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karasunovolleygays · 4 years

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UshiIwa Fic Recs

(that nobody asked for)

Hello! It’s my distinct pleasure to welcome you all to UshiIwa hell! I’ve been malingering here for years, but with new developments in canon, it looks like I am no longer stuck on Gilligan’s Island (me plus the six other sad bastards i’m stranded with).

As a long time sufferer of this ship, I would like to introduce you to some of my favorite UshiIwa stories, including a few of my own bc tag smol. :’)

Rating: G/T

I Lose Control by voices_in_my_head Tags: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, OMC (Coach) Summary: "He looks to the bench, where Iwaizumi’s eyes dance from player to player." Words: 1,538 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: this is an interesting study of how Ushijima would deal with an injury at a crucial moment when everyone is counting on him, plus a dose of priority.

Cordially Uninvited by Karasuno Volleygays (that’s me) Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Possible Current Manga Spoilers, Established Relationship, Paparazzi Summary: Paparazzi haunting notable people has always been a problem, but Hajime and Wakatoshi opt to clear the air on their own terms. Words: 1,279 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: I thought it would be interesting to see how Ushijima would deal with celebrity and subsequently strangers poking their noses in his personal business.

Three Doors Down by Karasuno Volleygays Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Fluff, More Fluff, pretty bara men bonding over dogs Summary: When Ushijima inherited a property that had seen better days, he found himself spending a lot of time and effort in a new part of town restoring the house to its former glory. However, he didn't expect a litter of puppies in a yard a few houses over to revive his spirit, as well.

He certainly didn't anticipate their owner stirring something to life within him, either, but that was a development he didn't need much coaxing to get used to. Words: 13,145 Chapters: 2/2 My notes: I have no excuses for how fluffy this is.

you're good, too quickly admitted by pyrality Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Coffeeshop AU, College AU, Fluff, Getting Together, Awkward Flirting Summary: Iwaizumi sits back in the chair, "Oikawa thinks I could do better."

Ushijima swallows, eyes still on his laptop screen, "And what do you think?"

"I think I'd like to go out to lunch with you sometime."

He looks up at the other boy, feeling warm at the sight of Iwaizumi's crooked, barely there smile, a challenging twinkle in his eye.

"Oh," Ushijima manages before he recomposes himself, "I'd like that.” Words: 2,731 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: UshiIwa dating to spite Oikawa is too good to turn down.

Alight by Karasuno Volleygays Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Time Skips, Rivals to Lovers Summary: Iwaizumi Hajime can't believe his soulmate is the guy who just wiped the floor with his team, but there is no denying the fact that he is irrevocably linked to Ushijima Wakatoshi. Words: 4,504 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: If you’re interested in them getting to know each other through their failures and vulnerable moments, this is probably your jam.

Baby It's Cold Outside by RarePairGremlin Tags: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Winter, Cuddling, light grinding, hints to smut but nothing is described, jaw kiss, Kissing, Fluff, Established Relationship Summary: The childish grin spread over his lips again as he faced them, his gaze roaming up them slowly as an idea formed. Ushijima, ever prepared, was fully dressed in thick socks a pair of blue sweats, which they had tucked into their socks like the crime against fashion they are, and a thick hoodie. He knew for a fact, since he’s stolen it enough times, that the hoodie was fuzzy and soft on the inside. Beside them lay a steaming cup of tea, the bag still steeping inside as they liked their tea strong, and the aforementioned throw lay comfortably across their lap. A perfect image of warm and cozy.

It would be a shame if someone was to disturb that now wouldn’t it? Words: 1,471 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: This is exactly what it says on the tin, plus a bonus NB Ushijima!

the ghost in your room by mousecat Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Unrequited Love, Unrequited IwaOi, oikawa is a bit of a dick Summary: Hajime finds a way to get over Oikawa Words: 1,173 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: It’s an oddly pleasurable mixture of fluff and a punch in the throat.

Good Graces by Karasuno Volleygays Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Established Relationship, Arguments, Mending Fences Summary: Hajime is pissed at Wakatoshi for something he admits he did until he finds out the real reason he did it. Then he feels like a jackass. Hopefully, his live-in boyfriend is up for a good old fashioned groveling session. Words: 2,059 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: Making your otp mad at each other is hard and it hurts, but the communication afterward is so important.

lit the very fuse by mousecat Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Getting Together, Unrequited Love, Christmas Eve, Mostly Fluff, ushiwaka is a soft boy, you can never convince me otherwise Summary: Hajime isn't sure what he and Ushijima are to each other, but he knows he's still stuck on Oikawa. Words: 2,609 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: If you like FWB to Lovers, step right up and scream into the void with me.

Once An Enemy. by BGee93 Tags: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Getting Together, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Friends, Aged-Up Character(s), Slow Burn, Misunderstandings, Not Beta Read, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluffy Ending, Volleyball, Volleyball Dorks in Love, Volleyball Dorks & Nerds, volleyball mentioned not played, Getting to Know Each Other, Love, Love Confessions, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Idiots in Love, Declarations Of Love, Dorks in Love, Confessions, Enemies to Lovers, Sharing a Bed, Literal Sleeping Together, Coffee Shops, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Coffee, First Dates, Awkward Dates, Aobajousai, Shiratorizawa, boyfriend sweater, Confusion, Cliche, cliches, Awkward RomanceAwkward Meetings, meme team - Freeform, Slow Build, Slow Romance, very slow burn, Sleeping Together, Sleepovers, Bonding, Forced Bonding Summary: 'It took several minutes to catch his breath again and to stop hissing through his teeth at the areas that throbbed, until they were just a dull ache. Once Iwaizumi felt he was able to move again he slid his hands up the strangers chest, ignoring the ripple and twitches his touch caused since the situation was already awkward enough without Iwaizumi appreciating the well toned muscle under his fingertips, as he pushed himself up till he was able to look at the persons face. There was more lighting on the bottom floor, as it was closer to the illuminating street lamps outside, so he was able to make out exactly who the man was within mere seconds despite the face still being quite shadowed. And the identity shocked him into stilling every joint, muscle and fiber of his being.

Oh hell no.' Words: 20,130 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: This was written for me as a gift in an exchange a while back. Have I stopped screaming about it? Not bloody likely.

Rating: M

Focus (On Me) by Verbrennung Tags: Underage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ushijima is a 1st year, lots of staring, and looming, and crowding, Seijou!Ushijima, rated for ~makin' out~ Summary: Nobody had foreseen future Super Ace Ushijima Wakatoshi transferring from Shiratorizawa to Aoba Johsai for high school. Everyone's curious to know why, and as Iwaizumi discovers, some of his reasons are... unexpected.

An AU in which everything is mostly the same except Ushijima is a first year at Aoba Johsai and has a huge, looming crush on Iwaizumi. Words: 12,454 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: This should probably be rated T instead, but whatever. If you ever wanted to know how much of an awkward bastard both of them are when they’re into someone, this is your jam.

Point Blank by Karasuno Volleygays Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Future Fic, Brief (but pertinent) Mention of Homophobia, Slow Burn, Financial shenanigans, Scary Men with Guns, Minor Character Death Summary: Iwaizumi Hajime accepted a position at a company that was going places, and he knew he had a bright future ahead of him if he just kept his head down and worked hard — a future his family desperately needed him to achieve. He didn't count on an old rival working in the same building, nor Ushijima Wakatoshi's surprisingly cordial demeanor, yet he managed to make an unlikely friend and an even more unlikely roommate.

But when Iwaizumi climbed up the company ladder and into some of the more shadowy recesses of the corporate realm, he knew they would both get more than they bargained for, and the only person he knew he could trust was Ushijima. Words: 44,981 Chapters: 12/12 My notes: This was my first UshiIwa and I still think about it a lot. Imagining these guys in regular jobs is strange, but kind of endearing when you get a feel for how they live their lives after volleyball.

Rating: E

Flare by fish_wifey Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, From dislike to like, Tension, Sex Toys, Anal Sex, Dressing Room Sex, Topping from the Bottom, Orgasm Delay/Denial Summary: Ushijima's forwardness makes Iwaizumi edgy, but after they figure their shit out, it's Iwaizumi who brings Ushijima on edge. Words: 7,687 Chapters: 2/2 My notes: Enemies to lovers speed run ahoy!

Tangled Webs by Karasuno Volleygays (Restricted) Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Black Widow AU, Assassin Iwaizumi, Crime boss Ushijima, alcohol use, Drugging, dubcon elements, Angst Summary: Iwaizumi Hajime is a seasoned killer, with wit sharp enough to cut and reflexes to match. He's never missed a kill. That is, of course, until he meets his new mark — Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Can Ushijima offer Iwaizumi what he truly desires, on top of a night of heated passion that can only end one way? Words: 4,120 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: This was some fucked up stuff, but sweet baby jesus it was a wild ride to write.

Unraveled by Karasuno Volleygays (Restricted) Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Bondage, Knife Play, Edging, Rough Sex, Flogging, Breathplay, Toys, Dubious Morality Summary: After his liberation from his past life, Iwaizumi adjusts to life with Ushijima. But something is missing, and Ushijima picks the strangest (and most erotic) way to give it to him. Words: 5,145 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: It’s cute that I thought the first fic in this series was fucked up. This one was clearly more so, but noragerts.

Poly/Multiship ft. UshiIwa

4 AM by ApparentlyAda Rating: T Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, this is so stupid, I'm Sorry, Oikawa and Ushijima talk about dogs, Iwaizumi is Oikawa and Ushiwaka Trash #1 Relationship: UshiIwaOi Summary: "Ushiwaka."

"Yes?"

"What if one day you woke up as a chicken?"

"What if one day you shut the fuck up?", interrupts Hajime groggily.

(Or, simply put, the awful(ly amazing) conversations these three dorks have during sleepless nights) Words: 1,064 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: I hope you like banter and Oikawa roastage haha

Bridge the Gap by FindingSchmomo Rating: T Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Polyamory, Established Relationship, Divorce, Past Child Abuse, Lawyer! Oikawa, Police officer iwaizumi, Flower Shop Owner Ushijima, child kageyama, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Domestic Fluff, Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Panic Attacks, Anxiety, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Meet the Family, chap 6 is the familys ongoing mission to keep kags hydrated, chap 7 is meet the parents edition, Internalized Homophobia, just a touch of it really Relationship: UshiIwaOi Summary: Iwaizumi Hajime, Oikawa Tooru and Ushijijma Wakatoshi love each other more than anything, but sometimes that’s not enough, especially in a world that doesn’t love them back. Tiny cracks begin to widen, ever so slowly, until the gaps they leave seem insurmountable.

They find their answers with each other, and surprisingly enough, with the little boy loitering outside their window.

—-

Or, a story of disconnects and the love it takes to bridge them. Words: 121,443 Chapters: 18/18 My notes: It’s long with a lot of heavy themes, but if you look at the tags and think you can get through them, it’s so worth it.

a taste of heaven by beatboxbmo Rating: T Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Polyamory, Birthday baking, Cuddles, Established Relationship, Aged-Up Character(s) Relationship: UshiIwaOi Summary: tooru comes home early on his birthday to see his two boyfriends asleep on the couch. they baked him a surprise. Words: 2,141 Chapters: 1/1 My notes: This is exactly as warm and gooey as it sounds.

Three's A Crowd by FindingSchmomo Rating: T Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Romance, Comedy, Romantic Comedy, Miscommunication, Dating, First Kiss, a mess, These Boys are a MESS, Chatlogs, Light Angst, Polyamory, OT3 Relationship: UshiIwaOi Summary: Iwaizumi loves Oikawa.

Oikawa loves Iwaizumi.

Neither of them will say anything.

Then, suddenly, Ushijima is there.

And things get very complicated. Words: 32,385 Chapters: 9/10 My notes: Normally I don’t put WIPs on rec lists, but this one is close to completion and it’s so, so worth it. Boys are dumb and you should appreciate them.

adolescence and all its glory by pageleaf Rating: E Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Established Relationship, Developing Relationship, Wooing, Future Fic, College/University, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Fluff, Flirting, Established Iwaoi, eventual OT3, Threesome - M/M/M, Manga Spoilers Summary: Iwaizumi was supposed to meet new people. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do, when you go to a different university from your best friend? Now that his life isn’t filled with Oikawa, he should have been making new friends, trying new things, whatever.

Instead, he shows up barely on time to his anatomy class, hears a small noise from beside him, and turns around to see Ushijima Wakatoshi. Words: 20,024 Chapters: 2/2 Relationship: UshiIwaOi My notes: Accidental rivals to lovers? Enjoy the sound of me screaming into the abyss, and the abyss screams back.

Close For Comfort by Leryline Rating: E Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, NSFW, ushioi - Freeform, really sinful but great, Angst, it has a happy ending i promise, iwaoi - Freeform, Phone Sex, Rough Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Romance, Threesome, Double Penetration, Spitroasting, Bottom Oikawa Tooru, Cheating, but look it's integral to the plot ok, ROMANC E AHGHGNJD it's so gay, turning a oneshot into a multi-chap out of spite: a novel by me, also: don't cheat on people irl my dudes it's not cool. not cool.like legit please DO NOT Summary: Oikawa Tōru has always seen his future with Iwaizumi Hajime - solely, utterly, completely. After all, Iwaizumi is his pillar, the only person he needs in the world.

...right?

[or: Ushijima Wakatoshi comes in and fucks everything up, as usual, but Oikawa has never given in easily, and neither has Iwaizumi, for that matter.] Words:61041 Chapters: 15/15 Relationship: UshiIwaOi My notes: If infidelity makes you uncomfortable, even if it has a happy ending all around, I would pass on this one. The smuts, however, are top shelf.

Privacy by plumtrees Rating: E Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, House Party, Alternate Universe - College/University, Future Fic, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Riding, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Spanking, Partner Swapping Summary: Iwaizumi reaches for the knob by his hip, easily twisting it open and getting them both inside. They stumble in with their lips still sealed over each other’s, silent giggles passing between mouths as Oikawa hurries to flatten his hand against the door to shut it and crowd Iwaizumi against the surface, other hand winding around his waist to pull him close, keep him there—

But then an alarmed noise rips from Iwaizumi’s throat, the hand steady on his shoulder suddenly pushing him away Iwaizumi’s looking behind him, expression a mix of shock and mild horror and Oikawa follows a split second later, just in time for a moan to resonate past the muffled music being carried over from downstairs.

“Oikawa.” Ushijima greets, only the slightest tremor to his voice as Shirabu sinks down on his cock. “Tendou didn’t mention you’d be here.” English Words: 9,736 Chapters: 1/1 Relationship: UshiShiraIwaOi My notes: Good lord this is spicy. This is ‘swinging’ in its truest form.

Show Me You Own Me by preciousghouls Rating: E Tags: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Threesome - M/M/M, Threesome, Rimming, Barebacking, BDSM, Daddy Kink, on oikawa's part, Dom/sub, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Multiple Orgasms, Bottom!Iwaizumi, bottom!Oikawa, top!oikawa, top!ushijima, switch hitter oikawa, Established Relationship, Developing Relationship, i have sinned, sleeping drug in five lines, Consensual, Begging, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Petplay, Collars, Cuffs, Butt Slapping, Spanking, Butt Plugs, domestic AU, Crossdressing Summary: It's Oikawa's idea, of course. But Iwaizumi finds himself loving the way Ushijima has Oikawa wrapped around his fingers, and before long they're both moaning at the hands of Ushijima.

aka the kinkiest shit I've ever written in my life. Words: 20,819 Chapters: 4/4 Relationship: UshiIwaOi My notes: Sometimes wanting to be dommed by ushiwaka is a communal mood, ya know?

Tumblr Fics

(mostly not rated/tagged; proceed with caution and at your own discretion)

Untitled by notsuchasecret

Untitled by worthlesspride (this is definitely E)

Untitled by raspberrydevil

Untitled by deathbelle

Comfortable by raspberrydevil Relationship: ushiiwaoi

Morning Kisses by raspberrydevil Relationship: ushiiwaoi

Meet My Nephew by raspberrydevil Relationship: ushiiwaoi

#ushiiwa #iwaushi #ushiiwaoi #ushijima wakatoshi #iwaizumi hajime #oikawa tooru #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#hq #hq!!#hq chapter 395 #hq manga spoilers #manga spoilers #fic recs #haikyuu fic recs

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callioope · 3 years

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Author Interview

tagged by @theputterer -- thank you :)

Name: Liz

Fandoms: In terms of posted fics, mainly Rogue One and Star Wars (OT). I have at least one fic posted in A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones, Community, and Howl’s Moving Castle (book). But I also like The Clone Wars and Rebels. I’ve been reading mainly ATLA fic for the past couple weeks.

Where you post: AO3 and sometimes here on tumblr. There are a few drabbles I’ve posted on tumblr that I really ought to crosspost on AO3 for posterity.

Most popular one-shot: “In Which Sophie is Late, and Howl Noses Around in Her Business” (Howl’s Moving Castle) With 698 kudos. Uh. Wow. I was not expecting that! It’s literally my only HMC fic (although I do technically have other unfinished drafts) and it’s not even a year old, and surpassed my second most popular one-shot which was posted in 2015. Pregnancy trope is popular I guess. It is amusing to me that my most popular one-shot is not in my favorite OTP fandom (rebelcaptain). Howl’s Moving Castle ended up having a wider audience than I anticipated.

Also as a disclaimer, but popularity is weird to gauge because do you go by hits or kudos or comments? I went with kudos because hits could count people who clicked on my story and then didn’t like it. But it’s hard because hits also include re-reads, so, idk.

Most popular multi-chapter fic: “The Last Stark” (A Song of Ice and Fire) 815 kudos. This was finished in 2013 so it’s had plenty of time to accumulate the kudos. It’s a Gendrya Anastasia AU (“Aryastasia” was my working title for this one lol). So again, popular trope, in a popular fandom, in a popular ship. This fic is so old when I reread it, I usually find myself wanting to edit it, especially the ending. I was so ready to be done writing this that I think I rushed the ending. Oh well, writing plots is really difficult!

Fic you were nervous to post: Every fic? lol. I’m never not nervous to post a fic. But I’m definitely more nervous posting in a fandom for the first time. So posting “Whatever I Do (I Do It To Protect You)” (Rogue One, rebelcaptain) was pretty nervewracking, especially since it’d been awhile since I posted anything. [OOOH, fun fact, but WID celebrated it’s 4 year anniversary yesterday! Ha, that’s funny.] I was working on this fic for weeks before I posted it.

I was also super nervous to post my Jeff/Annie Community soulmate AU, “Intro to Neurochemical Compatibility” because (a) first time posting in that fandom, (b) I decided to use script format which I know is not everyone’s jam, and (c) the premise is just so ridiculous! But I had fun with it.

Also gift exchanges are always nerve-wracking because I worry the giftee won’t like it. My giftee never responded to my 2020 rebelcaptain secret santa fic so I’m actually constantly worrying that they didn’t like it and feeling bad that I failed them. :/

How you choose your titles: with so much agonizing. gosh it’s so hard and honestly i have so many titles that i hate. I’ve got a couple song lyric titles. a couple quotes. a couple “how to...” apparently that was a whole phase I went through. Either the titles come to me immediately, or I put off choosing a title until the absolutely moment I need to post it, and then spend hours agonizing over a quote/song lyric/phrase that fits and probably begging others for help.

Do you outline: YES. Possibly overly so. I’ve ran into issues in the past, when I was much younger, where I didn’t resolve problems proposed early in the story. So I need to know where the story is going in order to lay the proper groundwork. Also, if I do not write things down I forget them five minutes later. I also think outlining is a useful trick to jumpstart writing, so if the muse just isn’t present, I’ll try to lure her out by outlining.

Complete: 19 fics.

In progress: Oh boy this is so hard to count. As far as what’s posted? Technically only one: “How to Lose a Spy in 10 Days” (Rogue One, rebelcaptain). Despite the fact that I think the deadline was extended multiple time, I procrastinated and ended up rushing chapter one to meet the rebelcaptain rom-com challenge deadline. Didn’t really have a proper outline for this one, even though I knew vaguely what I wanted it to be about. I wrote chapter two but I hated what I wrote so I ... I kinda abandoned it. I mean technically, I never consider a work abandoned, I always intend to get back to it. Some day when I have the inspiration I will. But this idea ended up being a challenge I didn’t feel ready for at the time, and then my interest moved on to other ideas.

I also had a longer story planned for “you must become an island (the horizon is all we have)” but only posted one part of it to finish it on time. Ideally this fic would be part of a series, but again, motivation is needed so we’ll see

Technically I have 22 rebelcaptain ideas alone (including some listed in this post) at various states of completed, plus a handful of Community and HMC ideas. Of the ones I’m most interested in, there’s probably about 14 that I really hope to finish and post some day.

ETA: omg i totally forgot that i was idly considering trying to finish my rebelcaptain soulmate AU in time for Valentine’s Day, but at this point I haven’t had any motivation to write so I don’t think that’s gonna happen. that fic has been sitting in my drafts since 2018 and in my drafts it will continue to sit.

Coming soon: “soon” is relative but these are currently the ones I’ve focused the most on recently:

Fencing AU (rebelcaptain)

You’ve Got Mail AU (rebelcaptain)

Post-War Fic with @allatariel (rebelcaptain, plus a LOT of other ships, includes Rebels characters, OT characters, and... maybe some others :) )

Palm Springs/time loop AU (Jeff/Annie)

Do you accept prompts: Wellllll here’s the thing. When I’ve asked for prompts, I haven’t been the best at fulfilling them in a timely manner. For that reason, I don’t encourage prompts but I’m not opposed to them. (I suppose technically exchange fics are prompts, and I wrote a bunch of fics in 2017 for rebelcaptainprompts, but I’m not gonna count those because I don’t think that’s what the question here is really going for)

“The Climb (A Lie, A Hero)” (Rogue One, rebelcaptain) was actually a prompt.

I solicited prompts for my birthday in 2019, which I didn’t end up fulfilling until exactly one year later.

Technically the You’ve Got Mail AU is a prompt, someone prompted me to write a fic for my favorite go-to comfort movie.

And, uh, the certain someone who tagged me for this meme prompted me in a comment back in October 2017 to do a Luke and Leia swap where Leia grows up on Tatooine, so that is sitting in my WIP list.

Yeah, this is why I don’t solicit or encourage prompts. The return rate is just not fair for the prompter.

Upcoming story you are most excited to write: this fluctuates on any given day. the fencing AU is so close to being done (well the first draft anyways) so i really really want to just finish it! But yeah it’d be anything on the coming soon list above.

tagging: @allatariel, @cats-and-metersticks, @lothcatlovesysalamiri, @veritascara, @brynnmclean and anyone who sees this and wants to do it! also ofc per usual no pressure if u don’t want to.

#tag meme #about me #my writing

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mizumelona · 4 years

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hey x could a dummy get a matchup? im a taurus, enfj and a not-so-iconic queer gal who spends most of her time either reading or laying on the floor listening to lorde for sad girl hours. i have pink hair (currently), im 5'3, but i think im cute goddamit! uh i speak 2 much without thinking it through and it fucks me over a lot. i once jumped a fence into a music festival bc i refused 2 pay for that overpriced cramped garbage space. truly the queen of pda and clingyness, its genetic. ily !

Hi hi! I’m sorry I’m a slow poke ahhhh, but this one is for you lin. ily.

