine said. “Those things are EXPENSIVE!”

A small smile twitched on Joan’s lips, then she got back to looking through the selections. She didn’t seem pleased with any of them offered, even though Katherine spotted at least four different shades she thought would make beautiful dresses.

  “Well,” Katherine quickly started again, pouncing on an opportunity that lit up inside of her like a light bulb. “I don’t know if you want to, but maybe we can do a little fashion consultation thing? We could even model! Maria’s coming over Saturday afternoon before prom and she does these little shows to find the perfect style.”

Joan tensed, hands freezing in their process of sliding over a roll of crimson red cloth. She stared at it for a long moment, then pulled away, shaking her hands out like they had blood on them.

  “I don’t know if I want to model,” She mumbled.

  “Oh--”

Katherine blinked stupidly, now looking like the brain dead cow between the two of them. She didn’t know why she was expecting Joan to say yes. The girl didn’t exactly look like the type to be able to say no to people. Now she just felt bad for seemingly pressuring Joan into the hangout session.

  “Sorry.”

Joan didn’t hear her apology, however, because she had already darted to another rack. Her eyes were wide and glowing, and she realized she was looking at a roll of pale flamingo pink silk. Carefully, like she thought it may disintegrate in her hands, Joan picked up the bulk and held it close to her chest, staring up with a dreamy, wistful expression.

That had to be the one.

  “It’s so pretty,” Joan murmured as Katherine walked over, running her hand up and down the surface of the fabric. There was a smile ghosting over her lips, which still had remnants of the lipstick splotched over it.

  “It is.” Katherine agreed. The shade of pink really fit well with Joan’s pale complexion, light hair, and icy eyes. “You’re gonna look great, I’m sure of it.” Then, idly, as she fiddled with the edge of some scratchy white cotton fabric, “I’m really glad you’re going to prom.”

Joan paused her process of thoroughly caressing the silk and blinked at Katherine in bright confusion.

  “Why?”

A piece of Katherine’s heart broke and chipped off.

  “I just thought you’d have a good time, that’s all.” Katherine said.

  “Why?” Joan asked again, this time softer. Her eyebrows knitted together, and Katherine only now realized they were light brown instead of platinum blonde like her hair. Her pubic hair had been brown, too, which Katherine remembered with an internal cringe and a flash of intense guilt. She would never get over the culpability of harassing this young girl when she was completely naked.

  “Why do you care if I have a good time?”

Katherine opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Joan tilted her head at her.

  “I mean, you’ve never really talked to me before,” She said, “and the only reason you’re probably talking to me right now is because none of your friends are around.”

Katherine sucked in a sharp breath, but released it softly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the lady at the counter listening with great intrigue, but was pretending to cut some fabric to make it seem like she wasn’t.

  “Look,” Katherine said. “If you don’t want to go, then don’t go.”

  “N-no, I want to go!” Joan sputtered out hurriedly, like she thought her ticket would be revoked if she didn’t speak fast enough. “I-I didn’t say I didn’t want to, I just-- I wished I was going ‘cause someone liked me, not because they feel sorry for me.”

  “This is not a pity thing.” Katherine clarified. She was usually such a good liar, but she could hear the falsehood oozing between her words. Even the lady at the counter widened her eyes in a ‘yeah, okay’ sort of expression. “I don’t feel sorry for you.”

Joan laughed weakly. “Yes, you do.” She said. She gazed down at the roll of fabric in her arms, then hugged it closer to her. “You feel sorry for me--because you think you’re better than me.”

  “I don’t think I’m better than you.” Katherine said.

Joan smiled tightly at her. “It’s okay,” She said. “Everyone does.” She turned to go pay for the fabric, but paused for just a moment and added, “Doesn’t mean it’s true, though.”

------

Joan placed a box of buttons and sequins and string down next to all her other sewing materials and stood back proudly, admiring her precise set up for a moment. There was the sewing machine, her rack of different colored threads, a gleaming pile of needles, the fabric, and then her dress sketches. The crucible lifted his wooden head from the floor and placed it heavily on the table, blinking his broken glass eyes at everything. 

Joan summoned--was that the right word?--him again--she had decided he was a boy. She enjoyed his company, even if it were just herself who was controlling all his movements. If she didn’t think about it, then he almost seemed sentient.

  “Want some tea, Mama?” Joan called into the den.

Most of the furniture and religious decorations were gone, broken up to form Judgement’s body. But Mama’s velvet throne chair remained, and that’s where she sat, sewing a dark grey embroidery and trying very hard not to look at her devil spawn and her horrid creation. She doesn’t reply to Joan’s question. Judgement let out a hiss of static. Joan sighed and went back to her project.

She picked up her sketches. After going through at least ten different designs, she was stuck on two. The first was long and flowing, with off-shoulder sleeves and a fishtail skirt, while the second had a cross-folded bust, loose skirt, and open, draped sleeves that reach down to her elbows and hang low like flamingo wings. She analyzed the two dress ideas for a moment, showing Judgement for his opinion, then looked up again.

  “Mama?” She padded over to her mother. “Do you like this one or this one?”

Jane Seymour did not look up from her embroidery as Joan showed her the two drawings. 

Joan waited for a moment, expecting a reaction, then smiled down at the second drawing.

  “I think this one’s really pretty…” She murmured, already dazzled by it, even in a simple pencil-sketched form.

  “It’s Godless.” Mama muttered.

Joan’s smile disappeared in an instant. She gave her mother a look of extreme offense.

  “It’s not Godless, Mama.” She said. “I wish you could be happy for me.”

Mama’s dead, dull eyes wandered up to Joan’s face slightly, but almost instantly turned back to her embroidery. She began weaving the needle through the fabric again.

  “There’s a mark on you now,” She said bitterly.

Joan blithely ignored her. “This one’s prettier!” She declared, beaming, and pranced back over to her sewing station in the next room. 

  “Pretty.” Judgement echoed in a high pitched feminine voice that was slightly edged with static. He coiled up into a spring-like formation so he could watch from a higher view point.

  “Yes!” Joan bobbed her head eagerly. “It’s really pretty!” She grinned brightly at her sketch.

  “Woe to the woman who makes garments for lustful purposes, for she is prideful and curses and rejects the Lord.” Mama said from her chair. She was looking at Joan intently, now, hands knotted and frozen in her embroidery.

Judgement cast her a dark look, his wooden facial features creaking threateningly as his mouth and eyes move. Joan just furrowed her eyebrows at her mother.

  “Sometimes I think you make that stuff up.” She said.

  “Ezekiel, Chapter 13.” Mama said. “Read it for yourself.”

  “I’ll read it later.” Joan said dismissively, unfolding the cloth she got from the store.

  “Read it now.”

  “I’m bust, Mama!” Joan whined.

Mama set her needle and thread and embroidery aside, and approached Joan cautiously. Her eyes kept darting over to Judgement, who had his bladed tail poised and ready to strike. Joan took a deep breath and looked up from her project to meet her mother’s gaze.

  “You’ve gone so far astray that I fear for you.” Mama said. 

Joan hunched her shoulders in slightly. “Do you really think I’m going to burn in hell, Mama, just for going to my prom?” She asked meekly. 

  “I don’t want to think about what’s going to happen to you.” Mama answered. “Sin knows you now. It’ll find you.”

  “Mama…” Joan whimpered out softly. 

Mama advanced on Joan. Judgement swelled up, his platelets and wooden scales standing on edge to make him look bigger. Mama took a small step back, but didn’t stand down fully, even though Joan could easily see the terror in her eyes. Her mother wanted to run and hide and pray to God.

  “Your sin will find you, Johanna,” Mama hissed. “And when it does, not even Jesus can help you.”

  “Jesus will help me.” Joan said. “He will help me if I really need him.”

  “Not if he doesn’t love you anymore.”

Mama’s words made it feel like the entire world was coming down on Joan’s shoulders. Her eyes widened and she watched, mouth agape, as Mama turned and went back to her chair to continue sewing. Not even Judgement moved- her mind was too shell shocked to control him.

And then, she’s marching forward before she’s even aware of what she was doing, burning flares of anger urging her onward. Judgement slithered after her, his body making a menacing scraping sound against the wooden floor. Mama didn’t look up at her.

  “Jesus loves everybody, Mama.” Joan said, clenching her fingers into shaking fists at her side. “Even me.”

Mama glanced up at her and opened her mouth to retort, but Joan narrowed her eyes into slits and silenced her.

  “Don’t say a word,” She warned, “or I’ll vibrate your insides so hard they burst, and don’t think I won’t do it.”

Mama became very pale. Judgement let out a pleased hiss. Joan turned her nose up and marched back over to her sewing station, where she got to work on her dress. Judgement played music that wasn’t religious for once, and Mama did nothing to stop it.

She couldn’t.

------

The black G-Wagen jostled violently as it drove up the dark dirt path that night, going twenty miles too fast on the unpaved road. Branches scraped against the room and mud squelched beneath the tires, and if she weren’t so excited for this, Anne might have been dismayed about her car getting all dirty. She made a mental note to wash it before her father saw the mess on the sides.

  “Are you sure Henty isn’t around?” Cathy asked from the passenger’s seat. She was white knuckling the overhead handle, looking a lot less mature than she usually did. Anne rolled her eyes at her.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Anne answered.

  “Where is he?” Thomas Culpeper, a distant cousin to Anne, piped up. He was crammed in the back with Maggie, Thomas Cromwell, and Anthony Lee, Maggie’s boyfriend, and kept being throwing from side to side with every bump they hit.

  “Funeral.” Anne said. “For his mum or something? Doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay, okay,” Thomas said. “I just don’t want to get caught.” The car went over a particularly rough pothole and his head smacked against the window. He whined sharply in pain, rubbing the impacted area, while Maggie and Anthony burst into laughter.

  “We won’t get caught.” Anne said.

  “Seems like a lot of work for a joke…” Cromwell muttered over the peals of giggling.

Anne jerked her head around, not watching the dark road ahead of her, and narrowed her eyes until she looked like a venomous snake.

  “Are you pussying out?” She asked. “Do you want to get out?”

Cromwell stiffened. “No! No!” He said. “It’s a good joke!”

Anne made a pleased noise and looked forward again. Her bright yellow headlights cut through the brambles snarled around the road and illuminated the large grey building coming up in the distance. She finally began to slow the car down.

The night air was a strange mix if humidly warm and chillingly cold. The half moon glowed brightly in the bruise-dark sky, its light twinkling on the surface of a nearby pond and bathing the surrounded apple orchard in rays of luscious silver. A cow lowed from somewhere in the distance. Pigs and chickens snorted and clucked inside the barn.

Anne popped open the trunk and pulled out a thick sledgehammer. Anthony armed himself with a wicked-looking butcher’s knife while Cromwell and Maggie both grabbed a steel bucket each. Anne passed the sledgehammer to Thomas, who swung the ten-pound thing idly, making swishing noises in the air. Cathy waited by the front of the car, her arms crossed over her chest. 

  “What’s wrong, doll?” Anne asked, sauntering up to her. She stood on her tippy toes and nipped at Cathy’s bottom lip, slithering her arms around her waist. “You look a little blue.”

Cathy ruffled ever so slightly, touching her custom made blue leather jacket as her girlfriend giggled. She sighed and wrapped her arms around Anne, returning the embrace.

  “I’m not sure this is the best idea,” She said. “Can’t you just forget about it?”

Anne narrowed her eyes. Her shellac green nails curled into Cathy’s lower back.

  “No,” She hissed. “I cannot. I will not forget about it.” She stepped back, huffing, not realizing she looked like a child throwing a temper tantrum in the moonlight. “I was humiliated, Cathy! I can just let something like that go! It was AWFUL!”

Cathy frowned at Anne with a pitiful look.

  “And you know who I blame?” Anne went on, fuming with rage. “That goddamn freak!” She kicked a rock and sent it bouncing across the dirt before it got stuck in some mud. “Joan Seymour is going to learn not to play with fire sooner or later. And it’s about time someone gave her a real lesson.”

  “Yeah!!” Maggie agreed loudly, always backing up her best friend. Anne grinned at her brightly.

  “This’ll definitely teach her,” Anthony said, glancing at the knife Cromwell was twisting to catch beams of moonlight on the blade. “I think I would kill myself if what you’re planning were to happen to me.”

A dark thrill crackled through Anne’s body. Joan Seymour? Killing herself? Oh, the image of that stupid cow hanging from a noose or bleeding out from slit wrists or dying from a bullet to her retarded brain sounded like a dream come true. It filled her with a sick kind of euphoria that made her feel tingly and pleasured. A crooked, bloodthirsty smile curled on her lips. She doesn’t notice the wary glance Cathy gave her.

  “Hope for that,” She said. “Come on.”

They all approached the barn, with Cathy and Thomas being stupidly overly cautious despite Anne telling them several times that Old Man Henty wasn’t home. They hopped the outer fence and walked inside, where the smell of livestock became much thicker.

  “Ugh, smells like shit in here!” Cromwell exclaimed.

  “Well, yeah, dumbass.” Maggie said, rolling her eyes at him. She didn’t appear to be fazed by the smell at all, or was just really good at hiding that she was.

Passing by an indoor chicken coop and fenced area for cows, they soon came to the pigpen. There were dozens of pigs, Berkshires and Welshes and British Lops and British Saddlebacks, either sleeping or moseying around listlessly. A flat white snout stuck through the bars of the fence enclosing their pen and grunted at the newcomers.

Thomas nudged Anthony, then Anthony nudged Thomas, and then the two of them vaulted forward over the fence, squealing and snorting and making a complete ruckus. A few of the pigs didn’t even move from the mud they were sprawled in, not even caring about all the noise, while others screeched and sprinted away.

  “Idiots,” Maggie rolled her eyes.

  “You’re dating one of them.” Anne said and laughed at the way Maggie’s nose scrunched up. She hopped the fence and stepped into the pigpen, while Maggie, Cromwell, and Cathy waited on the other side.

  “Hey, piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy!” Thomas cried, bending over and cackling at a lazy British Saddleback with a thick white neck.

  “Where’s your leg?” Anthony asked an orange Tamworth that was missing one of its back legs. “This one.” He then declared. “We should kill this one. It’s crippled. We’d be doing it a favor.”

Anne studied the orange swine. It definitely did have a pitiful aura, what with the way it hopped awkwardly when it moved, but it was much too small.

  “We need a bigger one.” She said, scanning the pigs grunting around her.

  “Pick one that looks like the girl,” Cromwell suggested from the top of the fence he was perched on.

  “You,” Anne pointed to him with an appraising look, “are starting to grow on me.”

Cromwell puffed out his chest importantly. Cathy pursed her lips, but didn’t say anything.

Anne looked through all the pigs, and then spotted one that caused a sinister smirk to spread on her face.

  “That one.” She said.

It was a big, fat, pink British Lop so light it looked white in the moonlight it was standing under in the outside area of the pen. It had giant, crusty teats and huge floppy ears that it could barely see out from under. Anthony and Thomas lunged at it, shrieking callouts and laughing maddeningly, but the sow just looked up at them dumbly, its ears just barely shifting out of its face.

Just like Joan Seymour.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Tommy.” Anne said to her younger cousin.

It was only then that Thomas seemed to realize that he was holding the sledgehammer...which meant he had to kill the pig.

