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chojiakimichi · 3 years

Text

Take Me Back To The Start

Pairing: Nara Shikamaru x OC

Summary: Uchiha Madara was dead; a man who had always made it seem like the only reason he was still alive was because the Grim Reaper was too scared to take his soul was dead. And Uchiha Toshiko, was back to bury him. She wasn't back to remember or stroll down memory lane with the boy who broke her heart, she was there to say goodbye to the man who raised her. But if she just so happened to find herself once more walking familiar paths while doing just that, well then, Toshiko supposed it just couldn't be helped.

Chapter: One — Six Feet Under

Word Count: 12.5+

Warnings: None; Angst, Modern AU

Notes: Find on ao3

Uchiha Madara was dead; the man who'd survived over just over century on nothing but spite, determination and soba noodles was dead.

He'd never wake up and huff at the sun for shining in his eyes again. Never again would Uchiha Madara hobble into the kitchen of his ancestral home and huff at whatever eldritch horror his eldest grand-nephew Obito had accidently made for breakfast that morning nor would he ever again sit on the back porch, smoking his pipe whilst glaring at any local children that rode their bikes far too close to his lawn.

Because he was dead and in three days time he'd be cremated and his ashes would be scattered into Naka river like every other passed Uchiha leaving nothing of him behind but the memories he'd help create and the decrepit sandals he had refused to replace for the past— who could even remember how many —years.

Toshiko, the youngest of Uchiha Madara's grand nieces' and nephews' rested her head against the cool glass of the trains window as she swallowed the lump in her throat.

Death wasn't a stranger to Toshiko; how could it be, she and her older brothers— Sasuke and Itachi —had all watched their parents die in a car crash as children. And yet despite the fact that Death wasn't a stranger and despite the fact she had lost her parents already and should know what it was like to lose someone— to loose a parental figure; Madara had almost been like another father to her, after all he had been the one to take her and her brothers in after their parents deaths —Uchiha Toshiko still felt her eyes mist over and her heart twist in her chest.

Because her grand uncle was dead. Because she'd never get to see the perpetually grouchy, practically ancient old man she loved like a second father ever again. Because she missed him and that feeling would never go away.

Toshiko's dog, a young, fluffy white Chow Chow she'd named Masshu— short for Masshupoteto —after being gifted him, stirred at her feet, his head popping up from atop his paws as he turned to look up at her.

Sometimes when when Toshiko looked into Masshu's eyes she'd swear she could hear nothing but Wii music going on behind them; she thought that her supposed guard dog's head was filled with nothing but the thought of chasing squirrels and the promise of future treats. This time though, as her wet eyes flickered from the thick tree-line the train was speeding past to Masshu, Toshiko could have sworn she could see concern in the canines whiskey eyes; almost as if he knew she was upset.

Toshiko flashed the Chow Chow a wobbly smile; it was the kind of smile that the more it screeched across her face the more it turned downwards. Her heels squeezed at the large dogs sides in acknowledgment— Masshu set his head back down on his paws —as she turned back to the window; Toshiko's eyes dragged across the blurred scenery.

Her stop was getting close.

The twenty-six year old female sucked in a deep breath before she grabbed her phone from her smoky colored coat pocket and untangled the headphones she'd wrapped around the device before her impromptu nap earlier during the train ride.

Toshiko punched in her phones code with the pad of her thumb. Her password was just the numbers that correlated to the first four letters of her name; eight-six-seven-four. Her brother Sasuke liked to make fun of her for it, saying how if someone wanted to seal any information from her phone they could; that it'd be easier then taking candy from a baby and while he was right, no matter how many times the older man harped about it to her, Toshiko kept her passcode the same.

Toshiko opened her Spotify app and shuffled her liked songs. Train's Drops of Jupiter was already playing by the time she put in her right earbud. Toshiko's head tilted up at the sound of the songs first few cords, her head once more resting against the windows cool glass.

Now that she's back in the atmosphere, with drops of Jupiter in her hair.

Toshiko kept her password the same not only because it was easy to remember but mostly because— as Sasuke had gone into the private sector after having dropped out of college —he'd undoubtedly still go on about security and safety even if she ever did change it, but also partly because if she just did whatever Sasuke said, when he said it he'd always expect her to and she refused to have that.

Little sisters, after all, were supposed to be difficult.

She acts like summer and walks like rain, reminds me that there's a time to change, hey.

When was the last time Toshiko and her grand uncle had talked?

When she had been in university the year before they had talked two-three times a week. Sometimes they'd only chat for a few minutes; just checking in with one another, while other times Toshiko and Madara would talk for hours. He'd gripe about whatever new annoyance plagued him for an hour or so before she'd go on about how stupid people in her classes could be and their idiotic options on social policies and how they were so wrong it was almost maddening.

But lately, ever since she had started her job at the Fukuoka prosecutors office Toshiko's life had began to revolve around work. The only time she ever seemed to go back to her tiny apartment was when she needed to feed and walk Masshu and even then, as of late, Toshiko had begun to hire the boy who lived on the floor below her to walk the Chow Chow.

So when was the last time Toshiko and Madara had spoken?

Since the return of her stay on the moon. She listens like spring and she talks like June, hey.

It hadn't been the day before he'd died. Hadn't been that week either. Two weeks? Toshiko racked her brain to remember only to come up with the last time they had spoken being sixteen days before he'd died; twenty three days ago in total.

Nearly a month.

At the time of their call Toshiko had told her grand uncle about a case she'd won while sitting first chair— it'd been a negligent homicide case; not only her first homicide case of any kind but the first case she'd sat first chair for —and though he hadn't said it in so many words, Madara had sounded so proud of her. Toshiko could remember the light feeling that'd carried her through the next two days following that call.

"Konoha station coming up next," the conductors voice rang out; snapping Toshiko out of her thoughts.

Toshiko pocketed her phone and grabbed the bookbag she'd stuffed full of clothes the night before in one hand and the loop of Masshu's leash as she stood from her seat, nudging Masshu out from under her and towards the trains doors, pausing at them as she looked around her mostly empty train car to see if anyone else would be getting off with her.

No one moved from their seats; three of seven people left in the car were asleep and the four that weren't were all too engrossed in whatever they were watching on their phones or reading from the books propped up in their laps to be getting off with her, leaving Toshiko's dark eyes to move from the sea of mostly empty seats to the window closest to her.

The train was slowing down.

Toshiko wrapped the length of Masshu's leash once around the palm of her hand, and then twice. While she didn't expect Masshu to bolt when the doors opened up— Masshu had been incredibly well trained; the whole point of Sasuke having bought Masshu for her was for him to act as her guard dog once she'd moved off campus and into her own apartment —it just was easier to hustle him off the train quickly on a tighter leash.

The song changed from Trains Drops of Jupiter to One Directions new song Drag Me Down, something that while Toshiko wasn't quite in the mood to listen to she didn't bother to skip as she still liked it.

"Approaching Konoha station now. Please remember to take all your belongings with you when you exit the train car," the conductors voice said as the train began to lull to a stop.

Toshiko could see the colorful benches that littered the Konoha train station; several of the benches had foxes painted on them. As the train continued to stop Toshiko's car passed the stairs that lead from the platform to the road and the tiny station building that sold snacks for people to eat on the train and tiny Konoha-centered knick-knacks to tourists who had wandered into the small building in search of directions.

"This is Konoha station," the conductor sounded, as the train came to a full stop. "This is Konoha station, the next and last stop will be Aomori. Please remember to take all your belongings before you exit the train. Thank you for riding Thunder Rails."

Toshiko shuffled closer to Masshu; the fingers not curled around Masshu's leash tightened as they gripped the strap of her bag. Her heel clicked against the floor once before the doors opened up with the same kind of sound Tupperware's made when being unsealed. Then as if she were in a race and the gun signaling the start had sounded, Toshiko shot off the train and into the platform, Masshu trotting behind her, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth.

Half way up the platform Toshiko felt her phone buzz; the young woman paused to pull it from her coat and saw it was a message from her brother Itachi.

Parking lot. First row.

Toshiko felt her lips press together, she could have sworn Sasuke was the one who was supposed to pick her up, not Itachi.

Not bothering to respond— not because she minded that it was Itachi picking her up and not Sasuke but because she'd see her eldest brother in less then a few minutes anyway —Toshiko paused her music before shoving both her phone and the headphones attached to it back into her pocket. She tugged at Masshu's leash, signaling that once more they were on the move. Something Masshu instantly complied with.

Toshiko and Masshu both scampered up the concrete steps that lead to the main road and the orange station building, that had been built the same time as the railway only to turn left and walk down the hill that lead to the dead end that was the Konoha train stations parking lot. There were three cars in the parking lot; Itachi's, like he said was in the first row.

Though even if it hadn't been, and even if there were more cars littering the lot, Toshiko would have easily found her brother as he was leaning against the front end of his car.

Like Toshiko he was dressed in black. His long hair was tied back into it's usual low hanging pony tail, his wiry glasses were perched at the end of his nose and though his smile didn't reach his eyes the tension in his shoulders disappeared at the sight of Toshiko, who, at the sight of her eldest brother, felt the tears she'd been holding back on the train quell up in her eyes once more.

Their grand uncle— their ōoji-san —was dead; Uchiha Madara was dead. The only parent Toshiko had known for the past twenty years was dead.

Was gone.

She loosened her hold on Masshu's leash.

"Nii-san," Toshiko croaked, her tears falling. One then two; Toshiko caught her bottom lip between her teeth only for it to trembled violently. She hadn't really cried when Obito had called her the week before and told her of their grand uncles passing; sure tears had automatically fallen at the new but it hadn't been real then.

Uchiha Madara being dead were just words; they hadn't been true, couldn't be. He had always seemed too stubborn to die, seemingly immortal; Uchiha Madara had been a hundred and two when he had died. At the time hearing that he had died had almost been like hearing pigs had learned to fly; absurd.

But then the closer she'd gotten to Konoha on the train the more the truth had began to set in until she'd been forced to acknowledge it. To swallow it; Uchiha Madara being dead wasn't just words, they were Toshiko and the others new reality.

Come three days time she and her brothers and her cousins would be cremating their grand uncle.

Itachi pushed off the square front of his car and Toshiko met the older Uchiha half way, her arms outstretched. Toshiko heard Itachi let out a soft sounding oomph when she barreled into his bony chest. Toshiko clung to Itachi the same way she had when their parents had died and Sasuke had been hospitalized following the car crash; like he was her last and only life line tethering her to the Earth.

Toshiko's shoulders shook as she cried into her eldest brothers chest; Masshu's nose pressed against the back of her thigh as one of Itachi's hand's moved from her upper arms so that it was splayed out between her shoulder blades while the other was curled around the back of her head, cradling her against him.

"It's alright Toshiko," Itachi said, his own voice raspy, the same way it would be if he were on the verge of tears; and perhaps he was.

Itachi— and Shisui —hadn't been close to Madara, not the way Toshiko and Sasuke and Obito had all been, not because of any family drama or clash of ideologies, but because unlike them, neither Itachi or Shisui had been raised by Madara.

Shisui had grown up in Tokyo with his mother following his fathers death, only ever visiting Konoha during the summer while Itachi— who'd been born a genius —had gotten out of living in Konoha year round following their parents deaths due to the fact that at thirteen— right before the deaths of Toshiko, Itachi and Sasuke's parents —Itachi had been accepted to university. Meaning that he only ever came to town during Christmas break and summer holidays with Shisui, when neither of them had classes.

But just because he hadn't been close to the their grand uncle didn't mean he didn't care. Itachi had always had the biggest heart out of everyone Toshiko knew, always caring about every little thing.

Toshiko felt herself nod and though she tried to collect herself and force the tears to stop it wasn't until several minutes later that Toshiko, puffy faced and red-eyed pulled away.

"I'm sorry," Toshiko said with a forced smile, as she wiped her face with the cuff of her sleeve, "I didn't mean to cry on you."

"You've done worse. Incase you forgot I used to help mom change your diapers," Itachi said with a smile; like Toshiko's it was obviously forced. Though unlike hers it looked far more natural, anyone who didn't know the tall thirty-four year old wouldn't suspect a thing.

Toshiko let out a breath, one that could've doubled as a quiet laugh, and stepped away from her brother. Masshu rubbed up against the outer part of her leg. "You are so gross Itachi."

"What?" He blinked innocently, the slight, sudden upturn of his lips was far more genuine then it had been a moment before, "It's true."

His left hand raised— Toshiko didn't bother to try to dodge; she'd long ago learned the effort was fruitless —and just like he'd always done to her and Sasuke when they'd all been growing up, Itachi poked her in the dead center of her forehead.

Toshiko's nose wrinkled at the touch.

"Whatever nii-san," Toshiko said; her chest was still heavy and her eyes were still wet but Toshiko nonetheless rolled her eyes at her brother. "Anyway," she said, motioning to Masshu, who'd taken a seated position next to Toshiko, "This is the dog Sasuke got me when I moved a few months ago, 'Tachi, meet Masshu. Masshu," Toshiko motioned to Itachi, "Meet my brother, Itachi. Be nice."

Itachi crouched down and held his hand out; Masshu didn't hesitate to put his paw in the palm of Itachi's hand. Itachi shook it the same way he would a persons.

"Nice to meet you Masshu." Masshu's large head rolled to the side before Itachi dropped his paw and straightened up; he looked to Toshiko, "I have my luggage in the back seats, will he be alright in the trunk?"

"Yeah," Toshiko nodded, only to frown. Just like she could have sworn it was supposed to be Sasuke picking her up she could have sworn that Itachi had been meant to arrive in Konoha two days before then to help with the last minute funeral preparations. "You haven't gone to the house yet?"

Itachi shook his head, "I only got back to the country early this morning, I got delayed at the conference and missed my original flight in."

"Oh," Toshiko said. "I'm sure Sasu loved that," she added sarcastically.

It wasn't that Sasuke hated Itachi— Toshiko wasn't sure Sasuke could ever —it was just that the middle Uchiha sibling still carried around the childhood anger and resentment he had towards Itachi, something that Toshiko— though she wished Sasuke would let go of now that they were adults —understood.

Toshiko got why Sasuke resented Itachi. He— Sasuke —had been, for the first few months following the crash that had killed their parents in a coma due to the head trauma he had sustained when their father had lost control of the family car and gone into the river. And when he had woken up their parents had already been buried, their house— the only home Sasuke had ever known —had been packed away and Itachi had been practically out the door and on his way to university, leaving them behind with Madara and Obito two family memeber who— neither Sasuke nor Toshiko had know well —at the time were virtually strangers.

"I know," Itachi nodded as he lead her and Masshu to the back of his dark red Toyota Roomy. "It's why I'm picking you up though and he's not. Sasuke got in last night and I was already on the road, I figured it'd be easier."

Itachi opened the trunk's door.

"Up," Toshiko said with a snap of her fingers and her hand in the trunk; effortlessly Masshu jumped up into the trucks back.

"That was sweet," Toshiko— as Itachi closed the trunk's door —said instead of the You know it won't stop him from giving you shit for not arriving when you said she wanted to say.

Itachi let out a hum as he moved towards the drivers side; Toshiko passed him as she moved to the other side of the car towards the passengers seat. Toshiko, before she got into the car, threw her bookbag over her seat and into the back next to Itachi's two large suitcases.

"Is that all you really brought?" Itachi asked with a raised brow and an amused glint in his eyes.

"Yeah?" Toshiko responded as she slid into the passenger seat; "I know I still have pajama's here, at least enough for the next few days and I accidently left a pair of sneakers here last time I visited Obito and Ōoji-san so I didn't bother to bring any other shoes but these," Toshiko explained, pointing downwards towards the black flats she was wearing, "So between no pajamas and no extra shoes, all my clothes fit into my bag."

"Alright," Itachi said as he began to pull out of the parking lot.

They hadn't even fully pulled out of the lot when Toshiko saw Masshu peaking over the top of Itachi back seats. She smiled at the dog only to quickly frown when Masshu rocked forward and placed his paws over the seats, his nails biting into the seats pleather.

Toshiko turned in her seat so that she could look back at her dog, her finger outstretched and wagging in Masshu's direction.

"No. Down," Toshiko ordered Masshu, "Sit normally. Sit." Obediently Masshu's paws dropped and hit the trunks carpeted flooring. "Good boy," she said in a high pitched baby-voice, "You're such a good boy."

Masshu, as if agreeing, let out a loud bark. Toshiko smiled at the white Chow Chow before turning back in her seat only to grimace when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror; her face was splotchy and red, and her eyes were the kind if pink you only ever got after crying, the kind that made her dark eyes seem darker then they really were.

Pointedly looking away from her reflection Toshiko peered out her window and at the familiar sights of Konoha that passed her and Itachi by.

Hokage Rock, the mountain range that ran along the north of the town— the one that if you squint hard enough looked like it had faces carved into it —still seemed to stretch endlessly into the sky; the same way it had seemed when she'd been a child.

Ichiraku Ramen, a tiny ramen restaurant that was situated between two larger buildings, looked exactly same as it always had. As she and Itachi passed by Toshiko even saw the familiar flash of blonde sitting along the Ramen shops counter.

Only to frown; because for every unchanged thing Toshiko saw the twenty-six year old found something that had changed or something new that had popped up since the last time she had stepped foot in Konoha and while she didn't hate the new changes she spotted outside the car window— like the pair of officers who stood idly outside the Konoha Bank, half-heartedly guarding it because they had been needed and without a doubt over due —Toshiko could still remember what had been there before.

She could remember what had once been in the same exact spot the new, nice looking restaurant Yakiniku Q stood. It'd been a Lighting Burger that'd burnt down one New Years Eve after a few of the local high school students had too much fun with the box of fire works they had managed to get their underage hands on.

Toshiko could remember how for days the smell of sulfur had lingered in the air; she could remember how the outside of the Konoha library— which she saw was a greyish sort of pink —had for years, been a bright ugly purple because someone had messed up when placing the order only for it to be kept that way because no one on the town counsel had wanted to figure out which funds to reallocate to repaint it properly.

Nostalgia— the leaden kind that made Toshiko's bones feel waterlogged —washed over her.

Was this growing up?

Was adulthood coming home— because while perhaps Toshiko had begun to build a life for herself in Fukuoka, the place her mind always flew to when thinking of the word home wasn't her one bedroom apartment or her tiny office at work but Konoha —to find out the places you had memory after memory of had been bulldozed while away?

Was adulthood just longing for a home that no longer existed?

Or was it something else? Was it supposed to be?

Shifting in her seat, looking away from her window and along the curve of her brothers face Toshiko couldn't help but think, Ōoji-san would know.

0.0.0.0

Toshiko's breath caught in her throat when Itachi pulled up to the curb outside Uchiha families home.

When she had been growing up Madara had always said that the house before Toshiko and Itachi was their families ancestral home, the one where— back before Konoha had been a village —the first Uchiha had been born centuries before and while the the dark colored, three story home looked old it didn't look quite as old as Madara claimed their family had been living in it.

Though that was without a doubt due to the fact that the home had been fixed up numerous times over the years. The roof had needed to be replaced after a terrible storm when Toshiko had been ten, the floors had been redone right before Toshiko had last visited as a pipe had burst; the pluming had been installed in the nineteenth century and by twenty-sixteen nearly all of it had been replaced at one point or another.

Toshiko got out of the car, and grabbed her backpack from where she'd tossed it, her eyes never once leaving the home as she slung the backpack over her shoulder.

Her home.

Ivy grew along the sides of it making the house look like it was one with the trees that surrounded it, the crows Madara had feed for years— since he had been a child —littered the roof, several of them cawing loudly whilst two circled the house overhead, looking for him.

Toshiko moved to the back of her brothers truck so that she could let Masshu out of the back only to pause mid-step when the front door opened.

She knew it was stupid— that her grand uncle was dead and waiting to be cremated —but for a second, as Shisui stepped out of the house she couldn't help but think of how much he had looked like a younger Uchiha Madara; the one Toshiko saw in the albums her grand uncle kept in his room.

"Hey you two finally made it!" Shisui called out with a wave.

Itachi, who'd gone to grab his suitcase turned at the voice his and Toshiko's cousin; Itachi shot Shisui a two finger sault only to beam when two small children— a little girl, no older then six, with pigtails that flapped behind her as she ran forward and a slightly younger boy who had a frog themed bandage over his right brow —both darted out of the house from behind Shisui's legs.

"Oji-san!" The two small children called out as they raced across the Uchiha family homes lawn, "Oba-san!"

Like her brother Toshiko smiled brightly at the sight of her cousins children; Hideko and Daiki.

Daiki, a four year boy who had inherited Shisui's pointed nose and dark rounded eyes but his mothers dark brown hair, ran head first into Itachi's legs while Hideko had skipped over to Toshiko; Toshiko— though she probably should have as Hideko had grown since the last time she'd seen the her —hadn't hesitated in scooping the young up.

Hideko let out a squeak as her hands gripped at the front of Toshiko's coat.

"I missed you Oji-san!" Toshiko heard Daiki cry into Itachi's knees as he wrapped his arms around Itachi's thin legs. Toshiko leaned her head back and looked at Hideko; from the corner of her vision Toshiko saw Shisui move towards them, out from their ancestral homes doorway.

"You saw me last month Daiki," Toshiko half heard her brother telling Daiki as she gleefully gapped at the fact that Hideko's tongue was poking out from an angry looking gap in her teeth.

"Too long!" The boy said as Toshiko spoke, their voices overlapping.

"You lost a tooth!" Toshiko bounced. Itachi who— like Toshiko had done with Hideko —had gathered Daiki in his armed turned in surprise at Toshiko's excited tone, "When? How?"

"This morning!" Hideko said, "It was wiggly so papa and Obi-ji—" when Hideko had first started talking she had constantly tripped over Obito-oji and instead taken to calling him Obi-ji, "—Tied one end of a string to it and then the other to a door and then papa slammed it really hard!"

Toshiko's brows shot up, her eyes swiveled to Shisui who's cheeks had pinkened. "Mari seriously let you two do that?"

Mari, Shisui's wife, was as kind as she was no nonsense; something she had to be if she was going to be married to likes of someone as lively— as headstrong, stubborn, driven, and at times inept —as Shisui. Apparently Shisui had fallen in love with her the first time he'd seen her; he'd walked into the coffee shop she had been working at and she had been yelling at a man who'd crossed several lines when harassing her coworker.

Mari was also a dentist, having finished up medical school just before her and Shisui's wedding.

Shisui blew a breath of air out of his mouth; Hideko beamed at Toshiko, her tongue still peaking through the gap.

"Obi-ji said it was better to ask forgiveness then permission."

"Which is what we did," Shisui added pointedly in his daughters direction, he looked at Toshiko and then Itachi, "And why your mother is a saint."

"She'd have to be, to be married to you," Itachi jabbed playfully.

Just as Toshiko and Sasuke were close, Itachi and Shisui were close; though unlike Sasuke and Toshiko who grew close after their parents deaths Itachi and Shisui had always— for as long as Toshiko could remember —been close. Growing up, before Toshiko and Sasuke had come to live with Madara and Itachi had gone off to university, Toshiko, Itachi and Sasuke had all lived three blocks up from Shisui and his mother. Almost all of Toshiko's earliest memories had Shisui in them; he was practically her third bother.

Not that it was surprising; from what Toshiko could remember from her fathers stories— because she had never met Shisui's father herself as the man had died of colon cancer shortly after Shisui's birth —both her father and Shisui's father had both been a lot like Itachi and Shisui, practically joined at the hip having had grown up together in the same house, raised together like brothers.

"You are so lucky you're holding my kid Tachi," Shisui said good naturedly. Toshiko set Hideko down, though the girl took to clutching the gray fabric of her coat, set on following her around.

"Please I could still take you," Itachi fired back. Itachi was usually the cool one of the bunch; always quite and laid back. The only time he became lively was when he was around Shisui and the only time he ever got loud when when he and Sasuke's arguments turned into full on fights.

"Yeah and have Mari look out the window and see?" Shisui scoffed as Toshiko lead Hideko around to the trunk, "Do you want her to freak out and go into early labor? Cause that's what'll happen if she sees us fighting with Daiki in your arms."

"Puppy!" Hideko cried once Toshiko opened the trunk and Masshu jumped from it and onto the street, his leash hit the concrete and his tail wagged back and forth as he looked at Hideko, though he didn't move from where he stood.

"Puppy?" Daiki sounded, "Where?"

"Can I pet him, please, please, please?" Hideko asked, tugging at Toshiko's coat, her bottom lip stuck out into a pout and the grey eyes she'd gotten from her mother pleading.

"Sure," Toshiko said, "But gently." Toshiko kneeled next to Hideko only to turn when Daiki— who stopped next to the trucks tail light; his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape at the sight of Masshu —appeared behind her. "Dai, do you want to pet Masshu too?"

Daiki nodded and Toshiko beckoned the boy over until, like his sister, he was standing next to her.

"Masshu," Toshiko said sternly, "Sit." He did, she then put a hand out and held it up to Masshu's nose for him to smell. "I want you two to do this alright? Let him smell you first."

Both Hideko and Daiki did; Daiki giggled as Masshu's wet nose swept over his palm. Masshu was large for a Chow Chow, bigger then Daiki but still smaller then Hideko, not that that made him any less intimidating when he was snarling; the whole reason Chow Chows had somewhat of an iffy reputation was because— or so Sasuke had said when he'd given her Masshu —of the fact they were great guard dogs.

According to Toshiko's brother— and Goggle —Chow Chows had once been used to guard many great palaces back when Daimyō's and Shōgun's ruled the country.

"He's so cute!" Hideko cooed, gently petting Masshu as she took a step closer to him. Her brother followed in her wake, scratching behind the dogs ears while Hideko got under his chin.

Masshu's eyes closed, his tail thumped a steady beat against the street.

"This is dog our little Sasu got you for protection?" Shisui laughed; Toshiko, with her arms crossed over her chest and her brows raised looked at her cousin.

"What's wrong with my dog?"

"Nothing," Shisui said, "He just looks like a total marshmallow. Literally. You'd think if our little Sasu-kun was going to get you a guard dog he'd get you-I dunno, one what doesn't look like it'd roll over for a bugler."

Toshiko could have defended Masshu and pulled Hideko and Daiki away so that she could show off how well trained he was, instead though, she looked at her cousin and said, "I'll give you twenty yen if you call Sasu that to his face."

"And what? Have him break me in half?" Shisui asked rhetorically, "In case you forgot your big brother's a scary mercenary now."

Toshiko swung her head from side to side, "Sasu, Tachi, Masshu, everyone else. Is there anyone in this house who can't break you in half?"

"Oh so that's how it is Toad?" Shisui asked; Toshiko felt her shoulders drop at the childhood nickname. Where her brothers and Obito— and friends —had called her Toshi, Shisui had always— for as long as she could remember —called her Toad after the Nintendo character her mother had dressed her up as for her first Halloween.

Shisui had been Bowser, Itachi had been Luigi, Sasuke had been Mario and she, because the store had been out of infant sized Princess Peach costumes, had been Toad.

"I hate you," Toshiko said without any real heart and with a snort as his children giggled under the weight of Masshu's kisses, Shisui slung an arm around Toshiko's shoulders. He pressed a brotherly kiss— because Shisui was as much her brother as he was her cousin; always right there with Itachi when she needed them —to the side of her head.

"How you holding up?" He murmured.

"Fine," Toshiko shrugged, she peered around Shisui to see Itachi was nowhere to be found having disappeared into the house, "Totally balled when I got off the train. I just-it doesn't seem real you know?"

"Tell me about it, when Obi called I thought he was joking. I mean when I heard him tell me that ōoji-san was dead, I thought no way." He scoffed with the shake of his dead. Toshiko took in a deep breath at his words— Ōoji-san was dead; Uchiha Madara was dead —and Shisui just tucked her under his arm more firmly then she had been.

"Come on we should get inside," he said to her a moment later, "Everyone been waiting for you and Tachi to show up-Kakashi even made dorayaki just for you."

Toshiko smiled at the mention of her eldest cousins husband and his cooking; up until her and Sasuke had learned to cook for themselves the only reason she and her brother had eaten anything other then soba noodles had been because of Kakashi, as Obito couldn't cook to save his life and soba noodles seemed to be the only thing Uchiha Madara ever ate when left to his own devices.

Hatake Kakashi— not Uchiha, because while he and Obito considered each other husband and husband, and had held a wedding ceremony when Toshiko had been eight, they weren't legally married —was a great guy who Toshiko was happy her cousin had chosen to spend his life with.

Sure he was also a total loser who read badly written cheesy romance novels and liked to dress his dogs up in silly costumes for fun but he was a nice, kind-hearted loser who loved her cousin wholeheartedly.

"Alright," Toshiko murmured, "Masshu!" She said loudly, moving out from under her cousins arm. Masshu got to his paws, his attention no longer on Hideko or Daiki but solely on Toshiko, "Follow."

Masshu listened and moved so that he was next to Toshiko as she and Shisui began to walk towards the house; Hideko and Daiki rushed over to Masshu's side.

"Oba-san?" Daiki asked in his adorable high pitched voice, "Can onee-chan and I please play with Masshu in the backyard?"

"Sure," Toshiko said, Hideko and Daiki both cheered as he went to pick Masshu's leash that been trailing behind him up off the ground.

"Come on Masshu," Daiki tugged, pulling the dog towards the side of the house so that neither he, Hideko or Masshu would have to cut through the house to get to the backyard. Masshu looked to Toshiko— who nodded at the dog —before following after Daiki and Hideko, disappearing around the bend of the house and towards the backyard moments later.

"You know they're going to want a dog after this, right?" Toshiko joked.

"Then they can take it up with the landlord," Shisui rolled his eyes.

"How's work been?" Toshiko asked her cousin, he shrugged.

"Same as always." Shisui was a software engineer, "My boss is looking to promote, I might get it."

"That's great Shisui," Toshiko said brightly knocking her elbow against her cousins, again he shrugged.

"It's not definite as of yet, everything's up in the air at the moment but hey-fingers crossed am I right?"

"Please you've been at that company since you graduated university, you're going to get it," Toshiko said confidently.

"Thanks" Shisui replied, the palm of his hand swept through his already tousled hair as he stopped to let Toshiko up the stairs that lead into the Uchiha family house first. The two of them, once through the door and in the titled well took off their shoes at the door before stepping further into the house.

Toshiko paused after having stepped up onto the wooden landing. Her throat suddenly tight; Madara wouldn't be on the back porch smoking from his pipe while he watched the kids play with Masshu and the coy circle around and around the pond he'd along ago put in.

He wouldn't be shuffling around the house, muttering to himself about things that needed to get fixed up either, nor would he be in the living room reading the paper or even in the kitchen eating a bowl of soba noodles.

Because he was dead.

Suddenly Toshiko was six again and the house felt far too large; strange and uncharted. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest. Growing up Madara was what made the house a home, for a grouchy and unpleasant as he could be— as he had been most days —him no longer skulking through the halls was disbarring.

Was wrong.

"Toshi!"

"Obi!" Toshiko threw her arms out and open in front of her at the sight of her cousin. He hadn't changed much truth be told, except for a few small details— like the several gray strands that had seemed to have accumulated in his hair since the last time Toshiko had seen Obito, and the dark bags that had developed under his eyes —Obito still looked exactly the same since Toshiko had last seen him.

The same— at least for Obito —being covered in scars, one armed, slightly blind and somewhat deaf.

Uchiha Obito had been in a terrible rockslide when he'd been fourteen; he'd lost his left eye and was missing his right arm. The entire right half of his face had been terribly scarred from the rocks nearly caving in that side of his skull and though he could still somewhat hear out of his right ear at nearly fifty Obito had started wearing a bright green hearing aid.

Obito's left arm wrapped around Toshiko's waist while hers wrapped around his shoulders. Shisui with a clap to Obito back passed the two and walked down the long hall that lead to the kitchen.

"I'm glad you're here," Obito said lowly, before pulling away, his palm against her hip.

"Like I wouldn't come," Toshiko responded, squeezing his shoulder before once more pulling him into a tight death grip of a hug.

A moment later after they had untangled themselves from each other and Obito had ushered her towards the kitchen Toshiko was met with Kakashi, Mari, Shisui and her brothers all gathered around the kitchen island, all quietly talking to one another, the dorayaki Shisui had mentioned was laid out in a dish on the island.

Sasuke had positioned himself next to Kakashi furthest from Itachi; Mari, who's hands rested atop her swollen stomach was leaning against Shisui front as he had wrapped his arms around her from behind, his lips pressed firmly against her shoulder.

"Yo," Kakashi waved, smiling from under his mask. Toshiko could remember all the times she and Sasuke and their friends— all of Toshiko's friends had been older then her; Sasuke's age and usually in his homeroom class —had tried to catch Kakashi without his mask on.

When he and Obito had held their wedding ceremony Obito's Maid of Honor, his and Kakashi's friend Rin, had handed the married pair a wreath size bouquet in order to hide Kakashi's face during their first kiss.

"Kakashi," Toshiko waved back, her head jerking upwards. Sasuke smiled faintly at Toshiko as Mari had moved out from Shisui's hold and hobbled herself over to Toshiko who— as best she could —hugged the woman. Mari rocked Toshiko from side to side.

"You've grown!" Mari said, still rocking Toshiko from foot to foot. Though Mari and Shishu had only married several years ago Toshiko had known the woman since she and Shisui had first started dating, back when she'd been eleven and in despite need of a womanly figure in her life.

"No I haven't Mari," Toshiko said, "I'm pretty sure I stopped growing in the tenth grade. You on the other hand—" Toshiko leaned back and rested one of her hands on the side of Mari's swollen stomach. She looked up at the older woman through her lashes, "—Do we know if it's a boy or a girl yet?"

The last time she had called Mari and Shisui the fetus hadn't been turned in the right direction for the obstetrician to determine the gender; just that the baby was healthy, which at the end of the day was all that was important.

"We do actually," Mari said, she looked to Shisui who straightened under his wife's gaze. He nodded, "It's a boy."

"That's great," Toshiko said; Itachi clapped Shisui on the back as Kakashi raised his cup of whatever up into the air.

"We actually-I mean, I only seems right, we did only find out the day before," Mari sputtered, looking between Toshiko and her brothers and cousins, "As long as it's okay with the rest of you, of course."

"As long as what is?" Sasuke asked.

"We want to name the baby Madara, in honor of ōoji-san," Shisui said. Toshiko's head jerked back, Sasuke frowned and Obito blinked owlishly between Mari and Shisui.

"Why?" Sasuke asked, "You didn't even like ōoji-san."

"Sasuke," Itachi said in very reprimanding voice, one that made the muscles in the back of Toshiko's neck jump. It hadn't even been ten minutes; her throat tightened with the need to suddenly scream.

"What?" Sasuke sniped at Itachi, "It's true."

Toshiko saw Itachi's eyes narrow and the youngest of the five Uchiha stepped up to the kitchen island, one hand behind her and wrapped around Mari's wrist. Her blood hot; their grand uncle was dead— the man who had raised three out of the five of them —he hadn't even been buried yet and they were fighting.

"It's fine," Toshiko told Shisui, though her focus was on Sasuke; her voice air and fair lighter then normal, "I mean you remember when Daiki was born right?" She looked at Shisui, "Ōoji-san almost had an aneurism when he found out you didn't name him after your dad."

Madara had gone on and on about how reusing family names was important, how it showed respect towards their ancestors and how— apparently —young people seemed to have none of that anymore.

"Yeah," Obito nodded, his tongue flicking out over his lips, "Honestly if you didn't name the baby after him the old man would probably come back from the grave so he could throttle you."

Sasuke shifted his weight, his lips pressed down into a frown. The combative look in his eyes was gone and had instead been replaced by a dull burning light, "Like he wouldn't come back to throttle us for any other reason."

Toshiko couldn't help but snort at her brothers words; he was right.

If anyone would reanimate themselves from death just to complain and lecture their still-living family members because they couldn't wait another fifty years until said family memeber died and joined them in the afterlife, it would be their grand uncle.

Toshiko pushed off the island.

"I'm going to put my stuff away-Sasu?" She looked at her brother, "Want to come help me?" It wasn't so much as request as it was an order; Toshiko jerked her head towards the kitchen archway. Sasuke's shoulders fell and though Toshiko knew he could have, he didn't argue with her when she took another step back, signaling that she was going to head to her childhood bedroom.

"Coming," her brother said before following her out of the kitchen. Sasuke, didn't bother to say anything before he slide Toshiko's backpack down her arm and over his; silently the pair clomped the houses two narrow flights of stairs until they were standing outside of Toshiko's old bedroom.

Sasuke's bedroom had been across the hall from hers.

At first Madara had tried to keep Itachi and Sasuke close together and Toshiko on the floor below, with him and Obito only to give up and swap Itachi and Toshiko's rooms after three months of Toshiko to sneaking out bed every other night and worming her way into Sasuke's; back then Toshiko used to have terrible nightmare's about the crash and the only person who could ever seem to comfort after them her was Sasuke.

Growing up Sasuke had always been the brother she'd run to when scared or hurt; Itachi was who she went to when she needed advice about life. Shisui was who she had went to when she was in trouble and needed to get out of it— preferably without her grand uncle or brothers finding out —while Obito was the person Toshiko had always went to when she needed to be cheered up.

Toshiko threw open her bedroom door and stepped into the room; the paint on the walls had faded over the years, dulling the champagne pink color Toshiko— and her best friend; a boy she still carried around in the back of her heart, but never wanted to think about —had painted them in middle school. Dozens of photos she hadn't taken with her to university or her new apartment in Fukuako were still hanging up on the wall.

The stuffed dinosaur her father had gotten her when she'd been born— the one she'd long ago named Mamarou; Protector —was on her bed; for the two years following the crash and the move she'd carried the yellow Tyrannosaurus-Rex everywhere with her.

School, play dates, the doctors; it hadn't mattered where she was, for years Mamarou had been with her.

"You don't have to play peace keeper all the time you know," Sasuke said, sitting on Toshiko's bed. Her bag next to him. "Itachi and I are big boys now, we don't need our little sister stepping in every time we have a disagreement."

Disagreement her ass, Toshiko could remember the arguments Itachi and Sasuke used to have, the ones that would quickly turn into screaming matches if no one— if she hadn't —intervened; more then once those fight's had nearly caused the two to come to blows.

"Yeah and if I don't who will? Shisui? Obi?" Toshiko rolled her eyes as she opened her backpack. She shot her brother a look from the corner of her eyes as she began to take her clothes out of her bag, "Did you really have to start though?"

"Come on," Sasuke scoffed, his voice bitter, "I didn't start anything-Shisui was never close to ōoji-san, not like we were."

"Maybe not," Toshiko conceded, "But he was still Shisui's ōoji too and besides, it's not like the rest of us are having kids any time soon so really, where's the harm?"

Sasuke shrugged, "It's wrong, ōoji-he, he was ours. Even when he was here Shisui was never interested in getting to know him, all he and Itachi ever wanted to do was chase after Obito and Kakashi and study. Him naming his kid Madara, it'd be like naming it after dad. Our dad."

Toshiko pushed her bag and clothes to the side and sat next to Sasuke, her head resting against his upper arm.

"Want to say that again and hear how you sound? Our ōoji?" Sasuke let out an indignant huff, "Sasu, if ōoji-san was here you'd know what he'd say right?"

The hum Sasuke let out sounded like an irked growl; "Stop being a piece of shit and be nice to your brother and cousins. Uchiha's are supposed to stick together. He'd say how we're stronger together." United we stand and divided we fall; and all that.

"Exactly," Toshiko nodded.

Over the years since they'd come into his care Madara had told Toshiko— and the boys —about him and his brothers. About how in the beginning there'd been five of them; Uchiha's Akihiko, Keiji, Isao, Madara and Inzuna and how the oldest four of them had all fought like cats and dogs growing up for a myriad of different reasons and how the minute he had turned fifteen Madara had left Konoha and his brothers behind without so much as a second thought.

Madara had told them all about how he had taken off to travel the world— all about his travels —and how one by one his brothers had followed until the last to leave nearly thirty years later was the youngest brother of the bunch— Toshiko and Sasuke and Itachi's own grandfather —Inzuna.

Madara had said how he hadn't thought much of his brothers while he'd been traveling. That until he'd come back to Konoha at nearly fifty years old with expectations, Madara hadn't really allowed himself to think of his brothers and what had become of them, partially because he had been too angry to think of them— even years after having left Konoha —and partially because he had expected them to do fine so to him, there hadn't been a reason to think— worry —about them.

He'd expected them to all have large families, homes of their own that they'd built near enough to their ancestral land only to come back and find grave after grave; his father was dead, as were all of his brothers except for one.

His second eldest brother Kenji had died first, shortly after leaving Konoha. He'd taken a job as a fisher and gone overboard, drowning before his crewmates could pull him back aboard.

Next had been Akihiko who'd passed from some kind of illness; his widow and son— Obito's father —were still in town. That was how Madara had met them, at the foot of his eldest brothers grave. After Akihiko, Isao and his wife, a sister-in-law Madara hadn't even known he'd had, had both died in a house fire. At the time they'd left behind a young son— Shisui's father —who Madara's last living brother Inzuna had taken in.

Inzuna had been in his late thirties when Madara— who was nearly thirteen years older then him —had found him. He was no longer the same little boy who had once followed Madara around like some kind of lost duckling; he had buried his father by himself, survived the war and married the nurse who had swept him off his feet and save his life all in one breath. He'd had a son and a nephew he adored like his own.

He had changed; grown up, and to Inzuna growing up meant he no longer wanted anything to do with Madara.

Madara always said that if it weren't for the fact that he had moved back to Konoha after Inzuna had turned him away— back into their families ancestral home with Obito's grandmother and father —Madara would have never known his younger brother had died shortly after Shisui's birth.

Nor would had Toshiko's grand uncle ever gotten the letter Inzuna had written him; the one Fugaku— Toshiko's father —had given him upon her grandfathers death.

The only part of the story Madara had never told them what was in the letter; all he ever said about the letter his brother had left him was that it was a letter full of regrets, ones they— Toshiko and her brothers and cousins —had to be careful not to repeat.

"It almost doesn't feel real," Sasuke said a moment later so quietly Toshiko had nearly missed it. Like what he was saying was some kind of secrete, and perhaps to Sasuke— who always looked like he rather have his teeth pulled then actually talk about the emotions raging inside of him —it was. "I miss him."

"Yeah," she said thickly. "I do too."

0.0.0.0

Hours after arriving and settling in Toshiko was in her room; Masshu was curled up at her side, tired after having played with Daiki and Hideko. She was supposed to be sleeping— napping —before dinner but she couldn't, not when she had a hundred and one thoughts racing through her mind, weighing her down.

Masshu's head rested on her stomach, his golden eyes met Toshiko's dark ones and the human girl let out a heavy sounding sigh.

There was a box of pictures in her closet pushed all the way to back of the shelf Kakashi had put up year ago for her. They weren't of Madara or her brothers or cousins but rather of someone else Toshiko missed.

Someone who she shouldn't miss, who was no longer hers to miss.

Toshiko threaded her fingers through Masshu's white fur and scratched between her dogs shoulder blades as she willed herself to stay on the bed. She was already sad; already mourning one loss. She tried to tell herself that there was no room in her heart for another but Toshiko knew that was a lie.

There was always room in her heart for him; it was as if her heart had been made for him. Molded into his shape and left with the imprint of his fingers so that it would never forget him.

"I am such a loser," Toshiko said to Masshu. She knew if Sasuke or Shisui came in and found her thinking of the box they'd burn it. Say it was doing more harm then good collecting dust up there; that it had been years.

Ten years, to be exact. A decade.

Obito would say she needed to move on and not in the half hearted way she'd been doing since university but truly. Really.

Madara wouldn't though, he never had when the topic of dating— of her moving on —came up. He'd always given her a measured look and told her how he understood; Uchiha's felt differently then others. They felt more deeply, and while perhaps sometimes they kept their feelings bottled up that didn't mean those feelings weren't there.

Weren't consuming them.

Toshiko curled herself around Masshu and let herself feel; in two hours time she'd be at her grand uncles favorite restaurant trying to swallow her feelings with a side of soba noodles. At least until she was back inside her room and could cry into her pillow.

0.0.0.0

Yashuda was a izakaya style restaurant that had opened when Konoha had first been founded; Toshiko's grand uncle had been going to the restaurant since he'd been a child, back before they had ever even thought of buying the building next-door and expanded. Yashuda had been where Madara had taken Toshiko and her brothers and cousins to celebrate everything— birthday's, achievements, it hadn't mattered what the reason for celebration was for —so it had only made sense to have their first dinner back in town there.

The restaurant lights were low and the new song radio stations loved to over play— Here by Alessia Cara —was set low over the speakers in the background; the bar on the other side of the restaurant was littered with people in loose ties and ties and long skirts, all celebrating the end of the work week.

Toshiko had squeezed herself between Itachi and Hideko, who had, before they all left for the restaurant, had made sure to let everyone know that she wanted to sit next to her mother and Toshiko.

Shisui had Daiki on his lap as they waited for the entrees— their appetizers littered the table, some of the plates with nothing one them and others with pieces of edamame and shumai still left —and though their hands were out of sight Toshiko knew her eldest cousin and his husband's fingers were interlocked together under the table.

Sasuke was across from tell telling a story about how he and the rest of Taka— his team; Toshiko had met them once in passing when she'd been visiting Sasuke —had snuck into a country Sasuke refused to name and rescued the daughter of a Swiss diplomat. His lips had twisted upwards as he recounted how Jugo, the tall, orange haired man he worked along side had nearly shot himself in the foot when a large— nearly hare sized —rat had run over his foot.

"But did he scream?" Kakashi asked, his eyes alight with mischief as he leaned across Obito and towards Sasuke.

"You know it. Jugo can talk all the shi—" Mari coughed loudly in Sasuke's direction, her eyes flickered pointedly to Hideko, "—Uff, stuff," Sasuke covered, "He want's but when you get down to it he's a complete cry baby."

"Tall, bright hair, over emotional. Just your type, right?" Shisui snickered as Daiki scribbled on the placemat he'd been given when they'd all been seated.

Toshiko took a sip of her plum wine in favor of laughing. Obito, who like her, only liked sweet drinks, had ordered them the Awamori Umeshu, a plum wine, and truth be told Toshiko couldn't find herself disappointed in her cousins choice of drink.

Sasuke's face went pink, "Shut up."

"Ooh," Hideko sung, "Sasu-oji has a crush!"

"I do not," Sasuke said. He picked one half of the chopsticks he'd sat down when he'd finished picking at the appetizers and flipped it so that he was holding the end that picked up the food; Sasuke leaned across the table and bopped Hideko lightly in the nose, "Twerp."

Hideko's mouth dropped open indignantly. She moved to kneel on her seat— so that like Sasuke she could lean across the table —only for Mari to grab hold of Hideko's shoulder.

"But mama!" Hideko tried as she attempted to wiggle out from under her mothers hold only to pause when she caught sight of the sobering look Mari was shooting her. The young girl's eyes widened as she allowed her mother to push her back down into her seat.