There was only one way to go with this. It’s not surprising that I ship you with...

...Yamaguchi!!!

Predictable much?

But yo I couldn’t not

He grounds you, balances you out,

King of head head rubs. Ranges from tousling your hair to gentling stroking his fingers through it.

He’s a soft boy at the end of the day.

Loves it when you lie on his lap while you both space out and listen to music or while you’re reading. When you get to a good passage you always stop to read it to him.

Yes this boy is gonna cook for you. When you’re carried away with work, he brings in a warm meal. Ya’ll both be sitting on the ground with your plates chatting and eating even though the table is like 2 inches away.

Tries to drag you into bed at a reasonable hour, tempting you with cuddles.

Has tried to stage an intervention for your Red Bull consumption. Ya’ll probably got in a big fight over it, but made up really quickly because he’s super soft for you.

Tries to be a voice of reason, but usually gets pulled into your shenanigans. Like the second time you decide to hop a fence to get into a music festival..

“I could’ve just paid for it…”, he says as he helps you stand on his shoulders to climb into the venue.

When you come up with another crazy idea he’s standing there like: 😓 but doesn’t have the willpower to resist if you ask him to join you lol. Is always there to help you if things go awry.

Will turn the color of a tomato when you initiate pda, but won’t fight it. He loves being affectionate with you but doesn’t know how to deal with the feelings and gets overwhelmed.

So if both of ya’ll are clingy does that even count? You two are always, always together, but being together never gets boring. A comfortable atmosphere permeates wherever you two are together (even if its at the sketchy corner of a music festival)

Surprise visits you so many times can you even call them surprises anymore? Will find the randomest excuses to see you in the middle of the day.

“You, uh, forgot your favorite bookmark…”

Gets embarrassed when he realizes the excuse sounds really stupid when he says it out loud. Please do the boy a favor and give him a hug. He really, really wants one.

Ya’ll are my otp

#haikyuu #haikyuu matchups #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu headcannons #yamaguchi

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ao3feed-cleon · 5 years

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Fences

by SweetlyVague

What if Leon just climbed over that godforsaken locked fence?

Words: 2443, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M

Characters: Leon S. Kennedy, Claire Redfield

Relationships: Leon S. Kennedy/Claire Redfield, CLeon - Relationship

Additional Tags: PWP, Shameless Smut, Smut, otp, I Will Go Down With This Ship, In-Game Scene, Cut Scene, Word Porn, RE2 - Freeform, Resident Evil 2, Resident Evil 2 Remake, Cleon, I’ve been shipping these two since the original game and I will die with this ship

source http://archiveofourown.org/works/18247928

#ao3feed #cleon #fanfic

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whenlifelemons · 5 years

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Writing “the girl/boy next-door” fanfics + prompts

A lot of writers do this prompt, which is totally fine. But most of them end up being the same thing. I’m just pulling this from experiences.

Don’t:

Have them go to the same school; This only makes the story more basic and go by faster. Plus, never have I ever gone to the same school as my neighbor.

Make them immediately attracted to each other; most “we’ve never met before” relationships are slow-built. Have them think the other is cute, at most.

Do:

Start with a one-sided attraction; considering person A sees person B first.

Remember the parents (if your otp are teenagers); in a teenager’s life, parents are a huge part of the equation. They have a life too, meaning they will also have an opinion on the neighbors.

Make them two totally different people; and I mean dig deep. Play around with their religions, opinions, even things such as mental/physical illnesses.

Define the household they grew up in/are in; the morals and behaviors they were taught as a child will play a role in their character, especially if they grew up/are in a household that wouldn’t approve of the other’s.

Create conflict between the houses; any conflict between two characters will grab the reader’s attention, even if its small.

Here are a few ideas I came up with for a realistic story:

Sometimes I watch you skateboard through my room’s window when you go by my house, and — oh my god you just ate it are you okay?

You were playing basketball on your driveway but your stance is totally wrong... do you want some tips?

I heard you singing in your backyard so I climbed up a tree to hear you better and this branch is actually less stable than I thought it was.

I was jumping on my trampoline and I saw you swimming so I tried to jump higher to get a better view but oh god you saw me?

We live in an apartment with thin walls and you always make a lot of noise in the morning and wake me up, so I’m lashing back by purposely playing loud music near your room at midnight.

I was sitting outside and you accidentally threw a ball over into our yard so instead of just asking you climbed over our fence to get it — and just wondering, do you work out by any chance?

My friend recommended this new yoga cd so I decided to do it in my dorm but I fell over and oh crap I just kicked a hole in the wall — holy shit you’re naked.!

Our families are in an ongoing fued because your parents once put their trash into our trash can and you knocked on our door today because my mom parked in front of your car and all you want is some chips.

I really hope these help you write an amazing fanfic (that I would love to read!) also feel free to dm me anything that I missed.

#writingprompts #prompts #fanfics #writing #ideas #writingideas #thegirlnextdoor #theboynextdoor #neighbours #neighboursprompts

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geneshaven · 6 years

Text

Grounded (Arrow 613)

After watching 613, I kept thinking how a lot of the characters on Arrow (sans Oliver, Felicity and John) should be grounded and sent to their rooms. Leading the pack is William and the Newbies. And maybe the writers as well, for the lame way they killed off Cayden James and slipped in Diaz as if no one would notice the tepid turnstile the villains came through this season.

So, William sneaks out of the Bunker after Oliver told him to stay put, that it’s dangerous out there. He shows up in the field and cries about being scared and not wanting to lose his dad like he did his mom on Lian Yu. Thanks for that reminder, William. Oliver needed to stay focused while he faced the bad guy and William uses his dead mother as a justification for following his dad. Did Felicity’s talk with him in 611 mean nothing? Did she not convince the lad that what Oliver does is dangerous? After 611 and the heartfelt family feels, William seemed to have a handle on his dad’s vigilante lifestyle, that he understood why Oliver is out there protecting those he loves and the city they live in. Felicity told him that he (as she does) has to believe Oliver is going to be okay. William conceded to this and appeared willing to follow in his step-mom’s footsteps.

Does William not trust Felicity or John or Auntie Thea? Does the boy not understand what Team means? All four of his new family members (and yes, I am including John) have knocked on death’s door. They understand what it means to have one another’s back. They understand that they are stronger together than on their own. It is all about trust---and faith. So disregarding the team’s safety because William was afraid---it doesn’t track.

So William, you’re grounded.

The Newbies. Since they went their separate ways and created their own facsimile of a Team, I have felt nothing for them but a slow burn. Their self-righteous, we-are-the-victims mentality is one of the most ridiculous storylines Arrow has served up. Okay, I’ll just say it---without Oliver’s influence and guidance, Curtis and Rene and Dinah would still be adrift in the mess of their lives, angry and in pain and without direction, without a place and purpose to channel it through.

Rene is the worst of the three. He was wearing hockey gear before Oliver brought him into the fold. He was running in blind (aka Barry’s early days) and taking on the villains who were clearly elevated in skills and tactics and just plain menace. I mean come on; Anatoly got the drop on him and shot Rene with his own gun. Apparently, the writers would have us believe that Rene lost track of and the reasons for trusting and being loyal to Oliver when he caved in under the pressure and manipulations of Agent Watson. He should have trusted Oliver the same way Oliver trusted him. He should have instinctively known that Oliver has his back. The Green Arrow has saved Rene’s ass multiple times. But over the last couple of episodes, Rene has become a stranger to what he was becoming under Oliver’s tutelage. He was doing well at the Mayor’s Office, as well as part of Oliver’s elite team of vigilantes. He was almost close to becoming endearing to some of the fanbase who has hated him from the start. Wasn’t it Oliver who saved him from Church? Wasn’t it Oliver who risked his own life going over that highway overpass to rescue Rene before he was crushed from the fall? Wasn’t it Oliver who cleaned up the mess Rene created by going solo after Samson? And wasn’t it Oliver who opened the door again on winning back Zoe? The way Rene is now blaming Oliver for all that is bad in his life, (most of which he created himself) warrants canceling his Team membership card.

So Rene, you’re grounded.

Curtis, as always, has been written so poorly. Okay, if you roll the series back two years, Curtis had some promise at the start of Season 4, but the episodes were few and far between. He had tech skills. He was married (happily?) He did develop Felicity’s chip that made her walk again. He hacked a bunch of bees and saved the day. And if I remember correctly, Oliver inspired him to stay in Star City and fight for his home.

We all knew (via the comics) that Curtis was going to morph into Mr. Terrific; T-Spheres and all. I remember there being a sense of excitement by this. But at the start of Season 5, after being beat up by street thugs, Curtis was already putting conditions on Oliver bringing him onto the Team. Oliver asked him if he could identify the ruffians who whooped his ass. Curtis said yes and he will happily tell him--- under one condition. Oliver was right in his assessment that Curtis had the least amount of experience then the rest of the candidates when it came to mixing it up with the criminal element of Star City. His nightly beatings cast doubt over his ability to hold his own. He lost heart. Then he lost Paul (maybe he blames Oliver for that too.) Then he lost his appeal.

I won’t even get into the writer’s thinking he could fill Felicity’s computer and hacking shoes. I think they tried too when she was plummeting down her rabbit hole, but it was only annoying and felt just wrong.

There was one more instant when Curtis tried to be appealing to the fanbase. It was in 520. He brought, or had Oliver pick up, Chinese food and bring it back to the Bunker to go with wine in the garage. (Clearing my throat)….He brought our OTP together. Okay, it was a flashback, but we got some nice Bunker sex out of it. So good on you Curtis.

Now, he has added indignation and being a professional victim to his resume. He has sided with a traitor (Rene) and a secret-keeper that could have compromised the Team (Dinah.) All of them broke the #1 rule in vigilanteing---trusting one another.

Curtis, you’re grounded.

Dinah. I’m sort of on the fence where she is concerned. On one side, Dinah has blown away any doubts of who the more effective Black Canary is on the show. Her fighting skills make Laurel Lance look like she is slap-fighting her opponents. Dinah is more fluid and is one mean mother with the staff she uses. Her fights are just more exciting to watch. And her sonic cry? Come on, really? She can stop a speeding train with it. Laurel could muster up a loud noise to disrupt her opponents hearing, and she could occasionally cause glass to shatter. So yeah, I am way more of a Dinah fan for reasons.

Having said that, the whole Vigilante/Vince thing kind of seemed last minute to me. When Vigilante came on the scene last year, even then I did not really invest myself in him. Maybe it was because I was in numb disbelief over what was happening with Olicity. Then Vigilante went away and Adrian Chase became all the eggs in the bad guy basket. Did the writers already envision Vigilante’s part to play in Season 6?

(Me speaking for the writers--- (“Okay, let’s bring Vigilante back. Wait, even better, let’s make it Dinah’s ex. Yeah; he was killed the first time, but what if he was caught in the same meta wave that turned Dinah into a sonic badass? We can throw him in with Cayden James and Diaz and Anatoly and Black Siren. But we’ll also make him a double agent, with his old feelings for Dinah still intact. Hot damn, it will be some wonderful contrived drama and it will keep the fans guessing.”)

Uh sorry writers, but I could not climb aboard that toxic ship. I think it ruined the potential of Dinah being a good character. That is not set in stone---there are still ten episodes left, so who can tell at this point? And now because Vince was killed the second time by Black Siren, (a conflict of interest if there ever was one) Dinah has gone off the rails, the same kind of train wreck she was when Oliver convinced her to come make a difference on his team. She wants revenge and is blinded by it. No more Mr. nice guy (uh, I mean girl.) No more self-reflection or trust or belief. Oliver made all of it happen (through the pain surging through her mind) by calling her on keeping her new, reunited relationship with Vince a secret, an act that could have seriously hurt the team.

Dinah, you’re grounded.

So, all the Newbies had a part in screwing the pooch. To them, it was Oliver who instigated their righteousness. Do any of them remember Evelyn? Do they remember being put in Gilligan’s Island style cages, and the island being blown up? Heck, Evelyn even gave them all cute, handmade Christmas stockings. They might as well have been filled with razor blades.

So yeah, Oliver put you all under surveillance. He was not going to be compromised in that way again. Maybe the question he should ask the rookies is---if one of them (say Rene) decided to throw the other two under the bus to save themselves, wouldn’t you want to know what each was doing. Wouldn’t you want to see it coming? It’s pretty simple for the kind of lives all of them lead. Oliver made some pretty harsh sacrifices over the years to keep integrity in his crusade. Apparently, the Newbies are not willing to go as far.

Episode 614 looks like all this is going to come full circle. Hopefully it will end this awful storyline and put everybody back on track for a strong finish to the season. If Dinah and Rene and Curtis can realize that they bit off more than they can chew by taking on OTA, maybe taking a bite of that humble pie will fulfill their hungers of becoming stronger than what might be out there that could destroy them. And it doesn’t include blaming the ones who invited you to the crusade.

One quick note…Lance has completely gone up around the bend. Maybe it’s time for another intervention, before Black Siren (not Laurel) shows him that drinking is safer than listening to her BS.

Lance, you’re grounded.

Everybody is grounded.

@it-was-a-red-heeler @memcjo @almondblossomme @dmichellewrites @inevermindyou @flowerandsunshine @1106angel @tdgal1 @louiseblue1

#613 #i'm done with the newbies #until march 1st

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renasrouge · 6 years

Text

A Student Seating Shipping Planning Session

read on ao3

summary: in which miss bustier is a shipper who just wants her otp to be canon, and she’s willing to recruit her colleagues to do it.

word count: 1311

a/n: this is the first fanfic i wrote from over a year ago, so i figure it should be the first that i post on here too. just a warning, it’s not meant to be realistic, and the genre leans heavily toward crack. hope you enjoy!!

“Welcome to the first student seating planning session of the school year,” Miss Bustier announces cheerfully as the screen behind her illuminates in a full-screen presentation. “Let us begin!”

Ms. Mendeleiev and Mr. D'Argencourt stare back at her with blank faces. Miss Bustier guesses they’re a bit upset that she called them for a teacher meeting so early in the morning.

Mr. D’Argencourt slowly raises a hand. “Excuse me, but why am I here for this?”

“Essentially,” Ms. Bustier starts, “I know that all of us have been taking our student... pairings into strong consideration for a few months, and I know it's not necessarily in our job descriptions, but we need to talk about our students.”

Ms. Mendeleiev takes this pause as a cue to slam her fists on the table. “These teenagers have too many personal problems and absolutely no regard for lab safety. No respect for their educators! Just this last Wednesday, I found Alya Césaire blogging during my lecture. Blogging! Those uncultivated 21st century children... and don't even get me started on Alix and Kim, always betting in my class! Caline, you've had the same issues, correct?”

But Miss Bustier is already far gone, plotting ways to make DJWifi a reality.

“Caline!”

Miss Bustier snaps out of her reverie and realizes that she still needs to start the meeting. “Sorry. Yes. The shipping fates of our students are a matter to all of us, so I think we should start with the first topic. First, you two are strong student shippers, correct?”

Silence.

“I'm sorry, shippers?” Mr. D'Argencourt asks.

Miss Bustier gapes at her coworkers' ignorance. “People who ship.”

This time, Ms. Mendeleiev jumps in, continuing her rant from earlier. “Those pesky kids still have no regard for lab safety and listen to that sickening music during my class—”

Miss Bustier sighs, wondering why she even bothered with this. “Shipping. Ships. Pairing students.”

Mr. D'Argencourt strokes his mustache with the tip of his fencing epee (which he had brought to the meeting despite multiple glares of disapproval). There’s a pregnant pause as Miss Bustier waits for him to catch up.

"I still do not see... ”

As a last resort, Miss Bustier swipes the remote from the table. She absent-mindedly flips through the presentation slides, scrolling past the seating charts of every class in the school. She stops on one particular class with too many ships for its own good and draws a line with her finger, linking the yearbook photos of a sweet pigtailed girl and a blond boy with green eyes.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng and Adrien Agreste,” she says. “This is a ship.”

The recognition on Ms. Mendeleiev and Mr. D'Argencourt's faces is instant.

“Those two!” Ms. Mendeleiev shrieks, and Miss Bustier swears that the dogs across the street start to bark at the sound. “Always late for everything and going to the bathroom just when I'm about to reach the climax of my lecture! The ungrateful hooligans—”

"My star fencing student!” Mr. D'Argencourt jumps at the same time. “And... some other girl.” He tilts his head so that it rests on the epee's handle. “They may make a good couple.”

Miss Bustier feels like crying tears of joy. At least the PE teacher isn't a lost cause.

“Yes, yes, Armand! Look, they're right here—”

Miss Bustier trips over her words as she flips through the rest of her slides, finding one that she snapped in literature class last week. Adrien is sitting in his usual seat, diligently scribbling at his desk. Behind him, Marinette is gazing longingly at the back of his head. While Miss Bustier supposes that she should have reprimanded Marinette for daydreaming in class, it was such a golden ship moment that she couldn't disturb the peace.

"This is Adrinette,” Miss Bustier explains. “Marinette has a hopeless crush on Adrien—the entire school can confirm it—and from this picture that I took from the courtyard window, he likes her back at least a little.

“This is Adrien writing some sort of letter—a confession letter, maybe?—in class on Valentine's Day, and this is Marinette falling onto him on the school's front steps. She's a little clumsy, but I think Adrien finds it endearing. My point is that it’s our responsibility as teachers to advance this ship to its full potential, and—”

Miss Bustier has Ms. Mendeleiev's interest now. “So, Caline, you're proposing that if we move around the seating so that Marinette and Adrien are together, Miss Dupain-Cheng will be motivated to come on-time to class to see Mr. Agreste? And my teaching will be interrupted less often?”

“Well, I guess that would be a bonus, but we should have them sit next to each other to let Adrien realize his feelings for Marinette and fulfill one of many ships in the class.”

There's silence once more.

“Many? So there are other... ships?” Mr. D'Argencourt twirls his epee in one hand, and Miss Bustier resists the urge to confiscate it.

Focus on the ships. Focus on the ships.

“Yes, of course. Let me draw them out.”

Miss Bustier flips back to the seating charts and begins to connect the pictures.

"Here, you have Alya and Nino, DJWifi. Alya manages the Ladyblog and Nino is an aspiring DJ and filmmaker—you can see how they would help each other out in the future and be a media-savvy power couple, and they both even wear glasses—”

Ms. Mendeleiev stares.

"—and over here there's Alix and Kim, who sit diagonal, or alternately Kim and Max, which is a pretty good ship too, except Kim apparently liked Chloé back in February, which we can hope he got over, since that would invalidate both of the possible ships, and then right behind them there's Juleka and Rose—also a bit of a problem since Rose has shown clear interest in Ali, but she’d better get over it because Julerose is so cute—and, oh, Mylène and Ivan sit way too far away in class—”

Mr. D'Argencourt slowly shifts away.

"—but right now the only good thing we've got going on the whole right side of the seating chart is that Nathanael is far, far away from society where he can impact the golden beauty that is Adrinette, and we have to make sure that he doesn't move up behind Marinette, or my secondary OTP will in sincere danger, and there's the problem of how to put Chloé farther from Adrien, and Ivan closer to Mylène, and Alya where she can actually talk to Nino, and Nathanael preferably even farther away from Marinette, and Sabrina who-knows-where—I mean, we could ship her with Max, but I'm not sure how they would interact considering the current seating—and just augh! We need a new seating chart to promote my ships! Now! I can’t do this anymore!”

Ms. Mendeleiev and Mr. D'Argencourt sit in silence, watching as Miss Bustier catches her breath.

“Caline…” Ms. Mendeleiev starts softly.

“Ladynoir!” Miss Bustier wails, dropping to her knees on the meeting room carpet. “My OTP! There hasn't been an akuma attack in weeks!”

By now, she's sobbing, and Ms. Mendeleiev cautiously places a hand on the literature teacher's shoulder.

"I'm—I’m facing separation anxiety,” Miss Bustier admits between cries. “I spent f—f—five hours sorting ships for my classes yesterday night! The Ladynoir fandom is inactive!”

"Is there... anything we can do to help?” Ms. Mendeleiev says hesitantly as Mr. D'Argencourt backs away.

"Thank you, Silvia, but I'll... I’ll be fine.”

Miss Bustier collects herself, swallowing her tears and climbing into a standing position. Mortified, she realizes that she’s just completely embarrassed herself in front of her colleagues. In one swift motion, Miss Bustier swings her purse over her shoulder and yanks her laptop from the projector monitor, striding away down the hallway as quickly as possible.

She supposes it's time to calm her nerves and read some more Miraculous Ladybug fanfiction.

#miraculous ladybug #ml fanfiction #mlfanficion #ml fanfic #caline bustier #adrienette #ladynoir #my fics #meva writes

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septemberlikestea · 7 years

Note

5, 12, 16, 19, 22, 26, 30 (incredibly invasive asks)

5. Do you play an instrument?

Yes! I play the piano and currently trying to play the guitar. I used to play the domra, but I'm not sure if I remember anything, haha.

12. Most rebellious thing you have ever done?

Me and Coffee used to climb over the schoolground's fences(???) (y'know, the weird tall ones that are literally everywhere) by stepping on a little extra thing (they are basically just a bunch of sticks vertically and one stick horizontally and there was this small extra horizontal stick) and then pulling ourselves up and fucking escaping school to climb trees. Some other kids from our class used to claim that they were the first ones to climb trees and do that stuff and like?? Are trying to say that these trees belong to you?? Anyway, we also ate some fruits from other trees that were to thin to climb. Ahh, memories

16. Most played song on your Ipod/Itunes?

I don't have an iPod or iTunes?? I mostly listen to stuff from my VK playlist, but I don't know which song is the most played one?? I listen to everything, man.

19. What movie are you most looking forward to in the next year?

*whisper* why is how to train your dragon 3 torturing me like this.

22. What is your number one otp?

i think alison pendle and susie campbell are taking over me and that's really funny because my birth name is alice? well, not exactly alice, it's alisa, but eh (don't call me that, i don't like it when people refer to me as "Alice". it's a really nice name, it is beautiful, but i do not what to be an alice. oh hey, dysphoria, is that you? come in, i have some tea left)

26. Ever had any near death experiences?

There was this time when I got hit in the head by a swing set and I think I just blacked out?? I wonder how painful it was, I don't really remember much, it was a long time ago.

30. Whats the last thing you bought?

Food *shrug emoji*

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simba-bonfamille-lyons · 2 years

Text

The Prodigal Daughter /./ [Simber]

In which Simba and Berlioz get an unexpected visitor before Christmas...[takes place: a few days before Christmas]

tw -- none really? sort of a panic attack

@ber-bonfamille-lyons

BERLIOZ: Christmas.

It had been the longest year of his life-- or at least, that’s how it felt, this last half of the year feeling three or four times as long as difficult, as he and Simba fought through the threat of Zira and then had to pick up Swynlake’s pieces. Part of Berlioz was still bracing for impact. Even now, with the election past. Even now, the dust finally settled, Simba elected, and the holidays here to give him peace of mind or at least a little room to breathe. He couldn’t help but wonder what was around the corner, because as long as he lived in this town, something always would be.