He hefted it in his hands, held his breath, then raised it over his head and--

Thomas faltered. He grit his teeth, staring down at the sow that was now curiously nudging one of his shoes with its snout, then released the tension in his arms.

  “I can’t do it.” He said miserably.

Anne glared at him. Maggie rolled her eyes. Cathy gave him a pitying look.

  “Are you kidding me?” Anne said. “Really, Tommy?”

  “I can’t, okay?!” Thomas cried. He held out the sledgehammer. “Y-you do it.” His eyes wandered to Cromwell.

  “Dude, don’t look at me!” Cromwell said sickly. He leaned back so far he nearly fell off the fence.

  “I don’t believe you,” Anne said to her cousin. “Does being a little bitch run in our fucking family or something? First Kat and now you?” She shook her head, tutting.

  “Take it.” Thomas said, shoving the sledgehammer forward in the air. When Anne just stared at him he said again, “Seriously, take it!”

  “You fucking pussy.” Anne hissed scathingly. She snatched the sledgehammer from Thomas and shoved him aside into the fence. She looked over at Anthony questiongly.

  “Don’t worry,” Anthony said, touching his thumb to the honed edge.

  “Right down the throat.” Anne reminded.

  “I know.”

Anne nodded. She twirled the sledgehammer in her hands and gazed down at the sow at her feet. A disturbing smirk crept back onto her lips.

  “Little pig, little pig, let me in,” She sang, circling around the sow. She then did an awful imitation of Joan Seymour’s voice, “Not by the hairs on your chinny-chin-chin!” She hefted the sledgehammer, her expression darkening, crooked smile twisting. “Then I’ll huff...and I’ll puff...and I’ll bash your brains in!”

The sow looked up, innocent black eyes peeking out from under floppy pink ears, and Anne put the sledgehammer right in between them.

The sound was like dropping a pumpkin from a great height- wet, gushy, and absolutely magnificent. The sow dropped to the ground, its skull dented and cracked open wide, blood and brains drooling out. Thomas keeled over the side of the fence and vomited. Anne regarded him with a disgusted expression.

  “Anthony,” She said, swiveling her head around to Maggie’s boyfriend. “Come on. Maggie, the bucket.”

Anthony nodded as Maggie hopped the fence and set one of the steel buckets down. Anthony lifted the sow by its thick snout, open black eyes angled towards the moon, and slit its throat. 

The blood flow was immediate and glorious. Anne, Anthony, and Maggie all got squirted by the cut aorta. Thomas gagged again.

  “Good,” Anne murmured. She gripped the sledgehammer tightly, riding the ways of pleasantly gory ecstasy. “That one, too.” She nodded at a large black Berkshire boar.

  “Jesus, Anne.” Cathay said. “Isn’t this en-”

  “That one.” Anne repeated.

  “Annie, can I cut its throat this time?” Maggie asked eagerly.

  “Of course, love!” Anne said, earning a sick squeal of glee from her friend. She lumbered over to the boar, unable to stop grinning. “Don’t worry, piggy, don’t worry,” She cooed to it. “Auntie Annie’s going to bash your fucking head in and you won’t have to worry about the fryer no more!”

She raised the sledgehammer again and smashed much harder than before. Mushed brain matter came spilling out instantly, wetting the dirt of the pigpen. Maggie excitedly cut the boar’s throat and began filling up the second bucket.

  “Thomas that isn’t a fucking disappointment,” Anne said.

It took him a moment, but Cromwell realized it was him being spoken to. He perked up, attentive, but wary.

  “Yeah?”

  “Go get the spare bucket in the car.”

  “Anne.” Cathy said. “This is enough.”

  “Shut up, Cathy.” Anne snapped. She looked back at Cromwell. “Go.”

Cromwell jumped off of the fence and ran out of the barn. Cathy grumbled something as Anne walked over and pulled her into a heated kiss. She wondered if her girlfriend could taste the pig blood spattered on her face.

  “Cheer up, my love,” Anne said, cupping Cathy’s cheeks. “This is fun! No need to be so grouchy.” She kissed her again, letting her tongue snake into Cathy’s mouth.

They eventually pulled back, panting, ropes of saliva connecting their mouths together. Cathy smiled flusteredly.

  “I guess...it is a pretty good joke.” She said.

  “See?” Anne grinned, kissing down her jawline. Her breath was hot on Cathy’s tender skin. “I told you.”

Cromwell soon returned with the extra bucket. Anne thanked him and went back over to the dead pigs. She took the butcher knife from Maggie and cut open the sow’s belly.

  “What are you doing?” Thomas asked. He was ghostly pale in the moonlight and leaning against the fence.

Anne shot him a scornful look. “Making this even better.” She replied and began pulling out the sow’s organs. Thomas vomited once again and she rolled her eyes.

Slowly but surely, the third bucket was filled up with pig guts. Intestines, the womb, the uterus, the heart and stomach. When it was halfway full, she cut open the boar, took its intestines, then sliced off the scrotum and removed the testicles. 

The smell of blood was thick, rank, and coppery in the air. Anne was slimed up to her elbows in gore. Everyone was staring at her in wide-eyed awe.

  “Let’s go,” She said, slinging the sledgehammer over her shoulder and picking up the bucket of guts. “Don’t spill a goddamn drop or else.” She warned Anthony and Cromwell when they lifted their own buckets. She didn’t trust her pussy cousin, Thomas, to do it.

They all walked back to the car, where they poured the blood and guts into a large cooler that was brought along. Anne didn’t bother cleaning her arms when she got back into the driver’s seat; she quite liked the aroma coming from the mess. She breathed it in deeply and smiled, leaning back in her seat.

  “Pig’s blood for a pig,” She mused. “That freak is never going to know what hit her.”

#the crucible #six the musical #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #six fanfiction #six fanfic #six the musical au #uk tour six #tour katherine howard #tour anne boleyn #katherine howard #anne boleyn #anna of cleves #tour anna of cleves #catherine of aragon #tour catherine of aragon #tour catherine parr #catherine parr #jane seymour #tour jane seymour #joan on the keys #tour joan on the keys #tour maria on the drums #tour maggie on the guitar #tour bessie on the bass #thomas cromwell #thomas culpeper #katanna #howard x cleves #cleves x howard

[kyberphilosopher]

Adamus: Chapter Three

“Where there is anger, there is always pain underneath.”

Description: Adamus visited by Circe again, but has started to vehemently reject anything but anger...

Chapter Three

        “You’re sloppy today,” Keres observes.

          I breathe out, pushing my hair out of my face. It’s been parted messily down the middle from all my movement and training, but Keres looks exactly the same. She doesn’t even seem to be out of breath. I’d say it’s infuriating, but somehow I know she’s not doing it on purpose. Her observation isn’t even wrong. I am off today.

          I stand straight, my breathing still heavy as I take note of our height difference. She’s- what? Five five? Five four? I’m at least five ten. Probably closer to six foot. And yet, she’s kicked my ass every single sparring session we have. Keres hasn’t even had any proper training! But her technique, oh it’s flawless.

          There are seven forms of lightsaber combat. I tend to use form three: the one that concentrates more on defense. It works nicely with my stocky build. Keres uses the seventh form: Juyo. The attacks are agile, random, unblockable, precise. Keres could flip through the air, kicking and slashing at the same time and I would have no choice but to take the final blow. I don’t think she knows this, but the form she practices is used by Sith. Jedi are forbidden from learning it, so we can’t properly defend ourselves against it. I have no idea how she learned this, or why. Part of me really wants to ask, but another part tells me that I may not like the answer I receive.

          Keres scans me over for a brief second, then switches off her amber blade. “What are you doing?” I ask, throat slightly dry from exertion. “We got another round don’t we?”

          Keres raises her right eyebrow quickly, then returns it back to it’s normal position. “No. I don’t think so.”

          “Why not?” I inquire, almost offended. I already know the answer of course, but sometimes I like to ask her questions just to know what her answer is.

          “You’re not yourself,” she replies simply. “We’ll just do an extra one tomorrow or something.” Keres turns away, eyes squinting at her lightsabers hilt as her hands dance around it. She sees something on it anyways, and begins vigorously rubbing her thumb over it.

          I wanted to ask her if she felt the need to eat fruit right then and there. All I had to do was say ‘fruit?’ and she would’ve given me a sly smile that doubled as some sort of answer.

          Jedi are forbidden to form attachments. We are made to be peacekeepers, guardians. We have to put our duties first when they are given to us, and feelings are not supposed to hinder that. I don’t know what’s been washing over me ever since I met Keres, then. It’s like some kind of fascination. An insatiable fascination. How can someone be so shrouded in darkness and still be so balanced? She’s so… I don’t know the words. I just know I want to find them.

          “Where did you learn how to do this stuff?” I ask, even though there’s a form of anxiousness growing in the pit of my stomach. Small, but active.

          “What stuff?” Keres responds, eyes flitting to me for a second before detaching her double bladed hilt and placing two separate lightsabers on either side of her hips.

          “How’d you learn how to fight like that?”

          “Oh,” says Keres. “I didn’t learn.”

          My eyebrows scrunch together slightly. “Well then how do you know what to do?”

          Keres shrugs. “I just leave it up to impulses, really. I don’t know. I just know what to do and when. While that’s happening, I’m thinking.”

          “Thinking of what?”

          Keres pauses, like she’s about to say something she’s reconsidering. “Thinking of… nothing.” Liar. “Want to get some fruit?” Yes.

                    I slice my dresser in half with a sharp, cathartic yelp. Even though it’s already destroyed, I don’t stop. I slice again, and again, and again. The dresser is streaked with orange cuts that seem to sizzle from the heat and intensity. Lash marks in warm colors sear into the walls that I’ve grazed. I finally stop for a second, my body shaking with rage and frustration. Then I hack the dresser one more time, followed by a final cut.

          “Maker,” her voice drawls after a few seconds. “So that’s what you’re like when you’re upset. I just always imagined you staring angrily at a wall for fifteen minutes or something.”

          “Shut up,” I hiss. I don’t mean to snap at her, really. I’m just upset at something concerning her.

          “Hey, I’m not even really here,” she says in return. “I’m also not the one who just destroyed an innocent piece of furniture, but alright.”

          I close my eyes, turning my lightsaber off and listening to the hum stop itself. Breathe in, breathe out. Just imagine you’re meditating. Breathe.

          “You’ve got a nice room.”

          Breathe in.

          “What kind of books are those?”

          Breathe out. “Those are Jedi study texts,” I say calmly. I don’t dare turn around to face this… this imposter.

          “The fuck did you get those?”

          Breathe. Breathe, Adamus. “I-”

          “Why are you even talking back to me? How many times have I told you I’m not here?”

          I whip around, ready to yell or something. But she’s right. She’s not there. She never was. I’m sure then that I must be losing my mind.

          I roll my eyes, taking a stupid chance. “Why won’t you tell me what you want from me?” My fingers drum nervously against my lightsaber, like I’m anticipating the worst. I feel so dumb for doing this.

          Then, a voice in the back of my head grows louder. It fills my ears like she’s right behind me, someone’s breathing tickling my shoulder blades. “You never asked.”

          I turn around again. I am met with nothing but air for a second time today, leaving me just as angry and heated as before, if not more.

          I don’t know what time it is. I frankly don’t care. I throw myself down onto my bed and shut my eyes tight. I don’t open them for what must be ten minutes, but I’m still not asleep. That makes me upset, too. Maybe, if I do it right, I can hit myself on the back of the head and make myself pass out. I’m sure Circe would certainly do it. He probably wouldn’t ask any questions about it either. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

          Go to sleep. I want to sleep. I’m exhausted but I’m not falling asleep.

          Then I fall asleep.

          In my nightmares, I see her again. She is tormenting my every moment- waking or otherwise. Keres refuses to leave me alone. Like she wants to let me know that this is all my fault and she’s going to haunt me until the day I die.

          I don’t even know what the dream is about. All I know is that Keres is there.

          I wake up covered in beads of sweat, on the verge of tears. In the darkness of my room where the only light comes from the blue tunnel of hyperspace, I curl myself up into a ball again. Grabbing my hair, my ears- anything, I try to steady myself.

          Why did she have to die? It was supposed to be me. I was prepared and ready. She knew that. Was she planning to do this? If so, was she planning before I even told her? Was this just an excuse to kill herself?

          A thought pops into my head amidst the agony. A kind of joke. “Now who’s sleeping in a volcano?” I whisper out, mimicking Keres’s sarcastic words. Then I laugh quietly before returning to silent sobs.

          I should never have approached Keres back on Endor. I should have just left her alone.

          I went on a scouting mission to go see the Empire’s base on the Endor system. I had to decided to leave the normal group of soldiers behind to avoid the risk of casualties. If I had to be captured or hurt on the mission, I would prefer it to only be me. It wasn’t until maybe an hour or so of walking that I encountered the smell of something burning. Curious, I followed it to a small alcove, shrouded by long green vines that had covered the entrance. The embers of a fire were still hot and partially smoking, but dead all together. Several golden fish lay limp on the ground, next to a wide, thin net I assumed they were captured in. There was one fish on the fire that had gone completely black and crisp and burned, and was partially in the process of turning to ash. This explained the bitter smell of something burning.

          I could recall learning of certain faunas and natives living on Endor back on Coruscant, so I initially didn’t think much of it. The Ewok’s of the system were likely responsible for this stunt. Later, while I was walking past a glittering river, I thought deeper about it. Ewok’s didn’t dwell in caves. A Gorax, perhaps? No, they stayed in the mountains. They wouldn’t have fit in the cave anyways. It couldn’t have been the work of Dulok’s because they stayed in the swamps. What was going on here?

          I decided to go back inside the cave and try out a new skill I had been practicing- psychometry. The act of reaching out through the force to feel the past of something or someone with an attachment to whatever object you’ve focused on. Fir Aro was gifted in this field, and had attempted to get me into it as well. I had done a bit of it before the Purge, but after I couldn’t bring myself to truly start up again. However, a few days before, I had gone through some old Jedi texts I had found and decided to pick up the ancient art again.

          So, I used it on the net. At first, I felt nothing at all. I remember creasing my eyebrows together in confusion and concentration before trying again. I memorized the little divots in the rope, how easy it would’ve been to get rope burn, the water trapped in all the threads. After a few seconds, I could begin to feel a trace of both something and someone. It was faint, and then suddenly so overwhelming all the air was stolen from my lungs.

          I gasped at the darkness. I could feel anger, hatred, suffering, but no fear. I could feel vengeance, and the sting of sweat and blood hitting my face. I could feel heat from lightsabers coming close to my face. I could feel annoyance and impatience. On top of the negatives, I could feel horrifying things as well. I could feel intelligence like poison and condescendence as sweet as lilies. I could feel the desire of death like a wave and a storm of dark and light flowing through me. The whole image was so unbalanced, the hand on the rope threw itself back and went numb. I knew I had to find this person at once- they had to have been a Sith!           Keres Vagor wasn’t a Sith. She was like a Sith.

          The Sith had a lot of goals and feelings that Keres shared. Self-preservation, distrust, hatred, and the cunning mindset were just some of these commonalities. This wasn’t her fault, and it was incredibly foolish of me to think so. I wish I could tell her I learned my lesson, even though it’s my fault for not telling her all the times I had the chance.

