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kohanayaki · 3 years

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.:Time And Time Again:. (Marauders Era x Reader) Ch 8

You come across an old photo book full of untouched memories and decide to go through it with Harry, though there are some things you decide he doesn't need to know and some things you'd rather forget. (Takes place mostly through Marauders era flashbacks)

LINKS: CH 1 CH 2 CH 3 CH 4 CH 5 CH 6 CH 7 CH 8

Ch 8 .:Snapshots, Secrets, and Sentimentality:.

“Hey, Harry?” you called out into the living room where said boy was reclined on one of the large charcoal armchairs, “I found something you might want to see.”

His eyes widened behind the round frames of his glasses as you carried over a large, leather bound book that was thick with laminated pages. You sat across from him on the couch, setting it down on the coffee table in front of you.

“We still have a few more hours before the others arrive for the meeting,” you said, “and I don't know when the next time we'll be able to talk like this will be.”

“Wait,” he said before you could open the book, “you aren't staying?”

“I can't,” you smiled at him sadly. A statement that was true for a multitude of reasons you'd rather not get into with your godson. “I wanted to show this to you before I left, though.”

With a wave of your hand the book's pages gently flipped open, revealing a number of old magical photographs. The page you had turned to had a picture of James, and you could see Harry's eyes lock onto it. His father was beaming at the camera, holding up the Quidditch cup as two of his Gryffindor teammates held him up on their shoulders.

“Now you see why everyone always tells you how much you look like him,” you chuckled, “that's him in his fifth year, same as you now.”

Harry stared in wonder at the photo. He really did look like his dad. James was slightly taller, lankier, but he had the same disheveled waves of dark brown hair and boyish grin as Harry. Their faces were nearly identical; except for the eyes, of course.

The photo right next to that one was you wearing a Seeker's crest. You were posed, standing with the rest of your team with a wide smile on your face. Harry's brow furrowed as he spotted an unknown yet somehow familiar boy next to you with curly black hair and light eyes.

“Who is that?” he asked, “he almost looks like—”

“Sirius?” you finished. Harry nodded. “That would make sense,” you said, “that's Regulus, his younger brother.”

“I. . . didn't know he had one,” Harry said in wonder.

“Well, you know he doesn't talk about his family often.”

“Right. . .” Harry trailed off for a moment, “but you knew him? His brother?”

“Yeah,” you said, feeling a tug at your heart, “We were friends, for a while.” Your eyes subconsciously looked up towards his room which now stood empty. “He, um. . . he died, some time ago.”

“Oh,” Harry said, not knowing what to say, “I'm sorry. . .”

You gave him a small smile in thanks, trying to shrug off the grim feeling the memories brought up as you turned the page of the book to the next.

This photograph was one that was moving— you and James in your Quidditch captain's uniforms. He was reaching over, ruffling your hair while you were ducking to avoid him, pushing his face away and turning his glasses askew despite the grin on your face.

“We both became team captains in year six,” you said, smiling fondly at the picture, “we'd squared off as Seekers the year prior, so it was only natural. You were already playing Seeker your first year, weren't you?”

“Yeah,” Harry said bashfully, “although my first time catching the snitch was bit rough to say the least.” You laughed at that, recalling the time he told you the story of how he had caught the snitch with his mouth his first match.

“You take after your father, for sure,” you said, “he was always a creative flier; came up with all sorts of purposefully confusing strategies as captain. By the time the other team figured out what he was doing, he'd have already caught the snitch and the match would be set.”

Harry felt pride fill his chest at your words, glad he was taking on his father's good qualities.

“So you were a Seeker your fifth year and played until you graduated,” he recalled, “but I thought you said you played Chaser before?”

“Well, sort of?” you admitted, “Not officially. My introduction to the game was unconventional, to say the least. . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1974 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

James and Sirius huddled with the rest of the Gryffindor team on the Quidditch pitch, gearing up for the match. The energy around them was electric, the stands packed with students and faculty from every house.

“Remember, keep to the left,” Halls, their team captain, said sternly, “and take advantage of Parkinson's blind spot. If Rollins and the rest of the Chasers start scoring above 40 before halftime, we'll go in for the Pincer.”

Sirius nodded, determined to win this match. It was the first one of the season, so a lot was riding on this. However, his attention was diverted as the crowd's cheers suddenly grew louder. The Slytherin team had arrived on the field, marching towards them. Something Sirius didn't expect to see, however, was you, dressed in Chaser's robes next to his brother.

“What are they doing here?” Sirius scoffed as he spotted you, “they're not even on the team!”

“Rollins took a spill last practice,” Vanity said as she stepped forward. The Slytherin captain had a wicked grin on her face, “(L/n)'s a last minute replacement. Don't bother trying to argue, I've already cleared it with Madame Hooch.”

“Convenient of you to tell us ahead of time,” Halls' eyes narrowed.

“Is there a part of 'last minute' that escapes your understanding?” Vanity rolled her eyes.

“Well, no matter,” Halls said, “you've lost your best Chaser, we don't have anything to worry about.”

“That classic Gryffindor confidence,” Vanity smirked, “we'll see about that. I don't choose just anyone to fill in.”

Halls scoffed as Vanity turned on her heels, not bothering to look back.

“Seems you've found yourself another game to lose, (L/n),” James smirked at you.

“Have I?” you arched a brow, “what's our score now? 10-9?”

“10-10 since I got you with that scalene water in the Prefect's bathroom,” James reminded you, “how was being half fish for a day?”

“Marvelous, felt just like you,” you quipped.

“Settle down, everyone,” Madame Hooch said, stepping out onto the field, “Potter, (L/n), I know you two have taken to pranks on each other in class, but I don't want to see a lick of that up in the air, understood?”

“Perfectly,” you said, a smirk sneaking onto your face as you mounted your broom.

“Wouldn't dream of it, professor,” James said with sarcastic flair.

Sirius eyed you cautiously. Gryffindor had flying class with Hufflepuff, so they'd never actually seen you fly before, but there was no doubt that if Vanity approved of you, you had to pose some kind of threat.

“Take your marks,” Hooch said, and you rose off the ground in unison, staring each other down. “Let the match begin!” With a strong, well placed kick, the Quidditch case was thrown open to release the bludgers and the snitch, and as she threw the quaffle up in the air you lunged forward into a dive. You were just about to grab the ball when a blur of red and gold nearly knocked you off your broom.

“Potter has the Quaffle!” Kingston commentated from the box, “he passes to Longbottom, who evades Catchlove and Regulus Black. Longbottom scores! The first ten points go to Gryffindor!”

The patrons in the red and gold stands went wild, the roar deafening in your ears. This was definitely different from flying class. You had to get it together.

The hair on the back of your neck suddenly stood straight up when something whizzed right past your head as you barely moved to dodge it. Sirius gave you a passive shrug from the other side of the field, a beater's bat resting on his shoulder.

“Tosser,” you grumbled under your breath. You had half a mind to throw him right through the left-field hoops without his broom, but dealing with the bludgers wasn't your job; you just had to evade and score. You wouldn't let your team down.

Your eyes searched the skies for the quaffle again, and found it as you spotted a Gryffindor snatch it out of Catchlove's hands. You built up momentum, lowering your body to your broom handle as you picked up speed, swiping the ball from the red Chaser's hands before his eyes could register. You flew under him before their team could rearrange formation and spun around quickly, swatting the quaffle towards the lower right goal with the tail end of your broom. Their Keeper dove to block it, but was one second too late. The ball flew through the hoop and straight into Regulus' hands, who looped back around and threw it through the top right, leaving the Gryffindor Keeper too disoriented and too low in the corner of the goal posts to do anything about it.

“(L/n) outmaneuvers Johnson and scores!” you heard the commentary box boom, “Regulus Black follows up with another goal, we are 20 Slytherin to 10 Gryffindor, what a quick turnaround to start off the match!”

You huffed, impressed that Regulus was able to make the most of your shot. You knew he was Sirius' brother, but that was about it. He was a year younger than you, so you didn't have any classes together and never really talked to him before.

“Nice shot,” you said, flying next to him.

“Same to you,” he said with the slightest upwards quirk of his lips.

“Oi, keep it up you two!” Vanity shouted, hovering over you before dodging the bludger that flew her way, “Black, keep point on Johnson, he's off his game today. (L/n) I want you on intercept and watch for Potter.”

“Gladly,” you smirked, flying off towards the other side of the field. You were starting to feel more comfortable in the air, like you were when you were just flying by yourself; the sounds of the crowd disappeared over the wind rushing in your ears, and you were able to concentrate on your main objective:

Kicking James Potter's arse.

And that you did. The all too confident smirk that seemed to be permanently plastered to his face disappeared when he suddenly felt the weight of the quaffle leave his hands. A victorious smile graced your lips at his dumbfound expression as you threw the ball long to Regulus, who caught it with ease, swatting Johnson away like a fly before scoring another goal.

“(L/n) passes to Black who scores another ten points for Slytherin!” Kingston announced, “it looks like the two rookie players are really hitting their stride now. Choosing (L/n) as a last second fill in is really paying off!”

Sirius' eyes narrowed, grunting in frustration as he hit another bludger your way. Regulus' head turned at the sound of the crack of the bat and signaled over to one of your Beaters, who tossed the bat his way just in time for the Slytherin to send the ball flying back towards his brother. Sirius cursed under his breath, rolling to the right and spinning out of control for a moment before reorienting himself.

“Hooch, what gives!” he shouted, “penalize them!”

“Fair play under protection,” Hooch denied him, “you've been taking headshots, Black. Be grateful I'm not docking you.”

Sirius grumbled a few choice words under his breath before flying back into the fray.

“Thanks for that!” you called over to Regulus.

“Don't mention it,” the boy said, his expression still fairly neutral save for the slight smirk on his face. How the hell was he so calm during this game anyways?

You continued to work with Regulus throughout the match; you'd found a system that worked, and your captain told you to roll with it. Pass after pass you intercepted and scored, mainly targeting Potter not just because Vanity had told you to, but because it brought you a considerable amount of personal enjoyment.

That's when you saw it— a tiny, nearly imperceptible flash of gold that whizzed by your peripheral vision. Neither of the Seekers had caught sight of it yet, but you watched as it zoomed low towards the ground, hovering just beneath one of the crowd stands.

“Oi, Talkalot!” you shouted over the crowd at your Seeker, “Dive low at Hippogriff, now!”

You'd only had a few hours to look over the strategies that Vanity laid out for you, but you knew the Slytherin team had come up with code words for each quadrant of the Quiditch pitch so you could alert your Seeker if you saw the snitch without the other team knowing where it was. You hoped to Merlin you'd gotten the code right, and you exhaled in relief as Talkalot zoomed past you, taking a sharp dive straight down.

“Nice eye, (L/n)!” she shouted over her shoulder, her voice trailing off as she went after the snitch at top speed.

Sirius' eyes widened as he saw the sporadic move from your Seeker. That could only mean one thing.

“Halls, they've got eyes on the snitch!” he shouted to his team captain who cursed under his breath, taking off in Talkalot's direction, but her lead was too great.

“She's got it!” Kingston hollered into the mic, “Lucinda Talkalot has caught the golden snitch, scoring 150 points for Slytherin! Our score comes out 50 Gryffindor to 230 Slytherin, and this match is over!”

“Slytherin wins!” Madame Hooch proclaimed from her broom.

Everyone in the emerald stands cheered so loudly you thought their tents would topple. You couldn't believe the amount of adrenaline coursing through your body in that moment. It was a complete sensory overload as you were bombarded by the Slytherin team, mostly comprised of people you hardly even knew, and thrown on top of their shoulders and they cheered for you.

“What a game, (L/n)! I never knew you could play!”

“Where the hell have you been all this time, eh?”

“You better try out next year or you're dead!”

You laughed at the last comment from Vanity, people buzzing around you as soon as you were set down. You broke away from the congratulatory comments and pats on the back, however, as you spotted James across the field. You couldn't help but rub this in his face a little.

“Why so blue, Potter?” you grinned as you bounded over to him, “what was that about me 'finding another game to lose'?”

For once, James had no clever comeback, and his face flushed as you laughed at his expression.

“I do believe that leaves us 11-10,” you said cheekily, doing an overly exaggerated bow before tossing your broom from your left hand to your right and stalking off.

“Not for long,” James said to himself once you were out of earshot, equal parts impressed and supremely annoyed. It was time for him to pay another visit to Zonko's. He'd show you blue all right. . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“After that year I tried out for a permanent position as Seeker,” you said, “your father and I concluded our prank war, Sirius and I put aside our differences, Lupin vouched for my involvement with the map, and the rest is history.”

“I seriously can't believe you became such close friends only two years later,” Harry said, shaking his head in bewilderment.

“Neither could we,” you said, “it was just a series of chance encounters that we learned we were more similar than we thought. I really do believe that friendship can come from anywhere, Harry. Even more so when you least expect it. So if there's anyone around you that you think you might never get along with, I'd say it's worth it to give them a chance.”

Harry paused at your words. There were more than a few people who came to mind.

You turned to the next page, which was a spread of you and the rest of the Marauders in more casual settings. One could clearly tell you had taken them of each other, if the shaky camera movement and blurry rendering were anything to go off of.

You smiled to yourself as you saw a photo of you and Remus asleep in the Hogwarts library, lightly leaning against each other with your eyes peacefully closed. Suddenly the camera flash jolted through the photograph, and you two bolted upright. You glared at the person taking the photo and reached out to smack the camera away, the picture going blurry for a moment before resetting. Harry laughed at the brief repeating scene, as did you.

“Your father took this one,” you huffed, “because of course he did.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1977 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You rested your head in your palm as you transcribed a few spells into your notebook. The lantern in front of you gave you just enough light to read the elaborate Latin, as the sun had long since set. Your eyelids felt annoyingly heavy, attempting to close on their own as you fought against them to stay awake.

“How are you holding up?” Remus asked with a slight grin, catching you jump awake at his remark.

You and Remus had gotten permission from Madame Pince to use the library after hours to study; after all, you two were outstanding students. If James and Sirius had made the request, they wouldn't have gotten so positive a reaction.

“I've been more awake in my life, but I really need to get this done tonight,” you sighed, “NEWTS start next week and I have to be ready.” You stared up at the boy who was looking at you with obvious concern. “I'm fine, Moony. And I don't want to keep you here, so whenever you want to head off to bed, feel free to.”

“It's no trouble,” he said, “I'll walk you back to your common room, at least. At this rate you'll fall asleep in the middle of the hall for Filch to find you.”

You gave him a light but well-meant glare, groaning as you turned your tired eyes back to the parchment in front of you.

“Why the sudden all-nighters anyways?” Lupin asked, “I thought you'd be plenty prepared.”

“My Charms marks haven't exactly been the best lately,” you admitted, “that's kind of important if I want to become an auror, Remus.”

“Really?” the lycanthrope said, surprised, “but you're always in the know on some spell or another I've never even heard of. You've even made some of your own, right?”

“Yes, but the Ministry wants people who can conjure a corporeal patronus, not someone who made up a spell that makes antlers grow on someone's head to make a very specific joke.”

“Well, I thought it was impressive,” Remus laughed, thinking back to James asking him 'why does my head feel so heavy?' “but I see what you're saying,” Remus continued, “Have you thought about Dumbledore's proposal? Joining the cause might call for some more specialized tasks that would fit you well.”

“Right,” you bit your lip, “I just. . . I don't know. It's a lot to take on. A big part of me is scared, Remus. I'm not like you guys. I can't just fearlessly leap into a battle without any second thoughts. James and Sirius gave their answers so quickly and. . . I couldn't say for sure right away like they could. Honestly, I was terrified, and I still feel guilty because of it.”

“Fear is wisdom in the face of danger, (Y/n),” Remus said, “It's nothing to be ashamed of. No one is forcing you to make this decision right away, nor are they requiring you do it alone. There's a war going on out there, (Y/n). No one would blame you for not diving into it headfirst.”

“Always the quoter of muggle proverbs,” you chuckled lightly, “thank you, Remus. Really.”

A quiet yawn snuck into the back of your throat, and you stretched out of your chair to try to get feeling back into your body.

“Maybe I should turn in soon,” you said, your voice already groggy, “just a few more transcriptions. . .”

Remus stayed by your side as you continued to work diligently, and he found himself smiling at your innate stubbornness. It was something he greatly admired about you; when you decided on something you stuck to it no matter what, sometimes to a fault. You fought to keep your eyes open, even as your head began to slope and your handwriting gradually became slower.

Lupin was beginning to tire himself, which surprised him. He was naturally nocturnal, after all, and usually had no issue staying up to the early hours of the morning. But the quiet scratch of your quill against the parchment, the occasional sound of a page turning, and the smell of your shampoo that wafted with the motion, all lulled him into a sense of ease that was much too easy to doze off to.

Just when he thought he might fall asleep, he almost jumped out of his skin as he felt a soft pressure on his shoulder. He looked to the side to see you sleeping peacefully, your head having slipped from your palm and onto the soft fabric of his sweater. His face flushed a deep red, and he thanked Merlin you were sound asleep. He was caught in between embarrassment and slight panic as he instinctualy wanted to wake you but also ensure you actually got to sleep tonight.

He meant to wake you, he really had, but his mind and body betrayed him, and without even knowing when, his eyes fluttered closed and he drifted off into quite possibly the best sleep he'd had in weeks.

The flash of the magical camera was blinding, even through your closed eyelids. White spots danced in your vision as you groaned, shielding your face from the camera.

“MORNING, LOVEBIRDS!”

Remus jolted awake, remembering last night's events in an instant and banging his head on the bookshelf beside him in an attempt to put some distance between you two.

James was stood there, camera in hand and doubled over in laughter.

“Prongs, you better start running before I skin you and turn you into a pair of shoes,” you growled.

“How is it that I always catch you two sleeping together?” James chortled, completely ignoring your statement, “Can't be long till you get it on to the other sense of the phrase.”

And that's when you lunged at him. Too bad he didn't take your advice for a head start.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“That twat,” you said fondly, a statement that about summed up your and James' friendship.

Harry found himself smiling as you recounted your memories with his father. It made him feel that much more grateful for what he shared with Ron and Hermione.

“Oh, Merlin,” you laughed as you saw the next picture. You, Remus, Sirius, Peter, Lily, and James were standing side by side, Slughorn smiling in the middle of all of you. “This was the first and last Slug Club party that we ever attended all together,” you said, “Like I mentioned, Lily and I had always gone, and—”

You caught yourself.

And Severus would pretend to be reluctant tagging along, you finished in your mind. After what happened he stopped attending the parties.

You cleared your throat.

“Ahem, well, we'd always gone together as friends but none of the boys ever went with us,” you said, “It was our last year, and Lily finally convinced James to tag along, because by then they were together and he was contractually obligated to do so. I talked Sirius into coming because Slughorn had been trying to get him to come for years, and I made Remus my plus one. So for the first time ever, we were all at the party.”

“So it was the last party of the year?” Harry asked.

“Um, well, no,” you laughed, “it was the last party we were invited to. Let's just say your godfather thought it would be funny to enchant the ice sculptures to chase Lucius Malfoy around the dance floor. I'll admit, watching that stupid blonde ninny run screaming from a rapidly melting octopus to the tune of a classical string quartet was pretty entertaining, though Slughorn obviously felt otherwise.”

Harry chuckled, clearly seeing the spark of mischief in Sirius' eyes, even through a photo. As Harry's gaze drifted across the page, he noticed an empty space near the corner of the book. A discolored square remained where a photo should have been, the caption reading 'Christmas, 1976.' As he saw the way you ran your fingers lightly across the page, he decided against asking you what used to be there. He instead turned his attention to the next photograph, which was one taken in an all too familiar setting.

“Hold on,” Harry said, pointing to the picture, “that's the Gryffindor common room!”

“Sure is,” you grinned, “that secret passage from the dungeons to Gryffindor tower went from being used purely for pranking purposes to a way for us to actually hang out together at night.”

You stared down at the photograph fondly. You all looked so much older than the first pictures. You and James were lounging on the couch, not bothering to hide the overly full glasses of firewhiskey in your hands. Sirius and Remus were sitting on pillows on the floor, caught in the middle of a fit of laughter before all four of you turned to the camera which flashed. A pang of hurt and anger hit you square in the chest as it did. Peter had been the one taking the photo.

“I remember this day,” you said, an expression Harry couldn't quite figure out on your face, “it was the night before graduation. Our last night at Hogwarts. . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1978 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A giggle rose in your throat as you took yet another drink of firewhiskey with James and Sirius, something that Remus insisted you were going to regret come morning.

“Oh, don't be suck a stickler, Moony,” Sirius guffawed, “tonight's the night! This time tomorrow we'll be packing up camp and heading out into the great unknown.” He made an expansive gesture with his hand that was cut off promptly by James smacking him upside the head.

“I'll brew a pepperup potion tomorrow if anyone really needs it,” you assured Remus.

“Not really the point, (Y/n),” he rolled his eyes.

As you leaned back to look at the four of them, all grinning like idiots and laughing, you felt a strange sense of sadness come over you. This was your last night at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the place you had spent most of your life and where you had met the people you could no longer imagine that life without. As the reality of that fact sunk in, you grew quiet.

“Everything's going to be different after tomorrow, isn't it?” you said.

The boys looked surprised at your sudden and intense declaration, and James was the first to break the tension you'd created.

“Aww, Fangs is getting all sentimental,” he grinned, slinging an arm over your shoulder.

“I will toss you out this window, Prongs.”

He laughed, poking you in the cheek, his smile only widening as you huffed in annoyance.

“It won't be different,” he promised, more serious but with that smile ever present on his face, “we'll still be friends. We'll still be a pack. And besides, after we graduate we could go. . . well, anywhere together! Just think, the five greatest heroes Hogwarts has ever seen, going on top secret missions from Dumbledore, saving the world!”

“It'll be dangerous, James,” you said, “there's a war going on, remember?”

“What war could ever break us up, huh?” he said reassuringly. You felt your heart swell at the remark. “And besides, you're gonna have to see me next year for the wedding anyways! Lily wanted it sometime in Spring.”

“. . .”

“WEDDING?!” you, Sirius, Remus, and Peter screeched, practically in unison as if it had been planned and rehearsed. Chaos erupted in the room, and you couldn't care less if you woke everyone in Gryffindor tower.

“You sly git, when were you gonna tell us?!” Sirius whacked his friend over the head with the map.

“I just did!” James said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head, “And ow, Merlin, Pads. . .”

“You hit me first!”

“I can't believe you just dropped that on us,” you said, “Lily actually agreed to this?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” James huffed.

“Hey, I'm just saying you tend to drift off into fantasy land when it comes to her,” you said, putting your hands up in mock surrender, “I was just making sure this was rooted in reality.”

Remus laughed at that, lifting the needle on his record gently.

“They have a point,” he chuckled.

“Yes, I actually proposed, and yes she actually agreed,” James said, a lovesick smile on his face, “I wanted to get married pretty soon after we graduated, and she had no problem with that. She said she'd want to start a family—”

“Oh GOD,” Sirius said, drunken horror on his face.

“An actual nightmare,” you joined in playfully, “imagine another one of you running around. Even Lily's DNA couldn't balance that out.”

“Alright, that's it,” James said, “you're not gonna be godparents anymore.”

“I'd be terrible at that anyways,” Sirius chortled.

“I disagree,” James said earnestly, and the comment struck Sirius completely off guard. He chocked up the welling tears in his eyes to the alcohol, taking another sip to mask it.

“You're going soft, Prongsy,” he grumbled.

“Look who's talking, tough guy,” James laughed, clapping his best friend on the shoulder.

“We should take a picture,” Peter suggested quietly, turning red when everyone stopped what they were doing to face him, “I-I mean, since (Y/n) was worried about things changing, and we're all graduating, a-and who knows when—”

“Good thinking Wormtail,” James beamed, pulling you closer and leaning down towards Sirius and Remus so you could all be in the frame.

Peter was looking down at his shoes, fidgeting with his wand.

“Peter, you don't wanna get in the picture?” you asked.

The large framed boy jumped at your voice, looking nervously between the people he had come to know as his friends. There was an oddly fearful look in his eyes that left as soon as it came— a look you wouldn't understand until years later.

“N-no, that's alright,” he said.

And that was one of the last peaceful days of your life you could recall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I haven't even thought about these in the longest time,” you said, staring at the faded photos, “it's crazy to look back on them. It feels both like yesterday and a hundred years ago.”

The next page immediately summoned a lump in your throat.

“This was their wedding,” you said, fighting to keep your voice level, “the year after we graduated.”

Harry looked down at the dozens of photos of the ceremony and party that took place after; James at the altar in his burgundy and gold embroidered suit, and Lily walking down the isle with a bouquet full of the flowers that shared her name. Remus raising a champagne flute to the large crowd of guests as he made a heartfelt speech. You and Sirius dancing under the floating lanterns made to mimic the Hogwarts ceiling.

“Your father never was one for subtlety,” you laughed lightly, “he wanted the ceremony to be as extravagant as possible. He pulled out all the stops. . . and then, the very next year, they announced that they were going to have you.”

You looked up at Harry, and the resemblance he shared with two of your closest late friends conjured feelings of happiness, love, and deep, cutting sadness all at the same time.

Your fingers moved to turn the page, wanting to move on to something else, but you froze as you saw the edge of the next one. So much for that plan.

“I think that's enough for now,” you said quickly, smoothing the page back down, “the others will be arriving soon for the meeting, you best get washed up.”

Harry was curious, of course, but he nodded, not wanting to press for anything else as he reluctantly headed back upstairs.

When you were left alone with the photo book you sighed, bringing yourself to turn the page to see a picture of you and Severus. You were beaming at the camera, proudly holding out your perfectly brewed Draught of Living Death, the photo having been taken by Slughorn to put up on his famous wall. One of your arms held the cauldron haphazardly, the other slung around Severus' shoulders. He certainly wasn't displaying your level of enthusiasm, but a small smile graced his expression, allowing his lips to fully curve upwards, which was as close to 'beaming' as he ever got. He looked so much younger— less burdened.

Right next to that photo was an older one from 1973. It was one you had taken from the top of the oak tree, with Severus and Lily looking up at you. You knew he'd be here soon, and you knew you should talk to him, but you found yourself stuck back in the cycle of doubting every opening spiel you came up with.

You groaned in frustration, snapping the book shut and resting your forehead on the table as stress flooded your being. You refused to live in this perpetual state of dwelling on what happened. You were ready to talk, you just had to take the first step.

Chapter 9 coming soon!

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hesgunnalovethis · 3 years

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Not That Bad

Leonard McCoy x Reader

Summary: You have the severity of your injuries in a twist sending Leonard McCoy’s blood pressure through the roof

TW: injury descriptions and strong language

ft. bestie Jim Kirk <333

Masterlist!

Word Count: 1737

“Yes. No. I understand Mr Spock. Cuttings on your desk in 40 minutes. Got it.” You closed your comm and checked your watch.

You’d spent 16 hours Planetside and after a complication that had landed most crew in the MedBay, you agreed to help out botany to complete the mission report. Really you didn’t have a clue what you were doing but you concluded it couldn’t be that hard.

Cross referencing the plants in front of you to the list on your PADD, you picked up the plier looking utensil and began clipping the stems from the root.

“Maybe I should transfer to science.” You muttered to yourself after you’d successfully pressed the first few cuttings into their sample bags.

Taking the next stem between your fingers you picked up the pliers and cut through the green and your fingertip, simultaneously. Blood shot upwards from your finger. You scoffed at the inconvenience.

You grabbed the first aid kit and examined the content that your Chief Medical Officer boyfriend had once talked you through and began to wish you’d listened.

Failing to remember anything, you wrapped a plaster around the top of your finger and watched it turn from white to red almost immediately. You tried layering another on top which bled through just as fast. After a failed third layer you took yourself from the lab and started towards the MedBay.

You stopped for a moment scouring your brain for which corridors to take. It had been so long since you’d actually journeyed to the MedBay by choice. You’d been utilising your doctor shared quarters.

Arriving at the desk you checked your watch again. 20 minutes before Spock was expecting you. You began to panic and turned to the receptionist.

“Could you ask Doctor McCoy to see me? It’s pretty urgent.” You said, grabbing a bundle of tissues from the display to contain the droplets falling from your finger.

The receptionist did as you asked and you heard Leonard through the comm.

“On the bridge?” He asked.

“No, Sir. Here in the MedBay.” The receptionist in front of you responded.

“In the Med-“ You heard a fuss beginning through the comm and then a room number you were to be assigned.

No sooner had you arrived, a half scrubbed in Leonard burst through the door desperately searching for what heinous emergency had beckoned you to his MedBay.

“Are you being serious right now!?” Leonard asked ripping off the last of his scrub uniform.

“Always good to see you too, Lee.” You responded, smiling.

Sighing softly he shot you an apologetic look and planted a kiss on your cheek.

“Hi, darlin’” He whispered letting down his doctor guard and allowing his southern drawl back in. He began to look you over again, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

You lifted your hand removing the tissue to reveal your slightly bloodied finger. Leonard took a step back rubbing his temples.

“Y/N, darlin’. PUT A PLASTER ON IT?!”

“I tried that! It keeps bleeding though!” You whined.

“There are people DYING in here, Y/N.”

“Oh go on, please. I have lab work due in 15 minutes and I can’t work with this bleeding all over the samples!”

Leonard sighed and moved to the other side of the room to collect the dermal regenerator. Taking your hand in his he kissed the cut before placing it under the machine.

He caught your eyes with his. “I left a 6 hour surgery for this.”

The next day you took your healed finger with you on your next mission where your team successfully released several hostages and transported their authoritative grasp to Enterprise Security.

“All clear, Jim.” You said to your comm after clearing the last room on your final check.

“Received. Take the turbolift to the bridge and let’s get out of here.”

Stepping into the foreign tube you found it very similar to Starfleet’s and got it moving towards the bridge. You began to hear Jim’s voice on the other side before the lift stumbled to a halt.

“Um, Jim?” You shouted through the metal.

“Great.” Jim said clocking the flashing error sign on the lift. “Don’t worry Lieutenant. We’ll... pry it open.”

“Full proof.” You said to yourself, getting ready to pull from your side.

After a brief plan outline and a countdown you began to pull. A small gap opened to the side and you managed to squeeze your body through before the door clattered closed on your newly regenerated finger.

“Again?! Why is it always you?” You asked your finger, pulling it from the metals grip and eying the purple residue left on it.

“Me?” Jim asked, doubled over from the effort he’d just exerted, before being distracted by his comm, “Bones! Yes, just calling to let you know of the ZERO injuries incoming to the MedBay!”

“Zero injuries?” You cut him off. “This is a broken bone for sure.”

“Oh my god.” Jim said in disgust looking at the weird purple oil all over the metal, your finger and subsequently his uniform. “Why is it that colour?!”

“Dammit, Jim.” You heard through the comm before Leonard hung up and Jim reconnected to the transporter room.

You arrived back on the transporter pad to Leonard’s eyes burning a hole in you and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Broken bone?” He said walking towards you.

“This bastard finger.” You said and Leonard took your wrist to examine it.

“THIS-“ He stopped abruptly and calmed himself. “This is a finger, Y/N. BARELY a bone.” He examined it further, “I’m not even convinced that’s broken?”

“Tell you what though, it really fucking hurts.” You petted your lip at him.

Slipping an arm around your waist he led you out of the transporter room and towards the MedBay. “Let’s get you patched up sweetheart, but we really have to talk about your hyperbole.”

It was a few days before you were due to arrive at your next destination and Jim had roped you into helping with his ensign combat training.

“It’s basically target practice.” Jim said in conclusion to a confused looking group of redshirts. “The phasers I’ve given you won’t shoot, but will read on the side if you’ve hit your target. It’s like laser tag! You’ve all played laser tag, right?” The room was silent. “And that’s another added to the list of shore leave activities.”

“Captain Kirk and I will be over here as moving targets.” You started, taking over from Jim. “Try and shoot me without hitting the Captain. Got it?”

You and Jim moved over to the course beginning the same choreographed fight you’d been using for years. You heard the pathetic fake phaser shots over and over and were beginning to question almost all of your life choices as a deafening shot fired and struck your side.

“Y/N!” Jim fell to your side, “PHASERS DOWN!” He shouted to the group briefly trying to determine which one hadn’t followed his only instruction ‘Do not bring your own phaser.’

There was a small commotion before you heard Jim’s voice again. “Kirk to MedBay I need a team to training room 1 immediately.”

You found yourself back in the same biobed you’d frequented for past 3 days consecutively and tried to keep up with the nurses’ quick conversations.

“Someone page McCoy now.” You heard one of them say.

“Not Leonard-“ You interrupted, “He’ll jus- is there anyone else?”

“Not anyone who could patch you up like Doctor McCoy.” One of the nurses stated opening their comm. “Doctor McCoy to room 6. On the double. It’s-“

“Lieutenant Y/L/N?” Leonard cut off the nurse.

“Yes.” She replied.

“For once I’m not even surprised.”

The nurses continued fussing around you and your biobed beeps became angrier.

You watched the door open and Leonard’s face turn from passiveness to urgency in a millisecond.

“My god!” He shouted, dropping his board and beginning to order nurses to different machines connected to your bed.

“Listen, Leonard it’s not THAT bad.”

“NOT THAT BAD?! YOU’VE BEEN SHOT?!” Leonard flicked his eyes between you and your vitals.

“Yeah, but, shot in a controlled environment.”

“You’ve been in here with a cut and a stave, guns blazing, and now you’ve been shot it’s ‘NOT THAT BAD?!’”

“Granted this doesn’t look-“ You were cut off by a wave of pain that sent you wincing.

“Hell.” Leonard turned to his own station briefly. “You’re not gonna like this sweetheart but you can tell me all about it when you’re back in one piece.” Leonard planted a kiss on your head and a hypo in your neck, sending you into sleep.

Coming back to, you heard your biobed beeping at a normal rhythm and a strong accent beside you.

“I don’t care what his test scores are, he shot a Lieutenant I want him gone.”

“Leonard.” You scolded.

“Darlin’” He moved to you instantly closing his comm without a word. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Sore neck.” You said rubbing where he’d hypo’d you. His eyes were still racked with worry. “It was an accident. That’s why we train them we-“

“Darlin’ if he isn’t removed from this ship the only accident will be me prescribing him with cyanid capsules instead of his iron tablets.” He looked over your vitals again before picking up his clipboard, “But you let me worry about that. You can worry about this.” He handed you a laminated sheet entitled ‘Doctor McCoy’s Guide to a Serious Injury.’

You shot him an annoyed look.

“Just so there’s no more confusion.” He winked at you. You glanced over the ‘Serious Injury: To Be Reported’ column.

“I hardly think ‘A sudden cough’ is a serious injury, Leonard.” You scoffed.

“Oh sure. Let’s just let your DNA de-evolve into non humane codes exterminating crucial pairings.”

“Noted.” You said admiring the doctor’s bedside manner, “Is there a second page?” You said spotting another sheet in his hand.

“No. This is Jim’s copy.” Leonard replied.

“Of course.”

Leonard brushed your hair behind your ears and smoothed your forehead. “I’m glad you’re finally visiting the MedBay doll, but I would prefer if you kept your trips to mandatory immunisations and essential check-ups.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath, Doctor.” You said brushing your lips against his.

“And somehow I still wouldn’t change you for the world.” Leonard said quietly before closing the space left between you.

#leonard mccoy imagines #bones imagines #leonard mccoy x reader #bones x reader #mccoy x reader #mccoy imagines #dr mccoy x reader #bones star trek #Star Trek Fanfiction #star trek imagines #doctor mccoy #doctor mccoy x reader

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shannygoatgruff · 3 years

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Only Fan(s) - A Thriller

Genre: Thriller

Pairing: Modern Ivar/OC

Warning: Language, sex, stalking, obsession, kidnapping, sexual assault

Rating: MA+18

Summary: Sometimes OnlyFans subscribers want a little more than internet pictures. Sometimes they want to be your ONLY fan…

Header by: @flowers-in-your-hayr

Thanks to @xbellaxcarolinax for being my beta.

Disclaimer: This story will deal with some topics that might be a little uncomfortable for some people. As always, I’ll try to tackle the hard stuff as tactfully as possible.

a/n: I know it’s been a minute. I’m always thinking about these stories because I want to finish them, just can’t seem to focus on writing at the moment. Anyway, hope you enjoy.

Part iv - Date with Destiny

Finding Ivar Lothbrok should have been easy. Between the two of them, he was the stable one. He was the one with the iron-clad schedule that consisted of drinking, smoking, and partying. Torren’s schedule was a bit more... fluid. She tended to go wherever the wind, or whatever car she acquired, would take her. Naturally, Ivar had the occasional meet-and-greet, red carpet, and/or Comic-con engagement that he had to attend, still, he was pretty easy to keep tabs on. All one had to do was look at (stalk) his social media accounts, and his whereabouts were posted for everyone to see.

Knowing where he’d be and finding out where he lived were a different story. Torren had done her due diligence when it came to locating the town in which Little Kattegat was located. It only took about two days and a few Google image searches of the background of a few of the photos and she had it narrowed down to a general area in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

From what she could tell, the closest town to where he lived was pretty small, and there were only a few large estates hidden in the woods. How hard could it be to find? She was willing to drive to every single house and knock on the door to find him if she had to. But it would just be easier if there was loud music and a bunch of cars in the driveway. That way she could tag along inside with the rest of the guests to get to her man.

Her shirt landed in the pile of dirty clothes in the center of the bed, as she reached around to unhook her bra. “I really need to tell Baby Boo to stop putting all of his business out in these streets,” her brows furrowed as she shook her head, “What if some crazy, psycho bitch started stalking him, or some shit? Then I’d have to kill a bitch.” Torren’s head whipped around and she narrowed her eyes at his picture, still stuck on her wall, “Is that what you want? Huh? You want me to cut a bitch to prove to you how much I love you? I will, Bae! You know I would do anything for you. I’m your Ride or Die...”

And being his Ride or Die meant that she needed to keep better tabs on him if she was going to protect him from someone crazier than her, God forbid. She was only able to do so much on this prepaid phone, and going to the library to get online was becoming a pain in the ass.

She’d considered stealing a laptop or iPad from the library but was still on the fence about the idea. Of course, the alternative meant going to stupid ass libraries and threatening little kids to get off the fucking computers, and that completely sucked ass.

She always felt rushed when she logged onto her Bae’s Only Fans page from the public library. Without fail one of those little bastard kids would get the library Nazis to kick her off the computer, or bar her from the library altogether for watching porn.

Ivar’s page wasn’t porn! It was art. It was sexy. It was love...his love for her. Stupid bitches.

She had encountered far worse things than getting kicked out of the library, but some of these small towns usually only had one or two within their county limits. If she got banned, how was she supposed to check up on Ivar? In the time it took to log in until she got kicked out, she'd be lucky if she could check 2 of his accounts. What if he had some important information on another platform that she hadn’t checked yet? What was she supposed to do then?

Her relationship with Ivar was hanging in the balance, and she'd be damned if some snot-nosed kid or fucking uptight librarian would fuck that up. She needed a computer. But, on the flip side, when she finally got her man back, she wouldn't need one anymore. She could ask him directly what their plans were.

There was a lot to consider and that took time; time that she didn't have right now.

The thick layer of Nair shaving cream she had applied to her already hairless crotch, was just starting to tingle, signaling she had about 5 minutes left before the sweat-inducing, burning sensation would kick in alerting her to wash the cream off. Until then, she had time to consider an outfit for the night.

She knew Ivar well enough to know that he would want her to be sexy for him, but not so much to distract him from work. She could have gone for something slutty, like those skanky bitches he partied with. She could have gone for more demur, but then she would remind him too much of his bitch ex-wife and completely turn him off. The last thing she wanted on their first night back together was for him to be thinking about that bitch. She could have gone for a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt, but Torren never did simple.

No, Ivar would want her to be herself. That's what he loved about her. That's what attracted him to her in the first place. She would be sexy without being skanky; she would be demure without being a prude.

Fuck! It was already 7:33 p.m. How in the hell did she miss the beginning of his Live? Now she was running late.

She was supposed to be dressed and ready by the time his Live came on that way she could be out the door as soon as he finished. If she was going to make it to be on his Only Fans live stream tonight, she needed to get to his house before he got too distracted. Now, she’d have to watch his Live, while her cooch burst into flames before she had a chance to take a shower and finish picking out her outfit.

If there was one thing Torren was, it was punctual. It was bad enough that she was about 40 minutes outside of his town, but it could take her up to 2 or more hours to find his house. She only hoped that he didn’t plan on starting any real freaky shit on his Only Fans page until around midnight, cause it looked like she wouldn’t be getting there before then, anyway.

With the smile still plastered on her face, Torren turned on the hot water for a shower, forgetting that the water didn’t get hot. She didn't mind, much, especially since the cold water gave her a break from the heat in her room.

Phone in hand, she watched him, as she planted herself on the dirty bathtub floor, cross-legged, and started to get herself ready. Starting with her toes, she shaved each one, just below the knuckle, followed by her fingers, arms, pits, and each leg, from groin to ankle, three times. When the burning from her nether regions was so intense that she couldn’t tell her tears from the shower water dripping on her face, she quickly washed off the cream.

All she could do was hope that she hadn’t broken the skin this time. The last time she had let that damn Nair stay on, just past burning, the skin broke and she bled. She was not having a bloody hoo-ha tonight.

With that taken care of, she gently used the razor to remove any other pubes closer to the inside that needed to be removed. Then shaved her backside. When she had more time, she was going to get the internal hairs bleached, but she needed to find out what Ivar preferred.

Shaving ate up so much of her time that she only had a few seconds to rub some body-wash that she had stolen from a drug store over her body and hoped it got rid of the smell of the summer heat. Her hair? Fuck it...she’d wash it another day, for now, this cold water would have to be enough. She’d spritz some perfume and hair spray in it and it would smell fine.

Torren finished her shower, and walked out of the bathroom dripping wet, only using a towel to wrap around her hair. She was glad it was so hot in her room that her hair would air-dry quickly. She finger-combed her damp tresses to complete that ‘just got out of bed, but it's styled’ appearance. She knew how much he loved when her hair looked like that. It would remind him of freshly fucked hair.

She spent extra time applying her makeup, even using an extra dark, thick application of eyeliner. She usually went for more subtle warm colors. They matched her tan skin tone better. But, tonight, she had bold, dark makeup, complete with varying shades of purple and blue eye shadows, and dark purple lipstick.

Torren was glad that she decided to match Ivar’s clothes this evening. The swim trunks and smoking jacket he wore would compliment her beautifully. She wanted everyone to know that they dressed alike, the way real couples do. If he was going for less is more, so would she.

She settled on black leather chaps that tied up on the sides, and tight blue boy shorts that left the bottom half of her ass cheeks exposed. The blue shorts brought out the blue swirls in his trunks; she knew he'd appreciate that touch. Her top was a blue bandanna that she wore as a halter with a short black leather jacket with tassels on the sleeves.

They screamed “couple” in her eyes.

Completely satisfied with how she looked, Torren locked the door to her motel room and started down the hall. She deliberately stopped by the window and peered through the partially opened blinds of the people staying next door to her. She knocked on the window to get the attention of the young couple inside. Judging from their appearance, they were too strung out to know who she was, or that it was her music that they constantly banged on the wall about. She didn’t care. She still flipped them off before making her way to the stairs.

Reaching her hand through the busted window of the blue Ford Taurus to unlock the door from the inside. Torren slid into the driver's seat and leaned over to find the two cords that she had pulled out from under the steering column when she stole the car. Flicking the cords together, she listened as the engine reluctantly turned over.

She put the car in reverse, looked in the rear-view mirror at her makeup, then pulled out of the spot. As she turned onto the road leading to the highway, she listened to the knocks, bumps, and hisses that her car made. There wasn't time to do much about it now; not when she was on her way to get her man. But, she made a mental note to do something about it later in the week. The only thing she could do was turn the music up louder to drown out the car noise.

Truthfully, she should have stolen a better car than the piece of shit Taurus that she found in the parking lot of the Quickie Mart while driving through Tulsa, Oklahoma. There were plenty of better cars there to choose from but no one would have wanted to take this one. It was so sad looking that she took pity on it. She had been doing the owner of this crap car a favor, by taking it off of their hands.

The car was truly fucked. The oil light stayed on, and it drank gas like her mother drank liquor. The car had protested every inch of the ride across the three states that she traveled through in one day. She knew that it would only be a matter of time before that piece of shit breathed its last breath.

She needed to get gas again, but fuck that car. She had already refueled four times since she stole it. Gas wasn't cheap and she wasn't putting another dime in that gas guzzler. Speaking of money, she made a mental note to steal another credit card. It would only be a matter of time before the owner of the one that was tucked snugly between her left breast and strapless bra, would eventually realize that it had been lifted from the table in the diner, and canceled.

Laptop, butt bleaching, car, credit card, and more eyeliner from Walgreen's…her To-Do list was growing. She really needed to take some time off and take care of the necessities. Not tonight, though. She had other things to do. She couldn't do anything else, right now, but get to her man. Besides, once Lothbrok was by her side, he would help her remember all the things she needed to do.

As she came off of the highway exit smoke started billowing out from the engine. It backed up through the exhaust system, and came through the vents, inside the cabin. It was ironic – the air-conditioning vents in the car didn't work, but they seemed to work well enough to clog the inside of the car up with thick white smoke. She drove a few more miles before the smoke was so thick that she could no longer see. As she pulled the car over to the graveled shoulder of the road, the car knocked and shook, before it finally cut off.

Just her fucking luck.

She reached under the dash to flick the cords against each other again, trying to force the ignition to catch again, but it wouldn't. The engine had nothing left to give her. "Fuck Murphy and fuck his fucking law," she said calmly as she pulled the hood release.

She opened the car door, taking care to place both black, platform boots on the ground before lifting her backside from the seat. Placing her sunglasses on her eyes, she walked with one foot in front of the other to the front of the Taurus and placed her hand on the hood. It was hot, but not so hot that she couldn't feel under the front of the lever.

As she lifted the heavy metal hood and placed the rod in the slot to hold it in place, Torren let the smoke from the engine engulf her. It was quite a head rush breathing in the thick engine smoke through her nose, and exhaling it from her mouth. She patiently waited for the smoke to thin out before she bent, at the waist, over the engine. She didn't know what she was looking for, but she knew that someone would see her looking over the engine and stop to help her.

Now, if only someone would actually come down this dark stretch of road, she could be back on her way to Ivar.

It didn't take long before a pair of headlights rounded the bend of the road, just off to her right. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she accentuated the leather, chaps against her hips, and lifted her ass higher in the air, to catch the driver's attention. She couldn't help but smirk when she heard the tires of a large vehicle turn onto the graveled pavement in front of where she broke down. She didn't turn to face the car or the driver. She didn't care who they were or what they looked like. She had an appointment to keep and this pit stop was fucking up her timetable.

"You need some help?" A deep voice asked as its owner approached her.

Torren took a moment to peer around the hood, noticing that there were no other cars around. "Broke down," she answered, continuing to bear her weight from one hip to the other. She placed her hands on the metal frame of the car, arched her back, and looked at the man over her shoulder. "You know something about cars?"

"Yeah," he replied, moving around to her side, looking at her, and not the smoky engine.

She gave him half a smile, as she noticed him notice her. "You a mechanic or something?" She asked standing up. She rubbed her hands together to remove some of the visible engine soot while considering the guy in front of her. He was about 6 feet tall with a moderate build. He was dressed in blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and Timberland boots. He didn't look like he was more than 25 years old. Judging from the way he was looking at her and from the ring on his left hand, he wasn't too worried about her car, or his wife, for that matter.

"Nah, not a mechanic, but I work on my own car... in my spare time." He smiled when she did. She was gorgeous, in that slutty kind of way. She wouldn't be dressed like that and leaning over the hood of a car if she wasn't looking to have some fun. "Lemme take a look at it."

Did he work on his car? Hopefully, that meant that his ran better than hers did.

Torren moved over to the side and let him take the position under the hood. "I'll be right back," he explained before walking over to the bed of his F150.

Grabbing a flashlight from the trunk, he took a second to admire the view of her, from behind. If he could get her car moving again, she would hopefully follow him to this cheap motel he knew that was just up the highway.

He leaned in close, taking a whiff of her hair, "You overheated…want to check the coolant level."

She had heard him say something else but she had stopped listening; she was too busy watching the street. "You want me to try to start it?" she asked, removing her sunglasses before making her way to the driver's door. She wasn't sure if he answered or not. She had no intention of driving the Taurus again, even if he could get it started. She just needed to get something out of the car.

She slid into the seat and reached down on the floor. She found the hard metal object on the floor of the passenger's side and gripped it tightly. As she walked back around to the front of the car, she heard him talking, presumably about the car, or maybe he was asking her out. Who the fuck knows? She was on a tight schedule and all of his chatting was holding her up. She stood by the side of the hood, looking at the angle he was leaning over the hood. Quickly, she lifted her arm, and with one powerful blow, she struck him in the head with the crowbar that she used to procure her now-defunct car.

Torren stood over his body, looking at him intensely. God, it felt good. The rush of knowing that one minute this dude was towering over her, and the next he was on the ground. She had dropped his ass. She was the one with the power.

"Thanks," she said, digging her hand in his pocket to retrieve his cash, credit card, and the keys to his truck. She wiped the blood on the crowbar on his shirt before walking to her new mode of transportation.

Torren sat in the truck's driver's seat and turned on the engine. She had managed to cross two things off of her To-Do list without even planning to.

Thank God the truck had air conditioning. All this heat and humidity was bound to make her hair frizzy. She cranked the AC up as high as it would go and sat still for a moment enjoying the cool air. After a minute, she adjusted the seat and tilted the rearview mirror to look at herself. She was starting to sweat and her eyeliner was starting to run just a bit at the corners of her eyes. She dabbed at the black liner to even out the lines, and then pushed the mirror back to where she could see. Giving the area another once-over, she made sure that no one else had seen her interaction with that guy on the ground, before pulling out from the gravel and onto the paved street.

"Ugh!" Torren yelled. Chester Bradley, the printed name on the credit card, had shitty taste in music. She pushed the stereo button on the steering wheel to do a scan of the radio. Anything was better than country music. Once she found some trap music on the XM radio, she turned up the volume and pulled back onto the highway.

Part iii/

Tags: @ideagarden-blog1 @youbloodymadgenius @xbellaxcarolinax @a-mess-of-fandoms @didiintheblog @conaionaru @peachyboneless @flowers-in-your-hayr @heavenly1927 @zuxiezendler @waiting4inspiration @saldelys @revolution-starter

#OnlyFan(s)#modern ivar #shannygoat #shannyland #Date with Destiny

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deepperplexity · 3 years

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All Because You Love Me

Title: All Because You Love Me

Request: Hi love all of your stories, can you make a Snape X Half-Blood Professor reader where they have a love-hate relationship and in the end they end up confessing there love to each other when Severis becomes more nicer to her than all the other professors? Thank You I would very appreciate it. @large-obesession

A/N: This was difficult to write and I don't know if I managed to do the idea in my head justice but I am kind of satisfied with this anyway? O.O I hope you all will enjoy it!

+A/N: FIRST FIC ON THE FIRST DAY OF 2021! Yay! :D

Setting: Hogwarts

Pairing: Snape x Half-Blood!Teacher!Reader

ABBR.:│(y/n) - Your Name│ (y/l/n) - Your Last Name │

Word Count: 7280

Warnings: Angst, Hurt, Harsh Language, Alienation, Kissing, Love/Hate, Fighting

Masterlist page // Masterlist post

Why couldn't he just leave you the fuck alone? Was it really that hard to just mind his own damn business? You fumed as your feet pounded the stone floor on your way to your classroom. Not only had you been forced to deal with a crying student, the havoc-wreaking Peeves and so, consequentially, you also missed breakfast. Oh no, no, you also had to deal with him. Professor Severus Snape. The gloomy, dark, too fucking sexy professor that simply would not leave you the hell alone. He was everywhere, around every corner. Even at night when you slumbered deeply under the covers he infiltrated your mind with harsh words and domineering sneers that made you ache.

You sighed heavily as you pulled open the door to the classroom. All students already present and waiting for you. "Sorry for being late, had a bit of a poltergeist problem," you grumbled as you shut the door with a harsh bang that echoed through the room while you took quick, short steps in a hurry to get to the desk and start the first class of the new week. "Open your books, page 287. Hurry up," you said as your anger still simmered and brewed just below the surface. It was unfortunate for the sixth years that seemed to wonder what was up with you, you were usually so cheerful and happy while teaching. Well, not today apparently, bloody poltergeists and billowing cloaks with galaxy eyes and- no no no, stop that! You hate the man's guts! Stop, stop, stop!

You shook your head, tried to find your usual sense of self while plastering on a smile in the hopes it would etch itself to your lips for the rest of the day. "Now, who would like to ask a question for the day?" You always asked the students to ask one question regarding the lessons material as you always made sure to tell them at the end of the previous lesson what they would be working on next. A Hufflepuff girl reached her hand up and as she asked her question, that you would answer throughout the lesson, the first class was underway. It gave you something to focus on, to tether yourself to and eventually your mind focused on the subject - to the delight of the students - as your regular disposition returned with a true smile etched on your lips.

First and second class had gone by smoothly after the little hiccup in the morning. You were happily dismissing the fourth years for lunch when your stomach grumbled something fiercely. Food, sustenance, gosh, I'm starving, you thought as you ordered your desk for the upcoming lesson before heading towards the Great Hall for the first food of the day for you. You closed the door gently and locked it.

"No running!" you shouted after some Gryffindor boys as you were about to turn a corner. "And no shouting, (y/l/n)," a growling voice snarled just as you rounded the corner. Oh, great, fucking great. You glared at professor Snape as he stood a few steps away from you. "There should be a rule about growling," you muttered under your breath as you walked towards him. Your face was hard and your back straight. "What was that, (y/l/n)?" You tilted your head back a little further, nose in the air. "Nothing, Snape," you snarled as you passed him, "I just think you should mind your own business," you continued in a cutting voice after having passed him.

You could have sworn you heard him grumble something behind you but you paid it no mind. You didn't want to give him the satisfaction of entertaining him. Even if your chest ached at his harsh tone. Ignore it, just ignore the hell out of that stupid heart. IGNORE IT! You focused on the pinching pain in your stomach, the growling noises it made and hurried along to reach the Great Hall. Unfortunately, Snape had the same idea as he easily reached you with his long legs and that billowing cloak floating like a thundercloud around him. "No running," you hissed with a slight twinkle in your eyes, "I thought you were better than the students." He scoffed and arched a brow at you as he slowed his pace to walk alongside you while he spoke. "And I thought you were human, not a snail," he countered and then sped up yet again. You gasped at him before your fists clenched and you shook with anger. He got you there. You were, truly, a slow walker. Even when you tried to walk fast you were slow as a snail.

He disappeared around another corner and you tried to walk faster. But it was impossible. You could not take long strides and you could only take so many steps in a short moment. So once you arrived at the Great Hall and entered Snape had already taken his place. You seethed as you saw him sneer out a defiant smile at you. You stalked up to the table and took your place on the opposite side of the table. Food appeared and you gulped it down in a flurry of motions as you truly were starved. All other things disappeared and your stomach rejoiced as it slowly filled up; one bite at a time.

"Hungry, aren't we?" You choked on your juice as Snape's voice rumbled right beside you. "Are you trying to kill me?!" you shouted at him and he had the gall to look taken aback at your harsh tone. You smacked down your glass and rose in such haste the chair nearly toppled over. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!" you screamed as you stalked towards him while you paid no mind to the staring students or the shocked expression on Minerva's face as you poked Snape's chest with the tips of your fingers.

He staggered backwards, "Seriously Snape! Don't just pop up like that! You could have killed me!" He arched a brow at you while your cheeks turned pink with anger and embarrassment as he looked down on you. The swirling dark of his eyes sucked you in and your heart tugged yet again. Not now! Your thoughts snarled at the roaring and hissing from your heart to be closer. "I did not pop, up," he drawled, "I merely asked if you were hungry." "You popped up! You scared me!" you shouted before you shoved at him again, with your palms that time. His chest felt tight under them and you wanted to leave them there as your heart pounded harder while he glared at you. "(Y/n), control yourself," Minerva said with a chiding voice, you spun your head towards her so fast it felt as if your neck would snap. "He merely asked if you-" "No, no he scared me half to death is what he did. As he always does. Popping up, growling, lurking in corridors and sticking his nose in other people's business!"

After that you pushed Snape aside as the other professors gawked at you, stunned as you were usually a happy, cheerful person that wouldn't even hurt a fly. You stomped out of the Great Hall with quick, short steps as tears began to roll down your cheeks. You were so sick and tired of his behaviour. You had been nothing but nice towards him when you started working at Hogwarts a little over a year ago. He had merely drawled and growled, lurked in corridors and commented on your teaching and lesson plans. Never a kind word for you, yet he was always there - pestering you to no end.

In the dark man's defence, some of it wasn't even his fault. You loved him and you had to do anything you could to push him out of your heart, to banish the thoughts and dreams of him. Why did you love him? No fucking clue. You just did. He was marvellous, handsome, commanding, strong, harsh yet helpful in his own way. Not to mention the voice that thundered from his vocal cords. It made your knees weak every time you heard it. That's why you always straightened your back, hardened your face around him. You were not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how hard his harsh words and haunting glares were on you. Simply not happening so I should stop this damn crying now, for heaven's sake I mean absolutely jack shit to him. He never even calls me by my name, I'm just (y/l/n) to him, unlike all other staff members.

