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vampiresuns · 3 years

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Look After Your Dead, Part 2 | Prologue, Part 4

✴︎ LOOK AFTER YOUR DEAD, PART 2 ✴︎

4.9k words. In which Anatole’s past catches up to him. CWs: Discussions of memory loss and amnesia, feelings of depression and inadequacy. There’s also a lot of talks of displacement, land and family. The writer gets a little too close to existentialism.

This piece introduces some of my ocs for the first time in an official rewrite: say hello to Leonore Kaur, the dastardly counsellor with a penchant for drama, Octavia Rei, the coffee wench by day and playwright by night, roommate of Milenko, and Sabine Rei, her younger sibling, all friends of Anatole.

Featured Radošević-Cassano: Valerius, Milenko, Vlad and Louisa (mentioned).

Other Lore: The ‘Antiqullan’ range is the furthest west end of the Bulan Mountains, were the country of Altazor, featured in Secrets of An Ancient Moon, is located. Louisa is Altazoreña, making Anatole a first generation Altazoreño.

With this piece we reach the last instalment of Anatole’s prologue, however, there’s one more step before the Routes begin: All characters featured here will come back in an interlude.

What to catch up with this series? You can do that here.

Some people couldn’t help being anything but themselves. It did not mean they were rigid, immutable or incapable of change or growth. No person was that way, and those who refused the inherent mutability of life were bound to break. Instead, these people had who they are, whatever they are, as their guiding horizon — a certainty, a principle they could not betray, a truth they couldn’t deny. When their true self called, they had no choice but to answer. Who they are meant to become is bound to unravel, and once it begins manifesting, these people cannot run from it.

The self can only be repressed for so long. It’s latency is temporary, and these kinds of people understand that. They cannot wear masks, they cannot be anyone other than themselves, whether it was for better or for worse, and their past was bound to catch up to them sooner or later. Anatole was such a person.

It didn’t matter he didn’t remember who he was, because it all existed within him and no matter how much he ran from it, no matter how much circumstance prevented it, his potential would meet him sooner or later. Unknown to him yet, that time was drawing to a close.

Julian had broken into his shop again, which Anatole did not find as surprising as he could’ve. Portia treating him too comfortably, with Nevivic names, was. The way they both pronounced things lingered behind them as Portia dragged him to a nearby alley. Alone in front of his front door, Anatole realised they both pronounced his name ‘Anatoliy’.

Like his father had done the day Anatole had told him that was his name now.

A father. Had he had a father? Where was he now? In a faraway land or dead by Plague like so many in the City? He felt a ripple of his own magic bubbling inside him, he could feel the warmth of it lace with his fingers. Faint and weak, like a newborn opening their eyes, something told him he had a father. If he concentrated enough he could feel a magical tether pulling him to somewhere. With a frightened heart, he realised this wasn’t the first time in the last three years when he had felt such a tether, but this was the first time the headache wasn’t stronger than the magic.

Noon chimed over the City and Anatole, realising he had forgotten the Masquerade announcement, had to let it go.

In the Heart District, a man called Vladislav Elyseo Radošević would grab the arm of his wife, a woman called Louisa Aureliana De Silva, and with tears in his eyes he’d tell her he could swear he had just seen their son standing right in front of him. Somehow.

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The announcement was a lot. Nothing bad happened during it, but Anatole couldn’t shake the feeling he had been there before, in a past he couldn’t remember. This time, he did flirt with a headache when he tried. Whatever magical thread that pulled to him before had seemed to grow into a tree, and the many languages and words of the people in the square hit him all at once.

As soon as he could, he retreated into an emptier corner by the cooler shadows of the marble pillars around the square. A tall person covered with a cloak, their scent myrrh-heavy was also around the corner. They seemed to want to avoid people at all costs, so Anatole gave them berth: sometimes you just wanted to be left alone to your own devices.

Away from the flock of people he began realising how much he had pushed away on the last days, because he had not had a moment to himself.

With every breath the scent of Myrrh reached his nose. Recognition hit him all at once. He turned his head to the stranger.

“You were guarding my shop the other morning.”

“I tried to warn you.”

When Anatole spoke again, the stranger turned. He followed them all the way into the market, but when he lost them, he began looking around him, not sure how he ended up in the market at all. Distracted, he collided into a cart as he turned around himself. Someone offered him a hand to stand up — a man with thick black hair that reached his shoulders, pulled away from his face in a half-bun, sparkling dark brown eyes and an easiness to his voice when he spoke, as if the entire world was his friend.

“Whoa, my guy, you took a pretty nasty fall, are you—”

The man went completely silent, his mouth hanging half open as Anatole stood before him awkwardly. He cleared his throat.

“I know you just helped me stand up, but are you alright?”

“I’m, I’m, sorry I must be seeing things because you look just like—”

Somewhere behind him, a willowy person with fair skin and purple eyes, short hair accompanied by someone who looked a lot like them but with long, curly hair walked towards the man.

“Hey, Leonore, what happened?” The one with curly hair asked, while the willowy one looked at Anatole and dropped everything they were holding.

“Holy shit. Holy shit. Anatole?”

The man who helped him stand, Leonore, shook himself. “It’s okay, Sabine, my guy here just fell, and I’m sure this is a very whacky coincidence since Anatole is d—”

“But my name is Anatole,” he said. Everyone looked at each other in silence. Anatole didn’t know what was happening, all he knew is that these people knew him, he knew nothing of them. He felt one of Asra’s cards tug at him in his pocket.

“Excuse me, I’m afraid I don’t know who you are and I, I— I have to go.” Before anyone could stop him, Anatole sprinted back to the Main Square.

