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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years

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Praetego

Michael made one choice and thought that was it for him. However, his past has come back. He’s realizing now there will always be choices for him to make and the one right now–to hide or to stand tall

CW: Mentions of blood, death, and violence. 18+ Content, Smut (MLM)

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Michael glances down to the glass in his hands as a small chuckle escapes his lips. Alex, the guy he singled out at the bar from the start of the night, steps in a little closer. The woodsy but floral scent of Alex’s cologne invades Michael’s nose. He smells so much like a man and also a little sweet that it almost makes Michael’s head spin. “I’m shocked you guys didn’t lock this place down,” Alex shouts upon the revelation that Michael is out celebrating the release of the band’s album.

Michael shakes his head. “And miss the opportunity to meet you. I don’t think so.”

It’s Alex’s turn to duck his head. His hair, thick black strands, is slicked back. When he turns to the side a little, Michael can see the single braid that hangs down his back. Michael almost wants to reach out and touch it, but he reframes. Alex’s warm brown skin absorbs the red lights of the club. Unlike Michael’s paler skin, which only reflects and with a surge of courage, Michael gently brushes a hand over Alex’s forearm. “Don’t act shy now,” Michael teases.

With a short laugh, Alex grins, looking up from under his lashes. “No one’s shy around here. I just don’t want to be rude and take you away from your friends. You only get to celebrate the release once, really.”

Michael’s high-pitched laughter bounces around in Alex’s skull. Without thinking, the two men step even closer together. “They won’t mind. I promise.” Michael threads his arm around Alex’s waist. They’re roughly the same height, but underneath the black t-shirt he feels so firm to Michael’s touch. The cologne gets stronger again with the proximity, and Michael lets his eyes close briefly as he inhales.

Michael does briefly worry that he’s not Alex’s type. Beneath the baggy shirt and joggers, Michael imagines he can’t compare to Alex. The thought is fleeting when Alex breathes right against Michael’s ear. “Let’s get out of here then, yeah?”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

The pair closes out their individual tabs. Michael thinks as he leads Alex out of the club, he sees her. It can’t be Sylvie. Michael left them behind. He had made his choice six years ago. He shakes the thought. It definitely looked like her. Long coils that wrapped around themselves and cascaded down her shoulders. Only longer this time, he thinks. The last time he saw her, her hair rested just at her chest and now it was resting right at her stomach. But the cool dark brown skin that reminded him of autumn every time he looked at her, and the green eyes that looked too much like his, are clear. Even though it’s dark and crowded, he will never forget his first family. He could never forget them.

“Is something wrong?” Alex asks. He noticed Michael not moving but staring into the crowd near the door. His eyes cast over the entire crowd. No one looked familiar, not a soul from the group that Michael had spent part of the night laughing with. Alex noted that Michael didn’t really dance, just kind of bounced to the beat blasting. No one is staring back at them either. Who would have captured his attention?

Michael blinks. It’s just his imagination. She’ll be gone when his eyes open. Her birthday is coming up soon. He remembers because he still sends gifts. When he opens his eyes, she’s still standing there. Leaning as if she’s just a normal club goer. As if this is just normal for her. Michael made his choice, though. He made his choice. He tries not to regret it, but he’ll be damned if he has to make another one like that again. “Nothing,” he says, turning back to Alex. “Someone just looked familiar for two seconds and yeah, it’s nothing.”

Alex nods, squeezing his hand, and they travel into the bowels of the night. “I’ll offer my place.” There’s no room to argue either as he pulls out his phone, tapping in the Uber app for a ride.

“Attractive and thoughtful. I like it.” Alex’s cheek is smooth against Michael’s lip and they fall into each other as tufts of laughter escape them.

“I have to warn of a dog at home. She’s sweet, though. I promise.”

Michael’s heart nearly melts at the mention of a dog. He grins. “I love dogs.”

“I hope you like German shepherds. I can put her up for the time being if it worries you at all.”

“Nah, I’m tough.”

Alex laughs, cupping the beard that decorates Michael’s jaw and chin. “Sure you are.”

“Is that a fucking challenge?” The indignant squeal turns up Michael’s voice, but there’s a grin on his lips. Michael finds himself lost in the depths of Alex’s brown eyes. The bright light of the streetlight twinkles in them a little and god, he’s so gorgeous.

“It could be a fucking challenge.” The inflection around the word ‘fucking’ and the grin Alex fixes Michael with emphasizes the meaning Alex is giving the phrase. Michael hums, eyes squinting to show his faux suspicion. Before Michael can give his retort, a car pulls up beside them. They didn’t expect that the driver was that close to them, but they climb inside.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Roxie. I call her Roxs for short sometimes. Her paws are a little darker than the rest of her, so I always say she has socks on. And I’m over sharing, aren’t I?”

“Maybe a little. But it’s okay.”

Outside the door of Alex’s apartment, Michael can already hear the tapping of claws on the floor. Alex is slow to open the door. To Roxie’s true fashion, Michael sees the brown body jumping just a little at Alex. “Hey, girl,” he coos, taking a moment to scratch her chin.

Michael grin. When she finally takes notice of him, he offers his hands. She sniffs it and moves from Alex’s hold to sit right in front of Michael. Her tail wags and thumps against the floor. “Oh, how polite of you,” Michael praises, squatting down.

She clicks her paws to the floor and sniffs over his face. Her snout is cold. Her body shakes with excitement as she curls up into Michael as he scratches her chin. Poised right onto the couch is a toy. Michael picks up the red ball. Roxie picks up on the movement immediately. She moves to all four and when the ball rolls gently down into the dining room area, she gently gallops over to it. With it secured in her grasps, she trots back over to Michael. He takes it again when she lets it fall into his palm. He rolls it again, laughing gently as she chases down after down. Michael stands. “She’s adorable.”

“Yeah, my baby,” Alex returns. Roxie returns with her heavy pants and a little less spring in her hop than usual. “Sleepy, girl?”

She looks at Michael. Eyes silently begging for one more toss. Just one last chase. “Oh, one more?” Michael bargains. “I think she deserves one more.” When he reaches out for the ball, she happily plops it into his hand. He gives it another roll. Soon, though, with a lot of coaxing to settle down onto her bed in the crate, Roxie drops her head onto her paws. The sheet settles over top of it and Alex stands.

It’s only during this time to get her settled that Michael looks over Alex again. The heavens and suns kissed his skin. The strong brow bone makes Michael’s throat jump a little. As Alex stands with a grin, Michael is sure his knees will give out on him. “Do you want anything? Water?”

“Bathroom?”

“Down the hall first on the left.”

Michael nods and follows it down, mainly just to wash his hands and rinse out his mouth. There’s nothing that can really wash away the taste of alcohol but time and greasy foods. It’s a quick splash of some cold water over his face.

Alex sits on the couch, two glasses of water on the coffee table, but Michael’s not worried about that. It’s as he gets closer that he notices Alex’s hair is down. There’s a slight curl to the hair, no doubt from the braid. He sits, arms spread out over the edge of the couch. He’s slumped down a little, legs falling open easily. Michael grins when they lock eyes.

“You’re grinning like Cheshire cat over there,” Alex teases.

In that moment, Michael is sure that he’s fucking sculpted by some god out there as his hair tumbles down his chest. Michael walks over and bypasses the cushion next to Alex before straddling his thigh. Alex’s fingers dig into Michael’s waist just a little, to keep him steady. “Are you the betting type?”

Alex shakes his head. “Try not to be if I can help it.” Michael cups Alex’s cheek, just gently stroking the soft flesh. Alex continues to speak. “Why do you ask?”

“Because if you were, I would say that I bet you look good in this t-shirt but I know you look better out of it.”

Alex moves his hands away for a second and grins. “Be my guest.” The t-shirt is easy to get up and over, the hair tumbles down like a black waterfall. Michael can’t help but run his fingers down Alex’s chest.

“I would have won,” Michael whispers as he leans forward. His lips just brush over Alex’s as he speaks.

As Alex dips his fingers under Michael’s shirt, he grins. “Good thing I didn’t take it then.” Michael’s own shirt is pulled up and discarded to the floor. Michael feels the beanie slipping and lets it go. He gives no scramble to catch it or watch for where it lands.

Alex tastes like the soda he was sipping on. Michael can’t quite place it but he knows if he ever were to place what it was, he would always sip it and remember this moment, remember the way Alex holds him tight. He would always have a moment where he flashes back to Alex, sighing into his skin. Michael lets his fingers slip through Alex’s hair just for a moment to cradle his head and bring their mouths back together.

Michael’s skin is no doubt hot, from their closeness, from the alcohol. It was only one drink. He doesn’t go too hard anymore like his younger years. “You’re okay with this, right?”

“You wouldn’t be sitting on my lap in my apartment if I weren’t,” Alex returns with a huffed exhale of laughter.

“Good, because fuck, you’re hot.” As they trail kisses over skin, they move themselves from the living room to the bedroom. Michael sees now a desk in the bedroom's corner with beadwork laying on it and he wonders what it means, what Alex does. But it’s amongst notebooks, some sheet music. Michael sees a jersey hanging over the back of the chair and he can’t place the affiliated sport—he feels like he could spot a soccer team faster than American football. He never has more than a moment to consider the thoughts before his head falls back into the wall with Alex’s lips sucking hickeys into his skin.

When there’s the graze, light pressure from Alex’s palm on his erection, Michael melts. “Fuck, please.”

“Eager beaver.” They discard their pants, leaving them just in their boxers. Alex guides Michael to the bed. Alex licks his lips. Michael looks so timid, but so coy at the same time. “What’s on your mind? What are you thinking? Any more bets?”

“No, no more bets.” He crooks his fingers to beckon Alex forward. “Just a thought. I can't be lonely on such a nice bed.”

