#I FUCKING KNOW WHAT SENILE MEANS AND I MEANT IT BITCH!!!!!!
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my dad thinks january 6th was a ruse. genuinely smh my head
#like he thinks it was a govt psyop#but not from good old don. heaven forbid#sometimes i feel like ive actually slipped into a different timeline#like i dont get it how can you fall for that bullshit bro#you fucking idiot lmfao#and the other night i called the current and recently former president senile#and he was like trying to gotcha me like ‘what do you mean both of them’#‘one of them i get but you have to be careful because senile means—‘#I FUCKING KNOW WHAT SENILE MEANS AND I MEANT IT BITCH!!!!!!#and then he tried to tell me that senator term limits were always in the constitution#andnthat they need reinstatement#and i was like ummmmmmmmmmmm no they werent#anyways for someone who hates big govt so much he loves to kiss its ass and roll over like a dog for it#that’s the thing about conservatives is like. you got your guns you got your ‘freedom’ but you blame everything bad on gvt#until it’s time to actually be an anarchist and then it’s ‘noooo we need structure we can’t loot big businesses😔im gonna throw up😔’
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Someone, Broom in Hand
Kaz died before he turned sixteen. That’s the story. When he reappears, it’s at the side of the Dark General, wearing the thin fluttering robes of the Sun Summoner. Jesper travels to the Little Palace to punch his fucking teeth out.
Kaz[/&]Jesper | 7.5k | content note: nonlinear narrative, past and offscreen abuse
The purple kefta is too big for Kaz. Jesper doesn’t want to think about why he dumped his coat over Kaz’ head, except that Kaz looks weird and cold in his ugly fancy yellow paper taffeta shirt, his one layer that he’s wearing apart from the underpants that leave his knees bare.
That he looks uncomfortable at all should be nothing but a trick of the violent light: there are two separate lit fireplaces in the bedroom, so awkwardly placed that they were probably retrofitted by a Fabrikator. It might have been David, though then Jesper would surely have heard a treatise on the stones used to erect the Little Palace, or Gaz, or Lizaveta or any of the other Materialki Jesper’s been bunking with but—but anyway, if Kaz felt like wearing more, he could order an attendant to fetch another shirt or two. Unless there’s nothing he owns that isn’t thin and revealing and fucking yellow. Unless he’s not allowed… Unless he can’t even dress himself anymore without a gaggle of attendants. Man moves up in the world and forgets everything he knew: tale as old as time.
“Just like you forgot us,” Jesper mutters, less viciously than he should.
The Kaz-doll makes no comment. No protest. No further manipulation of Jesper’s old affections. No snide mockery for Jesper passing his kefta on to the man that less than an hour ago, he tried to kill.
He just pulls the coat on. With his odd bare fingers—no claws after all, just thin and human—he closes button after button, including the top four that Jesper’s never once used, struggling to pull the material over the bone-tines sticking out of his chest. (And who back home would believe that Dirtyhands has ordinary fingers and a totally fucked up chest?) It would be easier to leave it open, but Kaz, even now he’s a sunny lapdog, doesn’t do easy. When he drops his arms, the too-long sleeves fall down over his hands, and with his thumbs he traps the fabric there. Sad little improvised half-gloves, more than Jesper’s seen him wear in the month since he let himself get conscripted into the Little Palace. He looks back at Jesper.
There’s no Thank you—Kaz Brekker never knew that word, and it seems in the two years they had him, whatever else they forced on him the Ravkans failed to teach him any more manners—but there is something new in his glare. It’s not just the purple washing the colour off his smooth—his way too smooth face. No. It’s something old: defiant, and angry, and scheming, just barely breaking through the placid paint and the rust beneath it.
Bit by bit, as he buttons up Jesper’s kefta Kaz simultaneously pulls on the moth-bitten coat of Dirtyhands he’s kept way back in the wardrobe of his brain, the ruthless killer, Bastard of the Barrel, Dregs lieutenant and future gang boss unless he gets murdered first. And it didn’t stick the first time. Pulls it over whoever it is that he was before. Over the doll beside Kirigan.
Over that person in the corner, that cornered boy, brittle and alone and stripped of armour and weapon and self, and Jesper wants to kill every single fucker in the Little Palace.
“Back home, you had a plan for everything,” he says instead. “I’m not assuming it’s a B or even a Z or a Q squared, but I know you. I know you’ve considered it. What do we do now your beloved long-lost friend’s shown up to help you steal the Sun Summoner?”
☼
Yesterday, Kerch accepted the terms of the Ravkan crown. Ex-crown. Dark fucking empire. Whatever. Test all children and send the Grisha to the Little Palace, conscript some people into the First Army—though what they still need an army for when they have the Fold is anyone’s guess—send food, booze, and, worst of all to the fastidious greedy Kerch, pay tribute without receiving anything at all in return. It was in the mouth of every paperboy on the streets, every mercher, every gang boss. By Ghezen how could we just surrender? they moaned, and Do you want to end like West Ravka? and Didn’t you see him? Kirigan’s going to crown himself king of everything. He’s unstoppable. And that boy next to him, the Sun—
Honestly? Jesper doesn’t give a fuck anymore. He’s paying fifty kruge just to sit on Inej’s bed for an hour and braid her hair. Ketterdam can burn to the sopping wet ground for all he cares. The world can rot. Like the Dregs did. Like everything Jesper cared for.
Inej, though, watched it.
“I had to see,” she’s whispering into Jesper’s ear, barely moving her miserable red-painted lips even though his hair should block out most lines of sight already. Inej’s smart, though, and desperate: if Jesper keeps returning to the Menagerie as nothing but a smitten small-time gangster with an incredibly vanilla hair fetish, he won’t catch attention. Tante Heleen will have fewer reasons to raise Inej’s rates. Jesper can barely pay for a visit a month as it is, and even those he allows himself mostly because he’s given up the hope of ever paying off her indenture unless he wins big.
“I snuck out yesterday. I had to see. Heleen got a new girl from Ravka six months ago, and she believes, too. Had a cheap pamphlet with her, last thing she had, of the new Saint. The illustrations… they looked just like Kaz.”
“Fu—” Inej elbows him. Jesper presses his lips into the braid over her ear. “Forget about Kaz Brekker. You’re the only one who matters now. He died, and you ended up here.”
She’s trapped in the Menagerie now because Kaz disappeared into the harbour like so many orphans before him; because he didn’t tell Jesper jack shit about Inej’s situation that might have helped him keep her safe in the Dregs; because he allowed senile Haskell who knows the names of all his five hundred thousand miniature boats and literally nothing else to stay in charge of the Dregs instead of killing him as soon as possible, which allowed Haskell to let the payments for Inej’s indenture lapse, which meant three months after Kaz just disappeared from his life Jesper got back to the Slat to find that Inej, too, had gone without a trace, and it was only luck and a pervert old Dreg that Jesper soon afterwards ‘accidentally’ shoved off a roof talking about the girls at the Menagerie that meant he found her again. Found her, only to realize he can’t help her at all.
Inej pulls Jesper’s ear back to her mouth. “I saw him, Jesper. I saw Kaz. Kaz is alive. He was there. I saw him.”
“You what?!” A sharp elbow darting out of her red sad nightgown that would have slipped right in-between his ribs if it was one of the knives she still mourns, and he’s not even given anything away. Heleen’s a hell bitch, but what use would she get out of random surprise?
“I saw Kaz. He’s the Sun Summoner. I was far away but—it was Kaz, standing next to General Kirigan, holding his hand, when the Merchant’s Council signed the terms of surrender. It was Kaz. I’m certain. Sankt Kaz.”
“I—” Jesper burrows his face into Inej’s hair. “You didn’t happen to have a knife on you, did you? A really tiny one she couldn’t confiscate. A super lethal one. Might never get as good a chance again.”
“Jes—”
“Fuck him sideways with a rusty shovel. That traitor. Did you forget how you ended up here? He left us. Saw a bigger pile of cash and skedaddled, I bet. He always wanted to be king. Guess becoming the Darkling’s queen was the next-best option.”
Inej doesn’t even defend Kaz. Jesper pulls away from her so he can look at her face. She always looks sad these days, unless she has specific painful orders to perk up, but it’s deeper now. She’s not doing the gesture, not holding her hand against her chest. Faith, now, is just one more thing Kaz Brekker took from her. Jesper can’t blame her, even though he never believed. Not even when Ravka’s new ‘Sun Summoner’ started gaining them the whole continent. Power’s power, though, no matter whether the stories around it are true. If Kaz truly is the Sun Summoner, then it’s not just Kaz Brekker who sent her back to the Menagerie—but one of her Saints. Fucking asshole.
He buries Inej in his arms. It’s all he can do now, to hold her until this month’s hour is up, because it’s not like he can just murder the Ravkans special weapon in retribution, can he? Can…
“This changes nothing,” he whispers. “The only priority is still paying off your indenture. Kaz quit the Dregs. He left us, and that means he’s nothing now. Less than nothing. I have a good feeling about the Makker’s Wheel at the Emerald Palace this weekend. Lots of pigeons there for the ‘Fete of Unity with Mother Ravka’ or whatever, and the minder thinks I’m hot. It’s risky, of course, but if I do this right—”
☼
Jesper’s just about to crawl right back out from under the bed—weapons raised, since hell knows what Kaz was planning back there, and fuck Jesper for apparently still harbouring enough trust in the guy to follow his lead two years after he deserted—but then, a series of clicks and rumbles heralds the opening of the door. Footsteps, and it slides shut again.
Shit, that was close.
And Kaz wasn’t bluffing, after all. Well, well… it certainly means something that Kaz, beloved Saint and Sun Summoner and ally to the Darkling, just told his attempted murderer slash old friend and-or stooge to hide. Kaz never did anything without a motive, be it profit or power or vengeance, and even this degraded, polished version surely isn’t so far gone as to engage in ideas as base as altruism. Ergo, Kaz will want to use Jesper for—something, though what is there he wants when he’s basically a prince of—but he isn’t, is he? He’s in a cell. A cell Jesper can unlock.
Three pairs of footsteps move around the room. One of them might be Kaz, but without his limp, it’s hard to recognize him. None of them says a word, which… it probably means this is a routine visit. Whatever’s going on, they all know their role.
Two pairs stop moving, while the third one—circles around them, it sounds like, and then someone else stumbles a little and catches themselves. Jesper hopes they’ll hurry up. He’s in mortal danger, technically—Kaz can still choose to reveal the intruder inside the Sun Summoner’s private room and-orprison, but, prison. Jesper’s far more useful alive, and so, hiding under the bed is fucking boring.
There’s not even anything interesting in-between the slat frame and the mattress. It’s the only place where you could hide anything—that Jesper can think of, at least, but there’s just nothing there at all, and Kaz used to be a real magpie. It’s a gaping void, just like everything else in this room. Like everything else in this palace, a chasm painted over with gilt and power. Unless—something’s stuck to the underside of a cross brace. Jesper slides a fingernail under the edge, and it comes loose easily enough. Not exactly a cache worthy of Dirtyhands, and anyway, it’s just a… a mangled piece of paper. A paper that looks like it’s been chewed on and spat out—and an entire corner actually torn off, or bitten, maybe—and whatever used to be printed onto it mostly rubbed off except for a couple of letters here and there, RAV. Curved lines and tiny hats. What would Kaz need to hide in his room? Apart from weapons he doesn’t have. Other people’s jewellery, dito. The only thing that Jesper knows about him now is that he’s trying to open the door. Trying to leave. It’s probably a map, then.
Which means an escape is planned, and Jesper’s just providing the desperately sought means. Good. That means he should have even more leverage here.
Somebody stumbles again, this time taking two steps to catch themselves. Almost as if they’ve jerked away.
“You’re falling behind,” slimes the smooth, rich voice of the Darkling. “On second thought, our people would miss you at the celebration. I’ll inform the staff that you wish to dance, all night long.”
