#i'd come across gold brocades

[icarus-suraki]

@thatswhatsushesaid quotes reminded me:

Jin GuangYao was standing right beside the base of the palace. Now that he had become sworn brothers with Nie MingJue and Lan XiChen, and been accepted into his clan, he had already painted between his brows the mark of vermilion and donned the white, golden-edged robes of Sparks Amidst Snow. Wearing a gauze cap, he was almost beyond recognition. As handsome as ever, his cleverness was the same, yet his air was calmer than it had ever been.

--EXR translation, ch. 49 pg 490

So the robes are, in the text, white with golden edges--okay.

So I love how the costume designer(s) for CQL were like, "... Nah, all gold everything. Especially for Jin Guangshan."

JGS is just over there like "I love goooooooooold."

#cql #jin guangshan #(derogatory) #i mean it makes sense #if they're the rich bitches #i adore the costumes in this series #also #in seeking out jgy cosplay materials #i'd come across gold brocades #and if they were just #too much #i'd think of them as #too jgs ugh #like jgs please #just add a little of that tiffany blue #it's all over carp tower #just something to break up the monochrome #chrome indeed

[thebadgerclan]

Through It All

Pairing: Alex Claremont-Diaz x Henry Fox

Summary: Alex will be there through it all...

A/N: So I've been obsessed with Red, White, & Royal Blue for a while, but now I'm doubly obsessed because of the movie coming out soon. So voila! I might write more for these boys, and I know my requests are closed, but if you have ideas of one shots for firstprince, I'd love to see them!

There were three things distinctly wrong with Alex’s current situation.  One: he was in London attempting to sleep off jet lag instead of snuggled in his boyfriend’s arms in their Brownstone.  Two: Henry was not with him; he was a few miles away at Buckingham Palace for a round of charity appearances and family events.  And three: Alex was categorically not invited.  Queen Mary’s invitation had explicitly instructed Henry not to bring his “American paramour” (nevermind the fact that there was currently a velvet ring box buried in Henry’s underwear drawer back home), and that the Crown was having a difficult enough time fending off bad press as it was (like he and Alex shared anything more than a kiss in public).

Henry, of course, hadn’t listened.  There was no way Alex would be able to attend any of the appearances, but Queen Mary couldn’t stop him from staying at Kensington, as much as she would probably like to.  So, Alex was here, in Henry’s apartments, with the gold and cream brocade that he hated, with no Henry.  He supposed he’d rather be bored and lonely here than bored and lonely in New York, at least he’d have his boyfriend in his arms at the end of the day.

Alex was pulled from his musings by his phone ringing.  The caller ID informed him it was Bea calling, which raised a red flag.  Bea rarely called him.  Alex hurried to answer, trying to calm his racing heart.  “Hello?”  “Alex, thank God,” Bea said.  She sounded out of breath, which did nothing to stem Alex’s growing panic.  “Bea, what’s wrong?  Is Henry okay?”  “...No, not really.”

With three words, Alex was imagining every possible worst-case scenario.  Henry was hurt, he was dead, there had been an assassination attempt.  “What happened?”  “We were supposed to have new portraits taken today,” Bea explained.  “And Henry commented that you should be here.  Gran…she just exploded.  She started screaming at him, saying terrible things about you and Hen.  I…can’t even repeat some of them.  Mum tried to talk her down, but she wouldn’t listen.

“She’s still going,” Bea said, concern for her brother plain in her voice.  “She kicked everyone else out of the room.  I think Hen was too stunned to move, to try to leave.  He’s still in there with her.”  Alex felt like the floor had been torn out from under him.  “Amy!” he shouted, and his Secret Service agent came bursting into the room, hand on her gun.  “Where’s the threat?”  “How soon can you get me to Buckingham?”  She consulted her phone, responding an instant later.

“15 minutes.”  “Get a car ready,” Alex said, and his tone left no room for questions.  “Bea, I’m on my way.  Listen, tell Henry I’m coming.”  “If I can get a word in edgewise, I will,” she replied, and Alex ended the call.  Alex found the first pair of shoes he came across, grabbing his well-worn NYU hoodie before running through the halls of Kensington Palace to the waiting car.  “I’m coming, baby,” he whispered to himself as he shut the car door.  “I’m coming.”

***

Either the guards at Buckingham had been told Alex was coming and to let him in, or they were smart enough not to get in the way of an angry Alex Claremont-Diaz.  Bea was waiting for him on the first floor.  “Is he okay?” Alex asked, not slowing his strides.  Bea kept pace with him, guiding him in the right direction.  “No,” she said.  “It’s bad, Alex.  Really bad.  Gran said some of the most racist, homophobic shit I’ve ever heard.”

Alex nodded, rounding the corner to find Catherine pacing outside a closed door.  “Alex,” she said, her voice shaky as she pulled him into an embrace.  “I’m so sorry, we-”  “Henry,” Alex said, cutting her off.  “I just need to see Henry.”  Catherine nodded, gesturing towards the closed door.  “He’s in there.  Mary’s gone, so you don’t have to worry about her.”  “Thanks,” was all Alex said before he was throwing open the heavy doors and entering the room.

He found Henry huddled on the ground, curled in on himself, body shaking as he sobbed.  “Baby,” Alex whispered, dropping to his knees before him.  “Henry, baby, I’m here.”  Henry looked up as if in disbelief that Alex was in front of him, his eyes red and swollen.  “A-Alex?”  “Yeah baby, it’s me.  I’m here.”  Henry dissolved into fresh sobs, and Alex couldn’t bear it; he sat and pulled his boyfriend into his lap, clutching him greedily to his chest.

Henry was shaking, heart wrenching cries leaving his lips, and Alex smoothed his hair back, kissing his forehead.  “Here, baby,” he said, taking the NYU hoodie in hand.  “I brought this for you.”  Henry reluctantly lifted his head, and once he saw what Alex had, let him pull it over his head.  Alex had worn it to sleep the night before, so it smelled exactly like him, something that brought Henry more comfort than he cared to admit.

The Prince buried his face in Alex’s neck once more, and Alex let him, rocking him gently back and forth, stroking a hand up and down his back, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.  “I’ve got you,” he cooed, arms tight around Henry.  “I’m not going anywhere, H.  I love you, baby.  I’m yours, I’ll always be yours.”  Henry’s sobs had quieted to soft cries, and he sniffled, wiping his face on the sleeve of Alex’s hoodie.

“I’m getting snot on your clothes,” he said, which made Alex laugh.  “We’ll wash it, baby.  Are you okay?”  Henry shook his head.  “No.  Gran, she…fuck she…”  “Hey, it’s alright,” Alex interjected.  “Take your time, sweetheart.”  Henry nodded, continuing after a moment.  “She called you horrible things, Alex, she told me that I’m a disgrace, that I’m a stain on the family.  And then she said…”

Henry had started to hyperventilate, and Alex gently took his face in his hands.  “Breathe with me baby, okay?  In….and out….  Good, again.”  Henry’s breaths were shaky, but after a few cycles of mimicking Alex’s breathing, they leveled out.  “She said ‘If you must carry on as you are, must it be with someone like him?’”  Alex didn’t need to ask what Mary had meant by that, he knew: why must Henry “carry on” with a Mexican-American, a man of color.  “Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry.  You shouldn’t have had to hear that.”

Alex kissed his forehead, and Henry let out a sob.  “I want to go home,” he cried.  “I don’t want to be here, standing with my family, pretending that I don’t want to be in your arms!  I don’t want to shove you aside whenever I’m here, act like you aren’t the world to me!”  Alex’s heart skipped a beat or two at that, and he nodded.  “Then we go home, baby.  Back to New York, yeah?  Snuggle up with David and watch Bake Off?”

Fuck, if that didn’t sound like heaven.  But Henry shook his head.  “I can’t.  I have appearances to make, charity visits to do, I–”  “Baby, hey, baby,” Alex said, cutting off his spiraling.  “Maybe….maybe you ate something off at the gala last night.  Maybe you can’t appear at functions because you’re puking your brains out.  Maybe your stupidly handsome boyfriend had to take you home.”

Henry managed another laugh.  “Maybe…  Or maybe…”  Alex stayed quiet, waiting for Henry to speak when he was ready.  “Or maybe I’m done.”  “What?”  “Maybe I’m done,” he repeated.  “I can’t keep doing this, Alex,  This isn’t healthy for me, to get myself so upset like this.  There’s clearly no changing Gran’s mind, so what if I’m just done?”  Alex took Henry’s hand, squeezing softly.

“H, are you suggesting abdication?”  “No, not yet.  Once Mum’s Queen, things will be better, but for now…I can’t do this to myself.  What if I cut contact?  Stopped coming to functions?”  Alex, tightened his hold on his boyfriend.  “Baby, that’s entirely up to you, and you know I’ll support you, but maybe this is a choice you should make on a clearer head.”  Henry thought for a moment before nodding.

“You’re right.  But I…fuck, I hate this!  I hate hearing people talk about you, about us, like I don’t hear!  I hate it, Alex!”  More tears built at the corners of Henry’s eyes, and when they fell, Alex held him tight, wishing more than anything that he could take his pain away.  For nearly a half hour, Henry sat curled in Alex’s lap, letting himself cry, letting every ounce of hurt and anger out, until he was limp with exhaustion.  

Alex gently tipped his chin back so he could look at him, smiling sweetly.  “There’s my pretty boy,” he said, and Henry blushed.  “What do you say we go back to Kensington, get our stuff, and go home?”  Henry nodded, letting Alex move him from his lap to stand. His legs were stiff and half-asleep from so long spent on the floor, but he didn’t care, only helped his boyfriend to stand, pulling him into a kiss once he was.

Catherine and Bea were waiting outside, worry painted on their faces.  Henry was exhausted from the emotional beating he’d taken, and he looked up at Alex, hoping he’d understand.  He did, as he somehow always did, and spoke.  “We’re going home,” Alex said.  “Today was a lot for Henry, and he just wants to go home.”  Catherine came to embrace her son, holding him tightly.  “I love you, my baby,” she whispered.  “And I will always love you, no matter what anyone else says.”  Bea pulled her brother into a hug, then Alex, before the pair were back in the car to Kensington.

Eight hours later, Alex and Henry were back in their Brownstone, a very happy David pawing at their ankles.  The events of the day combined with a trans-atlantic flight had Henry beyond exhausted, and he had barely gotten in the door before collapsing.  Alex half-carried him to the couch, tucking a blanket over him and kissing his forehead.  “I love you, baby,” he said.  “You gonna be alright if I run to the store?”

Henry nodded, already dozing off.  When Alex returned, he found Henry asleep, still wearing Alex’s NYU hoodie, the hood drawn up over his blond hair, David curled up on his chest also fast asleep.  Alex drew his phone from his pocket, snapping a picture of the heartbreakingly adorable scene before him (which he would later post on Instagram with the caption “My entire heart ❤”).

The sound of the camera shutter woke Henry, who smiled upon seeing Alex.  “You’re home.”  “I am.”  Alex leaned in for a kiss.  “What’d you buy?”  In response, Alex handed Henry the bag.  “Gatorade, ginger ale, soup, saltines?  Alex, what…?”  Alex pulled up the Royal Family’s Twitter page and handed his phone to his boyfriend.

Prince Henry stricken with stomach flu, forced to return to New York.  Henry smirked, nodding.  “I see.  And all this…?”  Alex took his phone back, pulling up another tweet.  It was a picture of Alex leaving the general store, the caption reading: Alex Claremont-Diaz buys soup for sick boyfriend.  Henry smiled.  “Good thinking, love,” he said, and Ales kissed his cheek.  “This ain’t my first rodeo, baby.”

He moved David from the couch and crawled behind Henry, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend’s middle.  “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered.  “About today.  That never should have happened.”  Henry shifted closer to Alex, shrugging.  “But it did,” he said.  “And it keeps happening.  At least I have you.”  “Damn right you do, baby.  You’ll always have me.”