One good thing about this year was that it had taught him that wasn’t… necessarily a bad thing. He’d watched Belle go through the same kind of things with Hades after all, only she did it with twins and a near-three-year-old and a better attitude. It made him aspire to stand a little taller. To talk a little more at functions. To make the most of the next two years, because as far as Berlioz was concerned-- after that, he deserved, at least, a break. A new beginning.

Christmas would only be the comma. A moment to rest before everything started again.

So for once, even the most mundane parts of Christmas appealed to him because at least these stressors he knew. Shopping for presents-- Ber actually opted to go out this time, and not last minute either! He and Simba took a day out, driving even past NTO to a few boutiques that Berlioz knew Marie, Lou, and...right, the Gabbles-- would like. He spent the afternoon sniffing perfumes and staring at different gold earrings like one was gonna grow a mouth and tell him to buy that one, exactly what Marie would want!

Then there was a whole long debate about what to get Ashlee, which ended in a stalemate and an agreement to covertly gather more information and go shopping for her again. Take two.

Berlioz returned exhausted, but in a good way. In a-- ready for hot cocoa and to watch some shitty Netflix movies while massaging Simba’s feet kinda way. They pulled into the garage and Simba told Berlioz he’d grab the bags, if Ber could go and let the dogs out after being cooped up for most of the day.

When Ber entered the house, the dogs were at the front door, whining-- Simone growling. Okay, that was weird. “What’s up, eh?” he talked to his dog and Simone barked and scratched the door.

Berlioz opened the door and his eyes nearly popped out of his face.

He lunged for Simone, grabbing her collar before she could leap at the girl who was leaning against one of the wood posts. Bowie and Turtle went scrambling after her, but with wagging tails and gentle, friendly whines. The girl barely noticed. She just thrust a card toward Ber’s face.

“Who the FUCK do you think you are?” she growled.

His eyes settled on the card and the colour drained from his cheeks. Oh shit. It was -- months ago, he didn’t even know how long, they’d taken those stupid silly family pictures for Christmas. When had Simba even sent them out? Ber didn’t remember. But Berlioz did know they’d sent one to Berlioz’s bio-dad all the way in Chicago, not even sure if they’d hear back-- after all, Ber had sent an email and received nothing in response.

But this girl, Ber had seen before. She’d come in the package from the PI. All auburn hair, turned a blood red in the beaming sunlight. She was his daughter.

“Uhhhhhhhh, Simba…can you come here?” Berlioz called frantically, taking a step back and dragging Simone with him.

SIMBA: If someone had to leak the fact he was an alcoholic after stalking him and invading his privacy, at least it happened around Christmas time. This extremely Christian centric country was obsessed with the holiday. And little Swynlake too. Simba, in a way, had also come to appreciate the holiday season. He liked it as a way to center himself around family, plus Christmas music was fun and decorating a tree too. (Simba had yet to figure out what that had to do with Jesus, but he wasn’t gonna question it.)

That was what he was thinking about as he simultaneously also tried to think about where to squirrel away the Christmas present haul in a place where no one would find it but…Simba would also remember it was there. It had been weird, getting some of the shopping down early. Both of them were procrastinators. Simba, because he would just forget until it snuck up on him and Berlioz because of a combination of anxiety and general laziness. He didn’t know where Berlioz’s drive for Christmas shopping had come from but he had a feeling that it was to cheer him up.

It had worked. Simba was in better spirits than he had been in for weeks.

And then Ber’s voice echoed through the forest towards him.

He came out of the garage, instead of going through the house. It was quicker and something in Ber’s voice had alerted him. There wasn’t any danger, he didn’t think, but certainly alarm. In Swynlake, that could mean a million things. None of them particularly good.

When he rounded the side of the house, he saw someone standing on the porch. He didn’t recognize them from behind but they didn’t seem to be particularly aggressive, so he slowed. The creak gave him away as he stepped up onto the porch and the girl whirled towards him.

“Hey,” he smiled, nice and friendly, though his gaze darted towards Ber. (He didn’t recognize her, after all, he’d only seen her picture once.) “Can we help you?”

BERLIOZ: Jenny. Shit, Jenny. Jenny, shit. These words looped on his brain, until the two words became synonyms for each other, which wasn’t the best feeling to have about one’s half-sister. He’d never really thought about her that way honestly until right this second. It was easy to put distance between himself, after all, when there was physical distance anyway. Jenny had been across the ocean. Jenny had been a couple of pictures. Jenny had been Steve’s kid, not Ber’s half-sister, because Ber hadn’t really started to think of himself as Steve’s kid anyway. He still couldn’t really wrap his brain around it cuz what had Steve ever done for him, eh? Obviously nothing.

Maybe send a murderous kid his way. Weird way to go about assassinating your bastard child, huh? But very effective, as Jenny leered and clenched her jaw and honestly looked like she was about to claw his throat out or send a punch straight into the gut.

She stepped forward again, a threat. Ber retreated, a coward. Simone barked and barked.

That was when Simba arrived. Good! Now he’d uh, he’d charm her, because everyone liked Simba. At the very least, Berlioz figured he’d have a better idea how to deal with this kid. She couldn’t be older than Ashlee, could she? How the hell had she gotten here? Where the fuck were her parents?

“Mmm, I dunno. Maybe you can send one of these bullshit cards to my mom next, yeah? Might as well rub it in.” Jenny growled.

Simba looked confused.

“He-- that-- she--” Berlioz stammered.

“Dude, what’s your problem? You’re brave enough to send my dad a fucking Christmas card but not talk to me in person?”

“I-- I’m sorry.” Of course Ber apologized, he always apologized. He glanced desperately at Simba again. “She’s-- Steve’s kid.”

“Yeah, she is,” Jenny threw the card on the ground.

SIMBA: Who was Steve? Simba’s first reaction. Not because he didn’t know Ber’s birth father’s name, but they hadn’t really...said his name in a while and out of context...yeah, it didn’t immediately pop into his head. He remembered a split second later. Thank Allah he didn’t say that stupid shit out loud.

Ohhh, shit.

“Ohhh, shit.” Oops. Really hadn’t meant to say that out loud either, though it was the lesser of two evils. Now that Ber said it though, he recognized her from the one or two photos he’d seen a few months ago. She looked younger in person. Like a legit kid. Fuck. Simba glanced around, like Steve was going to pop out of the bushes.

He didn’t.

Simba didn’t know if he was relieved or more concerned.

Stooping down, he grabbed the photos she’d throw. Ah. Christmas card. In hindsight, maybe that wasn’t such a great idea.

“Why don’t we go inside?” Simba suggested, touching--fuck, what was Ber’s sister’s name? Jenny--Jenny’s shoulder lightly. Just a second. There and gone. “It’s cold out. We have some cider.”

BERLIOZ: Honestly, Ber thought his half-sister, this tiny teenage monster quivering with rage, was about to punch his husband in the face. He saw it in her eyes, and also, of course, the clenched fist. Jenny Marsh (?) wasn’t here to have cider. That’s what that look said. Jenny Marsh (?) was here to bury both of ‘em in the lake and burn their house down for good measure.

But then with a powerful eyeroll, Jenny stormed past both of them and into the house. Berlioz glanced at Simba with the same bewildered look he’d worn since he opened the door. How the hell had Simba done that? He was a teenager whisperer after all.

Or maybe she was gonna kill the dogs when they weren’t looking.

Berlioz quickly walked back into his house.

Jenny, thankfully, had not flown into a rage. She’d marched straight toward the living room, but she hadn’t sat down. Instead, with her arms crossed, she was inspecting the fireplace mantle, looking at all their pictures.

“Erm...do you want anything to eat…?” Berlioz asked, as Simba had gone to the kitchen for the drinks.

Jenny ignored him.

Right. Okay. Berlioz decided to go to the arm chair then. The next minute involved Berlioz watching Jenny as she looked at all their things. Normally, he’d hate this. Ber despised strangers in his space, hated people shoving their noses where it didn’t belong. But Jenny plucking a hand-made ornament from the tree felt...apt. Jenny scoffing at the records near the record player was… deserved. He’d sent a bomb into her house. The least he could do was offer up all his things, and let her destroy them too. If she wanted.

She didn’t. She put back everything she touched. And when Simba came back with steaming mugs of cider, she went to the couch and sat down.

“You’re both nauseatingly cute,” she said matter-of-factly. “I read about you online.” Her eyes were on Simba. “You’re a big deal, huh? I was thinking maybe I’d show up and try to extort you for money, because you were trying to blackmail my dad or whatever, but I dunno who that girl is.”

Ber blinked, not sure who she was talking about… “Oh. Ashlee?” She’d been in the card too.

“Sure.” Jenny shrugged. “Is she an exchange student or something?”

SIMBA: Simba was trying really hard not to think too hard as he made the cider. His brain wasn’t having it though. First, it was feeling guilty. Realizing that maybe the Christmas card had been a bad idea. A bit callous. In your face. Especially because he hadn’t factored in Jenny. Which felt stupid in hindsight. Simba was always sensitive about kids. They were way more tuned in then most people gave them credit for. And Simba always tried to give them credit.

Also—was she here alone? How had she gotten here? Alhamdulillah that she had gotten here safe. That would’ve been horrible if something had happened to her on the way here. Hell, even in Swynlake there could have been a weird hallucination or someone trying to take over town or destroy the world or something.

And finally: what were they gonna do about it now?

Though, that was easiest to answer as Simba poured the pot of warmed cider into cups. They would hear her out.

He grinned as Jenny said he and Ber were cute. That was a good sign. And then, shrugged a bit at the big deal comment as he handed Jenny her cider and then sat down next to her on the couch. Bowie came over, and in his sweet, Bowie way, put his head on her knee.

“No, she’s part of our family. We are her guardians,” Simba told her. Good point though, he should text Ashlee and tell her what was up. Just so she wasn’t surprised. Simba glanced at Ber.

“Are you here all by yourself?” Simba asked. “Does your dad or mum or whoever, know you’re here?”

BERLIOZ: Berlioz wasn’t actually sure what he wanted Jenny’s answer to be.

He knew what he should want. He should want Steve downtown, maybe pitchin’ up at the Tipton or something. It would be less complicated in some respects, because at least Jenny had a guardian and someone who knew where she was and also permission, and all three of these things were important when you were… probably 17, maybe 18, max. Berlioz knew that wasn’t how Jenny felt though. In fact, he had a feeling that her answer was going to bend the other way… to the delinquent and worrisome.

Ber felt that because he looked at Jenny and saw a lot of himself.

Not so much in looks– that’s not what he meant. She was short, round-faced, with ruddy auburn hair that bore more resemblance to Lou than it did to Berlioz. No, it was the way she’d just appeared here. It was the way she’d looked at all his stuff, cataloguing it. It was the way she’d put everything back, perfectly in place.

In theory, if Berlioz had found out Maman or Pere had a hidden son, wouldn’t he have been pissed too? Wasn’t he the type to show up without an announcement? Sure, he probably wouldn’t have been so bold as to march up to a stranger’s house and yell at them. But he would disappear without telling anyone about it.

Jenny disappeared without telling anyone about it, didn’t she?

“Oh, Dad found out,” said Jenny. “But I was already on the plane here. I was supposed to be going to my mom’s for Christmas, but I changed my flight. I had wi-fi on the plane and he was loooosing it at me. Don’t worry though. He’s on his way.”

Ber blinked.

“He just told me to come here and sit still till he can. Gives me enough time to find out everything from you guys. Clearly he’s not going to tell me the truth.” She snorted. “So– how long has it been going on, huh? The blackmail thing? Or is it not blackmail? Have you been in contact for a while? Are you really 24? You look younger.”

Ber’s brain had started buzzing. Jenny’s anger had boiled itself down into a different kind of intensity, the kind where she was staring holes through him, digging for buried treasure. He would rather not be excavated by a teenager though.

His fucking dad was on the way after all.

He grasped a wild hand for Simba. “Hey uh, Simba, can we uh– talk for a second?”

Jenny kept staring. “You look like you’re going to barf.”

“I might. Hey, uh, Simba…”

SIMBA: Oh. Well, Simba hadn’t really known what he was expecting--but Ber’s birth father on is way here in a fit of rage that his daughter had run off was not exactly...ideal. It only dug that guilt deeper in his gut. Their Christmas photo hadn’t been a good idea, had it? It had been insensitive. Maybe even a bit rude.

And it had been Simba’s idea.

He glanced towards Ber when he said his name, flailing his hand out at him. Fuck. His hand reached out automatically, taking Ber’s which was a little sweaty. He gave him a little smile and stood up, pulling his husband up with him.

“Stay here, finish your cider. Don’t go anywhere, please,” Simba told Jenny. He pointed at Bowie. “Bowie, keep her company, eh?” The golden dutifully wagged his tail.

Simba pulled Ber into the back office, where they could close the door and have a little more privacy. Soon as the latch shut, Simba gathered Ber up in a hug, sensing a bit of a panic attack coming on and hoping he could stave it off. He squeezed him tight, his hand going to his hair.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s fine. Jenny’s fine. She did this on her own. Just take a deep breath, eh?” Simba kissed the side of Ber’s head and then squeezed him tighter.

BERLIOZ: Berlioz didn’t see how he was gonna breathe when his fucking dad was on his way here.

His first instinct: take Simba and run. They could just go out the back, hop in Jupiter, blast off into the atmosphere just like the song. Jenny would be… fine. She could just sit in their house, eat their food, steal their things, whatever she wanted to do. Clearly she was old enough to travel on her own (even if she’d taken advantage of her parents’ trust– pretty baller, all things considered) so she was old enough to wait a day or so by herself until Steve could collect her.

Obviously this scenario, as relieving as it was to imagine, wasn’t going to happen. Here was what was going to happen:

Steve was going to show up.

Berlioz was going to meet Steve.

From there? The future opened up, a black hole of anything-could-happen. Berlioz didn’t like that feeling. There was no version of this scenario that ended with Steve and Berlioz huggin’ it out and becoming best mates. It’d be, at best, awkward, and at worst, as bad as his Christmas dinner with his father last year, only ten times worse. Steve could yell at him. And shit, what about Lou and Marie?!

He hadn’t thought that far because he’d figured… well, email Steve first. Establish first contact. And if that had gone well enough, he’d bring it up to his siblings.

Like always, Berlioz always picked the worst possible way of going about things.

“But he’s comin’ here! He’s comin here, I don’t–I– Lou and Marie and my mum and my cousins, fuck, they’re all– also comin’ here!” Berlioz said it all breathlessly, face pale. He gripped at Simba’s hand tightly like he might faint. “I–I–I don’t know what to… I didn’t want to talk to him face to face! He’s gonna hate me like she hates me. I fucked up. God, I really fucked up.”

SIMBA: “Woah, woah, okay. Just--calm down,” Simba implored gently, still holding onto Ber’s shoulders as he pulled back a little. It was clear his husband’s brain was going a million miles a minute. Faster than the speed of light to Simba because he wasn’t sure how he got from Steve was coming to Swynlake to “I really fucked up.”

He wasn’t surprised, necessarily. After all, he’d been with Berlioz for six years now, he’d seen plenty of anxiety meltdowns. At this point, he felt rather calm about them. They used to scare the shit out of him, but now he liked to be the stalwart figure that Berlioz could lean on through his panic. The solid ship in the storm.

“Jenny doesn’t hate you,” Simba said and though he didn’t know for sure, he felt pretty confident.

“I think she’s pissed at her dad. Not you. If she hated you, she wouldn’t come here. I think she’s just confused about what’s going on. Clearly Steve didn’t tell her anything. And listen, if you don’t wanna meet him, you don’t have to. I’ll handle it, if you want.”

Simba didn’t think he should, because he liked to believe the best in people and maybe this was an opportunity. It didn’t have to be a bad thing. But, he also didn’t want to force Ber’s hand before he was ready.

“Try not to think too far in the future, alright? Let’s just--go talk to Jenny, see what she has to say. After that, we can decide how we wanna handle Steve. We’ve got a few hours at least before he shows up, yeah? None of this is easy for any of you, but that’s not your fault.”

BERLIOZ: Okay. Now Berlioz breathed.

He closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath, which probably could have been deeper and slower, but it was the best he could manage. His sweaty hand was still clinging to Simba’s as he repeated everything Simba had said to himself, even if half of them were lies. Maybe Jenny didn’t hate him right now, but Ber was convinced, see, that she was going to. That as she got to know him, hatred would be the only outcome.

Chalk all that up to shit self-esteem and his pretty shallow relationship with Marie (his fault) and his cousins (also his fault). He’d never known how to connect with people like them. Ashlee– she was the outlier.

As for the rest– Berlioz could at least indulge them as fantasies the way he indulged his fantasy of running away. No, it wasn’t true that he could avoid Steve. Sure, he could hide in his room and Simba could handle it, but that wasn’t right. He’d regret it.

Because he did want to meet the guy. Or maybe– just look him in the face, just once. If he could have stalked Steve the way Jenny apparently stalked them (okay– got their address off the envelope of a card they sent, not exactly stalking), and watched him from across the street, he felt like he could have learned everything he wanted to know about him. But since that hadn’t happened, this was his one chance.

And then he’ll go away and you’ll never have to talk to him again, he thought to himself. Another lie, probably, but it helped him take a second breath.

His eyes opened. He wasn’t about to faint anymore, but he was still pale and jittery. “Oh…okay,” he said, then gulped. He dropped Simba’s hand so he could wipe his sweat on his pants and then run his hands through his hair. “Right. Okay. I’ll… we’ll… yeah. Thanks.” He sighed a little and then leaned forward, ducking his head so it was pressed against Simba’s shoulder.

Here, Berlioz took his third breath, officially fighting off the panic attack. It was exhausting. He already felt like slumping over. But instead, he straightened up. “Talking to her. Okay.”

Together, they headed back to the den. Jenny hadn’t disappeared. Her cider was abandoned on the coffee table and she’d taken off her shoes. She sat with her legs crossed on the sofa and when they entered, she looked up from her phone.

“Did anyone barf?” she declared.

“No,” said Ber.

“You call the police on me then or something?”

“Um, no,” said Ber.

“Cool,” said Jenny. “So the blackmail thing.”

“It’s not,” Ber said quickly. “It’s… it’s not…that. I…didn’t know he was related to me till last year. I was just…” he rubbed at his jeans again, his tongue heavy and tangled. How the hell was he supposed to explain when he himself wasn’t sure of anything? Each step he’d taken since finding out about Steve had been a shot in a dark– a wild gamble. He’d felt sick most of the time. “He didn’t know about me either. So I guess I wanted him to know.”

Jenny’s eyebrows shot up at that. “Really?” she glanced at Simba. “How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

SIMBA: Simba rubbed his hands up and down Ber’s arms a few times and then squeezed Ber’s hand with a little smile, waiting for him to come back down. Which he did. He always did. Even if sometimes it didn’t feel like he ever would. This panic hadn’t been as bad as that, but there had been times in the past where Simba had been scared that his husband would never come back. That hadn’t happened in a few years now that Simba thought about it. He wondered if that was because of him, because of therapy, because of the traumas Ber had experienced, or because he had matured and grown more confident. It was probably some combination of all of these things.

Either way, Simba made a mental note to tell Ber he was proud of him. Maybe tonight, when they crawled in bed, Jenny safely tucked away in one of the guest rooms.

He rubbed at Ber’s back when he leaned into hug him and then kept a hold of his hand as they moved back into the living room. Simba only let go so that Ber could sit on the couch with his sister, Simba taking up the arm chair next to him, so as not to crowd Jenny.

She was certainly tenacious. Had a bit of a bite to her. Reminded him of Kiara. Which meant that, if she was anything like Kiara, most of that bite was all hot air. Really, she was probably just a confused, angry kid. Rightfully so. But Simba wasn’t afraid of her, no matter how much she wanted to huff and puff. Really, so far, he just thought she was kind of a brat.

Funny—but a brat.

“Uh, because we have way more money and influence than a musician that was famous in the 90s. No offense.” Simba shrugged a little. “What would we blackmail him about? Ber’s paternity was already splashed all over the tabloids earlier this year. I am sure you saw that on your very thorough Google search. We aren’t in the business of blackmail. Ber just—wanted his biological father to know about him.

And you, too, eventually. You’re an adult, after all. Or almost there.” He couldn’t remember if she was seventeen or eighteen but his point still stood.

BERLIOZ: Simba, like always, was calm and non-threatening. Berlioz didn’t really know how he did it– even though all he was doing, really, was listing the facts. Still, all those facts felt like dynamite to Ber, like if he touched them, they’d explode. Anything he said would make it worse.

But Simba did not make it worse. Ber’s gaze darted from Jenny to Simba and back again, and the girl didn’t get more upset. She didn’t get up or storm out, or start shouting, or laugh at him again. She just sat there and listened. Slowly, she began to frown a little deeper.

Slowly, her shoulders began to droop. And then she was just a girl on the couch who looked a little lost, a little out of place. Ber knew that feeling real well.

If she were Ashlee, he would have reached out to her. Instead, his hands curled on his lap and he kept them to himself, lowering his eyes so he wasn’t looking at her anymore.

There was, maybe, a two second pause. Then Jenny shifted a little on the couch. “It just seemed like you knew him cuz of the card,” she said.

Ber nodded. “Uh yeah. That was– maybe not the best idea.” Another pause. “I mean, I sent this email… he didn’t really respond though…”

“When?”

“I– um. In the fall.”

“Fuck. What an asshole.” She snorted and leaned back. “My dad’s an asshole, by the way. He and my mum got divorced a long time ago because he’s an asshole. I just didn’t think he was this big of an asshole.”

And Berlioz actually chuckled a little, even though this remark was said plainly– not trying to taunt or upset Ber, let alone make him laugh. He ran a hand through his curls and glanced up at her.

In that one glance, maybe he saw a bit more of himself there in her face. Or maybe he just wanted to.

“My dad too. My– other dad.”

“Dads just suck,” said Jenny. Another beat. “Though I guess I always kind of wanted a sibling.”

Berlioz looked up again. That… wasn’t what he had thought she was going to say. In every version of this reality, even the one where Steve liked him alright, he never imagined Jenny would. She was the complication– maybe the real dynamite. Because he didn’t want to explode her life the way Maman had exploded his.

He never thought that she would want to know him. Unless– well, maybe that’s not what she was saying. Maybe it was just a joke.

She looked back at Simba, clearly pegging him as the Real Adult in the room, and this time, her hands fidgeted more nervously on her lap, and her eyes had gotten wider. “Now what should I do?”

SIMBA: Simba didn’t think dads sucked.

He thought most dads were just complicated humans, like anyone else. That had been a hard realization to come to when his own dad had been dead and Simba had hero-worshipped him from his earliest possible memories. And he still did, in a way. It was just now he saw the rest too: the mistakes his father had made, putting InterPride before anything else, even his family. Sending Simba away to school, being so stubborn.

But, there were many things about his father he loved. He was grateful for Mufasa, for the time they’d had together. He wished there had been more.

It made it a little hard for him to hear. All this: dads suck rhetoric. He shifted on the chair a little, his gaze darting away for a moment. It wasn’t Jenny’s fault--and as far as he knew, and he believed her--maybe her dad did suck. Ber’s certainly did.

That didn’t mean all of them did. He wanted to say it. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but this wasn’t about him.