The first time he felt that pull of recognition, that thread to be followed had been with his own name after he woke up from his ‘accident’. He had tried to ask Asra about it, but he couldn’t remember a time where the magician even tried to address the question. Anatole had asked him about that too, and satisfied with the truth in Asra’s words that it wasn’t about Anatole himself why he couldn’t tell him, he stopped asking. Whatever answer would either never come to him, or he would have to get it himself.

The second time was with Asra himself: he knew nothing of why or how Asra had become someone important to him, but he knew his was a well-loved face.

Then it was his aunt, Antupillán, until it was one little thing on top of each other forming a figure which stood in the fog, slipping through Anatole’s fingers every time. His headaches always made him recede, go back to the safety of a cool room with little light coming in. Now, he felt himself in the middle of the fog as Leonore’s face materialised in the same way the magical imprint that he had felt before the announcement, unknowingly connecting him to his parents, almost did earlier that day.

Anatole was a single boat in the fog, the sound of water around him as the oars moved him towards the direction of that figure standing in it. Like the people of a forgotten town in the Antiqullan forests who themselves had forgotten the name of everything around them, until they became completely still. Anatole rowed forward as names fell back in place and life compelled him to begin again.

“So you’re Aelius? I’m Leonore Kaur! Medea is also Vesuvian so I could show you two around if you wanna. You don’t mind if I call you my guy, do you, my guy?”

“No, not at all, Leonore Kaur. Though ‘Anatole’ also works, you needn’t just call me by my first name.”

“Leo is fine.”

“No, no, I will use your full name, always, at all times.”

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During one of Asra’s travels, Anatole had seen a doctor behind the magician’s back about his memory. The visit was mostly unsatisfactory, except by some referrals and some exercises for when he felt he could almost remember things, but then couldn’t, and the other many moods of the standard amnesiac. Not that the Doctor had called it that, but Anatole had to make a little light-hearted fun at his own condition. It was like his attention and hyperactivity issues. He was going to coexist with it either way, so he better barter with them like old friends. At least on the days they weren’t awfully frustrating.

Hearing Portia describe the Court for him was nothing like that. He shuffled Asra’s deck as he listened, pulling the same cards in rotation: The Lovers, The Hermit, The Tower upright, The Fool, the Queen of Wands, and then Death reversed, Justice reversed, The Tower but reversed this time, Temperance reversed, the Hierophant and the Six of Cups reversed. Over and over again, no matter how many times he shuffled them.

He couldn’t have explained anything that Portia was telling him now —all the different Court departments and how they were interconnected, who did what and all the gossip she could fit during their ride back to the Palace— but the moment he said it, he knew it, somehow. He shuffled again. The Lovers, The Hermit, The Tower, The Fool, the Queen of Wands, Death, Justice The Tower and Temperance all reversed. The Hierophant seemed undecided in his position, sometimes becoming horizontal without Anatole touching it.

A card without meaning. A card undecided as Portia mentioned how the Consul’s real name was Valeriy, but everyone called him Valerius like it should be pronounced in the Vesuvian common tongue.

“I had no idea until I saw it on a record! ‘Valeriy of the Cassano of Vesuvia’. With how he acts you’d barely know he is a Cassano, right?”

Portia continued to talk as Anatole shuffled again, determined to do a reading for himself. To what end? He couldn’t say. He just hoped he didn’t pull the same cards as he had been pulling for most of the ride. Portia went on, saying how Consul Valerius was the most important, which didn’t mean he could not pay attention to the others. Anatole did not need Portia to tell him the Consul was the second most important political figure in Vesuvia.

He shuffled the deck the last time, then cut it. “If the Countess is incapacitated, the Consul rules in absentia, right?”

“That is correct! Wow, I didn’t think I was such a good teacher,” Portia said with a delighted laugh. Anatole smiled softly, as he pulled three cards.

The Hermit, reversed. He had lost his way. But why? When? The Ace of Swords. Maybe he’ll find his answers, maybe he is finding them. Anatole frowned at the cards, he hasn’t found shit. Or perhaps he wasn’t seeing clearly yet. As the carriage came to a halt, he pulled Strength, upright. Only it wasn’t from Asra’s deck, but from his own deck, the one which had belonged to his aunt. In it, a figure cradled a City against their chest, like a nurturing sort of Atlas, as light came from behind them mimicking a golden halo. Strength was focused, unwavering, wise, compassionate.

How the hell had this card gotten mixed with Asra’s? That was a question for later.

Had Anatole pulled one more card, he would’ve pulled the Hierophant again.

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The Countess looked at ease, wonderful in the afternoon light as she played the pipe organ. This would be fine, he thought, as Portia introduced him to the weirdest goddamn people he’s ever seen. If you could call them people — Volta, Vlastomill, Vulgora and Valdemar all looked and felt too off. Somehow the too open eyes, the moist skin, the despairing pulls or the sharp teeth weren’t the worst part: it was how their words made Anatole feel.

They triggered his magic, making his stomach drop. Not only were they lying, there was a threat in their words too. Magic that felt like a sharp note reverberating on every wall, on every new word they uttered.

The only one who still felt human enough was Consul Valerius.

Anatole had never seen a ghost, but he had read some accounts of necromancers and animancers about the sensory experience of encountering certain presences. It depended on the inclination of the magician, the story with the presence and why some of them may or may not feel like something meant to be encountered. Fate as something one could take or leave, as events which happened regardless of whether one wanted them to happen or not — ghosts where like the truth, Anatole remembered reading from one of them, not up to accommodate one’s expectations.

Seeing someone who made the same facial expression you did out of shock had to be like seeing a ghost. There was always something terrifyingly vulnerable about recognising oneself in others. Unlike the other moments of recognition Anatole had had through the day, this time, something screamed inside of him, making his head throb. From between the Consul’s feet, Antu scurried towards Anatole.