When Mari turned to speak to Itachi Hideko leaned against the table and poked her tongue out at Sasuke who pretended not to see it in favor of answering Obito's question; whether or not this was the kidnapping that had made international news when it'd first happened.

"What do you think?" Sasuke replied.

"That's why I'm asking you!"

"Since when dose he tell us though," Shisui said with a smile, "Hell I bet if Sasuke here saved the world he wouldn't tell us whether it was him or not, just that he and his team went on a cool mission."

"They're jobs not missions," Sasuke rolled his eyes, "And I can't. I know you can't read and all but there are these things called non-disclosure agreements I have to sign every time I renew my contract."

"I can read thank you," Shisui snarked back, his usual easy-going smirk stretching across his face, "Besides what's a little fine between family?"

"Little?" Sasuke scoffed, "Try eleven million, fourteen thousand and five hundred yen."

Toshiko let out a squeak at the number, Itachi nearly choked on his drink— showing he'd been at least half listening to Sasuke and Shisui's conversation—while Kakashi let out a low sounding whistle and Shisui's head bobbed back.

"Jesus," he said, "Never mind, keep your secretes."

"Sweet, foods here." And like that the table of Uchiha's— and Kakashi —stopped talking and turned on command in the direction of their waitress and the other members of the Yashuda wait staff that had been roped into bringing them their food.

One by one the wait staff dropped plates of various cooked mountain vegetables, ika kara age and maguro tatuta age— deep fried squid with sweet chili sauce and flash fried tuna —samurai steak, chicken curry before they placed a large bowl of what had been Madara's favorite, the yakisoba combination platter in the middle of the table.

Once the wait staff had once again spirited off to the back of the restaurant and to the other tables and the patrons sitting at them, the eight Uchiha's and Hatake Kakashi paused; Obito raised his glass. The rest of them followed; Hideko raised her glass of juice along side her mothers and Toshikos'.

"I propose a toast," Obito said in an almost dignified sort of voice and familiar playful kind of smirk, that only meant one thing, "To Uchiha Madara. He was spiteful and rude and maybe he wasn't the kindest but once you peeled back his layers he was good. So, to ōoji-san, may he be happy where he is and may he rest pleasantly until the rest of kick the bucket and annoy him once more. Here!"

"Here here!" Toshiko and the others called before bringing the rims of their cups to their mouths and drinking.

"Time to dig in," Shisui grinned, setting Daiki back in his own chair next to him. "Itadakimasu."

Toshiko, after following her older cousins example and expressing thanks for her meal, reached for the cooked mountain vegetables and ika kara age, pausing over the samurai steak before she decided to grab herself a piece of that as well.

If Itachi liked it Sasuke would— like a petulant child —eat most of it so that Itachi wouldn't be able to while if if Kakashi decided that he he liked it, Obito would pile almost all of the steak up onto his own plate to save it so that Kakashi would be able to eat it at home, where no one would be gawking at him, trying to see what the rest of his face looked like.

"Obi-ji!" Hideko said with a frown, Toshiko, mid bite looked at the girl from the corner of her eyes and then to Obito who had the bowl of yakisoba noodles in hand, "You can't eat sōsofu's soba noodles! You know that's all he eats, if you eat that what will he eat when he comes back?"

Toshiko felt the bite of fuki and other mountain vegetables turn to ash in her mouth.

Obito's smile fell and Sasuke, who'd been chewing on his bite of curry grabbed his still somewhat full glass of sake and brought it up to his lips.

"Sweetheart," Mari said gently, "Hideko-chan, papa and I told you about Sōsofu-san."

"Yeah, you and papa said he went away," Hideko blinked, "But Obi-ji even said we'd see him later and sōsofu-san's going to be hungry when he comes back." Hideko's voice was filled with such innocence only a child— untouched by any true horrors the world beheld —could have.

Mari's face softened as it fell.

"No, sweetheart. Sōsofu-san isn't coming back." Hideko's brows creased as her face twisted in confusion.

It was the same look Sasuke had worn when he'd woken up in the hospital after the crash and Itachi had told him about their parents. Like he hadn't understood what the words coming out of Itachi's mouth— "Mom and dad are dead, Sasuke." —had meant.

"What do you mean he's not coming back, he couldn't have moved we were at his house before, so he has to come back."

"Hideko-chan," Itachi said gently, moving to the edge of his chair, "You know what death is right? When characters on television and in movies die, you know what the means, right?" Hideko nodded, the crease between her brows got deeper.

Her brother looked at his sister and then at their mother and father and the rest of their family, unlike Hideko who was viably connecting the dots in her head, he still looked lost.

"It means that they're gone," Hideko said softly. She shook her head, "But Sōsofu-san can't be dead though. He's not."

Toshiko blinked her eyes rapidly, she was in a restaurant. She was twenty-six— a fully grown adult woman with a job and an apartment and a dog all of her own —she couldn't break down crying next to her cousins daughter in public, no matter how sad she was.

She took another sip of her wine; the once sweet flavor suddenly bitter on her tongue.

Hideko's bottom lip trembled as her eyes glossed over.

"Hey Hideko-chan!" Shisui said in a falsetto tone, the smile that was on his face was obviously fake, "How about you and I go outside for some air okay?"

"Okay," Hideko croaked, her small voice cracking. Shisui didn't hesitate in picking her up once he'd wiggled out from between Daiki and Sasuke; when neither of them were could any longer been seen Toshiko set her chopsticks down on her plate, her eyes flickering to the others.

"I'm-I need to use the restroom, I'll be right back." Sasuke nodded and with that Toshiko— with her eyes turned downwards towards the floor in hopes no one would see the tears in them —all but hit the ground running which was why she wasn't all that surprised to have hit someone as she went to turn the corner that lead to the restaurants bathrooms.

Hand's grabbed at Toshiko's waist as she teetered backward, her right hand had shot out and fisted itself into the white button-down of whomever she'd nearly run down.

"Sorry about—" Toshiko cut herself off with a blink. Her mouth had dropped open slightly at the sight of the man before her; her breath caught in her throat. Her heart both stopped and sped up. The tears that had been welling up in her eyes only second before were no longer anywhere to be found.

"Shika?" She breathed out, though she still seemed unable to take a breath. Not that she was really focused on breathing, but rather the man in front of her, "Maru?" she added on choppily after another blink; he really was there in front of her.

She swallowed the leaden lump that had appeared with Nara Shikamaru's arrival.

"Shikamaru-san," she said again, this time all together and with a slight tremor.

"Toshi," he said in the same kind of shaky, breathy voice she'd used; he didn't however, add on the rest of her name or any honorific but instead smiled at her. Warmly and brightly in a way that made Toshiko feel like she had been both submerged into an ice bath and thrown onto hot coals; like she was cold and burning at the same time.

"I didn't realize you were back," Shikamaru said, his smile dimmed and he looked sorry. Not the pitiful kind of sorry most people wore after someone's death— like they were sorry for you —but rather, Shikamaru's smiled dimmed and the sorry look that overtook his face was the kind that read apologetic; like if he could somehow fit it— bring Uchiha Madara back to life —he would.

"I mean," he corrected, "I heard about your ōoji-everyone has. I'm sorry for your loss. Madara, he was a good guy. I just, didn't realize you back already." The point of his tongue darted out and swept along his bottom lip.

"Yeah," Toshiko said, "I got in this morning."

"You drove?" Shikamaru's brows darted up in astonishment. Toshiko snorted at the question, and for a moment her nerves melted away.

"Are you kidding me? I took the train in." While she was fine in the passenger seats of cars— sort of; that was more a recent development that had only just happened and only with people she trusted —just the thought of even driving one made the twenty-six year old break out into an anxious sweat.

"That makes sense," Shikamaru nodded, his shoulders dropped and he sucked in a deep breath of air; something Toshiko felt she might have forgotten how to do. "How have you been though? Besides your ōoji, I mean."

He cares, a tiny voice in the back of Toshiko's mind crowed happily. Snuffing that voice out Toshiko shrugged, only to be reminded that not only was her hand was still wrapped up in the front of Shikamaru's shirt, twisted around the forest green tie he had loosed around his neck but his were still planted on her waist.

With a burning face Toshiko dropped her hand and took two half-steps backwards; Shikamaru twitched where he stood.

"Fine," she said. "You?"

"Good," he replied, his shoulders once more tense. His hands shoved deep into his pockets. "I work in the mayors office now," he said with a proud half-smile.

"That's great," Toshiko congratulated, "Really."

"And you?" Shikamaru wondered, "You graduated last year, right?"

Ten months ago but really, who was counting? Toshiko nodded, "Yeah, I got a job in Fukuoka at the prosecutors office about six months ago. I just sat second chair to my first homicide trial last month."

"That's great!" Shikamaru said, his hands moved from his pockets to her arms only to pause, hovering over them like he wasn't quite sure if he should go in for the hug he'd about to give. A metal band on his right hand gleamed under the restaurants lights.

Toshiko's heart dropped into the pit of her twisting stomach.

"You're married," she gasped, unable to tear her eyes away from the silver band on his finger. Shikamaru's fingers curled inwards and he moved his hand so that it was resting against his chest. Toshiko finally looked away from the ring and to him; to his burning face.

"I-no," he shook his head, "Sure I have a ring but me? Married?" He let out a wheeze Toshiko supposed was meant to me an airy laugh; she hadn't ever heard him make that sound before. "I'm not," he said, his voice firm as he slipped the ring off his ring finger and between his thumb and index ones. "It's complicated. Long story, really, sort of troublesome to explain, you know?"

No. Toshiko wanted to say; because how could she know any sort of story in conation to marriage when she had only ever loved one man before. The man before her. It felt as if ice had been poured down shirt and was sliding down her back. No I don't.

"Yeah," she said instead.

"I could though," Shikamaru said in a half rushed but overall breathless sort of voice; it was the sort of voice Toshiko rarely heard growing up, the kind Shikamaru used when his plans fell apart and he was winging it. "Explain it, over lunch or something. Maybe? How long are you back for?"

If Toshiko hadn't known better— hadn't remembered the last ten years —she would have thought Shikamaru sounded nervous when he asked to explain his long ring-centered story.

"Not long," Toshiko said, "Just until after the funeral. I leave the day after that." So four days in total.

Toshiko tried not to think about the twitch in Shikamaru's shoulder or the way his knuckles had gone white and just how off kilter the man in front of her looked as he nodded but rather— as Shikamaru grimaced —Toshiko focused on the curve of his nose and how much she hoped he couldn't hear her hemorrhaging heart pounding in her chest.

"Then maybe we could meet up then. Grab breakfast together or something before you leave?" Shikamaru proposed.

"Are you sure, I mean, working for the mayor must have you pretty busy? I'd hate to be troublesome and for you to have to go out of your way." Troublesome; a word Toshiko hadn't used in a decade rolled off her tongue like it was nothing. Like it had always been there, like she always used it.

"You wouldn't be," Shikamaru said, "Saying that I'm going out of my way makes it seem like a favor or something, and it wouldn't be Toshi. I want to catch up."

Oh, Toshiko thought. She smiled though, through the pain. It was a small doll-like smile.

Why couldn't he have gotten meaner in the past ten years? Or uglier? Why did he have to look as beautiful has he'd always been; why did he have to have ring around his finger?

"Maybe," she said, which just meant not at all, "I'll have to see. Everyone is really broken up about ōoji-san's death."

"Right," Shikamaru swallowed, he nodded, "Right, of course."

His head tipped downwards and his eyes connected to Toshiko's. They were as dark as she could remember; they reminded Toshiko of Tahitian Pearls. Toshiko moved to step around him only for Shikamaru to step with her.

"I'm here if you-any of you—," he said, earnestly, "—Need something. Anything, it doesn't matter what, or when. I'm here."

And there was the kindness Toshiko had fallen in love with years ago; no matter how lazy Shikamaru could be, no matter how unmotivated he was at any given moment, if she had needed him— his help —he had always been right there next to her, willing to do whatever need be.

Toshiko couldn't help but think that maybe he had gotten meaner over the past ten years. That it would have been nicer— hurt less —if he had reached through Toshiko's chest and twisted her hear manually.

"Thank you Shikamaru," Toshiko said softly before moving around him. She tried not to look like she was running towards the women's bathroom, where Toshiko— for the first time since she had last found herself in Konoha; since she had last seen Shikamaru —broke down in stall.

As she cried in the restaurant stall Toshiko couldn't help but wish she could go back twenty years. Back to the start.

#shikamaru nara #shikamaru nara x reader #shikamaru nara x oc #oc: toshiko #my writing #naruto fanfiction #shikamaru nara fanfiction

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cheerynoir · 4 years

Text

How Do We Come Back From This?

@c0ffeebee this one’s for you, and the three other people in this rowboat of a fandom. Please excuse any wonky characterization or mistakes, they’re all my own. Unebta’d. TW: smoking, drunkenness, drunk sex, Angst, Rio [Rio Is Her Own Warning].

Eventually the music gave him a headache and the crush of people made him claustrophobic. So Mateo stepped out for fresh air and shivered at the chill of it as his sweat cooled. His ears rang in the sudden quiet. Smokers huddled in little knots, here and there, and he leaned back upwind of them, breathing deep. It was nice to hear himself think for once.

“Got a light?” asked a smooth voice, and he turned and found a white woman in a man’s coat. Red hair. Dark, wide-set eyes. Something about her — the twist of her mouth, maybe — reminded him of a fox.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he said, and fumbled for the cheap zippo he’s started carrying when he realized most of his new friends lived on cigarettes and caffeine (and Rico was perpetually short a light).

He lit her cigarette and she smoked in silence for a while, before turning to him and pulling him into a conversation. He couldn’t remember what they spoke of - dancing, maybe? - but he knew the alley seemed very small, suddenly, with how they gravitated closer and closer. She tipped her face up for him, and it was a nice face, fine-boned and sharp-edged—

“Mateo,” cut in Diego. Mateo startled. He hadn’t even heard the back door bang open. “There you are.”

He didn’t look happy, but Mateo mustered up a smile. “Hey! I was just talking with—”

“Fuck off, Rio,” said Diego, without looking at Mateo at all. It was like he hadn’t spoken. A muscle in Diego’s jaw worked, and Mateo’d never seen him so closed off.

“Good seeing you, too, Diego,” the redhead replied, smirking a lopsided little smirk. “See you around, baby. Thanks for the light.”

“Don’t,” started Mateo, but the woman was already slinking away. “Call me that,” he muttered, and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling - out of sorts. Diego’s glower settled on him, black and heavy. “What?”

“Steer clear of her,” he said. And gestured impatiently. “C’mon. Fly’s looking for you.”

“What? Why? She seemed—” Hot. Intense. Dangerous. “— fine?”

Diego huffed out a breath and slammed the service door behind them, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Well she’s not. She’s a crazy bitch and you’re better off telling her to fuck herself.”

“Why?”

Diego sucked his teeth, looking torn. But he rolled his shoulders and gave his head a shake, looking like he was getting ready for a brawl.

“Rico doesn’t like her,” he settled on at last. “She’s banned from The Cat.”

That drew him up short. “What? I thought you only banned, like, cops and Nazis. Is she a Nazi?”

“No.” Jaw tight, he waved Mateo on. “Go on. You know how he gets.”

So he went, confused, and the feeling lingered, even through the happy fog that being in Fly’s orbit always left him in. Dett seemed to notice, because she snagged him a little later, a tray of shots in one hand.

“What’s up, baby?”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, reflexive. Then, “Hey, do you know Rio? White girl, red hair? Kind of foxy?”

Dett narrowed her eyes at him, but jerked her chin. He trailed her awkwardly as she wound across the floor, making sales and gathering empties.

“She and Rico used to hang out,” she said on the way back to the bar, mouth a lipsticked twist of displeasure. The words felt forced, like maybe he’d yanked them out along with some teeth, maybe.

“They dated?”

“I don’t know what they did, except egg each other on. Like two sides of a fucking coin,” said Dett. “Fuck this - Fly! I’m taking my 15 and stealing your duckling!”

Engaged with a rowdy bachelorette party, flashing the flirty customer service grin Mateo hated, Rico only lifted a hand to wave her off. Mateo trailed her back out to the alley, feeling weirdly unsettled.

“I thought he didn’t date,” he ventured at last, settling down on an overturned milk-crate. That was his thing, wasn’t it? Unattainable, charismatic, painfully cool Fly Rico, who’d flirt with anybody but never follow through.

“Aw, ducky. He doesn’t date the babies. Everyone else is fair game,” she said, and patted his knee. “Buck up. So Rio was this spooky bitch who hung around for a while, back when we were younger and dumber. She loved to stir the pot and drag Rico into shit. Tagging a building wasn’t enough, she had to try and smash up a police station, that kind of thing, y’know?”

Something warm settled in the pit of his stomach. He leaned forward and watched Dett light a cigarette and blow a series of wobbly smoke rings. What were they like, back then? What was Rico like, young and wild and hungry for everything? It itched at him like smoke in his lungs, the curiosity.

But Dett drew up short and fixed him with a heavy, pointed look. “Hey. I’m only telling you this so you get th point. She’s bad news. I tell you, and you never bring it up again, never even breathe this bitch’s name, you got it?”

“I got it.”

“Swear,” she said sharply.

A lifetime of promises to Fina – sacred things, big and small – had him crossing his heart with the tip of his finger before he’d even realized his hand had moved. “I swear,” he said, and meant it. What was one more secret for the pile? He’d die before he told. But Dett only eyed him and smoked furiously for a few long minutes. Then she nodded, and seemed to relent.

“So one night we’re all out partying, and Rio disappears for a bit. Gets into a fight with some dick twice her size - and Rico jumps in to save her ass, break it up, whatever.” Dett blew out about sigh, sounding frustrated. “She got him knifed - or knifed him herself. I wasn’t there, I didn’t see. And you know him. He’d never rat. But. He nearly died.”

“What?” said Mateo, as if from a long ways away. The ember in the pit of his stomach turned to ice. He swallowed hard.

“In the hospital, after - I’d never seen Papa so mad. Banned Rio for life, not that any of us were fighting for her. She took off, before the police and the paramedics showed up, while D and I - and all the blood. There was so much blood, that night.” Cigarette between her teeth, her gaze fell to her empty hands. She flexed them slowly, like she could feel the hot red stain there, still. Then she took a deep breath and swallowed. Visibly yanked herself back from the edge.

“She never visited - I would have killed her if she tried. After he healed up, she started sniffing around again, so Fly burned her, and now nobody fucks with her at all. So you steer clear of her, too. She only turns up trouble.”

“Okay,” he said, faintly. He’d thought she was hot and smooth, before. Smoking a cigarette and looking like she wanted to swallow him whole. She got him knifed. He nearly died. Attraction withered and died, there, in the alley way. He didn’t fight it, and he didn’t grieve.

A few days later, when he was taking a breather around eleven, Rio turned up again. Mateo ducked back inside without greeting her and couldn’t help sticking close to the bar, close to Fly, after. Like she was going to follow him in to finish what she started, maybe. Like he needed to see Rico whole and well and flirting carelessly for tips. It made his chest ache to see it, and his teeth hurt from clenching his jaw.

But he was fine. It was fine. Rico was perfectly healthy and what he did for his job was none of Mateo’s business.

She was gone when Mateo followed Fly out into the back alley a while later, anxiously curling and uncurling his fists. Even when Fly grinned at him, shoving his sweat-dark hair out of his eyes, even when he ducked his head to chase the lighter’s flame, Mateo couldn’t relax, couldn’t stop jumping at shadows. The pinpricks of light reflected in Fly’s eyes like distant stars, and the fire kissed his cheeks and turned his eyelashes to gauzy spiderwebs, and he watched Mateo, honey-slow, with a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth and he—

He still couldn’t relax.

It was a long night.

The door slammed behind him, the loudest sound in the whole world. Mateo stumbled, then staggered, then the wall surged up under his hands and he managed to stay upright, thank God. He didn’t think his legs would hold if he fell and needed to get back up, just now.

The world spun in a wobbly, nauseating blur. Mateo shut his eyes and tried to breathe through it, though he felt his stomach churning and his throat twitching like he was gonna gag.

He swallowed, and shut his mouth tight, and breathed. He didn’t wanna throw up. Not right now and not outside The Cat, where Rico was inside with some guy with a shitty haircut and his pretty hands all over the guy, laughing into his shoulder as they moved to the electric beat. The only two people in the fucking world, apparently.

Some night off.

Tears threatened, and Mateo tried to swallow those too. He laid his hot cheek against the brick and scraped it, feeling the roughness catch on his skin. It distracted him, and it was cool, and everything was terrible but at least he had this wall right here.

“Shit,” he mumbled, a slow-dawning realization. “Shit, I’m hammered.“

Absolutely soaked, crowed the little voice in the back of his head that sounded like Rico at his happiest. It felt like getting stabbed right between his ribs, hearing that. It hurt, it hurt. Hurt like Raul telling him, gentle and so damn kind, ‘Maybe you should give this a rest, huh?’ because he had his answer and Rico didn’t want him, wouldn’t ever want him. Mateo’s breath punched out in a ragged sob and then he couldn’t stop. The dam shattered and the tears and hurt poured out.

He wiped at his face with both hands, like he had when he was just a kid tagging along at the grocery store and so worked up about something that there was snot and tears everywhere and too many eyes watching and Tiago was getting frustrated with him again—

“You okay, baby?”

Mateo wanted it to be Rico so bad. So bad it hurt, even. He wanted Rico’s warm eyes and pretty hands and husky voice, and his arm around Mateo’s shoulders like the only thing anchoring him to the earth. The heat of him, and the smell of his sandalwood-and-spice cologne, and his quicksilver grin. Mateo wanted him. But it was only some girl with a fox face. He sniffled at her, and felt her hand on his arm like an afterthought. She was looking at him like -

Like she wanted him.

God, he wanted to be wanted. Just a little. Just a bit.

“No,” he told her, drunk and honest.

She smiled with one side of her mouth, and wiped the tears off his cheeks with both thumbs. Her hands were cool and sure. He leaned into her, and her smile widened with a flash of teeth.

“Well,” she said, “let’s see if we can fix that, huh?”

And then they were kissing and the world dissolved into heat and want and relief like cool sweet water on a parched throat. She wanted him, and it was simple and it made heat bloom in the pit of his stomach. Her back hit the brick and her mouth opened under his and it was good, God, it was so good. She tasted like mint and whiskey and he chased the taste of it while her fingernails raked down his back.

She groaned against his cheek when he hitched one of her legs up over his hip, grinding in close. It made him wonder dizzily if he could do it. If he could hike up her other leg and have her right here against the wall in front of God or anybody. Her pulse pounded under his tongue, and she arched into his hands, and she was so fucking soft and she wanted him and he wanted—

“Mm,” she sighed, and her head lolled back, and he mouthed at her neck like something starved. “Find us a room, baby.”

“Nn?” Words were too hard. He was too hard. He lifted his head when she pulled on his hair and fixed him with a black-eyed stare. All pupil. She licked her lower lip in a flash of pink, and he dipped to do the same, but her grip on his hair tightened in a stinging flash of heat. He bit back a moan.

“A room,” she repeated. “A motel or something.”

There was one a couple of blocks over. The Sunset Motel. But even a couple of blocks felt like too far, with her pressed so close.

“Alright,” he panted, and stamped a messy kiss across her mouth. “Alright. C’mon.”

The Sunset was close, but there was an apartment above The Cat that would be empty this time of night, with two of its occupants working and one with his hands all over some guy with a shitty haircut. Mateo led the way, knocking the loose brick out of the wall and scraping up his fingers to get at the spare key. The inside of the apartment was dark, and the floor vibrated in time with the music pounding below. The girl laughed, low and husky and hot, and they were kissing again, tripping over each other and the coffee-table. Mateo managed to kick the door shut behind them, and then it was a scramble – out of clothes, into the nearest bedroom – and then—

Things got a little hazy, then. Clarity came in little flashes: one cold hand against his navel while the other rolled a condom down his length, the flash of red hair against a grey pillowcase, the ragged noise she made when he pressed his fingers – his cock – inside her. The smell of musk and sweat and sandalwood that clung to the skin of her throat where he pressed his greedy mouth.

After, he must have slept, because he woke reaching for her. The whole process repeated itself – once, then twice. Her hands, her mouth, the hot clutch of her body. The fevered intensity of her stare on his face, her mouth gasping “baby, baby” until he had to turn his face away, into the pillow, the taste of blood in his mouth from his bitten lip.

And through it all, the warm smell of sandalwood and spice.

He was muzzy, half-asleep, content with her skin against his and her head on his chest when a flicker at the doorway caught his attention and—

Rico.

Rico with one hand going white on the doorknob, still as death, the other clenched into a fist with something in it. His left thumb twitched, working the spinning loop of his fidget-ring frantically. His eyes – his eyes were—

Mateo sat up all at once, mouth dry, tongue clumsy. The air was blood-hot against his bare skin when the sheets fell away.

“Fly,” he said, drunk and stupid. He sounded surprised. “Fly, I uh—”

He stumbled, tripped, babbled. The girl. The girl didn’t say anything at all. He turned to her, hoping maybe—

It hit him, then.

Fox face. Red hair. Dark eyes. A crooked kind of smirk.

“Hey, Fly,” purred Rio.

Mateo shut his mouth, feeling like he’d missed a step on the way down the stairs. The gravity of the situation seeped into his pickled brain. His stomach iced over and his lungs locked up.

“Rico,” he heard himself say. Rico still hadn’t moved. He was always moving – tapping his foot, pacing, spinning his fidget ring – but now he was still, all but his wild eyes.

“Get out,” said Rico.

“Rico,” Mateo pleaded.

He moved at last, and something hit Mateo in the face. Surprised, he sucked in a breath, and a the stink of what he’d done – smoke-liquor-sweat-perfume – washed over him. It was his shirt. He must have dropped it, before.

He was vaguely aware of Rio sliding out of bed – out of Rico’s bed, fuck – and gathering her clothes, unhurried and unbothered and smooth.

Numbly, Mateo put on his shirt. He found his jeans, and he shoes and – and he was walking out with Rio, past a dumbfounded Diego and a glaring Dett in the doorway. He walked away and expected to cry. He even wiped at his dry eyes, like muscle-memory. But no tears came.

With each step, a hole ripped open a little wider behind his ribs, black and sucking as a chest-wound. He breathed in shallow little sips, expecting pain.

Diego was the one to shut the door behind them. The slam of the deadbolt locking felt – horrifically final.

Mostly dressed in the pre-dawn gloom, Mateo couldn’t help but look around. His head felt foggy, sluggish, and his throat thick. The beginnings of a hangover, probably.

“What do I do now?” he wondered, and the words were flat.

Rio touched his arm, and he didn’t flinch away.

“We get breakfast,” she told him.

So they did.

#happy au #pdcoa #flyvega #my beloved crybaby #fly rico #mateo vega #look i know it's angsty but it's not the FIRST bit og the happy au #it's just the only bit that wouldn't leave me alone #the set up is Mateo is a baby gay and Fly is his mentor/Elder Gay and it's Complicated #the cat is a gay bar i don't make the rules ok #c writes

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kadeuxhyeonju · 3 years

Text

HYBRID AWAKENING

TW: bullying, mentions of child abuse

Kadeu, Spade Territory, Lee Estate

140+ years ago, Autumn, Early Morning

Strongarm Awakening

Little Hyeonju sat as straight and proper as his pudgy body allowed him, but he found himself fidgeting despite the growing apprehension and fear building as his mother’s eyes darkened with each prohibited twitch. His tails flicked to and fro the longer the silence dragged on. Finally, his mother spoke, gesturing at the block of stone in front of the little boy. “Again.” They’d been at this for hours. The hybrid was tired and his skin was tingling. He didn’t want to keep doing this. Hyeonju would rather get slapped by her than do this exercise again—which is exactly what would happen if he didn’t move. With a shuddering breath Hyeonju concentrated on his tiny fists like his mother had taught him, thought of gathering all his energy and strength into his hands—and brought them down onto the stone with all the strength he could muster.

Nothing happened.

Hyeonju’s fear grew until it clogged his throat, choking him in its desperation to push his body away from his mother’s swift and menacing approach. It wasn’t the injuries from the stone Hyeonju despised; those did nothing to the Strongarm skin he’d inherited from his mother.

It was the punishing blows of his Strongarm mother when he failed to show any of her species’ power that made him wish they’d stop these exercises. Hyeonju was young and unknowledgeable about the world, but he knew one thing—he was not his mother. He didn’t inherit her strength and nor did he want to. Even through the debilitating fear and confusion and pain, even as his mother calmly spit out vitriol that hurt the hybrid’s heart to hear, Hyeonju was secretly glad. He was so grateful not to be strong like her. That meant he wouldn’t hurt anyone like she was hurting him, even by accident. He didn’t want to hurt anybody. He didn’t want to be hurt. Is being a Strongarm supposed to mean being his mother? He hopes this strength never wakes up.

Hyeonju is still thankful it never awakened.

Kadeu, Spade Territory, Training Grounds

140+ years ago, Winter, Afternoon

Kitsune Awakening

Before he learned to truly fear his father, before he learned to fear his power, before he learned to fear his mind, Hyeonju thought the world full of infinite possibilities.

“Alright, Lil Kit, listen closely ‘cause I won’t repeat myself, understand?” Little Hyeonju nodded, tails swishing side to side in anticipation, ears perked up in attention, eyes bright amber and full of life. His father was going to teach him illusions properly for the first time today. He’d seen the older Kitsune weave the most beautiful manabeasts into existence, dancing women dressed in the most expensive silks, buildings as tall as the Diamond Academy. He had told Hyeonju for so long that it wasn’t quite time yet, though his mother would argue in that cool, apathetic way of hers that she didn’t believe that to be the case.

Hyeonju had shown considerable aptitude as a Kitsune much to his mother’s ire, but his father had been observing with eager eyes, waiting for the hybrid to reach the “golden time.” The little boy had, from his first human meal, been able to shift into a fox and back again, though he had little control over which fox features appeared when human. His mother had demanded Minjun to teach his son how to control it better, though that was slow going. What both had been waiting for was whether little Hyeonju exhibited any other abilities, most importantly, illusion magic.

It had happened in his bouts of daydreaming, all alone as the other Spade children scampered off after their teasing and pushing, sometimes in the middle of training when he was caught off guard by an unexpected blow from his mother, other times as he read the texts his mother provided for study. Hyeonju would imagine his favorite things such as autumn leaves and there they’d be, fluttering around him in the middle of winter at the dining table. He’d think of how he wished he had a shield as his mother’s fist neared his face and find a wall of rock in front of him. He read the battles of the factions only to have a mini war-torn field appear on the barrack floors. Each illusion only lasted a few moments, fuzzy around the edges, faded and easily seen through. Hyeonju never knew what to make of the energy that buzzed through his head and over his skin. He only knew it felt like a bubble, expanding into the world and bringing his inner world to life in front of his—and his parents’—very eyes.

Minjun stared down at his son and offered an amused, menacing grin. “Your mind is a Palace, Lil Jun. It has an infinite number of rooms, an infinite number of possibilities.” What does infinite mean? Hyeonju wondered, but didn’t dare interrupt. “Imagine a Palace in your head, can be anything—a lake, a house, the sky—and think of different rooms or places in that space to hold your memories or things you know or learn.” Hyeonju nodded. He had something like that already, a safe haven in his mind with many trees, each holding something different, a place to escape to when his reality became too much. “Good. Now pick a room that has something you’d like to see. Do you have one? Alright, now imagine whatever it is you see is in front of you. Think about how it looks from every angle, how it feels, smells, tastes, sounds. When you think you’ve got it, push it out in front of you until it’s in front of me.”

Hyeonju followed his father’s instructions. He fell into the Palace that dwelled in his mind—an orchard that sat in the forests just outside Kadeu’s walls. A place he’d seen countless times on his way back home with his mother after visiting that terrifying healer. Mother let him play there while she talked with the healer about their research results. He loved the sights, smells, and sounds in autumn. His Palace a perpetual autumn orchard with each tree holding a place and time; each leaf holding an object or memory. The hybrid had never realized there was a name for his inner world. The new knowledge made his heart race with eagerness. His Palace.

The little boy imagined he was picking a leaf off one of the trees—one that held memories of a Diamond Palace performance his father had brought him to on a whim. He watched the leaf in his hand change shape, its edges expanding while also forming vertical folds. The stem and veins turned into metal while the leaf itself morphed into fabric that wrapped around the metal. A beautiful design appeared on both sides. Hyeonju stared at the fan—one he’d seen one of the dancers use in their solo performance. He had thought it to be one of the most pretty things he’d ever laid eyes on.

“Lil Jun, open your eyes.”

Hyeonju hadn’t even realized he’d closed them, but when he opened his eyes, there in his hand sat the fan from his memory. It looked and felt as real if he’d grabbed it from the dancer himself. He looked up at his father with the biggest heart-shaped smile his cheeks would allow. For once, his father’s smile was without malice and was instead full of pride. It made Hyeonju’s chest fill with joy. “I did it! Father, look! I did it!”

“That you did, Lil Kit. Had to do it with your eyes closed, looks pretty fake, and took for fucking ever, but you sure did. A bit more practice and I might be able to call you a Kitsune for once. Won’t have to be ashamed you’re my kid.” Hyeonju would remember that to be the insult it was intended later on in life, but at that moment, the little hybrid could not glow more brightly with what he believed to be the highest praise coming from his father. His father had called him a Kitsune! He wasn’t a Strongarm. He wasn’t hurting anyone. He was creating something from nothing, from this thoughts. The bubble popped and the fan faded into nothing, but Hyeonju realized in that moment what “infinite” meant and satisfaction filled his mind.

—

Hyeonju twirled the fan between his fingers, though no air stirred with the flared objects motions. It looked and felt real, but anybody who took the time to pay attention would notice the lack of effect it had on its surroundings, how fake it was. He flicked his hand and the fan disappeared as if it had never been—because it hadn’t. Like all things in Hyeonju’s life, it was simply an illusion, but at least this was one he could control. At least these illusions couldn’t hurt him. He weaved lies for himself and the world and no one was the wiser, just how the Kitsune hybrid liked it.

#kadeuxhyeonju #task: second awakening #: hybrid's awakening #self para #why do i keep making these so long #i quit #fun fact: mind palaces are a real concept #i thought it'd be interesting to apply to mental magic #unlike eva he's got mixed feelings about his powers on both sides

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atamascolily · 4 years

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Extremely subjective opinions about Star Wars planets

Inspired by @carmarthenfan. I did my top ten faves, and then gave up trying to put these in order, so they're literally in the order they occurred to me.

(This is not conclusive; I left a bunch out. There are a lot of Star Wars planets, y’all.)

1. Tatooine.

Iconic. Terrible place to live. Great place for making your characters suffer. Who cares that the ecology makes no sense when you have wide open spaces, exposed rock layers and salt flats, and a rockin' aesthetic? Not to mention wretched hives of scum and villainy and also, like, ACTUAL DRAGONS.

(Thesis: literally half of what makes ANH so compelling is that it's set on Tatooine.)

2. Yavin IV (Legends)

AKA Jedi Jungle Friendship Camp or Space Guatemala. If I was going to live anywhere in the GFFA, it'd be here. Temple ruins (even if they are infested with Sith ghosts), hot springs, rainforests, biodiversity, awesome eclipses and a giant blood-red gas giant constantly overhead, not much in the way of development... what's not to like? (Okay, the Sith ghosts are a problem, but they got rid of those eventually.)

3. "Forest moon" of Endor, ROTJ

Redwood forests are awesome. I'd totally live in an Ewok treehouse. They're the only place in the galaxy with handrails!!

4. Coruscant

I'd probably hate to live there, but it's a great setting for fic. A surprisingly large amount of wildlife and plant life, despite the rampant development. Epic architecture, lots of culture, Luke has a cool retreat in the Manarai Mountains and Han and Kyp go skiing at the poles. Home of "the room where it happens".

(most of my fics to date are set on Tatooine, Yavin or Coruscant, lol)

5. Alderaan

Too bad the Empire blew it up. :( IDK about the whole Killik business, but Space Switzerland seems great, and I'd live there in a heartbeat. An actual multi-biome world, wow! I should write more fics about this place.

6. Myrkr (Legends)

Jungle planet with metallic trees and furry, Force-repelling lizards. Also giant vornskrs that use the Force to hunt. Don't forget Talon Karrde's awesome tree base!

7. Dagobah

I love this place, even if living there would be a challenge. Actually kinda has a functioning ecology in canon. Love the sheer abundance of snakes, plus dragonsnakes and the mangrove-like gnarltrees, which are the adult form of giant white spiders (I love plant-animal weirdness like this).

8. Mulako Comet (Legends)

Not technically a planet, but how can you not love a resort carved out of a giant frozen comet HOW. 10/10, we stan. The perfect place for a romantic getaway, especially if you are a water nerd like Luke.

9. Vjun (Legends)

The Gothiest goth place ever to Goth. Has names like "River Weeping" and carnivorous moss that nibbles on Obi-wan. <3. Vader's Goth castle was originally here before the writers moved it to Mustafar.

10. Honoghr (Legends)

Another terrible place to live, thanks to the Empire's sabotage, but I love there's actually an attempt at an ecological plot line here (Timothy Zahn is surprisingly good at those). A single biome world, but for a legit (and sad) reason. I should write some fics about this place.

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

Corellia (Legends) - It's okay, I guess? I'm not sure how I feel about the Corellian trilogy in general, but there are some things with the Selonians and the Drall that could be interesting for fic? Also, Treasure Ship Row is cool.

Kessel (Legends) - Hell-realm. Not sure if Kevin J. Anderson's "glitterstim" is the same as "spice," but Han and Kyp have to fight off giant spiders in the dark underground mine, which is certainly dramatic. Had a moon until a prototype Death Star blew it up.

Ithor (Legends) - JUNGLE PLANET POPULATED BY BOTANY NERDS, SIGN ME THE FUCK UP. But they won't let you actually explore the surface, because it's sacrilege. :(

Belsavis (Legends) - Hoth on the surface, Yavin in the rift valleys (but with, like, plantations), plus underground tunnels full of monsters and Jedi artifacts. Home of a secret Jedi botany master and his plant friends, so I'm in favor.

Chad (Legends) - Mostly ocean planet--I guess Space Earthsea, but with more geological activity? Callista makes it sound dreamy and idyllic in her flashbacks, but all the native Chadra-Fan are trying to GTFO, so I dunno.

Nam Chorios (Legends) -Like Tatooine, I would probably hate living there, but it's a great setting for a fic. The perpetual twilight would get old fast, but I love the terraformed ecology, the sentient rocks and the Force storms. Drochs are super creepy, though.

Hijarna (Legends) - There are ruins and sweeping vistas. What can I say, Karrde knows how to pick a secret base. :)

Dathomir (Legends) - Rancors have to be native to somewhere, so why not Dathomir? Courtship of Princess Leia is hokey and weird as all get-out, but it did give us Teneniel Djo, and I love her.

Hapes (Legends) -100% better at you than everything, and they know it. Leave them to it.

Yavin 8 (Legends) - Giant snakes and giant eagles... who literally eat children. Kinda weird being in a place where humanoids are on the bottom of the food chain. Love the Melodies' amphibious lifestyle, though.

Wayland (Legends) - Endor with the serial numbers filed off. Still love it, though. And Palpatine built a lair in a giant mountain! Props to him.

Ryloth (Legends) - sounds like an actual hell realm, but a desert planet? One half in perpetual sun, one half in perpetual darkness, and only a very narrow habitable zone? I’m game.

Msst (Legends) - Terrible, if accurate, name. All we ever see is the eponymous mist, plus giant pink creatures that numb you with poison and devour you alive. Brakiss's home planet. No wonder he hates everything. On the plus side, his mom got to see Luke Skywalker naked, so good for her.

Kashyyyk - TREE WORLD, WE GO HARD (part II). Except I don't think the Wookiees have handrails, do they?

Hoth - Ice, ice, baby. Ecology makes no sense; it's a fucking glacier. I would hate living there, but I've read so many fluff fics about snowfall fights and sex in X-wings and supply closets that I feel a kind of fondness for it.

Byss (Legends) - Dark. Hidden. Secret. Goth as fuck. I like it. Exegol, but with more class.

Ahch-To - Skellig Michael is great, but too recognizable as itself to really be a good stand-in for somewhere else. Puffins are better than porgs. Great place to hide, but I stand by my claims that the Jedi order could not have arisen there. Love the aesthetic. The Caretakers deserved way better!

Naboo - Space Italy. Would definitely live there. Closest thing we see to Dinotopia in the GFFA. (Tell me Theed isn't Waterfall City!)

Kef Bir - why not just let the original forest moon have multiple biomes? It's okay to have multiple-biome worlds, I promise, we wont get confused. Epic sweeping grasslands, steep cliffs, massive waves. I love what little we see of it.

Crait - you're going to film a Star War on the Bolivian salt flats and NOT make an epic dream sequence with the night sky reflected on the salt?? What. Hoth with red dust. Crystal foxes look like Vulpix from Pokemon, and I like them.

Ilum - cool ice planet gets turned into planet-destroying superweapon and blown up. Not a fan.

Bespin - I don't know about the ecology, but 10/10 for aesthetics.

Nal Hutta / Nar Shaddaa - Ecological disaster. Gross and full of Hutts.

Niraun (Legends) - I don't like caves and that's pretty much all we see. Especially if those caves are filled with carnivorous hordes of Space Army Ants.

Gamorr (Legends) - "Procedures programs for visiting Gamorr consist of a single line: DO NOT VISIT GAMORR. Really!” Especially do not visit in the season known as "slushtime".

Af'El (Legends) - I know very little about it, but it seems cool? "The Dark World". Home planet of the "wraiths" (Defel) and the homunculus wasps.

Kijimi - "Disneyworld with space facism". Swirling snow and stone looks cool at night. Too bad that fight scene was such a mess.

Takodana - it's the English Lake District, I'm never going to be able to suspend my disbelief to believe it's anything else.

D'Qar / Ajan Kloss - Yavin IV knockoffs. If you want me to care, you're gonna have to give me something better.

Exegol - this “planet” is just a CGI soundstage with a floating pyramid/arena whatever, and lightning. Weather instantly improved when Palpatine died, which strongly suggested he liked it that way. Knockoff Byss.

Mustafar - Literal hell-realm. Lava does not work like that. And apparently, ROTS insists it also has snow and trees, which seems like a little too late.

Canto Bight - you'd think people with that much money would have a better-looking planet. ughhhh.

#star wars #ecology #fictional natural history #fic ideas

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crazed-rambling · 4 years

Text

Day 5 Disguise

As bad ideas went, this was probably one of her worst, James would have given her a right tongue lashing if he knew. She’d let him do that and more, once they were gone - she’d even let him tell Mother - so long as they could just leave.

The neighbours had always said that she should be a little more like him, stop running out to play and begging for fanciful stories from travellers, while he toiled with father in the workshop learning his trade. People despaired over how two such different siblings could be born to the same household. But to Anne it made perfect sense. He was her twin, her other half; they balanced each other out in all ways. He was quick to laugh when her face had been carved into a perpetual frown, diligent where she chased after daydreams, steady and kind in the places she was quick witted and sharp. Equal and opposite from the moment they were born.

On bad days when the judgement of the neighbours became a little too much, she’d wished that she could be more like him, but tonight was the first time she wished her sweet, soft brother was a little more like her. Maybe, just maybe, if he’d had some of her fancy, he would have listened to the stories whispered by the elderly, about the beautiful creatures in the forest. Maybe he would have known better than to go with a girl too beautiful and golden for this town, known better than to drink, than to dance.

Finding them was not difficult. The first leaves on the trees had started to turn, summer was ending and the court would not see it off without revelry. The young and beautiful had been going missing for days in preparation, gathering tributes to entertain the masses of wandering fae to take in its excess for a single night. She simply had to follow the rest. Finding them was not difficult. Remaining unseen was.

It had been less than a day since James disappeared, left from the market as he usually would but never making it the short walk to our home, shoes abandoned on the path. Every moment since then she thanked every flight of fancy she’d ever followed, for letting her listen to the stories. Because there is no infallible thing in this world, and crafty humans have been eking out victories against powers far stronger than us for longer than she’d been alive. In the stories there’s always a trick, some little way for the hero to defeat unlikely odds. For the court, the trick was to simply not be caught. To cover yourself in something beautiful and sharp like them so they don’t notice your soft edges, to never open your mouth so no harsh sounds escape and keep your head down so they don’t see the light in your eyes.

She’d had little rest since last night, her parents too distracted in grief and worry to notice her slipping from the house, sitting at the edge of the forest plucking thistles, and nettles and roses. Spending the day under the hot sun, weaving beautiful painful things into a cloak as blood dripped along each of the thorns. Yet still she had not stopped. Let those creatures smell the human blood on her and let them believe her cruel as them.

As the sun lay upon the horizon, she steeled herself, donned her cloak of needles, blooms, and blood, and entered the forest.

She had no destination, simply walking until the world she left was unseen through the trees, listening for the sound of strays and stragglers, late and lost in the dark. Once found, she simply drifted among the stream of creatures. Despite all the stories the first sight of them shocked her, more beautiful than anything she had ever seen but all the more frightening for that fact. Each and every one was simply too beautiful to be human, beautiful in a way no human could ever be. Beautiful as precious metal and stones, hard and cold. Beautiful in the way of hawks and foxes and wolves, sleek and sharp angles and sharper eyes and teeth.

She forced herself not to tense as one gently brushed past her, ruffling the grasses of her cloak, seemingly unaffected by the thorns which had left her hands bloody and raw as she weaved. Up close you can’t help but miss the full picture, standing beside one of them was the same. Enchanted by the angles of their face, all sharp lines and marble smooth skin, you didn’t notice the limbs grown just too long, joints just a little too angled. It was easy to see how James had been lost, staring into their faces, for a moment despite all her knowledge and fear she wanted to let herself fall in this creature’s arms. The thorns bit into her bare arms, leave pink scratches along her skin, a sharp reminder that behind beautiful smiles lay poison fangs.

Following these fae felt more like meandering through the forest than a march to some known destination, more as though they were all consumed by some collective urge to keep walking, through the forest cloaked in darkness. There seemed to be no destination in sight, only the unending forest; dark, yet filled with only human fears, at least until the moment she arrived. One step, and she gone were the shadows of gnarled branches and sounds of creatures scurrying among the leaves. One step, and the stars themselves shone more brightly, illuminating the clearing as though by candle light, the sound of lively music floating on the air that should have been heard for miles, yet never passed through the trees.

