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savagebisand · 9 months

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The girls are fighting but who brawled first and Who Makes Mew 180 Next Ep? From disgust and disbelief at Rays accusations to Confronting Top...

Seen a couple theories posited that the SandRay fight is actually before the RayMew fight and at first I was like there is no way buuttt now I'm thinking about it more I can see a scenario playing out

Imagine Ray is riled up by that point and hellbent on telling Mew what he discussed with Boston earlier, they argue about Rays choice to tell Mew what he knows about Top and Ton because Sand just seems the person to go that's only gonna make it worse, Ray is refusing to listen and Sand snaps with "can't you focus on me instead" and Ray who is now Decidedly Pissed Treble because Sand is not listening and agreeing, everyone is lying to his best friend and wants him to play along aNd Sand wants to ask him to pick right now to focus on their issues instead. This is quite frankly far too much for Rays smooth pretty rich brain to problem solve at once. He tells Sand he has no business in it and what even are they to each other anyway and when Sand can't really answer the question bc isn't that Rays choice, enough is enough. Sand is in his way and he's on a mission, so an already desperate and exhausted Ray shoves Sand aside. Literally. Goes in all guns blazing to tell Mew a truth he thinks Mew deserves because how can this possibly go wrong? Ray is being good. He is looking after the person he said he would save back.

Mew, on the other hand, does not want and is not ready for this truth especially not from a rowdy Ray who has always had an issue with Top and kissed him just last week anyway. This is jealousy talking right? What else should Mew think when Ray just told Mew he hasn't moved on from him in years and still loves him. Oh the tragedy. But oh the glee. Because if this is the case and Sand follows Ray back in to battle because FFS he's infuriating but he cant leave Ray in that state and seemingly picks Ray up from his mortal kombat style finish him blow from Mew (again literally and metaphorically). There is ample room for Sand taking a hurt and shell shocked Ray home and providing that oh so sweet hurt/comfort. Perhaps we will get SandRay patching bruises up together, finally. Perhaps they can finally have that communication they blocked off last ep. That is, ya know, before Ray realises without Mew as a bluff he might actually be allowed to love Sand and that's impossible, time to push Sand away with five times the force.

Sidenote: It is very interesting to observe that Nick is there as well. Now Sand did not shock me after all he's the bar singer and that is the bar, he may not be there for Mew but this is where we find Sand anyway when Ray isn't with him. But Nick? Nick has never entered that bar space before, in a way it hasn't tainted him the way it has all the others. It's another thing he hasn't been exposed to that sets him apart. But suddenly Nick is there in this world with the core four once again seeing different sides of them. Arguably, he has no business being there, he's not friends with them really and Boston has never made a point of showing him off before unless it benefits Ton to do so (e.g. the pool party where Nick was in charge of a specific job). He could be there for Sand which, again, is interesting.

Even more intriguingly, we can see Title's character in the background of the RayMew fight scene. Evidently, this character is significant somehow, enough to be in the opening credits. I'm very much side eyeing what his role is here and now of all moments. I do think there's a strong chance after Nick witnesses RayMews showdown, he takes it upon himself to confirm what Ray claims to Mew. I don't see Mew believing anyone else but someone seemingly inconsequential, with no reason to lie other than Nick. And we do have the TopMew fight in this ep as well so evidently Mew starts believing Rays talk at some point.

The only other possibility I could see right now is feral protective Sand trying to back Ray up, pissed as hell that Rays pretty face looks so beat up and devastated, by throwing an off hand comment out that makes Mew double take and realise Ray is telling the truth because again he approves of Sand, thinks Sand is lovely and doesn't see why he'd lie. Sand knows as much as Nick does so either of them have the potential to be candidates Mew would rather hear the hard truth from.

Then again, sometimes this show blindsides us into thinking there will be more drama than there really is. It's quite possible Mew only starts to believe what Ray claims because one of Tops ex flings crops up and gives mew some sort of vague warning that seems to corroborate things mew had already noticed and ignored and what Ray was accusing Top of. I'd rather it be Nick personally cause I love that crazy gone girl. But I do agree with others who have pointed out Mew and Ton have another confrontation later which is more likely to be about the cheating, in which case it makes sense for Nick to bite his tongue for now esp since Boston is currently where Nick wants and being more "coupley" toward him and if Mew and Top have relationship drama, it may only push Ton toward Top more again.

That does lead me to wonder if Sand being the one to back Ray up in this RayMew showdown and make Mew doubt Top where Ray couldn't is what prompts Nick and Sands fight where Nick claims Sand has embarrassed him and hurt his feelings and Sand argues why should you care, he's an asshole. I could see why Nick would be hurt and annoyed if Sand telling Mew causes issues for Nick and Ton because ya know Boston's in a pissy since Mew is off with him, Tops giving him shit since clearly Boston gave shit away and perhaps Sand even lets something slip like "just ask Nick" which is why HE personally is embarrassed cause now Ton is also onto him. Also Sand stands with the most to gain. It pushes Ray into his arms more to be there for him when everyone else is dismissing him, esp Mew and Sand doesn't like Top in the first place and knows Top has a habit of carelessly fucking other people and putting his feelings first.

But this is only friends, maybe in reality the argument RayMew have isn't even about Top anymore by the end of it, maybe what Ray tells Boston he knows which clearly makes Boston nervous has nothing to do with BostonTop at all. From the small snippets we have we truly have barely any context but these are some scenarios I'd like for the timeline of things.

#only friends #only friends the series #sandray #bostonnick #bostontop #mew only friends #raymew #this is literally me just waffling about ways the fights next ep could play out but it was fun djjd #i just think its intriguing mew suddenly has a change of stance and starts confronting top #in the same ep as he literally unleashes hells wrath in his fist on ray for slagging top off #like something or someone with more validity than ray to mew has to trigger the 180

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vacantgodling · 5 months

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LOQUACIOUS IS SUCH A GOOD WORD I WANNA SEE THAT ONE PLSSSS

AHHHH YEAH!!

so loquacious is an exploratory piece that i wrote in the hell year (2020) when i was just beginning to think i should shift vdtrt into what it is now. it wasn’t even CLOSE to where it is today BUT i was definitely thinking about softening gabe up—gabe actually used to be much angrier and gruffer in earlier versions of his character but after awhile it just didn’t feel right. so this piece is from his perspective and it’s talking about how darren is, well, loquacious (or very talkative lol) but with a caveat: he only seems talkative around him.

in some ways this is still somewhat canon. darren is a person who prefers to kickback and let others lead social interactions but around people he’s close with (like olice and like, now, gabe) he tends to talk a Lot because he feels comfortable to. actually in a lot of ways darren mirrors Me personally because i’m p chill but if i know you well i will absolutely talk your ear off, my partner can attest to this.

i never finished it tho, but i can show you what i wrote! so without further ado (also don’t mind some of the more specific details; some info is Wrong or has been retconned)

It always struck Gabe— how absolutely, incessantly, unmitigatedly talkative Darren was. Or at least, how talkative he was with him. Gabe was never much someone for breaking the silence unless he absolutely had to, but there was something about his boyfriend that loosened his tongue and eased off his usually closed shell.

When they lay together, limbs curled around one another like two overgrown cats and Gabe looked into his dark eyes and wound his fingers through his coarse hair; it occurred to him often that he’d just tune out whatever nonsense Darren was saying. About the weather, about the time, the timing of the weather and the reason for it; about the class that they shared that they both hated, or the classes they didn’t and he was curious about. He could seemingly ramble on and on about nothing, and Gabe would let him, interjecting in his chatter to murmur his opinion or hum in understanding every now and again. He wasn’t a bad boyfriend— sometimes he tuned the bloodsucker out but he was always listening.

The only reason it occurred to him at all that Darren was so talkative, was that, unless they were alone, he was oddly quiet. Rather than not having anything to say, he just took the back seat and listened.