Antupillán, who followed Anatole like a guide and a support animal. Antupillán, who did not let people who did not know him be near him at all. Yes, he was a friendly and curious Raccoon who engaged with the world around him, not always heeling by Anatole but always close enough. But there was a difference with engagement and sitting by someone who made Anatole’s head throb when he spoke.

He better have an explanation.

It only got worse. Portia introduced them, but the room had fallen still, the tension palpable as the rest of the Courtiers watched the scene with morbid interest, except for Volta who just looked anguished as she muttered this was all very wrong. Quaestor Valdemar was staring unblinkingly at Consul Valerius, asking him ever so casually if there was anything that was the matter. The Countess looked between them in confusion, and tried to pry anything out of the Consul but he was not speaking. He just stared at Anatole in abject horror.

And was that panic in his voice when he spoke? Very faint, under the viciousness of his words as he demanded an explanation for the presence of such an offensive display? He was motioning at Anatole, rage and fear intertwined as he asked the Countess what sort of sick joke was this.

The Countess could not explain with anything else than how she had encountered Anatole, as she looked and sounded at loss.

Once again, his new found automatic pilot habit kicked into place. What he meant to do, was ask the Consul what was so offensive about him, letting him know he did not appreciate the tone or the sentiment from someone he did not know, so if he could please speak clearly.

What he did instead, though Antu tried to stop him, sounding apologetic and concerned —Why on earth? Anatole half thought in the background of his mind— was walking forward, with a lost and open expression to him, as he screamed at himself to stop. He couldn’t stop.

Like he was staring at himself from a distance, as if his own ghost was possessing his body. “Valeriy—”

But the Consul threw him the contents of his glass of wine. “Don’t you dare call me that, you witch.”

The Countess made everyone leave. She dismissed the entire Court without a second thought. The moment they were alone again, Anatole broke down into tears he couldn’t explain. Although the Countess was surprised at first, standing there awkwardly for a moment, she approached Anatole with gentleness, rubbing his back.

He wasn’t crying about the Consul, not really. He was crying about his fucking headache, and the powerlessness he felt. He knew he oughtn’t push himself into remembering, but he felt it would be all much easier if he did. Recovery was not a smoothly paved road, Anatole knew this, but right then, it was hard to accept.

“What the hell were you doing with him?” He asked Antupillán, angry and confused.

The Raccoon didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry, are you acquainted with Valerius?”

Anatole couldn’t answer that beyond an: “I don’t know.” He didn’t have any explanations, not even to himself. All he had was these unshakable certainties which were starting to materialise, without any mercy for his growing migraine. But he could not speak them yet, he could barely understand them.

He apologised again. The Countess told him it was no trouble. Her words did not have judgement, just honest, tender concern.

He felt Antu’s paws slide into his hands.

I must protect my Anatole, like my Anatole has protected me, he said.

Anatole sighed, wiping his tears away with the corner of his sleeve. A corner that wasn’t wine-drenched. “You better have a good reason not to tell me, Antupillán.”

He grabbed his familiar, plopping him onto his lap. Antu continued to hold his hand.

“I really am sorry, Countess.”

The Countess looked at him with fondness. “From what I’ve known of you, I think there is little which could make me change my regard for you, Anatole.”

She paused, looking like there was something else she wanted to say. “Why don’t we start by fixing your clothes? Such pettiness in a single Court. Whichever was your connection to the Consul, I am sorry it went sour, but I’m not surprised… he is an acquired taste. I have already taken the liberty with your wardrobe, so please, tell me what would you like and spare no expense.”

“You don’t need to. I really can spell the stains away… though I’d still need a shower.”

“Let me, as your host.”

“How about a compromise?”

“Do tell.”

“Using my own wardrobe as a canvas, we take items from it to replace them. They might not be courtly, but I have always been fussy about clothes. I think it matters what one wears.”

The Countess laughed. “I knew I was right in making you my friend.”

“On one condition.”

“Estate it.”

“You’ll let me pay you back.”

“Humble as ever. Very well, our side project will have to wait, as Portia will escort you to your chambers. Your own garments will be returned, but I think you must allow me to choose an outfit for you. I have the perfect one in mind… I do hope you change your mind about paying me back, you are my guest of honour. You could be more selfish, if you like.”

He smiled at her but did not say anything. Antu jumped out from Anatole’s arms as he stood up to spell-clean his clothes. The Palace staff who did the laundry did not deserve to work extra because of some Courtier’s tantrum. Placing his hands over his chest, he took a deep breath, moving his hands away from him slowly as he did. In front of his and the Countess’ eyes, the wine left his clothes, floating in the air like blobs Anatole gently deposited in the glass.

When he took all the stains out, he took a drink from it.

“Can I ask you something else? Do you know what wine this is, beyond well, red?”

“I could have it checked. It’s not from the Palace’s own cellar, I’m afraid the Consul brings his own from his own private cellar in the Palazzo Cassano. That is his family’s seat. From what I understand, the Cassano have been in hold of the Consulship for almost 500 years.”

Now that he heard the name again, Cassano, he felt like someone had hammered a silver plate which set a mechanism in motion. The words had the same feeling around them as the word ‘Balkovia’ did — home, holding hands with ‘unattainable’. Could it be that he was wrong? That home wasn’t unattainable because the gaping void of missing memories inside him meant he couldn’t reach it, but rather, than he hadn’t remembered yet?

There was only one way to know. He’d face the Consul again. He would as soon as he could.