She could see why so many fae would travel to witness the end of summer with the court, it was more lavish than anything she had ever imagined. Tables piled high with just ripe summer fruits, delicacies spilling from the tables as goblets spilled blood red wine only to be immediately refilled, leaving the air rich with the sickly-sweet scent of excess. Court members clad in bright silks that seemed to flow with every movement as though caught by a breeze when the air was still. If she hadn’t known what they were, she might have believed them gods and laid herself prostrate to bask in their glory. These silk clad creatures seemed to content to watch in scorn as the beautiful creatures in rough flower-and-vine spun clothes like her own glutted themselves on the beauties and pleasures of the court. Watching as they whipped themselves into a frenzy to the incessant beat of the music, falling in and out of the dancing crowd - often dragging a beautiful dazed human out of the clearing and into a quiet spot, only for them to return significantly more dishevelled and throw themselves back into the frenzied dancing once more. She didn’t want to think of her brother being one of those humans, for these monsters to have laid their hands on him while under their spell and unable to do anything but bend to all demands.

The drums kept playing an intoxicating rhythm, matched only by the pounding of feet as beautiful men and women danced among the court, faces caught in a moment of euphoria even as their bare feet started to blister on the harsh ground. Occasionally the court walked among them too, grabbing and switching partners both human and fae alike, urging them further into their mania as they watched on with cruel smiles. Predators gazing at prey which didn’t know it had been thoroughly caught. The dancers would likely never know they’d been caught. That was the court’s way in the stories, wrapping the unsuspecting in a haze of pleasure and euphoria as they destroyed themselves for the entertainment of the court. Gods content to watch their puppets dance and spin until they cut their strings.

There among the throngs of dancers and beautiful faces was her brother, as unrestrained than she’d ever seen him, but so much less himself than he’d ever been.

There was nothing to do but step in, into the throngs of people so lost to their mania that the very madness seemed to lay heavy on the air, as though you could drown in it and never care to leave. It was easy to move the humans, almost blind in their ecstasy that she could slip past sweat-soaked skin and force the crowds to part for her. People had never parted for her before, never moved for the too small slip of a daughter. Some part of her revelled in the power she had over them, quick to be smothered by pity as she forced herself to remember what would happen to them after the court tired of them, if they lasted that long. It was difficult to look at these damned souls after that.

She could see her brother, his flaxen hair slick with sweat as he spun a beautiful human girl again and again long past the point of sickness, both smiling as though experiencing the greatest joy man could reach. She was so close, a few more feet, just a little further. Eyes locked forward she advanced through the crush of bodies, closer and closer and closer.

A hand grasped her waist. Pulling her sideways, her feet stumbling as she was drawn further away. She could feel the thorns of her cloak burying themselves harshly in the soft skin of her side under the hand, her mind blank. She’d planned for so much but always to remain unnoticed. Yet she’d been noticed. They knew she was there, she could feel the eyes on her even if she couldn’t see them. A rabbit being hunted by a hawk far above it. Another arm found its place around her, drawing her close to a solid chest, her cheek flush against the cool feel of silk. She’d never touched silk before, a blacksmith’s daughter could only dream of it, yet there she was and it was smooth and cool under fingers as she looked up. Looked up at a beautiful face, that seemed to glow with the same light as the stars above, cold and distant. Stared into dark eyes assessing her with a primal hunger she couldn’t help but fear. A fragile creature in the arms of a beast.

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talesofealdancynedom · 3 years

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Seiph Blugimm, in fairy robes; The mage of the Stone Gate forest is not as famous as his twin brother, but is relevant enough to illustrate

Tale 19: Meriam Craweleoth: Mage Queen of The Grand West (chapter 8.1 - At The Time 8/10) part 4. Stories of Old

Maps

none

Sinonia Doesn’t have cities; it has a constant, and evenly dispersed, rural landscape; And heavy traffic trade routs. The roads are wide, muddy, sided by lush ferns and bamboo, or tree groves. If your lucky, one can pass a farm, with fields strategically placed upon the strata of hills. There are many hills, of many heights in Sinonia; with many bridges. Like soft old mountains that never ended. The good thing about these features, is that it’s hard to get lost. There is always one person within distance, to gesticulate for directions; And they are used to it. The bad thing is that it feels like a perpetual hike, with no change in scenery. Meriam and her men had been away from home for weeks, and had only just accepted the fact they had traveled across the world, and their only hope was a magic forest, where they might find Sirulius’s identical twin brother. Of whom was the court mage, from what they gathered. Having searched the mountains for days, they stopped at what seemed to be an elaborate building, painted red and adorned with beads, and canvas sliding doors depicting nature. The ground around it was surrounded by perfectly circular cobbled of stone, and coloured glass. Tiered and hungry, Meriam decided such a gratuitous establishment might have a good host. The door slid open without her needing to ring the brass bells, with the provided mallet.

The odd house was crowded with gold and red charms for luck. There was depictions of fey and livestock on everything; from statues, basins, table wear, and tapestries; to the canvas walls. The owner was a short very old lady, dressed in embroidered vibrant satins. She was the only one in the house, and given the number of luxurious objects in and around the property, possibly rich. From what Meriam could tell, the entire place was completely normal; not a drop of enchantment. Though it had a certain ambiance to it, that would make some people suspicious. Like it was too comfortable, and thus hiding something. The old lady instinctively brought powdered green tea, and said they could stay the night because her eight cats liked them. Meriam was allergic to cats, but her men seemed to like them. Meriam and her party were given congii, and warm water to bathe; they had never known such gratitude in theirs lives.

“Thank you graciously for your hospitality; Are you sure you do not want compensation? I am a mage and can easily alchemize you anything you wish, enchant your house with protections-” Meriam said

“No thank you.” The old lady smiled, filling her bowl. “I’ve had enough of mages and magic, Anglian girl. That’s why I live here in Sinonia. There aren’t many fey outside the gate. And the fey that are here, are mischievous or obvious. Best to leave them alone; guard your livers while you sleep, there be foxes in these woods. And stay away from the water, there be dragons behind the falls. Sleep every night like it is your last, and be weary of things that seem too good.”

“That sounds incredible! The fey I mean, not the fact you’re not fond of magic.” Meriam said.

“Yes dear. I prefer cats.”

“I can see that... That said, we are looking for a magic gate, so we may get home. I was told, by a mage at the coast, his brother guards the Stone Gate; you wouldn’t happen to know how to get there from here?”

“Oh, our witch Seiph Blugimm! He’s a good boy. Keeps the fey away, and brings me these adorable strays. Has two children who live down river, with his wife. She grows and makes the best tea, and visits often with Seiph’s artwork for my walls.” The old lady said frailly. “You can find him ten minutes down road, if you veer off the path to your right, when you see a goblin made of moonstone. Can’t miss it.” She smiled. Everyone gave thanks, and had a good sleep on soft floor mats, surrounded by purring fur. They had a good mourning meal, and the lady sent them off with a smile. She was genuinely happy to have had visitors.

“By the way dear; Your men may go dark in the shadow veil on your way home. Magic forest,s and gates to the kingdoms of fey, aren’t the place for common men.” She warned Meriam. Meriam was so eager to go home, she had forgotten that non-mages get scared by the colourless, windless, warmthless, quiet shadow veil.

Being refreshed by the first good sleep they had in weeks, did not prepare Meriam or her men from the incredibly creepy goblin statue. It was larger than a normal goblin, and had a crinkled face and was showing its tusk like teeth, holding a shard of crystal. It was one of the most terrifying bad omens Meriam had ever seen.

“You don’t think it’s a warning, do you, your highness? From this Seiph mage, my queen?”

“No. It is the rough work from dwarves, by the look of it.” Meriam said, inspecting the statue. Then she headed off the path, and deeper into the forest. There was an unsettling identical statue, every ten meters, leading to a flattened mountain face that was painted red, and covered in non-human hand prints. Infront of it was a different statue: it was tall beautiful man made of smooth grey rock. Behind the statue, was a perfectly carved tunnel into the mountain. It was big enough to accommodate a single file line of people. Above it, freshly painted, was the title Forest of Lost Children in Anglian runes. Meriam shrugged, and entered, then summoned luck fire to lead the way.

As they advanced though the tunnel, it widened; until they reached a waterfall that filled the passage. Yet, there was no cracks in the ceiling, nor the floor; that water was coming from, and going, nowhere. Meriam stared at it for a few minutes, and then reached into the center, and pulled it aside like a curtain, gesturing for her men to pass. The further in the cave they went, the more eerie and dark it became. Until they noticed glowing mushrooms, and giant flowers, which radiated neon colours. They began to hear roars, caws, groans and howls coming from the thick forest they entered. It was night, even though it was dawn. Meriam stopped at a fork in the round cobbled trail, that was now underfoot. There was a waist high flat rock, with brail like dots on it. Down one path, there was glowing water, flowing from the mountain, with a dwarf carved bridge. The other way lead into the woods up and the mountain. The third path lead into a thick thorn laden part of the forest.

“I don’t know where to go, and I fear letting Nihten look ahead. I fear charming, or talking to these fey. The trees are gossiping ill wills.” Meriam said, looking around cautiously. This began to unsettle her party. Suddenly, small lights began to glow; leading them down the inner forest path. Meriam grabbed the knight who was about to follow them.

“I don’t think those fairies are the kind that are fond of humans.” She warned.

“Lies.” A small boy’s voice came from the bridge. Everyone looked down the water path, to see a small boy in a cone hat, and mucking gear on a small raft. He was using a pole to go through the water. He appeared to be a swamp wildling. Faries that resemble boys, but hate coddling and wield elemental powers to match their habitat. Meriam and her knights had seen ice ones in Grand Snow, and Storm Wildlings in Isfisceard. They usually hung in clubs causing mischief, but this one was alone. And it knew how to speak to humans; Which meant it must have met one.

“Hello!” Meriam said, dashing toward the bridge. Her men, now spooked, quickly ran after Meriam, fearing she was the only thing between them and death.

“My name is Meriam Craweleoth, I am a mage of Anglia, and me and my friends are looking for Seiph and the Stone Gate. Can you help us?” Meriam chimed.

“Play with me. The river is made by a dragon who breaths liquid fire to light the forest. The mermaids are at the bottom, and they might eat your friends. You can follow me though! You can call me Boomer. I don’t remember my fame name. been too long.” Boomer said enthusiastically.

Boomer played tag with them, leading the party of six to a stone platform that came out of the glowing swamp. There was also no fey in the swamp, so Meriam guessed Boomer had made it as a moat around the buildings, and he only let friends pass. Meriam and her knights climbed the large stairs out of the water, and up to the top. It looked like a royal palace, made entirely of stone smaller houses, around a town square. In the center of the square, was a well that resembled an inviting fire pit. The place looked abandoned, yet lived in. There was a stable full of odd horses, goats and pigs, and a man in slate and peins grey silk fairy robes, smoking on a porch. He looked like Sirulius, down to his blue eyes, but his hair remained black, and he wore formal Sinonian makeup in a duo chrome teal. He looked surprised to see them.

“Look Seiph! New friends! And one is a mage!” Boomer exclaimed, running over to hug his knee. Seiph put out his pipe, and got up from his kneeling desk to greet his guests. He summoned short pillowed stools around the fire pit, and bowed.

“Io’s enchantments, and children, keep most folk far from here. I made this village with the stone children, for my family; all of which trust and love magic. Yet, they dare not enter the Forest of Lost Children. What makes you so brave you bare it?”

“We need to pass into the shadow veil, with the Stone Gate. We live in the capital of Anglia, on the other side of the Raven Gate. We have traveled across the world, and are desperate to go home to our own families.” Meriam pleaded.

“Your guards wear fine clothes; they are paid well. I can only assume you are The Mage Queen. Are your men aware they would have to pass the terror of the shadow veil, to get home? As if this cursed daycare isn’t terrorizing enough?” Seiph said sternly.

“My Queen, you did not say the shadow veil would hurt us…” one of the knights said.

“It won’t. It will just be unsettling to the point of causing you to go dark from sensory confussion. I know how to treat your fever and bleeding, from the magic flow that results from your …discomfort as common folk. I can quickly prepare a potion of Rosa Sanguine, when we immerge. Though, if you’re lucky, your eyes and hair may be a more radiant hue.” Meriam said. “Do you not trust me? I would not put in danger, or make you do anything I didn’t think you could do.” She finished. Her guards were so tiered, and wanted to go home so badly, but now they were torn by terror. Seiph transmuted a pot, and made them some tea. It was the same good matcha their previous host said was from his wife. They all took a seat. The glow of the fire and tree children, was like lanterns in the dark of the forest; which echoed the whispers, and calls of fey.

“Let us share some tales and tea, while your common folk decide thier fates. Do you trust your queen and the power of the love for your families, and in your hearts? Or will you sacrum to fear of the ‘darker’ side of magic. Even if you choose to battle your greatest emotions, in the ether of all enchantment, I must add it is difficult to get to Stone Queen’s Gate.” Seiph said. They took their cups of tea in silence, and Seiph gave Boomer some warm milk and a lap to sleep on. Boomer was the only wilding in this forest, and he was also one of the few fey who were kind here. If it isn’t a stone child, Seiph warned, it is not worth trusting in the magic forest of the Stone Gate. This is the magic forest the beast king’s send the fey children that don’t play nice with the kingdoms of men.

Meriam started by informing Seiph that his brother Sirlius, had fallen in love with Asada of the Monkey Gate; to fulfill her destiny and dreams. It proved Seiph was capable of smiling. Then the knights went on about the Emperor denying their request for peace, after saving the town from Sirulius’s storm; which they needed to appease the Sultan of Indonia. All of these things where done in order to gain safe global passage, and encircle Francia into surrender, or alliance. Just saying it, reminded them of the wars going on at boarders around the world. Battles that claimed their brothers, uncles and fathers, and of which they were lucky enough to never attend.

“I can put in a good word about an alliance. Though neutrality is the best result; Sinonia is aligned with Francia and Indonia, and is attempting to take the Eastlands of Vieticia. A quarter our land is desert, another quarter is alpine. We need lush landa as much as our allies. Not to mention, our Emperor is a greedy evil bastard; Our ore alone could buy Sinonia anything it wishes from merchants; Yet he hoards it. You should see the imperial palace. But still, the emperor may align with you if I want it. You see, He wants a court mage so bad, but dare not fetch me from this forest, or threaten my family. He fears me, yet desires me. He tries to butters me, while eating from my spoon. I could care less for his cause, but his favor amuses me. I don’t want more soldiers dying for a pointless battle; It’s frankly stupid. On behalf of Sinonia, I accept the peace of the West and North kingdoms. If traveling across the plains of fire, and into this forest, then through the shadow veil, does not convince this kingdom of your value, I do not know what will.” Seiph explained. The crackling warmth fire that burned before them, was a deep unnatural orange, that comforted deep into the bones. Meriam thought she should have warned Seiph, Sirulius, and Asada, of wizards; but realized they were untouchable due to their curses. No matter the comfort of the magic flames, she felt sad. She felt guilt for not warning her guards and friends of danger, in order to preserve their ignorant bliss. Being a Seer of magic, had taught her the value of not knowing. As her heart sank, Meriam heard all five of her beloved knights agree to her terms. They, as common folk, trusted that magic would not hurt them; and they would endure the shadow veil to hug the ones they loved.

NEXT--->

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#art #tales of ealdan cynedom #short stories #fantasy #stone king #seiph #io #nihten #meriam #sirulius

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quentinblack · 4 years

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Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter 5: Andromeda II - Wotcher! (link to fully story on FF.net)

Featuring: Andromeda Tonks, Teddy Lupin, Bobby Tonks.

Word Count: 2.4K words

Warnings: References to Alzheimer's

Andromeda shuffled down the street with Teddy as quickly as she could.

It had started spitting, which was something she hadn’t counted on when she’d left the house just ten minutes ago. It looked like it was going to be a nice spring day, with the sun shining and barely a cloud in the sky, but then the sun had cowered behind one of those clouds and now it looked as though the heavens may open.

This was the trouble with travelling the muggle way. You didn’t have to worry about taking an extra coat or umbrella if you were using the Floo network or apparating. Andromeda couldn’t fathom how the muggles managed to cope with the unpredictability of the weather. You’d probably be alright if you lived in a place that was perpetually cold or hot, but not in Britain where the weather seemed to change on a complete whim whenever it fancied it.

Andromeda couldn’t see much of the pavement that she was walking on as Teddy was held tight to her waist in his blue baby sling, which meant he took up most of her peripheral vision. This was a particularly large risk as they were walking the streets of Fratton, which quite possibly has the largest ratio of dog-shit to pavement in all of England.

If avoiding dog-poo wasn’t enough of a challenge in itself – Andromeda also had to navigate the absolutely bewildering road system. There were some stretches of pavement on the way to Fratton Station where when crossing a road, or merely just from pavement to pavement - you would have four different directions of oncoming traffic potentially coming at you!

Andromeda struggled to understand the way muggle roads worked at the best of times, but Portsmouth was by far and away the most difficult. Ted had always said that if you could learn to drive in Fratton you could work out how to drive anywhere. Nymphadora had never had the patience for it and had much preferred apparating everywhere once she was of age.

Andromeda caught a slight glimpse of the train approaching in the distance. The platform was pretty busy with lots of families bustling here, there and everywhere. The red and blue train sauntering into the station almost resembled a sliced-open Battenberg, with the front of it dead flat and the rest of it sort of curving out.

Ted always said the modern electric locomotive trains were a wonderful feat of British engineering, but looking at the industrial, ugly train as it approached the platform – well, it certainly lacked the glamour and pizzazz of the Hogwarts Express.

The journey that they’d be taking would probably take them the best part of four hours, with their initial train to Waterloo clocking in half of that time. There was something about being on muggle trains that Andromeda found quite relaxing and enjoyable, perhaps it was just the nostalgia of those long journeys to school when she was younger.

In truth, Andromeda was just glad to be out of the house. It was a chance to get some fresh air and to be around lots of people, even if those people were only there for a passing moment. She’d been cooped up in that house for almost a year in hiding and barely seen more than a handful of people in that time – and half of the people she had seen had been there solely to torture her.

The time on the London bound train flew by and before she knew it they’d gone right through the Hampshire countryside and into Guildford, before eventually docking into Waterloo. The station was absolutely heaving with people and Andromeda struggled to work out where exactly they were meant to be going, but eventually a kind station guard directed her to the Jubilee underground line, which would take them to West Ham where they could make their connecting train.

It wasn’t her first foray on the London underground as she’d travelled on it many times with her late husband, but it was her first time along and she felt quite uncomfortable. The tube was jam-packed with foreign tourists and Andromeda could barely even fit on the carriage when she first got on.

The one silver lining of travelling with Teddy was that almost immediately a tall, bald man wearing a white t-shirt that read “ATLANTA 96” offered his seat to her. Andromeda thanked the man and noticed that the 5 multi-coloured rings on his shirt very much looked like Quidditch hoops, but she quickly learned that he was definitely a muggle when she saw him reach for his portable telephone and start talking into it.

It took a lot of sweat and a few tears from Teddy, but it wasn’t too long before they found themselves on the C2C train heading to Southend. Andromeda was very thankful when a dark skinned man offered up his seat to her and she stared out of the window as the train departed the East-London platform. It had been an early start for the both of them and Teddy soon nodded off in her lap – and it wasn’t long before Andromeda herself followed suit.

~ ~ ~

Andromeda’s eyes shot open as Ted’s cry gradually shifted into that of her grandson’s. She looked down into her lap and saw little Teddy’s tears dry up slightly when he noticed that she was awake again.

She shifted uncomfortably on her seat and as she saw the sea outside her window noted that they were almost there now. Andromeda felt her bum and back ache a little as she moved. Their carriage was now virtually empty, with only a mother and small son a few seats down and a greasy looking teenager in the corner for company.

The lad in the corner had short, spikey gelled hair and was wearing a black t-shirt with ‘Austin 3:16’ in block caps on it. Andromeda assumed his t-shirt must be some sort of religious reference – he didn’t particularly personify what she’d come to think of as the Christian-type, but she still struggled to get her head around muggle customs despite being married to Ted for the best part of 25 years.

The little boy a few seats down was fully engrossed in playing with his spaceman plastic action-figure, whilst his Mother read a book called Bridget Jones. This thankfully left Andromeda free to daydream outside the window as she stared into the sea and Teddy rested his eyes again in her lap.

This is the LTS Rail Service to Shoeburyness. The next station is… Westcliff. Please ensure you take all of your belongings with you when alighting the train.

“That’s our stop Mummy, isn’t it?!”

“No, no, Harry, Southend is one more after this one sweetheart”

Andromeda couldn’t stop herself looking over at the excited little muggle boy and his mother a few seats down from them.

“Mummy?! Mummy?!”

“Yes, Harry?”

“Are me and Buzz allowed to get some sweets when we’re out in town? We promise we’ll be good!”

“What do you say, Harry?”

“PLEASE!”

“That’s better! Now if you promise you’ll be a good little boy and are on your best behaviour whilst Mummy gets her eyes tested and pops into Boots for her prescription, then I’ll let you get some pick and mix in Woolies.”

“YAY!! Thanks Mummy! You’re the best!”

Andromeda almost allowed a slight smile to escape her permanent poker face. It did warm her heart to see the little boy’s face filled with such joy as he embraced his mother, but unfortunately it also served to remind her that Teddy would never experience such joy with his own mother, which made her feel very dejected as she glanced down at him.

She supposed at least in his Godfather he would have a positive male role model – and someone who actually understood what it was like to have no parents.

~ ~ ~

Teddy stirred slightly at the sound of the seagulls scuffling over some discarded vinegar-soaked chips on the pavement. The sudden movement from her grandson caught Andromeda by surprise and she instinctively reached out to grab him, forgetting that he was tightly secured in the muggle baby-carrier that Ted had originally bought for Nymphadora.

The mini panic caused her to momentarily stop in her stride, but Teddy didn’t notice as he was already back to sleep. He wasn’t as light as he once was. It was only really that he’d been such a tiny new-born to begin with that meant she was still able to carry him when walking in the first place.

Andromeda found the turning she was looking for and headed down it. Their destination wasn’t far now and she’d soon be able to have a nice sit down and a cup of tea. She saw the giant cherry tree in the distance and headed towards it, quickening her stride and walking into the road momentarily to avoid the litter on the pavement.

It looked like a fox had a fight with a black sack full of rubbish the night before – and the fox had won, quite comfortably, as the street was littered with empty juice cartons, crisp packets and banana skins. The middle aged-witch had to double take, as she could’ve sworn that one of the crisp packets proclaimed to contain Vanilla Ice Cream flavour crisps. It must be a strange muggle thing, she thought.

The tree came fully into view and shaded them from the sun, as Andromeda walked up the path towards the big red front door of Stapleton House. She pulled the door-knocker back a few times and after a few moments the door made a buzzing noise, indicating it was now unlocked.

A slightly tanned lady with a friendly smile on her face greeted them at the door.

“Oh hello,” she said in that very distinctive voice adults only ever use when talking to babies. “And what lucky person are you here to see today?” she asked Teddy warmly, although of course she was really addressing Andromeda.

“Robert Tonks,” Andromeda said.

“Robert Tonks…err… Robert… OH! You mean Bobby!”

“Yes.”

“Oh that’s fantastic! It’s been a little while since he’s had any visitors. I’m sure it will make his day to see you both. He’s down in room 14. Follow the hallway all the way down, take the first left, then right and he’ll be in the room next to the garden.”

“Thank you,” Andromeda replied courteously, not wanting to make too much of an impression on the nurse in-case she started asking any questions.

Andromeda opened the door to room 14 and saw Robert Tonks sitting in a brown armchair facing away from the door. He was staring at the television that was bizarrely not actually showing anything on it at all. It was just a black screen, with lots of yellow and blue writing on it.

She looked over at his bed frame which read:

ROBERT “BOBBY” TONKS.

ALZHEIMER’S.

DOUBLE INCONTINENT.

“Hello Robert,” Andromeda said warmly. The elderly man, now in his 70s with not a spot of hair on his head turned around instantly and looked at her curiously through his glasses.

“Hello,” he said blankly. “Who are you?”

“It’s me, Robert, Andromeda. Ted’s wife,” she said calmly. He had been losing his memory for the best part of three years now, so she was used to having to be patient with him.

“Andromeda…Ted’s wife… Ted. Ted…” he pondered to himself. It was evident that he was trying very hard, but could not quite put it together in his mind.

“Your son, Ted,” she prompted.

“My son…Ted…Ted…Ted! My son Ted! Yes. Yes of course. Chip off the old block, just like his old man. Kind and loving like his mother, too. Are they here too? Ted and Agata”

“No… no not today Robert. They’re busy today, but I am sure they’ll be here tomorrow,” she lied.

It was much easier that way.

Ted’s mother had died of cancer about five years ago, long before Robert had started losing his memory and had to be put in a care home. But he often forgot. The first few times her and Ted had taken the painstaking trouble of telling him that she wouldn’t be visiting him that day, or ever again, because she was dead – and it was horrible. It was like he had to go through the whole grieving process all over again.

The least they could do was spare him from that, although now it wasn’t just Agata who was dead. It was his son and granddaughter too. But Andromeda had barely been able to grieve properly for either of them herself yet. She was hardly about to stroll on in and announce to him that they were dead.

“Oh. Well, at least you made the trip ehh, Andromeda? And wow… my goodness. Is that? Is that little Nymphadora? Haven’t you grown sweetheart?” he said in amazement at Teddy.

“No, Robert. This is Nymphadora’s son, Teddy. He’s your great-grandson,” she said smiling and lifting Teddy up and taking him over to meet Robert.

“Great? Great-grandson?” Robert uttered in disbelief, as he took Teddy into his arms.

“You see that, lad,” he said, pointing to the television screen with lots of writing on it. “That’s the Premier League table. The 20 best football teams in England play each other twice, then whoever gets the most points at the end wins the title. And look at that. It’s the last day of the season and look who sits at the top…The Arsenal! That crazy French fella Arsene Wenger has only gone and won it for us hasn’t he?!”

“I said to Ted we were mad to hire him. Should have gone for Johan Cruyff. But look at that – he was right. Said all along Wenger would win us the league!” Robert mused to nobody in particular.

Andromeda was always amazed at how no matter how badly Robert’s memory deteriorated – he would never forget anything to do with football, or conversations he’d had with Ted in relation to it.

Robert suddenly looked over at Andromeda in slight panic and fear. He ushered for her so he could hand Teddy back.

“Are you okay, Robert?” she asked worriedly.

His face was fluxed with shame and anguish.

“I’m sorry Andromeda. I think you’ll have to call for a nurse…I’ve messed myself.”

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1stunseeliefaelass · 4 years

Text

Darksiders Arthurian Tales Revisited

Chapter 26: Hauntings Ancient and New

"To be honest...I want to protect the ones I care about. And my Mama calls our home a tavern, but it's really a brothel. My Mama and the girls mean a lot to me, they were there for me when no one else was. Seeing the abuse some of those girls endured....just made me want to protect them. Mi familia." Arn tells her after some thought.

"That's a very honorable virtue you have. I hope you get to see your family again." Anna replies taking his hand.

Arn feels a warmth he's been missing for a long while. Course then his stomach interrupts that for him. He turns bright red as Anna giggles at the massive growl that comes from it. Luckily their food comes on down soon enough. Anna begins savoring her meal of lamb chops happily, whilst Arn enjoys a juicy steak inside broth. Arn's eyes widen as he savors the first bite, before he begins devouring it quickly. He stops halfway into it though as Anna is holding back the urge to giggle again. That and he can sense a possible boot about to be thrown his way. So he cleans up his manners and begins eating slowly like Anna is doing. He then chooses to pay for the meal to be a gentleman, since he has money from his arena winnings. Anna is thankful but decides to pay for a dessert for both of them to share. A pretty hefty ice cream sundae clearly made for two. Anna gets all giddy each time their spoons come close. Arn then gets an idea and asks if she'd like a bite of the ice cream flavor on his side. Anna nods accepting it, and lights up with delight as he spoon feeds her the bite. Her ears flitting to and fro to Arn's own delight. He's then surprised by Anna doing the same for him. His tail pops out and wags a little bit as he accepts the bite, then her smile makes his ears flit as hers are doing. Anna sees his tail is out and decides to reveal hers too, feeling comfortable enough around him. Oddly enough, it's got a cream colored tip that looks a bit like a heart. Arn can't help but comment on it.

"That is kinda cute."

Blushing a little Anna tells him, "Really? I used to get bullied for it."

"At least you have some color. Mine is just black.", Arn says raising his tail to show her.

"The guys who teased me probably would've liked you. They were all for solid colors, and compared me to a fox."

"I likely would've made them eat their words. Plenty of girls I knew had pretty fur colors." Arn states with conviction.

"Really? Shame we only met today. Would've enjoyed such a sweet protector."

Arn chuckles before saying, "And I probably would've liked having such a beauty for company, a f-friend even...if n-not more."

Anna giggles and blushes hard, "You really think I'm pretty?"

"Yes. Y-you're pretty. B-beautiful even!" Arn quickly shouts in extreme nervousness before holding his mouth shut.

Anna is surprised by that proclamation of course, "Oh wow....that's...gotta be the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me."

Arn flattens his ears and tucks his tail as he gets a bit more embarrassed, "I'm sure there's been other people who t-t-t-thought so."

"Actually aside from my parents and family, not really. Although.....if you're saying that....does it mean that you like.....that I'm your....eh uhm......you know your....c-c-crush I guess?" Anna inquires shyly as her own ears flatten too.

He is silent for a while before he finally replies, "I guess so."

Nergal suddenly comes up asking, "Do you wish to have a bit chardonnay, brandy, or bourbon? Or maybe a nice shot of gin? Or maybe you two lovebirds....wait sorry no... would you two adolescents like some absinthe?"

All of sudden Esmie pops in, "Oh no you don't amigo, get over here."

"I'm sorry but I'm assisting." Nergal explains before she jumps up and grabs him by the ear.

As the two begin bickering a bit, Anna glances at Arn before motioning away from the area. She then finally whispers to him as he doesn't get it.

"Let's get out of here."

Arn gets a moment of realization before quickly nodding and vacating with her right away. Esmie doesn't notice they're gone until Nergal chuckles a bit to himself.

"Wait....where did they go?"

"My work here is done." Nergal states before turning to walk off with Esmie still on his ear.

"Usted hijo de puta!" Esmie shouts before smacking him across the face, to no reaction whatsoever from him.

"Hmhmhmhm....That won't do much good. Now let's get going so that the couple can enjoy themselves. And also....kindly remove yourself from my ear. I'm not into rabbit foot bling." Nergal simply tells her.

"Oh calla ojete." Esmie tells him annoyed before letting go finally.

Nergal just laughs at her, "Question? Do you have anyone in your life? Aside from your son, any other man in your life?"

"I do not. As a businesswoman, I lack the time most other ladies have. It would benefit Arn to have a male presence in his life sure, but the regular bounty hunters from the local guild would likely do just fine. They're all good men, the lot of them. Although that Sygr fellow is.....actually nevermind. Forget I said anything." Esmie explains.

"So are you into giants yourself?"

"Shut. It." Esmie tells him a bit miffed.

"Already pushing buttons? Hmm, usually it takes longer. Perhaps what I said wasn't appropriate then. Maybe Sygr just reminds you of someone. You did say your friend, Arn's Father Argus, was a demon didn't you?"

"Watch it."

"Just how close were you two?" Nergal asks her, knowing full well what's coming.

Esmie about goes into her full form, but just as quickly holds back. Placing her hands on a nearby bench as she takes a few deep breaths. Finally she looks back at Nergal when she's absolutely sure she won't explode, "It's none of your business, not a story for you. Now leave it be."

"What kind of nightmare happened with you? Do tell, I'm rather interested. You tell, I tell. Simple enough?" Nergal questions her sitting down on that very bench.

"Argus and I were always friends. It never went further.....although I sometimes wish it did. I enjoyed his company, his personality, and even his appearance. But I knew better than to be a homewrecker. So when Argus began speaking of Clawdette, I let him have her. I never once got in their way, even viewed Clawdette as an older sister of sorts. She was tough, no nonsense, and while somewhat feral she was still caring. I was never jealous of her, not once. Their deaths both hit me harder than I care to admit. I kept it hidden from Arn as he grew, but I couldn't hold it together forever. Not all the time. You've no idea how many times I drank myself stupid over them. Or how much worse it got after Arn was taken away from me. I try to be strong, only to end up back in the pit."

"What's that like? The pit? I've never been in it, at least to my current knowledge."

"When I say pit, I mean depression. That feeling of just pure emptiness. Like nothing has meaning. That feeling that keeps you up at night, the feeling you get that ensures you don't want to leave your bed in the morning. You just become so indifferent to almost everything and everyone. You stop paying attention to what's around you. You wallow in your own self pity, pain, suffering, or whatever may have brought you to that ever swallowing pit of despair."

"Well then, I guess I was born in this pit." Nergal responds simply.

Esmie gets a shocked expression and immediately questions, "How is that even possible? To be born into perpetual depression?"

"Try being born without the capability to express emotions properly. With them being distant or none existent at times. Them being overbearing almost difficult to handle. To have a need that you know will never be fulfilled. Knowing someone loves you, but you cannot love them back. But you must try, or else your purpose is no longer necessary in your eyes. Or seeking someone's approval, that you'll never get. I dunno if that's a pit but, it somewhat fits your description."

"Sounds like a mix of that and borderline sociopathy. Course I could just not know you well enough yet. You said you knew someone loves you at least, even if loving them is damn near impossible. So do you perhaps have the ability to express things like compassion or empathy?", Esmie inquires calmly.

"Based on what I can remember, compassion is an interesting emotion. It's....it's hard to describe. To feel remorse for something that is insignificant or is that incorrect?"

"You're way off. Remorse is to put it simply, feeling bad for something you have done. Compassion is just being kind and the ability to be that way. Giving kindness for the sake of it and for the sake of others. Sometimes even yourself to feel good for the day." Esmie explains.

"Ah I see....I have found I can be kind. At least according to the woman I share a bed with. If you count tree roots as a bed anyway." Nergal states before noticing Esmie's weird expression, "She's a Dryad."

"Oh ok, now I get it. But Dryads can read others extremely well, better than most demons I daresay. If she says you're kind, then surely she's correct. Does she tell you you're anything else? That you have certain things to you that you may not notice?"

"She tells I'm often cold and distant, and yet warm and close. It's very strange. I'm a very messed up individual by your standards. I need to go find some food of my own now though. Why don't you think upon the Sygr situation, I'm going to a tavern and probably going to make a man question his drinking problems." Nergal explains before walking off.

Esmie is unsure of what to make of the situation but decides to consider how being with Sygr might pan out for her. Where as Morgen and Death have finally returned for the books she requested. As expected, there was precious little. In fact the 'book' itself, was incredibly small and shaped like a heptagon with a seven pointed star etched on the front cover for a design. The cover was simply a darkened leather with pages that looked extremely old. Even the language it was written in baffled Morgen.

"I'm sorry miss, but this is all I could find. I'd have told you it's contents if I could read the language. But it's not one I know." The elder pixie librarian told her.

"It's quite alright. I half expected there'd be nothing. Oh well, we'll just bring these back to our carriage for now. Thank you...oh and of course here's money to replace their vacant spaces."

Death then picks up the heavy box of spellbooks and other books in general and heads out to drop it off at the carriage. Morgen stays behind to pay for it all of course. Then she joins Death outside.

"Sorry to make you do that heavy lifting. Hopefully you're healed enough after every...."

"Believe me I'm fine."

Morgen then looks back towards the old path and shudders, "I severely doubt those guards are though."

"Yeah but we likely would've had to kill them ourselves if they weren't hollow statues now. Let's just be glad we were spared an unneeded fight. So I'm guessing the language of the book is unknown to you as well?"

"I've looked through it, and I can't say I recall it's meaning. I feel like I should know what it's saying and yet I don't." Morgen expresses a bit discouraged.

Death pauses as he's tying the box down and gently places a hand under her chin. He then lifts her face up, "Hey now, don't get discouraged. Perhaps it's part of your memories, and you just haven't reached that part yet. So what if you don't recall? Memory is rarely perfect, sometimes it's even wrong all together. Now...where is everyone?"

"Thank you Death. And I don't know." Morgen replies looking around a bit confused before continuing, "Maybe we could just rest in the carriage for now? Wait until everyone is back."

"Or perhaps we could actually do something else around the village for a bit. A simple walk perhaps?" Death suggests offering his arm.

Morgen snickered softly but wrapped her arm in his, "Look at you being all open to enjoying social activities Mr. Antisocial."

"Said Ms. Social Butterfly, who wanted to rest in the carriage for the rest of the day." Death points out.

Morgen rolls her eyes as Death chuckles a bit. They walk past the tavern Nergal's in and notice a man looking very much drained. Then a few more are seen as they pass it by. They decide to avoid the tavern for now and focus on enjoying the walk together. Course they do stop for a bit of dinner as well. Morgen mostly tells Death a few of the nicer stories about her childhood as he listens intently. Course she does eventually coax him into telling a few stories himself. Such as any about how he met his friends and a few regarding his family members. Ultimately the two enjoy each other's company.

Arn and Anna meanwhile had decided to go see the secret place Anna mentioned before. After following an ancient looking pathway with ivy and other plants covering it, Arn saw it. A ruined castle like fortress that had clearly seen a battle once. One that was a massacre from what he could gather as he observed the skeletal remains of knights around him. What he didn't expect, was that he only saw knights of Uther's kingdom. No other combatants' bodies lay around there. Either none of the enemy died, they were each other's enemies for some reason, or something different happened. Arn briefly thought he could hear the sounds of the men's battle cries and deaths in the air around him.

Anna's voice suddenly pierced through to him, "Hey Arn, you ok over there? You kinda spaced out for a second."

"Yeah I'm fine.", Arn replied before focusing on her and avoiding the skeletons.

The two then began to enter the ruins proper. Arn found the fact that there were more skeletons inside to be VERY disconcerting. Course Anna came up to him and held his hand.

"It's ok, they're not gonna come to life I promise. They never have. Yeah they're a little scary at night but they're just remains...right?" Anna told him with a bit of nervousness.

"Well let's not try to disturb them. I get the feeling they didn't die peacefully.", Arn says even wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

Anna blushes after a slight jump but quickly tells him, "Yeah uhm...let's not disturb them. The main building is my favorite place, it's got lots of interesting things in there."

"Right." Arn responds as she guides him to the main building.

The two then enter and the foyer holds many hallways that have been ravaged by both fires and time. Anna only leads him down the main one though, as it's the least cluttered. It leads to massive double doors and the two find ancient stairs behind them. They manage to hold up surprisingly, but Arn is still nervous about it as they go up. Finally at the top, Anna pulls him by the hand to a specific room. On the door of it are many intricate designs pertaining to the moon, night sky, and stars. The name plaque that was once on it was broken off at the intial, an M. Inside the room was a gorgeous bed that looked WAY too pristine for such an derelict place. In fact, most of the room looked to be in mostly good condition. Aside from occasional broken small items across the floor. Arn also sees a portrait that's torn in a specific place, lifting the torn part up, he sees an eerily familiar face.

Anna notes his reaction and comes over, "Something wrong?"

Arn shakes his head and drops the torn piece, "Nothing...just an old painting."

"Right. Well I guess the white haired lady is very pretty huh? I always wonder who she was. She always seems so happy in that portrait with the other knights. Do you think she had a good life? Or do you perhaps think more cynically than me?"

"I don't know...but she does look very happy." Arn states simply.

He does smirk a bit however. Knowing that despite everything, Morgen still has days when she smiles just as brightly.

Anna of course picks up a nearby book and hugs it, "This is her journal, at least I think it is. I know you're not supposed to read them, but....it's been such an inspiration for me. I wish I could've met her. Everyone always says she was a kind woman when I ask them. That she was always willing to help those who needed her. While not as good in fight as her fellow knights, she'd use her magic to defend and heal all she could."

Arn thinks for a minute before saying, "You speak of her like she was your role model."

"She is in a way. Do you wanna see her armor? It's still all nice and shiny. It's in this walk in closet over here." Anna asks as she hurries over to the doors.

Arn follows her and is in awe with her when he sees it, "Looks like it never saw a day of wear."

He feels however in the back of his mind that something is amiss, but can't quite place it. Instead he looks upon the set in more awe. The designs are as intricate as they come, which makes sense given that Morgen is a princess. The theme surprised him however, white and silvery blue for the colors with unicorn styled ornaments on it. Hanging off the pauldrons were tiny white unicorn horns on thin chains. The helm of sorts had a short unicorn horn attached to the front, the horn itself being cresent shaped. Aside from those decals, were moon and night designs mixed with scenes of unicorns that looked straight out of vintage paintings. Little do he or Anna know however, that a certain spirit has been stirred by their presence. Anna however keeps Arn busy so they remain oblivious as he approaches the room slowly.

"Her armor is just so beautiful, I'll bet when she wore it she was even more beautiful as a result."

"I'm sure she would...Anna...I have something to say..." Arn starts to say when he suddenly notices something in the armor, a reflection behind them of a figure. He suddenly shouts, "Get Behind Me!", drawing his long knife and putting Anna behind him to face the figure.

They find a ghostly knight before them who asks them two simple questions, "Why have you come? What do you want with this place?"

"What's it to you?", Arn responds making sure Anna is safely behind him.

"I once lived in these halls. I served the lady whose room and closet you're currently standing in. I defend this place even in death from intruders who would do harm here. So I will ask once more, and once only. WHY HAVE YOU COME AND WHAT DO YOU WANT?" The knight booms down at them.

Arn growls before he finally answers, "We didn't mean any harm. We were just looking around, nothing was taken."

"You will leave then, now. I see no reason for you to remain in this place of death. Nor do I see why you..." The knight explains before pointing at Anna, "...need to keep coming back here after tonight."

Anna protests of course, "Uh please....I've never taken anything. I always leaves things where they belong."

"Yet you continue to VIOLATE the privacy of my fair lady. Something she valued highly above most things aside from her duties to this realm."

"She inspires me! I never meant any harm! I love her story and if anything looked too personal I wouldn't read it. I always skipped those more personal bits." Anna pleads.

"Your intent may not have been bad. But I cannot let this slight go. I can only forgive it if you leave and never return. There's nothing here for the living, not anymore."

Arn however has his own two gilt to give, "What do you know of your lady? What she has become?"

"Who are you to ask me that? A child of wolf and....something else. Something....older. Far older than me."

Arn grits his teeth, "Watch what you say ghost."

"I have no obligation to you. I'm already dead so your threats mean nothing boy. Besides, even a young wolf from the arena is no match for the dead. Especially a knight who has disciplined himself in combat when compared to a savage gladiator."

"I WARNED YOU!" Arn shouts before charging the ghost.

The knight sighs before simply grabbing him by his head. With this act he slams Arn into the ground once before releasing him, "That will be your only warning child. Leave now while I'm still in a decent mood. I won't harm you further so long as you follow my instructions."

Arn gets up and growls before going to charge again. Anna however grabs his arm, "Stop it. Let's just go.....even if it means....I can't come back anymore..."

Arn notes her voice cracks and sees her beginning to cry. He relents, but tells the knight, "This is not over. You will see reason yet."

"And yet you failed to until just now? Believe me. There's nothing left to this folly. Just leave." The knight replies simply.

Anna then leads Arn away to leave the area, whilst the spirit remains in the room. His lonely vigil ever present, even in his demise.

Arn hugs Anna as they walk away outside, "I'm so sorry Anna. It's probably my fault he's being so harsh to you. But I promise I'll make sure you can keep going back there whenever you wish."

"How....how can you promise that?" Anna inquires as she sobs.

"Let's just say, I know somebody he'll have to listen to." Arn tells her.

"About what he said....the knight. What was he talking about?"

"Uhm....well you know I'm Werewolf. But the other part of me....it's something even scarier. I don't want to discuss it, but a lot of people hate the race my Father came from."

Anna looks at him sadly, "Oh. That sounds pretty shitty of them."

"People have good reasons to hate the race. But not everyone in the race was or is a bad person. At least Mama says my Father certainly was always better than his kin usually were."

Anna finds herself confused, but ultimately continues to question him, "What about the other part? Where he compared you to a gladiator?"

"I was in.......the arena...until recently. I was captured as a child....and forced to fight most of my life. Fighting at an early age has its privilege....and its price." Arn tells her reluctantly.

Anna looks horrified, which Arn expected, what he wasn't expecting is why she was horrified, "How much have you suffered?"

"More than I care to describe Anna. Anyway, can we...change the subject at least? Please? I really, REALLY don't like talking about this. Lot of bad memories from that place still haunt me." Arn implores of her.

"Oh of course. Sorry to bring that up."

"It's ok. You deserved to know. I kinda owed you for getting us kicked out of there." Arn replies.

"I don't blame you Arn. It wasn't your fault. I should've known I wouldn't be welcome." Anna tells him softly as her tears slowly begin to dry.

"Now let's go talk to that person I think will talk some sense into him."

Esmie soon spots the two and immediately hurries to Arn, "What happened niño? Why is your nose bloody?"

"I'm fine Mama, just a grumpy old ghost. I need to talk to Morgen about him in fact. Where is she?"

"On a walk with Death. They're actually nearly back from what I can see. Why don't you head back to the carriage. I suspect we'll be leaving soo.."

"Mama please, just a bit longer. Besides, it may take a while for Morgen to help us out." Arn protests to her.

Esmie sighs at him, "And what could she possibly need to help you with niño?"

"The ghost that apparently fucked up my nose. He's guarding the place we were at and is being an ass. Especially in regards to Anna. I promised I'd help her continue to be able to keep going back to her favorite place. It's really important to her Mama. Please."

Esmie thinks silently for a moment before hearing Death question her, "Why is it that Arn looks like he was hit recently?"

"Arn actually has something to tell you and Morgen. It involves the thing that did this to him." Esmie explains simply, to Arn's relief.

"Really? Well out with it then, what happened?" Death asks.

"A ghost is haunting the ruins Anna brought me to. He was pissed off and has banished Anna from ever going back. But the ruins should have significance to Miss Morgen, and the ghost knight claims he served her. So I figure maybe he'll listen to reason if Morgen talks to him." Arn tells him.

"Was he vengeful?"

"I don't think so. He only bashed me into the ground once, and I.....kinda...was a.....a dick....I deserved it." Arn admits rubbing his neck.

Death facepalms, "What did you do?"

"Charged at him because he provoked me."

He then sighs, "Of course you did."

Morgen inquires of Arn however, "You said he was a knight, correct?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Pray tell, why banish Anna when it was you who attacked?" Morgen asks calmly.

Anna then timidly steps forward, "I sometimes g-go into an old room there....it has a journal t-t-that I'm guessing is yours.....I'm so sorry for reading it. It just inspired me so much."

Morgen pulls the young girl into a hug as she begins crying, "Easy there my dear. Granted I'd not recommend reading anymore journals. But I do not mind that you read mine. In fact, I'm glad those dismal pages inspired you in some way. Is this really why he's denying further entrance?"

Anna can only nod and sniffles a bit. Causing Morgen to gently stroke her head in a Motherly way. Death can tell by the look in her eye, and on her face, that somebody is getting a stern talking to now.

"You're actually going to talk to that spirit?" Death questions her.