          I don’t know exactly why Keres wasn’t a Sith. I mean, I understood the concept of the rule of two and whatnot, but she had no reason not to align herself with them from my view. They had never done anything to spite her like the Republic and Jedi had. It could’ve been because Keres just never possessed that sick drive for power, or because she simply didn’t care enough to. Was that right? That she didn’t care enough to become a Sith? With all that hatred and guilt, I doubt she would’ve stopped herself simply because she ‘didn’t care’. What held her back?

          I should’ve asked when she was alive.

          Still, I left the cave then in search of this tormented soul. I thought I found them when I saw the man dressed in black robes and a mask. Aegus, he called himself. He was no Sith, I knew that much at least. He was just affiliated with them- an Inquisitor, maybe? No. That wasn’t quite right. Either way, it didn’t matter what he was, because he wasn’t the one I was looking for. Aegus wasn’t the one who could stop a lightsaber with his bare hands, or make dark sided lightning fall out of his fingers and electrocute everything in the area- Keres was. You should’ve seen me when I watched her catch Aegus’s blade in her palm to protect her from death.

          Later, she killed him. I don’t know if it was a mercy kill or not. I only know that it was swift and clean, straight through his chest while he lay on the forest floor. Out of something like fear and disbelief, I immediately fled the scene. In the state she was in, Keres would’ve killed me too if she had noticed me. It was a miracle she hadn’t,  given how powerful she appeared in only the span of a few moments.

          I decided to confront Keres later on. If I could convince her to join us on our mission, or at least kidnap her for information on the Empire (which I couldn’t tell if she was affiliated with or not). I told Circe to be ready to come pick me up after transmitting him the coordinates, and if something went wrong to be prepared to fire.

          The confrontation did not go as smoothly as I’d hoped. I don’t remember exactly what I said to tick the woman off, but I said something that caused her to vehemently attack me. I remember the casual rage in her eyes, the formal realization of ‘I’m fucked’. She was using Juyo with two lightsabers! I wasn’t equipped to fight that. The most I could do was attempt to defend myself with basic, sloppy blocks that kept me on the edge of death. Keres had gotten the upper hand, and if Circe hadn’t intervened, I’m certain she would’ve won the duel.

          After that, I don’t remember exactly how long she was out for.  A few rotations, maybe? Keres stayed in an extra, much smaller medic room outside the main bay, attended to by Aheka who fawned over her for a few hours in the beginning. I would visit her every so often, not really knowing if she was even alive or if Circe had unwittingly killed her. I noticed the mystery girl was sort of pretty when she slept. She had a nicely angled jaw and a cute button nose with little freckles. Despite the darkness under her eyes, her lashes were long and soft and dark brown. Her lips were colored naturally with the slightest flush of pink.

          I should’ve told her she was pretty when she was alive, too.

          “Honestly, I expected I would be dead by now,” her voice calls. I turn my head to the side, catching her frame. She leans against the door way to my private bathroom, her face shrouded to keep me from confirming her identity. “Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

          Without really knowing why, I reply. “How could I not?” I whisper out, staring at the floor. I tug at the skin on my arms, partially wishing that it would break to punish myself.

          She scoffs. “Fine then. Beat yourself up over it. See how much I care.”

          I rock myself comfortingly. I’m going fucking crazy.

          “You know, if you’re going to be such a bitch, you could at least fucking tell me what I should do,” I seethe. I don’t mean to sound so angry. I guess I just have some frustration built up inside of me somewhere, even though I can’t feel it because I’m numb to everything.

          The figure scoffs. “A bitch? That’s a new one. You know, I exist in companionship with your memories of me,” she says. “I’ll give you some advice when you ask properly. I don’t bite.”

          That’s a fucking lie. Keres Vagor- if what I’m seeing even is Keres Vagor- was a biter. She may have been good and full of redemption, but she was also full of poison. She was like a beautiful, toxic plant. She’s like a sharp mountain you’re about to fall to your death from. I could easily imagine her biting me so hard, drops of blood would fall from my lips and neck like snippets of rain.

          I don’t have anything more to say to this… this entity. I’m just going fucking crazy.

          “I feel dead inside too,” the voice says, like a promise. “Dead… outside too, I guess.”

          I want to shrivel up into a ball and stop existing. I want to ware away like a raisin in the sun, or leather over the years. “Will it get better?” I wheeze.

          There’s silence for a few seconds. Even though, she’s not really there, I desperately hate the thought of her leaving. I want that false sense of security she brings me, even if it is just a trick of my brain. She makes me feel safe.

          “Maybe.”

          I turn back to look at her again. I can imagine Keres so clearly. When sunlight hits her, her eyes look almost golden. You can notice the different shades of brown, all blending together in her braid that hangs over her shoulder. Her bony hands and her long, cunning fingers dance against her thigh patiently. Little white scars are illuminated in the yellow glow, like lyrics in a poem. I want to memorize every detail of her, and her story, because it’s trapped onto her skin with every scar and scab and freckle. I know no matter how long I could’ve known her, she wouldn’t have told me everything about her. I would have to find it out for myself, like a puzzle.

          I fall in love with the golden girl, even though the figure I see is shrouded in darkness and fog and just a figment of my imagination.

          A knock on the door takes me from my thoughts. In a flash, Keres vanishes from the room like she wasn’t even there to begin with. Circe walks into the room before I really have the chance to miss her.

          “I’ve been thinking,” he says gruffly. Under his Mandalorian helmet, his voice is lower and more robotic, like it was made to make the person underneath seem more intimidating. Hard to believe I was born on the planet that birthed this. “And I know you haven’t been doing a lot of that lately.”

          My chest feels sore when I make myself talk. “What?” I wheeze tiredly.

          “We’re going to Ilum.”

          I perk up immediately. Something in my stomach sparks, which makes me feel alive. But it doesn’t feel good. I feel even more sick than I did a few seconds ago, and I stand at attention because of it. “What- we can’t go there!”

          Circe shrugs minimally. “Don’t see why not. Look, Keres was born there. You wanna get over it? I say go and accept it.”

          Stupid. That idea, is stupid. I don’t want to go and see Keres’s stuff, or her little hovel. I want her. Her stuff and her hovel isn’t her.

          I decide to take a different approach to begin my argument, however. “What about Aheka?” I ask, a drawl in my voice that reveals how ridiculous I feel this whole thing is. “What am I supposed to tell her?”

          Circe’s hands drop and he shifts. I can’t see his face under his helmet, but I imagine it’s something between disbelief and accusation. Yeah… hazel eyes wide, brows furrowed, nostrils ready to flare. I can see it. “You mean you didn’t tell her? She doesn’t already know?”

          “Of course not.”

          Circe’s hands come to his hips as he puffs his chest out in anger. He looks assertive, and I know exactly what he’s trying to pull here. I can’t remember how many times I’d done the same pose to Keres after she said or did something off color to showcase my disappointment.

          Circe reaches out to connect his palm with my throat. His fingers wrap around it angrily, not even hard enough to hurt me truly. Only enough to make it feel sore and command my attention  roughly. I don’t react much at his angry touch, instead allowing it. I almost welcome it. If he had hurt me, maybe I would’ve felt more alive. Just maybe.

          “What the hell is wrong with you?” Circe seethes. “Huh? Get a grip of yourself!” He shakes me as he says it, strands of hair bouncing against my forehead. “Huh? You think Keres would’ve wanted you to do this?”

          I feel immensely rageful that he would bring up her name. “You wouldn’t do this to her,” I snap.

          “No, I wouldn’t. And you know why? It’s because Keres wouldn’t stew in her room moping all day!”

          I’m able to connect with the force easier than I expected. It swirls around in my fingertips, through my veins and my muscles and my shoulders.  With my right hand emerging palm up, Circe loses his balance and lets go of me. His chest puffs out and he wavers into the air, and when my hand curls into a fist, he slams his back against the wall behind him.

          Some old books of mine fall from the shelf. I don’t care. It serves Circe right for touching me, for touching Keres’s memory. I don’t care how close they were. She deserves to be mourned.

          The armored man pushes himself up. His calloused plans press against the rough floor, and a strained breath can be heard through his helmet. “You’re fucking serious right now?”

          “Shut up,” I warn lowly. “Shut up, or I’ll do it again.”

          With Circe on one knee, he looks up at me. I don’t know what his expression under his mask is, whether it’s disappointed or angry or hurt or confused. I don’t really care enough to guess. All I know is that he crossed a line, and it’s silly to think that I did as well. I didn’t.

          “Right,” he says finally. “Right.” Slowly and carefully, as he should, he puts one boot behind another. Teetering himself so he’s in front of the door, he continues walking backwards until he’s out of the doorway, and into the hallway. I hold his eyes for a long time while he does it, until finally I use the force to push the button to the door, and slide it closed with a buzz.

Taglist: @omg-we-really-doo @chokemeanakin

#star wars #star wars fanon #star wars story #star wars fanfiction #jedi #sith #gray jedi #lightsaber #writing #fanon #fanfiction

[theghostofashton]

“i care about you.”

this has legitimately been the hardest thing i've ever written. i started it in january, of 2018. it's now december 31st. it took me way too long to figure out and i honestly have no idea why but i finally managed to do it.

it's over 13k and very triggering for anxiety/panic attacks and eating disorders

someone on here requested i write a oneshot where awsten is suffering from an eating disorder while they're on tour, in geoff's POV. there are a couple scenes of awsten thrown in, just to add more depth, but it is 90% geoff. anon, i hope you enjoy this. thank you for requesting it. (and for that matter, if y'all ever have requests, message me here and send them in! i love writing them!)

welcome to the ‘ed fic’.

Awsten’s always loved sweaters.

He has so many of them. Vintage sweaters, a variety of colors and patterns, baggy and hanging off his body. There’s an entire bunk full of them on the bus. It’s meant for all of them but it basically belongs to Awsten and his never-ending sweater collection. He goes to vintage shops and puts down hundreds of dollars on more pieces, experiments with new designs and vibrant colors. They’re all unique and they’re all beautiful.

He wears a different sweater on stage every night and sweat drips down his face and soaks into the heat-trapping cotton but it clearly doesn’t bother him. At least, not enough for him to wear something cooler. He used to alternate between sweaters and tank tops but he’s stopped in the past couple months.

Geoff doesn’t remember the last time he saw Awsten in anything but a sweater.

He used to love wearing t-shirts; I wanna show off my hot new bod, Geoff! This dude’s got guns! and muscle tanks I’m a sweaty shithead and I want everyone to fuckin’ know it! But lately he’s been living in those huge sweaters that he drapes across his body and hides behind.

Awsten likes being cozy and loves to cuddle. He’s fairy lights and warm nights in and hot chocolate just as much as he is loud music and cutting fingers on guitar strings and angry diss tracks. He’s confidence and hard work and the embodiment of dedication. He gives so much, destroys himself and puts the pieces back together only to shatter them once again, all for his art.

And Geoff wishes he wouldn’t, wishes he would allow there to be a victor of the battle in his mind rather than constant relentless fighting. Some days Awsten is a zombie, moving through his day like it’s made of molasses, listening but not registering, experiencing but not feeling, a witness to his day instead of a participant in it. Sometimes the depression takes a hold over him like a bird crawling its way up his back, sinking its talons into his skin and holding on tightly.

Some days the pain is too much.

And those are the days he is solitary, silent and subdued, the days he wriggles further into the sheets, sinks back into the creases of his mind and further tangles himself up into a knot he may never unwind.

Those are the days he is a lump under the covers and a prisoner among the sheets, trapped inside his head, living in a world of dread; he has always been broken but those are the days the cracks start to shine through, the jagged edges make their reappearance, the long talons sink their way into his back and tear him apart all over again.

Those are the days Geoff hates the most, the days when he crawls into bed beside Awsten and takes him into his arms, brings him as close as he can, knows that warm touches and whispered words won’t take away from the war inside is head, but maybe, just maybe…

Maybe they’ll be the driving force, the invisible pair of hands that fit just under his arms and drag him back from the edge. Maybe they’ll be nothing and he’ll just ignore them, but maybe…maybe they’ll be the voice on the nights he’s thinking of making that desperate choice.

Maybe.

…

“Getting off at the next rest stop!”

Geoff opens his mouth to say something, but cuts himself off with a smile as Awsten groans and wiggles upward a few inches, pillows his head just in the middle of his lap. He brushes his hand back against Awsten’s hair and tangles some of the strands around his fingers. “Go back to sleep, love. I’ll wake you when we get there.” He tilts his head and ducks down to press his lips against Awsten’s forehead.

Awsten hums and turns his head to the side. His eyes slide shut and he lets out a little snuffle as his breathing starts to even out.

“I love you.” He mouths the words so soft they’re barely audible. Awsten probably couldn’t even hear them.

He didn’t intend for him to. Sometimes he’s not even supposed to. Sometimes those three words have a mind of their own, pull from his lips and release into the world at the most inopportune time – you said you loved me for the first time in the fucking chip aisle at Trader Joe’s, are you kidding me?

He couldn’t help it. He never can. There’s just something about Awsten, something about the way he moves and laughs and exists in the world. There’s something new, something special about his smile and his laugh and the way he wears his second heart on his sleeve, protects the gold-plated first one in his chest and opens the other to light and warmth and sunshine. There’s something about his smile on the worst days, when he is muddling and drifting through the foggy haze.

There’s something about him that’s different.

This tour has been particularly rough on him. Geoff knows that. He knows how hard it’s been to get out on stage, cut himself open and bleed from wounds she left, every night. He knows how hard it is for Awsten; to send his own fist into his chest and serve the wreckage on a silver platter, scrape the remains of his shattered heart into a neat little pile that they feast on nightly.

She broke him.

It’s been a while, well over a year, in fact. And the tears and 3 am phone calls and blood-red songs with jagged, broken endings, are starting to fade into the background. It’s been a hard year, albeit impossible at times, I can’t do this. I don’t wanna do it anymore. It hurts and it never stops and I just- I need it to stop. I need everything to stop.

He remembers that night, remembers moving impossibly closer to Awsten and pulling him as far into his chest as he could, curling up and around his body to keep him against him, knowing he’d never be able to protect him from the sharp claws in his mind but hoping the touch would be enough.

It will, sunshine, I promise. A year from now, you won’t feel like this anymore. You’ll be better and you’ll be happy and everything will be okay.

“Alright, everybody off!”

He waits for a few moments, runs another hand through Awsten’s hair and strokes a finger down his cheek, waits for him to wake on his own. He doesn’t want to rush him – Awsten and sleep are like oil and water. The mixture never combines, two poles apart, each side refusing to wind with the other. Sleep is a rare bird he doesn’t experience often, and Geoff knows from past arguments, do you fucking know how long it’s been since I’ve slept for more than two hours? Fuck you, Geoff. I can’t fuckin’ fall back asleep now.

But Awsten is snuffling and his eyes are fluttering underneath his eyelids. He isn’t past the gates and into the deep throes of sleep just yet. Fortunately.

“Hey…sunshine…” He shakes Awsten’s shoulder and presses another kiss against his skin. “We’re here. Wanna go get somethin’ ta eat?”

“Mmmphhh,” Awsten hums. “M’good.” He keeps his eyes closed, but scoots off Geoff’s lap and rests his head properly on the couch cushion. “You go.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.” Awsten’s voice is heavy, soft and sleep-ridden. “M’gonna take a nap.”