He met Jenny’s gaze when she looked back over at him and he shrugged. “I dunno. We have a couple of options. You can stay here with us. We have a few guest rooms up on the third floor. Ashlee is up there too. If you want to get a hotel, there is the Tipton on Main Street. We will put you up for the night, but if we do that we should have your contact information, in case you need anything as a teenager in a strange town. Other than that, we just wait for Steve to show up. Are you hungry? You’ve traveled a lot and airplane food is shite.”

BERLIOZ:

Berlioz watched Jenny and as Simba talked, more tiny pieces of her armor chipped away. Her brow furrowed and she kept biting at her lip, peeling at some loose skin there. Though really, this nervous kid in front of him just made him admire Jenny’s arrival all the more. Sure, Berlioz was dumb, did dumb things, but he never ran head on into a problem. He would have disappeared and hoped to stay that way. He wouldn’t have had the courage to confront some strangers.

These few moments of vulnerability were short-lived though. She began to nod, then took a breath, and her fidgeting stopped. He could see the moment she decided what she would do. And just like that– she was in charge again.

Well, not really, but at least she knew she wasn’t going to be punted into the street like a rugby ball.

“I can stay here if that’s okay. My dad doesn’t have money to pay for a hotel.” She said it quite plainly, which surprised Berlioz really. Then again the whole blackmail thing…

These pieces started to make a different picture of his father. Or at least put the pieces he did know in a new light. Chicago was an expensive city. Being a music librarian at a uni probably didn’t pay that much. And he had a kid.

Man, what had Steve thought when he found out his bastard son was a fucking Bonfamille?

What had happened to his rock star days? Not that his band ever made it that big, but they’d done well enough to open for Alanis Morrisette.

“And I can just eat whatever, whenever,” she added. “I’m fine. But thanks.”

Ber nodded slowly. “Uh… no problem. Here I can… take you up to a room.”

Jenny shuffled off the couch. “Cool! Can’t wait to see the rest of this big-ass house!”

Jenny headed toward the stairs and Berlioz looked back at Simba, mouthing ‘thank you’ before he followed.

#swynberlioz #simber #the prodigal daughter #otp: cuddle if you'd like #otp: climbing over fences #otp: someday #otp: stupid beautiful boy #otp: i think you're lovely #otp: socked feet and all #otp: i wanna make plans with you #otp: let's go to vegas #otp: TRUE LOVE'S KISS #i do not think these are all of them /sweats #it's been a while

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simba-bonfamille-lyons · 3 years

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I’m Not as Brave as I Once Was /./ [Simber]

In which a secret Simba has been keeping is revealed...[takes place: mid-May]

@ber-bonfamille-lyons

[tw -- alcoholism]

SIMBA: Someone should make it illegal to have classes on Friday evenings.

Simba hated that he had a class on Friday at 4:00pm. It was stupid. No one paid attention to anything on Fridays at 3:00pm. Not to mention, it was one of his least favorite classes. One that was all about procedures and all the boring stuff that came with being a teacher. How to write student reports. How to talk to parents. How to make lesson plans. It always made Simba itchy and he was so annoyed that it wasn’t even his fault this time he’d gotten stuck with the dumb time frame! The class was only offered at this time.

Last week’s class had been impossibly hard. He’d barely made it out alive, just a few days into Ramadan. Classes were harder to pay attention to when he was fasting, which he knew was kind of the point, and it was normally fine. He just extra hated this class and it ended a few hours before sundown and iftar, which just made it worse.

This week, when the teacher had finally let them go, just after 6:00pm, Simba’s brain said one thing, an immediate, knee jerk reaction:

I need a drink.

So, his steps didn’t carry him home. They took him, actually, to [Name Redacted], which helpfully appeared along the alley on Ever After Boulevard. Simba didn’t even think about it as he ducked in and ordered an Irish cream. He took a seat on the bar stools along the wall, his only view the brick wall in front of him. Halfway through his first drink, his brain had gone blissfully quiet. His annoyance had trickled out of him by the time he’d finished.

He was halfway through his second when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Simba ignored it, forgetting about it as soon as the vibration for an incoming text dissipated.

When the leftover ice was clinking at the bottom of his glass, his phone vibrated again. This time, it didn’t stop after one. Someone was calling him. His husband was calling him. Simba glimpsed the time and date: 7:30pm, Friday 4/23.

Without thinking, Simba hit the end button and threw his phone onto the slim, unfinished wooden countertop. It clattered, lay silent for a moment, and then began to buzz again.

Simba didn’t touch it. He just watched it skitter disjointedly across the wood until it went still again. His heart was pounding in his ears and he suddenly felt like he was going to be sick.

What was he doing?

He was supposed to meet Ber for dinner. It was Ramadan and he was supposed to be cooking dinner with his husband.

Well, he’d already fucked up this much, hadn’t he?

Simba ordered another drink. Though, this one, he downed without even savoring the feeling of it. He left a generous tip for zakat and then made his way out of the cafe. A misting, spring rain was falling. It made him shiver, his skin hot, as he started towards home.

It was almost dark by the time he made it in the front door. The dogs greeted him, tripping over themselves and wagging their tails as they jumped at him. Simba toed off his shoes and shrugged off his soaking jacket, running a hand through his hair and spraying rain water everywhere. He tossed his keys into the bowl near the door.

When he finally looked up from rubbing Turtle’s head, he saw Ber standing in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at him. Simba didn’t move towards him, knowing that it would immediately give him away. He didn’t know what to do actually. He looked back down and moved on to scratching behind Simone’s ears.

BERLIOZ: When his first texts were ignored, Berlioz didn’t take it personally.

He knew his husband. That was the thing, wasn’t it? He knew his husband-- knew that Friday class could be stressful, knew that Simba could have easily gotten wrapped up in a conversation after class because of that. He was friendly with everyone, had gone to study groups before, but more often than not just stood outside in the hallway shooting the shit until something finally dragged him away-- normally other people leaving first but occasionally Simba woke up to the rest of his schedule and managed to race off to the next thing. So that’s what Ber figured. He’d gotten wrapped up. Or met someone on the way home. Maybe he even stopped in to his teacher’s office hours, who knows. Ber was used to a Simba who was late (Ber normally built in an hour around important appointments just cuz of this fact) and so Ber was fine waiting. If it got too bad, they’d just order food in.

That was what his second set of texts was about. He glanced at the time and knew that when Simba got home, it’d take another thirty minutes, probably more, to make food, and Simba would be too hungry and so would Ber. You want me to order something? He texted. Chippamunkas?

Nothing.

That was okay too. For now.

But then another fifteen minutes passed, and it slowly, but surely, was becoming very not okay.

Cuz he knew his husband. And now they were past Simba’s usual window of distractions. He always checked his phone by now. His phone was as distracting as the rest of the world. Ber texted again. Where are you? That would get his attention, remind Simba that Ber was waiting. It would hint that now Berlioz was getting worried. Simba wouldn’t let him worry.

But he didn’t text back.

So Ber got worried.

He called, something he only did when his brain was starting to melt ‘round the edges like a soft stick of butter. He listened to it ring once-- then shut off. Ber jerked the phone away from his ear like it was a hot frying pan. “Did you just send me to voicemail?” he asked his phone out loud, bewildered. At his feet, Bowie lifted his head, whined briefly, sensing the disturbance in the universe. Ber just sat perfectly still. He stared at the phone. It had to ring again. Simba had to realize what he’d done. It was a mistake. A mistake, a clumsy finger swipe.

The phone was as silent as the rest of the house.

And okay-- okay. Don’t jump to the wrong conclusions. Ber drafted up plenty of potential explanations. A long fucking meeting with his professor about his grade (this didn’t make sense-- they were hours past class now). Maybe something with the Board came up, something important, emergency-level (Simba would have at least texted him first. He wouldn’t be that stupid). Simba was abducted by aliens, and they dropped his call.

So far the alien-thing was the most logical. Berlioz laughed alone in his big, empty house, and let himself get pissed and even more worried.

He gave Simba exactly one more hour, and if he didn’t come home, then Ber would explode. He’d go crazy, the way only Ber could do. Call Lou and start crying, probably call Sarabi too, call Arthur, cuz maybe this was magic, maybe Simba was in danger-- he had a whole list and he conducted it while walking all around his house in aimless circles. Bowie kept following him, Turtle joined in. He sat down on the kitchen floor at one point to pet their ears and try not to jump ahead of that one-hour deadline he’d set from himself, but fuck, it was hard, when each minute was like a hammer smashing into his skull.

When the door finally budged, Berlioz shot up and rounded just enough to watch an unharmed Simba enter. He moved too calm and slow and said nothing, didn’t even call for him. Berlioz’s whole body shook.

“Where the fuck have you been?” the words burst from his chest before he could even think them all the way through. They were loud and shaky-- Ber’s eyes were already wet. He didn’t move though, cuz he could tell Simba wasn’t hurt at least, so he didn’t get a fucking hug. “I’ve been texting you for hours, you -- you sent me to voicemail. What the fuck, Simba?”

SIMBA: Yeah, Ber was pissed. Probably rightfully so. No, definitely rightfully so. Simba knew he’d fucked up. He’d fucked up being a good husband and a good Muslim, all in one go. He’d ignored his husband’s phone call and he’d mindlessly broke his fast with alcohol. It wasn’t even for a good reason. If someone had died or something terrible had happened, maybe he could’ve forgiven himself. His drinking was usually triggered by intense emotion and the feeling of being out of control. And while he’d felt the low buzz of that for months, nothing particularly stressful had happened that could have tempted him into breaking his fast.

He was just stressed and tired and it was habit.

Not even Simba could rationalize his way out of that.

In the face of that and Ber’s anger, Simba didn’t know what to do. He was supposed to be angry too. Simba always got angry when he was defensive. Got loud. Made himself big. Like an animal trying to ward off a predator. But, he didn’t have a single argument to defend his actions.

He also didn’t want to say sorry. His pride felt fractured, which meant the rest of him was fractured too.

Simba took the moments after Ber’s demand (what the fuck?) to kneel down to the dogs’ height. They eagerly licked at his chin, Simone growling at Turtle and nipping at his ear as he tried to wiggle his way into Simba’s lap. She moved to plant herself by his hip, her head under his arm, while Turtle continued to prance around him and Bowie sat right in front of him, with warm, patient eyes.

The dogs didn’t care if Simba drank, if he was a bad husband, if he was a bad Muslim. They didn’t turn away at the smell of alcohol on his breath.

Simba shrugged, and when he spoke, he was looking at Bowie. “I dunno,” he said, unhelpfully.

The problem (or the benefits, depending on how you looked at it) with alcohol was that it numbed you up. Logically, Simba knew Ber was pissed at him. That he was ruining his life. But, the alcohol meant that those realities couldn’t touch him. It felt far away.

“I was at [name redacted].”

BERLIOZ: Simba didn’t rush toward him, with apologies and kisses and his typical irresistible Simba sweetness. Berlioz half-expected it, but at the same time-- he wasn’t disappointed when it didn’t happen. How could he be, when Simba hadn’t burst in in the first place? When it was very obvious where he’d been? Ber hadn’t needed to ask, he just did cuz that’s what you were supposed to do-- to ask for an explanation like giving the benefit of the doubt-- or just one more chance for Simba to make up for his mistakes.

But Simba wasn’t trying. Because Simba was drunk.

This is at least part your fault, came the inner voice, and Ber for once wasn’t sure if it was anxiety or just-- the truth. Because he had known… he had wanted it to be no big deal, he had hoped that Simba would talk to him first.

And so he blinked and he took a breath, not sure whether that breath was meant to cool or fan his own fire. Berlioz didn’t like being mad. He didn’t deal with anger the way Simba or Lou did. He wasn’t one to shout, even though maybe that’s what Simba needed. If anything, he wanted to turn to ice. Scoff at Simba, go upstairs, lock him out of his own room till Simba finally confessed everything. But that was just doing the same thing he’d always done-- leaving it up to Simba. The same mistake he kept making. He needed to stop waiting for Simba to come to him, even though that was what they had promised to do for each other when they got married.

“Okay.” The word fell hard and flat. “You were at [name redacted] doing what? Drinking, right?” His arms crossed his chest, mostly to protect himself. “You’re drunk right now. You stood me up -- and ignored my texts-- and sent me to voicemail-- generally treated me like shit-- because you’re drunk.”

SIMBA: Simba winced.

Berlioz’s voice didn’t raise, but Simba still felt like it had. The guilt flashed hot and fast through him. So much for the alcohol’s padding. No armor was strong enough to evade the lance that Ber had tossed so expertly, hitting Simba right in the weakest parts. He should’ve known. Simba could handle a lot: Allah being disappointed...but his husband being disappointed—

No. His husband being hurt by his actions?

That was the one thing that Simba couldn’t stand. More than anything else. So, why, do you ask, did he keep doing it? Because Simba wasn’t perfect. Simba was, actually, the opposite of perfect. He was deeply flawed and deeply traumatized. And none of that was an excuse. He had no excuse for his shitty behavior.

For once, the words stuck in Simba’s throat. He didn’t have anything to say. Berlioz didn’t want an apology because it wouldn’t mean anything. And there was no undoing it, though Simba would give anything to take it back. He didn’t know how far back he would go. For months, he had been lying to himself, hiding from Ber, and he hadn’t even realized it.

There were several moments after Ber’s final word (drunk) faded into the air that the room was almost entirely silent. Simba could hear his own breath, his saliva as he swallowed, the panting of their dogs, and their nails clicking against the floor. Eventually he dragged his eyes upwards.

“Yeah,” he said. There was no point in denying it.

He couldn’t hold Ber’s gaze for long. It dropped back to the floor. Usually, the warm wooden colour would remind him of Ber’s eyes, but all he could see was the golden brown of an Irish cream.

“I didn’t realize—” he stared to attempt to explain, but even to his own ears, it sounded like a lie. It wasn’t a lie. Simba hadn’t realized, but—

“It just happened so fast. I—panicked.”

BERLIOZ: Ber wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

Simba wasn’t shattered into pieces on the floor, surrounded by wine and broken glass, but was this version of him better? He was like a phantom-version of himself, distant and slow-speaking, looking like Simba, but he wasn’t Simba. Maybe Berlioz preferred the radical, horrifying, heart-breaking mess from years ago. That had been in many ways straightforward. Berlioz didn’t have to think about what he had to do, he just did it-- picked Simba up, dragged him upstairs, cleaned his face and helped him through the night.

But Simba wasn’t even asking to be rescued. He was standing on his own two feet. The mess was still heart-breaking, hidden like this, but Ber wasn’t sure if cleaning up Simba’s mess was the right thing to do or the wrong thing to do.

What was a husband supposed to do? Was it different from a boyfriend or a friend? No, right? Well, maybe, right? Ber could feel the nervous thud of his own chest. He felt like a kid again, like it really was five years ago. He wanted to phone someone, like Lou-- tell me what to do. Or Sarabi-- please, come help. Yell at him for me, so I can go cry.

A husband shouldn’t… he had to protect Simba...or maybe not--

Berlioz shook his head, then dragged a hand over his face, through his fringe. He blinked like his eyes were stinging with tears. They weren’t, not yet, but his throat was tight, and he knew it would only be a matter of fucking time before all his anger burned itself into something weak and flimsy like that. Y’know what, he didn’t want Lou or Sarabi-- he wanted Simba now, more than ever, to help him out here.

Fuck, he felt so alone.

No, he couldn’t do this without Simba. Obviously. And so he was still angry, but yelling at Simba and then stamping off would just make him feel worse. “Yeah, obviously,” he said, then sighed. “Look, sit down, okay? I’m not-- trying to make you feel worse here, I-- I just want you to fucking talk to me like you haven’t been. Can we do that, please? Can you finally fucking talk to me?”

SIMBA: Simba didn’t want to talk. He hadn’t wanted to talk this entire time. That was what the alcohol was for. It kept him from opening his big, stupid mouth—all his big, stupid emotions pouring out of him because they had no place else to go. The alcohol made it so he didn’t break down. So that he could keep marching forward, for Ber, for Ashlee, for Arthur and the Knights, for the whole damn town. That had been the thought process, anyway. Except it hadn’t even been a thought. It had been instinct. Simba had felt his armor cracking and instead of turning to Ber—or, hell, even going back to AA—he had immediately picked up a bottle.

The shame had burned before, but now it burned all the brighter.

Ber’s eyes might not be wet with tears, but Simba’s were. They tangled in his long lashes instead of falling as Simba nodded his head once. He didn’t want to talk, but he knew that they needed to. That Ber deserved that.

He felt heavy as he stood from where he was crouching with the dogs. His knee popped, but there wasn't any pain. He must be drunker than he thought. As he stood, he blinked, taking a moment before crossing to the couch and sinking down on it.

Berlioz met him there and sank down onto the cushion next to him.

The silence stretched as the dogs tried to jump up on the couch too, tails wagging even though they could sense something was wrong. Well, Simone and Bowie could. Turtle was just happy to be included.

“I—dunno what you want me to—“

His phone went off. Sunset. Time for iftar. Except, he’d already broken his fast. He reached into his pocket and shut his alarm off, tossing it onto the table, where it slapped down harshly. His jaw ticked as he leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, genuinely wanting to know, because from where he sat—

What was there to say? He’d fucked up. They both knew it. Any apologies he made were superficial, any promises he made were empty.

BERLIOZ: They sat like they always did most evenings. Their bodies remembered, and so did their sofa, the cushions giving way and their bodies turning toward each other.

Despite all things familiar though, nothing about this felt as comfortable as it should. The stench of alcohol lingered around Simba as thick as a fog. And his body was different too, even if it didn’t look like it. Ber knew if he reached forward to touch all his favourite places on Simba, show those easy, mundane moments of affection that gave their relationship its texture and its colour, Simba probably would feel it through that fog. And Berlioz didn’t think he could mean those touches the same way he normally did.

So Berlioz did not listen to those habits. The ones that said to put his hand on the back of Simba’s neck, or to pull Simba’s long body on top of his. He just sat, close but very far away. His hands laid loose in his lap. With his right hand he reached for his left wrist, pushing his thumb under one of the worn threaded bracelets he wore every day, in the shower, to sleep.

He fiddled with it, glancing at Simba and down again, not able to keep any prolonged eye contact, while he waited for Simba to say anything.

And he did say something.

Barely.

Not good enough. Berlioz’s gaze locked on the bracelet again as his jaw hardened. He bit his own tongue. It shouldn’t be up to him to tell Simba what the fuck he should be saying right now. The anger was there in his chest, festering, growing colder. Only Simba had the ability to melt it, didn’t he realize that? Didn’t he see Ber was giving him every chance-- he’d been giving him every fucking chance for months now--

That was your mistake, said that inner voice of his. He could imagine it was what Lou would certainly say.

“The truth, obviously,” Ber said, voice small because if he spoke too loudly, he was certain he’d sound more frustrated than he wanted to. “I want you to tell me what the hell is going on with you, why you needed this--” he gestured toward Simba, all of Simba, unable to put it into concrete words. Because it was more complicated than just needing alcohol. It was also Simba lying and hiding and all that. “And why the hell you wouldn’t just-- talk to me in the first place. I talk to you. I trust you.”

Suddenly he was sniffing. Ber reached up quickly, wiping away at those frustrated, angry tears before they could cascade down his cheeks.

SIMBA: “It’s not about you,” Simba bit out at once, his shoulders tensing. His jaw ticked--even though he knew that wasn’t what he meant.

He didn’t want Ber to think this had anything to do with him. It didn’t. Not in the way that Simba didn’t trust Ber. It wasn’t about trust. It was about--shame. Guilt. And the pure stupidity of being able to trick himself into thinking that he had all of this under control and it wasn’t that bad. Simba hadn’t said anything because there hadn’t been anything to say. He wasn’t backsliding, the alcohol he had hidden in an empty cereal box in the cabinet was just in case. Sneaking drinks before he came home or before going to board meetings was not really sneaking drinks, because he didn’t need to tell Ber about everything he did. He was an adult.

Simba rubbed at the muscle of his palm with his thumb.

“It’s just--it didn’t start...I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to--admit it to anyone. Not even myself and especially not you. I couldn’t stand the thought of you knowing.” The words came out awkward, stilted. Not at all sounding like his own voice. He felt detached. The alcohol, a pool that he was swimming in, weightless.

“Looking at me like you are now.” He didn’t even glance at Ber when he said it. He knew the expression he would find there and just the idea of it made his skin crawl, as if there was some monster living beneath the surface.

“I just--thought I could handle it. I’m sorry.” The apology slipped out without him meaning for it to, because he knew how pointless it was. That didn’t change how he felt, though, which was so, so sorry. Among the shame and the guilt and the regret, the sorry was what he kept coming back to.

BERLIOZ: It felt like it had something to do with him.

Maybe not the drinking itself-- Berlioz knew that was coming from a thousand other places. Simba had reasons to drink; he had more stressors than Berlioz could ever understand, and that was where his own anxiety dovetailed, made him worry that Simba might not open up cuz Ber wasn’t capable enough. Simba saw him as too fragile, or maybe he just didn’t think Ber would get it, since it wasn’t like they hadn’t had hundreds of misunderstandings before.

For most of their relationship, Ber knew he stood outside, looking in: looking in at the Lyons legacy, looking in at Simba’s relationships with his family, looking in at the responsibility that came from being in this town and carrying that name. Ber did what he could, had figured out that his part, most of the time, was to be the one place where Simba didn’t have to deal with that.

But did that mean Simba would drink instead? Couldn’t Berlioz help carry some of it, even if he didn’t fully understand?

Ber couldn’t focus on these worries. Too quickly, this conversation would mutate into something else, drifting away from Simba’s alcoholism and into their issues. Ber tried to push his anxiety away then, and repeat Simba’s words back to himself: It’s not about you. That wasn’t meant to be an insult, even if it felt like it could be.

It wasn’t about Ber. But it did affect him.

He finally did reach over to Simba, his hand falling on Simba’s thigh and squeezing. His brow had furrowed; he knew that he wore all the worry that Simba would be sick to see. But this part, at least, really was his job. He was allowed to be worried, even if Simba didn’t feel like he could explain everything to him.

“Mon amour,” he started very softly. “It’s not the drinking that I...I’m not mad that you needed to drink. But the lying and the hiding, that stuff is what could really hurt us, y’know? I get that you didn’t want to talk to me about the drinking, but isn’t your sponsor supposed to help? If it’s getting that bad…” he trailed off. Like always, he wasn’t certain what he was supposed to say and wished there was a script here. But there wasn’t; no two cases of this kinda thing were the same.

“You don’t have to handle this kind of thing alone.”

SIMBA: Simba didn't want Berlioz speaking to him so gently, calling him affectionate names. He didn’t know what he wanted—or needed, but it wasn’t that. Part of him wished that Berlioz would yell at him, shout at him, tell him he hated him. That felt more true. Simba couldn’t imagine Ber’s kindness was real. His patience genuine.

He didn’t know why. He should be grateful that he’d married the kindest, gentlest person in the entire world. And he was. Every time but now. Now, it just dug the shame deeper. Because Ber didn’t deserve this. He wouldn’t deserve it even if he got furious at Simba and threatened divorce. But, it may make it easier to shoulder if that was the case. If Ber was angry, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.

The shame was so heavy in his chest he suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. He sucked in a deep, ragged breath as Ber squeezed his leg, though—in all honesty—he barely felt his touch through the layer of alcohol that buzzed in his veins, just beneath the surface. His head was especially dizzy with it now, hungry and having forgotten to breathe.