☼
“You’re hanging around here because you heard that General Kirigan and the Sun Summoner are due back this hour, aren’t you?” The woman in a tidemaker’s kefta that just sidled up to Jesper speaks unaccented, high class central Ravkan. Even if her dark skin is an indication of Zemeni heritage, she came to the Little Palace long before the Darkling’s recent territorial acquisitions. She’s no ally, just like the rest of the crowd that surrounds them: an old-school Grisha, veteran Second Army, not someone whose loyalties may yet be pliable. Not someone like Jesper, whose skin started crawling the moment he showed his skills to a Ravkan occupation officer so he could sneak into the Little Palace. She’s friendly, though, and looks at Jesper’s face with clear appreciation. “You must be new. Hi. I’m Nadia.”
“Jesper,” he says, throwing a flirtatious grin like a blanket over his nerves and anger. It’s almost fun, playing the suave infiltrator assassin Grisha. Except Inej’s still in the Menagerie. And Kaz is still a piece of shit. “Yeah, I just got here! They didn’t test for Grisha ability in Novyi Zem when I was little, so I barely knew who I was… but once I heard about the Darkling, about this place, I crossed the True Sea as soon as I could!”
“That must have been so hard. So lonely. This place is…” She grimaces. “This place was our sanctuary. You’re lucky you’re Materialnik.”
“Why?” It’s the first time since his arrival that anyone’s had even a neutral opinion of Durasts, let alone good, and granted, it’s not like he cares that much about the ability his Ma died from, and he’s only talked to a dozen people since arriving yesterday, but…
“Listen, I know you want to see the Sun Summoner, and don’t tell anyone I said this but…” Nadia pulls Jesper a few paces away from the crowd on the training grounds, into a corner formed by two enormous bales of hay. Well-chosen: he can barely see the crowd that just surrounded them peek out behind the yellow stalks. “You’re sweet—”
“Listen, you’re gorgeous, but we just met—although, on second—”
“No!” She laughs, but it’s bitter. “You’re cute, but no. It’s my duty, to her, to protect you. The new ones. You’re Materialnik, so you’re not combat, so you’re not going to actually meet the Sun Summoner. Ever, if you’re lucky.”
“He’s that bad?” Kaz was always a dick, if Jesper’s honest—it was part of his charm—he was just a charming magnetic one, and back with the Dregs Jesper hated his ruthlessness just as much as he admired it. He was worst to his fellow Dregs and his enemies, though: he could charm a mark when needed. So it’s a tad unexpected that Kaz earned himself the hatred of a Grisha indoctrinated from childhood to see him as her Saint and saviour. Apparently, he’s just that talented. That obnoxious.
Well, Jesper’s not complaining. That makes his plan much easier.
“He killed my best friend,” Nadia whispers urgently. “The last time I saw her they were taking a walk, and then I found her, blisters and burns all over her body. Who else? There’s a reason he’s not allowed to have weapons. I heard the Darkling doesn’t let him go anywhere alone, or he would murder us all. He killed Baghra too, I’m sure—she was our teacher, but she disappeared two years ago. Just stay away from him, alright? He looks harmless, but he’s a rabid dog. Oh. There he comes.”
Jesper barely manages to whisper, “Thank you,” before she pulls away from him and returns to her previous place. Back to the crowd of Etherealki and Corporalki on the training field, but she finds her place in the last row, standing—hiding—behind two men much taller than her.
Jesper follows into the crowd. No need to alert Kaz that the past is hot on his heels, and then—
Well. There he is.
There someoneis, anyway.
If Jesper trusted Inej just a hair’s breadth less, he’d have cursed her and sneaked back out of the Little Palace the second he sees the person holding General Kirigan’s hand. Sure, the Sun Summoner is male, with dark brown hair and dark eyes and pale skin, and just a little bit taller than Kaz was at fifteen, but that’s where the similarities end. Dirtyhands had his impeccable mercher’s suits in a grim mockery of Ketterdam’s upper class, and gloves to feed the rumours, and a cane to walk and kill. His hair managed to be at once floppy and severe; just like his gaunt face, in the right light, made him look utterly captivating and not just like an annoyed scheming rat. He looked exactly like the Bastard of the Barrel should. Not pleasant or easy, but the person Jesper once would have followed into any lion’s den.
This—this Sun Summoner, on Kirigan’s arm, is beautiful. Healthful. Pristine.
Barely even a fucking person.
It’s the face, mostly.
You could never tell what Kaz was thinking, just looking at him, because he was, after all, thinking in layers upon layers of incomprehensible schemes at all times of the day and then went to bed and dreamt about ploys and deceptions. Jesper could barely follow him the three times total he deigned to explain part of his plans. But you could always tell that Kaz was thinking. Planning, scheming, plotting his greedy bloody vicious way out of and into every possible house on every possible street.
The Sun Summoner looks empty. He’s staring straight ahead, but he’s not even doing thatwith any kind of purpose. He’s like a pet on the Darkling’s arm. He looks more airheaded than all blackout drunk heirs and heiresses in Ketterdam combined.
It’s incredibly eerie, because now he’s searching for it Jesper can sort of read Kaz Brekker back into the Sun Summoner’s face. This face is much smoother, without the marks of past firepox, plumped and rosy-tinted, but that might partially just be a testament to the quality of Ravkan cooks—or, how skint the Dregs always were. He has a normal haircut. It probably suits him better, unless your standard for beauty is Dirtyhands, and unfortunately Jesper—anyway. The Sun Summoner doesn’t have a cane, either, and he doesn’t need one, apparently, because he isn’t limping. Ravkan royal healthcare, but honestly, Kaz could have pressed a Grisha healer into service back in Ketterdam only he always insisted—well, whatever. Fuck his words of wisdom. Fuck him. Fuck Kaz. Jesper shouldn’t even be remembering that snake.
Kaz Brekker betrayed Inej, left her to rot in the Menagerie, so whatever role he’s playing right now in whatever scheme this is—because it has to be a scheme that put Kaz into the yellow robe he’s in right now, so thin it’s translucent, and sleeveless too in the Ravkan winter. The Dregs tattoo on his arm is gone. Two Inferni are flanking him and the Darkling, their hands perpetually on fire just so Kaz can parade about in a robe no Menagerie slave would go outside in, but still, it’s Kaz. It’s definitely Kaz Brekker. Jesper can see it now.
Fuck him. He traded the Dregs for this. He abandoned them to Haskell’s mismanagement and let Inej go back to the Menagerie. He betrayed them all.
(Of course, Jesper abandoned Inej now too, and without a word, but—after that last catastrophic loss in the Emerald Palace, there’s a zero percent chance the Dime Lions wouldn’t have strung him up by his own entrails—or sold him into indenture, trying to make back at least a fraction of the fifty thousand kruge he owes—so really, he had no choice. It’s the next best thing, right? If he can’t help her anymore, at least he can kill the bastard that started all their troubles.)
Kaz just walks off, hand in the Darkling’s grasp, towards the Little Palace. Carelessly following the other man’s lead.
The old Kaz would have noticed Jesper.
☼
Footsteps and then, a series of clicks and pieces of wood and metal rubbing stones. The door. Kaz’s legs, taking steps backwards to the bed in a perfect, healthy gait. The rich soft creaking of the bed as he sinks down again, and in front of Jesper—the same two muscular, pale, bare, identical hairy calves. Like the legs of a statue, or one of those de Kappels he used to like, except the right leg is trembling finely. Barely noticeable if it wasn’t right in front of Jesper’s face. Those Ravkans maybe aren’t so crafty after all.
Then: nothing.
After what feels like an hour in which Jesper doesn’t dare move, even though the Darkling must have left already, a hand drops off the edge off the mattress. Middle and index finger erect, then crooking twice in quick succession. It takes a moment to connect. Jesper hasn’t seen those signals in such a—move, path clear. Yes. That’s what it was.
Jesper wriggles out from under the bed, annoyingly free of dust. Pristine. Empty, just like everything else.
“Didn’t think the Sun Summoner needed to use our secret code, boss,” he drawls up at Kaz from the floor. Kaz, with his barren black eyes and his new porcelain doll face, picking at the wide open collar of his yellow shirt.
“Never drop a tool you can still use,” Kaz says. A beat. “Didn’t think I was your boss anymore.”
“You aren’t.” Jesper turns his head away, looking at the spotless floor and the intricately painted walls from his low vantage point. Exquisite, imposing, empty: a Saint’s cage, as beautiful and terrible as Inej’s room in the Menagerie. The bare wall hiding the inaccessible door. “That guy really fucking hates you.”
Kaz doesn’t reply. Jesper turns his head back to watch him again, even though that won’t give him anything more: Kaz used to be willfully inscrutable even back in the Barrel, but after whatever Grisha surgery they did to him, there are only traces left of the real person trapped inside him. Dollface, Jesper thinks again. Who’d have expected they’d turn fucking Dirtyhands into a dollface?
It’s Kaz who turns away, fingers clawed into his neckline. His voice is rough, even if it’s a shadow of the damaged rasp that used to be him. “I thought about it sometimes, back then. The first time.”
Every fibre of Jesper’s being wants to interrupt with, What are you talking about? I don’t speak cryptic anymore. I’m out of practice. He should get off the floor, raise his guns, resume—but whatever it is, whether it’s some stupid new Grisha power, whether it’s zowa, or his memory of Kaz is just coming back, he doesn’t—
“It was like this. I was on my bed already, usually, when it grew hard—and I thought you would be up for not being on the bed, and there wasn’t much else in my room. I imagined watching you. I didn’t touch it. That was better.”
Uh. What.
“He probably knows I threw up after we—I tried to hide it. I thought I could manipulate him into seeing me as his partner, I thought I’d healed, that I’d practiced enough—but he just saw that I was still weak. He saw he could control me. But if he didn’t do it again because I threw up, I’m—”
He was right. Jesper would have stayed on the cold hard floor back then for him. Even now, Jesper would crawl around like a worm jerking off for the fucking asshole he got himself trapped in the Little Palace to murder, if that meant Kaz never had to—
Kaz pulls the neckline of his flimsy thin single ugly yellow shirt closed. The shirt that doesn’t protect him. The shirt he didn’t choose.
☼
Jesper’s imagined the Sun Summoner’s quarters, of course. Most of the Grisha in the Little Palace are wretched gossips—or Jesper’s been charming as many people into spilling as many secrets as possible to him so he can plan his attack, same difference—and anyway, he needs a backdrop for his imagined kill shots. It’s Kaz Brekker, after all. Dirtyhands. The ex-Bastard. You’d want to rehearse that death. Think of some witty one-liners.
Nadia said it was gorgeous inside, like a dollhouse. Lizaveta, who Jesper’s been told to shadow so he can learn how to become a proper Durast, insisted it’s totally empty. Grzegorz said there were live kittens inside, so the Sun Summoner could sate his lust for innocent blood, Sayyna thought there was a giant swimming pool, and a lovely naïve boy from the edge of the permafrost up at the former border insisted it was just like the quarters of all other Grisha, except with a little more privacy. Since they’re all siblings fighting for a world that will be kind to Grisha.
Jesper, privately, imagined a few stolen paintings and a mishmash of furniture. Because he’s an idiot.
This is just like—
If it is the Sun Summoner’s bedroom at all. It should be. Jesper did his homework: he followed the Darkling and his Sun Summoner creature that wears the skin used to house Kaz, and a variety of Materialniks, to the end of this specific corridor, five times in total. Watched the Materialniks unlock a hidden mechanism, and then the two most powerful men in Ravka—in all charted countries, ruling everything this side of the True Sea but pockets of Shu Han and even that’s a matter of time—they walked inside, hand in hand. The Darkling always left, after a while, alone, and so it only made sense to assume that the hidden room that Jesper just snuck up to and unlocked is, in fact, the Sun Summoner’s room. Kaz’ room. It’s the best time for breaking into it, too. There’s going to be a party in two days, so hopefully everyone’s too busy, and even if the Sun Summoner’s out doing preparations then Jesper can just hide in here and kill him in an ambush. That’s probably easier, actually.
First, though, he locks and hides the door again, because… yeah, he went to Ravka expecting to get caught. At some point. This is a suicide mission for revenge, after all—suicide is in in the title. But it’s no fun if he gets caught before the gory glorious revenge part. Before Kaz admits he was a piece of shit. Both guns cocked and ready, he turns around, and actually inspects the room he broke into.
No. Nothing changes, even when he blinks and blinks again. That wasn’t a faulty first impression.
The room still looks like a fucking prison cell.