You stomped your way up some stairs as you were heading towards your classroom. Even though there were nearly 40 minutes left before the next class would begin. You wiped your cheeks to get rid of the tears. A student stopped you, a Slytherin girl from your morning class. A very curious girl who always sat at the front and asked question after question after question. "Professor (y/l/n), are you alright?" "Oh pipe it, Greene!" you snarled and the girl looked frightened as your harsh face twisted towards hers. Despite the tears that flowed down your cheeks you somehow managed to look utterly enraged at the poor student. "I'm-, I'm sorry professor, I didn't-" "I said pipe it, go bother your head of house instead!" You walked past the hunching student as guilt filled you. It wasn't her fault Snape was so evil towards you. You stopped and walked back down the three steps you had walked from the girl.

"Ms Greene, I'm sorry, I'm fine. Just, go eat some lunch," you sighed out as the girl nodded without saying a word. She walked off, seemingly still taken aback by your harsh way with her. You sighed and snivelled ever so slightly. "(Y/n)." Your head jerked up as Dumbledores voice rang through the air. "Headmaster? Yes?" you stuttered as you wiped your eyes one more time. "You are quite harsh with the students," he said as he peered at you from above his spectacles. Your cheeks blushed as you lowered your head. "It has never happened before, it won't happen again headmaster," you stuttered weakly. Just my luck that you see me the one damn time I lose it for a moment. "See to it that it does not, this is their home and we are family." You clenched your jaw as you did your utmost not to let harsh words about Snape slip past your lips by the mentioning of being family.

The week passed as you felt more and more alienated by the other staff members. Your explosion in the Great Hall was no secret, and apparently there was a rumour spreading about your interaction with Ms Greene. Only, it wasn't at all true. It was twisted and far from what had truly happened. You were depicted as a monster who shouted at the poor girl for minutes and there were no mentions of your apology. To top it off someone had seen Dumbledore reprimand you and that had at some point, around Wednesday you would say, been added to the rumour and it turned even more twisted. You had been loved by your students for your cheerful and happy ways, your gentle teaching and approach to your subject but now, most of that was ruined.

Nobody spoke to you as they had done before. Snape seemed to be around you less, he didn't pop up around corners or comment on your slow walking - he didn't even sneer at your lesson plans as you worked on them in the teachers' lounge in the evenings. Not that you had gone to that room in two days now. It was Sunday morning and everything felt like a disaster. How could one day, one moment in time, destroy a person so completely? Had you not done so many good things? Had you not been gentle, kind, happy and supportive from the beginning? Had you not tried to befriend your colleagues and be of assistance to your students at all times? How could all of it be forgotten and replaced by one single moment in time of disaster?

Another three weeks gave you the answer. No matter how hard you tried, a month after the shouting incident in the Great Hall, people still treated you differently. Treated you harshly and coldly. You had tried to explain, had tried to talk to Minerva and the others but it was no good. You were new and the other professors had been there for a long time including Snape that you went off on - they had known each other for a long time and it was no surprise they stood together. You understood that but it still did not make it acceptable. To shun someone in such a manner, without giving the person even a chance to explain. The students were a bit better but it did nothing to alleviate your pain and sorrow about the whole thing. (Even if some of them actually praised you for going off on the sort of hated professor.)

But what hurt the most, what you had thought you wanted initially, was the fact that Snape seemed to avoid you completely. Not a word, not a glance or glare. Not a scoff or harsh remark. Nothing. Just, nothing. It hurt, damn it hurt and you could not quite accept the feelings that snaked around in your veins and hissed from your heart. It made the pain more intense when your heart roared at you each time you caught a glimpse of his cloak around a corner, heard his distinct long stride from close by or the few times you saw him fully at dinner or bypassing him in the library. But you kept quiet, kept away from him as well and did not let him see the pain in your eyes as you got ever more isolated.

You sighed as you glared at a truly shitty essay by a fifth-year student. "What even is this?" you hissed out as you rubbed your temples. Outside soft light shimmered as it was nearing June and the nights were bright. You looked out the window for a moment and for some reason you banged into a wall of harsh void in your mind. The joy you had felt about teaching was gone, the magic of Hogwarts seemed to disappear and you just wanted to leave. Leave it, them, all behind. Him. Leave him behind. Retreat and lick your wounds, find something else to do with your life rather than hide in shame and isolation in a moist castle with infuriating stairs that seemed to move every time you were in a rush. "That's it, I'm done." You abandoned your desk, left your office and headed towards the Headmasters office to resign. To throw in the towel and surrender, give up, admit defeat. It's what they all want so why not give it to them?

You rushed down the infernal stairs, took a few turns and then moved up staircases again on your way to see Dumbledore and give him your notice of resignation. Your eyes stung with tears but you kept them at bay. Never had you felt as horrible as you did currently. It hurt, hurt to be forced in such a horrible way to leave. Yes, it was your choice but you were forced by the actions of others. You simply could not stand it any longer. You were a gentle and sensitive person. You were focusing on what you were going to say to Dumbledore as you took a sharp corner, stomping hurriedly in quick short steps only to be fully stopped as your body smacked into something hard yet soft.

You stumbled backwards and tried to find your balance as a cold hand gripped your wrist and steadied you. "Careful," Snape growled with that thundering voice as you looked up at him. Your face hardened yet softened. Your lips in a thin line as you clenched your jaw but you could not help the thrill that travelled through you at his touch and the sound of his voice. So, you glared at him as coldly as you could possibly manage with your watering eyes. "Sure, as if it matters to you if I'm careful or not," you hissed as you wrung your arm free from his cold grip. His eyebrows raised ever so slightly as he looked at you intently. You stepped around him and continued towards the headmaster's office.

"It matters very much to me," Snape stated with a deep, powerful voice that vibrated through you. You looked over your shoulder. Did your best to quiet your hearts hissing and roaring about love and lust as you looked at him while your face lost its raging edge. "Oh I'm sure, it matters so much to you. How could I not see that? Silly me, thinking all the glares, remarks and harsh words were not at all related to your care for me. Oh, how stupid," you tutted with a snarl at the end before you rolled your eyes, shook your head and kept walking. "Well, what else should I do?" His voice was satin soft and so low you barely heard what he said. But you did. "Don't think about it, just leave me alone Snape." He drew a harsh breath as you said his last name and that was it. You left and he remained, in silence.

You turned a corner and leaned against the closest wall. Your heart raced, your mind was as calm as a raging storm while your hands and knees shook. Tears leaked out of your eyes and dripped from your chin as you sank to the floor. Exhausted and utterly hopelessly sad as the love you held for him raged in your heart without your consent. You knew, all too well, you had tried with him. Tried and tried, but he had never accepted you as anything but professor (y/l/n) who were young and new and obviously had too many faults to be anything but a nuisance to him. You had tried and tried to be gentle, friendly, sweet and helpful towards him as you were met with growls and sneers that cut deeper than you had admitted from the start. And since it hurt, you turned angry, you had started sneering and glaring back at him. Remarked on things he said, commented on his behaviour. He had turned you into something you were not, just by his own darkness and harshness. I need to leave, you thought as you wiped your tears away and took a few steadying breaths before you pushed yourself up from the floor and kept going.

"Are you sure about this?" Dumbledore asked as he inspected you. You nodded. As you knew he could see you had been crying, knew he could see you were uncomfortable and no longer the person he had hired. "I take it I can't persuade you to stay?" "No, headmaster, at the end of this term I will leave. It gives you about three months to find someone new and I find that to be fair for both of us." Dumbledore looked at you intently as he peered over his spectacles. You twisted your hands where they rested in your lap. "I am grateful for the opportunity but I don't feel I belong here," you said as you did not want to tell him about the treatment you endured from the other staff at Hogwarts. Sure, it may have helped but then the rumours would probably just get worse as they added snitch to it. So you kept quiet about it. Not wanting to step on anyone's toes anymore despite Dumbledores words of family ringing through your head from the day everything went to hell.

"Well, I will not force you but it's a shame, I really thought you would fit perfectly here, and I thought for sure you and Severus would-" your head snapped up and your eyes burned with hurt at the mentioning of that name. "I do not want to talk about that man. There is nothing between us, nor do I wish there to be." Dumbledore smiled softly and you did not like the way he looked at you, not one bit. "That was not my meaning, (y/n). You and Severus, I thought that you two would be great colleagues as you are quite similar in ways one probably doesn't notice straight away. You are very different, but also very alike. He's quite, well, a lonely man but-" "For good reasons," you interrupted as you stood up, "I am resigning as this term ends, headmaster." You turned around and as he said 'very well' you left his office.

The next day you arrived for breakfast with bags under your eyes and you felt out of sorts as you had had a restless night. Twisting and turning, wondering where to go, what to do with your life and if you should tell the others about your resignation. You had decided not to do so and hoped Dumbledore didn't either. With a sigh, you sat down and a plate of toast with a cup of pitch-black coffee appeared before you. You grabbed the cup and started sipping. Nobody glanced your way, nor did they speak to you. Doesn't matter any more, a few more weeks and I'll be gone. They can think whatever the hell they want. You smiled to yourself as relief swept in. Soon you would be free of the shunning and alienation - free to do, well, something else and perhaps not be so miserable.

You placed the cup down and glanced to your right to see who else was there but your eyes got stuck in Snape's. In those deep, dark galaxies of endlessness. He was looking at you. Not glaring, just looking with a weirdly pondering expression. You rolled your eyes a bit, mostly at your ignorant heart who still hissed and roared for him, and stuffed the toast into your mouth before you chugged the coffee down, wiped your mouth and left without a word to anyone. If they knew you were resigning they said nothing, if that was good or bad you didn't even want to think about. So you just headed off to start the first lesson of the day. Another Monday, another week and it all would pass, end.

But you only got halfway before you heard the distinct sound of long strides from Snape, he was catching up to you. "Happy today?" he asked hoarsely with that gruff voice of his. You glanced up at him as your back straightened and your chin lifted up ever so slightly. You did your best to not falter in your pace or let him see how he made you weak at the knees just by being near. So, you did what you had done lately. You snarled back at him. "None of your business." He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly but quickly found himself again. "Well, I'd say it is my business, seeing as it is my fault you have not been happy lately," he drawled out and you could have sworn there was some sort of regret hidden in that thunderous voice despite the way he spoke to you.

You glanced at him but he looked straight ahead as he kept up with you. It wasn't really that difficult as you were, by his own words, slow as a snail. "Pfth," you tutted, "as if you care," you huffed out and kept walking. Soon you'd reach your classroom and he would be forced to leave you alone. "I-" "Don't even say anything," you snarled as you stopped dead in your tracks. He faltered and stopped two steps later. As he turned towards you you folded your arms over your chest as to keep the pounding of your heart hidden - it felt as if it was visible through your clothes as hard as it was frantically beating for him. "You are ridiculous, you know that?" you said with a flat voice. "Oh, do elaborate. I do not think that is a word I have been described with before," Snape said and you rolled your eyes. "Just leave me alone Mr Dark and Dangerous."

He arched a brow at you and you gasped as the words had slipped out before you could register what your brain made your mouth say. Had it been a pure-blood you spoke with they would most likely have been clueless as it was an expression used by muggles. But Snape was a half-blood, just like you were and he understood the reference. All too well it seemed by his expression. Your cheeks blushed ever so slightly as you threw your hands up in the air and barreled your way past him before he had time to utter another word. But as you glanced over your shoulder he still stood in the exact same spot. Idiot... If you were calling him an idiot or yourself, you had no clue about.

As the days passed Snape seemed to be nicer, more friendly and talkative. He rarely sneered, glared our spoke harshly to you and in all honesty, it felt strange. Weird and uncharacteristic for him. So as two weeks had passed and you nearly walked into him rounding a corner down in the dungeons after having lead a few stray first years down you just had to ask a question you had been pondering for a few days.

"Do you know? Have Dumbledore told you?" you asked before he had time to ask what you were doing down in the dungeons. "I'm, sorry, I don't quite follow?" You sighed at his words. "Has he told you?" "Told me what, exactly? I speak quite often with the headmaster," he droned on in a gruff drawl. You sighed and rubbed your forehead with the tips of your fingers. "Forget it." You took a step to the left to pass him but he sidestepped as well. "No, tell me, please."

You stiffened as he used that last word. A word that felt so out of place coming from his thin lips. As if some world law were broken as he vocalized that pleading word. It took you a moment to gather yourself. Well, what's the harm, it's only a few days left before I'm gone. Your face softened as he looked at you differently, more gently and not so darkly harsh. "I'm leaving," "Yes, the dungeons are not your place but tell me-" "No you idiot," you sighed, "I'm leaving Hogwarts, when this term ends." Even though you called him an idiot, it was done with a soft voice of slight annoyance and nothing worse than that.

He seemed to stiffen, seemed surprised. You sighed with a shrug of your shoulders. "Hogwarts is not for me, apparently," you said and his face hardened. "You got fired? For-, because-, because of me? For what happened?" His voice was different, it gently simmered with anger and it was not directed at you. But you shook your head. Not wanting to tell the reason you simply flattened your voice as much as you could as you spoke lightly. "I resigned, Hogwarts is just not for me, I'll try something other than teaching." "But you are a brilliant teacher," he said and you felt like a traveller in a different galaxy that was just all wrong. Did he just compliment me? What the- "I know you are, your students excel and thrive in your classroom." "Thank you, but it doesn't matter, not anymore." You gave him a tiny smile and then sidestepped again to leave the dungeons. You were simply too damn tired to argue, debate or throw any harsh comments about. enough was enough. And he didn't say anything else, didn't follow. Strangely enough, your heart hurt more now as he was being friendly. Now that he was civil with you it hurt so badly that it felt as if your chest would cave in on itself.

As the days passed you found yourself bumping into Snape more often, he talked more with you and there was an apparent effort on his side to be civil, even nice to you. But there were two differences that separated you from the other staff members when it came to Snape. One, he only addressed you as (y/l/n) rather than (y/n) as he did with the others. Two, he was more gentle with you then he was with the others. Before, he had been ruthless, harsh, bordering on cruel at times. But now, he was soft in his ways, gentle in his words and even just saying 'good afternoon' or ask 'having a good day' seemed to be food for your starved heart as it grew heavier and heavier with want and love. With a need you could not fill.

But you found yourself reverting to your old self, your true self as time passed by and strangely enough your joy for teaching returned. But there was nothing to do about that now as you had resigned and that was that. Besides, it would be good for you to escape the dark man who had captivated you since you laid eyes on him. Despite everything and all his efforts to harm you, hurt you, keep you away your heart had only hungered more for him and as the castle was empty and all students had gone home for the summer you felt it was time to do something about it. Perhaps at least get it out of your system before leaving forever. One regrets the things one do not do, not the things one has done as life ends. The words of your grandfather rang through your head and it steadied you. Gave you courage.

You had packed all your things, dressed in your regular clothing that fitted you as perfectly as your own skin did. You felt like you, not the professor or the colleague - just you. Well, in a moment I'll be just me. When I leave I will no longer be a professor or colleague. You took a breath and headed off towards the dungeons to hunt down Snape. You would at least tell him of your feelings, and then quite possibly run away before he damned you to hell for feeling romantic things regarding him. You had no idea how he would react. But it didn't matter, it was for your sake you were going to tell him. Clear the air and perhaps shut your heart up.

He was not in his office, or in the common room or his classroom where you knew he brewed potions in his spare time - not that the man actually had any. So you headed off towards his private quarters. You had never been there so it took a moment for you to find the door. His name shined on a little golden sign that was nailed to the door, 'Professor Snape, Private Quarters'. You steeled yourself, tried to find your courage again as your shaky fist knocked on the door. It took a mere moment for the door to be hastily pulled open, "If another stu-" Snape interrupted himself as you stood before him and not whoever he thought you had been.

He stiffened, his face turned slightly paler as you looked at him. You could see his adam's apple bounce up and then down behind his cravat as he obviously swallowed quite hard. "(Y/l/n), what gives me the pleasure?" "May I come in?" you asked and he arched a brow. "Yes, yes, come in." You nodded at him and stepped in on shaky legs as he moved aside. The door closed behind you and it felt strangely wrong to be in his private space. Perhaps you should have just blurted it out while the door was open and you could escape him instantly afterwards. "Can I help you with something?" he asked and you turned towards him, followed him as he stepped around you. Good, the door is clear.

You shook your head at him, "not really, no." "Well, then do enlighten me about the pleasure of your company?" Your eyes lingered in his for a moment as you for once allowed yourself to truly listen to his deep voice that vibrated through the air and your own body. "Well," you started as you looked down towards the floor, "I would like to tell you something," you continued as you braced yourself and looked up. Allowed your eyes to be dragged into his as you slowly floated about in the depths of his onyx eyes. "Go on," he murmured as he clasped his hands behind his back. He seemed to tense ever so slightly and you allowed your heart to drink him up. For just a moment you would be just you in his presence.

Okay, here goes all or nothing. Most likely nothing, you thought as you sucked in a breath of damp air. "I love you." The words were uttered clearly, no hesitation or any attempt at softening them. They were spoken with truth and honesty embedded in every syllable. Snape blinked at you as you merely stood there, looked at him with a nearly stoic face. "I just thought you ought to know." There, you had said it, you had done it. All the roaring, screaming and hissing from your heart died down. It simply pounded quietly in your chest as the truth was out. As if it held its breath for him to tell you he felt the same, but your head knew that was not what was going to happen. So, to spare yourself and him the embarrassment of stuttered words of some sort of apology, you simply turned and walked towards the door.

The handle felt cold in an unpleasant way against your palm as you twisted the nob, pulled the door towards you and stepped out without a single glance over your shoulder towards the speechless man behind you. If you had taken a second to look at him you would have found a man who was breaking and crumbling at your words. But you did not. And the door closed gently behind you. You sighed as your shoulders rose and sunk in unison with the air that filled and then left your lungs. Well, that was terrible. You shook your head as reality hit you. That you did not matter to him. Every time your heart screamed for him his remained encased by walls of stone. Every time you drowned in his eyes he remained tethered to reality. You had already known it was so, but to have exposed your truth and receive nothing in return was worse than angry words of disdain in all honesty.

The empty corridor felt deadly quiet as you began to walk away from the man you had fallen through the pits of hellish love for. You would leave, mend your shattering heart and find something to keep your mind occupied with. You already knew the future would be hard to cope with now that there were no doubts about his feelings towards you. At best disgust, at worse indifference. At least you told him and got an answer, even if your howling heart wanted nothing to do with that answer. "You'll mend," you whispered softly as you placed a hand over your viciously pounding heart. It tugged at you to go back, its claws dug into your soul and tried to wrench it back towards his door, towards him. But your body refused, your mind took control as your heart was obviously out of sorts at that moment.

You jumped as a loud crashing sound was heard. Shattered glass against stone, a crescendo of clinking noises of damage and destruction. A loud bang was heard afterwards and then the sound of books or the like that fell and landed on stone as well. "What in the-" but you had no time to say anything else as Snape's door flew open with a loud bang as it hit the inner wall of his private quarters. You ever so slowly turned towards him as he stepped out in a flurry of black fabric that swayed from his rapid movements.

His head turned and your eyes landed on his face. It was hard, jaw tensed, eyes darkly brimming with fire. You knitted your brow at him as your heart howled desperately in your chest, your mind did its best to hold the reins though. He saw you and his shoulders sank ever so slightly as if he released a breath, but you were not sure as he was a few steps away. A distance he rapidly closed with long rushed strides. "(Y/n)," he breathed out as he reached you and grabbed your wrists as if to hold you in place. His hand was wet against your skin, out of pure instinct you glanced down and saw blood dripping from it. "You're hurt," you stated as you seemed to be in some form of inner turmoil that kept your voice flat and your movements limited. Shock I believe? No? Isn't this shock? I mean, he said my name, my actual name. That's, new.

He glanced down on his hand but ignored the injury and blood as he instantly looked up to you again instead. "Why did you not tell me sooner?" he asked with a growl as his jaw looked tense. "I'm sorry?" "Why did you. Not. Tell me. Sooner?" he repeated with force between his gritted teeth. "Well, that's obvious. You hate me, I understand that. From how you treated me the moment we met I've understood that." His eyes widened as you looked at him flatly, unable to portray any emotion as you were, probably, in a deep shock at your own truth and his reaction to it.

"Elaborate," he growled. You sighed. "Really, do I really need to?" He nodded and you rolled your eyes as you felt your body go more and more numb. Not only had you told him but now you had to explain the whole thing to the man - how selfish could a person be? Could he not just leave you alone to wallow in your pain and sorrow? "Never saying my name, the glaring, the sneering and the constant remarks and harsh words. You could barely stand to look at me a few weeks ago. The moment we met you huffed at me and turned your back before storming away as if I was not even worth a second of your time." The words left you in a rush as your emotions started to catch up. "All the anger, the cruel words you've spoken. As if you did your utmost to push me away-" "I DID!"

You blinked, confused as to why he shouted such words at you. "Okay, now you elaborate. I don't understand what I did to deserve such treatment," you said and your voice turned lower and lower. Ah, there we go, here come the emotions... You felt tears sting your eyes as his grip around your wrists hardened. But that was not what made you cry, no it was the realisation that there was no going back and that the whole thing had been a horrible idea. "You exist, that is enough." You knitted your brows at his gritted words. "Excuse me for having the audacity to be born," you murmured as your throat was clogged by a knot of sadness and crying you tried to keep at bay.

He chuckled, "you're amazing." "What?" "You're amazing," he repeated as your eyes met and he had an actual smile over his lips. You just gaped at him. "You, (y/n), are utterly amazing and brilliant. All packaged in such a beautiful form. I do not think I have been able to have a single moment without you in my thoughts since I first saw you. And, it's wrong." "What's wrong?" He smiled at your confusion. "That I love you, want you. That I am desperate for you," he stated with that thunderous voice of his, "I have been since that moment you were introduced and I ran away the first chance I got." You gawked at him, his hold on your wrists softened as he lowered his eyes. "I have done, everything, to push you away and keep you away. Everything, yet you, you just rose to the challenge. I think I still have burns from some of your remarks," he chuckled out and you wrung your hands free from him. Anger and rage pulsed through you like stinging wasps.

You shoved your hands against his chest so hard he stumbled backwards as he was unprepared. "You mean to tell me I have been going through hell, been turned into this awful person, all because you love me?! Are you fucking kidding me, Severus?!" He gawked at you now. "That's, the first time you've said my name." "Well of course! You never used mine! You seemed to make a damn point of never calling me by my name but you did with everyone else!" "I never felt I had the right to utter such a beautiful word with this mouth that has said the foulest of things." You shuddered at his words, the deep darkness that thundered from his mouth. Then, you shuddered with anger again.

"You fucking bastard," you growled, "you damn-" and words failed you as your heart sprung free from your mind and it took the reins. In the next moment, you crashed your lips against his. He stiffened for a mere second before his arms embraced you and his lips met yours eagerly. "Bastard," you mumbled against his lips in between breaths, "stupid, stupid, stupid, bastard," you breathed out between crashing of lips against lips as he swallowed your words. "I love you," he whispered against your mouth, "forgive me." You leaned back at that as you felt his tears grace your own skin. It was just tears, no crying or any other tell of the overwhelming emotions he felt for you. You reached up and kissed his lips softly, gently. "No more running," you said and he nodded. "No more hiding," you continued and he nodded yet again. "No more anger, just love." He leaned in and kissed your neck as he hummed his acceptance of your terms. "And, use my given name, you bastard," you smiled out and he chuckled against the skin of your neck. "I will, (y/n)." You leaned into his embrace as your idea of him shattered, only to be replaced by a new one - one you loved deeply and was free of the hatred you had thought he had for you.

"I love you," you whispered with a slightly broken voice. "And I love you, I am, truly sorry," he said on a sigh. "What's done is done, all we can do is mend the things that are broken and love each other from here on out." "Perfectly put," he murmured as he straightened and looked at you. Your heart cheered its victory as your mind sulked over past hurts but you were too elated to take any notice of it. You reached up your hand to stroke his cheek before your hand gently snuggled into his hair and you dragged him towards you. Your lips met and a roaring howl of joy erupted from your heart as he passionately kissed you back.

Masterlist page // Masterlist post

So, as I re-read and edited this I noticed I completely miss interpreted the request - but I am hoping this will do anyway :S <3

Tags: @lizlil @snapefiction @morphineisouthoney @setsuna-meiou31 @snapefiction @monstreviolet @bionic-otp @meteoritewolf69 @flowerdementia @elizabeth-baelish

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[Jan:2021]

#snapedom #pro snape #snape fic #snape x reader #professor snape #snape #severus snape #reader insert #snape love #writing #deepperplexity #deepperplexity fic #love/hate #fic #fanfiction #hp fandom #fic writing

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rosy-cheekx · 3 years

Text

Dragged from the Deep

I will update with an AO3 link, two chapters, but I really wanted to get this out!

This is from @voiceless-terror‘s prompt: “ Been a tough few days. How are you holding up?” with jmart in the safehouse...Not what they expected but I am VERY VERY proud of this!

Martin awoke to the sound of Jon mumbling in his sleep. “I took my hand, and I reached down into the darkness.” Jon’s voice is quiet, reverent. Its barely his own; his voice of the Archive.

Really should have heard from Basira by now, Martin thought, trying to tamp down the frustration rising in his chest.

“Down and down,” Jon continued. “Until my whole arm was inside, up to the shoulder. It was damp and cold, with the rough stone sides scraping my skin, but my hand was stretched as far as I could, and it still gripped nothing but empty air. Then the hole began to close, and all at once the spell was broken.”

“Jon, m’dear?” he half-whispered, stroking Jon’s cheek softly. Jon was a light sleeper, but these times were...tricky. “Hey, Jonathan,” he added, voice at a speaking-volume now. “Wake up, it’s not real.”

“I tried to pull my arm out, to get free, but it held me tight. Not quite crushing me but holding me in place. I screamed and cried for help, looking around for anyone who might be able to hear me, but the only people walking by seemed utterly oblivious to what was happening. Then I felt it, something brushing against my hand from below it in the hole. Teeth. Wet, blunt teeth, which quickly gave way to a rough, slender tongue-”[97]

Martin couldn’t bear to hear any more. He hated witnessing Jon like this, possessed by the statements, by his need to feed. Jon’s voice was like marble, smooth and cold and mesmerizing, but it was heavy and would consume Jon if he allowed it.

Martin would not allow it.

“Jon!” He gave him a shake, firm on his shoulders. “Wake up!”

A drowning man suddenly reunited with his lungs; Jonathan Sims gasped for air. His eyes flashed open (there it was, the cursed glint of green that seemed to glow from within) and he clutched a hand to his chest as he began to cough. Martin pulled him into a sitting position, kneeling next to him and resting a hand on Jon’s lower back as he felt the convulsions double his frame. When his hacking had settled, Martin felt safe enough to breathe again himself, lest he had stolen air from the man beside him.

“H-hi,” Jon murmured, voice shaky, drawing his knees to his chest beneath the comforter. “How-how bad was it this time?”

Martin knew about Jon’s hunger, knew that statements were his fuel more than anything organic. The arrangement with Basira had been working relatively well up until now. Every three to four weeks, Basira would call the mobile they kept stashed in the safehouse for that purpose, only her number programmed in and let them know when she was coming, typically within a day or two. She should have called almost ten days ago. Had she let them go, at last, to fend for themselves? Had something happened to her, to the Institute? Things were getting dire.

At first, a little less than a week ago, Martin thought it was the nightmares; that the mumbling had been Jon apologizing to those so unfortunate enough to have him as a feature player in their nightmares. His words were unintelligible, so Martin had hugged him tightly in the night, in the way they had held each other those first days weeks, whispering affirmations of safety and love.

When he asked the poorly-rested Jon about it the next morning, he had frowned. “Ah, no. I mean, I haven’t slept with anyone—ah, more to say, no one has been in the room while I’ve been asleep to confirm for sure besides you, but I don’t think I usually talk in my sleep.” Martin chalked it up as “Weird, But No Too Weird,” and they agreed to keep an eye on it. Every night since, Martin had repeated that ritual, the words too unintelligible to understand, Martin clutching Jon like a life vest, carrying him safe through the morning.

Jon’s flu-like symptoms had cropped up three days ago. He woke weak, hardly able to move, and couldn’t keep any food down. The tea and water Martin literally spooned him were staying down, at least, which helped combat the dehydration Jon was surely suffering from the 40-degree fever he was running. The fever reducers weren’t helping, and Martin had nearly dragged Jon to A&E before he’d been able to explain to him what was happening. He was breaking down, needed the statements or things would get worse. “And, no, Martin-” cut off by a coughing fit. “I don’t know how much worse. Bad.” Whatever role Martin usually played in Jon’s life: roommate, friend, boyfriend maybe?, it didn’t matter. Or, at least, it came to second to Martin’s new role as nurse. Nurse was a role Martin was good at it. Practically a professional home-care assistant. But caring for a starving eldritch demigod was marginally different than caring for his human mum. At least the vomit cleaned the same way.

The statements had become more distinct the first night of the fevers. Words that had typically barely passed his lips were now being told to the night air with an intensity Martin had sorely wished he would never hear again. If Martin strained his ears, he could typically hear the tired hiss of a tape recorder. He tried to smash it that first night, out of anger and exhausted desperation, but Jon had screamed when he had bashed it with a vase, weeping as if it had been his head smashed and not the spinning dials of that cursed thing. Jon’s migraine had lasted through the night and into the afternoon, with Martin unable to do anything but apologize and stroke his hair, reading to him a novel that just wouldn’t be enough.

“Not too bad,” Martin answered, plastering a soft smile over his tired face. “Just scared me was all, I don’t know if it’s better to wake you or not, but it felt weird not to.” Jon was scratching at old worm scars, skin shiny and taut, and Martin took his hands gently, pressing a kiss to his pulse points in turn. God, he felt so hot against his lips.

“M-I’m sorry,” Jon sighs, eyes already fluttering closed again. His face was pale and his muscles slack; Martin hated how hollow his eyes and cheeks seemed, skeletal in the light of the moon.

“Shh, nothing to apologize for,” Martin assured him, reaching across Jon’s side of the bed to click on the lamp, wincing at the sudden light and the clock. 4:15. Too early, even for a morning person like Martin. “Do-do you want me to read to you some more? I can make some tea, chamomile? Milk and honey? Or we can listen to some music, or a podcast?” He knew it was fruitless. It would all be for naught until he got the damn statements from Basira.

Jon had the comforter drawn to his neck, shivering slightly, eyes closed. He nodded vaguely. “The book,” he managed, voice a broken whisper, so unlike the strong and powerful intonation Martin had just heard. Martin nodded, kissing his forehead, clammy and plastered with baby hairs, and stood, passing the book into Jon’s lap, page marked with a flat-barreled pen, something that had been tucked into a journal in the bedside table. (Jon and Martin had agreed that some things are better left unread.) Martin could see Jon’s hands shaking slightly under the blanket.

The walk to the kitchen was cold and dark, and Martin took a moment to himself, while the electric kettle hummed to life, to press his forehead against the cool plastic of the refrigerator, fingers interlaced behind his neck. God, he was so tired. He loved Jon more than anything, that was true, but he was at such a loss. It hurt to know there was nothing he could do to help, short of kidnapping a random neighbor from the town and begging them to tell Jon their story. He would call Basira this afternoon. He had tried the day the fever started and hasn’t received an answer. She was probably chasing down a lead about Daisy; she was known to go off the grid when hunting after her.

The click of the kettle, and Martin is on task again, portioning out tea and honey, chamomile for Jon, English breakfast for himself; he needs the caffeine. Two travel mugs later, Martin was heading back into the dark hallway, up the stairs, and to the dimly let bedroom.

The task had taken no more than five minutes, eight max. This was apparently, long enough for Jon to rifle in the nightstand drawer, retrieve that little notebook they had found, and to begin scribbling in it furiously. Martin could already see a good quarter of the notebook had been filled already, though what measure of that had been used prior to their arrival was unclear.

“Jon? Writing anything interesting?” Jon’s eyes jerked open and he let his gaze fall on the notebook.

“Oh-ah, no. Just doodling,” the words still weak, but the half-smile on his face lifts Martin’s spirits. See? He told himself. He’s still Jon. Jon closed the notebook and tucked it into his lap, reaching for the spill-proof mug with the hand not holding the pen that had been marking the page number. Martin noticed Jon twiddling the pen between his fingers and elected not to say anything. Whatever helped. And it had seemed to help; Jon seemed a little less gaunt than he had, but maybe that was the consequence of sitting up, letting himself focus on other things than his gnawing hunger. “Page 74,” Jon sighed as Martin resumed his position next to him in bed, tucking his head on Martin’s shoulder. “Second paragraph.”

“Creep,” Martin muttered good-naturedly, before settling into the pages and resuming the book, some sort of cop thriller-mystery (because of course that had been Daisy’s preferred reading material).

Martin had been reading for nearly an hour when, while pausing to sip his tea, the scratching of pen on paper had distracted him from the story. They had been at a rather thrilling part of the chase; the detective had just discovered that his wife, who he thought to be dead, was not actually dead and maybe even a part of the mystery. Martin had felt rather invested in giving Jon a good show, throwing himself into the narration maybe a little more than was necessary for the audience of one (1) ill partner (Boyfriend? Love? Patient? Whatever). Jon had remained quiet, save for a periodic coughing fit, but didn’t seem to be asleep from the way Martin could feel The Eye in the room with him, an inescapable feeling now, consequences of his proximity to The Archivist. With the sound of the pen, however, Martin closed the book, flipping it upside down and open. (Usually, Jon would chastise him for such a horrendous act to a book. Martin wished he would.)

Jon’s eyes were cast on the book, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. He was scribbling furiously, writing continuously in the notebook that had once belonged to Daisy. Jon’s handwriting, difficult in the best of circumstances, was positively chicken scratch as Martin tried to parse out the strings of words on the paper, some he could swear weren’t even English.

“Jon?” Martin asked, placing a hand on the journal gently. “Is everything alright?”

“I-ah, yeah,” Jon capitulated, sighing softly, even as it resulted in a series of weak hacks. “I was trying to remember the dream, the statement I was reading in my sleep. I thought maybe writing it down would help.”

“And? Did it help?”

“I…I don’t know.” Jon frowned and scrubbed his hands over his eyes, blinking wearily. “I need to keep trying.”

Martin frowned internally but tried to keep his face neutral. “D’you think it’s…good? To try?”

“I don’t know, Martin.” Martin is suddenly reminded of a paranoid, frantic Jonathan Sims, angry and scared and not knowing who to trust. “But I have to try something! I can’t just sit here, waiting to wither away and die.”

“O-okay then,” Martin took a deep breath. “It was just a question.”

“A stupid one.” He’s sick, Martin reminds himself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“Well,” Martin closed the book properly this time, surreptitiously dog-earing a page. What Jon doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “I’m out of tea. Need any more?”

Jon shook his head, quiet now as he continued to write, eyes glued to his page. “A-alright then,” Martin slid off the bed and frowned, catching a whiff of himself. Yikes. He had lost track of the last time he bathed, so worried had he been about missing a call from Basira. “Would you be okay if I have a shower?”

More silence, the scratching of the cheap pen the only sound in the room. At least there wasn’t a tape running. “Shout if you need me.”

It felt good to breathe in the steam and smell of lather, to luxuriate in the hot water rolling over him. Martin has always been a bit generous with his showers, especially as a teen. They had been his designated times to be off the hook from his mother, chores, his jobs, anything that was causing him stress. Martin felt a bit guilty remembering these things. His shower wasn’t long because he wants to avoid Jon, not at all. It’s just. Jon is clearly in a bit of a mood, so it would be good to give him some space without making it seem like he’s upset. Which, he’s not upset! Just. a break is good. Yeah. A break is healthy.

Martin turned off the water when he started to feel a bit dizzy from the heat, wrapped himself in a towel and splashed cold water on his face. There. He was feeling better already.

“Jon!” He called, cracking the door and letting steam roll out around him. “I know it’s a bit early, but I thought maybe I could start on breakfast. Maybe you can stomach down some crackers today?”

After a few beats of silence, Martin called out again. The loo, while not an en suite, was pretty close to the master. “Jon?”

Must be asleep. Martin smiled softly to himself and shook his head, ruffling his curls, more white than auburn anymore, and pulled on a fresh pair of sweatpants. Not like they were going anywhere today.

Tinged pink from the hot shower, Martin rounded the corner into the master bedroom and stopped, momentarily confused. “Oh, did you not hear me?”

Jon was awake. He was still writing, bent over the notebook and scribbling furiously, murmuring to himself, too quiet to hear. He didn’t look up. Martin frowned, shivering as a wave of static rolled over his body like a cool wind. “Jon. Jon, a-are you in there? Are you okay?”

The muttering continued, unceasing. Martin edged forward carefully, hands in front of him like he was buffeting back a storm or trying not to scare a wounded animal. Honestly, Martin wasn’t sure which sentiment was more accurate. He crept his way to Jon’s side of the bed, still apparently unnoticed by the Archivist. There was a bloody tape recorder on the bedside table. Martin knew better than to touch it.

He bent down, kneeling on the floor and craning his neck to look up into Jon’s face. His shoulders slumped as he gazed up into an emerald glow as Jon’s own eyes, usually a deep brown, lit the page in front of him like a torch, bathing it in harsh light. Jon’s own form was crackling slightly, seemingly more solid than a usual body should, silhouette a little too crisp against the wall behind him.

Martin could hear him now, too, and his voice was the same low, consistent monologue that Martin had first loved, but had grown to hate in his years working in the Archives.

“As I said, it was one of the last boxes I opened on the second day. It was late, and I had already made my way through most of a bottle of wine. The more I think about it, the more I think that opening that box felt no different to any of the others. No hard feelings, no smells, nothing. It was just a box empty of everything except a single typewritten note and an old hand mirror.

It lay inside, utterly innocuous. If it was a trap, there was no way to tell.” [60]

That one sounded familiar. An old statement, it must be. Something about a mirror and seeing things in a reflection? Punching a camera? he wondered. Martin felt another shiver roll through his body; he turned his attention towards the notebook, towards what he knew would be there. Now that he knew what to look for, he could read the handwriting with little trouble. As the Archivist spoke, he wrote the words in Jon��s handwriting, transcribing the statement.

“Jon,” Martin’s voice was soft. “If you can hear me, I’m going to take away your pen now. I think…I think that will let you rest. I’m going to count to three, okay? One. Two. Three.”

As soon as Martin reached for the pen, he felt himself being thrown backwards, as if by a tidal wave. He felt his body hit the wall, heard his skull hit the wall with a sickening thud.

------Chapter 2------

When Martin woke, he was confused. Last he knew, he had gone to sleep in bed, right? Not on the couch watching telly or drunk in a bathtub. So why was he so stiff—ow. He rolled his neck. And sore. He was on the floor, for one thing, head against the wall and legs splayed in front of him. God his head hurt. Was he hungover? No, he hadn’t drunk anything. Just eaten dinner in bed with Jon, done dishes, read, and fallen asleep.

Oh shit. Jon. It rushed back to Martin in a dizzying spiral; Helen would be proud. The mumbling, the writing, the pen, the eyes. Had Jon pushed him? Not physically, maybe. But hadn’t he heard through the grapevine something about Jon and the delivery man—Breekon? Or maybe Hope? Whichever one hadn’t died in the Unknowing. Something about him shoving him backwards with sheer force of a word? Jon had thought they were exaggerating. But maybe…maybe not.

Martin’s eyes were still closed, he realized. He was afraid to, he realized. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see: maybe a big, unblinking Eye where the body of Jon had been? A torrent of books and pages spinning around Jonathan Sims in a dramatic flourish as he commands them? Hundreds, if not thousands, of tape recorders piling around their bed, drowning them both in magnetic tape and words? Slowly, painfully, Martin opened his eyes.

None of those were there of course. There was just Jon. Sitting in bed, gaunt and frail. Writing and reciting as if nothing happened. That was almost worse, in a way, that he had flung Martin against a wall and continued as if it hadn’t hurt him to do so. The Archivist’s movements were stiff and mechanical as he turned the page and continued to write, voice now in a language Martin couldn’t understand but was probably Chinese.

Stopping the writing was no longer an option, he supposed. But what else could he do? Maybe it could recharge Jon a little, like sucking the marrow from a bone. Only Martin wasn’t sure if the statements or Jon was the bone in that scenario. God, he wished he could Eldritch Google “Eye statement starvation: stages of bad?” Unfortunately, his Eldritch Google was out of service and there was no one else he could ask who wasn’t also trying to actively kill him.

What were his options then? Wait and hope Jon doesn’t die. Call Basira again. Kidnap a stranger and have them read a statement. Well, he wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

Martin sighed, running a hand through his hair and feeling a lump throbbing gently on the back of his head. He checked the rest of his body for injuries and was grateful to find nothing too bad. Probably just a concussion.

Hauling himself to his feet (using the floor and doorknob to a closet as his supports), Martin teetered his way to the kitchen. He threw open the cupboard beneath the sink and grabbed the small black phone with Basira’s number saved.

Dialing, he slid himself into a chair at the kitchen table, resting his forehead against his free palm and closed his eyes again.

“Hello?” The faint voice Basira Hussain rang out into the air.

“Basira? It’s Martin. Any word on the statements? It’s getting a little dire here.” He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice.

“Dire? How do you mean?” Basira was always a little too direct for Martin’s taste; couldn’t she hear how drained he was?

“He won’t stop repeating and writing old statements. I tried to stop him and he—well. It wasn’t on purpose…But he threw me into a wall.”

“Shit.” Basira was quiet for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he bit back. “I would be better if we had the statements.” There wasn’t time for him to feel guilty about his delivery.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I caught wind of Daisy being in Italy, so I’m there now. If I take the first flight out of Rome, I can be at my flat tomorrow and yours the next. Two days, max. Less if I can. Can he make it that long?”

“Better bloody hope so.” The fight drained from him. “Please, Basira,” he added, sighing. “I don’t know what to do. He was sick and feverish and I could handle that but now he’s just…empty.”

“Maybe it’s like a diet.” He could practically hear her mind spinning through the phone. “You know, how when you starve yourself for too long? You start losing weight and all’s dandy. But the longer you wait, your body starts taking nutrients from your own organs?” Martin hummed an affirmation. “Maybe he’s sucking out every bit he can from himself to survive.”

“So…how do I fix that?”

“I mean, when I get you the statements, we can force-feed him. But until then? I dunno. I’m at a loss too. Keep him safe, I think? But don’t let yourself get hurt either.”

Martin nodded, momentarily forgetting he was on the phone. “Oh, yeah. Um, thank you Basira. I’ll do my best. Call me when you’re at the flat?”

“Of course. Call me if you get lo-bored.”

“Please hurry.”

Martin hung up and dropped his head to the table unceremoniously, wincing as the impact rattled the back of his skull. Now what? He didn’t want to sit in the room while the Archivist worked, but he was afraid to leave him alone. He hated how it felt to be in the room, the low wave static and the feeling of being known permeating every pore. He was afraid what staying in there would do, if Jon would Know him too well after he came back. Looking around, Martin grabbed the egg timer Jon used when he cooked and spun it to an hour. If he checked in every hour, that would be fine, right? He could let the Archivist have the bedroom; he’d stay downstairs, and check in every hour.

The first few hours crept by, but each ding of the egg timer was much too soon for Martin’s liking. He iced his head, wincing again when he realized it was the late morning and he had been unconscious for quite a while. He made himself an unassuming brunch, cheese toasty and curry left over from dinner a few days ago. Made some more tea, obviously, and took some acetaminophen to reduce the swollen goose-egg on his head. Read, watched an old DVD of some American TV show Daisy must have liked. Tried to keep his mind off whatever had taken over his boyfriend in the upstairs bedroom.

Each time the timer went off, Martin would repeat the same process. He would ascend the stairs, knock on the doorframe of the bedroom, tell Jon he was coming over to check on him, and would watch and listen to him for almost a minute. Some of the statements he recognized, some he didn’t. His eyes were always that throbbing, blinding green, staring into nothing, his face hollow and gaunt. Around two in the afternoon, Martin went in to see that Jon had moved from the bed. The notebook lay abandoned, filled to the last page. The Archivist was standing, in baggy sleep boxers, facing the wall, still intoning the fears and terrors of those who had contributed their stories to the Institute. Their stories were stark when written against the robin blue pant. Martin left the room before he could Know he was crying.

Afternoon turned to evening, and Martin continued his ministrations. The egg timer ran his day and he got little done, managing maybe half of a book from the meager shelf downstairs. He wasn’t even sure what it was about; he had to keep rereading the same pages over and over. The writing had grown to cover half the wall in Jon’s slanted script. Martin wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what would happen if he tried to smudge it. Between checking up on The Archivist, he half-heartedly ate scrambled eggs and chugged some wine; he figured he’d earned it. It was weird to feel strangely like an Archival Assistant again; knowing things were bad for the man he desperately wanted to be there but not knowing how to help.

KRRRRRRRRRRG!

Time to check on him again. Martin trudged up the stairs for what felt like the hundredth time that day. The Archivist was in a different position this time. He was kneeling, head bowed. Martin could have sworn he was praying; the monotony of words slipping from his lips as easily as the nuns Martin had seen growing up. Martin paused. It was…almost beautiful, in a way. The slight form of a man paying his service to a god to whom he was so completely indebted. The green light reflecting off the wall, covered in his scripture, casting a glow on his skin and through his curls, mussed from fever.

Would’ve been, anyways, if Martin hadn’t seen the drop of blood snaking its way down Jon’s thigh, creasing where his leg was folded along the calf. All at once, the beauty he had been caught up in was gone and all he saw was a helpless, broken man, compelled to write the words of the desperate, the lost, the broken. Martin shook a pillowcase from the bed, letting the pillow fall unceremoniously, and cautiously moved to the Archivist. As worried as he was, he needed to know what was going on before he could help.

The sight made him slightly sick. Jon was bent over his thigh, holding the pen as if it were a dagger, and was using the ballpoint tip to carve words into the meat of his leg. He hadn’t gotten far, apparently the effort took more out than the body of a weakened Jon could take.

“a fac-” [54]

Confused, Martin looked up to the wall where he had been writing and figured out the problem. The pen had run out of ink. The words got paler and less distinct until they were barely readable. Judging from the smears, the Archivist had tried to use Jon’s blood to write, using the pen as a quill. It clearly hadn’t worked, judging by the thin, weak curves of red and brown. Jon was still mumbling the statement, eyes blank and voice even, but the lines of his face seemed frustrated and dark.

The letters on his skin were weeping dark red now and Martin could see his hands weren’t the only ones shaking. He was afraid to touch him, afraid that trying to press a cloth to his wounds could quite literally be both of their deaths.

The more he stared, trapped in indecision, he watched as the decision was made for him. Jon had been ill, dehydrated and fever-laden, and the assault to his body was more than he could handle. His face, an ashen brown-grey-green from the glow of his eyes, went slack and as the emerald lights went out, Jon slumped, falling into Martin’s lap and shoulder as his body gave up. As soon as their skin touched, Martin’s mind snapped into focus. Fix this. You have to fix this.

Martin was immediately comforted by the fact that Jon was breathing. He hadn’t run out of fuel, not yet. Martin pressed a kiss to his hair (still hot) as he gently laid Jon flat, tearing open the sealed end of the pillowcase clutched in his fist so he could slip it up Jon’s leg and press it down, trying to stem the blood flow. You need something better, he thought, mind racing. It was oozing, not squirting, so Jon hadn’t hit an artery. That was good. Thank god Mum’s hospital soaps were worth something in the end. He needed a thicker fabric; the sheet wasn’t doing any good. Martin scoured the room, looking for any sort of thick fabric.

His towel from his shower. Thank fuck for his laziness. In less than ten steps, he had retrieved the towel from where it was haphazardly abandoned by the dresser and brought it back, folding and pressing it to his thigh, exchanging it for the thin white pillowcase. Sorry, Daisy.

Kneeled beside Jon, Martin lent most of his upper body weight to pressing down on the towel, keeping a cautious eye on Jon’s face and his chest, each shallow breath another blessing. He’s not sure how long he sits there in, that position, whispering platitudes to the pallid-faced man laid in front of him. Maybe an hour? Maybe three? Maybe twenty minutes? Time is blurry, intangible to him.

It’s dark when Martin felt okay to cautiously lift the towel and examine the letters carved in his leg. They’re starting to clot, he nodded to himself, feeling safe enough to leave Jon there on the floor to get the first aid kit from the lav. Carefully, lovingly, Martin pulled the ace bandage tight around the cotton pads on his leg, freshly doused and swabbed with cleansing alcohol. Daisy was nothing if not prepared for injuries.

Satisfied with his care, he gently pulls Jon into his arms and takes him downstairs. He didn’t want Jon to wake up and see the room like this—bloody and covered in the writings of the Archivist. Between the carpet and walls, it would take a while to clean anyways. The couch was certainly big enough to hold the man he held in his arms (and god he was way too light).

One Jon was laid on the couch, Martin made a fresh cup of tea, black tea with as much caffeine as he could stomach and pulled a cold compress from the freezer. Lifting his shoulders carefully, Martin situated himself to act as a headrest for the unconscious Jon, a cold compress acting as a barrier between them to hopefully aid the fever. One hand in Jon’s curls, the other holding a book open (still, no idea what it was about), Martin settled into the evening, saying a prayer to anything that was out there that Basira would hurry the hell up.

Martin read aloud to Jon all night, trying in vain to keep himself awake. Apparently, the book was a romance novel, some trashy erotica about a woman and a werewolf. Martin was just graceful it wasn’t sci-fi and horror. He annotated it as he read, giving Jon his stream of consciousness thoughts. “You know, I haven’t done that,” he chuckled to himself, brushing Jon’s hair from his face. “Especially not with a woman, but I don’t really think it’s anatomically possible.”

His eyes were starting to droop around three or four in the morning, the adrenaline draining out of him. Resting a hand on Jon’s neck, he felt for his pulse point and, after finding it, light and shallow as it was after the coma, let his eyes close, comforted in feeling the life fluttering beneath his fingers.

Martin woke up to a pounding on the door and he snapped awake like the knock had been a gunshot. The care he took to lay Jon’s head back down was deeply contrasted by the way he bolted to the door, unlocking it with haste and resisting the urge to throw his arms around Basira, wincing at the bright daylight that streamed inside.

“Woah—Martin,” Basira took a step back involuntarily. “Is there a reason your hands are covered in blood?”

“What? Oh-yeah, I’ll tell you about it. Things were bad. It’s fine now. It’s-It’s not my blood.” Martin swung the door open, letting Basira in. “What time is it? How did you get here so fast?”

“It’s quarter-three; I may or may not have found a plane that wasn’t on the official flight plans. And there’s more than one way to get in the Institute besides a key.” Martin shook his head and decided it wasn’t worth asking about. He beckoned her to the couch, where Jon lay, limbs limp.

Basira handed him the first statement on the pile and opened one for herself. “Ready?”

“Statements begin.”

Jon’s first thought was how wet his neck felt. His second was why he heard so many words. His brain floated between living dolls and a message in a bottle, washed up on the beaches of Greece. His teeth were chattering and he felt so cold. He grasped his hands out, reaching desperately for the comforter. Martin must have stolen it, he smiled to himself. Oh, that’s Martin. Martin’s voice.

“Hmm…Mm’tin,” he murmured, shifting towards the sound of his voice. Martin’s voice continued, telling him a story about a doll with painted lips and angry eyes. A hand reached out and cupped his face. Jon leant into the touch hungrily, grateful for the heat on his skin. He let Martin’s words carry him away again.

When Jon woke again, he felt more alive than he had in days. If his illness recently had been him submerged, he finally felt like he was breaking through the surface. The Choke released him, and he felt oxygen return to his lungs. But he was not in the Buried, he was on the couch. He was not drowning, he was breathing sweet air and felt it wafting over him in the drafty house that felt like a home when he was with Martin. Martin. God, he could hear his voice and he didn’t think he had heard anything so sweet than Martin speaking and reading to him. He was reading, yes, and Jon knew immediately what it was: the statement of Herbert Conklin, an Irishman who watched his son turn to plastic before his eyes, piece by piece. Jon’s eyes flew open and he craned his neck to find Martin’s face. His eyes were cast down on the statement in his lap, but his hand was folded in Jon’s, running his fingertips over the smaller man’s knuckles gently.

Jon felt paralyzed, unable to move as he let the statement wash over him, hating how good it made him feel to hear the statement, lavishing in the words. He felt a sharp pain in his leg throb to dull ache as the healing words flowed through him. As Martin uttered those forsaken words: “Statement Ends,” he brought his eyes to meet Jon’s, a pale smile ghosting his face before it solidified into something more real, more Martin.

“Hi love. Been a tough few days. How are you holding up?”

Jon was lost for words for a moment, gaping like a fish before he brought Martin’s clasped hand to his lips. Kissing it, he pressed the words into his skin, begging them to impress themselves there forever.

“Better that you’re here.” His memory was a blank, sure, but he knew it must be true and didn’t need to ask the Eye to confirm. Martin was here. All would be well.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #jmart #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #cw self harm #spooky #not mental health related tho #cw blood #cw canon typical violence #hurt/comfort #whos the one hurting tho #jk its both #ill post AO3 link in the morning

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hyucks-archive · 4 years

Text

the roasted bean.

word count: 5,946

genre: fluff

member(s): just mark!

warning(s): none, but maybe some bad language and typos

author’s note: i swear 40% of the word count goes to hydrangea sweet dew tea… enjoy!

Day 441.

“What’s this?” you questioned, retrieving the gift that was wrapped in a cute comic strip wrapping paper. He grins in response, “Open it,” he urges. You start to pick at the tape that held the wrapping paper in place, careful as to not tear or damage the paper. He looks on excitedly, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

You pull out the rectangular object, revealing a notebook, engraved with his name and his birth date, in hand. You looked at him; he still had the same boyish, ridiculously cute smile plastered on his face. “Go on,” he urges once more, gesturing with his hand for you to open the notebook.

“Don’t tell me you got me a diary with your name engraved on it just to claim me as your possession,” you say, glaring at him, mind rid of any harmful intentions. He giggles, quickly getting up on his feet, “You open it, okay? I’ll go make us some drinks.”

He presses a soft peck on your forehead, running off to leave you to unravelling your gift.

You open the notebook, the pages already pre-filled with black ink.

Day 1.

“Should I?” you whined, tugging Wendy by the arm, hoping she could decide for you. The two of you were on your way to school, which meant that in another few blocks, you’d pass by one of your favourite cafés of all time – The Roasted Bean.

“A little caffeine wouldn’t hurt,” Wendy replies, flashing you a sweet smile. She already knew that you were definitely going to buy a cup of your favourite hydrangea sweet dew tea. You just needed to have someone to blame when you regret indulging in so much liquid before four blocks of lectures.

You smiled in response to her reply, throwing your arms around your best friend, giggling like the little girl you were at heart. With your arm linked with Wendy’s, the two of you continue your walk in the spring breeze, approaching The Roasted Bean within the next few minutes. You push the door open, the wind chimes sounding, notifying the café staff of the entrance of a new customer. Immediately, you were hit with the familiar scent of a mix of roasted coffee beans and fresh tea leaves, a scent in which you loved.

“Hey, the cashier’s kind of cute,” Wendy whispers, pointing in the direction of the said cashier. You looked over to be greeted by the pleasant sight of a male staff. He donned a boyish smile, hints of dimples on either side of his cheeks. His eyes, although hidden behind a round frame pair of glasses, were big and glistened in reflection of the light, his slightly curly hair jet black. Upon meeting eyes with you, he bows politely, smile widening. Out of pure manners, you acknowledged his greeting by returning the smile, quickly averting eye contact.

“Hi, welcome to The Roasted Bean. What can I get for you?” He says so naturally, question directed at you.

When you do not respond, Wendy nudges you in the side, “He’s talking to you,” she says through gritted teeth. Somehow, she managed to maintain her smile, but lets out an awkward laugh when the cashier boy flashes her a confused look.

“I’ll just get a hydrangea sweet dew tea to go, please,” you say, flashing a small smile at the cashier. He repeats your order, “Alright, one hydrangea sweet dew tea to go. Can I get you anything else?” as he punches in the order through the monitor. You stared at the screen which reflected your order summary, eyes travelling upwards, past his hand, up his arms, to his chest. Pinned to the leather apron he had on, positioned at his left chest, was his nametag. ‘Mark’, it read.

“No, thank you,” you reply. He gives a slight nod of the head, grabbing a marker and a cup. “Name, please?” he requests, eyes fixed on yours. “Um,” you hesitated, eyes looking around as you scanned through the menu boards which were placed above Mark’s head.

“Horchata,” you state confidently, flashing a big, bright smile. You notice the look of confusion that flashes across Mark’s face for barely a second, along with the extremely disgusted, weirded out, confused look Wendy has on hers. Nevertheless, Mark retains his customer-friendly smile, scribbling down ‘Horchata’ on the cup.