Granted, the two of them did have very outspoken friends. Their respective best friends in particular (Michaelis for him and Marco for Darren) were two of the most opinionated, talkative people that Gabe knew— and he knew his father. Still, instead of joining in on their chatter, Darren was content to ‘kick his feet back’ and ‘enjoy the view.’

He listened when others talked and listened well, and it wasn’t as though their friends didn’t encourage him to talk— the opposite— they always hounded him to speak up more but he’d laugh it off and say “Well you all already know what I’m going to say!”

They didn’t. Not by a long shot.

Because Darren talked about everything and nothing. About small details people wouldn’t expect he’d notice, about deep philosophies that Gabe wasn’t even aware that he’d known. About inconsequential things about why does pasta taste like that (with his nose wrinkling) […]

the end tapers off into an unfinished sentence unfortunately lol. but the main bit of retconned info is michaelis existing bc he doesn’t anymore he kinda got absorbed into estel lol. also the classes bit bc it’s more focused on the roadtrip than the school like the old wip used to be. but i do still like this piece! it’s more recent so the style is much better than my older works LOL

vdtrt taglist (ask to be + / -):

@mjjune / @coven-archives / @henrike-does-writing-sometimes

#s: vdtrt #s: darren and co #ren writing

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drwcn · 3 years

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I loved your fem lwj take on things. How would thibgs go if WWX was the lady? Other than ppl assuming she stood up for the Wens bcs she jad feelings for WN ( and that Yuan was hers)

Heyyy friend, I think I’ve seen a couple of girl!wwx fics floating around in ao3 so i certainly won’t be the first :P.

Also I completely misread your ask initially, I thought you were asking me what I think would happen if A-Yuan was WWX’s kid, and I was like oh?? But then I realize wait... I can make it worse.

Today, I decided that my mortal soul doesn’t matter, so here we go. Let’s see how accursed I can make this idea:

[1]

It started with Jiang Cheng. Jiang Wanyin had set out for the Burial Mount with the explicit goal of throttling speaking with Wei Wuxian, but what greeted him at the entrance of the “Demon Subduing Palace” — more of a cave than anything really — was not his martial sister, but Wen Ning. Well, what had once been Wen Ning.

Black veins ran across his pale, ashen face, down his equally ashen neck , and into the major veins beneath his clavicles covered by the collars of his black threadbare robes. Lifeless eyes, white as his skin, stared into a void the living could not see. There were talismans littering his body, and Jiang Cheng knew that when he spoke to this fierce corpse, he was not speaking to the young Wen boy, but to his mistress who controlled him with her demonic cultivation.

Wei Wuxian refused to face him. Refused him explanation. Refused him closure.

“Er-jie!” Jiang Cheng screamed into the stony expressionless face of Wen Qionglin. “If you continue to protect them, then I can’t protect you!!”

There was no response.

Suddenly, just as Jiang Cheng was about to kick and fight his way into the cave, Wen Ning thrusted out his right fist, and in his grasp was a piece of purple silk. Jiang Cheng unfolded the silk, vaguely recognizing that it had been cut from someone’s robe, and saw what was wrapped within was a slip of parchment.

割袍断义*, the paper read. Tell the world that I, Wei Wuxian, first disciple of Yunmeng Jiang has forever defected (Note: 割袍断义- to rip one's robe as a sign of repudiating a sworn brotherhood (idiom)).

With this, there was nothing left to say. Hurt and furious, Jiang Wanyin threw the piece of parchment onto the dirt ground, grinded his heel down on it, and left the Burial Mount without ever having drawn Sandu.

Inside the cave, Wen Qing held Wei Wuxian’s hand. “Why won’t you just tell him? He’s your brother; he can help you, you can —”

Wei Wuxian’s mile long stare seemed to be gazing at something — someone — very far away. Slowly, she placed her other palm over her belly, which horrifically was already starting to round out. “Nobody can help me now, Qing-jie.”

“I can,” said Wen Qing, blunt as ever. “I can make it go away, if you want.”

“No.” A droplet of tear escaped pass long lashes. “No.”

[2]

It continued with Jiang Cheng.

On a snowy night, the first winter after Wei Wuxian escaped with the Wen remnants to the Burial Mount, Jiang Cheng was rudely awakened from his slumber by a less-than-stealthy intruder breaking and entering into his bed chamber.

Zidian whipped through the air, lighting the room with her eerie violet glow, before the intruder could think to take one more step. It was a man, judging from his silhouette colliding against the wall and the pained groan he made in response. The very next second, the tail of Zidian coiled tightly around his neck and dragged him across the floor towards beneath Jiang Cheng’s waiting foot.

The Sect Master of Yunmeng Jiang summoned Sandu, ready to deliver the final strike, but just as his blade sailed towards the intruder’s chest, a pale arm jutted upwards, blocking Sandu’s descent and revealing a pale hand holding a … a...

Even in the dark, Jiang Cheng immediately recognized the mahogany comb.

“Jiang — ! Zongzhu —!” The man croaked out urgently, throat still stomped on by Jiang Cheng’s foot. It was - it was Wen Ning?!

Jiang Cheng looked him over. He was pale, yes, but his eyes appeared human. His hair was brushed and haphazardly done up in a farmer’s top knot. He was wearing farmer’s clothing too, probably more inconspicuous for travel than his Ghost General getup.

“Jiang-zongzhu! P—please!!”

No, impossible.

“Wei — Wei-guniang—”

Jiang Cheng lifted his foot and dragged Wen Ning up in a split second. “What’s wrong with Wei Wuxian?!” Wen Ning coughed and shook his head desperately. “No time to explain. My sister asked me to fetch you. Please, you have to come! Wei-guniang’s life is in danger! If you won’t come, I’ll...I’ll have to go to Gusu, and I don’t know if - if -”

Jiang Cheng followed Wen Ning.

For speed, they travelled by sword, but even so, dawn was breaking by the time they arrived. The crowd of Burial Mount’s villagers huddling anxiously outside of the Demon Subduing Palace parted for them upon their arrival. Jiang Cheng took a moment to gather himself and square his shoulders. Whatever it was; he was ready.

He was wrong. None of the dozens of scenario he had agonized over on the flight here could have prepared him for what awaited him inside.

Wen Qing, pale and drenched in sweat, was near complete spiritual collapse, and without Wen Qing’s spiritual energy sustaining her, the single tenuous thread by which Wei Wuxian’s life hung on would have undoubtedly snapped under the toil and devastation her body had been put through.

There was so much blood, so, so much blood everywhere, and amidst the blood, there was a baby.

Fuck.

Jiang Cheng transfused his sister half of his total spiritual reserve over the course of a day, while an exhausted but unrelenting Wen Qing worked diligently under blood-soaked sheets.

Then at dusk, when the storm finally passed, Jiang Cheng sat at the mouth of the cave with a tiny, perfect little human — a girl, a niece! — in his arms and cursed Lan Wangji’s name.

Wen Qing was extremely clear with them: 孩子要是留在这里，养不活。

If the newborn was left to be raised at the Burial Mount, she would not live. And so, because parting was inevitable from the start, Wei Wuxian adamantly refused to hold or nurse the child. Her child.

I can’t. If I do, I won’t be able to let her go. Those dark eyes burned with more than just the delirium of her childbed fever. For once, Jiang Cheng could not find it in himself to argue.

Thus, he took his niece home and named her Jiang Yan 江曕. The name was not his doing. His foolish, misguided, stubborn sister had stroked her daughter’s soft, baby cheek and whispered it to her as a farewell gift.

Yan - to be bathed in daylight. In the end, when given a choice, Wei Wuxian still opted for her child to walk on broad sunny road.

It made Jiang Cheng wonder why, then, she would choose the dark twisted path for herself instead.