He scoffed. “They don’t know me,” Simba said.

Honestly, the whole AA thing had only sort of ever helped. He never spoke, only listened. And he’d never once called his sponsor because what was some asshole who didn’t know him going to say that was gonna make him feel better? Also, it had been almost funny when they’d asked him his sexuality and he’d said bisexual and then they hadn’t known what to do with him—since your sponsor is supposed to be someone you wouldn’t be attracted to. Also, it was heavily Christian, which wouldn’t be a problem except, once again, they hadn’t known what to do with him. It had helped, in so far that he’d stopped drinking. That had more to do with the coins he got after every milestone, which was always satisfying.

“What are they supposed to say to me that would even matter? Drinking is bad? No, is it?” he intoned sarcastically. “You’re gonna ruin all your relationships, your marriage? Huh, I didn’t think about that.” He shook his head and then ran his hand over it so that he was gripping his neck. The leg that Ber’s hand rested on started bouncing and Simba felt like he was about to jump out of his skin. Or, at least, off the couch.

“I know all those things and I still did it anyway.” The confusion colored his voice. “I am alone because no one understands it. I don’t even understand it. It just—happens. I blink and suddenly I’ve fallen back down again. Breaking my fast, my promises. I hate it.” He looked at Ber then, his eyes hard. “I swear, I hate it.”

BERLIOZ: Ber knew that he and Simba couldn’t be more different when it came to handling their issues. They both handled them shit, by the way-- it was just drastically opposite brands of shit. Ber, for example, did...nothing. He didn’t look his issues in the eye. He just sat there (or laid there, more likely, sleeping longer or putting himself into marijuana stupors on purpose) and shrugged and let the problem get bigger and bigger until it was so big that Ber regretted ever letting it get so big. Why didn’t I fucking do something about that? He’d think to himself, even more paralyzed than before. Look at Pere. That was all the evidence he needed. He had done nothing, done nothing, done nothing, then when he did something, it was too late.

Simba avoided his problems too, but he did stuff like this. He didn’t just sit there and rot; he self-destructed.

And then when faced with his own self-destruction, he just double-downed into it. So half of this, all Berlioz heard were the excuses. And look, he had no fucking idea what it was like to be Muslim and bisexual and an alcoholic, plopped in a room with a bunch of white strangers who didn’t know you, didn’t get you. He could imagine it did suck, but-- therapy sucked too. Ber hated therapy. He got better at it, but he still hated it, when every instinct screamed at him to go hide rather than confront his issues head on.

Simba had to do something too. Confront his issues, but not with excuses, or anger, or drinking. Something else.

“Then do something about it,” he blurted this, not having any better way to say it.

His ears coloured, cheeks pinking too. It was too harsh, but at the same time-- Ber was frustrated. Simba still wasn’t really talking to him, and Ber could say that was alright, but it wasn’t. He meant what he said: Simba had to talk to someone. And right now, Ber wasn’t sure he was going to. What did the end of this look like? Would Simba just bounce right back around and end up in Pixie’s or [name redacted] or even the Deer’s? Would he drop more of Ber’s calls? Say one thing, do another?

“Cuz you can’t keep doing this,” he continued then. “You know that. And look, I-- I’ll do whatever I can to help. I can quit drinking too, I don’t care. I can go with you to therapy, you can come with me. We can find-- a program. Something. We’ll get a plan together cuz I don’t want our marriage to get ruined, okay?”

SIMBA: Simba flinched at Ber’s words like he’d reached out and struck him. He hadn’t, obviously, hadn’t even moved much, but Simba could feel the frustration in his husband’s voice and just that crack was enough for Simba to recoil. It helped to hear it. He shouldn’t want Ber to be mad at him, but it helped him solidify his resolve. He was still dealing with all of his other emotions. He felt like he was rocking in extremely turmoiled sea.

The shame rose up and crashed down, making him nauseous. Or maybe that was the alcohol. Or the fact he hadn’t eaten since before the sun came up that morning. The guilt swarmed around him. As if constricting him like a serpent. His confusion made it hard to think, because he kept trying to swim backwards and find where this had all gone wrong, because he didn’t know. He couldn’t remember when he’d first drank to forget, drank to numb. He couldn’t remember the first time he’d bought a bottle of whiskey and hid it, for when he needed it. First, for just an emergency and then he cracked the lid and finished it and needed another. Needed to always be fully stocked. To have it, just in case. At first, it was only every now and then, when those just-in-cases rose up. Then, it became all the time. Not—every day and not all day. Usually just in the evenings, when Ber was in his studio and Ashlee was doing homework and Simba’s day had gone from running to this obligation to that one to nothing. His thoughts would crowd in and—Simba had always needed help battling his demons.

That was what scared him the most: being afraid of what facing those demons would look like. And what gave him the most shame was being afraid in the first place. He should be stronger than this. Better than this. When had he become so dependent?

Simba wanted to scream. To go for a run. Though, if he ran, he’d probably pass out. Or he’d go right to the Hunted Deer for another drink.

That was his thought while Ber talked about their marriage being ruined.

Another ragged breath passed through Simba’s lips and he did start crying then. He couldn’t help himself. Simba had tried to keep it in, but he was scared, and he was sorry, and he didn’t want to ruin his marriage and he couldn’t understand how all those things could be true and he still was headed down that path. Still thinking of the alcohol and how it was where he wanted to run. Not towards Ber, but down the neck of another bottle.

He reached up and scrubbed at the few tears that had fallen, pinching at the bridge of his nose. His head was dizzy, and he felt nauseous still, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Or scream, but he didn’t think he had the energy for that.

“I don’t want to ruin our marriage,” he said, as if it were a confession and not something that should be obvious. He sounded pathetic. “But I don’t know what to do. It feels like—like any time something bad happens...it’s the only way to get through it. I-I’m scared.” He turned his body on the couch so that he could look at his husband. Or, really, so his husband could look at him and see that he wasn’t lying. That this was the truth.

“I’m scared of what it does to me. How—easily it turns me into...into someone who would ruin our marriage.” His shoulders sagged and he rubbed another hand over his face. Looking away, though this time towards the kitchen.

“There’s a bottle of Jack in the box of Frosties.” It’s been there for months. That’s not the original one.

BERLIOZ: Berlioz’s body shouted at him to move closer to Simba or pull Simba toward him. Both, maybe, at once. How often had Simba comforted him that way, and how many times was it the exact thing that Ber needed? Words were flimsy and they evaporated easily, especially in the heat of Ber’s anxiety. But touching was solid. He could draw Simba’s head down, tuck him to his chest, wrap his arms around him. For once, Simba would be the small one, and Berlioz would be the strong one: the shield to protect Simba from the world. Though that wasn’t exactly what Simba needed protecting from, was it?

The world might bare its teeth at Simba and throw up obstacles that no one--especially Ber-- knew how to deal with. But the world wasn’t shoving the alcohol into his hands. It wasn’t pouring it down his throat, and it wasn’t making Simba hide these things, or lie to Berlioz and to the rest of his friends. Ber had to protect Simba from Simba and that-- that was harder. That might not require Berlioz’s softest touch. It might mean holding back and letting Simba cry. Get it all out, all that shame and regret, so he could start over again. What Ber could give Simba was the forgiveness to do that. And so Berlioz did not try to quiet Simba. He stayed still and relaxed, his face gentle as Simba turned to him and began to properly confess. No more bitter, defensive, half-excuses. Ber reached out despite himself, his hand resting on Simba’s cheek, thumb brushing one of those tears away before Simba sagged and drew his own hands to cover his face. I understand. I’m scared too. But I know you’re better than this, Berlioz thought, though these words caught as they always did. Because did he understand? Was that the right thing to say? Berlioz wanted so badly to know the magic words, just as Simba often did for him. Staying quiet was still, probably, the best thing to do. Because it earned him another confession that dropped through Berlioz like a stone. He blinked, shocked at how heavy that lie felt. Even now, caught in all his lies, hearing them all said out loud… made Berlioz realize what a fool he’d been. How easily he’d let Simba fool him. He bit back that hurt; didn’t wanna shame Simba now that he was talking to him. He just nodded slowly, put his hand back on Simba’s knee, and squeezed. “I’ll take care of it,” he said softly, then swallowed. “What else can I do?”

SIMBA: Tears filled Simba’s eyes again when Ber rested his hand on Simba’s leg.

He felt the heaviness too. Of all his lies. Of the literal poison in his veins. Simba knew how this ended, he’d seen it, even if it was slightly different now that InterPride wasn’t in the picture. He had just...thought he could control it. That it would just be one drink, two drinks...and then before he could think it had turned into a problem. And by then, he got scared and didn’t want to disappoint Ber. Not just a year into their marriage. When Ber was dealing with his own shit that Simba needed to be there for him. In the moments where he almost confessed before, he’d seen Ber getting pissed at him, or worse, crying—looking at him like he couldn’t trust him anymore.

And, maybe, with this, he couldn’t.

Simba knew that he wasn’t ever gonna be able to touch alcohol again. If he didn’t want to ruin his marriage, his life (those things were the same to him.) He just didn’t know...how to do that. He had already proven that he was willing to lie. To himself. To Ber. To everyone.

The answer to Ber’s question was obvious to Simba, but it also wasn’t easy. However, Simba was done with feeling this way. Maybe he was still afraid to face all the things that he had been running from but right now, that wasn’t what he was worried about. His marriage—Berlioz—was more important than that fear.

Sitting up straighter, Simba turned to Ber and his face was serious; split open with that fear, more genuine that Simba let anyone else see. The tracks of tears were still drying in his eyes.

“I need you to not let me get away with it,” Simba told him. “I know—that you...suspected something. This—it’s not your fault. That’s not what I’m saying. I know it’s mine, for lying, for hiding, for breaking your trust. I know it was the coward’s thing to do, but—that’s what drinking turns me into. A coward. So, I-I’m asking for your help, I suppose. I don’t...think this is going to be easy. And I know it’s scary. I—I’m scared too. I’m going to go through a bit of withdrawal, probably, and it isn’t going to be pretty. I’ll...have to stop fasting for a few days.” Admitting that hurt, made his heart squeeze defensively in his chest saying: stop, stop now, but Simba didn’t want to lie. He didn’t want to be a coward.

Being brave hurt. It wouldn’t be bravery if it didn’t.

“And I’m going to want to run again. I’m going to get other help. I promise. I want to. For me, for you, for us. but...I’m going to be good at lying to them too. To everyone. But—you know me better than everyone. You’re my mume and I trust you to—to hold me accountable. I need you to. I am going to do everything I can, but I need your help to...be the man I want.”

His gaze dropped again, feeling guilty, his heart burning hot in his chest. But, he felt stronger saying it all too. Like if they...did this together, they could do it.

“Is that—is that okay?” He glanced up at Ber from beneath his lashes.

BERLIOZ: Berlioz wanted to say no.

He was terrified of what Simba asked. He didn’t want that kind of responsibility-- responsibility of most kinds scared the hell out of him, but policing Simba’s behavior was probably the most nightmarish scenario of all. He’d rather do that shit for someone like Marie, who was younger than him and his sister, so Ber already had an obligation to her to be like, a role model (lol) or something.

That wasn’t how Berlioz saw his responsibilities as a husband though. Course he helped. He was there for support, the safe place for Simba to unload all his problems onto, and Ber tried to help with those problems in whatever way he could. He could listen, he could give (bad) advice, he could, at times, gently push back by sharing his own view of the world. But even in those moments when he and Simba disagreed on how to approach stuff--which happened all the time-- Ber didn’t really expect Simba to change his mind exactly. To listen to Ber.

The only time Ber had ever been a police for Simba’s behavior had been in dire fuckin’ situations. Like, stopping Simba from embarking on a dangerous quest to save the town and martyr himself in the process. Ber stepped in, then.

Stopping Simba from drinking alcohol could be the same thing…

Felt different though. Felt tense and scary and stressful. Well, so was saving Simba all the other times, which is why Berlioz didn’t want their relationship to boil down just to those moments. He didn’t wanna be the fucking leash that kept pulling Simba back from the edges. He needed Simba to take care of himself too.

But Simba was asking for this specific kind of help and… Ber couldn’t say no. Could he? Should he? Maybe he had his idea of husband all wrong and he needed to do the shit that Simba was saying.

Didn’t mean it was going to be easy for him though.

The uncertainty folded Ber’s brows. He squeezed Simba’s hands, looked down at their laps. “I--I mean, I can try,” said Ber after that second of hesitation. He looked up. “You know I’m not good at that stuff though. Not that I can’t, I just uh...I dunno. Might need practice or something.” He scoffed a little at himself. He knew how ridiculous saying that was.

“But I’ll do it for you.”

SIMBA: Simba knew it was hard. Simba knew he probably shouldn’t ask this of Ber. That it wasn’t fair.

But Simba didn’t know what else to do. Even after he had admitted to himself that he was an alcoholic and got himself out of it the first time, he’d never really confronted what being an alcoholic meant. That he didn’t have control over himself. That there was this part of him that was ugly and cruel and out to ruin his life. He had continued to drink after those first few months of sobriety. A few glasses of champagne here, a mixed drink there, a couple of fun shots from Pixie’s. It hadn’t been a problem. He didn’t have a problem. Except there were times he hid flasks in his suit pockets at Board meetings, when things got too stressful. One offs, until they weren’t one offs.

It was a problem. Simba knew that now. Even if admitting it felt like shoving a hot poker between his ribs. It was a problem and if Simba wanted to be the man he wanted to be—

He would never be able to touch a drop of alcohol again.

And, right now, that felt impossible. Just thinking it made him want to run right back to the bottom of a bottle.

Whether it was fair or not, Simba knew that he needed Berlioz to help him.

Simba squeezed Ber’s hands back, tried for a smile. It was hard won, but he managed. Even if it didn’t really touch his glassy eyes.

“Thank you, habibah,” Simba told him. “Hopefully you won’t have to practice. I am going to try, I promise. I don’t want to be like this. Not anymore. I wanna be someone people can be proud of. Depend on.” These things weren’t secrets, but it felt like he was confessing to them anyway.

He leaned against Ber’s side, putting his head on his husband’s shoulder.

#swynberlioz #simber #i'm not as brave as i once was #otp: cuddle if you'd like #otp: someday #otp: climbing over fences #otp: stupid beautiful boy #otp: i think you're lovely #otp: socked feet and all #otp: true love's kiss #otp: i wanna make plans with you #otp: let's go to vegas #this has been done for like #two weeks but #i kept forgetting to post it oops

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simba-bonfamille-lyons · 3 years

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Vacation in a Bottle /./ [Simber]

In which Simba and Berlioz spend their anniversary together...[takes place: February 28, 2021]

@ber-bonfamille-lyons

[tw -- discussion of alcoholism, self loathing, depression]

BERLIOZ: Things weren’t great at the Bonfamille-Lyons place.

That didn’t mean they weren’t good, or okay, or that Berlioz was miserable all the time. Berlioz was not miserable at all whenever he was home. He liked it there best just like he always had-- liked the company of Ashlee and Kion filling their dinner table with news that distracted Berlioz from the harder stuff, like board problems or Simba’s...er… relatives-- or his own family. If he could just exist in the bubble of his cabin forever, Berlioz thought he’d probably be pretty happy. It was a quiet, lazy, easy happiness, but it’s what Berlioz needed.

Especially since the bloody article had dropped.

He’d gotten the alert from Lou first. Just a heads up that if he googled himself, he’d get the online reports. So naturally Berlioz had not done that, had just turned off his phone entirely and tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. It wouldn’t reach this tiny corner of the world--not odd, quirky Swynlake. Or that’s what he was hoping till he walked into his engineering class and two separate people were asking him if it were true, since apparently people had tagged him in the articles online.

Ber logged onto his accounts just to private them all. Real shitty thing to have happened two weeks before his anniversary. They’d not really made plans but now even the idea of going an hour’s drive to the sea made him all kinds of jumpy and nervous. He wanted to bunker down like it was the apocalypse and that wasn’t fair at all to Simba.

Because they both needed a break. Needed a break from Swynlake, even if they were trapped here.

Which was what inspired Berlioz to go to Lymantria and Vanessa again in the first place. If he couldn’t bring himself to take a train or rent a car or jet off in a plane for a weekend, then why not bring the rest of the world in? It was the perfect way to test out the illusion in the bottle idea anyway before the first Groove Room show.

So anniversary plans were gonna be happening in their bedroom. Nothing wrong with that at all. He texted Simba a very silly invite for “a romantic evening” February 28 (since that was their bloody anniversary thank you) and stood in the middle of the room, the bottle hidden in his pocket, till Simba came in.

Simba definitely looked confused when he walked in and there was--well, nothing to see. Not even a classic Berlioz-style pillow fort.

“Disclaimer,” Berlioz said. “I dunno if what I’m about to do is gonna work. But uh--”

He took out the bottle then and wiggled it around. It felt empty to him, but if you looked into it, it glimmered as if fireflies were trapped inside. He twisted the cap off and the fireflies-- which weren’t fireflies all all--poured out.

It was like pouring paint onto a canvas. Colours swept over the room, first instinct shapes, and then the lines were drawn on top, and then the shadows, and then: Kenya. The fields right outside Simba’s relatives’ house. The ceiling had been washed in the deep purple of nighttime, all those twinkly lights now stars in their proper places. The grass wafted gently in the wind. Their bedroom had expanded so no matter where you looked, it was just-- stretches and stretches of beautiful land. Except for the part behind Berlioz. There was the house, with the lights on, as if Simba’s family could walk out at any moment.

Berlioz sighed out a relieved and happy smile as his eyes darted around over these details. “You’re seeing this, yeah? I hope I got the details right.”

SIMBA: Their anniversary had snuck up on Simba and he felt horrible about it. In his head, three months, six months after their wedding, he had planned some grand...something for their anniversary. A trip somewhere! An experience! Something special for Ber. That want got even more pronounced as Ber’s family started to fall apart. Simba hated all of the drama. He hated how he felt as if he was outside, looking in. None of the Bonfamilles wanted him involved or thought that he should be. And he...didn’t really know what his role was in this situation.

He wanted it to be the same as when Ber had stood up for Simba about InterPride, but the Bonfamilles were always so much more complex than the Lyons.

And then, he had his own issues to deal with. Murderous relatives...again. A board faced with some difficult--perhaps impossible--decisions. His own graduation looming. The pressure had weighed down and down on him until: he’d found solace in the bottom of the bottle. So, yeah, there was that guilt too, the shame a heavy, distracting shawl--

Which made him lose track of time. By February, when Simba realized he needed to make plans, he had haphazardly bought tickets to Japan, planning on surprising Berlioz. It would be a quick trip, seeing as they were both in the middle of school but...also, fuck school. Simba hated it. Now that he was back at it, he was already starting to feel his grades slipping. He knew that Ber felt the same. It was a plan, albeit a shallow, last minute one. Not at all the grand, romantic gesture that Simba had originally dreamed up--maybe even decades ago, when he’d started thinking about his wedding and beyond.

Then, the article had dropped. The news had broken. Lou had texted him a heads up and--Simba hadn’t known what to do.

Well, he did. He had called the airline and canceled their tickets, knowing that his husband wasn’t going to want to go anywhere at all. It just--left him with nothing, Simba groping, panicking (and mostly drunk) for a solution that he didn’t have for something that felt so insignificant (his anniversary) against the backdrop of something so large (Ber’s patronage.)

So...in the end, when Ber had texted him and told him he had it covered, he was grateful. As grateful as a shameful husband could be. He got flowers anyway, stopping by the Grove on the way home. It was a bland gesture, but Simba didn’t want to show up empty handed. And he did care, he cared so much that it almost paralyzed him. Not wanting Ber to be disappointed.

He didn’t know what he was expecting when he walked into the room but...nothing was not it. Simba hesitated just inside the doorframe, roses in hand, unsure what was going on.

“Okay…” he said, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind him.

As soon as the door clicked into place, the room started to change. Simba felt like he was standing in a storybook as the pages fluttered and turned. He spun slowly in a circle, looking up, looking around, jumping slightly when his leg brushed against the savannah grass. He blinked several times, mouth hanging slightly open.

When he stopped, he was looking at the house in the distance. So close, but so far. He felt a burning in his heart, deep and true. Tears filled his eyes and he reached out, his hand brushing along the tall grass before he looked over at Ber. “Yeah, I--how?” he asked, his voice soft as he crossed the room toward his husband.

“Nevermind, I don’t really wanna know how. It’s perfect.” He ducked his head and kissed him softly.

BERLIOZ: Years ago, Ber might be sort of nervous about doin’ something like this. He wasn’t a grand gesture kind of person. They made him nervous, all those grand gestures just like delivering a presentation for school, only the topic was his feelings and his audience of one meant way more to him than a classroom full of bored students, so really it was way worse even if it shouldn’t be. But Berlioz had come a long way since that 18-year-old in his first real relationship. Everything he knew about relationships he’d learned from Simba in front of him, and that had to do with grand gestures too.

He didn’t think there was any way for Simba to hate this. Small fluttering nerves did whisper in the back of his brain, stuff about maybe makin’ Simba homesick, but homesickness wasn’t really a bad thing, was it? Homesickness could be a kindness-- bringing your home closer to you, comforting you in its nostalgia. At least that’s how Ber felt, but then again… if he was ever homesick, he was homesick for Simba.

And Simba was standing right in front of him.

And so he pressed his lips together, trying not to get too excited, especially when he could tell it was really working. Brilliant, he thought to himself, and his grin escaped anyway. It wasn’t just for Simba’s amazed face, the way he caressed the beautiful long grass. He was thinkin’ about Vanessa and Ly too and how it had really, seriously, worked.

He was itching to answer Simba’s question, spill his other grand plan right then and there actually, like he couldn’t wait for the reveal just a few weeks away. Actually, this is just a preview...get ready for what I’ve been working on…

Thankfully, Simba kissed him, saving him from himself.

Berlioz chuckled, pleased, against Simba’s lips, kissing him back for two seconds before he pulled away. “I just thought-- why not travel at home, y’know? It’s pretty realistic, right?” His grin got even more gleeful as he glanced around. “It’s uh-- it’s sorta built on my memory of it at least, so anything that’s wrong, that’s on me. But we can stargaze now.” He pointed up at their ceiling, which was now the sky, brighter and bigger than swynlake, no tall trees obscuring it.

He squeezed Simba’s hand. “Oh! And there’s food too! Real food, I uh, put it in the bathroom, which-- wait okay, I can find it.” Ber snorted as he spun around, getting temporarily confused cuz of the strength of the illusion. He groped back and waved a hand around. “Shit, should’ve set this up before.”

SIMBA: It was a brilliant idea. Simba almost couldn’t believe it as the kiss broke and his eyes opened—and they were still in Kenya. Well, it looked like they were in Kenya. And it really looked like it too. Smelled like it. Felt like it, the air dry and cool on his skin. There was a breeze which tickled at the back of his neck as it rustled the grass around them. In the near distance, Lake Nakuru glimmered in the moonlight. If he listened closely, he could hear the lapping of water at its shore.

Magic was amazing. This was the reason he loved Swynlake. Living any where else, you couldn’t find a sorcerer to do this kind of magic. Not unless you were willing to pay a steep, steep price—and travel, usually.