Alex joins him with no extra prompting. That scent comes back as Alex hovers over him, with hand one toying at the band of his boxers Michael just lets go. He doesn’t care if he’s too loud. He doesn’t care if he reaches out too much. All that matters is Alex’s touch, his tongue, and the arousal punching at Michael’s gut.

He doesn’t let himself go completely. Michael pulls Alex in close, hands slipping into the underwear, and pushes them down. He takes his thumb to play just a hair with Alex’s tip and lets some pre-cum act as a lube as Michael’s hand slides down Alex’s cock.

It’s with a shuddering exhale that Alex almost falls completely into Michael. “Fuck.”

Michael holds him a little closer, arm winding around his shoulders, and fingers twisted into his hair. “It’s okay. Fall into me.”

Alex takes a nip at Michael’s shoulder, his breath hot and ghosting over his skin. He can only groan, hips bucking slightly into Michael’s palm. Michael grins at the sounds of Alex letting his body go to the pleasure, to the way he’s tucked into the grasps of Michael’s fist. “I can do one better,” Michael whispers.

Alex laughs. “I bet I can, too.”

“You said you weren’t the betting type.”

Alex winks. “Sometimes I might contradict myself.” He peels himself away and kisses Michael's chest. The boxers, while adorable with the Christmas lights on them, are removed. When Alex takes in the sight of Michael, hard and leaking for him, he groans. He licks a stripe from base to tip and pumps slowly. “You did not tell me that this is what I had to look forward to.”

Michael feels the heat flooding his cheeks. He’s never been one to consider himself worth more than a glance. But Alex’s awe and smile tell Michael otherwise. Nothing else is said before Alex takes him down. Michael bawls the sheets into his fist, feeling the way Alex relaxes his throat and slips Michael down. “God.” Michael chokes on the word. It’s heavenly as Alex hums around his length.

Michael blinks open his eyes, watching as the curtain of hair falls and tickles over his thighs. Alex pulls away and ties his hair up, a loose bun sitting on the top of his head. Michael beckons him back up, just for a quick kiss. The taste of Michael coats his own tongue, and it mixes with the soda from before. Now all he wants is to embed the cologne of Alex into his skin forever.

There’s not much wasted time before Alex returns, his mouth hot and so inviting around Michael’s cock. Michael groans, pushing his hips up just a little. Alex hums, hands playing at Michael’s hips before taking him firmly to pump at the length that doesn’t quite get down Alex’s throat. Michael’s face is getting hot, he can feel it in the tips of his ears as Alex works. A hand comes up, gently playing at his balls, and Michael loses it. It’s as if the top of his head falls off, and he’s just floating.

He grabs for anything. Just a piece of something sturdy to steady himself. It winds up being Alex’s shoulder. A meaty but firm patch of muscle. Michael will not last like this. And he thinks it really doesn’t matter. “Shit,” he hums and soon his toes are curling.

His breathing becomes more labored. His jaw falls slack. Just unhinged when Alex teases his tip, tongue dancing over the slit. “Oh, fuck.” Michael digs tighter into the sheets and his blunt nails have left crescent moon indents—they have to. But Michael doesn’t care as he cums, a grunt and groan escaping his chest.

Alex pulls back, sure to show off him licking the excess from the corner of his mouth. “That’s just a treat.”

Michael, falling into the mattress and pillows, laughs before pulling Alex down. They share another slow and languid kiss, a clashing of tongues slipping over each other and inhaling the other’s sighs. After a beat or two, Michael slips out from underneath and pushes Alex down. He settles around Alex’s waist, wasting no time to remove the last layer of cotton hiding him away. If Michael is a surprise, then Alex breaks the scale. For a moment, there’s a fleeting thought about how he will handle this if it goes further. But he likes a challenge.

First, though, Michael traces the ink around Alex’s bicep. He hadn’t noticed that before, not that shocking the way his hair falls over his chest and arms. “You like ink too?”

Alex nods. “Got it after a ceremony. I have another one on my back, just for fun really.”

“Ceremony?”

Alex has to laugh at the confusion on Michael’s face. He places his hands on Michael’s thighs and gently runs his fingers over the skin. “Don’t worry too much about it.” Michael’s beckoned; he lets himself go, bending down to capture Alex’s lips. One hand finds his length and Alex mewls at the touch.

Michael loves the sound. He wants to etch it into his brain. God, he needs every sound Alex gives him. Alex pushes up, trying to keep Michael close. “Don’t run away from me,” Alex jokes, keeping a firm hold on Michael’s neck.

“I’m not running anywhere.” Michael keeps his hands full of Alex, pumping over his length as they kiss again. Michael takes a small moment to coat his hand to keep his grip slick and inviting. He can feel himself getting hard again, too. Every huff and moan Alex releases only serves to make Michael harder. He rocks, his cock rubbing against Alex’s stomach just a little, and he can’t help the whine that escapes him.

Alex bucks up, holding Michael close as they sit chest to chest, Michael sitting straddling Alex’s body, his feet facing the bed frame. Alex nips at Michael’s skin, shuddering. The bed rocks into the wall, the frame tapping gently but not hurriedly. “Fuck,” Alex sighs. “Not gonna last.”

“We’ve got all night,�� Michael says. He knows when Alex starts to orgasm, the rigid tension that overtakes his body and soon he’s sputtering hot liquid into Michael’s hand and torso. Michael peels away, just enough for Alex to watch as he licks his hand clean.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Alex teases before they get up and get cleaned up for the moment.

“It’s going to be a long night,” Michael returns as they settle back onto the mattress with the glass of water from before within his grasps.

Michael wakes to the sun in his face and he curses slightly, one hand blocking out the intrusion. The room is bright, walls white. When Michael sees the desk again, he remembers suddenly that he’s not in his own house. An arm is stretched out across his waist and Michael turns. Alex’s face smashed into the pillow, stares back at him. His hair still tied up, though some of it threatens to fall out of the elastic. He sighs and lets his head back into the navy pillow case.

“Want breakfast?” Alex asks, his voice is thick with sleep but sounds like he might’ve been up for a while. His eyes haven’t opened yet.

“How long have you been up?” Michael’s own voice is gruff.

“Couple hours. Took Roxs out. Let her run the neighborhood for a little, then came back inside. You hadn’t come to life yet, so I let you be. Just crawled back into bed and drifted in and out of sleep.”

“You saying I sleep like the dead?”

“Roxie’s barking didn’t wake you. And she’s not tiny, so yeah. You do.”

Michael shoves Alex’s shoulder and turns to his back. There’s a slight twinge of pain that reminds him of the events from the prior night, but mostly it’s an ache. It’s dull and Michael’s familiar with it after all his adventures.

“You want breakfast though? Seriously.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

Alex’s hand trails up Michael’s chest and brushes some of his hair out of his eyes. “You’re not a bother. Eggs and pancakes?” Michael attempts to protest that he should probably get home so Alex can take Roxie on a proper walk, but Alex shushes him with a single finger to his lips. “Just say yes.”

“Yes,” Michael mumbles around the digit. There’s a gentle pat to his cheek and Alex pushes up. The bed dips, bounces, and then springs back as Alex finally climbs off it. There’s a whistle and suddenly Michael is aware of the clicking again and knows it’s Roxie following the command.

Michael slips his beanie back onto his head. He feels bad leaving without cleaning his plate, but Alex insists that he can handle the clean up too. “You’re sure you don’t want help with the dishes?”

“It’s just some plates, really. I’m sure.”

Michael checks his phone again. The driver is about three minutes out. “Thanks. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

Roxie trots over from Alex’s side at the table. She holds her ball in her mouth, eyes looking up at Michael expectedly. “I’m so sorry, girl. I gotta go.” He gives her another few scratches, but it hurts for a moment when he hears her whine at him approaching the door.

“We can play later, baby,” Alex calls, hands turned out for the toy. “I promise.”

Michael walks down the short flight of stairs, patting his pockets. His phone and wallet are in their appropriate pockets. His keys are in his front pocket and he sighs a small bit of relief that he doesn’t have to scramble back to Alex’s before the Uber arrives.

Michael thinks about Sylvie in the club. That couldn’t have been her there. She wasn’t even on this side of the world the last time she had checked in with him. They were somewhere in the UK, but he couldn’t remember the exact location. Maybe he was just hallucinating. Sylvie wasn’t one to use trickery to communicate and unless she had developed some new skill, then Michael wasn’t sure how she could do it anyway.

The silver sedan pulls up, and they seem shocked at Michael’s presence on the curb. He prays for a good ride and though it’s a little awkward in the beginning; it goes smoothly as they pull up to his house. He thanks them and climbs into his place. Though he had fun with Alex, there’s nothing like being in his own shower and being able to fall into the cushion of his own couch.

He feels at peace right as he turns on his TV. There’s a knock. He huffs but pushes up from the couch. Michael doesn’t really give a full glimpse into the peephole. He cracks open the door, regardless, and he can’t believe his own eyes. “You’re not real. You can’t be real.”

Sylvie reaches out and wraps her slender fingers around his forearm. “A projection can’t do that.”

“A hallucination could.”

“Take a picture,” she counters. They’ve both been around long enough to know that if she shows up in that picture that Michael’s in deeper trouble than he thought. He keeps his eyes trained on her but lifts his hands and beckons the phone to him. She grins a little, noticing the small purple glow around the device. He hasn’t lost his touch all these years later.

When Michael brings the camera up and sees her, his first reaction is to shut the door. To just slam it so he doesn’t have to deal with whatever bomb she’s about to drop on him. And, of course, she anticipates it. She senses the spike in fear and throws a hand up to stop the door. “We need you.”

“I made my choice Sylvie.”

“We need you, Michael.”