“That’s what you said this morning, Aws.” Jawn speaks up before Geoff has the chance to answer. He looks over to the bus door. Jawn is standing with one foot out and the other in, but he brings both inside and turns toward the lounge area, frowns at Awsten and takes a couple steps inside. “You didn’t get off then either.”

Awsten blinks at him. “So? I wasn’t hungry then, and I’m not hungry now. What’s the big deal?”

“You, not eating.” Jawn joins them in the lounge and reaches down to rub Awsten’s shoulder. “M’worried about you, dude. This isn’t good.”

“What isn’t?” Awsten sits up and aligns his back with the wall. He keeps his gaze locked on Jawn, glares at him as he brings his knees to his chest. “I’m just not hungry today. Why’re you being such a dick about it?”

Jawn holds both hands up in surrender. “Just…come eat with us, okay? We’ve missed you, the past coupla weeks.”

“You see me every day,” Awsten deadpans. He rolls his eyes and crosses both arms over his chest. “So I’m not hungry one day. Stop acting like I’m some kinda criminal, jesus christ.”

“What about something small?” Geoff suggests. He reaches over to brush some hair away from Awsten’s forehead, but freezes midair when Awsten leans away.

“I’m fine,” Awsten repeats. “Seriously. Go eat.”

Geoff exchanges a glance with Jawn, and forces himself to swallow. His heart is pounding. Everything is happening so fast, like someone flicked a switch and sent his mind into overdrive, what’s going on what’s wrong with Awsten why is he being like this he’s never like this what’s going on what happened why is he like this why-

“Alright, love,” is all he can get out. He leans in and kisses Awsten’s cheek, before he stands and heads for the bus door. His heart is hammering in his chest and he can feel every beat, like someone ripped out the muscle and timed it in sync with his racing breaths. It’s going too fast. It’s all going too fast.

“Are you-”

“Fucking go, Jawn!” Awsten snaps. “Get the hell out and leave me the fuck alone.”

…

His hands are shaking.

His heart is racing and he can feel the blood rushing in his ears and his hands won’t stop fucking shaking.

He’s only seen Awsten like that a handful of times, the most recent being over six months ago, when the news broke that Equal Vision had fucked something up with their latest album. He doesn’t remember any time before then. There have definitely been some, but he’s tried to think about them less and less, let them float to the bottom of his mind and sink in, tunnel into the hollows of his chest and stay below the surface, never to be dragged up again.

He doesn’t want to think of Awsten like that. Awsten isn’t like that. He’s not a ticking time bomb, about to explode at any second. He’s collected and controlled and able, to handle thing most of the time. The things Geoff thinks will set him off, don’t.

He’s soft and warm and he smiles at the smallest things, sees a dog on his runs in the morning and comes back beaming, that made my fuckin’ day. No matter what shitty thing happens today, a dog was excited to see me. That’s all I care about. He turns his face to the world and grins and laughs and lets the mundane travesties roll off his back.

It’s okay, Geoff. Rumors are rumors. There’s a new angry person on Twitter every day, at this point. I can’t care about it too much or it’ll ruin me.

And he hasn’t been.

At least, from what Geoff’s seen.

There hasn’t been a change in fan interaction. He gets online and scrolls through Awsten’s twitter multiple times a week – doesn’t tweet from his own account because the amount of people and notifications and overall attention gets overwhelming very quickly – and there’s been no difference.

But the tour is different.

Warped Tour, is different.

He remembers when they were asked to play. It was before Europe, right after the album came out and they’d gotten back from Australia. Management called on a morning he’d slept over Awsten’s house – they weren’t together, not yet, but by February, the nights Awsten called him at 2am because he couldn’t sleep had increased and if he couldn’t do something about the reason why, he could go to his house and crawl into bed with him, at the very least – and asked them to consider it.

Awsten wasn’t on board at first. He wasn’t, either. 2016 was a shitstorm.

The roof leaked and the bus creaked and everything was so hot and cramped and cumbersome, all the time. They were tripping over each other and trying to avoid the strategically placed buckets, while still needing to get the adequate amount of sleep and perform every day, eat the shitty food and interact with bands he was sure talked shit about them behind their backs, spend the two and a half months in a state of overdrive that wouldn’t relax.

And then there was her and the shows she came to and the dates after, watching Awsten throw his arm around her shoulders and parade her around the venues. Laughter spilled out of his mouth and his eyes were constantly crinkled. His smile lines got so much more pronounced during that tour.

They’d get off stage and he’d barely towel off and change shirts before she was grabbing his hand and dragging him somewhere and some days it looked like he didn’t want to go but he did he did it for her he did everything for her he gave all of himself up for her he-

He destroyed himself for her and they’re still sifting through the carnage. Every piece is coming up tarnished and Geoff is still trying to figure out what parts of him she left whole, what parts of him she didn’t take and mark and toss out a ten story window after the news broke.

Awsten got tears in his eyes when he hung up the phone, turned and buried his face in Geoff’s chest and didn’t say anything for a very long while. Geoff remembers waiting for him to, giving him the chance to take some deep breaths and force himself out of the chaos, listening as his breathing started to slow down and his body stopped shaking.

I don’t wanna do it. But it’s the last tour and they really want us ta be on it and I just…I don’t know, Geoff. I want to but I don’t and it’s all happening too fast everything’s too much, I-

He pressed a finger to Awsten’s lips, here. Smiled and gripped tighter to his hand, breathe, Aws. It’s gonna be okay, I promise. Whatever you decide. Everything’s gonna be okay.

He remembers Awsten agreeing, talking it over with Otto and Jawn and eventually deciding that they should give the last ever Warped Tour its final hurrah. Awsten went quiet and refused to talk about it for a few weeks afterward, it’s done and booked and I just wanna forget about it for now, okay? I’ll think about it again when we havta arrange shit and start packing. I can’t do this right now.

He’d just signed on to a tour marking the two year anniversary of his failed relationship, a tour that went to all the same places and stopped in all the same cities, including the place they got together and the off days turned day dates, the memories turned miseries, replays turned dismays, she was everything until she wasn’t. He gave her all of him and she took every last limb. He had nothing left. He had nothing left. He had no-

“Geoff?”

“Huh?” He shakes his head to clear it, slows his pace and allows Otto to fall in line with him as they walk up to the rest area building. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

“Aws didn’t come?” Otto asks. “You couldn’t convince him?”

Geoff sighs. “He said he wasn’t hungry. Didn’t wanna push it. He wasn’t in a great mood.”

“He’s never in a great mood.” Jawn can be heard from behind. He slides in on Geoff’s other side and looks over at them. “Haven’t y’all noticed? He’s been so pissy lately.”

“Yeah, dude. He’s been snapping at me a ton.”

“I think he’s just tired,” Geoff says, in lieu of a proper explanation. Awsten hasn’t been an ass to him, but boyfriend and best friend aren’t synonymous and he could’ve been ignoring a lot of things in subconsciousness. “He hasn’t been sleeping well lately.”

“Hasn’t been eatin’ well either.”

“I don’t remember the last time he ate with us,” Otto mutters. He pulls open the door and holds it for Geoff and Jawn to walk through.

“I don’t remember the last time he ate at all.” Jawn says the next words, and Geoff stops.

He stops.

Everything stops.

…

I don’t remember the last time he ate at all.

I don’t remember the last time he ate at all.

I don’t remember the last time he-

Geoff’s been replaying the words in his head all week. It’s been about five days since Jawn said them, since he froze in his tracks in the middle of the rest stop, felt his heart break lose from its suspension in his chest and start to sink, slow at first, and then faster and faster and faster, until it was reduced to a pile of rubble at the pit of his stomach.

He’s been trying to go over the past few weeks too, rerun through all of it with a mental magnifying glass; did he come out to eat with us that day? Where’d we get breakfast? What’d he have? Wasn’t that the night he said he wasn’t gonna order anything and just steal off my plate because he wasn’t too hungry? Did he take anything off my plate at all?

There are too many possibilities and each sounds worse than the last. They all culminate the same, end in the exact same way with the exact same person disintegrating into a pile of rubble before his eyes, old Awsten be damned. There’s been a shift between old and new in the past few months and he can’t put his finger on when.

Awsten isn’t eating.

And it definitely isn’t the first time. This has happened before. It’s a side effect from tour, a manifestation of Awsten’s blatant discomfort with being on the road. He loves the shows but hates everything else, hates the cramped buses and the driving all night and waking up in a new place every morning, a new venue that’s surrounding food places culminate in a less tan desirable menu.

Eating healthy is one of Awsten’s top priorities, one of the parts of his routine he is so heavily attached to and stubborn about giving up. He’s the type of person who would rather not eat than eat something unhealthy. Geoff understands the sentiment. He does. He understands being hungry over feeling like shit for eating crap, but there’s a genuine issue if he’s just going to give up food entirely because none of it is healthy.

This is a necessary evil, if they want to keep touring. The band’s longevity depends on touring. He needs to let go a little bit, be okay with relaxing the reins, eat whatever’s available despite how much it pains him. He needs to eat. This isn’t healthy. He needs to eat.

He needs to eat.

Bringing this up to him is going to result in a massive fight and he’ll probably end up sleeping by himself in his bunk for the first time this entire tour, but he can’t drop it. He can’t let it go. Not something like this.

Awsten needs to eat.

…

“Aws? Hey, you in here?”

He kicked Jawn, Otto, and Lucas out of the bus so he and Awsten would have the space to themselves. Awsten isn’t going to react well to any of this. He doesn’t need an audience. Jawn worries too much and Lucas wants to know everything that’s going on and Otto feels the need to insert himself into everything. He tries to “help”, but it never actually manifests in a beneficial way. It’s all more trouble than it’s worth. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.

“Yeah.” Awsten pokes his head out of his bunk. “What’s up?”

“I sent everyone else away,” he says. “You and I got the bus ta ourselves for a bit.” He sets his bag down on the couch and moves into the bunk area, crouches and kneels on the floor to meet Awsten’s lips in a kiss.

“Mmm,” Awsten hums. He brings one arm out and winds it around Geoff’s neck. “Haven’t seen you all day. ‘ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, sunshine.” He straightens and pulls back the curtain with his free hand, scoots onto the edge of Awsten’s bunk and turns to continue kissing him properly. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Awsten whispers. They press their foreheads together and he exhales, stares into Awsten’s eyes and feels his chest start to loosen. If only they could stay here. If only the rest of the day could be spent like this. If only he didn’t have to shatter it. They’re building such a delicate foundation and feeling it swirl and envelop around them, and he’s about to send it all to flames with a single sentence.

He shouldn’t.

But he has to.

“Hey…I wanted to talk to you about something…” He trails off, moves his hand down to Awsten’s cheek and smoothes his fingers against Awsten’s face. He cups his chin and leans in to kiss him once more. “And I just want you ta know that I love you, okay? I’m doing this because I love you and I want you to be okay and-”

“Geoff…” Awsten says it slowly, takes a couple moments to get his name out and doesn’t move his gaze from Geoff’s eyes. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“What?” His heart seems to stop in his chest. He feels it, feels the beat skip and the breath pull, like someone reached in and grabbed every trace of oxygen. It was there and now it’s not, flip the switch, draw he curtain, gone, gone, gone. “Why would I- I don’t- that’s not even- Aws, I would never.” He reaches forward and grabs both of Awsten’s wrists, tugs him forward and moves his hands to his shoulders once he’s sure he’s got Awsten’s full attention. “I would never, okay? I love you too much.”

“What’s this about, then?” Awsten blazes over the sentiment. He doesn’t echo it. Geoff’s heart is beating faster. This is not how he imagined this going this is not how he imagined this going this is not fucking-

“I just-” He pauses and shakes his head, takes Awsten’s hands again and squeezes them tightly. “Remember what happened a couple weeks ago? At the rest area?”

Awsten is silent for a few seconds, thinking it over. He doesn’t pull his hands away. Geoff focuses on that, stares down at their intertwined fingers and tries to remember, breathe. Breathe. Breathe. “What are you- oh, Geoff…” Awsten rolls his eyes. “That, again? I told you. I just wasn’t hungry that day, okay? It’s not a big deal. You didn’t havta freak yourself out over it.”

“I know you, Awsten,” he says quietly. He strokes his thumb against Awsten’s palm and swallows against the lump in his throat. His mouth is so dry. The saliva feels like one ball of ache being launched at the barrier of his esophagus, tearing through, penetrating as painful as possible. “We go on tour and you don’t wanna eat fast food, so you just…don’t eat. And I get it, I know the shitty food sucks and it makes you feel all gross or whatever, but you just-” He drops his head. Tears are burning at the corners of his eyes. His voice keeps breaking. “You gotta eat, sunshine. You gotta eat. You can’t starve yourself like this.”

If Awsten says something immediately after, he doesn’t hear it. A tear rolls down his cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut, hard enough to see the colored blobs of ink spurting themselves across the dark colored page. This is bad this is so bad this is not what was supposed to happen fuckfuckfuck-

“Geoff? Hey, look at me.” A hand slips underneath his chin and Awsten pulls his head up. “Oh god, don’t cry…”

He blinks. Awsten reaches in and thumbs tears off his cheek, first strokes for that and then keeps rubbing his fingers against Geoff’s cheekbone. Geoff swallows, feels the salt on his lips as tears go down.

“You don’t have to worry about me, okay?” Awsten leans in and pecks the corner of his mouth. “I promise, I’m okay. I think it’s just stress, y’know? Killing my appetite or whatever. I’m not starving myself. Really, I’m not. That was a bad day. I snapped at Jawn ‘cause the world was pissing me off and I needed someone to yell at. The food sucks and I hate it but I know I don’t have a choice. Okay? Please don’t do this ta yourself anymore. You don’t havta worry about me.”

“I’ll always worry about you.” The words are thick and clumsy around his tongue, heavy as they leave his lips. He reaches forward and grabs Awsten into a hug, winds his arms around the younger boy’s waist and pulls him as close to his chest as he can get. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

…

His throat burns.

He doesn’t do this very often, but every time he has, it’s felt like a thousand hot knives pressing down and stabbing into his throat, forcing them through the muscle until all that’s left is a corpse. It stings and it burns and everything feels like it’s about to end at that moment, like his entire life has culminated to a halt right here and the next few seconds could (quite literally) kill him.

It feels like he’s dying and he doesn’t know why. Too many people do this on a daily basis for it to feel like death for someone who’s a mere novice. He’s dying he’s about to die it’s all over this is it this is how it ends he’s shaking on a bathroom floor and he’s going to die he’s shaking on a bathroom floor and he’s going to die he’s shaking on a bathroom floor-

He didn’t have a choice.

Geoff is onto him and he’s watching him like a hawk and starting to figure things out and that can’t happen he had no choice that can’t happen he had no choice that can’t happen he had no choice-

He had to eat tonight.

He had to sit with them and order something from Kentucky fucking Fried Chicken – because it was the only thing that was open – and force the greasy, fried, nasty chicken wings down his throat. He had to consume the calories and accumulate the fat and keep it where it was, sit and talk and force out laughs every so often, become a presence amongst his unwavering stream of existence.