A fancy, clean cell, but a cell nonetheless. It’s empty except for the bed, and Jesper owes Lizaveta more money than he has on him (though to be fair, technically, Jesper’s fifty thousand kruge in debt anyway, so does it really make a difference at all if he’s a few Ravkan coins more in the red), and even the windows—Jesper’s had enough training now that he can look at the windows and see the subtly reinforcing mesh inside the glass. No curtains. No curtain rods. Nothing—there’s a subtle mesh inside the bedclothes too and the frame of the bed looks far too sturdy to be torn apart by anyone who isn’t a skilled Materialnik. There are meshes in front of the fireplaces.
Nothing in here that can be used as a weapon.
Not against others, and not against oneself.
No escape.
There’s nothing in this stark white massive room but a person, acting like he never did before and still looking more like himself than when he was walking through the training grounds. It’s probably the distance from other people. He’s got his back to Jesper and he’s in the furthest corner from the door, which should be a tactical misstep because he can’t escape from there but really—it’s as good as any other location, in this room. There’s nothing of use to anyone left, not even to someone as shrewd as Dirtyhands used to be before he lobotomized himself into the Sun Summoner. Or before he was—
Kaz pushes himself up from his kneeling position using the walls he faces. He mutters, “I beg your forgiveness for keeping you waiting, Aleks.” His voice sounds odd.
“Are you crying?”
“Jesper?!”
Kaz turns so quickly he has to brace himself against the wall again lest he fall over. His translucent shirt ripples. His dark eyes in his weird new too-handsome face trace over Jesper, again and again. If they were fingers, Jesper would feel like he’s being caressed. No, that’s the wrong thought. A thought from a book he won’t admit he’s read. Jesper’s got his guns out. He came here for a reason. A bloody, glorious reason.
“Inej wouldn’t want me to do this, but she’s locked up in the fucking Menagerie,” he announces, just to see whether Kaz can feel even a shred of guilt. “Just so you could be a Ravkan prince in ugly yellow lingerie.”
“Just follow my—”
No, then. Or maybe it’s just the new face Jesper can’t read. Not that it matters. “Shut up. Do you remember what you told me when I joined the Dregs? About what you’d do to traitors? Well, I have added a couple of my own ideas.”
“Shut up, Jesper. You can monologue when we’re done, but—”
Jesper aims right between his weird, smooth pebble eyes. “When you left us, you knew it would all go to shit. Inej’s in the Menagerie, and there’s no way to get her out again. Haskell let the Dregs collapse after you disappeared. No Dregs, no kru—”
Kaz flinches. “Quick. Get under the bed. Now.”
Whether it’s surprise, a sex instinct, or—far worse—a lingering sense of loyalty, Jesper obeys instantly.
☼
“We’re lost,” Jesper moans. They’ve been surrounded by trees for four days. He’s not even sure they’re trudging vaguely southwards anymore. Everything looks the same. What wouldn’t Jesper give to be back in Ketterdam already, with its lovely street names and pedestrians and garish landmarks (and gangsters about to string him up), or at least somewhere in Novyi Zem where he sort of understands the landscape. Or what’s left of Shu Han, so Kaz can unclench.
“We’re not lost,” Kaz rasps. “Keep going.”
“How do you—the map.” The half-chewed-up map hidden under Kaz’ bed, the map he snuck into his coat—Jesper’s kefta, whatever—even though he probably already knows it by heart.
“Yes. The map.”
“Why the fuck are you telling me to choose where we’re going if you’re memorized the map?!” What an asshole. Jesper just clean forgot what a piece of shit Kaz is. He forgot it so utterly he’s helping him break out of Ravka, without even extracting anything in return. He’s a fucking idiot. “Is it so you can blame me when we get caught?”
Kaz, the dick, rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t I rather not get caught at all? Think, Jesper—what’s the one advantage you have over me?”
“I’m prettier,” Jesper shoots back. “My winning personality. I have a better tolerance for hard liquor. Fashion sense. I’m funny. No, wait—I’m a much more generous lover.”
“He doesn’t know you,” Kaz hisses, making the pronoun sound even more slimy than the guy it’s referring to, which is honestly quite a feat. “Do you think this is my first attempt? He’ll send people to every single route out of his core territory that poses any advantages. He has enough soldiers for that. What he doesn’t have, though, is enough soldiers to watch every route your bird-brain might pick at random.”
And then, he stalks ahead viciously. No. Limps ahead.
It’s been growing much more pronounced over the days. At first, even without a cane he walked just like any person with two healthy legs, and that’s what Jesper expected. The Ravkans healed their Saint’s leg, didn’t they? That’s what they would do. Only Kaz can think around enough corners to make his bad leg into an advantage. But with every passing day, Kaz’ gait has grown closer to what Jesper remembers from back before the world went to shit. Kaz was touchy about accommodations back then, though, or people being nice in general, so Jesper hasn’t even brought up improvising a new cane. All he’s dared to do is slowing down his own steps to what he remembers would have matched Kaz, back then.
And insisting on taking breaks. Like he does now.
“It’s almost night, you refuse to make light despite being made of sunshine, and I’m hungry,” he complains.
“I’d assume that Ketterdam has made you soft,” Kaz rasps, “o cherished crown jewel of crime and commerce, and what’s the difference.” He limps back to the fallen tree that Jesper has chosen as their camp site, though, so he must be a just few steps short of utter collapse.
Jesper unwraps the two woollen blankets he’s been carrying on his shoulders. They didn’t get a chance to steal much, mostly because Kaz was a prick about it and didn’t even let Jesper go back to his room: apparently there was time for Kaz to fold up a paper bag into a facsimile of an envelope and write an address in Djerholm onto it and have Jesper talk a stable-hand into riding out to deliver it, right now, but no time to search anywhere else for supplies. They took just whatever they found in the stables, which amounted to extra coats, some boots, the blankets, and horse feed. And gloves. Kaz declared it was time to run as soon as he’d found gloves.
Balefully, Jesper chews on his oats. Even wrapped in his blanket, the night is cold, and Kaz—who’s still wearing nothing but underpants besides the robe/gloves/Jesper’s kefta/stolen coat combo and ill-fitting boots without socks—is shivering violently.
“We should steal you some real clothes from the next house we see,” Jesper mutters. “And some decent food.”
“We’re not stealing anything until we’re in Shu.”
They’ve had this argument before. Jesper shouldn’t be as thrilled about that as he is. There’s no way to resolve it, until they find the border—or until Kaz keels over from hypothermia, because then even his rational fear of detection won’t keep Jesper from finding some trousers. For the time being, though—
“I’m going to sit closer and steal your body heat. In exchange, you can wrap my blanket around your legs.”
Kaz glares. He can do it masterfully again: just like the limp snuck back as soon as he left the Little Palace, his face over the days grew thin and pockmarked. Vicious. Jesper’s commited it to memory, in case Oily, Tall and Dark steals it again.
“If you freeze to death tonight, this was all for nothing. I could be sleeping in a palace right now. Well, a dingy side house, with the other Materialniks, but joke’s on them. This whole escape would have been much more complicated if I’d been a Squaller. Or a Sun Summoner, who refuses to even use his power to warm us up.”
“Leave it.” Kaz runs a finger roughly over where his collarbone should be, and he shudders. The temperature, or something worse, some new pain he’s not revealing—but carefully, he leans his blanketed side against Jesper, and allows Jesper to throw his own blanket over him, too.
“I’ll make you a new cane tomorrow. With a head, too, if we can scavenge enough metal from the buttons. Not a crow. You haven’t earned that until we free Inej, but maybe… a worm.”
“That’s just a stick,” Kaz mutters. “Go to sleep.”
Easy for him to say: Kaz is taking the first watch, and so he’s not balancing on a fallen log in the cold without a blanket, trying to fall asleep sitting up while leaning against Kaz’ shoulder with as little contact surface as physically possible. After some hours or minutes, though, Jesper’s suffering is too much for even Kaz to handle. Who knew there was a limit! Who knew Kaz had heard of mercy! Maybe he just doesn’t like Jesper wriggling next to him. He fists a lock of Jesper’s curls and pulls his head down into his lap.
“I didn’t help you because I want to fuck you, just so you’re aware,” Jesper jokes, because this is actually—it’s actually almost comfortable curling up on the fallen tree with his head on the blanket on Kaz’ thighs, even though there’s the remnants of a branch digging into his hip and they’re on the run from all Grisha in the world and also the new, expanded Ravka that covers nearly every country on this continent and Inej’s still imprisoned and if they actually manage to get back to Ketterdam, Jesper’s going to be in so much shit. And still, it’s… “I mourned you, you know, when Haskell told me you’d died. I wasn’t just angry because the Dregs were a shambles without you.”
Kaz is quiet. Jesper sort of wishes he’d touch his hair again, or his shoulder—and he never seemed to have any trouble touching the Darkling, so what, is Jesper not good enough—but he also looked like a void back there, like in order to endure it maybe he had to smother—
“That’s not why I mentioned that fantasy back there,” says Kaz, lyingly. Sure. He just happened to invoke Jesper’s obvious past crush for no reason whatsoever. The awfully convenient infatuation Jesper didn’t have sense nor skill to hide back then. Kaz is exactly the kind of person who’d exploit someone’s first love. The person who’s realize, long before Jesper did, that maybe, he’s not actually completely over—but maybe that wasn’t the important bit then. It went on. And that story about the Darkling—
“You thought I’d help you out of pity?” Jesper would have done, if he hadn’t been so angry—if he hadn’t been already so freaked out by the placid expression, the clothes that looked expressly designed to torture the Kaz he knew, the cell… It wasn’t pity. What is it you feel when a person you knew—maybe not his secrets or his past or his thoughts or what trouble he just dragged you into because he’s a secretive dick, but still, you knew him, it was burned into your heart, his movements and the codes he taught you and just when a heist was about to trigger one of his fears he’d never mentioned and you needed to get him out now… What do you feel, when that person comes back from the dead, and comes back wrong. Like a stag with too many tongues inside its mouths and its hands locked behind its throat. Except the other way round, because Kaz Brekker was terrifying, and what he was made into or what pretended to be was only scary because it wasn’t. Anyway. Kaz is a manipulative commandeering asshole again, so it doesn’t matter. “You despise pity.”
“It’s a tool, just like everything else. One he couldn’t take. And pride just gave me—pity got me out of the Little Palace, didn’t it?”
“Something did.” Jesper tips his non-existent hat, and Kaz slaps the top of his head to make him stop wriggling. He keeps the hand there this time, knotted tight in Jesper’s hair. It stings, but it’s also… Jesper closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep before inevitably, it’ll leave.
“Pride. It was my fault.” Kaz’ voice almost sounds the way it did back home. Harsh, vicious—and damaged. Human. “I thought I could bear it. He was—the Sun Summoner could have no weaknesses, he said, nothing for our enemies to use, and I allowed myself to think… ‘our’ enemies. I practiced. It was easier, after a while, to bear touch. I thought—it seemed like the best option, to stand at his side, and to make him see me as his partner I should… I was tired of being a prisoner. I thought I could use him.”
That’s bad enough, but… “But you’re limping again,” Jesper hisses. “If he’s forming you like a clay doll to make you his perfect Sun Summoner, he should have started with healing you.”
“They did, when I first came to the Palace. I didn’t want—but I learned to accept it. After my first escape, he broke it again, personally. Had it tailored over, afterwards, every few days. Incentive for cooperation.”
There’s nothing Jesper can do to fix this stagnant, lifeless voice. He could hug Inej, at least, but this—
“It’s what I would have done, too. He was just better than me, and he didn’t need another one, so he had to change me.”
“By dressing you up and making you look like a doll. If you tell me it was a sex thing, at least I could—no, still couldn’t relate. His taste’s shit. That beauty was pretty ugly,” Jesper mutters into Kaz’ thighs.
Kaz pulls at his hair again—probably a rebuke, but the sting travels down Jesper’s spine to—well, it’s time to change the subject rather quickly. What’s there to… oh yeah, his head’s on a blanket. That’ll do. “I just had a great idea,” he says, and—yeah, his voice is still completely normal and steady. A little loud, maybe. Kaz hasn’t moved his hand away, though, so it can’t be too obvious.
