succession (2019-2023) 4x4 | 3x8

Hey Freddie, this is… How are you? We’re reaching out because… It’s been really hard to get through to… Do you think you can…? The eloquence makes him know, almost instantly, that it’s Océane who’s typing – Lucas, for one, preferred longer texts like his millennial older brother, and would never be able to write that much in English without making mistakes. The texts seem pretty inoffensive until he finally reaches the apex. The climax. The one that Freddie had been sadistically excited for him to reach.

And, as anger starts boiling up in his stomach, bile getting ready to race up his throat, hands gripping Freddie’s phone with newly gained strength – prepared to throw it across the room at any second – he reads the last message, We thought he would’ve told you, at least, and all the churning in his stomach immediately ceases. Part of him knows that he couldn't blame Lucas and Océane for thinking that. To them, it was always Freddie this, Freddie that, so it was easy to assume that, even if they had been en désaccord for a while – like Edward had explained – they would've eventually sorted everything out. Only thing is, they never did.

But something still burns in his belly somewhere between his chest and his throat like an ulcer, and he just drops the coffee cup, still full, on the table with a rattle, not caring if it spills and makes a fucking mess of everything. It might as well. It might as fucking well break so then at least he could eat the fucking porcelain and fucking kill himself instead of having to go on with this fucking conversation.

He expels a heavy, frustrated sigh like it’s steam; like he’s about to explode from the heartburn.  And then he turns to Freddie, holding out his phone in an insolent, annoyed swing of his hand.

And in an unexpectedly intimate gesture, he gives Freddie a look that says a lot without really saying anything – It’s true. He confesses. Why would they lie about something like that? It’s true, so what? Oh, and you're obviously the only one who knows. Something only two people who were once so close that they could communicate without a single word would be able to understand. And he knows Freddie immediately does. But whatever complicity materialized there for this brief little exchange, it’s gone the next second.

“What do you want?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Like, really. Did you just come here to tell me you’re going to run to my sister and tell her about it? Or did you come here to make me feel bad about not talking to them? Because you sure as shit didn’t come here for the fucking details.”

It was twistedly amusing how this seemed like the perfect full-cycle moment. Freddie had always been the first one to know everything. Sometimes the only one. And, again, there he was. Only this time with something that could fuck him over.

right off the bat, freddie says, "nothing, hopefully. because they're fucking boring and i hate them." far from the point he was trying to make, but in the moment he felt it was important to make that very clear. he'd never liked lucas and océane, and that hadn't changed. they were pretentious, full of themselves, and truly had nothing to bring to the table, and yet eddie was always banging on about them. lucas and océane this, lucas and océane that. then, suddenly, they'd been condensed into two simple words: 'we', 'us'. how did something so easy sounding make him so annoyed? well, if it took two people to replace him, then that ought to count for something. "let me read you something." he fishes out his phone from his jacket pocket, and finds his text conversation with lucas and océane. "actually, why don't you read it for yourself." he was a slow reader and didn't want to make room for any condescending comments. so, chucking his phone at him, freddie moves to prop himself up against the armrest of eddie's couch and waits for him to reach the last message, which freddie didn't reply to, but had called them instead. "you really know how to make people feel like shit, you know?" he offers some commentary during eddie's read, then when he catches that glint in eddie's eye, he adds, "i told them, there's no way. you've got the personality of a dry graham cracker. and they told me, to ask you."

Attentive eyes glossing over a particularly entertaining essay on Cervantes’ influences when writing Don Quixote, Edward’s head only perks up from his laptop when he notices the shadow of someone standing really close by. The sight of Ollie, shrouded in bright, autumnal sunlight, making him squit to protect his sensible eyes from the glow that seemed almost as if it emanated from Ollie himself. He offers a brief little smile in greeting before he turns to the window – the sky a cloudless, cool blue drape extending beyond his field of vision – and realizes how atypically clear that day was. “Yeah. And I hope it gets really cold too...” He had always associated the winter with the idea of comfort – maybe because he had always had a roof over his head and warm clothes to protect himself – but it had always been his favorite season. And he knew it was silly, but there was this fear in the back of his mind that, one day, there wouldn’t be much of a difference between summer and winter anymore – global warming and all –, and so he always looked forward to the colder months knowing that at least for now there was time to enjoy them. “Classes are okay, I guess.” He shrugs. There are things he loves and things he hates, and he sort of tries to balance them out. On the one hand, he’s at the top of the class in every subject of his literature program – really, straight-A student, just like in high school. On the other hand, though, he struggles to keep his head above water in most of his computer science classes… “I might need your help with a couple projects, though.” He nods in the direction of the chair directly across from him, inviting Ollie to join. “But I’ll text you the details later. Nothing urgent…” There was, however, something rather urgent he wanted to talk to Ollie about. “But, um, I need to ask you something. About the texts we all got a couple of weeks ago…” He doesn’t wait, “Milo said you guys weren’t talking… But, he also told me you might be able to help me.” He went on, trying to not sound too incisive for fear of seeming intrusive. “He said you had a page from Greer’s journal about her being in a car crash where she’d let someone else drive… Milo and I also got texts that mentioned an accident... Could you, like, tell me what else it says...?”