He swipes your debit card and hands it back to you together with your receipt, directing you to the collection counter on the right. You bow and thank him, dragging Wendy along as she nags, “What the heck was that? What’s wrong with telling him your own name?”

You chuckle, hugging your best friend’s arm tight, “Come on, it’s fun.”

She smacks you lightly on the head.

Day 9.

“Remember to bring your textbooks for next week’s lecture,” the professor announces, dismissing the cohort. You shut your laptop, cross your arms, and heaved a sigh of relief, tilting your head from side to side to relief the tension in your neck from the two-hour lecture. Due to the intensity of the course, your fingers had to move feverishly despite the crisp, cold air that blew directly at you, causing your entire body to almost freeze to death.

“I swear, why do we have to take Mr Kang’s class? Why can’t he be like other professors? They all upload the study notes online, but this guy just uses his mouth, and nothing else,” you complain, throwing your head down to rest it on the table. If you weren’t so tired out, you would’ve jerked back up in reflex to the cold surface that was biting at your cheek.

“Alright, alright. I’ll buy you a hydrangea sweet dew tea to turn that frown upside down, okay?” Wendy coos, ruffling your hair. You jump up in excitement, rushing to pack your things, “I really like the sound of that,” you say, eyes gleaming in excitement.

It had been about a week since you last visited The Roasted Bean. Whenever you were stressed, you always craved and needed a cup of hydrangea sweet dew tea to calm yourself. It was the best pick-me-up you could ask for.

Soon enough, you found yourself approaching the entrance of your favourite café.

“Gosh, just because you take your time to walk over, it doesn’t mean that your tea is going to grow legs and run away,” Wendy says as she gasps for air, running a hand through her hair. “I swear, that was supposed to be a ten-minute walk, but we literally got here in three minutes.”

You chuckled, reaching out as you settled the stray hairs atop your friend’s head. “Come on, you can’t blame me. I’m just excited for my beautiful, fragrant hydrangea sweet dew tea.” She swats your hand away, rolling her eyes, before bursting out into shared laughter with you. “If only you were this enthusiastic about class, maybe we’d actually be early,” she comments, pulling you along as she enters the café.

“Hi, welcome to The Roasted Bean. What can I get for you?” The familiar voice greets. You turned towards the boy behind the cashier; you were greeted with the same customer-friendly, boyish smile. Only today, you noticed he had his hair combed back, and he didn’t have his glasses on. Previously, he wore a simple, plain black t-shirt. Today, he has on a white dress shirt, his sleeves neatly cuffed. He looks smart, and admittedly, even better looking.

You smile in response, “Hi,” you greet. “One hydrangea sweet dew tea to go, please.”

Again, Mark keys in your order through the monitor. As he clicks, your order summary is reflected on the screen in front of you. “Can I get you anything else?” He questions, eyes focused on the monitor. You look towards Wendy, “I’ll have a cold brew,” she says. He finishes locking in the order, grabs a marker and a cup, “Name, please?” he requests.

You hold Wendy by the wrist before she is able to reply. “Affogato,” you say.

Wendy smacks your arm, to which you do not react. Mark, on the other hand, still managed to maintain a smile as he scribbles ‘Affogato’ on both your cups. Again, he completes the payment transaction, returns you your debit card and receipt, and directs you to the collection counter on the right.

“Really? Affogato?” Wendy hisses, “What’s next? Macchiato?” She smacks you once more on the arm.

You giggle, “Isn’t it fun?”

Wendy rolls her eyes at you. “Don’t you think it’s weird though?” she says, eyes fixed in the direction where Mark was. You looked over too, raising your brows questioningly. “What’s weird?” you asked, following Mark’s every move as he prepared the drinks without even having to give the ingredients or preparation process any second thoughts.

“I mean, I think I would remember if someone told me their name was Horchata,” she says, turning back to look at you.

“Oh,” you say, meeting eyes with Wendy. “He probably just forgot. I mean, so many people frequent this café. Maybe he just doesn’t recognise us.”

Wendy hums in response, “I guess you’re right.”

Your eyes linger on Mark for a moment, before turning away as you engage in conversation with Wendy while waiting for your drinks to be done.

Day 26.

The morning spring breeze hits your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “Gosh,” you murmur, looking up at the pale blue sky. You reached back, grabbing the hood of your hoodie, pulling it over your head. Shoving your hands into the kangaroo pocket of your hoodie, you continued trudging on towards The Roasted Bean.

On entering, you searched for the cosiest seat with the least chance of interruption from any possible crowds. Spotting your favourite corner seat, hidden beside the entrance of the storage room, the sides of your lips tugged upwards to form a small smile, your footsteps noticeably lighter as you walked over, plonking your black backpack on the bench. Reaching into the pouch of your backpack, you pulled out your debit card, turning to head towards the cashier.

“Hi, welcome to The Roasted Bean. What can I get for you?”

Your eyes immediately snap up, meeting eyes with the only cashier who had been serving you since your past two trips – Mark. Today, his hair looked like a fluffy mess, his round frame glasses framing his face. The bright, sweet smile he had on had some effect on brightening your mood ever so slightly, in which you managed to huff out a smile in return.

“One hydrangea sweet dew tea, please,” you say, voice groggy from the time of day. You fail to notice the small chuckle that Mark had let out, your eyes fixed on the display of breakfast foods the café has to offer. Taking this as an opportunity, Mark stares at you a tad bit longer, admiring how your features seemed to blend so well together.

“Anything else?” he asks, waiting patiently for you to make a decision.

Without Wendy by your side, nobody could help your indecisive self make decisions. Without a choice, and without looking up, you asked, “Should I get the ham and cheese croissant or the chicken and ham panwich?”

“I’d go for the ham and cheese croissant,” Mark replies, making a mental note on how you couldn’t make a choice between a croissant and a panwich. His smile widens.

“Okay, I’ll have that,” you say, handing him your card. He takes it, swipes it, and hands it back to you along with your receipt. Just as you were about to walk to the collection counter, he stops you, “Name, please?”

You looked at him, brows slightly raised. “You need to write my name on the mug?” you questioned, confused.

Mark’s smile doesn’t even budge as he says, “No. I need a name to address the collection to.”

You nod your head in response, simply replying with, “Kaffeost.”

Day 27.

“Another day of mugging,” you mumble to yourself, grabbing your hair and putting it up into a messy bun. Throwing on your cardigan, you grabbed your backpack and headed out of the door. As you exited your building, you see Wendy standing by the pavement, her body hunched over due to the cool air. A smile forms as you call out, “Wendy!”

She looks up in reaction to your voice, scurrying over. She grabs your arm and hugs it tight, “The cold will be the death of me,” she says, almost whining. You laugh, running a soothing hand up and down her arm, in an attempt to warm her up as the two of you headed for The Roasted Bean. Yesterday, Wendy had a full day of vocal practise with her acapella group, so she wasn’t able to accompany you on a study date.

“Did you manage to complete a lot yesterday?” she asks, body still snuggled close into yours, continuing your walk.

You hummed in thought, “I guess. I managed to complete the notes for the first six chapters,” you say.

You lead the way to the same, cosy spot that you had claimed on the previous day. Wendy pats your head endearingly, “Wow. This is a good spot.” She takes a seat, already warming up thanks to the heating system in the café.

“What would you like? I’ll order,” you say. Wendy takes a moment as she scans through the menu, deciding to indulge in the classic hot chocolate. You tell her to wait a moment, making your way to the cashier to place the order. Once again, you were greeted by Mark, whom you somehow, already feel personally acquainted to. “Hi, welcome to The Roasted Bean. What can I get for you?”

For a moment, you contemplated as to whether or not you should ask if he ever got bored of saying the same exact sentence to every customer, but you figured that the two of you weren’t on the level of casual conversation yet. So instead, you proceed to place your order, “One hydrangea sweet dew tea and one hot chocolate, please.”

Mark taps away at the monitor, “No breakfast for you today?” He asks.

You look towards the display of food, pursing your lips in contemplation.

“Can’t decide?” he says, already done with keying in your order. Mark notices how you scrunched your nose in thought, your attention still fixated on the display of food. “How about eggs benedict? It’s a big enough portion for you and your friend to share,” he suggests. Your eyes immediately lit up in excitement, and Mark notices. He couldn’t help but smile a toothy smile.

“That sounds amazing,” you say, handing Mark your card. He processes the payment, then returns your card together with the receipt.

“Name, please?” he says. Today, you were prepared with an answer.

“Breve.”

At that, you fail to see the slight look of disappointment in Mark’s expression.

“How much was it?” Wendy questions just as you arrived back at the table, her hand already reaching inside her bag for her wallet. “It’s on me,” you say, stuffing the receipt, which is the last possible shred of evidence of the cost of the food, deep into your pocket.

“Fine, but next round is on me,” Wendy says, shrugging. You nod in reply, getting out your laptop, textbook, notebook, and pencil case in preparation to study. Wendy does the same. Just as she was about to say something, Mark calls from the collection counter, “A hydrangea sweet dew tea, hot chocolate, and eggs benedict for Breve!”

“Tell me you are not Breve,” Wendy says, deadpanning. You giggle, sending a wink towards your friend. She furrows her eyebrows, but you don’t give her the opportunity to smack you. Swiftly, you slid off your seat, heading towards the collection counter.

Mark nods his head in acknowledgement, dropping you a, “Enjoy,” before resuming his duties.

“Seriously? Breve?” Wendy starts, “And this guy just accepts whatever the heck your name is, even though it’s literally different every day?”

“I’m still with the belief that he simply doesn’t remember me,” you say, placing the mug of hot chocolate in front of Wendy. She shakes her head disapprovingly, “I guess he’s not the only fool. You’re one too.”

You brush off Wendy’s comment, setting the plate of eggs benedict between the two of you.

Day 34.

After realising that all the seats at The Roasted Bean only had one power socket, Wendy and yourself have collectively made the decision to study at your apartment instead. In saying that, it has been a solid week since you’ve been able to indulge in your beloved hydrangea sweet dew tea, and you were affirmative that if you didn’t drink a cup of it now, you wouldn’t be able to survive another day of mugging for finals week.

Wendy had agreed to stay at the apartment to wait for your lunch delivery while you headed to The Roasted Bean for your tea fix.

“Hello, you’re back,” Mark greets, smiling brightly. “Haven’t seen you in a week.”

“No ‘Hi, welcome to The Roasted Bean. What can I get for you?’ today?” you ask, amused. He shrugs, running a hand through his fluffy, black hair, “Figured I could use a change.”

“Sadly, I can’t. One hydrangea sweet dew tea to go, please.”

Handing you back your card and receipt, Mark grabs a marker and a cup.

“Name, please?”

This time, you contemplated whether or not you should ask if he genuinely couldn’t remember your ‘name’, given that you’ve literally given him words from every category of The Roasted Bean menu, or if he was playing along with you, perhaps for personal amusement. However, you decide against it, concluding that it probably didn’t matter to him. He was, after all, just a barista doing his job. No part of his contract states that he had to remember customers’ names.

“Galão,” you state.

You turned away so fast that once again, you failed to notice the heavy breath Mark lets out. Yet, he still had on his signature customer-friendly smile as he proceeds to prepare your drink.

Day 44.

Finally. The first day of finals week, also known as, five days closer to the end of torture.

You decide to stop by The Roasted Bean on your way to university. You genuinely needed the energy and mind boost from the amazing tea, which Mark seemed to concoct so well. Instead, you were greeted by an unfamiliar face. Although he had on the same type of customer-friendly smile, his didn’t seem to be as charming as Mark’s is.

“Welcome to The Roasted Bean. What would you like?” he says.

“Um, just one hydrangea sweet dew tea to go, please,” you reply.

“How can I address you?” he says.

“Uh, just the letter M will do.”

The hydrangea sweet dew tea today wasn’t as sweet nor fragrant as what you were used to, and you couldn’t help but have the recurring thought as to why Mark wasn’t working today.

Day 45.

Yesterday’s hydrangea sweet dew tea failed to satisfy you. Maybe it was the stress from examinations, or maybe it was because of the person who prepared it, you weren’t exactly sure why it didn’t give you the energy and mind boost that you needed, but you knew you definitely needed another fix today.

Entering the café, you looked towards the cash register, only to be greeted by the same guy from yesterday. Was it… disappointment? Were you subconsciously hoping to see Mark?

“Hi again,” he greets. “What would you like today?”

“One hydrangea sweet dew tea to go, please,” you say, passing him your card. He finishes off the payment, “M, right?” he says, marker already in hand.

You nod your head in response, collected your card and receipt, before walking towards the collection counter. The guy had only seen you once, but he already remembered your face and your ‘name’. It made you miss the little fun you had giving Mark a different ‘name’ every visit.

You thanked the barista, grabbed your drink, and headed for university.

Today, the questions you had regarding Mark’s whereabouts are more prominent than before.

Day 47.

You had overslept the previous morning, which resulted in a groggy, unfocused, irritable state during the examination yesterday. It was more than obvious now that you needed a hydrangea sweet dew tea to kick start your day.

As you looked at the barista, or, as you’d like to term, ‘replacement-Mark’, you wondered if it would weird him out, should you ask about the reason behind Mark’s absence. “Hydrangea sweet dew tea to go?” he says, pulling you away from your own thoughts. You nod in response; you kind of missed Mark’s never-changing greeting, as well as his persistence in (probably) feigning oblivion to the fact that you only ever drink one specific drink from The Roasted Bean.

After collecting your drink, the thought as to whether your morning runs to The Roasted Bean, was genuinely just to curb your hydrangea sweet dew tea cravings, or if you had another hidden agenda. You swat the thoughts away, taking your notes out to recite as a form of last-minute revision.

Unfortunately, your curiosity with regards to Mark’s absence was beginning to overpower all available space left in your brain.

Day 50.

You had fought the urge to visit The Roasted Bean because a) you honestly couldn’t bring yourself to wake up any earlier than you had to, and b) you were too preoccupied with revising, you didn’t really have the time to crave hydrangea sweet dew tea.

But, now that finals were finally over, you had all the time in the world to drink as many hydrangea sweet dew teas as you deem fit. Meanwhile, Wendy had one more paper to study for, which is why she had no choice but to reject you when you asked her along. She didn’t forget to leave a text nagging at you to stop playing a fool with all of your fake names.

“It’s not like he’s going to be there to play along, anyway,” you murmur in response to Wendy’s text. Sliding your phone into your back pocket, you pushed the door open, the wind chimes whistling with the breeze.

Your expression immediately lights up.

“Hi, welcome to The Roasted Bean. What can I get for you?” he greets, the same, boyish smile plastered on his face. Only, you didn’t notice the extra gleam of excitement that sparkled in his eyes. You walk towards him, face reflecting his exact expression.

“You’re back,” you blurt out, too quickly for you to even think your words through. Luckily, Mark doesn’t allow you the chance to regret, for he replies, “I’m glad someone noticed.”

With his response, you thought it would be suitable for you to clarify your burning queries.

“Where have you been?” you question, hands resting on the counter, fingers picking at each other. It was one of your nervous tics, which you tend to do, subconsciously. But Mark notices this, and he makes a mental note of it – picks at fingers when nervous.

“Well, you’re not the only college student. I had finals too,” he says.

“How do you know I’m in college?”

“It’s kind of obvious when you study in a café without budging all day.”

You chuckle at that, only recalling now that you had spent two full days studying in the corner of this café, where Mark could see you, very clearly. You contemplated as to whether or not you should ask how he’s able to cope with studying for his finals if he were working every day that led up to finals week, but you don’t get the chance to.

“So, what can I get for you?” he says. Your smile widens at that – finally, a chance for you to recite your order.

“One hydrangea sweet dew tea to go, please,” you say, holding out your debit card. He takes it, swipes it, and passes it back to you, with your receipt. As usual, he reaches for a cup and a marker, “Name, please?”

Your smile grows even wider. Mark, still donning his beautiful, toothy smile, tilts his head questioningly. You hesitate for a moment.

“Viennois,” you decide on.

Once more, you fail to notice the slight disappointment that flashes across Mark’s face briefly. He mumbles a, “Next time,” under his breath, moving on to the preparation of your drink.

As you sip on the familiar fragrance and sweetness of the cup of hydrangea sweet dew tea that somehow, only Mark was able to create, you think about the possible reasons as to why Mark never asked for your actual name. Maybe Mark just couldn’t care less. Maybe this was all for the sake of customer service.

You didn’t know what it was. You couldn’t even decipher the feeling that overwhelmed your entire being when you saw Mark today.

Day 73.

“And just why in the world do I have to drive another thirty minutes for The Roasted Bean when you literally have one, a seven-minute walk away from your home?” Wendy whines, throwing her body onto the couch, refusing to even budge. “Come on, it’s the nineth time you’ve made me do this. Just why exactly can’t you go to The Roasted Bean around the corner?”

You shrug,

“I just think the hydrangea sweet dew tea is nicer at the other Roasted Bean.” Lie.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you only drink half the cup before dumping the remainder in the bin. And, if the tea were so nice, you’d have it once a week, not nine times in three weeks!” she exclaims, throwing her arms up into the air in exasperation. Truth.

“Well these days I’m just craving it more,” you retort. Lie.

“Then there’s no reason why we need to drive thirty minutes for it. Let’s just walk seven minutes for it instead,” Wendy says. You really didn’t want to.

“Fine, I guess I won’t have my hydrangea sweet dew tea fix for the day,” you say.

Immediately, Wendy squints, staring you up and down. “That’s fishy,” she says, getting up from the couch. She crosses her arms, walking in a circle around you, “What are you avoiding that you simply can’t go to The Roasted Bean that’s just around the corner?”

“Nothing.” Lie.

“Then let’s go,” Wendy says, grabbing her bag.

You sigh, getting up from your position. You knew you wouldn’t be able to outsmart Wendy, neither would you be able to convince her that you weren’t avoiding anything, because you clearly were. And what exactly were you avoiding? Simple. Mark, the barista.

Why were you avoiding him? Because you felt this unfamiliar, unwelcomed rush of emotions every time you thought of him. At this point, Mark liked to pop up in your thoughts once in a while, the memory of his boyish, charming smile pinned in your head. You honestly just didn’t want to face it. You didn’t want to admit to yourself that you were living the fictional lie of falling for the barista, because you knew it would never end in fruition. It just wasn’t possible.

With dreadful footsteps, you followed behind Wendy as she led the way into The Roasted Bean. Standing right behind the cash register, with his never-changing smile, was Mark.

“I’ll go sit, and you can go order,” Wendy informs, making her way to one of the available seats by the wall. You gulped, biting the inside of your lip as you made your way forward.

“Wow, it’s been three weeks,” Mark says. You noticed how his smile wasn’t as bright as it usually was. Today, there was a dash of solemn, coupled with a dash of relief. “Yeah, it has, hasn’t it?” You internally berated yourself for that lousy, lame reply.

“Where have you been?” he asks, the exact words you had used when you asked him the same question a few weeks ago.

“Um,” you hesitated, scavenging your brain for an answer of some sort. “I’ve just been hanging out with my friend.”

Mark nods his head, seemingly accepting of your answer.

“So, would you like your usual?” he asks. It was different this time. He was acknowledging that he knew and remembers your specific order. And for some unknown, probably absolutely ridiculous reason, you felt a feeling of warmth spread throughout your body. Why?

“Yes, please,” you manage out, holding out your card. Mark makes sure to look you in the eye, still, with his pretty smile, before taking the card. The tips of his fingers brush against yours, awakening the butterflies in your stomach. A touch so simple, that probably meant absolutely nothing to Mark, was making you feel all sorts of things. The fool you were, to actually be developing feelings for a barista.

As you retrieve your card and receipt from Mark, you turned, ready to head for the collection point, before he stops you, “Hey!”

You turned, humming in response. Mark holds out the marker and cup in each hand, “Name, please?”

“Oh, um,” you stammered. “Cortado,” you say, about to walk away.

“No,” Mark calls out, grabbing your attention once more. You looked at him questioningly, to which Mark continues, “Your real name.”

“Huh?”

“This time, you were gone for 23 days. Next time, who knows how long you’ll be gone for. Don’t you think I deserve to know, at the very least, your name?” Mark continues to gaze at you, smile unwavering. You couldn’t comprehend how he could be so calm as he says those words. Was it a mere occupational habit he had? Maybe it was already his nth time relaying such a message to a customer.

“Why do you want know my name?” you question back.

“You give me a different fake name every time you come. I just want to know your real name, because I think you’re pretty cute, but here I am, having to scrawl ‘Cortado’ on your cup,” Mark says almost too quickly, that you almost failed to catch the part where he said ‘you’re pretty cute’.

Again, the fluttering in your heart. You couldn’t help the smile that instantly forms on your lips, as you rephrase his words, “You think I’m cute?” Your smile widens even more. Your fingers picked at each other, your heartbeat picking pace. You couldn’t even bring yourself to meet eyes with the boy, and with your vision fixated on the wooden countertop, you fail to notice the light shade of pink that painted Mark’s cheeks.

“I thought I made it pretty obvious that I am interested in you,” he says. “I don’t do small talk.”

“I kind of just took it as your top tier customer service,” you say. Mark’s grin widens as he watches you bite your lower lip, body lightly swaying from side to side. Mark notices the light tapping of your foot – another mental note; you have a lot of subconscious tics.

“I’m Mark,” he says. He bends down slightly, poking his face out a little, over the countertop, in an attempt to look you in the eye. “And you are?” he asks, finally catching your eyes. His gaze, although not very much different from before, definitely sent a whole different message. At this point, your heart is thumping erratically. You also couldn’t bear to ruin the moment by telling him that you already knew his name, since the very first day, thanks to his nametag.

“I’m y/n,” you finally reveal.

“I love that name,” he says, scribbling it down onto your cup.

Man, you have a lot of explaining you need to do to Wendy.

Day 76.

Honestly, you’ve been counting down the hours to this day. You felt that returning immediately on the next day would’ve been too tacky, so you decided that a three-day interval would be the perfect gap. You couldn’t help but wonder if Mark was anticipating your arrival. He did say he was interested in you. Even now, you couldn’t suppress the heat that rushes to your face with just the simple thought of Mark’s words.

“Hi, welcome to The Roasted Bean. What can I get for you?”

“No alternative greeting today?”

Mark scratches the back of his head sheepishly, “Honestly, I can’t think of anything else.”

You giggle, “You’re lucky I’m a fan of the original greeting.”

“I needed something that would leave an impression,” he says, with what could have, or may not have been, a wink. It kind of just looked like he had something in his eye. You laughed, and his teeth peeked through his smile.

“You had this all planned from the start?” you asked, resting your hands on the countertop, your body leaning forward. Mark mirrors your actions, leaning forward, a little bit closer to you, still leaving a decent amount of distance between the two of you. “How about I answer that question over dinner?” This time, you definitely saw the pretty pink that fills his cheeks.

“Oh my gosh I can’t believe I just did that,” Mark exclaims, clenching his fists, kicking the air while landing gentle punches to the cabinets behind him. You laughed, amused by his goofy actions as he internally cringed at himself. “Were you always this dorky?”

Mark shrugs, “Yo, there’s a lot you still don’t know about me.”

“Yo?” you repeat, furrowing your brows in confusion, a small laugh leaving your lips.

“So, dinner?” Mark clasps his hands together, anticipating your reply. You smile, nodding your head, “Dinner.”

“Oi,” Mark cheers, pointing a finger downward, as though he were some swaggy rapper.

Day 441.

Closing the notebook, you gently run your fingers over the leather cover, the engraved “MARK LEE”, and the date “1999.08.02” engraved below it. You haven’t stopped smiling since you began reading, your heart warm and fuzzy with the knowledge that Mark had actually bothered to give you a spot in his diary entries. The fact that he also had a legend on a page with all of the fake names you’ve given him; it was kind of expected given the nature of the boy. There were even scribbles scrawled between pages that seemed to hint at his efforts in trying to figure out what pattern you were using when deciding what fake name to give. Since it was purely random, he probably wasn’t able to come up with anything.

Getting up, you hugged the diary close to your chest, walking towards the living room, where Mark had already prepared an entire table setup. It was nothing fancy. Just some broken yolks, baked beans, slightly burnt toast, and strawberry macarons. It’s the effort that counts, right?

“You made all this?” you gasped.

Mark nods, taking you by the hand as he leads you to one of the counter stools.

“I really struggled. Wasn’t sure what I could do that would be special. I hope this isn’t too underwhelming,” he says so nervously, biting on his lower lip. Even so, he still had on his charming, adorable smile, and in this moment, he was more loveable than anything else. With your arms pressed against the countertop, you lifted yourself up, grazing your lips against Mark’s cheek. He couldn’t help but giggle.

“And to top it all off,” he turns to grab two mugs from the kitchen counter, before placing one of them in front of you. The all too familiar fragrance hits you, and without even looking or asking, you knew exactly what it is. You looked up at Mark with the most loving gaze, as he says, “Your favourite hydrangea sweet dew tea. Happy anniversary, baby.”

Mark presses a chaste kiss to your lips.

“I love you.”

#nct scenarios #nct fluff #mark fluff #mark scenarios #mark imagines #nct imagines #mark #nct #nct 127 #nct u #nct dream #nct mark #fic #fic: the roasted bean

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neocity-sarai · 4 years

Text

Heartstrings

❂ reader x mark lee (soulmate au, inspired by the film “Weathering With You”)

❂ alerts: fluff, angst, self-blame, mentions of death, drinking, making out, mentions of the dreamies, happy belated birthday to the greatest rapper, laugher, and watermelon-eating fiend ever! this was 40 pages- i’m so sorry

❂ song rec: raining in london by lana condor and anthony de la torre

Soulmates. Weather. Uncontrollable and unpredictable- yet they control your mood and your fate. It’s been this way ever since you’ve been born, even since the beginning of your parents’ time. Your mother and father called it a force of nature- a phenomenon when you’re connected to someone like an invisible string, a syncopation of voices, thoughts, and feelings. Luckily for them, they fell in love when they were just college students and miraculously became soulmates. You always thought it was lucky that they met and were destined to be together from that moment, forming a family by having you in the future. It made you think of the what ifs. What if they didn’t meet or if your mother had someone else when your father was around? What if they loved each other but weren’t soulmates? What if you ceased to exist? It makes you shiver when you think about it.

During middle school, you vividly remember a collection of memories. Happy ones and unfortunately, not so good ones. Your father had died when you were 14, a drunk driver had recklessly crashed into the family van on the highway when your father was driving to work. Even 4 years after, your mom became extremely frail at heart from the grief. She always had a wine glass in her hand, sobbing every night when she’d enter every room of your family’s home. You were just a kid when she told you she saw your father on every wall and every photograph. She missed him. She told you that she wasn’t able to heal so quickly. Understanding, you rubbed her back on the floor of their bathroom, dumping the remaining liquid out of her smeary glass. She just sobbed into your arms, shakes rupturing her entire body. It made you feel broken and somber seeing your own mother like this. Still, you had to be strong for her.

The weather outside was cold and dark. Rain crashed down on the window pane like a series of dashes and lines. The clouds seemed angry, lightning flashing like shooting stars and thunder roaring like a legion of lions. It was extreme and powerful, water flooding the streets and your front yard. You were sure the peonies that you had planted with your father were now washed away in broken stems. It seemed like you had an ocean of water outside and inside your mother’s bathroom. The feeling of hopelessness did not stop. That’s when you heard a pin drop. It was a subtle but also a loud sound, something possible to ignore- it was the sound of a realization: your father always loved the rain. No matter how chilly it was, he always enticed you to dance in the rain as he held his arms out, a grin plastered on his face. His smile always stretched from ear to ear. It’s something you never forgot.

You wiped your mom’s tears with your thumbs, “Mom?”

Your mother coughed, her eyes red and puffy, “Yes, honey?”

“Can I show you something?”

“What is it?”

“Just trust me.”

You took her by the hand, leading her through your dark and empty house. You made way to your backyard door, opening up to your water-logged lawn and a cloudy sky. Everything was a dull grey but was touched with splotches of periwinkle blues, it can’t be all that bad. Letting go of your mother’s hand, you begin to advance into the middle of the grass, spinning and twirling as hard as you can. You spread your arms out before sticking your tongue out to the rain above, droplets cold and fresh. You screamed out to the sky, “I love you dad!”

Your mother watched you with her lips pressed into a thin line, leaning on the pillar of your roof. You motioned to her, “Come on, mom- maybe dad’s up there watching.”

She pauses for a moment, reluctant of what might happen if she indulges in the thought. She decides that there’s nothing to lose. There’s nothing to do but own it anyway. She flies into your arms, your figure supporting her weight. You hear her sigh out when she feels the soft patter on her cheeks. Small water droplets litter her eyelashes, the cold soothing the puffiness of her face. She shuts her eyes for a bit, relishing in the icy, chilling feeling. Both of your shoes are flooded and covered in mud but it doesn’t matter. For the next several hours, you both laugh as loud as you can, running around your backyard. You both lay side by side on the wet grass, the green tufts under your fingers. Your mom turns her head towards you, smiling, “We will be okay.”

You nod, nuzzling your nose into your mom’s shoulder, “I won’t let anything happen to us.”

You hate the world. You hate how unfair it is. You wish you kept your word. That night, your mother had fallen asleep on the couch. Even though you had insisted on running a bath, your mother refused out of exhaustion. That one second has landed you and your mother in the hospital. The doctor had told you that your mother had come down with a severe case of pneumonia- it’s already scarred the lining of her lungs. The damage is irreversible. He’s also told you that your mother isn’t likely to survive due to her past conditions of frail health. You sit in your mother’s hospital room, clutching her hand as she sleeps. You think to yourself: Hasn’t the world taken so much from you already? Haven’t you experienced too many sacrifices? Your mind shifts into shadows. If you hadn’t suggested going out in the rain, would your mother be better? If your mother dies, isn’t it your fault? Soulmates? Do they even exist? You hate the idea of waiting for someone, pining for somebody that might never show up. The world is silly. You cry into her hand until you can’t breath. You let go of it, making your way to the bathroom down the hall. Every doctor and patient that stares at you looks like a blur in your vision and your heart feels like it’s going to explode from it all. You can't stop rewinding your life like a broken movie reel, visions of your mother and you and your dad.

“Whoa there, slow down-”

A pair of arms catches you and an unfamiliar voice makes you bite your tongue on accident. When you look up, you’re met with the view of a boy- a cute one at that. You’re not in the mood to compliment him, to say anything. Still, through your blurry tears, you are wary of him. He seems like a boy that you could get to know but one that could wear the face of an innocent but actually be the devil in disguise. He’s too pretty to be average. His black locks are the color of ash, his eyes are dark and sparkly with innocence. Oh yes, he has sharp features too. His jaw and his cheeks are carved like seared gems, his eyebrows thin lines below his bangs. He wears a pair of denim jeans and a striped sweater. You take note of the annoyingly polished tag pinned on his sweater: “Mark Lee” it reads.

“Are you alright?” the boy asks again.

You just stare up at him, tears running down your cheeks like foggy waterfalls. You can’t smell, see, or feel. All you can do is lightly shake your head. Weirdly, he seems like he understands, “Can I help you find someone or a room? I’m a volunteer at this hospital.”

You shake your head again, a little too violently. You sniffle, your voice sounds small, “I just want somewhere that’s away from people.”

Apologetically, Mark nods. “I may be able to help. I just need to change first, yeah?”

“No, I- it’s alright. I don’t-t need help.”

Mark waves his hands around, “It’ll only take a few seconds, I promise.”

Why should you trust a stranger? Your mom always reminded you that your father was a stranger to her at first. Sometimes, you never know where it leads. You check the time on your phone before turning to see the direction of where your mom’s room is.

“Only a few minutes.”

You let Mark lead you to the bathrooms. He turns to you, frantic and he seems a little nervous, “Give me a few seconds. Don’t leave, okay?”

“Okay.”

When Mark comes out, he’s dressed in scrubs. He wears a grey shirt and matching pants, his tag now on the pocket of it. He looks like one of those hot nurses that helps the pregnant woman who’s screaming her lungs out in Grey’s Anatomy. You don’t say that to him though. He walks with you, “Follow me- uh.. what’s your name?”

“I-It’s y/n.” After passing a series of corridors, Mark unlocks some obscure door that’s a little ways down, shoving his ring of keys into the lock, “I come up here to think, maybe it could help you.”

“Is this even legal? Couldn’t you get fired for letting me up here?”

Mark rubs the back of his neck, his eyes on you, “Well yes, but I think you’re worth it.”

You make a face at him,“Why? I’m a stranger?”

“Not to be all sappy but my supervisor told me that in the medical business, you always have to take chances- this me taking a chance.”

You scoff, “Thank you for your charity, I’ll be going up now.”

Mark’s eyes widen at your brazen attitude, “I’ll wait down here. Just knock on the door when you’re ready to come down.”

When Mark opens the door, all there is a concrete staircase. But when you emerge to the top of the staircase, it’s everything in one place. Your breath hitches in your throat when you see it. It’s a rooftop. The sun sets on the city’s horizon, silver clouds rolling in to threaten waves of rain. Lightning flashes in it again, thunder booming just like that day. You walk around the rooftop, watching how high up you are and how the skyscrapers touch the vastness of the sky. When you turn around, you see something peculiar. A japanese-like shrine stands in your view, decorated with hanging lines of colorful lanterns and photos. Making your way to it, you recognize that the photos must be of victims that have died at the hospital. Flowers and bells hang from the red-painted posts. Under the arch, sits a small fountain that’s been collecting rain. It looks so old, covered in moss and grime. Though, if you peer hard enough, there are names inscribed into the stone. You step forward under the arch of the shrine, the bells ringing in the wind. But, when you do, it doesn't feel normal. It almost feels like all of your emotions and senses have been amplified. Somehow, you can’t hear anything. You can’t hear the twinkle of the bells or any wind. When you stare down at the fountain, you don’t believe it when you see water droplets floating upwards. You use your finger to touch the droplets, the small spheres floating into the sky in a stream. Gravity doesn’t work like this, does it? You try to grab the water droplets, they still continue to slip out of your hands and into the air above. How is this possible?

You dip your finger into the rain water that sits in the stone bowl, ripples forming. Something shocks your veins like electricity, it makes you clutch your heart through your chest. What was that? You run out from under the archway, suspicious of it all. Is it some sort of prank machine? Either way, you want to get back to your mother. You run out from under the archway, one prayer couldn’t hurt. It's silly, you don’t go to church much. Still, you clasp your hand together and you pray as hard as you can. You pray you can walk in the sun with your mom again, that your father is happy, and for everything you’ve ever known.

Opening your eyes, you run back down to the staircase before swinging the door open. You spot Mark tripping, his legs are a tangled mess, “Whoa- what the-”

You eye him suspiciously, “Why’d you lean against the door? I was clearly going to open it..”

“I thought you were going to knock! You just caught me off-guard is all.”

Despite having just met, Mark nudges you, “So, how was it?”

You eye him again, wary of him, “I’ll give you credit for the view- it was beautiful. I wanted to ask though, what was that shrine up there?”

Mark stops walking, cocking his eyebrow up, “What? There was a shrine?”

You stop walking as well, “The big red archway, fountain in the center? Colorful lanterns and photos? Can’t miss it unless you’re blind?”

Mark laughs nervously, his nose scrunching in mock-pain, “My eye-sight isn’t the greatest so..”

“There’s no way you could have missed it, I literally saw it the moment I got up there.”

“Maybe it’s new- I was just there last week and didn’t see anything like that. Maybe you need to check your eyes?”

“I have 20/20 vision, thank you very much.”

Mark raises his hands up in mock-surrender, “Yes sir- I mean, mam’’”

By the time you make it back to the hallway where you had run into Mark, you turn to him, “Well, this has been interesting. Goodbye, stranger.”

Mark giggles, “You know my name though- I know yours. Are we really strangers still?”

“Yes. We met like 10 minutes ago.”

You notice the pink blush that creeps onto Mark’s cheeks, his words coming out it a stuttering ramble, “I-I’d really l-like to ask-”

Before Mark can ask you his question, probably for your number, you're interrupted by your mother’s nurse running out to you both, “Y/n! I’ve been looking for you, it’s your mother. You need to come now.” Her facial expression does not look good.

You nod, “Bye Mark, thanks for uh- your time.”

Mark opens his mouth, “Y-yeah, no problem, uh- y/n, yeah- I’ll see you around?”

You follow the nurse, “Maybe.”

Later that night, your mom had passed away. And two years later, you had blamed yourself for it every single day. Not only did your prayer not work, your mind was absent of the boy who helped you onto the roof. You couldn’t didn’t want to even remember his name or why you had run into him.

2 years later

>I wonder if it’s raining in London

I wonder if the moon looks the same where you are

Still think about the sound of you humming

Singing to nothing in your car

Ever since your mom passed away, everything changed. You started to live with your aunt in her cottage home that was little ways out of the city. She had a rose garden out front, white and red bushes overgrown on the picket fence. Your aunt promised to invest in your parents’ property but thought it’d be good for you to spend the summer at the cottage. You could classify it as a time of healing, though most nights were spent thinking about your parents. You would spend the summer helping your aunt cook meals, plant flowers, and play with her beagle named Mosby in the wheat fields. At least, you weren’t entirely alone.

Eventually, it was time for you to apply for universities- a possibility that wasn’t even your orbit at all. Even so, strange things kept happening. Even when it was raining, no matter where you stepped- the weather changed in an almost too quick of an instant. If you wanted it to be sunny, the moment you stepped outside, the rays would emerge out of the obsidian clouds. If you wanted snow to play in with Mosby, it would snow even in the late June summers. It was odd, like the weather gods were at your beckon and call. This phenomenon only happened after that day you touched the fountain’s water, only after you walked under the archway of the shrine. You decided that there was no use fighting it. Of course, you were bewildered with your newfound power- though after a while, there was nothing to do but embrace it. There was something that your mother and father taught you since you were a child: help those who could be helped. Going around the city for errands, you observed people. For instance, a woman was telling her friend in the grocery store how disappointing that it would be raining during her baby’s 1st birthday. After collecting your items, you walked outside, clasping your hands together. You said in your mind, “Let us have sunshine for today.”

And of course, the weather forecast had announced that there would suddenly be no chance of rain. You could imagine the woman’s joy. You saw a young girl- about the same age as you running past you on the street as she tripped over her heels and fumbled in her tight office outfit, grumbling at how hard the rain was coming down. You wished for sunshine for her too. It was like the gods gave you a gift and it was your duty to use it for good- it’s what your parents would have wanted. Towards the end of the 2nd year, you told yourself that you wanted a change in scenery. It was time to do something worthwhile for yourself. Luckily, you got into the university of your choice and were on your way to moving to campus. There’s this erratic beating in your chest. Is it excitement? Anxiety? Fear? Probably a mix of all 3. As every coming of age movie, it’s all the same. Your aunt had helped you move into your dorm room, reassuring that you could come home or to the cottage whenever you wished. Thanking her, you press a kiss to her cheek before rearranging your boxes of belongings. Perhaps, this was the start of a new chapter.

First day of class

First period is english 101. The university looks nice, it’s very castle-like with high-rising towers and turrets made of carved stone. Students sit in the courtyards in their friend circles, coffees in their hands as they sit under the large juniper trees. Though it is a sunny day, the forecast shows that heavy rains will stir into a monsoon. You keep note of that. Walking into the lecture hall, you take a seat towards the middle row- not too close to be picked on but not too far where you can’t hear. The professor is some old guy who’s been studying philosophy for 3000 years and you hope that you don't fall asleep before he’s done. You rest your chin in your hand, twirling your pencil on top of the desk surface. Suddenly, the entrance door bursts open with a loud noise, causing the hundreds of the students in the room to turn their heads. A boy stands there, he drops his books recklessly. The professor pauses his lecture to lower his glasses, “Mr. Lee? You’re tardy, son.”

The boy scratches the back of his neck, doe eyes pointed at the man, “Sorry Professor Norman, the rain held me up.”

“Go take a seat.”

You hear the girls behind you giggle from the sight. All you knew was that he looked oddly familiar to you. The boy climbs the stairs, standing on his tiptoes to look for an empty seat. When he spots one, a grin is plastered on his face as he makes his way nearer and nearer to you. You realize that there’s an empty seat right next to you. It’s painfully embarrassing as you watch the boy fumble his way behind other students, murmuring I’m sorrys and pardon mes. One of his notebooks falls out of his worn down jansport backpack, a girl batting her eyelashes when she hands it back to him. Smiling charming at her, he whispers, “Thanks for that.”

Finally, after 4 years, the boy manages to make it next to you. You scoff when he accidentally swings his backpack into the side of your arm, “Oh god, I’m so sorry- “

You nod curtly, “You’re fine.”

Now that you can get a closer look at him, you feel sweat bead up on your back when you realize where you’ve seen him. It’s that boy- the one the night your mom died. He reaches his hand out, “Hi there, my name’s Mark. Mark Lee.”

You stare at him for a bit before reluctantly taking his hand, “Y/n.”

As much as you don’t want to admit, Mark looks as endearing as ever. His black locks are still the same, eyes shining from the dim lighting. He smells of the sweet rain, water droplets wetting his hair and his shoulders.

>I wonder if you look any different

And would I see the years that have passed on your eyes?

There’s still a little part of me missing

I no longer recognize

Mark turns to you, his eyebrow quirked when he says your name on his tongue, “Have we met before? You seem familiar?”

You shake your head, “I don’t know anyone by the name of Mark so, I guess you’re the first?” Why did you lie to him?

Mark nods, “Ah, I see.”

Mark ruffles the water out of his hair, opening his soaked notebook, “Ah shit, the rain got in my backpack.”

You can’t help but chuckle a little, “I can lend you some of mine?”

Mark’s eyes widen at you, you swear you can see a faint blush creeping on his cheeks, “R-really? I swear I’ll pay you back.”

“No need, here.” You proceed to tear some sheets out for Mark. His presence is kind of comforting- like some childhood friend. Wait, what? No- you barely know him.

You and Mark listen to the rest of the lecture in silence. When it’s time to go, he zips up his backpack before turning to you. He’s extremely red now. He bites his bottom lip, “Hey, I um, I was wondering if we could exchange numbers? I still want to pay you back for the paper and you’re new right? If you’re not, don’t worry about it but I don’t know, I just in case you needed me-ah, never mi-”

Before Mark can turn away, you look at him, “I’d like that. I could use a friend- being a newbie and everything.”

With that, Mark lights up, “Wait, really?”

“Sure.” You hand your phone to him, “Pick a good emoji.”

Mark’s fingers fumble with your phone, catching it in time before almost dropping it. He chuckles nervously, “Don’t worry, I got it-”

You smile, you’re sure your cheeks hurt from it.

“There you go Mark, you have my number now.”

“Cool. Good. Yeah.”

With that you wave him a curt goodbye, “See you around?”

Mark smiles back at you, teeth gleaming white in between his lips, “Yeah y/n, see you around.”

With that, you go home to your dorm room. When you look out the window before sleeping, you count how many droplets sit on the windowpane. The stormy skies angrily from swirls of obsidian and murky lavenders. You hope that Mark won’t be caught in the rain again tomorrow.

In class the next day, your professor assigns group projects during lecture. Because you happened to sit next to Mark, you were paired up together. You both didn’t mind though. Mark pulls out his notebook and fountain pen, yanking the cap off with his teeth, “So, I wanted to ask if you wanted to go over the project during lunch?”

You nod at him, “That works for me.”

When class is over, you follow Mark to the university’s cafeteria. It’s teeming with students and professors, lunch hour is always chaotic. Mark points at an empty table by the window, “How about over there?”

Before you can answer him, many voices call Mark’s name. He swivels around to see a group of boys motioning him over to their table. He glances at them before waving them off in refusal. You nudge him slightly, “We can go say hi if you want, I don’t mind.”

Mark runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in some parts, “Are you sure? I don’t want to take too much of your time?”

“Let’s go, your friends seem nice.”

Mark scoffs, “Please, they’re hardly my friends.”

When you both make your way to your table, you’re greeted by a series of hoots and hollers. Mark introduces each of them. He points at a taller boy, brunette, and as handsome as hollywood’s greatest movie stars, “This is Jeno.”

Jeno smiles at you, his eyes crinkling into crescent moons. You’re sure your heart made flips at that. The loudest boy is named Haechan, jostling Mark by squeezing his thigh jokingly, “Is this your girlfriend?” he asks. You and Mark simultaneously shake your heads, refusing Haechan’s teasing. The next is Renjun, he seems more stoic than the rest. Similar to him, a girl whose hair is the color of burgundy plums sits beside him. Freckles dot her face, contrasted to the blueness of her eyes- you have to admit, she’s very pretty. Still, Mark introduces her as Lana and when you introduce yourself, it’s like daggers are being shot through her eyes. You suspect it has to do with Mark being next to another girl. When you’re finished introducing yourself to everyone, Haechan lets out a burst of laughter, “Y/n’s so sweet, if you don’t take her then I will!” as he slaps Jeno’s shoulder, Jeno rolls his eyes at the boy. Mark stares him down, grabbing your hand, “Y/n and I have a project to work on, we’ll be going now.”

You shout out a quick nice to meet you back to them, your eyes shifting to Mark’s fingers around your wrist. You don’t say anything as you let him drag you to the library- your hand becoming a little clammy. You hope he doesn’t notice it.

Sitting at some empty table near the shelves, he turns back to you, “Sorry about that back there. They’re rambunctious. They must’ve made you uncomfortable right?”

You smile at him, shaking your head, “Not at all really, they seem fun. You’re very lucky.”

Mark’s mouth makes an ‘o’ shape, his eyes widening. You gesture to his fingers, “Mark, you’re still holding me?”

In a flash, Mark drops your hand, his palm flying to his mouth, “Oh god- I’m sorry, I didn’t even realize-”

You place your hands on his shoulders, “Mark. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He nods slowly, trying to fight the blush that creeps up his neck and his cheeks. He shakes it off, you realize how endearing he is. He sits down, opening up his philosophy books, “So, what should we do for the project?”

You twirl your pen in your hand, “Well, Professor’s prompt was we have to discover the secret of life right? What does that even mean?”

Mark knits his brows together, pouting his lips, “Good question. I think that’s what the assignment is- discovering it for ourselves?”

“How do we do that?”

“Let’s start making a bullet list. I do that when I’m weighing options.”

Mark starts to scribble on his notebook. “What does life mean to you?”

You look at him, your eyes instantly catching his. You have to look away. Life. Weather. Soulmates. Aspects of your world that you can’t fully understand. Your mouth feels dry. You think back to your parents, moments that you play in the dark by yourself, the things that you would do and experience but can’t. The words kind of tumble out from your lips, “Mark, do you believe in soulmates?”

Mark freezes. He sits in silence for a few seconds. He bites his lower lip, “It’s difficult to say. I mean, my parents are soulmates so I’ve just grown up thinking that I’ll have my own one day? But no, I don’t have anyone.”

You nod. You kind of mumble, “Yeah, I don’t have anyone either. I almost don’t want to believe in them.”

“Is there a reason why?”

“Not really, I just don’t get how two people can randomly become synched.” No, it’s because you’re afraid of love. You’re afraid of what will happen if you love someone so hard and they leave.

“Ah, I see.”

You clear your throat, “Anyways, back to the prompt. What does life mean to you?”

“I think it could be a variety of things, my family, my friends, school? But I’m assuming that Professor doesn’t want generic answers. He said the creative category weighs the most points.”

And then it clicks in your head. Your gift- it’s what ties you back to your mom and your dad, seeing people happy when you are able to bend the weather to your will. You’ve never told anyone before. You thought people would look at you weird if you told them. Should you tell Mark?

Mark scrolls through his phone, long eyelashes accentuating the hood of his eyes. His lips pursed when he presses his fingers to the screen, “Hey- sorry, this is off-topic but what do you think is going on with the weather? Like one day it’s a hurricane and then sunny the next. Everyone’s talking about it on Twitter.”

“Mark, can I show you something?”

Mark snaps his head up, “Is everything okay?”

You smile, “Just trust me.”

You hand him his belongings as he messily shoves them into his backpack, “Where are we going?”

“Just don’t freak out.”

Mark makes a face at you, “When you say that it makes me freak out.”

You lead Mark to the roof terrace of the university, climbing the stairs in the pouring rain. People below run under the canopies as they use their books to avoid the rain. Mark gulps, “You know, I’m not the best with heights-”

You plant your feet on the ground, clasping your hands together. In your head, you repeat the words like a mantra, “I want sunshine today, let the heavens be sunny upon us.”

And like instant magic, glowing white rays start to sear the blackened clouds, the rain starting to cease. In the middle of the dark ocean above, patches of deep blue begin to emerge. Mark runs to the terrace railing, “Holy shit- are you doing that?”

When the rain is completely dissipated, you glance at Mark who’s staring at you with utter awe in his eyes, “I’m going crazy right? Is this some weird trip or something?” Mark’s voice cracks, his fingers clenching the base of his throat.

You shake your head, “No, this is my gift. You’re the only person who knows about it.”

“You have the power to make it stop raining?”

“Not only that, but all weather forms. Whenever I pray.”

Mark clasps his hands together too, closing his eyes as he murmurs types of weather, “How come it’s not working for me? I go to church all the time with my family.”

You sock his arm, “No silly, it’s not normal for everyone. Just me.”

Mark lets out an elongated whoa, “How long have you had this gift?”

Suddenly, your throat turns hoarse, “Since my mom died.”

He stammers, his words coming out in a trail of apologies, “I’m so sorry, I didn't know- I-”

“It was a long time ago. Still, I think I was given this gift to carry on my parents’ legacy, their connection of being soulmates even.”

Mark nods quietly. “That’s so cool. I’ve never met a weather girl before.”

You laugh at his nickname, “Weather girl huh? Has a nice ring to it.”

“I’ll change that to your contact name, you can bet on that.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“So, what do you do with your gift? How do you know when to change weather patterns?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t. When I walk around and I see or hear that someone need’s weather for a specific day, I try to help them out. I thought I’d try to do something good.”

Mark runs his fingers over his hair, “That’s amazing. That’s so admirable of you to do that.”

“It’s what my parents would have wanted. I do it for them too.”

Mark stands up straight, his finger pointing at you. It looks as if a light bulb is going off, “Say- I have an idea for our project. What if we started a business?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Hear me out- we can call it Weather Girl Service. We can talk about money management and leadership skills in life, because that’s what adults do right? Pay taxes and bills?”

You laugh at his silly idea, “But why Weather Girl Service?”

Mark hops excitedly up and down, “We can make job postings in the city and have people pay us by the hour if you change the weather to fit their occasion! We’d be rich by the end of it! But wait- only if you agree, I don’t want to make you do something like that if you don’t want to.”

Shrugging your shoulders, you smile at him, “I’m up for it if you are. I don’t mind.”

“Really?! Are you sure?!” Mark looks like an overly-excited school boy, his backpack jumbled because of how fast he’s jumping. He scrunches his nose, fistpumping the air, “We’re so getting an A on this.”

“Yes, I sure hope so!”

With that, you and Mark plan to meet at your dorm room the next day to get started on the project. He texts you later that night, “3 pm sharp right?”

“Yes sir, 3p m- my room.”

“Alrighty, see you tomorrow!”

When 3 pm comes, Mark stands at your door, his hands full with a box of materials and supplies.

You giggle, “You sure got reinforcements.”

“I have to be prepared!”

For the next several hours, you and Mark spend time designing different posters and infographics to upload online and staple to bulletin boards. Mark’s got a mark cap in his mouth, brows knit in concentration as he writes on his notebook.

Mark snaps his fingers together, “How about this: Weather girl at your service, you call and we’ll be there to help you get the memories that you want- birthdays, grad parties, work events, you name it! Submit your info to this number here!”

You flash him a thumbs up, “It’s perfect. I love it.”

All day you and Mark run around the city- posting your posters and fliers from anywhere you can find. You post them on benches, town hall bulletin boards, and the street lamps that line the sidewalk. And the whole time, you never take your eyes off Mark’s wide smile and sparkling eyes. You don’t catch that whenever you’re turned away, Mark glances at you to admire your features, your hair, and everything in between. Around 6pm, you walk beside Mark on one of the bridges that extends over the river. The sun sets in the horizon, colors of sharp marigolds and blush pinks paint the sky above. There was no way that you and Mark were going to run around the city in rain. Sighing out, you watch the sun cast a faint glow on Mark’s cheeks and the slender of his nose, making him out to be a painting that belongs in the museum. It’s almost like if you took a paintbrush that you could paint him yourself just to memorize it.

Mark fists the air in victory, “We had a very productive day today, don’t you think?”

You nod, “Of course. I don’t think anyone can resist our offer.”

“Thanks for doing this with me.”

You’re suddenly caught off guard by Mark’s gratitude, though it is not too out of character. “I had fun today with you.”

Mark smiles at the ground, twirling when he walks like he’s skipping to the beat of his favorite song. You hear him mumble a cute, “Me too.”

For the rest of the way, Mark walks you back home to your dorm room. Even though you told him you were fine, he still insisted.

“Well, this is me.” you say.

Mark scratches his nape, readjusting the strap of his backpack, “I’ll see you tomorrow then. The grand opening.”

You nod, “Yes, bright and early.”

You turn away from him as he watches you enter your building. You instantly wish that you could’ve placed a hasty peck to his cheek. It seemed irresistible in the moment. Though, you remind yourself to not get too comfortable. Little did you know that Mark spent the whole night thinking about you.

>But if I had met you today

Would I have loved you the same?

And if I had known it would take

Ten years and twenty-two days to stop loving you

Stop loving you, no

First day of business

“Mark, is this yours?”

Mark sits in the driver’s seat of his sunny yellow van- the kind that you’d make deliveries in. It looks bright under the gloomy, rainy skies. He honks his horn obnoxiously once and twice as he scrunches his eyes together before saying, “Get in loser, we’re going shopping!”

Laughing, you launch yourself into the seat before Mark takes off with a faster speed. You shout, “If I die in a car accident today, half of the money we make goes to my aunt okay?”

Mark playfully rolls his eyes, “Stop it y/n, I’m the best driver in town!”

“Yeah, right-”

The first stop happens to be one of Mark’s dad’s friends. He requested that he was going to surprise his wife with an anniversary dinner and needed sunshine for that specific hour: Saturday, 6pm. When you arrived at the pretty farm home, the man greeted Mark instantly when you got out of the van. He shook your hand, eyes anticipating, “Is it true? You can really change the weather?”

You smile at him, “You need to see it to believe it and I’m here to deliver.”

The man puts his hand on Mark’s shoulder, “Here’s the compensation for your work today. I have to ask one favor of you.”

Mark quirks his eyebrow up, handing the wad of cash to you, “What’s that?”

“My wife and I want some private time, we’ve paid you extra so that you can watch our daughter?”

Mark’s jaw drops, “Watch your daughter? As in baby sit?”

“Yes, that’s right. We will give as much as you need.”

Mark runs a hand through his hair, his eyes widened, “I don’t think-”

Before Mark can answer, you cut in, “We’d love to. What time does she need to be back?”

“8 pm.”

“Deal.”

Mark stands next to you, his face utterly flabbergasted from your confidence of the deal. You can tell that he’s freaking out inside. He’s panicking and it shows on his face.

“Mari, please come out! One second-”

Through the front door, the man guides his 7 year old daughter to you both. And you’re sure that your heart does flips when you see her. She’s dressed in a princess dress, her eyes fluttering from sleep. She’s the spitting image of her father. She drags a blue blanket in one hand, rubbing her green eyes, “Daddy?”

Her dad motions to you and Mark, “You’ll be hanging out with Mark and y/n today. Mommy and I will be back in a few hours.”

“Okay..”

The man tells you about everything you need to know, when Mari needs to go to the bathroom, what she likes to eat, and every little thing she likes to do.

“I think we’re all set now, any questions?”

You shake your head, “No sir, we’ll have her back by 8.”

He nods at you, “Good, see you both later.”

With that, Mari is left in yours and Mark’s hands. You crouch down to her level, waving at her lightly, “Hi Mari, my name’s y/n. Me and Mark will take you out today okay?”

The girl slowly blinks, clutching her blue blanket even tighter, “Are you my mommy for today?”

How have you not exploded from her adorableness yet? “Yes, just for a little bit until your real mommy comes back.”

She reaches up to cling to Mark’s pant leg, plopping down to sit on his shoe, “And you’re my daddy today?”

Mark glances down at her and back to you. He squeezes his eyes in mock pain, running his hand over his hair, “Sure, I’m your daddy.”

You nudge him, whispering, “She’s a kid, try to be nice.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

When you hop back in the van, you have Mari sit in your lap as you place the seatbelt over her body, making sure she is secure. Mark revs up the engine, driving slowly to the next location of requests. It doesn’t take long for Mari to fall asleep on your chest, you coo at her peaceful face.

“I’m not good with kids- what did we get ourselves into?”

“Don’t be such a worry-wart! She’s so cute, look at her!”

“Can’t, I’m driving.”

“Don’t be grumpy Mark, you’ll have a family with your soulmate one day.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in soulmates.”

“Agh- you know what I mean.”

“Will she be okay when we’re working? We have 2 more requests to do.”

“She’ll be fine, relax.”

The next destination you arrive at is a farmer’s market at the heart of downtown. When Mark parks the car, you wake Mari, “Mari? Mark and I have to work so you just stick with me okay?”