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There had been a jewel with his change of clothes. An emerald necklace that had traces of Asra’s magic. Traces so strong Anatole could almost pull his friend back to him. He wanted to follow its guiding pull, but it wasn’t a good idea to do it when everyone was roaming around in the Palace still. He waited, and when the halls went quiet he stole out of his room, following Asra’s magic imbued in the necklace until a fountain in the gardens.

He let it drop into the water, watching it fall as the light caught on the faces of the gem, amplified as if the water itself was glimmering. He ran his palm over the water. The magic felt like his own until it stopped: the liquid now a mirror, showing Asra at the other end.

When Asra noticed him he looked surprised, full of pride and relieved to see him. His laughter was like music, like the sitars of street musicians from other corners of the world. His praise felt warm to Anatole, Asra’s eagerness always did, even when the magician felt like he had said too much —like right now, by calling Anatole a man of light, and a man of words.

His eagerness to see his friend won over his apprehension. Or perhaps, seeing his friend like he once remembered him, with his Prussian blue shirt with cream white bishop sleeves and ochre yellow pants. “Was it Rumi who said silence is the language of God and everything else is poor translation? Well, you might be the one exception to the rule.”

“If I did this, I did it in silence.”

“Light speaks through you, Nana Banana—”

“Do not call me that.”

“—It always has.”

Anatole wouldn’t have been able to anticipate the turns their conversation would have. It was heavy, filled with the request of honesty, and talk of the things Anatole had gone through. They talked about Nadia, once she had been Asra’s friends, even if he know claimed they were strangers. Anatole asked about justice, and if he could trust her that way.

“I want to but—”

“But you have a duty to Vesuvians?” Asra said, less heavy than when he was talking about Nadia. Instead, he sounded resigned, like he was starting to let go of a fight he fought out of habit, not because he should or because he’d win it.

“Asra the City needs justice, but not that justice.”

“I somehow knew you’d say that. You can take the boy out of politics, but not politics out of the boy.”

Anatole blinked. “Was I like this before? You promised to be honest.”

“I did,” the magician sighed. “You were. You were a beacon of hope in a hopeless situation.”

“Well, I most certainly have not been feeling like a beacon lately— I feel, misplaced. Like I know and I don’t know at the same time, like—” Anatole told him everything he had omitted before. Him speaking like he was on automatic pilot, like he could see himself from afar only both the speaker and the spectator were him. He was honest about pulls of magic he had felt through the years but never followed, afraid he’d get lost. He told Asra about the Consul, about so many things he had spoken to the Countess like he knew things he had no way of knowing. Not to that level of depth.

He told him he felt like he had been dead before and now he was being born again, only he didn’t know what kind of living he was supposed to be, while somehow walking with more hope and purpose than he’d suspect himself having.

He only noticed his eyes welling up with tears when Asra got blurry. “I want to find out myself, but I need to ask: I was not born here was I?”

Asra’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “No. No, you were not… is there something else on your mind? I didn’t think this was the turn the conversation would have.”

“Neither did I…” Anatole dried his tears again. “I’m so fucking tired of crying in front of people.”

“Yeah, you’ve always hated that.”

“Did I know the Consul.”

“Oh, Nana I really can’t answer that. I know I promised—”

Antole took in a sharp breath. “Then answer me this: I was never your apprentice before, was I?”

“Nana, I can’t—”

“Answer the damn question. You promised.”

“No, no you were not. You approached magic differently than I did, but you sometimes made mine look like a joke.”

“Don’t depreciate yourself to compliment me, that’s not how it works. If I can’t do it, then neither can you.”

Asra raised is hands in surrender. “It was, and is still very impressive.”

“Alright, I have one more question. You told me I had an aunt right? Paris, Paris De Silva… Asra did I have parents? Asra I need to know this.”

Asra was quiet for so long, Anatole thought he wasn’t going to reply at all, but before he could get angry Asra steeled himself and spoke again, looking directly into Anatole’s eyes. “You’ll tell me to stop the moment you get a headache, alright?” Anatole agreed. “You did, Nana. You do—”

Anatole heard footsteps and ruffling leaves behind him and turned away from Asra. “There’s someone. I’ll find you again. I love you.”

Without thinking, Anatole drew his hand over the water, making a closing motion and Asra dissipated before he could say anything else. He stood from his spot at the same time a voice he didn’t recognise asked him if he had, perchance, found a self-refilling quill around the fountain.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, it is that I finally broke from a very long writer’s block and funnily enough I lost my quill— Anatole?”

As the stranger said his name, Anatole felt one of the heaviest waves of sadness and grief he had ever felt from someone. The man standing before him was dressed head to toe in black, his chesnut curls moving very lightly with the breeze. He snapped out of his shock with a panicked look in his eyes, walking past Anatole fast enough that he could break into a jog as he muttered to himself, frenzied and confused, that this couldn’t be happening again. Anatole tried to help him, but the stranger jumped back as his eyes swelled with tears.

The man broke into a run, leaving Anatole alone and confused with no other option than going back to his room.

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Once he was alone in his room once again, he cried. He cried until he couldn’t breathe. There was a gaping hollowness inside of him. Something locked away for reasons beyond his comprehension. He stared at his shaking hands, flexing his fingers, trying to anchor himself with the moment. What had happened to him? What had happened to him that he saw people he couldn’t know in his dreams, and friends in the faces of stranges? What had happened to him that one day he had nothing but a mismatched language, latching on his tongue as he asked Asra —who was unable to understand him— a thousand and one questions the magician could not answer. So many questions he could choke on them.

To speak, to exist in language is to exist, and what was he if he could not be spoken? If the faces his hearts conjured for him turned him in horror? If strangers like the man in the fountain walked away from him like he was some unspeakable thing walking on this earth?