The Library sometime November 2nd. [ @morrisxn02 ]

Ollie stood in front of the large windows of the library, the books he'd been in there to get hugged tightly to his chest as he stared up at the overcast sky. Zoning out almost so thoroughly he didn't notice when someone walked over to him, a moment later tearing his eyes away from the outside and glancing over towards Eddie. "Hi," he said, "do you think it's going to be cold this winter? I hope it snows a lot…" He was a fan of the winter. Well, he was both a fan of the winter (he was a winter baby after all) and a bitch that suffered from seasonal depression (just kidding he suffered from all seasons depression). But he liked the snow. "It's not very cold right now…" He said, glancing down at the hoodie he was wearing -- enough to deal with the chilly air. He wished it would snow… He glanced towards Eddie again, raising an eyebrow at him, "how's the classes going?"

When Freddie says their names, Edward pauses in his tracks, confused. Surprised. He forgets about the coffee again, one thought silencing all others... What business did Freddie have with Lucas and Océane (whom he had, unsuccessfully, been trying to ignore for months now)? But the thought evolves into something bigger, into more and more thoughts until his mind looks as messy as a Kandinsky canvas. Had they talked? Did they talk often? What had they talked about? Did Freddie know? “I… didn’t?” Is the first thing he says, with some uncertainty, almost as if Eddie himself doesn’t know for sure, even if he knows for a fact that that wasn't what he had told them. And then he turns around to face the coffee machine again, to buy himself some time. And in doing so, he notices there’s a handful of Freddie’s favorite capsules next to the machine. Brand new. Untouched. And, most importantly, ones he absolutely hated. He still told himself that he had bought them just because he wanted to have every flavor in his stash – even if he disliked that one in particular. The thought of it throws him off track because even if he's very good at lying – even to himself – he can't pretend he doesn't know who he had in mind when he was purchasing those on Amazon... But he reconsiders, regains balance, and ends up not offering Freddie anything. That was not why he had come… He just turns back to him, his cup now in his hands, as he tries to understand the reason for that conversation. “What the fuck do you even have to do with Lucas and Océane?” He takes a sip of his coffee and gives a skeptical smirk – in a classic attempt to recover some confidence.

curiosity is the wretched animal that drew him here. there was such a demanding desire to fill in the blanks, one he had to hear from eddie himself, where, again, the only outcome would leave him dissatisfied. it infuriated him so much because if on one side of the coin there's curiosity, then on the other side there's care. neither of which should've belonged to eddie. the care of remembering what his coffee smells like, or the curiosity of wondering when he got that new espresso machine. the infuriation of not wanting to know he has a lasik surgery planned, but when february comes round he'd be burdened with the knowledge. and so, this time, he doesn't bite and instead cuts straight to the point: "why did you tell lucas and océane that we still talk?" another classic miscommunication on freddie's part, in which they hadn't said that to him at all but it'd been one of his key takeaways from the conversation.

His smile flickered for a second, his whole face lighting up in surprise. He really wasn’t expecting Monty to take him up on his offer, even if it had come from a genuine place. And so, he was quick to reassure Monty, “Yeah, I’ll go easy the first few times.” Edward, who became a completely different person when he stepped onto a tennis court – rabid, yelling, cursing, and foaming at the mouth like he had been possessed by the demon Pazuzu – was a surprisingly decent teacher. It was like he incorporated the patience of a Tibetan monk when he was liberated from the weight of competition. “Promise.” He even raised his palm in a lighthearted jest, vowing not to show Monty the same treatment he offered Sassa or Milo during practice. That was unless Monty was secretly better than he was letting on, in which case Eddie would show him no mercy. But he imagined it wouldn’t come to that so soon…

A corner of his lips twitched upwards at the image of being bossed around by Sassa. Monty wasn’t wrong, it really was kind of hot. But he knew he was just joking – especially now, with that idiotic boyfriend of hers in the picture. But then his face stiffened again at the mention of Milo, the memory of Monty’s black eye from last year coming back to him. “Milo made you join?” He repeated the words a bit incredulously, and brought the mug to his lips as if to take a moment to consider it. Funnily, the coffee had a thick consistency, but tasted impossibly watered down. Well, at least it was warm. It’s all about the small things, right? “Don’t you two hate each other? Why do you let him tell you what to do?” But knowing Milo, Eddie already had a guess.