Alex found the remote wedged between the couch cushions and put an old episode of The Great British Bake Off on, smiling when David hopped back onto the couch, nestling into the divot between Alex and Henry’s bodies.  “I love you,” Henry said quietly, and Alex pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.  “I love you too, baby.”  Whatever came next, whatever challenges they faced, Henry knew that Alex would be steadfast by his side through it all.

#firstprince #alex claremont diaz x henry fox #firstprince fluff #red white and royal blue #rwrb #rwrb fanfiction

[checkoutmybookshelf]

You Have My Attention: Celestial Kingdoms First Lines

Ok, I am in general a fan of mythological retellings, and this duology and its accompanying short story collection are lush, engaging, and heartbreaking all at once. So of course I had to share the first lines. DotMG and HotSW are pretty bog standard, but because there were only nine short stories in TotCK, I decided to give you the first lines of all nine as well because this is my blog and I make and break the rules at will! So let's see how Sue Lynn Tan catches her readers.

There are many legends about my mother. Some say she betrayed her husband, a great mortal warrior, stealing his Elixir of Immortality to become a goddess. Others depict her as an innocent victim who swallowed the elixir while trying to save it from thieves. Whichever story you believe, my mother, Chang'e, became immortal. As did I.

-- Sue Lynn Tam, Daughter of the Moon Goddess

Night cloaked the sky in darkness, draping shadows across the earth. While this was a time of rest for the mortals, on the moon, our toils were just beginning. Winter white flames curled from the splint of wood in my hand. Crouching down, I brushed away a stray leaf from the lantern, wrought of translucent stone and twisted strands of silver. As I lowered the splint to the wick, it caught fire with a hiss.

-- Sue Lynn Tan, Heart of the Sun Warrior

Light filtered through the gauze screens that covered the windows, the wooden frames latticed in a pattern of squares. I blinked, trying to adjust to the dazzling brightness, my mind still sluggish. Slumber had been hard won--I'd slept with the curtains pulled back from the posts, though it did little good.

-- Sue Lynn Tan, "Rise of the Sunbirds," Tales of the Celestial Kingdom

The skies were afire. Gone was the calm blue of day, the pale wisps of clouds drifting across the heavens. No longer did the moon and stars light the night. Our world was dying.

-- Sue Lynn Tan, "The Ten Suns," Tales of the Celestial Kingdom

Chrysanthemums were flowering in the courtyard, their slender petals curved in rich purples, yellows, and reds. Above, the trees were losing their coats of green, donning jeweled shades of amber and garnet. A coolness infused the air, refreshing my senses.

-- Sue Lynn Tan, "Goddess of the Moon," Tales of the Celestial Kingdom

Night had faded. The dawn streaked with Ash and rose. The lanterns were still lit as I strode toward Xingyin's chamber.

-- Sue Lynn Tan, "The Snow Ginseng Root," Tales of the Celestial Kingdom

The lake was encircled by ancient pine trees. They reminded me of my home in the cloud wall--my courtyard, always fragrant with their woody scent. Except here, the rust-colored bark was veined in gray like a web of shadows had been strewn across it. Their feathery needles glinted as though tipped in Iron, clinking ominously as the wind blew.

-- Sue Lynn Tan, "Battle with the Bone Devil," Tales of the Celestial Kingdom

General Mengqi and I flew in silence upon our cloud, the other soldiers following behind us. They were the "demons" I had feared and dreaded from the tales, but they did not seem markedly different from other immortals. Just more arrogant and unpleasant, I decided, my irritation at the general's earlier condescension unappeased.

-- Sue Lynn Tan, "Return to the Jade Palace," Tales of the Celestial Kingdom

The moon was a bright curve, ringed by stars. Will there ever come a time that I look upon them and not think of her? I longed for and dreaded the day.

-- Sue Lynn Tan, "A Rival's Spirit," Tales of the Celestial Kingdom

The light of the evening sun slanted through the window, casting the room in gold. Sunset was approaching, the moment I had been anticipating since yesterday. My attendant tentatively offered me a black brocade sash, unused to my indecision.

-- Sue Lynn Tan, "Sun Moon Teahouse," Tales of the Celestial Kingdom

Snow lay heavy upon the branches of the plum blossom tree. Clumps of ice clustered around the pink petals, a glittering frame to their beauty--all the more striking because of the barrenness surrounding it, the land stripped of its verdant glory.

-- Sue Lynn Tan, "Home," Tales of the Celestial Kingdom

#sue lynn tan #daughter of the moon goddess #heart of the sun warrior #tales of the celestial kingdom #book quotations #book quotes #books and reading #books #books and novels #book recommendations

[demon-of-the-ancient-world]

ASOIAF House Fashion Headcanons : Part 1

So idk if I'm gonna get in trouble for this bc I'm not like, super deep into ASOIAF lore as some people are and might get things wrong, and I'm not very prominent in the fandom, but I'm big obsessed with costume/clothing design so hey, I'll give this a shot.

Basically I've recently been inspired by the art and words of wonderful people such as @persephones-plantpot, @inky-duchess, and @shebsart who have talked about the cultural clothing differences between the 7 kingdoms and I...wanted to do my own? I haven't been brave enough to draw them yet (one day! I'll update when that day comes!), but I do have ~ideas~ for my personal takes on the fashion of Westeros and I'd humbly like to bring them out. Based more on the books (as much as I love the show's costuming!) as sort of an alternative take - not necessarily 100% consistent with what they say about the clothing, but I try to stick to it occasionally. I love hearing different people's ideas on the clothes so I've thrown my own little opinion into the mix.

Warning: I'm wordy. Very.

The Targaryens: So here I'm less talking about Dany and Viserys, because while I'm sure they will have retained some of their cultural heritage through clothing (especially Viserys), they're detached from their homeland and family customs, and therefore have to adapt to whatever clothes they come across in their exile. Daenerys especially I think would adapt quickly, being younger and having virtually no memory of Westeros, and be wearing pretty much only Pentosi clothing at the beginning of the series.

ANYWAY onto the old Targaryen dynasty, pre-rebellion.

In terms of historical inspiration, I actually came up with a weird combination of traditional Russian/Slavic clothing and classical Roman/Greek dress

(Also, @persephones-plantpot drew her version as Byzantine inspired and THAT stuck in my head so, now there's Byzantine touches in my headcanon too *shrugs*).

Lots of Roman-style drapery, but with big yoke/collar situations going on, metal belts, torcs, arm bands and cuffs, hair jewelry and headdresses (similar in shape to the kokoshnik), and of course tons of dragon imagery in a variety of ways.

Big shoulders. Long coats with funky split sleeves for the men and long trains on the womens' gowns, all of it in expensive fabrics like velvet, silk, satin, and intricate brocades - they were the royal house after all.

For all the houses I want to stay away from sticking ONLY to the house colours, but did use them as a base to jump off from. So the Targaryens would obviously have red and black, but instead of a bright ruby red it's a whole swath of darker, more subdued tones. Maroon, burgundy, blood red - they're an old dynasty with a lot of weight behind them, so the shades in my mind would be "older"

Grey and white would also come up, with light draped outer garments in warmer weather

Also - purple. Dany wears it several times in the books, and as it's the traditional colour of royalty I can see them wearing it.

I even wondered if - in true Medieval fashion - they were the only ones allowed to wear purple, or certain shades of it, during their reign (or perhaps only during the reign of certain rulers)

Likewise, I see amethysts being a big part of their jewelry - they can be so polished and soft looking but also raw and spiky and dangerous.

Black stones too; onyx and (possibly raw) obsidian in all it's dragony goodness, and garnets that are such a dark red they're close to black. Diamonds as well. Elaborate jewels and beadwork would be worked into the clothing in a variety of ways.

I also have a headcanon that the majority of their jewelry would be mounted on silver or white gold, but never yellow gold to distinguish them from the Lannisters.

The Starks/North

Like many others, I headcanon a Scandinavian look - somewhere between Viking and traditional Saami clothing

Warm materials of course - mostly a variety of wools, linens, and even some kind of flannel - though I want to honour that velvet and silk are both mentioned as part of the Starks' wardrobe. The northerners tend to value comfort and practicality over aesthetic but the ~fancier~ Starks + allies would wear them for sure

Colour scheme would be fairly limited, mostly grey, white, and shades of blue and brown, but I don't want to ignore the fact that Sansa wears a lot of green in the first few books as well, so I'd like to think there's green in their palette

Not much in the way of jewelry, but a lot of heavy and complex embroidery

I can also see them being masters at pleating and smocking details

What jewelry there is would mostly consist of simple necklaces, brooches, pins and cloak clasps of etched iron and bronze, though I can see amber being used for beads, carved wooden beads as well.

Viking-style tortoiseshell brooches

Possibly walrus ivory used in both jewelry and craftwork along the coasts and in the far north.

Amber is fossilized sap, right? So it wouldn't be implausible to think that ancient Weirwood sap could form a rich, blood-red amber that's considered a Northern specialty and highly valued.

High collars to stave off the wind. Lots of fur.

I feel the common folk (and the nobility to some extent) have mastered the art of visible mending - using patching and stitching on worn clothes as a form of decoration. Northern clothing is durable and made to last, but I feel like the people would also push their clothes past the wearable limit and repurpose them for other uses (i.e. an old dress being cut up into fabric for a shawl or gloves, shirts into skirts, cloaks into dresses, etc.), so you'd see a lot of that

Hats! Hats! Hats! It's cold up there you guys!

Lannister/Westerlands:

Ok here I headcanon an early Renaissance/late Medieval sort of vibe, so like late 14th-early 15th centuries but sort of fantasy-ified

Especially the classic Burgundian dress

The Lannisters are very wealthy, so I'd expect the most expensive fabrics for them and other surrounding nobility - silks, velvets, satin, and lots of damask and brocade

Fancy headdresses, slight variations on those tall pointed hats

Also long veils, not so much covering the face but artistically and elaborately draped over the hair

They're all about house pride, so I feel like their house colours would be reflected more obviously in their clothing, so mostly bright, rich reds and gold/yellow shades, though I can also see some vivid greens and warm coppery browns mixed in

Cloth of gold and even metal-infused fabrics could be a thing

ALL about jewelry. Most of it's gold, but they won't say no to silver, copper, or bronze. Heavy and intricate necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings, or jewels just sewn right into the clothes themselves

All kinds of rubies, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds , pearls, opals, any precious stone they can get their hands on really

While they like to show off and make a statement with their clothing, I feel like they'd still have a sense of classiness about it - they're just vain enough to toe the line of gaudiness, but still snooty enough to judge those who cross it

Idk I just picture Cersei having bright red fingernails so. Nail polish.

Greyjoy/Iron Islands:

Someone made a post (that I unfortunately can't find) that described the Iron Island culture as being like a cross between Vikings and golden-age-of-piracy-era pirates, and...yeah that's pretty much my headcanon too

I'm going mostly Viking with this one but I can see some flowy shirts and long 18th century-style coats thrown into the mix

They wouldn't be that colourful though; mostly black, grey, brown, some dull greens, blues, and dark gold

Mostly wool and leather, often waxed to make it water-repellent (yes I stole that from the show's costume designer but you know what, it works That Much)

Also, I can weirdly see knitwear being popular. I know it doesn't match with their vibes, but hey, it's warm, and you can't tell me there isn't at LEAST one Iron Islands granny out there insisting her grandson wears the sweater she made for him before going out raiding so he doesn't get cold

Also also: shawls, fingerless mitts, scarves etc

Also also also, complex cable patterns are a big thing in both Irish and Scandinavian cultures, so I love the idea of them as well as having house sigils having like, family knitting patterns that they wear to identify them (or etched into a leather jerkin, that works too)

On that note - the sailor tradition of wearing a gold earring so if they die at sea their funeral can be paid for totally applies here, though I can see wealthier people wearing other ear piercings just for The Look as well

(Part of Theon's Full Hardcore Ironborn initiation in ACOK involved him getting his ear pierced and you CAN'T convince me otherwise)

I've recently seen a lot of people drawing/headcanoning the Ironborn with tattoos and I gotta say I agree

Possibly facepaint too? Like a war paint situation? Eyeliner??? Yes.