"Yes. For her sake and the sake of others who may go there. The only beings I don't want there, are anyone that would steal from it or cause harm to the place. We're going."

Death sighs to himself, "I suppose I better come with you then. Just in case either his spirit, or someone else's has a vengeful moment."

Morgen nods and lets Death follow her. They come along the path and Death soon begins to feel the agony of many dead beings. Clearly a battle had taken place and he sees just how right he is when he and Morgen reach the fort. Morgen walks around the bodies a bit lost looking as Death starts hearing the voices of those who died in the battle. Course he knows he wouldn't normally hear it unless the area was haunted. He then finally goes over to Morgen as she's examining a body.

"Are you alright?"

"I knew these people...all of them....they fought...and....d-died...for me that day..." Morgen tells him with a crack in her tone.

Death helps her up from the ground before gently holding her, "You don't have to be here Morgen. I'm sure Arn and the girl will understand given your connection to the tragedy here."

"It was MORE than just a tragedy. This was a MASSACRE. All because I was spending more of my time here than at home. Away from HIM." Morgen says with a bit of anger mixed into the sadness.

"You say that as if you believe it's..."

"It WAS MY FAULT!" Morgen shouts at him.

Death remains calm though, knowing full well how overwhelming a haunting can be on someone within it's radius. Mentally, physically, and even emotionally. He gently strokes Morgen's head and tells her, "This wasn't your fault. These men chose to defend you, because you were WORTH saving. Because you ARE worth saving."

Morgen looks up at him in surprise and goes to reply before someone else speaks up, "He is right my lady. I knew the risks, we all did. Even those who survived this horror knew. Only very few of us did. I and those who remain upon these grounds never doubted you. The Reaper speaks true, you are and always were worth saving to all of us."

The two look upon the ghostly knight and Morgen asks him, "Tell me...how long have you remained here? How long has it been since we last spoke....Sir Alphonse?"

"Not yet long enough for you to have forgotten me it seems." Alphonse tells her simply.

"Your voice is as distinct as I recall it to be. As are your manners with guests it seems."

"You're speaking of the boy and girl from earlier?"

"Yes, I am. I can understand you wanting to defend me and any of my things that remain here. But I cannot let you bully or harm people. Especially those under my protection. Besides, the girl Anna doesn't strike me as ill intended. She can keep coming here if she so chooses as I see it. Do I make myself clear on that?" Morgen states authoritatively.

"Transparently your highness. Forgive my transgression, I only meant to keep your secrets as just that, secrets. I remember how important privacy was to you."

Morgen only sighs, "I forgive you, but I will say that I'm at least trying to work on telling people things that need to be said."

"Good. Perhaps you'd like to see what remains here? And take what you were unable to?" Alphonse asks her.

"I suppose I can. Assuming either of us can carry it all."

"As I lived to serve you, I can aid you in this as well my fair lady. No offense to your companion of course." Alphonse states.

"Pardon?" Death questions him.

"I would assume she chose you for companionship given the way you held her a moment ago. Not to mention the way you spoke to her."

"I....uh.....fair enough." Death says awkwardly.

"It seems I'm right to assume then. Given your reaction. Anyway, just this way, and be mindful. The place is old enough to be falling apart because of more than just unrepaired, burnt wood."

"Hmm, well lead on." Death replies with Morgen following alongside him.

Morgen is amazed at how well kept her old room appears aside from a few fallen objects, "How is this room so pristine?"

"A certain....'pest' who keeps coming back. And no I don't speak of the girl."

"There have been other visitors?" Death inquires.

"Yes only a few though. Usually the villagers will leave flowers on occasion to commemorate all we did for them. It's...always a good sight everytime they hold their memorial festival too. So I don't bother the villagers usually. I only got cross with Anna because she was reading your journal and learning secrets of yours. However, there is one man I keep tryng to turn away. He always comes by every few nights hoping I'll miss him. Occasionally he does escape my notice, with some small 'trinket' or two as well."

"That explains why you were so quick to judge Anna. Even so, would I know this person?" Morgen inquires.

"You would. One of your 'suitors' from some years back."

Morgen facepalms next, "I THOUGHT I made it VERY clear as to why I called things off between us."

Death then looks at her shocked, "Wait let me get this straight, you have an ex?"

"Yes. I had hoped he got it through his head though."

"Clearly not if he's sneaking in here and making off with your property." Death expresses with a bit of sarcasm to his tone.

Morgen shakes her head in annoyance before walking out of the room for a moment. Course she hears something that annoys her even more once she's out the door. With her eye twitching, Morgen seeks out the source of the noise. Only to find a cloaked figure coming through a window down the hall.

"Aleyn, what are you doing?"

The figure freezes a bit before turning around slowly, "Morgen? Is that you?"

"Who else would I be Aleyn?"

"I don't know that ghost that hates my guts?"

"Gee I wonder why he would hate you. There a reason you keep coming here to take little things I own?"

"You never came back until now. I suspected you never would after what happened. I had hoped you wouldn't either." Aleyn tells her before freezing again.

"Excuse me?"

"Look Morgen maybe we could talk about it more in a place that isn't haunted by an angry ghost?"

Morgen eyes him suspiciously for a moment, but finally tells him, "Fine. But you're helping bring what's left of my things here to my carriage. And if you say a SINGLE WORD against my current companion, you'll be walking home instead of 'talking privately'."

Aleyn laughed nervously, "Right....heheh...wait you've moved on?"

"I have. What of it?"

"Oh eh...nothing....something to talk about in our private talk later."

Morgen gets suspicious of him all the more but lets him follow her. When he and Death see each other, Death gives a judgmental stare whilst Aleyn gulps.

"Ha-have you come to take his soul?" Aleyn asks nervously pointing at Alphonse.

Alphonse facepalms, "Can I kill him now?"

"No, he's useful for now. Besides I can't afford to make anymore enemies. Having Uther's ire is bad enough." Morgen says.

"So it's true? You ran away from home again? Is it also true that you took Arthur as well?"

Morgen nearly defends herself but Death speaks up, "Her Uncle got her and Arthur out whilst I was rescued by Barrcus. A far better Father to her than Uther ever will be. And given you seem to have sympathy for Uther, does that make me the better man of the two of us?"

"Watch your tongue you son of a whore! You don't know her like I do!"

"Says the man who probably has her underwear tucked away in his bedroom, among other little things of Morgen's. Stalker much?" Death says sarcastically.

"How DARE you? I would NEVER do something so uncouth as to take a woman's undergarments."

"Then what did you take? It had to have been small enough for your shrimpy arms to carry." Death inquires smirking a bit.

Aleyn growls before saying, "That's none of your business."

"Maybe not but it's certainly mine." Morgen tells him firmly.

"Ah....uhhhh....right....well your perfume...some of your make-up that you rarely ever wore....I NEVER WORE IT MYSELF!" Aleyn quickly replies nervously.

"Uh huh. What else?"

"I actually found the wedding dress you would've worn to our wedding and...."

"OK HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! You are NOT about to tell us you do some fucked up role-playing involving that dress are you?" Death asks sounding concerned.

"NO! Now if you DON'T MIND I shall explain. I just keep it around my home as I figure you probably won't want it. Or if you ever did, I'd have it in pristine condition for you." Aleyn admits.

"Aleyn, you've no reason to keep it. Sell it or give it away. I never liked that dress anyway. Uther picked it out and it just....didn't suit me."

"You looked like a goddess in it."

"A goddess about to raped by Zeus himself maybe." Morgen retorts sarcastically.

Death actually laughs and questions them both, "Just what did this dress look like? I must know now. Just to sate my curiosity."

"Are you sure Horseman? I remember that eyesore way too well, personally I'd rather go through my death all over again than see Morgen walk down the aisle with that HORRIBLE 'dress'." Alphonse states firmly.

Morgen reluctantly shows him with her memories and Death laughs even more, "Hahahaha! I didn't think you could refine sexuality.....Hahahahahahahaha! Seriously seeing that dress reminds me of The Great Gatsby!"

Morgen snickers at that, "Come to think of it, I think it was around the twenties when Aleyn and Uther found that dress." She can only laugh as Death nearly hits the floor.

Even Alphonse laughs with them before Aleyn defensively asks Death, "Well then BARBARIAN, what would YOU have her wear? What wedding dress could you see her in?"

"Technically it's bad luck..huff haaaah...to see one's bride before the wedding...huuuuuuh ahhhh...so I can't really imagine it...now can I?" Death says sarcastically as he catches his breath.

"Cut the sarcasm and just answer damn you!"

"Fine then if you insist that much ya creep." Death tells him a bit annoyed before answering, "If I must give an opinion, sure I could see her in a strapless. But honestly a silvery blue would absolutely make her pop with beauty. She's called the Moon Witch is she not, why not make her rival the moon itself on such an occasion? It would definitely give the saying 'I love you to the moon and back' quite the new meaning I'd say."

Morgen's eyes light up at Death's words and she shyly inquires, "So does that mean you...?"

"Yes."

"I didn't even fini..."

"You didn't need to. I've heard similar questions before. Trust me, I know what you were about to ask. You wanted to know if what I said means I find you as beautiful as the moon, if not more so. Am I correct?"

Morgen blushes, "As always, you're perceptive."

"Heheh..It seems I've been lacking in that department with the romance side of things though lately. If anything I say things by accident." Death admits rubbing his neck with a chuckle.

Aleyn only groaned before muttering, "At least I actually tried and KNEW what I was saying."

Death growls briefly in annoyance before saying, "At least I can learn. The question is can you?"

"If you two are quite done measuring each other's dicks, the lady will likely need help removing her things from here." Alphonse told them both in equal annoyance.

He then grabs them both by their heads and tosses them into the room, "There, now they can do it themselves."

"Gladly, once we have a list." Death expresses simply as he gets up.

Morgen comes into the room to make a list onto a crystal. She only grabs one thing from inside the room, a tiny ornate chest. She then hands the crystal to the gentlemen to collect everything. Death naturally tries to be civil about it so they can be quick about it. Only for Aleyn to volunteer to carry everything.

"Look I'm done with the whole being stupid can you just...NOT?! Like please...THINK."

"I'm not doing anything but volunteering my help." Aleyn protests.

"Genius, she gave us an inventory crystal with a list on it, to put the stuff into it. It's really not that complicated. You don't have to do any heavy lifting. You're not impressing..."

"Just SHUSH. I can handle this, I WILL handle this in fact. Now what's the first thing?"

Death sighs shaking his head, "The contents of that chest there. Again you don't have to carry...."

"Shut up damn it! I said I'll handle this."

"Ok, fine. Have fun with that. I'm going to do the practical thing in the meantime. Let me know when you're done being a moron."

"Excuse me young fellow..."

"Y-young? EhEH...ehAH! Your stupidity is obviously showing itself." Death tells him sarcastically yet again.

Aleyn grumbles to himself as he tries lifting the chest, or dragging it. Death meanwhile goes about to room to collect what he can. He starts with a few small things around the room, then moves onto the wardrobe. He collects everything in there with ease whilst using the crystal's magic. Course he does pause a moment to observe her armor set.

"I have to ask...why?" Death inquires of Morgen after coming back out from the wardrobe.

Morgen notices him pointing and comes over to see what it is this time. When realizing it's her old armor she's looks at him with her eye twitching ever so slightly, "And what exactly is wrong with it?"

Death, sensing this probably should've been saved for later cautiously responds with, "I just want to know what was going on while this was being made. It looks fine, but it's....so ornate. It looks like it belongs more in ceremonies than it does on the fields of battle."

"I am a mage more than a swordswoman admittedly."

"STILL. That's....a LOT of detail for a set used in battle. Even for a mage. Usually mages want armor that isn't heavy. I mean look at me, I don't wear heavy plate very often, if ever. I don't even wear chest plates usually. The most armor I have is my kilts, which occasionally come with plate. Either way, the way I fight and cast spells requires that I'm able to move. So I need to accommodate myself by using armor that gives me more mobility. Though I wouldn't recommend not wearing anything up top. I only do so because I can get away with it through my healing ability." Death tells her before chuckling a bit towards the end.

"Bare in mind that ONE I am a Princess, and TWO, that Uther was the among those who wanted to see my design ideas BEFORE it was ever made. You can probably imagine some things got added in."

"Right. Anyway I know a place that makes far better armor for combat and for mages. We'll have to go there later. After all this madness. For now shall I keep letting that one dig his own grave or shall I just put the chest in the crystal?" Death states.

"Please do get it into the crystal. Before he passes out due to lack of oxygen."

"Heh, may be a little late for that. His brain already lacks a little bit of it." Death says laughing a bit before Morgen's slight glare shuts him up. "Oh come on I was just kidding."

#Darksiders Fandom #Darksiders Fanfics #Darksiders OCs #Darksiders Arthurian Tales Revisited #Death

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twentysevenletters · 5 years

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The Last Life of Prince Alastor by Alexandra Bracken

(OFFICIALY POSTED ON WEBSITE HERE)

What evil can come from a choice made with a pure heart and the best of intentions?

If you know me, you know it's essentially impossible for me to talk about books without talking about The Darkest Minds. Ergo, it's impossible for me to talk about my favorite authors without bringing up Alexandra Bracken. From dystopian worlds to time travel troubles to middle-grade Halloween-ish adventures, I've never once walked away from a Bracken book without being absolutely and utterlygobsmacked. And, unsurprisingly, The Last Life of Prince Alastorwas no exception.

By the end of The Dreadful Tale of Prosper Redding(which you can read my full review of here!), we're left with endless questions - most of these pointing to the mysterious world that is the Downstairs. The Last Life of Prince Alastor follows Propser as he attempts to navigate a realm in which he was clearly not invited to, while also following Alastor as he tries to reclaim what he deems as his rightful throne. At this point, I feel like I sound like a broken record because I always seem to suggest that it's best to read an Alexandra Bracken novel blind. But, in my defense, I reallydo think that in doing so, you're setting yourself up for the best wild ride possible.

I'd made mistakes, I'd been misled, but I wasn't some helpless victim in this story.

Admittedly, and I think a majority of book lovers can agree, sequels have a way of being incredibly nerve-racking. Personally, my biggest fear with sequels are the dreaded recaps. Even though I'm pretty sure I have the worst memory of all mankind, I don't want to spend 50 or so pages being spoon fed what happened in the last book because it simply becomes repetitive or boring.LLOPAdoes remind us what happened in the last installment, but only in small side notes and not full chunks of a chapter. This may seem like a small thing to notice, but it already puts the book on my goodside. (That, and the fact that I get to revisit some of my favorite characters with my favorite author. I might just be a little bit biased here).

In the same vein, because we're falling into a whole new realm (we are quite literally falling through an open mirror),some substantial world building hasto be done. From the moment we're in the Downstairs with Prosper and Alastor, we're immediately introduced to the off-putting smell, the perpetually-dark sky, and how the land is laid out. We're right there with Prosper as Alastor explains the Downstairs to him and how their overall hierarchy works. And because of Prosper's completeinability to keep himself out of trouble, we meet Ogres, Fiends, and Ghouls along the way. The description to this new world feels natural, realistic, and instantly drew me in.

I am always right, Alastor said. There are only degrees of how correct I am.

I truly cannot stop thinking about how well Prosper was written as a character. There are countless complexities and realistic tendencies woven into him in this sequel that I can't get over it. Prosper goes through a constant internal pull when he's trying to decide between what's right and wrong, and it just felt so humane. Similarly, there were often two different Prospers because, at times, he felt like he needed to put on a brave face when other times all he really wanted was a little bit of help. Even though I'm now 22, I could relate to so many of the thoughts that Prosper had.

When I read books with the intentions of reviewing them, I take notes in my phone, and my favorite note taken for LLOPAwas definitely: "Honestly just talk about how much you love Alastor." As weird as it is to say that I missed reading in the voice of a parasitic malefactor, I reallydid. I missed his clever insults - some of my favorites from this book being "Gorbellied, crook-plated measle" and "Abominable, crusty thumb" - and his cunning schemes. I can't delve deep into the specifics of why I loved him so much in this book for fear of spoilers, but you've got to trust me on this one; his character development is unreal.

Alex aways somehow finds a way to introduce side characters that embellish the story and add to the main characters, not take away from them. We meet elves, shades, new changelings (friendly reminder that I still love Toad with my whole heart), and they each add a new level to the story. And with that, they add even more plot twists that will be sure to leave your jaw on the floor. Furthermore, Alexandra Bracken brings in her ability to discuss big problems readers of this genre might encounter in their own lives, but she stays on track with the plot; it doesn't feel forced whatsoever. There's one plot point with Nell that I really think every single reader can relate to; I know I can.

"You're a good friend, Prosper Redding."

"You're a better friend, Nell Bishop."

It's important for a story to be entertaining. It's fun to escape to a world that's not like your own, but it starts to get really impressive when an author can include elements of our world into a fictional one. Even in a world filled with monsters threatening to take over the human realm, we can still afford a lesson of how we should treat others even when they're different than us.

And again, without giving too much away, the plot is so intricately planned and executed. When you think your questions are close to being answered and the story is going to start wrapping up, yet another plot twist hits you in the face and pushes you forward. You're right there with Prosper as he looks for answers to his questions and tries to make his own connections. The twists will even keep you guessing until the very end.

When a castle is crumbling, you do not stop to find the crack that began it all, you try to hold all of the fracturing walls together in any manner you can, to the best of your ability.

The fantastical elements of this book are nothing short of amazing but, what really grounded this story for me, where the natural moments between Prosper and Nell. There were small conversations of reassurance and general friend banter that made them feel like real people. I could even see myself having these same chats with some of my own friends. Nell also even has an incredibly realistic experience with a Barbie Flower which genuinely had me thinking, "that's me! that's me!"

AH!I keep having to press the delete button on so manysections of this review because I don't want to spoil anything, but there is just so much I could talk about. This could probably easily turn into a 7 page, MLA formatted literary analysis. So please, please, please go pick it up so we can talk about THAT ENDING, and I can stop rambling about it here.

The Last Life of Prince Alastor officially comes out on February 5, so make sure you run out to your local bookstores or place a preorder!

The absolute BIGGEST thank you to NetGalley and Disney Hyperion for providing me with an arc to review!

Overall: 4.5 white foxes out of 5.

Want to talk about this book or see me review your favorite? Just let me know!

#The Last Life of Prince Alastor #the dreadful tale of prosper redding #alexandra bracken #ya book #young adult books #young adult book review #book reviewer #book review #book blogger

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birbleafs · 6 years

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[fic] augury of sins

Series: Tales of Zestiria Rating: T Genre: Character study, Game-canon ending/post-epilogues Characters: Symonne, Sorey, Rose, Mikleo, Alisha Diphda, Lunarre, Phoenix Warnings: Canon-typical violence, Minor character death... pretentious prose?? IDK Summary: Truth be told, she never was all that fond of morality plays. Or, five times Symonne struggled with meaning and one time she found contentment in simply being.

Fic can also be read on AO3

i. “Why do you still keep smiling, even when I tear open your wounds?” she hissed, vehemence laced in every word.

(Many moons later, she would find herself asking the same question, to yet another who smiled just as he did even through the anguish and pain.

How could they… How dare they? It didn’t make any sense, it couldn’t—)

Her brows creased in anger, Symonne forced herself back up to her feet even as her limbs ached and trembled from the growing exhaustion of battle. Being delicate in stature had its drawbacks; she would tire easily from direct combat. As such, she had perfected the use of her seraphic artes, weaving illusions and doppelgangers born from human hearts, an augury of one’s deepest fears and desires. She had not asked for this accursed blessing, had never wished for any of it.

But it was all she’d ever known, all she’d carried with her through centuries of misery and growing apathy.

It was (she was) enough for this, for her Lord—she reminded herself again as she struggled to stand upright, pointing her baton at the two humans before her. It was enough that she could serve her Master. She won’t stop here… no, she couldn’t stop, she must not fail—

“That’s enough, Symonne.”

The Shepherd’s voice was gentle and kind, and Symonne felt frustration flaring from deep within. She lifted her head, staring up at his disgusting concern, at the pity in those evergreen eyes.

“Why do you keep fighting back? How can you smile like it doesn’t hurt?!” she cried, hurling all of her anger and confusion outward, streaks of magic dancing in violent crackles around them. She wanted to smite them down; wanted to rip that infuriatingly radiant smile off his face, to gouge the kindness out of those eyes with sharp nails—

“When all that awaits us in the end is inevitable doom, a hollow death? Is it not natural to welcome that?!” Symonne snarled. She raised her baton once more, threading wisps of magic through the thick violet miasma around them, even though she was already worn from their earlier battle and from the crushing weight of Heldalf’s domain bearing down upon her.

The illusions danced briefly around them—shadows of the bandit children laughing alongside the Cardinal, crimson blossoming against the pristine-white of her robes; of the old Explorer, his hefty leather book strapped to his back; of the blind wind seraph who gnashed his teeth, lips curled in derision at the Shepherd and his Squire.

Both humans faltered at the sight, sword and daggers wavering in their hold, their expressions clouded with grief. This would throw them off, surely, and turn them to despair, it must—

But the Shepherd only closed his eyes, steeling himself, before he slashed forward with his burning blade. The shadows screamed and flickered weakly, fading along with the remainder of her strength and Symonne was left curled against the cold, hard ground.

“Don’t you wish they could have at least survived? I can make it a reality, so why do you keep fighting back, why?!” she spat, feeling a last spike of defiance as she struggled to her hands and knees.

“If Forton, Mayvin, Dezel, and even those children were brave enough to have endured the pain that comes with reality…” Sorey began, his sword still bright with the silver flame. “Then we as the Shepherd and Squire—we surely have to do just as much, maybe even more so.”

“And that’s why we’ll keep pushing onward,” Mikleo said. “We could never cast away the memory of these people by accepting your illusions, no matter how perfect they are.”

Rose nodded, a rueful look in her eyes. “Doing so would be a disservice to all the pain and hardships they’ve had to suffer.”

Symonne set her jaw, fingers clenched so tightly around her baton that her knuckles turned bone-white.

How could they not see, not understand the futility of it all? If she could not do this one thing for her Lord, if she failed him—no, she cannot allow it—then there would be no reason… She would have no meaning…

“The more you fight, the more you suffer… What use is there to struggle?! So why must you resist Lord Heldalf vision’s? He will rid the world of perpetual agony and restraint!”

There was the sound of approaching steps then. She froze, shoulders taut, agitation a churning knot deep in her belly.

Sorey knelt before her, smiling gently—that abhorrent smile, bright and untouched like the sun, she hated it so—and reached out for her, only to pause and thought better of it, pulling his arm back to rest at his side instead.

“It may be true—the more we struggle, the more we’ll suffer. But it doesn’t always have to be like this. It’s what I’ve come to realise and learn from my friends. From those I’ve brushed paths with throughout this journey.”

His countenance grew softer, his voice low, almost as if the words spoken were for himself as much as it was for her. “We’re more than the suffering and burdens we bear, Symonne. You are so much more than the pain you carry with you—and you don’t have to keep thinking of yourself as evil, of deserving of all resentment.”

“W-What?” she echoed, feeling her throat constrict and her eyes growing moist.

“Ah…” Sorey faltered then, struggling to articulate the words right. He offered her an apologetic smile, seemingly self-conscious at how he abruptly had her full attention now as she waited for his answer.

“W-Well, what I mean is… It’s all right if you are as you are. You exist just like the rest of us, in the here and now—that’s what really matters. Everything will work out somehow because I’ll keep searching for a way, for all of us.”

Symonne lowered her head, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

As the party left, making their way through the labyrinth and into Artorius’ Throne, Symonne felt his words lingering, striking a chord deep within.

She wailed then, and despite her angry, bitter tears, felt a euphoric sense of relief, of affirmation taking root within her chest.

How truly selfish of you, Shepherd.

ii.

Many moons later, she found herself—yet again—asking the same question, to another who smiled just like he did even through the anguish and pain.

(How could they… how dare they? She had pondered over it then, seething, infuriated at the young man whose heart would not be corrupted. Who had refused to fall, even when his family’s blood had stained his hands crimson.

This time though, the ire driving her question had dimmed into waning embers; all she was left with was genuine bewilderment.)

“Thank you,” Alisha said, bowing graciously. Symonne did not miss the grief and sorrow lining the corners of her eyes, but what puzzled her most was the Princess’ smile. It was a tiny smile, tugging at the corners of her lips, but one filled with immense gratitude nonetheless. “Because of you, I was finally able to see Lady Maltran off with a proper farewell.”

There it was again, the look upon Alisha’s face. The same look of pity and understanding that Symonne had so much contempt for. She had scorned the Princess’ gaze then, turning instead to face the Squire—Ah, no, not a Squire anymore; our darling comedian has taken up the Shepherd’s mantle now, hasn’t she? —only to find she detested Rose’s cheeky grin and unflinching sureness nearly as much. Symonne hated how the woman’s blue eyes were still as sharp as the blades she twirled languidly in her palms.

“Selfish and as pitiful as ever, I see,” she muttered, almost thoughtfully, before the air around her rippled and she disappeared into velvet shadows once more.

iii. Humans were obnoxiously stubborn beings. Even when they had shed all trivialities, mortal customs, and ingrained social graces; when they allowed the darkness in their hearts to fester, allowed the ferocity of their desires to run amok and then consume them, transforming them into hellions.

Symonne twisted her lips ever-so-slightly at the thought. Even from her vantage point high up the Shrine walls, she could see the battle below was drawing to a close, the two opponents seemingly at a stalemate. It was clear as day who the true victor was though and she wasn’t the least bit surprised. With a hum, she calculated the distance to the square below and took a graceful leap off the ledge.

The sphere of illusions disintegrated just as her feet touched the cobble-stoned streets: the ghostly silhouettes of a tawny-haired boy and red-haired girl shattered into fractals, the children’s laughter dissipating into a sheet of crystalline dust that settled over the two opponents—the fox hellion and the darling comedian Shepherd.

“Traitorous wench!” Lunarre spat viciously at her approach, fangs bared. “This was all your doing? I should’ve known.”

“Traitorous? Always the dullard spouting inane commentary, aren’t you?” Symonne countered sweetly. “My master is long dead ; there is none left to betray. And I serve no one now, least of all the likes of you.” She tilted her head, turning a coy smile towards the Shepherd Rose. “In your bid to carve each other up, you’ve all unknowingly waltzed into my domain—surely it isn’t necessary for me to remind you how my blessing works?”

“I won’t play your games, wench,” Lunarre growled, amber eyes feral and burning with blood lust. “If you get in my way, I’ll kill you too, after I gorge on little Lambkin Rose and her friends.” He threw back his head in a fit of maniacal laughter, tongue lolling over cruel and yellowed fangs.

Symonne only scowled at the sudden surge of malevolence, at the growing pressure settling against her shoulders as she continued to hold her ground, unyielding.

“And after that, maybe I’ll even sniff out everyone’s precious sleeping Shepherd.” Lunarre hissed, voice dripping venom. “Wrench his limbs apart and split him open, flesh and bone, just so I can rip into that delicious still-beating heart, drain his blood dry and—A-AARGGH!!”

There was a flash of movement, a whirlwind of red, green and white.

Lunarre tried to scream but could only choke on blood, crimson stains blooming from his chest where Rose’s daggers had found their mark.

“May these weary bones find peaceful rest,” Rose murmured through clenched teeth, driving the blades deeper as she listened to his dying gasps. “Good-bye, Lunarre. I’ll always remember our better days together.”

The fox hellion shuddered, his form dissipating into a miasma of black and violet tendrils.

The emblem over her glove was still ablaze with silver flames as Rose purified the last of the malevolence. With the malevolence cleared and the illusions wavering there was no reason to linger around—Symonne could hear the approaching steps of Rose’s seraphim as they broke through the dying hellion’s crumbling domain to reach her side.

“What display of audaciousness. Seems like you’ve come a long way and we’ve just only reached the interlude of this brand-new play. But alas, the curtain must be drawn for now.” Symonne paused, sparing a glance at Rose—she was still crouched low to the ground, staring silently at the bloodstained path. “Oh, has our darling comedian Shepherd finally broken? Did the fox really get to you that much?”

Rose let out a tired laugh before she straightened up. She wiped the grime from her face, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“He’s kind of right though, you know. I’d be a really cheap imitation of Sorey. Not that I want to be known as a maniac who goes nuts over mouldy architecture and dead people’s possessions, mind you—we still have Mikleo for that. But sometimes…” Rose’s voice grew soft as she touched the blue scarf around her neck. “This whole Shepherd business is just…”

Symonne hummed, almost amused now. “No need to flatter yourself, dear girl. You humans are the same wherever you go, whatever you do. Stubborn, supercilious, and always with the self-serving monologues.”

“Aren’t we all?” Rose gave Symonne a crooked smile, before turning to nod at Mikleo. “Like you’re pretty stubborn yourself too, so not all that different from the rest of us. And Shepherd or not, I’m always gonna be getting stuff done the Rose way. Gotta live up to that true name I was bestowed so graciously with, after all.”

Mikleo quirked an incredulous eyebrow at that, even though he couldn’t quite hide the amusement creeping over his features. “Huh. I thought someone once lamented how Wilkis Wilk was a lazy sort of name.”

“It is still a lazy sort of name. But guess I just grew into it!” Rose cracked another easy grin, hands upon her hips.

“Presuppositions again. Such is your lot.” Symonne sighed. Dawn was fast approaching, the first slivers of sunlight visible over the edge of the cityscape—and her cue to take her leave.

“Hey, wait!” Rose called after her retreating form. “Why... why did you help us, Symonne?”

“That wasn’t assistance,” Symonne murmured quietly, her form elusive as she faded away with the mist.

It wasn’t assistance, but…

Was it mercy, hope?

Salvation?

She had grown weary of pondering this act.

(Truth be told, she never was all that fond of morality plays.)

iv. If she was honest with herself, she could not say she remembered in detail the events of that particular day, decades ago. Human lives burn so brightly throughout the march of time, and yet the fire of their souls was merely flickering candlelight, winking out, one by one, in endless cycles.

Even so, she remembered those smiles, the sound of their laughter.

She remembered the littlest things, the crinkle in the sides of their listless eyes, their face contorted in fear and pain. Their voices pleading for release from the bitter harshness of reality— —the world is too cruel, please just let us dream, let us sleep forever— —no! this wasn’t what I… forgive me...! — —you brought this upon us, your gift, youyouyOUYOU...! — The ringing silence that came thereafter.

She had expected the malevolence here to have festered long enough to overwhelm her, perhaps even driven her to draconian madness. But as she picked her way carefully through the debris and remnants of the small village—of a place she had almost called home once, a lifetime ago—all she sensed now was tranquillity, a calm relief.

There, before her and basking in a patch of sun, was a small plant. A fir wood sapling, its bright green vines curled around a stick, tiny leaves already sprouting from the ends.

Symonne knelt beside the sapling, brushing a finger gingerly over the leaves, running her hand through the loose soil. There was no longer any trace of malevolence, not in the air or beneath the earth. Only the buzzing of insects, of life once again slowly taking root.

There were no echoes of the past (no desolate screams of the dying villagers) whispering from haunted shadows into her ears.

“Our darling comedian Shepherd, so hard at work these days.”

Symonne sat beside the sapling a little longer, exhaling slowly as she savoured the warmth of the sun upon her back.

The water seraph was a frequent visitor of the cliff edge grave.

Others came by as well, to present flowers and offerings of traditional curry buns, to pay their respects—the humans, during the Vernal Equinox every late autumn; the seraphim at every turn of a decade, sometimes a century. But it was the silhouette of a smallish creature perched over Mikleo’s shoulder that, for one reason or another, she remembered most.

Symonne did not care for normin in general. They were a contemptible lot, simpletons easily beguiled by fleeting contentment. And she especially did not care for a pompous one with too zealous an attitude, and who seemed overly keen with pointless nattering. “I see you’ve made the annual pilgrimage as well, little one.” Phoenix nodded in approval, chest puffed out importantly. “And I see you still possess the proclivity for presumptions.” She scoffed in return by way of greeting.

With narrowed eyes, she studied the way Mikleo’s hair now skimmed over his shoulders in loose, silver-white strands. A single lock braided with a bright yellow-orange feather was tucked neatly over his left ear. Then, with almost a resigned reluctance, she moved forward to sit as close to the cliff’s edge as she could manage, peering down at the ruinous landscape below. After a moment, she asked, her voice barely a whisper over the rising gust: “How are you not a dragon, loving and being around humans as much as you always have? Yearning so much for his return and yet… never truly certain if he…”

She fell silent, unable to finish the question. Mikleo did not reply, did not look her way. He seemed to have curled in around himself, arms wrapped his torso as he sat beside the grave—whether he was trying to keep the questions out or perhaps just protecting his most treasured memories, Symonne could not say.

“I can’t say for sure, honestly. But I guess I’ve learned not to dwell too long in the past,” Mikleo began, a pensive look in his violet eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing them, my human friends. And yet at the same time, I don’t think I can ever not see what’s before and around me still.” He paused, raising his hand to the weathered headstone, tracing a finger over the engraved name Numin. “Maybe… maybe this is what it really means to be a seraph?” “So that is your answer then?” Symonne asked, unconvinced. “Finally casting aside your shackles?” “Shackles?” Mikleo shook his head. “The time I shared with Sorey, with Rose and Alisha—and all the humans I’ve ever met? They’re the foundation to who I am now, who I’ll continue to grow to be. And my answer is simple: I believe in Sorey, in our dream. I can’t reach that dream if I’m always going to keep looking back over my shoulder in despair, can I?”

Symonne only sighed, dangling her legs over the cliff side. Still such a simple fool then, she thought.

“And what about you? You’re no dragon either even after serving a Lord of Calamity for as long as you did, and then lurking among humans nearly as often as I have.”

His question caught her unawares. She tilted her head towards him, brows furrowed, pondering for a moment.

“Spite, I suppose. And sheer obstinacy.”

The brief silence that followed was awkward, but easily broken by Mikleo’s soft laugh.

“So, not that different from humans and the rest of us then,” he said, violet eyes bright with mirth as he looked ahead to the pillar of light glimmering from the ruins below.

“No,” Symonne said, smiling wryly. “I suppose not.”

vi. “You really saved my skin back there! Thanks!”

The young seraph wasn’t anyone she’d ever chanced upon over the years, Symonne was certain of this. His messy oak-brown hair was pulled back into a short pony-tail, the tips of each strand now a bright, radiant gold; his travel cloak casual and unadorned.

But it was in the curve of his smile, the tentative sincerity of his expressions and little mannerisms.

And those evergreen eyes—she had recognised that childlike wonderment, that boundless zest within them all too well.

“I’m Sorey, a wandering seraph,” he introduced himself readily, once the dust had settled around them.

Symonne studied the broken stone monument in the tall grass before them, listening intently for any tell-tale creaks or shifts in the stonework to suggest yet another collapse in the structure.

“Symonne,” she replied simply, once she had ascertained there was no imminent danger. “I was merely passing through. You… don’t remember anything, do you?”

“Well, I did kind of bumped my head a little,” Sorey said, brushing at his nape sheepishly. “So yeah, I’m a bit fuzzy about the details. The last thing I remember is the prickleboar rushing at us, and then... uh, falling off from that stone wedge there in the structure, all while trying to dodge it...”

The familiar angle of his head-tilt only lifted the corners of her lips into a knowing smile.

(He was not yet aware of it himself during his fall from the crumbling structure, but Symonne hadn’t missed the brief glimpse into his thoughts, his memories: the way her illusions had reacted—fractured pieces of emotion weaving through the wind—to the indiscernible fears he had kept folded behind that bright smile, buried deep within the eaves of his heart.) “I managed to scare it off with the illusions, so it’s highly unlikely to return,” she said instead, already moving ahead. “You’ll still need to tread with more caution through these woods. Prickleboars aren’t the only creatures that are territorial.”

“Right,” Sorey nodded, reaching down to collect the book he’d dropped earlier. He dusted the covers before slipping it back into the small leather pack he wore at his hip. “And thank you again, Symonne. I really owe you one. I’m going to look for Phoenix—ah, he’s a friend… a normin I sort of picked up?—we got separated just before I found this monument and the prickleboar attacked. Maybe you’d like to go with me, if we’re heading the same way?”

Symonne had almost, almost considered taking up his suggestion, if only for curiosity’s sake. “My path leads elsewhere for now,” she said, declining the offer with a slight shake of her head. “We may however chance upon each other again another day. And while I’m not fond of platitudes, but... Some advice for what you seek, your heart’s desire.”

She held his curious gaze, unwavering, her thoughts drifting to the words that had stayed with her, that she’d held on to at every turn of the century.

It’s all right if you are as you are. You exist just like the rest of us, in the here and now—that’s what really matters.

“You’re more than your lost memories, more than the burden of a selfish Shepherd’s legacy.”

There it was again, the tiniest hint of emotion, flickering over his features. Sorey blinked—and it was gone again—head angled in confusion. “I don’t think I quite understand…”

Symonne only smiled, retreating once more to the comfort of shadows before he could question further.

“Good journeying, seraph Sorey,” she said, her voice the soft rustling of leaves in the canopy above. “May you find luck dancing, wherever your heart leads you.”

Sorey was still deep in pensive thought when Phoenix finally found him, watching the way the leaves bobbed over the spot where Symonne had last stood.

—End—

Notes: - I wanted to re-write some of the scenes with Symonne during the battle before the game ending. Somehow it turned out longer and ended up being a character study of sorts. Not sure how I feel about this but l o l [/I-tried.jpeg].

- The fourth scene is inspired by Symonne’s character notes found in the Zestiria World Guidance Book translations. Before working under Heldalf, she was a seraph who actually loved humans and had tried to live among them, only for her blessing to bring disastrous results to a village.

- The last scene where she meets seraph Sorey takes place a little after Chapter 1 and before Chapter 2 of my post-epilogue fic, Chasing Dreams.

Thank you for reading! Comments and critique are welcomed for my fics—I'd like to hear what you think, if you've enjoyed this so far.

#tales of zestiria #symonne #sorey #mikleo #rose #fanfic #i've been re-writing this too many times #so time to just release it into the void and be content with whatever... this is #/wHEEZES at character studies...

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duckybeth99 · 6 years

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Magical Assistance (Past!Fic)

hey bois who’s ready for rewrites of past canon here we go. obvs by the ending this is only part one and my friends,,, things will not go down The Way You Think

—

Magic was a wild, almost untamable thing. So those who had such skill, of both wielding power and the ability to control it, were regarded highly. And such was something she was trying to achieve.

Having power wasn’t the problem for Beth. Control was.

Untrained telekinesis. Untamed cyrokinesis. With a single hint of her emotions blowing out of proportion, her powers would burst forth just as equal. Beth was gifted with powers, but cursed with the lack of knowledge. So John was constantly trying for her. Teaching, training. When her ice went too far, he could melt it. When she needed a sort of time-out, as rudimentary as it sounded, he would make the whole house warmer to make it harder for her powers. For the movement of objects, he relied on his knowledge of the art of magic to push items back. But he was only one man. He struggled to balance his daughter, his son, his work, put food on the table, keep the roof over their heads.

So he looked for help.

He warned his children constantly how dangerous the UpSideDown was, how people and monsters, benevolent and vile roamed on the same streets. Johnny countered with noting Riverview was the same. John gave his son a look at his comment.

Having been husband to a descendent of the great Amemori witch bloodline, he had quite a bit of resources at his disposal. But even with such help on his side, it was nearly impossible to find someone who knew anything about the rare, spectacular magic that was the power over ice and snow. And after much time, he finally found someone who could help.

A witch held of highest prestige, a woman with great intelligence, asked for her skill and intellect often in the world that was the UpSideDown. Upon being contacted that there was someone asking for her help, John and Virginica met, agreed to terms of help for the young ghostly girl. John made sure she was a woman to trust. She seemed familiar with the Amemori legends and was eager to lend her services.

But even so, on the first day of her lessons, John insisted on coming along to see her off at the very least. He hopes to watch the first lesson, but the likeliness wasn’t high. Yet to his own surprise, Virginica allowed the first visit.

In a Realm full of witches, warlocks, and the sort, stood a lavished home, which couldn’t have been bigger than the farm house, but was far more appealing in its exterior. Isolated from the other witch homes, though most were spread a good distance away to keep peace and avoid conflicts, the home glistened like diamonds in the light. Crystallized, the whole home was created of ice, and around the area was a blanket of snow on the ground. In the same radius, clouds laid over the nearby sky and allowed soft winds and gentle snowflakes. John bundled up further into his coat, though Beth floated freely and unbothered. Johnny pushed up the collar of his jacket and shivered within it. As the family stepped to the front door, knocked and waited, Johnny tucked his neck further into his jacket.

“It’s freezing,” he grumbled. “Is there any chance it’s warmer inside?”

“I doubt it,” John shook his head. “I told you to bundle up more, Junior.”

“I didn’t think we were confronting the snow on Mount Everest.”

The front doors slowly opened with no person pushing them. John looked cautious for a moment before permitting his children to step further inside. Beth stood in the middle, the boys on either side of her, not unlike bodyguards of some sort. The family walked further inside the main hall of the home, spying stairs in front of them. The ground and steps, all the furniture and fixtures were created of ice and snow. Boots clicked on the icy stairs, and there stood the witch.

A heavy, curved woman with pale skin, and hair so blonde it was almost white, curled and frozen to permanent tips on her head. Dressed as a fine witch, she was beautiful, but one thing stood out: her arms and hands. From the very tips of her fingers were a pale blue that faded into deeper light blues, before fading back into her skin. None of the family had ever seen someone with such icy hands.

“Welcome!” Virginica’s voice rang as she descended the steps. A white arctic fox followed her, curling close to her feet and swishing its tail. John knew of those creatures, of the familiars that many involved in the life of witchcraft had. “Mr. Bosteau, you’re looking well from our last meeting. And this must be your son and daughter, Johnny and Beth?”

“Yes,” John smiled proudly and nodded. “My daughter is the one you’ll be teaching, but my son and I wanted to escort and watch her, just this first time. We’ve had such an awful bout of negativity that I wanted to be one-hundred-percent sure she’d be alright.”

“Of course,” Virginica smiled kindly. “You know, I have a son of my own. I know such worry. He’s also skilled in the arts of magic and ice. I’m sure he’ll have no trouble helping me when needed, if at all.” The sound of steps neared the stairs. Virginica looked over her shoulder with a smile. “Speak of the Devil. Bosteaus, this is my son. Aquilo Aster.”

A handsome young man descended the steps just as his mother had. Hair spiked up towards the front instead of the sides like his mother, his hair was a pale brown, skin equally pale and cold to his mother’s. But he had the same bright blue eyes like her. He wore a dark, long coat that covered a pale blue vest and dress shirt under it, dark pants, and boots. His face was still for a moment—stoic and cold. But then, a slow smile formed on his face.

“Welcome,” his voice was smooth. Been felt her glow turn brighter. “I’ve yet to see another ice magic user. Is it you?” His eyes landed on Beth. Her glow turned slightly pinker. She gave a shy nod. Aquilo smiled and moved closer, holding out his hand. Beth gently placed hers in it, and neither of them shivered at the touch. He kissed the back of her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Beth.”

John cleared his throat, “Well now! We’ve got introductions out of the way. I’m very eager to see how these lessons will go.” Virginica gave a simple, slow nod.

“Of course,” she said. “Then let’s begin. Aquilo, you will be my second demonstrator.” She summoned chairs made of ice behind the father and brother, bowing her head at them. “You two may sit and watch.” Johnny crossed his arms and looked at his father for a moment, before John’s eyes insisted his son sit. He did so, albeit slow and with cautious eyes and tense hands. The witch grinned and clapped her hands.

“Now. Let’s begin.”

———

Days and weeks and months of training, and the boys saw progress in the young girl. She would be gone for most of the day while Johnny delivered pizzas around town and John lectured at the campus. Johnny would drive down into the UpSideDown after work to pick up Beth from the Aster house, they’d go home to John just finishing cooking dinner, and Beth would talk all about what she learned and showed her developing control. Johnny would clean up, John would try and continue teaching Beth in terms of normal, human schooling. Some nights Johnny would insist taking over so his worn out father could rest or take personal time on his art. This was the way most days worked. Most of the time.

Except one night, when Johnny had to stay later at work. He texted his dad and sister, annoyance clear in his choice of language. John was stuck with grading at the campus, and neither trusted Beth to venture on her own back home. But that’s when he offered to take her home. Young Aquilo.

“Take her straight home,” Virginica said. “Don’t make her poor family worry too much.”

“Yes, Mother,” Aquilo rolled his eyes. Beth gave a small smile and waved goodbye to her instructor. Aquilo held out his hand to Beth as he led her away from the perpetually snow-covered land around his home. Beth watches the flakes float down. With a gentle wave of her hand, she was able to guide them with ease. Aquilo smiled.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked. Beth nodded.

“It’s... it’s magical,” she said. She felt her glow turn brighter and she stammered with a nervous smile, “I-I mean, obviously it’s magical, but I mean—you know?” Aquilo offered a small chuckle.

“I get it,” he replied. “I’m sorry that I don’t have a bike like your brother to take you home on. We’ll just have to go the long way.”

“I already let them know,” Beth shyly brushed a curl behind her ear. “They worry so much over me. If it’s warranted or not, I guess I can’t say, but it is a fact of them.”

“Believe me, I know overprotective parents,” Aquilo placed his hands in his pockets. “I love her, but I’m all she’s got. She’d be worried sick if anything ever happened to me. I’m her pride and joy. Her best creation.” The two walked in silence for a while longer. “You know, you really are something special, Beth. Your powers... so raw and incredible. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you,” Beth felt herself smile wider and blush more. “I’m... I don’t think I’m anything special. And I’ve never really felt like I belong anywhere. But being here with you and your mom, a-and learning what I can do... I feel like I could be anything. I feel like I belong.”

“You should,” Aquilo stopped walking, smiling kindly. “Because you do.”

“I haven’t felt like I have in so long. Even with Johnny and Dad. I-I know I’m different than them because—mm. It’s... hard.”

“I understand. I haven’t had the best time with people before. But you make all that different to me. I know you’ve been thanking us for lessons, but I should be thanking you, too, Beth.”

They stood still for a moment, Beth shyly holding a hand against her chest. As Aquilo breathed, she saw his breath and realized it was snowing over them. She blinked and looked up at the small cloud over their heads.

“Am I—?”

“It’s us both.” Beth’s eyes looked into Aquilo’s deep blue ones. “It’s an emotional power, remember?”

“So... what is this?”

“What do you think? Tell me about it.”

“It’s... soft snow,” Beth looked back up at the small cloud. “Only over us. No big storm clouds or powerful wind. It’s... soft. Gentle.” Aquilo took a step closer. He gave a smile down at Beth. If the young ghost had a heart, it would have jumped from her chest.

“What emotion is that close to?” he whispered.

“Calm. Peace.” She looked down shyly, almost afraid to admit. Her hands shook. “Love?”

“Yeah.”