[3]

It ended with Jiang Cheng.

The truth was simple: Jiang Wanyin killed his shijie Wei Wuxian. He did. He meant to.

He killed her. But that did not mean he wanted her dead.

In one day, he had lost both of his sisters, leaving two orphans in their wake. Jiang Cheng could not ignore the cruel irony of their fate: one’s father murdered by his aunt, and other’s mother murdered by her uncle.

This was the kind of tragedy fairytales were made of, and if there were anything left in him to shed tears over it, he would. Standing amongst Nevernight’s carnage, he could not dredge up even a single drop of tear.

Jiang Cheng didn’t know how he could return home to Lotus Pier to face that cherub face, always so happy, so sweet, so utterly untainted by the world. She had her mother’s smile. Yan'er was starting to learn how to speak. Her first words were da-da.

Da-da. Die-die. Father.

He was standing beside her father now.

Lan Wangji. Devastated. Destroyed. …Deceived.

Jiang Cheng hated him so much, so fucking much that for one insane second, he thought about telling Lan Wangji the truth just to see what would happen. Maybe he would run Jiang Cheng through with his Bichen - that would be a relief now, wouldn’t it? - or maybe he would jump after Wei Wuxian.

Truly, if he knew, he would. Jump, that is. Jiang Cheng was almost entirely sure. Oh the utter melodrama that would inspire indeed!

But then...

Wei Ying birthed you a daughter, a lovely, perfect, blessed little girl, and she carried that secret to her grave. I may be damned by my actions, but you, who have done nothing for her and taken everything, why should you deserve something as sacred as the truth?

Jiang Cheng turned away.

He was acutely aware that one day Jiang Yan may very well be the literal death of him. After all — 杀母之仇不共戴天 — one cannot tolerate living under the same sky as the murderer of one’s mother.

Be that as it may, he would raise Jiang Yan well, just as he promised. Unlike his sister, he would not break his word. Jiang Yan was of Lotus Pier, of Yunmeng, like her mother and grandfather before her. That for him, was enough.

Jiang Cheng clutched Sandu and gripped Zidian. Whatever his fate, he already made peace with it, and the rest was inconsequential.

One day, he may die, but today he lives, and so as long as he lives, Jiang Yan and all of Yunmeng Jiang will be protected . So as long as he lives, they will flourish.

[...and in between]

On the streets of Yiling, Lan Wangji tilted his head inquisitively at Wei Wuxian and the little boy at her side and asked, “This child, he...”

In response, Wei Wuxian patted her chest in a self-declarative kind of way and announced, “Oh this child, I birthed him!”

He stared at her in shell-shocked silence, his mind racing with panicked thoughts of but that’s impossible — that was just once — even if — the boy is too old to be —

“怎么，蓝湛，不要我们娘儿俩了？” What, Lan Zhan, you don’t want the child and I?

“Wei— Wei Ying—”

Then of course, she had laughed, and Lan Wangji thought no more of it.

Just a joke. A silly joke.