I think much of their jewelry/decoration would come from plundering, so there's stuff from a lot of other cultures

However; amber, iron, bronze, mother of pearl, and pearls (I love the idea of them using primarily black pearls) would be their home specialties

I love the idea of some of the more experienced raiders (like Euron and Victarion who have gone all over the place) wearing foreign/ Essosi coins as ornamentation on their clothes or as jewelry

Temple rings? They were more of a Slavic thing but they were a Viking thing too so *shrugs*

I think the women's clothing would have a hint of rural 18th century dress, though less structured, and they'd often cover their hair, more for practicality's sake than modesty though

Like the Starks they're practical, but I think Fancier Islanders would wear sealskin coats and wraps

THat's it for now, there'll be a part 2 soon and I feel really inspired to draw these so you might even get that at some point if I've got time. Feel free to debate or add your own ideas !

#asoiaf #got #house targaryen #house stark #the north #house greyjoy #the iron islands #long post

[echo-bleu]

Hi, hello, hey! I'd like to request #48, I'm in the mood for angst 💙 Never worry about length, I love & adore everything you write 💙💙💙

Em. I know that by “never worry about length” you meant “it can be super short”. I swear I meant to write something short. I...didn’t.

#48 “You make me want things I can’t have.”

It’s currently 22k and still growing. There will be 5 or 6 chapters, and the prompt doesn’t even come into it until late chapter 4...

It is ANGSTY. It’s a canon divergence where Magnus erases his memories of Alec in 3x19 Read at your own risk and maybe prepare tissues. But I promise a happy ending.

This was betaed by the amazing JeanBoulet. Huge thanks also to the folks at the Fandom Playhouse discord server for all the encouragement and squealing! Especially you Em: I love you and this is a slightly early Christmas present!

[Specific warnings: suicidal thoughts (mentioned), terminal illness/poisoning, internalized ableism]

Summary:

Over the ten months that follow Alec's deal with Asmodeus, Alec struggles to adapt to a world without Magnus in it, Magnus falls in love all over again and everyone just tries to make it through another day.

or

Alec is dying from venom poisoning and Magnus doesn't even remember him.

Read on AO3.

take me back to the start (1)

He’s in Pandemonium, staring across the room at an apparition with a bow in his hand.

He’s in his loft and standing over a pentagram, an electric jolt going through his body as he links hands with someone.

He’s kneeling in his living room, pulling energy from the hand in his, stumbling back against a lean and muscular body, exhausted.

He’s holding up his glass and toasting with a tall man, whispering words, flirting.

He’s watching the man train, shirtless, swallowing back his desire and trying to find the words to say how much he wants him.

He’s standing in a corridor, hurt and heartbroken, the man turning his back on him.

He’s storming into a wedding, and the man is striding toward him—

Wait.

Back up.

*

Back to the start.

*

There’s something bittersweet about being back at Pandemonium after all this time. They’re not here to chase a demon this time, or to offer a priceless jewel in exchange for a summoning. They were trying to get Clary’s memories back then, too, Alec remembers. He was against that plan from the beginning, but it led him to Magnus.

He thought himself in love with Jace, back then.

It’s a strange and painful turn of events that leads them back here. He’s not in love with Jace anymore. Clary isn’t the only one missing her memories. Izzy isn’t wearing that necklace today, though it’s been around her neck every day since—

Alec stops his recollection right there, before it turns into something else. He struggles inside, leaning heavily on his crutches. The music assaults his ears as soon as he’s past the door and he winces. He stays back as Jace and Izzy lose themselves into the crowd. He shouldn’t even be here. He doesn’t know why he decided to come, beside to punish himself.

He adjusts his grip on the crutches and looks around the large, dimly lit room, his height allowing him to scan the crowd easily. He can still see Jace and Izzy making progress toward the mezzanine on the other side of the room. The raised space is less crowded, reserved by the bouncers as a VIP section. Alec can distinguish the couches where a mix of Downworlders are lounging, Seelies blending in with vampires and werewolves.

And a single warlock.

Magnus looks different. He’s let his hair grow a little, and it’s not styled up but to the side, streaked with green and purple — or maybe that’s just the light playing tricks on Alec’s eyes. His outfit is flamboyant, gold brocade on a deep red velvet, the high collar opened on his chest to reveal multiple necklaces. Alec swallows hard.

Alec wonders, even now, if Magnus toned himself down for him when they were together, or if he simply didn’t feel the need to be noticed by other people as much when he was with Alec.

Jace and Izzy reach the stairs and briefly argue with the bouncer at the bottom. After a minute, Magnus makes a gesture and they’re allowed in. Alec can’t hear them, not over the deafening music. He forces himself to take his eyes off Magnus and slowly, painstakingly makes his way around the room, circumventing the crowd to avoid getting toppled over. His balance isn’t good enough anymore to risk the dance floor, and he’s in enough pain as it is without taking a fall.

Izzy and Jace are arguing with Magnus, clearly agitated, when Alec makes it to the mezzanine. The bouncer lets him through without protesting. Alec doesn’t look up until he’s made it up the stairs, and when he does, he can hear bits of shouted conversation amid the music.

“—for a bunch of Shadowhunters to come to my club—”

“Magnus, I know you’re angry, but this is about—”

“I don’t know why I’d even listen to Lightwoods of all people—”

“Magnus! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

That’s Jace. Alec wants to intervene, but he can’t bring himself to yell from across the room. He’s not sure he can speak at all.

“I know Alec broke your heart, but—” Izzy starts.

Alec braces himself. Magnus’ eyes land on him, but there’s no recognition in them, only a frown. The truth feels like a knife twisting in Alec’s gut. He was still holding on to hope but his mother was right, there’s no denying it now. Then Magnus looks at Jace and Izzy, his gaze turning angry, and back at Alec. There’s a vague curiosity on his face, a slight tilt of his head Alec knows well — but not anymore, because it’s not meant to be this way—

“Who’s Alec?” Magnus asks.

The knife twists again. Alec stumbles, hissing in pain. It feels like an actual, physical wound. His throat knots up, and he turns away from Magnus. He needs to get out of here.

He ignores the stabbing pain in his hip as he stumbles down the stairs, a mess of crutches and barely controlled steps, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t end up face down at the bottom. He runs out the backdoor as fast as he can, into a back alley smelling of piss and forgotten garbage. The contents of his stomach make it to the floor, behind a trash can.

He leans against the wall, barely avoiding stepping into a puddle of his own vomit, and stays there until breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing needles anymore. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when Jace and Izzy find him. He can’t get Magnus’ face out of his head. The way his eyes slid over Alec like he wasn’t even there. Who’s Alec?

“Alec,” Jace calls him. He must have felt Alec’s distress through the parabatai bond. Though Alec isn’t sure what Jace feels from him anymore, these days. Between the agony of leaving Magnus and his injury, Alec has tried his best to close his side of the bond.

And the last few days, he’s pretty sure Jace has tried to do the same for him. He looks rough, like he hasn’t slept in days — none of them has. Not since Clary left.

“Did he agree?” he asks.

Izzy scrunches up her face in pain. “Yeah, but—”

“He doesn’t remember us,” Alec states.

“Alec—”

“He erased his memories of me, and by extension, you. I hoped he’d remember Clary, since he knew her from before.”

“He does, that’s why he agreed to help,” Jace says. There’s hope and sorrow mixing on his face, warring with each other like he doesn’t know how to feel either. “But how could he—”

“I broke his heart,” Alec murmurs. “He has the power to erase me, so he did. At least he’s not hurting.”

“You knew?” Izzy asks, shocked.

“Yes. Mom went to see him, before the battle. She figured out what I’d done and she tried to tell him. He treated her like she was still a Circle member and he shut the door in her face. She told me once I woke up.”

“Oh, Alec,” Izzy squeezes his arm. Alec leans into her touch, even though he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want comfort. He wants...he wants the sweet relief of oblivion, too. But he’s not going to get that. Not yet.

And he wouldn’t want to forget Magnus for the world.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Jace asks.

Alec looks away, fighting back tears. It’s answer enough. He didn’t want to believe it, not really. He knew. He knew when Magnus didn’t come after the battle of Alicante. Catarina confirmed it, with a gentleness that surprised even Alec.

But everyone is gentle with him these days, like they’re walking on eggs. He’s become fragile. No, broken.

Broken beyond repair.

*

Magnus sighs. Having Shadowhunters in his loft makes his skin crawl. At least when he told them to bring a fifth they chose someone decent, Clary’s vampire friend Simon. It might make it harder to do the ritual, but Magnus won’t have to clean up after a fourth thoughtless Shadowhunter.

The two he’s already interacted with — Jace and Isabelle — are brash and annoying, clearly used to the spotlight. Simon seems to be dating Isabelle, though Magnus can hardly see what he sees in her beside her looks. She was downright rude the other day.

The third Shadowhunter is more interesting. He’s tall and handsome, honestly one of the most beautiful men Magnus has ever seen, though he looks sad and drawn. There’s something familiar about him that Magnus can’t place. Unlike his sister, he doesn’t particularly look like either of his parents, so it’s not that. Maybe something from one of the other Lightwoods or Truebloods Magnus has known over the years.

He’s avoiding Magnus’ gaze with a consistency that would be admirable if it wasn’t uncomfortable. Is he really so sure of his superiority that he won’t even look a Downworlder in the eyes?

No, it’s not that. Magnus is almost sure there’s something else, something he should know. Something...something to do with the box in his nightstand, the one with a carved bow and arrows on the lid.

He knows what the box is. He knows it contains memories he chose to remove from his mind, memories that must have been painful – Magnus knows himself. If the memories had been dangerous, he’d have put them somewhere safer. This is something else. This is personal. And something in his subconscious is telling him that these Shadowhunters have something to do with it.

It’s only one more reason not to trust them, as far as Magnus is concerned. If they hurt him badly enough that he had to remove his memories...that means heartbreak. Did they do something to his lover, somehow? Did they kill the one Magnus loved?

The tall Shadowhunter – Alec – talks quietly with his siblings in a corner of the room. He’s walking with difficulty, leaning on metal crutches that make a soft tap on the floor each time he takes a step. Magnus tracks him through the room that way, watching him through the corner of his eyes. Each move looks painful, and there’s something emanating from him, like an unknown sickness. Some sort of battle injury, Magnus guesses. From fighting demons in New York, or from the now infamous Battle of Alicante four months ago? He knows there were many casualties, and there must have been wounded Shadowhunters too.

“Magnus,” Isabelle calls him quietly. Magnus snaps back to the task at hand. They’re not here for a social call.

“What?” he snaps at her.

“I know you don’t remember us, but you know you’re missing memories, right?”

“Yes,” Magnus sighs. “I’m not interested in knowing more about them, especially not from you. I removed them for a reason.”

“Alright, alright,” Isabelle relents. “So, do you think you can help Clary?”

“If the Angels took away her runes and her memories, it’s not going to be the same as simply unlocking a mental block or retrieving memories,” Magnus says. “This won’t be easy, and I’m not sure it can be done.”

He sees the others, except Alec, gather around him to listen. “Once, you helped her get back her memories,” Jace said. “It didn’t work—” he glances at Alec across the room, “—but it could have.”

Magnus’ memory of that day is present, but incomplete, full of holes he knows are due to a memory spell. He doesn’t remember why it didn’t work. He hopes it won’t matter today.

“Those memories were ones I took myself,” he says. “I fed them to a memory demon. Biscuit’s current situation is a tad more complicated.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Isabelle asks.

“You said she has pure angel blood, didn’t you? And so do you,” Magnus points at Jace. “The same blood, in fact.”

“That’s right.”

“We’re going to use that. We’re going to ask for her memories back directly from the source. We’re going to summon an angel.”

“Is it safe?” Alec asks, approaching them, and Magnus realizes that this is the first time he’s spoken aloud in his presence.

“No,” Magnus answers.

“Alec, if there’s even a chance—” Jace pleads. “We have to.”

Alec closes his eyes, looking pained. “Jace—”

“No, Alec. It’s not fair. She didn’t chose this.”

Alec opens his eyes again, his whole body stiffening. Isabelle’s eyes widen as she looks between him and Jace, and even Jace seems to freeze in shock at his own words. The whole room appears to hold its breath, waiting to see Alec snap.