A bemused smile curled at his lips, shaking the sugar packets back and forth quickly while watching Edward pour the much-needed coffee. "That would not be a fair match," he said, pointing out the obvious. For a good portion of his mornings, all he really did was stand around like an NPC, idle and prepared to dart this way or that at anyone's command, but in those long stretches of time that the team lost themselves to training drills and practice games, he got to watch. He could tell who was good and who was great -- and, obviously, each and every one of them was better than Monty. It came with the territory of being a collegiate athlete, he supposed. "Would you go easy on me?" he asked, tempted to put on a woeful, begging pout, but he was too tired to be so theatrical. He only reached out for his mug, nodding in thanks while dragging it in close, sugar packets torn and dumped in before he could register that it was way too much sweetener for his tastes. Oh, well. "Toss some soft volleys my way? Let me get my hopes up, huh?"

Why he'd become the equipment manager for the tennis team was a loaded question -- and one that Monty was very tempted to answer with honesty. Was Edward the right person to confess to? Or was he just looking for trouble? "I thought it'd be hot to be ordered around by Ogden's elite." He couldn't keep a straight face, cracking into a crooked grin before he'd even finished speaking. He huffed a quiet chuckle and shook his head (although, it could be sort of hot at times, depending on who was yelling at him), giving into a lazy shrug while busying himself with his coffee. Cream from the cutesy mini pitcher was added in before he was stirring the whole mess together, spoon scraping ceramic. "Milo made me join, actually," Monty said after a beat, the beginning of an explanation that he didn't yet elaborate on, curious as to Edward's perception.

There wasn’t even a chance to wonder about Freddie’s unexpected visit – no time to even think that that was the moment of a much-desired reconciliation. His stormy arrival left Edward so disoriented that all he could do was move out of his way as he barged into his dorm and close the door afterward. What the hell? He tried to suppress a chuckle and ended up contorting his face into a funny, confused expression. Well, his day had been pretty average, thank you for asking – he had aced a German literature test and flunked his most recent Data Structures project, his sister’s case was still cold and there was a psychopath on the loose. So, yeah. A very normal day at Ogden College. And, honestly, he would very much have liked to keep it that way. “If you’re here to throw more sand in my eyes I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He said with a sigh, walking back to the coffee table where his espresso machine beeped, announcing his Lisbon Bica was ready. “My Lasik surgery is scheduled for February, and I need my corneas intact for that.”

freddie felt so embarrassed that he didn't want the windows of alcott to see any part of his reflection, or for the carpeted floors leading up to eddie's room to hear any part of him. he'll claim back this time, in one way or another, or he'll make it worth his while. unlike the last time they'd spoke, when he'd felt so utterly and hopelessly useless. so, when the door opens after he'd slammed his fist against it, the first thing he does is barge past eddie. "hello edward," freddie says, as he forces himself into the dorm. "i hope you've had a good day, because i'm about to make it infinitely worse."

@morrisxn02

“Well, she might know something.” He was quick to correct himself, realizing the incoherency between his thoughts and words. “What I mean is, if she knows something, and if that was the reason she was framed,” To Edward, Sam Jimenez had been 100% framed. It was almost funny how he had completely discarded the possibility of her being guilty of arson or somehow involved in Ida’s death but still was unsure about people who were closer to him than she was. “I don’t think she’s going to share it with the police… God only knows what else is at stake for her.”

Edward liked the idea of hiring a private detective. He really did. But there was a twinge of anxiety in his chest whenever he thought of the prospect of someone combing through every detail of his life – and what that might entail. What if they dug a little too deep and found out something they weren’t supposed to? What if they turned on them and decided to sell their secrets to their families instead? Rufus Morrison had all the money in the world and, from what Eddie knew, private detectives weren’t famous for having a very strong code of ethics. But Ambrose had a point; if they weren’t on anyone else’s payrolls, they wouldn’t have anyone else to respond to but them. “I get what you’re saying.” Internally, he tried to conciliate the idea of hiring a private detective while still keeping their own identities a secret to protect themselves. “We can try to make it work. We’ll discuss it tomorrow, somewhere quieter.”  