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Fuck off, my bright idea of breaking into the centre of Grishadom to kill you in a murder-suicide attack because what else was I going to do, let the Dime Lions grind me between millstones to press out the fifty thousand kruge I may perhaps still owe them—”
“You what?!”
Jesper powers on, because that’s really a conversation best left for when he’s not lying in a forest with his head in Kaz’ lap and trying to forget, desperately, the way it felt when Kaz pulled his hair. The way it feels when he does it again. “I’m just saying, it saved you. You’re welcome. So anyway. We only have one pair of trousers. I was going to suggest we alternate wearing mine, but we both know I wouldn’t get them back.”
“Your so-called idea is… interesting,” Kaz mutters, voice almost pulled asunder trying for both disturbed and mocking. “But I’m far more interested to hear about the fact you skipped out of Ketterdam without paying your debts. A crime punishable by death in every gang. Every gang in Ketterdam, the city where you want us to go.”
And yeah, that’s occurred to Jesper, but… “That’s a problem for later. You’ll think of something, boss, if we make it that far. You always have a plan. For now… I wouldn’t—well, I would carry you if your legs freeze off, but it wouldn’t be fun for either of us, so… You sewed yourself up constantly back home, and I’d wager sewing is just like swimming. Once you know, you can never forget.”
“Skills are useless if you lack every materia—Jes—”
“Yeah, I definitely can turn a button into a needle now. We just need to tear the second blanket into some vaguely trouser-shaped pieces, and for thread—well, we could just tear up your Sun Summoner robe, it’s useless anyway.”
“Jesper,” Kaz rasps again.
“I’m a genius?”
“No, you’re still an idiot. Why not, though?”
☼
Kaz Brekker disappeared between Sunday and Tuesday night. That’s all Jesper knows, and it’s that precise only because Kaz has been experimenting with the payroll recently. Apparently, handing out wages on late Tuesday maximizes the chances of flushing as much money as possible back into the coffers of Dregs-owned establishments, and he’s also taken to handing out the money personally. Some weird power play that Haskell hasn’t yet forbidden: everyone knows Kaz barely bothers to keep his accomplices informed about the job they’re currently doing, and the big boss tolerates him mostly because Dirtyhands is still more useful insubordinate than dead.
It’s Wednesday now, though. Wednesday afternoon.
And Jesper still hasn’t gotten paid.
Kaz is gone.
Jesper’s in Haskell’s office, inquiring about everyone’s money. Too irritated by the games of Makker’s Wheel he was forced to miss out on last night to perform anything but the most pro forma I remember my boss’ boss is technically my boss and can kill me pleasantries. Instead of promising to kick Kaz’ ass, though, like Jesper hoped, Haskell just tells him Pasko will give him his wages tomorrow.
Haskell won’t say anything else. Just, “That boy got himself mixed up in something he couldn’t handle alone, and it fucked him. You won’t like what you find, when you go looking for the dead.”
#jesper fahey#kaz brekker#inej ghafa#kaz x jesper#I'm free! well sort of I have an idea for a coda in which jesper roleplays the darkling so.......#dimtraces makes things#shadow & bone#shadow and bone
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seal moves in
(i dont remember if i ever posted this so im reposting it, this is from the far far future)
Seven centuries ago the Wyld washed over an entire direction in the wake of a Crusade, and it recedes slowly. Islands of lucidity jut forth like washed-up debris, either raksha playgrounds or remnants of Creation. It is here, scant miles beyond the edge of the world, that Siege Perilous looms. The sun does not reach here, though there is light; the deserts give way to paving-stones and green hills, and a hamlet in the shadow of a castle. The hamlet is empty, long abandoned by the look of it -- but surely less than seven centuries empty, when bleached banners still fly in the square intact. No, these houses were evacuated a mere five years ago, when their ancient hero finally returned to liberate them from raksha encirclement. When the castle's heir took up his rightful seat. When the Seal of Unforgotten Kings came home. A marble statue stands in the Siege's courtyard, gazing down on those who would enter the castle. In those five years, it has seen the Dusk a scant three times.
A bottle of champagne smashed across its sunburst-crowned brow. "I hereby chrishen thish party... open!" Star declared.
Seal glowered up at him, perched on the statue's shoulder. "Get down from there," he shouted. "I wanted to fucking drink that."
Star shrugged, tossing the neck of the bottle over his shoulder and fluttering down. "Desh brought more, I think. Beshidesh, that shtuff schucksh. Gotta drink like a bucketful to get tipshy."
Des had indeed brought more; various bottles nestled in the crook of her arm, and beside her a white-haired boy labored under what appeared to be picnic baskets laden so high they obscured his face. Des clicked her tongue at him. "You know you don't have to carry all that, Sever," she said. "I could have got a ghost to do it."
Shoulders shrugged carefully on either side of the tower. "I don't mind," a basket at face height replied. Severed Tail of the Serpent Resembles Truth By its Writhing carefully adjusted the tower, distributing the weight more evenly, and continued on his way. Behind him, Des frowned and followed.
+++
Seal flung the castle doors open. "Honey, we're home," he shouted, emboldened by the presence of his friends. The empty hall echoed it back to him, white dust swirling in the corners from the sudden breeze.
Take this seriously, a voice said in his head. Seal could see him out of the corner of his eye: the spitting image of the statue outside, standing ramrod-straight and two heads taller than Seal, running a finger across the breastplate of a nearby suit of armor. Brightest Morning Star frowned at Seal. Is this any way to treat your domicile? The inheritance of centuries?
"Shut the fuck up, old man," Seal muttered through gritted teeth. "You're not even real."
Realer than your cleaning skills, the man responded before Star breezed through the space where he should have been standing. "Scho, where do you want thisch?" he said, louder than usual and brandishing a pilfered bottle of Shadow's brandy. He was pointedly not making eye contact, and Seal recognized that he had heard him talking to his preincarnation.
He flushed with anger. "Do I look like I give a shit?" he snapped. "We're gonna desecrate every fucking room in this castle, I didn't make a fucking itinerary."
Schtar shrugged and moved on, sweeping his gaze around the castle -- probably doing that dumb Investigation shit again. "Oh, here we go," he said, opening a door. "Big ol' dining hall, kitschen muscht be thish way. C'mon, let'sh shee if they got schomefing to toasht thish bread with." He disappeared into the darkness, and the other Deathknights followed suit.
Brightest Morning Star reappeared in front of Seal, a phantom wind blowing away the nothingness that obscured him. You haven't picked up after yourself since the last time you were here, he reminded the boy disapprovingly. Or the time before that. You could at least sweep up some wreckage before they see.
Seal grabbed an ornamental vase and flung it at the apparition. It sailed through empty air and smashed against the floor. "Fuck you!" he shouted at the silent hall, but images assailed him behind his eyelids: ruined tapestries with the faces singed away, spears with the hafts snapped in half and buried in discarded shields, the remnants of Seal's last tantrum here. The vast mural of stained glass he knelt before, unable to destroy it, unable to look directly at his predecessor's face. Seal swiped the back of his hand across his eyes, wiping away hot tears. He flung the red droplets on the floor. "Fine!" he declared angrily. "I'll go do your dumb fucking chores. Bitch."
Broom's in the upstairs closet, if it hasn't rotted away, Brightest Morning Star sniped from inside his mind.
+++
The broom was not in the upstairs closet.
Seal stared at the rack where it should have lay, where his-and-not-his memories pictured it beside the dustpan, which was also gone. "Hey, old man," he called out. "Are you fucking senile or did you just have servants do all your shit for you? Don't know where your own goddamn broom is?"
No response. Seal slammed the closet shut, and it rattled the frame pleasingly. "What the fuck now?" he asked out loud. Did someone break into the castle and steal his fucking broom? Glorious First Light loomed in the back of his mind. What if, by taking it from the castle, he'd left it vulnerable?
"Shit, shit, shit," he muttered, and broke into a run. Seal might have hated all this fucking stuff, but it was his fucking stuff. The treasury was filled with priceless First Age artifacts and also a bunch of stuff he'd smashed to pieces, and if some raksha bastard even fucking thought about fucking touching it --
Seal skidded to a halt. There was no raksha bastard. The treasury door was open, and as far as Seal could tell everything was in place. Except for the story crystals he'd smashed to pieces last time he was here, and had left scattered across the floor. As far as Seal could tell, there wasn't even a splinter of crystal on the floor, though their spots on the shelves remained empty.
What the fuck? Seal spun around. The sword he'd bent in half was gone as well, replaced with a completely different one -- a jian instead of a dao. The row of statuettes was artfully arranged to hide the ones Seal had beheaded. Even the trophy case Seal had cut in half was standing straight. He ventured over and tapped a finger against it.
It crashed down -- someone had merely shoved the two halves together so neatly Seal hadn't spotted the join. The noise startled him, and he jumped back -- and, out of the corner of his eye, saw movement. "Hey!" he cried reflexively, and pursued. The castle was a maze of halls and display cases and rooms full of junk, but whoever Seal was chasing seemed to know it like the back of their hand -- Seal only caught a flicker of movement, a flap of cloth disappearing around a corner. "Stop fucking running, bastard!" he shouted, and hurled Glorious First Light.
The spear blasted a crater in the wall at the end of the corridor, coming to rest buried a full hand into the stone -- and a hair's breadth from Des' face, where she was coming around the corner. "Who are you yelling at?" she asked, unflapped, stepping back and tucking her hair back behind her ears. "There's no one here."
Seal came to a stop with one foot up against the wall, trying to yank the weapon out. "Some -- fucker -- stole my broom," he said, grunting. "And cleaned my fucking treasury."
Des raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Stole your broom and not your hoard of ancient and extremely valuable relics?" she asked. "And... swept with it? Surely you should be thanking them."
"I don't know what they fucking did," Seal grumbled. He pulled one last time and finally pulled the spear free, which meant that boy and weapon went tumbling head over heels. From his new position on the floor, Seal swore loudly and freely.
Des' eyes sparked with laughter as she helped Seal to his feet. "Well, if you think the mystery can wait for an hour or two, Star has managed to warm up the pie. Without any slime involved."
"Pie," Seal said fervently, and forgot about the broom entirely.
+++
The pie was burnt. The sandwiches were dry. The brandy tasted like shit. Seal enjoyed the hell out of it all.
They had left the great hall dark and empty and chosen to eat in the kitchen instead. It was cozy, gathered around the slab in the center while the fire blazed in the stove. Des had found a fork and knife; Star and Seal were eating with their hands. Seal wasn't sure Sever was eating at all, but every time he looked there was less food on the plate, so he guessed he must be. Also, Seal was drunk.
"Sol's own fucking cock," he said, wiping his mouth. "This stuff really fucking tastes like a rat's ass." He slammed the empty glass down on the table and motioned for Des to pour him another shot. "But damn if it doesn't fucking do you."
Star's giggle broke into hiccups. "How do you know what a rat'sh assh tashtesh like?" he managed to slur out. "Eat a lot of rat asshesh in your schildhood?"
"Not as many as your fucking mom," Seal shot back. Star gasped, actually offended, but Sever distracted him with a slice of pie and Seal gloated silently at getting the last word.
"So," Des said, pouring herself another glass of rose, which Star and Seal weren't allowed to touch (Sever had a small cupful in front of him). "What sort of magnificent things have you got in this castle anyways?"
Seal shrugged around a mouthful of burger (helpfully prepared by Pho ahead of time). "Treasury mostly," he replied. "I raided the armory but there's a bunch more shit in there. Like five fucking rooms full of random junk. East tower's full of little glass things, no idea what they do. Library, chapel, hangar --"
"--hanger?" Star piped up. "Like a big clothesh hanger?"
"I believe Seal means a hangar," Sever cut in smoothly. "Where First Age flying vessels are often stored."
Star's jaw hung open, comically filled with half-mashed mince. "You got airschipsh?"
A grin spread across Seal's face. "Hey, Star. Betcha can't fly faster than a First Age warbird."
"Betscha can't hit me in the air with a Firscht Age warbird," Star countered, and they were off.
+++
This is not the intended use of a warbird.
"Can't hear you over the sound of this fucking warbird!" Seal shouted, over the sound of this fucking warbird.