In time, he would come to realize his mistake.

~~~

[A/N]: I’m not even a little bit sorry.

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leohtttbriar · 3 years

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my theory on why there’s still conflict in CK is that there’s not enough ““hands.”‘ you know, like “”““hands””””” (see above).

and i know why. even a little and nominally inconsequential touch would ruin the game. the moment daniel gently brushes johnny’s hair off his forehead to check if he has a fever (bc johnny thinks hard-shell jackets in the rain are for “pussies”), the show ends. no more conflict. no more plot. Cobra Kai becomes a contemporary anti-narrative ballet with mimimalist music and monochromatic costumes.

#a ballet like that would simply be too powerful a project for the writers of hot tub time machine #cobra kai #karate kid #daniel larusso #johnny lawrence

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olivinesea · 3 years

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In the Golden Dark, pt. 4

pt 1, pt 2, pt 3

a/n: Everyone better have their toothbrush ready bc this is about to rot your teeth right out your head. This concludes my brief flirtation with happiness, I hope it’s everything you wanted. Back to regular programming after this. ~2.4k

Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night. - Sarah Williams

Dysania, Hotch thought to himself, dysania is what Spencer said it’s called. Before he’d started spending so much time talking with Spencer he’d never known there were official terms for so many of the things he took for granted, things he thought were just a part of life. This one for example, “dysania”: the state of finding it difficult to get out of bed in the morning. Surely everyone found this hard to do he had countered. Not really, I guess, Spencer had shrugged. Not everyone. They had both grown quiet, considering the spaces between the words, the information unintentionally shared. These types of moments happened often and Hotch wasn’t all too sure how he felt about them. It was uncomfortable to share about himself, but it seemed to happen so easily with Spencer. Like some piece of him was reaching out, pushing past his normal guard to grasp at the other man, to try to pull him close with details he’d never intended to share with anyone.

Spencer responded kindly, often matching with his own stories, his own fears. It felt so natural, the exchange of ideas and the flow back and forth between mind and heart. Spencer, who so often found it tricky to connect the cues some people were born understanding, had no trouble understanding Aaron’s small hesitations, his silences following the realization that he’d just said something out loud that would normally remain internal. Spencer was guarded too, in different ways and for different reasons, but the walls were there nevertheless. He’d had trouble all his life understanding what people expected from him so he’d learned to minimize, to live inside his own head. He’d grown in his time at the BAU, found friendship and family where he hadn’t realized he was lacking. But there were always some things he held back.

People loved to be dazzled by his intellect, by the way he could remember the most inconsequential detail in a text or connect an obscure reference to its source. He didn’t mind, he enjoyed that part of himself as well. But sometimes it felt hollow, just a party trick he was brought out to perform and then put away until wanted again. The other things, the personal things, he had never learned how to share those and had always figured no one was that interested anyway. Somewhere along the way it became a compulsion to hide certain details, convinced that if everyone knew they would reject him. His mother and her illness, his own doubts about his stability, his need for help at times; he pulled those secrets in close, wrapping his fingers around them and squeezing until they stopped squirming so much. It wasn’t until he listened to Aaron haltingly give context to an offhanded comment that he dared to pull out some of his own worries. So they clumsily exchanged confidences, slowly building a new structure with each brick they pulled out of their walls.

Knowing the term didn’t help with the issue though. Didn’t change the fact that without the pressing responsibility of a weekday, where people expected him to be certain places at certain times, Hotch was finding himself unable to get out of bed. He stared at the clock, narrowing his eyes, disbelieving what the numbers were telling him. How could it be that someone who slept so little could spend so much time laying down?

He rolled away from the cursed illumination and glared at the wall instead. He could see Rossi’s confrontation played out on the blank white surface. As if he had been outside his own body, he watched his reactions, studying the degree of sincerity. Was he really making logical decisions or was he only wishful? He needed to talk to Spencer, needed to come up with a plan before this got out on its own. He had considered that option too—not doing anything and letting everyone else deal with their own feelings. He was tempted but he knew in the long run that would not work out well. He was still the leader of his team, despite whatever feelings he was finding himself caught up in. If he acted soon, he could still control this.

His thoughts returned to scolding him about how he should get up, take care of some errands he had been putting off. At least do some laundry after being gone all week. He closed his eyes imagining the laundry, the clean warm fabric pressed against his face. One of the few reliable pleasures in life. He rolled onto his back and stretched his long limbs away from himself. He could do that at least.

There was a brief moment of anxiety as he willed his muscles to contract, to pull him upright, unsure if they would cooperate this time. Thankfully they did and he shuffled around the room, collecting errant socks and emptying his go-bag that he had left on a chair the night before. He had managed to get the laundry started and was fumbling with the coffee maker when he heard a knock at his door. He spilled the grounds as his head snapped up to glare at the sound. He swore and did his best to sweep what he could salvage into the filter, placing it correctly and flipping the switch before going to investigate the intrusion.

He found Spencer standing outside his door looking a little guilty. They eyed each other, Hotch in sweats and t-shirt, hair standing up at odd angles, Spencer dressed for a day out in cool late winter sun, his favorite purple scarf wrapped around his neck for luck. Spencer’s eyes darted around the room behind Hotch. It was dark, the only light coming in from one small window. The rest of the curtains were drawn and he hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights, not needing them to take care of basic tasks.

“Sorry, I tried to call,” Spencer wrung his hands as he made an effort to stop staring at the gloom in front of him.

Hotch thought about his phone, how he had purposely turned it off, something he rarely did. He had been so tired last night, he’d needed to ensure a few hours without someone requiring his attention. He’d felt a thrill of rebellion as he’d tossed it aside but he must be really out of it to not have checked it yet today. After a moment of awkwardness while they both contemplated how they ended up here, Hotch invited Spencer in for coffee.

“It should be ready in minute,” he said while waving him inside.

Spencer walked toward the kitchen where he remained standing, hesitant. There had been a wild impulse that drove him here, even when Hotch didn’t answer his phone. He’d been repeating conversations with himself, things he needed to say, imagining all the different responses he might get. His mind had been so full of these scenarios as he made his way from his apartment, but now that he was here he wondered if maybe this hadn’t been better left alone. Who was he to demand things?

“You can put your stuff down,” Aaron said with a slight smile.

“What?” He looked at his bag that he was clutching tightly, his knuckles turning white. Thoughts unmistakable as they ran across his face, he glanced around, trying to decide where to put it. Trying to get his bearings in this unfamiliar environment.

“Here,” Aaron held out his hand, offering to to take it. Spencer shrugged it off and handed it over to Aaron who set it on the dining table. Meanwhile Spencer sat on the edge of one of the bar stools and unwound his scarf, hands too nervous to stay still, and set it on the stool next to him. Aaron returned to the kitchen and pulled out a pair of mugs. He didn’t bother to ask how Spencer liked his coffee, everyone already knew that deviancy. Instead he just handed him the box of sugar, a spoon and a full mug. Spencer kicked his heels against the rungs of the stool.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling into the warm curls of steam. Hotch hummed, leaning back against the counter, his own mug wrapped tightly in his fingers. He was awake but he wasn’t fully registering what was happening. He hoped the coffee would alleviate that feeling.

“Sorry to just show up, I was going for a walk and…” Spencer trailed off, hearing the excuse he had prepared out loud, he found it sounded false. He rubbed his thumb against the warm mug. He inhaled deeply, then said, “I wanted to see you.”

He looked up to check Aaron’s reaction. Frustratingly he didn’t appear to react at all, looking back steadily, absorbing the information. Then he nodded, as if he was answering a question, maybe a response to something in his own mind.

“It’s ok, I wanted to see you as well. We need to talk.”

Spencer’s eyes went wide at that but Aaron waved his hand and tried not to laugh outright at the horrified expression. “It’s nothing bad, I promise.”

Spencer relaxed a little, enough to sip his coffee again. Hotch could tell he wasn’t completely convinced. He rubbed his head, worsening the disarray there and sighed. He needed to level the playing field somehow. Spencer made a risky move coming here unannounced. The power imbalance of the situation, already uneven for so many other reasons, was not going to help them get through this conversation. They needed neutral ground, somewhere they were both comfortable, or at least distracted enough, to talk about their feelings without becoming so anxious they never really said anything.