Ambrose’s next question about the point of G’s texts was a reminder that sometimes he thought things through very quickly and ended up forgetting to vocalize them, just expecting that his interlocutor would think in the exact same way that he did and follow the same far-fetched logic. “Listen, this is just me speculating here…” Buckle up, Ambrose, it’s tin-foil hat time. “But I think that Penny and Ida might have known more than what they were supposed to. Maybe they found out who it was who was sending the texts, you know? Maybe they were about to go to the police or something… And whoever is behind this just found a way to get rid of them. Maybe Sam doesn’t know who it is, but she was close to figuring it out and ended up getting lucky.” Not in the strict sense of the word, obviously. “Which doesn’t mean we’re expected to not do anything…” He continued. Sorry, Ambrose. “I think what they want us to do is to expose each other without getting their own hands too dirty.” There was a twisted sort of brilliance to G’s masterplan, kind of like an Agatha Christie villain in a way… “If we do their dirty work – connect the dots, spill the secrets, get people arrested and stuff, they won’t have to worry about consequences much.” He shrugged as if all he had just laid out didn’t sound like it had been taken straight from an Alfred Hitchcock film. “Say, if they accuse someone of manslaughter for example, but didn’t say who it was, they couldn’t get charged for defamation. Plus, imagine if it’s someone close to you, like your roommate. That type of thing leaves people shaken up, doesn’t it?” And wasn’t that what G wanted too? To mentally torture them in every way possible? “Kind of a win-win situation for them...” G’s cryptic messages meant they could ambush them from every direction and get out with a fine or a month of community service – that is if they ever got caught. “But that’s just me. If you ask other people, I’m sure they’ll have their own idea as to what the point of this is.”

Ambrose frowned, nearly wilting when Edward pointed out the Jimenez girl likely didn't know anything. It seemed to be the same thing he had heard among a lot of the people who were dealing with this last year, so he didn't question what his cousin had to say about it. Still it was frustrating to hear. "But she's still in jail," he said, like that would bring about any more answers. Maybe she was hiding something. Yes, she was probably only in jail for the fire, but that implicated her in something, right?

He disliked even more when Edward turned down the idea to get a Private Investigator. Sure, it wasn't like they had any information to give the person -- at least Ambrose didn't -- but that wouldn't be their problem, would it? It would be the Private Investigator's problem. That would be their job after all. "At least we would know they weren't on anyone else's payroll," Ambrose pointed out. He shook his head a little at Edward's more secretive reasons, giving a frown. "So you think this G person is murdering people because they've taken … information they've given them and found something out?" He said, raising his eyebrows. "What's the point of sending these stupid texts out if we're not supposed to do anything with them?" What was the point of any of this, was perhaps more the question Ambrose should have been asking. But perhaps he just hadn't been around long enough to read that point yet. Still stubbornly attempting to cling to some sort of logic in all of this. "You don't think this G person wants us to find something out? Then why send these? Don't they want us to know what happened to Greer?" That's what it sounded like to him. Which meant ... maybe it wasn't G that was the problem.

Keys jingling on his finger as he'd just locked his door, Edward’s stride down the hall is halted abruptly when Rhia comes into view, his name skipping from her lips in a way he hadn’t heard in a while. His brows raise instinctively, eyes widening in a greeting as his lips try to muster up the excitement to reciprocate her smile, though flatly reproducing a much meeker copy than the one she had offered him. “Rhia.” His voice was lower, less enthusiastic, but just as kind as hers. It really had been a long time since they’d last seen each other. Well, he’d seen her around campus, spotted her from a distance at homecoming, seen her at parties every now and then as well… He just hadn’t talked to her. He liked her, though. He really did. She was a good listener and all-around quite nice to him, but Edward, wary as he was, couldn’t help but second-guess her kindness for false flattery. “Did you miss me?” A smirk upturned the sides of his lips as he slyly mirrored her question. He kept on his way, guiding the two of them, entangled by the arm, down the corridor, towards the exit. He was going to get some coffee and something to eat before fencing practice, and he didn’t mind the company. “No, I’m kidding. It’s nice to see you. What have you been up to?”  

@morrisxn02 when: midday where: alcott dorms

Oftentimes, Rhia dropped by her friends' unannounced. Inevitably, there would be a time or two when this didn't pay off for her. She decided to give up only after several minutes of banging on her friend's door, face droopy and dejected in the face of defeat. Hungry for attention, she was quick to seek out a familiar face. She and Eddie had never been close, only friendly on occasion when most convenient for them, but he certainly wasn't an enemy. "Eddie!" she called out excitedly. She bounced over to him, face lit up in a grin. "Long time no see, champ," she exclaimed and clasped his arm. "Did you miss me?" Rhia coaxed. Her hand lifted to rest alongside her jaw, her chin tilted toward her shoulder.

Eyes glistening like a child’s upon the prospect of getting a new toy, Edward, rim of the cup touching his lips, asks, “Is that an invitation or something?” With a smile on his face. In all fairness, Edward doesn’t think he has it in him to do something like that – as much as Dean Zuko deserves it – but he likes to entertain the idea that he’s brave enough to do something so reckless.

when: 31 october where: kkg halloween party with: @morrisxn02

"You know what I think is a missed opportunity?" Anya asks, leaning across Edward to get to the bottle of vodka stationed next to him. Without waiting for a reply, they top up their own drink before sliding the bottle back into place, and continue: "Trick or treat. I'm disappointed no one has egged the Dean's house yet."