Geoff was looking at him like he’s on trial. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk anything. He couldn’t risk staying quiet and blending into the background, only nodding when he’s prompted and pretending the meal hasn’t daunted him the entire time. He couldn’t risk the lies, winning the prize for best actor, adding up how many calories he’s eaten this week trying to factor in the possibility of adding dinner to that.

He shoves his fingers back down into his throat, forces them past their barrier, past where his eyes start to go teary and his body protests against him, you’re not supposed to do this. You’re not supposed to make yourself throw up. Stop doing it. Stop. Stop it. He goes farther, presses harder, digs deeper, until the wave of pain finally comes and the bile joins it, surging up his throat and piling against the toilet water with a loud plop.

Tears are running down his cheeks. His chest is heaving. His breath is coming in pants and he can’t slow it. Nothing will slow down. It’s moving way too fast. He inhales and holds it for barely a second before it’s gone, pulling another piece of his chest and bounding away with it.

He can’t do this.

He can’t.

It’s all too hard and it hurts too much and new pieces of him get taken away every day. He’s in pain all the time and when he isn’t it feels wrong because he should be because he deserves to be because people who look like this don’t get a break people who look like this don’t get to have cheat days people like this don’t get to feel pretty.

People like you don’t get to feel pretty.

He’s not pretty.

He’s not pretty and nothing is perfect and it’s all pulling at him. He’s pleading and praying and barely managing to push himself over the barrier as one day bleeds into the next. The hunger pangs at him, pulls at his stomach and twists it into a permanent knot, I don’t want to do this anymore but I can’t stop and I don’t know what to do-

It traps you.

You think it won’t. You think you’ll be able to handle it, read the stories of people who couldn’t and reassure yourself, I’ll never get that bad. It’ll never happen to me. I just wanna lose a few pounds. I know what I’m doing. I have it under control. Just a few pounds, and it’ll all be over. It’ll all be over. I know what I’m doing.

I know what I’m doing.

And he did, in the beginning.

He had it under control. Portioning one meal a day. Skipping lunch and not thinking too much of it. Giving up white mochas entirely and making the permanent switch to those Americanos he still fucking hates.

He was tracking his calories in a journal and he had no idea it would become eternal, had no idea that book would become his life source and missing a day of writing everything down would feel like brute force, like someone was stabbing into his flesh and ripping pieces out and taking large chunks of him when they left.

You’re too fat not to be doing this did you really think you could get away with taking a break for one day you don’t get breaks people like you don’t get breaks you look like shit why don’t you care fat ass stupid fucking pig can’t even go a day without stuffing his face people like you don’t get to take breaks people like you don’t get to take breaks people like you don’t get to take breaks-

He swallows, feels the saliva drip thickly into his throat and slide down, sit in the pit of his stomach and stretch its roots all the way over to flip the switch of nausea. His head is spinning. The ache behind his eyes is stretching. Everything hurts and it won’t stop everything hurts and it won’t stop everything hurts and it won’t fucking stop-

He shoves his fingers down his throat again.

People like you don’t get to take breaks-

…

“C-Can I sleep with you tonight?”

Awsten is shivering in front of him. The large sweatshirt he’s wearing stretches halfway down his thighs and the sleeves go way past his hands. He’s brought one hand to his mouth and he’s still shaking, almost vibrating in his spot from the force of how genuinely cold he is.

“Of course, love, hey, you’re freezing…” He closes his book and opens his arms, collects Awsten against his chest and feels him start to burrow, press cheek to chest and wrap his arms tight around his waist. “Whoa, why are you so cold?”

“D-Don’t k-know,” Awsten stutters. His teeth are chattering loudly. “Just c-cold…”

“Alright, alright, shh…” He shifts Awsten against his chin and tucks his chin above Awsten’s head. “You’re okay, you’re okay, I’m here.”

It’s barely 9, but they’ve had quite a few early mornings in the past couple of weeks. Tons of driving and traffic on the freeway that manifested itself in honking all the way past midnight, who’s that fucking pissy at 12:44 am? I just wanna sleep, for fuck’s sakes.

Awsten doesn’t sleep. He’s never been good at it. It’s like he lives in a world where sleep is a rare bird he can’t quite find. He goes out every day, book open and binoculars out, spends hours searching, grasps at every straw he can find, and still comes back with nothing. He always comes back with nothing. The sightings are few and far between; his precious sleep is determined to be hidden, unseen for days, leaving him drowning in a blurry haze and envelops and surrounds and makes everything foggy.

So when he does find it, when he grabs the carrot and eats it before it can be pulled away, takes hold of the cloud before it delves back into the forays beyond, grabs it and wrestles it into submission, lets himself pillow down and drift out until his vision finally calms for the night.

And that’s why, when Awsten’s breathing deepens and his head falls, Geoff doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t shift to change position, no matter how much it hurts to stretch his arm up and around Awsten, coming in contact with the top of the bunk and resting in such a manner that it’ll definitely fall asleep and give him hell soon.

Awsten’s sleeping.

Finally.

All Geoff can do is tighten his grip and press his lips to the boy’s hair, curl as close as he can without disturbing him. This is warm and it is safe and it feels like forever, like the Sun could explode and life could end at this very moment and he’d die happy. Awsten’s existence is warm and the small smile on his face is bright and he feels infinite. Certain.

Everything else exists in a series of unknowns, and drapes itself in uncertainty, but his love for this boy will never waver.

Awsten snuffles and coughs in his sleep. His body shakes in Geoff’s arms, shifts so Geoff’s hand falls into the junction between his neck and shoulder. His fingers graze across Awsten’s collarbone, and he stops.

Everything stops.

It feels like someone hit a pause button on the world, like time has just decided to halt for the time being. Nothing is moving. The world is happening but nothing is moving.

He can feel Awsten’s entire collarbone.

And that’s not necessarily the scary thing; he’s always been able to feel at least part of that bone…but never as much as he can right now. He’s never been able to trace the junction so easily, feel exactly where the bone is and how it presses sharply against his chest like the rest of Awsten’s body.

There’s no fat underneath, purely muscle and the damn bone. He’s lost everything else.

Geoff’s heart is racing as he moves his hands down the rest of Awsten’s body. He snakes his fingers inside Awsten’s sweatshirt and traces down, feels the pit in his stomach drop lower and lower as he goes over bone. More bone. There’s no fucking fat on him. It’s all bone. He’s lost everything. It’s all bone.

It’s all bone.

He has to stop when he gets to his hips. He has to stop at Awsten’s hip bone, let his hand go limp and bite his lip, squeeze his eyes shut and force the pinprick of tears back in because he can feel the entire thing more prominently than any other. It sticks out so sharply that it can’t be missed, that wearing a tight pair of skinny jeans or just keeping his boxers on would display it. He doesn’t even need to be completely nude.

Fuck.

He swallows and pulls Awsten impossibly closer, wraps his arms even tighter around his fragile body.

“I love you so much, sunshine. We’ll fix this, I promise.”

…

“Are you serious?”

“I’ve seen him naked,” Geoff mutters. “Well, not naked, naked. He was wearing this huge sweatshirt, but I could feel every single fucking bone through it.”

Jawn nods and blows out a heavy breath, drops his head down between his knees and stays like that for a few moments. “I just- I figured something was wrong, but I never…I never even thought about it being…this.” He’s biting his lip and trying to keep his voice steady. It keeps breaking. His words are wavering.

“He’s been off all tour,” Geoff continues. He rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes. “I knew something was going on, I just- we’ve only been together like, three months. I didn’t wanna jump ta anything and piss him off, but maybe I should’ve, fuck, I just…”

“Don’t do that.” Jawn lifts his head to meet his eyes. “Blaming yourself isn’t gonna help him.”

“He isn’t eating and I don’t know why.” Geoff hears the words, hears himself say them, but they still don’t feel real. Everything’s detached, disengaged, distant. He’s existing in a separate reality and trying too hard to cling to the fantasy, grab for scraps of the universe that don’t end in tragedy, where Awsten is okay and he isn’t doing this and the world doesn’t feel tipped on its side, where every puzzle piece is where it belongs and his deep and dark and depressing only bleed out in songs, where he’s not wearing his damage on his body and everything is okay.

Where everything is okay-

“-hates himself for it. We never get good shit on tour and it fucks with him,” Jawn is saying. “I guess- I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“I asked him about it.” Geoff rubs a hand over his face and moves to rake it through his hair. “I asked if he was doing that, if he was fuckin’ eating, and he said he was. He lied.”

“He doesn’t talk about anything.” Jawn flops his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. “It’s not personal. He doesn’t talk ta me either. It makes him panic. He likes his shit ta stay boxed up for him ta deal with on his own, but he sucks at that too, so it’s just- fuckin’, it’s a lose-lose for everyone.”

Jawn is so used to defending Awsten that it isn’t even a conscious effort anymore. Geoff has to smile at that, at genuinely how overprotective Awsten’s best friend is of him. He won’t let anyone say something even the slightest bit negative, not without challenging them on it and starting a fire where every flame has already been put out. He’ll pour the gasoline and not give a shit.

Awsten needs it.

There are times when his defenses fail, when they’re too exhausted to stand up once more, when the world has taken too much and all the meat has been picked from his carcass, nothing I ever do is right and I’m so tired. I could find the cure for fucking cancer and someone would find some reason to call me out on it. It’s too much and I can’t do it anymore.

And that’s where Jawn comes in, slides between Awsten and the world with his sword raised, insult my best friend again. Do it. I fucking dare you. Jawn is sometimes even too overprotective – Geoff remembers when he first joined the band, unsure of why this guy wouldn’t stop fucking staring at him, why he acted like Awsten had hung the fucking moon and getting to be friends with him was a privilege he’d been awarded far too soon – but the world deserves it.

Awsten deserves it.

“I just…” He glances over at the bunk area. Awsten is still sleeping. He slipped out a while ago, bunched cushions against his body and transferred his head onto the pillow, I have to get out of here I have to go I can’t do this I can’t sit here and hold his fucking skeleton like this isn’t happening I- “I don’t know what to do. I love him so much, Jawn, I don’t- I fucking-”

“Geoff. Geoff, breathe.” Jawn leans forward and places his hands on his shoulders. “Dude, hey, calm down. Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.” He drops his head to his lap and bites his lip. “He’s fucking starving himself, Jawn! Anorexia is fucking fatal!”

“Deep breaths,” Jawn repeats. “You are not helping him by panicking.”

“I’m not helping him at all,” Geoff chokes out. “I’ve been sitting on my ass and watching him get worse and not fucking doing anything because I didn’t wanna overstep and piss him off. I didn’t want him to break up with me but now he might actually fucking die on me and I-”

“He’s not gonna die. Look at me, hey.” Jawn says the words slower, grips his shoulders and forces his head back up. “Listen. We got him, okay? We know what he’s doing and we know how bad it is; we’re gonna help him. Or get him help. Whatever he needs ta get better. We’re gonna do it. And he’s gonna be okay, alright?”

He doesn’t say anything, focuses his attention on the heart that’s starting to slow; the hunk of flesh in his chest that feels like it’s been broken in two. It feels like someone’s taken a hammer to it, like every piece that was once whole and could at some point stand on its own is now shattered into a thousand smithereens that press their jagged edges into his chest cavity and bleed.

It’s bleeding.

Everything’s bleeding.

…

He doesn’t know how to do this.

He’s been tiptoeing around the subject for days, starting to talk about it and then reigning himself because what if Awsten isn’t ready what if he gets mad at me what if I push him away even further I don’t know how to do this I don’t want to make it worse what this makes it worse I don’t want to make it worse I-

They agreed that he’d be the one to do this, over Jawn. Aws’ already blown up at me once over this; if I go ta him with it again he might actually murder me. You’re saying shit ‘cause you love him; I’m just the best friend who thinks his new “diet” is fucked up. Obviously not the case, but I know that’s what he’s gonna think.

Jawn knows much better how to approach this, probably wouldn’t feel like his entire chest was folding over at the thought, has been through this with Awsten before and definitely wouldn’t have this visceral of a reaction to the new territory he was about to explore.

Jawn made up an excuse about sightseeing and herded Otto and Lucas off the bus, texted Geoff almost an hour later that the place he’d taken them was almost three miles away and even if they did start walking back at that moment, it’d be at least forty five minutes before they got back.

He needs to do this now.

Awsten is in the lounge; he can hear him noodling around on his guitar, pausing every so often to write something in a notebook splayed across his thighs.

He’s probably working on a new song now isn’t the best time what if-

No.

This has to happen now.

He climbs out of his own bunk and makes his way over to the lounge area. His heart is pounding too fast, pumping doses of panic into his veins that make everything go sort of fuzzy at the edges. The world is a cotton ball that’s been fluffed out too far and everything is moving.

“Aws? H-hey, you working on a new song?” He forces his voice to stay steady, bites his lip when it wavers and closes his eyes briefly. Breathe. You cannot panic. This needs to happen now. Breathe.

“Nah, just messing around.” Awsten smiles at him and holds one arm out. He bends and tilts his head for the kiss, breathes out against Awsten’s lips and lets him wrap an arm around his neck. “Why? What’s up?”

“Just wanted ta talk ta you ‘bout something,” he stammers.

Last time went so well because Awsten was lying to him. He knows that. He knows this is going to be different. He knows this could potentially ruin them. He knows he could be ending their relationship today, and maybe this is the worst idea he’s ever had there’s probably nothing going on it’s all in your head he’s fine don’t do this don’t fuck up the best relationship you’ve ever had- but something feels off.

The world feels off kilter, now. Every time he looks at Awsten, he feels it. He sees bones he didn’t see before and a skeleton that may not make it out the door. Every morning, when Awsten pushes against his chest and slides out of the bunk, stretches and makes his way to the bathroom to shower, Geoff stops.

because what if he falls what if he faints what if his body decides that this is the day and it can’t take anymore and finally fucking gives out on him what if he leaves the bus and falls down somewhere and no one’s around to catch him what if no one catches him what if this kills him what if today’s the day what if-

what if this kills him-

“What’s goin’ on?” Awsten asks. He reaches for his notebook and plucks another string on the guitar. “Shit, should be a C chord.”

While he’s rushing to grab his pencil and fix it, Geoff speaks.

“I know what you’ve been doing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Awsten’s voice is steely calm. It’s low, soft almost, and he still won’t look up. He draws his shoulders into his body and keeps his gaze trained on his lap.

Geoff’s hands are shaking. His heart is racing too fast too fast too fucking fast everything’s going too fast can’t move can’t speak can’t breathe fuckfuckfuck-

Calm down.

You need to calm down.

Calm the fuck down.

He forces in an inhale that feels as ragged as it sounds, cuts through his throat messily and severs the ties on some of the strings holding his heart up in his chest. They’re about to snap. It’s about to fall. Everything’s about to fall. His world is disintegrating underneath him and he may just be speeding up the process.

“It’s okay, Aws,” he tries. He reaches out to put a hand on Awsten’s shoulder and feels the dose of panic, feels the injection of insecurity wash over his body, knock it over with the sheer force of the wave. “We’ll help you. All of us, we love you so much, and we’re gonna help. You’ll be okay.”

Awsten pulls away, twists his torso and turns his face to the side, wrinkles his forehead even more at the words. “What the hell are you even talking about, Geoff? I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Just been stressed, y’know, like I always get on tour.”