Beth slowly closed her eyes, and felt Aquilo’s lips against hers. She felt a shiver, but not caused by cold. Aquilo gently parted from her. He held out his hand to her once more.

“We should get you back home,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Your father and brother could be home any minute.” Beth stared at his hand. “Beth?”

“Did we really just—?”

“I’m sorry if you weren’t ready, I just thought that—“

“No!” Beth’a glow turned bright. “No, I-I liked it. I’ve just... never had anybody like me back that way before.” Aquilo shrugged.

“You should have,” he said. “You deserve it.” Beth, for the first time that night, gave a calmer smile to Aquilo. She gently took his hand.

“Thank you,” she said. “For that and... taking me home.” Their fingers intertwined. Neither shivered or showed discomfort at the cold each other released.

“It’s what boyfriends do.”

————

There were mixed feelings with the developing relationship, for Johnny and his father at least. John wanted to encourage Beth to find love, and Aquilo seemed respectable. He was a gentleman, more mature than other sixteen-year-olds. But his overprotectiveness still pinged and tapped his shoulder. Johnny wanted the same, the same happiness for Beth. But Aquilo seemed too charming. Too good with words. Hell, he quoted Shakespeare when they invited him to dinner to express his feelings for Beth. He compared himself to Romeo and Beth his Juliet.

While not big on theater since high school, he remembered reading the play and his ex-boyfriend talking about it amongst many other plays and musicals. He was familiar with the blind love and stupidity that lead to downfall. One thing was for certain, he didn’t want that for Beth. His little sister had been hurt too much already. Not again.

As John slowly calmed and began to enjoy the intellectual conversations with Aquilo, his punctuality with Beth and always following orders, his managing to sweep Beth off her feet every date they had... he was finding fewer and fewer real, tangible reasons to disapprove. As he worked in his study one night while Johnny scowled in the living room waiting for Beth to come back home, he spotted them in the window, coming back towards the house.

Johnny waited to hear the door open. Minutes passed. He paused his video game and started to head towards the front of house. The young man pressed his ear to the front door, hearing them talk on the porch, sitting together.

“You’re... wonderful,” Beth sighed, resting her head against Aquilo’s shoulder. “I’ve never felt this way for anybody before.”

“Neither have I,” Aquilo chuckled. Johnny wanted to gag. He heard them kiss. The old wood creaked with Aquilo standing up, holding his hands with Beth as he helped her stand. He kissed her knuckles. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he brushed a curl from Beth’s hair, “that I shall say goodnight til it be morrow.”

“Goodnight,” Beth smiled back at Aquilo. She started to turn towards the door, Johnny backing up quickly to try and not be caught.

“Wait, I almost forgot!” Aquilo chuckled. “Here. A gift.”

He held out a small box to Beth. She timidly took it, opening it up. Inside was a velvet cloth, that when pulled back revealed a shimmering heart. Beth gasped at it.

“It’s amazing,” she breathed. “Thank you so much.” Johnny peeked through the peephole and watched, before sneaking back behind the door. Barely missing it, Beth entered the house.

“Dad, Johnny!” she called, “I’m home!” Johnny let out an almost silent breath and shimmied away from the wall. As Beth went inside the kitchen, looking for her family, Johnny pretended he just came down the stairs.

“Uh, hey—“ he quickly slid into place, startling Beth. “How was it?”

“Were you there the—never mind. It was wonderful,” Beth sighed dreamily. “He’s incredible. But I’m beat. Um, mind not blocking the stairs so I can go to bed?”

“Sure, sure,” Johnny mumbled, stepping aside. He watched his sister go upstairs, and he felt unease crawl up inside of him. He crossed his arms, shook his head, and grabbed another soda. With this feeling sitting in him, he wasn’t going to get sleep anytime soon. He’s rather just veg out and wait for it to pass.

———

“What is it with them being so nice?”

“Junior, not every one is cruel. You’re too shaken from our bad run-ins.”

“And you aren’t?”

“Watch your tone, Johnny,” John looked at his son, hard and with firmness in his voice. Johnny scoffed and pressed his chin in his hand. “Now when it comes to anxiety, you know it doesn’t get worse than me. But as I’ve watched, the Asters are very good people. They’ve given me no reason to distrust them. Bethany tells us everything she learns, all they do with her... Virginica is a kind mother, a successful mentor, Aquilo has equal intellect and not to mention charm and being a gentleman.”

“But doesn’t it all feel too perfect?” Johnny asked. John sighed. He set down the music box he was crafting, turned his stool and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“I know you’re worried about her, son,” he began. “But Bethany is not twelve anymore. She doesn’t need you to fight bullies who are... gone now, she doesn’t need you to protect her from Merhib. Perhaps we’ve grown too used to being on guard and fearful. Perhaps my paranoia has brought that on to you, too. But I promise you, she’s alright. The monsters after her are gone and over. Maybe we’re not used to peace in our lives, but we finally have it. Adjustment might take time to that, after all this... trauma and fuss.”

“Yeah,” Johnny grumbled. “Maybe.” He stood up from his own stool, grabbed his jacket off the garage wall and shoved his fists into his pockets.

“Where are you going?” John blinked. Johnny grabbed his helmet off the wall.

“To talk to somebody who’ll listen and get what I’m saying.”

#beth writing #ask bloge #welcome to riverview #ghosty blogging #ghosty beth #johnny bosteau #aquilo aster #virginica aster

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the-herdier · 6 years

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The One Who Understands

Stripes of bright light shone through the perpetually-drawn blinds of Bill's house, with the only other lights being that of microwave that had just finished cooking Hot Pockets and the flicker of the computer screen in the corner that illuminated the face of a young man in his mid 20s with short, wavy red-brown hair and brown eyes. He wore a white blazer, black dress pants, and black shoes. Despite his somewhat-formal outfit, he looked slightly disheveled, like he had been wearing it for a day or two. He sat in an old, yet comfortable-looking office chair. Around his desktop and keyboard were strewn a myriad of books and paers- it seemed quite obvious that he didn't very much enjoy being neat. He had been sitting there at that messy desk for hours, dilligently trying to work out a particularly-challenging coding bug for the newest build of his Pokemon Storage System project, while at the same time acting as the sole system administrator for the current build. Despite his clear passion for his line of work, his face wore the look of one who was mentally exhausted. The jarring ring of the phone beside his desktop pierced the air again, for what seemed like the millionth time today. He gave an exhausted sigh as he picked up the reciever. "Good day!" he said, with a slight English accent, "This is the Pokemon Storage System Administration Service, Bill speaking. How may I help you today?" He nodded his head as he listened to his latest customer's issue. "Uh-huh, I see. And what was your username again, so that I might check a few things? I also need your account PIN." he asked. He waited to hear the requested information. "Alright, got it. Thank you!" he later said, having obtained said info. "Please stay on the line while I take a look," He tabbed back into the admin interface for the live build and entered the given account info. He was presented with the boxes of someone who very clearly was new to his program. One box was completely full, with the other 13 being completely empty (This was a surprisingly common issue. Bill found it absolutely ASTOUNDING how many people never noticed the number to the right of their box. I mean, how hard WAS it?). "Found your problem," he said "Your first box is full. Each box can only hold 20 Pokemon at a time. Easy fix, just go back to the main interface and select the Box menu, then choose the new box you'd like your Pokemon to be sent to. When it prompts you, say yes. Then go back to the Deposit menu and you should be able to deposit your Raticate." After hearing his customer's relieved thank-yous, he hung up the phone. He put his head in his hands and let out an exasperated sigh. Being the only administrator for the Pokemon Storage System in the region was hard work. It wasn't the advanced code that was hard for him to handle- he was a genius programmer who could easily spend days at his desk working out a problem. It was the part about actually having to deal with people all day every day that he found a hassle. You see, Bill was the complete opposite of a social person. In fact, he had crippling social anxiety as a part of his high-functioning autistic disorder. He had a lot of problems talking to other people, unless it was about a subject he was interested in. Even then, he was usually quite awkward and shy. "Ugh, why do people have to prefer hearing a human voice over just having an online chat feature..?" he thought as he quietly tabbed back into his code editor, "Computer programming is what I do best, Arceus dammit, not interacting with people!" He sighed again. This bug was simply too hard for him to fix by himself. He would have to call Celio and see if he could come over and help in some way. Celio was one of the few people he could actually talk to with confidence, but it still would likely mean he would have to go outside. He hated being outside. Too much light, too much sound. Being outside for even a few minutes without something to comfort him was usually enough to overload his mind, especially if it also involved talking to people. He began to tear up a little at even the thought of it. Just then, he felt a gentle paw on his left leg. He looked down from his work to see his "something to comfort him": His Eevee named Steve. The gentle-natured Steve was his best friend and emotional support Pokemon. Steve was always by his side whenever Bill needed him. Though he was just a pet, his loving companionship had seen his Trainer through many a hard time. He never judged or got angry, even when Bill hugged him a little too tightly. Steve, having noticed his master getting a little stressed, had gone and fetched a blue stress-ball from his room. This was Bill's favorite fidget toy. He loved the way it felt when he squeezed it, and it helped him calm down whenever he got a little overwhelmed. Steve sat up and looked at his master, holding the ball in his mouth. "I swear, that damn fox can always read my mind...," Bill thought as he looked down at his long-time companion. "Thanks, man...," he said, reaching down. However, instead of simply grabbing the ball like Steve was expecting him to, he picked the Eevee up by its front shoulders and lifted him onto his lap. He gently hugged and stroked the fox Pokemon for a while before finally taking the stress ball out of its mouth and squeezing it with his right hand, while still stroking his friend's fur with his left. "I swear Steve, you're the only one who truly understands me...," he thought as he willingly picked up the phone to call Celio.

#pokemon #fanfiction #some old ass shit I never posted #pokemon bill #eevee #autistic headcanon #masaki sonezaki

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theunaccomplishedwriter · 6 years

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Recipe - One Word Prompt Fanfiction

This prompt was supplied by @skulpin. I went through about four different stories before I settled on this one. I know it’s not perfect, and it’s way longer than I would have liked, but here you go! I hope you enjoy it! I’ll get to my next prompts soon and please leave me one if you’d like to see me write a story based on it. :)

Deerbrooke’s quaint charm had attracted many mammals from far and wide for a farming life or as somewhere to spend their retirement years in peace. It was soft, homely, and altogether charming. A town perpetually in the golden hour of day as if to enhance its already exceeding beauty and lull its inhabitants into their quiet, humble ways.

That calmness was eviscerated as a rusty pale green sedan, its engine sounding like it was mere moments away from blowing a gasket, trundled into town. Eventually, the car came to an agonising beside a white picket fence.

After a few moments, a young vixen emerged from the vehicle, slamming the heavy door shut behind her. Her fur was immaculately brushed, but her physique was just a tad too thin, with her small Doeson's café uniform hanging loose over her willowy frame. Taking in the sight before her, the vixen gave a tired sigh before pressing on up the gravel path.

After walking a few paces up the path, the vixen turned back and glared at the car’s unopened back door.

“Gideon,” she began, her voice as cold as the arctic. “you best get your tail out here right now. Don’t make me come in and drag you out.”

Slowly the sullen adolescent emerged from the car and began trudging up the path towards his mother, his face still looking as indignant as ever.

“I’m coming,” Gideon grumbled.

“Come on Gideon, I’ve gotta be at work in less than an hour and this is the last place I can think of.” Miss Grey said tiredly.

“Yeah, yeah…” Gideon said disinterestedly.

“I mean it Gideon! You be nice now! I’m angry enough at you as it is but please, for me, please be nice to this lady, okay? She’s an old friend of mine.”

“Alright mum. I’ll try.” Gideon said, nodding a little as he did.

“Thank you,” Miss Grey replied, hoping for the best. “I’m sure you’ll get on. Mae is really nice. Well, she was really nice when I saw her last…”

Letting that thought go, Miss Grey took in the cottage in front of them and internally wept. Thatched roof, the stout chimney stack, spotless whitewashed stone walls with perfectly pruned purple wisteria plants climbing up its walls, the window boxes full to bursting with entire rainbows of flowers. It looked like something out of an idyllic fairy-tale.

It was perfect.

Finally coming up to the red front door, its glass pristine despite its age, Miss Grey rapped her knuckles against the painted wood. A few moments later, the door slowly swung open and Miss Grey could feel her breathing stop

A tall, slender deer stood in the doorway, her eyes widening she took in the vixen on her doorstep.

She was elegantly dressed, her graceful frame clothed in a black and white stripped top and red Boden Mini Skirt that finished modestly above her knees. She had a single golden earring in her right ear and she had let her head-fur grow into a small but stylish tuft of deep auburn, something that somehow manage to perfectly complement her hazel eyes.

“She hasn’t changed a bit,” Miss Grey thought, a small smile playing at her lips.

“Hey Mae,” Miss Grey began, attempting to sound casual. “How’s thi-”

The doe, with a quickness that stunned both the young vixen and her son, strode forward and slapped the young vixen squarely across the face.

“I guess I deserve that,” Miss Grey eventually said, rubbing her face and hoping Mae hadn't left a bruise under her fur.

“Oh, you more than deserved that Myra,” Mae retorted icily, her hooves shaking.

“Hey!” Gideon shouted. “You leave my ma-”

“It’s alright Gideon,” Myra said, holding a paw up to Gideon. “I deserved it.”

“But she just-”

“I. Deserved. It.” Myra hissed, silencing her troublesome kit as she turned back to the doe who was still shaking with anger.

“Look,” Myra began slowly, meeting the incensed doe's eyes. “I know there’s nothing I can do or say that won’t make what I did hurt less. I screwed up. I really did. And I should have told you. Or left you message. Or something. Anything more than I did.”

Myra looked down at her hind paws, the shame filling her chest as Gideon looked on in utter astonishment as his mother, his hard as nails mother, was apologising so profusely to a doe who had just assaulted her.

“I was young and stupid and scared. I know I have no right to barge back into your life now, but I have nowhere else to go.”

Myra looked back up, tears streaming down her muzzle.

“I’m hurt you Mae. I hurt you and I never wanted to hurt you Mae. Never you Mae. But I can’t change what I did Mae. And I can’t lie and say I’m not here because I have nowhere else to go. But I was so afraid you’d hate me still because of what I did. What I did to you. I’m sorry Mae. I’m so, so sorry. And if you-”

Before Myra could say anymore the doe closed the gap and brought her into a massive hug, her arms wrapping round Myra’s tiny body completely. Myra, finally coming to her sense, returned the hug as hard as she could, enjoying the warmth of the hug and the softness of her fur.

She didn’t even realise they had both been crying as hard as they until they finally parted, glancing over at the astounded Gideon, jaw hanging open and eyes bulging wide open.

“The hell have you been?!” The doe finally managed, her voice still a little hoarse from all the emotion.

“There and back again to see how far it is,” his mother quipped, getting a giggle out of the svelte doe.

“Still the same old Myra, aren’t you?” Mae laughed.

“Still the same old me Mae,” Miss Grey chuckled back, wiping her tears away and settling her breathing. “Bunnyburrow, actually. Been there ever since I left. Never really got much further. Not for lack of trying though”

“Bunnyburrow?! That’s just one county over! Jesus, how could you live so close and I not know?!”

“You had your own life to live. Besides, you’re a wee bit too tall for Bunnyburrow.”

“Don’t I know it. Anyway, what was it you came over for? Other than my hugs and tears?”

“Listen Mae, I need a favour,” Myra said, her eyes quickly glancing over to Gideon. “I know we haven’t seen each other after some… things-”

“You can say that again,” Mae spat out, her eyes narrowing at her.

“I know Mae." Mae held up her paws defensively. "You were right. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I haven’t spoken in God knows how long. I’ll explain all that. I promise. But, for now, can you please just look Gideon. He’s been kicked out school all this week and I can’t leave him at home. I gotta go to work and Mr. Hooferton is getting on my ass again and I can’t lose this job and I need the money and oh God, I just feel-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Mae consoled, putting her hooves against Miss Grey’s face, making her look into her calming eyes. “It’s okay. I’ll look after him. It’s fine. You go to work, and we’ll catch up later, okay?”

Taking a few deep breaths, Miss Grey wiped her eyes free of tears and held onto Mae’s arms, stroking them gently with her paw pads.

“Thank you, Mae. Thank you so much. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“You can do that by coming round here so we can have a long chat about where the hell you’ve been all these years!”

“Okay,” Myra laughed, her voice returning to normal. “It’s a deal. I’ll come by next weekend, how’s that sound?”

“Oh, you’re coming for more than dinner and a chat. I want you for a whole weekend at least! We have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Alright, I’ll try and get the time off Mae. Yeah, it’d be nice to spend some time with you.”

“Great! So, it’s a date then,” Mae said with a wink, letting go off Myra’s face which was now blushing through her red fur.

“I, err, I mean, tha-that sounds… Gosh, I mean, we, wow, that sounds-”

“Still the same fluster fox, aren’t you?” Mae giggled.

“That sounds great Mae. I can’t wait to catch up.”

“Oh, we’ll do more than that. Now go on now or you’ll be late for work.”

“Thank you, Mae, I really owe you one.”

“Yeah, you really do.”

Myra turned away from the doe and looked at the still gobsmacked Gideon, his eyes like saucers as he took in the two mammals.

“Okay, I’ll pick you up at eight. You be good with Mae, alright?”

Pulling him to a quick hug, Gideon looked over her mum’s shoulder, the doe watching them with sweet yet somehow sorrowful eyes.

“Don’t cause her any trouble now, you here?”

“I won’t Ma,” Gideon mumbled.

“You won’t what now?”

“God Mum! I won’t cause her no trouble! I promise!”

“Better,” Myra said, before releasing her son from the hug. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Turning back to Mae, Myra gave the doe a quick hug.

“I’m just so glad you’re okay.” Mae said. “I’ve been so worried for so long.”

“Me too Mae,” Myra said, “Me too.”

Giving Mae and Gideon a quick wave from the car, Myra pulled away in her timeworn sedan and headed off to work, leaving her son and the stylish deer on the pavement as they watched her set off.

As soon as the car was out of sight, Gideon turned and was immediately met with the tall doe staring curiously down at the young tod. It wasn’t exactly hateful or suspicious look, Gideon knew those looks all too well. Mae was looking at him as if looking at some intriguing yet baffling puzzle.

“So,” she finally began. “what did you do?”

“Nothin’,” Gideon answered reflexively, looking at the doe with his usual hard stare. But, unlike most mammals who would back down with an angry looking fox, this doe wasn’t deterred.

“Look Gideon, I’m not like most folks. I know foxes have a whole heap of prejudices against them and a lot of it isn’t fair. I’ve seen it and I know better. And I also know that your mum is one of the most honest, kindest, sweetest mammals that’s ever been put on this Earth.”

Despite keeping up his front, Gideon couldn’t believe how complimentary this doe, this prey, was being about his mum. No-one but him saw his mum like that. They always saw her as some sly fox, ready to steal at a moment’s notice and not the hard working, caring mother he truly knew her for.

“But,” the doe continued. “you did get kicked out of school for a week and, from the way you’re acting right now, it doesn’t take a detective to see you’ve done whatever you’ve done before.”

She squared her body to him, making Gideon take an instinctive step backwards.

“So,” Mae began, a little hardness setting in her voice. “what did you do?”

Gideon kept his eyes locked with the doe for a few moments but trying to stare down this doe was almost as bad at trying to stare down his mum.

“I clawed someone,” Gideon spoke quietly but clearly, expecting the doe to be surprised, yet her demeanour remained unchanged.

“Why did you do it Gideon?” Mae asked, her voice more curious than angry.

“They were sayin’ things about me that ain’t true.”

“Oh, were they?” Mae laughed, catching Gideon off-guard. “So untrue that you had to claw them to shut them up? Yeah, I totally buy that!”

Gideon’s face was growing hot, the anger and embarrassment rising quickly in his chest.

“You know I don’t buy that for a second and you don’t either. You don’t lash out like that if someone’s got it all wrong. You only do that if they’re bang on the money. So, what is it? What could be so bad that you would-”

“THEY CALLED ME A FUCKING PREYO!” Gideon bellowed furiously, his paws clenching, hackles rising, and face filling with a mix of rage and embarrassment.

A silence hung between the two mammals of them as Gideon breathed heavily, his rage running through his head as Mae’s eyes widened as he looked down at the small fox.

“Oh… I see,” Mae finally said, unfolding her arms while a small smile crept onto her lips. “So, who’s the lucky mammal then?”

“Wha?! There ain’t no-”

“Please,” Mae interrupted. “I know when mammals are lying to themselves and you’re the worst I’ve seen in a long time Gideon. At least they’re no denying you’re your mother’s son at least.”

Mae laughed, running a hoof over her face as she looked down at the perplexed tod. Gideon, for his part, suddenly felt as if he’d been sucker-punched. To say this wasn’t the reaction he was expecting was an understatement.

“Okay then Gideon.” Mae began, suddenly becoming serious in tone. “I’m not going to make fun of you. If you’re feeling what they say you’re feeling, it’s-”

“But I’m-”

“It’s perfectly normal.” Mae continued, ignoring the interruption. “Trust me, some mammals aren’t accepting of this sort of stuff but there’s nothing wrong with liking prey. Trust me, I understand how you feel. More than you know.”

Gideon looked into Mae’s eyes, the sincerity in them so obvious that it almost hurt. Gideon slowly nodded, not believing he was actually having this conversation, and with a practical stranger no less.

“So, this totally not real mammal then, she got a name?” Mae asked kindly.

“Sh-Sharla,” Gideon admitted after a few moments of pained silence.

“Sharla. That’s a nice name. You liked Sharla for a while then?”

Gideon simply nodded, afraid that doing more would somehow betray him.

“But I’m guessing you never told her you like her?”

“NO!” Gideon shouted, before covering his muzzle in embarrassment.

“You afraid she might not like you?”

“I know she won’t.” Gideon said defeatedly.

“Why’s that?” Mae inquired.

“She don’t like foxes.”

“You sure?” Mae prodded.

“Well… she doesn’t like me, at least.” Gideon conceded.

“Well, I think that she may not like a mammal that goes around clawing other mammals for calling them names. And I’m guess you’ve done other things, haven’t you?”

Gideon nodded, shame filling his chest once again.

“I know it’s hard taking everything other mammals throw at you on the chin, but if you lash out you’re just confirming what they believe and then you’re not helping anyone. You’re being part of the problem.”

Gideon sadly nodded, tears starting to fill his eyes.

“Okay, so first off, no more bullying or acting out, okay?” Mae said, holding up one part of her hoof. “Deal?”

“Deal.” Gideon replied, nodding as he did.

“Secondly,” Mae continued, holding up her second part of her hoof. “What does this Sharla like?”

“She likes alfalfa cookies. And carrot cake. And she likes those lemon drizzle cake things Bobby Catmull’s mum makes sometimes. She gets really happy when she has those.” Gideon said wistfully, imagining Sharla’s joyful after sinking a bit into those baked delights.

“Oh, so she’s got a sweet tooth then?” Mae said with a smile. “Tell me Gideon, do you like baking?”

“I bake with mum sometimes… when she’s not working.”

“Well then,” Mae said with a smile. “I’m a pretty keen baker myself and I’ve got stuff to make Honey Cakes inside. Does Sharla like Honey Cake?”

“Mhmm,” Gideon nodded furiously. “I think they’re her favourites after Lemon Drizzle.”

“Alright then,” Mae said, beginning to guide him to her house. “Honey Cakes it is.”

“But, why would she take cakes off me. I’m just a fox. Foxes don’t bake.”

Mae immediately turned on Gideon, bent down to his level, and put her hooves on his shoulders.

“Gideon, a lot of mammals are going to tell you can’t do stuff. It’s up to you to prove them wrong. And you making Sharla some cakes. I’m not going to say she’s going to fall for you because of some cakes. She may never fall for you and mammals may still not fully trust you. But if you don’t start somewhere, you’ll never get mammals to like you for you. Especially not this Sharla.”

Taking her hooves off his shoulders, Mae held them in front of Gideon.

“So, what do you say? Let’s make some cakes and make a new Gideon with my recipe. The Gideon that you’ve always wanted to be?”

Taking a few moments to think, Gideon put his paws into her hooves, and gave her a toothy grin.

“D’you think that’ll work?” Gideon said hopefully as he followed Mae to the door, paw in hoof.

“Well, you can’t go wrong with cake as a starter,” Mae chuckled. “And besides, who doesn’t love a baker?”

#zootopia #one word prompt #gideon grey #myra grey #oc #mae #deer #deerbrooke #recipe #sharla #hope you like it #fanfic #my fanfic #my fanfiction #fanfiction #ocs #sort of about recipes

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myheartmightexplode · 4 years

Text

Love on the webways

Summary

"As a writer, Grant supposes he could have considerably worse habits than trolling his own message boards." A totally ridiculous AU vaguely inspired by You've Got Mail.

Kris would give him hell, but she always made him stay off the Barbelith boards unsupervised, too. He can’t help himself. It’s part genuine pleasure in seeing what readers make of his work, part morbid curiosity.

Right now, he’s spoiling for a fight, which is never a good way to go into this. The times he’s found it the most enjoyable were when he didn’t give a fuck, when he could let the vile shit people said slide right off his back. Right now, he cares entirely too much about everything.

It’s too easy to find the thread he’d been following last week. Too easy to notice all the new replies. And if he’d been really serious about swearing off this board, he’d have made sure he was logged out. And he’s not.

The thread’s instigator is the kind of bloke that Grant occasionally comes across at signings or conventions; highly opinionated, sure of himself, and a complete and utter arse. Grant always wonders where these people find the time to pay so much attention to something they hate. But at the moment, he’s being no better. The guy is a frequent poster. Most of the other posters clearly want to kiss his arse. Grant starts grinding his teeth after about the third inane reply.

Grant doesn’t give a shit about people disliking his work; everyone’s entitled to their own opinion. But there’s something uniquely irritating about the way this uppity fucker is deliberately misinterpreting, and denouncing, his last book. IMHO, the post starts. Grant snorts. This guy is anything but humble about his opinions. He’s already composing his belligerent reply in his head as he scrolls down the page, then lets go of his mouse.

The most recent post in the thread is from a user who goes by DannyTheStreet–clearly a fan of Doom Patrol, at least. There’s a little star beside the username, indicating that this person is one of the forum’s moderators. He’s interested that Danny chose to respond at length with his own argument rather than simply wield modly power. Danny is fucking sharp, too; Grant is selfishly pleased that he (Grant assumes) seems to really grasp what Grant had been doing with the story that this so-called “_DrManhattan” is being horrible about.

Danny seems to have softened his ire, so he goes downstairs to put the kettle on and hopes that by the time he gets back up, there will be a response.

Most of them must be Americans, he realizes when he wakes to a new flurry of replies. Including Danny, his defender even though he doesn’t know it. Danny’s responses to the other posters continue to be both well-reasoned and hilariously scathing. Grant finds himself laughing aloud more than once. Now, all thoughts of leaving for good are gone. He wants to see more of Danny’s conversations.

He types the username into the search bar, previous annoyance at the jackass commenter nearly forgotten. Danny, it appears, is not a frequent poster. But the posts he does make are more of the same: smart, funny, and oftentimes a bit snarky. Grant goes back to the original thread and starts a post. He almost wants to play devil’s advocate, just to see how Danny would react. But he doesn’t.

DannyTheStreet has the right idea. Morrison has made it clear in dozens of interviews that he believes the exact opposite, and it definitely shows up in all the books Danny mentioned. Can’t think of anything else to add.

He sits back and laughs at himself, a bit ruefully. As a writer, he supposes he could have considerably worse habits than trolling his own message boards. And he can’t deny the pleasure he takes in discovering fans who truly seem to understand his work.

A few minutes later, there’s a response. Thank you, TheOldFox! It drives me crazy when people are deliberately obtuse for no fucking reason.

Grant chuckles and opens a private message. Nice of you to assume it was deliberate.

He gets a reply about twenty minutes later. I figure that when you pick that many fights, you’ve gotta be a deliberate asshole, you know? I’d love to just ban him, but I don’t want to be That Mod. Thanks for the backup, though.

Any time, Grant replies. He was starting to get on my last nerve. You were a ray of light in the darkness.

That sounds a bit daft, and Grant regrets it about five seconds after sending, but Danny replies promptly with a cheerfully punctuated

Any time!!! :)

Grant laughs and clicks away from that window. He has tea, and he’s in an infinitely better mood than he had been. Now to start those revisions. He keeps checking back, though. At least once or twice an hour. Just to see.

Gerard hums under his breath as he shuts his laptop. He’s been online for…well. Longer than he should have been. He scrubs a hand through his hair and looks at the clock. Fuck, he’d meant to be in bed an a hour ago. But he’d gotten into a discussion with TheOldFox about Britpop and he can never fucking stop when someone gets him started about fucking Morrissey or Blur.

When he’d offered to mod for The City of Whispers, he’d been sure it couldn’t be any worse than wrangling a pit full of hormonal teenagers. He’d been both right and so, so wrong. But he’d never taken into account that maybe he’d make some friends. And maybe it’s stupid, but… he likes the anonymity. He’s a normal person on here; one who was never in a world-famous band that decided to call it quits after their most popular album.

Well. That’s not exactly true. He is those things all the time, but the people he’s talking to don’t know that. And it’s nice sometimes. He just gets to talk about comics. And religion, and politics, and art, and sometimes, well, Britpop. But TheOldFox started that.

Gerard grins as he gets up and herds himself towards the bathroom. He’s been trading messages back and forth with TheOldFox for a while now. The guy seems to be on Gerard’s wavelength in a way that a lot of other people aren’t. He’d checked him out out of curiosity when Fox had first messaged him, and found that he’s a longtime but sporadic poster. Gerard hopes he sticks around.

He finishes brushing his teeth, double-checks his stuff for tomorrow morning’s meeting with Scott, and gets in bed. He can’t stop thinking about Fox, though. He hasn’t had that much fun talking to someone in a long time. Not someone he didn’t already know. At least the asshole in that thread seems to have moved on to greener pastures.

The next morning, Gerard inhales a cup of coffee, pours himself a second cup to savor, and checks his email. There’s a new private message notification from the board. Gerard grins and clicks the link.

Thought you might like this if you haven’t seen it, it says, along with a link to a recent Morrison interview with some foreign blog.

Gerard saves the link and clicks ‘reply’. Awesome, thanks! I never would have found this, can’t wait to read it. Gonna save it as a reward for making it through this morning’s meeting with my boss.

Hope the boss doesn’t give you too hard a time, comes the reply. Any way to butter them up? ;)

Not being perpetually late with things would be a start,Gerard types back.

Funny how bosses seem to frown on that, Fox returns.

Seriously. And if I’m late, that messes with other people’s work and it’s all a mess. I’m getting better, but deadlines are killer, Gerard replies.

Good luck, Fox messages back.

Gerard glances at the clock, sighs, and downs the rest of his coffee. He packs everything in his bag and drives to Milwaukie. He has to parallel park on the street behind Dark Horse, which is never a good time, but he manages. He’s totally going to reward himself with a trip to TFAW for it, though.

Scott and Sierra are nice about his scripts being late, which makes him feel worse about it. “Make it up to me by coming to dinner Thursday,” Scott tells him. Scott and his wife are part of a network of people in Portland who have decided that Gerard needs looking after. It’s baffling, but it’s nice. And Elisabeth is a fucking amazing cook, so Gerard would be particularly stupid to say no.

“Okay,” he says. He should probably alternate playing Warhammer Quest and arguing with people on message boards with socializing, anyway.

Scott rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “Aren’t you glad you let us talk you into moving up here?” Scott asks.

“I like it here. It’s not too hot, and no one cares who I am. Was.” It’s not totally true, but things haven’t been too bad.

“The benefit of living in a city filled with hipsters,” Sierra laughs.

Gerard smiles. “That and the coffee. Pizza’s shit, though.”

“Cry me a river. What else do you have going at the moment, Gerard?” Scott asks, refilling his water glass and sitting back in his chair.

“The usual. Comics,” Gerard shrugs.

Scott lifts the script Gerard handed in and points out some words in the margin, something Gerard jotted down absentmindedly at one point. “Sure you’re not writing lyrics again?” he asks with a smile.

“Maybe a few,” Gerard replies. “Got some melodies stuck in my head. Or maybe they’re poetry. Dunno.”

“A Renaissance man,” Sierra says dryly.

Gerard shrugs. “I guess I can do both. Got nothing but time.”

“If you have time, maybe finish those scripts on time more often,” Scott needles with a fond smile.

Gerard fakes a sigh. “I’ll do better, I promise. I just get distracted real easy.”

“We know,” Sierra smiles. “Which is why we keep inviting you in here.”

“Well, it works. I get a guilt trip and new comics,” Gerard says with a grin.

“Everybody wins,” Scott agrees.

“Sadist,” Gerard says. “All right, I’ll get out of your hair now, guys.”

“See you at dinner, Gerard,” Scott says. “I’ll call you an hour before to remind you.”

When Gerard gets home, he makes himself another cup of coffee and settles at his computer, opening the interview Fox had linked him to. He’s smiling almost instantly. Fuck, Morrison is funny. This is a good one.

Gerard opens the message board and clicks the link to the private messages. That article was amazing. Haven’t laughed that hard in a while. Meeting went well. I even got an invite to dinner with the boss and his wife.

There’s no reply, but that makes sense; Gerard is pretty sure Fox is in Europe somewhere. He clicks over to another tab instead and tweets a quick “Good afternoon.” He answers a few questions from kids and gets to work.

If you’d told Grant that he would ever be a person who looked forward to checking his email- well. All possible universes, and all that. But he still has to laugh at himself a little. He has plenty of friends, there’s no denying that. But he tends to hermit himself away when he’s at his country house and it’s an extra little thrill after sitting at his computer all day, to have a nice conversation.

He thinks he’s finally discovered what it is that people love about the internet. Fifteen years late. It’s very sad how misguided you are, he types, grinning at his keyboard.

He doesn’t get angry at people on The City of Whispers anymore. He has a partner in crime. As a team, they shut down the stupid assholes and it’s fun. He suspects that this isn’t the kind of trouble people had warned him against, back when he’d first discovered the message boards dedicated to his work.

There’d been Barbelith, back in the day, and Warren had always had the WEF. Warren managed to meet some truly amazing people through that. Grant had never had quite the same success.

Now, he pulls up the PM thread that he and Danny have going and types, Nicely done. By the way, you were right about that band you linked me. Brilliant stuff.

Music is my thing, Danny replies. Well. When comics aren’t my thing. Or like. Obscure eighties cartoons.

Grant laughs aloud. And when art isn’t your thing? he sends back.

One of my supervisors called me a Renaissance man the other day, comes the quick reply. I feel like I need a costume for that, though.

Renaissance Man would be an interesting superhero, perhaps, Grant returns. Just mind the tights, they pinch.

Believe me, I know, is the reply. I was Peter Pan in a school play when I was a kid. I also dressed in drag in art school.

Grant almost starts typing the story of his own foray into drag, but pauses; that’s a story that he’s told in interviews before, and Danny will probably be familiar with it. Not the best strategy for maintaining his anonymity.

Ah, art school. I never went, myself. You are quite the well-rounded chap, Danny.

I try to be. Gotta admit, I fail when it comes to math any more advanced than basic algebra.

We all have our blind spots, Grant agrees. I’m quite terrible with technology, myself.

You’re on a computer, right? Danny asks. Not doing some mystic ritual or something?

Grant laughs. Would that I were. Perhaps I could more easily get other things done while chatting with you.

So multitasking is also a blind spot?

Like it isn’t for you?

Don’t make me give up all my weaknesses. That’s a total supervillain thing to do, Fox.

Grant laughs and rubs a hand over his head. If he only knew. Supervillainy is overrated. And I enjoy vices in my friends. Makes them more interesting.

I’ve got my share of vices, but I’m still pretty boring, writes Danny.

I doubt that. Grant realizes he’d be flirting if this was in person. That’s…he doesn’t know how to feel about that. People meet and flirt on the Internet all the time. He just never figured it would happen to him.

He laughs at the absurdity of the whole thing. At least Danny doesn’t know who he’s talking to. Anonymous flirting on the Internet is infinitely better than the alternative, he thinks.

A week later, he and Danny are in the middle of a heated back-and-forth about the X-Men when Grant’s mobile rings. He searches underneath a stack of notebooks until he finds it. “Hello?”

“Hi, Grant,” Janelle sounds apologetic, which is never a good sign. He takes a breath.

“Word from on high?” he asks, tone as light as possible.

“I’m afraid so. It’s not as bad as last time, at least?” Janelle offers, and Grant scrubs a hand over his face and sighs.

“I’m not going to put you in the middle of this,” Grant tells her.

“And for that, I thank you,” Janelle replies. She proceeds to outline the changes they want. Janelle is right, they’re not that bad, not really. But it’s the principle of the thing.

As they talk about the best way to edit the script, Grant erases the sentence about Magneto he’d started and writes, Apropos of a work call I am currently on: sometimes I don’t know why I bother.

He switches away from his browser window to make some notes. When he finally ends the call with Janelle, he’s a bit lost in his own head, but not so lost that he doesn’t click back, just to check in.

Tell your boss to shove it. Or at least imagine it in great detail, Danny has replied.

Grant smiles. I do. Frequently. They day I can actually tell him to shove it will be a banner day.

He turns his attention to the script, reading through it and deciding how best to effect the changes that DC wants and occasionally swearing under his breath. He doesn’t check his notifications for hours, but when he does, Danny has sent him a macro of Darth Vader force choking some unfortunate that says, “Good Luck.” Grant laughs and laughs, then saves it to his desktop so he can look at it whenever he’s feeling grumpy. And if he’s imagining Dan DiDio in the place of Vader’s victim– well. Probably best to keep that to himself. Grant has learned a bit about discretion over the years. Mostly when he did something dumb and Kristan rolled her eyes at him.

He smiles fondly. He misses her, misses her help, but it’s better this way. In the end. If she were here, she’d tell him to stop fucking working and get a bite to eat, so he pushes away from his desk and goes down to the kitchen.

Gerard pushes back from his computer and sighs, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes to try and stop his vision swimming. This is becoming a habit. Especially the past month or so. He’s going to end up wearing glasses at this rate.

The problem is, Fox gets up for the day while Gerard is still awake and they end up exchanging messages into what are the wee hours for Gerard. At least he sets his own schedule. Mostly. Except on days where he has meetings, or Skype calls with his collaborators.

He’s been finding it difficult to sleep much lately. His brain is very busy.

His therapist seems to find his friendship with Fox interesting and seems to think it’s generally good for him, though. So that’s something. Gerard happens to agree–though, he maybe hasn’t been completely honest with his therapist as to exactly why. But she’s not dumb, and she knows all about Kat and Eliza and Bert and Lindsey - and Frank - so he really has no reason to think she doesn’t have ideas about his reason.

He’s always been really good at self-sabotage and he’s really fucking determined that it’s not going to happen this time. Even if it is an anonymous cross-continental friendship. And it’s a fucking good friendship, anonymity and distance be damned. He doesn’t ask Fox super personal questions, because he wouldn’t feel right not being able to answer the same questions. So they talk mostly about other things - ideas, feelings, stuff going on in the world - and it’s nice, really. Despite the lack of personal details, it feels really fucking intimate. Like he’s never shared this much of himself with anyone before. Not really.

It’s even different than what he had with the guys in the band. They’re his brothers–always will be. And they’d known him at his worst, and at his best. With Fox, though, Gerard feels like he doesn’t have to live up to either of those things. He can just be Gerard. Or, well. Danny.

He likes being Danny pretty well. Danny can email Fox about politics in the morning and about Blade Runner in the evening and get a great discussion about either. Fox just gets him. He never has to explain himself to Fox like he does with others. Or well, he tries to explain himself and they misinterpret that too.

“The aftermath is secondary,” he mutters to himself.

He looks around. His apartment looks like the scene of a particularly colorful explosion. There are sketches, notes, random paintings that he’d done at odd hours of the morning when the inspiration struck. And every time he closes his eyes, he sees the story lit up in technicolor.

He texts “the aftermath is secondary” to Shaun before he forgets it and makes sure his laptop is plugged in before going upstairs to get ready for bed. He sets about ten alarms so he definitely gets up on time tomorrow and falls face-first into bed.

When he logs on to Skype at eleven AM Portland time, Shaun’s already online, and the first thing he does when the call connects is burst out laughing.

Gerard frowns at him. “What, dude?”

“Your hair. Also, you have ink on your face.”

Gerard wrinkles his nose. “As if you haven’t seen it all before.”

Shaun grins at him. “You’re a special kid, Geeway.”

“Shut up, Simon,” Gerard says. “Where were we with the outline?”

“We are…halfway through issue four,” Shaun replies. “What was that text from last night about?”

“Just something I thought of last night, I don’t know.”

“I know you, it’s either lyrics or dialogue. Hope you have a notebook handy,” Shaun grins.

“I think it’s…a slogan, maybe? For BLI? Maybe the Killjoys adopt it and subvert it too. I dunno,” Gerard says.

“I like it,” Shaun agrees. “Shit, yeah. That totally sounds like something BLI would try to spin.”

“We need like. A whole ad campaign, slogans like that that can go either way. I was reading this book that a friend of mine recommended to me the other day, about the Invisibles, you know? ‘Our sentence is up?’ That kind of stuff.”

“Totally,” Shaun enthuses. “Damn, this is going to be so fucking amazing.”

Gerard couldn’t hold in his grin if he tried. “Fuck yeah, it is. I’m going to start a file just for this, okay? Loop Jon and Becky in. Maybe we can make some cool viral shit.”

“Twitter accounts and a fucking badass website, maybe,” Shaun suggests.

“BLI merch,” Gerard suggests, laughing. “Fucking coffee mugs and shit. Gabriel and Fabio will want one, anyway. They love the Umbrella stuff.”

Shaun is grinning wide and Gerard grins back. He’s so fucking excited about this project. Even with the pain of deadlines and shit. Later, he writes to Fox. Meetings aren’t always horrible. I always forget how fucking fun it is, when a new project starts coming together. And I get to work with an old friend, which is going to be fucking awesome. Not for the first time, he wishes he could give Fox the specifics.

He can’t. He’s dropped enough specifics in the press that a bored Google will probably turn them up. It’s a shame. Maybe he can tell him something anyway. He’s not sure what, though. He’ll think on it. Maybe they can just discuss dystopias and corporate culture and shit.

There’s no response, which isn’t a surprise–it’s ass o’clock in the morning over in the UK. He comments on a couple public threads on the boards, instead. No truly interesting discussion going on, but Gerard hangs around for a bit anyway. Fox will wake up in a few hours. For now, Gerard closes out his browser window and pulls up his scripts.

Interviewers like to make hay out of him saying Black Parade was the last thing he had to say through My Chem. It makes the fans gnash their teeth, too. But this new stuff…it’s not that subtle of a middle finger, really. But he loves it. He loves it a lot. Working with Shaun makes him miss the band a little, but he calls them whenever that happens and they talk about everything under the sun. He gets stories about video games and producing, stories about D&D groups, stories about toddlers and demos played over the phone. He loves it. Loves them.

“Is it stupid that I wish I could tell him?” Gerard asks later, tapping his fingers against his phone case.

Frank laughs at him from three thousand miles away. “It’s not stupid. It’s just… you, Gee. All your alter egos turn into you eventually. Hey, you said he was an older dude, right? Maybe he’s never even heard of My Chem.”

Gerard has to laugh. Frank loves to deflate his ego. “Why do I even talk to you?” Gerard asks.

“You love me,” Frank replies. “And my diaper stories.”

“I do,” Gerard agrees, because there’s not really any point in denying it. “My love to Jamia and the girls too, okay? I should probably get back to work.”

Frank says goodbye and hangs up. Gerard smiles at the ceiling for a moment, with a little sigh. He’s lucky Frank loves him back, after everything. Learning how to be friends without the band to bring them all together had been hard for Gerard at first, but he eventually got the hang of it. And he’s really fucking glad of that.

Later that evening, Gerard’s clicking around the boards–there’s a user who’s been known to stir up trouble hanging around in a couple of the threads, and Gerard’s keeping an eye on it–when he sees that somebody’s posted a link to a new Morrison interview.

Typically, the next few comments are all jokes about not understanding a word he says. Gerard rolls his eyes and listens to the podcast carefully. It’s fucking fascinating. He fucking loves the way Morrison’s mind works. He’s always wanted to meet him, but has never quite been able to swing it. “Maybe next year,” he always says to himself after each Comic-Con where his schedule is too crazy or Morrison isn’t in attendance or…something.

Maybe this will finally be the year the stars align. He needs to bug Neil for an introduction or something.

“Rock star perks,” he mutters to himself. He ignores the voice that tells him he hasn’t been a rock star for two years. He’s still writing music, mixed in with everything else. It’s just..his, now. Maybe he’ll book some studio time when he and Shaun are done. Or something. He misses making music. Scott was right, those were totally lyrics.

He needed time. A lot of it, actually. His therapist spends a lot of time helping him to be okay with that. Mostly he is now. Sometimes he feels like he failed his guys, failed the kids, by not continuing, but they said what they needed to say.

In the meantime, he pushes back from his desk and goes back over to his art table where he has a couple mock-ups in progress. He fiddles with one for a few minutes until he hears the ding of his phone indicating he has a new email. He sits back down at his desk and checks.

Can’t sleep, hello, Fox writes.

Hi! Gerard replies. I’m sorry you can’t sleep. I’m knocking around my house kind of aimlessly this evening.

Not going out? Isn’t it Friday?

Gerard laughs and starts typing. I don’t drink anymore and my Magic group couldn’t meet this week.

I’m happy to keep you company, Fox replies, until or unless I fall asleep again, mind.

I won’t begrudge you falling asleep, I guess. Any particular reason for the sleeplessness?

Overwork, as counterintuitive as that seems. And too much tea.

I have trouble with insomnia. My therapist tells me I need to cut back on coffee, but since I quit drinking and I managed to quit smoking, I just can’t bring myself to.

I did a lot better when there was someone around to monitor my sleep schedule. I’m shit at it on my own, sadly, Fox writes back.

The confirmation that Fox doesn’t have anyone makes Gerard’s stomach flop over. This is really stupid. Gerard is still staring at the computer like it is going to tell him something else. He takes a deep breath and starts typing. I know how that goes. I have a cleaning lady, a therapist, and a boss who’s more like a big brother to me and I still suck at basic shit.

And friends, Fox replies. Gerard’s not sure if it’s meant to be a question.

And friends. Great friends. I moved away from a lot of them a couple of years ago. It was the best decision for me, but I wish I could see them more.

I’ve lived mostly in the country since my divorce, Fox writes back. It’s quiet, and I like that, but I understand.

Gerard takes a breath. You have one up on me. If I lived in the country I would die and my home would be invaded by a pack of wild dogs that would eat my remains.

That would be appropriately dramatic, Fox writes back. I’ve just scared a cat with my laughter, by the way.