“Let me take a shower and then we can get out of here.”

“Oh, ok, we don’t have to, I just…”

“Spencer, I’m sure you didn’t want to spend the day in my apartment,” he said firmly. He let his eyes scan around the room, seeing it from another’s perspective. It was barely lived in; even when he was physically present he wasn’t living there. There were no personal touches, no paint on the wall, no photos. It was only the shell of a home. He had done all his living in the home he’d shared with Haley and Jack. There had been no reason to try to build any of that again on his own. “We could go to the Science Museum?”

“Oh, I love that place,” Spencer sounded both excited and relieved.

Hotch gulped the rest of his coffee, ignoring the burn on the roof of his mouth. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

Spencer stayed put for several minutes after he left the room. Frozen in his seat, afraid to touch anything else, certain someone as deliberate as Aaron would notice anything out of place. But he had been welcomed in, a voice in his mind argued. It was the same voice that had pushed him along all the way to this point. The same voice that insisted what was happening was real and wasn’t going to let him worry it away.

He forced himself to stand up, carrying his coffee cup through the room, drawn like a magnet to the bookshelves. It was a little dark but up close he could read the titles. They had talked about books plenty during their late night conversations, he knew Aaron was a big reader. But there was something different about seeing the tangible evidence of that, the wrinkled bindings, the books stacked horizontally where he had run out of space on the shelf so he’d had to fit them where he could. There was an organization to the shelves, though it wasn’t immediately apparent. Perhaps the only thing in the apartment that felt alive, it was obvious that someone was regularly pulling books off and replacing others. He ran his index finger along the spine of one, thinking about the discussion they'd had about it. He was about to pull it off the shelf when there was a voice just behind him.

“Find anything good?”

He twitched, pulling his hand back, thankful that he’d finished his coffee so the movement didn’t cause any spills. He turned to look at Aaron, dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, hair still a little damp. They smiled at each other.

“Do you want any more? I probably have some to-go cups.”

Spencer shook his head and passed the empty mug to Hotch’s outstretched hand.

“Ok, I’ll be ready in a minute.”

He left to take the mug to the kitchen and grab his keys. Spencer’s scarf was still on the stool so he grabbed it and headed to the front door. There Spencer was standing holding his bag, not looking quite as nervous as before.

“You forgot this.” Without warning, he stepped in close to loop it carefully behind Spencer’s neck. He could feel Spencer staring at him but he avoided his gaze, operating on instinct. He didn’t let go of the tail ends of the scarf, playing with the fringe between his fingers. Neither man moved, their bodies dangerously close. He risked a look into Spencer’s face and found him watching intently. Aaron started to inhale, to say something to break the tension, when Spencer leaned forward and pressed his mouth against his lips. It was surprisingly soft, traces of mint and coffee mingling pleasantly. Aaron couldn’t help the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Spencer rocked back, looking for approval in the other man’s face, tentative but also absolutely certain that he’d done the right thing. He barely had a second to confirm the happiness on Aaron’s face before he was pulled forward by the ends of his scarf, this time to be met with a deeper kiss. A kiss that left no room for questions about where they stood. Spencer wrapped his arms around the other man’s neck, breaking away from the kiss and burying his face in the hollow of his shoulder. He felt overwhelmed as his blood pulsed loudly through his veins. Eyes closed tightly against the warm skin, he did his best just to breathe.

Aaron rubbed his back lightly, understanding, waiting for Spencer’s senses to calm. After a minute, Spencer pulled away a little, just enough to see Aaron’s face. A large hand cupped his face, thumb running softly along the cheekbone. He closed his eyes, focusing everything on that touch. He’d thought about this moment a lot, anticipating the multitude of different outcomes. Now that it was real he needed to remember every detail exactly as it was. He covered Aaron’s hand with his own, looking into his dark eyes again.

“Let’s go.”

#criminal minds #Aaron Hotch Hotchner #spencer reid #hotchreid #fluff #so goddamn sweet it kills me

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notapaladin · 3 years

Text

it’s love and it’s decisive pain

I wanted to write a) pining, b) acatl having a fun night with his family and c) acatl making the full and conscious choice that Yes This Is A Relationship He Wants with teomitl. (yes, also I wanted to use “sunlight” by hozier as a fic title bc it is the MOST teocatl song) 5k words later, this fell out.

Can also be read on AO3!

Family game night had been Mihmatini’s idea.

Or...well, originally, in much better times, it had been Neutemoc’s idea, but the reinstitution of the event had been all Mihmatini’s. “It’s been nearly three years,” she’d said. “Shouldn’t we try to get together as a family again?”

And Neutemoc had agreed.

Acatl was officially invited on a night when, for once, he had something resembling free time. He’d combed his hair and set out earlier than necessary, hoping to catch Teomitl and Mihmatini on their way. Acatl had thought he should probably warn the man—they could be both boisterous and vicious when all of them played patolli together, and he was sure Teomitl was accustomed to a good deal less graphic language and a great many more serious threats over the game board—but when he actually met him alone on the street near Neutemoc’s house, he found he had bigger problems.

Teomitl had dressed up. This is fine, Acatl told his heart sternly. You are not to escape my ribcage because Teomitl is a handsome young man. It had never worked. It certainly wasn’t working now. They were on a dark, quiet street where the neighbors kept themselves to themselves, and Acatl couldn’t stop staring at his brother-in-law.

There was gold at his wrists and on his fingers—he’d kept himself to a bracelet on each wrist and a minimum of rings, but they still gleamed in the sunlight. His cloak was the red afforded to him as the Master of the House of Darts, but the design had been woven in smaller seashells and arrow symbols instead of the huge ones that proclaimed his station to every passerby. He wore earflares Acatl hadn’t seen on him before, too, and from the way the light shimmered on them he was sure there was magical protection involved.

His sister was nowhere in sight. Before the silence could get too awkward—he was aware he’d been staring, aware he couldn’t stop himself—he asked, “Where’s Mihmatini?” Please be nearby. Surely I’d embarrass myself less with an audience. Unlikelier things had happened.

Teomitl glanced down the street, which didn’t help because even the curve of his neck was a distraction. “She ran on ahead; she said she had to help set up.” Judging by the expression on his face, this was a matter of some mild trepidation.

He couldn’t blame him. “Did she tell you what to expect?”

“...The phrase ‘pack of screaming howler monkeys’ was used.”

He winced, but he couldn’t honestly say it was incorrect. “...Rude, but essentially accurate. At least you’ll only have to deal with three of us; it is much more...vibrant when the rest of the family gathers.” There were four sisters between himself and Mihmatini, and though he rarely spent any time with them—they were all married with their own families and very little time for the older brother who’d so disappointed their parents by joining the priesthood—when they were all together they tended to feed off each other’s shared enthusiasm for patolli, and the end result usually included someone laughing until they cried.

Teomitl actually smiled a little at that. “Which is why I’m wearing things I don’t mind losing.”

His gaze fell to all that finery again. Teomitl’s lip plug was gold as well, a rounded disc with an eagle’s head carved on it. He tried not to focus on the shape of his mouth above it. “We...we play for tokens,” he began. “So you don’t have to worry.” It didn’t stop the sudden mental image of Teomitl throwing his gold and jewels atop his shed cloak, skin gleaming in torchlight. No. Enough of that. He swallowed. “Are those earflares new?”

Oh, no. Teomitl was still smiling, and now the curve of his lips was teasing. “Mm-hmm. Do you like them?”

And he drew closer and tilted his head, the better to show them off. They were also decorated with eagles, but with the whole body of the bird picked out in turquoise chips. Acatl exhaled at the sight. He’d been right about the magic; if he let his eyes drift out of focus, he could just about see the shape of Huitzilopochtli’s flames shimmering over the gold. The earflares’ rims were quite thick, the better to fit even more glyphs on them.

I want to see what they say, came his first conscious thought. He was far too aware of how close they were—too close—but he couldn’t make himself step back. Couldn’t make himself do anything, in fact, except reach up and slowly trace the rims with his thumb, turning them up for a better view. They’d been skillfully done, and he had to lean in close enough that a stray strand of Teomitl’s hair tickled his face. Whatever Teomitl used to keep it clean made him want to nuzzle it.

“Oh,” he breathed, “the carvings are…”

“Protective charms.” There was a faint tremor in Teomitl’s voice, which he might never have picked up normally—but their heads were nearly touching, and the only sounds on the street were their own. Everything was heightened, right down to the feeling of the warm metal against his skin.