Geoff shakes his head and sits down on the couch, pats the area next to him and opens his arms. “It’s more than that, sunshine. It’s serious, and I know you don’t think it’s a problem, but it is.”

“What is?” Awsten snaps. “What the hell are you so fucking “concerned”-” he pauses to make the air quotes. His cheeks are starting to pink up and his eyes are wild. “About? I’m fucking fine, okay? This tour’s been hard. I’ll be glad when it’s over. I’m in a shit place but that’s nothing new and nothing you gotta worry about. What the hell else is there?”

His fists are clenched and he’s glaring at Geoff, hair mussed and face fully red. His chest is heaving and he’s starting to breathe even worse.

Awsten’s always been stubborn. Geoff knows that. He knows his boy, knows that he would rather die than crack himself open in conversation. He bleeds so much into lyrics, rips open every healing would before it’s even had a chance to scar over, forces his way into scar tissue and deepens those cuts too; it hurts but that can’t just be it. That can’t be all. The pain has to have a purpose.

The pain has to have a purpose.

He didn’t understand it, at first. He remembers when Awsten told him about it in the beginning, when they’d just gotten home from a recording session and Awsten could barely breathe beneath the weight of it all, when he had the panic attack and felt the world shift on his shoulders, it’s hard and everything hurts and I hate it. I hate it so much.

So why the hell do you do this? It’s bad enough that you’ve had to live it, why are you writing about it and singing about it and putting yourself through it all over again?

And he remembers Awsten panting, one hand on his chest, trying to get his breath back; it can’t be for nothing, Geoff. It’s gotta have a purpose. All the hurt and pain and whatever else. It’s gotta have a purpose. It can’t be for nothing.

He knows Awsten likes to deal with things on his own, stitches himself back together and does so in the quiet of his blue tomb, piles his weaknesses together and shoves them back into the depths of his chest for next time; if I don’t talk about it they can’t hurt me and I can’t be hurt again. I can’t do it anymore.

But this is far too big and far too heavy and far too much, for Awsten to handle on his own. It’s far too much.

He doesn’t deal in the best ways – he never has – and it always comes back to bite him the ass and chip off another tiny piece of him and the pile of pieces is getting bigger and bigger he’s falling apart further and further and Geoff knows it’ll be bad he knows where this is going he knows what Awsten is going to do to himself he fucking knows that if he doesn’t nip this in the bud right now, it’s all going to snowball and cyclone and turn into potentially the biggest mess they’ve ever had to deal with.

Awsten is a ticking time bomb and he’s sure it’ll explode before too long.

“You know what I’m talking about, love.” His voice wavers. He’s trying to keep it steady, but he’s so close to crying; it might not work. “Don’t make me say it. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t, actually,” Awsten mutters. He puts a hand on his hip and rolls his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about? Why’re you acting like you’re some sorta fuckin’ savior and I fuckin’ need you, or whatever? It’s bullshit. This whole fuckin’ thing is bullshit.”

“I just wanna help, okay?” Geoff snaps. “I don’t want my fucking boyfriend to die on me!”

Awsten stops.

Geoff watches him freeze in his tracks, halfway toward the table, still reaching for his pencil. He isn’t moving. He isn’t looking up. Geoff swallows, feels the saliva travel stickily down his esophagus and sit at the base of his stomach, stretching toward the switch of nausea with long, thin talons. Pleasepleasepleasefuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-

“Fuck,” Geoff swears. He shakes his head and stretches his arm toward Awsten. “Look, I didn’t mean to yell at you like that, I’m sorry, I just- I’m so worried about you, sunshine. You’re not okay and I hate seeing you like this. I wanna help. Please, would you just let me?”

Awsten wrenches his arm away. “You’re not fucking helping! All you’re doing is making up shit! Nothing is fucking wrong!”

“Me?” Geoff shoots back. “I’m making up shit? I’m not the one fucking starving myself!”

He just misses a glimpse of Awsten’s face, as he turns and runs for the door.

“Trouble in paradise?”

The world shifts.

And he feels that, feels everything start to change and move ninety degrees; the world is turning but he hasn’t quite caught up. He can’t. It’s going too fast and happening all at once and he can’t ride the wave.

Jawn intercepts Awsten, puts both hands on his shoulders and moves them down to his biceps, holds him in place while Awsten swears and screams at him. “Fuck you so fucking hard, Jawn. Let me fucking go!”

“What the fuck is going on here?” Lucas demands. “Are y’all really fighting right now?”

He exchanges a glance with Jawn and moves his gaze to Awsten, pulls his lip in with his teeth and tries to take some deep breaths, slow your fucking heart down, you idiot. You’re fine. Breathe.

“It’s fine,” he forces out. “Everything’s fine.”

…

Everything is not fine.

The bus door slams shut and they can see Awsten run through the window, watch him disappear behind the bus and off into the woods stretching the rest of the way.

“You had one fucking job.” He bites the words and lifts his head up to glare at Jawn. “Keep him here. All you had ta do. Not let him run. Was that really so fucking hard?”

“Who made him wanna bolt in the fuckin’ first place?” Jawn shoots back. “If I wanted him ta run I would’ve talked ta him myself.”

“You know how fucking stubborn he is. Don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming.” He’s getting hot again, waves of sweat breaking out all along the length of his back. He swallows against the lump in his throat and plows out, forces his tears to stay in. “This is not my fault.”

“Well it sure as hell isn’t mine.”

“Both of you, shut the fuck up.” Lucas’ voice is hard. He fixes them with a glare that sweeps across the entire space. “This isn’t helping anyone. We gotta find him and get him back.”

“He’s fine.” Otto’s voice is quiet. “He just texted me. He found a park. He needs some time to breathe. If you go after him he’ll freak even more and you’ll make this worse.”

Geoff exhales.

His heart feels like it’s been smashed, like it’s a barrier that’s now bleeding, gushing from the cracks and filling his chest cavity. It hurts. All of it hurts. Awsten hurts and he hurts and everything might’ve just been ruined in one foul swoop. Everything might’ve just gone to shit he might’ve just lost the best thing that’s ever happened he might’ve just lost everything for good it’s a mess it’s all a mess he just-

“Would either of you like to tell me what the hell this was all about?”

Lucas takes a seat at the tiny table they have and rests his elbows on the surface, turns his gaze to Geoff. Geoff sighs, exhales heavily as his heart starts to slow back to normal and everything settles back into calm.

He exchanges a glance with Jawn and takes another heavy breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I…I’m so worried about him. I just- he doesn’t see it, at all. He doesn’t think there’s a problem. He kept saying he’s fine but I know he isn’t and I’ve been watching him fucking waste away right in front of me and it’s just…”

“I know.” Jawn steps over to him and presses a hand against his back. “I know. I get it. I’m sorry too. It’s not your fault he ran. He woulda done that no matter who confronted him.”

“He’s…not eating.” He looks up and addresses Lucas, feels Jawn slide their fingers together and squeeze his hand as he talks. “We don’t know why. He never comes out with us and doesn’t eat after shows, and I- I’ve heard him throwing up before. Like, after we’ve all gone out. I don’t know what’s going on with him or why he’s doing this but something’s wrong and I just- I’m scared. I’m so scared.”

“Geoff-”

“He’s starving himself and he could die and I don’t know what to do or how to help I just-” He pauses to take in another breath that barely quenches his thirst. Everything hurts too much. “I’m so fucking scared.”

…

He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know where to go from here.

It’s a reality he never thought he’d be a witness to; he’d do a better job of hiding until his untimely demise, keep it a secret until he could no longer, until he was no longer, until everything that was once him faded away and the remnants were nothing but a distant memory.

They were never supposed to find out.

This is his secret and it was supposed to stay his secret but it isn’t his secret anymore they know they know everything and now they’re gonna be all over him and he won’t be able to breathe he isn’t ever able to breathe he won’t be able to breathe they won’t let him breathe he can’t-

And he wants it.

He wants to shove his fingers down his throat and dredge deep, hit his gag reflex and go further, until he’s tearing his stomach lining and spitting blood into the toilet, deeper than he ever has and hurting way more than the last. He wants to hurt and he wants to cry and he wants to fling his useless body off a cliff and hope he dies, because living is a lie he can’t seem to “try” any longer.

Geoff doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

It’s not an eating disorder.

Those are for skinny people, the people whose knees knock together from how knobby they are, who have legs that look like they’re about to snap, who go about their days as if they aren’t seconds away from a heart attack. They’re the people you can’t look at, have to turn away and avert your eyes, because seeing the extent of the damage they’ve done to themselves is worse than the thought of confronting them about it. They’re dead inside and trying to match it with their body, pinching and forcing and restricting, until it all culminates, unsure of which morning will bring their untimely death date.

That’s not him.

That’s never been him.

You’re too big for that too fat for that too fucking huge to even be considered that he’s just trying to get rid of you-

Geoff doesn’t want to be with you anymore. He’s using this as a reason to break up with you. You’re finally too big for him and it shows. Too big for him and too big for the fans and too big for the fucking world you useless piece of shit. They’ve had enough they’re done with it they’re done with you and all the caveats you come with it’s too much it’s all too much it’s too fucking much and they’re done with it it’s too fucking much and they’re done it’s too fucking much-

He gasps out the breath and presses a hand to his chest, squeezes his eyes shut against the burn of tears and tries to will his heart back to calm. It’s determined to run, determined to sprint the rest of the marathon while he huffs and puffs and tries to carry on, tries to shift underneath the weight on his back, resist against its numerous attempts to drag him down.

It’s a diet.

It’s a diet and it’s a workout plan and it’s because he can’t keep being this way. It’s because the flabs of extra skin are too much, because he can’t stand in front of the mirror for one more day and pinch a his stomach, pull the skin between his fingers and jiggle his fat around until he can’t see through the tears, because the thought of losing Otto and Jawn and Geoff and everyone else who loves him is outweighed by the fear of being like this for the rest of his life.

You’re too fucking big.

He’s gonna break up with you you’re too fucking big he’s gonna break up with you you’re too fucking big he’s gonna break up with you you’re too fucking big he’s gonna break up with you-

Too fucking big.

…

“We’ll talk this out tonight, alright?”

Lucas rests a hand on his back and uses the other to hand him his guitar. “Nothing’s gonna be figured out in a day. Let’s just get this show over with, and we’ll talk everything out tomorrow. Y’all have a day off, anyway. We’ll sit Awsten down and get to the bottom of this and it’ll all be okay, Geoff, I promise.”

He swallows.

Lucas can’t promise that. No one can promise that. No one can promise he hasn’t rocked the boat and shattered the glass and broken the delicate ice their relationship was teetering on.

No matter what happens next, Awsten is going to break up with him. And yeah, it was for his own good and he’ll be so much better off single and pissed off than he would be smitten and dead, but the ache in Geoff’s chest has yet to be put to rest. His heart was shattered before and now it feels like everything is being raked over hot coals, like someone saw the pieces and decided that wasn’t enough and is now torching them, just for good measure.

You did the right thing.

You did the right thing.

You did the right fucking thing.

And he wants to believe it. He wants to believe that he was right and good and Awsten will finally get help for the body that no longer fills out any of his shirts. He wants to believe that good will come of this, that Awsten will accept the assistance he so desperately needs, stop faking and priding and just agree…he wants to believe this was for the best, that he didn’t just ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to him over an uninformed assumption.

It isn’t uninformed. The rational part of him knows that. He knows that Awsten has a problem, knows that the looser shirts and skinnier arms and bony ribs are indicatory of more than just a fad diet to stay healthy on tour, he’s not eating. He’s starving himself and going for runs all the time he works out too much he doesn’t come out with us to eat anymore this is a problem it’s a problem he has a problem-

The rational part of him knows this is a problem, but irrationality is a silent ghost that sneaks up on him when he fears it the most. Its long tendrils wrap around his arms and sink into his skin, breathe out and whisper from within, what if it’s all in your head what if you’re seeing things that aren’t there what if he’s fine and you just ambushed him with all this shit that isn’t even true liar you’re such a liar you just fucked up your relationship you fucked up the best thing you’ve ever had you fucked up you fucked up you fucked up-

You fucked up.

…

Something’s different.

Of course it is; he wasn’t naïve enough to have witnessed the last three hours and still expect everything to go on as normal. He wasn’t naïve enough to expect Awsten to come back, tears still drying on his cheeks, ready to re-absorb himself into a reality that reeked of repression. He wasn’t naïve to expect that anything would be the same after what happened, that it would be a fight they could shove under a rug, move a painting over the hole it put in the wall, try to ignore the elephant that has just stomped into their room.

He isn’t naïve enough to believe that everything is going to go back to the way it was, anytime soon. He knows better than that.

But something is still so fucking different. And he can’t put his finger on what.

The chords come easy. They always have. He remembers when he and Awsten first got together, lying on Awsten’s bed with their legs tangled, laughing about absolutely nothing. He remembers the idea he had, sitting up and reaching for one of Awsten’s old guitars; bet I can play our entire set with my eyes closed.

And the fucking shine in Awsten’s eyes as soon as he said it. He lit up. The smile that stretch across his face never left. Bet what?

I’ll buy you the most expensive drink you want at Starbucks, if you win.

But if I win, and he remembers Awsten rolling his eyes at that part, you come here, and let me kiss you for as long as I want.

That’s all you want?

That’s all I want.

He won.

And he still has to smile at the memory, smile at the thought of that night, how his lips didn’t leave Awsten’s body and his arms never moved from his waist. It stayed soft like that, messy, almost, lip locked and warm and cuddled up like two pieces of a puzzle that were meant to be.

Meant to be.

He forces himself to swallow, shakes his head and turns his attention back to the stage. At least he wasn’t fucking any of the chords up.

Awsten looks different tonight.

He’s quieter, slower, not animating the stage like he usually does. It’s obvious that something’s wrong and he knows the fans are gonna be talking about it on Twitter for the next few days, posting clips and trying to analyze what in Awsten’s recent tweets could possibly give away the reason for his change in demeanor.

He’s missing some of the chords and his voice is weaker. He still sounds good, but there’s not as much power behind everything, not nearly enough force to drive across the emotion-packed words he spent hours pouring over. They don’t feel the same without that, don’t have the same effect that they usually do – Geoff always looks forward to Awsten showing them new music, always anticipates the icy punch in the stomach that leaves him disoriented for hours afterward; Awsten just has that power.

Tonight, something’s missing.

Awsten’s staying right behind the microphone stand – he hates that, I wish I could just fuckin’ sing and crowdsurf, ‘cause dude, that’s all I really wanna do – and he keeps skipping over words. He’s barely playing his guitar at this point. Geoff can’t hear any of the right chords. It’s like he’s 15 again, just picked up the instrument for the first time, trying to get all the strings and make it sound like a semblance of something.

What was semi decent then is awful, now.

Something is wrong.

It just keeps replaying in his head. Something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong-

Awsten stops. He grips the microphone stand in both hands and sways a little, on his feet.

The next moments happen too fast. He barely registers them. One moment, Awsten is standing a few feet away from him, and then he isn’t.

He watches his body crumple to the floor in a tangled pile of limbs.

Everything stops.

Something is so fucking wrong-

…

“He’s okay.”