No, they can’t need him. He renounced them. Not that he would’ve chosen to go about it that way. If there were any other way to choose the band but still keep an official connection with the cove, he would’ve chosen that. Not that he would’ve completely dropped them, and he hadn’t truly let communication with them cease. But he is living his dream. His life is normal. He can be himself. He doesn’t have to worry about the Hunters anymore. He doesn’t have to look over his shoulder anymore.

“So you were at the club last night.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you stop me then? Why did you just lurk in the corner?”

She grins, her lips painted a pretty orange split to reveal her brilliant white teeth. “You looked a little busy last night. You always did like them tall, dark, and handsome.”

“I like them all actually,” Michael retorts.

“I remember,” she laughs with one eyebrow raising. Michael wasn’t rapid with his sex life before the band, and it’s still fairly tame in comparison. But he had his escapades. He had his bed filled with whoever tickles his fancy. No one ever judged him for it. And especially not Sylvie. She’s always been his wing woman. The two of them out in a town could wreck some chaos if given a long weekend.

“You guys were supposed to be done with me,” Michael sighs, waving for her to come inside.

“I wouldn’t bother you unless I had to.” She’s careful as she steps into his place. Only keeping her feet on the mat. She hates to be intruding. If Sylvie had any other choice, anyone else she could’ve gone to, she wouldn’t be at Michael’s door. It was hard to see him go, but she never thought less of him. She had loved and still loves Michael. “Our coven’s shrinking. Not by choice.”

Michael holds up a single finger, shushing her. “Do you want water? Tea? Do you want to watch a cup of coffee get cold?” There’s no way he’s having this conversation like they aren’t old friends, like they haven’t spent nights gorging themselves on too many cartons of ice cream and pizza.

“Just water, please.”

“No one will smite you, Sylvie. You’re okay here to be free.”

“I can’t be disrespectful,” she counters, slipping out of her shoes and leaving them near the door.

“Consider it disrespectful for you to be so proper in my house.” Michael returns from the kitchen with two glasses of water and sits at his table. “Sit, kick your feet up. I’d say take your hair down. But it already is.”

Sylvie carefully treks across the hardwood floors and settles down. His house is nice, kind of minimal, but it’s functional with the open floor plan. It appears to be becoming more popular as time goes on. His furniture is ashen gray or an ashy brown. It’s cozy and inviting, but it still reads with an air of sophistication. “You grew up, I see.”

“Just this part of the house. You should see my office.”

As her lips wrap around the glass, she smiles. Michael always had a little bit of mess that followed him. Though he was mostly neat and organized. “How was Alex?”

“You’re still eavesdropping I see.”

“I had to know if I could approach or not. And you looked quite taken by your man. So I didn’t want to interrupt.”

It’s as Michael diverts his gaze and his cheeks turn a hair pink that she gets her answer. “You’re here because you need something and my sex life isn’t it I assume.”

“Oh, who’s saying that’s not at least part of it.”

Michael’s not sure why he expected her to have changed in their six years apart. Maybe it was the hair. She hadn’t really changed much about that, but now it was longer. And the ends are dyed various shades of purple. She was having some fun in her life. Michael really didn’t want it to be about him either. “The truth, Sylvie. What’s happening with the coven?”

The glass sits down with a soft clink on his table. “What’s always happening to us.”

“Hunters,” Michael states as he reclines into the woven back of his chair. That was a plague that never left them alone. It’s not like their coven had ever harmed anyone. Michael doesn’t miss them. Not in the slightest. “But I thought Annabelle took over. She was unshakable.”

“She was.”

Michael looks at her. It’s the way she says it, with a twinge of a heaviness that Michael does not like. Sylvie doesn’t meet his eye, instead staring down at the mark of her orange lipstick on the glass. “Don’t tell me.”

And she doesn’t have to. When she nods, Michael falls back into the seat. Not Annabelle, she was the best out of them. “Fuck,” Michael whispers.

When Tyler wanted to step down within the next few years, he had initially turned to Annabelle. She turned it down because she wasn’t ready. Tyler turned to Michael, but that was just mere weeks before Michael went vocal about his indecision and that he wanted to be normal. He wanted to pursue music. He wanted the band to be successful and not just a hobby.

Tyler made it clear in the beginning that he was just training Michael, bringing them in more high-level decisions. That Michael wouldn’t be expected to take over until he was older and much more confident with his skills. Michael went with Tyler to council meetings. None that were earth shattering important. They were important enough. But all the while, Michael would skip sessions to hang out with the band. He would miss late night training to take trains and perform at the bottom of hotels. He knew he was skating on thin ice with Tyler, and he had to come clean, eventually. The guys were noticing him always being tired, not focused. It was quickly becoming a train wreck for Michael.

“Because there’s so few of us, Hunters are doing their best to exterminate us,” Sylvie starts. “Joslene was studying under Annabelle. But word’s come down from Council that Hunters have records. On all of us. Where we’ve been. Who we know. Where we’re at. I think more Hunters are appearing incognito.”

“I-I don’t know what you want me to do about that, Vie. I’ll be more careful. But I don’t know what I can do for the coven.”

“Help us. Council’s meeting again in a week. Fight with us.”

“If you think I can just drop everything, hike my ass out to wherever Council is and accept them to take me back after I renounced you guys, that won’t happen.”

“They’ll understand. They sent me to find you.”

Michael blinks, arms folding to his chest. They sent Sylvie to find him. Council is not the type to send invitations to everyone. “They know I renounced.” He means it more as a statement, but it slips out with a small upturn. They had to know. Michael swore his blood, and to leave they had to take it back. They had to know about that. There had to be records of how Michael stood on the edge of their circle and nearly shit his pants.

Renouncing did not occur often. In fact, he had seen no one renounce in his time with his coven. He only heard stories. The way people dropped, the way they turned ashen. The way they got sick after, too. But knowing that just on the other side that he’d have the life he wanted was Michael’s only saving grace. If no one took a record of how the blade stung worse than being initiated in his palm, if no one took a record of how Michael swore within a blink he was face first into dirt because his eyes literally couldn’t focus, then it would fucking suck. There had to be someone even by word of mouth that would tell about how Michael vomited for what seemed like three days after too. He prays someone mentioned all of that to Council.

She nods. “They know. But you’re special, Michael.”

He groans. Not the spiel he wanted to hear. He’s heard it all a thousand times before. He wasn’t special. He was never meant to do anything world changing. He was just a dude with a guitar. That’s all he’ll ever be, too.

“Michael, just entertain me for five minutes,” Sylvie huffs.

“I’m not special. I’m never going to be special. So you can tell Council to take that script back to the drawing board.”

“We aren’t supposed to possess powers like that and you know it. We derive things from the earth. Maybe we can play a little trickery on the mind, but all in all, we’re here to keep balance. We give back and we take away. We use what the earth gives us. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“I didn’t ask for those powers. I didn’t ask for it and you know it.”

Michael pushes up from the chair and begins his short walk to his couch. He didn’t. He always believed that there was a balance, a power that most people were afraid to tap into with being able to influence, conjure, and heal. He always felt electricity when it came to nature and the elements. Even the dead had energy, they gave to the dirt; the dirt brought forth plants—food and oxygen. And they were all bound to give back. It’s just how that had to work to live. There was death right on the other side of the coin. But he didn’t ask to be bestowed with anything extra in his beliefs. He only asked to understand it better, to be a peacekeeper in his practices.

“I’m not saying you did. I’m saying you have them. Maybe there’s a reason.”

“Vie, I can’t. I can’t do what you’re asking me. To jump back in?”

“They slit her throat, Michael.”

He cringes at the confession. He knows she’s talking about Annabelle. He doesn’t even want to picture the lifeless stare, the thick blood oozing down her skin. With the palms of his hands covering his ears, Michael walks in circles. “You didn’t just say that.”

“She let them catch her.” Even though the skin and muscle of his hands muffle her voice, they don’t block it out completely. “They wore plain street clothes. They stalked us. I saw them first. I told Annabelle we needed to move. She said she was tired of running. So we stayed. We stayed and when they nearly cornered us in the middle of the fucking day on a backstreet, she stopped. She told us to keep going and that she would catch up, try to give them a bait and shake them. Maybe she was tired of a lot more, too.”

Michael watches her, hands trembling as she stands. Her voice shakes too, her chin wobbling. “I didn’t see it, but I heard it. They cheered. They fucking cheered as she lay there. So yes, yes, I am asking you to do the very thing you don’t want to do because I don’t want to be next. I don’t want Joslene, Terry, Kyle—I don’t want them to think that is our fate too. We have to do something. We can’t just wait like lambs for the slaughter.”

Michael’s eyes sting. He hates to see her cry. He really does. But this wasn’t supposed to happen. He was not supposed to get caught back up in this shit. He was supposed to have given himself back to the earth and be free. “Sylvie, please, no,” he whispers. He’s not equipped to handle tears. Especially not from her.

“I’m scared, Michael. And I know you don’t want to deal with this. I know you didn’t need me giving you this, but we need help. You-you need to be careful too.”

Michael wraps her shoulders into his arms and her head falls into his chest. Her body feels like a leaf in the autumn breeze, quivering against him. “It’s gonna be okay,” he offers softly. The words feel a little hollow. How does he know that things are all going to be alright? How can he offer platitudes and not agree to even see what he can do to help?

But does Michael really want to go down this road? If he gets caught up in this before the tour and winds up severely injured or worse, there will be larger repercussions than just ducking the critical eyes of his parents. He has the band, fans, management all relying on him too. He’s integral to more things now.

Sylvie shivers continue to crawl up her body, but she eases herself out of Michael’s embrace. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Michael whispers. “Don’t be sorry. You never have to be sorry.”

It’s with a firm nod that Sylvie turns back to the door. “I can’t stay long. Remember Council meets in a week, seven days to the dot. Right at sunset.” She rattles off the exact location as she slips into her shoes and then without enough time for Michael to offer her a couple minutes to collect herself, she disappears.