These are holy weapons of war, not children's toys!
"Eat my fucking ass," Seal answered hotly, pulling back on the harness-gloves. The warbird responded, thirty thousand pounds of ancient magic carefully yoked to steel and fire, made to cut through behemoths like wet paper. Currently, Seal was trying to keep Star in his sights, though the winged Day Caste was swooping erratically through the air above the Siege Perilous.
At the very least you could shoot him down, Brightest Morning Star replied a little petulantly. It's commendable how quickly you've picked up the controls, but we both know it's really my hand at the helm. Show me what you can do.
Seal waved a hand dismissively, which caused the warbird to spin alarmingly through the air. "I'm not gonna kill him," he responded when the aircraft was back under control. "Just wanna show off a little."
Oh, and smashing a warbird into him at a hundred miles an hour won't kill him?
"He's got Resistance Charms," Seal said, squinting as he finally lined Star up in the center of his sights -- "He'll probably be fine." -- and rammed the throttle forwards.
The warbird's skeleton, Seal vaguely remembered his preincarnation vaguely remembering, was made of orichalcum and jade inlaid with starmetal. But all the architectural parts were mundane steel, so it really should have been no surprise when the warbird intercepted Star with a sickening crunch and the nose of the warbird crumpled inwards, Star's body tearing through it like a cannonball and rocketing backwards past Seal's head. Seal whooped even as the warbird began blaring new alarm sirens; orichalcum and steel versus soulsteel and Abyssal, it was no contest.
I hope you're happy with yourself, Brightest Morning Star spat. Try not to land on my best roses.
The ground rose to meet Seal, and everything went black.
+++
When he came to, he was on fire.
Seal yelped and struggled out of the warbird's cockpit, slapping at himself all over. Half his shirt had burned away, and the right leg of his pants tore off entirely as he snagged it on something falling out of the cockpit. The flame didn't blacken his skin like it should have, but it still stung like a bitch, so Seal spent a good minute rolling on the ground and loosing a barrage of curses.
"Having fun?" a voice asked from nearby. Seal righted himself to find Des sitting at a glass table, teacup in hand. They were in the castle's courtyard, though Seal could see a smouldering streak on the roof where the warbird must have caught it on the way down; empty flowerbeds surrounded them, organizing the courtyard in a geomantically auspicious pattern. Seal could remember every flower that had bloomed here once, the perfected Essence they had channeled. None of them were the black roses spilling out where Bloodthorn was planted blade-down in the soil.
"Practically dust," Des said, setting down her teacup and running a hand over the dirt. "Haven't been watered in two thousand years. Still, there's life in these old things yet." She fondled a rose, heedless of the thorns. Seal was dimly aware that she was making a point, and decided not to care.
"Where's Star?" he demanded. "Fucker owes me fifty yen."
Des shrugged. "He landed over there," she said, indicating a point over Seal's shoulder. He turned to see a divot gouged into the earth, and at the end a pair of craters he had come to associate with the Wings. "Then he got up, mumbled something about his bones, and limped away. Sever was preparing a party in the chapel, so I think he went there to lie down." Seal lit up and turned to go, but Des caught his hand. "Listen, Seal," she said, her voice lower. "Honestly. How are you feeling?"
A butterfly fluttered down to land on a rose. Vibrant blue shimmered against velvet black.
"Weird, honestly," Seal admitted. He came back to flop down into a chair opposite Des. "It's like.... he's still here, obviously, but this place isn't his anymore. It's mine. But he keeps trying to be me, or I keep trying to be him." He grunted in frustration at not having the words, but Des hummed softly and nodded.
"It's complicated," she agreed. "Hard to tell what's you and what isn't. And everything hurts in every direction. You know," she said, saving Seal the awkwardness of having to reply, "you should try talking to Sever sometime. You've got a lot in common."
Seal scoffed. "Sever?" he said scornfully. "I love the guy, but he's got more in common with a filing cabinet than a human being."
Des hummed again. "You might say that. Just as he might say you've got more in common with your spear than with any of us." Seal's anima burst into darkness, but Des laid her hand on his -- gently, communicating her calm. "Exactly," she said. "Exactly."
Seal grumbled and withdrew his power. "Fine," he said. "Let's go see about this fucking party.
+++
They found Sever and Star in the chapel. Star was laying on a pew, an arm over his eyes, still smoking slightly. The Wings had sawed a hole in the back of the pew so they could drape dejectedly onto the floor. Sever was sitting on the floor, a scroll of parchment rolled out down the center aisle. Seal limped closer to discover that Sever was making exactly the itinerary he hadn't made: a room-by-room schedule that spanned the entire night.
"Sol fucking Invictus," Seal muttered. "Did you hand write four fucking copies of the same schedule?"
"It is not the same schedule," Sever explained, handing them out. "These also contain personalized information such as alcohol preferences and sleeping arrangements. But, yes."
Des took her itinerary with interest. "My, Sever, this is.... very thought out. You've placed yourself on a team with Seal for chicken?"
Seal thought he saw the shadow of a blush cross Sever's face. "Star has an advantage because of his wings and Seal has one because of his Caste, so I thought your style of motion would complement Star's best." Des nodded thoughtfully.
"Yeah! We're gonna fucking kick your assh at schicken!" Star called from the pew, where he was now face down. "Juscht asch shoon asch my fasche shtopsh being on fire."
"You owe me a hundred yen, by the fucking way," Seal called back. Star grumbled and fished around in his pockets for a minute, then flipped him a koku and muttered for him to keep the schange. Seal pocketed it and glared around the room darkly. Colored crystal occupied the entire wall behind the podium, depicting Brightest Morning Star with four arms driving his spear down the throat of a serpentine raksha. There was no sun above Siege Perilous, yet Brightest Morning Star's face shone as though the sun were shining through it. Seal exchanged glares with it for a minute before looking away. "Do we have to fucking start here, though?" he muttered. "I hate this fucking room."
Sever looked down with a frown, pen already in hand, but Des caught his hand before he could start writing. "That's exactly why we're starting here," she said. "I've brought some supplies I think you might enjoy." She reached into a basket and pulled out a small silvery cylinder, with a bump at one end, and handed it to Seal. "Hold it like this," she instructed, "twist that nozzle, and press down. No, hold it the other way --"
A hideous shade of yellow-green filled Seal's vision, and he reflexively flared his anima. As Essence blasted outwards from his body his eyes cleared, and he could see that a faint cloud of that color was still hanging in the air, except for what had been blasted away and was now coating the carpet. Des sighed. "It's paint," she said. "You spray it on the walls and it stays there just about forever. I thought you might like to personalize the wall over there." She indicated Brightest Morning Star's shining disgusting face, and Seal grinned.
"Wake up, Star," he said. "Let's commit some fucking art."
+++
They defaced the chapel. They had a mock war in the armory. Seal let Des raid the library for all she could carry, then they built book forts and launched dictionaries across the room (Cascade of Papercut Terror made its debut to thunderous applause). They got scandalously, outrageously, rip-roaringly drunk in the wine cellars, which were full of booze that must have made even a First Age god-king's constitution take pause. They sang extremely rude songs in the courtyard, and did somersaults on every bed in every bedroom. The castle filled with laughter and dust.
Eventually, though, even the most powerful of Exalted wear themselves out. Des found a glory-crystal saga in the library, the dramatization of some First Age romance-battle, and they set up in the great hall to watch. The deathknights bundled themselves up with blankets pilfered from the master room and scarfed down candied berries from the pantry. For something produced in a golden age of magic and science, the reenactment was laughably bad, and they spent a pleasant hour flinging critiques and berries at the projection. "Come on, haven't theshe guysh ever shtabbed anyone in the back?" Star shouted. "Thish ish the worsht fucking form I've ever sheen!"
"Completely horrendous," Des agreed as she popped another berry in her mouth. "But she deserves it. My god, anything to make her shut up for a second."
Seal stretched his arms out and yawned. "She talks more than Shadow fucking does when he's trying to justify his dumb shit as extremely wise fucking shit." He glanced around the room. "Hey, quick question. Where the fuck is Sever?"
Star diverted his gaze to scan the room for a moment. "Guessh he shtepped out for a minute," he said. "Maybe he couldn't shtomach the schitty shpeschial effectsh."
"Seriously, Sculpted Seafoam Eidolon is a Terrestrial spell, would it fucking kill them to put some effort in?"
"I'm gonna go find him," Seal declared, standing up and wobbling momentarily from the Exalted-level alcohol in his system. "Nobody gets to miss this shit."
Des shrugged. "Whatever you say."
+++
Seal found Sever watching the ocean.
The window at the end of the west hall, Seal knew, looked out onto a perpetually stormy sea with grey skies. Seal knew this cause he was pretty sure there was no fucking sea near Siege Perilous, and had been about to smash through the window and check it out before Brightest Morning Star yelled at him not to. He was never sure if it was a portal to some real sea in Creation or just an illusion, or maybe something else entirely.
Sever was curled up in the windowsill, head turned sideways to stare out over the roiling black waves. Seal thought for sure he would hear him coming up, but Sever was so lost in thought that he didn't notice until Seal tapped him on the shoulder. Only Seal's keenly honed battle senses let him notice the instant of reflexive tension before Sever returned to perfect relaxation and turned to face Seal serenely. "Ah, Seal," he said, sounding professional as ever. "How are you enjoying the festivities?"
Seal snorted. "You kidding?" he asked, moving to sit in the opposite end of the windowsill. "This is the best fucking birthday bash I've had in..... uh, ever. So fucking cheers to you." He mimed raising a glass, and Sever smiled faintly.
"Well," he said, rising smoothly, "I won't obstruct you, then. Continue to enjoy your evening --"
"Whoa, whoa, slow the fuck down," Seal said, catching Sever's wrist and feeling again that reflexive tense. "Where the hell are you going?"
Sever waved a hand vaguely. "To clean," he said, not resisting Seal's pull but not giving in. "The kitchen should be scoured, and though I understand the art in the chapel is to be a permanent fixture I'd like to sharpen up the edges and cover some of the more fragile --"
"Hang the fuck on," Seal said, as his brain finally caught up with what Sever was saying. "Was that you earlier, that cleaned up the fucking armory and then ran the fuck away like some kind of freak? What did you do that for? How did you know there was shit in there?" Sever looked like he was trying to answer every question at once, but Seal didn't let him get a word in edgewise. "For fuck's sake, dude, we brought you here to have fun, not to be some weird shadow with a broom. Live a little! Have some fucking fun, man!"
"As a matter of fact, Seal, I am enjoying myself. In my own way." Sever sounded slightly put off by Seal's enthusiasm.
Seal scoffed. "Bull fucking shit you are."
Sever blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I said bull fucking shit on a rat's hot cock you're having fun. You think I don't know angst brooding when I see it?" Seal gestured out over the waters. "Dude, I brood here all the time. It's, like, my number three spot in the castle. Stare at the fucking ocean and think about death or whatever. Right?" he demanded.
Sever blinked again, more slowly. ".... something like that," he admitted after a long pause.
"Something fucking like that," Seal agreed. "Well, bullshit to fucking that. I'm not allowed to brood tonight, and neither are fucking you. No more cleaning either. Des can summon some ghosts in the morning."
"But I'm perfectly capable of --"
"-- of sitting your ass down and acting like a human being, you jackass!" Seal was surprised by the force of his own words. "Sol Invictus, it fucking wigs me out sometimes, you know that?" A mixture of emotions crossed beneath the surface of Sever's face. "I know you are, even if you fucking don't. Yeah, you don't know who you fucking are, your soul was eaten or what the fuck ever, big fucking deal. None of us knows a goddamn fucking thing about ourselves, and do you think it's ever stopped me? Come on," he demanded, suddenly rising to his feet and striding down the hall, Sever still in tow.
"Where are we -- I really must protest --"
Seal dragged Sever all the way to the treasury, scooped a shelf-ful of glass figurines into Sever's protesting arms, and then back into the chapel. "Right," he said, taking the figurines from Sever and setting them on the floor in front of him. "Got your sword with you?"
"Unfortunately," Sever said, "I was not allowed to bring Atrumarkinos on this expedition."