If he laid on the floor and closed his eyes, he could feel the earth calling him, but not how it called the dead. If he focused enough on desintegrating into the earth, he could feel his veins open up and flourish until it carried him back to a city he has never been in before and even further than. It carried it to forests where lakes within lakes lied, and it carried him through the desert into flowers which bloomed despite its dryness. Like a stream turning into a river running to the sea, he was born in the high of the mountains, and the city of the wells surrounded by forests and marshes.

One thing he knew: Something had happened in Vesuvia. Something had happened to him, in Vesuvia. Something that made part of the flourishing blood of his open veins pull in the middle of the City, layers and layers down into the Earth like a beating heart underneath the floorboards, foreshadowing an encounter which was meant to happen. Anatole could only rise up to meet it.

Even if right now he felt lost and broken he would. His name was the name of the sun, and the sun always rises. He would be spoken, and he would find what happened to him and this City which had cradled him into existing. His blood flowed here for a reason, and he would find out that reason.

Some people can’t help to be anything but themselves. They will do anything in their power to speak that self into existence, even if they spent the rest of their lives on it. When he stood up from the floor to wash his face and go to sleep, he knew he’d find the truth about what happened that night in the Masquerade. He knew because he knew the secret of his own self was intertwined with it, in the same way he did not need Asra’s confirmation to know he had to have known the Consul.

Perhaps he was the figure in the fog, and it was time to reach it to light long forgotten lanterns.

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oldshrewsburyian · 5 years

Note

Garcy + Q please?

I take you at your word, Anon, though I really don’t see how “One Missed Call” could be anything but angsty, as shall become clear. Prompt list here. I… look, since these characters suffer so much in canon, I just wish to reiterate that this angst was Not My Idea (except in its details, for which I take responsibility.)

“The Leonore overture No. 3,” says the radio announcer, “Beethoven’s paean to conjugal love, here in a performance from the Berlin Philharmonic under Von Karajan.” Flynn lets the water out of the sink, and turns to drying the wine glasses. “And now over to the news.”

“In breaking news,” says a woman in the sober tones reserved for still-uncertain tragedy, “Stanford University is on lockdown after a reported shooting…” The glass shatters. “Police have as yet made no arrest.”

He is afraid to move. The shards and fragments of glass around his feet have nothing to do with this. If he moves, if he so much as breathes, he will give time permission to continue. And he is far from sure that he is prepared to do that.

The decision is taken out of his hands: on the kitchen island, his phone starts buzzing. Flynn curses under his breath. He is very aware of his own heartbeat. He picks up the phone. Of course, the texts are not from her. In the Time Team thread, Rufus has written: Saw news on Twitter — update when you can?? To Flynn, he has written: U need me to hack anything? get info? Flynn hesitates, then replies to the latter: Thanks. I’m headed there now. He breathes. He is lightheaded with oxygen, with the consciousness of time. And then he sees her notification.

He gets out of the kitchen as fast as he can. He leaves the glass; it does not seem to matter very much. He laces his shoes and fastens his bicycle helmet with trembling hands. He will not erase the message that he has one missed call, one new voicemail. If… Whatever has happened (is happening, will happen), he needs to be close to her.

Flynn is honked at more than once, as he speeds around corners, pedals with a fury that insists on his right of way. He cannot, he will not delay. Of course, there is nothing for him to do when he gets there. He has switched from repetitive cursing to desperate prayer. He thinks he might have left a bit out of the Our Father. There is always the simplest prayer of all: have mercy upon me, a sinner. It encapsulates everything: yes, this is more than justice; no, I do not deserve it; please. It feels strange, already-dangerous to be asking, when it has always been Lucy who has brought him mercy. Long ago Flynn stopped bothering to wonder whether it was on God’s behalf or her own. But now… now, he begs.

He is surrounded by weeping students, stern police, waiting ambulances. He knows he could get past the security lines. He could probably do it without them noticing, at first. And he’d probably get himself shot for his pains. And there would be no way of finding her, no way of making her safe. His bones and blood still ache to do so. In his pocket, his phone buzzes.

Rufus: No mention Rittenhouse police comms.

Flynn lets out a breath before replying. Thanks. Don’t get arrested.

He paces, the noises of helicopters and walkie-talkies and the distressed, uncertain crowds a distant cacophony, muffled by nearer birdsong, by his own rapid pulse. Finally he gives in. He acknowledges that he has seen the missed call. (She’ll be locked in. She’ll be in a lecture hall, or her office, or a closet. She’ll hate it.) He takes a breath. He presses play.

Hi, it’s me! I don’t need anything, I just… A puff of breath, and (he imagines) her fingers raked through her hair. I think my students have forgotten how to be students over the weekend. I haven’t looked for party hashtags; I don’t want to know. We were talking about transgressive spaces in the early republic today — how can they not find that interesting? He tries not to expect the sound of gunshots. I mean, says Lucy, it’s spies. Speaking of which, I should let you get back to translating for the cabal. Which is probably what you’re doing. Pour me wine tonight, says Lucy, her syllables drawling into indecency. Tell me I’m brilliant, hmm? Love you, genius. Are we doing Russian or French today? Ya lyublyu tebya. Je t’aime. Okay. Love you. Bye.

Flynn sits down on the pavement. He puts his head in his arms. He begs.

“Sir,” says a voice, “sir, you can’t be here.” He looks up. He calculates how long it would take him to flip this man onto his back. “Sir,” says the man, uneasy in his ill-fitting uniform, “we’re going to need this for an evacuation route; you can’t be here.”

Flynn stands up, and he does not stagger in standing. The tone of the crowd has changed; it is expectant; Flynn knows how easily it could change to hysteria. They have seen no arrest. They have seen no blood. They might yet. He stands still, making himself immovable, making himself impassive, a thing not to be drawn into the embraces, the anxiety, the fear.