Mari mumbles a disoriented reply, her cheek still resting on your shoulder. You arrive at a fruit stand where an older woman approaches you, “Mark and y/n?”

Mark smiles at her, “That’s us- you called the Weather Girl Delivery Service?”

“Yes. The other farmers didn’t want to believe me but I swear, I wanted to take a chance with this. As you can see, we can’t have our market with all this constant flooding and rain. It’s like the weather’s been on steroids.”

Mark flashes her with a thumbs up, “That’s why we’re here, we’ll get to work right away.”

“Y/n?”

You step forward to Mark, “You’ll have to hold her.”

Mark’s eyes widen with surprise, “Uh, okay.”

He cradles sleeping Mari so awkwardly, you have to guide his hands to support her bottom, “Mark, you have to hold her up or she’ll slip.”

Mark fumbles with his hands before adjusting her so her chin is on his shoulder, “I got her, don’t worry.”

You nod before making your way to the center of the market. Clasping your hands together once more, you pray that the sunshine will blow away the cyclone of the shadows and falling rains. Miraculously, it does. When you turn around, the woman stands next to Mark in awe spreading her arms out in glee, “It works! Haha! Take that you old goons!”

The rest of the farmers stand under the shade of the fruit stand, grumbling at the woman’s victory. You give her a hug once she sends you off with a wad of cash and three freshly squeezed juices for all three of you. When you settle back into the car, Mari still stays rested on your lap.

“See, that wasn’t so bad.”

Mark rolls his eyes, a smirk plastered on his lips, “Okay, you win this time.”

“By the way, is this your first time holding a child?”

Mark laughs, “Don’t even patronize me right now.”

The third destination is a bit more serene. You arrive at an elderly woman’s home, her home similar to that of your aunt’s cottage. It’s decorated with wood and bamboo shoots, bells and windchimes hang from the roof shingles. Knocking on the door, the woman greets you. She’s an elderly Japanese woman, hair tied into a loose bun as she motions you to come inside with her cane, “Come in, come in.”

You both slip off your shoes, Mari awake as if sleep was a distant memory. The woman leads you to her dining room, pots of orchids and perilla leaves grow all over the counters and sink. There’s colorful painted murals of people and sceneries on the walls, smeared from the passing of time. History moves within the walls in a series of blurred colors.

“Something to drink, kids?”

You and Mark decline, prompting Mari to mumble, “I’m thirsty.”

You hear the rumbling noise from Mari’s stomach, it is around lunch time. You ask for the woman for a glass of water but she waves you off with a smile. Instead, she cuts a slice of peach pie for Mari, the crust smells of cinnamon and nutmeg. She passes a pitcher of lemonade to you and Mark, sucking on lemon slices as she works.

Mark sits next to you on the bench by the dining table, “Thank you for the hospitality mam’, there’s no need to pay us for your request.”

You smile at Mark’s words, not wanting to take from the elderly woman either. When she’s done putting away the pie, she meanders over to you slowly as she pats down Mari’s silky black hair, “You kids are awfully young to have a child.”

Mark chokes on his tea, sputtering the liquid into his glass. It sends him into a coughing fit, “S-she isn’t our child- we’re just watching her for the day.”

You jokingly hit Mark’s back to get him to stop choking, “Oh no, we’re not married either- we’re just friends.”

The woman raises her brow like she knows some unspoken secret, “Friends?”

You and Mark glance at each other before awkwardly averting eyes. Even Mari talks with her mouthful of pie, “They’re my mommy and daddy for today!”

Mark mutters, “I’m not your real dad..”

The elderly woman is amused, her smile creating creases on her cheeks and on her temples, “Are you two at least soulmates?”

This time, you answer her almost too hastily, “No! We’re only classmates- friends- that’s all.”

Mark looks at you, the sparkle in his eyes dimming a bit. Was that disappointment? Hurt? His shoulders are drooping and his lips are pressed into a thin line. Did you say something wrong? It was a fact though, you and Mark weren’t soulmates.

You try to brush it off. The woman leans on her cane, “I need you kids for your strength. I would do it myself but as you can see, I’m not as young as I used to be. Help me move the orchids out back.”

Mark makes his way to the kitchen sink, roots overgrown on the counter top. You move Mari off your lap before turning to the elderly woman, “Could you please watch her?”

The elderly woman chuckles, “Sure, I have enough pie to keep her distracted.”

You politely thank her, making your way over to where Mark is putting the orchids into glass vases. He doesn’t say a word. You nudge him with your elbow a bit, “Is everything okay?”

His eyes are trained on his busied hands, “Mhm.”

“Mark, you don’t seem okay.”

“Nope, everything’s good y/n. Are you alright?”

“Well yeah, but..”

Mark bites his lower lip, “Good.”

He grabs both vases in his hands before walking over to the sliding door, leaving you alone with your thoughts. He definitely wasn’t okay, you don’t want to push him any further. Instead, you pot the rest of the succulents and flowers in the kitchen.

“You know, that boy likes you.”

You turn around to see Mari snuggling up to the elderly woman, her dimples popping out from smiling.

“Mark? No, we’re just partners for a school project.”

“That may be true but I’ve lived a long time, I know what love looks like. After all, I had a soulmate too.”

You lean against the edge of the counter, picking off the stray leaves off stems, “Let me guess- they left?”

“To the afterlife if that’s what you’re referring to.”

You stay silent. You’re not sure what to say.

“Child, have you been hurt in the past?”

You snap your head up at her, setting the flowers down, “Why do you ask that?”

She clicks her tongue, “Being ignorant to feelings doesn’t count as being oblivious. Don’t let your past rip you of your opportunities.”

Your eyes shift to Mark standing outside, he sticks his hand out in the rain, water droplets crashing against his palm.

“With all due respect, you don’t know what I’ve been through.”

“Shoot it at me. Guilt? Sadness? Grief? You forget I’m old. I’ve seen things.”

Mari pokes her arm, playing with the ribbon on the woman’s sleeve, “Can I have more pie?”

The woman frowns down at her, “You’ll be sick if you eat so much pie, wait for dinner.”

Mari huffs in response, brows furrowed in annoyance.

“My point is, y/n, you have to learn to accept outcomes and heal. Don’t be stuck on your mistakes and your missed trials. Learn and grow from them. Ask yourself of purpose. Why are you doing this project? Why with that boy?”

Before you can answer her, you’re about to say it’s for the grade, maybe for the extra money. Deep down, you know that it isn’t that. You turn to look at Mark outside. He’s standing in the middle of the woman’s Japanese garden, eyes shut under the falling rain. And you swear, you’ve never seen anyone who’s any more beautiful. He looks so peaceful standing there, hair becoming wet from it. It reminds you of that day.

She continues, “In my time, I’d normally enjoy the rain. But, my flowers are dying so I need you to bring the sun for today. I haven’t felt that ever since the city’s been raining non-stop.”

You nod, you know what you must do. You stroll over to the sliding door, opening it up to the garden. You approach Mark in the middle of the grass, watching him as he sticks his tongue out. When he opens his eyes, he jumps from being startled by you, “Whoa, how long have you been standing there?”

“Not long, I just wanted you to enjoy the rain about longer before I- you know.”

“Oh, right, go ahead.”

You do what you do best.The old woman steps onto her porch, Mari flying past her to catch up with you and Mark. You savor the coldness, the breeze, and the scents of drenched flowers. You want to try something new, something that you can see and feel all in one moment. In our head, you visualize a million colors. You think about the walls of the elderly woman’s home and the sunset glow on Mark’s face, your mother’s familiar smile. You think about Mari’s laugh and all the people you’ve made happy today. It paints tangerine oranges and lavender streaks, explosions of electric blues and sparkling greens. Clasping your hands together, you wish on the stars to send your vision into the sky. When you open your eyes, Mark’s holding Mari in his arms as her mouth falls open from the view. It worked. The sky above your heads has become an ocean of color strokes, clouds and stars swirling together. It’s the best configuration you’ve ever made. It looks like a real-life kaleidoscope.

“Holy shi-”

Mark stops his words when he feels Mari’s small finger poking his cheek, “Look at what y/n made!”

You smile, pressing your hand to Mari’s head, “I made it for you! Do you like it?”

Mari squeals, “ Yes! Yes! Daddy, lift me higher!”

Your eyes fall on Mark’s. He gives you a knowing smile, eyes soft with adoration and glittering under the shooting stars. He lifts Mari onto his shoulders, “Hang on tight!”

She yelps, placing her hands on his head, “I want to catch the stars!”

Mark begins to spin around lightly, making airplane noises from his mouth. You laugh at the sight, turning to look back at the elderly woman. She winks at you, leaning on the pillar of her makeshift watering station for her succulents. After playing around under the cosmos, you finally greet the elderly woman goodbye, thanking her for her advice. Though you and Mark refuse, she shoves her cash into your hands, telling Mark to treat you- she says you're both welcome to her home anytime. Afterwards, you and Mark drop Mari at home as promised. You feel your heart swell when Mari starts to cry, Mark pressing a kiss to her cheek before setting her into her father’s arms. He assures her that you and Mark will come to visit sometime, inviting you both to dinner in the future. Of course you agree.

Mark drives you back to campus, walking you to your doorstep as always. He pulls out the money, splitting it evenly in half before handing it to you, “Your share as promised of course.”

You nod, taking the cash from him, “You know, doing this job- money is a bonus but I’m not doing it for that.”

Mark chuckles, his hands in his denim pockets, “I’m glad we can make people happy.”

A silent beat. “You know, uh, about earlier- I didn’t mean to come off weird. I think I was just in my head about something, I’m not sure.”

You’re not usually someone who makes the first move. The first leap. Mark doesn’t even have the slightest clue about what he’s doing to you, how he makes you feel. Do you like him? You’re almost certain of the feelings. You step forward, your nose almost brushed against his chest. Gingerly and slowly, your fingers find Mark’s hand, it makes him gulp from the sudden contact. His eyes are widened in confusion and you think he’s forgotten how to breathe. Looking up at him, you say, “It’s fun doing this with you- I’d rather not do it with anyone else.”

Mark nods but doesn’t say anything. His hands are shaking. You can hear the erratic beating in his chest and it takes every bone in his body not to grab your face and kiss you right on the spot. When he doesn’t say anything, maybe you think that you’ve scared him. Maybe he doesn’t feel the same way. You step back a bit, the air becoming less tense, “I’ll see you tomorrow okay?”

“Okay, yeah.”

Mark opens his mouth to say something more but you’ve already shut the door. In Mark’s head, he’s let out a string of curses. Why didn’t he do something? Why didn’t he say something? Why is he such a coward? He asks himself. Is it the right time? What if you don’t feel the same way?”

All night, he beats himself up for it, tossing and turning in his bed.

The next couple months in your university fly by. Ever since that night, you and Mark continued as if nothing ever happened. One thing that did change was a gloomy, ominous blanket over the city- it almost felt apocalyptic in a sense. Weather forecasters predicted that with such heavy and continuous rains- the flooding, the city would be underwater in the next coming year. There might be an evacuation.

Still, you took it upon yourself to savor the time you would have left in the city. One of the things on your list was you wanted to get to know Mark’s world better. You know that he can’t eat dairy, he absolutely hates the texture of yogurt and he’s able to eat watermelon flavoring by the shot. It’s gross but it sounds like him. You and Mark eat at all your favorite lunch spots, watch comedies in the theaters, and hang out in each other's rooms. The business is going well, more and more people submit their requests for sunny days and sunsets, sometimes purposeful rain to play in. Mark drives in his sunny yellow van, sticking your hand out the window as your favorite songs blare from the speakers. You even have dinner at Mari's house. Her parents are shocked to hear that you and Mark aren’t together yet. The blush on your cheeks are the shade of ripe cherries. At the school, you sit with Mark’s friends practically for every meal. Everyone is fond of you, except Lana. Every time Mark tells stories about wacky customers or talks about how excited he is because you both received an A in philosophy class, Lana gives you a look. Vice versa, Mark glares at Haechan whenever he gets too close to you, he doesn’t say anything.

You and Mark had started the business in the summer, the weather outside is more autumn-like now. You have to wear a scarf to class because of how chilly it is. Leaves change to shades of burgundies and browns, falling off trees when they’re ready- it almost signifies the start of a new season- a new chapter of your life.

Autumn

>Where did the time go?

You became someone I used to know

Where did the time go?

When you became someone I used to know

Used to know, used to know, used to know

Business Partner Mark Lee: “Y/n, the boys and I got tickets to the new amusement park. Wanna come?”

You text Mark back during your statistics class, “Of course, I’ll be there.”

Business Partner Mark Lee: “Meet us there at 6 pm. After that, can we talk? I need to ask you about something.”

“Okay.”

Going back to your dorm room, you walk with a pep in your step. You wonder about what Mark wants to talk to you about. Will he finally say something? Is it about the business? Does he think you’re too mean with your teasing? Anyway, you dress up in a cute outfit of your choice- nice shoes, a cotton knit sweater, and a corduroy skirt. You even tie your hair with ribbons that Mark gave you as a congratulation for 100 customers' gifts. You bought him a guitar pick then.

By the time you reach the amusement park, you meet up with Haechan, Renjun, Jeno, and Jisung. Chenle had choir practice and Jaemin was on a date with some girl. Mark and Lana are nowhere to be found.

“Hey, guys.”

Haechan sees you first, swinging his arm over your shoulders, “There she is- beautiful y/n.”

You attempt to push his weight off, “Haechan, you’re heavy- you’re going to break my shoulder bone.”

Jeno laughs, “I don’t think that’s actually possible.”

Renjun jumps in, “What should we do first? Ferris wheel? Laser tag? Mini-golf?”

“We’re not doing rollercoasters, not the upside down ones.” Jisung rolls his eyes, chewing his mint flavored gum.

Haechan smirks, “Jeez Jisung, you’re no fun- you can stay on the ground and video record us like a grandma.”

Renjun shoves Haechan, “I’m with Jisung on that one, unless you want puke all over your expensive jacket.”

“Fine, me and y/n will be up there.” Haechan leans down to whisper in your ear, “If you get scared, you can hang on to me.”

You awkwardly pat Haechan’s chest, “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, thank you.” Haechan raises his eyebrows, his lips upturned in a smirk, “Whatever you say, y/n.”

You know that Haechan has a crush on you. Jeno and Jisung had told you so out of curiosity but doubted it from the start- they knew you had your eyes on Mark the entire time. Haechan could never compete.

“Where’s Mark and Lana?”

Renjun snaps his fingers, his eyes lighting up, “Oh yeah- Mark told me he was picking up Lana. I think they were hanging out before this.”

Haechan responds, “I’m not surprised. I think Mark will ask her out today, their families have known each other since birth.”

Your heart sinks. Oh, so there was someone else. It’s probably why Mark brushed you off that day. Probably why he’s never said anything since. You feel a bit sick in your stomach and you haven’t gone any roller coaster yet. You had spent this whole time pining for someone who’s not going to like you even as close as you like them. It’s been one-sided.

You’re interrupted from your thoughts when Jisung waves excitedly at Mark and Lana, both of them side by side. You feel weird about it. Renjun straight up, his finger pointing to the air, “Let’s do laser tag first, I call dibs being team captain.”

Jeno laughs, his eyes crinkling when he does, “Then I’m the other team captain.”

“Hey, y/n.” Mark comes up from behind you.

“Hey Mark. Hey Lana.”

Lana says a barely audible, “Hey.”

Once you’re all split into teams, it goes like this: Jeno’s the captain of your team, you, Haechan and Lana are on team red. Team blue consists of Renjun as captain, Mark and Jisung. To compensate for the lack of team members, team blue gets a head start in hiding. When the game begins, you just try to have your best to have fun. You dodge around the glow in the dark pillars, aiming your gun at Renjun as he angrily fists the air from running out of ammo. Haechan and Jisung fight off to the death, freezing each other out. By the time the hour is done, it’s down to you, Lana and Mark. You try to devise a plan with her but she doesn’t seem to engage with you. All she tells you is, “I’ll get Mark out.”

Was that a warning? A phrase of double meaning? Maybe you’re just overthinking it because of envy. Down to the last three seconds, Lana and Mark face off in the middle of the playground. Before Lana shoots him, Mark fires first- the obnoxiously blaring alarm sounding off team blue’s victory. Jeno throws his gun down in frustration, you pat his back in comfort as you watch Mark laugh with Lana and Renjun. Who were you kidding?

Haechan shouts, “Let’s go on the dragon ball coaster next!”

When you’re all in line for the coaster, Haechan whispers a joke about the man who’s dressed as a clown a few feet away, enticing park-goers into the circus tent. You laugh at the joke. To Mark, he’s burning with jealousy. He watches when Haechan, his friend’s lips almost touch your ear, your giggle from Haechan’s flirting. Mark tightens his fist, averting his eyes from a scene. He has yet to tell you but he’s waiting for the right moment. He doesn’t want to come off as the overly-jealous boyfriend when you aren’t his. He snaps out of it when Lana tugs his arm, “Can we go in the tunnel? I’m not good with coasters.”

Before Mark can answer, Renjun jokingly gags, “The tunnel of love? You guys are bound to moochie mooch in there huh?”

When Renjuns says such a thing, you don’t hear any of Haechan’s jokes anymore. You don’t hear the sound of Jeno jostling Jisung and Jisung whining about it. You just wait for Mark’s response. He stares back at you in silence, Haechan even stops talking to look at Mark looking at you. Your eyes trail down to see Lana’s clutch on Mark’s arm, tightening when she makes eye contact with you, “Mark?”

You can’t hold it in. It just falls out from your lips, “You two should go, there’s limited seats in the coaster cars anyway since we have an odd number.”

It’s like someone’s fed you bitter medicine. You grimace at your words, almost regretting them instantly. Jeno and Jisung give you a knowing look, they know. Haechan laughs, “Very true point y/n, you guys can head along.”

Mark ducks under the cue line, Lana scrambling to follow after him. Everytime she tries to cling on to him, Mark removes her hands politely, declining. It makes you feel even worse. Jisung and Jeno carry on with their conversation. Haechan looks at the pair, “They make a good couple don’t they?”

You just nod. Maybe they do. After the roller coaster ride, you don’t feel any better. Jeno and Haechan are screaming to go again and Renjun and Jisung opt to go get snacks at the candy shop by the merry go round. Haechan nudges you, “Let’s go again?”

You smile at them, “Actually, I think I’m going to go home. I don’t feel well- I think I ate something that expired this morning.”

Jeno frowns, “Are you sure? We can take you home if you want.”

Waving your hands in refusal, “No, no, you guys have fun- I’ll see you in class on Monday.”

You begin to walk away from them, a rising feeling in your stomach. You dig your fingernails into the skin of your hands. Do not cry right now. Mark’s just one person. But you know that it hurts too much to forget about him. You almost don’t hear it when Haechan is shouting at you to wait up, grabbing your wrist.

“Y/n? Can we talk? Oh-”

It’s too late. The dam is broken, your tears are starting to blur your vision. Not right now, not in front of Haechan.

“Y/n.. what’s wrong?”

You sniffle, swiping at your eyes, “Nothing. I’m okay, I’m just tired and stressed about the business.”

Haechan’s face softens, he’s fiddling with the zipper on his expensive suede jacket, “I know this isn’t a good time but if I don’t say it now, I don’t think I can. I really, I mean really, like-”

You cut him off, “You like me. Right?”

Haechan becomes still. He freezes, slow blinking, “How did you know?”

“Any girl who can’t see it is more than oblivious. And, I appreciate it. I love you but not in the romantic way. I love you because you’re kind to me, you’re witty, and you make everyone in this group so happy. But I-I just I can’t- ”

“It’s Mark right? Jeno and Jisung told me.”

An awkward beat. You two don’t say a word. It’s just silence between you two, tears falling from your face and onto the pavement. Your nose is running and you’re sure that the other park-goers who pass by are staring at you two like some spectacle.

“I’m sorry, Haechan. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Hacehan sighs, looking up at the blush pink sky that’s being consumed by inky storm clouds, thunder beckoning rain in the distance. He thinks to himself, I knew it was Mark all along. Why did he even bother? At the time, he thought it was worth the shot. Now, he looks at your crying face, the way your long hair falls over your ears. He takes it upon himself to put one strand behind your ear, wiping your tears with the pad of his thumb, “How could you hurt me? We’re friends and I’ll always care about you. I’ll be okay.”

You stare back at him, it makes the crack in your heart widen. The world is so unfair. It’s unfair to you and to Haechan, to your family. At least, Haechan has a chance of finding a soulmate who isn’t as broken as you. He’ll find some nice girl to laugh at his jokes, tease him when he whines, and buys him video games every holiday. You stand on your tippy toes because of how tall he is, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. You whisper, “You’re going to find a soulmate who will love you for eternity- I’m sure of it.”

>I think we must’ve known how it ended

When we wrote it on a napkin with tears and a pen

A couple of kids who pretended

Until it felt real in our heads

Haechan stares at the ground, not saying a word. You take off running, tears running down your face like it matches the hard beating in your chest. It always ends up like this. It’s like the world can’t give you one piece of happiness. You decide to walk home. Call it melancholy or stupid because you can catch a cold, but you’re not in the mood to ask anyone for a ride. You walk on the streets alone, rain coming hard on you. Your hair, your outfit, all of it soaked. And you’re sure that you’ve lost one of your hair ribbons from running. You don’t have strength in you to wish for sunshine. Concerned mothers ask if they can buy you an umbrella and you just decline politely. It hurts, the smell of the rain and mixing of your tears. Your feet are blistered and drenched. In your pocket, your phone vibrates continuously. Mark’s asking where you are and you don’t have it in you to see his stupidly dumb, dorky, adorable face.

Dragging your feet along the pavement, the rain only comes down harder. There’s barely anyone on the streets and cars zip by, splashing puddles onto the cement. Your lungs are choked up from your sobs. That’s when you hear it, a voice calling out to you from a distance. You don’t want to turn around but you can’t stop yourself from doing so. You can’t resist it.

>I guess I don't really know who you are now

I guess that we met with our heads in the clouds

So I look for your name and I say it out loud

Maybe that makes you real

I don’t know how to feel

I guess I don’t really know who you are now

I guess that we met with our heads in the clouds

So I look for your name and I say it out loud

Maybe that makes you real

I don't know how to feel

“Wait! y/n!”

You freeze in your tracks, your back faced to the boy who’s ran all this way to catch up to you. He’s got his hands on his knees, coughing from how fast he had to move. You still don’t turn around, you just feel it. “Let’s talk Monday, I’m not in the mood.” You speak slowly so he can’t recognize the cracks in your voice.

You feel Mark step closer to you, “Why’d you leave? I was going to talk to you, remember?”

You can’t hold it in anymore. You turn around, your tears blurring the vision of a rain-soaked Mark in front of you, “I can’t do this with you anymore!”

Mark freezes, his eyes trained on you. He doesn’t even blink. He stands a few feet away, a crushed and now wet gift box in his hand. “Y/n, just tell me what’s wrong.”

You sigh, trying to breathe air into your lungs, “All this time, I don’t know what I feel. I’m so confused about all of it. You’re confusing me!”

“What are you talking about?”

“God, I’m so stupid!” You wipe your tears, the thunder roaring above your heads. The water doesn’t cease at all. The weather matches the burn in your heart. You heave, continuing, “I have to go. See you in class, Mark.”

Before you can walk away, you feel a firm hand on your wrist.

“Y/n. Look at me.”

You whimper, “I can’t,”

“I said look at me.”

Reluctantly, you face Mark, he’s still holding your wrist. You gaze up at him. His hair is matted against his forehead, cold droplets on his cheeks and trailing down to his chin. His jacket looks heavy and now, there’s barely space in between you. It all happens so fast, he drops the white gift box to the ground, clasping both of his hands on both sides of your face. He’s so close. You can feel the warmth of his breath, see every detail that makes him himself, every little memory and trait.

You search for some sort of sign, trying to calculate his next move, “What are you-”

He cuts you off by smashing his lips onto yours, powerfully and desperately. You melt and your mind’s being clouded by foggy thoughts, his arms supporting you by holding your body up. You’re surprised your knees haven’t given up yet. Mark molds his lips to yours, it’s a back and forth of wet, open-mouthed kisses under the crash of the rain. You both don’t mind. He continues to kiss you like that, eyes shut, pressing his lips harder and harder until you can’t breathe. Your fingers claw through his soaked hair, noses against cheeks, and you reel back to gain more access. His hands move to the make of your neck, his thumb swiping over your cheek. He groans when your tongue meets his, your bodies becoming hot despite the icy crystals falling down on you. You part from him, Mark chasing your lips in response, “Let’s go home and then we’ll talk.”

He swipes the remainder of your tears away, you nod. The whole time you walk home, Mark doesn’t let go of your hand. In fact, he holds your body close to his. You decide to go to Mark’s room tonight. He shuts his door, handing you a towel, “You shower first. I’ll go after.”

You protest, “I’m okay- I don’t really have anything to wear anyway.”

Mark throws one of his t-shirts and a pair of basketball shorts at you, “Wear these, I don’t want you to get sick.”

You smile, “Thanks.”

After a nice long, hot shower- the rain seems more peaceful outside of Mark’s dorm room window. The only light source he has is a lamp that sits on his desk, the print on the lampshade covered with lions. He must’ve had that when he was little. When Mark’s down showering, he wears a grey hoodie and sweatpants and you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want to kiss Mark again. He sits on his bed next to you, moving his guitar out of the way, “So, what happened?”

You sigh, “When I saw you with Lara, I couldn’t, I don’t know, see you with someone else.” Mark chuckles, “Were you jealous?”

You look at him in the dark, punching his arm slightly, “No- don’t even dream of it.”

“What if I told you I was jealous of Haechan?”

You narrow your eyes at him, “You were?”

Mark rolls his eyes, “Are you kidding? He was practically whispering in your ear and being so close, you know he likes your right? He told me and I told him to go for it but I messed up, I shouldn’t have.”

You play with the frayed thread on Mark’s t-shirt, “He told me, I turned him down.”

“Why?”

“Ugh, you know why.”

Mark presses his finger to his eyes, covering his nose in embarrassment, “I like you y/n.”

You don’t even register when he says it.

You were still talking about something but you pause when Mark’s words echo in your head, “After that kiss? I was hoping that’s what you were going to say.”

You and Mark erupt into a giggling fit, shoving each other. Then Mark pulls out something from behind him, it’s the squashed white gift box. He bites his lip, causing it to glow pink, “I was planning on telling you today and giving you this but someone took off.”

“Sorry about that.”

Mark shakes his head, grinning. He pulls out a tiny, gold necklace that’s in the shape of a sun. Even in the dark, it glimmers. You touch it tenderly, afraid it’ll break in your fingertips, “You got this for me?”

Mark nods, “Can I put it on?”

You turn your back to him, holding up your hair in a ponytail for his nimble fingers to clasp the necklace onto your neck. The cold metal of it soothes your skin.

You touch it, running your fingers over the charm, “It’s beautiful, thank you. For the record, I like you too Mark.”

But in the back of your mind, there’s that shadow that always remains. It takes the form of fear, uncertainty- telling you that you do not deserve happiness or you do not deserve to love anyone. Still, it doesn’t stop Mark from leaning over to you and kissing you once again. He uses his fingers to trace your hair and the hollow of your neck, the side of your arm. It makes you shiver, it makes goosebumps rise in hills. You grasp his black locks, lips once again moving in a syncopated wave. Mark mumbles several hums, addicted to the taste of the way your lips feel. You want Mark. You want him so badly it kills you. You’re afraid to fall and it makes you want it even more. Pulling his hoodie, you fold your legs over his lap, straddling him. It makes him heated, blush spotting his cheeks and his neck. He runs his soft hands over the skin of your thighs and traces the waistband of your shorts. You’re trying your best not to lose self-control. It goes out the window when he removes his hoodie, his skin glowing under the lamp light.

You run your thumb across his collarbone and the curves of his abdomen and chest like you’re connecting constellations. You press your swollen lips to the base of his collarbone, rubbing your hand on the warm skin of his shoulder, “Have I ever told you that you’re gorgeous?

”Mark doesn’t answer, he’s busy tipping his head back, shutting his eyes from the feel of your lips on his skin. He opens his eyes before leaning over to move your hair behind your ear once again, nibbling on your earlobe. You accidentally moan when he moves to the juncture of your neck, it turns Mark on even more. He swipes his tongue by the base of your neck, “I.” A kiss. Don’t know if.” A kiss. “You remember this.” A kiss. Mark parts away to finish his sentence, “I remember you from that night at the hospital. Do you remember me?”

That’s when you snap out of it. You gaze back at him, replaying everything in your head. Your mom. The shrine. The gift. The sun and the rain. You slide off his lap, touching the area of your shoulder. The shadow in your mind, the voice in your mind telling you not to give in.

“Y/n? Is everything okay?”

You nod, “Yes, I remember you. When we first met, I said that we didn’t because everything that day was so blurry that I cut it out of my memories. But for what it is, I remember you.”

Mark looks sad, immediately regretting he even brought it up. You mold your hand to his cheek, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m glad I met you back then, that will never change.”

Mark opens his mouth to say something but closes it when he finds a spot pinging, a tiny glow appearing on his hand. When you look down too, a glow appears on the same spot of your hand. After a couple seconds, the glow forms into the shape of a sun, Mark’s name glowing above it. Mark’s glow forms into the shape of a raindrop, your name glowing on his hand in cursive letters.

You both look at each other and back to your hands, “Does this mean-”

He lets out a breath he’s been holding, “You’re my soulmate?”

While Mark’s ecstatic, you feel a weight just drop in your stomach. No. Not right now. Mark realizes you’re staring at your hand, you look as if you had just seen a ghost. You almost wished you had.

“Is everything alright? Did I-?”

Instantly, you grab Mark’s hands, “I need you to listen to me carefully okay?”

Your hands are shaking now and you feel like you’re going to burst into tears again. This is the worst thing that you can do to someone, this is why you were reluctant to have Mark in the first place. You love him so much you can’t bear to hurt him like this.

“Y/n… what’s happening?”

Slowly and delicately, you lift off Mark’s t-shirt over your head. Mark’s expression is utterly, painfully blank. He stares at you, unmoving.

“What is that?”

Though you’re in the dark, it shines brightly clear. The skin of your shoulder is completely coated with this invisible matter, tiny bubbles floating through it. It resembles the rain. The thing is consuming your shoulder and gaps of your chest are missing. No person could tell if they didn’t see your naked body.

Mark leans forward, running his hand over your shoulder, his fingers go right through your body like it isn’t there.

“Please tell me this isn’t real. This is just a joke right?”

You place your head in Mark chest, your arms hugging his bare waist, “I found out my gift comes with a price. My body is becoming a part of the weather, a part of the sky above. Ever since that day I stepped into the shrine on top of the hospital, I saw water floating upwards- this is the consequence for toying around with nature.”

Mark doesn’t say anything. He thinks for a moment. He grips the comforter you both sit on top of. Then, he speaks, “Can’t I fix this?! There has to be a way- maybe if I go to the shrine and figure something out-”

You release him, putting your hands on both sides of his face, “You can’t. I’ve tried everything. I even went to a priest, a shaman, anyone I could find. You heard about the forecasters talking about the floods right? As long as I’m here, this city will be underwater. I’m a glitch in the system. I’m the virus in the code, blocking the world from being natural.”

>I guess I don't really know who you are now

I guess that we met with our heads in the clouds

So I look for your name and I say it out loud

Maybe that makes you real

I don’t know how to feel

I guess I don’t really know who you are now

I guess that we met with our heads in the clouds

So I look for your name and I say it out loud

Maybe that makes you real

I don't know how to feel

Mark begins to cry. Tears fall from his eyes, dropping onto the skin of your hand. All you can do is hug him as tight as you can, fearful that if you let go- you can’t have him back, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m hurting you. I’m so so sorry.”

Mark sobs into your shoulder for the next hour or so. When he’s tuckered out from crying, you put him to bed, standing up to walk towards Mark’s desk. You decide to write letters to your aunt, Mari, and your friends. You even leave one for Lana. When you’re finished, you slip under the covers next to Mark. You use your fingers to touch his eyelids and his nose, his cheeks and the ruffle of his hair because you know it will be the last time. Pressing a kiss to his nose, you settle against Mark’s chest, knowing the sky will claim you in the morning.

In the morning

The next morning, Mark wakes up from what he thinks is a nightmare. He sweats profusely, he feels dehydrated,and his throat feels like it’s being ripped open. The worst part is when his heart begins to settle, he sees his own hoodie and basketball shorts where you had lay next to him. Though he wasn't awake, he remembers it all. He remembers you sitting at his desk, you kissing his nose. He remembers your warmth. This can’t be the end. Mark takes the first morning train to the hospital. He calls his friends, Jeno, Renjun, and Haechan to the hospital. Over the phone, he tells them he’ll explain later, he just tells them that you need them. They drive there as soon as the train departs. From arriving at the hospital, everything is like a blur. The hospital staff doesn't want to let some random teenage boy up onto the room, warily suspicious of the request.

That's when Haechan, Jeno, and Renjun risk it all for you and Mark, tackling and holding back the employees even if they’re radioing security at that very moment. Mark races up the stairs after grabbing the keys to the door, he remembers when those were his keys. He talks to himself. Please. Please. I have to see her. I have to see her one last time. He even prays to whoever’s up there about it. To his dismay, when he gets up there- he doesn’t see a shrine like you had described. He kicks the metal railing out of anger, screaming into the air as he calls out your name. He demands the sky to give you back. No one answers and it kills him.

From up there, you wake up in an unfamiliar scenery. You sit up, groggy from sleep. Looking down at your hands, you don’t believe it. Water takes the form of you, replacing your skin with invisible liquid. You’re sitting on what seems to be like a cloud, fish made out of rain droplets flying all around you in schools. When you look above you, it’s another world. A whale made of thunder clouds lets out a bellow, voices of children laughing when lighting strikes. There’s a castle floating in the distance, each level of the castle painted with different hues of color. It’s all eerily beautiful. Despite its beauty, no one’s around. You’re all alone.

You touch your shoulder, only feeling nothing but water. Your body isn't real. It means the sky has completely and entirely claimed you. That’s when you feel a cold metal thing hanging around your neck. Mark. Mark’s still down on earth. You begin to hold onto it, the chain slipping out of your fingers and through the cloud that you sit on, you scream Mark’s name as loud as you can. You cry and you scream, sobs wracking your entire body. That was the last piece you had connected to Mark, your soulmate. This is your consequence. What good are soulmates if there’s only one half to the whole? What is the point? Even so, you love Mark so much. You miss him.

Mark screams at the sky, tears lining his eyes. He sees something shine above him, dropping onto the pavement by his foot. When he crouches down for a better look, it’s the sun pendant that he gave you last night. He squeezes it in his hand, screaming for you. There is no answer.

In front of him, some shape materializes from a blurry image. When it focuses, it morphs into a red archway just as you had told him in the library. He runs up to it, desperate for any sign of you. He asks your name. Still, there’s no answer. He takes it upon himself to do the unthinkable. Maybe he’s crazy, maybe people will think he’s insane. He doesn’t care, all he wants is to see you. He steps under the red archway. He feels it within his body. The bells that hang by strings chime, the water from inside the stone fountain begins to flow upwards like slow motion evaporation. Then all of a sudden, he’s falling.

Winds rip his clothes and rip through his hair, he’s screaming. Everything is a blur of white clouds and flying animals made of water. He hears the thunder and sees the lightning too, it’s all consuming and real. He knows he’s not on earth anymore. That’s when the clouds begin to part, he sees you sitting there. You’re crouched up on a cloud, head buried in your knees. He screams for you, causing you to snap your head up at the voice. It can’t be. It can’t be Mark. But it is, the boy who is your soulmate is falling out of the sky above, emerging from the clouds and reaching out for you.

The wind gusts him away from the cloud you’re sitting on, “MARK!’

“Y/N!”

You don’t care at this point. You jump off your cloud, the wind current carrying you to Mark before you’re free falling with him. You outstretch your hand to him, your voice can’t be heard in the screaming wind. He reaches to you, straining his face while doing so. When he manages to grab hold of you, he’s surprised to know it feels like he’s holding a person given your body. You fall together, hands enclasped in hands. You yell, “What are you doing here?! You shouldn’t be here!”

Mark holds on so tight, “I had to see you! I’m not letting you go, I don’t care! Aren’t you my soulmate? You have to stay with me!”

“Mark, if I go back down there, we all have to pay the price. Just let me go!”

“I’m not doing it y/n! I won’t do it! I don’t care! I choose you over the weather! I choose you over the sky! I just need you.”

You smile at him. Oh, Mark. Then, something else happens. Mark’s teardrop starts to glow golden, the light enveloping the entirety of his arm and spreading to his body. Even though your hand is made of water now, your sun starts to ping in syncopation with Mark’s mark. Golden light shimmers, rays exploding like sunshine as Mark holds you close. He’s there and he’s real, you can smell his scent of body soap that he uses, he’s so warm. The world blurs together in a series of colors and emotions, blues and yellows and silvers. It’s layers of rain and layers of snow, it’s as if you’re falling out of the cosmos and it’s endless.The sensation of falling ends. You open your eyes slowly, you find yourself cradled in Mark’s chest on the hospital’s rooftop. Your head aches and it throbs like hell, but still, you jump back when you realize that your body isn’t liquid anymore. Mark pulls your shirt down to check your shoulder, it’s nothing but human flesh and bone. You gaze back at Mark, “You saved me. You pulled me back down.”

It doesn’t take any time for Mark to kiss you the hardest he’s ever kissed you. You both sit there for a while, cradled in each other’s arms. Mark digs his nose into your neck, “I can’t live without you. You’re my soulmate, there’s no one else.”

You nod as you run your fingers through his hair, “You and me against it all then.”

1 year later

>Where did the time go?

Where did the time go?

When did you become someone I used to know?

Where did the time go?

After the day that Mark pulled you down from the sky, you thought that you’d spend every second with each other after. Instead, it was the opposite. Because you were on earth, the rains and the flooding never stopped. You weren’t able to control the weather anymore and the outcome that the forecasters had predicted became true. Almost 50 percent of the city was already underwater and still sinking, many people died trying to escape the floods or had to quickly evacuate. It disrupted everyone’s lives but at the time, Mark thought it was worth it for you. After that day, you told him you decided on something. You told him that you loved him and that you’d always find your way back to him, no matter what. After all, soulmates become linked. During your last semester of university, you wanted to spend time with your family and to travel the world with your aunt- in case the sky were to claim you once again. In case you were told that the world would end tomorrow, you wanted memories that lasted and time to tell all the people in your life that you loved them. You wanted to heal from your past, trying to find ways to connect to your parents like meeting their relatives or reading your father’s journal.

Somehow, Mark took it well. Though he was sad for several days, as were your friends that you were leaving (yes, you explained to them the entire situation, they still have a hard time believing it). You knew that things would change. You’d pick up small updates here and there, graduation was approaching and Mark had chosen to participate in a training program to become a singer. Haechan found his soulmate at his work, the other boys doing their own thing. You hadn’t seen Mark in almost an entire year. Now, today was the day that you and your aunt would be coming back from a backpacking trip in Europe. You knew Mark would also be coming home the same day. On the plane, you thought: Did he forget you? Would he have found someone else? Does he remember it all?

The moment you landed, you changed at home- walking over to the coffee shop where you and Mark had planned business meetings frequently back then. Walking through your city felt nostalgic to you, the way your younger self ran through the streets, praying for tomorrow’s sunshine or the way you and Mark would hang out together most weekends. Even the memories of hanging out with your friends before class, walking Mosby with your aunt during the autumn season, and pasting photographs on your dorm room wall felt like long ago. Upon entering the establishment, you closed your umbrella before taking a seat at an empty table. A barista took your order, who happened to be one of your other classmates from university. Even seeing them after a year, which isn’t too long- still felt surreal.

The bell on the cafe’s door chimes, the barista at the counter greeting the stranger. That’s when a familiar voice makes you snap your head up. There he is, standing in the flesh in front of you. Mark sports black dress pants and a button up, his figure taller, leaner- more muscular, has he been working out? Mark’s hair is gelled back, different from how he looked before. It looks good on him. His familiar smile spread across his face, a teardrop glowing golden on his hand, “You seem familiar. Have we met before?”

You nod, running into his welcoming arms.

@czennienet @neowritingsnet @dreamwritersnet

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spencervoid · 4 years

Text

Undercover | Spencer Reid

*I do not own this GIF nor do I take credit for it!*

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

A/N: This idea was inspired by the song “Us” by James Bay and Alicia Keys which is an INCREDIBLE song by the way! [Edited] Okay, writing this I didn’t expect to be this long but I kept adding as I went along aha so bear with it!

Warnings: angst, tension, death, blood, a lot of sadness, fluff, kissing, happy ending :)

NO SMUT! I’m not comfortable with writing that sort of stuff so I won’t go further than a very intense kiss, thank you.

Word Count: 2.6k words (reading time; 20 mins average)

[If your name is Anna then change the undercover name to whatever you like]

“I hate dresses.” You mumbled underneath your breath, stepping out of the SUV with Reid by your side. This mission was definitely out of your comfort zone but Emily claimed that there was no one better for the job. All you both had to do was profile the room after an anonymous tip came in that the unsub was going to be attending the party.

A couple of days ago, you and Reid had gotten into quite an argument and it had been awfully tense between you two since then, despite the tries from the rest of the team to get you two to at least acknowledge each other’s existence. Your heels clicked against the pavement as the warm air hugged your body closely, Reid looking around the area like the maniac he was. Defeats the purpose of being discreet.

You walked confidently, your hair was brushed back behind your shoulders, various rings slid onto your fingers with a very shiny diamond one on your ring finger of your left hand. Shoot, you almost forgot you were ‘married’ to Reid. Seriously, why couldn’t JJ go?

You approached the front door, the bodyguard stood with a clipboard in his hand. “Names?” You looked to Reid as he studied the man’s face, a light smile built up on his face. “James Meulbrook.” You planted a fake smile on your lips, as the bodyguard flicked through the pages, chewing his gum obnoxiously. “Ah, Mr Meulbrook, yes.”

The bodyguard spoke, ticking off the name with his black fountain pen. He looked to you, eyeing you up and down and you resisted every urge to gauge out his eyes with a fork but just tilted your chin up, a sudden hand on your waist, pulling you in. “And who’s the lovely lady?”

“Anna. Anna Meulbrook.” The bodyguard looked up at Reid, who had his jaw clenched and his other hand balled into a fist behind his back. The man looked visibly intimidated as he cleared his throat and stood to the side, motioning for the pair of you to walk in.

You both took his invitation in and walked side by side, but before you could go downstairs to where the hall was, you were stopped. You felt a soft grasp on your hand, turning to face Spencer, he was looking down at your face with a worrisome look. “Careful alright? We know what this unsub’s capable of.”

You nodded firmly and pulled your hand out of his, walking down the steps to where the huge hall was located. There were a couple of tables gathered on both sides of the hall, with an extravagant and expensive chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

“Woah.” You whispered, picking up your dress so you wouldn’t trip over it as you strolled down the stairs. You met the eyes of other people who had came tonight, a gleaming smile on their faces.

A waitress even complimented your dress as you made your way across the hall, being offered a drink. Spencer walked with both of his hands in his pockets, looking around the room with a tight lipped smile on his face. You refused the drink and took a seat on the table with ‘The Meulbrooks’ sign on it.

Spencer sighed and sat down besides you, whispering in your ear, “if we’re going to make this whole marriage thing work, you can’t be mad at me.” You scoffed quietly, looking to him. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Throughout the night, Spencer stayed on his side as you stayed on yours and followed the instructions Hotch strictly told you to stand by.

‘Be welcoming, act like you fit in, and don’t approach the unsub if you spot him. You’ll be unarmed and be putting everyone else at risk. Call us. We will be watching the entire time just in case something goes wrong.’

You were talking with a couple of women who were sat on the same table as you, so far nothing had come up. Neither you or Reid had found anyone or even suspected anyone, despite how close you were looking at all the people here tonight.

In the middle of saying something, you felt a hand on your shoulder. “Excuse me.” You looked up and saw Reid smiling at the ladies before looking down at you, motioning to walk with him. Silently obeying, you stood up and picked your dress up off the ground, following Spencer elsewhere.

He turned around to face you, looking around to make sure no one else was in conversation distance. “I think I’ve identified the unsub.” You furrowed your eyebrows, shifting uncomfortably where you stood. “Who?”

“On your 6, navy blue blazer.” You looked down to the floor, whispering, “Talk to me. Pretend we’re in a conversation.” As Spencer rambled on about something to do with the laws of physics, you smiled at him and calmly looked to your left. You observed the man Reid was suspecting and looked back up at him.

“We agreed on a young male, not a 40 year old.” He rolled his eyes, pulling his hair back behind his ears. You both quietened down as a couple walked past, resuming to your conversation moments after. “He’s been staring at you for the last hour.”

You tilted your head at him, “Can’t handle the fact men are attracted to me?”

“He’s been staring a little too intensely to be attracted.”

“I think I would know if he was staring a little too intensely, I am a profiler after all.” You turned to walk away but Spencer grabbed your hand, pulling you back to face him. You hastily whispered in a hushed tone, trying not to grab the attention of the people around you. “Let go of me, I have a job to do.”

“You’re getting a bit too comfortable to be doing just a job if these men are staring at you.” Your mouth hung open as you scoffed, your voice getting louder. “What??”

You knew better than to blow your cover and put everyone at risk so you took a deep breath and yanked your hand out of his grip. “At least I’m trying to do my job right, James.” You emphasised on his fake name, a man and a woman approaching the two of you as you both simultaneously turned to them, fake smiles plastered on your lips.

“Mr Meulbrook, we just came over to say how much we admire your charity work.” You looked down to your feet for a brief moment, rolling your eyes before looking back up to face the couple and your ‘husband’. “I’m going to get a drink.” You excused yourself and gave a curt nod towards the two guests opposite you.

You spun on your heel and walked away, heading back to your table. Spencer watched you walk away, remorse filling his chest. He wanted to apologise, not just as James but as Spencer too.

“In trouble with the Mrs?” Spencer was shook out of his trance, looking back at the man. “Don’t we all?” He threw a light-hearted comment in an attempt to make him feel distracted but it didn’t work nonetheless. You were the only thing he could think about.

As you gazed at yourself in the mirror, you desperately tried to hold back the tears that were threatening to fall out, Spencer’s comment earlier running through your mind. Did he actually mean that? Did he think you were purposely trying to get men to stare at you? As if it was your fault that men couldn’t keep their thing in their pants when seeing an attractive woman, that was their problem. Not yours.

You heard heels click against the floor as you took a deep breath and pretended to fix your hair as the woman gave you a small smile in the mirror before walking into a stall. Suddenly, you stopped in your tracks when you heard a piercing sound run through the building.

Fire alarm.

You briskly walked back to the hall’s entrance when you got pushed back by a swamp of people who were running out, some screaming and some in complete terror. You were entirely confused, holding a lady back and trying to get her to calm down. “Hey, hey, hey, what happened?”

“I-I-I don’t know,” She was about to explain but ran away when she heard her husband calling her name out, ushering her into their car. You looked around frantically, searching for...

A sudden gunshot echoed through the hall as you ran in, seeing a young lady lying on the floor, blood flowing from the centre of her head as she laid lifeless on the ground. “Oh my god.” You whispered, tears escaping your eyes as you brought your hand to your mouth.

You noticed the bullet holes decorated across the ceiling, a silencer on the floor only a couple of feet away from where the body was.

Running to the girl, you saw the exit door wide open assuming it’s where the unsub must’ve escaped from. You couldn’t help the tears uncontrollably run down your cheeks, bringing your fingers to your head, running them through your hair in frustration.

Two FBI agents, one unsub, one victim and he still got away. God you felt so stupid.

Great, now your phone was still in the bathroom and you knew if you left, the press would be right outside so now you had no way to contact any of your team. Not to mention that you had a body laying in front of you, an escaped unsub and your own personal audience waiting for an answer outside.

You walked out of the hall, turning back every five seconds to see the girl, your chest filling up with guilt that you didn’t see to her in time. You couldn’t help but put the blame on yourself, thinking about the what-ifs.

Walking out into the outside, an army of guests and paparazzi gathered around you within seconds, knowing you had to answer for what had just happened inside but you couldn’t even bring yourself to figure it out. Being the liaison of the team really came with it’s disadvantages.

Questions, comments, blames were getting thrown at you in every direction as you agitatedly looked around, trying to calm down the situation. You were still crying, your body still pumping adrenaline, your mind still in shock and utter denial.

Thankfully, you heard a loud and deep voice take control of the situation and push the people away from you. Sighing, your body limped from the overwhelming pain you were feeling in your chest when you looked up and saw him.

But he wasn’t looking at you. Instead he was looking at Emily and JJ, talking to them in a frustrated manner.

He was shaking his head, his eyes were red and his fingers were crossed. Something he did when he was nervous. Almost instantly, he caught your eyes looking at him as he took a sigh of... relief? Suddenly, any defences you had built up against him were just paper. Before you even knew it, you were engulfed in his arms and his blazer was wrapped around you. You could feel his torso and the heart that beat from within. His hands were folded around your back, drawing you in closer. You could practically feel your body shake, crying as you nuzzled into him further.

Spencer pulled his head back and softly wiped your tears with his thumb, even his gentle touch brought more relief than your heart could hold. He pulled your hair back behind your ear, almost assessing your face for any sort of pain or damage. “I-I let him get away, she’s gone. She-She’s gone.” You cried out in whispers as he tried to calm you down, resting both of his hands on either side of your face.

“This isn’t your fault angel. You did nothing wrong. You did nothing wrong.” Spencer repeated to you, kissing your forehead gently. “They’ve secured each exit, every unit is out on the road. We’ll find the son of a bitch.”

Your cries went to silent sobs as you rested your head on Spencer’s firm chest, his hand on the back of your head as he ran his fingers through your hair in an attempt to soothe you.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” He continued to whisper, everyone else around you keeping a safe distance, they were sure Spencer was doing a good job and he was. There was no one you trusted more to take care of you.

After a couple of hours, the unsub was captured somewhere in the woods when a person called in, reporting someone of the exact same description. He was disarmed at the scene and was already on his way to the police station where Hotch, Rossi and Emily followed.

You were leaned up against the side of an ambulance, still wearing Spencer’s blazer, you gazed out into the distance, hearing all the chatter and noise behind you.

You felt a vibration come from the blazer’s pocket, pulling out Spencer’s mobile, you read the new message sent. “Got your phone :)” You smiled to yourself, scanning over the message a couple of times before locking the phone and putting it away.

Hearing footsteps slowly become louder, you turned your head to see a familiar brown haired boy walk over. A soft smile on his face.

He stood in front of you, hands dug into his pockets as he pulled out your phone and handed it to you. “Thank you.” You mumbled quietly, earning a hum in response.

You had every urge to ask him what was on your mind, what you were thinking since you’d shared that hug, every moment didn’t seem right until this one. When it was just the two of you. When you were both enjoying each other’s company silently, you knew it was the right moment.

“Why were you crying?” You looked up to meet his eyes who were already fixed on you, his lips twitching as he thought of what to say. Taking a step forward, he spoke confidently, “because I thought I’d lost you.”

You nodded gently, picking at the rings on your fingers as you decided on whether or not you should ask the next question. But you did anyway. “What you said in there, about me wanting men’s attention, did you m-”

“No. No I didn’t mean that Y/N. What I said in there were lies. All of it. You’re beautiful okay? You can wear anything you want and men are always going to look at you because every ounce of you is perfect. Every ounce.” You opened your mouth to reply but he beat you to it, “look, I was just jealous. I was jealous because I mean Y/N, look at you. You’re so damn beautiful.”

There was a brief pause between you both when he spoke back up again. “Just say the word and I can show you Y/N. I can show you just how much you mean to me.”

You stopped for a moment, placing a hand on Spencer’s chest as he looked down at you, waiting patiently. There were a million thoughts running through your head but you knew deep down you wanted him. Despite how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise.

“Okay.” As soon as the word left your mouth, Spencer lifted your head with his thumb, his forefinger resting underneath your chin. You closed your eyes as he leaned in to your face, feeling a pair of lips brush yours instantly afterwards. It was soft and delicate, as if he was asking for permission to go further.

You brought your hand slowly up to his face as the kiss continued, the touch of his lips against yours getting more and more intimate. He could feel the warmth of your skin, smiling against your lips at how you were probably turning pink.

And yes, you were turning pink. You could practically feel your limbs inside shaking, your heart beat quickening and your body melting under Spencer’s gentle touch.

#spencer reid imagine #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #fluff #imagine #doctor reid #spencer

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deejadabbles · 3 years

Text

Crimson Portrait (Seto Kaiba x Reader)

So as I said in my drabble a couple days ago, I’m wanting to write some short fics to get back into the swing of things and I wanted to gift said drabbles to some mutual I adore. Next on my list is @ohyema the top Vampire and Yugioh enthusiast on this site! I’m sure you’ve all seen her amazing art floating around already, but in case not please check out her stuff (and reblog the heck outta it!), the way she colors her pieces and adds dramatic flair is something I aspire to tbh <3

For this fic I decided to spread my proverbial wings and write Seto for a change (don’t get used to this though, Kaiba fans, I’m still not a Kaiba stan lol) and I hope you enjoy our dark, mysterious blood thirsty, CEO ;)

You gulped, eyes traveling up the metal and glass of the building as though counting each towering floor would make it any less intimidating. It wasn’t just the size, of course, it was the marble path spread out in front of the entry, it was the literal red carpet on the other side of doors- it was the gold etching and suited man around said doors! You found yourself clutching the portfolio case under your arm even tighter to your chest. Subtle lights brightened the edges of the building, though you were sure they were meant to make it shine like a beacon of wealth at night, rather than give it any cheer or levity.

This was by far the fanciest place you had ever been and the doorman casting a glance at you made you tug at your clothes for probably the seventeenth time since heading here. The outfit was fine, you reminded yourself; professional, but simple. Nothing that would impede your movements and work, all while still being close enough to your true fashion to offer you some self assurance. And you needed every ounce of self assurance possible right now.

After taking in a long, deep breath and straightening your posture, you started for the door. Despite the high chance that he was suspicious of you, the doorman pulled on the finely crafted handle and allowed you entry with a polite bow, nothing less. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to acknowledge him, but you returned the silent respect automatically. Then again, it didn’t really matter if you broke etiquette, you weren’t the high-class that lived here anyway.

The lobby was just as fancy as the outside. Your shoes clicked on more marble floors, and rich colored walls wearing frames of fine art surrounded you. There was a large wooden desk to one side, and the receptionist behind it clocked you as a non-resident, because she instantly greeted you with a “can I help you, miss?”

“Um- yes! Yes, I’m here to visit Mr. Seto Kaiba?” you followed the claim with your name and silently praying that was all you needed. The only way you were getting passed the front desk was if Kaiba (or his assistant) left your name with the attendant.

With a polite smile plastered on her face, she nodded and typed something quick on a computer obscured by the large backing of the desk. “Ah yes, Mr. Kaiba is expecting you. Please take the center elevator, he’s on floor 40.”

She waved her hand to the other side of the lobby, where three elevators with doors as clean and reflective as new mirrors stood. You gave her a quick thank you before following her instructions. The inside of the elevators were just as polished, the metallic sides reflecting your image.

As the floors passed by, you checked to make sure the journey here hadn’t ruffled your appearance any, tucking hairs back into place, swiping your hand over the pristine portfolio briefcase, tugging at your hems yet again. You almost jumped when the elevator dinged, announcing your arrival at the top floor. You waited a few heart beats, long enough to start worrying you had the wrong floor- until it finally slid open.

The apartment was dimly lit, all the ceiling lights set to a dull, intimate glow one might see in a fancy bar. Then a different wave of nerves overcome you, hopefully this guy didn’t have the wrong idea of what service you were providing.

“Are you going to come in, or continue wasting my time?”

You did jump that time, especially with how impatient the deep rumble of a voice sounded. With hurried steps you entered the apartment and ventured down the short hallway, following the voice. The hallway quickly opened into an expansive room, a couch, coffee table, TV, and desk on one side, and a kitchen, breakfast bar, dining table, and wet bar on the other. On the living room side, where the desk’s back sat, there was a large floor-to-ceiling window, the curtains pulled back to reveal the spiderweb of city lights and life beyond.

Of course, what really drew your attention was the man standing in front of the window.

He hadn’t turned from the view to look at you let alone greet you, hands tucked in his pockets as he watched the pulsing city life. He wore a white suit, with a blue button-up shirt and a dark blue tie, making for nice, clean lines for your portrait. Seto Kaiba. A household name in most countries, the secretive CEO of one of the biggest companies in the world who’s fame for innovation was only matched by his notorious hermit tendencies. He appeared on magazines often enough, but many pointed out that they were likely deliberate presentations to the world. Deliberate to alleviate rumors because, besides them, neither Kaiba nor his younger brother were ever seen out in public and even rather rarely in their own corporate buildings.

You weren’t exactly someone who bought into that celebrity gossip, but it was still rather surreal seeing him in person like this.

“You can set up on the other side of the desk,” he started, still not turning from the window. “This is the background I want, I expect you to be able to handle it considering the portraits on your online portfolio.”