Gosh, what he wouldn’t give for their bedroom to always look like this. A place to escape from all of the bullshit. An oasis.

Except, as Ber mentioned food and the bathroom, Simba glanced around. Their bed wasn’t anywhere in sight either. How did this work? It had to...still exist, right? It had only been a few steps to his right...

Simba chuckled as he watched Berlioz waved his hands about like he had been blindfolded or was pantomiming. “I think it was on your right, babe,” Simba told him, nodding in the direction he was...pretty sure the bathroom was. He took a few steps in that general direction too, his foot catching on something in the grass. There was a flash, as if a curtain had been disturbed.

“Ah, fuck,” Simba snorted, stopping for a second as the shock of slamming his foot into something wore off. “Found the coffee table.”

Which, at least, meant they were headed in the right direction.

Simba took a few more steps, his hands out in front of him and—there. He pressed his palm against the wall. It was weird, because it looked as if he was just touching the open air, but there was definitely something solid beneath his hand.

He laughed again. “This is weird. Is this what animals in zoos feel like?”

BERLIOZ: “Oh right, er-- course,” said Berlioz as Simba corrected him and he started shuffling in that direction, laughing a little. He laughed even harder as soon as Simba caught something, though as the illusion rippled, Berlioz’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, thinking maybe it would just collapse then and there, ruined by a careless kick of a foot.

But it stayed strong. The ripple settled and it was like he’d imagined the ripple instead of the swaying grass, the sweet-smelling air. If he stayed here too long, he could probably convince himself that the two of them really had gone to Kenya for their anniversary. He wondered about the side effects of somethin’ like this then, though not in a paranoid way. Just in a curious way. He’d have to ask Lymantria more.

After all, this was technically a test run for the Groove Room. And yeah, he was glad he’d done it like this. Note to self, Berlioz thought, make sure the room is practically empty before releasing the illusion in a bottle.

But maybe he’d bring this up to Ly and Vanessa and ask if there was a way to mark some objects as existing outside the illusion. They’d need to find the door to exit, for example. And if they had drinks and shit, they couldn’t have the drinks disappear.

He made notes of all this as he fumbled for the knob. His hand hit it. “Got it! Stay here,” Berlioz commanded his husband, shooting him a glance. One thing he remembered from Ly’s instruction was that the illusion was tied to the room. It wouldn’t spill into the bathroom, so he wanted to uh...keep Simba in his present for as long as he could.

He cracked the door, slipping away from the magic for just a second. There was the tray of stuff he’d prepared. It was all kinda typical stuff, which Berlioz had felt a little guilty about, but he wasn’t a chef and didn’t wanna risk anything getting cold. He tossed the blanket over his shoulder, then picked up the tray and used his foot to once again push the door to the bathroom open.

The illusion embraced him as if he never left it. He breathed out and grinned at Simba. “Here, grab the blanket?”

Simba did so, laying it out across the grass. Berlioz set down the tray, which had several bowls of fruit and crackers, nothin’ too fancy. “Er, we’ll probably still need to eat dinner after this,” said Ber with a tiny snort at himself, ears red as he finally settled down.

SIMBA: There was a flash of their house proper as Ber opened the door. Simba glanced away. He wanted to believe this fantasy. Wanted to get lost in it. Just standing in the open expanse, the geography stretching out around him in an endless line to the horizon, made him feel so small. Perhaps this would be a disconcerting feeling for some people, but not for Simba. It made him feel warm. Being so small meant that he could not carry any weight. It meant that there were things bigger than him. The stars reminded him of this.

They stretched out in every direction, twinkling and large. More than could possibly ever be counted, no matter how long you stayed under them...

Simba tried anyway. 1, 2, 3...the more he counted, the further his worries dropped away.

When the door opened, Simba turned his head, smiling softly at his husband. He gently removed the blanket from his shoulder and laid it out among the grass. Down on their bedroom floor, he thought, right in front of the bed.

He sat down afterwards, one of his hands brushing over the grass and then down into the dirt, digging his hand in and feeling the cool earth. He lifted it and let the grains run out between his fingers before brushing it on his trousers and looking over at Ber.

“It’s perfect. I’m not that hungry anyway,” he said, rather nonchalantly. Thinking only of reassuring Ber, not of what such a comment might expose.

It was perfect anyway. Simba felt lucky to have it. And to have Ber all to himself. Ashlee was at Ashleigh Q’s house for the night, so it was just the two of them. It felt warm and intimate, like a bath. Which would also be nice. Maybe later. Right now, Simba just scooted around a bit so that his side was pressed up against Ber’s. He kissed the side of his head before reaching forward and grabbing a grape to pop in his mouth.

“How long is this gonna last?” he asked, looking up at the stars again as he chewed.

BERLIOZ: Berlioz liked feelin’ small too.

It was easy for him to find that specific kind of comfort. Usually it was the opposite of something like this though-- this open field and expansive sky. He was small here, but not the same kinda small that came from burrowing like a mole under his cover or shutting himself up in his studio space. He played hide and seek from the world like that, finding the corners where he could become practically invisible or forgotten. Though Simba knew where each one of those corners were--

The only exception, for now, was the Groove Room. He’d taken to goin’ there a couple of times too, when he was really fucking stuck in his own head and couldn’t unblock himself no matter where he was. He wandered from the recording booths at the uni then all the way down to that cold basement space. Sometimes he’d just sit on a couple of cardboard boxes and smoke. Other times he’d put his earbuds in and let music fill him up. He’d look around and imagine what it was gonna be like, or let his mind wander off to other topics that had little to do with the Groove Room or uni at all.

But the best place to feel both small and big at the same time was right by Simba’s side in the middle of wherever. They could be in a foreign country, two strangers dropped like rain in an ocean. Or they could be here in Swynlake, sittin’ out by the lake and watching people pass by on the trails. As long as he had Simba next to him, he was protected from any stares. But he was also important-- the center of Simba’s attention--

Well, most of the time.

Tonight, at least, he didn’t think there was any danger of distraction. They might not be thousands of kilometers away from their lives, but the four walls and a little bit of magic was enough.

“Can last up to twelve hours,” Berlioz answered. Some of these illusions could be longer, but that depended on the type of illusion. Some were easier than others, apparently, and something like this-- the scents and the feel of the wind and even taste, apparently (not that Ber was gonna be sticking dirt into his mouth) was one of the more complicated ones. “Though when we get homesick, I can just open up the bottle again and it’ll just go right back in. Cool, innit?”

He grinned, then bit into a strawberry, feeling pretty proud of himself. “It’s almost better than real travel. Kinda like...transportation or something. We can go anywhere but then sleep in our own bed in the end.” He rubbed Simba’s thigh. “Nice to get away, but nice to come back home, yeah?” Another pause. “Though I-- I’m sorry we couldn’t...y’know. Go somewhere. I know that was sort of my fault…”

SIMBA: Simba didn’t know if he’d ever get homesick when in Kenya. He never spent enough time there. Even the summers of his youth had not been enough. Sometimes, he thought about moving there permanently. He didn’t think that would ever be feasible, especially not as a married queer man, but if he could pick any place in the world that wasn’t Swynlake, it would be Kenya in that cabin out by Lake Nakuru.

And unlike Ber, Simba didn’t really think this could replace the real thing. For instance, just looking up, he knew that Ber had forgotten some of the constellations. The power of seeing the galaxy couldn’t exactly be replicated. It was a damn good illusion, but Simba was aware that it was just that: an illusion. There wasn’t the tiredness in his bones from travel. There wasn’t the laughter of his family.

The only thing that was easily replicated was that feeling of peace, which really had little to do with Kenya and everything to do with Berlioz. Being near him was all he really needed. He meant that.

Which meant that when Ber apologized, Simba turned to him with a little frown. His hand found Ber’s own on his thigh. He covered it, then squeezed it once. Lifting those fingers to his mouth, he kissed the calloused pads, all the while looking at Ber softly.

“It’s not your fault,” Simba told him, folding their hands together and putting them in his lap. “You can’t control what your father decides to do. You don’t have anything to apologize for. Just being here with you is really all I need. That’s what today is about, isn’t it? Being together? I didn’t need to marry you in front of all those people and I don’t need to travel a thousand, two thousand, three thousand miles to celebrate something that I hold in my heart, hm?”

As he said the words, he really believed them. It was just like their wedding, where they had both laughed—unsure how to make it anymore more special than it already was. Simba, of course, loved a good public display of affection, but it wasn’t necessary. What was necessary was Simba knowing that Ber loved him so much that he would pluck the stars from Kenya and bring them to their living room. And that Simba loved Ber so much that nothing else mattered to him: the travel, the big wedding, living in Kenya. He’d give it all up just to be with Ber and never regret it. Just like he didn’t regret leaving InterPride.

“Besides, I don’t mind not traveling anyway,” Simba said with a little shrug. “I’m tired. Traveling would probably just make me grumpy.” He chuckled, raising his eyebrows at Ber.

BERLIOZ: For a couple seconds there, Berlioz’s old, familiar self-consciousness surged forward. He felt it, knew it was bullshit, and so it stayed an arms length away but...he still heard all the thoughts. He still heard the guilt in his own voice as he voiced his apology out loud. He knew he wasn’t to blame for a ruined anniversary (it wasn’t even really ruined anyway), but those tangled up worries wanted him to think he was. Or wanted to make space for the possibility, just in case Simba didn’t like this illusion after all or if it backfired, made him just miss the real thing more.

Those thoughts hissed, why are you trying so hard, Berlioz? He can hear it, y’know-- that you know you failed.

But he knew better than to listen or to believe that. He hadn’t failed. He thought this was cool and… well, where would they even go? They’d talked about Japan a couple of times over the months. They hadn’t gone to a lot of places in Asia, and so that could be neat, either Tokyo, or maybe Sukhumvit, or Singapore. We should just go to the airport in Singapore and not leave, Ber joked, but that was a real thing that people did. It was a whole theme park of stuff.

None of these ideas materialized in the same way that previous travels had though. Maybe in part because they had those conversations in bits and pieces here and there between their schedules. Like always, life had gotten busy and hard and swept them up in its unstoppable current.

At least when held in an illusion’s bubble, that current couldn’t touch ‘em at all.

So...even though he had a feeling that Simba was only half-joking-- cuz he knew his husband, and travel was often the release from stress, not the cause of it-- he believed that this world, made for just himself and Simba alone, was good enough. It could be their oasis in the middle of Swynlake. They both needed it. They deserved it.

His smile was fond and small and thoughtful as he squeezed Simba’s hand back. He almost lifted his other hand, thought about pressing his thumb between his husband’s brows like he could stamp out the fatigue lines there, make a joke about how old Simba was getting. But he knew better than to do something like that too.

Instead, he said: “You can be grumpy here too if you want, y’know. I know things are-- well. Bad.” He raised his eyebrows, said it like a joke, but it wasn’t a joke-- it was an invitation. If Simba couldn’t leave his problems behind, maybe he could talk about them.

SIMBA: “That’s the understatement of the century,” Simba scoffed.

He almost would’ve preferred for Berlioz to joke about his age. He was really feeling it these days, after all. His knee had mostly healed up again, but now it was even worse than it had been before. Some days, climbing up the stairs hurt. And some days, his runs had it so inflamed that he had to wrap it in ice for a few minutes or sit with the hot water bottle underneath the blankets at night.

Thinking about how, well, bad things were was not something that Simba liked to do. In fact, he avoided it at all costs. Simba hated being the person who thought negatively, who looked at life and only saw the struggle in it. He had been raised to know how blessed he was. To look on the bright side of things and always strive for the light. It did not feel natural for him to think that things were bad. Even though they were.

There was no escaping that fact. Ber’s name splashed across French tabloids so that, right now, if you Googled him, that was all you could find. And what was worse: Ber’s father destroying his relationship with Ber over it. There was a world, somewhere out there, where Hector realized how stupid it was to do this. Where instead, he had hugged his son and told him that nothing else mattered but the fact that he loved him, and that Berlioz belonged. That was not this world.

There was no escaping the knights either. Even if Simba had not risen to the call, he would still be plagued with memories—they infected not only his dreams but his waking moments. No matter how much he tried not to think about it and how his family legacy was falling apart before his very eyes and, considering he was the last Lyons—

It felt like it was all his fault, somehow. Like if it wasn’t just him...like if his father was just here, he would know what to do to save their family from inevitable disgrace. As it stood, Simba just felt as if he was barreling towards it.

And that didn’t even touch on Ashlee, who Simba knew wasn’t adjusting as well as she could be, but he didn’t know how to help her. She wasn’t Kiara, who Simba had always loved and known. He didn’t want to fail her, but, well, that was what it felt like.

Simba hated thinking about these things. He did everything he could not to.

Including drink. Simba was well aware that it was starting to get out of control again. He was hiding drinks from Ber around the house, going to places he didn’t usually frequent so that he could drink away from any judgement. He never got so drunk as to let anyone catch on, but certainly drunk enough to numb the sharp edges of all those bad things.

The problem was...Simba didn’t want to give it up. He knew it was bad, but so was all the rest. Without the cushion of alcohol to break his fall, he felt like he was going to shatter completely.

“I don’t wanna be grumpy, though,” Simba told Ber with a little smile. “We’re supposed to forget about all that bad stuff, hm?” He leaned in to kiss Ber lightly. “Sometimes I feel like that’s all we talk about. The bad things.” Which might come as a surprise to Berlioz, considering both of them definitely preferred the “ignore it until you couldn’t” strategy when it came to bad stuff. He kissed Ber again.

“It’s our anniversary.”

BERLIOZ: See, Berlioz didn’t think they talked about the bad things that much-- he tried not to, actually. Usually it was Simba who was gently trying to pry Berlioz’s tight lips open. When the headlines hit it was Simba who’d been there first, who had taken Ber into his arms and asked what he needed, if he needed to talk. And it was Ber who refused. Well. That made it sound harsh. He just hadn’t known what to say, and like always, found his comfort in another way.

So he understood wanting to put the bad stuff outside of the room. Leave it on the other side and sit here where they could feign happiness, just like the illusion helped them feign travel and vacation and luxury (but not home-- they didn’t have to feign home, cuz home was wherever they were together).

But he also worried.

He knew Simba was drinking. He didn’t know the extent. To him, it wasn’t getting outta hand-- Simba wasn’t passing out anywhere. He hadn’t found him on the kitchen floor in a sea of glass and wine. And he knew that being completely sober for Simba was never a good goal for his recovery anyway, y’know, like they would have glasses of wine together sometimes, and they got drunk on holidays-- warm and giddy on eggnog at Christmas, wild and mischievous on tequila shots and whiskey during New Year’s. For a long time, this seemed to work. Simba didn’t seek out alcohol as a coping mechanism. It was just special, just every now and then.

Now though…the rumours…

Ber didn’t know when he should worry. But that was a silly thing to wonder wasn’t it, because he already was worried, and so he wanted Simba to say something before it was too late.

They had Ashlee to think about, after all.

But yeah, maybe now… maybe now wasn’t the time. Still, Ber found himself relaxed, unwound. The illusion was working for him. He often talked more on vacation cuz it kinda felt like his reality didn’t exist. Like it didn’t matter what he said when he was a thousand kilos away…

So maybe Ber would go first, and maybe Simba could follow. ‘Sides, his thing...it wasn’t bad stuff. Maybe not.

“Yeah,” he uttered. “Yeah, you’re right. I did wanna talk about...I mean, this isn’t bad stuff,” Ber interrupted himself quickly. “It’s just a thought I’ve been having since the article dropped. I mean, it’s out there now. All of it for everyone. Which means...I mean--I dunno if… if my uh, birth...father knows anything about it but maybe he does now and… I dunno.”

He faltered. He thought it was gonna be easier to say all this but he felt stupid like always. He’d been feelin’ stupid in his own head all week and now was feelin’ stupid saying it out loud.

He decided not to say it, but to ask. “Should I find him, you think?”

SIMBA: Simba was still feeling a bit prickly and defensive. He knew Ber was trying to get him to talk. That Ber probably knew more than he was letting on. That he probably wanted Simba to say it. To confess, the way he had before. Simba didn’t want to do that, though. He needed alcohol. That was the thing that Ber didn’t understand: if Ber wanted a husband who made him laugh and dressed in ridiculous clothes to embarrass him, then Simba needed alcohol.

At least, right now. Give Simba a month, or two—until things had settled. Until the betrayal of his family had settled, until the betrayal of Ber’s family had settled, until things felt manageable. again. Then, he’d stop. Simba really believed that.

So, he didn’t want to fight about it, but he would. If Ber continued his gentle probing. He didn’t like the way it felt. Simba wanted to relax. To pretend like nothing at all was the matter tonight. It was their anniversary, like he said. Shouldn’t that mean something? The word like a magical spell that enclosed them in a bubble of gentleness.

Apparently not. Berlioz was in one of his rare contemplative moods, where he wanted to talk about something that had been scratching like a record needle in his mind. Simba couldn’t be mad at that, though, as long as it was about Berlioz. In fact, it made some of that prickling feeling dissipate as he looked over at Ber as he talked. His gaze softened and he lifted a hand to stroke at the back of Ber’s neck, resting gently on his shoulder.

Simba’s brow furrowed somewhat at Ber’s question. It didn’t surprise him, if only because if Simba was in Ber’s position, he would want to know. (There was a part of Simba that wanted to know, just because this was his husband’s father. Some piece of him that Simba didn’t know.) But he also didn’t want to influence Ber’s decision. This was one of those things that, ultimately, Ber would have to decide for himself. Simba hesitated to say this, though, feeling, perhaps, instinctually that that wasn’t the right answer. This was, however, a rare instance where Simba...didn’t think there was a wrong choice, necessarily. He just wanted his husband to be happy. His heart burned with the thought as he smiled softly at Ber.

“If you want to,” Simba told him. He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I would want to. If it were me, but, ah, well—my family—” is a bunch of murderers apparently, so maybe you don’t want to know. Simba caught himself before he let too much antagonism for his own family bleed into his voice. “My family is important to me, so I would want to know because of that. If you are curious, that’s—I dunno, maybe a sign? Like...if you didn’t feel any urge, you wouldn’t have asked, hm?” He leaned in and kissed Ber’s temple gently.

“Whatever you wanna do, I’ll be right there with you.”

BERLIOZ: If you want to.

He knew Simba was gonna say that first thing. It was going to be annoying-- actually, that was the most annoying part of this whole bullshit mess his parents had put on him. He’d gotten used to the idea of being not a ‘real’ Bonfamille. Honest, he’d always felt that way anyway and maybe nature had nothing to do with it, or maybe it did. He hadn’t been really surprised once the shock settled. In a way, it was the final piece of his life clicking into place. So he accepted it, accepted the distance that would always exist between himself and his father, and accepted that for himself and Marie or himself and Lou, nothing really had to change.

But he hated that this thing that wasn’t his fault-- this thing he didn’t ask for-- that it was somehow still his responsibility.

For once, he just wanted someone to tell him exactly what to do. If someone had taken charge in talkin’ to Pere, maybe the tabloids never would have happened. And now, with his birth father… couldn’t someone just tell him if it was a bad or good idea? He’d talk to Lou, who would probably have the most opinions, but he knew his brother would be just as infuriating about it. Up to you, he’d say. God, Berlioz didn’t want it to be.

At least Simba said what he’d do. This was not the direct answer that he wanted from his husband, but it was probably the closest he was gonna get.

And it wasn’t a surprise either. Of course Simba would want to know. If all of this happened to Simba, he wouldn’t have wasted the same kind of time as Berlioz. He would have confronted Sarabi, probably wrestled the name outta the bastard sperm donor, tracked him down…

That was the part that Berlioz wasn’t so sure about. He could admit it to himself: he wanted to know who the bloke was. But...then what?

“I wanna know,” he confessed at least this much. “At first I didn’t really, but now...I dunno. I keep thinking about it.” He sighed a little, reached for a strawberry but didn’t eat it, just fiddled with the top of it like he was one of those kids tearing off flower petal (does he love me, does he not? Should he find his dad, should he not?)

“It’s just, again, with this whole-- I’m scared it will just happen again, y’know? I told Pere and he freaked out and caused this massive mess. The bloke could have a family. I could like..destroy his life.” He glanced up at Simba, his brow wrinkled. “I don’t wanna hurt anyone.”

SIMBA: Simba stroked at Ber’s neck where his hand was resting there as his husband talked. He was frowning a bit, considering what Ber was saying. It was funny, because it was something that Simba hadn’t thought about, wouldn’t have thought about, if he was the one in Ber’s position. For him, it wasn’t about this other man and his maybe family. It’d be about Simba and his family. Only now, as Ber mentioned it, though, did Simba realize how selfish and impulsive that was. That was Simba, though, wasn’t it? Selfish. Impulsive.

Berlioz wasn’t like that. He never had been. It was something that Simba greatly admired about his husband, always had. Of course, he saw the toll that it took on Ber. How he felt so small and afraid sometimes, that he just did nothing at all.

It was how they balanced each other. Simba pushing Ber, just a little bit. And Ber, holding Simba back. So that they were perfect sides of the same coin, the scales perfectly even.

Ber did have a point, after all. Simba hadn’t thought about the fact it had been 23 years for this man too. Whoever he was. He may not know about Ber. He may be married...he may’ve been married at the time. He could have other kids.

Blimey. He could have other kids. Ber could have more siblings! Simba could have more siblings!

Okay, that was not the point, Simba tried to tamp down on that idealistic mindset that had him reaching for a big, happy family at the end of all this. That wasn’t what Ber needed right now. He needed...reassurance. And maybe help with a plan. Those were things that Simba could do. It wasn’t like he’d ever done something like this before, but he’d seen it in the movies.

“I know you don’t, habibah,” Simba said softly, smiling at Ber. He leaned in and kissed his temple again, his fingers carding through his husband’s hair; gentle, hopefully comforting.

“Maybe you could, er, do one of those 23 and me’s and see if anything comes up. Or, uh—you could get his name from your mum and we could hire someone. Like a...private investigator. To see if he has a family or something. And if he had a family ‘round when you were born. ‘Cause, I mean, if he wasn’t married then or anything, I dunno why it’d ruin anyone’s life. If he was havin’ an affair, that might be a bit different but—” Simba shrugged a bit, leaning back on his hands, looking up at the twinkling Kenyan sky.

“—There is not point fretting about all that until we know more. I—know that’s not gonna stop you from doing it.” He looked over at Ber and smiled. “And that’s alright. You can worry with me, if you want. I—can’t imagine what that feels like but...I wanna be there for you.”

BERLIOZ: Maybe Simba didn’t consider the possible consequences, but Berlioz hadn’t considered other options.

To him, there was only...to tell or not to tell. To find his father, or not. To destroy another life, or just carry this mystery alone for as long as he could. He was more comfortable with the latter of all those options cuz it meant nothing would change (more) and no one would get hurt. Eventually, he had figured, he’d stop caring about it all. He didn’t know what future Bastille Days or birthdays or holidays would look like because of Pere, but maybe they’d get to the point where they’d ignore...everything. They’d pretend to be father and son. Berlioz could bury his own hurt and he could forget his curiosity and ten years from how, he’d even joke about the shitty early years of his twenties, when his name was splashed on the front of tabloids and he nearly blew up his family.