Gerard grins. Sorry, cat. I used to think the only way I could possibly go out would be dramatically. I like to think it’s a sign I’ve grown as a person that I think I could just as easily have a boring death.

You’re a morbid little bastard, aren’t you, my friend?

I like to think it’s part of my charm. If nothing else, I’ve kind of built my career on it, in a way. A part of him hopes that Fox will ask him to be more specific.

The rest of him knows that he’s being stupid, and is relieved when Fox’s next message reads, I understand finding your niche in places that others don’t necessarily like to look. It’s certainly served me well, though it can be difficult at times.

I’ve had a lot of difficult, Gerard writes back. and once I crossed the bridge of ‘alive past thirty’ I sort of had to look around to see where the bar was set.

The next message takes a couple of minutes to arrive, but when it does, it makes Gerard’s breath catch. I’m very glad you did cross that bridge.

Gerard considers, and discards, a dozen different replies before he finally settles on, Me, too. After a moment, he sends another message. I actually love my life, but I can’t get through a day without knowing I’m disappointing people. It’s easier to be anonymous guy on the internet, but.

I understand completely, is the reply. Gerard believes him.

The conversation turns to other things, and they end up in a discussion about the mythological functions of Lord of the Rings. Fox has a lot to say about mythology in fiction. He says he never went to college, but he’s clearly well-read.

For the first time in a long time, Gerard wants to talk about Parade and everything he was trying to do with it. Maybe someday, he thinks. Someday, he’ll be able to tell Fox everything. Maybe Frank’s right, maybe Fox has never heard of MCR. But he thinks of all their conversations about music and thinks he’s just fooling himself.

He’s working on another message, struggling to say something like what he really wants to say when another note pops up. Finally winding down enough to sleep, I think. Good night, my friend.

Gerard breathes out, not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved. Sleep well, Fox, he sends back.

Be good to yourself, is Fox’s reply. Gerard smiles and takes a deep breath. Maybe he needs to zone out in front of Fellowship of the Ring.

It isn’t as though Grant hadn’t known that he was being a bit ridiculous about the whole thing. But when he finds himself contemplating buying a smartphone–something he’s avoided for years–just so he can more easily check his email while he’s in London next week, he has to laugh. It’s not like he can’t afford it, after all. Or figure out how it works. He’s not got one foot in the grave quite yet.

The more he thinks about it, the more he likes the idea, which is even more ridiculous. His instincts say to go buy one now. He forces himself to think about it for a few days. Finally, a few days before he’s set to leave for London, he gives in.

He sends Danny a message that same night. Going out of town for a week or so. Sure to be tedious at times. Here is my email address if you’d like to keep writing. He includes his shiny new gmail address and hits send.

The next message he gets is from [email protected].

Grant grins. Perhaps this will be faster than going through the private message system on the board.

Possibly less distracting, Danny agrees. Where are you off to?

London for some meetings and to see some friends, Grant replies.

I fucking love London, Danny says. One of my favorite cities.

Grant grins broadly, pleased to discover something else they have in common. It happens frequently even without sharing specifics about themselves, which they’ve managed to do despite having been talking for a few months now.

He climbs into bed with his new mobile and starts a new reply. You never told me why Danny the Street, you know. Out of all Morrison’s characters, and well, a lot of other ones.

I love everything about Danny. Honestly, Danny might be one of my favorite characters ever.

Grant knows it’s foolish, but he still feels a burst of pride in his chest. Not just the crossdressing thing, then? He holds his breath as he sends it, but Danny replies immediately.

I told you my only crossdressing story already, Fox. There were some ladies’ jeans in my past, too, but these days it’s just jeans and plaid. Sorry if that’s a letdown ;)

Not in the least, Grant sends back. My own crossdressing days are behind me and I seem to confine myself to wearing sharp suits to special occasions these days. This is flirting, he’s almost sure. This is- there isn’t anything else this could be called.

Any special occasions in London? Danny asks after a nail-biting pause.

A party or two, Grant replies. One will be dull. The other may actually be entertaining.

Let me guess–the first party is for work?

I’d hate to speak ill of my employers. Actually, no. I enjoy my British team, it’s the American wing I find trying. No offense.

None taken. I’m not even surprised. How about the other party?

Old friends, Grant replies. This party is the thing he’s most excited about during this visit. The chance of debauchery is high.

Oh really? That good of friends? ;)

It will be an interesting night, Grant replies. No Magic: The Gathering, but I think you’d enjoy yourself as well.

You’d be there. Pretty sure that would be guaranteed.

And oh, Grant feels that in the pit of his stomach. He’d do a lot to make it happen. Too bad he can never admit to Danny who he really is. Not that Danny has been particularly forthcoming with his own identity, but he could very likely be taking cues from Grant in that regard. Grant sighs.

He’s tempted to let Danny’s last email go unanswered– it wouldn’t be the first time that one of them had fallen asleep in the middle of a conversation. Wish you could be, he writes back after a long pause.

Danny doesn’t send a reply after that. Grant supposes one isn’t necessary.

He does fall asleep after a while, and he wakes up to a new email from Danny on a completely unrelated subject. Grant supposes that’s a pretty clear signal. He forces himself to get up, eat breakfast, and pack his luggage before answering. It’s the start of a long discussion, Grant can feel it. He’s suddenly even more glad he gave in to his flight of fancy and got himself a smartphone. He’ll be able to keep up on the train down to London.

A few hours later, he’s in his seat on the train, fiddling with his sketchbook in between answering emails. He’s just sent off a rather long one to Danny, answering a question he’d asked about dystopias, and somehow types in Kristan’s address instead. I joined the modern world.

I can see that from your “Sent from my iPhone” signature. comes her reply a good ten minutes later. Finally realize it’s necessary since I’m not there to carry a mobile for you?

He knows Kris and he knows she’s just taking the piss. He smiles. Something like that. I admit, it’s certainly making the train journey to London more interesting.

You’re a menace, Grant. How are you doing?

I’m doing well. Working non-stop, as usual. He wants to tell her about Danny, but he’s not sure how.

A reply from Danny arrives in his inbox a moment later. Is it strange to be friends with one’s ex-wife? he writes to Danny before picking up the thread of their previous discussion.

I don’t think it’s strange. It’d probably be strange for me because I have a tendency to burn bridges, but I don’t think it’s strange in general. Who could possibly know you better? While Grant is still trying to process this, Danny sends him another message. Sometimes things end, but that doesn’t mean that the people who were part of them aren’t still important to you. Spoken like someone who’s spent a lot of time in therapy, right? Haha, another email adds, Everything okay, Fox?

Grant smiles softly at his phone. Yes, I think so. Just…contemplating the unexpected turns my life has taken.

He gets another email from Kris, then; a bit about her job and a play she and a friend had gone to see the week before. The kind of thing they would have talked about over morning tea, once. Grant is fiercely, selfishly glad that he still has her in his life, even though they’re both happier like this. Keep me posted on your life with 21st century technology, she closes.

Of course, he replies. I’d never deprive you of the opportunity to mock my failures with it. He sends the email, and sees that there’s a response from Danny in his inbox–more thoughts on dystopias, with a side-helping of post-apocalypse.

He’s so fucking smart. Grant smiles helplessly at his phone.

Grant manages to reply and then forces himself to put down the phone and pick up the book he brought for research. It’s amazing how quickly the train journey seems to go by.

Next station is mine, he tells Danny. Thank you for the conversation.

Any time, Danny responds. Talking to you is the best part of my day sometimes.

Mine, too. The train coasts to a stop, and Grant tucks his phone carefully away and gathers up his things. He’s reminded rather uncomfortably of something Kristan had said before their divorce, about how there were multiple ways to be in love. The giddy joy of of seeing an email from Danny in his inbox certainly reminds him strongly of what being in love feels like for him.

It’s ridiculous–has to be. He’s being ridiculous. He has no idea who Danny really is, where he lives, or what he does, or even his fucking name. He’s rather shit at this anonymity thing, it looks like. He shakes his head. It’s not worth thinking about, he decides. He’s certainly not going to stop and until Danny reveals himself, Grant will keep quiet. It’s all he can do.

The next few days are long, filled with interminable meetings. They’re necessary, and productive, but that doesn’t make Grant loathe them any less. He whines at Danny, who takes to sending him a series of photographs of random things around his neighborhood. His tennies, his coffee cup. A flower. Weird graffiti. Each one makes Grant smile. For all they’re strange and random, they’re weirdly compelling.

In return, he works out how to use the camera on his new phone and takes photographs around London. Danny replies with emails like, I like Selfridges better ;) or My favorite club in the city is down that street. He’s clearly spent a fairly good amount of time in London. Grant determined early on that he was on the west coast of the US, and then Danny kept talking about rain, so Grant decided he was probably in the Pacific Northwest somewhere. Grant wonders what brought him to London. He doesn’t ask.

He checks his email a lot, and tries to weather the teasing about his new enthusiasm for technology with grace. Danny helps him survive his work party with three hours’ worth of constant quips. It’s…above and beyond. There is no denying that. Grant adores him for it. When he’s finally back in his hotel room, he sends his thanks. You saved the evening. Thank you. If I can ever do similar for you, let me know.

That would most likely be in the middle of the night for you, Danny replies.

It doesn’t matter; I’d do it gladly.

You’re a good friend, Danny tells him.

As are you, Grant responds. If you ever need me, just tell me. I shall stand by with interesting conversation and whatever ridiculousness you desire.

Grant has spent much of his afternoon winding Danny up about the party he’ll be attending tonight, spinning tales of an orgy of debauchery the likes of which haven’t been seen since the Romans. His meeting this morning was irritating, and he’s dealing by trying to provoke Danny into some sort of equally provocative response.

What he gets makes Grant feel like an ass. My days of drunken debauchery are over, so you’ll have to party for me.

I’m sorry, Grant replies. I didn’t think.

Danny’s response is immediate. No apology necessary. I knew you were teasing. No amount of teasing can goad me into a relapse. It happened once and it was all me. All my own stupid choices.

There are a dozen things Grant wants to say in reply. I’m still sorry, he repeats.

You act like drunkenness is required for debauchery, Danny replies. Last I checked…

Grant grins at his phone. It’s true. Sober debauchery is highly encouraged at all times.

Well, maybe not all times, Danny returns. Although it certainly would have livened up those those meetings you’ve been stuck in.

I don’t think I’ll be trying to pull any of my colleagues any time soon, Grant replies with a laugh.

Probably a good thing? I mean, having fallen for one of the people I worked closely with before, I can’t say I recommend that. Dunno about just hooking up, though. THAT, I have never attempted.

Either proposition would be a horrible idea, given some of the people I work with, and my own disposition, Grant replies.

He doesn’t get a return email for so long that he almost gives up on one. Then Danny writes back, What about tonight?

Tonight…tonight will be predominantly people I genuinely like and some I find rather attractive, but none I am particularly interested in beyond lively conversation. And it would be lively, especially if Kieron and Jamie were both there; no one had quite the same the talent for winding Warren up.

The debauchery is a lie, Fox? I feel so betrayed.

Debauchery involving ME is unlikely. One never does know what sorts of debauchery will be witnessed, however.

At least there’s that, Danny agrees, and Grant tucks his phone away and goes downstairs.

Within an hour of his arrival at the party, he’s well on his way to drunk. He’s having an excellent time, truly. The company is infinitely better than the last party, the food is good, the alcohol is top notch. It’s Warren’s party, after all. He can’t help but wish he had someone here with him, though.

After the second drink, he’d moved his phone firmly into an interior coat pocket, difficult to reach. He’s lost track of the number of conversational gambits he’s made that have started with “I was talking to a friend of mine,” though.

He forces himself to pay attention to the party for now. Particularly when Warren and Jamie start taking the piss out of each other. Everyone is practically rolling on the floor at that point. He’d been right, Grant thinks. Danny would enjoy this. He wishes he could turn and share a smile with him, introduce him to the lads.

He can’t, so he might as well get drunk instead. It’d be a shame to let Warren have all the good whiskey, after all.

The problem with time zones is that, when Fox goes to bed, Gerard still has quite a bit of day still to go. Today that’s more of a problem than usual. He’s honestly not mad. Or upset. What he is, is - oh, such a problem. He’s jealous of everyone at Fox’s party, for one.

He wants to sip a Diet Coke while he listens to Fox talk to his friends. Wants to just…be in the same room with him. Their digital friendship has been fucking amazing. Unlike anything Gerard has ever really experienced. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. He just wishes it could be non-digital as well.

He wishes a lot of things.

It’s not late, and the Oemings probably won’t have put Ethan to bed yet, so he calls Michael. “Cup of coffee?”

“Sure!” Michael replies. “Meet at the usual place?”

The usual place is a little coffeehouse tucked away in a corner of a converted industrial building near the river.

“Hey, man,” Michael says when he walks in and sees Gerard sitting at a corner table. “Emerging from your lair?”

Gerard smiles. “I was feeling pretty restless, so I was like, hey, I can do something about this.”

Michael laughs, sliding into the seat on the other side of the table. “Naturally, your answer was coffee.”

“Wild and crazy, I know. Thanks for meeting me.”

“No problem. Anything specific making you restless, or is it generalized discontent? Or boredom?” Michael asks.

Gerard sighs and looks into his coffee cup. “Nah. Just… my head, you know?”

“Giving you grief?”

“In a weird way. It’s a long story,” Gerard replies.

Michael nods solemnly. “Sounds like I’ll need one of the big coffees, then.”

Gerard waits while he orders one, folding a napkin into squares. When Michael slides back into his seat, Gerard grimaces and says, “This is sort of a poor-me story. Fair warning.”

Michael chuckles. “Lay it on me.”

Gerard tells the whole fucking thing. His brother and the guys know, but this is the first non-family type person he’s told about this. “It’s stupid,” he concludes, head in his hands. “I don’t even know his fucking name. He could be a serial killer. I just…”

“If he’s a serial killer he’s playing a pretty long game,” Michael laughs. “If you’ve been talking as much as you say, you ought to be able to decide if you trust him and if you do, just…lay it out there.”

Gerard nods. “The thing is, not having the baggage of who I actually am to be a factor has been really nice. I don’t want to scare him off now. What if he’s one of those assholes who hates my band for no real reason?”

“Ah, I see. You want to make sure he’s sufficiently wooed by your stunning personality and intellect.”

“I warned you this was a poor-me story,” Gerard says witheringly.

Michael is still laughing. “Way, take it from someone who met the rockstar and is having coffee with him on a Saturday night. You live up to the hype in lots of ways, but you’re the same kind of weirdo as the rest of us in this biz. He’s not going to judge you for your adventures in eyeliner.”

“Maybe not,” Gerard concedes. “But like. He hasn’t said anything about who he is either. I know he lives in the UK, but not London. That’s it. Maybe we’re just fated to be anonymous friends for all time.”

“Maybe he’s a spy,” Michael offers, thoughtfully. “Maybe he kills people for a living, and you’re the one connection he has left to his humanity.”

“Oh my god, I’m pen pals with Jason Bourne,” Gerard exclaims.

Michael snickers. “There, did I make you feel better?”

Gerard sighs dramatically and then grins. “Yeah. Thanks, dude.”

“Any time,” Michael says. “Are you good? Can we talk about comics now?”

Gerard throws a napkin at him. “Yes.”

Michael grins and launches into a story about a hilarious miscommunication between him and the colorist on the book he’s working on. After that, they talk about the good shit that came out on Wednesday. “You’re reading Joe the Barbarian, right?” Michael asks.

“As if I would miss it. Sean Murphy is hitting it out of the park, isn’t he?”

“He really fucking is. And the writing is great too. Though, can we talk about how even Morrison’s failures are more interesting than a lot of the stuff out there?” Michael says. Gerard has a moment of total defensiveness and he has to laugh at himself a little.

Michael grins, and Gerard squints at him accusingly. “You totally just did that to wind me up.”

“You’re just such a fanboy,” Michael smirks. “Spending all your time on Morrison message boards.”

“I’m a mod,” Gerard huffs.

“That doesn’t make you sound like less of a fanboy, dude,” Michael grins.

“Fuck off,” Gerard says, but there’s no heat in it. “You said it yourself, man, he’s got fucking fascinating ideas.”

“That he does. Anything else on your radar this week?”

“Been obsessed with this band called Sleigh Bells lately,” Gerard says. “Can’t stop listening to their album.”

“Cool. Send me a link later, you always find the good stuff.”

“This one might have been Frank, I can’t really remember,” Gerard admits.

Michael shrugs and says, “You surround yourself with people of excellent taste, I guess.”

Gerard laughs. “I assume you’re including yourself I that?”

“Duh,” Michael replies.

“Frank is extra good at finding new music I’ll like. I dunno how a kid with such a punk, do-it-yourself attitude about music, who has been through what we did with the band, manages to stay so fucking pure-hearted and enthusiastic about music,” Gerard says.

“You find good people,” Michael replies. He raises an eyebrow and Gerard knows what he’s trying to say.

They talk for a while longer, until Michael says he needs to get home for dinner. They say goodbye, and Gerard heads back to his apartment feeling a lot lighter than he’d felt when he’d left it. It’s good. And he managed to not check his phone the entire time he was out. He does now, though.

The bottle of whiskey had a hole in it, Fox writes. There was but one thing to do.

Gerard grins at his phone. Water, he types back. Lots of water. And painkillers, and maybe a banana.

I called room service for a banana. I’m fairly certain the young gentleman who brought it was laughing at me.

Poor Fox, all alone in your hotel room with your room service banana. Gerard is going to fall off his fucking couch laughing.

What a filthy mind, Fox replies. Perhaps my only consolation is that the other partygoers were just as done-in as I was.

That’s good. Being hammered alone is never fun. Are you drinking water? after a beat he adds, Also, are you actually surprised I have a dirty mind?

Absolutely not, Fox replies.And yes. No, reverse those. I must sleep, Danny.

Goodnight, Fox. Keep a glass of water by the bed, just in case. A few minutes later, Gerard gets a reply: a blurry photo of what is clearly a hotel room bedside table, and the glass of water sitting atop it.

Gerard smiles wide and settles onto his couch with his sketchbook. Strange that he��s taking care of someone from thousands of miles away. Or maybe not strange at all.

He doesn’t hear from Fox again before he finishes for the night and puts himself to bed, but that’s not too surprising, considering how late it was UK-time when Fox had fallen asleep.

The next morning, the first thing he does is check his phone. The message from Fox makes him laugh. My feelings upon waking can be best summed thusly: uuuuuggggh. But I believe it would be much, much worse had you not intervened. Thank you, friend.

Thank you for listening to me, Gerard writes back.

Fox sends him another picture message about ten minutes later: a white diner plate with a proper English fry-up, minus the meat. Hangover food. Proud of me? Fox asks.

Absolutely. And now I’m hungry, he replies. Maybe I’ll go out for brunch. Pretty sure I’m even out of pancake mix.

Tragedy, Fox writes back. Are we keeping one another company at restaurants now?

Gerard feels that same pang in the pit of his stomach, and he thinks about his talks with Frank, and Michael. They’d both seemed to think that it wouldn’t be the end of the world if Fox figured out who he was. He doesn’t let himself think too much about it, just replies, Come to Portland sometime, and I’ll take you out for brunch like you’ve never had before.

Portland. Home of Dark Horse Comics. I feel as if I should have known that. I have heard rumors that Portlanders like their brunch.

It’s a religion. And a comics-friendly town. Good place to make a name for yourself if you can.

There. It’s not exactly admitting what he does, but Gerard is pretty sure Fox is smart enough to infer. Gerard feels weirdly giddy.

Someday, you’ll have to show me. What made you choose Portland when you moved?

I’ve always loved it. The atmosphere is great, the people I knew through Dark Horse are great, the coffee’s great… He stops typing, unsure of how much further to go. Maybe he’s revealed enough for today.

Coffee is important, Fox replies. I’m glad you’re living somewhere that can provide as much as you need, as often as you need.

Gerard laughs. That’s what it will say on my tombstone, Coffee Is Important.

He is hungry, so he starts getting ready to venture out to find breakfast. There’s a nice little cafe a few blocks away. They have wifi and free refills on drip coffee. Maybe he’ll take his laptop and do some work.

Grant figures he’s about as recovered as he can be from the Hangover from Hades when the bottom of his coffee cup stops looking like the most fascinating place in the universe. He’s incredibly thankful for the fact he’s finished with his damned DC meetings, and that he’s not taking the train home until tomorrow morning. He’s also thankful for Danny, and his intercontinental mother-henning.

He’s thankful for Danny full stop. And absurdly pleased that Danny told him a fact or two about his actual life. He’s involved in the comics industry somehow, clearly. Reason enough to withhold them, Grant supposes. Until now.

He contemplates his sketchbook thoughtfully. Why now, though? He supposes their conversations have become more deeply personal of late. Perhaps it’s inevitable. He certainly wants it to be.

Things are. Different if Danny is in the business, he thinks. Maybe he won’t be…maybe…. He sighs, frustrated, because he has no idea what Danny’s reaction would be to discovering who he is.

But…perhaps he can share a few details too. He doesn’t want Danny to think he doesn’t appreciate his disclosures.

It was raining when I left home. It’s raining here, and it will likely be raining when I get back. I have the unique bad luck to travel most during the spring and summer, when Scotland is at its best.

He deliberates, but decides to leave it at that for now.

It took me a long time to get used to the grey and the rain of Portland, but I kind of like it now. Honestly, I like the excuse to stay in my apartment.

Hermits, both of us, Grant replies. And if the lines he’s doodling in his sketchbook are shaping into a grey city skyline, rainclouds bursting– well. He smiles. It pleases him in a strange way that they both enjoy the rain.

I can’t believe you never told me you were Scottish, by the way! I’m half-Scottish. I tell everyone I’m half-Scottish. I mean, fuck, it’s just cool.

Grant laughs aloud, and wavers before just making the obvious joke. Which half is which?

I’m rolling my eyes at you. Just so you know. The half that’s not Italian.

Ach, the fact that you like to talk so much becomes entirely clear.

You know what they say about people in glass houses, Fox, Danny replies.

My house is made of stone, thank you very much, Grant returns. Also I believe what they say is “…are the most shameless exhibitionists.”

That saying must be different in the UK, Danny responds a few minutes later.

Perhaps, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

A minute later, he gets a message with a picture attached. This is the front of my condo. Judge for yourself if I live in a glass house. Grant has to laugh. It’s basically one huge window overlooking a small park.

Are you an exhibitionist then, Danny? Grant writes with a chuckle.

I’m a bit of a performer, comes the reply, and oh, isn’t that interesting?

Grant blows up the picture and studies the bits of Danny’s condo that he can see. He can see the edge of a dining table on one end of the photo and one wall appears to be all bookcase. There’s a comfortable looking leather chair next to the bookcase, angled toward the view. Despite all the glass, it looks cozy. Cozy, but expensive. Grant would love to see the inside.

Biting his lip to keep himself grounded, to remind himself to move slowly, Grant decides that a change of subject may be in both their best interests at the moment. Speaking of performers, he begins, and goes on to tell Danny about a performance he’d seen at the Fringe Festival the previous year.

Danny returns with a story about seeing Bon Jovi in New Jersey one time. I’m sure they put in a decent show in other places, but there’s nothing like a Jersey crowd for a hometown band.

Everyone from New Jersey talks about it the same way, Grant replies. It reminds me of home.

They trade stories back and forth. Grant does his best to avoid anything that he’s talked about in interviews, but that leaves a surprising wealth of material. He talks ancient family history, ridiculous childhood stories, nearly anything that pops to mind. He shares the bad days with Danny, and Danny does the same.

One day, Danny is particularly quiet. Grant tries to draw him out with little success. Before he goes to bed, he sends one last message. I’m getting the sense that, for whatever reason, today is a hard one for you. Be good to yourself, friend.

When he wakes up the next morning, there’s a reply waiting. He’s oddly nervous about opening it.

Two years ago, I was standing somewhere I never thought I’d be. Like, an actual dream come true. And I walked away. I’m not sorry about it, but I can’t help remembering how it felt. Sorry if I was an ass. It was…nice. To have someone to listen to.

Like many of the pieces of information about their lives they share with one another, it’s vague enough that Danny could be talking about anything. And yet, Fox gets the feeling this is one of the most personal things that Danny has told him. Any time, and I mean that, Grant types back.

Thank you, Danny replies. You helped more than I can say. You and the pint of ice cream I picked up from the store.

Well, now I’m a bit upset. I didn’t have any ice cream.

I’d offer to share, but aside from the obvious issue of distance, I may have polished it off last night while watching Labyrinth for the millionth time.

Grant smiles. David Bowie’s outfits being a main draw, I presume?

Maybe now, Danny answers. Then his email turns serious. In high school I was a chubby art kid with lots of Iron Maiden tee shirts. My survival strategy was being invisible. But I had girlfriends, even in art school. I didn’t fall for a guy for real until I was twenty-four.

Grant takes a deep breath and stares at the screen. That’s… personal. It’s probably too much to hope that it’s also pointed, but fuck if Grant doesn’t want to read it that way.

My younger years were full of experimentation. I’d do anything with anyone, just to say I’d done it. I didn’t fall in love with a man, really fall in love, until ten or so years ago. But he was married and then I met the woman I would marry and well. The love I felt for him faded away for a variety of reasons. I hate him now, he admits. I don’t hate her, in fact, I still very much love her. Relationships are…complex.

The answer, when it comes, is equally revealing. The guy I fell for was a good friend; still is. So is his wife. But there are other exes I’d be totally happy to never see again, so I know what you mean. Nothing is ever as simple as it is on paper, is it?

No, it never is, Grant replies. We can only learn from it, I suppose. Though, the lessons can be unimaginably painful.

I hope you haven’t had too much pain, Fox, Danny replies.

Grant thinks about it for a long moment. Then he types, I’ve had my share, but it was worth it to be where I am today.

I’m really glad, is Danny’s reply. I feel the same way about my own life. I don’t really have time for regret. Too many other things to think about and do.

What’s the most exciting thing you’re doing right now? Grant asks.

It takes a while for the answer to come. I’ve been working on a project with a couple of friends of mine, Danny answers. It’s pretty different than the work I’ve done before, but I’m really fucking excited about it. It launches in November, and I can’t fucking wait.

That…was telling. Given all the other things he knows about Danny, he’s pretty sure he can figure out who he is from that. He’s not actually sure if he wants to or not. He supposes he doesn’t have to decide right this second. Instead, he emails Danny back. There’s very little more satisfying than collaborating with people you like and work well together with.

Oh, I definitely know all about that.

Grant thinks about the script currently waiting on his own computer. Speaking of which, I’m afraid I need to focus in on a project of my own, otherwise my collaborators may come after me with creative implements of torture.

I suppose I can let you get to it, then ;), Danny replies. Good luck!

To you too, Grant replies, setting his phone aside. He’s not going to be able to work on his script. He can’t concentrate on anything but Danny.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, and then another. He goes for a walk instead and leaves his phone on his desk. He’s the one who’s maybe said too much now. If Danny knew who he was, he’d know exactly who it is that Grant hates so much. No one knows that story in its entirety except for Kristan. “Trust,” he mutters to himself.

Mark hadn’t been deserving of his trust. But even with all the reasons that it’s absurd, he thinks that Danny is. He takes a breath. He doesn’t need to borrow trouble. The days are getting warmer and it’s nice to walk when the sun is out.

He doesn’t look. Weeks go by and he doesn’t make the searches, pull the strings he knows will get him answers. He just keeps talking to Danny, idle and meaningful and irreverent and sweet in turn. Then he gets an email from his publicist. Mentions of him in the press, mostly pre-San Diego press stuff, most of it interviews he at least vaguely remembers giving; but lost in the forest of links is “Rocker Gerard Way’s Colorful Future” and Grant - stops.

Something vaguely remembered is teasing at the back of his mind. He clicks the link. It’s an article from the Oregonian and the subtitle makes everything suddenly clear. Portland resident Gerard Way talks about life since the breakup of his massively successful band and how going back to his comic book roots has helped him ground himself.

He scans the article for where his publicist has highlighted his name. The ostensible villain of the series is an assassin named Korse, who Way admits is drawn to resemble comic-book scribe Grant Morrison as a kind of homage to his biggest influence.

Grant lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Then, he scrolls back up to the top of the article, and reads it from the beginning.

The quotes from Gerard Way are what really give the game away. This is his Danny. Their words are the same. And the comic sounds like everything he would have expected Danny to write. The thing is, Grant knows this band. He listened to their last album for hours on end when he first started writing Batman. He even remembers when he’d read about their breakup, right after a - massive gig at Madison Square Garden, two years ago. His stomach feels strangely untethered, his insides twisting like snakes.

The pieces of Danny’s life that he’s gathered over the last several months, previously free-floating, slot neatly into place. His reluctance to share personal details makes sudden, perfect sense. His reasons have been the same as Grant’s.

Well. Grant has the added embarrassment of trolling his own fan board, cannot forget that wee detail.

“Gerard,” he murmurs, trying it out. Before he can talk himself out of it, he does an image search. The majority of the photos are of Gerard Way, frontman; standing on stages all over the world, feet planted, arms raised. He remembers something that Danny had said once, about being invisible, and he can’t help but laugh. He laughs more when he remembers Danny–Gerard–calling himself “a bit of a performer.”

“Only a bit, eh?” Grant asks the man in the picture, the man so clearly in command of his audience. Grant is fascinated. As if he wasn’t before. He clicks over to a new tab and pulls up the video that had been his first introduction to the band.

He watches it again with the knowledge that the man with the white hair is also the man he’s spent the last few months talking to as often as possible. It’s a heady feeling. Danny finally has a face.

And fuck, why not; Grant does another image search, looking for something more recent. He finds photos from late in the previous year of Gerard Way at a signing, hair dyed back to black, smiling at the kid across the table. Grant’s breath catches in his chest. He’s fucking beautiful and his smile makes Grant feel all lit up inside. He can’t imagine what it will be like when it’s actually directed at him.

It doesn’t occur to him until later that if Danny - Gerard - meets Grant Morrison, he’ll have to lose Fox. Grant doesn’t know what to do. Should he come clean, and tell Gerard that he’s put the pieces together?

After a while, he gets so busy, he forgets to think about it and his days seem to revolve around work, preparing for travel, and talking to Danny. To Gerard.

Gerard feels like he spends most of the month of June prepping for Comic-Con. Scott wants Killjoys front and center in his fall lineup - not that Gerard blames him, and the third series of Umbrella Academy just gets pushed farther and farther back as Gabriel is more and more in demand - and that means all hands on deck. Meetings at the Dark Horse offices, Skype calls with Shaun and Becky, polishing what they’ve got until it fucking gleams. Gerard’s got permanent butterflies in his stomach.

He’s excited, though. He fucking loves Comic-Con. Loves that it’s a thing he can do every year, now. Loves that he meets new, awesome people every year.

Fox has been busy too, but a few weeks before the con, Gerard emails him. Do you ever go to Comic-Con?

I assume you mean the yearly madhouse in San Diego? Fox writes back. Yes. I’ve been many times.

Are you going this year? Gerard asks. I’ll be there. Maybe we could meet up? Have coffee or something?

I would love that, Fox replies. Before Gerard can reply, a second email comes on the heels of the first. I would, however, understand if you were too busy, or needed to keep a low profile.

My schedule is pretty fucking packed, Gerard replies. But if we can swing it, I’d like to meet.

Then he reads the email again. “Low profile”… does Fox know who he is? His heart kicks at the possibility. He’s dropped enough hints–fuck, this is what he’d wanted.

He can’t quite bring himself to ask. He doesn’t know why. He’s not ashamed of his past as an international rock star. But Fox is important to him in ways he can’t even define at this point. He realizes that this is something he’d rather talk about in person.

Maybe play it by ear? Fox writes back.

Definitely, Gerard replies, relieved. He’s got plenty of other shit to sort out before he leaves for San Diego. But he can’t deny that the butterflies just got a little bit bigger. He takes a deep breath and goes back to what he was doing. An hour later, Fox sends him a news article and they spend the rest of the time Fox is up and awake chatting about it.

Gerard is willing to put it all on the back burner, if only because he’s so fucking nervous about the promo. And Fox seems - not distant, exactly, but distracted. A few days before the con, Gerard writes to him again. Here’s my cell phone number, probably the best way to get in touch with me for the next week. Text anytime.

On Tuesday, Gerard’s phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. Flying is hell.

Always, Gerard answers. Hi, Fox.

Hello. Sorry for the lack of introduction, I had to get that out.

Gerard grins. Understandable. I have done more than my fair share of flying and I hate it basically every time. Time zones, also. Time zones are horrible.

Also jet lag, although I can’t even say I’ve even reached that point, Fox replies. Time to find my hotel and collapse.

I fly in tomorrow. Can’t tell you how glad I am it’s a fairly short flight. For once in my life, Gerard replies.

The next morning he wakes to a brief message from Fox, wishing him a safe flight. You’re up already? Gerard teases.

The meetings have already started, Fox responds. There isn’t enough caffeine in the fucking world.

Gerard frowns. Meetings? He supposes it wouldn’t be surprising if Fox worked in the industry. Scotland is almost as saturated with comics people as Portland. And it would be a good reason for him to want to keep his own anonymity.

I’ll think of you fondly as I drink my in-flight beverage, Gerard writes back.

May the shitty airplane coffee be marginally less shitty, Fox returns.

Gerard forces himself up, gathers his bags together, and goes downstairs to meet the car service he ordered to take him to the airport. His stomach is still full of butterflies and he’s pretty sure they’re just not going to go away.

When he touches down in San Diego, he turns his phone on as soon as they’ll let him. There aren’t any texts waiting, so he sends one. Friendly skies, flown. Can’t decide if my first stop is hotel, coffee, or tacos.

I’m sure there’s a place you can procure both tacos and coffee, Fox replies as Gerard waits for his bag.

"Thank fuck for San Diego, Gerard types, grinning at his phone.

There’s a reason they pay me the big bucks, Fox replies.

For having the brains to remind your flight-addled friends they have options? Absolutely worth at least a few big bucks.

He does find burritos and coffee, and he sends Fox a triumphant picture. Fox sends him back a picture of a tea service set up in his hotel room, but nothing else for hours.

Gerard checks into his hotel room and texts five million people to see where they are. Scott replies first, so Gerard makes sure he has his all his con stuff together and heads down to the convention center. The floor is already bustling with people getting ready for preview night. Gerard finds Scott at the Dark Horse booth.

“Gerard!” Scott says, sounding pleased. “Come look at the graphic, it’s amazing. How was your flight?” He leads Gerard around the side of the booth to where an entire panel is taken up with Becky’s art.

“It was good. Way better than say, Portland to Japan,” Gerard says. “Or Portland to the UK. And anything is better than the flight to Australia.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “You realize there are only a few people in the world who have been all the places you have, right?”

Gerard grins sheepishly, and Scott claps him on the shoulder, laughing.

“What do you think of your big debut?” he asks, pointing at the poster.

“Shit, it’s gorgeous,” Gerard replies. “Has Becky seen it yet?”

“She and Shaun were in here earlier, and they both freaked out,” Scott confirms.

Gerard takes a picture of it with his phone. He’ll tweet it later if Shaun or Becky haven’t.

“What are your plans tonight?” Scott asks him.

“Nothing? Thought I’d get here and then find out where everyone is hanging out,” Gerard replies.

Scott laughs. “Well, I want to sit down with the three of you and go over some stuff before the madness begins tomorrow. And then maybe take you all out for dinner.”

“Hey, big spender,” Gerard teases, and Scott grins at him.

“Says the guy who can walk into any party he wants,” Scott says, and Gerard snorts.

“No, I can’t. But maybe…” He should call Jim and see if he can get an invite to the DC party.

Scott just laughs at him. “You really can. If you decided you wanted it, you totally could. I know you’ve never been that guy, but you could do it.”

Gerard makes a face at him. Before he can respond, his phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket instantly, but it’s Shaun. Where you at?

Dark Horse booth with Scott.

Don’t move. We’ll be right there.

“Shaun and Becky incoming,” Gerard reports.

Scott nods, but one of his people calls him over so Gerard goes back to poking at his phone. I like seeing all the booths in disarray, he texts Fox. Makes how everything looks all set up more interesting.

He doesn’t get a response right away, which isn’t surprising given Fox’s radio silence over the past hour or so; he’s probably in another meeting. Gerard deliberates for a moment, and then he’s pulling up Jim’s name in his contacts.

Already busy working the con? he texts.

Feel like I’ve been in meetings for a year already, Jim replies. And they continue all day. You should come to the DC party so I can actually see you.

I guess I’m not doing anything else tonight, Gerard types back, grinning at his phone.

“What are you plotting?” Becky asks from beside him, making him jump.

He grins. “Got an invite from Jim to the DC party tonight.”

Becky laughs at him. “You dog! You’ll give me all the dirt, right?”

“Of course I will, what kind of friend do you think I am?”

She beams at him and pulls him in for a hug. “The best sort, usually.”

“Missed you too,” he mutters against the top of her head. “New York is a fucking long way away.”

“I barely see Shaun, and he’s just across the river,” she replies with a wink at Shaun.

Shaun grins and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m all work and no play unless it’s with my kids,” he says.

Gerard smiles and gives Shaun a hug. “It’s good to see you guys. I’ve missed you.”

“You’ll be sick of us by Sunday,” Becky predicts.

“I wasn’t sick of Frank after seven years,” Gerard points out. They both laugh.

“So. Discuss shit now, or wait and do some wandering while we still have the chance?” Becky asks.

It’s Scott who answers. “I still have some things to finish up here, but come back in an hour and we’ll talk.”

Gerard exchanges a look with Shaun and Becky. “Where to?”

“Coffee,” they say in unison.

Scott laughs at them and they go off to find the nearest Starbucks kiosk. This is why he fucking loves Comic-Con. So many things to see and do, friends to hang out with, new friends to meet. As he waits for Becky and Shaun to order, someone taps on his shoulder and shyly asks for an autograph. Gerard smiles wide and scrawls his usual “xoxo g” on the woman’s badge.

They wander around, watching the setup and stopping frequently when they run into people they know. Gerard knows it’s his last chance to wander around without a security person nearby. It’s kind of nice to feel like a normal person for an hour. At least Mehdi still comes out with him for this shit.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he fishes it out. Oh fuck, save me from this goddam meeting.

Gerard can’t help but beam. I would, except I don’t want you to get in any hot water with higher-ups.

I’m rapidly reaching the point of not giving a fuck, Fox replies.

Think happy thoughts? Gerard offers.

Haha, Fox replies. I’m forcing myself through today, but tomorrow, I want to play hooky and have coffee with you.

Gerard grins stupidly at his phone and replies, YES. Which is, of course, when Becky catches him.

“What’s got you so attached to that thing, anyway?” She prods his side where he’s ticklish.

He squawks and moves away from her. “I. Um. Have an internet friend,” Gerard admits. “We’re planning on meeting tomorrow.”

“An internet friend, huh?” Becky asks, raising an eyebrow at him. Gerard tries, and fails, to school his face into something less giddy.

“Frankie told me about this,” Shaun says, folding his arms over his chest with a matching eyebrow. Gerard’s friends are terrible. “I think that means I’m supposed to threaten this guy Jersey-style.”

Gerard laughs and rubs his cheek with his palm. “Frankie has a big mouth. And if he told you, that’s probably exactly what he intends. But like. We’re just friends. It’s not–” Except that for Gerard, it’s exactly like that.

“Mmm hmm,” says Becky, clearly not buying it.

“If coffee goes well tomorrow, I’ll maybe bring him to the panel,” Gerard says finally.

“And then I can go all Jersey on his ass?” Shaun asks hopefully. “I need the practice for my kids.”

“I’ll help!” says Becky, and she and Shaun high-five. Gerard buries his face in his hands.

The next time they get distracted, he texts Fox. My friends are giving me a hard time.

In my experience, that’s what friends are for, Fox replies.

That’s what they tell me. Anyway. I have a meeting and a dinner and then I have to go to a very fancy party and hope I don’t embarrass myself. So if I don’t talk to you again, have a good night!

You as well, Fox replies. We’ll hammer out coffee details tomorrow.

Definitely, Gerard agrees. Tomorrow. He can’t fucking wait.

The meeting and dinner with Scott - for which he manages to also collect Eric and some of the other Dark Horse people, which is cool - goes as well as Gerard could hope for, and when they’re done, Shaun walks back to the hotel with him and they catch up in person for a little while longer. It’s really great to see him. And Becky. He needs to get back east again soon. He misses a lot of people.

When Shaun leaves to go back to his own hotel room and call his wife, Gerard starts rifling through his suitcase. He comes up with a white button-down, a black waistcoat, and dark jeans. Totally fancy, at least for a party of comics people.

He texts Jim, Hope I’m on the list! and goes downstairs before he can get too nervous.

He finds the party easily enough and Jim is standing near the entrance, which makes Gerard’s life easier. “Gerard Way!” Jim waves, and the attendant at the door waves Gerard through.

“Jim!” Gerard beams. “I hope you weren’t waiting for me?”

“Only a little,” Jim replies. “I’ve got some people I want to introduce you to.”

Gerard frowns at him. “I thought you wanted to hang out with me! I see how it is.”

Jim just laughs. “Let’s get you something to drink and see who’s hanging around the bar.” He weaves through the crowd and Gerard follows. “I’d like a Diet Coke and a Jack and Coke,” Jim orders. He hands Gerard the Diet Coke and suddenly Jim waves his hand. “Grant!” he calls.

Gerard’s eyes go a little wide. Because that’s… That’s Grant Morrison, holy fuck. He struggles to keep his inner fanboy from freaking out.

“You two haven’t met, have you?”

“N-no,” Gerard answers automatically. Morrison comes over immediately, eyes sweeping over Gerard, face wreathed with a smile.

“Grant Morrison, Gerard Way. If you two have never met, it’s a crime.”

Gerard smiles and reaches out to shake Morrison’s hand. “Hi. I’ve been a big fan of your work for a long time.”

Morrison shakes back and his smile widens. He really is a fucking attractive man, even more so close up. And his suit is as fabulous as advertised. “I listened to The Black Parade for hours on repeat as I wrote Batman,” Morrison says. “And I fucking love The Umbrella Academy.”

“Your Doom Patrol was a huge inspiration,” Gerard admits. “I’ve always wanted to talk to you about -” He catches himself. “Jim, this was mean, I’m going to totally embarrass myself here and monopolize Mr. Morrison.”

Morrison leans in a bit, conspiratorially. “It’d be a favor to me,” he says, shooting a dark look across the room to a knot of people in suits. “And please, call me Grant.”

Gerard bites the inside of his cheek and grins. “Well, Grant, in that case, I have been reliably informed that I’ll talk someone’s ear off if given half a fucking chance. The Suits will never get the opportunity.”

Grant crosses his arms over his chest. “Do your worst, Gerard Way.”

“I knew you two would get along,” Jim says brightly.

“So did I,” Grant says. Gerard grins wider.

Gerard is pretty sure he talks Grant’s ear off for at least an hour. A couple of times he traces the outline of his phone in his pocket, but there’s no way he’s interrupting this conversation for anything. And Grant gives back as good as he gets. Gerard can’t quite tamp down the giddy thrill in the pit of his stomach, because not only is he talking with one of his heroes, but Grant is familiar with both the band and Gerard’s comics, and has plenty of questions of his own.

They literally spend the entire party talking. Gerard never wants it to end. Jim leaves them to it after a while, and Gerard never does find out who exactly Jim wanted him to meet. Their conversation isn’t without other interruptions either, but Gerard barely notices. He’s just delighted to have made such a connection with one of his heroes.

Fifteen-year-old him is breathing into a paper bag right now. Hell, thirty-three-year-old him is trying desperately to keep his eyes from going too wide. When someone with a camera comes around, Grant wraps an arm around his shoulders for the photo and Gerard tries not to squeak.

Grant grins at him. “I look forward to seeing that all over the Internet tomorrow: ‘international rock star Gerard Way with some bald guy,’” he says with audible air quotes.

Gerard rolls his eyes, though he’s pretty sure he’s blushing. “Yeah, right. ‘Comics superstar Grant Morrison with some emo dude’ is way more likely.”

Grant smiles. “A friendly wager? Perhaps the loser buys the winner coffee?” Gerard opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “No?” Grant asks quietly.

Gerard lifts his chin automatically. “Sure.”

The grin that splits Grant’s face is– fuck. “Tomorrow afternoon? Everyone needs a mid-afternoon pick-me-up,” Grant says.

Gerard smiles back. “Absolutely.” He’ll just arrange for the morning with Fox.

He realizes that if anyone is going to have to end this conversation, it seems it will have to be him. “I should probably call it a night soon,” he says, regretfully. “But it was, fuck, so amazing to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Grant replies with a grin. “I’ve felt as if we were ships passing in the night for several years now. It’s been a pleasure to finally meet you. Let’s meet at that coffee shop down the road at three, yeah?”

“Prepare to buy me a very fancy coffee,” Gerard says dramatically, and Grant laughs.

“We’ll see.” He offers a hand and Gerard shakes it.

He’s pretty sure he grins the whole way back to his hotel room.

Grant watches Gerard, Danny, walk away and grins wide. He’s charming and just as articulate in person as he is in his emails. About five minutes later, his pocket buzzes. You know how they say not to meet your idols because you’ll always be disappointed? So not true.

Sometimes not true, Grant corrects. I take it you had an enjoyable evening?

I had a fucking amazing evening. What about you?

I also had a fucking amazing evening, Grant replies. Good food, good drinks, better company. But I’m looking forward to coffee tomorrow more than I can say.

Coffee twice, Grant thinks with a smirk. As long as he doesn’t fuck up the first.

He’d been idly wondering if he’d run into Gerard this evening, after Danny’s comment about going to a “fancy party.” But he couldn’t have hoped that things would have worked out as perfectly as they had. He slips out of the party and makes his way back to his hotel. Yes, it was the perfect evening. He won’t spoil the rest of the night by staying.

His mobile is lit up when he gets out of the bath after his nighttime routine. What time tomorrow?

I’ll be able to escape my meetings by mid-morning. Would eleven suit?

That would be perfect, Gerard replies. Near the ATMs by the escalators?

Which ones? Grant texts back with a chuckle.

…Fair, Gerard replies, and texts again a moment later with a specific location, far enough off of the main drag that Grant isn’t terribly worried about being interrupted. Grant is betting he’ll have security with him if he has any sense whatsoever, at any rate. Grant hopes he has security with him, else he’ll start worrying about Gerard’s self-preservation skills.

Perfect, he replies. Sleep well.

You too, Fox, Gerard replies. I really, really can’t wait for tomorrow.

Neither can I, Grant replies and puts his phone down for the night.

He sleeps relatively well and dresses in his grey pinstripe suit for the day. He goes down for a couple of short meetings, chats with fans and fellow creators, but he can’t stop thinking about how in a very short time, all will be revealed.

He’s nervous as fuck, actually. He doesn’t think his worst-case scenario will happen, but it doesn’t stop him picturing it. If this goes badly, he’ll lose someone who’s managed to become one of his very closest friends. Someone, Grant thinks, who could very easily be much more than merely a friend.