You tried not to gulp, “Of course, but it may take me an extra session or two to get the details.”

“As long as it’s done before I return to Domino,” he answered in a drawl, then, finally turned to face you. He placed a slender hand on the back of the leather desk chair, and you quickly made yourself busy with setting up.

You felt that nerve-wracking, almost burning sensation of eyes watching you, and you could just imagine the icy blue of the eyes, remembering how Kaiba’s gaze always pierced through the magazine covers and into the viewer. Instead of thinking of how hawk-like he was watching you, you focused on how challenging and fun it will be to capture that quality in your painting.

Once your blank canvas was set up and your tools were spread out, ready for use, you finally locked eyes with the man. “I’m ready when you are, Mr. Kaiba, please take whatever pose you feel most comfortable with.” You had to ignore the shiver that ran down your spine, especially when he held your gaze for a moment more before finally shifting his stance.

After some verbal redirecting so his pose looked the best and got the key parts of the cityscape behind him, you actually got started on the canvas. Tokyo Tower stood like a sentinel behind him, making for nice framing, and he was a natural at posing, of course choosing one that was strong and commanding to the onlookers.

It was quiet as you worked, he wasn’t playing any music, nor offering any chitchat. It was only then that you realized just how alone you two were in the penthouse, didn’t rich dudes like him have platoons of bodyguards?

Within the free seconds you had between maping your piece, your mind wandered back to the rumors surrounding the Kaiba family and their reclusiveness. Tales of Kaiba insisting on specially tinted windows for all his buildings and never being seen in the light of day led to some interesting ones. Mostly conspiracies about him being the secret illegitimate son of royalty, and inheriting hemophilia from said parentage. Now, noting how pale he looked against the background of vibrant city lights, you could slightly understand buying into that rumor.

Not only that, but, the more glances you took while working, the more you noticed just how...sickly the man looked. His cheeks were a bit sunken, made worse by the dark circles under his eyes And on top of that, there was a sore redness around his eyes that was seeming to get worse every time you peered passed your canvas. None of his magazine pictures ever showcased these...unwell qualities. He must just be tired, you decided, being a CEO likely didn’t allow for much sleep, and here he was posing for a portrait late at night.

You were just finishing up his outline when you decided attempt conversation. If he didn’t like it he would just tell you to shut up, after all.

“I was actually pretty surprised when you hired me, most people don’t bother with traditional portraits any more.”

There was awhile of silence, where Kaiba’s eyes flickered towards you before staring off to the other side of the room again. Your were just taking the mental note not to try a conversation again, when-

“It was my brother’s idea. I always look ahead, and cut out traditions and old ways that no longer serve me. But, he made the point that there are some classics still worth something. Besides, improving things like canvas portraits with modern settings was appealing.”

You found yourself smiling and nodding along, “Yeah, I really like the idea of having the city in the background, it’ll make for a really unique piece!”

After picking your next brush, you peered over to refresh your mental image of the scene, only to find him staring at you again. His expression was rather indecipherable, and though his eyes were almost hooded the rest of his features were as blank as an empty page. Your heart was practically beating in your ears as you stayed transfixed in his gaze, which you swore were actually hued in red now, instead of solid icy blue.

A sound similar to a squeak, and you finally broke the contact to flick your gaze down to the hand resting on the back of the desk chair. His fingers were a sickly white, seeming to have no blood in them as his nails dug into the leather with a grip so strong he might be on the verge of puncturing the fabric.

Feeling that nervous heat again you quickly averted your gaze back to the canvas, even going as far as to shuffle behind it just slightly as though you could hide.

That didn’t help, much like when you were setting up, you could feel his gaze burning into you. Maybe he was offended, upset that you stared back at him, but he had no right to judge considering he was staring first! Seriously what was with this guy?

You weren’t sure how much time passed after that, it felt like an eternity but you were sure it wasn’t much longer than a half hour or so. You only stole glances at him when you absolutely felt like you had to refresh your mental image of the scene before giving another stroke of the brush. You avoided any eye contact even then and managed to skim over his face only once, during which you noted any previous color in his cheeks had vanished completely, but that was beside the point. You were just telling your brain to stop conjuring up theory’s on why he looked so sick and biting your tongue to keep from asking if he was alright when-

“We’re done for the night, you can continue tomorrow.”

If the sudden dismissal wasn’t enough to snap your attention back to him, the heavy breath within the words was. Your eyes snapped up to Kaiba and before you even registered his movement you were jumping from a harsh thud! He had removed his hand from the chair so swiftly that it spun and thudded into the desk with enough force to crack furniture of a lesser quality.

Now Kaiba was pacing around his desk, gaunt jaw clenched so tight he might very well chip a tooth. Not wanting to argue with someone who apparently had the mood swings of an angst-ridden teen, you planned to start packing up without a word. However, just as he passed the coffee table, Kaiba took in a sharp breath and doubled over so fast he barely caught himself on the glass top.

Empathy won in a heartbeat and before you could reconsider you were by his side saying a frantic, “Are you okay? Mr. Kaiba you look sick, should I call a-?”

The concerned questions died in your throat and so too did a scream when something too red and too luminous to be eyes flashed up at you. The next moment something was wrapping around the prison that held your words and scream. The third moment your back was slammed none too gently into a wall you could have sworn was half a room away and a body colder than any you had felt before was pressing into you.

Eyes wide, body held still with fear, all you could do was take in a few shallow breaths as Kaiba’s mouth hovered over your neck. One heart thundering in your ears, two heartbeats, three-

But nothing happened.

The hand pressing into your clavicle hadn’t tightened, and the mouth hovering dangerously close had not moved in for the kill (proverbial or otherwise), rather, Kaiba’s body seemed to be as frozen as yours.

Or at least you thought it was. A moment later you finally registered that Kaiba was shaking. Not violently by any means, hell, it was barely notable, but he was definitely shaking, as if he was trying to keep sickly shivers from wracking his body. His other hand moved up to grip your upper arm then, and his fingers were tight but not quite painful as he held you there.

“I shouldn’t have kept our appointment.”

The words were so shocking to your reeling mind that you almost didn’t register them. They were said lowly, in something akin to a growl or rumble.

“I should have told you to get out the moment I-”

Something on the other side of the condo sounded, a ding you had heard when first arriving on the floor, and not a second later footsteps were thundering.

“Seto!”

The youthful voice almost snapped you back to your sense enough to move, maybe even break free of his hold, but in that same moment you felt something sharp graze the skin of your neck as Kaiba’s face turned to meet the newcomer.

Thankfully your recovered control wasn’t needed, as the moment Kaiba locked sites on the newcomer, he released his hold on you. In a fearful blink as you recovered your balance, you saw Kaiba make his way across the room faster than any human possible could.

That’s when you saw who had intervened; Mokuba Kaiba, the youth of the Kaiba empire. He was looking pale and worried, looking between his brother and you as Seto snatching something out of his hands.

You caught the sight of something encasing red as Seto tore the package open, but he halted long enough to growl another command, “You need to leave, now.”

Your legs were finally able to move again, when you caught site of something that confirmed the impossible theories running though your head: sharp, pearly fangs were flashing between Seto’s lips.

#I got a bit carried away with this one #just bc I was invested in setting the mood #also pro tip while writing dialog for Kaiba:#if you're wondering if he sounds mean enough just automatically make the wording meaner #seto x reader #ygo

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whatdoesshedotothem · 3 years

Text

Wednesday 14 September 1836

6 ¼

12 25

No kiss ready in ¾ hour about 7 and fine but dullish morning and F50 ½° - out - had Mr. Husband and Mallison setting out the coal-lace pillars till breakfast a little before at 9 to 9 ¾ - then out all the day - or in and out - in the hall cellar store room servants hall, saddle room, saddle room chamber, front stable, sinking in carriage house court and banking against the road wall near the present entrance gates - in the afternoon went to Mytholm (2 masons began the front-cottage cellar for John Booth) at the Long goit, meer drift, and wheel-race - then at the pools and rockbridge till came in at 6 40 - A- busy all today turning out and dusting her bookcase - Mr. Jubb came about (before one) my aunt better - wrote and sent 3 ½ lines to ‘John Harper Esquire St. Leonards’ place York ppd’ to ask him to come as soon as he can - do not like going on with the hall cellar till he has seen it - dinner at 7 10 - coffee downstairs - A- read her French - letter 2 ¾ pp. from IN- York thanks for the moorgame - would have written sooner but I did not direct the game myself - the reverse of the card was ‘Bethell for ever’ - Mrs. Duffin thought the game sent by Mr. Bethell and wrote to him - he answered he had not sent it - and Mrs. D- on re-examining the card saw my hand writing (begging one brace to be sent to the N-s) - with my aunt from 9 to 10 - poorly but sitting up in her flannel dressing gown and better - fine (but dullish day) - F48 ½° at 10 pm - 2 masons (James and Abraham) in the hall cellar - pothering and altering the steps - Thomas (the York-joiner) late in the afternoon shewed the plan of the hall stairs - set aside the cellar steps and I stopped the job and determined to write to Mr. Harper - 2 masons at Mytholm (vid. above) 2 hewers (at the west tower ashler - as usual) Robert Schofield and Joseph breaking stone rubble on new approach road and in the court - Robert Mann + 4 sinking behind the present coachouse and Mark Hepworth and Binns (2 one horse carts) carting stuff to back up (mask) as yesterday the quondam paddock road-wall Matthew (one of RM-‘s 4 men) taking off soil and the gardener dressing up the bank and replanted the 2 little firs (spruce and silver) taken up on Monday - Frank carting thatchers (stone-flags) from Hipperholme quarry at Mytholm - John Booth washed with 1 of the soap rubbed my pony’s heels and siding cow house loft for hay - William Sunderland plasterer and his man whitewashed the store-room, and plastered about the saddle room into the stable and in the saddle room chamber and whitewashed the top of it - the 2 York joiners jobbing in the house store room servants hall blinds etc had just written the above of today at 10 20 pm - skimmed over tonight’s paper while with my aunt and last nights in my study and then sat reading a few pages of Rennies’ alphabet of scientific botany (to p. 108) till 11 ½ pm - A- all this while busy with her bookcase siding

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grim-faux · 3 years

Text

19 - Null of Light

There was a soured and puffy body behind me the whole time. I barely noticed when I spun around, the coagulated blood on my shoes stuck to the carpet. I studied it for a few seconds, a long streak of black led to the gate the disciple had indicated. Follow the Blood.

The segregation gate was wide open leading into a corridor, my new course. I decided the gate at the opposite end of the room was indeed locked, only to save me the ‘long’ walk to confirm this. I didn’t immediately begin off on my new tour, but stood in a daze as my mind caught up to current events. I had barely escaped an encounter with the big fucker and returned to the modern section of the Asylum, the area I was first acquainted with the nightmares that would micromanage my… I wouldn’t define it as ‘progress.’ Liberation? I couldn’t come up with wording that wasn’t cliché or cheap. I just wanted out, that’s it. Some of my rational was clearing, though my head throbbed and it was hard to think. The lights, the lights were too intense for my eyes. Maybe if I wasn’t staring into the cracked visor every second, but I barely realized the way I had it, angled beside my face and my posture was kinked. I’d spent too long glued to the camera. Damn, I didn’t give a fuck anymore.

The flies were getting on my nerves, roused as I worked. They couldn’t decided who they preferred more, the corpse or me. The dead researcher didn’t have much on him when he perished, but I didn’t think I was the first to poke through his pockets. There was a penlight and a wallet, and that’s it. It was morally wrong, I’m aware of that, but I opened his wallet and went through it. Found a picture of the guy when he was alive with his family. It was a classic picture, mom and dad and the kid, out in the front yard of a house that looked at home in some middle class neighborhood, probably a city or town I’d never hear about. My mind wondered where his kid had gone, the picture didn’t look old, not the same as some treasured artifact parents wore to death within the month. Just a memory. Was his wife wondering where he went? Did she care enough to contact authorities? I was here, I guess not. I tucked the picture into my notepad, in a clean space with no writing. I flipped through the crisp pages, they had gotten wet from the multiple times I was soaked. The pocket was waterproof but not submersible, water managed to seep through the zipper. Some of the pages stuck, but I could work on that later. I replaced the small booklet in its pocket, then examined the penlight over. It had two batteries. Currently, my camera was running low on NV and I had a spare. I’d probably need them, whatever amount of energy they had. The blood still squelched under my shoes as I moved over the plush carpet, to the open gate. For some reason the sensation unnerved me. Of course it would, I’d be disconcerting if it didn’t. But it was as though I was reliving the Asylum all over, from the beginning. I’d had enough, I didn’t want to be reminded. I wanted to let go of this place and leave it far behind me. Let go, move on, and heal. I needed to heal. There would be scarring though. Deep, hidden, ugly scars. The door in the hall was glass and distorted, but locked. I peered through, seeing nothing in particular but more hall and a functioning lamp at some distance. I didn’t linger. The hall cut to the right, blood stains on the wall and floor caught my eye, where a patient might have been shot. Cracks and pop marks curved over the plaster, but no bodies. I continued, following the direction a plate labeled Recreational Hall, indicated with an arrow. That would probably be the best place to start looking for a theater. I thought there was a new resonance in the air, but ignored it. I was worked up enough, though I felt a creeping sense that I wasn’t alone. Not here in this hall under these bright lights, I gave the stained walls a glance but saw no cameras. I was alone and isolated. The next right dead ended at a door that refused to open. I tried to force the handle, but someone had forgotten to unlock it for me, or it was locked intentionally. I would have to force it, but I didn’t think I had the strength. There had been an open door a ways back, it lead into a dark room I wanted to overlook. It was careless, I was getting careless, but I almost didn’t care anymore. I stood in the doorway, fumbling for the NV switch until the green visor flashed in my face. Nothing in the immediate range stood out, just a room with windows and drapes. Was I hearing… music? A piano? It didn’t sound like a radio, I could feel the melody through the walls as did my bones. Just my head churning, I had difficulty focusing. I entered the room, abruptly blasted by my old adversary of putrid air. I was beginning to miss the smell of wet char. The camera buzzed as the image distorted, I paused to wait it out and listened as the music continued. A pool table sat on the right, sticks still placed on the top with Q-balls scattered hither and yonder. Large cushioned chairs lined the wall on the left, with another of Murkoff’s trademark dried out plants. The far side of the wall was set up with an entertainment center, complete with DVDs stacked on the desk by the flat screen. While stepping beside the pool table I was spooked by my reflection in the screen, until I realized the angle was wrong. When I spun about the image failed in the visor, I waited as my heart thumped, until the static cleared. By then there was nothing, just the familiar impression in my memories, a shape vaguely…. If someone was following, I needed to keep on the move. I continued toward the pool table, trying not to focus on the reflective surface of the screen. A body, and the source of reek within the room, appeared in the gloom on the floor, a blood streak led to the fallen Researcher, or was it doctor? It might’ve been the person that bled in the hall, before he dragged himself in here to die. He was shot, punch holes clear even through the cracked visor. I carefully stepped over the body, listening as the gentle tune rose in volume. On the other side of the pool table, a large split between the floor and lower wall was formed. The destruction was organized, no evidence of the materials lay nearby but dust and splinters, the crevice was carved out in a rectangular shape, much like a door. This detour made little sense, but I questioned nothing of the rationality of those left responsible after Murkoff’s demise. I couldn’t complain, either. The hole led into a sizable storage closet, with a broken locker and some spare tables. They looked small, maybe a little outdated, probably donated by some preschool from the 40s. A door across on my right led out into a short hall with more lockers and a small stool with a radio on top of it. I tried the nobs but it had no power. Aside from that the hall was a dead end, leading to a segregation gate that was locked. I returned to the storage closet and found the ladder at the side, which led up to a higher level. Not really a floor, just a loft with railing barring the sides. Crates and some empty boxes were stacked along walls that appeared outdated, eroded and neglected. Likewise, the wood was as outdated and an archaic quality took the design, this must have been an area where the old asylum and Murkoff section merged. Or this side was shut away when Murkoff reopened the asylum. The railing shut the loft in, but across from my position the barrier didn’t fully block in the floor. Beside the opening stretched a thin ledge I was certain my feet would fit on. Though there was enough light on the wall lamps that lit up the hall, I still felt comfort with the camera out in case I saw something interesting or caught a glimpse of the shapes that plagued my mind. It was easier to hold the camera beside my shoulder as I shuffled along the wall, without cramming it against my eye. This area was in disrepair, but not as far gone as the other side of the Asylum where the building was condemned. The walls were chipped and the paint had worn away years ago, and some of the cables running wires across the walls needed to be updated. But it was still standing, and had not been completely demolished by hells cleansing fire. That was bad. And I felt bad for coming up with it. The segregation gate extended up to the ceiling, except for a thin gap in the side where the ledge extended, due to practicality in construction most likely. I squeezed through, then leaned low judging the distance to a set of lockers across from me. The lockers shook under my weight and I had to pause to let the ache settle. I pondered if my backside was bleeding again, it felt like my coat had crystalized to the wound and that spot was nearly numb now, which worried me. I crouched down and slipped to the wood floor. The piano music was close now, somewhere in this hall with me? I weaved around tall stacks of crates, coming to what I knew must be the source. I turned my head to a reinforced door nailed shut, my sudden commotion must’ve prompted the sharp key that was struck. The sudden sound startled me as it rung in my ears painfully. My camera was already leveled by my eyes, I didn’t have the presence of mind to adjust or check what I was filming, my mind too occupied by the shape beyond the windows thin screen. The man rose from his seat and approached the door, I made a pitiful sound when he stopped and gazed through the mesh at me, then tilt his head. I couldn’t be certain, but it looked like his eyelids had been trimmed away. As a result they had a fishy, glass like quality. This procedure seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t recall where it was I had seen it. I stared back as he tilt his head the other way, and once satisfied, walked away. Just like that. I let out a small gasp as I continued to stare into the room, with the softly burning candle atop the piano. Briefly, I wondered what he had been like before he was mutilated. What if he had never been a patient? I backed away and turned, on the left a doorway stood waiting, with no visible door to shut. At one point it had a door, but time changes these things. I crept close to the frame on one side and peered into the room. The lights were too bright, and a dull hum had filled the air with the pianist’s absence. I missed it, I missed the somber tune. The floor had pieces of plaster scattered, that had chipped from the walls. A short stack of wood steps led up to a platform built four feet above the floor, beneath, a few boxes and other rubbish had been shoved up under the tight storage space between the two floors. More lockers were set along the crumbling wall on my left, the platform at my right was built along a corner, electrical panels built beside the platform for easy access, their outdated cables extended along the walls and to the lamps burning their hot light. A few feet beside them, a doorway. No sign of life, no sound or disturbance that I could detect. I crept to the stairs keeping my movement slow and quiet. I would be in a bad way if I was surprised here, in the unforgiving yellow blaze. I never thought I’d just despise the light, but its bright artificial glaze aggravated my head. It warmed the air around my body, yet I had a chill in my skin. I was uncertain if the under layer of my coat was still damp or if I was imagining it. Little comfort was to be had in the shadows, where it was I could never know what exactly skipped at the edges of the cracked visor. I stalled in the doorway atop the upper floor. I thought there was something, I felt it in my mind. But as always, nothing. There was nothing, and never would there be something. I had to keep reminding myself that. I massaged my eyes then gave the shadows another scrutiny. Nothing but a wall of black, the air heavy with a stale musk tinted by ancient wood. I shivered and changed out the battery, before I shuffled through the broken doorframe. Through the NV I could make out the stacks of empty shelves, pieces of boards and plywood leaning on walls. A mop and a janitorial bucket had been abandoned in this little closet space, some towels or long sheets had been left to decay along the edges of the wall. Some of the tattered cloth appeared to have been slept in, at some point or another. I maneuvered around the furniture, getting a little lost as I tried to find my way out of the space. I climbed atop a shelf but it went nowhere, it was just a small space I could get onto and get nowhere. Finally, I stumbled upon an opening I had probably walked by five times, where a pallet had been set aside. More of the large dirt tinged cloth was left to dangle on my right, over a wall of the room I was about to enter. I balanced on the boards angled over the edge, and stopped in my tracks to view the room filled with chairs and the eyes of a dozen people gazing at me. Corpses. Victims of this place. I calmed my nerves as I tensed and dropped down onto the floor below, my shoes thudded on the hollow wood. I took a few steps forward scanning the eyes, and listened to the strange sound of blood on my shoes. There was a puddle where I dropped down, there was always blood. With my camera I zoomed and scanned the room for movement, it was nothing but a house of corpses. The hair on my neck prickled. What was I sent here for? Something specific. Many of the chairs had been scooted aside forming a straight path towards the back of the room, and those red, large familiar words that red EXIT. I would start there, if not it could be my escape out. I only paused to stare on a stiff cadaver slumped back in his wheelchair, when the lights above burned into focus, and I whirled away as the white cloth was agitated by an image. I blinked a few times, then turned off the NV when the spots in my eyes cleared somewhat. I moved to crouch low beside a chair, away from the man in the wheelchair. The screen had a spray of blood across one corner, and a broken support beam had rotten and fallen, to slant across and catch squirming vapor. “…exit interview recorded December 27th, 1985 Los Alamos, New Mexico.” The movie. This was what the disciple meant, I was to see this movie, and the key was… here somewhere? “Clearance Sierra Alpha. Subject DR. Rudolf Wernicke. 14866.” I slipped up into a seat, and set my elbows on the back of the chair before me, in order to hold the camera steady. Those images…. “The films are real.” What was I seeing? “There was no alteration to the footage at all?” The guy had a clean voice, sounded formal, maybe with the CIA. Possibly bureaucratic, I couldn’t decide what. “No trickery.” “None.” “In June of 1943 you recorded three instances of spontaneous bleeding. A half dozen test subjects began to develop brain tumors.” “Yes. The autopsies revealed that the tumors were pure lead.” A heavy accent, easily German native. This was… Dr. Wernicke’s voice? I rested my chin on my arm but kept the camera aimed and steady, though there was nothing to film. At least, I don’t think— “It killed them?” Oh… god. “Can you explain why the results could not be reproduced in the United States?” “I have my theories. My homeland, in those years.” He paused here, as though trying to work through the memories that came with his explanation. “It’s impossible to understand the things we felt. What we believed.” Germany during World War II was probably one of the most accurate descriptions of hell on Earth. Or, what we perceived as hell. The Auschwitz camps that claimed the lives of so many people, children, their families. I felt tears spilling down my cheek, and buried my face in my arm. “The overwhelming fear. Ecstatic rage and….” He trailed off. “English words are insufficient.” Tremors clutched my body, and I lowered the camera to the chairs backside, unsure if it was still recording the screen. I didn’t give a fuck, couldn’t tell what I was staring at. The swirling pain, indescribable things nesting in my mind. What was I seeing? I wrapped my arms around my face and cried into them. Heavy sobs, I need this, I just needed to do this right now. “More than hope. A human mind in that environment is capable of extraordinary things.” Fuck you. “You’re saying the experiment needed….” “A proximity to death. To overwhelming madness. Only a test subject who had witnessed enough horror was capable of activating the engine.” The engine. The morphogenic engine. “Do you believe your test subjects achieved something supernatural?” “No.” “Do you think they contacted something supernatural?” “Nothing is supernatural.” At this point the speaker sounded dubious, if not interested in Wernicke’s answer. “Then what was it? You said project WALRIDER was a gateway. A gateway to what?” Eventually my sobs did calm down and I sat up in the chair waiting for the interview to continue, but Dr. Wernicke never answered, or the audio cut off. I took a deep breath through my nose and settled my frayed thoughts. I think my coat smelled awful, it was brittle and gritty with dried mud from the Asylum’s grounds, but none of that mattered. I’d been submerged in death and pain for too long. I pulled my face from my arms and rubbed a hand over my short hair, I flinched at the unfamiliar gap in my fingers. Where? Where did I go now? Not just here, but after this? I wasn’t going to be normal once I got out. I brought my hand down and stared at what remained of my ring finger. Aside from being unable to count down from five on one hand. My vision fell beyond to the screen, and I shut my eyes. I was going to get out of this. No one, no damn dead doctor was going to keep me trapped in this nightmare. “The man sounds like Dr. Strangelove’s anemic brother. It’s a twenty-five year old audio recording, and interview with this Dr. Wernicke. Los Alamos means government work. Wernicke talks about spontaneous bleeding, tumors in psychosomatic reactions in sufficiently disturbed people. Seems to walk a line between science and Nazi mysticism. “Only a test subject who had witnessed enough horror was capable of activating the engine.” The Morphogenic Engine. The Engine. The movie they’re projecting. It gets in my head like a song you can’t stop humming. I blink and I see Rorschach tests that look like swarming insects and infected surgery wounds. The patients talk about using the Engine to conjure the Walrider. It’s the buzzing I hear in my bones.” I fit the little booklet back into its pocket and adjusted the camera on my hand. Whatever their plans, I would try not to get too involved with them. I planned to get out of here long before they did anything else, short of blowing the place sky high. The bodies of Murkoff and their victims dot a few of the seats, their dead eyes saw through me to the screen. Blood splattered the floor, from the wounded before dying. I tilt my head as a few of the insects aroused by the light and noise began to settle on me, but my contest with them was impossible. Their interest in my wounds was the least of my concerns. The path to the back of the room was straight forward, I didn’t have a burning desire to climb over chairs and make a ruckus, though it was apparent someone knew I was here. Near the back where the rows of chairs ended, some tables were left with Researchers placed at or around each. Throats torn out, torsos shredded, entrails spilling across their laps. I began to wonder who had set the corpses up, and to what purpose? To educate them? This was an Asylum, so that seemed the most sensible reason. Acrid light slid from a wide doorway on my left, where I took would gain access to the projector room. Or close enough. He said behind the light, I watched their damn ‘movie.’ When I stepped into the light I paused and finished drying my face with the collar of my coat. There was no sound but for the tick of the projector still running its images, I tried not to think about them. I stood in the doorway not particularly looking at anything, just picking up the air. No one was in the room, not with me here, no. A desk, lockers, and the dead tone of a phone off the hook. On the floor at the other side of the room, a streak of blood slipped under a door. I tossed the door behind me shut and moved to stand before the next portal, the only direction provided. Blood trails. Father Martin wanted me to follow blood trails. It was only coming back to me how morbid this was, among the fact that this mark at my feet could have as easily been made by someone dying, as it could have been Martin’s doing. A hall lined with lockers and stacks of boxes greeted me. The NV whirred as the image spazzed, I pulled the door shut after me as I gave it a moment to clear. Each time the camera did this my heart rate accelerated. Eventually, when I least expected it, the camera would die completely. Damn it Miles, stop thinking like that! Pull yourself together. Not gonna die here. As I was walking forward, one of the open lockers snapped shut. The visor flashed and buzzed with static, I waited until it was clear before I took soft steps towards the door. “You have to find Wernicke. Only way.” I could see the eyes of the person inside glitter in NV as he stared back at me. I didn’t wait around. Another source of light spilled from the end of the hall. A door was nestled in the wall on my left as I neared the light, but I could view through the small mesh, the theater and the images still playing across the room on the screen. No doubt the stairs on my right went up to the projector room, but an accessible room needed to be searched before I became lost or stuck someplace, which was usually the case in the dilapidated Asylum. The light filled a stage wing of the theater, four or five steps raised up to a short upper portion of the floor, directly to a door that must’ve opened into the back area of the stage where I entered through. I couldn’t recall a door present in the tiny closet I had been lost in for a full five minutes. Industrial shelves filled with broken boxes and files lined the wall on the right, numerous large planks of wood were left propped beside shelves. Best as spare shelves rather barricading doors, it didn’t appear as though these materials had been bothered with. I poked through the shelves and boxes, selecting a few folders that might hold details that would enlighten me further about this engine, or anything related to the Walrider folklore. From: [email protected] To: [email protected] subject: re: FLESH EATING BACTERIA ?!?!? Wash those hands regularly. : ) >>>on September 19, 2013, at 4:19 AM, GRANT >>><[email protected]> wrote: Necrotizing fasciitis? >>>Really? I fucking quit. Trager’s loopy uncle? I doubt G. Williard got far with that. I took in the date on the file, September, the nineteenth. This was an important document to record, it indicated that the Asylum was still running routinely until mid September. This correlated with the state of decay I had viewed the bodies scattered everywhere. A big however, my Mutemail admission was dated on the seventeenth. Given, I didn’t receive the email until the Twenty-third. Most emails had a schedule release, Mutemail encouraged the feature. What was relevant about these corresponding emails? Give me a minute, it’s hard to keep these dates and files straight in my head. I sat down on the platform and set the file on my lap. Three emails, three emails, between five of Murkoff’s staff, and myself. The relevant files had dates, that included the Whistle Blowers admission and Williard’s ‘resignation.’ Was it important a date had been attached to the Mutemail, though it had been scheduled to be sent? It depended on whether or not my contact wanted me to know the date the message was composed. It could have been a Red Herring, but Mutemail was anonymous, it didn’t matter if anyone knew the date or not, as long as it couldn’t be proven who wrote it. “…but seriously, fuck those guys.” There was no doubt in my mind, that my contact was dead. I think I should have felt some remorse, a tinge of guilt. But I couldn’t. And I didn’t crave the satisfaction that might’ve come if I imagined his death to have been painful, but I wanted to pretend this was all his fault, even if it weren’t true. I don’t know what happened here, I don’t know who started the chain reaction to this corporate fuck up, but I hoped to never find out. I hoped to god I never found out. There were no other files that struck my fancy, and some had been damaged by water at one point making their contents unintelligible. I returned to the dark hall, and paused to let my feed clear before I gazed up the stairs I passed previously. The steps creaked as I began up, I could feel the forgotten wood shift under my weight, the sounds of the projector beat at my skull the higher I climbed. I just wanted to get that key and get out of this place, even if it was back to the dormitories of the Asylum, my brain felt like it’d been punctured by a few hundred tiny needles. More boxes, crates forgotten and stacked on a makeshift shelf assembled on the loft. Blood covered most of them, smelt decayed. I tried the door on my right, only to be disappointed. I should just accept that if it has the capacity to inconvenience me, it must. I messed around with crates before me, wondering if I could climb over. I crouched down and found several could be pushed out easily under the plank of wood. I crawled under the space, and kept low as I took in the other side. The image on the camera died for a few seconds before it flashed back, blinding me momentarily like a mean trick. Don’t you turn against me too, camera. The space was empty aside from a desk by the left wall, across the room another door. I tried the handle but it felt stuck. With a firm push from my shoulder the it gave, and I coughed as my ribs shifted. The next attic held yet more heaps of crates lining the walls, and a few in my path. I flinched when something shifted at the visors edge, expecting a variant or whatever else. When I blinked it was gone, and I was dubious if there had been something there to begin with. Still, my wrist and knees tingled, but I attributed it to paranoia. The images from the screen persisted to swirl in my mind, no matter where memories delved, they were there twisting. Burned into my retinas. I continued, a bit shaken but I’d walk it off. I slipped over the scarce group of crates stacked in my path, in order to reach a light pouring from a window on the right side of the room. A shelf of reels of varying sizes was set beside the door. This was it. A wheelie coatrack with thin hangars clinging to it, gave no resistance as I pushed it aside, my eyes fixed on the bright shape of the window. There was little I could make out through the mesh and glass, a broken corpse sat nearly decapitated, his head hung sideways by the remaining tendons. Another stack of reels sat beside him on the desk, and the audible click of the projector within the room. As I pushed the door open, the knob snapped out of my hand and I was face to face with one of the patient’s glaring me in the eye. I leapt backwards hitting a crate with my thigh and tumbled to my side as the door slammed shut. Fuck! Hard foot falls grew fainter and fainter as I crawled away from the door. Was I safe? He didn’t chase me. What was that all about? Where did my camera go? It was still in my hand, the loop was too tight for it to slip loose. I curled up between some boxes and wrapped an arm along my side where my ribs pulsed, some were indeed broken but not enough that it would hinder my movement if I was careful. Slamming into doors and falling onto hard floors just didn’t help. It sounded as though the patient had run off. I would be petrified if I wasn’t so damn irritated with all of this. It had been a nasty surprise. He was gone, just needed to calm myself and untangle my body. The camera seemed fine, when I’d fallen I’d tried to break my fall on my right arm. My swollen hand tingled as sensation returned but otherwise, I couldn’t feel it below the wrist. I avoid checking it through the NV as well, unsettled by what I might see. It was probably bleeding again. I held no motivation to enter the room, key or not. I’m not exactly sure what I planned to do, but I didn’t want to hang around the projector room. I returned to the loft with the stacked crates fitted on the makeshift shelf, and could see between the gaps the illumination from the doorway that was prior locked. I would continue to doubt the patient was gone, even if I did hear his footfalls leave. I couldn’t afford to be reckless, it was becoming a bad habit. I avoided the issues because it disturbed me, and I didn’t want to dwell too long on how much I was… changing. I wasn’t the same man that crawled through the open window. I stopped beside the crates to ponder this. Worst mistake of my career, but I was almost out, wasn’t I? I was nearly done. Please let it be so. There was no sound, nothing I could hear over the rattle of that damn projector. I slipped under the shelf and crawled over to peer around the doorframe, finding nothing much, not even a room. It was a small balcony with little space, aside from teasing me with a view of the projector room across the house. Looking to the wall once more I noted that there was a small decorative wall protrusion I might/could trust my weight on. I hopped the rail and set my feet on the edge, testing traction before scooting along, again with the camera shoved up into my face. The side of the lens that was cracked distorted the image of my hand pressed to the wall, making it look like the scarred remains of some of the patients. I struggled not to shake at the thought with my back pressed into the crumbling plaster, as it was I had very little space to balance. I pushed myself around the inner edge and came to another of the corners that had given me trouble outside, but without the rain and chill I was able to make it with no complication. The rail ahead was bright with the blinding flicker of the movie. I took a moment to secure the damn camera before I leapt off. I groaned when I hit, my shirt snapped free of the gash and I felt warm liquid spill across my skin. Damn it! I hauled myself into the room and looked around, making certain there was no more surprises. On my right the reel clinked, buzzing in my skull, a table beside it held stacks of films. The only other occupant was the lone corpse I had seen through the window, slumped and decomposing in its chair. The projector in front of it was cold and neglected. The key sat on the corner of the table beside the corpse. I snatched it up and fit it into my pocket.

Despite how the drone of the projector splint my thoughts, I needed to check what was up with my back. Try and stop the blood flow if I could. I sat by one of the balcony doors and pulled my shirt out enough to keep the fiber from getting caught on my index finger. Even if I wasn’t beat to hell, I wouldn’t be able to twist around and see the damage. I could only feel where the blood had clotted and dried in several layers on my skin, and the slick texture of the wound. The blood flow had stifled somewhat now that I was still, but whenever I took a breath, fresh blood seeped forth. Not enough to kill me, not enough to slow me down. But it did concern me. I removed my coat and set it aside. I tried not to look on its stained surface, as I tore the fabric of my shirt at the shoulder. It was mostly clean, I avoided the edges where the sewer water had seeped in and discolored the fabric. Christ, I was insane. I folded up the piece of cloth and studied it a moment, steeling myself for what I was about to do. I’m insane, the doctors are going to take one look at me and say, “My god, this man is insane.” Shit… this is not going to work. Tears stung my eyes as I forced the fabric into the gash. Burns, it burns like a bitch! Why am I doing this?! What is wrong with me?! I forced the material in as far as I could, and felt my throat clench as I gagged. Don’t lose it now, keep it together. I leaned against the door as the nausea passed, my head spinning. What did I just do to myself? I touched the gash with a shaky hand and found it was already soaked, but blood was no longer spilling freely. Shots of antibiotics. No doubt I would need them if I was going to survive, but I had to get out first. I made sure the cloth wouldn’t come undone when I started moving, and made a shabby effort of tucking my shirttail in. I don’t know why, routine I guess. My feet felt steadier than I expected, it must’ve been the adrenaline. Where did I need to go? I pulled on my coat but couldn’t feel relief in the return of its weight, or the sense of security it brought, having the extra layer to protect me from the stagnant air. I felt the weight in my pocket and recalled the key I had picked up. Needed to get back to the gate where the disciple had set me off on this little side quest. I decided most of this was redundant, but as much as I’d like, I couldn’t argue with a locked gate. The door that had been slammed in my face was jammed. I didn’t need to go that way though, just needed to get to the floor and find my way back. I climbed over the rail of the balcony and lowered myself down, without straining my patched side. A loud crunch came from the door, the light gleaming through the edge flashed as another powerful slam rocked it from the other side. I dropped down, a bit jarred by the short landing but able to get moving to the front of the theater where I had entered. I brought up the camera in time to swerve around the table of the dead, the beam that lit up the screen didn’t reach the floor where the EXIT door awaited. I was aware I was fully exposed in the light and needed to move it. I stashed the camera as the door cracked, it was holding longer than I expected. I jumped trying to climb back into the space I’d come down through, but the plywood I snagged flipped free and slide down effectively barring any handholds I could take. I was already trying to get up to pull it down, when the door gave a final cry and shattered. I ducked down and slipped under the light, towards a set of tables stuffed beside the barred door. At first, I heard nothing, just the constant call of the projector as it ran till the end of days. I tried to sift under it, listen for what it concealed, what was the danger searching for me? The floor creaked, couldn’t decide if it was a board shifting under me, or of the ominous danger that now filled the room. Soft foot falls slipped under the shadows as they carried weight, but that was all I could make out. Don’t move, let the air settle. Not Chris. Was it the twins? I blinked the sweat from my eyes and chanced to peer up and zoom, searching through the haze of light that interfered with the NV. Of what I could perceive, was the glint of eyes as a tall figure stalked at the back of the house and scanned out. “His liver and tongue.” The voice had been so strong I thought I had actually heard it reverberate in the theater, but it had all been in my head. I curled down and pressed myself under the tables. I could see one, where was the other? Worry about that later. The steps grew louder, overtaking the sound of the projector and the diseased Rorschach’s twisting on the screen. I wanted to bury myself deeper under the table, but I was not hidden by shadows, I was in full view in the light and vulnerable. Exposed. Don’t look this way. Please, don’t look this way. Subconsciously I curled my arms against my stomach and felt my body quivering; it was incredible the floor beneath me didn’t rattle apart. I lowered my head and held as still as I could, despite my unsteady breath. It was painful enough clinging to my sides, but I swore I could feel it. A vibration in my skin. The concept unsettled me, I wanted to uncoil and escape myself, forget, but I was trapped. I was trapped in my mind and skin. No— The steps paused a few feet away, directly in front of the screen. The floor boards shift as he turns, checking, searching. Does he know I’m here? He’s only here because Farther Martin sent me. I swallow and shift down just an inch, a sharp creek echoes in the room. But it is overtaken by the sound of steps as the figure turns. Where is he going? I can’t bear to look up, I just want to hide down in the wood and not be seen. The pad-pad of steps grows softer as their owner takes them away. Only then do I chance a glimpse up and risk raising my camera to view his direction. His walking to the other end of the theater, opposite of me. If he turns now….oh god. I shove myself out from where I was curled down, and dive forward, my steps echo like thunder over the tick of the film snapping. The twin jerks around as I cut the corner, knocking a chair down with my knee as I blaze by. I don’t glance back as I weave around the tables, my eyes fleck to either side fearful I might have missed the brother, that I’d reacted too soon. I reach the back of the theater and that beautiful exit in five steps. Thoughts return as I near the bright hall, and beyond. The other twin, what if he’s waiting outside? What if they’ve anticipated this? Not stupid, they were not stupid. Have I just killed myself? I shoot from the theater and press myself to the wall, staring at the dark portal and the danger that lay within. No sign of either one, I was alone. Alone except for the dead Murkoff agent that lay beside the wall. I brushed by the corpse and tried the door above a short set of steps. It was locked but I was certain this was the door that had been locked when I was searching for the Recreational Hall. There was another door, up several steps, probably on level with the first floor. I zipped by the theater, unaware if I could outrun the twins. They always tried to corner me, did they believe I was too fast or did they dislike putting the effort into catching me? I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want to figure it out. They wouldn’t catch me, because I would always outsmart them. I sprint to the top of the steps and haul the gate shut on the theater behind me. There remained no sign of either brother. This did not mean I was no longer being hunted. My escape would not be successful until I located the other twin, without getting killed. The brother was nearby, and there was a whole dark hall ahead of me. A door on my left offered nothing but a small office, some books and files. I crept inside for a moment only to regroup and steady my thudding heart. Christ, I hated those guys. I wiped some of the dampness from my eyes and realized, I had pretty much given up on my hands. Fuck this place. Really. Fuck it. I returned to the hall and tried the handle of the glass door on my left. It was locked but I already knew that. Habits. At my right was the segregation gate that I previously deduced to be locked, but was now opened into the room with the elevator where I began this small excursion. It looked much of the same as it did when I first came through, aside from the missing twin standing on the opposite side, waiting for me. I stepped back, but caught myself before I could back up into his brother. I stepped into the room and shut the door behind me, never lowering my gaze from the bald individual. With the distance it was tricky to tell, but it looked as though the gate I initially entered, was now shut, presumably locked. I made slow progress to the other side, unable to put my faith in the door between us. He watched me, occasionally slapping the flat side of his machete to his hand in anticipation. He said nothing to me, made no note of how slowly he’d kill me or utter a comment about what his brother had failed to do. I didn’t spur a conversation either, but didn’t feel relief in the silence. He slapped that large knife against his palm, there was blood there and cuts where the edge had nicked him. It never occurred to me as I moved that my camera was still armed, and in fact I was recording him. When I reached the gate and the stairs, I kept my focus on him as I fumbled with the key. Nothing in his expression altered to reflect my progress, but he was a sociopath, he wasn’t obligated to look disappointed. I wondered if he was unable to speak or express without his brother present, the concept struck a cord in me and I nearly dropped the key. After a minute of struggling, the latch clicked. I slipped behind the gate and slammed the door. I doubt it would help, but I locked it and kept the key with me. I worked hard for it, I could keep it as a souvenir. Wear it on my neck, it’d be a great conversation starter. I passed the blood marked arrow up the winding steps and came to a dark upper floor. The scorched and ruined upper floor came to mind, where I had nearly fallen. I don’t know why I thought of that, but I imagined this floor was on the same level. Movement drew my attention to the left, I jerked back and watched a someone shut a gate behind them, then step across the corridor to one of the distorted glass doors. It looked like he was heading away from me, to where I couldn’t tell. As I stood tense and waiting was I… hearing a choir? No, no, I couldn’t, this was insane. I took a deep breath and changed the battery out of my camera. Only one to go, and that’s done. Power was getting low in the camera itself as well. There were plenty of towers that still functioned around this place, I might be able to charge it a bit. The thought of getting stuck in a room with my only light source ‘temporarily’ out of commission didn’t set well with me. Right beside me sat the open doors of the elevator, yellow brilliance spilling onto the clean carpet. At first I was startled to see it in good order, then recalled the elevator I had trapped Trager in was on the furthest side of the Asylum, the outdated and forgotten section. I entered and tried the buttons, but nothing would function without the key. I didn’t keep the one from the last elevator, hadn’t thought about it at the time believing I was escaping and the elevator was busted with that sick fuck pinned in it. That was IF they were universal, having the key only to learn they were not, would have made me sleep better at night. I gave up on the elevator, and ventured into the dark floor with my camera at the ready. The steel door across the room gave a hollow clunk as the lock held. When I turned, I whirled away startled by, of all things, a god damn plant. Fuck. I recovered and glowered on the dried foliage by the wall, my heart hammered painfully against my ribs. I don’t think I deserved that. Gently, I tipped it over with my foot and let the soil dump out with the dry roots. Better keep moving, just try not to get startled by plants anymore. Fuck, that was stupid. A few feet along the wall sat another door of stainless steel. The handle turned easily in my grip, modern and practically brand new. I shut it for the time, and crossed to the adjacent wall, and the segregation gate there. It was locked, but it was good to know for sure. Lamps beyond the gate shone down on the carpet, but I was appreciating my return to the soothing shadows. This floor, where I was right now, felt kind of nice. Even if there was no music, I didn’t feel the immediate danger creeping into my person. Just like when I first entered, everything had looked normal from a glance. From a glance…. I slipped through the steel door and shut it behind me, as my usual precaution. I was in another kitchen, with all the modern updates Murkoff incorporated for their staff. It was with a lot of space, between the countertops set up in the rooms center and against the walls with a few abandoned and empty bowls scattered around. Rafters were fixed to hang above these kitchenware islands, adorned with hooks and a pot on nearly each one. Most the free space along the walls was covered with cabinets or freezers, no doubt full of provisions. A few other odd end sort of kitchen utilities were set up, such as the mobile shelves stacked with trays, and counter space with numerous sinks lined up for the kitchen staff. No bodies, no blood. From all appearances it was a normal kitchen someplace ordinary, such as the moon. Or almost so. I stood motionless and listened as metal clinked, and searched around for a set of pots that swayed gently on their hooks. A draft. It was a draft, air moving through the vents. Change in pressure. I was shaking, seemed like I was shaking constantly now and that frightened me, about as much as the big fuckers grin. I went to one of the cabinets and opened it, hunting for something to hold me until I reached the town. After a few minutes of searching I had very little to show for my efforts, and gave up. The survivors must have hit the kitchen for rations, many were left emaciated while Murkoff was in control of their lively hood. It didn’t appear that their situation had improved, since then. I did find a package of individually wrapped honey cakes, there were only two left but that was enough. Just some sugar and carbs to keep me going, and some water from the tap. I did get off the thick layer of blood that had formed on my hands, which resulted in black, watery stains around my sleeves and dark speckles marking up my knuckles. As long as I didn’t look like some serial killer. I felt better with the sugar in my system. I had a want to curb some of the ache in my head by eating something, but it was too soon to tell if low blood-sugar was the culprit. If anything, it felt like the noise was getting worse. My thoughts crawled through my brain, I sometimes didn’t see the shapes, then there would be static but I wasn’t staring through the visor. One door to a pair was left ajar, I pressed it open entering into another cafeteria. Long tables set in rows, chairs stacked or tossed into piles across the floor. On the other side of the room was a human shape, silhouetted against the pale light of the windows. I shut the door gently, and worked my way around the room, eyes locked on the person. A door on the right side of the room was locked. I debated a moment, wondering where exactly I was meant to go. Clearly I was still on this ‘mission’ Father Martin had set me on, I had achieved the key from behind the light… Where did the disciple say I was headed? The house of God. The house of God would be a church. Well, I knew where I would end up, but how did I get there? I walked to check the other side for a door, but moved closer than safe to the man, and paused to stare out the window. He was just gazing through the fogged glass, into the dead of night, as the rain streaked and trickled down in long, fading lines. His head was bowed and his hands clasped together, but I could make out the mutilation to his lips and face. We stood in silence for a moment, still as the night waiting for something. A brilliant ark split the sky, filling the room with a white haze. I’m certain he knew I was there but he refused to acknowledge me. I don’t know if there was an unspoken settlement shared between us, or if the man felt the same as I did. Whatever it was, it was there and there was nothing to say about it. Without word or gesture I resumed my path, finding a door left ajar on the other side of the room. I shut it after me, and met another door barricaded in the usual hasty fashion. A dead end and side table sat at the right, I turned left and moved forward to check around a corner on my right. It was short hall with the lone door blocked with plywood, I paused as the image in the visor sputtered, then moved on. I was nearly shocked by the lack of gore and mayhem, though the rancid musk of dried out skin clung to the air, it wasn’t the overpowering rot of fetid intestines. I wanted to revel in the radical change, but it was an illusion. A— I ducked my head out of the gleam of the visor and blinked my eyes, working out the harsh impression. Spots dotted the edges of my vision. Keep moving. Just keep moving. The hall was completely empty, save for me. I pressed my fingers against the base of my neck and let the pain subside as I shuffled forward. The lamp at the halls end expressed enough light I could take off the nightvision, for a short time. A door opened on my right, entering into the room that was most likely boarded up from the short hall I passed. I checked around the corner, believing the humming I felt might be interfering with my hearing. Sometimes I sensed the noise, but other times, like now in the near silence of the room, I thought the sound was somehow imagined by me. I tried to pop my ears by adjusting my jaw, or yawning, but it didn’t help. Like when I first came into the mountain region, that pressure build up. But now, it was hornets in my head. When did I start thinking hornets? The room appeared to be another recreational room, or lounge. There was a pool table across from the door, with a game set up and Q-balls scattered. A few stools were scattered around, beside a thin counter for refreshments. I stepped further into the room, through its center chairs had been lined up before a screen, beside one of the large decorative support columns. Along the wall on my right, chairs had been placed before computer terminals left to display login screens of blue, a few remained black and inactive. A station I could use to charge my camera, if I was so inclined. It wasn’t the highest priority on my list, to be honest. That might’ve been another mistake on my part. I turned to the monotone scratch of static playing on the large screen, that the chairs were set to face. I was startled by the man knelt, speaking calmly to his deity. It took a moment for my panic to fade, as I reassured myself he was fully absorbed in his prayer. The camera was leveled beside my chest, but I adjusted its position to film properly. “The static again. A patient knelt in prayer. Maybe he bought Father Martin’s line of bullshit. Maybe he hears what I hear but more clearly. Maybe it’s his way out of this place. The Priest called it the Gospel of Sand.” For a while I stood near him, watching the screen in somewhat of a trance. I didn’t realize I had lowered the camera until my index finger brushed the crisp material of my jeans. I glanced at them briefly, before I returned my focus to the screen, and the image that was there but… it couldn’t be. No. But, if I squinted and turned my head sideways, working to understand what it was. In the static, I WAS seeing something. A form, a shape, a face. Staring back at me. And the patient saw it too. I blink and I see Rorschach tests that look like swarming insects and infected surgery wounds. The hair on my neck stood on end and that subtle stabbing in my temple resumed at force. Staring at static would make you go blind. But I couldn’t help it. I backed away, bumping the side of a chair with my leg before I had ripped my gaze away.

What I had seen in the lounge was no coincidence, no delusion. But what was I seeing? What had I witnessed? It was a hallucination from the stress, amplified by the pulse of static. In the shadows, I was seeing shapes every time I blinked, why not in the dead channel. It was getting worse, the vertigo. If I tried to recall the shapes, the pain intensified like a hot poker twisting through the base of my skull. Until my vision doubled and the floor tilted.

I made it to the doorframe before I collapsed. My head was aching so bad I was nauseated, but I was done throwing up. That buzzing, in the air and everywhere, I couldn’t escape it, not until there was distance. Not until I had run away. But I couldn’t even stand, when I raised my head a new wave of pain surged through my skull. I switched the camera off and just lay by the door listening to the sound in the walls, the prayers of the forgotten people as they begged for the salvation they had been promised. This would pass, it always did. If I gave my body the time to catch up, I would be good to go. I took steady breaths and just rested for a short spell, I shut my eyes trying to understand what it was they were asking. What was it we had in common? To escape the nightmare.

#outlast #miles upshure #outlast fanfiction #outlast novelized

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anne-lister-adventures · 4 years

Text

Sunday, 12 April 1840

6 10/’’

10 5/’’

Ground covered with snow – But Reaumur 10º on the table close to my sofa bed at 6 1/4 – All ready and breakfast at 7 20/’’ to 8 – Did not sleep – Stomach very cold – Got up – Relighted candle – Took a teaspoonful of brandy about before one and afterwards slept till 6 having wrapt China crepe shall and shalloon cloak round my stomach –

1/2 hour’s pother in paying our Persian Maître de Poste – At last counted all out separately in Silver – Pragoni i.e. pay for the horses, for the borrowed wheel one S.[Silver] R.[Ruble] and for greasing 40 S.[Silver] K.[Kopek] till even the Courier said it was too much and the man then returned the 15 S.[Silver] K.[Kopek] and took 25 S.[Silver] K.[Kopek] as paid before – He then saw that, as I had told him, he lost 46 1/2 Kopek cuivre by his pother and making me pay in Silver – Both George and the Courier laughed and the man himself laughed and asked for a pour boire – No! said I – But you will know me better another time and I will give you something then – Not now – I am glad you have paid for all this pother – Then gave an additional 10 S.[Silver] K.[Kopek] to the soldier of the house making 60 S.[Silver] K.[Kopek] instead of the 50 I should otherwise have given – This seemed to give great satisfaction as turning the laugh doubly against our Persian – The about 1 good English gill of milk we had last night gone sourish this morning = 15 S.[Silver] K.[Kopek] – Ccarce and dear here –

Off from Dushet (pronounced Dōōshĭt) at 8 50/’’ – Clouds hanging over the mountains – But fine back view upon the largeish good looking Town and its large squary castle-like fortress, and the portico of its long earth covered flat roofed Gastinoi Dvor, and little white Gurien church and old ruined square Tower at some little distance on the hill side above – The brick church not quite finished but that will be handsome is Armenian – And close to the church are some goodish houses building à la Russe – One finished with gallery round au 1er[premier] looks neat and comfortable –

A street or 2 in progress – And the underground curious old Gurien cottages will a few years hence be replaced by neat Russian cottages and houses – Went into one last night – Descended into the sunk porch (inclined plain no steps) then a sort of kitchen – Then a middle room to put things away in, then the 3d.[3rd] and sleeping room – 3 breadths of carpet on the floor and a fire place – Thick gravelled road over all these cottages that carts go over – One could not imagine houses beneath – No light but from the sunk porch, and from one little round hole in the top of the sleeping room opposite the porch –

In the kitchen was the oven at the end on the right (on entering) like an English 40 gallon iron brewing pan sunk up to its brim – They make wood a fire in this and cover it over – Then take out the fire when the sides are red hot – Put in the cakes ant they are baked in 10 minutes – But inquire more about this at Tiflis –

Smoking Semovars in the Gastinoi Dvor and soldiers drinking hot mead looking tea without milk in the shops (Gastinoi Dvor) much natural rock salt in large pieces of greyish spar-like rock – Eggs – Mutton fat (Tallow) much small bacon – Persian dried large prunes and cherries and salts and the bean (small kidney, reddish) one has seen everywhere from Astracan here – Onion tops, and rice (not real rice said George groom here) – Cotton printed handkerchiefs and narrow white cloths linen or cotton – But the most striking are the wine shops – The bullock hides, en outre, apparently hair left on inside full of red wine sold at -/20 Kopek en cuivre per about an English pint – One shop quite Élégante had a bottle of Donskoi champagne-wise and ditto ditto Tiflis wine at 1/40 the bottle assignats or 40 S.[Silver] K.[Kopek] or 2 Georgian abash –

Off from Duchet at 8 50/’’ – The handsome square fort, a round tower at corner, at a little distance left as we ascended the down-like hill – The handsome looking white monastery at a considerable on the hill behind us to the right – Duchet stands well and picturesquely on the side of the hill in the largeish fine open valley – The Town on one side the valley the fortress on the other –

The castle at Dusheti, which is probably what Anne calls a “castle”.

Our road a sort of field-road up and over the hill top a high plateau of good land between wooded hills near left – Considerable distance right – descend (but keep high up along the right side) into nice high valley and at 9 40/’’ – Picturesque old round Tower and 2d.[2nd] village and reed thatched village (probably there are under ground cottages not seen?) and stream with rather broadish bouldery bed – Capital land on the high plateau and all along – They might grow anything but barley the chief corn at Duchet and all round about – Saw some in winnowing last night it looked pretty fair – Tolerably plump grained and very clean – Thrown up in a shovel, and the wind winnowed it in falling –

At 9 40/’’ our 2d.[2nd] village on knoll at head of this charming little valley – The 1st poor or less was at the verge of the high plateau – 1st vines at this our 2d.[2nd] village in the bottom – High sticks or rice props and some transomed supports as at Astracan –

But soon after here the bottom full of wood – Pollard oaks or willows or what and brush and tangle and bouldery stream – Soon after 2d.[2nd] village gather yellow St. John’s wort like flowers (5 petals and many stamina) and little pink hepaticas and smell less violets and cowslips – And at 10 Descend into main valley the fine valley of our Aragna (which we had left after Ananoor, and see again now 1st time) –

On each side beautifully sillonné rounded wooded hill – Broad bouldery streamy river – Wind along with the river close left on its high perpendicular conglomerate gravel bank and at 10 35/’’ make an elbow to the right into the now still wider valley of our Aragna – A fine broad bouldery streamy river occasionally in one good stream –

At 10 40/’’ pass a little rather Russian like wood cottage or farm right, and at 11 7/’’ little village of huts in basin-like opening out of valley and neat white plastered little Government Station House – Little drizzling rain now and for the last 1/2 hour – 2 feet deep of capital warp soil shewn over the high conglomerate bank of river – All the trees all along our valleys lopped higher or lower – Our great valley (Val d’Aragna) a mile broad?