Milo had a point. It seemed to be counterintuitive to think that Ollie would tell him Lincoln had the diary page if they had been the one responsible for the accident. Maybe Edward’s perception of Crawford’s character was just too inflexible, and that was clouding his judgment… It was good that Milo seemed to be able to give Lincoln the benefit of the doubt to balance out Eddie’s qualms about them.

Not breaking eye contact, Edward walked towards a cooler nearby that seemed to have gone nearly untouched so far, as most people seemed to have been segregated to more common areas of the house like the lawn or the living room. He grabbed a bottle of beer to himself – low calorie, which he pretended not to realize – and offered one to Milo, still keenly listening to him. “Yeah, I can try. I’m not sure he’ll tell me anything, though.” His shoulders rolled in an indifferent shrug, as he acknowledged that, as much as he was fond of Ollie, he doubted he would ever compromise Lincoln Crawford. There was a complex history there that Edward didn’t quite understand – and, frankly, found a bit strange – to back up his supposition that Ollie wouldn’t be straightforward to him about Ogden’s Jason Dean wannabee.

“I think I might have a better chance with Lincoln, to be honest.” He took one swig of beer to pause and ponder over how much information he was willing to share. But he assumed that, by his cadence, Milo had already caught the gist. He was one of the few people Edward felt comfortable enough to talk about this kind of thing. Still, he shot him a playfully threatening look that said don’t judge me or I’ll hit you with a racket. “He seems a little more…” Volatile. “Open to discussing this kind of thing than Ollie might be.” Ollie was too rational, too smart to not calculate the risks of telling this kind of thing to someone like Eddie.

He realized what he was doing. Executing G’s plan to a T. Cannibalizing. Scavenging for secrets. But Lincoln had something to hold over his head – even if he didn’t realize it – and he had to arm himself if it ever came to a moment of future confrontation.   

“I’ll try to talk to Crawford, and I’ll tell you if I find something out...” He nodded towards the party nearby, indicating that they should return.

"It's not too hard to believe is it?" Milo said, though it was mostly rhetorical. If he had to pick someone most likely to accidently kill someone Ollie and/or Link would be among the top people on that list. Though if he was being honest he was leaning more towards Ollie, because Ollie would be more likely to tell Link, than Link would tell Ollie if it was the other way around. He could also very easily see Ollie doing something stupid under the influence more than he could Link. Ollie said himself, he'd never been sober since the day they met Freshman year.

He nodded his head, "there is definitely the possiblity that Link knows who it's about and convinced Ollie to give it to them," Milo confirmed. Because that was a real possiblity too. "If it was about one of them, I'm not sure Ollie would have blatantly told me that he'd given it to Link." That much was at least true. Though from what Milo remembered Ollie had only told him just to be a little bitch, that did sometimes win against self preservation.

"You could always talk to Ollie about it," Milo said, shrugging his shoulders, "I'm not speaking to him, but he does tend to be more forthcoming with information than Link is. If he had nothing to do with it there is nothing for him to hide, right?"

An easy chuckle transformed the sober look that often clouded his face into a lighthearted expression. He didn’t know whether he was smiling at their compliment or at Jacqui’s apparent keenness towards esoteric things, but he could feel the tension in his muscles ease in the face of her agreeableness. He didn’t even ponder over their invitation – now that he had already shown up at their dorm, he certainly couldn’t turn down their proposal as that would be even more impolite. Plus, he'd gotten ready for a party anyway, so there was no point in going back to his dorm since he was already out. “Well, I guess I’ll take you up on that.” His smile had dwindled into something more modest now, but it was still there. As he followed them into their dorm, he recognized a couple of familiar faces that he greeted with a couple of nods and a ‘hey’ here and there, like the type you would expect from a provincial politician. “You said something about the universe or fate… Are you big on this kind of stuff?” He asked with genuine curiosity. Edward had always enjoyed the lore behind mystical beliefs the way an anthropologist did – the more complex the better –, but could never bring himself to believe any of it.  

"I should probably say that I'll turn it down anyways, but..." her voice trailed off, Jacqui shrugging up a shoulder as they wrinkled their nose up with at least a hint of sheepishness. In all honesty, unless an official complaint came through, as soon as the door was shut, the music would be back, despite their acknowledgement of the volume upon opening it. A bright smile spread across Jacqui's face, their head nodding to one side as they bestowed it upon Eddie. "Thanks!" they said in a chirp, swinging the door open further. "I'm just getting ready but a big group of us are going out - you're coming, yeah? Stood up or not, you showed up at my door which means even if you didn't mean to agree to it, you did. And I refuse to let a gift from the universe or fate or whatever, " she paused, a hand motioning towards Edward to indicate she was talking about his appearance, and thus his joining them out for the night, "- go returned on my birthday." After letting all that out in one breath, Jacqui inhaled, their smile only widening as they motioned for Eddie to come in to their room.