Seal rolled his eyes. "Good," he said. "You'd be too good with it anyways. Here," and in a single motion he summoned Glorious First Light and brought it crashing down on the back of the pew.
Sever flinched so hard Seal thought he might actually leave his body. "What are you doing?" he asked, so pointedly that Seal could almost consider it a shout.
"Improvising," Seal answered, pulling at a bar of wood off the back of the pew. He had to stand on it with one foot and wrench it off with both hands, and only Essence saved him from a fistful of splinters, but in the end he was left with a plank about half as tall as Sever was. He handed it to the bemused Day Caste, returned to his spot, and held up a figurine. "Right. What can you tell me about these?"
Sever peered at it from across the room. "First Age artifice is not my forte, but I believe they are similar to a lesser form of yasal crystal. Each imprisons a minor spirit, hardly greater than the god of a grain of rice. I cannot say what purpose such a least spirit could serve. Perhaps simply to retain a memory, and recount it when charged?"
Seal squinted down at the figurine in his hand, a little statuette of Brightest Morning Star with spear overhead. "Really? Huh." Now that Sever mentioned it, there did appear to be a little light flickering in the middle of it. Seal looked back up, tossing it in his hand to gauge its weight. "Well, I guess you're not wrong. But you're also totally wrong. The only fucking thing these things are good for," he said, winding up, “is for smashing.”
Sever flinched a good ten seconds before the figurine smashed against the wall behind him. A wisp of glowing smoke rose up and whispered in a tinny voice before dissipating. "Come on!" Seal shouted. "I know you have Melee, hit it with your fucking thing!"
"I do not believe this is safe, Seal," Sever called with rising urgency as he ducked another figurine.
"Safety is for fucking cowards!" Seal bellowed as he began to throw them with increasing speed. "Stop dodging and break some shit like a man!"
He had to admit, though, that Sever's evasive skills were impressive. Seal was putting some Essence into his throws now, trying to peg Sever in the arm or leg, and normally would have guessed there was no power that could stop him -- but whatever was driving Sever, fear or common sense, animated him like a madman and kept him just slightly faster than Seal's projectiles. A luminescent haze rose from the floor at Sever's feet, miniature gods dissipating into the ether. And then Seal saw the change come over him. To his adrenaline-charged senses, it seemed to happen in slow motion: Sever' feet squared against the stone, back foot braced and front foot pointed. His spine, usually painfully upright, bent like a coiled snake; purpose set his shoulders and tensed his arms. The crack of glass against the wood echoed throughout the chapel, and Seal could have sworn it was the most beautiful sound in the world, just before the spray of glass ricocheted back and stabbed him in the face.
Sever dropped the plank like it was red-hot and hurried over to where Seal was rolling on the floor, hands clutched to his face, making a sound like a dying elephant. "Are you alright?" he asked frantically, trying to hold Seal still long enough to assess the damage. "I'll get Des, maybe she can moliate something --"
Seal grabbed at Sever's shoulders. "That -- was -- fucking -- brilliant!" he shouted, and confusion replaced fear as Sever realized Seal was laughing. Blood dripped down his face, from cuts of glass and from his caste mark. "Yes! That's what I'm fucking talking about! You're a fucking natural!" Seal laughed, pumping a fist in the air with elation.
+++
Des and Star found them another half hour later, the crystal-saga having ended on a cliffhanger. It was the sound that drew them to the chapel: sounds of shattering glass, splintering wood, and laughter -- a laugh they had never heard before. Des rounded the corner first, then threw out an arm to stop Star and backpedaled hurriedly. "Look," she whispered, so Star stuck his head around the corner to look, and what he saw made his jaw drop.
Seal was standing at the far end of the chapel, piles of glass figurines around him. He was hurling the shards overhand at Sever, who was standing with his back to the chapel's entrance, holding.... a broken-off piece of wood? And was, unerringly, smashing every figurine as it sailed towards him, even when he had to jump to catch it or dive before it hit the floor. Unerringly, the spray of glass flew back towards Seal, who appeared to be playing a game of how long he could wait before hiding behind the pulpit. Blood speckled the wall of crystal behind him, though only Star's Essence-enhanced senses could pick that up. But he didn't need Essence to identify the unidentifiable noise.
Both Sever and Seal were laughing.
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Hey, It Pays the Rent (Part 1/3) Enemies
@notedchampagne happy early birthday!!!! :D To celebrate your birthiversary I thought it would be cool to try and write you a three part roommates/ enemies to friends to lovers fic! The next two parts should hopefully be done pretty quick. Anyway, happy birthday, I hope you like the first installment of your present!!!!
(Part 2/3) Friends
(Part 3/3) Lovers
“Are you sure you don’t know a single person in need of a place to stay? At least for a couple months?” You ask John again as you grab your coffee off the counter and follow him to a table.
“No, Dave.” He rolls his eyes as he plops down in a chair. “I’ve asked around and there’s no one right now. Why weren’t you looking during the beginning of the semester? People were jumping for a chance to get a room, then.”
You slump into the seat across from him and groan. “I didn’t need a roommate then. I had my financial situation all under control-”
John snorts. You shoot a glare at him and kick him under the table.
“I had it all under control,” you repeat, “but then my bastard landlord raised the rent like the roof was on fire or some shit and now I’m swimming in debts while just trying to keep my head about water. Because let me tell you one thing, John, I refuse to be fully submerged. I mean sure, I can hold my breath like a son of a bitch and I float like a corpse, but I can’t have my head below the water. That’d totally ruin my hair. Not to mention my shades, which are totally irreplaceable.”
“I know, I bought them for you.”
“So you get my problem now?”
“That you need swimming lessons?”
“John, what the fuck?” You frown at him and take a sip of your drink. “You knew what I meant.”
He grins and holds his hands up to you. “I know, I know.” He blows on his coffee to cool it off a little before taking a drink. Then he gets serious. “Money’s been tight for you right now, and that really sucks. But you keep refusing my help every time I offer, and honestly I don’t know what else I can do.”
John’s been helping you out financially as much as he can, taking you out for food whenever he can, loaning you some money when your funds are way too low to even matter, and just generally being a chill presence in your life. You really appreciate it, but if you’re being honest you’re also a little ashamed that you have to borrow your friend’s money so often. You were certain you were going to be able to live by yourself and be completely independent. Right now you’re just a leash sucking cash blood out of John’s big money jugular.
The worst part is, you know if John ever told his Dad about your trouble right now, you’d have a sudden large endowment in your bank account courtesy of Crocker Corp. You’re certain the only reason that hasn’t happened yet is because you begged John to keep this all on the down low. You told him that it would’ve made you feel like a charity case. As if borrowing money from John is any better.
God, you feel like an asshole.
Which is why you need a roommate to split the burden with, fast.
“Are you describing it as the dope crash pad it is, or are you downplaying its awesome glory for mass appeal? Because that might have an effect on why people aren’t exactly lining up to rub elbow room with the Dave Strider.”
“You’re right, I’ve probably been downplaying it.” He nods in agreement. “Shit! I forgot to name drop you!”
He bangs his fist on the table like he’s disappointed in himself. You roll your eyes, you know a sarcastic move when you see one.
“Well, remember to do that next time.” Your chair scrapes across the floor as you stand up. “I gotta go, I have some posters to put up before I head off to work. Keep me posted if anyone gets interested.”
“Will do.” He gives you a quick thumbs up. “Have a good time at work.”
You laugh as you leave the cafe. “John, that’s not a thing.”
Work, as always, is exhausting as hell. Who would’ve thought working at a gas station could take so much out of you? You never feel like you do shit, but at the end of the day you can barely make yourself walk home.
Somehow, you manage to make it all the way home to your shitty (but just not shitty enough for you to be able to afford by yourself) apartment and collapse on your awful thrift store couch. You don’t bother turning on the lights as you kick your shoes off and dig your phone out of your pocket. Not like you need lights to scroll through social media before hitting the sack.
There’s a call from John that you missed. You spend a second weighing the pros and cons of calling him back when you realize he also texted you.
good news! i found some one willing to move in with your sorry butt. they want to set up a meeting with you first to check out the place and discuss room mate stuff with you. get back to me when you can.
You breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, this financial nightmare is over. Or at least, somewhat more financially stable.
“Thanks, dude.” You say into the voice to text function of your phone, “I knew I could count on you. Sunglasses emoji. Send.”
With that taken care of, you drag yourself over to the kitchen and make yourself snack dinner. Which is just. Half a bag of doritos but you’re eating it for dinner. Hey, that’s just how it is, sometimes. You take your snack dinner back to to the couch and turn on some cartoons to help you chill for a bit. A couple hours of brain mushing tv and phone scrolling, you decide to call it a night and go to bed.
The meeting between you and your potential mystery roommate is set up for Saturday, because the three of you all happen to be free on Saturday.
That’s right.
The three of you.
Because for some reason John wanted to come and chaperone your meeting. As if you couldn’t act like a semiprofessional for five fucking minutes. But as much as you told John this, he insisted on coming. He even offered to buy drinks for you and his pal, because he figured the two of you owing him a seven whole dollars and some change would be enough for you to let him stay. And, well, he was right.
All of John’s talk about being present and telling you to keep the conversation as civil as possible, and to really seriously consider the position you’re in right now before you make any decisions really has you wondering just what kind of person he’s expecting you to meet with. You’re usually cordial as one of those old dudes who sits on his porch on a scorching hot day and offers some of his fresh squeezed lemonade to all the dehydrated street folks. Of course, nobody accepts it because stranger danger, the street folks aren’t total idiots, but they get that you were being nice and they appreciate the gesture to parch their throats with your suspicious lemonade. How do they even know if you washed your hands? They don’t, they’d just have to take your word for it, which they won’t, because you’re a senile dirty old dude, but you’re definitely fucking cordial. That is the very essence of your being. The lemony, lemony essence.
You think John’s probably overreacting. You’re chill with pretty much everyone you meet, or at the very least you can keep your distaste in check for long enough to get them to agree to live with you. There’s really only one person (aside from Asshole Whom You’ll Never Speak of Again) who’s ever pissed you off to the point you can’t even pretend to be nice to him over his stream of bullshit.
Of course, there’s no way John invited Doucheface McSpazzatron here to room with you. That guy’s all the way across the country, thank fuck. You can rest assured it’s not him.
But that still leaves....the possibility that John knows someone so fucking similar to that guy that he thinks it’s going to be a problem for you. That’s a worrying thought in and of itself.
You’re not looking forward to this meeting.
You sigh and brace yourself for the worst as you push open the cafe door. You go up to the counter, order a dink, and ask them to put it on John’s tab. Once it’s delivered to you and slowly burning your hands, you start scanning the room for any signs of John and his friend. You arrived a little late, so no way they aren’t here already.
Eventually, you spot John’s face through the Saturday morning coffee crowd. There he is, smiling and laughing at whatever the mystery person said. From where you’re standing, you can only see the other person’s back. You can’t tell if you know them from here, all you really know for sure is that they’re wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled up. You drink some of your coffee, shrug to yourself, and start walking over. You’re going to have to talk to them eventually, and who knows, maybe they won’t be completely terrible. Lord knows they can’t be as bad as that fuckbag-
“Karkat?”
You’re frozen in place in complete disbelief. What the fuck’s he doing here? He’s supposed to be at school halfway across the country!
He screws his face up into a scowl that you are more than familiar with. “Dave.”
Your shock at seeing him here melted the moment you had his voice grating at your ears, and suddenly you can move again. You pull your chair out and sit down, angling it far away from the table so you’re as far away from him as you can be without making it too obvious. You fix a glare at him. Now you can focus on the more important things, like what the fuck he’s even doing back here so soon.
And just what the fuck is on his face?
“You’re not going near my place til you fucking shave.” You say pointedly, gesturing to horrible patch of hair on his chin. “I don’t need you shedding all over the carpet and anyway I’m not allowed to have a pet.”
“You think I like this?” Karkat holds a hand under his chin to frame his scruffy soul patch. “Any part of this? I despise having this fucking scrub brush uselessly attached to my face all the time? Do you think I don’t know how much this makes me look like a douche?”
“Look like?” You snort as you take out your phone and snap a quick pic of Karkat’s agitated face.