There have been no audible gunshots since his arrival; he knows too much to find this consoling. Ambulances have gone; if she were on one of them, he would have gotten word. But if (if, if, if…) He cannot bring himself to complete the thought. It fractures into images: Lucy’s face, and her blood. Lucy’s face, and her blood.

The evacuees come shuffling. They come huddled, and silent, and clinging to each other. It is the group on the other side of the barrier that cries, and fills the air with the sound effects of sent messages, and breathes half-profane prayers. Flynn is silent.

He had imagined — he had allowed himself to imagine — shouting her name. He has been calling for her since before they were allies. He has called out to her across history. And now he cannot speak. She is pale, and she is barefoot, and she is (oh merciful God) alive. She has wept, but she is now composed. She has an arm around a student’s shoulders, and her battered briefcase in her other hand. Flynn breathes.

She is almost at the barrier when she sees him. He sees her lips part; he sees her soundless intake of breath. Obediently she follows in the semi-orderly procession, gives her name at the checkpoint. Only briefly does she take her eyes off him, speaking to the woman with the clipboard, reassuring her student. And when she is through, and free, Lucy starts to run. She stumbles a little on the asphalt, but she runs. He steps forward — a little unsteady, now — and opens his arms to her.

“I love you,” says Lucy into his ear. “I love you, I love you.”

“Ya lyublyu tebya vsem serdtsem.” He is overwhelmed by the scent of her hair. “You’re not hurt?”

“No,” says Lucy. “No, I — it wasn’t — we weren’t hurt.” A few tears soak into the fabric of his collar, and he tightens his arms around her. “I might just… cry on you anyway.”

“That’s fine,” says Flynn. “That’s fine, that’s… tout ira bien.” She shivers, and relaxes against him. “Voilà, c'est ça.”

“Can we…” says Lucy after a few minutes; she is still clinging to him. “Can we go home now?”

Flynn presses a kiss to her temple. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

#asks and answers #garcy ff #i just write angst and pain #is a tag that i have #why am i so emotionally invested? the answer is probably complicated

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midwinter-fox · 5 years

Text

Conflicted

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Their kiss lasted for but a brief moment, but it felt like a sweet eternity passed between them. It wasn't heated or wanting; instead, it left them with a faint tingling in their lips, the kind that left one in a daze. So soft was it that it could be seen as platonic. By the time they parted, a deep blush erupted across Leonore's cheeks, forcing her to look down and away in sudden embarrassment.

"I'm.. I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me."

Dettlaff couldn't find the words to reassure her, so he instead tilted her chin gently so as to have her look at him once more. Her eyes reminded him of the Toussaintois forests in autumn - the deep green of her iris surrounded a circle of brilliant copper that enclosed the pupil. It was almost impossible to detect without him being so close to her, but now with her in such intimate proximity, he was silently going over all of the tiny details that made him grow ever fonder. The redness of her face was endearing, and he only made it deepen further when he pressed another soft kiss but this time to her brow. It was a reassuring gesture, one that made apparent that he was in no way upset by her earlier advance.

The silence between them grew, but it wasn't unpleasant, especially not with how Leonore smiled at him now. There was a painful clenching in Dettlaff's heart, one that reminded him that this was, in every way, impossible. Sadness began creeping up in him, only betrayed by the wistfulness in his eyes as he released her from their embrace. She removed herself from his lap only to sit beside him, the tin of heart-shaped cookies now in her hand to make room for her.

If she picked up on the regret in his gaze, she did not make it known. Rather, she reopened the tin to remove a pastry and hand it to him. With a soft 'thanks' he took it and broke it in half, offering a piece to the woman who already held a portion of his heart. They ate the sweets in the quiet of the herb garden, no words shared in favor of savoring each other's company. Even when Leonore's head rested against his shoulder, he kept silent and relished in the tenderness of their moment - a tenderness that he'd have to give up if he was going to protect himself from what he perceived to be inevitable heartbreak.

---

Time was not on their side. All too soon, Leonore stood and kindly excused herself, but only because she still had deliveries to tend to and not enough time in the day to complete them. Dettlaff stood to walk her to the door - after all, it was only polite.

In the foyer, Regis was tending to the broken arm of a child, worried albeit agitated parents standing off to the side to observe. The room may as well have been empty for Leonore and her vampiric companion. Quietly, they walked to the door, ignoring the looks of the mortals. When Dettlaff opened the door for her, she stopped just short to hug him one last time. Though he was electing to ignore the other occupants of the room, he was still hesitant to return the gesture, opting to instead tentatively yet amicably pat her shoulder. He couldn't help but watch her depart for a few moments, and when he finally closed the door, he inwardly sighed. The look on his face was forlorn, but Regis didn't need to see it to know how his blood-kin felt.

Dettlaff retreated to his room with the half-empty tin in hand, and when the door clicked shut, Regis finished up his work and instructed the parents on the care of their child's injury. By the time they finally left, Regis set off to find his dearest friend.

---

The knock on the bedroom door wasn't answered immediately, and for a moment, Regis wondered if maybe it would be best to simply leave Dettlaff alone for now. Just as he turned away, the door opened slowly, but upon seeing that Regis was the only one that stood there, it opened fully.

"It's just me this time," Regis said with a half smile. He couldn't blame Dettlaff for being a little more cautious this time around.

Dettlaff stood aside to let his friend enter then sat on the edge of the bed. The plain white handkerchief was once again in his hand, one of his claws tenderly tracing Leonore's name stitched along the hem with a pale blue thread. The sight was a depressing one, especially since Regis could feel everything. The aching in his chest and stomach, the racing of his mind, the plethora of conflicting emotions that threatened to break the resolve that was so carefully built through years of hardship - all of it was clear as day through the bond they shared. It was almost as if they could share each other's every thought.