“You’re right,” Alec says after a moment, his shoulders slumping. He looks like he’s holding the weight of the world on his shoulders. Magnus feels a strange instinct to help him, to offer a body to lean on – but he doesn’t move. “She didn’t. We’ll do it.”

He’s clearly the leader of their group, because after that, there’s no protest, no question, not even from Simon. In fact, Simon looks at Alec with a mixture of admiration and sadness in his eyes, and his gaze is hard when he turns back toward Magnus.

Magnus doesn’t know what he’s done to provoke this kind of hostility. From cocky Shadowhunters like Jace and Isabelle, he expects it, though he’s starting to suspect that their carelessness is only a facade. From Simon, with whom he’s only had friendly, even fatherly interactions? Not so much.

Alec seems to be the only one not angry with him in some way. Instead, he steals looks at Magnus when he thinks Magnus is not looking, and his gaze in those moments is too intense, filled with emotions Magnus can’t even begin to comprehend.

Isabelle makes Alec sit down on the couch while Magnus prepares the ingredients needed for the ritual. Alec refuses at first, looking around him like he doesn’t want to touch anything in the loft, but he relents after half an hour, clearly in a lot of pain. He stays with his back ramrod straight, refusing to relax. He touches the leather of the couch almost reverently, and Isabelle just tilts her head sadly.

Magnus is being far too curious about them. He has no reason to be. They’re just Shadowhunters paying for his services, that’s all. He needs to focus on helping Clary.

The ritual involves painting the ceiling as well as the floor, so he concentrates all his magic on the intricate drawings. “Is this some kind of angelic pentagram?” Simon asks curiously.

“Not exactly,” Magnus answers. “There are similar elements, but this is an angelic Seal.” He doesn’t add that it’s the archangel seal he inherited from his father. An entrance to Heaven, right here at his doorstep, even for a Fallen angel. “It still needs five people to activate it.”

“Summoning an angel,” Simon says. “It’s gotta be dangerous, right? I mean, not for them, but for us?” he gestures to Magnus and himself, excluding the Shadowhunters.

“It could be painful, if the angel doesn’t like our demon blood. Are you ready to do that for Clary?”

“I’d go to Hell for her,” Simon says, tilting his head. “And further.”

Magnus nods. “Angels are unpredictable, but this one will be bound by the Seal. He shouldn’t be able to do true harm.”

“So we just ask him to give back Clary’s memories?” Isabelle asks.

“I’m just handling the Seal,” Magnus says. “It will take all my energy. Jace will ask the question. I suggest you think about what you want to ask.”

Jace nods from where he’s standing in parade rest by Alec. “I already know,” he says.

“Then gather up,” Magnus says. “I’m ready.”

They all stand around the circle he painted on the ground, each going inside one of the smaller circles linked by a network of white lines. Alec leaves his crutches on the floor outside of the Seal area and limps over to his spot with a grunt, standing with his full weight on his good leg.

“Link hands,” Magnus orders.

Isabelle and Jace exchange a look Magnus can’t interpret. They’re on each side of Alec, with Simon beside Isabelle and Magnus completing the circle between him and Jace. He reaches out and clasps his hands with the two men.

The pull on Magnus’ power, as soon as the circle is closed, is immense. If he hadn’t recently received an enormous boost, thanks to his father’s death and Edom’s destruction, he wouldn’t have been able to handle it. He focuses his energy on keeping the Seal stable, between the floor and the ceiling, a column of light with them on the outside.

The form of the angel starts to shimmer inside the light, wings folded back against his back. He doesn’t become fully solid, instead remaining ethereal, almost see-through.

“Who dares to summon an angel?”

His mouth doesn’t move, but the voice rings in all their heads.

Magnus grits his teeth against the pain blooming in his chest, tightening his hold on Simon and Jace’s hands. It was always going to be painful. The angels hate nothing more than demon blood, even – especially – when the blood is from a fallen angel. It hurts like hell, but Magnus has been to hell, and he’s come back. He can do this. Simon is wincing, but not as badly, his own demon blood more diluted.

What Magnus doesn’t expect is for Alec to cry out and crumple, barely holding onto his siblings’ hands. He’s angel-blooded. He shouldn’t be in pain. Or is it just his injury acting up under the pressure of the Seal?

He looks barely conscious, his mouth half-opened in a cry of pain. Magnus swallows against his own throbbing chest and signals to Jace to get a move on.

“Raziel’s soldier, and Ithuriel’s child,” he answers. “I am of angel blood.”

The angel turns toward him. “Jonathan Herondale. Yes, we know of you. What do you want from the Angels?”

“My lover, Clarissa Fairchild. She’s one of your children, too. You took her powers and her memories.”

“She played with powers beyond her understanding,” the angel says. “She was punished.”

“I’m asking the angels for forgiveness,” Jace says. “Forgive her, and she and I will be your soldiers on Earth, for as long as you desire.”

Magnus grimaces and hopes Jace knows what he’s doing. He hasn’t had much dealings with the angels before, but this is a not promise that can be taken lightly.

The pain is getting harder to bear, and Magnus wishes Jace would hurry up. Simon is looking a little frayed around the edges, his face screwed up in pain.

Alec looks like he’s hanging on by a thread.

“It is not in my power to decide,” the angel says. “But the Angels are fair. We do not deal punishment unjustly. Her sentence is not forever.”

“She’ll be forgiven?” Jace asks, his surprise showing through his facade. “She’ll get her memories and her runes back?”

“Eventually.”

“But when?”

The angel opens his mouth, but before he can answer, Alec lets out a cry of pain and his hands slip out of his siblings as he falls to the floor. The circle breaks, and the pillar of light disappears, taking the angel with it. “No!” Jace cries out, but he doesn’t reach for the angel. He reaches for Alec instead.

He falls to his knees beside his brother. “Alec!”

“I’m fine,” Alec grunts, through he’s clearly anything but. He’s curled up on himself, his face white with agony, even now that the angel is gone and the pressure on Magnus’ chest has left. “I’m sorry, Jace.”

“It’s okay, brother,” Jace murmurs. “Why did he react like this?” he asks louder, looking up at Magnus.

Magnus shakes his head. ���I don’t know. It should only have done that if he had demon blood.”

Jace and Isabelle share a look, and Simon’s breath hitches. Magnus looks between them, but none of them is forthcoming with whatever knowledge they have that Magnus doesn’t share.

Alec sits up with Jace’s help, his hand going to his right hip as he groans in pain. “Help me up,” he asks his brother. Jace seems ready to protest, but he must see something in Alec’s face, because he gets Alec’s arm around his shoulders instead. Isabelle goes to retrieve the crutches and gives them back to Alec, who takes them with trembling hands.

Magnus’ heart tightens, seeing him in such obvious pain. He doesn’t know why—

Or maybe he does. The signs are all there, and it’s time he stopped pretending not to see them.

These Shadowhunters didn’t hurt his lover or his friends. These Shadowhunters were his friends, somehow. And Alec…

Alec is the one who must have broken his heart. That’s the only explanation for what Magnus feels right now. It’s like body memory, almost, a level of compassion and love that cannot possibly come from the few interactions they’ve had that he remembers.

Magnus steels himself against the part of his brain that wants to get the memory box from his nightstand right now and open it. He removed those memories for a reason. Because living with them must have hurt too much.

He’s not going to go back on that and expose himself to that kind of suffering just because he’s curious.

“What does it mean for Clary?” Simon asks.

“I don’t know,” Jace says. “He said she’d be forgiven eventually, but—”

“Angels don’t see the passage of time like you do,” Magnus cuts in. “It could be years. Decades.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Isabelle asks. Alec remains quiet, head down, still leaning against Jace.

“Nothing I can think of,” Magnus answers. He stands up straighter. “Which means you’re no longer in need of my services. Please refrain from coming back here unless there’s a true emergency.”

He doesn’t want the reminder that he decided to erase the last — what, three years? — of his life.

Isabelle looks visibly shaken by that, and she swallows. Alec doesn’t look up at all. He turns away like he doesn’t want Magnus to see his face, and Magnus wonders what he’s trying to hide. Jace throws him a murderous look, and Simon shakes his head in sadness.

“We’ll get out of your hair, then,” Isabelle says quietly. “We won’t bother you again.”

Good riddance, Magnus thinks.

It rings wrong even in his head.

*

“How are you doing?”

Izzy leans against the door frame of Alec’s office. She looks tired, overworked. She’s taken on so much in the last few months.

It’s been two weeks since Alec collapsed at Magnus’. He can still feel the pain burning through his veins, eating away at his body, each day bringing him closer to the edge.

“I’m fine,” Alec says, putting down his pen. He shifts in his seat painfully, his hip seizing. He’s been sitting still for too long.

“I wish you would stop saying that,” Izzy sighs.

“I wish you would stop asking me,” Alec shrugs.

They’ve been beating around the bush, trying to ignore the elephant in the room. It’s too big to tackle during work days. They go through the motions like it all still matters, the Clave, the Downworld Cabinet, the patrols. Alec can see Jace and Izzy struggle with it, but he can’t do anything for them.

Clary’s gone back to art school, all knowledge of the Shadow World erased from her mind. Alec has made sure that she’s safe and settled, and all that’s left is watching Jace tear himself apart as he grieves. The hope that the angel brought them isn’t enough. Not when it’s so vague.

Not when everything else is falling apart, too.

It’s been just over four months since it started, since the day Alec made a deal with Asmodeus. It feels like an eternity ago, and yet also like it was yesterday. Magnus’ desperation as Alec broke up with him is seared in his mind forever, and it accompanies Alec’s every waking thought.

Magnus doesn’t remember.

It’s a comfort, these days. Losing Magnus will remain the hardest thing Alec has ever done, but he’s thankful for it, however much it hurts. Because it means that Magnus has his magic again, that he can be happy.

Because it means that Magnus doesn’t have to live through the aftermath.

It’s been four months, too, since the Battle of Alicante. Magnus missed it all. He wasn’t there when they all thought they were going to die there, trapped by the demon hordes, caught in between two forces of evil. He wasn’t there to hold Alec’s hand when he woke up in the hospital to a broken body and demon venom coursing through his veins.

He wasn’t there, when they figured out that it was a death sentence.

Catarina slowed the spread of the venom, but nothing she or the Silent Brothers tried could get it out of his system.

“You’re hurting,” Izzy says, walking in fully and closing the door behind her. “I can see it. I know you don’t like the painkillers, but you need them.”

Painfree runes have long stopped working on Alec’s abused body. The mundane pills were Catarina’s idea. She was there in the aftermath of the battle, when Magnus wasn’t, she ran triage with the Silent Brothers and saved countless Shadowhunters. She did her best to piece Alec’s shattered hip back together and she was the one who figured out what was wrong with him.

“They’re not much use anymore,” Alec admits. The pills are some of the strongest on the market, but his Nephilim body metabolizes everything faster than a mundane, and they barely take the edge off.

No, it’s better that Magnus isn’t here. That he didn’t have to sit by Alec’s bedside after the battle, praying at every new treatment, every test, that something would change. That he doesn’t have to watch the venom slowly win over Alec’s body, leaving him weak and trembling. That he won’t have to wait with them for the day it will reach his heart, and it will all be over.

Maybe a year, Catarina told him. If you stop working and rest most of the time.

Alec has done neither. He can’t. He’ll go out of his mind if he tries to rest anymore than he already does. Work takes his mind off things.

He’s still the Head of the Institute, if only because there is barely enough left of the Clave to hold Alicante together, and appointing new Heads has been the least of their problems.

“There has to be something else we can do,” Izzy says. “To relieve the pain, at least.”

“You know there isn’t,” Alec sighs.

She’s not doing well. None of them are. They’re barely holding themselves together.

They lost their father, the day of the battle. Robert Lightwood didn’t make it out of the destroyed city. They’ve lost Clary and Magnus, and now they’re losing Alec too, as his deterioration accelerates with each passing day.

Their whole family is falling apart.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Izzy says, faking lightness. “We can meet Simon and Maia at the Hunter’s Moon. It will be nice.”