When it’s nearly eleven, he takes a fortifying breath and makes his way toward where they agreed to meet. He catches sight of Gerard’s neon hair right away. He’s got a big guy in a black polo standing next to him who he’s chatting animatedly to, but no one seems to have spotted him yet, or else the red hair just blends into the sea of cosplay.

Grant sees the moment Gerard spots him by the way his eyes widen. Grant smiles and walks up to them. “Hello, Danny,” he says. Gerard’s mouth drops open.

“No,” he breathes. The big guy next to him shifts and Gerard lifts a hand, palm out, and says, “It’s fine, Mehdi, just - ” His eyes dart around the lobby and Medhi points.

“Maintenance corridor.”

Grant deems it wise to keep his mouth shut until they get the privacy Gerard is clearly looking for.

“…Fox?” Gerard asks, when there’s a door between them and the bustle of the con. “But- Grant? I don’t-”

“I was having a bad day and lurking the message board, because of course that’s a good idea when you’re having a bad day. And there you were talking as if you had a window into my head, and I couldn’t not talk to you,” Grant explains quietly. “I always wanted to talk to you, and after a while all I wanted was to tell you, especially after I figured you out -” Gerard twitches slightly, though he’d had to have known his own cover was blown for a while - “but best case is, I look like a self-obsessed twat, and worst case you hate me for lying, so -” he shrugs expressively.

“So you wanted to do it in person,” Gerard says, slowly. “I get that. I… had a feeling that you knew who I was, but I didn’t want to ask you about it until we met.” He’s still looking a bit wide around the eyes. “I- you’re Grant Morrison.”

“I am,” Grant replies with a smile. “And you are one of my dearest friends, and I’d dearly like that to continue.”

“We have a date later,” Gerard says. “Um. Or. Not a date, but.”

“Guess we do. If you’ll forgive me for…”

“You didn’t do anything wrong!” Gerard blurts. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t do, I mean, shit, I’m a mod on your board, I -” He’s turning as red as his hair.

“Gerard,” Grant says, testing out the feel of the name in his mouth. He finds one of Gerard’s hands and takes it in his own. “Everything I said last night, about how the things you inspire me? All of that was true.”

Grant sees Gerard swallow. “I…that means so fucking much to me. You mean a lot to me. As Grant Morrison the creator and Fox, my friend from the Internet.”

“Let’s edit that down to ‘my friend Grant,’” he suggests gently.

“Okay,” Gerard says softly. They’re staring at each other. Grant realizes that he’s still holding Gerard’s hand, maybe a little bit too tightly, but he can’t make himself let go. A grin stretches across Gerard’s face. “You’re Fox. Fuck. That’s amazing.”

“Amazing is better than any of the words I expected,” Grant says wryly. He can’t take his eyes off of Gerard. His fucking face…he’s beautiful, especially when he smiles.

“How could it be anything else?” Gerard asks.

“I was mentally prepared for any number of reactions and fully prepared to woo you with the promise of more coffee and maybe a script or two that no one has seen. Also begging, if need be,” Grant replies.

“Maybe I’ll hold out for the scripts,” Gerard said, chin going up in that same gesture from last night. Grant doesn’t think he’s imagining him leaning closer, though.

“Only if you show me this character based on your ‘biggest influence,’” he murmurs.

“Oh my god,” Gerard moans, scrubbing his free hand over his face, cheeks going even redder. “I knew that was going to come back to bite me.”

“I love it,” Grant replies with a big grin. Gerard hasn’t let go of his hand yet. “I seem to recall promising you coffee.”

“I seem to recall promising my friends that if coffee went well, I’d bring you to my panel this afternoon,” Gerard admits.

Grant thinks about his schedule for the afternoon, pleased when he realizes that he’s not got any meetings or panels of his own. “My panel is at five,” Grant says. “So I can accommodate that.”

Gerard beams at him. “Awesome.”

“Assuming coffee goes well,” Grant murmurs.

“Call me optimistic, but, uh. I’m pretty sure it’s going to,” Gerard says. He squeezes their joined hands.

Grant smiles wider. “That was my feeling as well. And don’t forget, we have a bet to settle.”

“I’m thinking of asking for higher stakes,” Gerard says.

“Oh?” Grant asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe dinner and coffee?” Gerard asks hopefully. Grant hopes he’s not imagining the breathlessness.

“Acceptable,” he nods with a small smirk he can’t quite contain. “Now, is your friend in the black polo out there cracking his knuckles or anything like that? It’s been -” Grant feels like it’s been forever, because he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Gerard’s face since he hit the lobby.

Gerard grins. “Nah, it’s fine. He’s been giving me shit all morning because I couldn’t shut up about meeting Grant Morrison last night, or about meeting my internet pen-pal today.”

“I take it the two of you have a history?” Grant asks.

Gerard nods. “He was one of our security guys for several tours. He still comes to help me out when he can.” This is one of the reasons Grant is sure one Gerard Way will be buying him dinner tonight. Needing - and being used to - security guys trailing you everywhere is not in Grant’s playbook.

They should go back out. And, much as Grant is loathe to admit it, they likely shouldn’t be holding hands when they do. He laces their fingers together briefly and forces himself to pull his hand away. “Come on, Gerard Way. Let’s go get some coffee and find somewhere we can continue our conversation.”

“VIP lounge?” Gerard suggests, with the faintest twist of a smirk.

“Glass houses,” Grant replies, watching the smirk blossom and knowing they’re on the exact same page. He opens the door for Gerard and waves him through.

After the quiet of the hallway, stepping back out into the noise of the lobby is a bit of a shock. The man in the black polo, standing next to the door with his arms crossed, gives Gerard an exasperated look.

“Sorry!” Gerard says. The man rolls his eyes as if this is an oft-repeated exchange. “Mehdi, this is Grant Morrison. Who also happens to be Fox.”

“Convenient,” Mehdi says, offering a hand to Grant.

“I think so,” Grant says evenly, because he’s pretty sure Mehdi’s bicep is the size of Grant’s thigh, but he really does think so.

“Me too,” Gerard agrees, beaming. “Now. Coffee?” He sounds so hopeful that Grant has to laugh.

“Coffee,” Grant confirms. “Upstairs.” They walk toward the escalator and Mehdi follows a couple of feet behind. When a group of teenagers approaches Gerard, he steps in to keep them from mobbing him and produces a Sharpie for Gerard to sign with from the depths of his cargo shorts.

Grant stands to the side and watches until someone actually notices him. He poses contentedly for a photo and signs a Batman print someone pulls out of one of those giant bags, and Mehdi sighs and extends his efforts to keeping both of them moving. Gerard looks beyond amused.

“You’re the best,” Gerard tells Mehdi once they’ve made it into the VIP lounge. “I’m buying you the biggest coffee ever.”

“Damn right you are,” Mehdi replies. They go up to the small Starbucks kiosk and order.

Gerard hands Mehdi his coffee and Mehdi points at a chair near one of the doors. “I’ll be over there.”

Grant and Gerard just stare at each other over the tops of their coffee cups for a moment once they sit down. Grant can feel his lips twitching, and Gerard huffs out a laugh. “How long have you known it was me?” Gerard asks him.

“Since I came across your interview with The Oregonian in an pre-con email from my agent. I could have figured it out much sooner,” Grant replies.

“But you didn’t,” Gerard says.

“I…in so many ways, it didn’t matter,” Grant says. “Until it did.”

“I wanted you to figure it out,” Gerard admits. “I mean, not at first? But then talking to you was so good, and I felt like it would maybe be okay.”

Grant smiles. “I never really believed I could find a friend like you on the Internet. I’d seen too many like the arse who posted the thread where we met. I’ve never been happier to be proven wrong.”

“And the embarrassment -”

“I’ve made an arse of myself more times than I can count,” Grant says. “Risk versus reward.” He reaches across the tabletop and nudges Gerard’s fingers with his. Gerard taps Grant’s fingertips with his own once, twice, three times, grinning up at Grant through his eyelashes. Fuck. Seeing photographs hadn’t anywhere near prepared Grant for how stupidly attractive Gerard is.

Gerard takes a deep breath. “I keep thinking about how it was you all along and it’s blowing my fucking mind.”

Grant takes a sip of coffee and does not say anything dirty. What he does say is, “It’s a bit strange, to feel like you know someone before you ever find out their name. But… that made it easier, sometimes. To tell the truth.”

Gerard nods. “It totally did. I can just be…me. With you. I felt like that last night, too.”

“And I liked it. Like it.” Grant looks him over.

“Me, too,” Gerard says softly.

Grant wishes Gerard were closer, that they had a little more privacy. He settles for reaching out to squeeze Gerard’s hand again. “You’ll have to fill in some of the details of some of your stories for me at some point,” Grant says.

“Of course,” Gerard says. “You too, you know. I just want to - listening to you is -” he gets a little pink again.

Grant decides to change the subject, because otherwise they’ll both be blushing. He makes a mental note, though. This is absolutely a discussion they could come back to. He asks about Gerard’s panel instead. Which is the correct choice. Gerard even gets out his iPad and shows Grant a folder full of sketches and concept art. The character based on Grant is immediately apparent. Grant rubs a hand over his own head and grins.

“I also storyboarded a music video for ‘Mama’ in which I wanted you to play the devil,” Gerard says. “It would have cost too much money.”

“I would have said yes in an instant,” Grant says with a grin.

“Yes, that is the perfect expression right there,” Gerard tells him. His eyes are climbing all over Grant and he’s not bothering to hide it. All of the nervousness Grant had been feeling this morning has been completely replaced by warmth low in his belly. He can’t help but beam at Gerard. He can’t quite believe his luck. “What are you thinking?” Gerard asks him.

“I’m thinking about how stupidly fortunate I’ve been, that this is my life,” Grant says, truthfully.

Gerard smiles wide. “Good thing to think about.”

“Particularly,” Grant adds, “Because you are now part of it.”

“I was before too, Fox,” Gerard says with a twinkle in his eye.

“Ah, but now I get all of you.” Grant only barely even attempts to keep the suggestiveness out of his tone. Gerard turns red regardless, which is entirely gratifying. He wonders how much of the remainder of the weekend he can get away with spending with Gerard. He won’t lie; he’s hoping for all of it. He’ll settle for a few meals.

They finish their coffees and keep talking for several minutes, until Gerard makes a face and fishes his phone out of his pocket. It’s buzzing somewhat angrily. He rolls his eyes. “Becky,” he says and answers. There’s a bit of a cacophony on the other end and Gerard laughs. “No, I’m not fucking dead in an alley. Yes, I’m having a good time. The twins? Lunch? Hold on.” He pulls his phone away from his mouth. “Wanna go to lunch with me and my friends?”

“Of course I do,” Grant tells him.

Gerard reports this back to his friend and glances slyly at Grant once he’s hung up. “They’re going to shit themselves.”

Grant grins back. “Well then, we shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

Gerard smiles and stands. He reaches out a hand to help Grant up. He doesn’t let go as he walks toward Mehdi. “Going to lunch,” he says.

Mehdi nods. “Cab or walking?”

Gerard laughs. “Cab, if only so you don’t have an aneurysm.”

Mehdi still walks them to the cab stand, which Grant finds amusing. Gerard seems to expect it, and he waves his phone as they get in and promises, “I’ll call when I’m on my way back for the panel, but I’ll be with Becky and Shaun so…”

“So you’ll be even more likely to wander off chasing a fucking butterfly,” Mehdi tells him darkly. “I’ve met you, Way.”

Gerard laughs. “Fine, fine. I’ll call no matter what.”

“I’ll pretend to be his surly, bald bodyguard should the need arise. I’m nobody away from the convention center,” Grant offers.

Mehdi eyes him. “Scrawny, but it might work.”

“I’m from Glasgow, scrawny is a technicality,” Grant replies with a smirk. Mehdi favors him with the hint of a smile.

“We’ll be fine,” Gerard insists, as he climbs into a waiting cab.

“I’ll believe it when I’m shutting you in a hotel room for the night,” Mehdi says.

A hotel room, huh, Grant thinks.

“He doesn’t really,” Gerard says when they’re on their way, cheeks stained pink. “I don’t get locked in. I’m an adult.”

“I certainly hope so,” Grant drawls.

Gerard looks straight at him, lips parted a little bit. His cheeks are flushed, and he looks determined. “You flirting with me, Fox?”

“I am absolutely flirting with you. Tell me to fuck off and I will,” Grant replies. He is almost certain Gerard will do nothing of the sort.

“That would be really dumb of me,” Gerard smiles, “since it’s all I’ve wanted to hear for months.”

Grant’s grin gets broader. “Me fucking too,” he murmurs, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. Gerard squeezes back. The rest of the ride through the Gaslamp District is short and the cab pulls up in front of a small Mexican restaurant tucked between a chemist and a clothing store. There’s a noticeable lack of costumes, which makes Grant assume it’s enough of a hole-in-the-wall to escape heavy convention business. Also, it’s not the weekend yet. But a large round table in the corner is filled with people who immediately wave at Gerard - then start staring.

Gerard tugs Grant over, muttering, “Sorry in advance.”

Grant laughs. “They don’t scare me.”

“Good. Just…I’m pretty sure Shaun swore an oath to Frank that he’d give you a Jersey-style talking to, so. Watch out for that,” Gerard warns.

Grant laughs. “I’ve given a Glasgow-style talking to, I expect they’re much the same.”

Gerard grins. “Probably.” They keep walking. Gerard doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Well, this is unexpected,” says the redhead Grant assumes is Becky Cloonan.

“Everyone, this is Grant,” Gerard says cheerfully. “Grant, this is everybody.”

“Oh my god, Gerard,” Becky says and laughs. She holds out her hand and introduces herself and the rest follow suit.

“I hope I don’t need to introduce myself,” says a familiar voice behind them.

“Jill,” Grant turns and beams.

“Hullo, Grant,” Jill says, wrapping him in a one-armed hug.

“I’ve missed you, beautiful,” he tells her.

“Always the flatterer,” she replies with a grin and turns to Gerard. “You look like you tripped and fell into an anime. Looks good on you, Gerard.”

“Gerard decided to turn himself into a character from our comic for inspiration or something,” the guy who’d introduced himself as Shaun says. Grant snorts.

“You can’t talk,” Jill warns.

“I can laugh precisely because I’ve done it,” Grant replies with a grin and runs a hand over his bald head. Everyone laughs, but Grant turns the conversation to Korse and Becky and Gerard are only too happy to go on about him for a while.

“Also, wait until you see Gabriel’s variant cover for him,” Becky says, gesturing at one of the twins.

“I’m familiar with your work,” Grant tells Gabriel. “I’m sure it’s stunning.”

“We’ll have to get you a print,” Gerard says with a grin.

“I would love that,” Grant replies.

No one actually brings up the elephant in the room - or on the message board - other than in sidelong looks and a few jokes, which makes Gerard seem to relax a lot. It’s nice to see him with his friends, but it’s nice to be a part of the conversation too.

Unsurprisingly, Gerard’s friends are a delightful, whip-smart group. He’s fairly certain he’s going to be spending a good amount of time with them over the course of the weekend, and it won’t be a hardship.

They split up after lunch, the twins and Jill choosing to walk back while Gerard, Grant, Shaun and Becky catch a cab as Gerard promised.

In the cab, Shaun turns a stern eye on Grant and says, “So. What are your intentions towards our Gerard?”

Grant laughs, utterly delighted. “To be an excellent friend and companion to him for as long as he’ll let me.”

He can actually see Shaun bite down on an additional question. “You realize that you’re never going to live this down,” Becky says, cheerfully bumping Gerard’s shoulder with her own.

“I’m okay with it,” Gerard replies. “Who else gets to say Grant Morrison was their pen pal?”

“Was?” Grant questions mildly.

Gerard takes his hand and looks up at him meaningfully. “I don’t think it’s still pen-pals if you’ve, like, met,” Gerard tells him.

“As long as you still write me, I don’t care what we call it,” Grant says.

He’s fairly sure the repeatedly clasped hands mean it’s something else entirely, but he’s being a gentleman. Such a gentleman. It’s…difficult. Dinner. Gerard has promised him dinner. What happens after that, well. They’ll see. Grant laces their fingers together again anyway.

“Shaun,” Becky whispers loudly. “They’re being gross.”

“I’m texting Frank. I’m out of ideas for threats, I suck at this,” Shaun mumbles from the middle seat.

“Does Frank know that Gerard is being gross with Grant Morrison?” Becky asks curiously.

Shaun grins at her. “Not yet. I’m trying to decide how to do it. Picture, you think? Or something else?”

“I know where you live,” Gerard tells him, but there’s no bite behind it.

Grant feels his lips twitch and can’t quite control it. “You could let me talk to him,” he suggests smoothly.

Becky and Shaun share matching expressions of unholy glee. Gerard laughs helplessly beside him. “Do it. Troll the fuck out of him.”

Grant doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone place a phone call so fast in his entire life. Then again, he hasn’t had a mobile for his entire adult life like these three. Gerard thrusts the phone at Grant, and he puts it to his ear just in time to hear a voice with a Jersey accent even thicker than Shaun’s. “Gee?” the voice asks. “I figured you’d be so deep in Comic-Con shit that you’d forget the rest of us exist.”

“He’s in the trenches,” Grant replies. “Fighting the good fight and all that shit. Frank, is it?”

“Who’s asking?” Frank replies.

“Grant Morrison.” Frank’s initial response is a scoff. “Also known as Fox,” he adds.

“Okay, now you’re really fucking with me. Did you lose a bet? Poker game? Gerard’s poker face is nonexistent, can’t be that. And who are you really? A Shrek cosplayer? Come on, you can tell me, I’m a nice boy.”

“I’m quite serious,” Grant says, solemnly. The other three are grinning at him.

“Oh yeah? Prove it.”

“I’m going to have my friend Mr. Simon here send you a picture,” Grant tells Frank and slings an arm around Gerard’s shaking shoulders, squeezing him tight and blowing a kiss at Shaun’s phone.

A moment later, Grant hears, “Holy fucking fuck.”

Grant laughs and the rest of the cab does too. “I did tell you,” he says.

“How in the fuck was he writing to you for months and didn’t have a clue?” Grant looks at Gerard, and tries to think of something witty to say about his own intelligence, but Frank just keeps talking. “Never mind, it’s Gerard, of course he didn’t have a clue. You -” he hauls in a breath like he’s lighting a cigarette or something - “You be good to him,” he says, soft and far less intimidating that Grant had expected.

“I will,” Grant says, equally soft. Sure.

“Good,” Frank replies. “If not, I will fucking come all the way to Scotland or wherever it is you live and make your life hell.”

Grant smiles into the phone. “I have no doubt.”

“Now that that’s over with,” Frank says, “We3 is one of my favorite comics ever.”

“Mine as well,” Grant tells him. “Thank you.”

“Also, you made me like Superman, for which I will never, ever forgive you.” Frank sounds hilariously put out.

Grant laughs. “If it helps, it took me a bit to wrap my head around him and what he stood for.”

“But you did,” Frank says. “You understand - a lot of complicated people.”

“I try,” Grant replies. Gerard taps him on the arm, and Grant looks up to see that they’re approaching the convention center. “We’re about to get back to business. I’ll give you to Gerard,” Grant says. “It was nice to talk to you, Frank.”

“You too,” Frank says automatically, though he does sound a bit stunned.

Gerard takes the phone back. “Hey, Frankie,” he says, and then, “I know! I know, I know. Only me. Okay, I gotta go. I’ll call soon, promise. Love you too. Bye.” Becky and Shaun are still smirking, but Gerard looks different now. More - in command, like the man with the microphone in front of thousands. He smiles at Grant, serene. “Time to go work.”

Mehdi meets them at the cab stand and ushers all four of them briskly through the crowds. It’s rather novel. Not that Grant has never had security with him for anything, but it never feels quite this natural to him.

Scott Allie gives him a double-take when he walks into the staging area for Gerard’s panel, which is sort of gratifying. Gerard, Shaun, and Becky are standing in a tight knot, heads bent close together. Grant smiles and looks out at the crowd. The portion of young women in the audience is certainly higher than most of the other panels he’s been part of. It’s refreshing. He’s very much looking forward to talking with Gerard about his experiences, now that their secrets are revealed.

Gerard in front of a crowd is… incandescent. His smile lights up the entire room. He has the room in the palm of his hand. He makes them cry, makes them laugh, all while making sure Becky and Shaun say their piece as well.

“He’s so good at this,” one of the Dark Horse staffers murmurs.

“A born performer,” Grant agrees softly.

“Suppose it makes sense,” the staffer goes on. “He’s a great writer too. Some people get all the talent.”

She shoots a look at Grant after she says it and he snickers and shrugs.

He can’t take his eyes of off Gerard for the rest of the panel. Fuck, he wants– wants to tangle a hand in Gerard’s hair and pull him close. Wants to mouth at the skin of his throat. Wants to take him back to Grant’s hotel room and do wicked things to him. He smiles to himself. He’s fairly certain Gerard will let him. But one thing at a time.

His mouth twitches with a smile a few times during the Q&A when something out of Gerard’s mouth is particularly…Danny. And he can help his laugh at Gerard’s expression when somebody asks, “Does Grant Morrison know you’ve based a character on him?”

Gerard sneaks a look over at him with a wide grin. “I don’t know, does he?” Then he refocuses on the fan asking the question. “He probably does if he reads the papers.”

“I’m sure he’s thrilled,” Shaun adds, dryly.

Grant can’t help it. He walks up behind Gerard and leans toward the mic. “He is, thank you.” The whole crowd laughs and cheers. Grant waves and goes back to where he was standing. Becky takes over the mic and starts talking about character design, and Grant’s phone buzzes a second later.

Exhibitionist.

He huffs out a laugh and responds, Glass houses.

Gerard gives no indication that he’s doing anything other than listening attentively to Becky. Grant fucking adores him.

The Q&A ends after two more questions. Grant watches as the kids come up to talk to the three of them. They stand there signing autographs and answering questions until a con staffer speaks to Mehdi and he moves in to get them. Becky breaks off from the rest of them to go back to her booth, but Mehdi deposits Shaun and Gerard, along with Grant, in the closest VIP green room.

“That was fucking amazing,” Gerard says. Shaun goes in for a high five, and then the two of them hug.

“From an outsider’s perspective, I thought you were all wonderful,” Grant tells them. “The first thing I noticed about the room was how diverse the crowd was, and they loved you.”

“I can’t fucking wait for November,” Shaun says, grin splitting his face.

“It’s gonna be great,” Gerard says confidently.

“I am more than certain that it will,” Grant says. “And I can’t wait to see the finished product.”

“You don’t have to wait,” Gerard says. “You’ve got an in.” He pours himself a cup of coffee from the bar in the corner. “So your panel is next.”

“It is,” Grant agrees. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. “I have some time. You’ll come?” Grant asks. He doesn’t want to let Gerard out of his sight. Not yet.

“We both will,” Shaun says, “if that’s okay?”

“Absolutely,” Grant says firmly.

Gerard beams at him and reaches over to take his hand again. “And then we have a bet to settle.”

Gerard smirks. “You mean you have a bet to lose.”

“We’ll see,” Grant tells him, smirking back.

Gerard leans close and holds out his phone to take a picture. “Selfie Friday,” he explains with a smile.

Grant laughs. “Twitter is too much pressure for me.”

“You gotta make it work for you,” Gerard tells him sagely, tapping at his phone. “I can say that because it took me a long time to actually use it. Finally I just said ‘fuck it’ and jumped in.” He looks up and smiles. “There.” He holds up his phone so Grant can see the picture.

“Gerard Way, International Rock Star, and some comics bloke,” Grant jokes.

“Whatever,” Gerard says, smiling down at his phone.

Grant rather desperately wants to kiss him. “You don’t believe me?” Grant pulls out his own phone and opens up his Twitter app. Gerard makes a show of tapping his fingers and checking the time as Grant navigates through the process of retweeting the photo, and Grant has to try hard to keep a straight face. “You have ten times the followers I do, mind, but we shall see.”

“You’re on,” Gerard agrees.

Shaun just laughs. “You’re both ridiculous. Though, for the record, my money is on Grant.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Shaun, but you’re not invited to dinner,” Gerard says.

Shaun pats Gerard’s cheek companionably. “I think I’ll survive.”

Gerard rolls his eyes, but his cheeks have gone pink. It only makes Grant want to kiss him more.

“I have a meeting to get to,” he says sadly after a moment. “You’ll come to my panel?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Gerard promises.

Grant stands and squeezes Gerard’s shoulder. “See you later, love.”

Shaun starts laughing before he’s even out of the room. Grant suppresses a smile.

Gerard watches Grant leave, aware that he’s probably smiling like an idiot but unable to muster up any ability to care. Shaun is laughing at him and he doesn’t really care about that, either, but he kicks Shaun in the shin anyway.

“Ow,” Shaun complains. “You gotta admit it’s a little funny, though.”

Gerard concedes the point, because, well. “This is kind of the greatest day,” he says, slinging an arm across Shaun’s shoulder.

Shaun grins and squeezes back. “I’m pretty fucking stoked on my life and I’m a little jealous of yours. Only you, Gerard Way. Only you.”

Gerard ducks his head and scrubs a hand through his hair. He’s really, really looking forward to seeing Grant’s panel. And to dinner. And… whatever comes next.

“So. Is this, like, serious?” Shaun asks.

“I don’t know,” Gerard replies. “It feels like it might be? But I don’t know for sure.”

“Guess you can take your time,” Shaun says, but he sounds dubious. Gerard can play a long game, but he’s really not all that good at being patient. In this case, he’s pretty sure he’s not going to have to be. Grant had been pretty forward, back in the cab.

“Guess so. He’s already my best friend, though. So like. I don’t know. We’ll talk and shit. Maybe even tonight,” Gerard says.

Shaun is still shaking his head. “Only you.”

“You love me,” Gerard says, laughing.

“I do, my friend. But ridiculous, amazing things happen to you,” Shaun replied.

“Call me crazy, but I’m okay with that,” Gerard tells him.

Scott tracks them down eventually, and they debrief about the panel a little bit. Then Scott gives Gerard shit for surprising him with “Grant fucking Morrison, Way, warn a guy next time, especially if he’s going to be a special guest.”

“In my defense,” Gerard says, “I had no idea that would happen until eleven this morning.”

Scott stares. “Eleven was your coffee meeting with your online pal.”

“Yes, it was,” Gerard murmurs. And waits.

“You are fucking kidding me,” Scott says, flatly.

“He’s not,” Shaun says. “His life is exactly that charmed and absurd.”

Scott tugs at his fringe. “Of course it is. Oh, Gerard.” Gerard just grins, aware that he’s probably blushing. Again. Dammit. Scott laughs and squeezes his shoulder. “Well, I’m glad it clearly went well.”

“Me too,” Gerard says fervently. So fucking glad he hardly knows what to do with himself. Gerard checks his watch. “I’ve got a panel to catch,” he says with a grin.

“Me too,” Shaun reminds him. “Let’s go.”

Predictably, the room for Grant’s panel is completely packed. Gerard peers out from the staging area in awe. It’s a much bigger room than the one Gerard’s panel had been in. There’s a higher percentage of dudes, but a not-insignificant number of women too. They all look as thrilled to be here as Gerard is. Well, maybe not quite.

Grant is standing at the other side of the staging area, head bent together with someone Gerard doesn’t recognize. Gerard stands back and watches him. He’s amazed at how familiar Grant feels to him. Having a conversation, yeah, that makes sense. But Grant’s physical presence feels normal to him as well.

Actually, most of the time it feels fucking distracting. He’d felt it last night, even when he hadn’t known that Grant was Fox. Now, it’s ten times more intense. He likes it, though. Likes it a lot. He wonders if Grant feels it too.

Okay, he doesn’t really have to wonder about that.

Across the room, Grant straightens up and turns. He lights up when he sees Gerard, and Gerard’s breath catches. Grant comes over to them immediately. “So glad you’re here.” He smooths a thumb over Gerard’s cheekbone. “Enjoy.”

Gerard catches Grant’s hand before he can pull away and squeezes their fingers together. Grant smiles at him. “Break a leg,” Gerard says.

Grant nods and stands there for a few more moments while he’s introduced. Then he takes a deep breath and bounds up onto the stage. The crowd fucking screams.

Gerard beams and spends the next hour listening to Grant talk, listening to every amazing thing that comes out of his mouth. Sometimes it’s touching and sometimes the entire room roars with laughter. Once or twice Gerard is pretty sure Grant is talking about him.

It strikes him all over again as he watches; Grant is Fox. The intelligent, hilarious, insightful man who’s become one of his very closest friends over the course of the last several months… is one of Gerard’s heroes. It’s a heady and incredible feeling. All Gerard can do is stand back and feel so fucking proud of and amazed by his friend.

“Your face is really dumb right now,” Shaun tells him. “Like, in a sweet way. I can’t believe I just said that.”

“Shut up,” Gerard says, but his heart’s not really in it.

Grant answers audience questions and when the moderator indicates the end of the panel, he signs things and answers questions for several minutes. He glances offstage at them several times, and Gerard just grins and chats with Shaun.

Finally, Grant makes his way off the stage and back into the staging area. He doesn’t come over right away; there are people back here waiting to talk to him, too. Gerard tries to be patient. He can tell he’s failing when Shaun elbows him in the ribs. “You’re staring.”

“Do you blame me?” Gerard says.

“Nah, guess not,” Shaun laughs.

Finally, Grant takes his leave of everyone talking to him and comes their way. Gerard beams at him.

“Thanks for waiting,” Grant says. “That was a bit mental at the end. Nothing like yours,” he laughs.

“Whatever, big shot,” Gerard teases. “You were fantastic.”

“Thanks,” Grant says, running his hand over his head. It’s not quite a nervous gesture, but it’s in the same family and Gerard finds it completely endearing.

“What next?” Gerard smiles.

“I told Becky I would go bother her at her booth,” Shaun says. He holds out his hand for Grant to shake. “Great panel, man. Thanks for the invite.”

Grant smiles and shakes his hand. “I’m sure I’ll see you again over the course of the weekend.”

“Bet you will.” Shaun chuckles and squeezes Gerard’s shoulder and leaves the two of them alone. Well, not alone; there are still at least a dozen people milling around the staging area. But fuck if the way Grant is looking at him doesn’t make Gerard feel like he and Grant are the only two people here.

“So,” Grant says. “I’m mostly free the rest of the evening.”

“When’s the not-free part?” Gerard asks.

“I should put in an appearance at the Image Gala tonight,” Grant replies. “But other than that…”

“I could go with you?” Gerard offers, then adds, “Or you could skip it. We could just. Hang out.”

“I’d probably enjoy it, but I think I’d enjoy being with you more,” Grant says.

Gerard takes a deep breath, trying to settle the butterflies in his belly. “Then… We should see who’s buying who dinner.”

“What’s the best way to do that, do you think?” Grant asks.

“Retweets? Google ourselves for the last twenty-four hours and see whose name pops up in the search for the other more?” Gerard suggests. “Also see what the photo services have to say. Pretty sure that was a pro, not some random DC staffer.”

“Sounds like a lot of work. Coffee?”

“Always coffee,” Gerard agrees.

They make their way to the nearest VIP room and while Grant gets them coffee, Gerard pulls out his iPad and starts checking. And starts making more and more dismayed faces at his screen. “What the fuck.”

Grant leans over to put a cup of coffee in front of him and stays there. “You’re losing, aren’t you? You young, pretty thing, how shocking,” he murmurs in Gerard’s ear.

“But - you’re Grant fucking Morrison!” Gerard is aware that he sounds kind of petulant, but.

“But you are Gerard Way. Far more people in this world know your face, love,” Grant says with a smile.

“Well, I can afford to buy you dinner, anyway,” Gerard concedes.

Grant reaches over to pat his shoulder consolingly; Gerard catches Grant’s hand in his own. “It won’t be a hardship,” Gerard admits. “Even if I do think you should be way the fuck more famous than me.”

Grant just smiles at him. He seems perfectly happy with the outcome. To be honest, Gerard is, too.

“So. Where are we going?” Gerard asks. “I’m into anything.”

“Let’s go up to Old Town, find someplace quiet, yeah?” Grant murmurs.

“Yeah,” Gerard agrees. He feels like the air between them is crackling, charged. He almost wants to skip dinner, go straight to one of their rooms. But they have a bet to settle and he is getting hungry again.

“D’you need to let your Mehdi know you’re leaving? Or anyone else?”

“I’ll call him,” Gerard says, tucking away his tablet and pulling out his phone. He makes the call and Mehdi doesn’t even harass him that much. Gerard knows he’ll get it later, though. “Let’s find someone to get us a cab,” Gerard says.

It’s not quite as easy as that- they get stopped a few times on their way out, mostly by people they know. But soon enough they’re in a cab, and Grant is directing the driver towards Old Town. It’s a fucking gorgeous evening. But then, it’s San Diego. That’s not really a surprise.

They’re still not alone, but Grant’s warm fingers cover his. It’s good.

“I’m still having a hard time fucking believing this,” Gerard murmurs, as they watch San Diego going past the cab windows.

“Magic is like that,” Grant replies seriously. Gerard fucking believes him. “It’s easier to just believe. It’s fucking punk to believe. Everyone expects the terrible things. I choose to accept the great ones.”

Gerard really, really wants to lean in and press their lips together. It would be so fucking easy, and he knows, knows that Grant would kiss him back. He wants, but he knows if he starts, he won’t want to stop for a long fucking time. So he squeezes Grant’s hand in his.

“What does your weekend look like?” he asks.

Grant huffs. “Busier than I would like. Today was the eye of the storm, relatively speaking.”

“We’ll work around it,” Gerard says. “I have a signing tomorrow. And another the next day. And I promised to help man the booth for a while.”

“I have plenty to do myself,” Grant chuckles. “But we ought to compare schedules.”

The cab lets them off in Old Town, and they wander around for a few minutes before deciding on a little Mexican restaurant tucked out of the way in a corner. There’s a candle on the table and the whole thing is terribly romantic. Gerard grins at Grant over the table. “Hope this is an acceptable prize,” he says.

“More than,” Grant agrees. “This is- it’s perfect, Gerard.”

Gerard smiles broadly at him and reaches across the table to take his hand. “What I really want to know is if a bet payment can count as a first date.”

Grant laughs, interlacing their fingers. “As long as it’s the first of many, I think.”

“That’s pretty much guaranteed,” Gerard replies.

Grant smiles. “Do you mind if I have a drink, love?”

“Not at all,” Gerard says, because it’s true. He trusts himself, and he trusts Grant, too.

Grant gets a Mexican beer and Gerard orders a Diet Coke. They keep holding hands. They keep talking, too, some about friends they share or friends they think they ought to share. Some about San Diego. And some conversations that they’d started months ago, back as Danny and Fox, and have been carrying on periodically ever since. It’s different but so fucking amazing to not have to wait for a response, to see Grant sitting across from him as they talk.

Gerard is pretty sure Grant is right. Magic is the only thing that can explain this. He loves the sound of Grant’s voice, the way he talks with his hands, the way he smiles.

When the food arrives, Gerard finds himself very unhappy about having to let go of Grant’s hand.

Grant laughs at him. “Tacos, Gerard. You want to eat them.”

“I do.” Gerard looks at them sadly, then at Grant.

“I’ll be here,” Grant promises.

Gerard laughs a little because he’s being ridiculous and he knows it, and lifts his taco to his mouth to take a bite. They enjoy their food silently for a few moments and then start talking again. Gerard is pretty sure they’re never going to run out of things to say to each other.

They eat. Grant has another beer, Gerard a spicy and amazing cup of coffee. Grant notes the time, but shows no regret at missing the night’s party. They linger over coffee and dessert for a long time, until Grant finally says, “Well, I am prepared to consider this bet more than satisfactorily settled. And… I think we should go back to the hotel now.”

The way he says it makes Gerard shiver. He takes a deep breath, nods, and gestures for the check. As he’s writing out the tip and signing his name on the credit card slip, Grant squeezes his thigh. He jumps. This isn’t the innocent hand-holding from before.

“Too much?” Grant asks quietly.

“Fuck, no,” Gerard says vehemently. “This is- I’ve been waiting for months.”

Grant smiles softly at him. “As have I. Let’s go.”

Gerard pulls out his phone and calls for a cab. As they wait near the entrance to the restaurant, Grant pulls Gerard into his arms.

“Is this where you kiss me?” Gerard breathes.

“Is that all right?” Grant asks. Gerard sees him dart a look out into the night, the people walking past.

Gerard nods. “Well, I might explode if you don’t.”

Grant laughs softly. “In that case…” He cups Gerard’s cheek in his hand and leans down to kiss him softly. Gerard sighs and lets his eyes slip closed, reaching up to rest his hand on the back of Grant’s head. It starts slow and soft and Grant’s fingers slip under the hem of his shirt to stroke the skin of his back. Everything about it is gentle, but in a way that promises later won’t be.

Grant’s hand finds the small of Gerard’s back and rests there. Gerard gasps into Grant’s mouth. “Where’s that damn cab?” Gerard murmurs against Grant’s lips.

“Don’t much care,” Grant replies.

“I want to be touching you,” Gerard says. “The kind of touching I can’t do right here because of public indecency laws.”

Grant laughs. “I understand. Soon.”

“Months, Fox,” Gerard says. “Months.”

“I know. You aren’t the only one who’s been counting.” Grant pulls back and swipes his thumb against Gerard’s palm. “Did you think about me?”

“So much,” Gerard admits. “And not just… I wanted you to be where I was, you know?” Grant smiles and pulls him closer until their hips are together. Gerard gasps.

“I do know.”

The cab arrives. Gerard is about ready to kiss the driver, but he settles for curling against Grant instead. Grant wraps an arm around Gerard’s waist and presses a kiss to his temple. Gerard leans into him. The ride back to the hotel is both the longest and shortest of his life. “Schrödinger’s cab ride,” he mutters to himself.

“I don’t think that’s what that means,” Grant laughs.

“Whatever,” Gerard huffs. “You know what I fucking mean, Mr. Quantum Mechanics.”

Grant smiles and kisses his cheek as they pull up in front of the hotel. “I know precisely what you mean.” He settles the cab fare then follows Gerard into the hotel and into the elevator.

Of course, because it’s Comic Con, there are already six people in the elevator. One man’s eyes go wide when he sees Grant, but he doesn’t approach them. Gerard can see the hints of a smile around the corners of Grant’s mouth, but they play it cool and just get off the elevator on Gerard’s floor.

Gerard is good; he only fumbles his key card once. And then they’re through the door, and it’s closed behind him, and that is fucking it. He pushes Grant against the wall and kisses him like he’s been wanting to, with tongue and teeth on his bottom lip and hands under his suit jacket.

Grant gasps and pulls him in, letting Gerard press against him, push a knee between his thighs. “Fuck,” Grant moans, hands coming up to cup Gerard’s ass.

Gerard rolls his hips against Grant’s and tugs his shirt out of his trousers. He kisses him hard, like he’s never going to stop. (He might never stop.) Grant tries to get Gerard’s jacket off of him but they’re both all fumbling hands, so eventually they pull apart. “Fuck,” Gerard gasps, panting into the hollow of Grant’s throat.

“My thoughts exactly,” Grant murmurs. “Gerard, let me undress you.”

“I get to return the favor,” Gerard says, firmly.

“Of course,” Grant replies.

Gerard reaches up to slide Grant’s suit jacket off his shoulders. “You always look so good in these,” he murmurs. “I always thought so.”

“Always?” Grant asks softly.

“I’ve been attracted to you since the first time I saw you,” Gerard says.

“When was that?” Grant asks, helping Gerard with his cuff links.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Gerard murmurs. “Long time. First time I saw you in person was while you were writing The Invisibles. I was an intern at DC and you came in wearing the full King Mob deal. It was fucking amazing,” Gerard explains.

Grant’s cheeks go pink. “That was so long ago.”

“Didn’t matter. Doesn’t. You’re fucking gorgeous, Grant.”

“I liked going into the offices feeling like I was king of the world,” Grant confesses with a smile. Gerard starts working on the buttons of his dress shirt.

“I’m pretty sure you still are,” Gerard murmurs. He leans in to kiss Grant’s chest as it’s exposed.

“You make me feel like it,” Grant says softly.

Gerard lifts his face to smile at Grant. Grant puts his hands in Gerard’s hair and leans in to kiss him again. Less frantic this time, but soft and fucking intense. When he breaks it off, he tries again and this time Gerard stands docilely while Grant strips off his jacket and shirt. He makes a little involuntary noise when Grant continues on to his jeans.

“Soon, love,” Grant promises, slowly drawing down the zip. Grant pushes his jeans down his thighs and crouches down to take off his shoes and socks and pull his jeans the rest of the way off. He kisses Gerard’s thigh, and Gerard whimpers a bit and tugs at his shoulders.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Gerard murmurs.

Grant slides his hands over Gerard’s shoulders and down his chest. “You are so fucking beautiful,” Grant murmurs.

“I, I -”

“You know you are,” Grant adds softly. “You’re used to people looking at you.”

“Not when they’re you,” Gerard gasps.

“I intend to give you plenty of time to get used to it,” Grant promises.

Gerard smiles. He feels weirdly shy and he fucking knows he’s blushing. He takes a breath and tugs Grant back until they get to the bed. He sits and puts his hands to Grant’s button and zip. Finally.

Grant bends down to bite at Gerard’s ear, gently. Gerard gasps. He takes a breath and pulls Grant’s pants down. Grant toes his shoes off and steps out of them. He sits on the bed next to Gerard and peels off his socks. He’s completely unhurried about it all, and Gerard is so nervous he can feel his pulse in his throat.

“Hey,” Grant murmurs, tugging Gerard up towards the pillows. “Come here, love.” Gerard settles into his arms. His skin is warm and he’s looking at Gerard in a way that makes him swallow hard. “I’m nervous too,” Grant tells him. “I’d never even thought to imagine this.”

“I’m so fucking glad we’re here,” Gerard says, hiding the words in the skin of Grant’s throat. Grant strokes Gerard’s hair behind his ear and slides his hand down to cup his shoulder. Gerard presses his lips to the underside of Grant’s jaw.

Grant hums and slides his hand up and down Gerard’s arm, then pulls Gerard on top of himself. Their cocks line up, and both of them moan. Gerard wants their briefs off right the fuck now, but he doesn’t want to move. He settles for rolling his hips against Grant’s and sucking at the base of his neck, just below his collar line.

“You ought to make it higher,” Grant rumbles. “So I can walk around knowing everyone is wondering who’s been giving me lovebites.”

“Exhibitionist,” Gerard murmurs.

“Glass-” Grant begins, but Gerard bites him a little harder and he trails off on a moan. Gerard would smile if he weren’t so busy sucking a hickey into Grant’s neck. Well above the collar line. He can’t deny he likes the thought of people wondering who marked Grant like that.

Grant settles his hands onto Gerard’s ass and urges him to keep moving. Not that Gerard needs much in the way of urging.

They move together for a minute and then Gerard pulls himself away. He gets rid of his briefs and reaches for Grant’s. Grant lifts his hips and Gerard slides them down his legs. He can’t help fucking staring, once he gets them down. “Jesus fuck.”

Grant props himself up on his elbows and smirks. “Is this where I ask if you see something you like, love?”

Gerard laughs. “I see many things I like a whole fucking lot.”

“How would you like them?” Grant asks, oh so politely.

“Hmmm,” Gerard murmurs, ducking his head down to mouth along Grant’s chest.

Grant puts his hands in Gerard’s hair. “That’s not an answer, but I’ll take it.”

Gerard gets his lips wrapped around a nipple and sets out to make Grant moan. It doesn’t take long. Grant is gratifyingly vocal, and he twists his fingers lightly in Gerard’s hair to hold him where he is. Gerard keeps licking and sucking. Grant only gives him enough leeway to switch to his other nipple. Gerard is fine with that. He can feel Grant’s cock against his belly. He’s as hard as Gerard is, now. Fuck if Gerard isn’t drooling.

“Have you decided what you want, love?” Grant rasps.

“I wanna suck you,” Gerard replies immediately. He shoots a look up at Grant, who’s smiling. The fingers in Gerard’s hair tighten, then release.

“Whatever you like, love,” Grant says.

“I fucking like,” Gerard replies and moves down Grant’s body. He kisses Grant’s soft stomach and the jut of his hipbone, shifting to take the head of his cock in his mouth.

Grant gasps, head falling back against the pillows. Gerard feels really fucking smug for a moment before taking more of Grant into his mouth. He tastes good and he’s stretching Gerard’s lips just right. This is one thing Gerard knows he’s fucking good at. It’s more gratifying to do this for Grant than it usually is; Grant is gorgeous, flushed, fingertips catching on the sheets.

Gerard brings his hand up to wrap around the base of Grant’s cock. He shifts his hips against the mattress just for a little bit of friction. He could get off on this, easy. He goes down further, taking Grant in until his lips meet his fist.

“Fuck,” Grant moans. “Oh, fuck me, you’re really fucking good at this.”

Gerard presses his tongue against the base of Grant’s cock and squeezes his hip with his free hand. He drops down to mouth gently at his balls, too, then noses back up his shaft to lick along the underside, being deliberately teasing this time. He loves everything about this: the smell, the taste, the feeling of Grant underneath him.

Gerard takes Grant’s cock in his mouth again. This time, he goes down as far as he can, until he’s swallowing around the head of Grant’s cock. He still doesn’t have Grant all the way in. Clearly he’ll have to practice. Gerard is okay with practicing. Repeatedly. He moans quietly, happily, and starts to bob his head.

Grant keeps up a steady stream of encouragement, moaning and swearing and running his hands over Gerard’s hair. Gerard pulls off giggling hoarsely a few moments later. Grant gives him a look that’s half amused, half impatient. “Sorry,” Gerard gasps. “Just. In the comments of one of my interviews, someone asked, ‘Could he be sucking Morrison’s cock more?’”

“At the moment?” Grant drawls. “Yes. With an option on fucking now and getting back to the cocksucking later.”

Gerard licks his lips. “You wanna fuck me, Grant?”

“Fuck, yes. Get the fuck up here,” Grant growls. Gerard grins and takes his time about it, feeling wicked. He wraps his hand around Grant’s cock and strokes. He moves up slowly, kissing his belly, his scar, his chest. When he finally gets to Grant’s mouth, Grant’s eyes are practically black.

Gerard dips his head down to claim a kiss, light and teasing, biting at Grant’s lips until Grant growls again, fisting his hands in Gerard’s hair and pulling him down properly.

Gerard moans against his mouth. “Grant,” he gasps.

“Do you have condoms?” Grant asks.

“I…yes,” Gerard says, turning red. “I brought some.”

Grant chuckles against Gerard’s throat, voice husky when he says, “You were hoping for this, hm? I was, too. So fucking much.”

“I didn’t even know if we’d be attracted to each other or if we’d get along in person. But fuck, I hoped. So much,” Gerard replies.