No horses at Tortiskar – Our wheel to send back and to our own 3 ‘il faut mettre des bracelets’! – Till now 12 3/4 have just written all but the 1st 3 lines of today – Coolish air and clouds darkish – Threatening rain? Great many of the queer elephantic camel-gaited cattle hereabouts they hold their heads poking forward and walk very much in the camel-style – Got out of the Kibitka to look about me – A few drops of light rain which however soon blew off – Government House – One might sleep here very well – A good room front one on each side the door for travellers – And the back rooms for the family –

Longish job of paying – 2 S.[Silver] R.[Rubles] for repairing the wheel pour mettre les bracelets 2 or 3 thin shreds of lead-like iron that were worth very little and the Maître de P.[Poste] would have 2 S.[Silver] R.[Rubles] for the loan of his wheel (which he would not sell for 20 S.[Silver] R.[Rubles] tho’ it hardly lasted us to Tiflis) – Necessary – Nothing to be said –

Off at 1 31/’’ – Magnificent – (vide + and ≠ above) The opening out is another wider valley from East to West that traverses our Valley d’Aragna something like the diagram as I do it from memory now Monday 13 April 6 p.m. at Tiflis the little o meant to represent the Station House on a knoll in the neck of the transversal valley and to reach which we crossed over little wood bridge and stream just below the house and amid Georgian (Gurien) ground-huts –

How many always difficult to tell and they are so like the ground itself – Soon after leaving the basin-like opening our road a deepish cut thro’ indurated sand, and then thro’ hard sand rock – Like my Bairstow quarry sandstone and at 1 50/’’ pass under the old ruined castle Prēajnēa Krepost, (Prēēajnēēa Krēēăpost) close left, and at 1 55/’’ Georgian church (Byzantine) very pretty and picturesque near right, and walled monastery at a little distance left, and wood bridge over the broad shallow bouldery river and on high point of ridge of hill just above very picturesque old castle – Valley here little more than road and river – 200 yards broad? –

Alight at the monastery at 2 to 2 55/’’ – They call it Nānt-Shĕt – Vide p.[page] 113. Mtsketha line 9 from the bottom –

‘The fortress remains’ – The old walls are with an old remain of Tower or 2 are very picturesque from without, but as to fortress all is ruin within, as was till lately the fine old Cathedral; but now it is all under repair, the exterior finished, and the interior will be this summer – Except on close examination, and seeing the few morsels of ancient sculpture carefully spared, it is like a handsome new church in the old Byzantine style standing amid a mass of ruins –

In some of the old building within and up against the old fortress walls are several Gurien families of peasants and labourers, living in comparative darkness as usual – They were shovelling very decent brown wheat (rather long and thin in the grain) down a round hole not more than 18 to 22 in.[inches] in diameter into a granary in the ground – So near full of corn I could not judge of the depth – No entrance – No way of getting the corn out again but by the round hole – How this savours of remote antiquity! If one is perpetually reminded of ancient usages in the Pyrenees, much more is one reminded of them here – The houses, ovens sunk in their house-floors, dress (the bourka) – Cattle-skin outres of wine let out at one of the legs, boats scooped out of the trunks of large trees – Are surely sheeps fleece without and felt within, impenetrable to rain, is surely the very same one sees on ancient medals thrown over all the heroes of old who used to wear it as they do here with its opening turned from the storm be it in front at the back or on either shoulder –

Among the old sculpture of the Cathedral St. George and the Dragon – Over the Great East window a Greek eagle – A Tiger –

Eagle and tiger detail from the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral. (Image source).

And below 2 horse-heads – Several mouldings of cornices and of window frames and doors &c. of very well done tracery cruciform flowers and lilies – Angels –

More details from the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral. (Image source).

2 birds eating (something like, in the style of, the diagram? but well done – I had no time to make any sketch on the spot) –

There always among the flowers the sun flower or what we call marigold? – One large window in the East end and on each side of it a deep empty niche nearly the whole heighth[height] up to the square of the roof – The first instance I have seen of this – Effect very striking and good –

No entrance but at the West end with porch – They said the doors could not be opened – Went up to one of the 2 priests standing by – Took him by the arm – Held out my purse – The door opened –

A nave and 2 narrow aisles a curious little old stone shrine-like little place in the South aisle where the relics are kept –

The whole of the interior has been painted in fresco on the South side opposite the dome is an old Zodiac with a boat instead of the Sign Pisces – The whole of the painting is to be renewed the new to be an exact copy of the old –

The zodiac fresco, after restoration. Photo by Diego Delso, delso.photo, License CC-BY-SA. (Image Source)

Over the East end – Over the Sanctum Sanctorum is a chapel as also over the West end a small ditto a 1/2 length figure of one covers the whole East end included in the chapel which seems to take up 1/2 the whole height of the building – This gigantic painting is very striking, and the effect is good – It is the first instance of the kind I ever saw –

The gigantic fresco Anne mentions. (Image Source)

The church is dimly but sufficiently lighted principally from the dome, a 16 sided Tower? with a long lancet window in each side – Effect very good dehors – Did not sufficiently notice it within – Must go again?

55 minutes there – Long for post horses to wait – In the cottage we went into the people dining – Some sort of greens (onion sprouts? they are sold in all the shops) and the large dried Persian cherries and some sort of bit of meat? 2 strong tree post supported the heavy beams that carried the straw spars that carried the earth covered roof and left a hole in the centre of the room over the bit of fire for the smoke to escape – A pair of large stags horns nailed to each post and on the antlers narrow boards laid across for shelves think of this at Shibden – Gamba says there are 200 houses here – Probably – It is a large Gurien city –

Off from the cathedral at 2 55/’’ – Walked down the steep pitch, along the rock-girt Kur which here at right angles pours it deeper narrower stream into the Aragna and runs in its course and drowns its name in that of Kur – ‘Tis here just above the junction that one crosses the Aragna by the long good wooden bridge that certainly shews no trace of Pompey (vide p.[page] 113) –

The remains of Pompey’s Bridge, Mtsketha. (Image Source)

Wine shop and one of the large outres lying on its back the 4 legs sticking up, and from one a glass of red wine pouring out – Then tied up again – George says the hair is left on inside and this covered with pitch or the skin would not hold – A bloated red dead cow or ox was lying in the Kur – George declared the skin would be made into an outre – Was it merely the skin lying macerating in the water by way of preparat?

On the strand of the Kur at its junction with the A-[Aragna] lay 3 of the river boats – Cut out of the trunks of immense oak trees (I think) 2 of them pitched inside and outside the other merely hollowed adzed out, and not yet pitched – I think they 4 or 5 yards long and the narrowest 2 ft.[feet] wide of hollow at the top – The largest 2ft.[feet] 6 in.[inches] or more? –

Off from the bridge at 3 – At 3 1/4 valley sand rocky and bare and 9 Troglodite houses in the sand rock right, and right bank of Kur, not far from us, and at some distance ahead (left) a sort of little alum bay (Isle of Wight) different coloured strata of sand but not quite so perpendicular -

Crowned with low building which afterwards seemed to be a low ruined square tower – Kur like Calder between Salterhebble and Elland as to breadth white greenish muddy stream close right deepish here at 3 1/4 between its highish rock banks – But soon after widens into broad bouldery stream between low banks of sand at 3 1/2 our bracelets des roues coming off –

Stopped a minute or 2 to hammer up, and tie on with rope! – As we have done before – And at 3 40/’’ at old ruined square castle and village 12 v.[versts] from Tiflis – Probably Mtsketha is about 6 v.[versts] from Tortiskar and ∴[therefore] about 21 v.[versts] from Tiflis – And Tiflis in sight at 4 35/’’ – Descend –

At 5 5/’’ shew podorojna – At 5 13/60 cross the river – Somehow our drivers take us one way and George driven him another, and before he could come to us our stupid fellows had had us all but on the ground a parcel of men in the street prevented and heaved us up again, and then tried to turn instead of backing – Broke the fore axle main bolt – That the near fore wheel under the carriage the shaft horse down and we had a terrible to do during which George came – He walked with us and the servants Kibitka followed to the Inn (came in at 5 40/’’) we took our rooms one large and 3 smaller one at 2 1/2 Silver Rubles a day, and he then went back to Nikolai – We went out in 3 or 4 minutes just as they had got our Kibitka to the door and thrown it over and broke off the door – Left with George -/70 for his driver – Would give ours nothing – They had done too much mischief sauntered about to the little fountain and peeped in at the gate of a nice large garden near the fountain – Curious – interesting – To us novel Eastern-like Town –

A view of Tiflis in the 19th century. (Image Source).

Came in at 6 20/’’ – Tea at 7 25/’’ to 8 50/’’ – Had Domna – All the skin will come off her face in consequence of passing the mountains to Kaishaur (Kāsh-ă-ŏŏr), and her head is rather swollen, and she complains of much headache – Sat reading Dubois till 9 3/4 –

Finish day for the drizzling rain did not last long and the few drops at 4 p.m. blew off – Whistling wind tonight, and oddish smell of damp? in our large cold, 6 windowed (single windows very far from air-tight) room – Something with the stove flue – Could not have a fire till tomorrow – Reaumur 7 1/2º on my table where I sat writing at 9 3/4 p.m. ∴[therefore] did not venture to undress, but taking of gown and shoes thick over stockings slept flannel jacket and in my Chelat as usual when we cannot regularly undress, and as we have done from Astracan to Kislar[Kizlyar] and from K-[Kizlyar] to Vladicavkas and from V-[Vladicavkas] to here – still cold enough –

[symbols in the margin of the page:] + ≠ +

[in the margin of the page:] Dushet

[in the margin of the page:] Cottage

[in the margin of the page:] oven

[in the margin of the page:] Mead, i.e., hot water and honey

[in the margin of the page:] 1 Abash = 20 Silver Kopek

[in the margin of the page:] Mtsketha

[in the margin of the page:] vide p.[page] 113.

[in the margin of the page:] Mtsketha cathedral

[in the margin of the page:] Granary

[in the margin of the page:] All savours of antiquity

[in the margin of the page:] Bourka

[in the margin of the page:] Gigantic painting of Xst[Christ]

[in the margin of the page:] 16 sided dome?

[in the margin of the page:] Shelves on the antlers of stag’s horns for Shibden

[in the margin of the page:] vide p.[page] 113

[in the margin of the page:] Outre

[in the margin of the page:] Boats

Page References: SH:7/ML/E/24/0082 and SH:7/ML/E/24/0083 and SH:7/ML/E/24/0084

#anne lister code breaker #anne lister #ann walker #moscow to baku 1840

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ronniesshoes · 4 years

Text

Keep Yourself Alive

Here we are again! It’s been a very long wait but this chapter is both the longest yet and absolutely packed so I hope it’s worth it! Huge thanks to everyone who interacts, I love you & couldn’t do it without your support, patience and encouragement! And thanks to @theseasofrhye for your massive help and for being an inspiration every day 💛 Enjoy!

Brian doesn’t remember how or when he returns from the party, but when he wakes up the next morning, he almost wishes he hadn’t. His mouth tastes like something has crawled in there and died, and his head feels stuffy and achy, though whether it’s from his hangover or the cold he’s still nursing is anybody’s guess. The groan that leaves his abused throat sounds pitiful even to his own ears, and when he forces his sticky eyelids open, Freddie and John, curled up in Freddie’s bed, are looking at him with poorly concealed amusement.

The pair of them look annoyingly fresh-faced and impossibly cosy, and Brian sends them a hateful look before he forces his heavy body out of bed. He trips over his shoes and is momentarily confused as to what they’re doing in his room. His stomach lurches unpleasantly.

As quickly as his aching body allows him to, he gets to the loo, but when he crouches in front of the toilet, nothing comes up, and he settles for a morning piss instead. He winces when he catches sight of his pale reflection in the mirror as he reaches for his chewed up bamboo toothbrush in an attempt to remove the taste of death from his mouth.

He doesn’t think he can stomach breakfast so soon after waking up, but he gulps down two glasses of water and samples a vitamin from each of the bottles in the cupboard. Remembering Freddie’s warning on Solaray on an empty stomach, he returns the multivitamin to its proper bottle and swallows down the remaining five pills with a third glass of water. He can’t pretend to know what Damiana is good for, but he probably needs it.

Putting on the kettle, he leans against the worktop but jumps back when pain shoots down his thigh, and he tugs down the waistband of his boxers, revealing a dark bruise blooming over his hip. He carefully prods a finger at it, trying to recall an event from the night before that could have possibly led to it, but comes up short. Sighing, he picks out a mug and drops the last bag of English Breakfast in it, folds up the cardboard and throws it in the bin. He tugs at the sleeves of his jumper in a fruitless attempt to cover his freezing fingers. Now that Christmas and New Year’s are over, there’s nothing to distract him from the dull coldness that seems to have seeped into his bones, robbing him of the ability to concentrate on anything for long. If only it had been raining—or better yet, snowing—but the sky is overcast and mute, the ugly building on the other side of the street barely visible through the heavy fog.

The hiss of the kettle pulls him out of his thoughts, and he opens the fridge, his eyes stinging ridiculously as he discovers he’s out of oat milk. The two cartons of regular milk seem to mock him from their place on the shelf, and for a moment, he rests his head against the cool edge of the door. He could do with a proper cup of tea—black with milk and one sugar—but all the stores are closed today, and even if they weren’t, the thought of putting on clothes makes his head hurt. He stares at the milk until the fridge starts beeping and he peels his forehead off the door and closes it.

Nausea rolling in his stomach, he picks up the kettle and fills his mug with water, idly dunking the teabag with his spoon. Perhaps he really is uptight and in dire need of loosening up a little, but so far the consequences don’t seem to be worth it.

His chair is littered with crumbs when he brings his mug to the table so he opts for Freddie’s usual instead and tucks one foot beneath him. He puts his hands over his tea until they’re damp and warm, then wipes them on his jumper and gazes wearily out the window. He misses summer, misses being able to study in the sun outside uni or hop off the tube a stop earlier and walk the rest of the way. He misses dad and their annual one-day camping trip to go stargazing and he misses not being tired all the time. His thoughts skirt the topic of Tenerife; glittering Lonely Planet guides in Foyles and his bookmarked The World’s Best Stargazing Spots.

Mentally shaking himself, he wraps his hands around the hot ceramic of his mug and keeps them there until they sting. The decision has been made, and even entertaining the idea of changing his mind is a waste of time and energy. He has plenty on his mind as it is, and so does professor Harrison, he imagines—he’s not about to make a nuisance of himself just because he’s feeling a little hungover.

Through the slowly dissolving fog, Brian makes out the already sinking sun. It looks angry, Brian thinks; spilling sickly red over the paling horizon. He swallows down his tea, bitter without milk to sweeten it, and his heart suddenly aches for someone to talk to. He doesn’t want to go back to his room and disturb Freddie and John, and he doesn’t think he can handle the confusion that seems to be ever-present when he talks to Roger. On the outside they’re fine—Roger’s apology seemed genuine enough even though Brian suspects it was not offered entirely voluntarily, but sometimes he’ll look at Roger and remember his words, and petty anger will claw at his insides.

He knows Roger will never understand his relationship with his parents—the fact that he knows his mother had desperately wanted a daughter instead made it complicated from the beginning, but Brian supposes that's his cross to bear. His coming out was another blow, he thinks, and of course his sudden illness not five months later that almost cost him his life. He doesn’t blame his parents for their worrying and their aspirations on his behalf. They’ve always wanted what’s best for him.

Quelling the sting of loneliness, he reaches for his planner and begins flicking through it. Try as he might, he can’t force excitement when he looks at the handful of gigs spread over the months of January and February. And on the 23rd of February, penned in with more force than the others, the lines thick and graphite, the entry only says Tenerife. The rest of the month is empty.

He stares at the page for a long while, then reaches for a pen and slowly strikes it out, once, twice, keeps going until the word is illegible. He closes his planner with more force than necessary and stretches to steal a pink sticky note from Freddie’s pile of sketchbooks and stationery to write himself a reminder to plan his tutoring sessions with Liam, Ben, and Kate for the upcoming months.

Brian leans back in his chair with a sigh. A new year, and if anything, the prospect of dragging himself through it seems even more impossible than it did just a few weeks ago. He can’t for the life of him understand why he’s not feeling more optimistic, why he doesn’t have his resolutions in bold letters above his bed, why the prospect of going on tour fills him with dread. Tomorrow they’re going to evaluate, and Brian doesn’t know how to explain to them that he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about their performance yesterday, doesn’t care about the upcoming gigs, doesn’t care about anything other than catching a fucking break. If only time could stand still for a little while, give him an hour or two to pull himself together, to sort out his buzzing mind.

John’s laughter from the other side of the wall startles him out of his thoughts. He wonders if Roger is up yet because he fears that if he doesn’t talk to someone, he might genuinely lose the plot.

Filled with sudden determination, he pushes back his chair, cringing at the ugly scraping sound, and makes for Roger’s room.

Just as he passes the bathroom, the door swings open, and Brian almost jumps out of his skin. Roger’s laughter is loud in the empty living room, and Brian glares at him to distract himself from his racing heart.

“How long have you been out there?” he demands, determinedly not looking at the way the water beads on his shoulders or the hair plastered to his forehead, taking years off his face. He briefly wonders if being so caught up his own thoughts that he has failed to notice the water running should be a cause of concern, then decides it’s best not to dwell on it.

Roger shrugs, securing the towel that hangs indecently low on his hips. “40 minutes? Freddie taught me how to make a body scrub using sugar and coconut oil,” he says, holding out his arm to stroke the damp skin, “it’s supposed to scrub away the last year. Load of bollocks if you ask me, but satisfying all the same.”

He drops his arms and smiles up at him. Brian scowls.

“You did it on purpose.”

“What, scared you?” Roger asks, raising his eyebrows in question. Brian nods, not caring that he doesn’t make sense. “Yes, I’ve been standing here for ten minutes waiting specifically for you to pass just so I could scare you. Like I don’t have better things to do. The floor is wet.”

“Do you?” Brian wonders out loud, stepping back to allow Roger to pass.His feet leave wet prints on the floor.

Roger puts his hand on the door handle to his room but doesn’t enter. “Course, I have at least ten New Year’s resolutions I intend to break.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d made any,” Brian says, amused and secretly curious.

“Nothing I intend to keep,” Roger says dismissively, pushing down the door handle, “still, it’s tradition. Don’t let me keep you. Bathroom’s free.”

“Actually,” Brian says just as Roger disappears into his room. He pauses in the doorway. “I wanted to, um, chat. If you’re not too tired. Or busy. And when you’ve got dressed, obviously.”

“Oh,” Roger says, “come in, then.”

Brian hesitates but follows him inside, shutting the door behind him like Roger tells him to. The difference in temperature is staggering.

“Good to know where all the heat goes,” he comments drily. He attempts to determine which messy bed looks the least uninviting, and ends up on the edge of John’s.

“I’m sorry your king-sized beds and lush bedding can’t keep your skinny arses warm,” Roger shoots back, opening his closet doors wide.

Brian snorts softly and then almost chokes on his breath when Roger loses the towel around his waist and starts drying his hair while he studies the contents of his closet.

Roger turns around at the sound. “Alright?”

“I’m fine,” Brian says weakly, silently grateful that the closet door blocks most of the view. Still, that’s a lot of skin.

He shakes himself. It’s not like he’s attracted to Roger, or ever has been. There’s no reason he should be—Roger has plenty of flaws, and as he picks them out—his skinny legs, the dumb mole that’s shaped a bit like a small heart, and the tattoo he spies when Roger reaches for a shirt—Brian feels slightly better. It’s not about looks, anyway, and personality-wise, Roger is annoying at best and constantly driving him to the brink of insanity at worst. As for last week … well, he was just helping out a friend.

“Wouldn’t you say these two shirts are the exact same shade?” Roger asks. His wet towel lies forgotten on the floor and he is stepping out from behind the closet door holding two shorts.

“Uhm,” Brian says. His eyes hurt with the effort of not looking down.

“Freddie seems to think this one goes with my tat and the other doesn’t. I’m pretty sure he makes it up.”

“Roger.”

“What?”

“Please put some clothes on.”

“But I’m not dry yet,” Roger reasons.

Brian’s entire face hurts. “Underwear will do, just—please.”

“Keep forgetting how much of a prude you are,” Roger says, but he does put on a pair of boxers, and possibly the most garish pair Brian has ever seen; tiger-striped in pink and silver. He grins. “I believe you’ve seen it all already. On multiple occasions, in fact.”

“Can we not talk about that?” The question comes out a bit more harshly than intended, and Roger frowns.

He sits down on his bed opposite of Brian and looks him in the eye. “It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

Brian's heart sinks. “No, Roger, it doesn’t bother me, it’s just—” He pauses to drag in a breath, then throws out the first thing that comes to mind in the tangle of confusion that seems to have taken permanent residence in his brain, “look, I know John and maybe Freddie made you apologise to me, and I don’t know if you even felt like you had anything to apologise for, and I just … I wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings.”

Roger looks slightly taken aback. “No hard feelings.”

Brian forces himself not to fiddle under his stare.”I just mean that … I shouldn’t have made you fool around with me, and I’m—”

“Hold on,” Roger interrupts him. He leans slightly forward, eyes pinning Brian to the spot. “You—I flirted with you for ages, you did not make me do anything. Come on, Brian, that’s ridiculous. Give me some credit.”

Brian’s mouth feels impossibly dry. His empty stomach aches. “I shouldn’t have said yes.”

“Didn’t you want to?” Roger throws back, and Brian knows he’s gonna regret everything he says in this room, but he presses on nonetheless.

“It doesn’t matter what I wanted or didn’t want at the time,” he says, hurrying to continue as Roger opens his mouth to argue, “it was not your fault and it won’t happen again, I promise. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I know you probably wish it didn’t happen and that’s fine, I promise not to tell anyone.”

“Brian,” Roger says, looking slightly bewildered, “relax. It’s just sex.”

“We didn’t have sex,” Brian reminds him.

Roger scrubs at his hair and grins. “Seemed pretty sexy to me.”

Brian rolls his eyes in an attempt to cover the wave of relief that crashes over him. “So you’re not upset?” he asks, just to make sure. He doesn’t look it, but if the roles were reversed, Brian’s not sure he’d be quite as forgiving.

“It’s fine,” Roger says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I’ve bedded a bloke now, I can cross that off the list.”

“Flatterer,” Brian says drily.

Roger tilts his head. “You said you didn’t fool around with friends, right. I had fun but I’m not asking for your hand in marriage.”

“Right.”

Roger rearranges himself on the bed so he’s lying on his side, head propped up on his elbow. He looks at Brian with drowsy eyes and a lazy smile. “So how’d you find the party last night?”

“I had fun.” He’s lying, of course—he’d spent most of the night alone in a corner, surrounded by obnoxious art and literature students he didn’t care for and who most certainly did not care for him, but for some reason, he can’t tell Roger the truth. He’s not sure why it matters. “Got chatted up by this bloke.”

“Oh?” Roger says, looking at him with interest, and Brian wants to claw the lie back.

“Yes, in the loos,” he continues, at the same wondering what it’s going to take for him to shut up.

“Good place, the loos,” Roger says with a grin.

Brian nods. He’s not sure it looks convincing. “And did you have fun?” he asks tentatively.

“Was alright, wasn’t it? Good show, free drinks.” He sends Brian a sly smile. “Clean loos.”

The implication is not lost on Brian, and he forces a smile.

Before he can think of a suitable answer, Roger throws him off with a new topic. “I can’t believe Fred and Deaks are together.”

Brian shrugs. In all honesty, it annoys him a little—just knowing that the two of them are having a cuddle fest in his room makes him exhausted.

“I’m amazed I didn’t see it coming, really,” Roger continues, “makes sense when you think about it.”

Brian hasn’t. And it’s not that’s he’s not happy for John and Freddie—he is, definitely—but he can’t say he’s put much thought into their compatibility or been dying to congratulate the happy couple. “I suppose.”

“Wouldn’t kill you to show some enthusiasm,” Roger says with a wry smile.

“It might,” Brian says, “and I better not risk it.”

♛ ♛ ♛

He leaves Roger’s room feeling cautiously optimistic. So much in fact that he sits down next to his abandoned cup of tea and pulls a book from his bag.

It’s fine for the first few pages. Then his concentration starts to waver, and thoughts creep in between the words on the page, unbidden.

If he’s honest, he doesn’t feel better at all. Mortifying as his conversation with Roger was, he felt more at ease in his company, was able to forget himself for a few moments. Now that he’s alone again, he doubts they made any progress at all. He knows Roger is a big boy, that he can make decisions for himself, but Brian can’t quell the worry that lingers in the back of his mind. The whole mess is his own fault, and it doesn’t matter that Roger assures him it’s fine—it clearly isn’t.

He presses the heels of his hands against his dry, tired eyes, letting a groan slip out because he’s alone and there’s no one there to judge or pity him.

He just wants everything to go back to normal. He doesn’t like this new feeling he gets around Roger, this feeling of unease, the way his heart beats faster with fear of another argument. And all because he wanted to go to Tenerife. Because that’s the root of it, he thinks, that’s how it all started—suddenly everyone was afraid he would leave, give up the band, his friends.

There’s a tight ache in his chest, and he wants to gather them all and apologise. Tell them he never wanted to go, not really, that it was a stroke to his ego but no more than that. He knows he made the right decision, and he’s sure he would have come to that conclusion even if Roger and the rest had not expressed their concern. After all, the band is what he really wants, and his study … If they do make it, he can put it on the shelf. At least for a few years.

He pushes his chair back and lowers his forehead to his open book on the table. Unbidden, a memory of Freddie’s birthday all those months ago enters his mind. The weather had been unusually warm for September, and they had gone for drinks in a rooftop bar in Mayfair, pretending they could afford the overpriced drinks. He remembers the walk back from the station, the pleasant buzz and the silk-like fabric of Freddie’s jacket brushing against his bare forearm, John’s laughter and Roger’s smile, bright and pleased because he had made his friend laugh.

The liquor they consumed back at the flat had been cheap and dreadful, drunk out of mugs and water glasses, and the contrast between that and their first drinks of the evening had been almost comical, but Brian had thought to himself that he much preferred their own living room and Tesco’s cheapest vodka—there he could listen to the hum of the voices of the people he loved the most, his head pillowed on Roger’s thigh, deft fingers gently scratching his scalp.

For a fleeting moment, he is reminded of a similar occasion, but before he can catch the memory, it’s gone again.

Lifting his head from the table, he rolls his shoulders and gets up. He passes Ziggy who’s asleep in his favourite chair, and he pauses to stroke the soft fur. The cat makes a disgruntled sound, stretches, hops off the chair, and leaves.

The fridge is depressingly empty so he sits down again, drinks his cold tea. The sun has long gone down, but he feels disinclined to get up again and switch on the lights. He thinks about what Roger said, about their hookup not being a big deal. And Brian suspects it isn’t, but at the moment, everything kind of feels like a big deal, and he wonders what’s wrong with him, if this is how he’s going to feel for the rest of his life.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there in the darkness, but when the door to his room opens, he winces. He barely has time to adjust his eyes before they’re assaulted once again when Freddie switches on the overhead lights in the living room.

“Could you maybe warn me next time?” Brian asks, squinting at the pair.

“Sorry darling, didn’t mean to disturb your gloom.”

“Well, you did.”

“What are you doing here all by yourself anyway?” Freddie asks, briefly putting a hand on his shoulder as he passes. He instantly misses the touch.

“I was just thinking,” he says, watching John cross the living room to rap at the door to his own room.

“Terribly unhealthy for you, dear,” Freddie says, and Brian turns in his seat to look at him. “Are we all out of tea?”

“There’s some of your herbal stuff somewhere, I think.”

Freddie stands on his toes to rummage through the contents of the top shelf, letting out a small “ah!” when he finds the brightly patterned box. “Would you like a cup?”

“No, thanks,” Brian says, distracted by the reappearance of John, this time with Roger in tow, playfully draped all over him, arms around his neck.

“Alright, Bri?” Roger greets, and Brian feels his lips pull into an automatic smile. He lets go of John and throws himself on the couch, effectively startling Ziggy. “I’m starving!”

“We’re waiting for you to make the call, love,” Freddie says, pouring boiling water into two cups and releasing fragrant steam into the air.

“One day you three need to learn how to make a phone call,” Roger advises, pulling his phone from his pocket.

“Why would we when you seem to enjoy it?” John asks, accepting the proffered cup from Freddie.

“We’re on first-name basis,” Roger says, but whether it’s supposed to be an argument for or against is unclear to Brian. “Fine. I’m going out for a smoke anyway. The usual?”

“Will you ask if there’s eggs in the noodles?” Brian asks.

“On it,” Roger says, shrugging into his jacket. “See you in a bit!”

Brian looks up at the sound of a chair being pulled out. John smiles at him. “How are you feeling?”

Brian doesn’t even know where to begin.

“You look a bit worn out is all,” John continues after a beat.

“I’m fine,” Brian says with a tight smile.

John says nothing, and Brian instantly feels bad. It’s not John’s fault he feels like he’s spiraling down into insanity, or that he’s fighting just to stay afloat. “Think I had a bit too much last night.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, expression unreadable. Brian decides it’s best ignored instead of attempting to find meaning behind it.

“I think I’m gonna go back to sleep, actually,” he says, scraping his chair back.

Freddie is behind him in an instant. “Oh no, you aren’t. We’re gonna sit down, have a meal, and discuss last night.”

Brian’s heart thuds. He searches his brain for anything he could have done last night that could possibly lead to an intervention from all three of them. “What happened last night?”

Freddie walks around his chair to look at him. “We played a concert,” he says slowly.

“Oh,” Brian says, “that.”

“Yes,” Freddie says, giving him a strange look. “And now we’re gonna evaluate, talk about what can be improved. Like we do every time we’ve played a concert.”

“Right.”

“But if you’ve got any stories, we’d love to hear them,” John chimes in.

“I don’t,” Brian says tonelessly.

He doesn’t miss John and Freddie’s exchanged glances. Annoyed, he pushes his chair back and leaves them to their looks and their being in love to sprawl on the couch.

A few minutes later, the front door bangs open, followed by a small crash and Roger’s shout of “I’m back.”

“We heard,” John says.

“Food should be here in about half an hour,” Roger says, appearing in the doorway, cheeks flushed with cold.

Brian is surprised and slightly alarmed when Roger steers towards him with impressive speed and a manic grin; he doesn’t have time to prepare himself, let alone get away, before pressed against him on the couch.

“Feel how cold my hands are,” Roger says, and before Brian can stop him, he has reached up to put his freezing hands on Brian’s neck. Brian jerks away. “You didn’t feel it.”

“I did,” Brian says, rubbing at the skin of his neck, “and it was highly unpleasant.”

“Are you not gonna help me warm them?” Roger asks, all faux innocence.

“No,” Brian says, edging away from him. “Were the noodles alright?”

“Totally egg-free,” Roger says, getting up to target John instead.

John rolls his eyes but obediently takes Roger’s hand between his own. Brian looks away.

“Should we watch a movie?” Roger asks.

“Depends on the movie,” Freddie says.

Brian tucks his feet under him. “Seconded.”

John lets go of Roger’s hands and gets up to crouch in front of their impressive DVD collection. “There’s Mamma Mia, of course.”

Roger puts down John’s tea. “I’m too straight to watch it twice within a month.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

“I’m with Roger,” Brian says, glancing at him where he’s seated next to Freddie, “not to the straight part, mind.”

“Rocky Horror? Titanic? Mr. Fantastic?”

“Which one is that?” Freddie asks.

“Viggo Mortensen lives in the woods with a bunch of children and teaches them to fight.”

“Isn’t that Lord of the Rings?”

John sends Brian a long-suffering look, and Brian hides a smile.

Freddie leans forward eagerly, almost knocking his tea off the table. “We should watch Harry Potter!”

“They’re so bad,” Brian says, “nothing like the books.”

“Go read a book, then,” Roger says.

Brian scowls. He knows Roger doesn’t like the movies either.

“How about a Disney movie?” John asks.

“No more Disney movies.”

“I think Harry Potter’s a good idea, actually,” Roger says, putting his feet in Freddie’s lap.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” John says, and Brian can’t help but feel just a little smug.

“Aladdin?”

Freddie covers a yawn. “Fine.”

“You should’ve seen my pull last night,” Roger says, “looked like Jasmin, actually.”

“Roger,” Freddie says, exasperated.

“What? I’m not being racist,” Roger insists. Pauses. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Freddie says bluntly. Brian’s skin crawls with discomfort.

Roger scrunches his nose up guiltily. “Sorry. I’ll do better.”

Freddie almost smiles. “Was there more to the story?”

“Not really,” Roger admits, moving past his mishap with an ease Brian could never match, “except she had these huge tits.” He cups his hands to illustrate.

Freddie’s eyes light up with intrigue. “Did you ask her?”

Roger frowns. "I just met her, I can't just ask her that."

"Why not?” Freddie asks, hooking his foot around the ankle of John, who has since given up on the movies and returned to his seat. “You shagged her."

"It's impolite to ask someone you've just met if you can fuck their tits," Roger opines.

John’s face is a picture of distress when he catches Brian’s eye. "Are your ears also bleeding?"

"The images in my mind are much, much worse," Brian says, trying valiantly to suppress the disturbing scenario.

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," Roger says knowingly.

Brian makes a face. “I think I will.”

♛ ♛ ♛

“I think it went alright,” Roger says between mouthfuls of egg rolls, “not terrible. I’m almost positive we were celebrating when Veronica drank me under the table. Just wish I hadn’t lost my shoe.”

Freddie folds his hands on his crossed legs. "The crowd seemed pretty receptive.”

"Really?" Roger swallows his mouthful. "Not from where I was sitting."

"It was a subtle eye contact thing," Freddie tells him.

"Bugger," Roger says with a grin, "can't believe I missed out on that!"

"Better than that concert we played in September," John says, looking up from where he’s inspecting a noodle, "at least there were no drunken offenses this time."

Brian hands Freddie his glass of water, pushes Roger’s feet off his chair, and reclaims his seat.

"So our audience wasn’t exactly successful," Freddie says, "that doesn't mean we weren’t."

"I thought they seemed to have a good time," John says, and Brian has to agree even though he can’t muster up much enthusiasm, "they made noise. Our friends did, at any rate."

"Ugh," Freddie says, "this truly is traumatising. I'll be glad once we make it and get to play for bigger crowds."

"Let's get signed first, eh?" Roger says, "self-publishing albums is all very well, but it'd be nice to have someone reach out to us."

"Well, they won't," Freddie snaps. Brian suppresses a sigh and pokes at his food. "We've got to put ourselves out there. Did you call that venue in Brixton?”

"I did, yeah," Roger says, stealing a spring roll from John's box. Brian makes sure his own is well out of reach. "I'm not gonna repeat what they said because they were not very polite."

Brian lets out a snort, and Roger grins at him.

"There must be something else we can do," Freddie muses, "all this waiting around is not good for my health."

"These next few concerts will probably help," John says. He's not usually one to offer empty platitudes, and Freddie looks at him with suspicion.

"Why would you say that?"

"The concert went well. If we keep playing like that, it's just a matter of being in the right place at the right time. Someone will discover us, and soon."

"That's not you," Freddie says with narrowed eyes, "that's one of those horrible women speaking!"

"Chrissie told me the same thing," Roger says, "but I was, er, a bit busy. Or about to be."

John groans.

"What did you say to her?" Freddie wants to know.

"That she could maybe come back later."

"Not you! John, what did you say to her?"

"I didn't say anything," John murmurs. He taps his fingers against his can of coke, then admits, "I just told Veronica it was frustrating, a bit. That we all feel it. We're so close."

"I heard her and Chrissie talk," Brian offers, "I think it's Chrissie’s project."

"That little minx," Freddie groans, "the last thing we need is someone trying to cheer us up when what we need to do is work."

“Jesus,” John mumbles.

"I think it's nice they support us," Roger offers.

"Do you know how many times I've heard this from Mary? We wouldn’t be where we are if we’d listened to useless shit like that."

"Alright, Fred," Brian sighs, “what do you suggest we do, then?"

"We'll keep practicing, keep making music, keep reaching out," Freddie says, moving his food far enough out of reach that Roger can't get it. John steals a spring roll and sticks out his tongue at Roger. Brian pushes his leftovers towards him. "We have a decent following on SoundCloud, and we got around 30 new likes on Facebook since last night. Did we have some video we can put up?"

"That's pretty good," Roger says, putting his feet in Brian's lap. Brian shoves them away, ignoring Roger’s pout.

“We do have a few videos,” John says, “but I haven’t received them yet.”

"We need to get into the spotlight," Freddie says, apparently too caught up in his vision to hear the answer. Brian and John trade glances. "We need to really utilise this next month where we don’t have classes."

Brian doesn't think now is the time to mention he's already picked up some extra shifts at the bookstore.

"I watched these classes on skillshare this morning," Freddie continues, “and—”

"Morning," Roger interrupts with a groan, "you went home half-past three."

"And I still got six hours of sleep.”

Roger gives him a long-suffering look.

"We seem to be doing much of it already, " Freddie continues, "of course these people are nobodies and we'll surely surpass them once we get going, but some of their tips did stand out to me."

"Let’s hear it," Brian says, failing to put much enthusiasm into his voice.

"Right," Freddie says, launching into a lengthy monologue.

Brian nods along in an attempt to look like he cares, but he’s distracted by Roger picking up a banana fritter, spilling powdered sugar over his trousers. Brian gazes at him warily as he attempts to brush it off, only succeeding in spreading it further, then shrugs it off and looks back at Freddie. He can’t understand how Roger’s got the energy or attention to be listening, and he watches him as he eats the last of his dessert, tongue flicking out to clean no doubt sticky lips. Brian swallows in an attempt to lubricate his dry mouth, forcing himself to look away when Roger licks his fingers.

"Sounds doable," Roger says, effectively reclaiming Brian’s attention. "I can get Instagram."

"Watch out," John whispers, catching Brian’s eye and smiling. Brian weakly returns it.

"Unfortunately their guidelines prevent too much nudity,” Freddie says, “but I think we should still be able to post our new pictures."

"What a shame," John comments and receives an elbow in the side for his trouble.

"If only we could warm up for someone," Roger says, leaning his elbows on the table, "someone who's good, who knows what they're doing."

"No one cares about the warm-up act," Brian says, beginning to tear up a piece of kitchen roll.

"It’s still exposure," Roger says. "I always check out the band afterward, unless they're shit of course."

"Most bands are," John opines.

"So we want to warm up for a real band so people can talk about how shit we are?" Brian wonders aloud.

"We're different, darling," Freddie says, "you know we are. We have something no one else has. And I think the world is ready for glam again. Just look at people like Adam Lambert and Harry Styles—it's finally in to be fab."

Brian wishes he believed him.

♛ ♛ ♛

Despite the exhaustion weighing his body down, Brian lies awake for long, lonely hours. He can’t seem to quiet the whirring in his mind, and pillow he’s wrapped himself around is cold and shapeless.

At last, he slips out from under his covers and pads across the room, careful to mind the squeaking door handle.

He’s surprised he can’t see his own breath when he enters the living room, and he has his hand on the radiator before he remembers last month’s bill and lets it go with a shudder. There’s a threadbare blanket carelessly thrown over the arm of the couch which he hasn’t seen before, and he picks it up and wraps it around his shoulders. It’s got a bit of a weird smell, but he figures it’ll do.

Not fancying Freddie’s herbal tea, he rummages through the cupboards and after a bit of a search, he finds a beat-up pack of strawberry tea whose origins are dubious to say the least. At least it’s warm, he thinks as he pours hot water in his cup and a sickly sweet scent arises.

He brings the cup with him to the couch, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself. It's not three hours since they all sat there, the living room filled with chatter and brightly lit. Now it's cold and dark, the single lamp he's switched on making the room appear more gloomy than cosy, and he wishes he’d appreciated the company while he had it.

Drawing his knees up, he takes a sip of his scalding tea, lets the too-sweet liquid warm him up from the inside. This day has been so fucking long, he thinks, just one long train loaded with dread and disappointment and a loneliness he just can’t seem to shake. He doesn’t remember feeling this when they were on stage 30 hours prior; he remembers a thrill and a sense of purpose, of unity, but it seems to achingly far away; a vague, glittering dream.

A door opens, and Brian spills tea all over himself, wets his tee and the front of his pants. He scrubs at his thigh and wipes his hand on the armrest, looking up to see Roger, ruffled and sleepy, eyes squinting against the light. He smiles faintly and yawns, playfully tugging at Brian’s hair as he passes him on the way to the bathroom.

He doesn’t bother closing the door; Brian hears the clang of the toilet seat and the sound of piss hitting the bowl.

Brian puts his empty cup on the coffee table and sinks deeper into the couch until his spine and shoulders create a C shape that hurts his neck. The toilet flushes, the sound so loud in his ears he’s amazed it doesn’t wake up Freddie and John.

"What are you doing out here all alone?" Roger asks as he reappears to settle on the couch, close to Brian but not quite touching. Brian wishes he would.

"Couldn't sleep."

"I think Freddie's got some supplements, some kind of herb," Roger says, picking at his too-big ABBA shirt. Brian is not sure if he's joking.

“Good to know.”

He wishes he were brave enough to ask for a hug or fingers in his hair, even brave enough to move that inch closer so their arms press together, but he isn’t, is too afraid of what will happen if he gives in again. He’d hoped their trading of orgasms would satisfy his need for touch for a few days at least, but if anything, it has just made it worse, and he wonders if it’ll ever go away.

Roger yawns, wide and obnoxious, sticking a hand inside his collar to rub his shoulder. He looks at Brian with eyes that are more heavy-lidded than usual, lips curving into a smile. “Bored tonight?”

“Tired,” Brian says, and it’s not a lie.

“Not used to you being so quiet.”

Brian forces a smile. “Exhausted.”

“Bit silly to sit out here, then,” Roger says, blinking slowly like he can barely keep his eyes open. “Especially when you’re sick.”

Brian sits up, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his hands around his freezing feet. He closes his eyes. “Going back in a minute.”

“‘kay,” Roger says softly. Brian feels the cushion move when Roger gets up, but he keeps his eyes closed, waiting for a parting touch that never comes. “I’m going back to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Brian whispers, opening his eyes only when he hears the door handle being pushed down.

His spilled tea has cooled but not dried, and Brian shivers every time he inhales and his stomach touches the wet fabric.

At last, he gets up, folds the ratty blanket, brings his cup to the sink, and switches off the lamp. The walk to his bedroom is too short; too soon he’s standing in the doorway gazing at his huge bed, the one mum had lovingly presented him just before he moved out because he was an adult now, and that even though his moving out was to a soon to be messy flat with three other blokes. He’s grateful for it, of course, but sometimes he feels lost there, misses the solid presence of a wall to knock a knee into.

He can’t go back to bed. A knot of fear pulls tight at his chest, and before he can stop himself, he’s grabbing a warm shoulder and shaking Freddie awake.

A soft groan issues, then Freddie pushes himself up on one elbow and squints up at him. “What’s wrong?” he murmurs, voice soft and confused.

The knot tightens in Brian’s chest. “I can’t get out of my head.”

Freddie lowers himself back onto the mattress and scoots back. “Come lie down, hon.”

Brian does as he’s told, crawling into a bed that’s warm and comfortable and smells like home.

“Just give me a minute,” Freddie whispers, closing his eyes. The words come out slow and thick, like spoken through syrup, and Brian wishes he’d let him sleep.

He tightens his hold of the duvet around him, relishing the heat Freddie’s body radiates. It’s the first time he’s been in Freddie’s bed like this, he thinks, Wonders if it would have made a difference if it wasn’t.

Freddie sighs, brings up a hand to rub at his eyes, and rolls over to face Brian. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m here.”

Brian looks at him, picks out the familiar features in the dark. “It’s all too much,” he whispers, surprised by how easily the words come, “nothing excites me, the band … I don’t care, or I do, just not—what if I’ll feel this way forever?”

“It’s okay,” Freddie says, scooting closer to run fingers through his hair. Brian shivers with pleasure. “You’re working yourself too hard, love.”

“I’m not,” Brian insists, turning away to cough into the crook of his elbow. When he’s settled, Freddie’s fingers return to his hair. “I just need more time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to think,” Brian says, closing his eyes, “to sort myself out.”

“You don’t need more time to think,” Freddie says softly, “you need to ask for help.”

“I’m not very good at that.”

“I know.”

Freddie is studying him when he opens his eyes again, but it doesn’t feel intrusive. He just feels cared for. Safe, for once.

“Do you think I made a mistake in hooking up with Roger?”

Freddie’s lips curl into a small smile. “No,” he says, “I think the mistake was all that happened afterward.”

Brian sighs. “I wish everything would go back to normal. I shouldn’t have dragged him into all of this.”

“Brian, I say this with love only, but sometimes you are tragically clueless.”

“Thanks,” Brian murmurs. The touch and proximity are making him feel wonderfully drowsy.

“You need to focus on one thing,” Freddie says, “then the rest will follow.”

“And what do you suggest I focus on?”

Freddie smiles again. “Come on, Brian, you’re smarter than that. You know this already.”

Brian suspects he’s beginning to.

♛ ♛ ♛

The next day, it clear to him that he definitely does not know what he should be focusing on.

One thing he does know—it’s not work. He supposes he should be grateful for that realisation.

It’s getting dark when he steps outside the second-hand book store to trudge through the slush filled London streets to the Tube. The Christmas decorations have long since been taken down, but fairy lights still glitter overhead, and a few places patches of white snow stubbornly cling to eaves.

At the station, he waits nine long minutes for Circle, blowing at his hands and thinking about his earlier interaction with a particularly difficult customer. He hopes John is home—when it comes to complaints about customers, he can always count on him to listen with sympathy and eye rolls in abundance.

He’s lucky enough to find a seat on the Tube, but drops his bag on the floor so all his stuff falls out. Bending down to pick it up again, he accidentally steps on his book, his boot leaving a streak of dirt on the front cover. Embarrassed, he picks it up and wipes it with the sleeve of his jacket before quickly stuffing the rest of it in his bag, watching as the apple he forgot to eat rolls away from him to disappear under the seat in front of him. His earphones are a tangle of black at the bottom of his back, and when he eventually untangles them, he finds that only one ear is working.

He's quietly relieved when he steps inside the flat and lets his boots join the pile of shoes on the floor. The flat is unusually quiet, and when he enters the living room, only John is there, sprawled in the armchair, Winnie the Pooh socked foot bopping along to the beat of the record he’s put on.

"Hi, Brian," he greets with a warm smile. "Wanna play a round of Mario Kart?"

"Not really," Brian says, picking up a stack of window envelopes from the kitchen table. "Does anyone have plans for dinner?"

"Freddie and Roger are out," John says, "but if you want to, we can make some together."

Finding that none of the letters are addressed to him, Brian puts them down again. "Yeah, that sounds great."

"Great! Let's play Mario Kart first."

Brian makes a face, but he doesn’t really mind. "Fine, just let me make a cup of tea."

He hums along to the record as he walks into the kitchen, trying to remember the name of the song. Without thinking, he opens the fridge and is just about to close it again when he notices an unopened carton of oat milk. Mouth dry, he looks over at John, who’s setting up the Wii.

“Did you—?” He asks, gesturing uselessly to the open fridge.

John looks up. “Yeah. Is it not the right brand?”

Brian nods slowly, words stolen by the ridiculous surge of affection he feels for his friend. John quirks an eyebrow and turns back to the Wii, one corner of his mouth turned up in amusement, and Brian sets about making his cup of tea, unable to wipe the smile off his face.

Later, when they're sitting on the couch with steaming plates of pasta, the initial exhaustion he’d carried with him from yesterday and his trying day at work has seeped out of Brian. He’s lost two rounds of Mario Kart to John, which came as no surprise, but his competitive streak ensured he didn’t have time to think about anything but winning the game.

He’s looking at John now, licking tomato sauce from his lip, and he looks so relaxed and at ease. He’s wearing one of Freddie’s shirts, and Brian can’t believe how uncomplicated their relationship seems to be—he knows Freddie still blames himself for what happened to Jim, knows there’s a hurt there that never healed, how Freddie for years has engaged in casual sex in an attempt to make the pain go away, much like Brian himself, but perhaps Roger is right. Perhaps it does make sense, the two of them being together. Perhaps John makes Freddie feel anchored.

Brian wonders if he will ever find someone who makes him feel that way. “John?”

"Hm?"

He doesn't have much more to say that that, doesn't know how to put words to his feelings, wonders if his questions are too intrusive. “Nevermind.”

"How was work?" John asks instead.

"It was quite eventful today actually," Brian says, spearing a piece of pasta on his fork. "Not in a good way of course."

"Never in a good way," John supplies with a grave expression. "What happened?"

"A customer," Brian says, punctuating the air with his fork, "came in today to complain about the fact that the copy she'd bought yesterday appeared to be creased."

"Right," John says, "hate when that happens. Don't want my used books to have been used by anyone before me."

"It gets worse," Brian says, "because this was a first edition, not a book I was familiar with but of course it'd been quite expensive still. Usually we check the books beforehand and price accordingly but she was very adamant about this apparent crease."

John nods, a painful expression on his face. God, how he loves John sometimes. No one seems to get it quite like John.

"So I asked her where the crease was, and lo and behold, when she opens up the book, there was nothing. I swear, not a single crease, no spots, no nothing. So I ask her very politely what the problem is—"

"I would've told her to fuck off," John interrupts.

"That's why you don't work behind the counter."

"No, thank fuck for that."

Brian laughs. "Anyway, this lady is really insistent now, you know how you can just feel when a customer is about to throw a fit? And she points to, and by God, I wish I were kidding, she points to the stitching."

John buries his head in his hands.

"She points to the stitching," Brian repeats, unable to hold back a smile at the absurdity of it all, "and she tells me she hasn't paid for these to be here, that it makes a crease appear, and I tell her that this is what holds the book together, and she gets offended! She wants me to remove them because she thinks they're ugly. Honest to God, John, I'm quitting."

"Oh I would've," John says, “I hate customers so much, but this might just be the worst."

"Worse than 5 pence Petra?"

John drags his hands away from his face, helplessly laughing. "How could I forget 5 pence Petra?"

"Didn't she ask you out once?"

John groans. "You promised you would never mention it again!"

"Don’t tell me if you don't want me to remind you," Brian says with a shrug-

"I should probably take your advice, but at the same time, I need to share with someone who understands the pain. Freddie claims he’s never had an annoying customer, can you believe that?” John says, and Brian looks at him in disbelief. “By the way, did I tell you what happened last week?"

"No, what happened?" Brian asks, curious. He scrapes the last of the sauce onto his fork.

"This very drunk lady, she was Scandinavian I think, came in, bought a birthday card and asked if I could keep an eye on her plastic bag which contained at least a dozen bottles, and tried to pay me in cigars."

"You're joking.”

"Oh I wish," John says, putting his plate down.

“Did you accept it, then?”

“God, no. Might have if she’d offered one of the bottles instead.”

“She sounds like someone who’d be open for negotiation, I’m sure you could’ve just asked,” Brian says with a grin.

“Always miss my chance with those ladies,” John sighs.

Brian kicks him lightly, and John smiles wryly. “Better luck next time.”

♛ ♛ ♛

He's stretched out on the couch a few days later, still caught up in the disappointing ending of the book he just finished, when the front door opens followed by a shout of “busy?”

Brian twists around to watch Roger kick off his boots and step out of his snowsuit. "Not at all," he says, "why?"

"I've had this riff in my head all day,” Roger says, kicking the snowsuit closer to the wall. When he steps into the living room, he’s red-cheeked and slightly out of breath. “I want to use it for one of my songs."

"Oh," Brian says, interest piqued, "sure, let's see what we can make of it."

"Great," Roger enthuses, "now?"

"You're very energetic," Brian says, stretching lazily.

"I'm afraid I'll forget it! Do you know how difficult it is to keep a song in your head when you're trying to make people care about human rights?"

"No," Brian says, amused, "but do tell me."

Roger sticks his tongue out at him.

“Have you done something with your hair?” he asks, thinking Roger looks different somehow.

“No,” Roger says, looking puzzled.

“Oh,” Brian says. He studies him for a moment—the fringe that falls into his eyes in quite a charming way and the hair at the back of his neck that brushes the hood of his hoodie—and wonders how he has failed to notice how much his hair has grown in less than two months. “Nevermind.”

Roger sends him a curious look, so Brian gets up from the couch and opens the door to their makeshift studio. “Coming?”

The smile Roger sends him is strange, and Brian hides his confusion by leaving Roger to himself and going inside.

Roger follows shortly, starting to rifle through a pile of loose sheets on top of his drums. Brian picks up his guitar to tune it but finds that he can’t help glancing at Roger.

"Right," Roger says, stepping closer with a piece of paper in hand. Brian instantly spots one of his trademark Ys. “These are the lyrics so far. Could use some improvement, but here's so you get the idea."

Brian looks at him, surprised. Roger never shows anyone his lyrics before they're done—Brian knows he scraps double the amount of songs than he ever shows them.

He looks back at the sheet in Roger's hand, scans over the lyrics. Tries to ignore the warmth from Roger's shoulder pressed against his.

"The melody is quite simple," Roger says, handing him the paper to plug in the keyboard, "well, at least until the middle part."

Before Brian can think of anything to say, Roger has sat down in front of the keyboard and started playing. The words on the page swim before Brian’s eyes.

“It’s nice,” Brian croaks when he’s done. He clears his throat, musing that this cold may never leave him. "What are you thinking with the drums?".

"Quite energetic," Roger says, twisting in his seat to look around the cramped room. "Where'd I put my sticks?"

Brian looks at him wordlessly. He really does look … quite handsome today.

“Oh, here's one," Roger says, getting up to collect a drumstick from behind his kit. "Where's the—oh, it's behind you."

"What?"

"My drumstick. Right behind you. Chuck it over here?"

Bewildered, Brian turns around, and there it is, next to John’s bass. Not trusting Roger's ability to catch it he steps over to where he has settled behind his kit. Their hands brush when he hands it over, and there's an odd tingly sensation in his hand afterward. He wipes it on his trouser leg.

Roger starts a quick beat, and Brian forces himself to join. It doesn’t sound right. When Roger stops, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief.

"So for the riff, "Roger says, "it would sound something like this."

He vocalises the riff, and Brian tries to copy it, but he can see it’s not what Roger’s after. Brian feels warm—usually he prides himself in being able to catch on quickly, to be so in tune with the other three that he can easily translate their ideas; after all, that’s what makes their playing together so special.

"Bugger,” Roger says, wiping his brow. “Wish I had my guitar."

Brian hesitates, swallows the annoying lump in his throat. He pulls the strap off his shoulder. "You, uh. You can borrow mine."

Roger looks at him, surprised. His fringe gets in his eyes, and he pushes it away. "What?"

"You can use it," Brian says, feeling silly, "I mean, if you want to."

He hands it over to Roger, who wordlessly accepts it. He looks up at Brian, eyes searching, and something tugs painfully at his heart. Has he been so distant that his best friend is surprised he hands over his guitar willingly? Ridiculously, he wants to reach out to touch Roger, but then Roger is smiling and pulling the strap over his shoulder, adjusting it a little before he experimentally runs his fingers over the fretboard.

Brian watches him, face a picture of concentration, and suddenly, it makes sense; he gets it now, anticipates each note almost before it’s played. Every once in a while, Roger looks up as if to check in with Brian, and each time, it startles him just as much. He tries to remember the lyrics, but can’t bring himself to look down at where he’s holding them in a too-tight grip, can’t look away from Roger.

He breathes in deeply, desperate to get air into his lungs.

"What do you think?" Roger asks.

The question startles him. He can’t recall a time those words have ever been directed at him inside this room—he knows the others talk about him when he's not there, knows they think he's being a pain, and Roger in particular is not afraid to voice it. Freddie will ask for his opinion occasionally, but not the other two. Never Roger.

He could tear him down if he wanted to, Brian realises. He's asking for it, almost. But the way Roger looks at him, guarded but with a glimmer of hope, makes something expand inside his chest, press against his insides until he forgets to breathe.

He breathes in deeply, exhales messily. Smiles tentatively. “It definitely has potential.”

♛ ♛ ♛

Inspired by their jamming session, Brian sits down after dinner with pen, paper, and a vague idea he hopes to turn into a song. Freddie is making his own dinner and John and Roger are in their room so it's quiet enough, and the dining table has much better lighting than their small shared desk in their room.

The melody he gets down quickly enough, but he struggles to find words to go along with it, and pauses to chew at the end of his pencil. He watches Freddie put his instant soup—organic and supposedly healthy, but instant soup nonetheless—in the microwave, then stares hard at his sheet of paper in an attempt to force the words.

A moment later, Roger and John appear, and Brian listens with half an ear to their discussion about garlic bread until suddenly, inspiration strikes him, and his handwriting becomes a messy scrawl as he attempts to keep up with his brain.

When he looks up again, hand cramping from the tight hold on his pen, the others have gathered around the dining table as well and seem to be halfway through their meal.

”You're quite a good kisser, though," Freddie says, removing his elbows from the table so John can reach over to clean his empty soup bowl with a piece of garlic bread.

“How can you tell, you’ve been piss drunk every time,” Roger says, “but you’re right, I am a good kisser. Years of practice, kids.”

“You make me sound so unromantic,” Freddie says. John snorts softly.

Brian looks between them, trying to process what he’s just heard."What?"

Roger glances at him. "Hm?"

"Did you—” He starts, then catches Freddie’s eye. “How do you ... How would you know?”

"I talk from experience, darling,” Freddie says, “I would never make guesswork of something as serious as that."

Roger lets out a soft snort.

"You've—Freddie and you? You’ve kissed?”

"Er," Roger says. “Yeah?”

"How can you—doesn't this bother you?" he demands, turning to John.

John shrugs. "Not really. I already knew."

"You knew?"