“At least it wasn’t in a puff of smoke,” he jokes. It’s followed with a halfhearted chuckle.

Seven days. That’s all he had.

Michael tries to continue on with meetings like everything’s okay. He tries not to think about the way death seemed imminent. Even if he, himself, didn’t agree to help and didn’t want to put his own life in harm’s way, many more would die. It messed with his head more than he cared to admit. Would Michael be responsible for more deaths if he backed out? It was probably more he was taking on than he should be, but he kept thinking about Sylvie. Michael, once a witch, but never able to disrupt fate, couldn’t on his own save everyone. That was just a fact.

He couldn’t save everyone. But still it sits on his chest like lead and makes his stomach queasy. He couldn’t save everyone. He could never save everyone. Even if he wanted to, he would never excel in that regard. Sleep’s evasive. Whenever Michael closes his eyes, he sees Annabelle blond hair and pale skin dyed red with her own blood. He sees the river that stains the concrete. He sees Sylvie dangling from a tree.

He bolts upright. His body is damp. Even the fan at the foot of his head on the highest setting and the AC going can’t keep the fear away. Hunters have always been ruthless. They’re only aim is to strike fear into a witch’s heart. They do it well. Taught from a young age just like him. But they are taught to hate, to exclude rather than include.

Michael looked over his shoulder at school, even though it wasn’t a long stint in the grand scheme of his life. It was long enough. He waited, he watched for any boy, upon locking eyes, to mime slitting his throat. It happened once while he waited for the bus.

Michael tried not to bother anyone. He liked to keep to himself. It guaranteed him that no one would know, no one would try to bother him. But in town, where being close had no alternative, rumors circled. His whole family was judged. The murmurs and rumors were true. But it didn’t matter how peacefully they lived. It didn’t matter how deep they hid the lessons and markings, everyone stared.

Michael doesn’t resent his parents. He loved them dearly and still does. He appreciates the teachings and the perspective. He still believes, though he’s not supposed to practice anymore after renouncing. It was hard to feel like he wasn’t in the wrong, when at twelve he waited for his bus, a backpack on his shoulder, minding his own business and grown men threatened him. Parents of kids that he kind of got along with spitting at him that he would face the consequences for his kind had done. They blamed him and everyone like him for every sinister that occurred in the town, in the country, in the universe really.

“You were twelve,” he reminds himself, feeling the shame overtaking him again. “You were a fucking kid. I was a child!” he screeches into the dark of his room. The tears sting, but Michael welcomes it. Welcomes the reminder he is still alive though he was taunted. His chest aches as the first sob crosses his lips. He remembers scrubbing at his skin, trying to remove the mark at his bicep. All it is now in memory is a blur of tears, blood, and his mother wailing when she finds him in the bathroom.

In the dark, Michael traces his bicep. The ink is gone, but the scar tissue holds the bumps of his marking. He can feel it. He knows it’s still there. Being a witch never really leaves you. If they make you give the blood of bond back, it’s never really gone. It lingers. It’s embedded in the psyche. Michael will always remember the chants, he will always feel the surge of electricity in his body by passing nature, when tending his garden, when he recharges and clears his stones. He’ll never get rid of the tingle in his fingers when he finds just the right stone for something, and he holds it for the first time.

Michael re-tattooed the mark onto his calf long after he renounced. He missed that family, and though they’d never see it, he wanted the universe to know that he carried a piece of them with him with pride. He felt bad for trying to hide that. Shame was a beast of an emotion, and it won sometimes. More times than Michael wanted to admit that it had won.

Bringing his knees to his chest, Michael caresses gently the black ink on the back of his calf. It’s smoother, feels right under his fingertips. That is still his family. Will they think less of him if he chooses the band again? Will he have turned his back on them for the final time?

There’s no use in attempting sleep, so Michael peels himself out of the sheets and shuffles in the dark to his bathroom. On his short journey, he looks to his clock. It’s two thirty in the morning. He has half an hour. Maybe there are more answers waiting for him outside of his own consciousness. He hasn’t practiced in a couple years. He kept up when he first renounced, but as the band got busier, practicing fell to the waste side. But something about now, with four days left, he has to know. Or at least attempt to know, to see if there’s any resolution.

As the water, colder than he usually goes for, sprays and slides down his body, Michael drops his head into the tile of the shower. It’s a welcomed coolness, something to take the edge off for the moment. His hair still drips once he’s done, down his face and onto the hardwood floor. A trail left behind to trace his path from bathroom to bedroom, from the bedroom to his music room. Now, sitting staring at the door to the closet inside his music room, Michael blinks. He hasn’t touched this stuff in years. Not even the handle to this door.

He can hear the ticking of his clocks. He has fifteen minutes left. Fifteen minutes to build up the courage. Or that’s what it was the last time he checked. He can see the red time blaring at him from across the pitch black room. But he hasn’t looked over since then. What if the waters show him his death? Is he prepared to handle that? With a thundering heart, Michael looks up to the clock. Ten minutes left. It takes ten minutes if his memory hasn’t faded to set it up. His fingers wrap around the door handle. Another deep breath and he turns the handle.

There stacked in the corner are the brown boxes from when he moved. He lifts the first box. The round glass is still wrapped in the tissue and newspaper that he used so carefully to pack it up from the last place to this one. Completely unraveling it, he sets it down on the couch. He remembered to bring the water with him before he stared at the closet door. It saved some time. But now he has to open that bottom box. He has to crack open his wooden mortar and pestle. He’ll have to look upon the graying iron cauldron with its three moon phases carved to it. A waxing moon, a full moon, and a waning moon.

“You don’t really have time to waste,” he warns and in a rush of courage, pulls the box out. He lugs out his cauldron, lifting the false bottom, and replaces it with the glass. The window, with blinds already lifted, have the lights of the city starting to shine through. He can see himself, the fringe, the blonde streaks, the water droplets still sliding down the strands. One splashes, exploding into smaller droplets onto the glass. One drop. Just one drop to cause such a volatile reaction.

Michael’s fingers buzz a little as he settles onto the floor, legs crossed. He brings the cloth with his herbs closer to him with just one crook of his finger. No witch should be able to do that, no one should be able to do what he can. Most of them still refer to it as telekinesis, but there was something more nuanced to it. Michael wasn’t moving objects. He was just moving and manipulating their energy. He felt it with everything. The rest of them did too. But according to Sylvie, he felt it more intensely; he felt it with everything. Instead of the energy having a point where he could no longer touch it, he could only do more with it.

Where others had to use potions to manipulate the mind, Michael only had to feel. It worried him the first time he did it. That’s the first time he really felt like a monster. Like he was an outlier in the group of outliers. That’s when the spiral started; that’s when he tore his own skin. That’s when he turned to music. He wasn’t weird or a freak there. The fucked up part is that if Sylvie ever told him that she had done anything like he had to himself, he would’ve flipped his lid. He would’ve done everything to convince her she was normal, that nothing was wrong with her, and yet, he hadn’t been able to convince himself of it.

He chose the band so he could be normal. So that maybe the kid that was scared all the time would have something that made them feel whole. The truth of the matter is it that Michael would never be normal. It was an inescapable fact. He wasn’t sure how to handle that before. But now, as he adds the water and sees his reflection rippling, he thinks not being normal isn’t so bad. In the grand scheme of things, no one was normal. People all had their secrets, things they wanted to hide and keep under wraps. Everyone had their traumas, things that had fucked him up. But they all put on fronts. Everyone was pretending. Every single person on Earth had a face they hid from the world. This was just his. This was the face he didn’t want to show anyone.

Before he adds his herbs to the cauldron, Michael cleanses his space. He uses rue, letting the scent waft from the herb in his hand. It fills his lungs and part of him misses that feeling, misses the ease at which he can pick the sage and yarrow from this assortment on the cloth next to him. They float, as always, just before Michael rests a hand to the iron and watches the first bubbles come to life.

His lips barely move as he whispers. The chant falls over his lips with ease. He needs answers, guidance maybe too. But he just needs something, anything to reveal to him what he needs to be doing. What he should choose in this situation. Before the heat can warp the glass Michael pulls his hand away and bubbles rise to the top. The fragrance paints the room thickly and for half a second his head spins. He forgets how potent this can be.

Already as he pours his taste, he can see the water shifting. It turns cloudy; the herbs giving into the heat and releasing their color. The first sip’s hot for sure and it hurts just a little too, but as Michael relaxes, he can feel the earthy taste hitting the top of his head. He goes for one more. But that’s all. Not even a full gulp, just enough to coat the top of his tongue and let his throat know that he’s got something in his mouth.

His eyes are unfocused. The black looks even blurrier and the streaks of moonlight don’t settle into one beam when he looks at the spot on the floor that it illuminates. Michael looks back into the water and it’s no longer see through. His own tired eyes and semi dry hair do not stare back at him. Instead, he sees Sylvie. It’s a restful night, it appears, until he watches for a beat longer. She twitches. Her face contorts, as if in pain, with her nose wrinkled and the skin of her forehead furrowed.

What could she be dreaming about? Though Michael can tell it’s not a good dream. If he even dares to call it that. She flips to her back; the sheets twisted around her body. The rise and fall of her chest is captivating until with a slight screech, her eyes fly open. She stares up, straight at Michael and if it weren’t the fact that he knew he was not actually watching above her, he would think she could see him. That she would whisper to him what plagued her, what ruined her dreams.

She pushes up, legs swinging to the edge. She sits, head slump, the curls pulled to the top of her head. Like this, Michael can see the shaved sides, how she hadn’t kept all her hair over the years. Just some of it. This isn’t what Michael had hoped for. He was hoping for something, a sign, the blinding light at the end of the tunnel for him so he knew which way to run. But all he got was Sylvie, in probably rougher shape than him.