Alec wants to say yes, to give her that, a moment of normalcy amid the chaos. But he’s exhausted and in pain, the ache in his hip never letting up. He’s tired of people watching what they say around him. Looking at him like he’s going to disappear any minute.

He shakes his head. “I think I’ll just go to bed early tonight. I could use the rest.”

Izzy nods wordlessly, disappointed but understanding. “I love you, big brother,” she says.

She says it a lot, these days.

“I love you too,” Alec replies, like every other time. There’s nothing else to say. No it’s gonna be okay, Izzy because it’s not, and they both know it.

Someone knock on the door. “Yes?” Alec calls.

Underhill pokes his head in. “Sir, your mother is here.”

“Let her in,” Alec nods. Maryse has been hovering, and he can’t blame her. Looking at Izzy, he can’t deny her the little bit of hope in her eyes. “Let’s make it a family thing,” he says. “Go get Jace and Max.” He can hold off his exhaustion for a few more hours, for them.

Izzy slips out with a smile on her face and Underhill comes back with Maryse in tow.

“Hey, Mom,” Alec smiles weakly, pushing himself up to greet her.

Maryse strides to his side and hugs him tightly. “Alec,” she breathes, love and pain warring in her voice. “How do you feel today?”

“Not great,” Alec murmurs.

He finds himself honest with her, these days, more than he is with his siblings. She’s been his strongest support, despite their once strained relationship, and Alec is too spent to be angry with her as he once was. All of that doesn’t matter, anymore.

Maryse doesn’t break down, at least not in his presence. But Alec is too much like her for his own good, and he can see her pain in every gesture, in the way her hugs last a little longer, the way she tightens her hand on his arm, the way her voice hitches every time she says goodbye after spending time with him.

She hands him his crutches and supports him as he gets situated. Walking is getting harder every day, as the venom lights his nerve endings on fire with every step on his already unstable hip. Maryse just squeezes his shoulder as he hobbles around his desk and hovers until he’s safely sitting on the couch.

“Tell me,” she says quietly, kicking off her shoes and curling up beside him.

They’ve become tactile in a way they never were before. Neither of them likes being touched much, but as it turns out, terminal illness has a way of making you reevaluate your priorities. Alec lets his family hug him as much as they want to now, even on the days it makes his skin crawl.

He sighs, leaning his shoulder against his mother’s. “The new Inquisitor is a homophobic dick. And he wants me removed. He says I can’t do my job anymore.”

“Jia won’t let him do it,” Maryse says.

“I don’t know. He’s not wrong.”

Maryse takes his hand in hers. “Alec, even now, you’re a much better Head than I ever was. You’re holding up admirably in the worst of circumstances.”

“I’m tired,” Alec murmurs. “I don’t know how long I can do this.”

She squeezes his hand, and he sees her swallow back her emotions. “If you feel like you should step down to rest, I’m sure Jens can handle the fort for a while. Until Izzy’s ready.”

Not until you come back. She’s the only one of all of them who faces the inevitable and doesn’t try to pretend that Alec is going to get better. If nothing else, she’s never been one to shy away from the hard truths.

“Maybe soon,” Alec says. He doesn’t want to, but he’s quickly getting to the point where he won’t be able to work anymore. “I miss him,” he adds, his voice breaking. “I can’t stop.”

Alec can’t get Magnus’ face out of his head. The way Magnus looked at him like he was nothing to him. Alec is nothing to him, now. Magnus doesn’t remember any of their time together.

It hurts more than Alec would have thought possible. He’d thought he’d already reached rock bottom, that nothing could possibly hurt worse than breaking up with Magnus. Than waking up in that hospital bed, having lost everything. But that look haunts him.

Maryse just hugs him without a word.

“Alec!” Max exclaims, rushing into the office with his usual energy. Izzy and Jace are on his heels. He jumps on the couch on Alec’s other side, missing Alec’s quick wince when it jostles his leg.

Max is old enough to understand what’s happening, and not quite old enough to know what to do with his emotions. He alternates between acting like everything is fine and randomly bursting into tears, with no in-between. Today seems to be the former, because he starts rambling about his training without a care in the world.

Alec looks up at Jace and they share an entire conversation in an eyebrow raise. Alec keeps his side of the parabatai bond firmly closed, but he knows that his pain leaks through anyway. He can feel Jace’s despair, the way he’s barely hanging on by a thread.

They say the worst pain a Shadowhunter can endure is the loss of his parabatai. Alec remembers the words. It’s one of the things they learn, in the initial parabatai testing. They’re asked if it’s worth it, risking that.

When they gave a resounding yes, their fourteen-year-old brains had no space to comprehend the pain of today.

Jace and Izzy watch Alec like he’s about to disappear, and he knows, he can see, that they can’t yet imagine what will happen after.

They don’t talk about it during the day. It’s too heavy, to much to bear for all of them.

At night, Alec finds himself more often than not sandwiched between Jace and Izzy in his bed. They come claiming they have nightmares or can’t sleep, never quite saying that they just want to feel close to someone else, close to Alec. They say the words, quietly, the words that won’t come out during the day. It was worth it.

And sometimes, where thou diest, I will die. On those days, Alec hugs Jace tight as he tries to convince himself that he doesn’t mean it, that he will go on.

“—and Kara keeps saying I need to work on my defense, but she’s not a teacher!” Max is saying when Alec tunes back into his surroundings. He’s absently drumming his fingers on his good leg, his other hand still in Maryse’s.

“You should listen to her, Max,” Izzy says. “She’s one of the best fighters of her generation. She’s a fairly new transfer,” she explains to Maryse.

“She’s not even a grown-up!” Max protests. “Besides, Aline said she needs to stop overthinking every fight. So she’s not that good.”

“I don’t think you were supposed to hear that,” Alec says, fairly sure that Aline was not referring Kara’s training but rather the frequent phone calls with her deeply transphobic father that send her crying to either of their offices. “You should spend more time training and less time eavesdropping.”

Max pouts and they all laugh, the lightness of the moment freeing them from the stifling sorrow that’s settled between the adults in the room.

Maryse makes the effort to keep the conversation going after that, though she never releases Alec’s hand. It feels good, to have a normal moment with his family. Jace still has shadows in his eyes, but he settles in a chair and even smiles. Izzy’s cheerfulness sounds a bit fake, but she tries. Alec struggles to keep the pain from showing, but he watches them and feels a deep swarm of love for all of them.

After they’re all gone, Alec painfully stumbles back to his desk and pulls up a piece of paper and a pen.

Dear Magnus, he writes. He pauses, and wishes that even Magnus’ name didn’t make him want to cry. Every minute I spent with you was worth the pain it causes me today.

He writes on, until his hand shakes too much to continue. He doesn’t cross out anything, or bother censuring himself. He puts down his pen, finally, and folds the paper carefully.

He unlocks the bottom drawer of his desk with a rune and opens it. He goes to slip the letter he’s just written inside, but he can’t help but stare at the small box there. He doesn’t open it. He knows its contents by heart. He can almost feel it under his finger, the raised edges of the Lightwood crest in smooth silver, the ring he was going to give Magnus. It will go to Izzy, now. There’s a letter for her, underneath the box.

There are other letters, too. One addressed to the next Head of the Institute, instructions on how to keep the Downworld Cabinet going. Alec’s will, freshly updated. Every Shadowhunter is required to draft a will before their first mission in the field, and rewrite it every year. They know better than any other mortal that they can die at any time.

There’s a letter for Jace. One for Maryse. One for Max, who will have to finish growing up without a father and down one brother.

The rest are for Magnus. During the endless days he spent laid up in the hospital, Alec took to writing him letters. In them, he recounted the strongest beats of their relationship, the sweet moments, the hard truths. Everything Alec can remember, since he now has to remember for them both.

He doesn’t think Magnus will ever read them, but he’s not doing this for Magnus. He’s doing this for himself. One last indulgence, since he’s no longer good for anything else.

A drop falls on the top letter, turning the paper darker. Alec jumps and realizes it’s sweat falling down from his hairline. He puts down today’s letter, carefully tucking it in to make a tidy stack, and closes the drawer, his hands trembling a little. His fever is spiking again. In a few hours, he’ll be delirious and out of his mind.

Jace says he cries out for Magnus, in the worst moments. Alec has stopped letting anyone else into his Soundless-rune proofed room. It’s getting worse. It used to happen every few days, but recently, he hardly ever goes a night without losing himself to the venom in his body.

He’s slipping away.

He doesn’t want to die, if only for the pain he knows it will cause his family. But more and more, on days like today, he thinks it might be a relief.

#shadowhunters #malec #malec fic #alec lightwood #magnus bane #isabelle lightwood #jace wayland #angst #take me back to the start #mine #echo's fanfiction #hmdiscord #malec discord server #moonlight-breeze-44 #asks

[everlarkbirthdaydrabbles]

Hi, my birthday is February 19th and I'd love something along the lines of enemies to lovers Modern AU (smut) if that's possible. Thank you so much to all the authors who contribute!!

Wishing you a wonderful birthday! To start you days off right, the always delightful @appleblossomgirl0305 has written this perfect bit of Everlark, just for you! Enjoy!

Treed

Rating: M/E

Trigger warnings: Logging operations? Heights? The mating habits of quail?

A/N: Happy birthday! I hope all of your birthday wishes come true! Never-ending gratitude to @xerxia31 for helping in every way possible.

Peeta hunkered down in his chair, swiveling away from the opening of his cubicle. He had two immediate problems; his editor was looking for him and he was hungover. Again. Plutarch Heavensbee was hard to take on a normal day, but with a blazing headache and already sour stomach, Peeta feared the consequences of a run in this morning.

“Damn,” he muttered, sucking a sharp whistling breath as he burned his tongue on his scaldingly hot coffee. Why did the little kiosk in the entryway always insist on making horribly weak, but ridiculously hot coffee? Maybe a better question was why he continued to buy it. But every time he walked into the chrome and marble opulence of the Capital Media Corps foyer, with its twenty stories of frantically busy, hungry machine of information and commerce looming above him, he felt like an imposter. He felt like every silk-shirted woman in her clackity-clacking heels determinedly running to the next important story, each shiny-shoed, cuff-linked man barking into his cell phone that he “needed it yesterday, dammit!” could tell he didn’t really belong there. That he was a small-town boy from District 12 who still dreamt of his parent’s bakery, cinnamon and dill-scented tendrils curling through his dreams.

He knew how lucky he was to have landed a job at the Capitol Media Corps. The cutthroat elite clawed each other apart, climbing over the backs of their fallen colleagues to nab a position at the exclusive media conglomerate. Unbeknownst to Peeta, the editor at his hometown paper had entered some of his articles and cartoons into several competitions and Peeta was shocked when he received the letter that he had won the Snowbird Award for Outstanding Young Journalists.

Within days, Peeta was contacted by Plutarch Heavensbee himself and the renowned Editor in Chief had offered him a prestigious job at CMC. Peeta had wanted to be proud, to feel the undeniable tug of ambition, but all he felt was hurt. Hurt that Haymitch had gone behind his back and seemed happy to tie a bow around his neck and send him off to the Capitol. Saddened that his father had patted him on the back and told him he’d be a fool not to go. Devastated that even this grand achievement hadn’t been enough to attract the attention of the girl he had loved and pined for his entire life. So he accepted the job, drove everything he owned across the country to the god-forsaken Capitol and began what had turned out to be an incredibly depressing chapter of his life.  

When he had begun his job as the sole political cartoonist for CMC, he had been told that he was welcome to be funny, and reasonably political, but that in no uncertain terms he was not to bite the hand that fed them. And President Snow fed them all. And held their collective nuts in a vice. So the very things that had made him valuable, his shrewd wit and political astuteness, his ability to see several moves ahead to an inevitable end, were cut off at the knees. And thus, he had become a neutered journalist, reduced to drawing caricatures.

He tried not to care, to make the most of this charmed life, which people never tired of telling him how lucky he was to have. He spent the first year playing the part of hard-hitting, hard-partying member of the press. He drank too much, slept with way too many women who called him “Peter” and didn’t even ask if he wanted their number. He bought terrible, blistering-hot coffee as a prop, he dressed ironically in wingtips and open-collared shirts because he could never get the knot on his tie to sit right. He was just the quirky political cartoonist anyway. Most of his co-workers preferred to consider him invisible.