It was dark where they stood, the walls of nearby buildings casting them both in shadow. He leaned in, heard Teomitl’s breath hitch, and stopped. We should go. My family is waiting. That would be the good decision, the logical decision.

Instead, his thumb slipped from its slow circling of Teomitl’s earrings to caress his earlobe instead, and it was his turn to feel his own breath catch in his throat. Soft—the skin was astonishingly soft here, marred only by the thin scab of that morning’s bloodletting. It was healing well, but when he drew his thumb over it Teomitl gasped. It didn’t sound pained.

His gaze dropped to his face anyway. Teomitl was staring at him wide-eyed, breathless, and gods, but he wanted to see that face again. So he repeated the motion, a little harder this time, and saw the man draw in a long, deep breath. Oh, you’re sensitive. The knowledge intoxicated him further. He curled his fingers, tracing the shell of Teomitl’s ear as lightly as he dared, and heard Teomitl make a soft noise. A wanting noise.

He could barely think past the pounding of his own blood in his veins. All considerations—they were on a public street, his family was waiting, this was his brother-in-law, the man who he’d told people was like a son to him—felt as far away and inconsequential as the rustling of ants through grass. His fingers trailed achingly slowly down the side of Teomitl’s neck, following the line of his jugular and feeling his pulse thump steadily against his fingertips. His thumb came to rest on the other side, such that he held Teomitl’s throat in the loosest of loose grips.

“Mmhm…” The sound that escaped Teomitl’s lips was barely even audible. He wasn’t pulling away. In fact, he was leaning into it, and Acatl felt himself caught as surely as a jaguar would take a deer.

He felt frozen. If he leaned in, spoke, lifted his other hand, the spell between them would be broken and whatever they were doing would end. Whatever they were—he didn’t think about that. He didn’t think about anything except the soft skin under his fingers, how they were so close that he could feel the warmth rolling off him, how much he wanted to be closer still.

He wasn’t looking at the earflares anymore. He didn’t even remember what they looked like. Teomitl’s eyes were dark and hazy, his lips slightly parted, and all he could think was Yes. Yes, please.

He wanted to taste those lips. It would be easy. It would be so easy.

A pink tongue darted out, and he made a noise of his own. “Gnh.”

“...Acatl.” His name on Teomitl’s tongue, said like that, sent a shiver through him. “...I…”

Approaching footsteps broke through the haze. Someone was coming.

Acatl jerked backwards, heart hammering so frantically in his chest that he wondered for a moment if he might faint. He felt the loss of Teomitl’s skin under his hand as keenly as he might feel the loss of the hand in question, but there was no time for that now. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. It’s fine, we’re fine, nothing happened. He closed his eyes; it was easier to regain his equilibrium if he couldn’t see whatever look of dismayed horror was surely on Teomitl’s face right now.

And of course it was Mihmatini doubling back to pick them up. Of course. Because his life was already going so well. Worse, she sounded so cheerful there was absolutely no way she even suspected what he’d been about to do. (With her husband. That fact bore repeating.) “There you are, Acatl! Come on, the first course will get cold.”

He made himself smile at her. “We’re coming.”

It was a short walk to Neutemoc’s house. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Teomitl until they arrived. No—it was more accurate to say that he didn’t look at him. Looking at him would have been easy; the man drew his eye like a single shaft of sunlight piercing the darkness, all easy, radiant warmth, and if he let himself he could stare for hours. So he very deliberately did not. He couldn’t help being attracted to him, but he could damn well help how he reacted to it.

Aside from that shameful display. He huffed out a breath as he walked, keeping his eyes on the canal flowing beside the street. He’d made his decision long ago, when he’d first realized that familial was absolutely not an appropriate way to describe his feelings towards Teomitl—the man had his own life, and Acatl had his, and he wouldn’t ruin either of them by forcing an unwanted connection. There were simply too many ways it could go wrong, too many reasons why it was a terrible idea. The risks far outweighed any brief benefits.

And then the lights of Neutemoc’s house spilled out into the street, and he had no more time for self-recrimination. Family dinner and game night had begun.

Dinner was, of course, delicious. A trifle awkward at first—it always was, because he could never really be sure of Neutemoc’s welcome truly extending to him as well—but then his brother clapped him on the shoulder and bade them all sit, and the awkwardness passed in time for him to enjoy the food. While Neutemoc still hadn’t remarried, his kitchen slaves were more than capable of putting out an excellent spread of fish, frogs, tamales, peppers, and all the tasty things that made life worth living.

It was not a silent affair; while he’d never been one for much conversation over a meal (he only had one mouth and he was busy putting food in it, thank you) his family had no such concerns. Particularly not the children; Necalli and Mazatl attached themselves to either side of Teomitl as soon as he sat down, ready to bombard him with questions. It was a wonder he even had time to eat, but eat he did—in between happily telling Necalli the less gory details of his last campaign and assuring Mazatl that yes, it was true that his sisters had different sets of jewelry for every day of the week, but she didn’t want to grow up to be like them because they were all very, very mean.

Acatl looked up from his plate at that to meet Mihmatini’s eyes, and they shuddered in unison. Chalchiuhnenetl.

It wasn’t a cloud that lingered for long; Neutemoc asked how things were going at their respective temples, and so of course they had to answer. There wasn’t much to tell; things had been blissfully boring lately, and Acatl would have been more than pleased by that if it hadn’t also left him with far too much free time to think. He’d not wanted to spend much time in his own head since…

His gaze drifted to where Teomitl sat. Well. Since I realized that.

He was suddenly very, very glad that Teomitl sat on the other side of the table between two small children. The man was chuckling fondly at whatever Necalli had just said, and the sight was so endearing it made his heart clench painfully in his chest. Damn you, he thought bitterly, unsure whether he meant the organ in his chest or the man that had caused it to beat so hard. I did not ask for this.

Then Mihmatini asked him how he’d met her predecessor, and he was sufficiently distracted not to think about Teomitl again until the meal was over and they hit a snag in their preparations for the night’s patolli games. Namely, bundling the children off to sleep.

Necalli went easily enough, but Neutemoc had to pause, sigh, and gesture for his daughter to follow when he realized she’d been left behind. “Off to bed with you, Mazatl.”

“I’m not tired,” she whined, and flopped bonelessly against Teomitl’s side.

Teomitl chuckled, patting her head. “Of course you aren’t. But it’s going to get very loud in here in a bit, and you don’t like loud noises, do you?”

She shook her head. “Nuh-uh.”

“Then go to your room.”

She heaved a sigh that came from the depths of her soul (and had definitely been inherited from her father), but obligingly sat up and let Neutemoc carry her to her mat. When they were gone, Teomitl was still looking after them a little wistfully. Finally, he announced, “She’s adorable. I want a dozen children just like her.”

Mihmatini looked up from her cup of maguey sap. “Find more wives to give them to you, then.”

Acatl had never actually seen someone choke on his own spit before. It was not an attractive look, and he wished heartily that it didn’t make him feel so terribly soft. Finally Teomitl spluttered, “Mihmatini!” and she only fixed him with a long and steady look that was slightly ruined by her repressed smile.

“You forget, I’ve spent a lot of time looking after my nieces and nephews. I think two or three little Mazatls are enough from me.”

Teomitl was blushing as he muttered, “Well. That’s...alright. I guess.”

Acatl had to look away, guilt twisting his stomach into a knot. Right. They are married. They love each other still, no matter how rocky things were for a while there. They’ll have a home and children together, a life together. When Teomitl is Revered Speaker, he’ll take even more wives and have the dozens of children he wants from them. That’s how it should be. He’d never look twice at another man, even if...even if back there, I thought…

“I found the board and the pieces. Shall we?”

He’d never been so glad to see Neutemoc, and all but shot to his feet. “Yes, of course.”

They had to play patolli in the receiving room; there simply wasn’t enough floor space in the dining room, and the beans had a tendency to bounce under tables or rugs and be lost for weeks. One time one of them had actually sprouted. But this time the board was set up properly, and everyone had their own painted pieces, and the first throws of the beans to begin the game set the starting rounds firmly in Neutemoc’s favor.

Until, that was, Acatl’s luck turned. Neutemoc was getting cocky, always a mistake in games of chance, and so he didn’t notice when one of his pieces was removed from play until he looked down at the board again. Immediately his brother’s head snapped up, fixing him with a savage glare. “You.”

He felt a broad and—alright—mildly evil grin split his face. It had been far, far too long since he’d indulged in the no-holds-barred ruthlessness of games with family he was on good terms with. “Should have paid more attention to all your pieces.”

It was Mihmatini’s turn, but since she wasn’t in position to take their pieces yet Neutemoc snarled, “You’re a bastard.”

He huffed, “Are you insulting our parents?!”

“I’m not so sure you weren’t left on our doorstep!”

“Aunt Miyahuatl attended my birth!”