Michael closes his eyes. Soon, the light peering in behind his eyelids dance and he can see something else. It’s just flashes, just the feeling of being dropped. The one that forces his gut down and then he lands. It’s screaming fans. The lights of the stage playing back in his eyes, but it’s the stage. A scene he’s lived so vividly, playing to thousands of people at a time in one room, sharing one experience, but all of them experiencing it slightly differently. Before Michael can stand, before he can slip the guitar over his head and grab onto the microphone, he feels his descent again.

He lands again, but on some high up branches peering down. He recognizes Council and watches them, standing a few feet apart from a small cluster. He spies Joslene’s dyed red hair. There were so many more of them. They never had large numbers, but they were substantial. Now, on his perch, Michael can count them. All 83 of them. His chest aches. He doesn’t wait for the next scene. His blinks open to the dark night of his music room. He stares at the cauldron, but not into it.

He can only imagine the number of Hunters has increased. They have not slowed, knowing that extinction is right on the horizon. But what can he do? He’s one man, one body in the war that raged for years. That can’t be all of them. He knows it can’t be. Less than a hundred, it’s so small. Those must be the ones willing to risk it all. And he knows Sylvie was amongst them. With his head still swimming, Michael pulls all the heat from the metal and lets the water cool. The cloudiness won’t dissipate fully, but the bubbles will stop. He cleanses the area again with rue. Resting his head into the cushions of the couch, he tries to let the drink pull him into other insights.

Maybe better dreams will find him when he stops searching for answers.

********

Something’s off. Though it’s a little cloudy and there’s a chance of rain later in the day, Michael knows something is off and more so than just the weather. It starts when he can feel someone watching him. He’s been in the café many times. Grabbing some coffee before heading into the study. He’s been here writing when he needs a place outside of work and his house to release his creative energies. He’s been here too late in the day to think about coffee when he wants to get out but has nowhere else to go.

It’s maybe a little stupid not to change up his routine after Sylvie’s warning. He hadn’t really thought too much about his own safety. Not until now. He glances up from his phone, taking a quick survey of the workers in front of him. All are bustling, calling orders over their shoulders to each other and to the guests. The stare is from behind him. With the chime of the bell alerting the shop of another customer, Michael glances behind him, mostly at the door but watching for any sudden movement.

Nothing happens. Though Michael’s sure he sees someone staring him down. He pushes up his glasses, and for sure, a brunette woman smiles at him. He’s seen her before at this very café. He almost asked her out once. In the smile, Michael knows the edge of danger. She drops her gaze even lower. Michael knows she’s looking at his calf. He wore shorts today out of desperation on the laundry front.

He’s made himself a target. Without even thinking about it. When his order is called, he stands and grabs it off the counter. Michael pockets his phone and calmly picks it up. He briefly wonders if she will start something right now in the middle of this place. He keeps his back turned, working the cardboard slip over the hot cup. There’s nothing under the buzz of whirring machines and the shouts.

At the door, one hand poised to push it open, Michael smiles in return. “Like what you see?”

The woman’s smile turns more shy, ducking her head. “Maybe.”

Michael hums and steps back. He keeps his voice low. “You’ve made yourself obvious.” He takes a quick survey of the room. Three more pairs of eyes zero in on him. They must be her associates. “And I remember a face. If I see you and your friends again, there’s gonna be a problem.”

The bell chimes again as Michael steps through it. Down the street, Michael forgoes his usual headphones and music blasting combination in the off chance that things go south. How long have they been watching him? How did he not notice them before? He chalks it up to some of it being living in bliss. He didn’t think he had to keep watching over his shoulder after he moved away. Trouble couldn’t follow him across the globe. But it had. And it had been right under his nose this entire time.

Did this mean that the rest of the guys were being watched too? The guys knew Michael had family things, even when the band was just beginning. Michael never said what it was. He never told them properly that he was a witch. They wouldn’t judge him, or at least he hopes they wouldn’t. Michael likes to keep this to a need to know basis and if he reveals everything to the guys, does that make it look like he will turn his back on them?

Besides, if Michael does nothing to help Sylvie and the rest of his ex-coven, that guilt, the shame of knowing that they are going head first into death will be too heavy. He can’t have that. He can’t let them dive off into the choppy waters below. It’s not a lot that he can promise them in the grand scheme of things. What they have is not a lot, but there’s a real chance that they may not give it up. He can very well be met with resistance. It’s only an assumption, a hope that they crave stability. Maybe there’s a small part of them he can leverage. He can’t promise them freedom. He can’t promise them that Hunters still won’t come after them. But Michael can damn sure make sure they’re not subjected to the throes of death.

*******

Michael arrives early. Much too early for it to be smart to be out with this much daylight still out. But it’s his only chance of catching Sylvie before the meeting. And sure enough, just as the skies turn a hair pink, he sees the first coven arrive. They stare at him, not blinking, not sneering, just gazing. As if consuming art in a fine arts museum. Not sure what they’re looking at but knowing they’re gazing at and seeing something. Michael’s not used to that blank of a stare. Though, he doesn’t hate for the first time in his life that no one’s screaming in his face, nor is anyone judging him harshly. Blank stares are better than anything else.

More rustling stirs the still evening. All of them turn to the sound. Sylvie steps out behind Joslene. Both of the men, Terry and Kyle, carry the rear, though Kyle keeps close to Sylvie. He looks young, the fat of his cheeks not melted away just yet. But Michael doesn’t dwell on that too much before stepping towards them. When Sylvie spots him, she smiles. Oh, Michael hopes she keeps that smile too after everything. “You came.” The disbelief is clear, and the excitement is palpable.

“I need to talk to you. Just for a second.”

With a nod, they backtrack, away from the group but still able to see, if and when, more join them. “I don’t like the sound of that,” Sylvie whispers.

“I came here. As a courtesy. The band is literally weeks away from touring. I can’t go up missing, dead, or injured.”

She gets that. It doesn’t make it any easier to hear. It doesn’t mean that’s what she was hoping to hear. The letters were nice. Seeing the same address from him let her know that Michael had found his groove. That in his world he has settled into the path best suited for him. “Then go. Perform. Be normal, you have your shot.”

“But I need you to come with me. I need you to convince whoever else is close to you to leave with me. Renounce and I can keep you all safe.”

Sylvie sputters, all the words are crowding her tongue and make it nearly impossible for any of them to fall out. “Turn my back on them? I can’t do that, Michael.”

“And I can’t leave here with you. You asked for my help! This is it.” He takes pause, watching her wide eyes. She takes a step back from him. Like he just reached back to strike her. “I can’t save everybody. And I can’t be here too much longer.” Once Council shows up, Michael knows he can’t be here and still say he’s refusing to offer help in their dire need. He might as well put his own head on a stake for them.

“This is my family, Michael. The only family I’ve ever had!”

“Convince them. I can work with management. I can keep you guys safe and sheltered until you get back on your feet. If you stay here, if you choose them, you will die. Hunters are everywhere, just like you said.”

“And you think, hiding will be any better. At that point, I might as well already be dead. You wanted something else; you wanted to hide. But I can’t.”

She goes to step pass Michael. There’s nothing else he can say or do that will make her change her mind. If she’s going to die, then she will die fighting for what she believes in. Michael captures the crook of her elbow, his blunt nails firm around her skin. “I don’t want you to hide. I just want you safe. You aren’t safe like this.”

“Not everyone’s looking for a way out.”

Michael let’s go of her arm. “I-I’m not-I don’t want--” It hurts. How could she say that? He loves them. This is his family and even if he doesn't show it very well, he cares. Why the hell else would he have come here? “You don’t mean that.”

“Were you or were you not looking a way out of the stares? Were you not looking to hide, Michael?” She can’t believe that Michael can’t see how selfish it is to want her to turn her back on her family. Michael had the safety net. She does not.

“No, I was looking for my fucking purpose in life. I was looking for the kid that never wanted to grow up and show him it was all worth it!”

There is nothing but silence between them. Though, the heavy sighs of their seething break the tension. Sylvie knows part of this might be out of anger. Maybe she’s trying to make Michael prove himself. But it’s all true. If he was looking for the guiding light in his life, then why would he have to come back? She knew she had asked him to help. But he could’ve said no. He had every opportunity to not show up.

Michael knows she’s stubborn. He knows that she does not back down from her beliefs. And as he watches the frown pull down her lips, he knows he’s losing her. She’s not going to back down from this fight. The frown disappears, something sad pulling at her face more. “I hope he’s happy. You should be proud.”

“Sylvie, don’t.”

“Go home, Michael. This doesn’t have to be your problem anymore.”

“I’m not leaving with you. Whatever it takes.” Even if he tries to manipulate her, even if he’s still strong and skilled enough to suspend her autonomy, it won’t last long. She’ll break free. She’ll find her way to send herself headfirst into her death.

There’s no wise rebuttal, no smartass comeback. She just turns again. Michael swears into the darkening violet skies. He calls the buzzing to the surface of his skin—the link that makes the world an overbearing sensory chamber if he’s not careful. And he can feel it, the hot wafting waves of determination and resolve on her. He expands the buzzing, making it a bubble surrounding him, and then pushes.

The grass and leaves shake as the field of energy brushes over them. Then, right on the edge, he brushes over her energy. Everyone radiates an energy that can be manipulated. Some are easier to manipulate than others. Though more often than not, the preferred method is through use of herbs and concoctions. It’s usually slower and not as harsh as direct manipulation. It’s as if Michael is pressing his hands up against glass. He can see her, see the thing he wants to touch, but can’t put his hands directly on it. Like a kid pressed up to the glass of a shop with their Christmas display in bright and dazzling lights.

Sylvie turns, feeling the slight vibration. It feels like something using a feather to tickle her. She knows what he could do, what he wants to do. “You may have a power most don’t. But you haven’t practiced in years.”