He snarls at you and gives you the finger. “I would shear this shit right off in a bloodpush thump, but my cheap ass fucking razor broke and now I’m trapped with this piece of steel wool on my chin. And you know what? It’s just the moldy icing on my shit cake right now! Because now, I have to beg you with this to let me squat in your tiny loadgaper of a home for awhile under the threat of being hiveless! If I live long enough the become ancient and decrepit, I don’t think I’ll ever experience a moment lower than this one.”
John laughs. “Karkat, you could’ve just asked to borrow a razor.”
“Hiveless, you say?” Interesting. “You serious?”
“Yes.” He sighs and covers his face with one of his hands. The other is wrapped around his cup of coffee. “I’m completely serious. Why else would I even fucking be here if I wasn’t under some dire shitty circumstances?”
“I see.” You nod. “So you came to me in your time of need.”
He levels a glare at you. “It’s not like a wanted to. I’m all out of options.”
“Of course you are.” You take a contemplative sip of your drink, savoring both the flavor and this perfect situation you’ve stumbled upon. Well, perfect fo you. Obviously it sucks for Karkat. You’re not very sympathetic, though, since you’re not his biggest fan. “I guess that means this shit’s all settled, then.”
“So you and Karkat are gonna be roommates, now?” John asks. He sounds relieved, like he wasn’t expecting it to go this well.
“Not so fast!” You hold up your hand to him. “Before I give our homeless buddy here the grand tour and allow him the privilege of living with me-”
Karkat snorts into his drink.
“-there’s one thing I need to hear first.”
John tilts his head. “One thing you need to hear?”
“Yeah.” You smirk and nudge Karkat with your leg. “You know what it is.”
Karkat looks confused, like he’s not sure what you’re talking about. He and John exchange a look. You don’t give him any hints.
You see it in his eyes as the realization strikes him. He sips his coffee and frowns. “You abominable fucking nerd.”
You shake your head. “That’s not it, and you know it.”
He groans and hangs his head, and you can feel the giant shit eating grin spread over your face. “Help me, Dave Strider, you’re my only hope.”
“You’re damn right, I am.” You polish off the remains of your drink in one gulp. “Let’s go.”
You take Karkat to check your place out. He walks around inspecting everything, kicking your shit around and telling you how much of a disgusting fucking sty your apartment is. Have you ever heard of a vacuum, Dave? Or do you like wallowing in your filth like a fat nasty oinkbeast? Blah blah blah ad nauseum. John came with you, too. Again, just to make sure neither of you do anything stupid, like say no to living together, in the heat of your mutual distaste for each other.
God, you’re going to fucking hate living with Karkat. He’s probably the worst roommate ever. But you’re out of options, and apparently so is he.
Karkat walks over to you. “Okay,” he kicks a piece of trash you haven’t bothered to pick up yet, “as much as the thought fills my throat with hot bile, I’ll do it. I’ll room with you.”
He holds out his hand. You shake it. “Great. I’ll go get the lease so you can sign it. After you kill that rat on your face and toss it out.”
He covers his soul patch with his hand defensively. “Fuck you, I don’t have a razor!”
“Get one!”
“I’ll get one after you let me sign the lease!” Your grips are still locked in a handshake. Karkat’s squeezing your hand tightly.
You squeeze back. “You’re not putting your John Hancock on shit til your face doesn’t make me gag.”
“Joke’s on you, asshole! My face always makes you gag!” He sticks his face really close to yours. So close your noses are almost touching. “Look me in the bulb and say it fucking doesn’t! I dare you!”
“Get your greasy hairball of a face away from me!”
“Or what?” You can smell his breath as he eggs you on. It’s hot and a little sour. “What are you gonna do?”
“Move it or I’m gonna lick you!” You consider shoving him, but you resist the urge. “Don’t test me, dude, I’ll stick my god damn tongue in your ear, I swear I will.”
“Do it, pussy! I fucking dare you!” Karkat turns his head so his ear is directly in your face.
Your tongue is out of your mouth and going straight for his dirty ass ear before you can even consider what you’re really doing. You literally told him not to test you a second ago, and then he did it anyway! Dammit, you threatened to do it, and now you gotta follow through. You gotta! You’re nothing if not a man of your word.
“Hey!”
An arm slams between the two of you before you can fulfill your promise of delivering the wettest of willies straight from the source. John squeezes his way between you and Karkat, acting as a barrier to separate you.
“Dave, go talk to your landlord about the lease. I’ll take Karkat back over to my place to get his stuff and shave and we’ll come back later. Does that work for you?”
Fuck, you hate how riled up Karkat makes you. More than that, you hate that John always has to step in and intervene. How the fuck did he become the voice of reason?
You breathe deeply. “Yeah, that works for me.”
“Alright,” John nods and turns to Karkat, “what about you?”
Karkat huffs and rolls his eyes. “Of course that works for me, why the fuck wouldn’t it? I already went on a tirade about how I hate this unruly fuzz always scratching at my chin in the most hellishly uncomfortable way imaginable. Do you really think I’d change my tune just because Dave has an iota of common sense concerning facial hair? Shit, I know I’m petty, but I’m not that petty!”
You raise an eyebrow and open your mouth to disagree, but John shoots you a look that makes you close it again. Whatever you were going to say is really not necessary. Besides, you’ll have plenty of time to get into stupid arguments with Karkat for no apparent reason once you’re living together.
Fuck, you’re going to be living together.
“Okay, so that settles it!” John wraps an arm around Karkat’s shoulders and starts leading him towards the door. “Hey, we should go out for dinner to celebrate tonight! My treat.”
Before you can tell him that’s not necessary -John’s already been doing a lot for you- he drags Karkat out and closes the door. You’re left alone in your apartment.
You flop face first onto the couch and groan into it. You’re going to have to savor these fleeting moments while they last. Soon it won’t just be your apartment. You won’t be able to relax like this anymore.
You’re going to have to deal with Karkat on a daily basis. This is going to be hell.
You flip over and stare up at the ceiling, letting out another loud groan.
But..for the sake of the rent, you think you can deal with Karkat and his bullshit.
Yeah. Doesn’t sound too hard. You got this.
Holy shit, no amount of money is worth this.
Your schedules are different enough that you barely see Karkat most of the time, but when you do see him, it makes you feel like he took a steaming, liquidy shit all over your good day.
Karkat is taking some online courses, which you wouldn’t give even half a turd about under normal circumstances. The problem is that he does his homework in the living room with the tv on at full volume. Again, this wouldn’t be much of a problem, either.
Except he doesn’t let you watch anything when he’s doing his homework. You once tried to take the remote and he hissed at you. He fucking hissed. As if he hasn’t already seen When Harry Met Sally fifty times already. But no, its always his dumb fucking romantic troll sap, 24/7 and 360 fucking 5 forever and always. Or at least until Karkat’s finished doing shit. But really, in the moment those feel like the same thing.
Leaving the room doesn’t help much. Usually you can still hear it through your door.
If he’s not laying claim over the couch and tv, he’s cleaning something. That actually came as a pleasant surprise at first. You’re not exactly big on cleaning, so it was refreshing to come home to a clean house. The problem isn’t the apartment being clean, obviously, the problem is how Karkat goes about doing it.
Karkat’s cleaning pattern is as unpredictable and erratic as a chihuahua tornado. He’ll start a load of dishes, then stop in the middle to vacuum the living room carpet, and then take a break to clean the bathroom sink. All the while complaining about the disgusting state of the apartment. Granted, his complaints about the apartment being gross die down once he starts regularly cleaning any shit he can get his grubby hands on.
Given what he does instead now, you kind of miss the complaints. Now he runs around the apartment cleaning and singing at the top of his lungs.
If you can call it singing.
It’s more like...screaming?
Yeah, it’s definitely screaming. It really makes you wonder just how ear splittingly loud his music must be if he thinks it’s okay to fucking belt out the lyrics to every song in The Killers discography like a sandpaper throated banshee.
The only good that comes from that is that you know which room he’s in at all times and you can avoid him better.
Mundane and everyday tasks are annoying as hell now. You can’t even buy goddamn groceries without it being a huge federal case. You want your cheap ass snacks, but Karkat always demands getting troll food, too. Also a thing that shouldn’t be a big deal, except that troll cuisine is more expensive than human food because even with the high concentration of trolls on the planet, it’s still technically a delicacy. On top of that, Karkat wants to make sure you get the right kind of food and not the awful but equally as expensive stuff stocked at your local grocer. So instead you gotta buy your groceries (which Karkat will inevitably also eat because that’s how this arrangement works, you share snacks) and then you have to go home, put those away, and then take a bus to the next town over so Karkat can hit up the Authentic Troll Food Store, which is hella expensive because everything there is imported straight from Alternia. It’s a hassle and you get absolutely jack shit out of it because your uncultured ass can’t stand the taste of troll garbage slime chow.
Then, of course, there’s John.
Karkat always seems to be near John. Texting him, calling him. Hanging out in his dorm. Having dinner at Mr. Egbert’s place with him. Tagging along whenever you go chill with him.
Fuck, it’s like you’re fourteen all over again.
You fucking hate it.
The summer before you started high school, Karkat moved into town. And for that whole year, he was always hanging around John. He was like a pimple on your ass that was agonizingly annoying, but every time you popped it it just came back worse, bigger and more filled with puss than the last time. You couldn’t get John alone for a second, it was awful. Karkat was taking up all his time and there was nothing you could do about it without looking like an even bigger asshole than him.
That whole year was torture. Thinking back on it, only half of it was really Karkat’s fault. It took you years to come to terms with the fact that you’d had a crush on John and were jealous of how much of his attention Karkat was taking up. The other half just wanted to hang out with your best friend without the addition of some angry, loud troll kid who was obviously crushing hard on him.
Yeah, Karkat had had a crush on John, and it was...not subtle.
There was a blessed summer without Karkat right before your junior year. It was a good season for you. You only saw him once over that whole three month period. You remember it pretty well. You and John were going to get some matches from the gas station (the one you’re currently working at) to light off some fireworks when you saw Karkat on his way out. Karkat froze like a deer caught in headlights and he dropped his slushie. John said hi, and then Karkat ran. Neither of you had gone after him.
When school started back up again, everything went back to normal, save for the fact that Karkat wasn’t clinging to John anymore.
But here you are, right back where you started. You’ve come full circle once again.
Karkat is hanging around John and taking up all of his spare time like a fucking attention leech again. And just like before, you’re more jealous than you’d care to admit.
The only difference is this time you’re not jealous because you have a repressed crush on John. It’s all because you just want to spend time with your friend without Karkat.
After a month of all this bullshit piling up, your last straw finally snaps under its weight.
You come home after a long day of work to a dark apartment. You just want to collapse on the couch, but you can see as you toe off your shoes by the door that you’re not gonna be able to do that. One of Karkat’s movies is on. The tv is so bright in the pitch black that you don’t even notice Karkat’s laptop is open on the coffee table until you walk by the couch on the way to your room.
But it is open.
And on it is John’s face. His mouth is moving, but you can’t hear a word he’s saying. You can tell he sees you, though, because he waves.
Karkat turns his head. His glare is illuminated from the soft glow of both screens. Clearly his disapproves of you interrupting his facetime with John.
But you know what? Fuck that. Fuck him.
You walk around the couch and over to the other side of the coffee table. You stand tall over Karkat, leveling your own steely gaze at him as you slam his laptop closed with one hand.
He sneers at you. “What the fuck was that for?”
“This shit has to stop.”
“Oh? And just what shit are you talking about?” He inquires with disinterest. Clearly he doesn’t give a damn about what your reasons are. “Enlighten me.”
You can’t contain it anymore, not for all the rent money in the world.
You explode and enlighten him.
“All of this bullshit with John!” You yell at him in an attempt to get it through his thick skull. “Stop demanding his attention all the time! He has more important shit to do than waste his time talking to your thirsty, pining ass all day, dude. Jesus, just tell him you have a crush on him already and get it over with!”
“A crush?” Karkat tilts his head to the side, and you think you can see a hint of a smile on his face. “On John?”
He snorts.
“Dave, really? You think I have a crush on John?” He’s outright laughing now. What the fuck? “I haven’t had a crush of any sort on that idiot since I was seven sweeps.”