Now, four years later and nearing his thirtieth birthday, he was hungover, rapidly running out of creative ways to depict President Snow’s political rivals as zoo animals. And he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the clock and wondering if his dad, flour-dusted and ensconced in the warmth of bakery, had put the cheese buns in the oven yet.

“There you are, Mellark,” boomed Heavensbee from directly behind Peeta. Peeta sprang forward, juggling his coffee to prevent third-degree burns. “I’ve got an assignment for you.”

Coffee safely deposited on his desk, Peeta swiveled to face his editor. Plutarch Heavensbee was nothing if not flamboyant. Currently, he was decked out in an amethyst waistcoat with gold brocade and persimmon-orange scarf tied around his neck. “An assignment?” Peeta asked cautiously, he’d never been given an actual assignment before, just general instructions to point out the obvious buffoonery of Snow’s chosen targets.

“Yes,” said Plutarch, examining his nails. “We’re sending you home. To District 12.” Peeta’s heart took flight before he could stop it. Then he remembered that it was no longer his home. “It seems,” Plutarch continued, “that some silly girl has taken it upon herself to stop logical progress of an important logging project by taking up residence in some old tree.” He sighed heavily, as if the very stupidity of such a nonsensical act exhausted him. “The President himself has taken an interest in getting her to come down.”

“But, Mr. Heavensbee, I’m a political cartoonist,” Peeta felt the need to remind his editor, he couldn’t blame his boss for forgetting based on his unremarkable work to date.

“Of course you are, m’boy, but you were an investigative journalist before you came to us, were you not?” Before Peeta could answer, Plutarch continued, with a dismissive wave of his heavily ringed hand, “And regardless you’re from 12. Your lot are notoriously unwelcoming to strangers. Throw a Capitolite into their midst and their lips close up tighter than a clam shell. No, I need you to cover this story and do your best to make sure the community understands that it’s in everyone’s best interest if she comes down.” Plutarch’s pink-rimmed eyes narrowed as they met Peeta’s and Peeta was surprised to feel defensive on behalf of the unknown girl in the tree. You can take the boy out of District 12… Maybe Plutarch had a point.

Peeta ran through a litany of possible responses. He could claim he was too busy, but who was he kidding? He could refuse, but that seemed destined to end in him being fired, which was only partially attractive. He could try to wiggle out of it, claim he was sick or something, but he couldn’t muster the necessary conviction. What was the point? Then he was assaulted by a series of images that nearly stole the breath from him: his father’s soft chuckle, the smell of cinnamon buns fresh from the oven as he drizzled them with icing, the soft thud of hickory nuts falling into the sun-warmed earth. He sighed, shrugging, “When do I leave?”

“You’re on the noon train. Just enough time to pack and call your folks to let them know you’ll be staying with them.” Peeta tried to object, but Plutarch cut him off. “No hotels for our hometown boy. People need to see you coming out of the bakery every morning on your way to talk this crazy girl out of the tree.”

Peeta sighed. There was no use arguing with Plutarch, he’d figure it out when he got there.

Peeta stood, slung his bag over his shoulder and went to retrieve his coffee off the desk before deciding the trash bin was a better place for it. No matter what potential horrors the next few days held, strong black tea and cinnamon rolls would temper the experience.

As Peeta walked down the cubicle alley, Plutarch called out to him, “You don’t happen to know this girl, this,” he looked down at the note in his hand, “Katniss Everdeen, do you?”

All of the blood rushed to his feet, making him light headed as Peeta shook his head feebly and resumed his walk to the elevator. He wasn’t lying, he didn’t actually know her. Though she was the only girl he had ever loved. And as he imagined her lithe body scaling a tree, her signature braid trailing behind her, his stomach seized in humiliation. Now, in addition to his memories and dreams, he was going to be chasing Katniss Everdeen professionally.

xxxxx

It was surprisingly boring being an eco-terrorist. That’s what they were calling her now: Katniss Everdeen, the Eco-terrorist. At least that’s what the logging executives from the Capitol called her. Last she heard from Gale when he dropped off her latest supplies around 2:00 am, several of the more radical environmental groups were claiming responsibility for her “activism”. She wanted to roll her eyes at all of them. Better yet, she just wanted them all to go home and leave her and the forest alone. She wasn’t doing this for them (or god-forbid to be famous?), she was doing it because it had to be done. The trees and the creatures that depended on them couldn’t fight for themselves, so she supposed she should do it. Probably should have been Gale, he was definitely prettier than her, more charismatic and photogenic, but she was lighter and the better climber, so this one fell on her shoulders.

Since she’d climbed up here ten days ago, she’d spent most of her mornings negotiating via cell phone with irate businessmen who alternated between cajoling her to come down like a good girl and threatening that they’d cut the tree down with her in it if she didn’t get her ass down, then the rest of her day watching and listening, both of which suited her fine. They’d sent a few guys up on the pulley system they’d rigged with the order to “bring her down”, but who were they kidding? She just scampered out of their reach on the branches that couldn’t possibly support their weight and gracelessness, and at the first ominous crack, they had predictably retreated, swearing all the way down.

Gale had informed her that the press was “finally taking notice” and that they’d be showing up anytime now. Katniss hoped most of the interviews would happen from the ground anyway, she figured it was unlikely that anyone would be willing to climb up to talk with her. Haymitch Abernathy, who ran the local paper had sent up a fifth of good whiskey in her bucket and a note that read, “Good luck, Sweetheart.” That was pretty much her idea of a perfect interaction with the press.

But just as the sun was starting to dip down towards the treetops, she saw that someone was being raised up to her in the harness. She had positioned her camp 20 feet up the tree on branches too small to support a pulley system, but she was curious enough to go down to the branch where her visitor would soon be deposited. Of course, she’d stay a good four feet out of his reach, she wasn’t going to make this too easy on him, but she was a tiny bit impressed that he’d elected to meet her on her level.

But when the reporter from the CMC (she could tell from the orange vest emblazoned with their symbol) finally made it up to her, he grasped onto the branch in a way that made her heart clench in sympathy. She recognized his fear and climbed down to him. When he had stopped shaking enough to raise his head, from beneath the ridiculous hardhat, Katniss was met with the blue eyes and freckled cheeks she only saw in her dreams. And her heart clenched for an entirely different reason.

xxxxx

God, it was humiliating to see her like this after all this time. Being hoisted up in a harness, wearing a hardhat and neon orange safety vest. What these accessories were supposed to keep him safe from was a complete mystery. Maybe they just thought it would make him a little more visible as he plummeted to his death from the top of this damn tree. He hoped he wasn’t visibly shaking, but he figured he probably was, since his insides felt gooshy and his hands wouldn’t grip properly. Leave it to Katniss to make him feel even more ridiculously useless. As if silently pining for her for several decades wasn’t pathetic enough, now he got to hang from a harness and quake clamily. This was the farthest thing from the reunions he had fantasized about over the years. It was as if all those years of exile in the Capitol had meant less than nothing. The harness jerked as he reached the end of the cable and he squeezed his eyes closed and bit the inside of his lip to keep from crying out.

His own cowardice disgusted him. But then, he’d always had a weakness for this girl. And suddenly, confusingly, he felt more like his sixteen year old self than he did his 29. He was still a wreck for this girl in all the ways that mattered.

When he had steeled himself enough to open his eyes, there she was. Katniss Everdeen was perched, harness-free on a tree branch seventy feet in the air like some kind of fucking wood nymph. And she had the audacity to look like she was worried about him! Fuck that, he was not going to be undone again by Katniss Everdeen. He was going to interview her, write up his article and get out of District 12.

He forced himself to look at her with a journalist’s eye. The truth was, she wasn’t that big or that pretty. So why did she always make his heart race like he’d sprinted a mile? Why did he feel that it would be worth the risk of probable death to reach out and run her braid through his fingers like he’d always longed to do? There was something about Katniss, there always had been, that made him feel too raw. That made him acutely aware of how sub-par he was and how desperately he wanted to be better. The truth was also that she was magnificent. He gritted his teeth. Screw her. He was a successful Capitol journalist and she was sitting in a tree.

Suddenly realizing that he’d just sitting there staring at her for several minutes, Peeta cleared his throat and spoke. “Hi, Katniss, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Peeta Mellark. We went to school together.”

xxxxx

She scowled at him. He had be kidding her, of course she knew who he was. In fact, she couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t aware of him. Painfully aware.

She couldn’t stand Peeta Mellark. Mostly because he made her want things she could never have. He made her painfully aware of all of the things she lacked. Next to his golden beauty, his broad body that emanated health and calm, she was nothing but darkness, sinew and bone, and hunger. But worst of all, he was the embodiment of an unpaid debt. And even though he very obviously didn’t need anything from her now, she couldn’t help hating him a little for leaving. After all, Peeta Mellark was the only boy she had ever loved.

She nodded curtly, not trusting her voice. Peeta pulled out his phone and, with one arm still wrapped in a death grip around the branch, asked if he could record their interview. Considering that his hand was shaking too hard to write effectively, she agreed. She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. This is what she had been waiting for. She needed to focus and speak for the forest. Even if what she really wanted was to know every detail of Peeta’s life since he’d left year ago. No, she admonished herself, what she wanted was to save this damn tree.

“Let’s start simply, shall we? Why are you sitting in this tree?” Peeta asked.

“Because those idiots want to cut it down.” Katniss gestured towards the ant-like people moving below. She saw Peeta glance down, then his head snapped back up and he swallowed visibly.

“Isn’t that their right? Isn’t it their tree?”

Katniss snorted. “This tree is at least 300 years old. Can it be owned by someone? Especially by someone who has no idea of it’s real value?” she snapped. Peeta looked away.  

She inhaled slowly through her nose, trying to stay calm, but calm just wasn’t her thing. Cold, stoic, unconquerable, yes; calm and diplomatic, not so much. She asked, “Have you ever heard of a keystone species?” When Peeta shook his head no, she explained, “It’s a… a species on which other species in an ecosystem depend. If it were removed, or destroyed, the ecosystem would change drastically, it would essentially collapse. This heritage oak is holding down this part of the forest. If they cut it down it will be eliminating food and habitat for all sorts of wildlife. It will impact the stream that flows from the spring on this hillside, which is the summer water source for the Seam.” Katniss took in the tree around her. It truly was magnificent, towering over the surrounding forest, and its extensive branches looked as though they were standing as a sentinel between the earth and the sky.

His voice broke her reverie. “How can one tree have such an impact?”

She shook her head in frustration. She herself understood how one vitally important thing, or person, could be the point upon which everything else pivoted. She had spent years trying to forget Peeta Mellark, and the debt she owed him. But five minutes with him and she was positive she had never been around a braver, more compelling, more captivating person.

“All of the plants and animals that live is this forest rely on a fragile ecological balance. If this tree is cut down, everything else falls out of balance.” How could she adequately explain that the forest simply made sense. She understood its rhythms, felt a peace here that she felt nowhere else. How was it possible that some greedy men hundreds of miles away could make a decision to exchange this exquisite complexity for a wad of cash that they didn’t even need. If they would just pay a little attention they would realize that this tree, and the forest it supported, could actually support them.

She’d spent years in the forest, making a living, feeding herself and her family, becoming self-sufficient. And four years ago, she’d nearly gotten to a point where she thought she might have something to offer Peeta, might be standing on stable enough ground that she was ready to return one of his shy smiles and see where it took them. She had thought that once she was good enough for him, that he might be satisfied with what little she had to offer. But instead, he’d left and she’d gone numb. And stayed numb until his cornflower-blue eyes had met hers moments ago and jolted something inside of her awake.

xxxxx

With some effort, Peeta tore his focus away from her lips. It was mesmerizing to hear her speak like this. So many words at once in that raspy, intoxicating voice of hers. She sounded so sure, so competent, he couldn’t find anything to argue with. “Okay, but why are you endangering yourself? None of this can possibly be as important as your safety.”