He shrugged and cocked his head to the side slightly, in silent acceptance of the title. If she – who was a much better swimmer than he was – said that he was a swimmer, then he was in no position to argue. A little smile began to tug at the sides of his lips as she talked about her relationship with swimming, reminding him a bit of his own, before he offered her reassurance, “No, not at all. I kind of feel like that too. For me it’s so relaxing that I never signed up for the team because it felt like I would be turning it into an obligation instead of just a hobby.” Tennis had become his favorite place to deposit his competitiveness. “Are you into any more sports or do you just swim?”  

"Eh," she said lightheartedly, shaking her head in an effort to dislodge some water that had founds its way into her ear in that way that only pool water seemed to be able to. "If you can swim, you're a swimmer." One more than one occasion, people had remarked on how 'good a swimmer' her border collie was. So, if Lola had any say, you could crown yourself a swimmer the minute you were able to doggy paddle the length of a pool. "It's like the world stops when you're in the water, right? It's incredible. I feel like everything is so busy, all the time, so it's nice to have something that's like... quiet... almost. Does that make sense? Am I waffling?"

✍︎ @nataliavega

He really wanted to leave. Loud music, louder freshmen, dim lighting that made him squint to adapt whenever he wanted to look at his phone. Jesus, he was getting old… Or maybe he just really wanted to leave. Neon glowsticks, solo cups, annoying conversations, two stereos playing different songs at the same time, Natalia Vega–? Had she been there before? His wandering eyes had to go back to her for confirmation, and then they lingered on her sight for a few seconds. Well, maybe he could stay just a little bit… As he walked across the room to her, he snatched two beers from a cooler on the way. “You know, I was starting to think you were trying to avoid me…” He said, approaching her from behind, a mischievous smile on his face, as he childishly hoped that he might catch her by surprise and spook her.

17 across, 9-letter word for ‘Medieval form of forced labor.’, he mused, looking down at the day’s copy of the Ogden Observer he’d snatched from a pile sitting atop the hostess counter. This is a cruel and unusual punishment, Monty said – words complementing his own train of thought – and the answer came to him with surprising ease. SERVITUDE. Bingo! But as Monty’s head perked up, he quickly halted his filling of the little squares and slid the newspaper to the place next to him on the seat.

“You only say that because you’re there carrying everyone’s shit around while we play.” A hand glided over the table, reaching for both of their mugs, which Edward filled with coffee from a thermos that could’ve been refilled either ten minutes or two hours ago – God only knew – as if that would do anything to help with Monty with his fatigue. “I’d be happy to play with you someday if you want.” As someone who genuinely loved tennis, Edward often extended offers to play with people in hopes that he might one day bring someone to the fluorescent green side of the force. Knowing Monty, he already imagined that a sarcastic and resounding ‘no, thanks’ was bound to come his way, but it wouldn’t kill to try. “Why’d you even take up the position in the first place? Do you really need the credits that much?” He imagined that wasn’t the reason – in his head, Monty was the type who would probably graduate with honors – but he was curious to find out why he was subjecting himself to something he clearly hated so much.

with: @morrisxn02 location: a diner near campus when: nov 1st, roughly 10am

Menus already swiped away by a particularly chipmunk-y waitress, Monty sat with his eyes closed and forehead resting on the table. His nose was a little smashed in this position, and every exhale created a wash of warm condensation across the concerningly sticky Formica, but he didn't move a muscle. He wished that he was hungover. That would've been preferable to the full-body, post-tennis practice exhaustion that he was currently working through. "This is cruel and unusual punishment," he muttered from his hunched resting place, drawing in a deep, bracing breath as he finally dared to lift his head. A few cranky blinks were directed at Edward, as if Monty hadn't been the one to extend the invitation when everyone scattered for the locker rooms. Something about being in a space so sacredly meant for drunken, late night rendezvous didn't sit right with him. Had he ever been to the diner during normal breakfast hours? Monty's 3AM memories were far more fond, he decided, glancing around the space while shaking his head. "It's so fucking early, man," he continued to complain, wiping a palm down his face before refocusing on Eddie. All those 6AM wake-up calls for practice were doing him in. "And tennis is shit, too, anyway" -- said the guy who was a member of Ogden's own table tennis team -- "D'you even have any fun?" Monty was abruptly wiggly in his seat, reaching almost all the way to Edward's side of the booth for the caddy of condiments, snatching a few packets of sugar. "Looks miserable."