But Simba presented another option. And this was exactly why he needed Simba so much.

He looked up, meeting Simba’s eyes. He looked as surprised as he felt. The things Simba said weren’t actually that genius. They were obvious, things Berlioz should have thought of, but simply...didn’t.

And okay, it kind of felt a bit stalkerish and creepy, to hold all this information and make all the decisions for a stranger he never met. But Berlioz could deal with stalker and creepy much better than he could deal with bastard secret son who threw a grenade into someone else’s life.

Anyway, maybe his bio father would be a creep himself. Maybe he’d be in prison. Maybe he’d be one of those socialites with a drinking problem and a string of affairs and rumours and Berlioz would want nothing to do with him.

And someone who wouldn’t want anything to do with me, thought Berlioz, cuz that was the other piece of all this and what he was, perhaps, even more scared of than destroying a life. Wanting someone who wouldn’t want him.

Once he knew more, he could decide…

“Yeah, I...I think maybe-- we could really do that?” Berlioz asked, though he knew the answer was yes. They had plenty of money. “Like, a private investigator? Cuz yeah, that could...could help. Though I mean, not that they’ll be able to find anything about whether or not the bloke wants a bastard son from twenty-three years ago…” Berlioz snorted.

SIMBA: That last bit of Ber’s comment surprised Simba.

Wants.

Simba hadn’t really considered the fact that Ber might want a real relationship with this birth father. He had a father in Simba’s mind. Maybe not a perfect one, but no father was perfect. Simba’s own certainly wasn’t. But, Hector was Ber’s father just the same. The man who raised him. In Simba’s mind, that was all Ber needed. Apparently not, though. Simba couldn’t blame him, especially considering how Hector had reacted. Berlioz was probably worried about not having a father at all (even if Simba had a strange faith that Hector might get over himself, perhaps just because Simba had such a faith in family to begin with—despite everything in the world telling him otherwise.) It was a feeling that Simba could understand. He wanted a father too. Of course, it wasn’t the same, but there were similarities. Simba felt that aching wound inside himself too. He felt it now, especially. Talks of fathers would always make him feel this way.

It made him pause, to consider what he might say, when otherwise he may not.

He didn’t know how to comfort Ber and he hated that. Simba strived to always be positive. He strived to believe that there was value in every lesson and every struggle, and the people who came into your life or left it, did so with a reason. That there was a lesson to be learned from all things. It was not an easy mindset, especially when he looked at his husband, and saw how lost he was, his dark eyes full of the wandering stars above, and knew he could not promise him happiness or even contentment.

“No, it won’t,” Simba agreed after a moment. “Only he can decide that. And it will have nothing to do with you.” Simba squeezed Ber’s neck. “If he doesn’t want to know you, that’s his loss. You are a gift and, whoever he is, whatever he is, I thank him for you. Just like I thank Allah.”

BERLIOZ: Berlioz knew he was asking too much. Simba would disagree. He could hear his husband in his own head, arguing against these thoughts, like obviously this is my job, Berlioz, don’t be silly. Still, as the air impregnated with fresh silence, all of Berlioz’s questions echoing with no easy answers, he felt bad for bringing all this up when Simba said he’d wanted a happy anniversary. Not that Berlioz wasn’t happy. He really was, sitting here in a paradise of his own making, close to the one person in the world he could trust to never betray him. More than his parents (obviously) and even more than his own siblings.

Because at least Simba chose him.

Lately, with all this complicated family drama, Berlioz felt like he was the only one who did. And therefore the only one who ever would. Why would a stranger who lived without Berlioz for twenty-three years want the responsibility of… of knowing him? Caring about him? It was a big thing to ask of someone, y’know. To be a father.

He didn’t want to want that, but he couldn’t ignore the tiny voice in him, still small and scared, digging holes in the backyard, who did.

He couldn’t fool himself. If he met this bloke, he obviously wanted something from him and that would always feel some type of selfish. Berlioz wished he could simply meet him with no expectations, as a way to complete the puzzle of himself. That way, he could leave satisfied no matter the result.

But he would want more. If he decided to go through with it then, one thing was certain: Berlioz couldn’t do it alone. He’d need Simba to help him be brave.

He leaned in then, kissing Simba gently, his mouth lingering longer than the last few, short, fond kisses. He stroked the back of Simba’s neck as he leaned back out.

“Thanks,” said Ber. “I guess then I uh...wanna know more. And we’ll have to probably have this whole conversation again when we do. Sorry ‘bout that in advance.” His lip twitched in a barely-there smile. “But I couldn’t do any of this without you. Y’know that right?”

SIMBA: “I know,” Simba told Ber, his voice quiet. The kiss still lingered inside of him, a warm peach in his heart, but the longer the feeling sat there, the more sour it turned.

He was thinking about the weight of those words. I couldn’t do any of this without you. Simba would usually delight in those words, preen like a peacock. He liked to be helpful, especially to Berlioz. His husband’s anxiety was, perhaps, one of the only monsters that truly scared him and so often, he felt helpless when faced with its shadowed form. When Ber was able to say that Simba helped, in any small way, it made it easier to fight the next time the beast reared its head.

But, Simba was so tired. Simba was already holding so much. He felt like he was juggling fragile glass bottles (empty whiskey bottles probably, eh?) and Berlioz had just tossed him another one. Hold this too. And Simba was terrified he was going to drop something: Ashlee, Berlioz, his family, his legacy, the Board, the knights, the whole bloody town.

The guilt rotted the kiss right through him, until only the pit of it was left, hard and lodged in his throat. Simba wanted to say something else. He wanted to confess to everything—tell Ber how scared he was, how confused. Tell him how much he’d really been drinking. He wanted to hand it all to Berlioz, so that he had to hold the weight of it too. Simba knew that was what he was supposed to do.

He reached forward and plucked another strawberry from the bowl between them and then, he laid back, stretching out beneath the blanket of stars. For a few moments, he just watched them dance, thinking about the past and thinking about his family—and thinking that he really wished they had some champagne too.

Simba took a deep breath, held it, then let it out in a rumbling sigh. His hand moved over Ber’s thigh and he turned his head to look at him.

“I couldn’t do any of this without you either,” he murmured.

BERLIOZ: Berlioz wanted Simba to say exactly what he said. It was part of the reason he’d said it first-- like he could remind Simba that they were connected now and forever. He wasn’t really much for metaphor, couldn’t really explain it in pretty words, or with the language of Simba’s Allah, but he did believe they were fated. He believed that they had to hold each other to hold their home steady against all the different forces that tried to batter them down. They wouldn’t get knocked down as long as they leaned on each other.

Hadn’t they promised similar things in their vows?

And so Berlioz knew that Simba was struggling. He saw the bits and the pieces even if Simba was good at hiding it-- had always had a beautiful mask that could fool almost the whole town. Some days he fooled Berlioz too. Some days Berlioz only saw the smile and not the cracks that appeared when he put it on. But only some days.

Here was a crack now, finally, long overdue, but Berlioz liked to imagine it as Simba opening the door. It was a small, tiny thing. But Berlioz would take it and maybe inch it further open.

So Berlioz laid down on his side next to Simba and let his hand rest right there over Simba’s chest. For a few moments he kept it there. Tracked Simba’s breathing. Felt his heartbeat in the palm of his hand. It was steady and strong, even as Simba’s face was etched with worry lines, eyes staring up at all those fake stars like they could really hear the two of them.

“I’m here,” Berlioz murmured as yet another reminder. “Y’know, even though I’m uh...going through...things or whatever--” his ears reddened, saying it out loud like that. He always felt like such a fool, talking about his issues, even though he’d been doing it for the past five minutes. “You can go through stuff too. Things have been bad in town, I know.”

An understatement. Bad was the graffiti on the Moon Market, not compulsion spells and nightmare fog and distant relatives from a thousand years ago back for a vengeance.

SIMBA: Berlioz laid down next to him and Simba’s instinct was to turn his body toward his husband, roll into his arms. He would tuck his head beneath Ber’s chin and let him shield him from all the storms that he had to weather.

Of course, he didn’t do that. He didn’t feel as if he deserved it.

Simba wasn’t being a very good husband. A husband would tell his husband what was going on. A husband wouldn’t be so afraid of his husband’s gentle look.

Instead, Simba just kept staring at the stars as they twinkled. He wanted to get lost in them. His hand reached up to hold Ber’s hand, their wedding rings clinking together. Their hands lifted as Simba sighed heavily again. There was a long stretch of silence where Simba wrestled with himself, trying to find what to say—or how to say what he wanted to say. Nothing felt right. The urge to just pour everything out at once, to let it spill from him like some kind of poison was overwhelming. But, Simba was almost afraid that if he did that...it wasn’t going to make anything better.

“I know,” Simba said again, rubbing at Ber’s hand then squeezing it, bringing it up to his lips to kiss the back of.

“I just—don’t know what talking is going to do,” Simba finally admitted. He looked over at Ber, searching his eyes for a moment. “We both know what is going on.” It was a cop out, and he knew it, felt the guilt burn in his stomach but...he knew if he told Ber how much he was drinking, then he would have to stop. And he didn’t want to stop, because stopping meant confronting all the things he was trying to shut out.

“This isn’t supposed to—be about the bad things. It’s supposed to be about the good. About—you and me. And how grateful I am for you. For us. For this life that we have together.”

BERLIOZ: Berlioz couldn’t push.

He did want to. For a long time it felt like they were both waiting for each other’s dams to break, and so they held their breaths and opened their hands, so they could catch everything when it released. But the dams held. Or-- Simba’s did. Berlioz’s dam had cracks, and his sadness spat out in leaks here and there without warning, just enough to release pressure temporarily before the inevitable build. But maybe there could be no proper break for a situation like his own anyway, because Ber’s situation was never gonna change. (Well. Probably shouldn’t say never. Who knew what other secrets lingered in his family’s vault? Ber didn’t wanna ever know.)

Point was, Simba was patient with him. He didn’t push Berlioz. He took his silence and he took his tears and he patiently listened to Ber’s half-complete thoughts and worries and questions. They inched closer and closer to something resembling peace, but Simba never rushed him. Maybe finding his birth father, for example, would be a huge slide back. If it was, Simba would still be there.

Berlioz wanted to be the same consistent pillar for Simba. He didn’t want to rush him or demand too much. He also wanted to trust Simba that...that he really would tell Berlioz if it all got too bad…

But like always, Ber’s worry hissed in the back of his head. What if he doesn’t ever tell you? What if things get worse to the point they can’t get fixed?

That felt like a bad-husband thought. He should trust Simba, and he’d force himself too, no matter his doubts.

And so Ber nodded and leaned down to kiss Simba lightly again. “I know. We don’t have to,” Ber murmured, reassured, ignored his own gut. “S’not like things will change tomorrow. We can just stay here. For as long as you want.”

A beat. “Well, actually think the ah, whole-- illusion thing’s got a twelve-hour limit or somethin’. But we could still sleep under the stars if we want.” Ber tried for a smile.

SIMBA: Maybe Simba wanted the push. He was standing at the end of the cliff and he wanted the relief of the free fall, but he couldn’t get himself to jump. It was frustrating, because Simba was not the kind of person to hesitate. He leapt into action. It was just another thing that his alcoholism took from him. Along with his pride, dignity, and sense of security.

That was the worst part, you know?

It made him feel like shit—it turned him into a liar, someone untrustworthy, someone people couldn’t depend on—and he still couldn’t stop. No matter how bad he knew it was for him, no matter how much he hated keeping it from Ber—he couldn’t control it. Even now, his throat was dry and he wasn’t thinking about their anniversary, he was thinking about how there wasn’t champagne. How he wished there was champagne. How there was a bottle of whiskey stashed downstairs and maybe he could think of an excuse to go downstairs—

And how, above all else, he knew if he told Ber, there wouldn’t be any more alcohol. It wasn’t about the shame (though yes) or the pride (though yes) or Ber’s disappointment (though yes). Simba’s hesitance came from the fact that he didn’t want to stop. Even if he did.

Maybe he wanted a push, but he also didn’t.

Instead, he was just—stuck.

There were worse places than to be stuck under a blanket of stars with your husband. Here, if they stopped talking about all the depressing shit that was driving him to drink in the first place, maybe he could forget and enjoy himself. And maybe, he’d find himself craving something else besides a bottle of whiskey.

He turned on his side, sliding his hand over his husband’s waist, tugging him a little closer and leaning down to nibble on his ear, then his jaw. He could bury his head here in the sweet smell of Ber’s shampoo and aftershave and forget everything else. At least for a little while.

“Twelve hours with you and no one else sounds perfect.” he murmured. He lifted his head so he could smile at him, a soft, apologetic smile. “Thank you, mume.”

#swynberlioz #simber #vacation in a bottle #otp: cuddle if you'd like #otp: climbing over fences #otp: socked feet and all #otp: someday #otp: stupid beautiful boy #otp: i think you're lovely #otp: true love's kiss #otp: i wanna make plans with you #otp: let's go to vegas

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simba-bonfamille-lyons · 2 years

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The Prodigal Father /./ [Simber]

In which after Jenny shows up at Simba and Ber’s house, Ber’s birth father shows up...[takes place: right before Christmas]

[a continuation of The Prodigal Daughter...]

@ber-bonfamille-lyons

[tw -- none really]

BERLIOZ: In approximately five minutes, Berlioz was going to meet his father. Bio father. Steve.

That is, unless he escaped out the back door.

He’d thought about it all morning. Steve had landed in London several hours ago and immediately called Jenny, who had chatted with him a little before offering up the phone to Simba and Berlioz with an expectant look. In moments like that, her age was the loudest thing about her. In moments like that though, Ber felt just as young, just as clueless. Maybe it’s just cuz Marie had always strived to act older than her age– Little Miss Mature from the time she’d gotten her first pair of heels. But Jenny was rougher around the edges. She barked, but she barked cuz she was nervous. And that made Ber nervous too.

Thankfully, it was Simba who took the phone. He chatted with Steve. It was a short phone call, to the point. Berlioz hadn’t heard the other side but could fill in all the pieces. He gave Steve directions, their address, and mentioned what Jenny ate that morning. And just like that, it was over, and Steve was on his way.

Jenny sat on the couch with her bag already brought down. She was scrolling through Tiktok, looking unbothered if it wasn’t for the spastic bounce of her left knee.

Berlioz was not at all relaxed. He kept wandering from room to room, Bowie on his heel. He’d even unloaded the dishwater that morning without being asked, just to give his fucking hands something to do.

From the other room, Jenny’s phone buzzed. Berlioz startled like he’d been shot.

“Ohhh yeah, that’s him!” she announced. “He’s um, he just pulled in.”

Berlioz went to the window and peered out. After about ten or fifteen seconds, he saw Steve trudge toward the front door. He had a pepper grey beard. He had an unwashed mop of matching curly hair. He was pretty tall. Was he as tall as Berlioz?

And then he knocked.

Berlioz looked frantically at Simba just as Simone came tearing from the living room toward the door with loud, frantic barks. Precisely how he felt, Simone! Jenny got up with a heavy sigh and then headed toward the door. She spared him one glance on the way there, a brief moment of eye contact in which Berlioz saw his own dread reflected back.

Yeah, she was about to be in big trouble. And so was Berlioz.

“Dad!” she opened the door as Berlioz stood near the window, practically hugging the wall. “Whoa, these dogs!”

“Shit,” Ber hissed and finally sprang into action so he could catch one of their dogs by the collar, all the while not looking at Steve.

His dad. Who ignored him too, and instantly reached forward to hug his daughter. “Jesus christ, Jennifer!” he exclaimed. He glanced over Jenny’s shoulder and made eye contact with Simba. “I am so, so sorry about this.”

SIMBA: Simba was actually pretty nervous about this too. He couldn’t even feel it though. It was more of a thought than a feeling. His husband needed him to be calm and so he was. After all, he did know that no matter what: Ber would be okay. Simba had faith in that. Faith in Allah. And faith in Ber. It would all turn out. Even if he couldn’t predict it because he knew only one half of the equation.

Steve was illusive. His online personality, Jenny’s description of him colored with teenage bias, his stony silence, and even the short conversation Simba had had with him, all pointed in different directions and none were true. Simba was trying to withhold judgment, if only for Ber’s sake.

He stood now at the front windows, next to the Christmas tree they hadn’t taken down yet, arms crossed. He oscillated between watching Ber pace around and staring down the driveway, so he would be ready when Steve came.

When he did, Simba already had a hold of Simone, so it was just Bowie with his excited shuffling and Turtle with his puppy enthusiasm at the door. He came forward more slowly, only letting Simone go when he felt her go more slack against his grip on her collar. And only so he could reach out to shake Steve’s hand.

He forced on a smile. It didn’t look forced. It was as bright and sunny as ever, but he felt the muscles working to pull it up.

“It’s no problem,” Simba said. “She was a good guest. Our home is always open to family.” Maybe that wasn’t the appropriate thing to say, but Simba meant it. “I’m Simba. Nice to meet you.”

BERLIOZ: “Ugh, Dad, stop trying to strangle me,” said Jenny, her voice muffled considering her face smashed against Steve’s jacket. But she didn’t pull away either. In fact, for all her whinging about Steve beforehand, she looked relieved that he was here– and why wouldn’t she? He was her father, even if she was pissed at him.

Wonder what that was like.

Berlioz could feel himself staring, but he also couldn’t look away. Steve looked pretty shit– worse than his rather scruffy faculty picture online. He clearly hadn’t shaved in several days, and his hair was askew, with heavy bags under his eyes. Ber wanted to take a step back and give him room, not step forward and stick out a hand. It kinda felt like an ambush, even though it was his daughter who ambushed them.

“Yeah, nice to meet you too,” said Steve and he shook Simba’s hand, offered a kind of tired smile that spoke to the jetlag he was probably experiencing. And then his eyes for the first time turned toward Berlioz.

When their eyes met, it was like a static shock: sharp and sudden, making Ber wanna flinch away. But he bit his tongue inside his mouth, the physical pain keeping him in place, instead of darting away. And Steve didn’t flinch either. “And you must be Berlioz,” was what he said.

Ber swallowed. Then he reached forward with a hand. “Uh, yeah.”

Steve shook it. “I’m very sorry I didn’t reply to your email. I… I didn’t…” He pulled his hand away and it fell back onto Jenny’s shoulder, where it gripped firmly. His eyes darted to the floor. “Well, I didn’t really know what to say. I didn’t think it was real.”

“Uh…yeah,” said Berlioz. “That’s fair, I guess.”

“I only knew Adelaide for a few days,” he added meekly.

“Yeah,” said Berlioz, and then he sighed. “That sounds like her.”

“Hey, Dad, you hungry?” said Jenny. She looked at Simba. “Uh, could he come in?”

SIMBA: Simba raised a scolding eyebrow at Jenny for just inviting her father in. This conversation and meeting was way more complicated than Jenny and Ber’s had been. Firstly, because Jenny was a kid and they had a responsibility to help her out. Also, just because finding out you have a long lost sibling was a lot different than finding out you have a long lost child, Simba imagined.

He had sorta thought about it before, to be honest. After all, he’d been a young and stupid kid. Had plenty of sexual partners who were capable of becoming pregnant and having a baby. Plenty of near-strangers and drunk one nightstands—where he wouldn’t even know. It had only ever been a half-thought, but he assumed any man with a heart thought about it from time to time.

And the emotions with that must be a lot to handle. Having missed 24 years of your child’s life was probably not an easy thing to grapple with. If you were a good man.

Simba didn’t yet know if Steve Marsh was a good man.

He didn’t say anything, though. It wasn’t his place to let him into their lives. Instead, he reached out to put a hand on Ber’s back gently, looking at him to make the decision.

BERLIOZ: Well, Berlioz didn’t have much of a choice here, did he?

There was the illusion of choice. He could say nah, and then send his bio dad and half-sister packing. She had her bag already anyway. This could be as easy as a bathroom break for the Marshes. They stop in for less than five minutes and then they were on the road again, off to the train station, or the airport, or whatever– and then back to their lives across the Atlantic. No one had to get to know anyone and Berlioz didn’t have to think about the fact that he probably had to tell Lou and Marie all about this.

But Jenny had something that Berlioz didn’t and that was balls. Unfortunately, Berlioz already liked her. She was a bit too pushy yeah, but she was funny and for the most part, she’d left him alone the night before. Just eaten with them, spent a bit of time, and then excused herself before she could overstay her welcome in Berlioz’s living room and exhaust all his social energy.

He didn’t know what Steve was feeling, but he knew a little more about Jenny now. She’d called him ‘not so bad.’ They had stuff in common– music, that is. She was supposed to go to Julliard. She liked Taylor Swift, but also Lucy Dacus, which meant she had taste.

Maybe he didn’t mind if he kept sending her Christmas cards. That seemed like a relationship Berlioz could manage: a Christmas card, Facebook-message-on-her birthday, type of thing.

He’d not have it if he turned her dad– their dad– away.

“Oh uh, yeah, sure. You’re probably tired.”

“Exhausted, but that’s a symptom of being this one’s father,” said Steve. He squeezed Jenny by the shoulder as he shuffled in. At his point, Ber had noticed that Steve wasn’t one for much prolonged eye contact in his direction. “We won’t stay long, I promise.”

“It’s fine,” said Ber in a low tone. He shuffled toward the living room again, but didn’t go to sit down. He figured he was uh…on host duty, right?

“Uh, Simba and I will make tea,” he added and then grasped at Simba’s arm. He tugged him toward the kitchen at once.

This time, happy to report, Berlioz was not on the verge of a panic attack. But he looked up at Simba nervously, shifting his weight from foot to foot. No amount of time had prepared him for something quite like this. Perhaps there was no preparing at all. “What should I say to him?” he whispered. “This is so bloody awkward.”

SIMBA: Simba was trying to think of what to feed Berlioz’s birth father. It was a weird sticking point, but as soon as Ber invited him in and Simba realized that this was going to happen, he wanted to cook something. Nothing too fancy, he didn’t want to go all out, but food always helped these sorts of things. They made one warmer and full and happy. Food could cure many ills, even a broken heart, his Mama had always told him and Simba believed it. Food brought people together. It was what people craved when they wanted to be close to others.

So what could he whip up for everyone quick and easy?

As soon as they were in the kitchen and Simba had assessed Ber and it looked like wasn’t about to pass out or start panicking, he moved around him, squeezing his arm and kissing the side of his head.

“Whatever you want, maybe talk about--what you’d like out of your relationship?” He ducked his head into the cupboards then, banging around a few pots and pans before pulling out the skillet.

Yeah, he was gonna make some pancakes. They’d already had a light breakfast. Ber hadn’t eaten much, Simba and Jenny had just had some cereal.

“You could start by askin’ him what he wants in his pancakes, eh?” Simba held up the skillet and grinned at his husband.

BERLIOZ: “What I want in a– I can’t just ask somethin’ like that! It’s weird,” hissed Ber.

It probably wasn’t actually that weird.

This was one of those moments where the discrepancy between his childhood and Simba’s childhood was as wide as the yawning Grand Canyon. Simba had grown up in a home where conversation was encouraged and feelings were felt, and expressed, and celebrated. But that wasn’t the Bonfamilles. In the Bonfamille manor, you reported how your day went like reciting a progress report. And everything was always alright, or fine, or good– grades stayed high and children stayed busy.