"Brian, they're not exactly subtle. Surely you've seen them kiss before?"

Brian sits back. "When?"

“It’s not like I stuck my tongue down his throat just yesterday,” Roger says, “it’s months ago.”

Brian stares at him, trying to formulate a response. He can’t picture Roger and Freddie together; it’s not right. His brain won’t go there.

“Still,” he says, mind whirring, "how can you talk so casually about this in front of John? That's bad form."

Roger glances at Freddie and John. “He just told you he doesn't care. It didn't mean anything. We were drunk."

Three pairs of eyes turn to Brian, and he glares back.

"Have you really never seen us kiss?" Freddie asks, looking at him with a curious gaze.

"No," Brian says, crossing his arms. "When?"

Roger shrugs. "At parties and such.”

"So what else has happened? John performs strip teases in public?"

"Didn't the last time checked, but he's got the body for it," Roger says. Freddie nods energetically.

"These hips don't lie," John deadpans.

"I just didn't know you were that kind of friends," Brian says, trying to keep his voice neutral.

"Ah, he's jealous!" Freddie says. "Are you sad you're the only one who hasn't got a taste of the famous Freddie Bulsara, darling?"

John dissolves into helpless laughter.

Brian rolls his eyes and says, with as much dignity as he can muster, "I was just surprised, is all.”

"Aw, darling, don't be like that,” Freddie says, leaning forward, “we're only joking!"

Brian frowns, then makes a show of ignoring them as he stares sullenly at his paper. He can’t say he cares too much about John’s feelings on the matter, but hearing them talk so casually about it makes something bitter and unpleasant rise in his throat.

He knows there’s no such thing as a casual kiss, and it’s not that he’s jealous, but he thinks Roger could have told him that he was into kissing other men—a public service announcement, really, so Brian doesn’t end up looking like an utter tit when it’s inevitably sprung on him.

A light kick to his ankle makes him look up. Roger’s smile is tentative, and something like confusion bubbles in his chest.

"Alright?"

Brian nods slowly.

Roger drags his chair closer and pokes him in the side. "You're all quiet."

"I was just thinking," Brian says, squirming away from Roger's prodding finger.

"We were just having fun," Roger says, letting his hand fall to his side. "You're not gonna leave, are you?"

Brian glances at Freddie and John, but they seem to be deep in conversation and are not paying attention to him at all. He lowers his voice. "I’m not leaving. It was just a surprise."

"What, me and Freddie?"

"Yeah," Brian says, hating the way Roger says it so casually. "I didn't know."

"It didn't mean anything," Roger says, expression earnest. "We were drunk and silly. You know how it is"

"I'm not sure I do,” Brian says, because he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to kiss his friends, drunk or not.

Roger smiles. "Hm, no, I can see that. But you gotta admit kissing is nice."

Brian's eyes drop to Roger's mouth entirely without his permission. He swallows. "Perhaps," he allows, "if one is into that sort of thing."

Roger puts his elbow on the dining table and rests his chin in hand. "You never told me why."

Brian looks away. "I did."

"Remind me again?"

"It makes me become attached."

"And is that so bad?" Roger asks, eyes searching Brian’s face.

Brian laughs, a strangled, bitter sound. "Are you never afraid to burn your fingers?"

"Sucks the fun out of life, doesn’t it? Being afraid."

He’s suddenly very aware that Freddie and John have fallen silent, and when he glances at them, they are watching their conversation with interest.

“Do you mind?” he asks them. When he turns back to Roger, he’s gazing calmly at him, and Brian takes in the familiar features, lets the trust and safety that come with years of friendship wrap around him. His voice is weak when he says, “I don’t know.”

Roger’s eyes soften. “Nothing bad’s gonna happen.”

Brian closes his hot, stinging eyes. He wishes he could believe him.

♛ ♛ ♛

Despite the light from his bedside lamp, a soft blue glow still emits from the bottom drawer of his nightstand when he sits down on his bed and opens it. He can’t help but let out a soft snort—he’d almost forgot about it.

The cock ring is smooth and cool in his palm when he picks it up, and he turns it in his hands as he thinks back on how angry and, for a second, humiliated, he’d felt when he unwrapped it in front of Freddie and Roger. Perhaps he should’ve seen it coming—Roger’s like that, he knows, always taking his jokes too far—but right after their awful hookup? If touching him hadn’t been the last thing he wanted at that moment, Brian would have strangled him. And then his eyes had dropped to the certificate, and he’d hated Roger, hated how he couldn’t even stay angry with him because he wasn’t just a regular prick, he had to be a thoughtful prick.

Brian puts the cock ring down on his nightstand and reaches for the certificate, scanning the coordinates and his name in big letters on a glittering, starry background. He hasn’t visited his parents since Christmas, but when he does, he’ll have to set up his telescope and see if he can find his star.

No one but Roger could come up with something so at once ridiculous and thoughtful, and it makes Brian ache when he thinks about it, so it’s rare that he does. He can’t help it now, and he unbuttons and pulls off his trousers and crawls into bed.

He thinks about their time in the studio earlier, how it had felt like a punch in the stomach when he’d watched Roger play, the strange feeling in his chest that’s been there all day. And he thinks that maybe he wants Roger, and the thought makes him feel warm and prickly. He can’t recall the last time he’s allowed himself to want something and he’s not about to start now, not when his friendship with Roger is at stake, not when he knows Roger’s only looking to experiment.

He thinks Roger’s curiosity has been sated, that those two times were more than enough, but maybe he’ll decide he wants to go further one day, and Brian can’t bear the thought of it, is afraid he’s going to hook up with a stranger in a club, somebody who doesn’t care he hasn’t been with man, who doesn’t know him like Brian does.

Stomach tightening with sudden anxiety, Brian is halfway out of bed before he remembers himself. He can’t just go in there and tell Roger not to hook up with other men. He’s a big boy, Brian knows that, but he’s also chaotic and reckless and far too nice.

If only he didn’t care—it’s not like Roger cares about Brian’s hookups, and maybe if Brian put more energy into finding someone to blow off steam with, he wouldn’t have to think about any of this.

By the time Freddie lets himself into their bedroom and starts undressing, Brian has almost calmed down enough to go to sleep.

He closes his eyes, returns Freddie’s goodnight, and listens to the sounds of Freddie crawling into bed; the rustle of the sheets and the click of the lamp.

It’s quiet for a moment, then comes Freddie’s “where the fuck does that light come from?”

Brian opens his eyes, momentarily confused by the soft, blue light coming from his nightstand, before he suddenly realises what it is. Struck by horror, he grabs the cock ring, throws it into the still open drawer, and forcefully closes it.

“Was that—?” Freddie says, losing a splutter of amusement.

Brian’s cheeks burn, and he turns to his other side. “Goodnight, Freddie.”

♛ ♛ ♛

The next morning, Brian wakes up from a vague dream that leaves him confused and impossibly horny, mind whirring and dick aching.

It’s inconvenient, to say the least—he doesn’t have time to be horny, nor does he have time to analyse why his subconscious thought it a good idea to put him in weird, uncomfortable lingerie at Roger’s request.

Quietly horrified with himself, he gets out of bed and puts on his robe. He fully blames the unfortunate incident—trauma—last night for his fucked up dream, but he’s still hard, and finding the cause does nothing to soften it.

Securing his robe, he slips out of his bedroom, mind filled with strong hands in his hair and a bright smile that makes him ache. He’s disappointed to hear John dueting with Bonnie Tyler in the bathroom, and is just about to go back to his bedroom for a long, luxurious wank, when a door opens and Roger appears in old man slippers and the Marlboro windbreaker John got him for Christmas, eyes small with sleep.

"Are you heading out?" Brian asks, even though the question is quite obviously yes.

Roger nods, holding up his lighter and pack of cigarettes as a way of explanation.

"Mind if I go with you? I could do with some fresh air."

"Sure," Roger says, throwing glances at him like he's grown an extra head. Brian doesn't blame him; if he's not going to work or uni, he prefers to stay inside.

“Let me just put on some trousers,” he says, hurrying back to his bedroom to pull on trousers and two woolen jumpers.

Logically, he knows no good can come out of this, and he almost pauses, but then he remembers Roger’s words from the night before, and he doesn’t want to be afraid, not anymore.

And if he’s rejected, well. At least he’ll know.

Outside, Roger shakes out a cigarette and puts it between his lips, turning toward Brian to shield the flame from the wind. There’s a small furrow between his eyebrows as he flicks the lighter and his eyelashes seem impossibly long. Brian can't help but stare.

"Slept well?" Roger asks conversely, rubbing the crust out of his eyes.

"Um," Brian says, distracted by Roger’s eyes on him. He really needs to just go for it. "I did, thanks. Listen—"

He takes a fortifying breath, racking his brain for a way to word his proposal that doesn’t make him sound like a loon. Considering that he hasn’t spent a minute thinking it through, he’s not too optimistic.

"What's up?" Roger prompts.

"Right," Brian says, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket, "I've been thinking and ... I'm sorry if this is blunt, but ... I was wondering ... Do you maybe want to fool around?"

"What?" Roger lets out a laugh, and when Brian looks at him, his face is a picture of disbelief.

"Do you want to shag?" He's not sure that's much better, but at least now it's out in the open.

Roger rubs his face with the hand holding his cigarette. It makes Brian nervous. “Uhm,” he says. “I suppose..?”

“Right,” Brian says, stomach dropping, “convincing.”

“No, I just—I suppose I don’t need to remind you of last time. I’m a little apprehensive. I don’t know what you want.”

“You,” he says before he can stop himself, “for real this time.”

Roger swallows. “Why? I mean … I thought you didn’t—”

“I do,” Brian urges. He pauses, scratches the side of his nose with his middle finger. “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday.”

Roger takes a long drag of his cigarette. “It’s unlike you to make a decision so fast.”

“I know,” Brian says. The conversation feels surreal. “It’s been a long time coming, I think.”

“You want to have sex,” Roger says, “with me.”

Brian chances a step closer. He reaches out to brush his thumb over the back of Roger’s hand. Roger looks down, then his eyes snap to Brian’s.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Brian admits. “I want to know what it feels like when you fuck me.”

He doesn’t think he imagines the hitch of Roger’s breath. “That’s a lot to process this early in the morning.”

“You don’t have to decide yet,” he says, touching Roger’s arm and wondering just when he became this fucking bold. He steps back. “I’m going back inside. See you in there?”

Roger’s voice is hoarse when he replies, “see you.”

Brian turns around and walks inside, mind spinning. He doesn’t think he’s ever been that blatant before, but as he replays their conversation in his mind, he has a sneaking suspicion that he might have been missing out.

♛ ♛ ♛

As it turns out, Roger is quick to decide.

"Please, John," Roger is saying not 10 minutes later, "it's a tiny favour I'm asking you."

"I'm not doing it," John says, hanging his wet towel over the back of a chair. "It's freezing outside, and besides, it's your crap."

"John!" Roger's voice has taken on a decidedly whiny tone, "just this once."

John folds his arms over his chest. "Give me one reason."

"You'd get to spend the entire day with your boyfriend!”

"No, give me a reason why you want me to do it."

"I'm—" Roger's eyes flick to Brian. "I'm getting a cold."

"You're never sick," John says with narrowed eyes. "Though God knows you should be suffering from horrible vitamin C deficiency."

"Well, you go out for a smoke in your underwear, see how you fare," Roger says, adding a sniff at the end of his sentence.

“He does look a bit pale,” Brian says, thinking he should probably attempt to help.

John ignores him. "Unless you have a fever, I'm not even gonna consider it," he says, picking up his tangle of earphones from the dining table and walking into the kitchen to start on the dishes.

"I do have a fever," Roger insists, "come, feel my forehead, I'm burning up!"

"I'm not gonna feel your forehead," John says, "take a couple of paracetamols if it's so bad or talk to Freddie, I'm not going."

"I can't believe you hate me," Roger says sullenly.

John puts his earphones in.

Roger turns to Brian, an exasperated look on his face. He does a little toss of his head towards his room. Brian follows him.

"Sorry, really thought he'd go," Roger says when they’re inside and he’s closed the door behind them.

“It’s okay,” Brian lies, disappointment mingling with the slow slide of arousal in the pit of his stomach. "We'll do it some other time."

Roger steps closer until Brian is pressed against the door. He lifts his hand to trace Brian’s jaw, then latches a soft mouth over his pulse point.

Brian closes his eyes, greedily inhales the sweet scent of Roger’s hair. He wants to say something, but no words leave his mouth.

“Really want you,” Roger murmurs into the skin of his neck, his hands low and tight on Brian’s hips.

Surprise unsticks his throat. “Really?”

“You’re funny,” Roger says, looking up at him as he presses closer, a delicious hardness against Brian’s thigh. “Wanted you for so long, I don’t think I can—please don’t change your mind again, I can’t—”

“I won’t,” Brian promises, gasping as Roger smiles and sucks a line of kisses up the column of his throat.

“Good,” Roger says, breath catching as Brian grinds against him. “I wanna fuck you.”

“Don’t,” Brian groans, his hands coming up to push against Roger's shoulders. "If you don't stop, we'll do it here, I don't care. Freddie and John can watch."

“Kinky,” Roger says, smiling up at him. His hands stroke Brian’s sides, and Brian’s exhale is messy. He wonders if Roger can feel it on his face.

His eyes drop to Roger’s mouth entirely without his permission, and he wants to give in so, so badly. He wonders what he tastes like, wonders how their mouths fit together, but he can’t, knows that if this is going to end well, he has to keep himself in check—Roger clearly doesn’t have any qualms about tempting him into things he’s surely going to regret later.

“Freddie will wonder where you are,” he whispers, hands sliding down to rest on Roger’s upper arms.

The disappointment he expects on Roger’s face doesn’t come, and Brian feels a strange drop of his stomach when he merely squeezes his sides and steps back.

Brian thinks he should be able to breathe again but for some reason, it’s harder without Roger pressed against him.

"Are you gonna think about me?" Roger asks, annoyingly charming grin in place as he puts his hand on the door handle when Brian steps away.

Brian swallows. He doesn’t trust his voice to lie so he says nothing.

Roger presses a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

The blood in Brian’s veins thrums in approval.

♛ ♛ ♛

When the front door slams a few minutes later, Brian unpeels himself from the door and slips into his bedroom to collect a towel. He sends a weak smile John’s way when he passes him in the living room and tries not to look like he’s up to something when he hurries to the bathroom.

Making sure to lock the door, he strips off his clothes, giving his cock a quick squeeze as he waits for the shower to warm. He doesn’t think—he lets out his breath when he steps under the spray, lets the water warm him up as he reaches for his shower gel. Catching sight of the bottles, he hesitates, and then, quelling the spike of guilt, takes Roger’s instead.

He has a vague memory of Roger saying he'd stolen it somewhere because it smelt so good, but Brian is not sure he believes it, and if it is, he really doesn’t want to know. His soapy hands slide easily over his skin, the honeyed scent of the lather flooding his senses with images of Roger pressed against him, of strong hands on his hips. Closing his eyes, he trails a hand down his torso and closes a fist around his cock and groans, recalling Roger's expression as he'd sucked him off, the sounds he’d made, the quiet inhalation. The tiles are shockingly cold against his back, and he wonders what would have happened if Roger had convinced John to go, if he'd been on his stomach right this moment, and he can't stop the stuttering moan that leaves his mouth. His hand speeding up, he grinds back against the wall, needing to feel the solidity of it, and wishing it was warm and soft flesh instead of cold, wet tiles.

Roger's words run through his head; of want and need and wanna fuck you, and Brian feels the build in his groin, lets his head fall back against the tiles while he slows his hand, panting softly. He looks down as he comes, on his flushed cock, on the come that is quickly rinsed away by the spray of the shower, and he can barely believe what he’s just done.

He waits for the guilt to come but oddly, it doesn’t. Catching his breath, he pushes himself away from the wall, uncaps his shampoo and works it into his hair, thinking about Roger and Freddie at the stall and wondering whether Roger has thought about him at all.

It scares him how much he wants now that he's allowed himself to, but he does, and he supposes there's no use in denying it anymore. He wants to feel Roger's mouth on him, wants to get fucked into the mattress, wants a lot of other things he's not allowed to think about yet.

He can't stop picturing Roger's smile, can't stop thinking about his words. He thinks about it as he rinses the shampoo out of his hair, thinks about it as he dries off and puts on clothes. He's still thinking about it when he waits at the bus stop, is reminded of it again when he opens a message from Roger after his tutoring, thinks about it when he goes to bed at night.

When three days have passed, Brian thinks he might actually, genuinely go insane. He can’t pretend he’s not bothered, not when Roger is there, not when he knows, when he uses every excuse he can to touch or brush against him. The whole thing is endlessly frustrating, and Brian has resorted to wanks in the shower—he might’ve worried about using too much water, but has found that he finishes embarrassingly quickly lately.

His cock stirs at the thought, and he shifts on the couch; the movement causes Roger to look away from the television screen and up at Brian, a soft smile on his lips.

Glancing at Freddie and John curled up in the armchair and finding that their attention is on the screen, Brian slides his fingers into Roger's hair and doesn’t think he imagines the sound of Roger's breath hitching a little. Unthinkingly, he scratches his scalp lightly, and Roger presses into the touch, cheek pressing against Brian’s thigh.

Heart in his throat, Brian extends his thumb and tentatively brushes over the shell of Roger's ear, causing him to still. He turns slowly, enough to look Brian in the eye, and Brian feels suddenly shaky with want. Mouth twisting, Roger turns back to look at the screen, and Brian tries to relax, to enjoy the movie and the company of his friends, but the only thing he can think about is how close his cock is to Roger's head, and how good his mouth felt around him.

"Right," John says half an hour later, getting to his feet with impressive ease considering the depth of the chair and the fact that he’s got one Freddie Bulsara wrapped around him, "I should be going."

"What time is it?" Freddie asks, following John with his eyes and hugging a pillow to his chest.

"A quarter past, and my shift starts at noon."

Freddie pouts. "I'll miss you."

John smiles. "I'll keep that thought for when I'm about to commit arson."

"You're exaggerating," Freddie says, getting up to follow him to the door. Brian knows he most likely isn't.

He listens to their quiet bickering in the hallway, trying his best not to squirm, but Roger’s head seems to have moved from his thigh to his crotch, and his dick has unfortunately taken an interest.

The front door clicks open, and Roger waves in the direction of the hallway even though Brian doubts he can see anything from his reclining position. "Bye, John," he shouts, "don't kill anyone!"

"I make no promises," John yells back. The door slams, and they both listen for a while for Freddie to return, but he appears to have followed John outside.

"You've got to move," Brian whispers, "you're driving me nuts."

Roger smiles, slow and sly. "I'm driving you nuts now?"

"Stop it," Brian says, pushing at his shoulder, but Roger just grins, easily resisting.

“Am I turning you on?” he asks, looking very, very pleased.

Brian scoffs. “Of course not.”

“Liar,” Roger whispers and grabs his wrist.

Brian’s pulse thrums against Roger’s fingers.

“You’re not—” Roger begins, but Brian doesn’t get to find out what he isn’t, because just then, the door opens, and a moment later, Freddie enters the living room.

“Don’t the two of you look cosy,” he comments, picking up his iPad from the dining table.

Brian flushes.

“Oh, we are,” Roger says, stretching out on the couch.

“I’ll let you get on with it, then,” Freddie says, an amused glint in his eyes.

Brian swallows. "Don't you wanna stay and watch the movie?"

Freddie wrinkles his nose. "It's dreadful."

Roger snorts. "See you later, Fred."

The second the door to their room has closed behind Freddie, Roger sits up, bringing his face close to Brian’s. "Wanna come to my room for a cuddle?"

Brian swallows. He can only think of one way this could possibly go, and suddenly he's afraid. Roger leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. His skin tingles.

"Okay," Brian whispers, and follows him into Roger's room.

He almost regrets it when he discovers the floor is barely visible underneath clothes and uni books, but then Roger is bouncing on his bed and gesturing for Brian to lie down.

Brian does, stepping over piles of clothes to press their bodies together, to line kisses up Roger's throat. Roger sighs and Brian reaches for his belt.

“No,” Roger says, and Brian stills, almost thinks he’s misheard.

"What's wrong?"

"Not in here."

Brian stares at him, uncertain. "What's wrong with in here?"

Roger picks at a loose thread on Brian’s jumper. "It's not fair to John."

"That we have sex and he doesn't?" Brian ascertains, just so Roger can hear how ridiculous it sounds.

"No, that he'll have to start thinking about whether he can enter his own room or not. I promised him long ago I wouldn't bring people home."

"It's not like we're doing it on his bed,” Brian says, desperate now, “he’s not even home.”

Roger shakes his head. "Brian, I don't want to do it in here."

Brian suppresses a groan. Where else can they go? Rent a hotel room? "We might not get the chance again."

"I promise you we will," Roger says, brushing his hand over Brian’s cheek.

Brian closes his eyes. He can’t stand Roger this close, can feel the pull of his lips and is suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to lean in and kiss him, and it startles him a little. He wonders if it would make Roger change his mind.

He opens his eyes again, presses his cheek against Roger’s palm. “Okay,” he says. Sighs, knowing he can’t possibly stay. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

♛ ♛ ♛

On Thursday afternoon, it finally happens. There’s a gorgeous sunset outside their window, shining large blocks of golden orange on the couch Roger’s stretched out on, and Brian is sitting at the kitchen table, valiantly trying to pay attention to the book he’s reading. So far he’s not succeeding.

The door to his room opens, and Freddie appears with John in tow, both heading straight for the hallway. Roger looks up from his phone to peer curiously at them.

"Behave, darlings," Freddie says, popping his head in again a moment later, now dressed in fur coat and heeled boots. John appears behind him in a charming windbreaker in pink and blue.

"Are you leaving?"

Freddie lets out an exaggerated sigh. "We told you this, dear. Remember that play Chrissie’s in? Or not in, she works there. I’d wanted to go anyway, but then she invited me along, and Deaky darling was kind enough to offer his delightful company."

"That's very kind of you, John," Brian says, remembering absolutely no such thing and deciding to focus on the one thing he understands. John's eyes crinkle as he smiles. "Are you gonna be home for dinner?" He aims for casual, but his heart is beating fast suddenly.

Freddie looks to John. "I think we're eating at theirs, yes."

"Right," Brian says, voice faint.

He doesn't dare look at Roger. Thinks he might combust if he does.

"Say hello to Chrissie from me," Roger says, sounding decidedly cheerful, "and Veronica if she's around."

"We will," Freddie promises, waving at them over his shoulder. John grins at them and follows.

For long, painful seconds, neither of them move. The front door closes, and Brian listens as two pairs of feet descend the stairs, then hears the creak and slam of the other door. His heart thrums painfully as he reads the same sentence over and over, his body tense and alert.

The couch creaks when Roger shifts, but Brian keeps reading, more desperately now. He tries to ignore the soft padding of Roger's feet on the hardwood floors, tries to control his breathing, but it's not until Roger is standing next to him, warm hand on the back of his neck, thumb lightly caressing the skin until the fine hairs stand on end that he stops pretending.

He exhales long and slow, closes his eyes against the caress. It's like warmth spreads from that touch, leaving his whole body tingling and desperate for more. Roger kicks out a chair, lets his hand slide off.

Brian looks at him.

"Do you still want this?" Roger asks, expression open and genuine.

Brian swallows. "Yes."

A gorgeous smile spreads on Roger's lips, one that makes his heart beat faster in his chest. His lips feel heavy and hot.

"I don't know what to do now," Roger admits, scrubbing at his hair.

This makes Brian snap out of it. Sex is something he knows, something he can relax into, and that no matter if it's a stranger or his unfairly good looking friend.

He grabs Roger’s wrist, thumb brushing over the inked skin. His pulse thrums.

"My suggestion would be the bedroom," he says, "depending on how adventurous you're feeling."

Roger laughs, a bright, startling sound. "Not very. I prefer the bed."

Brian smiles. "Me too."

When they enter his room, he’s embarrassed to note that his bed is unmade and there’s a pair of boxers that didn’t quite make the hamper, and he casts an envious glance on Freddie’s half of the room, on his huge, pristine bed. He opens his mouth to apologise, but before the words come out, a gentle push from Roger makes him sit down on the bed.

“Don’t apologise,” Roger says, looking down at him with amusement.

“I wasn’t going to,” Brian lies, his hands moving to Roger’s hips on their own accord. He can scarcely believe he’s allowed to touch now, and he experimentally lets them slide down further, over Roger's backside.

The hitch of Roger’s breath makes his own stutter in his throat, and his fingers are clumsy and uncooperative as he reaches for Roger’s zipper. Warm hands on his face steady him, and he pushes Roger’s trousers down, runs his hands up his thighs, stares, dry-mouthed, at the semi visible through the thin cotton fabric.

Roger's fingers caress his cheek, run over his lips. He smiles.

Lowering his gaze, Brian pushes his hands under the hem of Roger's jumper, lets his hands slide over the warm skin. He presses kisses to Roger's stomach, mouths at the edge of his boxers. Roger's hands slide into his hair, and Brian doubles his efforts, kisses the visible bulge, and Roger cants his hips forward, exhaling messily. Brian's own cock twitches at the sound, at the thought of taking him into his mouth, of finally getting fucked, and he has to force himself to remain seated, to not let Roger take him right then and there.

“Fuck,” Roger breathes, pulling at his hair. Brian’s breath catches. “Been thinking about your mouth.”

Brian removes his mouth from the damp fabric and looks up at him, at his flushed cheeks and blown pupils. He can't stand it much longer.

"Yes," he rasps, and Roger's hands slide down his neck; a warm, solid weight there that sends shivers down Brian's spine.

Mouth filling with saliva, Brian swallows and lets go of him, unbuttons his trousers and pushes them down over his hips along with his underwear. Pulling off his socks, he glances up at Roger again, stilling when he finds he’s just standing there, staring. It makes Brian feel warm all over, and he’s quick to scoot back on the bed, pulling off his jumper and his tee and shivering slightly as he’s exposed to the cool air.

As their eyes meet again, Roger seems to shake himself and follows quickly, ridding himself of socks, jumper and boxers. Once he’s naked, he slowly lowers himself onto the mattress, and lifts a hand to skim down Brian's side. Brian suppresses a shiver as it follows the curve of his arse.

A faint smile on his lips, Roger dips down his mouth to kiss him, and Brian is just about to jerk away when he stops himself, places an apologetic hand on his arm.

“Sorry,” Roger says, “it’s just—I don’t know how to go about this without kissing. It’s so impersonal.”

Brian scoots back to look at him properly. “Does it have to be? It’s not a problem if we don’t make it one.”

Roger looks like he’s going to argue, and Brian feels a spike of annoyance. Then Roger idly swats his arm. “You’re such a prostitute.”

Brian relaxes. “You couldn’t afford me if I were.” He imagines it’s the kind of thing Freddie would say, and feels a bit silly, but it has the desired effect when Roger laughs.

“Because I’m dirt poor or because you’re that good?”

“Because I’m that good, of course.”

Roger runs a hand up his thigh. “Sounds very promising.”

Hiding a smile, Brian turns to his nightstand to retrieve lube, condoms, and baby wipes. The condoms and wipes he carelessly throws on the bed, but the lube he uncaps and squeezes onto his palm before passing the nearly empty bottle to Roger.

“So you do this a lot, then?” Roger asks as Brian is slicking up his fingers, turning the bottle in his hand.

Brian snorts gently. “Have sex? Occasionally.”

“No, I mean—” Roger waves the bottle uselessly.

“I didn’t know you were so prissy.”

“Shut up,” Roger says with an embarrassed grin. It’s a good look on him.

“Hurry up, then—no, grab me a pillow first.”

“I have tried anal before, you know,” Roger says. Brian looks at him doubtfully.

“With girls,” he clarifies.

"Hopefully this will feel a bit better for both parts,” Brian says, suppressing a laugh when he sees Roger’s put-out expression.

He takes the pillow from Roger and lies down on the bed, lifting his hips to push it underneath him. When he’s settled, Roger scoots closer to sit between his bent legs.

“Move,” Brian says, slick fingers hovering over his entrance, “I need more room if I don’t want to bump my hand into you every time.”

“Sorry,” Roger says, scooting back a bit, “I’m not wearing my contacts.”

This strikes Brian as terribly funny, and he can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him. The expression on Roger’s face doesn’t help matters, and Brian dissolves into helpless laughter.

“Have you quite finished?” Roger asks, going for unimpressed but ending up with a grin stretching his lips.

“Sorry,” Brian says, even though he doesn’t feel sorry at all. Then his eyes drop to Roger’s erection, and, inhaling deeply through his nose, he slowly works himself open.

Roger watches him, enthralled, and a warm hand drops to Brian’s thigh, the other wrapping around his own flushed cock. It’s intense and impossibly arousing, the way Roger is looking at him like he’s a delectable treat while he fingers himself open.

“God,” Roger breathes, “you’re so fucking gorgeous. Can barely contain myself.”

The words make Brian’s head spin, and he chokes out a moan as his fingers press against his prostate. He feels desperate to be filled, and the fact that he can see the tight fist around Roger’s cock doesn’t help matters.

Carefully, he removes his fingers, and Roger drops a kiss to his bent knee. Brian returns the caress with his dry hand and rolls over on his stomach.

"What are you doing?"

Brian twists his neck to look at him, surprised. "I'm getting ready for you to fuck me."

"No."

"No?" Brian repeats, incredulous. He suppresses the urge to grab Roger by the shoulders and shake him.

"I don't want you on your stomach," Roger says, flushed but determined.

Brian sits up again. "It's much easier this way," he says, aware that “pull yourself together and fuck me” probably isn’t the best way to go about it in a situation like this.

"No."

"Roger, come on."

"No."

"Stop repeating yourself and give me a proper answer," Brian says, losing patience. "Why don't you want me on my stomach?"

"It's too impersonal," Roger says, "we're not strangers, are we?"

"You're putting too much into this."

"If it doesn't matter to you, why don't you want to be on your back?" Roger says, crossing his arms. Brian thinks he looks ridiculous.

"Because it really isn't the ideal position for anal sex!" he says, and it's no lie. Missionary is just weird, besides.

Roger picks up the pillow he used before. "Let's just use a pillow underneath your hips."

"You can tie me up if you want to," Brian says instead.

"I don't want to tie you up! Why are you being so weird?"

"Why are you so stubborn?" Brian snaps, stung.

"I'm not doing it if you're on your stomach," Roger says, face set.

"Christ," Brian says, dragging a hand over his face. "You lie down, then."

Surprise flickers across Roger's face. "What?"

"On your back," he says, pushing gently at Roger's chest, "I'll be on top."

"I—"

"I'll ride you, alright?" he says, "Christ, you do know how to kill the mood."

"What, because I want to see your face?" Roger says, but he scoots back on the mattress, his hands skimming over Brian's sides as he climbs on top of him.

"You really are a sap," Brian says.

"And you're impossible," Roger says, but his hands are warm and sure on Brian's hips. "Not complaining about the view, though. Or the fact than I can just lie back and watch."

Brian lets out a snort. "Of course you don't."

He grabs hold of Roger's cock then, and Roger inhales sharply through his nose. He lifts his hips and guides the tip to prod at his entrance, balancing precariously on his knees on the mattress.

Roger’s eyes flick over his face. Brian pauses. "Are you alright?"

Roger shakes his head, tightens his hands on Brian's hips. "A little nervous. You look so fucking good."

Brian’s not sure what to say—he can't imagine Roger being nervous about anything, and especially not something as simple as sex. Concerts, maybe, in the form of an obnoxious amount of jokes and tapping on every available surface, but sex?

"No need to be," he says, and impales himself on Roger's cock, slowly, and God, how good it feels to be filled.

"Fuck," Roger says, stroking his sides with strong, sure hands.

Brian stills for a long moment, reveling in the light touch and the feeling of fullness. It feels like he can breathe again, like he can finally relax, which is ridiculous when he thinks about what they’re about to do.

Once he’s adjusted, he experimentally lifts his hips, and the hard flesh of Roger’s cock slides deliciously against his sensitive inner walls.

“Gorgeous,” Roger says as Brian lets him fill him up again.

It’s not long before Brian’s panting and his thighs are starting to ache, and he folds himself over to catch his breath. He's almost forgotten how much work it is.

"Your hair is getting long," Roger says, brushing it away from his face, and Brian’s heart squirms uncomfortably in his chest.

As if feeling Brian’s discomfort, Roger starts kissing up his neck, along his jaw, presses a kiss to his chin, to his cheek. Brian jerks away.

"Relax,” Roger mumbles, “I’m not doing anything." He lifts his hips, thrusts into him slow and shallow.

Brian moans and grinds into it, causing Roger to swear. He's panting already, and Brian doesn't think he's ever looked better. His chest is flushed, hair sticking to his forehead, and his pupils are blown. He's also smiling, and really he shouldn't look that good when fucking someone, and Brian tightens around him just to have his face contort.

"Fuck, do that again," Roger says. His hands tighten on Brian's hips, run up his back to lay possessively behind his shoulder blades.

Brian does as he’s told and is rewarded with a particularly deep series of thrusts that steal his breath away. He's awash with sensation, and he has to slow down, save his thighs and the orgasm that is nearing with alarming speed.

Sliding his hands up Roger’s chest, he rocks gently back and forth, leans forward to suck kisses up the line of Roger's throat, to the corner of his jaw. There he pauses, nose almost touching Roger's. He can feel his breath on his face, and he wants to lean in, he really does, but knows he can't let it happen if he wants this to stay a one-time thing. Chest tight, he slowly straightens, starts a slow roll of his hips in an effort to coax grunts and swears out of Roger to distract him from the tangle of feelings that seems to have taken permanent residence in his stomach.

“Hold on,” Roger says, hands tight on his hips. “Let me sit up.”

Brian’s heart hammers. He knows what it means, and he doesn’t think he can contain himself if he does. He shakes his head, puts on a smile he hopes looks sexy. “I think I rather like you on your back.”

Roger frowns slightly. Not so sexy, then.

He hates that Roger has this much power over him, that he makes Brian doubt what he wants, and it almost makes him want to start a fight.

Focusing on that frown, he opens his mouth to snarl at him, but then Roger grins, almost embarrassed, and the irritation seeps out of him at once. “Yeah?”

Brian trails his fingers over Roger’s chest, brush over a peaked nipple. “Very much so.”

“I don’t think I’ll last long,” Roger admits, “but I want to, because God, you’re so lovely.”

Brian thinks they both deserve for it to last if this is going to be a one-time thing, but he’s impatient, has wanted this for days now.

“Me neither,” he whispers, “but it’s alright, isn’t it?”

Roger nods, strokes his sides, and Brian thinks he’ll miss it. He lifts his hips again, this time aiming for his prostate, and moans thinly when he hits it.

Roger meets him halfway, hits his prostate with pinpoint accuracy, and Brian hurls towards his orgasm with alarming speed.

It’s rare that he’s on top, and this time, there’s a chance he gets to come first. The thought spurs him on, and he wraps a hand around his cock, making Roger swear and his mouth falls open.

“Brian—” “No, don’t come, don’t come,” he chants, one hand braced against Roger’s chest, the other tugging at his cock. He’s so close, his orgasm within a hair’s reach, and he so badly wants it, just this one time—

His hips come down again, and he chokes out a moan, the double stimulation too much, and then he’s bending over, spilling his load over his hand and Roger’s stomach.

Completely spent, he rolls off him and lets himself fall back on the bed. He doesn’t want to move in a million years. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Roger pull off the condom and throw it in the waste bin. Brian lies still, heart slamming against his ribcage, and Roger settles next to him, one leg thrown over Brian’s hips.

“Brian,” Roger whispers between kisses to his neck. He starts a slow grind against Brian’s side. “Brian.”

“In a second,” Brian says, sighing as Roger nips at his earlobe.

“No,” Roger says, getting up to straddle his chest. He nudges his cock towards Brian’s mouth. Brian laughs tiredly and bats him away.

“Alright,” he says, sliding his hands over Roger’s arse. “Wanna try something fun?”

“Are you joking?” Roger says, crawling off him to give space to get up.

“Lie back, then,” Brian instructs, searching between the sheets for the bottle of lube, “where’d you put the lube?”

Roger stills, his eyes searching Brian’s, and Brian is reminded of his own first time, of the reassurance he needed but never got.

“Relax,” he soothes, briefly touching Roger’s arm before uncapping the found bottle. “You remember how much I was into it, don’t you?”

“I doubt I’ll ever forget that!”

Brian slicks up his fingers. “You won’t forget this either.”

Nodding his head once, Roger grabs a pillow and places it under his hips. His legs instantly fall open, and Brian kneels between them.

“I know it feels weird at first, but try to relax,” he says, rubbing a slick thumb over Roger’s entrance to test how tight he is. Roger lets out an appreciative moan. “Feels good?”

“Mhm.”

Brian pushes his finger past the ring of muscle. Roger stills.

“Okay?”

Roger looks like he’s not sure what to think. He meets Brian’s eyes and huffs out a laugh. “It does feel weird, a bit. But in a good way. You can go on.”

Surprisingly, Roger doesn’t tense up, and Brian slides his finger in easily. It’s been a long time since he’s had a finger up somebody’s arse, and it’s gloriously hot and tight. He checks Roger’s face for any sign of discomfort. Finding none, he slowly fucks him with his finger.

“Uhh,” Roger breathes. Brian lightly tugs at his balls. “Feels so good.”

Brian’s cock twitches. Roger bites his lip.

"More," he says, and Brian adds another finger.

He can't stop watching him; the light lashes and colour high on his cheeks, the twist of his mouth and how he rocks into it, and it scares Brian how easily he gives into it, how open and trusting he is.

He keeps his pace achingly slow, longs to prolong the moment even if it feels like something is breaking inside of him. Roger's knuckles go white around the sheets.

"Do you want lube?" Brian asks, voice dropped low, hand already hovering over the bottle.

"Please," Roger says, gasping and empty when Brian removes his fingers. Brian knows how he feels.

He squirts a bit of lube out in Roger's outstretched hand, and Roger envelopes his dick in a loose fist.

"I've never been this strung up," he says around a breathless laugh. Brian runs a thumb over his twitching opening. "I feel like I'm falling apart."

Brian looks at him then, really looks as they begin a slow rhythm. Roger is hot and tight around his fingers, his cock heavy and glistening in his hand, but it's his eyes that draw him in, and Brian can't look away.

Roger falls to pieces with a quiet noise, and Brian helps him through it until he receives an accidental knee in the side and Roger slumps back into the sheets, completely spent.

Brian very carefully removes his fingers and locates a box of baby wipes from his bedside drawer, cleaning first himself and then Roger. He feels slightly dazed which he thinks is good because otherwise, his emotions would threaten to overflow. Discarding the used baby wipes in the wastebasket, he carefully lowers himself onto the spot next to Roger.

Roger's chest is still moving a little too fast but his eyes are drowsy and his smile looks like it could give way to laughter at any second.

Brian leans in and kisses him.

Roger stunned noise gets lost between their mouths, but Brian feels the vibrations in his throat where his hand has moved to on its own accord, feels the slide of Roger's thigh against his own, the chapped lips and a tease of tongue.

Roger smiles into the kiss, which is a ridiculous thing to do, and one that Brian can’t help but mirror.

"So you do kiss on the lips," Roger says when they break apart, followed by the less romantic, "I would murder for a smoke right now."

Brian skims a hand down his side, buries his nose in Roger's shoulder. "You're so dramatic," he murmurs against warm skin. "Crack the window open."

Roger lets out a soft snort and slides out of his embrace. Brian watches him as he saunters towards the door, completely unbothered by his state of undress. He throws a pillow after him.

"Put something on," he says, "it worries me how comfortable you are walking around naked. Idiot."

Roger sticks out his tongue and slips out the door.

When he reappears a moment later to settle in the windowsill with his smoke, Brian has curled up in bed. There's a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach, and he knows he should have thought this through, knows he shouldn't have rushed into having sex with Roger, and he definitely shouldn't have kissed him. It's not like Roger hasn't had girlfriends before, but Brian knows he loves being single, loves the freedom and the adventure of it, loves knowing he can get anyone he wants. That Roger has decided to live out a fantasy with Brian is lovely, is a stroke to his ego, but no more than that, and he thinks he needs to hear that, even if it hurts.

"Roger?"

Roger looks down at him, eyes warm. The winter sunshine spills over his naked, goosebumped skin.

Brian just looks for a moment, tries to find comfort in the familiar features of his friend. He doesn't know what to say—he feels like he should apologise, or ask what this all means.

"It was a really shitty thing to say about my parents," is what leaves his mouth instead.

Roger’s eyebrows rise in surprise. He takes a drag of his smoke and looks out the window, shivering slightly in the cold. Glances back at Brian. "I know," he says.

"I was pretty shitty, too."

"Is that an apology?"

"I don't know how to navigate this,” Brian says, smoothing a hand over the duvet. “I know you were only looking to experiment, but—”

“What?” Roger lets out a sound of disbelief. “I never said that.”

Brian looks up, surprised. “You did. Before Christmas. We were in my room, you asked if I knew someone.”

Roger stares at him. Then he drags a hand over his face and lets out a small groan. “That was a come on, Brian.”

Brian looks down at his hands. “Oh.”

He’d suspected, of course, that it might be, but it’d felt good to have the upper hand for once, to tease, and he hadn’t put much thought into it. Still, now that they have slept together and Roger has surely had his fill of experimentation, Brian can’t think of anything more he can give. He takes a fortifying breath. He might as well ask.

“Will you want more?"

Roger looks out the window again. Brian’s hand tightens on the duvet.

There's silence for a while. Roger takes a last drag and stubs out his cigarette, depositing the butt on the pavement. "I do."

Brian’s heart thrums madly in his chest. "What sort of things?"

"Whatever you want to give me." Roger hops down from the windowsill. “Just don’t shut me out again.”

Brian lifts the duvet so Roger can crawl in. The smell of fresh smoke hits his nostrils and he wrinkles his nose.

“Sorry,” Roger says, “I smell.”

“It’s okay,” Brian says, allowing Roger’s freezing, heat-seeking limbs to wrap around him. He shivers. “I won’t shut you out. But I’m scared.”

“What for?”

"If I become attached and it doesn’t work out, what’s gonna happen then?”

Roger rubs his thumb over Brian’s spine. “You’re so much in your head,” he says softly. “It wouldn’t make a difference.”

“Of course it would,” Brian snaps, frustrated that Roger doesn’t seem to understand the seriousness of his concerns. “It’ll ruin our friendship, it’ll break up the band—”

“Freddie and John seem to be doing alright.”

“Freddie and John are very different people,” Brian says. “Come on, Rog, you’ve got to admit this would never work. We’re too different, we don’t have time to make this work. I have my work and my studies and you have yours, and besides, you love single life. And I couldn’t—we should stop this now. It’s gonna be a mess, I know it will.”

“You don’t know anything,” Roger says, but his voice is soft. He removes his hand from Brian’s back to thread their fingers together. “You’re getting ahead of yourself again. I want this, and I think you do, too. We’ll find a way to work through it.”

“You’ll get bored with me,” Brian whispers, shutting his eyes briefly, “you’ll miss being single, you’ll miss women, you’ll—”

“Stop telling me how I feel,” Roger interrupts. “You don’t know. Just relax. Why are you so afraid of getting hurt?”

Brian withdraws his hand and shifts onto his back, eyes finding the ceiling. “I don’t know. Suppose I’ve always feared it.”

“Inevitable, isn’t it? Getting hurt,” Roger says, voice soft. “What is it you think will hurt you?”

“Losing people.” Roger slides a hand over his stomach, pauses to trace the scar there. “It only got worse after what happened to Freddie.”

“That was a terrible, terrible accident,” Roger says, “but the risk of something like that happening is practically non-existent.”

Brian knows that’s not true, but he doesn’t argue. “I wonder how he’s doing,” he says instead, thinking of the many months after the accident where Freddie had been almost unrecognisable, guilt eating him up like poison. “Does John even know?”

Roger’s hand stills. “I don’t think so.”

“Do you think he’ll tell him?” Brian doesn’t blame him for keeping it a secret—he’s certain he would, too.

“Eventually.”

They’re silent for a while. Roger resumes his idle caress, and Brian looks at the ceiling, mind wonderfully silent even though he has thousands of things to think about. Then Roger speaks.

“Brian,” he starts, clearly hesitant.

Brian turns his head. “What?”

“Have you thought about … have you ever considered therapy?”

Brian’s stomach tightens. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. He’s not sure what there is to say.

“I just don’t want you to feel this way,” Roger says softly, “I worry about you, and—maybe if we’re gonna try this, now would be a good time to start. Might help you with your worries.”

“I’m sorry,” Brian whispers, shutting his eyes to avoid Roger’s concerned expression.

“Why are you sorry?” Roger says, lips brushing over his jaw.

“I’m sorry I’m like this—God, even talking about this is …” He trails into silence.

“I care so much about you,” Roger whispers, pressing himself impossibly closer. “All I want is for you to be happy.”

“I know,” Brian says, and almost means it.

“Just think about it,” Roger says, taking his face in his hands and gently tipping it so he can press a kiss to his lips.

Brian’s heart stutters, and he opens his mouth around Roger’s, kisses him long and indulgent.

“Do you really want this?” he asks when they break away. His whole body is thrumming, and he wants nothing more to press their mouths together again, to reach for Roger’s hardening cock, but he knows that this conversation is an important one.

“I do.” Roger’s eyes are bright and honest. “But keep in mind that it’s all new for me, this. You did say I’m comfortable enough with my sexuality to fool around with whoever takes my fancy, but I do have feelings, too.”

Brian winces. “I know. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re not wrong per se,” Roger says. “But there’s more to it this time, isn’t there?”

Brian looks into pale blue eyes. “We'll fight a lot."

Roger cracks a smile. "I think we'll fight no matter what." He works a hand into Brian’s hair, and Brian closes his eyes and hums. “I don’t want us to, though. Not about the important stuff.”

“Me neither,” Brian says. He’s not sure it can be avoided, no matter their intentions, but he keeps that to himself. “Don’t you think it’s too easy, though? This?”

Roger’s hand stills. “It took me two months to get you in bed and you think taking it further is too easy?”

He sounds so incredulous that Brian can’t help but laugh. He opens his eyes and draws Roger in for another kiss.

“We don’t have to rush,” Roger speaks between their mingling breaths. He finds the inside of Brian’s wrist. “But I think this could work.”

“Yeah,” Brian whispers and brings his hand up to cup Roger’s face.

♛ ♛ ♛

The next morning, Brian gets up early to take a detour to uni before work. A recent graduate agreed to meet up and sell their used books for the upcoming semester for cheap, and by the time he stops by one of the coffee vending machines, books secured under one arm, Brian feels wonderfully accomplished.

He's just put his coin in when someone taps him on the shoulder, and he turns around to find Tim looking slightly harassed but with a friendly smile on his face.

Brian instantly returns his smile. "Tim! What are you doing here?"

Tim's smile turns wry. "Study group."

"Already?" He's not even surprised. Where university is concerned, Tim's work ethic has always impressed him. Brian feels a spike of worry—classes are still four weeks away, but the upcoming semester is going to be a tough one from what he’s heard. He suddenly feels stupid for not having begun studying yet.

Tim shrugs. "I like to get ahead, you know." He peers at the books under Brian's arm. "New books?"

Brian punches the button for a cappuccino. He suspects it doesn't make much of a difference—all the variants contain too much milk sugar and a minimal amount of actual coffee. "Yeah, got them pretty cheap. Got time for a cup of coffee?"

"Sure.”

The machine is unusually slow today. Brian pushes the button again.

“How’s Freddie?” Tim asks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “And … everyone else?”

“Good,” Brian says distractedly, pushing buttons at random now, “they’re good—the machine took my coin!”

“There’s a Starbucks nearby,” Tim offers, drumming his fingers on the side of the coffee vending machine.

Brian resists the urge to kick it. “I’m not gonna pay 6 pounds for a coffee when I can get it for 50 pence here!”

“Right,” Tim says.

“What’s wrong with it?” Brian asks, getting increasingly frustrated. He’s paid for it, god damn it.

“You know what?” Tim has pulled out his phone. “On second thought, I am in a bit of a hurry.” He claps Brian on the shoulder. “I’ll see you around. And, eh … good luck with your coffee.”

When Tim has turned the corner, Brian gives into the urge and kicks the machine.

♛ ♛ ♛

“Hey, babe."

Brian looks up at the sound of Roger's voice and finds a warm smile for him. He closes the door to the store behind him. "What are you doing here?"

Roger smiles brightly. "Thought you might need some company on the way home." He holds up the two to-go cups he’s holding. "I brought you coffee!"

Brian feels warm with gratefulness. Then a thought strikes him, and he hesitates.

He doesn’t want to be rude, he really, really doesn’t, and it’s not Roger’s fault, but he thought of drinking milk again makes him sick. He can’t do it. But at the same time, he can’t not drink it when Roger’s gone through the trouble of buying and bringing it.

“You look like I just handed you a cup of poison,” Roger says. “It’s just coffee, don’t worry. I got it with soya for you. No animals harmed, I promise. Look, the cup is even made from recycled cardboard!”

“Thank you,” Brian says, weak with relief and suddenly shy. Their fingers brush when Roger hands the cup over.

“Do I get a kiss for the trouble?” Roger grins. “When we get home?”

Brian rolls his eyes, doing his utmost to control the smile that tugs at his lips. He covers it with a sip from his coffee, which is scalding hot and foamless, just as he likes it.

“Maybe,” he allows, starting to walk towards the bus stop.

Roger smiles as he falls into step with him. "You seem happy today.”

"Sorry," Brian says, "won't happen again."

Roger gives him a light shove. "Come off it."

Brian laughs and almost spills his coffee.

They’re lucky enough to find seats opposite of each other on the bus, and their knees knock together until Roger loops his legs around Brian's and pulls.

"Behave," Brian warns him, sitting back in his seat but allowing Roger's legs to press against his own; a wonderful, solid warmth.

He looks out the window but can feel Roger's eyes on him.

“Would you quit staring at me,” he says, covering his self-consciousness with a scoff. He’s not used to this much attention, and while it's not exactly unwelcome, it’s vaguely unsettling all the same.

"Can't help it," Roger says, "you're so bloody gorgeous."

"Well, do something about it, then. Therapy or something. It freaks me out."

Roger laughs but relents. "Wonder what Fred&Deaks are up to," he says after a moment. "John told me Fred wanted to take him to this strange gallery."

"Good for him," Brian says, distracted by an email notification on his phone.

"Reckon you'd hate it," Roger continues, seemingly unfazed by his less than enthusiastic reply, "full of paintings of ladies and that. Not exactly your thing. Seems to be Freddie's at times."

"Just because he doesn't want to shag them doesn't mean he can't appreciate them," Brian says, "you're so black and white at times, it’s astounding really."

Roger nudges his knee. "I'm black and white, huh?"

Brian gives him a withering look. He suspects it’s not entirely working. "Whatever it is you're implicating ..."

Roger grins. "You're so suspicious of me."

Returning his smile, Brian leans onto his elbows, balancing on his knees. "I can't stop thinking about yesterday,” he confesses. “Reckon it's the best I've had in ages."

"You weren't too bad yourself," Roger says with a grin, "but my memory's terrible, I might need a repeat performance before I can give you a proper review."

Brian lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Roger leans back, looking pleased. “Yeah.”

♛ ♛ ♛

Brian looks up from his attempted songwriting at the sound of a soft but fervent “yes”. He glances at the screen of Roger’s phone and is not surprised to see he’s still playing Candy Crush. Perhaps he’s finally reached next level after being stuck for two days.

Shifting slightly on the couch, Brian puts his hand on Roger’s thigh and exchanges amused glances with Freddie, who has paused his sketching to curiously peer at Roger. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the armchair, one of John’s legs at his side. Roger, too engrossed in his phone, doesn’t look up.

As Freddie returns to his iPad, John's hand drops to his hair, his fingers lightly scratching his scalp as he reads Lord of the Rings for the umpteenth time, and Freddie closes his eyes, his face a picture of wellbeing. Smiling to himself, Brian removes his hand from Roger’s thigh to pick up his hand instead, idly playing with his fingers as he tries to come up with the next line of his song.

In his peripheral vision, the corners of Roger’s mouth turn up, and Brian swipes his thumb over the Leo constellation on the inside of his wrist, follows its pattern of stars. Unthinkingly, he picks up his uncapped pen and carefully marks down the stars of his own Cancer constellation next to the tattoo. Roger’s smile is closer to that of a smirk when he turns his head to inspect the new addition to his wrist, and Brian is mortified with himself.

"Sap," Roger simply says, dropping a kiss to Brian’s hair before he resumes his Candy Crush.

Brian doesn't dare look up, but when he does, a mischievous pair of grey-green eyes is trained on him. Catching his eye, John slowly lifts an eyebrow, looking very, very pleased. Brian promptly flips him off.

A moment later, Roger pockets his phone and yawns widely. "Gonna go out for a smoke and some groceries," he says, putting his newly decorated hand on Brian’s knee to lever himself to his feet. "John, you ready?"

Brian can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips as John and Roger disappear into the hallway to put on their coats and boots. “Don’t forget the shopping bag,” he says, listening to the creak of the floorboards and accepting a kiss from Roger on the way out.

At the sound of the front door slamming, he stretches out his legs, glad to have the couch to himself. Freddie covers a yawn and gets to his feet.

“Cup of tea?” he asks, and Brian hums in reply, closing his eyes as Freddie gets up to clank around with cups and spoons.

Brian is not sure when he last felt this happy and relaxed, and quietly resolves to do what he can to hold on to this feeling. He’s beginning to suspect that how he felt over Christmas and New Year’s is not entirely normal or healthy.

He feels around for his pen between the cushions and picks up his notebook from where it’s ended up on the floor, and manages to get a few more lines down before Freddie presents him with a steaming, perfectly made cup of tea.

Brian thanks him with a smile, greedily inhaling the fragrant steam, and watches him take his own cup to the dining table to sit down with a loose sheet of paper, presumably inspired by Brian’s own songwriting.

Brian finishes his tea around the same time he finishes his song, and has just got up to get his book when the phone rings, mum’s name flashing on his screen.

"Hi, mum," he says, glad she called on a day where he feels as good as he does. He should visit them soon. "How are you?"

"Brian." Something in her tone of voice makes Brian pause. His heart thuds against his chest.

"Hi, mum," he repeats, uncertain. The line is silent for a while. "Mum?"

"Do you want to come have dinner with dad and I, honey?" She sounds strange, and Brian swallows a sudden sting of fear.

"I'm sorry, I already planned to eat at home." He pauses. “Mum, you sound so strange. Is everything alright?"

"Nothing's wrong, honey," she assures, voice slightly hysterical, "nothing that can't wait. Are you free tomorrow?"

"Mum," he says, putting on his best stern voice. "Something is wrong and I want to know."

"I really shouldn't tell you over the phone."

"Mum." He resists the urge to stomp his foot. Anxiety thrums under his skin.

"Alright." She sighs, and Brian doesn't think he imagines her shuddery intake of breath. "Brian, you remember how dad's bronchitis has been worse lately, don’t you?"

"Yes," he says, voice coming out as a whisper. He tightens his grip around the phone. It's nothing, he tells himself. Bronchitis is not dangerous, mum is just overreacting as usual. "Did he see a doctor yet?"

"He went before Christmas, we just got the results." Her voice breaks now, and Brian feels sick.

"Mum."

"It's not bronchitis," she says. She's crying now. "It's cancer."

#whoops #sorry brian #keep yourself alive #maylor #queen fanfiction #deacury

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shreddedparchment · 5 years

Text

Bubbles

for @ravennightingaleandavatempus

Pairing: Stucky x Reader

Word Count: 5,017

A/N: I am so sorry that this is so fucking late. Like, super late! But I hope this makes up for it. I am super tired so this is not edited much. Please excuse any typos and I will come back when I am more alert and fix it up. This is my first Stucky fic EVER so please be kind! If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

“Okay, I know that things are really tough right now with two investors backing out so I need you guys to see where we can cut costs.” You flip to the next page in the black leather folder sitting before you on the beautiful redwood meeting table in the Avengers Compound common room. “We’re spending fifteen hundred dollars on centerpieces? Is that really necessary? This is a publicity dinner. Check to see what else we can do for centerpieces. Swag. Slap an ‘Avengers’ A on some money clips and wallets, maybe some baseball caps? Okay? Brainstorm and we’ll meet in a week.”

The six marketing department employees under you start to rise and gather up their notes and phones before they begin to make their way towards the stairs and elevator.

“Thanks Team!” You yell after them, hoping it isn’t too late.

They’re not unhappy but you can see the stress in their faces over this stupid dinner. Since Bucky came back into the picture, he’s been working as an Avenger in secret. Spotted a couple times and plastered all over the news, the former Winter Soldier has everyone on edge. Everyone that doesn’t know him.

Bucky also isn’t the warmest Avenger and he’s kept from interacting with the other employees. Your own marketing team doesn’t know how to approach this dinner because they don’t know him. Not like you do.

You hadn’t been expecting to fall in love with James Buchanan Barnes. In fact, you hadn’t even been sure you were going to like him.

Steve spoke about him in length over the time you two have known each other. It wasn’t long before you realized that there had been more to them than brotherhood and friendship. Their relationship had been complicated and had many layers.