"You know, my friend, I'm here for you - irrevocably so. I know you're in immense pain, so if there is anything I can do help you sort through those tumultuous thoughts of yours, please know I would do so without hesitation." Regis was always long-winded, a direct result of having so much knowledge and so little to do with it, but it was something that Dettlaff had come to appreciate, even if he only ever said very little.

"Thank you. I.. I've much to think about." The brooding man's eyes did not leave the simple square of cotton. His thoughts were attempting to take him places he dared not entertain.

Rather than try to press his friend for details, Regis sat on the bed and laid a comforting hand on Dettlaff's shoulder. He seemed to lean into the other's touch until he was all but laying against him. Regis moved his hand to wrap an arm about his shoulders; he knew that, in time, Dettlaff would open up to him, even if he had to be consoled like this for hours.

---

"How do you feel?" the gray-haired vampire asked, having not moved from his spot for a while now. He'd no notion of how much time had passed, but the sun was getting low in the sky outside the window, so he could only assume it had been at least an hour.

The question was either stupid or asked for Dettlaff's own benefit. Of course it was obvious how he felt, both through their blood bond and the emotion being etched clearly on his face. Regardless, it was answered in a low, almost pained voice.

"Why.. Why did you bring her here?"

"Well, I knew there was something wrong, and since you refused to tell me who or what could be the source of your discomfort, I saw fit to try to find the answers myself. I had seen a portion of the name on that kerchief and drew a conclusion after some careful thought. I apologize if all I did was cause you more pain - I sought to help, nothing more."

What Regis didn't know and Dettlaff couldn't bring himself to admit was that it did help, though not in the way that was probably intended.

"You were not wrong in thinking she was the source," Dettlaff mumbled, fighting his sudden desire to say her name. "She is.. Hmh.. I cannot find the words for it. Our meeting was brief, unintentional. I tried keeping distant, but she seeks to get.. close."

How close, he was unsure, but if their kiss was any indication, it was much closer than he felt comfortable with being. Rhenawedd - Syanna, he had to remind himself - had killed the desire in him to love, no matter how strong the desire was. He had no notion of just how desperately he craved the affection he once had until that woman collided with him in the marketplace. While unintentional, he saw now that it wasn't unwanted, but what he wanted was something he dared not reach for.

"Dettlaff," Regis sighed, "your fears are not unfounded. You went through a terrible ordeal - one I myself would be hard-pressed to heal from, even after having regenerated from being melted into little more than a smear. As your friend, however, I would suggest that perhaps it isn't an entirely bad thing to allow yourself a companion that isn't myself or your pack. Leonore has a kind heart and a sweet disposition, something you lack in your life. Were I in your stead, I think I'd allow her the chance to get close, though only as close as comfort would allow. Perhaps if you tried speaking with her about your insecurities, she would be willing to understand."

"She knows what we are."

"Oh?" Suddenly, there was a newfound curiosity in Regis' voice, though he tempered it so as not to overwhelm his friend with questions. "I'm assuming she took it well considering your embrace before she departed," and the fact that she did not scream or flee, he thought.

"I suppose," hummed the other in response. Was it truly such a good reaction though? After all, she saw vampires as little more than fairytales, a horrible misconception in his mind. She described vampires the way one would recall a roguish prince, and that was something he was not. "She is deluded by fiction. Vampires to her are mysterious and alluring, not the monsters they truly can be."

"Is that so bad?"

"Is it not?"

"Perhaps you can educate her. After all, you had the courage to reveal your true nature to her, so the only logical course of action is to ensure she knows what it means."

"And if she fears me?" The thought left a sour taste in the back of Dettlaff's throat.

"It's possible, but another possibility is that she won't. Would you rather allow yourself to wallow in the potentially bad prospects that may never come, or take the risk in the hope - an entirely plausible one - that she'll only further accept you for who you are? After all, you know firsthand that not all humans fear that which is so unlike them."

It was true, Dettlaff had to admit, but the apprehension in his gut wouldn't allow for him to be swayed so easily.

"I.. I do not know.." The unease was apparent in his voice, but Regis simply nodded in understanding.

"Take your time. It isn't something that needs resolving now. In fact, I see no harm in allowing yourself some time to adjust to this newfound relationship. Maybe spending more time in her presence and learning about her will help ease the doubts that are holding you down. An outing might do you some good." When Dettlaff looked at him with incredulity, he shrugged. "Fresh air and the company of friends can do wonders for a troubled soul. I would know, after all. You've heard the stories I’ve had to tell. Tomorrow I've a need to go into town and browse the apothecary for some additional supplies. I neglected to ensure I got everything I needed through Leonore, but now it seems it will give us the opportunity to get you out and about." Dettlaff didn't have a chance to object before Regis gave him a friendly pat to the shoulder and stood from the bed.

"I'll give you some time to think on it. In the meantime, I would try to push the more worrisome thoughts aside for now. Let fate do its bidding - perhaps the topic of vampiric nature will come up naturally so you don't have to look for a way to bring it up yourself."

"Regis, wait." Dettlaff stood just as Regis' hand reached for the doorknob, giving the graying vampire pause. There was a moment of silence as he sought to find the best way to express his gratitude, but he didn't have a way with words like Regis did.

"Thank you. Truly, I.. I could not ask for a better friend." He was gifted with a warm smile in response.

"I feel much the same way, my friend." With that, Regis left to allow him time to think. It would be a while before Dettlaff left his room again, so lost he was in both what was to come and how it felt to be close to someone again.