She huffed out a frustrated breath. “Without this forest, I…” And Peeta knew what she wasn’t saying, that she would died without the food she’d found here. The vision of her as a bedraggled, emaciated eleven-year-old floated before him and made his stomach clench uncomfortably.  She looked away from him, her face flushed, and continued, “Well, let’s just say that the health of this forest is vital to District 12.”

Then with her eyes hardening to a sharp steely gray, she added, “I don’t expect you to understand. You left. You chose the Capitol, you care about different things.” That stung. How dare she tell him what he cared about? She didn’t have the slightest clue how much he loved this place. How much it hurt to feel unwelcome here and miss it at the same time. He hadn’t wanted to leave, it was just that no one here needed him or wanted him around.

Katniss continued, “Maybe you even look at this tree like Snow and his profiteering henchmen and all you see is board feet and dollar signs, but it’s more than that. This tree is the life of the forest. And I’m going to protect that life until those men down there see reason. Or they give up and go home. That’d be fine too.” And she set her jaw and stared out at the horizon. He knew that look, and that this conversation was over.

All of the fight just drained out of him. “I need to go,” he said.

And though she looked slightly startled, Katniss just nodded and said, “Don’t hold onto the ropes, they’ll burn your hands.” And then she was gone, scampering up the tree like a gravity-defying squirrel. His heart sank as he descended to the earth, away from her. Again.

When Peeta had divested himself of the hardhat and safety vest and soothingly explained to the irate logging company executives that no, he had not managed to drag “that damn girl” down from the tree, he headed home to the bakery. My parent’s home, he corrected himself.

But as he trudged up the back steps of the bakery, knocking his boots against the top step out of habit as he entered the kitchen, his entire body being relaxed into the familiarity of it: the warmth of the ovens, the light dusting of flour over every surface except the spotless marble counter, the smell of yeast wafting from the bowls of proofing dough.

His father walked in from the storefront and stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of Peeta standing just inside the door. Those blue eyes, the same exact shade as his own widened in surprise. “Am I dreaming?” he asked breathlessly before lunging forward to capture his youngest son in a crushing hug. Peeta couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him. His dad must of have squeezed the sound from his lungs.

“Look at you,” his dad said, taking a step back, but leaving a large, warm hand on his shoulder as he assessed him. “How has it been four years?” He shook his head incredulously then said, “Grab an apron, I’m just about to start rolling out the dough for the cheese buns.”

“He didn’t come here to bake.” His mother’s sharp voice surprised Peeta from behind. “He’s here to do a story on that Everdeen girl nonsense. Why anyone would give her any attention for her ridiculous behavior is beyond me.” She added in an accusatory tone, “Your editor called, said you’d be staying for a few days.”

“Only a few days?” asked his father.

“I’m sure he’s anxious to get back to the Capitol,” his mother answered, pretending to brush something off of Peeta’s shirt. That was as close to affection as he was likely to get from her. In their infrequent phone conversations, his father always talked about how proud she was of Peeta for going off to Capitol and making a name for himself, but Peeta always suspected what she appreciated most was that he had left.

“Oh,” responded his father, sounding crestfallen. “Well, at least we get a couple of days.” And despite the tightening in his chest at the thought of leaving here again, Peeta grabbed an apron off the peg, scattered some flour on the countertop and turned out a bowl of dough. He closed his eyes and savored the feeling of his fingers sinking into the springy concoction, the slightly sour smell of the dough and sharp scent of the cheese, the sound of his father’s cheerful chatter and the tinkling ring of the storefront bell. God, he loved this place, perhaps even more than he’d allowed himself to remember.

xxxxx

She watched as the next day he was hoisted up into the tree again. This time, he was able to manoeuvre himself so he was sitting on one branch and could sling his arms over a nearby branch. He settled in and waited. When it became evident that he wasn’t going to leave without speaking to her, she slithered down with some reluctance.

“So you’re still here?” she asked, sarcasm oozing from her tone.

He flushed, looked sheepish. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I really do want to interview you.”

She looked at him skeptically, but gestured for him to continue.

He pressed record on his phone and said, “Okay, Katniss, tell me why this tree is so important.”

She nodded, and relaxed a little as she explained how this tree was the largest and oldest tree in this part of the forest and how the acorns from this tree had helped seed most of the trees that grew around District 12. She explained that the extensive root system of this massive tree spread underground to stabilize the hillside and was like a sponge that helped to recharge the springs that fed the Seam’s watershed. And that if you cut the sponge it half it would obviously hold less water.

It hurt to look at him, that spectacular blue of his eyes, those damned freckles brushed across the bridge of his nose, those dimples. She thought she had loved him once. But that was years ago and whatever this feeling ricocheting through her chest was, it was just an echo, a remnant of what used to be. She should be used to it, she was so hollow now, everything got lost in her bottomless heart.

And he had done this to her, made her like this. She ground her teeth together and lifted her chin. That hurt girl, who had allowed herself to hope for him and lost, was in there somewhere. But before anything else, Katniss was a fighter, a survivor and she had a point to make.

“So what are you hoping to accomplish. What good can come out of your sit-in? Do you want more attention? Are you hoping to garner more allies?” he asked.

“I want what everyone in Twelve wants, I want the Capitol to leave us alone.”

There was something electric between them, his eyes continually flitting to her lips, as if drawn like magnets. She watched as he sat up straighter, as that confidence, that steadiness he’d always exuded settled into his features.

He started to speak again, but Katniss caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She shushed him as a round bird landed a couple of branches down from their perch. Peeta looked confused, took a breath as if to ask her something, but she held up her hand, “Quail,” she said softly. “Wait, another will come. His mate.“

She smiled, just slightly, as another softly cooing, comically round bird landed a few feet away and joined the other on its branch. The male sidled up to the female and cooed softly to her. Katniss was surprised to see quail up this high, they were ground nesters and usually stayed down in the understory. It felt meaningful, like some kind of sign.

“They mate for life,” she said quietly.

Peeta leaned forward, so close that her hair brushed his arm. So close that she could hear him swallow, see the way his long golden lashes fanned across his flushed cheeks. It felt intimate, cradled together in the keystone oak, silent but for the whispers of the forest all around them.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft.

Peeta stiffened, something unreadable flickering across his features. He cleared his throat and flashed her the kind of smarmy smile that probably got him lots of female attention in the Capitol. Katniss just pursed her lips and looked at him skeptically, her defences rising, her walls falling back into place. The moment was lost, if it had ever existed at all. “I’m great,” he said, unconvincingly. “I just remembered that I’ve got an appointment. Gotta go. I guess I know where to find you if I need you!” He barked out a laugh that didn’t sound even a little bit mirthful.

She scowled at the blatant brush-off and said, “Keystone tree. Don’t forget to look it up.”

xxxxx

Peeta remembered something important. Something his teenaged self had known. He knew where to look for help. He needed the research capabilities of the newspaper, so he went to Haymitch’s office.

The old man’s bloodshot eyes widened in what appeared to happiness, but at the very least recognition, when he saw Peeta.

“The Prodigal son returns!” he exclaimed patting Peeta on the back.

“I just need to use your database, can I work from here?”

“You can stay here as long as you want. The desk you like by the window is all yours.”

Peeta rolled his eyes, but took his laptop over to the desk. It hurt how incredible it felt to settle into this place. The rightness of it making his skin crawl in recognition of how long he’d felt wrong, how out of place he was in his own life. He tried to ignore the ache in his chest as he sat down and got to work.

After a couple of hours, Haymitch dropped a turkey sandwich from Sae’s Deli onto the desk beside him along with a mug of dark tea. “No sugar,” Haymitch gestured to the cup.

“Thanks,” Peeta said and began to wolf down the sandwich. He was starving.

“So you’re gonna help the girl?” Peeta felt he should point out that Katniss was nearly 30 years old and that it was demeaning to refer to her as “the girl”, but this was Haymitch and there really wasn’t any use. So he just took another bite of his sandwich and nodded.

Haymitch perched on the edge of the desk and stared down at Peeta with an unnervingly sober gaze. “You know I never wanted you to take that job in the Capitol, right?” he asked gruffly.

“Is that why you entered my drawings into those competitions instead of giving me a promotion?” He wanted to sound sarcastic, but he just sounded wounded.

“I entered you in those damn competitions so that you’d see your own worth. So you’d recognize how gifted you are and stop wasting your talents. I never imagined you’d fall right into Heavensbee’s greedy clutches.”

“You gave him my number!” Peeta exclaimed indignantly.

“Yeah, so you’d tell his pompous ass to fuck off.” Haymitch said, scratching his jaw. But something in his demeanor was sheepish. Peeta was pretty sure he meant it. “One of these days, Peeta, you’re going to realize that mother of yours got it all wrong. You’re going to look around and see that everyone, including you, knows you belong here.” And with a swig of his flask and crack of his knees, Haymitch stood up.

“You’re going to help me with Katniss, right? You know how to fix this?” Peeta asked, hating the hopefulness even he could hear in his voice.

“I’ve got some wheels in motion,” Haymitch said. Peeta chuckled. Of course he did. “They just need some blue eyes and dimples to add some grease to the gears.” Haymitch slid a card out of his pocket and placed it next to Peeta’s tea, as he ambled off.

As he lay in his old room above the bakery that night, Peeta thought about what Katniss had said, about the vital importance of that tree. How its role in the forest was greater than the sum of its parts. Kinda like Katniss herself.

He had felt so useless for so long. But the dawning realization that he had the ability to help Katniss, to help his District, was settling solidly in his bones. There were so many things in this universe that were out of his control. But this wasn’t. He could do something about this. There was still time to right this wrong before it was committed.  He wanted to climb that tree and say to her face, “This is still my home. My heart still lives here.” But, he realized, he couldn’t just tell her that, he was going to have to show her. He was going to help her save the tree. And maybe somehow, in doing so, he’d find his way home.

He pulled out his laptop and got to work.

xxxxx

Katniss awoke with a gasp. She was bundled in her sleeping bag, strapped into her favorite tree nest. She could see the bright pricks of starlight stitched across the night sky. She was fine, she told herself, taking gulps of cold, sweet air. But the dust in the nightmare still threatened to choke her. The weight of the rock from the collapsed mine shaft still pressed against her chest. She whispered her father’s name into the night sky, promised him she would fight for the forest they both loved, find a way to keep her and Prim out of the mines forever.

As she settled back into the rough-barked embrace of the tree, a wish came unbidden to her mind. She imagined Peeta’s arms wrapping around her, his broad chest cradling her from behind. She allowed herself to long for the soft rumble of his voice, his cool lips on her temple, as he assured her that everything was going to be alright. She allowed herself to fall into the dream of him. But it felt more like a wish.

xxxxx

Bright and early the next morning, Peeta found himself staring up into Katniss’ tree. He adjusted the straps on his backpack, said a silent prayer that he’d survive the next few hours and started to climb.

“Katniss,” Peeta whisper-yelled into the canopy. The sun was just peeking above the horizon, sending shards of golden-pink light through the filter of leaves. He wanted to run the light though his fingers, to separate it into tendrils of pure color. He was sweating from the exertion of climbing, but it was so much better than the harness. It really was magnificent up there. Without warning, Katniss appeared about ten feet above him.

“Peeta? I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she said sleepily. And his heart broke from the intimacy that he was the first person she was seeing today, the first person to hear the raspy scrape of her morning voice, her disheveled braid and sleep-soft eyes.

“How do you sleep safely up here?” he asked, still gripping the trunk so he had to swivel his head around to see her.

Her lips quirked up in a half smile and she looked around before asking suspiciously, “You promise this isn’t some kind of trick to get me down?”

“I promise. I’d cross my heart and hope to die, but I’m pretty sure that if I move my hand I will actually die.” And then she was behind him, chuckling softly.

“If you follow me up  a couple of branches, I’ll show you one of my favorite places in the world.” Even if it meant certain death, he was pretty sure he couldn’t refuse. “Just watch my feet,” she offered and climbed up to the next branch. She reached back and grabbed his hand, pulling him up behind her before resuming her climb. He followed her without hesitation. If Peeta’s last sight was Katniss Everdeen’s ass swaying just out of reach, his life might be a fair price to pay. Moments later, Katniss had somehow gotten him nestled into a junction of three branches that formed a secure cradle, complete with a mossy backrest.