“Do you date much?” Grant asks, running fingers through Gerard’s hair, rubbing gently at the shaved sides.

“Not for a while,” Gerard admits. His eyes slip shut at the feeling of Grant’s fingers carding through his hair, and he practically has to bite back a croon. Grant clearly notices, because he chuckles again. “For a long while,” Gerard adds. “Meeting people is complicated for me.”

“I understand,” Grant murmurs and leans in for a kiss. “Get me the stuff,” he whispers against Gerard’s lips.

“You’ll have to let me go first,” Gerard reminds him, teasingly.

“I suppose,” Grant replies and gives him another kiss before releasing him. Gerard gets up and grabs the stuff from his suitcase.

Gerard stretches out on his side next to Grant and balances the lube and a condom on Grant’s stomach.

“Oi,” Grant says, frowning down at him.

“What?” Gerard asks innocently.

“Some audience participation, if you please,” Grant replies. Gerard smiles and grabs the condom. He tears open the wrapper and leans up on his elbow to slowly roll it down Grant’s cock. The little noise Grant makes when he does it makes his stomach flip. Gerard grins and presses the lube into Grant’s hand. “Get me ready?”

Grant smiles back and leans down to kiss him. “It would be my pleasure.” He moves down the bed and settles between Gerard’s spread legs. He goes quickly, sinking one slick finger in to the second knuckle and thrusting it at an even pace.

Gerard moans. It feels fucking incredible; “Grant,” he pants.

Grant kisses the top of his thigh and slides a second finger in next to the first. It’s maybe a little fast, but Gerard wants Grant in him.

“Is this-” Grant begins, and Gerard gasps “yes” and rocks back against Grant’s fingers, just in case he’s getting any ideas about stopping or slowing down.

Grant wraps his free hand loosely around Gerard’s cock and crooks his fingers to drag over Gerard’s prostate as he thrusts them.

Gerard moans. “Fuckin’ - more.”

“Whatever you like,” Grant murmurs, and he teases at Gerard’s hole with a third finger. Gerard gasps and writhes, hands clenching in the sheets. “Impatient,” Grant chides, laughing softly as he slides the third finger in beside the first two.

“You have no fucking idea,” Gerard moans. “Fuck. Please.”

Grant moves fast, when he finally decides to move - withdrawing his fingers and pushing Gerard’s thighs apart, only pausing when the head of his cock is snugly pressed against Gerard’s ass.

“Now,” Gerard gasps, grabbing for Grant’s hand and lacing their fingers together. Grant’s other hand finds Gerard’s hip, and Gerard moans loud and long as Grant presses inside of him.

“Gerard,” Grant gasps in his ear. “Oh, fuck.” He sounds undone, but he keeps his hips steady and slow.

“Please, Fox,” Gerard whispers. He feels electric, needy, shaken, as undone as Grant sounds, but there’s one person who can give him what he needs.

Grant chants a low, steady stream of filth into Gerard’s ear, fucking into him over and over again. Gerard arches and writhes and gasps. He’s probably making too much noise, but fuck, he doesn’t give a shit, it feels too good. He wraps his arms around Grant, grips his shoulders instead of the sheets.

“My Danny,” Grant whispers in his ear.

“Yes,” Gerard moans. “Fuck, touch me.”

Grant doesn’t waste a second, hand sliding down from Gerard’s hip to wrap around his cock. Gerard moans and thrusts his hips up into Grant’s hands and then back against his cock.

“That’s it,” Grant rasps, “More. Again. Come for me.”

“Almost there,” Gerard tells him, eyes closing against the wave he can feel building in the pit of his belly. They keep moving. Gerard pulls Grant’s head down for a desperate kiss just as he starts to come. He moans into Grant’s mouth, fingers tightening, and Grant speeds up his thrusts, sloppy and desperate.

Gerard doesn’t have any more words; he just moans, over and over, riding the aftershocks of his own orgasm and panting against Grant’s lips. Grant thrusts hard one last time and comes, moans muffled against Gerard’s mouth.

Gerard chases his tongue, kisses him until neither of them can breathe, until Grant is slumped heavily over him.

“Darling,” Grant murmurs in his ear, tightening his arms around Gerard’s waist. Gerard swallows and tightens one arm around Grant and slides a hand up to cup the back of Grant’s head. His body is humming, spent. In awe of what just happened.

They lie together for long moments. Gerard takes a deep breath, and then another. He turns his head and presses his lips to Grant’s cheek. “God,” he mumbles.

“Not last time I checked,” Grant jokes.

Gerard huffs out a laugh against Grant’s shoulder. This is Fox in his arms. Grant. It’s blowing his mind a little bit.

“This would have to happen the busiest weekend of the year,” he sighs.

Grant is quiet for a moment. Then he says, a bit hesitantly, “I… had been thinking. About perhaps not returning immediately to Scotland, after the convention.”

“Wanna come back to Portland with me?” Gerard asks. “I bet you’d like it.”

“I’d love to. Want to come to LA with me first? Just to visit a few people I rarely see.”

“Definitely,” Gerard says, pressing a kiss to the nearest bit of Grant he can reach. “You get to tell Scott, though.”

Grant laughs. “I can do that. I feel like he won’t find me particularly intimidating, though. Unless you’re using me as a shield?”

“No, I just like to render him speechless as often as possible,” Gerard laughs, then gasps as Grant shifts and pulls out. He retreats to the bathroom and comes back in a moment with a damp washcloth.

Gerard hums, pleased at the attention, but it’s nothing compared to how good it feels when Grant climbs back into bed and wraps Gerard in his arms again. “I feel really fucking lucky right now,” Gerard tells him.

“So do I,” Grant replies.

Gerard grins, and Grant bends down to press a kiss against his lips, and they kiss and kiss until Gerard’s eyes are drooping closed. He falls asleep warm and comfortable, with Grant’s lips pressed against his cheek.

Grant wakes to the immensely irritating sound of his alarm and is groggily confused to find someone in bed with him. Having stolen all the covers, no less. He fumbles for the telephone and turns off the alarm. When he looks over at the pile of blankets at the other side of the bed, he finds a pair of sleep-bleary eyes blinking at him.

“You stole all the blankets,” Grant says. “I have a vision of my future and it includes a lot of me waking up freezing.”

Gerard makes a grumbly noise, but rolls toward Grant with his arm up, blankets in hand. Grant meets him in the middle and Gerard wraps the blankets over his shoulders and snuggles against his chest. “Sorry,” he breathes against Grant’s skin.

“I’m just pleased to wake up with you,” Grant tells him.

“Me fucking too,” Gerard says, smiling at him. Grant feels warm in a way that has very little to do with the blankets. Grant wraps his arms around Gerard and kisses his temple. He thinks waking up cold because Gerard has stolen the covers might be the best possible future. “What time is it anyway?” Gerard mutters.

“Earlier than either of us are given to rising,” Grant tells him. “But the press never sleep, it seems. I’ve an interview in an hour.”

“Ugh,” Gerard mutters.

“It was as late as I could book it, too,” Grant says with a sigh. “You can go back to sleep if you like.”

“No, I have to get to the convention center too.” Gerard stretches and drapes himself more fully over Grant.

Grant laughs. “This isn’t terribly conducive to me getting up, love.”

Gerard sighs heavily. “Ugh,” he repeats.

“I promise to make it up to you,” Grant murmurs.

“I like the sound of that,” Gerard tells his neck.

They lie there together for a few minutes more, just breathing. “It’s fucking weird not to be checking my phone right now,” Gerard laughs.

Grant laughs. “Did I tell you I bought a smartphone for you? I didn’t have a mobile at all until just before I went to London.”

“For me?” Gerard repeats.

“Because I couldn’t stand the thought of missing any of your messages,” Grant confirms.

Gerard beams at him. “I was horrible. Scott threatened to confiscate my phone every time I was at Dark Horse for meetings, because he could always tell I was itching to check my texts.”

Grant laughs. “The lads in London gave me so much shit. Especially since they knew I didn’t have a mobile previously. Kristan, too.”

Gerard looks at him curiously for a moment, before comprehension dawns. “Your ex. The good one.”

He nods. “She used to handle everything that could possibly require a mobile. I resisted getting one myself for a very long time.” “What happened with her?”

Grant is quiet for a moment, thinking. “I…was too much of a workaholic for her, I think. When it came down to it. We had other problems, but if I’d been able to pull away from work more often, I think those other things would have been bearable for her,” Grant explains. “Sadly, not much has changed.” Grant frowns a bit.

“Hey,” Gerard says, wriggling so they’re face to face. “You talked to me pretty much all day every day for months,” Gerard reminds him. Grant smiles and kisses the tip of his nose. “You’re right,” he whispers. He has no idea what this thing that he and Gerard have been building together is going to become, but it already feels so fucking strong. Like maybe they’ll be able to sort it out, between the two of them. He leans up to kiss Gerard. He forces himself to keep it brief, but it’s difficult. “I’ve got to shower and dress and get moving.”

Gerard takes a deep breath, fingertips gentle against the back of Grant’s skull, pulling their foreheads together. “If we have any matching free time, we should meet in the VIP lounge,” Gerard suggests.

“I’ll text you whenever I do,” Grant promises, giving him a kiss he intends to be quick. Naturally, it doesn’t work out that way. Both of them groan when they finally pull apart. Grant forces himself to pull away and get out of bed. He wants to do anything but. He pulls on his clothes and checks his pockets to make sure he has everything. “Talk to you later,” he murmurs.

“Definitely,” Gerard says. He presses his finger to the mark he’d left on Grant’s neck the night before, grinning when Grant hisses a little bit. “Get out of here,” Gerard tells him. “Knock ’em dead at the interview.”

Grant smiles. “I shall do my best.” He heads back to his own room to change with a spring in his step. He needs a Red Bull and something to eat, but he feels shockingly good.

He has to laugh when he gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror in his own room. Gerard hadn’t been at all subtle. He’s not going to have time to shave, but that’s all right. Kissing Gerard was entirely more important. He showers quickly and dresses. Nice suit, stubbly face, that’s just what people get today. He’s going to get plenty of shit from the people who know him, and that’s fine. He’ll take it gladly, knowing what he’s getting in exchange.

And really, gloating to his friends about his hot young boyfriend is not outside the realm of possibility. Boyfriend. Fuck, that’s amazing. He grabs his phone and types out, Can’t stop fucking grinning.

It takes a minute for Gerard to respond. I’m gonna look like an idiot all day. I don’t even care.

Same, but. The idiot who has you has the last laugh, Grant replies.

He arrives at the interview green room with ten minutes to spare, and sends up a prayer of thanks to whatever gods watch over the comics industry that someone’s thought to provide energy drinks. He guzzles one down and cracks open another for sipping and sits where he’s meant to sit.

“You’re early,” the interviewer, an old friend, says when he arrives. “Kudos, Grant.”

Grant raises his energy drink in salute. He sits down and they start. Grant’s happy, so his answers tend to reflect his mood. He walks through everything he has going on right now - his comics, the documentary, writing his book - and the last question is, “What are you most looking forward to this weekend?”

Grant laughs. “Honestly? Spending time with friends.”

His friend’s eyes light on the hickey and he lifts an eyebrow. “Friends, eh?”

“Good friends. Amazing friends. It’s been too long.”

“Enjoy,” the interviewer concludes with a laugh.

“I shall,” Grant says, grinning privately to himself. They shake hands and Grant gets up. He checks his schedule. He has another interview soon and a meeting a little after that.

He has enough time to grab a breakfast sandwich and text Gerard. Suspect I smiled like an idiot for the whole of that little chat. Good thing it’s a print interview.

Haha. Had a breakfast meeting with Gabriel. He gave me so much fucking shit.

I’ll be in the building at eleven.

Dammit, I’ve got an interview at eleven, Gerard replies.

Grant has to laugh. And I have a panel at noon. And a signing at two.

I’ll come to the end of your signing and bring coffee, Gerard offers.

Sounds perfect, Grant replies. I shall see you then. He tucks away his phone, grinning to himself. Because fuck, he will. He’s spent months wishing that he could meet Danny face to face, and now… now he gets Gerard.

He’s never fucking going to stop grinning about that. Not ever. Gerard is worth every giddy grin.

His second interview goes well–the interviewer is a sweet kid, clearly a bit starstruck and too worried about being professional to make any comments about Grant’s appearance. He gets a coffee before heading to his panel. It’s a fun time and there are lots of good questions in the Q&A portion.

Dan DiDio is waiting in the wings when he finishes. “Grant,” says Dan, holding out his hand. “Caught the end of your panel; good stuff. You’re getting them excited.”

Grant smiles and hopes Dan can’t tell how very little Grant wants to talk to him. “All in a day’s work,” he says.

“I’d like to steal you before your signing,” Dan says.

Grant winces internally; he’d been hoping to avoid such a fate. But he’s not stupid, so he says, “I have some time,” and allows Dan to lead him off. He thinks of Gerard who will be waiting for him later and squares his shoulders.

Trapped in meeting with boss, help, he texts.

Weirdly, now that I know you mean Dan DiDio, that’s even more terrifying, Gerard sends back.

Sigh. Grant replies and turns his attention to Dan. This would be so much easier with caffeine. Thankfully, he’s able to charm a runner outside the meeting room that Dan leads him to into bringing him a Red Bull.

The meeting isn’t as bad as Grant fears, but it’s still a meeting with Dan. Luckily he has a good excuse to escape, and signings are something he truly enjoys.

He always loses track of time during signings, so it’s a surprise when he looks up to see Gerard smiling softly at him, holding two Starbucks cups. Mehdi is standing, arms crossed, a couple of feet back. A few people seem to recognize that Gerard is someone, but most of the ten or so people left in his line don’t notice him.

He waves Gerard over, but Gerard shakes his head and stays back, going over to mutter something to Mehdi. The next person in line steps up, and Grant gets caught up in talking with her.

The last person in line is a sweet girl who talks about how much she loves Doom Patrol. She keeps glancing over Grant’s shoulder.

“Are you an MCR fan?” Grant asks her.

“I- yeah,” she admits, blushing a little.

“Oi,” Grant calls over his shoulder. “Get your arse over here.” Gerard grins at him, hands off the coffee to Mehdi, and walks toward them. “I think this young lady wants to say hello to you, love,” he says. “And she’s waited all this time -” he nods to the guy running his line, who moves the stanchions to close the queue, “so.”

“It’s fine,” Gerard says. “Hi.”

The young woman looks more than a little bit starstruck. “Hi,” she replies shyly. Gerard sticks out his hand to shake hers. She glances between him and Grant. “I. Um. I read Doom Patrol because you said in an interview a few years ago that it was a big influence.” Gerard grins and Grant knows his face looks similar.

“Look at you, getting me new readers before we ever met.”

“Which you deserve,” Gerard replies. “It’s great to meet you. Did you -”

She blushes and rummages in her bag. “I didn’t get a ticket for your signing. Maybe you can sign this?” She flips open a sketch book to a page of characters Grant recognizes from Umbrella Academy.

Gerard’s face lights up. “Fuck, these are awesome! Did you do these?” Her blush deepens and she nods. “Damn, they’re amazing,” Gerard gushes. They are, Grant thinks. He’s fairly certain Gerard would be genuinely enthusiastic no matter what, though.

Gerard scrawls a little note and his signature, giving the girl an encouraging smile. She squeaks her thanks and lets a staffer escort her out of the booth. Grant turns to Gerard. “Well, then.” Mehdi walks over with the promised coffee, which Grant accepts gratefully.

“So, how long do we have?” Gerard asks and bites his lip. Grant takes a sip of coffee, pulls his phone out of his pocket, and opens the calendar app.

“Hour and a half?” Grant hazards.

“I’ll take it,” Gerard announces.

Grant grins at him. “Have you eaten anything? We could have lunch somewhere.”

“Yes, that’s…perfect.” Gerard beams at him like he’s the best thing in the world, and Grant feels a great deal of sympathy for the girl from before. He’s feeling a bit starstruck, himself. He only just stops himself from taking Gerard’s hand right there in the middle of the DC booth.

“Let’s go, then. Tacos again?” he asks with a wink.

“We are in SoCal,” Gerard comments. “Mehdi?”

“I’ll let you two have your alone time,” Mehdi says, dryly.

Gerard rolls his eyes. “So basically your answer is, ‘Take a fucking cab and text me on your way back?’”

“Also, don’t fall in the harbor,” Mehdi says. “Does that cover it?” He leads them to the cab stand. Before he tucks them away in one of the waiting cabs, Gerard hugs him, and he laughs and pats Gerard on the shoulder. “I love you too, Way. Remember what I said about the harbor.”

“I’ll keep him from the water,” Grant promises with a grin.

Gerard’s hand finds his as soon as the cab starts moving. “Kidnapped by the boss, huh?” Gerard asks, a grin in his voice.

“Yes,” Grant replies with a sigh. “It wasn’t actually bad. Partly because he just wanted to re-hash some things I already knew.”

“How exciting.” Gerard runs a hand through his hair. “Am I glad I never followed through with my Batman pitch?”

“Batman pitch?” Grant asks, curiously. Gerard blushes a little, and that’s their conversation for the rest of the cab ride sorted out.

“I want to fucking see everything you’ve got,” Grant says.

“When we get to Portland,” Gerard promises.

“I’ll remember,” Grant tells him.

Grant has to kiss him, then, though he keeps it light in deference to their cab driver. He squeezes Gerard’s hand as he pulls away. He can’t remember a time he felt this happy. Happy down in his bones. Happy to steal this ninety minutes out of a busy day.

They find yet another Mexican restaurant. “Do you have dinner plans?” Gerard asks, as they look over the menus. “A bunch of friends are getting together, if you want to join.”

“I’d like that,” Grant replies with a smile. He wants to meet all of Gerard’s friends. “And I have another party invite after, if you -”

“I think I’d probably enjoy it, as long as you’d be there,” Gerard says, thoughtfully. “And… as long as we didn’t have to stay too long.” The look he gives Grant over the top of his menu sends a flare of heat straight to Grant’s belly.

“I’ll be there and we can leave early,” Grant tells him. He even manages to keep his voice steady.

“Deal, then,” Gerard says with a grin.

Really, it’s probably for the best that they only have a limited amount of time for lunch. If Grant had his way, he’d be taking Gerard straight back to one of their rooms.

Grant busies himself with the chips and salsa for a moment to distract himself from his thoughts. Then Gerard nudges his foot under the table. “Your face right now…”

Grant grins ruefully. “Can you blame me, love?”

Gerard giggles his slightly croaky smoker’s giggle. “Not really.”

“Tease,” Grant says.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Gerard says, voice pitched low. “I promise I’m good for it.”

Grant swallows. “Thank the gods for that.”

“I still think I am the lucky one,” Gerard adds.

“I think we can share the title,” Grant says, reaching across the table to lace their fingers together. Gerard smiles at him and it takes Grant’s breath away. The moment is interrupted by their waiter, but that’s probably a good thing.

They get to talking about electronic music over lunch, which is sufficiently distracting. All too soon, it’s time to start heading back. Gerard calls a cab as Grant takes care of the bill.

As they ride back, Gerard leans against his side. “I’m glad we could do this. It’s like a little island of sanity in the middle of everything.”

“You’ve always been that to me,” Grant tells him. “Since that first day, on the message board. My light in the darkness.” Grant laughs a little, remembering. He tightens his arm around Gerard’s shoulder and kisses his temple.

“I’m glad,” Gerard says. “You’ve helped me too. So fucking much.” He tips his head against Grant’s shoulder. Grant lets his eyes close, just for a moment. Just to savor this feeling.

Gerard meets him in the lobby for the party looking every inch the rock star he is, from the leather jacket right down to the combat-style boots. Grant is no stranger to tight jeans, but Gerard puts him to shame. And is clearly enjoying Grant’s once-over.

“Ready?” asks Gerard, grinning and bouncing on his toes. Against the all-black background of his clothing, his hair stands out even more.

Grant laughs and takes Gerard’s hand. “As I’ll ever be. Let’s go.”

Dinner with Gerard’s friends had been pleasant. Low-key after a long day. Gerard hadn’t been at all subtle about their relationship, this time, and they’d received their share of good-natured teasing. Grant enjoyed every moment, if he’s being honest. He had Gerard, after all. And he’s going to enjoy showing up to this party with Gerard on his arm as well, even though the gossipmongers will be out in force. He doesn’t much care what the internet thinks about this. Gerard clearly doesn’t either, which is gratifying, even if Gerard refuses to believe he’s a bigger celebrity than Grant will ever be.

There’s actually a red carpet at this one, which Grant finds hilarious since he’s still unshaven and sporting a massive hickey. As they approach, he can feel the shift in the way Gerard is carrying himself. His shoulders move back, his chin lifts. There’s an air of defiance about him. It’s still his Gerard, just…amplified.

It’s really fascinating. Grant regrets never seeing him perform live.

Grant leans over to press his lips against Gerard’s ear. “After this, I’m going to take you back to my hotel room and suck you off until you beg.”

He can hear Gerard swallow. Gerard’s stride transforms into a cocky swagger after that. Grant watches him pose for the obligatory photo op with appreciation. Tonight is going to be an exercise in patience. He’s grateful he already promised Gerard they could leave early.

Gerard is watching him back with a very similar look on his face. It’s almost a relief when he hears, “Grant! Oh, and Gerard, too!” and turns to see Phil and Jim waving them over.

Grant grins. He always loves seeing Phil. The look Phil gives him when he spots his and Gerard’s linked hands is pretty great too.

“Look at you,” Phil murmurs. Grant squeezes Gerard’s hand and grins. “I’m not crazy thinking this is pretty new, right?” Phil asks.

“This is the first time we’ve met in person,” Grant says, quirking an eyebrow at Gerard, “but we’ve been friends for a while.”

Jim looks confused. “I thought– last night, you said you hadn’t met him before. You were so embarrassed!” he says, pointing an accusing finger at Gerard.

Gerard grins. “We hadn’t. We, uh, just found out it was each other we’d been talking to this whole time. It’s pretty wild.”

“Oh my god,” Phil says. “That is fucking adorable.”

“Not a word, Philip,” Grant says. “Or you, Lee.”

“Technically, I’m your boss, you know,” Jim points out.

Grant scowls, but he’s having a hard time summoning up very much irritation. Gerard is laughing in Grant’s ear, tucked against his side like the spot was made for him. Phil just grins at him. “I’m happy for you, Grant. You deserve it.”

“So does Mr. Rockstar,” Jim adds with a smile. Gerard huffs, but he’s clearly pleased.

Jim wanders off and Phil sidles up closer. “No, but seriously. Tell me how this happened.”

Grant laughs. “Like Gerard said.”

Phil gapes at them, and Gerard laughs again, hiding his giggles in Grant’s shoulder. “We are never going to live this down,” he says.

“Seriously, it was…we met in a comics forum because I was in an awful mood and wanted somewhere to direct my anger,” Grant explains. He has a feeling he’ll be explaining this a lot as time goes on. Phil shakes his head and tsks. “I know! And Gerard being brilliant saved me from looking like an arse - more like an arse - and he’s been brilliant ever since.”

“And Grant was fucking smart, and he got into arguments with me about Britpop at three in the morning,” Gerard picks up.

Phil grins. “His three or your three?” They all laugh.

“Both, sometimes,” Gerard replies. “Grant thinks it was fate,” he adds matter-of-factly.

“He would,” Phil replies, eyes twinkling. Grant just inclines his head, because, well. Fate might not be exactly the right word, but it’ll do. And anyway, he’s pretty sure Gerard agrees, so that’ll do too.

“What else? Tell me all the dirt,” Phil says.

“No dirt,” Grant insists.

“None,” Gerard agrees, his best angelic expression firmly in place. Phil raises an eyebrow, like he doesn’t believe them for a second.

He doesn’t have to look at Gerard to know he has a smirk on his face.

“Fine, you two can be the mystery power couple,” Phil sighs.

They get into a discussion about the con, and eventually a few other people Grant knows join up with them. It’s a good party; Grant is enjoying himself. The last party he’d attended had been Warren’s, and he’d desperately wanted Gerard to be with him. Now Gerard is and it’s exactly as wonderful as Grant expected it would be.

At ten o’clock, Grant’s phone tinkles with its annoying little alarm. Grant looks at Gerard. “Is this your doing, love?” Gerard grins at him slyly. It’s one of the most appealing things that Grant has ever seen. “Time to make our excuses, then,” he murmurs.

It’s easy enough to escape; everyone is either drunk or tired or both. This time, there’s no one in the elevator. Gerard doesn’t waste any time; he pins Grant to the wall and kisses the fuck out of him.

Grant wraps his arms around Gerard’s shoulders and kisses him back.

“You should be illegal, with the suits and the hands and the accent and the jokes,” Gerard pants against his lips.

“You should talk,” Grant growls. “Your fucking jacket, your fucking hair, your fucking hips, I could hardly fucking take my eyes off of you.”

Gerard smirks. “That was the point.”

The elevator dings and Grant steers him out the door, hands tight on his fucking hips. He leads them down the hallway and to the door to his room. He has to let go of Gerard to fumble for his key card. It takes three tries to get the door open. When they get in and the door closes behind them, Grant presses Gerard back against the door.

“This is so much better,” he murmurs against Gerard’s neck.

“Grant,” Gerard gasps. He tilts his head up, so Grant has more skin to work with.

Grant slides his hands under Gerard’s shirt and sucks just under his jaw. “Did you spend the day thinking about this? I did,” he says.

“Fuck, yes,” Gerard pants.

Grant sucks a little harder, just to hear the breathy little moans that Gerard can’t quite bite back. He moves one hand to the warm skin on the small of Gerard’s back and one up into his hair. “I don’t know if I have the patience to get us to the bed,” Grant admits.

“Fine by me.” Gerard curves a hand around the back of Grant’s skull and pulls him in for another kiss.

Grant blindly reaches for the button of his jeans and manages to get them undone. He reaches into Gerard’s fly immediately, finding tight cotton and the hot ridge of Gerard’s cock.

Gerard gasps into his mouth. “You gonna- ah- you gonna make good on your big promises, Fox? Gonna suck me?”

“Absolutely,” Grant replies with a smile and sinks to his knees at Gerard’s feet. Gerard’s fingers are hot and gentle on his head. Grant bends down and mouths at the shape of Gerard’s cock through his briefs.

“Fuck,” Gerard whispers. Grant tugs Gerard’s briefs down and pulls his cock out. He looks up. Gerard’s watching him with an expression of astonishment and hunger together. Grant wraps his hand around the base and slides his tongue over the head. “Fuck,” Gerard moans, low, filthy, sliding down Grant’s spine. “Oh fuck.”

Grant would answer if he could. But Gerard has voice enough for both of them.

He laves his tongue up and down all around Gerard’s cock and strokes the shaft a few times as he sucks on the head. Gerard is gratifyingly forward about telling Grant what he wants, and Grant is more than happy to comply. He’s good at following direction, even if he’s normally the one scripting.

Gerard wants more of his mouth and Grant gives it to him, taking his hand away and sinking further down, until the head of Gerard’s cock nudges the back of his throat. Grant feels Gerard’s hips twitch, and he can feel Gerard trembling, holding himself back. He rubs with his thumbs along the cut of Gerard’s hips. He looks up at Gerard and starts moving his mouth back and forth, pulling Gerard’s hips toward him every time until Gerard gets the idea and starts thrusting.

“Oh my fucking fuck,” Gerard moans.

Grant keeps rubbing his hipbones and lets his mouth go soft. Gerard finally lets go completely and starts fucking his mouth. Grant moans around him.

Even now, though, Gerard hasn’t lost his words. He’s panting, swearing, murmuring praise and instruction and nonsense alike. Through it all, he keeps his fingers gentle on the curve of Grant’s skull. It’s the sweetest fucking thing Grant has ever felt. He’s slumped back against the door, barely holding himself up. Grant closes his eyes, focuses on his lips and tongue, on the noises Gerard is making. On the way Gerard is gasping his name like it’s a fucking prayer. He tastes and feels like he’s close, so close.

Grant keeps sucking, keeps swallowing around Gerard’s cock. He moans again.

“Please, please, please,” Gerard gasps. “Just- I’m so fucking close- Grant, please, fuck-”

Grant leans as close as he can, tugs and strokes the skin behind his bollocks. Gerard shudders and moans loud. His hips stutter and he starts to come. Grant pulls off just far enough to swallow, letting Gerard completely overwhelm his senses.

He leans his forehead against Gerard’s stomach. Gerard’s fingers gently slide to his cheek and he tips Grant’s face up. The expression on Gerard’s face… if Grant’s breath wasn’t already coming in quick gasps, that expression would do it. Its a dangerous business being someone’s idol. But this is more than that. For them both.

They’re friends. Amazing fucking friends, first and foremost. He turns his head to kiss Gerard’s palm.

“Grant,” Gerard murmurs, softly. “Come up here.”

“You might need to give me a hand up,” Grant laughs softly.

Gerard smiles and holds out his hands. Grant puts his in Gerard’s and stands with a bit of assistance from Gerard, who tugs Grant into his arms.

Grant tips their foreheads together. “How are you so fucking perfect?” he asks.

“You ought to turn that question on yourself,” Gerard tells him breathlessly. Grant smiles and kisses him. Gerard wraps a hand around the back of his neck. “What can I do for you?” he whispers.

“I think I want those clever hands of yours,” Grant tells him.

“Do you want the bed first?” Gerard asks.

Grant laughs. “Probably best for my old knees.”

Gerard huffs at him, rolling his eyes. “Fuck you, old.”

“Sufficiently,” Grant answers.

“Whatever,” Gerard says. Grant laughs, kisses him, and then starts shedding clothing. Gerard follows suit, shrugging off his jacket and bending down to kick off his boots. Grant finds himself distracted enough by the sight that he pauses in the middle of unfastening a cuff link.

“No, go on,” he murmurs when Gerard notices.

Gerard smiles and keeps going, pulling his shirt over his head and moves to get rid of his jeans completely. He has to shimmy a little to get them down his thighs, even after several hours of wear. Grant wants to lick the red marks on his belly and thighs.

He’s fucking gorgeous, flushed and radiant. Grant wants to get him on the bed and then never let him leave it. And he’s staring at Grant, looking challenging and making a little hurry-up gesture. Grant smirks and continues taking off his shirt, then his trousers. He gets rid of his shoes and then he’s standing in front of Gerard in just his briefs, his hard cock an obvious shape against the cotton.

“Enough?” he asks.

“Just about,” Gerard says, gesturing him to the bed. Gerard is close behind him and rubs a hand over the front of his briefs. Grant moans. Gerard tugs the elastic down over his cock. He hums appreciatively, wrapping his fingers around Grant’s cock and giving it a few leisurely strokes.

“Impatient,” Grant manages, though fuck, it feels good.

“You’ve been very patient, I think,” Gerard tells him. Grant moans and Gerard rubs his thumb over the head of Grant’s cock and kisses his shoulder. “Bed,” he murmurs. “C’mon. Gonna put my hands all over you, baby.”

“So glad you can,” Grant tells him, shoving his briefs off and tossing the covers to the foot. Gerard crawls onto the bed after him and leans in to kiss him as he wraps his hand around Grant’s cock again.

Grant tangles one hand in Gerard’s ridiculous hair and kisses back. He closes his eyes and arches into Gerard’s hand. He loves the feel. Loves that Gerard keeps his hand firm, even if he’s going torturously slow. Loves the way Gerard kisses him like Grant is the only thing there is.

Gerard is the best thing there is. This he knows.

Gerard kisses down his neck, sucks the mark he made, and then down Grant’s chest to suck on his nipple. Grant hums, arching up into Gerard’s mouth. His eyelids are heavy, his skin humming. Gerard keeps stroking his cock. He’s speeding up by increments and Grant is torn between begging him to speed up more and not wanting it to end.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, all spread out for me like this,” Gerard murmurs. “Everybody gets to see you in those perfect fucking suits, but I get you like this. I’m the luckiest motherfucker on the planet.”

“Are you?” Grant murmurs, running his fingers through Gerard’s hair.

“Yeah, I fucking am,” Gerard replies. “So fucking lucky.”

Grant bites his lip and squeezes his eyes closed against the look in Gerard’s eyes, trying to to hold out a little while longer against the feeling gathering in the pit of his belly. He’s breathing hard, and Gerard kisses lightly along his shoulder.

“Gerard,” he breathes. “Oh fuck.” He thrusts up into Gerard’s head.

“That’s it,” Gerard murmurs, scraping his teeth against the hollow of Grant’s throat. “C’mon. Come for me.”

Grant rasps in a breath and calls Gerard’s name. He comes with a final thrust into Gerard’s hand. Gerard kisses him, and keeps on jacking him until Grant is completely spent.

Grant lets himself slump into the mattress and kisses back. He can hardly breathe but he doesn’t want to stop kissing Gerard.

“You are- the very best thing,” Gerard murmurs, between kisses. He’s breathless, too. He’s so beautiful. Grant slides his fingers into Gerard’s hair and pulls his forehead to Grant’s.

“Gerard,” Grant breathes. There are a hundred things he wants to say, but his ability to form words is… somewhere else, at the moment. So he just says, “Gerard,” again, hoping that his voice conveys what he means.

Gerard curls up against him and kisses his cheek. They lie there together for a long while. Grant thinks he could probably spend the rest of his life exactly like this.

“Danny,” he says contentedly.

“Fox,” Gerard returns, a smile in his eyes. His lips twitch, and finally he can’t quite hold back any longer and starts giggling.

“What?” Grant asks, when Gerard buries his laughter in Grant’s chest. Grant smiles at the top of Gerard’s head and strokes his shoulders as he laughs. Finally Gerard sighs and kisses Grant’s sternum.

“Just,” he manages, “I can’t fucking believe this, you know? That- that I met you on a fucking message board. You should be a serial killer.”

He smiles and slides his hand up to cup Gerard’s cheek. “And you should be sixteen with spots. And yet here we are in this magical world where neither of those things is true.”

“I like it here,” Gerard says with a contented grin.

“So do I,” Grant agrees, leaning in to kiss Gerard again. They trade sweet, sleepy kisses until Grant can feel himself falling asleep. “We should clean up a bit,” he murmurs.

Gerard murmurs assent and rolls out of bed. He takes care of them both quickly and insinuates himself back into Grant’s arms. Grant doesn’t resist for a moment. Tomorrow is another ridiculously busy day at Comic Con. There will be interviews, and meetings, and one last panel– a signing, and plenty of chances to talk with people who’ve connected with his work. Connecting with old friends. The Eisners. And he’s looking forward to it all, despite the fact that a large part of him would rather stay right here in this bed with Gerard all day.

They’ll have time for that later, he supposes. There will be LA and then Portland after that. Then who knows where the winds will take them.

He’s already hoping it will be somewhere together. Maybe it’s a bit mad, but then, nothing about this whole thing has been anything else. It’s worked out anyway. Grant has a good feeling that the rest is going to sort itself out.

He’s looking forward to seeing exactly how it does sort itself out.

Six Months Later

“Wake up, love,” Gerard hears, then a kiss lands just below his ear. Gerard hums in appreciation, but doesn’t open his eyes just yet.

A moment later, he hears Grant’s soft laugh. He runs a hand over Gerard’s chest and tangles their legs together. Gerard smiles and turns his face back for a kiss, but he still doesn’t open his eyes.

“Are we doing the thing where you think you can ignore that it’s morning if you don’t open your eyes?” Grant murmurs in his ear.

“Are we doing the thing where you’re a freakish morning person?” Gerard mumbles, reaching up to cup Grant’s cheek.

“Time zones, love,” Grant says; the same excuse he’s been using since he arrived back in Portland three days ago.

“Whatever,” Gerard mutters and turns in Grant’s arms. Grant cups his cheeks and leans in to kiss him.

“I missed you so much,” Grant tells him.

“Missed you more.” Gerard finally opens his eyes. “There you are.” Grant kisses him again, soft and sweet. Gerard sinks into it, wrapping an arm over Grant’s waist. “It was lonely,” he says eventually. “And wet. And I ate my body weight in donuts.”

Grant laughs into the skin of his throat. “Scotland was just as lonely. And, I think, equally wet, and I had no donuts to comfort me. Next time I go back, you’re coming with me. I’m kidnapping you if I must. Scott will have to understand.”

Gerard smiles. “I think Scott mostly wants to make sure I’m being looked after by someone.”

“I will always volunteer,” Grant says, nuzzling him.

“I like the sound of that,” Gerard replies, grinning. He pulls Grant in for another series of slow, warm kisses.

Grant kisses back happily, slides his hands down to cup Gerard’s bare ass. Gerard wriggles closer and their hips press together. Grant was fucking delighted when he moved in to find out how often Gerard sleeps naked. It works out pretty well for both of them, though. “Good morning, Mister Morrison,” Gerard says, laughing into Grant’s mouth and thrusting against his thigh. Grant laughs too, rolls Gerard over onto his back, and slides on top of him. Gerard wraps his arms around Grant’s neck. “When are you going to be sick of waking me up to have your way with me?” Gerard asks him.

“Never,” Grant says, licking a long stripe up Gerard’s chest. “Never, never.”

“Works for me,” Gerard gasps. He rolls his hips up against Grant’s and kisses his neck. Grant hums and tips his chin up. He’s stubbly - they’ve had much better things to do than shave the past three days. Gerard fucking loves the feel of it. He fucking loves Grant.

Grant puts his hands into Gerard’s hair and kisses him briefly, then pulls back to look in his eyes. Gerard takes the time to look back. Just look. Dark eyes, the curves of his skull, the little scar on his cheek. There have been a lot of times, these last six months, that Gerard has been sideswiped all over again by how fucking lucky he is. This is one of them.

“Grant.”

“Yes, love?” Grant murmurs and leans in to kiss him again.

“Nothing, I just - love you. And all that sappy shit.” He closes his eyes as Grant strokes his hair.

“I love you, too,” Grant tells him. His fingers scratch lightly at Gerard’s scalp, and he pushes into the touch like a cat. Fuck, Gerard is glad Grant is back. For a lot of reasons, but the fact that he’s here to touch Gerard like this is a fucking massive plus. “We have brunch with Scott at eleven,” Gerard murmurs. “What do you want to do until then?”

“Hmmm,” Grant rumbles, kissing Gerard’s chest. “I think… I think I want to fuck you again.”

Gerard stretches and smiles. “I could be convinced.”

“Always putting me to work,” Grant sighs, kissing across and up to Gerard’s collarbone. Gerard cups his hand around the back of Grant’s skull and arches up hopefully; Grant laughs and obligingly closes his mouth around one of Gerard’s nipples.

Gerard moans and hooks his ankles over Grant’s legs. Grant moves his hips against Gerard’s.

“How do you want it?” Grant asks him. “Anything you want.”

It’s not a difficult decision, really; Gerard fucking loves lazy morning sex. So he tugs at Grant and rearranges them until they’re on their sides, with Grant spooned up against his back. Grant reaches for the lube and strokes a hand down Gerard’s side. He slicks himself up and rubs his fingers over Gerard’s hole.

“Do you need anything, love?”

“No,” Gerard moans. “Just you.”

“That you can have,” Grant tells him, lining up and pressing in with one slow slide. Gerard sighs in pleasure, moving his hips a little so Grant can slide deeper. Grant presses his hand to the center of Gerard’s chest and Gerard covers Grant’s hand with his.

“Gorgeous,” Grant tells him. He keeps his thrusts short, pulling out and then pushing back in again in a slow, steady rhythm. Gerard moans, because he doesn’t think he’s ever going to get over how fucking good Grant is at this.

Grant’s lips slide against the back of his neck. “So fucking good,” Gerard moans.

“Missed this,” Grant tells him, rocking his hips. He’s so warm against Gerard’s back.

“Missed you,” Gerard gasps. Grant shifts, and it changes the angle of his thrusts just enough to send sparks up Gerard’s spine.

Gerard moans Grant’s name. Grant slides his hand down to Gerard’s hip and grips it tight. Gerard feels constantly smug that he’s the one who gets the benefits of Grant’s fucking incredible cock.

“Good, love?” Grant murmurs, kissing the skin behind Gerard’s ear. “What else do you need? What can I give you?”

“Always good,” Gerard replies. “Just keep going exactly like you are. I’ll…” He trails off and reaches down to take hold of his cock.

Grant makes a little disappointed noise, followed by a gasp as Gerard rolls his hips back hard.

“I’m sure you can- ah- think of other places to touch me,” Gerard teases, breathlessly.

He runs his hand over Gerard’s chest, twists his nipple, then moves it down to Gerard’s hip. All the while he keeps rocking in that same infuriating rhythm.

“I fucking love you,” Gerard says, twisting back to kiss whatever bit of Grant he can reach.

“Love you too,” Grant gasps. “So much.” He kisses back and starts thrusting harder.

Gerard groans and starts jacking himself faster. He can feel his orgasm building, barreling towards him. He squeezes his eyes and lets it wash over him.

Grant moans in his ear and keeps thrusting into him. His fingers dig hard into Gerard’s hip. His lips fasten on the side of Gerard’s neck.

“Grant,” Gerard manages. Now that he’s come, every thrust is sending little sparks of almost-too-much up his spine. “C’mon, c’mon.”

Grant moans again and Gerard feels him come. He grabs Grant’s hand and holds it tight. “Fuck,” he mutters several times against Gerard’s ear.

“Mmmmmm,” Gerard agrees, twisting to find Grant’s lips so he can kiss him. Their fingers lace together and Gerard smiles against Grant’s lips. He fucking loves waking up like this.

Grant pulls out and leans over Gerard, pushes Gerard’s hair out of his face. “Stay here and I’ll go get us coffees.”

“I love you,” Gerard tells him, leaning up for one more kiss before settling happily back against the sheets. He smiles broadly up at his ceiling, then looks at the clock and laughs. Eight fucking AM. “It had better be a big cup of coffee, Mr. Jet Lag,” he calls out to the kitchen.

Grant’s laughter is his only response.

Gerard doesn’t have to wait long for Grant to come back with two huge, steaming mugs of coffee. “At your service, love,” he says, presenting one. Gerard takes it gratefully and sips while Grant slides back beneath the covers, pressing up against Gerard’s side and kissing his temple.

He almost missed this part more than the sex. Missed the coziness, the love. They way they can just be together.

“Sorry it’s so early,” Grant says ruefully.

“S’okay,” Gerard promises, leaning his head against Grant’s shoulder. “I’ll get you back on Portland time soon enough.”

“Very likely. And you have to admit, eight is a rather substantial improvement on five,” Grant says.

“I like to think it’s just because I wore you out last night,” Gerard says matter-of-factly.

“That may have had something to do with it,” Grant allows.

Gerard grins smugly into his coffee. “Good. I worked really fucking hard at it.”

“I could tell,” Grant says, kissing Gerard’s temple.

Since it’s still three hours before they’re set to meet Scott, they linger in bed for a long while. Gerard enjoys every moment. They trade kisses and talk about anything that pops to mind. They still talk all day when they’re apart, but being face to face is so much better.

In a lot of cases, it’s the same conversations they started having over a year ago as Danny and Fox. They just keep thinking of more things to say. And when he calls Grant, Fox, he gets one of Gerard’s very favorite smiles. They’re all favorites, though.

And now he has Grant in his apartment, in his bed. Grant’s spent four out of the past six months in Portland, and they’re working on figuring out the best way for Gerard to come and live with Grant in Scotland for part of the year. Sure, it’s difficult sometimes, because they’re both workaholics who can get lost in their own heads a little too easily. But in spite of that, Gerard is so happy he sometimes feels like he’s going to explode.

“I love you,” he murmurs against Grant’s newly smooth cheek as they get ready to leave for brunch. Grant turns his head and they share a minty kiss. Gerard plucks the keys to his Mini off the hall table and ignores Grant’s fondly mocking look. “Can’t keep Scott waiting, let’s go.”

There’s a line for brunch, because there’s always a line for brunch, but since moving to Portland Gerard has learned to appreciate this as a feature, rather than a bug. He just hunches down in his jacket and leans against Grant, who wraps an arm around him as they talk to Scott. Grant plays with his hair - freshly dyed neon red but not really getting him any more double-takes than anyone else in the crowd - and Gerard practically purrs.

They talk a bit about Killjoys, which is doing better than any of them had ever expected that it would. Shaun and Gerard are already talking about plans for a second series. Scott and Grant have been throwing around ideas for a series with Dark Horse. Gerard loves listening to them.

Scott smiles at them both when they finally get to a table. “You two,” he shakes his head.

“What?” Gerard asks, trying for innocence. He’s not trying particularly hard, though. Scott rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on,” Gerard says. “Like you and Elisabeth are any better.”

“Elisabeth knows how to bake,” Grant says thoughtfully.

“Morrison makes an excellent point,” Scott declares. “Anyway, it’s not like I’m complaining, Gee. It’s good to see you stupidly happy.”

Gerard beams at him. “It’s pretty great, I have to admit.”

Grant clinks their coffee mugs together. “The greatest.”

“And the message boards haven’t rioted?” Scott asks, with his own attempt at an innocent look.

Gerard rolls his eyes. “Technically, I’m still a mod. I do try to do my duty every once in a while. No rioting seen yet.”

“What about the other boards?”

Gerard knows he means the music boards, but he just shakes his head. “I don’t read those.” They haven’t tried to keep their relationship a secret, but for the most part, the kids have been really sweet about it. And the ones who haven’t, well. He doesn’t give them the time of day. They’re good for a laugh on the phone with Frank sometimes, though. Gerard laughs more than Frank. Frank is a little too fierce on Gerard’s behalf to find it that funny. It’s sweet.

“Earth to Gerard,” Scott teases, tapping Gerard’s water glass with his spoon.

Gerard grins and takes a sip of his water. “Gerard reporting in.”

“Repeat after me: I will stop mooning over my boyfriend and pay attention to my boss.”

Gerard laughs and takes Grant’s hand under the table. “Not a chance.” Grant tangles their fingers together and squeezes, giving Gerard a gorgeous smile. Gerard can’t help but smile back.

“Well, at least I’m not trying to compete with your fucking iPhone anymore,” Scott says philosophically.

Both Grant and Gerard burst out laughing and just then, the waiter brings their food.

“Nope, I’ve got something better in my pocket now,” Gerard jokes. Scott makes a face at his omelette. Grant leans in for a kiss right there at the table.

After they’ve cleaned their plates, Grant excuses himself to go to the restroom. Gerard and Scott continue their conversation about Hellboy, but a minute later, Gerard’s phone buzzes. It’s a text message from a number that’s still programmed in under “Fox”.

There’s a new print outside the bathroom you’ll like. Also, I love you and if we hadn’t promised to treat Scott to lunch, I’d have you come back here and I’d blow you.

Gerard smiles at Scott and taps back, Write down the artist’s name, and I’ll get the check. We can be home in fifteen minutes.

I like the sound of that, Grant texts back.

Gerard laughs and tucks his phone away in his pocket, grinning when Scott rolls his eyes. Fuck yeah. He likes the sound of that, too.

#bandom #fic #gerard way #grant morrison #gerard/grant

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