Michael presses on. And presses on. And presses on. She doesn’t budge. It has been too long. He’s not as strong as before. With an extra step, feet planted a little wide but pushing his weight down into the earth and through it, Michael tries again. She shakes, the edge of her energy wobbling just a little to his. His in, his one last shot at getting the both of them out of here alive.

One scream pierces the now-settled-night. Michael looks behind, looks over into the field. Hunters surround the convened covens. Chains hang from their grasps. Some wield their knives. The unfortunate thing about being a witch, there’s no power that stops the blood that runs through their veins. There’s no potion or spell to cast that removes the flesh or the fragility of it.

Neither Sylvie or Michael can be sure they haven’t been spotted yet. Though it would be irresponsible to think they were safe from any threat at all. “How did they know?” Sylvie whispers mostly to herself.

The only people that knew about the meeting were the covens remaining and Council. In the few covens that Sylvie spoke to personally, no one looked suspicious. But that would be the nature of the game. If anyone was a turncoat-a witch but now turned Hunter operating to feed intel, they would have to blend in. They would have to look natural.

Kyle. He’s the youngest, mostly a natural talent. But still unrefined in techniques and still learning hand-to-hand combat. Sylvie doesn’t have to think too much longer. There’s only action. Michael watches her go. Bent at her knees and reaching into the top of her boots. They come up to her knees. He sees the glint, catching just a small shift in the light before it disappears. Most likely a dagger wrapped in her hands.

The window is closing. Michael’s height of opportunity comes to its crashing low. In the gap of time between Michael letting her go and his legs starting to carry him away from the inevitable blood bath, Michael thinks if he were in the middle of that, maybe the regret wouldn’t be as insurmountable as he once thought. That even if there were disappointments to his death, maybe there would’ve been a ripple in the universe to offset it.

Soon, though, his legs are overtaking and he turns. He’s never been a runner, never enjoyed the squeeze and ache in his chest from his lungs overexerting. But he runs. He pushes one foot in front of the other. It’s an act of self preservation. Just because he thinks he could’ve made that choice doesn’t negate the fact that he had other choices to make.

It’s not very far. A few meters before Michael sees a Hunter running for him. There’s nothing in his ears but the blood thundering in his own heart. It’s hard to see clearly what weapon might be his undoing. Though the closer they become, the more Michael thinks his only safe option is to go low. So Michael, as the distance closes in, shifts, lets his left go extend out as his right hip drops. His knee and thigh hit the ground first, and he slides. He sweeps their ankles and though there’s not a lot of momentum to keep him going forward. He scrambles to his feet. It goes against the fair rules in a fight, but in a fight of survival, Michael does not let them have time to regain too much breath.

There’s nothing but trees at this point. But feeling the roots of the trees, Michael brings them up, palms extended to the ground to feel them and direct with more precision. The ground shakes just a little as they break through the dirt. Michael flicks his wrist, palms now facing each other. The roots freeze for a moment before diving back down into the first. Wrapped in their web is the Hunter. They swear as the roots wrap around tighter, feet kicking to get them up with no avail.

Time will be their undoing. Or that’s the hope, at least. Michael spins and returns to his run. On the break in the trees, Michael fumbles forward. His chest burns. Everything hurts, shoulders, hips, knees. “Okay,” he pants. “Gotta get back into the gym.” The words fall in pants with heavy breaths between them.

He bends over, hands on his knees, and he gives himself just one more moment to regain his breath. It’ll be his last moment before he needs to get moving again. In the last deep inhale and exhale, Michael swears he’s going to cough up blood. It never comes. He straightens and carries on down the small embankment. The trees look bodies looming in the night as Michael descends. He listens, but there’s nothing heard besides a fluttering of owls. The hum of the cities below drum in his ears too. Maybe it’s better like this. He can imagine the sounds of what’s happening in the bowels of this forest, but he won’t ever go to bed knowing exactly what they sound like.

Michael is glad that he kept a more inconspicuous vehicle around as he reached the small parking lot at the bottom of the hiking trails. No one’s going to think too much about the lone Toyota. The lights blink as Michael unlocks the door. He’s shocked he didn’t completely crush the remote in his pocket, and he’s even more glad it didn’t jostle out of his pockets.

The moment he clicks the door closed and locked, Michael reclines his head into the worn plush cloth. Will this be the end? Will Michael mourn lives he used to know? Will he mourn ghosts, shells of who they were but never knowing them in the present? Will his life still be in danger? He can only assume it’s more dangerous now than ever. If that Hunter is discovered, they will tell the others. They will not leave him alone, not if he’s the last witch to roam.

His chest still aches from the run. Though part of the fresher pain is from the stabbing of the sob that threatens to bypass his lips. There’s no time for that, he reminds himself. He still has to get out of here. Alive at that too. He’s still got to make it out of here alive. The time for tears is later. The streets are barren as Michael pulls out of the lot and onto the highway. He’s not even on the highway for a mile or so before he sees two bodies in his headlights.

It could be a ploy. Two Hunters that are waiting for Michael to break his resolve. Though his gut tells him to pull over. He slows, pulling the car off to the shoulder. The headlights illuminate the shadows. A young boy, probably younger than Michael, with a body hanging off to the left of him. Their arm is slung over his shoulder and he’s doing his best to keep them upright.

“You’ve always been stubborn as hell,” Michael calls out, jogging to approach. Sylvie barely glances at him. Her body is much too heavy and wants to succumb to gravity. Michael tries his best to not let the shakes in. He tries not to think too much about how thick her blood is on his hands. How it feels like it’s seeping into his skin.

Michael keeps a towel over the backseat just in case of dogs or anything spilling. For a split moment, Michael thinks about the stain that could be left behind. How that would haunt him. It’s fleeting, never settling firmly into place before panic claws its way in. Michael tugs his sweatshirt off and covers where he assumes major wounds are. There’s no way to tell clearly in the night, and the light from overhead is too dim. She holds her hands just under her chest.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Kyle,” he responds.

“Keep that on the wound. Press kind of hard, okay? Not too hard, though.”

Kyle takes over, hovering over her head, having entered from the passenger side backdoor. “She said we could trust you. I-I don’t know what’s happening. We were just supposed to meet with Council.” Kyle’s voice trembles as Michael reaches into the middle console of the car. “One moment, she’s walking off with you and we’re waiting. And the next, these Hunters are having a fucking field day. I—I don’t even know how they knew.”

Sylvie whizzes. Michael feels her fingers curling into the cotton of his sweatpants. “I’m right here,” he calls out. “I’m right here.”

“She said someone on the inside had to be feeding them information. We couldn’t really confirm who. But no one from Council was there. So maybe them?” The words keep falling from Kyle’s mouth. He wants them to stop, but they just don’t. He can’t stop them. If he does, it makes it real.

Michael tunes him out, listening to the way Sylvie’s whizzing beneath them. “I know I brought it,” he huffs. Tears are blurring his vision. Michael blinks them away. There’s nothing but papers, tissues, some random CDs that Michael forgot he left in the car that hold residency in the console. Michael swears, fingers trembling. He could’ve sworn he brought the bag with him. It was a soft brown velvet. He stashed it in his pocket before leaving tonight. He knows he brought it.

Stretching across the middle console, he reaches for the glove compartment. It has to be in here. “Hang on for me, Vie. Hang on,” Michael calls out. His chest constricts as his fingers slip on the small latch of the glove compartment.

“How do you know Sylvie?” Kyle asks. He tries not to think about how soaked they are in her blood and some of it is Kyle’s own blood in his shirt too. It’s mostly though. So much of it is hers. It’s a miracle she didn’t drop dead on the trek. Michael ignores the question, grabbing again at the latch. It falls open. He exhales a little when he spies the brown bag.

“You’ve always talked to fucking much,” Sylvie gasps, attempting a laugh but a groan interrupts it.

“Look at the pot calling the kettle black,” Michal quips. The bag isn’t big but he can hear the crystals clicking against each other as he pulls out the smaller plastic bag of herbs. He’s going to use old school medicine. Michael could attempt using his energy manipulation, but if she’s lost too much blood and is too weak, he won’t be strong enough to bring her back. Old medicine is slow, but it’s always effective.

Squashed between the driver's seat and backseat, Michael settles and nods to the trunk. “Grab me a bottle of water from the trunk.” A please would be better to add, but none of them are thinking of manners. Kyle nods. When his hands lift, Michael presses down.

Her skin ashen. The warm flush hat made her look young is gone. In front of Michael now is the grim reminder that when she meant she’d give her life, she was not bluffing. Sweat drips down his nose, but he doesn’t move to wipe it away. It’ll disguise the inevitable tears. “You cannot die on me. If you do, I’m bringing you back just to kick your ass again, you hear me?”

Sylvie gives a short laugh, a quick inhalation and exhalation that lets Michael know she hears him. “I’d haunt you first.” It comes out softly. The air barely catches onto the whispers and brings them to Michael’s ears.

Michael laughs. It’s shaky leaving him as the tears track down his cheeks. Kyle comes back with two bottles of water, the spare towels, and the first aid kit. Michael forgot about those. But he’s thankful and takes one to clean his hands. “You’ve been in situations like this before I see.”

It’s a joke. But when Kyle grimaces, hands pressing down on the soaked black sweatshirt, Michael apologizes. Knowing Sylvie, the poor kid has been in situations like this before. From the first bag, Michael removes a piece of St. John’s wort before finding a square of gauze. He leaves it herb side up on the floor of the car before rummaging back through the bag. It’s hard to see the stones in the bag, but Michael knows he’ll feel the garnet when he places his fingers on it.

When he gets a grasp on it, he sets that down on the same square of gauze. The small vial of tea tree oil is easy to find, and he goes back again for a small piece of aventurine. It feels silly at the moment to bring it out of the bag. They need it though; they need just a little of luck. So Michael places it into her palm. She grips it immediately, the smooth coolness settling into her palm.