“Hmph—oh, look.” Neutemoc’s turn had come around again, and he turned a mirror of Acatl’s own grin back at him as the piece he’d just set down was plucked from the board.

Acatl blinked down at it. “How the hell—“

“You were distracted.” Neutemoc’s grin only widened, and he had to fight the desire to pick up the nearest cushion and beat him around the head with it. They’d done that plenty of times as children, but then it hadn’t been cushions. There’d been no chance of affording those.

“What’s it feel like to play?” Teomitl muttered. He’d gotten a few of his own pieces onto the mat earlier, but they hadn’t stayed there for long. While Acatl thought his siblings probably weren’t ganging up against him on purpose, the effect was the same. His luck had not improved at all since then.

Mihmatini nudged him. “Throw the beans again, maybe you’ll find out.”

He threw. He threw again. And then he was back in the game and he was laughing, and Acatl felt his heart skip several beats in a row. Gods, how he shone in the torchlight. How easy it would be to reach out, take his hand, pull him close—

No. He wrenched his gaze and his focus back to the mat. Not here. And besides...besides, I made my choice. I refuse to be selfish in this.

There was patolli to play.

In the end, each of them won a single game. This naturally necessitated a tiebreaker round, which was tense and hard-fought until Mihmatini, looking immensely pleased with herself, swept the board of all her opposition and sat back to gloat until Teomitl, highly disgruntled, threw a cushion at her. While he’d initially been surprised and more than a bit taken aback at how quickly the three of them degenerated into barely-serious insults and threats of murder, by the time the night wound down he was laughing with the rest of them even if he clearly didn’t dare join in. It warmed Acatl’s heart and fully made up for all the tokens he’d given away on his bets each time Teomitl’s face had lit up like that.

Since it was far, far too late for them to make their way home to the Sacred Precinct, Neutemoc insisted on them staying the night. Acatl turned down the offer of a room and bedded down in the courtyard instead; the air was warm, he was warmer, and he wanted the breeze. (Well, he wanted an ice bath. But he would settle for a breeze.)

He sprawled out on his back under one of the trees, staring at the stars through the thin canopy of leaves. Usually, counting them helped him sleep when he really couldn’t; this time, sleep wouldn’t come.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened earlier. Not the flashes of emotion that had struck him during dinner, but what had happened before they arrived. What could have kept on happening, if Mihmatini hadn’t shown up.

I didn’t do anything wrong, Acatl told himself. He hadn’t. Teomitl had new earflares. Acatl had admired the earflares. He hadn’t broken his vows, hadn’t done anything that would cast shame upon Teomitl’s marriage. They’d only touched. That was all.

But the skin under his fingers had been so soft, and Teomitl had been melting into his touch and looking at him like...like…

Like he wanted me to kiss him. The thought felt like lightning striking the core of him, and he squeezed his eyes shut with an involuntary gasp. He’d seen a cunning version of that look before on women who were clearly hoping he’d make a move on them, priest or no; he’d never in his life seen it like that. Flushed and soft and spellbound, as though the only thing Teomitl had been dreaming of was the moment where their mouths would meet.

And he wanted it. Even now, in his brother’s courtyard, with Teomitl and Mihmatini no doubt wrapped in each other’s arms a few rooms away, he wanted it. He rolled over onto his side and dug his nails into his palms, hoping the pain would center him. It didn’t. The thoughts kept on coming, each one like a hammer blow, and all he could do was reel as they hit home.

I desire him.

I love him.

I can’t tell him.

Because that was the cold, hard truth of it all. He loved Teomitl, and letting him know that would destroy too much he held dear. The peace in his life he’d just started to find would vanish. Happy evenings with his family would turn cold and awkward. Mihmatini—gods, his sister would never forgive him. No, having him in his life like this would have to be enough. They’d meet for dinner, they’d be friends, but Teomitl would build his life as Master of the House of Darts—as Revered Speaker—with Mihmatini by his side, and Acatl would go to his mat alone and it would be fine. It had to be fine. Safety. Security. This is the choice I’m making.

Distant voices intruded, and he shuddered all over again as he heard Mihmatini’s wry, teasing comment of, “I love you, but you do snore.”

“I know.” That was Teomitl, sounding terribly fond. “I’ll go sleep in the courtyard with Acatl.”

“Please.” She said something else, then, but it was too soft for Acatl to catch. Whatever it was, it made Teomitl cough, and she giggled sweetly.

He barely dared to breathe. Even facing away from them, he was far too aware of Teomitl’s footsteps; the man was trying to be stealthy, but he’d always been terrible at that. He felt it, too, when those footsteps stopped near him and—quietly—rolled out a mat. Reeds crunched softly as Teomitl sat down—no, laid down, there was the rustle of cloth as his cloak spread out. They were so close that once again Acatl thought he could feel the warmth of his body.

Silence. Soft breathing. Another, extended rustle as Teomitl rolled over.

And then, so quietly he almost couldn’t hear it, “...Tonight was wonderful. I loved it. I love you.”

Adrenaline flooded his veins. He’d never been more awake in his life; it was only sheer force of will that kept his eyes from shooting open. His heart and his breath both caught, and for a long and irrational moment he wasn’t sure either of them was functioning. No—there was his heartbeat roaring back to life, pounding so fast and hard that his throat squeezed with the effort of it. His lungs were next, a hitched pause that felt so much more momentous than it sounded.

I love you.

He’d made his choice, but now he faced a new one. He could keep his eyes shut, force himself to relax, pretend he’d never heard that confession. In the morning, nothing would happen. Their lives would continue on as before. That would be the safe option.

Or he could turn over, look Teomitl in the eyes, and speak to him as one man to another.

Love meant pain. Loving a man like Teomitl...well. It probably meant even more pain. Teomitl wasn’t an easy man to love. He was stubborn, abrasive, proud, and tended not to listen to the people around him when he thought he knew best. But then, wasn’t Acatl the same? Less proud, he thought, but Acamapichtli called me self-righteous and gods, how I wish he’d been entirely wrong. Teomitl didn’t seem to mind, and he couldn’t possibly be unaware of Acatl’s flaws. No, he saw them. And he loved Acatl anyway. He loved him, flaws and all, risks and all. How could Acatl not do the same?

For once in his life—no. Even to think that would imply he saw an end to it, and Acatl would not back down from this. He would do this, and he would keep doing this, because the risks did not outweigh the benefits.

He took a long, slow breath, stretched out his limbs, and turned over to meet Teomitl’s gaze. For a moment Teomitl just looked stunned, but then the horror asserted itself—Acatl could see every shift of his expression as he registered that yes, he’d said that out loud and yes, Acatl had heard it.

Before he could run away, Acatl grabbed his hand hard enough to hurt.

Teomitl’s eyes went wide. “Acatl,” he began, “I…”

“I wanted to kiss you in the street today,” he blurted out, which was absolutely not what he’d planned to say. (Not that he’d had a plan at all, but I love you too seemed like a decent starting point.) “Tonight was—I lost so much on the games because I couldn’t stop staring at you, every time you laughed, you’re like sunlight—“

“Acatl.” Teomitl’s voice held more than a tinge of desperation. “Shut up.”

He shut up.

Teomitl’s gaze bored into his; as he leaned in, they drew so close that he could feel warm breath wafting across his own lips. His voice was low and serious as the grave. “If you keep talking, I am going to kiss you. Right here in the middle of your brother’s courtyard.”

It was dark. They were under a tree. They were perfectly capable of being quiet. He sucked in a hard breath, feeling his heart hammer frantically in his chest, and breathed, “What are you waiting for?”

Teomitl didn’t make him wait any longer. Their mouths finally met, and it was sweet and hot and something Acatl felt in his spine. Perfect, he thought, and then he wasn’t thinking anything, because he had a hand on Teomitl’s bare back and Teomitl had one buried in his hair and it didn’t matter that he’d never kissed anyone before, because Teomitl was more than skilled enough to make up for any deficiencies in his own technique. That pretty golden lip plug didn’t get in the way at all. More. I want more of this.

The position was awkward, both of them lying on their sides, but then he rolled away to free his trapped arm and Teomitl followed and oh, that was much better, with Teomitl half on top of him and the red of his cloak blending into the night. When they pulled away to breathe, he panted, “We should—“ Get inside, he meant to say. Find somewhere secluded. But it was difficult to get any of that out when Teomitl was kissing him midsentence, nipping at his bottom lip and sighing in pleasure when he slid his hands down his back. The skin was deliciously soft here too, and unscarred.

Teomitl’s fingers slid down his side to the curve of his hip, and even if he hadn’t been able to feel the evidence of his arousal he could pick it up just fine from the roughness in his voice. “Gods, I want you so much.”

“Not here,” he gasped. Even the thought sent a cold spike of fear through his chest. No—not entirely fear. Some part of him, even though he knew better, wanted to see how quiet they could really be.

Someone cleared their throat across the courtyard. They both froze.

It was Mihmatini, talking to a slave in a voice that carried. “No, the room’s wonderful. I’m just a bit warm, so I’m going to sleep in the courtyard. But you know I snore, so I can’t blame the men if they want to take my room instead.”