“Now this is more like it,” he sighed, feeling the solidity of the tree all around him.

“I used to come up here all the time to read,” Katniss admitted quietly. “After my dad died, it was one of the only places I ever felt safe.” And as nonsensical as it was to see safety over fifty feet in the air, as he settled into the cushiony nest, it made sense. He nodded and carefully slipped off his backpack. “On really windy nights, sometimes I sleep here,” she confided, then immediately scowled, looking regretful. Just because he comforted her in her dreams didn’t mean she could start telling him all her secrets.

“Your secret is safe with me as long as you let me sit here while I give you my proposal.” He winked and pulled out the thermos of cocoa and tin of cheese buns.

“Did Prim tell you?” Katniss asked, her eyes wide with longing.

“Tell me what?” he asked, wanting nothing more in this world than to touch her, to run his thumb over the softness of her cheek.

“That cheese buns are my favorite.”

Peeta grinned at her, but didn’t confess that he had watched her devour one in tenth grade and had to do some creative rearranging to hide his body’s response to her licking her fingers clean.

As Katniss inhaled the first cheese bun he handed her the thermos top full of cocoa and instructed her to dip the next bun. She looked at him skeptically then shrugged and complied. The resulting moan of pleasure had him pulling his backpack back onto his lap.

In an effort to keep his body in check, he laid out his plan for her. He asked her about this tree, what she knew about it, what it meant to her. And with the sun rising behind her, creating a spectacular backdrop of vibrant pink and orange streaks through a cloudless morning blue, Katniss perched above the treetops and told her story of the forest. She talked about wild strawberries in the spring and trout in the summer, hickory nuts in the fall and mushrooms in the winter. She told about the quail pairs who mate for life, the deer who steal silently through the undergrowth, the music of the wind through the trees. She painted the picture of the paradise, the subsistence she had found.

And Peeta sat reverently in the tree’s embrace and filmed her on his iphone.

When she ran out of words, she turned to face him with flushed cheeks and shining eyes.  

“So,” he asked, clearing the lump from his throat, “Is it fair to say that the forest saved your life?”

“No,” she cocked her head slightly, “You saved my life.” Peeta drew in a sharp breath at the mention of the thing that lay between them. She continued, “The forest allowed me to keep saving it. Over and over again. My dad always told me, there’s food in this forest, if you know how to find it. There’s also the means to give a girl who’s never had the odds in her favor, choices in her life.”

Peeta turned the camera on himself and added in a voice clear and strong, “This tree is the beating heart of the forest. This woman is the beating heart of District 12. Let’s make sure we save them both.”

“So here’s the plan.” He outlined the idea to distribute the video online, how his article had gotten the attention of the conservation groups, who were rallying their constituencies, their attorneys and their donors. He explained Haymitch’s idea of the protective easement and how the District would own the lands clear to the ridgeline.

He knew her private nature, but as much as the idea of being a symbol probably repulsed her, she agreed that the concept was sound and acquiesced to her role.

As Peeta gathered up his things and donned his backpack, Katniss laid a feather-light hand on his arm. As hard as he’d tried to keep this professional, to focus only on the story and doing what was right, her touch raised gooseflesh up his arm and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Thank you, Peeta. I appreciate your help.” She smiled, admitting reluctantly, “It’s really nice to have some company.”

“Do you have wifi?” he joked, “I think I can make this my new office.”

She rolled her eyes, but as he climbed down from his perch, he felt more like himself than he had in years.

Peeta spent the rest of the day with Haymitch and Mayor Undersee finalizing the acquisition of the forestlands with the heritage oak sitting like the crowned jewel in the middle. By the late afternoon, he strolled out to Katniss’ tree as the logging company broke down their operation and left the District.

Katniss was perched far out on a tiny branch, looking like she might take flight. Peeta called to her as he made his way up to her as high as he dared.

“What’s happening?” she called as she met him halfway.

“You did it,” he grinned. “They’re going to leave you alone.”

His heart nearly stopped as she grinned right back, “Don’t you mean, they’re going to leave us alone?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I do.”

He called out to her as she climbed out of reach, “Where are you going?”

“To grab my things. I cannot wait to take a proper shower.”

A couple of hours later, Katniss Everdeen was knocking on the backdoor of the bakery. Peeta tried to temper the smile that was making his cheeks ache as he pulled his apron off over his head.

“Hi,” he said, stepping out to meet her on the porch.

“Looks like I owe you again, Mellark,” said Katniss, shaking her head miserably. “Let me buy you a beer. It’s the least I can do.”

“My preferred payment method is actually kisses.” Peeta waggled his eyebrows at her, “C’mon, Everdeen, pucker up.”

She scowled at his teasing. But she didn’t flinch when he reached for her hand.

They walked down to Rooba’s, the only bar in town. Peeta was so distracted by Katniss’ ass as she walked in the door a couple of steps ahead of him, the resounding cheer from the bar patrons made him jump.

They sat down at the bar next to Haymitch and accepted the collective back pats, free drinks and congratulations on their small victory over the Capitol. When Gale came up and wrapped Katniss in a bear hug, Peeta slid off his seat to give them some privacy, though it made him a little queasy to see their knees touch as Gale slouched onto the barstool next to her.

But a couple of minutes later, Katniss appeared beside him. She levered up on her toes and leaned into him, pressing her breasts against his arm as she whispered into his ear, “I kinda still owe you that drink. Wanna walk me home?” Boy did he ever.

It was a balmy summer’s night, the kind that he’d loved as a child because every window was left open. The crickets serenaded them as they meandered through town along the edge of the Seam to an unremarkable three story apartment building at the edge of the forest.

“This is me,” Katniss said, gesturing to the door, which had been propped open with a rock. She seemed shy and had trouble meeting his eyes when she said, “I really can’t thank you enough, Peeta.”

“We made a pretty good team,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess when all is said and done, we did,” she responded, a small smile playing at her lips. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of her mouth. He cleared this throat.

“So… I guess-” he began.

But she cut him off with a blurted, “Do you want to come up for a drink?”

“Yeah,” he breathed in relief, “I’d love to.”

They stood in front of her elevator for a moment, stealing glances at each other, her shifting impatiently from foot to foot as she watched the down arrow, him chuckling nervously from time to time.

“Stairs?” she asked, gesturing to the stairwell as she took a step towards it.

“Right behind you.” They hustled up the steps, arriving breathless on the third floor.

He leaned against the wall, watching as she tried to get the key into the lock. She cursed softly under her breath in frustration and he couldn’t stand it for a second longer, he had to touch her. He reached over and tucked a loose lock of her hair behind her ear, letting his fingers ghost over the shell of her ear and glide down her neck.

She exhaled a quivering breath and melted into his touch. Then those silvery eyes met his as she said, “If you want me to get this door open, you better keep your hands to yourself.” He smiled, hearing the key slide into the lock and felt the jerk of her body and she wrenched the door open.

Once he was inside, she threw her keys in the bowl by the door and shimmied out of her light sweater. She reached for him, but he was slumped against her door, his eyes closed. It was the smell. Her apartment smelled like forest and burnt toast and coal dust. It smelled like home.

He felt her cool hands on his flushed face and opened his eyes to find her staring at him with concern. “You okay?” she asked.

“Better than okay,” he said, his voice quavering slightly. He reached up and took one of her hands in his. She smiled that soft smile that he was rapidly becoming addicted to, the one that made her eyes crinkle, and led him into the small apartment. He wanted to spend a month just taking in every detail of her living space. This was where she lived! He never wanted to leave this sacred place.

She led him into the kitchen. He was so close behind her, he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, just like he had in the tree. He started to get hard just remembering it, and admonished his body to slow the fuck down. They were just walking to the kitchen, for Christ sake. His dick was getting a little ahead of itself.

Katniss stood at the counter opening a cupboard door before turning to look up at him, her lush bottom lip firmly between her teeth.

“I, ah, don’t really have anything to drink. Not unless I can find that flask Haymitch gave me.” She shrugged, looking apologetic.

“I’m not remotely thirsty,” he said, licking his bottom lip as he tugged hers gently from between her teeth. “But I’m absolutely dying to kiss you.”

“Thank fuck,” she sighed, levering up on her toes to capture his lips in a breath-stealing kiss.

He grabbed the counter behind her and held on to steady himself as he surrendered to the frenzy of lips and tongue and gently nipping teeth that had become his entire reality. So this must be what Haymitch meant by living in the moment. His entire being was so rooted in the experience of finally kissing her, so consumed by it that there was no room for any other thought.

Her arms were wrapped around him, one fisting the back of his shirt from his shoulder, the other snaking under the fabric, both grasping at his back.

“Touch me, Peeta. Please!” she demanded and he practically growled in response.

He released his death grip on the counter and wrapped both of his arms around her, squeezing her tightly against his body. She moaned against his mouth and he hoisted her up on the counter and pushed between her legs.

He was achingly hard.

They began to touch each other. And as their clothes fell to the floor, the world fell away, replaced by the certainty that there was nobody and nothing but the two of them and this perfect moment that had been in the making for decades. When she was finally naked before him, Peeta dropped to kneel before her, kissing her hip bone, then trailing his lips along the petal-soft skin below her belly button.

A soft whimper escaped her as she gripped his shoulders. “Bed,” she moaned, as he ran his fingertips up the back of her knees. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed laying on a bed.” His responding chuckle was met by her shocked gasp as he stood suddenly grabbing her ass in both his hands and hoisted her up until her strong legs were securely wrapped around him.

It was his turn to moan as he felt the slick heat of her against his skin. He carried her into her bedroom and laid her reverently on the bed. He ran his fingertips down between her breast down the length of her belly before kneeling and ghosting his lips over her pussy. She squirmed against him as he slowly ran his tongue up the length of her. As he feathered his tongue over her clit she buried both her hands in his curls and pulled his head up. “I’m so close,” she said almost apologetically, “and I want you inside me when I come.”

Peeta trembled as he slid into her wet heat, choked back a sob at how good, how unbelievably right, she felt. He tried to go slowly, to make it last, but as she ran her hands up his back and into his hair and he couldn’t help deepening his thrusts.

“Oh, please, Peeta,” she whispered and he flipped them over so she could control this, set their rhythm. He had never seen anything as treacherously beautiful as Katniss Everdeen coming undone above him. She arched her back, her pussy clenching around him and he surrendered to her, pouring his love, his devotion into her body in hot waves of ecstasy.

xxxxx

As she gazed down at Peeta’s beautiful face contorted in pleasure, Katniss accepted that she wanted to be close to him. Part of him. She wanted to look at that lovely face forever, watch lines form at the corners of his eyes from the endless smiling, the gold of his hair fade to gray. She wanted a lifetime with Peeta Mellark.

As soon as their bodies stopped spasming and they caught their breath, Peeta popped up and pushed the window wide, bathing Katniss’ sweaty body in a soft breeze and slivers of moonlight. He collapsed next to her and propped himself up on one elbow. He traced patterns on over her breasts and belly before asking, “So how are we going to do this?”

“Do what?” she asked, rolling slightly to kiss his shoulder.

“Make a life together, obviously.” He rolled his eyes and collapsed onto his back, pulling her against him.

“Oh, that,” she responded, stretching out and slinging a knee over his thigh. “I can’t live in the Capitol.”

“Oh, me neither,” he said shaking his head like that he’d never heard anything sillier.

“But what about your job? Your things?” she started to ask.

He cut her off, “I’m pretty sure Plutarch never wants to see me again and they can keep my stuff. I’m never making the mistake of leaving here again.”

“Good plan,” she said, yawning contentedly.

The next morning as they watched the story unfold online, watched Katniss become a symbol of forest conservation, Peeta kissed her nose.

“You’re basically the Lorax. But cuter.”

She narrowed his eyes at him and he held up his hands in defence and asked, “Less cute?”

Then she lunged at him and kissed the adorable grin right off his face.

#Everlark birthday drabbles #aquarpisc #appleblossomgirl0305