Michael brings some tea tree oil up into the dropper. His heart squeezes in his chest when he reaches up to remove the soiled cloth. He’s praying it’s not too bad, but he knows, from the look of her, this won’t be a pretty sight. His fingers tremble. He has to furl them into a fist for a second to rid himself of the shakes. With one bottle of water opened, he counts down from three.

Kyle lifts his hands and the sweatshirt. Michael runs a little of water, just to see where the blood is coming from. There’s a deep gash. The blood oozes like a river. Michael sucks in a breath before using the clean towel to apply pressure.

His own veins quiver at the sight. The chill taking over his body again. He’s shocked she hasn’t made much of a sound. She hasn’t whimpered or mentioned feeling cold. Even though Michael knew he would not die when he renounced, he still panicked. He felt himself so close to death, and it made his own consciousness seize. All he could think to himself was he did not want to die. He was sure that in the chills, he was an inconsolable mess, whimpering constantly in pain.

There is nothing from her, just the whizz of her breathing. As if she’s using all the last mental efforts not to give into the pain. “I know you’re used to being strong all the time, Sylvie. Right now, you don’t have to be.” It’s a soft warning. She reaches out again for Michael with the hand not clutching the crystal. Blindly, she finds his shirt, fingers just brushing over the soft material. A tear tracks down the side of her face as she locks her gaze with him. “Fucking stubborn, you know.”

“Said that already,” she whispers. Her eyes close briefly, a brief wave of pain contorting her face. Every inhale feels like a brush of flames licking at her chest.

“I know. Just wanted to make sure you heard it.” Michael turns to Kyle. “I need to get her shirt out of the way.”

Kyle doesn’t take a beat to think before finding a hole in her shirt, from one of the multiple lacerations she sustained. When he gets a good grip, he yanks. The fabric crackles as it splits. It stops just at her chest, where her one arm is still resting. She moves it slowly.

Sylvie sees the fabric separating from the roof of the car from the age of the car. She thinks she should mention the plastic screws Michael could buy to keep it in place. She thinks about the constellations she could create with them. Anything other than the numbness now starting to take over. If she’s honest, she much prefers it to the burning, to the ache that repeatedly punched her chest.

Kyle grips again. The tearing sound echoes in the car's backseat. He repeats it one last time, having to lean over Sylvie and reach under Michael’s arms. Finally, the shirt hangs open around her torso. Two flaps that are only connected by the thin strap of the collar. When Michael lifts the towel again, he pushes the fabric further away. There’s not much thought, or at least not consciously, as Michael washes away more of the blood. His fingers slip around the garnet when he first reaches down for it.

Soon it’s firm in his grasps and he mediates a moment, with the stone wrapped in his fingers and placing it into the wound. It’s deeper than just a cut. It has to be a puncture. The thought nearly seizes his throat. It almost causes all the breath to leave his lungs. But he sucks it back in; he holds it in his lungs until he’s done. The gauze with the St. John’s wort is wrapped tight around her ribs. Kyle holds her head up to allow Michael’s hand to slip under.

The only thing about old school medicine, besides it working slowly, is that there is still a chance it won’t work. She could try to reject the clotting of the garnet stone. Though it won’t heal her completely, it’ll keep her alive until they can get to an ER. Michael has Kyle keep a close eye on her breathing while he wipes down the other cuts with tea tree oil and wraps them too with gauze with the St. John’s wort herb. They’re not great wraps, but he’s losing time.

Michael finally looks down at his hands, the olive green on his t-shirt now splattered in red. His hands looked dyed. If he didn’t know, if somehow his brain blocked out the last few minutes, he wouldn’t think it more than extra thick paint. But he knows. It’s not paint. It’s not the product of anything fun. He dumps the second bottle of water over his hands to loosen the stiffening substance. “You’re okay back here with her?” Michael asks.

“Yeah. I’ll be okay.” Kyle’s gentle as he brushes a stubborn curl away from her face.

Michael doesn’t think too much as he drives again. The contents of the glove box rattle for a good two miles before Michael realizes the noise is coming from inside the car. He slams it close. His brain is trying to map the fastest route. He can’t halfway think. Though he has to keep it together. He has to keep it together. He tries not to think about how he’s fifteen minutes from the closest hospital and how it might be five, ten, twelve minutes too long for her. No, that thought can’t enter the crevices of his mind. Not when he’s still mapping out the exit to take.

The interstate is clear. This far from the city makes sense, and he’s glad. A traffic jam is not what Michael needed at this moment. It’s risky blowing well over the speed limit. But there’s Sylvie, in his backseat, clinging to whatever ounces of life in her. So it doesn’t matter. Not in the slightest. Michael’s not sure if he truly exhaled until he’s turning into the hospital entrance. The car’s barely thrown into park before he jumps out.

The blood on his shirt, the tears that have stained his cheeks—he’s sure it’s all red alert for the nurses and doctors on staff. But with sharp acuity, they follow behind him. They carry bags, a gurney. He thinks he hears gloves snapping into place. There’s a specific squeak as someone slips into latex. Michael never thought about it until it was nearly the only sound that could calm him down.

Waiting is a far worse game. When she’s wheeled beyond doors that Michael cannot follow behind and he has to take a seat in the too bright waiting room, he thinks not having her wheezing in front of him is much worse than anticipating that any breath she gives is her last in front of him. At least then he would know. At least then he could’ve comforted her. Maybe his presence would’ve been a solace before she finally let go.

“Mate, what the hell happened to you?” Michael looks up. Calum stands with a furrowed brow. A black duffle bag drops settles at his feet. When did he call Calum? Was he the one that called or did a nurse ask if they could call someone for him? He’s not sure.

“She’s-it’s bad.” The proper words won’t form around his lips.

“So that’s not your blood?”

Michael shakes his head. His leg bounces as he holds himself up on his elbows. In his peripheral, his hair hangs, and it irritates him to no end. He’s not sure why, but for half a second he wants to cut it all off.

“You should go get changed,” Kyle urges. He took a nurse up on the change of clothes, but Michael couldn’t think properly to respond.

“C’mon,” Calum motions for Michael to stand. “You ain’t interrupt my evening at home just to sit here covered in someone else’s blood.” When Michael stands and picks up the bag from the floor, Calum gingerly places his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “The doctors got her, mate. And I’m here now. Ashton said he was twenty minutes out.”

Michael can only nod as he finds his way to the bathrooms. The hot water feels wrong. It feels wrong to watch the pink water swirl down the drain of the sink. But he cleanses himself. He lets all that he has left of her fall down the drain. What other option does he have? He stares at his reflection. Some blood is up on his cheek. He smears it and watches the water track down into his beard. There’s nothing in the reflection but his gaunt stare.

As Micheal returns to the waiting room, he spies Ashton talking to Calum. No doubt both of them are trying to figure out what happened. Two officers have joined their huddle too. “They just want to talk to you, mate,” Ashton attempts to convey. “They just want to talk. Who were you with?”

Michael looks down to Kyle and they both know they cannot trust anyone. “I found them on my way back home. The girl, Sylvie, I don’t know what happened to her. Both of them were just on the side of the road by the time I found them. So I pulled over to help.”

“How do you get her name?” One officer asks, pen poised.

“I asked. I saw she was losing a lot of blood. I wanted to see if she was conscious and fairly alert.”

“And the kid?” the other office asked. He looks gruff with the beard that’s graying. But he looks pleasant with round cheeks and a belly to match.

“Friend of hers, I guess.” Michael shrugs.

The older cop turns to Kyle. “What were the two of you doing?”

Michael prays that the kid can lie through his fucking teeth. “Just going for an evening walk through the trails. We were just about to head back since the sun was setting. She saw some ledge and climbed up it. I was following and got distracted by the view. She slipped. I went after her.” Michael’s impressed, but he’s hoping no one asks too many questions.

“Why didn’t you call in the problem?”

“Cell service was spotty the deeper we went in. I couldn’t get a signal, and I wasn’t going to leave her. So I carried her out the road and that’s when he,” Kyle gestures to Michael, “spotted us.”

The younger office turns up their mouth. As if trying to decide if the story is believable or not. “So she slipped?”

Kyle nods. It’s almost too easy to lie. But the more he tries to answer, the more he’s likely to fuck it up. So he just nods. The older man nods along too before asking, “Where were you guys?”

Both Michael and Kyle rattle off the name of the forest in the local state park. The older man nods again. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve been out there. Some of those ledges have a lot of loose rock if you’re not careful.”

Michael doesn’t know what this cop is on about. But he says nothing, he just blinks, hoping his face is neutral but concerned. “I followed the flat trails,” he offers. “I don’t know if you need that info or my old clothes?”

“The flat trails?” It’s almost like nothing about the story seems to add up for the young guy. Like he’s trying to find a hole, and Michael and Kyle can’t fill it fast enough.

“Flat trails. They tell you which ones have elevations. I’m not built for that because I fucking wiped out on the flat ones.” Michael gives a small laugh and finds the plastic bag with his clothes from the duffel. He hopes that covers any dirt they find on his pants.

The older man takes it, giving another big nod. They conclude with a couple questions before he stops. “Well, I think we just have a couple good fellas that did their best in a crisis.” The younger opens his mouth, but nothing ever falls over the gaping hole before the older man sends him to talk to a nurse. “Just two good men in a crisis,” he mutters again. As he turns, he scratches on his upper arm, right on the bicep.

And there in black ink is a spider web of minimalistic points and lines. A mark of an old school coven. Michael will forever remember their marking. He wanted that one as a kid. He wanted to be like them. Michael, maybe subconsciously or not so subconsciously, reaches for the scars on his arm. The short-sleeved shirt makes it obvious and though Michael would be annoyed that whoever packed his bag didn’t include a long sleeve shirt, he’s appreciative at the moment.