Teomitl slumped, his head tucking into the crook of Acatl’s neck as though it belonged there permanently. “She doesn’t snore,” he whispered.

He felt an absurd urge to laugh. “I know.”

“She talks in her sleep, which is worse.”

“I know.” But she was also heading their way, so he nudged Teomitl off him and rolled over so by the time she got there, it would look like they were simply dozing. I have the best sister in the world.

“I heard that.”

The best sister in the world was currently giving her husband a very unimpressed look. He was pushing himself upright, flushed with embarrassment—but not, Acatl realized, guilt. Nor the shifty eyes of one who was trying to keep a secret. “It is worse. You’ve said so yourself.”

“About you,” she said dryly. “Acatl, if you can put up with that without strangling him, I’d be very appreciative.”

Teomitl huffed, climbing to his feet and gathering his mat. “Lies and slander.”

And then she grinned at him, and winked. He felt his face go hot. It was one thing to know that she knew, and to have it be something they never spoke about. It was entirely different to do such things with her blessing. To kiss Teomitl, to hold him in his arms, and know that he wouldn’t break his sister’s heart in doing so—that he could have Teomitl, and his family, and not have to give up happiness with either.

Teomitl paused a few feet away, turning to look back over his shoulder. It was impossible to miss the hope in his voice. “Coming, Acatl?”

Another decision. Another chance to say no, he wouldn’t do this, there were lines he wouldn’t cross. He’d taken vows, hadn’t he? Vows of chastity, of celibacy. His virginity was something he’d managed to hold onto all his life, and if he and Teomitl had the privacy of a room with walls and a closed entrance-curtain, he’d fling it away in a heartbeat. There’d be no going back from that.

He rose, pulling a hand through his hair, and followed Teomitl inside.

#obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #teocatl #mihmatini #neutemoc #paladin writes stuff

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merrysithmas · 5 years

Note

ELABORATE ON THE BOREO GETTING MARRIED IN VEGAS HC PL EA S EJFLKDK

(okay so I’m stretching reality a little bit bc gay marriage wasn’t legal in NV until 2014 and Boris and Theo must have been living in Vegas from 2005-2006ish).

But Theo gets the bright idea that Boris should ask some random girl to marry him to get permanent residence status with a greencard. That way he never has to lose him and Boris doesn’t have to leave the States when his dad goes back to Australia and he’ll be legal. So he suggests it to him one day and Boris is like “hmm interesting” like peripherally piqued but thinking its a semi-plausible idea and Theo’s like cool. Not even having expected it to go that far.

Like Theo is even fully prepared for said girl to even be Kotku, like that is inconsequential, priority number one is keeping Boris in close orbit so he doesn’t lose him. But Boris kind of shirks it off each time he mentions it and pesters him to ask her, not entirely on the idea, for a few weeks, but Theo continues to mention it every so often kind of pressing it because— it’s a good idea. And she’ll say yes.

So one day when they’re absolutely world-shatteringly shitfaced, like drooling on Theo’s living room floor and all over themselves high, barely even conscious, Theo shoves him in the shoulders, you should ask her to marry you, he slurs, head falling back on the carpet.

But Boris says back defeatedly, Why don’t you just marry me — it’s a suggestion, a true inquiry, real — mouth slushy with a dozen accents and enough vodka to drown himself.

And Theo is jarred by it, sitting up on his elbow, out of focus eyes landing on him — his wasted friend with the thin bones, and matted black hair, and black pit eyes encircled by black defiant bags. Pale skin and red drunk lips that are turned sideways in an almost frightful kind of sneer - but with eyes that are vulnerable, a voice that is almost shaking. He starts to talk:

You know me, I trust you, we understand what it is, an arrangement—

Why don’t you just marry me. And Theo — Theo is all suddenly frozen inside, as if he wasn’t in the world’s hottest mindmelt of a desert, suddenly feeling all bone with nothing to insulate him, as if he was out in the open, plunged into the harsh cold of frozen water. Memories of his mother and his old life, how the road of his world twisted towards a place with cracks in the ground, where people he barely knows propose wild schemes to him that will reverberate through his what feels like his entire life. And yet — Boris’ fumbled words — yes, they sound fumbled — electrify something that bucks uncomfortably in him and he’s saying: Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll do it, before he even knows it, cutting him off, determined never to have to make Boris beg for a chance to be alive. To be free from his father. To matter. Anything else seems unthinkable.

And Boris exhales a breath Theo didn’t realize he was holding and just nods, looking at him a moment longer before laying back down beside him on the carpet, and soon Theo too is staring at the white pulsing ceiling, drifting back into silence as the sounds of music warp his ears like thread sewing up a new soul out of whatever’s left inside his head.

He forgets about it until Boris brings it up again in the morning, sober. A painfully real glint of hope in his bloodshot eyes, dehydrated from the alcohol. And when Theo sees it he doesn’t scorn or laugh — he immediately starts listing things off — Boris will need his birth certificate, it’s foreign so they can forge the year somehow, make Boris 18, and his own father is so wrecked all the time he’ll get him to sign parental permission when he’s high by lying and saying it’s for a field trip. No one will ever know. Just them. Then it’ll be set. No more troubles. They can do whatever they want. Live just like before. Boris with Kotku. It’s only on paper.

So they do it one night the next week, pool their money for a cab to the Strip when Larry and Xandra are out for “a weekend re-Honeymoon”, at a walk-in chapel, tiny and terrified and looking way out of their league, but they are shitfaced, and Boris is high and loudly overconfident with nerves, and Theo quickly discovers what a good good liar he really is - and it’s done, just like that, easy enough. Like it never happened. A kiss quicker than memory can even catch.

Theo covets the mailbox for a week, waiting for the official certificate, and presses it into Boris’ hands at the playground — just in case, in case he ever needs proof he can stay here. Boris nods at him with a severity that frightens him - that speaks of whisked away people in dark cars and forgotten names and spectre-like officials speaking languages he can’t understand. Theo shudders at that transference and stares at Boris as he turns to the swings — determined again to keep him close.

Obviously it’s an ill-conceived plan. Two drug addicted boys not understanding the law — how long greencards take, how serious the interview process is, how high they were. And things happen too, of course. Life. A car accident, his father. Nothing makes sense very fast. And Theo is out the door, running away, the world changing again — Boris’ mouth on his, but for real this time, something that tastes like Goodbye, and Theo is awash with a hundred emotions, most feeling like a saw cleaved his chest open and left him exposed on the street.

Boris is hugging his shoulders as the car drives away, and Theo is watching in the back window. Til death, something in his mind says, something that echoes and seems so obviously untrue as Boris recedes to the size of an ant that tears actually burn Theo’s eyes in anger.

And years go by — actual years, until the Barbours, and Kitsey, and the party, where Boris shows up, unannounced, bounce in his knee where the raw nerves jangle, stupid grin, made of pure infuriating, relieving, distraction. And they’re in Boris’ car, and Boris shoves something at him, a piece of paper neatly folded, some wear or tear but otherwise very nicely preserved. Theo thinks its to roll, to bump the coke, but then the arrow of memory strikes the front of his brain and he unfolds it.

I think maybe you will want to deal with this before Snowflake.

Boris says, half jokingly, half something else — the coke is burning the edges of his sensory brain like carbonation in his skull. There is a huge silence, the paper crinkles loudly. And Theo nods obediently, staring at him, unbreaking eye contact, fawnish and innocent, like a deer pierced by a shell, putting it into the slit of his camel-hair coat, feeling oddly stitled, like he is carrying around a wound in his pocket.

Boris stares at him a second longer, the car jostling them both, the pavement audible, Gyuri oddly hushed. Boris’ mouth is screwed shut, regretful. More secrets to tell — but not yet. Not yet. Not when Theo nods so sweetly, eyes owlish and big behind his glasses, he’s high, almost childlike, and Boris is watching him stumble through layers of time, looking down at his feet like his memories weigh too much. Boris remembers him, that look — from class, never smiling, always looking somewhat sad like it was raining in his head, quiet even when he spoke. Boris, pulling out an umbrella, Boris protecting him from the rain, Boris hurriedly saying да I do I do already at an ugly chapel on a loud street full of drunk people, eager for safety and stability, and Theo standing there smaller than a whisp of grass — giving it to him.

“Theo,” he says, knocking the other’s head lightly with his knuckles. “Come back,” he adds — and with playful bluster to shock his system, “I am here! Full color! Let’s go someplace, yes?”

And Theo does come back, pulled in by the uncommon use of his name, taking the next bump of coke Boris offers with a revitalized half-smile. Color a bit lost. And Boris thinks, shit.

Shit.

He’s really going to have to break up a whole fucking NYC monarchy to bring Potter home like some kind of cracked out post-Soviet knight with a 300 million dollar painting as his only shield. Fucking Theo. So dramatic.

#the goldfinch #boreo #and that’s the story of their vegas wedding #by me and terriblygrimm lol

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