So, when Steve showed up at Triskelion after the Battle of New York looking for you, you’d been first; relieved to see him. Second; surprised that he came to find you. And Third; extremely shocked when he marched into your office, wrapped his arms around you, and kissed you hard.

“Ow.” You gasp, surprised by the roughness of Steve’s sudden kiss.

“Sorry.” Steve gasps, still wearing his Captain America uniform. He looks good but before today you would have never admitted it aloud. “Sorry. I just…got excited. I mean, the world almost ended.”

He explains himself breathing heavily as if he’s still amidst the fight with the Chitauri. His shoulders are heaving, wide and hard, his chest pressed closely to yours. It’s an impossible position that you’d never expected to find yourself in. With your hands gently gripping his shoulder blades you stare up into his storm blue eyes with a million questions yearning for answers.

“I-” You swallow the lump in your throat and laugh once, still not believing that Captain fucking America is holding you in his arms. “I thought you and Bucky were like, together? A thing?”

“Well, we were. I mean, not really. We shared a few special moments and Buck was very special to me, but I was technically with Peggy.”

“So, you’re not just into guys?”

“I’m not really into guys. I was only every interested in Bucky. But it was the 40’s. What could we do? That kind of love wasn’t acceptable at the time.” He looks a little sad as he says it. “And then I lost him so, there was no point in dwelling on what might have been.”

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, hating yourself for bringing up such a painful subject.

“No.” Steve insists, wrapping you up more tightly and stealing your breath. “When things started to go south today, when I thought that I wasn’t going to get out of New York alive, you were there in my mind, telling me to keep fighting.”

“Me?” You shake your head.

“You. Your voice, your face, you kept me going, Y/N. I would have been here sooner, but we had to help civilians and when things calmed down Tony insisted we all had to go get some Shawarma. He wouldn’t take no for an answer so I just went and sat there with my head hanging, impatiently waiting for everyone to finish eating so that I could get my ass over here, to you, so that I could hold you like this and kiss you—not like I just kissed you, I’m sorry I hurt you—and to tell you that…I love you, Y/N. I think I’ve loved you since the day you snuck me a hotdog after I woke up.”

You laugh, nearly in tears as you remember the afternoon after Steve had been awoken from his seventy-year nap. He must be starving. Is all you could think that day and because they were keeping an eye on him to make sure that he was okay—though honestly after his break out and the run through Time’s Square, they should have known that he was perfectly fine—you had to sneak in some food for him. A couple of hot dogs and some soda, courtesy of a small shop down the block with hotdogs to die for.

“Well, I thought you might be hungry.”

“And I have been. Starving, Y/N, but for this.” He tightens his arms, leaning in closer to you so that he can graze his nose against your once more stealing your oxygen. “For you. Tell me this isn’t just me?”

It takes you a few very tense seconds to answer in which you watch his storm blue eyes flit back and forth between yours as he tries to read you before you can answer.

“No.” You finally sigh. “It’s not just you.”

Steve smiles and it’s so blindingly beautiful you nearly lose your footing as your knees buckle. Lucky, Steve’s already holding you taut and so he only strengthens his grip as he leans down slowly to meet your lips in another kiss. Luckily, this one is much softer as his strong hands tenderly stroke your back and sides while he deepens the kiss and draws you into a haze with his seductive French kiss.

“Hey, saleswoman, how’d the meeting go?”

You look up from your spot at the table and shut your folder and pick it up to hold against your chest then grab your phone and hold that in your free hand. You then descend the stairs and approach Mr. Stark a he eyes you and the last of your marketing team disappearing down the stairs.

“It went alright. We’re lacking some funds, but we’ll be alright. Thanks for lending me the space. Our offices are still being remodeled. Any idea when they’re gonna be done?”

“I’ll ask the bossy.” Stark says.

“Aren’t you the boss?” You ask confused.

“Pepper says ‘no’. Investors pull out?”

“Uh, yeah.” You sigh heavily. “It looks like some of the senators are not as convinced of Bucky’s rehabilitation as we thought. They’re nervous about backing him with his shady history.”

Stark sighs heavily, widening his eyes as he considers his own dark history with Bucky. You always feel weird bringing him up.

“Yeah, well, something tells me it’s more about them not wanting anyone poking around the skeletons in their closets. Sign me up. I’ll cover what they withdrew.”

“No, Mr. Stark, you don’t have to do that. We’ll be alright, we can cut costs.” You assure him, hating the idea that Stark is doing this to be nice for you, and tying himself to something related with Bucky when he might still just want to kill the guy.

“No. Really. I think it’s time we bury the hatchet and it doesn’t seem like he’s going anywhere. As much as I’d love to put a bullet in his head, he’s important to Steve and you’re important to Steve so, sign me up. Call Pepper, she’ll get you a check.” Mr. Stark gives you a small and very quick smile before pulling the hands from his well-tailored suit and heading towards the stairs himself.

“Okay. Thank you, Mr. Stark. That means a lot.” You call towards him. “To Steve too, I’m sure.”

Stark stops to look at you when he reaches the top of the stairs. “It’s Tony, kid. I’ll see you around.”

“Right…Tony. Thank you.” You call out after him as he descends the stairs and disappears from sight just as your phone beeps.

You look down at the illuminated screen as a message flashes across it, from the man of the hour, Bucky.

‘So, I accidentally did a thing and now I need your help.’ The message reads.

Sighing you quickly type your reply.

‘Where are you?’

‘The apartment.’

‘Get Steve to help you. I’m working. Still planning your stupid party.’

‘I thought it was a dinner?’

‘It is a dinner, dumbass.’

‘Darling, would you please stop arguing with me via text and just get your ass over here? I need your help.’

‘Ask Steve!’

‘He went out!’

“Fuck!” You shout, jealous and angry. Sharing Steve had not been part of the plan.

‘I’ll be right there. Don’t go anywhere like last time, Barnes. If I show up and you’re gone, I’m going to kick your ass.’

With a small growl you head out too, headed back to the city to meet up with your boyfriend’s boyfriend.

Slipping your key into the top lock, you listen as the heavy deadbolt slides out then unlock the bottom one, which is much quietly. A mechanical hiss as you twist the nob and walk inside.

The apartment is older, with turn of the century interiors and filled with modern takes on 1950’s furniture in maple, walnut, and oak tones. Steve had decorated and you’d let him, eager to just start your lives together. You’d given the apartment it’s smaller touches. You’d chosen dark carpets to give the space a cozier feel and insisted that all lights be dimmable. You’d decorated the gray couches with turquoise and purple throw pillows, a large yellow carpet on the floor over the already carpeted space under the coffee table. You’d chosen red sheets for your shared bed, and silver sheets for guest bedroom where Bucky currently slept.

Lastly, you’d bought several plants to give the place some life, flowers were bought every week for the dining room and the living room, and there were of course the endless picture frames adorning tables and walls that over the years of being with Steve, you two had accumulated. Over the fireplace you kept a picture of Peggy for him and there was a picture of him and Bucky as well.

You walk in and pull your coat off, shutting the door behind you as you drop off your keys on the table beside the coat rack.

“Bucky?” You quickly peel off your shoes too and massage the sore spots on the heels of your feet, wincing with relief as you finally abandon those stupid boots.

There is no answer.

“Bucky?!” That jerk better not have gone somewhere!

You move towards his bedroom and glance inside but he’s not there, though there is a stack of laundry on the foot of the bed.

With your eyebrows raised you unbutton your plum suit jacket and remove it, leaving you in your light blue polka dot, strapless thigh-length dress.

“Fucking Bucky.” You growl and frown as you move into the kitchen.

There is no one in the kitchen. No one in the bathroom. No one in the living room which you had already passed as you’d had to in order to get to his room, but you needed to check again.

“Oh, laundry…” You suddenly realize that you haven’t checked the laundry room and his bed had that pile of clean clothes neatly folded.

With quiet feet you move towards the door just off the kitchen and throw it open expecting to find Bucky in there probably holding a pile of previously white clothes now stained pink or something stupid like that but instead you find him holding Steve’s hands behind his back as he pins him against the washer which sits open spilling endless bubbles into the small room making the floor slick and smell like clean linen.

You gasp quietly, shocked by the sight as Bucky’s lips overlap Steve’s, passionately massaging them as he holds Steve’s hands behind his back with his impossibly strong metal hand while his right one cups Steve’s left cheek. Bucky’s shirtless, wearing low slung black sweats giving you a subtle view of the top curve of his buns of steel.

They’re both so lost in each other, two masses of bulging muscle, wide shoulders, and testosterone, that they don’t notice you and as Steve moans lightly, your heart erupts into green toxic sludge, poisoning you.

This is what you’d feared from the moment that Steve had run off to find Bucky. He was going to forget you in favor of a greater love he’d lost.

You don’t stand there staring at them with your heart breaking for long because Steve opens his eyes suddenly as Bucky tilts his head in the opposite direction, breaking the kiss briefly.

Steve pulls back, fighting Bucky’s hold until Bucky also turns to look towards you and releases Steve’s wrists.

“Y/N…”

“I thought you were out?” You quickly try to compose yourself, urging your jealousy to go away, for the love of all that’s good in the world, because you need to let Steve have this, have Bucky.

He needs him. Much more than he needs you.

“I was.” Steve says, slipping as he tries to take a step towards you through the mass of bubbles and soap on the floor.

You look at Bucky who looks slightly embarrassed, scratching the back of his head as he eyes the room.

“I put too much soap in the wash. It was an accident.” Bucky exclaims. “Stark’s paying me now, so I’ll make sure to pay for any damage to the apartment.”

You glare at him for a second then watch as Steve finally closes the distance to you, grabbing hold of your waist as he reaches you. “You look beautiful today, hon.”

You don’t look at him, hating him for needing Bucky. “Thanks.”

He gives your hips a squeeze, knowing you well enough to know you’re struggling. “Y/N…” He pleads.

“How the hell are we going to clean this up?” You wonder, staring at the mess at your feet.

“Buckets?” Bucky suggests.

Steve looks at him and you can see the blush on his face and the love in his eyes as he looks at Bucky. You cross your arms across your chest, curling in on yourself feeling thoroughly left out.

“Yeah, I’ll go get some. I’ll be ten minutes, max.” Steve turns back to you and searches for your eyes. You meet his and struggle to keep your pining subdued. “Ten minutes, hon. Then you can tell me how your meeting went, okay?”

“I don’t need you to coddle me, Steve.” You argue, hating this feeling.

Steve sighs and leans in to kiss you quickly, just a peck, before he gives Bucky a pleading gaze. He turns and then he’s gone.

Both you and Bucky wait until you hear the front door close before either of you move. You look at him and he gives you a nervous grin.

“At least I was still here this time, right?” Bucky asks, chuckling nervously as he watches you.

You frown at him and move into the laundry room, careful with your steps as you approach the washing machine to get a look at the mess inside. “Give me that basket.”

Bucky moves to the red plastic basket you’re pointing at and then heads towards you with it.

“You don’t have to come over here. Just hand it over.” You complain, reaching for it

“You’ll fall.” Bucky insists.

“Bucky, just give me the damn basket.” You growl and reach for it.

“You’ll hurt yourself, darling, stop being so stubborn.”

“Bucky!” You argue and make a final swipe for the basket.

Which is stupid because the floor beneath your bare feet is so slippery even Steve was having trouble keeping himself upright.

You yell shrilly as your feet suddenly swing out from underneath you. The basket goes flying but you’re suddenly caught in strong arms as Bucky rushes forward to swing himself over you. He slips too which is why he’s spinning himself around so that as both of you land on the soapy floor, he lands underneath you.

Gasping in surprise you hold onto Bucky’s shoulders, clinging to him as your mind and heart catch up with each other. You idiot. You just fell.

Underneath you Bucky is also breathing heavily but then he’s laughing, throwing his head back into the suds which turn his hair white. “You’re so damn stubborn.”

You grunt and pull against his grip because his hands are holding your waist against him, hooked into the curve of your body above your bottom.

“Let me go, James.”

“Awe, no, don’t go back to calling me James.” He complains.

“Will you just let me go?”

“No. You’ll fall again and if you break your neck on my watch, Steve’ll kill me. He really loves you, you know that?”

Yeah, right.

“Y/N…” Bucky chastises you, apparently knowing where your thoughts are.

“Bucky, please let me up.” You’re not blind, seeing his rippling muscles underneath you is quite a sight.

You can’t blame Steve for wanting Bucky if he looked like this always. He’s exquisite, just like Steve. Super Soldiers of perfection.

“Do I make you nervous?” He suddenly asks, stunning you.

“Bucky.” You growl, intent on not showing him how hot your neck and ears have suddenly gotten.

“Alright, alright, but let me help you.”

Carefully he helps you up and onto your feet and with hi metal arm wrapped securely around your waist from behind—is he wearing underwear under those sweats? You really doubt it, you can feel everything—he waddles you towards the doorway and lets you go when you’ve cleared the frame.

You give Bucky one final look of uncertainty before you stomp towards the bathroom to get a towel to clean yourself off.

Toweling your arms and your dress, you stare into the mirror above the sink and watch as Bucky slides into the frame, leaning against the open door.

“Why don’t you like me?” Bucky asks, genuinely curious.

He doesn’t look sad or upset, just curious and it’s surprising so you just stare at him for a few moments before you lift your left leg up a little to wipe at the suds on your calf.

“Why do you think I don’t like you?” You wonder, off hand.

“Come on, Y/N, you’re not exactly ecstatic that I’m living here with you and Steve. You haven’t exactly rolled out the welcome wagon.”

“I’m planning your party, what the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s a dinner. And you’re only doing it because Steve asked you to.” Bucky points out.

“Bucky…”

“Is it because of me and Steve? I know that you two have a life together, I’m not here to try and tear that apart.” He promises, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweats which tug his pants down a little lower.

Your eyes inadvertently wander down to that deep V of his hips and you clear your throat while quickly averting your eyes.

“I never said you were.”

“But you act like it every time Steve and I…I missed him, Y/N. I mean, I didn’t know that I missed him until he came to get me, but I missed him. I’m sorry if that’s hard for you. He and I never got the chance to really just…be together.”

“I know that, Bucky. I’m not trying to keep you two apart. In order for Steve to be happy he needs you in his life.” You sigh heavily, resting your hands on the edge of the counter as you drop the towel beside the sink and shake your head. “He loves you.”

A subtle heat suddenly wafts over your back, bringing your eyes back up to the mirror. Bucky stands behind you, staring at you over your left shoulder as he towers over you. He’s slightly shorter than Steve but not by much. Your eyes wander over the scars of his arm briefly and you feel bad for what he had to go through. Finding Steve was a miracle for both of them.

As you meet his steel blue eyes with your own through the mirror, you find your breath catching from the softness in his eyes.

“You’re not exactly like other dames, are you?”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

He smiles, amused. “Why don’t you like me?”

Your heart stutters with his renewed question and you turn around to look up at him. He’s a lot closer than you first thought and you’re very aware of his chiseled chest and his soft dark brown hair tucked behind his ears. He looks good. Better than you’d ever been willing to admit before. This is getting complicated.

“I don’t not like you.” You argue gently.

Bucky’s hand suddenly pulls the towel you’d been using to clean up around your shoulders. He grips it on both ends, wrapping you in as he pulls the corners in his tight fists which brings you closer so that you’re resting inches from his body.

“So, you like me?” He grins down at you, softening it so that it’s more intimate than gentle teasing.

Your stomach tumbles, somersaulting rapidly as your nerves spring to the precipice of madness. How does he dare bring himself this close to you?!

“I-I said I don’t not like you. There’s a difference.” You counter as he leans in towards you, his hot breath wafting over your lips.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah…” You whisper as his slightly damp lips meet yours.

You groan because for a moment it almost tastes like you’re kissing both Steve and Bucky at the same time. Steve’s taste is still on his lips and you shudder in his arms, overcome with pleasure as he pulls you closer, trapping your hands against his bare chest.

He pulls back, to lick his lips, staring at your own as his thumb wipes soapy bubbles from your cheek.

“What are you doing?” You ask him in a whisper.

“I don’t not like you too.” He whispers back and tilts his head the other way before he kisses you again just as you begin to laugh.

This time you force your arms out from between the two of you and wrap them around his neck to push yourself up onto your tiptoes and moan against his lips.

He chuckles against your lips and pulls back to push more suds off your cheeks.

“Wanna know a secret?”

“Mm?”

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Hell yeah.” Bucky exclaims quietly then pulls you in for another kiss, this time pressing his tongue against your lower lip which prompts your lips apart so that he can slip his tongue in to mingle with your own, sliding deliciously in exploration.

“Mmmm.” You moan once more, refusing to think about how long you’ve been fighting the urge to kiss him too.

A clearing throat interrupts you and Bucky pulls back, breaking your kiss with a loud smack.

Still wrapped in his arms, both you and Bucky look towards the door and find Steve with his arms crossed over his wide chest, his face fixed into a frown.

“This isn’t what it looks like.” Bucky says quickly.

“Really?!”

“Okay, it’s exactly what it looks like.” Bucky relents.

“Bucky!” You complain, trying to worm out of his grip but he tightens his arms around you.

“What? Lying gets us nowhere. Come on, can’t we just give in to this? It was going to happen eventually, and I’m tired of sleeping by myself.” Bucky whines.

“I didn’t know Bucky Barnes was such a whiner.” You argue.

“Come on! Please, let me sleep with you guys. I hate that big empty bed.”

“Why are you so need?” You fight.

Steve rolls his eyes and disappears into the hall.

An hour and a half later, both you and Bucky approach Steve who has been in the kitchen cooking while you and Bucky cleaned the laundry room trying hard not to kiss again and also trying hard to figure out what this means for all three of you.

Steve, who’s already sitting at the table, is busy serving three plates with barbecue glazed chicken, corn, broccoli, and brown rice.

“Steve?” You probe, but he doesn’t turn to look at you.

“Steve?” Bucky tries but Steve only pours three large glasses of sweet tea and sits back down.

“Hey, this isn’t fair.” You finally growl, exploding with the guilt you feel over him catching you making out with Bucky. “How do you think I’ve felt every single time I walk in on you and James doing stuff?”

“Awe, darling, not James again.”

“You’re James when you make me jealous!” You tell him angrily and poke his chest with your index finger.

Ow. Muscles.

“Steve,” You push on. “I know that was probably really surprising to walk in on, but I can’t ask you to give up Bucky because I know you love him and Bucky deserves to be happy, too. Both of you do. And…he’s…a pain in my ass most of the time but he can also be really sweet, mostly when you’re not around. I didn’t realize that I’d started to not dislike him until the past month.”

“A whole month?” Bucky asks, blushing as he reaches over and places his hand on your hip, tickling you there over your dress.

“Bucky,” You chastise him.

“What? I just didn’t know you’ve liked me for so long. Kinda makes me wanna kiss you again.”

“Seriously? Right now? I’m trying to keep my boyfriend, dumbass. Can’t you just…zip it? Or something?”

Bucky laughs. “You found us a funny one, Steve.”

You glare at Bucky but when you turn to look at Steve, he’s smiling softly, which stuns you into silence.

“Can we tell her? Please? This is torturing her.” Bucky begs Steve and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Come here, hon.” He says, opening his right arm for you to beckon you closer.

You hurry to him, eager to be in his good graces but also plotting how you’re going to get back at both of them for this because it sounds like they’ve talked about this, the three of you, being a possibility before.

He pulls you onto his lap and pushes your hair back off of your shoulder. “Listen, Y/N, Bucky’s not lying. We’ve been talking about how we can keep this thing—the three of us under one roof—going. I know that it’s been hurting you to see me with Buck and I just said it off-hand, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if you and she got together?’ I only half meant it. Less than half. I don’t want to share you.”

“And I don’t wanna share you.” You assure him.

“I’m totally okay with being shared.” Bucky chimes in and both you and Steve laugh.

“He’s my best friend.” Steve whispers to you, though Bucky can clearly still hear the two of you. “I-I can’t live without him, Y/N. I love him.”

“I know. And…honestly Steve, so do I.” You sigh but then feel two large arms wrap around you.

“You love me, darling?” Bucky asks, his deep voice serious in your ear.

The new tone makes him sound so different you almost doubt whether he’s the same person.

“You drive me crazy.” You tell him, turning to look at him.

He pulls back to look you in the eyes but keeps his arms around you, settled on his knees.

“But yes. I do love you Bucky. I don’t know why-”

“Gee, thanks.”

“But I love you.”

Bucky reaches up to pull you down for a long hot kiss, emotional and heavy with meaning before he pulls back and looks at Steve.

“Can we do this?” He asks, unsure and still serious which is throwing you.

You haven’t seen Bucky be this sincere since Steve brought him home and he met you for the first time.

Steve smiles down at Bucky before he leans down to meet his lips in a slow burning kiss, years of love and devotion pouring into it and for the first time, you’re not jealous. You really do just want them to be happy together. Hopefully they have room in their hearts for you too?

When Steve pulls away, he smiles lovingly at Bucky then turns to you and pulls you into a burning kiss, new love, searing and needy pouring into you from his lips.

“We can do this.” He says as he pulls away.

“Fuck yeah.” Bucky celebrates then gets to his feet. “Who wants ice cream?”

“We don’t have ice cream.” You laugh, leaning in against Steve’s chest while still perched on his lap.

“I’ll go get some. I’ll just run to the bodega downstairs. No fun stuff until I get back.” He insists, pointing at you specifically.

“Why are you telling me?”

“I’ve been listening to you and Steve for months. You’re the animal in bed. No fun stuff, darling. Wait for me.” He rushes out of the kitchen and towards the front door.

“Put on a shirt, dumbass!” You shout after him then turn to kiss Steve senseless. You’ve got a few minutes of personal make out time and before your two-some becomes a three-some, you’re going to milk this alone time as much as you can.

Steve laughs against your lips, then cups both sides of your face as he pushes that kiss farther and slides his hand up to the zipper on your dress.

“Hey!” Bucky shouts from the kitchen doorway.

Steve’s hand releases your zipper.

“Wait for me.” Bucky orders and you hear the Winter Soldier in his tone and somehow it just turns you on more making you itch for his quick return.

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nikkoliferous · 4 years

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He doesn’t bother explaining why he’s here.

This is early on, late May, a few months into the race, but he is already of the belief that he is doing something extraordinary with his presidential campaign — something that’s never been done before. The trouble is describing it. There’s no word for this in modern politics. It is, he believes, “a new way to communicate with the American people” — though he won’t say this until later, and only when asked. Even now, long after he’s put this work at the center of his campaign — at his events, in ads, on Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube — he won’t talk about it much. He isn’t sure it’ll work, or if people are “picking up on what we’re trying to do here.” The media, he believes, has always believed, can’t fathom what’s at the heart of this.

So when he arrives at the house, a small mobile home 40 miles outside Montgomery, Alabama, over the Lowndes County line, in one of the poorest places in the country, with five reporters and his own camera crew, he steps through the front door, greets his host, and begins with no clear mention of what he hopes to accomplish here or how it will help him become president.

Pamela Rush, a 49-year-old mother of two, is showing him the problems with her home: the floor tilting visibly to one side, the sheets of plaster peeling off the wall, the broken pipes, the broken cabinetry. He stops in the room where her daughter sleeps. “Do you guys wanna…?” He motions for everyone to come closer. His videographer shuffles forward. On the bedside table, there’s a ventilation machine, the kind used for sleep apnea. A tube of ribbed plastic connects the device to a mask resting on the bedspread, which is patterned cheerily with tiny elephants. Because of mold in the house, Pamela’s daughter needs the device to breathe in her sleep. “How old is she?” the candidate asks. She’s 10. Pamela holds up the mask so he can see up close.

“Show them, not me,” he says, gesturing toward the camera.

She shows the camera the mask.

The visit continues like this. “Show them,” he keeps saying. “Show them.” He speaks only to ask questions, prompting Pamela to “explain” this or that, pointing her to an unseen audience on the other end of his camera lens. It’s like he’s directing his own video — except the video isn’t about him or his campaign or his policy agenda. He is, it seems, somewhere offscreen, an omniscient narrator, felt maybe, but not seen or heard. This is not a public event. There is no crowd. There is no podium, no speech. Mostly, there is silence. The leader of the political revolution — a man who has spent 50 years of his life trying to talk about his ideas — is not saying much at all.

In his first campaign, a third-party bid for US Senate in 1972, he lugged around a 2,000-page, two-volume study by the House Banking and Currency Committee, liberally quoting its findings to the people of Vermont. He spent that year telling anyone who would listen about the fact that a mere 49 banks were trustees of $135 billion and held 768 “interlocking directorships” with 286 of the country’s largest 500 industrial corporations. To him, the phenomenon of interlocking directorships was not arcane or irrelevant to daily life in Vermont. It was an urgent outrage.

In Congress, he developed “the oligarchy speech,” a bleak overview of income inequality in America. The speech became the basis of his public events, his lengthy posts on Facebook, of an entire book — title: The Speech — consisting solely of the transcript of an eight-hour speech he delivered on the floor of the Senate.

And in 2016 — the rallies? The arenas? He had 2,600 in Iowa’s hulking Mid-America Center — largest crowd of the caucus season. He hit every city he could: 5,000 people in Houston, 8,000 in Dallas, 10,000 in Madison, 11,000 in Phoenix, 15,000 in Seattle, 27,500 in Los Angeles, 28,000 in Portland — plus overflow! All those people showing up to hear an hourlong speech they already knew by heart: wages down, median income stalled, one family with more wealth than the bottom 130 million… As he spoke, they’d mouth along to their favorite lines: “Congress does not regulate Wall Street—” “WALL STREET REGULATES CONGRESS,” the crowd would shout back. “Enough is—” “ENOUGH!” they roared. The succession of grim facts — “but let me tell you what is even worse!” he’d say — became a ritual. When a small bird, later identified as a common house finch, once landed on his lectern, an entire stadium full of people cheered wildly, mouths open, their arms raised to the sky, eyes turned upward — not to God, but to the image of the bird and their candidate on the Jumbotron. There was power in the speech. He believed, aides have said, that he was literally changing a generation, person by person, line by line, with every rally.

That was the whole thing — Bernie Sanders, talking.

This is something different.

“Pamela,” he says gently, “why don’t you explain it.”

“And be loud so everyone can hear you…”

Bernie Sanders is sorry for your troubles, but that’s not the reason he’s asking you to talk about them — which he is, everywhere he goes. He wants you to talk about your medical bill — the one you can’t pay. He wants you to talk about losing your house because you got sick. He wants you to talk about the payday loans you took out to keep your kid in school. About the six-figure student debt that’s always on your mind. About living off credit cards, or losing your pension, or working multiple jobs for wages that won’t be enough to support your family.

He would like you to talk about this publicly, in detail, and on camera. He will ask you to do this in front of reporters, or in a room full of strangers at one of his town halls. Of course, the Bernie Digital Team will be there — they are always there — taping your story on camera, or streaming it in real-time to his own mass broadcast system on YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter. On any given day, he is capable of reaching millions of people.

“Who wants to share their story?” he’ll say. “Don’t be embarrassed. Millions of people are in your boat.”

He has, it turns out, built an entire presidential campaign around an open invitation to speak — to talk plainly about the “reality of life” in this country — to be “loud so everyone can hear.”

His suggestion, by asking you to speak up about your private anxieties, many of them financial, is that you and the millions of people in the proverbial audience will begin to see your struggles not as personal failings, but systemic ones. He is less interested in explicitly presenting solutions than naming the problem — that “we have millions of people in the richest country in the history of the world who are struggling every single day,” which is a phrase he repeats daily, almost like an exhortation, as if to grab the American working class by its shoulders. He doesn’t deal in pity or reassurance. Yes, he’ll give hugs — one arm, from the side, other hand still clutching the mic. But mostly he’ll just listen and nod, gaze lowered. Or he’ll shake his head at the crowd, like can you believe this? And then, from the gut, a clipped scoff, like of course you can believe it. That’s the point. He has heard your story before, because it’s all part of the same story: a broken system, driven by profit and greed, built to reinforce the notion that if you’re bright enough, if you work hard enough, then you can travel the path to the middle class. And if you don’t make it there…well, maybe you’re the problem. And who wants to talk about that?

He believes his presidential campaign can, he says, help people “feel less alone.”

He is trying to change the way people interact with private hardship in this country, which is to say, silently and with self-loathing. He is trying, in as literal a sense as you could imagine, to excise “shame” and “guilt” from the American people. These are not words you hear often in politics, but in interviews this year with the candidate, his wife, and his top advisers, they are central to his strategy to win. He is imagining a presidential campaign that brings people out of alienation and into the political process simply by presenting stories where you might recognize some of your own struggles. He is imagining a voter, he says, who thinks, “I thought it was just me who was struggling to put food on the table. I thought I was the only person. I thought it was all my fault. You mean to say there are millions of people?”

He still has his rallies, but “it’s a different campaign, and we do things differently,” he says. “I can give the greatest speech in the history of the world, but it will not have the significance and the impact that the real-life experience of ordinary Americans will have.” At many of his events, the antiseptic macro focus of the “oligarchy speech” — the anonymous actors on Wall Street, the greed of the American corporation, the rigged system — has been replaced by the most intimate details of someone’s life. The outrage in his voice, a booming rasp amplified across three tiers of an NBA-size venue, is softer now. The arena itself has morphed into a digital platform for one voter’s story.

Show them, he says. Show them, not me.

We understand presidential campaigns, in their most basic form, as a conversation between a candidate and the American people. The conversation is happening all the time, in person and online, directly, indirectly, at every possible scale: It’s a handshake, a speech, a television ad, a sponsored post on Facebook. It’s a policy rollout. It’s the signage at a rally, the way an American flag is steamed and hung just so on a stage. Every dollar of every campaign is spent on shaping or beautifying or amplifying some message from the candidate. Bernie’s first presidential bid, in a sense, was the unprocessed, stripped-down version of that conversation: It was the speech. In terms of the mechanics of the thing, as he put it in late 2016, he wasn’t “reinventing the wheel.”

Four years later, he is attempting to run a presidential campaign that facilitates an entirely different conversation — one between people like Pamela and the American people. The stories he collects and broadcasts across the internet aren’t just voter testimonials produced to validate the campaign or its policies — they’re aimed, in Bernie’s mind, at people validating one another.

After 50 years, this is an unlikely place for the political revolution to land. It’s more human. More empathetic. More personal than what you’d expect from a man who’s willingly played along with his persona as a perma-“outsider” and, as he put it in 2015, “grumpy old guy.”

There’s this idea that Bernie Sanders is “a man of the people who doesn’t like people” — just issues. That’s not exactly right, though the precise balance between the two can be difficult to pin down. “Policy, policy, policy,” says his wife, Jane, who is a strategic partner on her husband’s campaign. “Fight, fight, fight — which is true, but he’s also about people.”

He arrived in Vermont in 1968, full of ideas about movement politics, and began his career by raising his hand at a local third-party meeting. He settled in Stannard, a remote town with no paved roads, populated by fewer than 2o0 people, where he learned to live in isolation. But in politics, he also discovered that he liked talking to strangers about the issues of the day. In the ’80s, he hosted his own public broadcast show as mayor of Burlington. In the footage, unearthed by Politico earlier this year, he can be warm and dryly funny. On the campaign trail in Vermont, he liked to take impromptu walks and kept a pair of trunks in the car in case he passed a swimming hole. In Washington, he kept more to himself. Interviewed in 1991, fellow members of Congress described him as a “homeless waif” with a “holier-than-thou” attitude who “alienates” his potential allies, who “screams and hollers,” one said, “but he is all alone.”

Part of the problem, of course, is that Bernie Sanders is not an open book. He will snap at reporters when they ask him to talk about himself or, god forbid, how he’s changed as a person, because what does that have to do with Medicare for All? “You’re asking about me, and I’M not important,” he once said in an interview. “What’s important are the kinds of policies we need to transform this country. OK?” The conversation was over after six minutes. His interior life, to the extent that it is acknowledged among his campaign staff, is a subject only a few people can address with any authority. A simple question on the subject — have you ever seen him cry? — recently reduced senior aides to various forms of lawyer-speak. “I’ve seen him emotionally affected,” one said after a long pause. Another, as if the question had been unclear and possibly even sinister, said only: “What do you mean?” With Jane, he’ll call from the road to talk about his day, but questions like “How did that make you feel?” are not a part of the discussion. “Oooh, no,” she laughs at the suggestion. “Oh no, no. Yeah, no. He doesn’t do that. No. No. Neeevver.”

He can be harsh with staff — short-tempered and demanding and sometimes rude. “Some people say I am very hard to work with. They say I can be a real son of a bitch. They say I can be nasty, I don't know how to get along with people,” Bernie told his press secretary in 1990, according to a memoir by the former staffer. “Well, maybe there's some truth to it.”

His mood is under careful observation. Aides are always noting things like “He’s in a good mood today.” When he is happy, everyone is happy. When he’s not, everyone is quiet, especially in the SUV, where he will ride shotgun with his iPad, a red Vitaminwater at his side, scrolling through tweets from @BernieSanders, maybe only speaking up to dispassionately observe that people must really care about education in this country because a tweet about education is getting a lot of engagement today. Everyone knows which staffers make him feel most at ease — a special currency on the campaign. Small signs of interpersonal comfort — watching an aide make him laugh, watching another gently brush dandruff from his navy blue blazer — can feel like extraordinary acts of intimacy. In 2016, when discussing the campaign at a bar, some staffers got in the habit of referring to him as “Earl” or “the old man,” because at the end of the day, he is 78 years old. And who would have expected this — the most emotionally driven, intimate, borderline touchy-feely campaign of the 2020 election — from “a real son of a bitch”?

Correction.

“I don’t like the word ‘touchy-feely,’” Bernie Sanders says curtly.

Everyone is sensitive about how to describe this. There’s been a lot of “experimentation” with this, one of his advisers will start to explain — before doubling back to say that, actually, “I think ‘experimentation’ is the wrong word.” There’s no precedent for it. Joe Biden and Elizabeth Warren often invite you to consider your story through the lens of their own. Bill Clinton said “I feel your pain,” but he never asked people to reorient the way they feel about their own pain.

Bernie says he is trying to “redefine our value system.” Jane talks about breaking down decades of societal muscle memory: “It seems to be the American way,” she says. “That we all think it’s our fault — instead of recognizing there is a system that is making it unfair for them.” They are, as they see it, trying to dismantle the ideal of “rugged individualism,” an entire era of political thought. Ari Rabin-Havt, a top adviser who travels with the candidate every day, puts it more tangibly: The campaign is a “megaphone” for working people, he says. Briahna Joy Gray, his national press secretary, has likened the effect to “catharsis” from nationwide “gaslighting.” On the podcast she hosts for the campaign, she compares her boss to Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting: the therapist who tells Matt Damon, a young man who was abused by his foster parent, “It’s not your fault. Look at me, son. It’s not your fault… no, no, no, it’s not your fault.”

It really started late this spring, around the time he went to Alabama. The campaign YouTube page started pushing out stories like Pamela’s: a family living without clean drinking water in South Carolina; a family with inadequate low-income housing in San Francisco; workers at Walmart. On Twitter, he asked people to reply with stories of “their most absurd” medical bill. He got 50,000 responses in a week. By the fall, he was holding more town halls than rallies. In rooms from Iowa to Nevada, one person would raise their hand to speak, then another, and another, and another. “Don’t be nervous,” he’d tell the crowd. “You really are among friends.” Not every event has been as affecting as the next. On one trip, he visited a woman’s home in Des Moines to document her problems with contaminated well water. His host happened to be a fan and prepared two trays of homemade brownies for the occasion. Bernie, already late for his next event, declined to eat a brownie and left after 15 minutes. But more often than not, he is an attentive and genuine listener. At one event last month, a woman stood to say that people are “embarrassed if they don’t think they make enough money.” Bernie told her this had been “instilled” by “the system.” The campaign posted footage of the exchange on Instagram. As you watch the video, bold capital lettering runs across the top and bottom of the screen like an emergency weather alert: “THE SYSTEM WANTS YOU TO BE ASHAMED.”

“What we are doing,” he says, “is really speaking to the working class of this country in a way I’m not quite sure any candidate has ever done before.”

Eventually, when asked, he comes to describe this as core to his strategy to win.

“Here’s the gamble,” Bernie says. The gamble is there are millions of working people who don’t vote or consider politics to be relevant to their lives. “And it is a gamble to see whether we can bring those people into the political process,” he says. “One way you do it is to say, ‘You see that guy? He’s YOU. You’re workin’ for $12 an hour, you can’t afford health insurance — so is he. Listen to what he has to say. It’s not Bernie Sanders talking, you know? It’s that guy. Join us.”

And yet, on a Tuesday night, in one moment, the full force of the political revolution, all 50 years of it, came grinding so unquestioningly to a halt by one blocked artery. He will spend two and a half days in the hospital — and he will lie there hooked up to their beeping machines, and he will yell at the doctors when they try to ask him stupid questions, and he will quiz them about health care policy and obsess over what all this would cost without insurance — and there will be a crisis over what to say in the press release and when to say it and if it can wait until Jane is able to deliver the news in person to the seven grandkids before they see it on CNN, and there will be reporters stalking him outside the building, and all sorts of people will want to visit — and for days, he will say over and over again, “I can’t believe I had a heart attack… I can’t imagine how I had a heart attack… I can’t imagine…” like this is a fact he simply cannot accept, because he feels fine as soon as they finish the procedure and because he’s always had terrific “endurance”... Never thought it’d be his heart to cause him problems… Ran a 4:37 mile in high school...!

But not once, in all that chaos and frustration, will he consider dropping out.

ii.

Here is what Pamela explains to Bernie Sanders: that her family bought this mobile home in the ’90s for a trumped-up price of $114,000; that she lives on $1,000 a month; that she still owes $15,000 on the house; the house she fears will harm her daughter’s health; the house where her mother caught pneumonia and died; the house where, “when a storm comes,” she says, “we have to stay in the mobile home and just pray.” He learns that Pamela’s sister was arrested because she couldn’t afford to pay for the county garbage service. Another sister was arrested because she couldn’t afford to buy into the sanitation system. He turns to a reporter in the Alabama heat. “Really something, isn’t it?” he says. He is frowning, jowls gathered slightly at the neck, but there is no shock or judgment in his face. It will become a familiar expression over the summer and fall. He is not always an obviously comforting presence, but there is never judgment.

“So this is where the waste goes?”

Everyone is outside now, around back. Sanders wants to see where the waste goes.

He learns that Pamela, like many residents in Lowndes County, is also “straight-piping” her untreated sewage from the bathroom to her yard. She is here with Catherine Flowers, an activist who has worked with Congress on the pernicious tangle of issues facing Lowndes County: criminalized poverty, environmental degradation, inadequate infrastructure.

He peers down at a line of dark, matted grass where, a few paces from his feet, inches from the base of the trailer, sewage flows via exposed PVC pipes into a shallow open-air trench. “Is this uncommon in this part of the world?” he asks, steering the conversation for his unseen audience, and the cameras swing back to Pamela and Catherine.

The sun is beating down. Bernie rolls up his sleeves and starts talking gravely about how this is the richest country in the history of the world... “Today we’re in Lowndes County, Alabama, in an African-American community,” he is saying. “Tomorrow we’ll be in California in a Latino community, or in West Virginia in a white community, and the stories will be the same.” You can see his bald head turning shades of pink and red. Everyone is sweating. Pamela is talking about her mother’s death. It is not an easy conversation. “This is America,” he is saying.

Back in his Washington headquarters, the digital team is waiting for the footage.

In the supercharged world Bernie inhabits, the decision to stay in the race was considered not only reasonable, but obvious. Here, there is no confusion about “what we’re trying to do here.” The candidate moves amid a swirl of people you would classify uncynically as “true believers.” It’s a lot of passion in one place. The stakes always feel high. But the hard and fast question of whether they can win the nomination is, to a certain extent, supplanted by the general sense that the movement is a just and right cause and, therefore, in the end, the cause will prevail, likely in a shocking fashion when no one anticipates it or believes it can be done, à la Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. And so they are always on guard against outside forces — people who will doubt them, or underestimate them, or try to actively destroy them.

This is how things go in “a politics of struggle.”

In “a politics of struggle,” as Sanders explains it in a 2015 foreword to his first memoir, setbacks are expected. There will be defeats before there can be the “breakthroughs” few people imagine possible. In a politics of struggle, the goals are “transforming a city, a state, a nation, and maybe the world.” It is already understood that this is “about more than winning an election.”

It’s in this environment that the advent of the heart attack became another motivational “setback.” Ocasio-Cortez decided to endorse. Supporters only hung on tighter. Campaign staffers spoke in grave tones about the “sheer terror” of a world without Bernie. “What is happening right now,” Briahna Joy Gray told her subscribers on the campaign podcast, “is that an old man is carrying the most colossal imaginable weight on his shoulders.” By the time he is back on the trail, the mission of the campaign takes on newly urgent, almost philosophical importance.

He’s in Iowa — a town called Toledo, Tama County, population 2,341 — coaxing people to talk to him about how they feel. “What about health care?” he says at a local civic center, roaming out from behind the podium. “Don’t tell me what I wanna hear! — I want YOU to think about it. Should health care be a human right?” The crowd, not quite warmed up yet, signals a yes. “WHY?” he replies, voice booming. “Who wants to tell me why? Don’t be shy…”

This is his first campaign swing since the heart attack. Five events in 24 hours.

He has to address the age question, of course, so he does. “I've been criticized for being old. I plead guilty. I am old!” he says at his first stop of the trip. Reporters ask him about it. Pundits analyze why it matters. Dr. Oz, the heart surgeon and television host, provides his unsolicited opinion that Bernie’s “protoplasm is strong,” a you-know-it-when-you-see-it term in the medical community for physiological sturdiness. Voters also weigh in, as if to offer reassurance. “Seniors rock!” a woman says at a town hall in Marshalltown, Iowa. Moments later, a middle-aged man raises his hand to tell the candidate that, by age 39, he’d had three heart attacks, a stroke, and a triple-bypass surgery — “and it doesn’t have to get in the way of living, all right?” Bernie takes these remarks in stride, smiling back gamely. He is in a good mood. Though you get the distinct impression that he would rather not be discussing the state of his protoplasm, or himself, at all.

During the town hall in Toledo, Jane and a few staffers can hear Bernie speaking through the walls of an adjacent hold room. She and Ari Rabin-Havt, the deputy who was with Bernie in the hospital through the whole ordeal, are sitting at a small table talking about the heart attack like family members who, maybe years later, are finally able to look back at the whole thing and laugh. Except here, it’s been days, not years. Jane is going into her own Bernie impression: “He’s like, ‘I feel fine. I don’t understand… You’ah tellin’ me I had a heart attack?? I don’t — I, I don’t understand.’”

The thing that bothered him so much about it was the relative smallness of it — like this was needlessly, stupidly about him, “and I’M not important,” remember? What did his aging body, in his mind a vessel of little consequence, have anything to do with the reality that “millions of people in the richest country in the history of the world are struggling every single day”? The answer, of course, is everything: This, like any endeavor in electoral politics, hinges on the will and presence and personality of its leader. The political revolution is no less human or fallible.

And there he was, having to ask for a chair during an event in Las Vegas — he rarely sits on stage — because of chest pains. “Ari, can you do me a favor?” he looked around the room for Rabin-Havt. “Where’s Ari? Get me a chair up here for a moment. I’m going to sit down here.” Staffers found their jobs suddenly transformed. They were dealing with the questions of a health crisis: Should they take him to the hospital? And which hospital? The closer one, or the one with the better cardiology center? But this was Bernie. Everyone knows Bernie. There would be a scene. People would ask for selfies in the waiting room. Reporters would hear about it. They did not want that. It was Rabin-Havt, in the end, who approached the front desk at the urgent care center behind the MGM Grand and discretely flashed his boss’s driver’s license — 09/08/1941, SANDERS, BERNARD — so the nurses would usher him into the back quietly and without delay.

“They're like, ‘Look, we're gonna have to put him in the cath lab,’” Rabin-Havt says. Jane, seated to his right, hasn’t even heard this part of the story yet. So they got him in the cath lab. The doctor asked, how much pain are you in on a scale of 1 to 10, which Bernie rebuffed as a useless question. Then they asked him to please remove his wedding ring. “Really?” he growled, removing the ring. Then they asked for his glasses. And that’s where he drew the line. “JESUS CHRIST! I'm not gonna do that,” he said. That night, Rabin-Havt and another staffer took turns wearing the wedding ring so they wouldn’t lose it. “Oh my god,” Rabin-Havt says. “It was the scariest part.”

The next morning, when Jane arrived from Vermont, she found her husband unchanged. He was talking about how someone without insurance maybe wouldn’t have gone to urgent care at all because of how much it would cost. “That’s his brain,” Jane says. She turns to Rabin-Havt. “Did he say anything to you?” “Not during,” Rabin-Havt says. “The next day when he woke up, he was like, ‘What do you think this is going to cost?’”

His room became the center of activity in the hospital. He held policy discussions with the nurses. He asked the doctors about the hospital's finances. That was a relief, Jane says — to see “the same old Bernie.” Back in Washington, the press team kept obsessive watch over the news coverage, demanding corrections from reporters who described the stent procedure as a “surgery.” There was no surgery, they said breathlessly. It was a procedure! “I’m talking to the doctors,” Jane recalls, “and they’re saying ‘procedure,’ not surgery. It was not a surgery.” Rabin-Havt nods: Not a surgery. Once they finally got the diagnosis — “heart attack” — they needed a statement. So they hunkered down in a hospital break room. The doctors (multiple) started dictating to Rabin-Havt, who tapped out notes on his iPhone. Their first draft was a bit medical — too much jargon. One of the physicians, an English major in college, cut in: “No, no, no — we can do this so the press understands.” So then that doctor tinkered. Once they had their finished product, Rabin-Havt emailed it to the doctors and asked for a formal reply affirming the statement as their own. Proof in writing, presumably, in case of conspiracy theories.

“Yeah, it was fun,” Jane says, laughing. “Well, it was — it was not fun.”

You might wonder, reasonably so, why a 78-year-old man would rather be here, back in Iowa, still doing this, likely at some risk to his health, when he could also just drop out, endorse Elizabeth Warren, and spend his days at the family home on Lake Champlain. Maybe this is especially true if you also believe that Bernie Sanders stands no real shot at winning the Democratic nomination and probably knows it — but will take his diehard supporters, his loyal 15%, a big enough chunk to influence the debate and stay relevant, as far as they can carry him. But then, of course, you would be ruining his good mood and missing the point entirely.

“Honestly,” his wife says, seated at the small table, “I think things are getting worse. Things are getting worse.” By which she means wages, costs, bills, just not knowing if you can keep a roof over your head. “And this is an opportunity. I don't know that the opportunity was there in 2016, where it was so widespread in the same way, the feeling among people of, ‘Wait a minute. We deserve better. This is not OK. The system is completely broken.’ There were some people who saw it in 2016, but it has gotten so much worse over the last two or three years.”

“We’re losing ground as a people. And that angers him,” she laughs dryly, and from the other room, you can hear that he does sound angry — angry about how people go bankrupt for getting “CANC-AH,” angry about our crumbling “IN-FER-STRUCHRR,” angry about his colleagues in Congress who say everyone “LOOOOVES” their private health insurance. “THAT TRUE?”

He is yelling, yes, but Bernie Sanders is “happiest and most comfortable in rooms like this,” Rabin-Havt says, gesturing to the event across the hall. “When you put him in a room full of political hacks — like, phonies — that’s not his room. He’s not going to like it.”

Jane nods. “And he’s going to be gruff.”

“He’s going to be gruff,” Rabin-Havt says, “and he’s not going to know how to deal with it. You put him in a room with real people telling their real stories and—”

“And he’s a different person,” Jane says. “If you have politicians and, uh, media personalities just trying to play gotcha politics or talk about the polls or other candidates — and never asking the real questions about what's affecting the people, he has no time. He has no time.”

Jane, like most everyone around her husband, is a true believer. The two grew up in the same area of Brooklyn — 10 blocks apart, where her father worked as a taxi driver — but they wouldn’t meet until 1980 in Burlington. She was a community organizer. He was running for mayor. She had never heard the name “Bernie Sanders” when she helped organize a debate for the candidates at a Unitarian church in town. “Nobody liked the incumbent mayor in the community groups. Being a good Catholic girl, I greeted him and made sure he was all set up. I didn't even talk to Bernie! But everybody was interested in Bernie. And then I sat in the second row, and I listened to him, and so did the entire Unitarian Church,” she pauses, then continues slowly, “and I felt that he embodied everything I believed in. The first time I heard him speak. And I knew I would be working with him from that moment on.”

There is a stunning intensity in the belief — one made very real by the heart attack, one held firmly by his staff, his wife, by the candidate himself — that if Bernie Sanders isn’t going to be telling the American people these stories, then no other candidate will.

“It was a gut check for a lot of people,” Jane says. “Everybody was thinking cerebrally, ‘well, you know, we'll see how it plays out. The polls don’t seem to be doing that well right now. Who knows whether it's gonna be Biden or Elizabeth or Bernie…’” She waves her hand in the air.

“And then when people — I mean, I felt it very strongly from so many people — when people heard that he had a heart attack, it was like, ‘Oh my god.’ And envisioning, OK, without Bernie's voice, oh my god, this would be a totally different race. It would be a totally…” her voice trails off. “People understand that he's the one that can affect real change…”

“This is not a, uh, an intellectual discussion.”

At some point, the sound of Bernie’s voice from the other room drops out.

Jane goes silent. The staffers go silent.

Everything is abruptly quiet, and there is an instant, a half of a split second, when the mind imagines that maybe something’s happened — and then there’s the sound of Bernie Sanders speaking again.

“Somebody was just asking a question,” Jane explains.

“Oh, OK,” Rabin-Havt says.

“OK.”

iii.

The video team is still rolling outside Pamela’s house.

After about 25 minutes, the visit is over. They are all standing in the front yard — Bernie, Pamela, and Catherine. Two campaign vans are idling silently in the driveway. Both women have dealt with politicians before: Catherine has worked on legislation with US senators, including another presidential candidate, Cory Booker, to address rural wastewater problems. Pamela has testified before a congressional forum on poverty convened by Elizabeth Warren.

“Thank you,” Pamela tells her guest.

“I want to thank YOU,” he replies. And suddenly, there are tears. Catherine is hugging him, and then Pamela is hugging him too and crying into his blue button-down shirt — and then they are all hugging together. “We won’t forget you,” he says. “This is just the beginning.”

After they leave the house, he turns to one of the political reporters with him. “Learning something?” he asks.

The visit is still heavy on his mind. There is some light conversation about the trip — and then you see his face turn to a grimace. The reporter asks about Joe Biden. At this particular juncture in the horserace, there is a thirst for conflict between the two candidates.

“One day at a time…” he responds.

The reporter tries again: “Do you think Biden’s message is resonating in the South?”

“We’ll take it one day at a time, I have no idea. Nor does anyone else.”

He is, of course, annoyed. “You have all heard me rant and rave,” he starts telling the group. “I don’t think that the media is the enemy of the people, that it’s fake news. God knows I don’t think that.”

“But I do think we have to do a better job in looking at issues that impact ordinary people.”

“There are millions of people in this country…”

Later in the day, he relays Pamela’s story to the crowd at his town hall. The following month, his campaign releases a two-and-a-half-minute video about the trip, titled “Trapped.” Eventually, it hits 750,000 views.

In the middle of an interview, he bats back a question to ask one of his own.

“Do you know what it’s like to live —”

He is about to say “paycheck to paycheck,” but he stops himself. As he sees it, the media doesn’t know anything about that. Reporters, even the well-meaning ones, he thinks, don’t have a clue. “I mean, I do,” he says. “I grew up in that family.” His father, a paint salesman, worked hard but never made much money. The family lived in a three-and-a-half-room, rent-controlled apartment in Brooklyn. Both parents died young. As a young politician in Vermont, Sanders had to borrow gas money to campaign. The windshield wipers on his Volkswagen bug didn’t work. He struggled to pay bills. After his swearing-in as mayor of Burlington, he bought his first suit at age 40. He was, in those days, the same voter he’s trying to reach now. His old notebooks, legal pads fished from the archives by a Mother Jones reporter earlier this year, include rambling notes on his inability to do better for himself and his young son. The internal commentary is scathing and unkind. “Not only do I not pay bills every month — ‘What, every month?’ — I am better now than I used to be,” he wrote, “but pretty poor…”

The secret, it turns out, is that in addition to taking this work very seriously, Bernie Sanders also takes it very personally. The secret is that a mostly solitary man — a man who has spent most of his political career on the outskirts, who’s never really fit into someone’s idea of a politician, who’s “cast some lonely votes, fought some lonely fights, mounted some lonely campaigns” — is now trying to win a presidential campaign, maybe his last, by making people feel less alone.

This is his campaign, his theory of change, though he’s done very little to explain it to a wider audience. “I care less about the coverage, in one sense,” he says. “What I care about is that someone turns on the TV, and there’s someone who works at Walmart, or someone from Disney, or McDonald's. And they say, you know, ‘that’s me.’” He wants those people to do the talking: the people who worry about their electric bill. The people who wonder if they can afford to have another kid. People for whom “the idea of taking vacation” — he scoffs as he says the word — “is not even in their imagination even though they work all the time.” In his mind, he was those people.

He is not among the politicians “whose mommies and daddies told them at the country club that they were born to be president,” as he put it last year. He suspects his parents were Democrats, but he isn’t sure — it’s not something they discussed. So he is not drawn to Washington in the usual ways. Which is not to say that he doesn’t have ego. In 2016, staffers watched him adjust with unexpected ease to his new power and popularity: The guy in the middle seat, coach class, was suddenly flying private and showing up to watch the Golden State Warriors play the Oklahoma City Thunder in Game 7. But he does not have what one former president called “that wretched mania, an itching for the White House.” He is driven by a different compulsion.

You get the sense, without exaggeration, that he will keep doing this for the rest of his life. That he would die before he stops. There are some signs, after the heart attack, that this is playing on his mind. “At the end of the day,” he told his supporters in a seven-minute video he recorded after his release from the hospital, “if you’re gonna look at yourself in the mirror, you’re gonna say, ‘Look, I go around once, I have one life to live. What role do I wanna play?’”

But for the most part, his mood is notably light. His return to the campaign trail, ever since the heart attack, aka “heart incident,” as senior aides refer to it in the press, has been a happy, bordering-on-joyous affair. He starts cracking jokes during his speech. He plays basketball. He hosts his staff at his house in Burlington, demonstrating the best way to build a fire in a tiny stove. He announces plans for his own New Year’s Eve party in Iowa with food, drinks, and live music: “Bernie’s Big New Year’s Bash.” Inexplicably, he ends up dancing at a labor solidarity dinner in New Hampshire. “Our revolution includes dancing!” he declares. And then, to the sound of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” and The Temptations’ “The Way You Do the Things You Do,” he sways his hips from side to side, grinning, and twirls woman after woman across the banquet hall.

The major papers describe this period as a “renaissance” and “resurgence.” In polls conducted since the heart attack, he has either maintained his position or become even more competitive. He has a shot at Iowa. He looks good in Nevada and California. He remains the only candidate with more donations than Donald Trump. And he has some $1.67 million coming in each month from people who have signed up for automatic recurring donations.

On one afternoon in late October, he travels to Brooklyn to do a few interviews.

The plan is to walk up Henry Street to the Brooklyn Promenade, a pedestrian area overlooking the East River and downtown Manhattan, but he makes a turn onto Kane Street instead — spontaneous! — another indication of his good mood, which an aide quickly notes aloud.

He walks a few blocks, greeting passersby, before ducking into Francesco's Pizzeria & Trattoria, where he orders a slice of pepperoni. His staffers also order pepperoni. “See!” Bernie says. “Can’t think for themselves!” Jane shrugs. “Well, I got cheese,” she says.

The guys behind the counter open the oven and pull out a slice of pepperoni, wet and shimmering in its own hot oil. No one is concerned, apparently, about whether pizza is a wise choice three weeks after a stent procedure. Jane doesn’t blink. His staff doesn’t blink. No one blinks. Bernie takes his plate to a corner table, where he sits for a brief interview, giving polite but clipped answers about his decision to stay in the presidential race after the incident.

In one swift hand motion, as if to dispense with this line of inquiry entirely, he lifts the slice from its white paper plate, folds the crust lengthwise, takes a large bite, and swallows.

“This is my life,” he says.

The statement is, for Bernie, as straightforward and uncomplicated as it sounds. Everyone seems to understand this. Of course he should eat pizza. Of course he is still running for president.

“Well,” Jane says a few days later, “I mean, it would be kind of ridiculous if it didn't affect him in some way.”

“I think the way it affected him was, ‘OK, this… This is my mission in life. This is my purpose. I'm here for a reason.’”

On that long flight from Vermont to Las Vegas, she thought about what she should do when she saw him in the hospital. “If he wasn’t doing well,” she thought, she would put her foot down. She would tell him no. “If he was in danger, I would absolutely say, ‘I’m sorry. You can’t.’”

Jane pauses. “But honestly, I don’t know that he would have listened to me.”

#i totally didn't cry while i was reading this #not even a little bit #bernie 2020 #bernie sanders #2020 us election #2020 democratic primary #political revolution

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