Eddie had not been thinking Parker was trying to avoid him.

Actually, yes, he had.

But that was only because he had been coaxed into a psychotic downward spiral of second-guessing every single relationship that had ever mattered to him, under the pretense that the people he loved thought he was an entitled, full-of-shit prick. Well, the word ‘cunt’ was actually at the top of mind lately, having been used by both Freddie Kolbeck and Océane in two separate circumstances, but he generally avoided using that term out of fear of being misinterpreted.

Political correctness aside, his interactions with Parker had become increasingly spotty – a text here and there, very rare encounters around campus, no outings at all… All of which he would have easily chalked up to a particularly demanding semester, had he not been haunted by the crippling anxiety that none of his friends actually cared much for his existence.

So, when he saw her come into the KKG kitchen and not pretend like she hadn’t seen him, he was both relieved and a little bit intrigued. For one, she wasn’t glaring at him like she thought he was cunt prick. But there was a businesslike cadence to her tone that countered all the warmth and amiability he usually associated her voice with, like she was in a rush to get herself a drink and run out of the room for a conference call.

As the whiskey spilled into his cup, he held out a hand offering to take hers and pour her some. “It’s not a hard choice, really.” He said, neutrally, trying to feel the temperature. “You know, that invitation to watch Anatomy of a Fall is still standing…” He had seen it already – twice. But he wouldn’t mind going again if she said so, especially since that was who he was initially planning on watching it with, anyway. Besides, there was also the factor of the hot lawyer who happened to be very easy on the eyes, but that was just a bonus.

who: @morrisxn02 where: halloween party when: halloween weekend

parker had not been avoiding eddie. really, she hadn't. especially not since the latest round of ominous texts had gone out.

she just hadn't gone out of her way to be in his general vicinity. he received a lot of intel over the last couple semesters. it was unnerving and had left her with more questions than reassurances. but parker also hadn't gone out of her way to avoid the popular places, such as the various halloween parties that'd been scattered over the course of the week. perhaps it was only a matter of time before they ended up in the same room. perhaps she actually, out of a genuine desire or more morbid curiosity, hoped it'd happened and, thus, subconsciously put it into place.

and they had ended up in the same room; mid-party, parker one measly drink in and on her way to grab a refill in the kitchen. their eyes met as she neared the counter, her brows raising as if to say, heyyyyyy! "hey," she called in the most normal voice ever, elbows coming to rest atop the counter. "take your time. i haven't decided between, uh..." an arm extended and she turned a bottle in her direction, "two-hundred dollar whiskey and twelve dollar vodka."

Later that night, he would realize, sitting in the dark like the protagonist of Excursion into Philosophy, with a clear head and between slower breaths than the ones he heaved at that moment, that the reason why he’d gone to Freddie at the beach was a desperate, visceral need to talk to him. Whatever that entailed, he just needed to hear his voice. Not the recorded one he heard as he watched him list his four favorite films for Letterboxd or as he spoke to reporters in a podcast – he’d had enough of that already. It was his actual voice that he wanted. Live, directed at him. And what that entailed, was this.

And Freddie’s words reverberated in him with stark incontestability. An incessant background noise that he couldn’t stop thinking about. Maybe this time because they weren't words coming from just anyone... A shit friend. A shit brother. A shit boyfriend – this last one something he’d heard very recently and had yet not had the opportunity to talk about with anyone. He really was all these things. A shit human being, really.

In this moment of truth, Edward fell silent. Disarmed of arguments, of sharp words, and, worst of all, of all his fury. All he felt then was a quiet, tranquil sadness.

It was fantastic how Frederick still managed to do great things for Edward, even in blissful ignorance.

He was right. Everybody had shit parents. And not just about that. About everything. Edward was not special. All he was, was cowardly. That was the difference between him and everybody else. Freddie knew that, of course. Having always known, better than anyone else in the world, the vicissitudes of Edward Rufus’s obsessive, toxic relationship with his father’s appreciation. And maybe, as hurtful as this whole argument had become, hearing it from his mouth was a necessary evil. In part, to make him realize how there was a link between all the things he was was awful at, as highlighted by Freddie (id est, an alarming inability to take stance on things that mattered or to take up any emotional real estate). But also, it revealed to him how Freddie felt about this, and about him. And that was the worst of it. But, at least, this clarity about Freddie's perception of him would bring him closure...

And, if he were to be honest, he'd known what was coming his way long before that decision was made. Part of him – judgmental and self-aware as he could be – already knew, without the fight, that he was the one at fault. Sure, Freddie wasn’t an innocent, passive receptor of Edward’s negligence. But all in all, if an audience had to choose who the villain in their narrative was – the one who had turned his back on the other, who unilaterally decided there was nothing he could do –, Edward would get the title by a landslide.