They’re not so alone. Maybe many more of them are hiding in plain sight.

As the cops exit the hospital, Michael realizes that if that older man was not like him, he would’ve been outed. With the herb and crystal bag still on the floor of his car and the bloodied towels and sweatshirt, it would’ve all looked too suspicious. Things wouldn’t have added up, but Michael knows now they won’t. They won’t even be a page or a blimp in the system about him or this incident.

“That’s fucking insane,” Ashton quips.

“You holdin’ up okay?” Calum questions.

Michael keeps watching the two cops leave, even makes sure both doors are sliding closed before he turns to his friends. Here, a moment for Michael to admit his truth. He chews on his bottom lip, wondering when the trembles stop their earthquakes in his hands. “What if I know Sylvie? What if I was almost in a position like hers?”

“I mean anyone can slip if they’re not careful on a ledge,” Calum returns.

He nods. Anyone can slip if they’re not careful on a ledge. “I know her though. We’re old friends.” Michael opts to start there. With small ounces of the truth. The guys may never know. Michael may never have the guts to tell them everything. But maybe there are enough guts for just a bite of it.

“So you were out hiking with her and him?” Ashton pauses for a moment, trying to piece together why Michael wouldn’t say that to the cops. Though maybe in the shock of everything, Michael just forgot to mention some things. “So you left the group early?” Ashton questions.

“I, I like ran into her and Kyle. We weren’t together. I just bumped into her after some years. It was strange,” Michael admits staring back at the doors that have yet to open.

No one asks too many questions. Not as they settle down into the chairs. Michael almost wishes they would ask him questions. It would give him something else to focus on besides the unknown. Luke arrives an hour later. “Sorry,” he rushes out. “I’m so sorry, Michael. Went out with Sierra and didn’t have my phone immediately near me.”

Michael shrugs. “It’s alright.”

“Calum said you looked like hell, but all I can see are bags,” Luke jokes. He knows the room’s tense. But he’s hoping a laugh will help.

Kyle and Michael follow the doctor back. The surgery was successful, though the road of recovery will be long, they are warned. The words hardly register as Michael replays the doctor’s first few words. It was by a miracle. There’s no mention of the garnet that they no doubt had to extract. There’s no mention of the gauze and herb. And maybe that’s for the best. Maybe there’s too much strangeness lingering about this as a whole that there need not be anymore.

Sylvie is swallowed up by the sheets of the hospital bed. Her eyes crack open for just a second, a blink in time. Michael and Kyle each take a side of her. Michael’s back to the window and Kyle’s to the door. “How come I’m the only one banged up?”

“Because you’re fucking stubborn,” they echo.

Michael gingerly takes her hand. “I thought you might not have let it work.”

Sylvie doesn’t look at him long. Just a quick blink, but she squeezes his fingers. “I gave up on time. Not you.”

It’s such a simple statement. Michael can feel the tears. They are squeezing at his chest. He drops to his knees, head resting into the plastic railing of the bed. Even when Michael wasn’t sure of what to do, even when he would choose the band, she would always root for him. She always had his back. It’s an awful feeling, walking around for years, shunning part of who he was. He was looking for an escape. But he was trying to figure out what made him happy. He was searching for a way to reconcile the consequences for his action.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. He catches the wisp of her lips and the air escaping between them as he sucks back the snot. “I shouldn’t have made you feel like you were wrong for choosing the band. It makes you happy.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t--” Michael takes a deep breath and looks to the ceiling as he blinks away the tears. “I didn’t know how to be both.”

She hums, “You don’t have to be.” It’s drowned out by the steady beeps of her heart monitor.

__________________________________________________________________________

There’s a knock on the bedroom door. Michael groans, placing the pillow over his head. “Go away,” he shouts.

“Breakfast is in the microwave.”

Michael grumbles to himself, his own hot breath blowing back into his face and getting trapped between the two pillows. Why couldn’t she sleep late like normal people do? It was a weekend anyhow. Michael is sure when he cracks open his eyes, his clock will read somewhere near the ass crack of dawn.

Soon the sandwich Michael has made of his own head becomes too hot and he removes the second pillow. His alarm clock shows 8:47. There are still a good two hours before anyone should’ve been shouting in his house, but he sits up anyway. She shouldn’t even be doing all of that standing just yet. But Sylvie is who she is, and if that means disobeying a doctor’s order because she is sick of lying around all day, then it means disobeying a doctor’s order.

Michael doesn’t bother with a shirt as shuffles into the front of the house. Sylvie’s not on the couch or at the dining room table. He finds her instead, standing over a pot on the stove. It bubbles and he can smell the rosemary. It hits the hairs of nostrils and wraps around them. Peering into the pot, Michael can see the color bleeding red now. “If that’s my good pot, we’re fighting,” Michael reprimands.

“You think I would create a healing potion in your good pot? Do you not know who I am?”

There’s a distinct lack of Kyle, Michael notes as he leans into the kitchen counter. “You scare the kid off?”

“Ate and then went back to sleep.”

“So you’re just terrorizing everyone in my house. I see how it is.”

Sylvie laughs, using a wooden spoon to stir the bubbling pot. It’s only been a week. Well, not even a full seven days. They haven’t really talked about what happened. But Michael knows it’s hard on her. She’s up late most nights. He knows because he’s up too and can hear her rummaging around in the room next to his. She’s up early too. She’s healing just fine physically, minus the ribs that’s bruised. That’s proven harder for her. Her lack of sleep tells Michael something else lingers. She’s not as okay as she tries to front.

Michael watches the way her fingers rub at the clear quartz around her neck. “Let me take over?”

She shakes her head. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t have to be okay right now, you know? They call it healing for a reason.”

He wants to ask her about the hospital. If she remembers what she said. If they can really talk things through. But for the moment, Michael will settle for gently taking the spoon from her grasps. As she protests, he drowns her out with his own gibberish, the way mother’s reprimand children. They’ll always bicker and pick with each other. But if they didn’t love each other, there would be no reason for it.

Now Sylvie takes the post against the marble counter. It’s silent as the bubble continues on with this deep gurgle for a moment or two. “My almost last words with you shouldn’t have been in anger. I’m sorry.”

“But they weren’t. And I shouldn’t have tried to coerce you.” He could justify it. Just like he knows she could’ve justified her actions. It doesn’t matter now. It all simply does not matter now.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Just as long as it’s not tax information.”

She lightly taps his bicep with a snort. “Seriously.”

Michael purses his lips. “I am being serious. You can ask me whatever, just as long as it’s not tax related.”

“Why did you come to that meeting? Why didn’t you just not show up?”

“It was my last shot at being both,” Michael admits. “I had chosen the band once over you guys. I thought maybe then, I could have both. Get you out safely and not feel so ashamed anymore.”

“You chose what was right for you, Michael. That’s all.”

“You’ll always wonder what if, ya know? I always wondered what would’ve life been like if I hadn’t chosen the band. What would life look like as a leader of a coven?”

Sylvie nods. It makes sense. When faced with a fork in the road, the other side will always haunt. There will still be questions about what’s in store if one thing is different, if there’s one choice that’s different. “I’m glad you showed up.”

Like a projector playing, when she closes her eyes, she can see the floor of the forest littered with bodies. The sight doesn’t take her breath like usual, but it still hurts. “I talked to Kyle. I think someone in Council, if not the whole Council, was corrupt. He said once I left to talk to you, they waited. But no one else showed up. And then bodies just started dropping. He hadn’t finished his training. We offered for him to not join us; it wouldn’t reflect poorly on him. But he came with us. Joslene was doing her best to keep him safe and keep Hunters at bay. By the time I joined the fight, there were slim chances really.”

“You’ve somehow always defied the odds.” Michael finds the ladle and a mug. The liquid sloshes a little as it runs down the innards of the cup. He holds it out so she can take it by the handle.

“Just a small thing called magic,” she grins before taking the first sip. It’s never tasted great, always a hair too bitter for her taste buds, but she shivers and gets the sip down.

“Did Joslene tell you to take Kyle and go?”

With a nod, she goes in for a second sip. “Seems like you remember Joslene well.”

He shrugs. “No, just seems like the most obvious thing to do. I have an experienced fighter and someone I know will do whatever possible to protect. I’m going to send my most vulnerable to them.”

“You learned a thing or two from, Tyler.”

“I did actually pay attention. I just pretended I didn’t.”

There’s another slurping sip, attempting to keep the heat from searing her tongue so much. “I didn’t think we’d find you, to be honest. I wasn’t completely sure what direction of the interstate you’d use up and east, or down the coast. I kind of just picked the one my gut feeling was the strongest on.”

“Maybe you didn’t need the aventurine.”

Her laugh is soft and a little sad. “No, I needed it. I needed all the luck that was out there.”

Neither one of them mention that she and Kyle are the only survivors. They don’t mention that life is literally upside down from now on. They don’t worry about finding a job or housing or what it means for their safety—if they will have to always be looking over their shoulders. Right now, those things are small. Those are worries for later.

Sylvie knows the cup is shaking in her grasps when a little of the red liquid splashes onto the floor. Michael’s quick to take the cup from her. “Hey, I got you. I’m here, I promise.” She tucks into his chest, arms winding around his torso. Her tears are hot on his skin. He’s sure if Kyle was in a sort of sleep state, he is not now. Michael is careful as he hugs her into return, not wanting to aggravate that rib. His palms run soothingly up and down her back. She shakes, like leaves battered in a relentless wind.

Grief is heavy. But it is heavy and necessary. Michael hums against her. “Let it all out. I got you.”

#michael clifford #michael clifford fanfic #michael clifford imagine #michael clifford one-shot #witch!au #witch!michael #5sos #5sos imagine #5sos one-shot #5sos fic #5sos fanfic #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fic #h writes #calum hood #luke hemmings #ashton irwin

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