The doctor sighs, pulls a hand through his hair and exhales. “We checked him out for a concussion and it’s most likely that he doesn’t have one; the CT came back negative, so he may have a mild headache for a couple days, but it’s nothing serious. We put him on an IV to give him back some fluids, but…that leads into the most pressing issue here.”

Geoff stops mid-swallow. The saliva catches in his throat and clings to the back, stretches itself too thing and snaps in the middle, creates a hole that descends lower, down into the pit of his stomach. “W-What…?”

“He’s extremely underweight, and severely malnourished,” the man continues. “He’s showing a lot of signs of anorexia nervosa, with possible bulimic tendencies. That’s why he passed out. His body wasn’t getting enough nutrients to function properly.”

It isn’t news.

He’s had the feeling for a while, seen Awsten’s shirts getting looser and his jeans sliding off his waist more and more, held him at night and wondered, why the fuck can I hold both his wrists in one hand why the fuck can I feel every single one of his ribs why the fuck is he so thin-

But it still feels like destruction, like it’s swung and connected and slammed into the fragile structure he was rebuilding from the debris of his chest, swung and connected and knocked it to pieces once again, shattered the rest of the fragments as they fall and embed himself deep into his chest cavity.

The realization is a wrecking ball and nothing will stop bleeding.

“What- I…” Jawn stutters and trails off, shaking his head. Otto reaches over to put a hand on his back, and he bites his lip. “What do we do? How do we- how do we help him?”

“If you can get him to agree to spending some time in a treatment facilit-”

“No.” He doesn’t register the words until he hears himself say them, and even then, they don’t feel like his. “We’re not sticking him in a mental hospital. We’re not committing him. He’s not a problem we’re gonna shove in there and hope gets fixed.” He looks up, to address the doctor. “Thanks, but…we- I want to try helping him on my own, before I send him to some fuckin’ facility.”

The doctor nods, “either way, he has to agree. He’s not a minor, and he hasn’t been declared incompetent or unable to make his own medical decisions; he needs to consent to it. From what you’re saying…I doubt he will.”

“He doesn’t need a treatment facility. We’ve got him.”

…

“He should be waking up soon.”

The nurse flips his chart closed and sends Geoff a small smile. “Press that button.” She motions to cord resting across Awsten’s thighs. “If you need anything. We’re gonna keep him tonight for observation, so someone’s probably gonna come in and check on him in a few hours, but aside from that, you guys should be good.”

“Thank you.” He scoots one of the chairs all the way up to the side of the bed and reaches for Awsten’s free hand, brings it to his lips and then leans over to kiss his forehead. “Oh, sunshine…what the fuck did you do?”

Awsten’s legs are so bony. Every single one of his ribs is visible. Geoff can feel them through his shirt when he reaches in to hug him, feel his hipbones jutting out sharply and the edges of his collarbones poking through as well. His face is thinner, too. Every part of him has gotten so much smaller.

They didn’t see it.

Through the baggy sweaters and belted jeans and constant flurry of long sleeves, they didn’t fucking see it. They didn’t notice when he stopped coming out with them to eat or disappeared after the meals he did partake in. They didn’t notice the shakiness, didn’t see how he was always tired and constantly cold – that’s the part that stings the most. Geoff remembers numerous nights that Awsten crawled into bed with him, countless days of him pressing against his side, trying to leech as much body heat as he could.

They should’ve seen this sooner.

He knows that’s not the place he needs to be in right now. It’s not productive and it won’t help Awsten at all, but he can’t help it. He can’t help but resign himself to the fact that this could’ve been prevented. He could’ve seen it sooner. He could’ve actually looked, instead of passing it off as touring and stress and not wanting to encroach on the bubble their relationship had slipped into.

He could’ve done more.

But he didn’t, none of them did, and now they’re here, and he needs to fix this. He needs to help. He needs to do something, because he’s done too much of nothing in the past few months. He’s done too much of ignoring, pretending, convincing himself that everything was alright so it wouldn’t turn big. It was already big.

“I love you.” He strokes a thumb across the back of Awsten’s palm and brings his hand up to his lips again. “We’re gonna fix this, Aws. I promise. We’re gonna get you better.”

“What if I don’t want to get better?”

He freezes.

Awsten blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust to the light, shifts up to lean on his forearms, and pulls his hand out of Geoff’s. He lets his head flop back onto the pillows, but doesn’t move his gaze. “There’s nothing to fix. M’not broken.”

“I know that.” Geoff forces his voice to stay steady. His heart is racing. He feels like it’s sprinting at the start of a marathon, going too fast to have any energy later on, using all that’s in the fuel tank for the first few miles, ensuring a long and hard journey ahead. “You’re not broken. There’s nothing to fix. But there is something wrong. You and I both know that, Aws.”

“It’s a diet.” Awsten’s voice is starting to get thicker. He’s avoiding eye contact now, turning to stare down at the sheets while he picks at a loose thread from the blanket. “It’s a diet and a workout plan. Y’all are making a big deal out of fucking nothing.” His voice breaks on the last word and Geoff wants nothing more than to hug him, but he knows that won’t solve anything. He knows that’s not enough. Not anymore.

“Starving yourself isn’t a diet, love.” He holds his hand out, palm up. Please, come on, just take it. Take this. Let me help you I love you please let me be there for you please- “And working out ‘till you pass out isn’t a plan. It’s not healthy. None of this is.”

“It’s not fucking about being healthy!” Awsten cries. “Don’t you fucking get it? It’s not about doing it the “healthy”-” He pauses to make the air quotes, “way. I’m too fucking big, why don’t you understand that?”

He’s crying, now. Geoff can hear it in his voice. He bites his lip and straightens, pushes the chair back with one of his calves and takes a step forward to sit on the edge of Awsten’s bed. He reaches, again, for his hand, and this time, Awsten gives it to him.

“You passed out on stage, Awsten,” he says. “Don’t you get what that means? You’ve been depriving your body of the nutrients it needs, to work properly. It couldn’t handle it anymore, so you collapsed. That shouldn’t happen because of a diet.”

“So I went a little too hard this week, whatever.” His voice is shaking, now. He’s trying so hard. He’s trying so fucking hard to convince even himself that this isn’t a problem. His hands are trembling and the heart monitor he’s attached to is starting to speed up. “Not a big deal. I won’t do it again.”

“Diets don’t work like this, love.” He doesn’t want to get angry. He doesn’t want to yell. He knows that’ll only work Awsten up even more. He knows that his knee-jerk reaction is far from attraction. He knows how easy it would be to make this worse and he knows he has to actively resist but it is so hard it is so fucking hard he wants to yell he wants to scream fuck it fuck this fuck- “This an eating disorder.”

“I don’t have a fucking eating disorder.”

“Awst-”

“You can go.”

“What?” He stops, tightens his grip on Awsten’s hand, and stares at him. What is this what does this mean what did you say what the fuck is happening right now-

“You said it yourself.” Awsten’s voice is low, thick with tears. He won’t look up. “It’s not a diet, right? It’s an eating disorder. It’s a problem. And I- I know you don’t wanna deal with that. With- with me. And I get it, ‘cause I wouldn’t, either. It’s okay. I won’t hold it against you. No hard feelings. No strings attached. You can-” He pauses to choke out a dry sob. “You can go.”

The tears are rolling down his cheeks rapidly. His eyes are closed and he still won’t look up. Geoff swallows and shakes his head, scoots up the mattress and leans forward, rolls onto his other side in one motion.

He slides in next to Awsten and takes him into his arms, pulls him against his chest and presses a long kiss against his cheek. He waits until Awsten turns to look at him before speaking, “you are not a problem. You’re not a burden or a basket case that anyone has to babysit, and you’re not- hey, listen.” He pauses, as Awsten starts to squirm. “You’re not an obligation, sunshine. Okay? You’re not. People aren’t here because they have to be. Me, Otto, Jawn, Lucas, everyone else that loves you? We’re here because we want to be, because we love you and want you to be okay. We care about- I care about you. You’re the love of my life and I want you to be okay. I’ll do anything I can to make sure you get there. So no, you’re not a burden and neither is this. I need you to know that.”

Awsten stills in his arms, breathing softly. He doesn’t say anything, instead turns into Geoff’s chest and presses his face into his shirt. Geoff feels the tears start to dampen the fabric a few seconds later. “I j-just…” Awsten chokes out. “It’s so hard. Everything. It’s all so fucking hard and I’m so tired and everything hurts, all the time, and I just- I don’t want to be like this anymore but no one’s gonna want me ‘cause no one ever wants me and I just-”

“Whoa, breathe, love.” Geoff rubs his back as he sobs again, starts to breathe heavily against his chest. “You’re okay. And everything’s gonna be okay, I promise. We’re gonna get you some help and it’s gonna get better. We’ve got a lot to talk about, you and me. You’ve kept a lot inside and tried to deal with it on your own and that’s not healthy, okay? You gotta talk to me. I need you to talk to me about these things. ‘Cause you’re not on your own. You’re never on your own. You’ve got me, and I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”

“O-okay…”

They have a lot to talk about. There’s a long way to go from here. And he knows it’ll be hard. He knows Awsten will hate him some of the days. He knows he’ll want to scream and cry and throw things at a wall, on others. But love is cost, and sacrifice, and things not always going the way they were meant to. The road is windy and it is long and this is just one of the (likely many) bumps. He knows it. And he knows there’ll be more.

He’s ready.

#PLEASE GIVE THIS LOVE #it took me so fucking long y'all have no idea i just #awsten knight #geoff wigington #gawsten #gawsten fanfiction #waterparks #waterparks fanfiction #neha writes #eating disorder tw

[two-creepy-nerds]

Sacrifices

Author: Luna

Content Warning: Violence, Body Horror

Length: Short

I don’t really know how this started. I had always been interested in the occult and growing up in the buckle of the bible belt, so it was customary for my friends and I to rebel. Piercings, tattoos, all black in the blistering, summer heat.

We considered ourselves to be the outcasts. The kids that were shoved into lockers and trash cans by the football teams. My friend Finnie and I would spend most of our time in the art room or other corners of our rundown school hiding from the harsh words and beatings others would get.

It was before graduation we had found a cool looking old leather bound book filled with spells and rituals in our local library. It too was a run down old building  that was rumored to be haunted by ghosts from the civil war and other horrors.

We snatched it up of course, loving to believe that's what it truly was, but knowing those were just old urban legends to scare children into eating their broccoli or saying their prayers before bed. Each boogeyman having a specific prayer to keep him at bay.

I shot the idea, “How cool would it be if we made our own coven?”

“Like witches?” my friend Finnie asked.

“Yeah dude. Let's be witches!”

So, we embarked on this new journey, trying to find anything we could on witchcraft. Our noses were glued to the screens of our phones, browsing web forums, tumblr, and anything else we could think would help us learn.

We had even met a few more local witches who had been in the craft for a couple years. Sometimes we would all visit each other at night in the graveyard just taking in the silence and serenity that settled over that place like a blanket.

By the time graduation rolled around, Finnie and I had moved in together, setting up our altars, and began doing daily rituals to our deities. Finnie focused more on home remedies with herbs and essential oils and daily blessings over our home.

I learned divination, doing daily spreads for myself and sometimes for Finnie or other friends. A few years later after Summer once again transitioned to Autumn, Finnie and I decided to do some cleaning around our house.

“Hey! Look what I found!” 

Finnie held up a picture of us from middle school, our hair dyed six different colors and with bangs swooping over our heavily lined eyes. Laughter quickly turned to cringes, then into immediately playing bands from our dark, emo past.  

During our little jam session, we decided to organize the bookshelf.

“Hey, do you know where this came from?” I say as I hold up a leather bound book.

“You stole that from the Library before we graduated, I can’t believe you of all people wouldn’t remember that.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh shut it, ‘Miss Pickpocket’,” Finnie grinned deviously, her eyebrows raising with snide in her voice.

“One does not simply remember the multitudes of things they’ve stolen over the years,” I winked back.

But it seems like the memories had come flooding back. I flip through the stained pages of the book, taking in the lovely smell that vintage books all seem to carry. I had noticed on a couple pages towards the end that the text was in Theban, an old language that seemed to have died, but can sometimes be found in a witch’s book of shadows.

“Hey Finn, have you ever actually looked through this thing? Some parts are in Theban.”

“Yeah I had tried translating it, but it’s pretty difficult. I think there's a part talking about a blood sacrifice or something. Lots of torn and ripped out pages too. Pretty sure the Librarians don’t even miss a piece of junk like that.”

I shrug it off and put the book away, it’s dark spine standing out from the rest of the collection like a sore thumb. Might get rid of it soon. 

Later that night, a couple of our friends come over for dinner. We chat about various things including the emo phase we all inevitably went through. Finnie mentions the book and our friend Sarah lights up like a Christmas tree.

“You have to show me this! It sounds so cool!” she exclaimed.

Sarah’s new to our little coven. She also isn’t the smartest person, but she has a wonderful personality and is gifted in many ways. One being she could make us bust a gut laughing. Finnie gets up and grabs the book off the shelf and lets Sarah flip through it.

“We should do one of these rituals as my initiation into the coven.”

“I don’t know Sarah. This book is pretty old and parts are in Theban, so it’s hard to read. Methinks we should do something easier for something like that.” The other girls agree, this book is no walk in the park when it comes to spells.

“But a ritual like this would would be perfect.” Sarah points to a ritual that's all in Theban, obviously grasping at straws.

“Well... I guess I can try to translate it.” Finnie proclaims. 

I know she's trying to keep the peace and hear Sarah out but I’m worried this might end badly.

So Finnie did her best to translate the text that night.

“Hey this is a blood sacrifice,” I hear Finnie shout from her room

“Leave it to Sarah to pick blood magick am I right?” Finnie and I chuckle but I feel anxious, blood magick isn’t something I’m comfortable with.

---

Over the next few days, we had to gather the few materials that we didn’t have: A black goat A copper bowl And wood for a bonfire.

We also had to make sure the location where we normally preformed our rituals was clear of any squatters.

We had gathered up everything we needed, and got everything set up and ready. I never really enjoyed performing blood magick, but it was a majority vote. One of our local farmer friends had sold us the goat.

Something didn’t feel right about this, I usually preformed white magick but this felt wrong. It was chilling. It felt dark. Once the sun had set and the moon was above us, the fire was lit. We each stripped down and began to dance around the fire, the smoke rising above us to the heavens.

I felt more and more uneasy as the time grew closer and closer.  Something about this definitely didn’t feel right. The goat was humanely put down recently and was hung upside down from one of the trees. His neck was slit and blood collected in the copper bowl.

Sarah then marked her body with symbols and sigils up and down her arms, legs, and abdomen. She then drank some ceremonial mead that Finnie had made.

Then Sarah began to mark a sigil on all of our abdomens with the goat’s blood. Each of us took a sip of the honey wine and held hands as we chanted in an ancient and dead tongue.

Then everything had gone black. The last thing I remember was seeing the goat back on the ground and walking around as if it were alive.

I woke up that morning, sore from falling asleep on the ground.

We were all covered with soot, dried goats blood, and bug bites from the night before. I was the first to find my clothes. I couldn’t wait till I could go back home and take a much needed shower.

The rest of the group slowly woke up and began putting their clothes back on and cleaning up the mess we had made that night. We then said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

“Hey Fin? Did any of that feel really weird to you last night?” Her eyes were glazed over as she sat quietly in the passenger seat, the only noise she made was a slight cough.