Still, it was hurtful to realize that with his whole being now. That, and the finality that that conversation carried. Like that was it for them. Forever.

Finally, he said, a bit discombobulated still, in a very low murmur, “No. The shit brother thing is all me.” That was one thing he reckoned. And he was even trying to make amends. Trying. Not necessarily succeeding. But that was the one thing he knew in his heart that he couldn't blame his parents for. Not his parents, not Greer, not some external factor he could not control.

And, after another moment of silence, came a moribund, defeated shrug. “Well, I'm glad someone was there for you, at least.” He had no punches left in him. All the energy he'd initially put into the discussion flowing down a drain of his own insignificance. He had nothing left to say.

Well, he had something to say... He just wasn’t ready to say it. Not there, not like that. He was already on the ground. Pathetic as he was. He wasn’t about to start begging for mercy too… Plus, at this point, he wasn’t even sure that it mattered anymore. He wasn’t even sure he mattered anymore. And, in his heart, as much as he resisted the awareness of this, he knew that he couldn’t blame Freddie. Couldn’t blame him, couldn’t blame Jesse, couldn’t blame Cara, or Lucas, or Océane…

He felt a knot in his throat that he acknowledged with sheer and utter hatred. Not right now, he told himself as he held back a tear.

And, in the cold light of the sun that had just begun to set behind them, he lifted up his head, meeting Freddie’s gaze once again – his own eyes marred with profound hopelessness – and, after a sigh, said, “Good to see you're doing well, Frederick.”

He turned around, finally, and started on his way back to Alcott, the lonely tear he'd been holding back finally slithering out of his eyelid and down his left cheek.

All the information they had laid out seemed to fall into a fairly believable narrative: Greer got into someone’s car, Someone lost control of the wheel and crashed, and another person died as a result of the crash. Greer didn’t know initially – which would explain the text he’d gotten ‘…someone confided in her that they did’, but Someone did, and at some point, they told her.

He was in the process of drawing up invisible Venn diagrams in his mind – people that he knew were receiving texts from G ∩ people Greer would trust enough to get into a car with – when his thoughts dissolved like clocks on a Dalí painting at the mention of Lincoln Crawford. Link, as Milo chose to phrase it.

“Crawford has it?” He spat Lincoln’s last name like it was a rotten apple he’d realized was spoiled a little too late. So, Lincoln Crawford had physical proof that his sister was in a car accident that probably killed someone? Now that was just fantastic.

His eyes rolled backward, and a gust of air billowed out of his nose in frustration.

Did he tell G that they should expose Greer’s potential withholding of evidence about a murder? Yes, but he only did that in order to protect himself in case the police found out! Now, knowing that Lincoln was in possession of incriminating proof about Greer was a totally different thing. “This just gets better and better...” He snorted, the sneer on his face smoothing into something a little more amiable. He knew it wasn’t Milo’s fault. And he didn’t blame him for it. He was just… frustrated.

With a long, heavy breath that emerged in a long, heavy sight, he found new footing and returned to his usual balanced, composed countenance. While Lincoln Crawford was at the top of his potential-murder-suspects list, Edward couldn’t envision the possibility of Ollie Inoue killing someone. But as the information Milo had just shared clarified, it had all been an accident, so he wasn’t sure he could rule out anyone just yet. Even Ollie. At least he was relieved to know that, apparently, the killer G had texted him about at the rave was not a psychotic, loose serial killer…  One of those was already too much on their plate. “If Crawford has it, he probably knows who did it, then.” And he was either holding it over said person’s head or protecting them. “That is, if he isn’t the person who actually did it.”

Milo's eyebrows drew together as he reached out for Edward's phone tilting it to let his eyes move over the words of the text. Again, and again. He pressed his lips together tightly, letting the phone go and shaking his head a few times as he was reminded of something from last year.

"You know how KKG has that haunted house every halloween? Last year when I went through it I found … a weird scrap of paper with Greer's writing on it," he explained. It might not be connected, but it certainly could be. "I don't remember exactly what it said on it but it spoke about some sort of accident that said she had let somebody else drive that night. That could be what the other thing is referring to. How hard is it to believe that Greer and someone else had gotten into some kind of car accident, or something." He could imagine that being something someone would want to hide, and it was more digestible to think about than someone actually killing someone. "I showed it to Ollie and he stole it." Sort of. They'd gotten into a fight and he'd left without giving it back, but Milo considered him to have stolen it. "He said he gave it to Link, for some reason." Maybe just to piss Milo off, or maybe… "I'm not saying one of them might have been involved in almost killing someone - or actually killing someone - but he must have given it to Link for some reason."