You definitely didn’t talk about what you wanted out of a relationship. What was this, therapy? Besides, Berlioz wasn’t even sure if he knew what he himself wanted from Steve. Jenny was much easier, but that depended a lot on what Steve– and her mum– wanted for her anyway.

He shouldn’t get too attached.

Ber sighed, hanging his head for a second. “I’ll do the pancakes thing. It’s not weird. Hold on.”

Pushing off the counter, he crossed back into the living room, where Steve was on his phone, head bent, texting someone with frantic fingers.

“He’s texting my mom,” Jenny filled Ber in when she saw him. “He sent her a pic of me so she knows he’s not lying about me being alive.”

“Uh, right. So uh…my husband’s making pancakes.”

“Yum!” Jenny grinned.

“Yeah um… did you… we have fruit and chocolate and everything for it, if you wanted to add...”

“Chocolate, definitely!” Jenny said. “Hey Dad?”

“Eh? Oh uh– no, it’s fine. I’m fine. You don’t have to do anything special.”

“It’s not that– Simba likes cooking, he just does things like this,” said Berlioz. “So uh, it’s no issue…”

“Just– plain is fine.”

“My dad wants chocolate chips too,” said Jenny. She rolled her eyes and looked at Steve, lowering her voice but not enough so Berlioz still heard it. “Stop being weird.”

Yup. If there was one thing he definitely had in common with Steve, it was weirdness. But who wouldn’t be weird right now? He tried to imagine Hector in Steve’s situation. He put Marie where Jenny was. Hector, finding out about some bastard son. Hector, turning up to collect his incorrigible daughter. Would he stay for pancakes?

No. He’d offer to buy the pancakes, probably at the nicest place in town.

“Two… chocolate chip pancakes. Got it. Coming right up,” said Ber and then for some reason he did finger guns before twisting on his heel boot.

Annnd back to the kitchen. “They want chocolate chips– seriously, Simba, this is weird. He’s barely looking at me. I think I’m giving him anxiety actually.”

SIMBA: “You probably are,” Simba said without turning around from the mixing bowl. He was concentrating on getting the consistency just right so he could serve his husband’s birth father the fluffiest pancakes he’d ever had in his life. Didn’t know why that was what he was hyperfixating on, but he was glad for it. It made this all feel very casual. Simba knew he needed to treat it casual, because even if it wasn’t—treating it like it was a big deal was the best way to unnerve Berlioz even more.

Once he’d mixed the bowl to his liking he turned around and gave Ber a smaller, sympathetic smile before reaching out and grabbing his shoulder. Simba tugged Ber into his arms and gave him a tight squeeze. He didn’t know why, really. Ber wasn’t freaking out. Simba was proud of him actually, for how he was handling all this. That wasn’t why he was hugging him either. It just felt like something he needed to do. Something he wanted to do.

After a moment, he let go of his husband, kissing his cheek.

“It’s gonna be a little weird. He maybe wasn’t ready for this,” Simba said in a low voice. “It’s a lot to take in, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want some sort of relationship or to get to know you. I am sure there are just as many feelings about finding out you have an adult son whose 24 years of life so far you missed out on as there are finding out the man you thought was your biological father, isn’t. Just—give it a little time. It’s only been five minutes.”

And then, he said, like he hadn’t just given a very emotionally charged lecture: “Did you ask if they wanted anything to drink? I still think we have some orange juice. And your cranberry juice, if you’re feeling generous.”

BERLIOZ: Quite honestly, Berlioz wasn’t sure why he wasn’t freaking out more. He’d had panic attacks for much less. One could take this as a sign that his CBT really was working, or maybe he’d just finally cured his anxiety!... but obviously that wasn’t the case. So how was he standing upright? How was he even able to talk to his bio dad at all? He’d never been one to stay calm in crisis, after all. Usually he only got more lost in his own head, and more pessimistic too.

The only answer was that… he didn’t know the guy.

Yeah. That was it. Maybe he’d expected something different. He’d look into Steve’s eyes and some instinct in his DNA would trigger. He’d always felt like a stranger to Hector, and Hector a stranger to him, so Steve could be the second chance, and he’d finally feel the way a son was supposed to feel.

Now Berlioz realized he’d been wrong all along. With Hector, he felt the way a son should feel, alright– he felt the disappointment, the emptiness where the love should go. He’d always wanted something from Hector, or felt bad about not delivering what he needed to deliver. But with Steve, it was just– nothing. It was awkwardness, the way he felt with any stranger he was meeting for the first time.

And y’know? That was all very relieving. He’d even call it a blessing, in his usual pessimistic way. He’d much rather start with nothing. No expectations. No way to disappoint at all. Who knows if Steve felt the same? But if he got up at the end of all this and told Ber he never wanted to talk again, then Ber would think that was pretty fair, all in all. He’d only be upset about Jenny– which, yeah, again, that was… weird. He had a sister, so he wasn’t sure why he wanted another obnoxious eighteen-year-old around anyway.

Ber grimaced as Simba brought up drinks though, since the last thing he wanted to do was venture back out there for another awkward thirty-second encounter. He’d rather stick here, to his island– literally and also metaphorically, Simba the anchor. “I’ll just put a bunch of options on the table,” he said in a low tone, a bit petulant, like how he’d talk back to his mum. “Here, I’ll– put some coffee on, just in case.”

Ber fled to the corner of the kitchen to do that. Then switched on the kettle too, for good measure.

Then back to Simba, though this time to put his head on Simba’s shoulder, and squeeze him from behind. “Thank you for cooking, by the way,” he murmured. “And being here.”

SIMBA: Simba just raised an eyebrow at Ber’s tone. Maybe if they were entertaining different guests, like Simba’s mum or Ber’s siblings or even just one of Simba’s friends Ber didn’t know particularly, he would get annoyed with Ber and tell him he was being a brat and to just ask them what they wanted. But, he wasn’t gonna push Ber any which way right now. He needed to handle this on his own. Simba was here to provide love and support.

He just poured the first few pancakes onto the pan, smiling when he felt Ber behind him just before his arms appeared around his middle. His hand rubbed at Ber’s and he smiled. “Of course, mume. I’ll always be here.”

That he could promise him. It was what marriage was after all. Always being there. Tied together by fate and Allah and the law, but most importantly your love for one another.

Simba sprinkled a few chocolate chips on some of the pancakes, blueberries on another, and blueberries and chocolate chips onto the one for himself and then flipped them.

“Why don’t you get the drinks together? By the time you finish up, we’ll be ready to present them.” He turned slightly, looking for a kiss. Once he received one, he smiled again. “Don’t worry. No one can be upset eating pancakes.”

BERLIOZ: No one can be upset eating pancakes.

Hmm, a bit positive there, Simba, don’t you think?

But that was his husband’s role, and precisely what Berlioz needed, even if he wrinkled his nose and sighed as if the task given to him was the world’s heaviest one, instead of just putting some juice and milk on the table. But he had to get it out here, yeah? Sigh and groan and squirm so he wouldn’t do that kinda thing in front of Jenny– in front of Steve. If there was one thing Ber wanted, it was to make this all go smooth, as opposed to meals he’d had with fathers in the past.

And what a low bar that was, hm? All Steve had to do was not lose his shit and storm out.

He peeled away from Simba and completed his task. Glasses, drinks. He brought the coffee pot over and finally lifted his eyes toward the living room again. Clearing his throat, Berlioz raised his voice just enough so they could hear. “Er, s’almost ready. Did you want coffee or tea or…”

“Oh, coffee sounds great,” said Jenny as she stood and hauled her dad up with a hand on his arm.

“Uh–yeah, that’s, yes, coffee’s great,” repeated Steve.

They moved over to the table and Berlioz poured coffee into two mugs. Jenny pounced on the sugar and cream right away, pouring heaps in. Steve just took it black. Like Berlioz. Though Berlioz didn’t linger on that thought. Loads of people took coffee black. And it wasn’t somethin’ Ber could build a bridge on.

Simba came on over in the next few moments, with the big plate of pancakes.

“Ughhhh this smells amazing! Why don’t you ever cook?” Jenny said to Steve. She glanced back at Berlioz. “My dad sucks at like, all dad things, just so you know.”

“Jenny,” Steve admonished.

“Well, you kind of do. Like cooking and cleaning. We always get take-out.”

“Chicago’s just got good food! You’re never with me that long, I like to treat you. That’s a dad thing, you rascal!” Steve said and there was a slight defensive edge to his tone, but he squeezed Jenny’s shoulder. He looked at Ber and Simba. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been, but if you ever come, I got plenty of recommendations. We got the best pizza in the entire country–”

Jenny rolled her eyes, “Here we go.”

“--don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. New York don’t got shit on Chicago deep dish.”

“This is what caused my parents’ divorce,” said Jenny.

“Jennifer.”

“It’s a joooooke,” said Jenny.

“Uh, yeah, I’ve…never had Chicago deep dish,” said Berlioz, and glanced at Simba. “Or been to Chicago. Sounds nice though.”

SIMBA: Simba’s immediate impression of Steve was that he was introverted. Probably similar to Ber, though that wasn’t saying much. Lots of people were introverted. Was he shy like Ber, though? That would be the real question. And it did make him wonder how much of your personality was learned and how much of it was ingrained in you? Would it make more sense if Steve was shy? The way no one else in Berlioz’s family was? Or would it just be coincidence?

He tried not to get too existential as he brought over the plates--one ladened with chocolate chip pancakes, one with Ber’s blueberries and one with Simba’s special chocolate chip and blueberry pancakes. Once they were all settled, more of Steve’s personality poked through.

Simba’s second impression of him was that he was a good dad. At least, it seemed like he and Jenny had a good relationship. He hadn’t yelled at her for running off the way she had and, sure, maybe he was waiting for them to be alone for that--but even still, he seemed warm and Jenny didn’t seem afraid of him. The way Hector’s children were always afraid of him.

It made him smile and he felt more relaxed at once. If Steve was a good dad, then all of this would go just fine. His legs stretched under the table and he put his free hand on the back of Ber’s chair casually.

“Mm, I’ve never been to Chicago either, but I’ve had a layover or two there. Heard there is a lot of history, though.” He was thinking of the Chicago riots in particular, but he thought there was some other significant Black history that had happened there he couldn’t quite remember.

“Have you ever been to England?” he asked, tilting his head as he shoved a ginormous amount of pancake into his face. Clearly, Steve had been to France, but they’d save that for later.

BERLIOZ: Ber was trying not to hyper-analyze his bio dad, he really was.

But similar thoughts to the ones that Simba had were poppin’ up all over the place. The whole musician thing felt too good to be true, for example, though if he dug into it, he’d see it wasn’t coincidence at all, just…Adelaide’s orchestrations. Wasn’t he a musician because of Adelaide? Hadn’t Adelaide’s love of music been the reason she connected with some musician like Steve in the first place? Though beyond Steve being in a rock band and Adelaide rebelling against her upper-class politician husband, he wasn’t really sure what his maman saw in this bloke at all. He was mild-mannered (like Ber) and looked a bit…uncool.

Well, he looked like a dad. In the way Hector had never looked like a dad, or Adelaide had never looked like a mum.

What had Adelaide even talked about with Steve. Pizza? No way. They’d probably just jumped into bed, right?

“Uh– yeah, um– a long long time ago,” said Steve and he chuckled awkwardly. He reached for his coffee mug and slurped some down. “I was a much different person then.”

“My dad’s an ex-rock star,” said Jenny.

“Uh yeah, I read about that,” said Berlioz. He adjusted in his seat. “So you um…toured here in the 90s?”

Steve nodded. “Did this whole European leg. We’d just gotten what we thought was our big break, opening for Alanis, y’know? But we were older dudes.” He chuckled again. “We acted like total kids about it anyway, getting smashed and everything. Ruined a couple of our shows and pretty much tanked our chances. But ah, it wasn’t meant to be.” Steve met Berlioz’s eyes, and this time he didn’t look away. His forehead wrinkled. He looked like he wanted to say something. “Um, I uh… saw you… I mean, when you emailed me, I did my due diligence and looked you up as well so…”

“He’s trying to say that you are a musician too,” Jenny said. Then added, “So am I! Jazz piano.”

“No shit?” Ber blinked and broke out into a grin. “That’s fucking cool–”

“Language,” said Steve. He stiffened. “Sorry, habit.”

Ber laughed again. “Uh, no worries. I meant, that’s really cool. I did classical piano for a long time, then picked up the guitar, but I’m in music production now.”

“You want to be a producer?” asked Steve.

“Uh yeah. I’m shit at performing live. Shit, I mean– bad. I’m bad.” he glanced at Simba, his smile sheepish now.

“That’s a fun path,” said Steve. “Um, how was it that you two met then…? You’re a little older than him, right…?” He asked Simba.

That made sense. On the outside, reading about Berlioz on wikipedia and Simba on wikipedia, no one would think they’d end up together, let alone married. Ber’s ears got red, thinking about trying to distill his love story down to somethin’ you told over pancakes. Thank god Simba was good at that sort of thing.

SIMBA: “Music,” Simba said simply, proudly, at first. It was true anyway, wasn’t it? (And yeah, maybe he felt a little left out with all the musician talk, like he could sometimes—wondering why Ber loved him when Simba couldn’t speak his language.)

He also wanted to impress Steve. Simba had never had this feeling about Hector, who was Mr. Microaggression and had irritated Simba before they’d even met from the stories Berlioz told him (and the lines in between those stories.) Steve had the benefit of being a blank slate and, so far, not being an asshole. Simba wanted to make a good impression.

Also, whether Steve realized it or not, that comment about age felt like a total pointed Dad comment. It made Simba feel a little defensive, though he figured: yeah, it did seem a little weird from the outside. Felt a little weird too. Sometimes, Simba worried that Ber had fallen into this relationship without experiencing anything on his own and, one day, he’d resent that. When he felt that way, he always just—tried to do better. To make sure that Ber made his own choices and when it came to it, there would be nothing to regret, because they’d been happy.

“We worked together—at the, er—bar in town.” He didn’t want to say club in front of Jenny…and Steve too because yallah, that sounded bad as well.

“But the first time we met it was because I heard Ber playing and I just had to get to know someone who could make something like that. I can’t play myself,” he raised his hands a little as if in surrender, a bit of syrup dripping off his fork. “But I love music and I’ve never heard anyone play like Ber. You can’t help but fall in love with him when you hear him play.”

Simba looked over at Ber, squeezing his thigh again under the table. He wanted to lean over and kiss him, but he was pretty sure Ber would punch him—just on spastic instinct—so, he refrained.

BERLIOZ: Ber’s whole face went real red.

He ducked his head as Simba talked about their love story. He wasn’t embarrassed by it or anything– well, okay, clearly he was, but the same way he was embarrassed whenever Simba talked about him, complimented him, to other people. And their love story was extremely personal. From the outside, he knew what it had looked like: very odd. What did Berlioz Bonfamille and Simba Lyons really have in common, besides being born to families with names bigger than their own? On the surface, they shouldn’t work. And on a shallow level, they didn’t really work either. It was on that deeper level– a level that they’d drilled down to find, over hours spending time, talking, falling in love– where they made the most sense.

He didn’t expect his father to see that and understand. Though it didn’t really matter what he thought, did it? He was just some guy– Ber was already married.

But…

Well, it would be nice if it went differently from Hector. There was no way it could be the same. Hector had liked Simba quite a bit, but he’d had a glint in his eye when talking to Simba, the same look he got when perusing shiny cars or trying a new, expensive cigar.

Ber glanced up now, and saw no glint in Steve’s eye.

“Ew,” said Jenny, at the end of Simba’s monologue, making Ber choke a little on his waffle.

“Jennifer,” said Steve. He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Sorry. That’s a nice story. I can ah, tell you both love each other very much. I always thought I should have gotten married younger, actually. People say it’s bad, but being overly cautious is just as bad.”

“You would have gotten divorced from Mom either way,” said Jenny with a shrug.

Ah. She was suffering from divorced kid syndrome. Ber knew it well.

“I mean, probably true. We were too different and– we got married for the wrong reasons–”

Jenny jabbed a fork in her own direction, implying herself as the reason. Awkward.

“Anyway,” said Steve. “You’ve got a nice family. And a nice home. Thank you again for hosting us.” He cleared his throat. “After breakfast, we uh… should exchange emails. Proper emails, not just my faculty email.”

Ber could feel himself blushing again. “Oh… uh…yeah.”

“You can follow me on Insta,” said Jenny.

Ber nodded again. “...Thanks.”

The rest of breakfast passed in this same way. Berlioz learned a little more about Steve– how the band had broken up basically right after that European tour, right on the cusp of success. He ended up going back to school for a library degree (his mum was a librarian) where he met Jenny’s mother. They’d dated for a while. He’d moved to NYC with her for a while. They’d gotten married then divorced. It was kind of a typical story, like Steve really could be any other straight white guy in the United States.

After everything was cleaned up, they all gathered again in front of the door. Time to go.

“We’d stay longer, but– I really gotta make sure Jenny gets to her mom’s. She’s already threatening to sue me,” said Steve with a nervous laugh.

Ber nodded. “Right no, no, I get it, I totally get it.”

“But we’ll… keep in touch. I promise, this time.” Steve reached out a hand. He shook Simba’s first, then, more hesitantly offered it to Berlioz. Berlioz took it, just like he had taken Hector’s hand many times. He had never been the type of father to offer many hugs. One every now and then. And so this was familiar, but also different, because Steve was a complete stranger. Except– as they shook hands, Ber had a vision of down the road, when maybe Steve would be the kind of father to offer hugs after all.

If Ber wanted them. He’d figure that out later.

The two Marshes finally left. When the door closed, Ber let out a long, tired sigh and turned to Simba to put his head against his shoulder.

“That was weird,” he said, voice all muffled.

SIMBA: As the door closed, Simba was already vibrating with a million questions. He’d seen down the road too. To Christmasses and visits to England and trips to Chicago. Showing Jenny and Steve more of Swynlake. Taking them to Paris and showing them that city too. (Steve had already seen it, but he hadn’t seen Berlioz’s Paris, or Simba’s Paris.) He saw these things and got caught up in the excitement of it.

After all, there was a part of him—that he hadn’t really noticed until now—that was still just a kid looking for a dad.

Obviously, no one would replace Mufasa. And Simba loved his father so much, but—he had always had that presence in his life. A steady hand on his shoulder, guiding him in the right direction. His mama was wonderful, of course, and he loved her too but he had always been raised to know that one day he’d be head of the family and he’d have to take care of her. Not that she couldn’t take care of herself, but it was a different dynamic, especially now that his dad had died.

So, yeah—Simba got ahead of himself, thinking that Steve was great, blinded by this idea of a big, happy, blended family—

Ber’s head thunked against his shoulder and brought him back to reality. Simba turned to look down at him, bringing his hand up around his husband’s shoulders. He pulled him in, shifting their weights so that he was giving Ber a proper hug because this wasn’t about Simba and his daddy issues. It was about Ber and his daddy issues.

Simba just stood there and squeezed him for a moment. “Yeah, a little,” he said without pulling away. “But he was nice, eh? I believe him when he says he’ll stay in touch.”

BERLIOZ: Berlioz did not have a million questions or a thousand dreams. He was not built for that kind of thing. Instead, his brain latched onto one or two things and then dissected it until the thing was so warped he didn’t remember how it started. Over time, with diligent practice and visits with Claire, this process had gotten easier to resist. But even now…

Even now, Ber’s instincts told him to find the things that were wrong instead of the things that had gone right. Wouldn’t it have been better if Steve had stayed lost? Wouldn’t it have been better if he’d been a shit guy with no interest in Berlioz at all?

Instead, Ber had liked him.

He admitted this quietly to himself, in the safety of his own brain. He didn’t expect it. He wondered and worried what his siblings would think. Would they hate him? Would they feel betrayed? He wondered about his own father– felt guilty for this curiosity inside himself that wanted to take Steve up on everything he’d said.

God, this was so fucked up. This was why Berlioz wanted an uncomplicated life, so no one would ever get hurt.

“Yeah…” Berlioz straightened up, meeting Simba’s kind and warm gaze. He knew his husband well enough to know that he was full of dreams. He had liked Steve too. Berlioz needed some of that optimism right now.

“I’m just worried about how everyone else is gonna react,” he admitted quietly. “I feel like Pere’s gonna hate me for reaching out to him.”

SIMBA: “Well, maybe if he actually acted like a dad, you wouldn’t feel the need to go searching for another one.” Simba shrugged and then smiled a little sheepishly. “Sorry, but it’s true. He spilled the story to the tabloids and has barely talked to you since. He doesn’t get a say in how you handle this. He’s dug his own grave.”

Simba rubbed a hand up and down Ber’s shoulder. He knew probably wasn’t actually that worried about his dad. But, he was probably worried about his mum and his siblings. Which, honestly, rightfully so. Especially where Toulouse was concerned. Marie was tougher than everyone gave her credit for. She usually took these kinds of things on the chin. There was also a possibility that she would follow Lou, however he handled this. Maybe Simba should talk to him first—not about Steve but just…he didn’t know. How Not to Be a Dick 101 or something.

There was no reason anyone else should complicate this for Berlioz. He had his own shit to deal with and if his family wanted to be supportive, great, but Simba would kick Lou’s ass if he made Ber feel shitty about this.

“It’s not about them, habibah,” Simba reminded Ber, giving his arms a squeeze. He smiled. “He is your father. You and him get to decide how you fit into each other’s lives, no one else. I will support you, whatever you choose. As long as it is your decision. Your heart is big enough for all of them. I know it is.”

BERLIOZ: His heart was one thing. Lou and Marie’s hearts were another.

And look, Ber knew it shouldn’t matter. And since when did Ber not listen to his own, eh? If there was one thing that had always been true, it was that Berlioz had a selfish heart, one he couldn’t ignore. He did what he wanted to do– what he felt he had to do– even if it meant pissing off his parents, or Lou, or Marie.

But he still felt shit about it. Yeah, his heart was selfish but it was also greedy. He tried to tamp down all its different wants. He didn’t need two dads. He barely needed one. He didn’t need another sister– Marie might as well be several, she was such a handful. And yet here it was, his heart wanting all these things. Maybe Simba had simply rubbed off on him and now he couldn’t keep the door to that heart of his shut when he needed to. And so when it came to losing one family to gain another– Ber didn’t wanna risk that.

There was only so much he could control though and… well, wasn’t it too late? He wouldn’t ignore Steve and Jenny now.

And he had to tell his siblings.

Ber nodded slow. He ran a hand through his fringe, lookin’ as tired as he felt. Sleeping the past few days had been a no-go so now he wanted to collapse, take the rest of today to lay around and do nothing. At least that would put off the inevitable hard conversations he was gonna have to have.

At least he probably wouldn’t have them alone.

“Yeah… you’re right. Just uh, remind me of that later when everyone gets pissed at me,” he offered a sad smile and then– yawned.

“I think I’m gonna take a nap. Join me?”

#swynberlioz #simber #the prodigal father #otp: cuddle if you'd like #otp: climbing over fences #otp: someday #otp: stupid beautiful boy #otp: i think you're lovely #otp: SOCKED FEET AND ALL #otp: TRUE LOVE'S KISS #otp: i want to make plans with you #otp: let's go to vegas

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