“Fin, you okay?”

She snapped out of her dissociative state, “Huh? What? Um never better. I feel like a million bucks.”

She was sweating profusely. I could always tell when she was lying, but I didn't press any further. I was suddenly hit with a sharp pain in my stomach and had to pull the car over. I removed my seat belt and pulled up my shirt to see that the sigil that Sarah painted on me was burned into my skin.

Finnie pulled out of her vegetable like state again and was screaming, her voice filled with misery and pain. She couldn’t pull her seat belt off fast enough and practically ripped off her shirt. It looked like someone had taken a branding tool and pressed it right under our belly button.

I try to swallow any scream of agony that might escape through my lips and put on a brave face for Finnie. I drive us to the nearest hospital and try to get Finnie through the doors without collapsing.

I yell, “We need to see a doctor immediately! We’ve been burned!”

The nurse at the counter takes us in the back where a Doctor comes in and looks at our abdomens. He sighs and whispers something to the nurse.

He leaves after handing me a prescription for burn cream, and we are told to leave with Finnie having to be wheeled out. I call the local pharmacy and place in the prescription, which will be ready in a few hours.

I take a long sigh and try my best to drive us home. We finally make it back where I have to help Finnie walk in and lay down. She had stopped screaming on the ride home after her voice gave out, now only letting out hoarse grunts and silent sobs.

I run a bath of cold water and sink into it, almost feeling relief. The rest of my body goes numb and I can’t feel the burning anymore. I try to scrub the dirt off my body, but I have to get out.

I do my best to try and bandage the burn and keep it clean and covered, then drain the water and run another cold bath for Finnie. I lift up her shirt and put a cold wash rag over her burns. She starts to weep.

“Fin, if you want, sitting in cold water seemed to help a lot.”

She nods, moping with tears in her eyes and pulls off her clothes to the best of her strength, but only manages to do it halfway.

Finnie walks into the bathroom and almost throws herself in the tub, letting the freezing water engulf her. She seems to return back to herself. I help her out and dress her burns.

Feeling as normal as I could, I head back out to town to pick up the ointment. I can’t help but wonder if this happened to the other girls. I sort of forget that thought for about a week, trying to get the burns to heal and eventually scar over.

I had finally called all of the other girls from the coven which they seem to be fine and had no idea what we were talking about. We had met each other for dinner again and no one had scars.

I had also been losing weight. At first a few pounds now turned into something concerning. My face became hollow and gaunt, the same happening to Finnie. It’s like something was sucking the life right out of us. We searched through the book and the internet to see what was happening to us but nothing added up. I grew weaker and weaker. I knew this was killing me, but tried to push forward. For Finn. For the pain to just stop. Oh, God. Just stop. My fingers are even getting weak. Just flipping through the pages of the book feels like work and I have to keep it set down on a table to read. A heavy and dark energy soaks up the air around it. We look online to see if there's anyone who could help translate the spell we did more accurately.

Finnie comes across a little shop in a city just a hop skip and a jump from where we are. I’m in too much pain to even drive, so I decided to call the shop and see what we can do from there. Finnie hands me the phone and I call the number on the website.

“Hello and thank you for calling Our Little Shop of Horror! How may I help you?”

“Hi, I’m calling to ask about curse removal?” The person on the other line hangs up immediately. “Well so much for that.” 

I look over to Finnie and she’s curled up on the floor, vomiting.

“Oh my God! Finnie, are you okay?” she’s throwing up so much she cant speak. It looks like it has coffee grounds in it, a sign of internal bleeding.

I call an ambulance which arrived five minutes later to take Finnie. The EMT’s ask me if she's on anything and I tell them we’ve been experiencing weight loss and severe burns on our abdomens. Then I begin to vomit. It feels like fire coming up and I’m carried into the back of the ambulance to be rushed to the hospital.

Doctors and nurses ask us question after question. They are unable to diagnose what’s wrong with us. We lay in the hospital beds with tubes and wires hooked up to us as Finnie is still unable to keep anything down. She now has to have a feeding tube put in. I’m barely able to stay awake longer than a few minutes, coming in and out of consciousness.

---

The sky's dark, the air is still and hot. The only sound for miles are the cicadas. I don’t know where I am, and there's no one else here. I to walk forward and my eyes adjust to the darkness a little more. Making sure I don’t fall, I take little steps leading me into a thicket of bushes and trees. There seems to be a faint light growing in the distance. The closer I get the more I can make out what it is.

I’m dreaming, at least I hope I am. Everything seems so real. I can see the bonfire and even smell the rich scent of the smoke filling the sky. I see all my friends dancing around it. Finnie is there and she looks like nothing even happened. They begin a ritual just like last time. I can hear the blood dripping in the bowl and I watch as one girl coats the others in it. They chant around the fire and then begin dancing again slow at first but growing ever faster. Their movements are almost animalistic as their spines contort unnaturally.

One girl cuts down the goat from the tree and draws a sigil on him using some leftover blood and dirt. The goat's eyes open and he rises to his hooves. Two girls fall to the ground. I wake up covered in sweat. I- I’m back at the hospital.

I don’t know if I’m hallucinating or not. I pinch myself but I can’t feel it. Then the smell hits me. Sickeningly sweet, it makes me want to vomit. I get up to find the source.

I go into Finnie’s room and there she is laying in a puddle of now dried bodily fluids, her gaped mouth infested with flies and their maggots. How long had she been like this? How long was I out? Her body is bloated from the gases building up inside her. I’m too shocked to scream or cry, I just drop to my knees and cradle her.

Then I notice something strange. Lifting up my shirt shows the burn scar had turned completely black. I touch it just a bit with my finger and a stabbing pain causes me to cry bloody murder! I wake up screaming this time once again hooked up to wires and tubes! Nurses try to hold me down while attempting to inject something into my I.V. fluid.

Drip

Drip

Drip

It flows into my bloodstream and everything is calm now. There's a fluidity to everyone's movements. I can’t see Finnie, I can’t see anything.

Someone is standing at the foot of my bed. I can’t make out their features but I can hear them clearly. A shadowy silhouette, much less visible than anyone else in the room. It starts to pace back and forth, passing by nurses like he’s disappearing and reappearing in some kind of ominous peek-a-boo game.

When the nurses are satisfied with our calmer demeanor, they leave the room. Only the shadow remains.

Then a voice burrows itself into my head. Something deep. Something unnatural, emotionless, almost robotic.

“It’s time to go.”

The voice is loud and starts to make my head throb! I feel like my brain is going to burst out of my skull!

“It’s here! We no longer need such fragile shells!” I feel the worst stomach ache in my entire life! It’s like a knife is cutting through it! Soon I just give up from the sheer amount of pain. My body goes limp. My head rolls to see Finnie staring back at me.

Her mouth is wide open. And I mean wide. Multiple, sharp objects like blades are coming out of it, splitting her lips, tearing her entire jaw apart.

The last thing I see in the abyss between her sweet lips are two lights, like cigarette butts, burrowing their malice into my fading eyes.

I’m swallowing knives.

#luna #creepypasta #horror #short story

[jeremystrele]

Bertie Blackman · Crepuscule

Bertie Blackman · Crepuscule

Creative People

by Elle Murrell

Artist Bertie Blackman  applies the final touches to her latest exhibition. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

The Sydney-based artist pictured in front of her artwork ‘Searching For Crepuscule‘ oil on board, 90 x 90cm. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

‘Crepuscule’ is currently showing at Lindberg Gallery in Melbourne. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

Along with oil-on-board artworks, Bertie has created a series of dolls for the show. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

The exhibition is dominated by the colour indigo and inspired by the story of the last-known living Tasmanian tiger, Benjamin. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

Bertie and her sketchbook. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

Today we learnt a fascinating new word, thanks to artist Bertie Blackman, whose latest solo art exhibition, ‘Crepuscule’ is currently on exhibit at Lindberg Galleries in Melbourne.

Referring to the meeting of the day and night – i.e. twilight, in Bertie’s context ‘Crepuscule’ is also the alternative-dimension hangout of Benjamin, the last ever Tasmania tiger, and his merry band of wide-eyed friends. ‘Clever, cunning and mischievous, he evades captivity by leaping through the veils of dreams and reality… through the Crepuscule… bending time and space,’ the artist narrates.

Extending this concept, all of Bertie’s oil paintings for the exhibition are dominated by the colour indigo, built up in darkening layers. The hue really reverberates the feeling of twilight for the artist, and she also loves the way the word sounds: ‘a bit like you’re already bending and squinting the light with the letters; it’s an unusual word, so people are very curious about it!’

It’s no surprise that Bertie would make an audible link, given that many people know the ARIA award-wining singer, songwriter and guitarist for her music. Though busy building her multifarious BB empire, the candid creative took some time out to delve deeper into her current paintings, AND dolls!

Many readers would know you first and foremost as Bertie Blackman the musician, but can you tell us a little bit about your background as a visual artist?

I come from a family of artists, writers and creatives alike… so for me, visual art has always been a strong way of communicating. I have always drawn and painted but, because my parents are both painters, I ended up steering away from it as I really wanted to create my own path. A musician is as rebellious as I could get in my family!!

Throughout my musical career I’ve art directed my shoots and videos, created stage designs, and painted costumes. In 2009, I had an auction of drawings at Moss Green Gallery, but it wasn’t until 2012 with my fourth record ‘Pope Innocent X’, that I really started concentrating on my drawing. For that album, I released a book of illustrations with each song; I realised that art, music and writing really just all came from the same place for me. And I didn’t need to be one or the other.

Growing up with both parents as visual painters, I witnessed extraordinary discipline and sacrifice from them when it came to their art. I learnt about the reality of what being a practising artist is really like – the blood sweat and tears that go into your work, and the extraordinary work ethic needed.

My art practice has really developed through just doing it, looking at books and persevering with the mediums. I have had no formal education, but I’ve got big dreams and big ideas! I’m forever shaking with adrenaline because I just find it all so exciting!

Your most recent album, ‘The Dash’, was released in late 2014, and since then you’ve also done some amazing collaborations. How do you balance your music with your art?

I do really struggle with balancing my music and art. I have learnt pretty quickly that I can only really do one thing at a time.

I tend to allocate big blocks of time for each. With my current art show, I put aside a solid block of three months. I’m finishing that body of work up, I’m already connecting the next thing. However, I’m also writing and illustrating my first children’s picture book, which will be published in 2018. I would say I spend about eight hours or so a day in my art studio five days a week and then I work nights on my writing.

In between all of this, I have been ducking into various studio sessions, though I’m looking forward to getting into the recording studio more later this year. I’m also an early morning riser. I wake up at about 5am and usually meditate or go for a run to prepare for the day.

Your solo show ‘Crepuscule’ is currently on exhibit in Melbourne. Can you tell us more about this exhibition?

I’m really excited about this body of work. I started working on it quite a few months ago – really working on my painting and developing my technique. For me, I have no lack of ideas or imagery, it’s just been ‘the technical doing’ that has been the challenge and also needing the time to make all the mistakes and learn what the paint can do.

I’ve only been working with oil paints for about nine months, so when I started, I thought it would be an interesting idea to just work with one colour, so I could concentrate on getting the texture and feeling in it without worrying about mixing paint. I love the indigo hue so much; it feels very otherworldly!

For this show, I’ve also made dolls, and bringing my imagery into a playful three-dimensional form has been exhilarating. They’ve become my little friends – I do take them out to dinner sometimes for a treat as well as long walks on the beach. I’m a big fan of Mirka Mora, she’s a great old friend of my father’s and I love her dolls, so this is a little nod to her wonderfulness!

Was there a particular story that inspired the concept for this body of work?

Benjamin the Tasmanian tiger has been a feature in my work for the last six months. He is inspired by the actual last living Tasmanian tiger who died in captivity in 1936. I love the constant conversation and debate as to whether this creature is actually extinct. Personally, I think he is still alive, and I’m hoping that through conjuring him in his ‘Crepuscule’ it might bring him back.

A lot of my work has been hinged in floating spaces or abstract dream worlds, this is the first series that I have brought the imagery into a landscape. I used to play in the rainforest a lot as a child, so I really think that Benjamin and his friends are totems of my childhood – me reliving those curious moments of abstract memory.

What’s it like being the daughter of a OBE bestowed, acclaimed painter, and creating your own art?

I think because my father is Charles Blackman, I definitely shied away from having a career in the visual arts as I really wanted to make my own way. I don’t want to live in his shadow, I mean, it’s a blessing and a curse. Because a lot of people know who my father is, doors have opened probably a little easier for me than others, but the criticism has been far greater because the expectations are much, much higher.

I have, however, worked really hard in the arts for over a decade and I think I’ve carved out a little space for myself to grow quite naturally. I’m incredibly passionate and dedicated to my art forms and people know this of me.

I most definitely get my singular thinking and focus from my Dad, as well as the wild untamed imagination and thirst for the abstract and curious. But I have also inherited other lovely things from my mother in terms of my art practise as well.

I think if the work’s good then it doesn’t matter how famous your parents are, it should be able to stand alone.

  Who are some other Australian creative people that are you loving at the moment?

Luke Storrier and I have had a great time recently bonding over having a famous artist father and also being artists ourselves, in our own right. His work is brilliant and exciting and I’m looking forward to collaborating with him.

Ian Strange is just one of the most interesting artists I have met. I love his vision, he pushes all boundaries.

McLean Edwards is a wonderful painter, and such a wonderful eccentric man. One of the family!

What are some of the resources you turn to when you’re in a need of creative inspiration?

The library. Books are just necessary and essential in my life.

Outside.  Going outside and sitting in the gutter and looking at peoples shuffling feet and framing birds and dogs and shadows.

My Mother. I call her daily for a chat about the work I’m making and she really helps make sense of my abstract thoughts sometimes.

Pinterest. I use it a lot to gather visual references.

What’s been your proudest creative achievement to date?

That is a very hard question! I think singing with Danny Elfman and a 100-piece orchestra at the Adelaide Festival, and also co-curating ‘Sonic Canvases’ at the Art Gallery of NSW have been a couple of major highlights and pleasures.

Also, just being able to exist as a practising artist my entire career without having to get a ‘proper’ job!

What would be your dream creative project?

I would love to create an underground lair in Antarctica… make dolls, paint, sing, write, and turn all my dreams into imagery… a language that can be understood by the moon and stars!

Amazing! What’s a little closer on the horizon for Bertie Blackman?

I’m excited to be painting my next bodies of work, to be writing and illustrating my first children picture book for release in 2018, recording a new record, and making a series of dolls. I’ve got big dreams. Gotta start laying the blocks for empire BB!

  SYDNEY QUESTIONS

Your favourite Sydney neighbourhood?

Redfern… it’s my neighbourhood! I love it!

The best meal you recently had in Sydney?

Fratelli Paradiso in Potts Point. It’s always amazing and it’s my favourite Italian food in Sydney.

Where would we find you on a typical Saturday morning?

At my local Redfern coffee shop getting a take away coffee and reading in the park – that’s if I’m not painting in my studio!

Sydney’s best kept secret?

The beaches are all amazing. But that’s no secret…

  ‘Crepuscule’ by Bertie Blackman September 7th to 23rd Lindberg Galleries 77 Cambridge Street, Collingwood