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harperonni · 6 years

Text

“It’s 2am. Go back to sleep.”

First drabble in a bunch I plan on writing. I’m mainly focusing on the Coco fandom tbh, as well as my oc x canon ships, but I may also throw in some others at some point! This is mostly straight fluff tbh aaayyyyyy

34 - “It’s 2am. Go back to sleep.” Oscar x Leonor Canon-ish universe

Leonor startled at a noise behind her, twisting about at the gentle creak of floorboards behind her. Her eyes burnt a little, weighing her eyelids, as she blinked. The dim light of her lamp lit her crafting desk well enough, and illuminated Oscar’s figure in the doorway, catching the colourful markings and tired expression. It seemed emphasised as the shadows fell in the crooks and curves of his skull. She smiled gently, watching as he stepped in dressed in sleepwear, his normally neatly parted hair tousled from sleep. His glasses were disturbed as he pressed a knuckle to one of his eyes, rubbing it tiredly with a yawn. She shook her head gently. “It’s 2am. Go back to sleep.” She scolded gently. Oscar scoffed, re-adjusting his glasses. “You hardly have any place telling me to go back to sleep.”

Leonor sighed, rolling her eyes briefly as she faced her desk again, not completely turning herself back around on the stool as she pulled the fabric she was stitching up into her lap. Footsteps approached and Leonor found herself pressed against Oscar’s chest, arms curling around her shoulders in a light hug.

She shifted the needle through the fabric as she gently leaned back into his touch. She paused mid stitch, reaching up to cover her mouth as a yawn forced its way across. She heard Oscar tut, and he nuzzled his face into her dark hair. “Ven a la cama, por favor?” He pleaded gently. She continued to stitch. “I’m not tired, Oscar…” “Querido…” He whined, burying his face further against her as he held her closer. She huffed, shaking her head. “If your tired, go back to bed, mi amor.” She stated it as a fact, flinching a little when the tip of the needle accidentally poked her thumb. It was only bone, but it wasn’t a pleasant sensation. Oscar whined again, drawing it out far too long to not be completely sincere. Leonor laughed breathlessly as he leaned down onto her more and she shifted on her seat to secure herself. “You’re going to push me off.” She warned, a smile breaking across her mouth. She felt Oscar shift, stilling for a moment. “...Would you come to bed if you weren't at the desk, anymore?” He asked, far to calmly for Leonor’s concern. She didn’t miss the thoughtful drawl in his voice and the way his arms shifted a little. She huffed, pulling a hand away from her stitching to reach up, finding his face with a little effort and pushing it gently with the tips of her fingers. “You wouldn’t dare.” She could practically feel Oscar’s mischievous smile and she stumbled to correct herself. “Not while I have a needle in my hand, Oscar! You might ruin what I've done so far.” Oscar hummed gently, arms sliding down to settle around her waist, his chin tucking against her right shoulder, the rim of his glasses brushing against hers with a faint click. They sat in silence for a moment, and Leonor tried to focus her attention back onto her stitching, to the purple bundle of fabric in her lap. She felt a pang of irritation, knowing fully well that she wasn’t going to be able to continue as well as she had been now. Not when she Knew Oscar was up, waiting for her, trying to convince her to come to bed. But she couldn’t just leave in the middle like this! “If I finish this tonight-” She began, voice lowering as the desire to go to bed began to rear itself further out, “-I’ll have more time to start the other gifts tomorrow evening.” Her partner was quiet, chin still resting on her shoulder and she was suddenly aware of him watching her. She fumbled with the needle a little, dropping it in her lap. Oscar shifted, and she smiled as he pressed a kiss against her shoulder before burying his face into the crook of her neck. “You have time... “ He mumbled, voice low. He was leaning on her more than he hand been before. “You don’t have to get it all done now. You don’t even need to make gifts for everyone…” She shifted, and Oscar barely moved as she did. “I want to.” She spoke firmly, brows furrowing as she sat a little straighter. For a moment she worried Oscar was going to slide down and hit his face, but she was relieved when he snuggled himself back into her shoulder. She sighed gently, shoulders lowering as her voice softened. “You know how I feel about gifts…” He nodded, “I know, I know…” A little more hung after his sentence, and Leonor waited for a moment, expecting him to finish. She finished another stitch, and her hand felt so heavy. She sighed, leaning back into Oscar as she rested her hands in her lap. They stayed there for a moment, still. Oscar’s breathing was being to steady and Leonor shifted so she was looking at him a bit better, a small smile quirking at his relaxed face, his eyes closed. She sighed, glancing at the fabric in her lap, and then back at Oscar falling asleep on her. She scooped the fabric and stitching from her lap and placed it on the workbench. Oscar made a small noise as the movement jostled him, and he reluctantly slid himself away as she halfheartedly put a few pieces away on the desk. “Okay, okay…” Leonor mumbled, rolling up a piece of thread and arranging it with the others before standing, stumbling a little as her legs threatened to give way after being stuck in place for so long. She smiled as Oscar hugged her again, forehead resting against hers as his hands slid from her back to her arms, trailing down to lock his fingers against hers. She squeezed his hands, reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss him. She giggled as his moustache brushed against her. She never really got over how it felt, and she had doubts that she ever would. Oscar smiled, nuzzling her face and causing her to giggle more. They pulled away, and Leonor hummed tiredly, resting her head against Oscar’s chest. “Let’s go to bed, then…” Oscar’s head lolled against hers and he sighed. “Sí por favor…”

#coco #coco movie #oscar rivera #tio oscar #coco oc #oc #leonor #leonor vera #fic #fanfic #coco fanfic #drabble #oc x canon #request #oscar x leonor #writing

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