It occurs to you that this might be the first time you’ve ever made Karkat laugh. Somehow that makes this whole confrontation worse for you.
“Then how the hell do you explain all your weird ass behavior lately, hm?” You press on, undeterred by Karkat’s claim. “You’ve been following John around like a lovestruck puppy nursed back to health from the brink of death on his chiseled bosom. Don’t deny it, we both know this shit isn’t normal.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why the fuck does it matter so much to you?”
“I just want to know why you’re being so fucking clingy with John all of a sudden!” You admit. “Ever since you moved back here, you’ve been acting weird and sticking to John just like when we were kids and if it’s not because you’re into him well….then I can’t think of a reason why you’d be like this.”
“You really want to know?” He says it as if it’s a challenge. He gets up off the couch and leans in closer to you over the coffee table. He’s still sneering at you. His teeth look dead and sharp in the tv’s light. “Do you really want to fucking know?”
You’re not backing down. “Yes.”
He slams his hand against the table. “I’m fucking lonely, you maggot brained shithead!”
Karkat huffs and falls back onto the couch. He’s glaring up at you, waiting for you to say something.
You’re still processing.
That….was not what you were expecting him to say.
“You’re fucking what?”
Wow, that wasn’t the stupidest thing you could’ve said, you fucking moron.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “You heard me.”
“Okay,” you nod, “do...you need to talk about that?”
Did you just offer to listen to Karkat complain? Did you actually volunteer for that? What the fuck is wrong with you?
Karkat looks just as surprised by your question as you are. “I don’t think I’d...hate talking about it?”
Neither of you seem to know where to go from here. Do you wait for him to start talking? Do you take a seat beside him on the couch? Do you write shit down like a therapist might? Should you get Rose on the line instead, since she’s a good listener?
You end up walking around the table and taking a seat on the couch. In terms of couch distance, you’re far away from him. You wait patiently for him to start talking.
“I uh…” He takes a deep breath. “I wanted to be independent when I left for school. I didn’t want to have to rely on anybody for shit, which is why I decided to go so far away in the first place. I even managed to get a single room when I got there. For the first few weeks, everything was fine-”
Everything was not fine.
The first few weeks weren’t fine, they were hectic. You were lost in figuring out your class schedule and what was expected of you in those classes. But once you knew what was up, things were a lot less fine and a lot more shitty than they initially appeared.
You did your homework, you studied, you wrote essays. You did all the educational fuckery you needed to do to ensure you didn’t fail any of your classes. You didn’t have a lot of time to spare with all this studious shit, but it was enough time to make you wish you had someone else to spend time with.
In your core, you’re a social being. You crave interaction, but because of a certain situation you’re not comfortable discussing, you have a hard time bringing yourself to even talk to people enough to make a real acquaintance. Out of fear of discovery, you withdrew into yourself.
You didn’t go to any social events, nor were you fucking invited to any in the first place. You ate lunch alone, when you ate lunch at all. You had a difficult time getting any studying done in groups of people, so you didn’t even try. And since you had a single room, you didn’t even have a dorm mate to fall back on for interaction.
You had so many friends at home that you’ve known for sweeps, you forgot how hard it was to make them in the first place. How insanely hard it was for you to actually trust anyone enough to spend time with them.
Two months into school, you missed your home and your friends more than you ever though possible. You were starved for a nice conversation, for some contact, for anything really. Even though you were still in touch with your friends, it wasn’t the same. Somehow all the texting and phone calls and video chatting made you feel worse.
The stress piling up from all of the homework didn’t help you at all. At first the homework distracted you from your lack of a social life, and then it all consumed your life. Sometimes it was so overwhelming you couldn’t function anymore.
You hate to admit this, but you cried yourself to sleep more than once during your time there.
Everything was horrible and it was shit and you were completely aware of that. But what were you going to do? Admit your failure? Give up on school and come back home? Of course not! You could get through the whole year, you were strong enough for at least that!
But then you saw a picture of Kanaya with Rose and some of their other friends. Kanaya came down from school to spend the weekend with everybody because she lived close enough to do that. There was your best friend, hanging out with her friends and girlfriend and having a fun time. And here you were, all alone in your dorm room across the country.
That’s what decided it for you.
You talked to the appropriate people about leaving school and transferring to the local college back home. You decided to finish off the rest of the year on your first school’s online program and then start at the new one. You told John you were coming back, and he offered to let you stay at his house for a bit, and you immediately took the offer. You didn’t actually have a plan for where you were going to stay once you came back, so it was appreciated. After finals ended, you took a plane and a bus back home. And now you’re here.
“I came back because I missed everybody, but they’re all busy with school and work and other life shit.” Karkat shrugs. “I’ve been spending time with John because he’s available.”
He lapses into silence. Are you supposed to say something now?
“It...sounds like you had a real shitty time.”
He snorts again. “I’ll say.”
And that’s the end of everything you thought of to say.
You understand missing friends a lot. All of your friends are extremely important to you, and you can’t imagine your life without them. Well, you can, but it’s incredibly shitty. You don’t know how to tell Karkat that he has your sympathy on this front without sounding like you’re pitying him. You don’t know what else you can say.
Karkat must realize it, too. He stands up and grabs his laptop off the table. “I’m going to my block now.”
He starts walking away. Fuck, you feel like you still need to say something, but what? What the hell else do you have to offer?
Shit, he’s already opening his bedroom door. You need to say something! Anything! Just fucking open your mouth!
“Hey,” He turns his head. Hell yeah, nailed it. You said some words. “I just realized no one threw you a welcome back party. We should...fix that? Next weekend?”
You can’t read his face because the hallway’s too dark. “Yeah, okay. Next weekend.”
The party happens sooner than you anticipated it would. It feels like you blinked and the week finished. You still can’t believe that you spent all this time planning a party for a guy you don’t even like at all.
Karkat’s been less insufferable than usual. It’s a pleasant change to the bad month that came before that.
You invite everyone you can think of over to the apartment on Saturday afternoon. They all RSVP, and some people (Rose) question your act of kindness towards Karkat. You let Rose know you’re just as lost about it as she is.
Honestly, outside of inviting people over, you really didn’t do much planning. You don’t think Karkat’s going to care at all, though. He doesn’t give a shit about the actual party, he just wants people over.
That becomes evident when the guests start arriving.
Rose comes first, bearing a bundt cake and an interest in analyzing your relationship with your roommate. No amount of Lalondian analysis in the world could have prepared either of you for the hug she got from Karkat.
“Hello, Karkat.” Her voice betrays her surprise and she gives him an awkward pat on the back with her free hand. “Book club hasn’t been the same without you.”
“I’m glad you came, Rose!” He breaks away from her reluctantly and takes the cake away from her. “You got any new shit for me to read? I’ve been waiting for an update.”
“Yeah, yeah I do. Just give me a moment to find where you were.” Rose pulls her phone out of her jacket and starts scrolling through it.
Karkat and Rose sit together on the couch and you watch as she passes him her phone. You’re hanging out in the kitchen and ordering pizza while you wait for everybody else.
It doesn’t take long for more people to show up. Karkat hugs each and every person who walks through the door. Everyone seems just as shocked by this experience as you and Rose were.
About twenty minutes in everyone is chilling in the living room. At this point you’re just waiting on pizza and the final guest. You wonder if she’ll show up before the pizza.
There’s a knock on the door, followed by someone walking in. Yep, she got here first.
Karkat’s eyes light up. “Kanaya!”
She smiles. “Sorry I’m late.”
She doesn’t get any more words out before Karkat runs over to the door and hugs her so tightly he lifts her off the floor.
You didn’t really have anything planned, so you set up a game of Uno with your special Star Wars Uno cards that you know Karkat claims he hates. He only says that because he’s never fucking seen any of them, that uncultured swine.
You get a couple rounds in before the pizza comes, and once that’s here you can’t really play Uno anymore. You switch to watching tv instead, just for background noise while you all talk.
It’s been awhile since you’ve all gotten together, and it’s so amazing to be surrounded by your friends you wonder why you don’t do this more often.
Karkat is sitting on the floor between Kanaya and John. You’re not sure what they’re talking about, but you know this is the happiest you’ve ever seen him.
Seeing him smile this much is a little surreal. Hopefully it’s something you’ll get used to.
The party lasts late into the night, but eventually people begin to leave. Karkat walks all of them to the door and hugs them again as they exit. After a long debate about whether they should spend the night or not, Rose and Kanaya also take their leave. The door closes behind them, and it’s just you, Karkat, and your post-party messy apartment.
The atmosphere in the apartment feels a little awkward to you. You clear your throat to clear the silence. Karkat is still staring at the closed door.
“So, uh…” you don’t really have anything say right now, “I didn’t know you were such a hugger, Karkat.”
You shouldn’t be surprised by what happens after that, but it still catches you off guard.
He hugs you.
His arms are warm and they’re wrapped tightly around you. His face is buried in your sweatshirt.
It’s….nice. Soft. A comforting embrace that you never expected to get from someone like Karkat.
You’d hug back, but Karkat’s pinned your arms to your sides.
“Thanks for this, Dave.” His voice is muffled by your shirt.
You shrug in the most casual way possible. “Don’t mention it.”
“No, shut the fuck up! Let me thank you, I needed this more than I thought I did.”
“Okay, okay, fine.” You roll your eyes, but you also smile because you know Karkat can’t see it right now. “You’re welcome, you owe me now.”
“You don’t have to come with me to Troll Foods anymore.”
“Oh, sweet! I hate that place. But I was thinking more along the lines of making you marathon Star Wars with me.”
“Really, Dave?” He groans into your shirt. “Star Wars? Why the fuck are you so obsessed with that series? It’s not even an accurate portrayal of alien life and space travel.”
“Uh, of course it’s not, it’s called fiction, jackass. Read a fucking book.” You retort. “Besides, Star Wars is the best and I refuse to be friends with someone who hasn’t seen Star Wars.”
Karkat pulls away from you. “Did you just call me your friend?”
“Jesus, maybe I should’ve stuck my tongue in your ear, that probably would’ve cleaned all the gunk out.” You smirk. “I said you have to watch Star Wars first.”
“And then you’ll think of me as your friend?” Karkat asks, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.
You nod. “Oh, yeah, dude.”
“Okay, fine.” He sighs. “I’ll watch your dumb space trilogy.”
“Cool.” You run over to your room. “You’re gonna love the shit outta them, I swear.”
What Karkat doesn’t know is that you just lied to his face. You don’t actually have a Star Wars prerequisite, you just wanted to make him watch them.
You already think of Karkat as your friend.
#dave strider#karkat vantas#davekat#roommates#enemies to friends to lovers#multichapter#I'm also gonna put it on ao3 because of the whole multiple chapters part#collegestuck sorta#john egbert#happy soon birthday Sam!!!! :D#I hope you like this so far!#I hope you have a fantastic birthday week you deserve it you're the best#yo it's a fic and I wrote it
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Tulla’s Indoor Vacation
Tulla covers her ears the chains tugging back as the metal bands around her wrist dug painfully into her skin. Staring in horror at her three tormentors as one has a hand on his head with his fingers curled up in an imitation of a horn. While is other is holding an actual horn the bottom jagged and cracked as they held her down and pulled till it cracked off. They’d shout insults to her as they danced around imitating a bull before pushing each other lightly while laughing.
Tulla began to sniffle as the one holding her horn got closer to her and she’d back as far against the wall as she could. But the large elf would just grab the chain connected to a band on her ankle and tug hard. Her chin hitting the ground hard and scraping against the filthy floor as he drags her back with a small chuckle.
He’s saying something but she stops comprehending their words shortly after they arrived here. She knows the Sin’dorei language. But theses aren’t elves. They can’t be. No one is capable of such evil. The sounds she hears in her little cell. The things she sees them do to the people in front and next to her. They secretly have to be demons in disguise. They must be, people can’t be so cruel.
Jumping as the door to her cell opened a woman with features that would have been so pretty if they didn’t have that bone chilling smile on it. She moved to one of the men and whispered something in his ear. Tulla stares at her and opens her mouth her voice coming out raspy and barely above a whisper* “Where’s Dusty. Where did you take her.” She was trying to sound demanding, but it only came out as a desperate plea.
“Aww come on don’ take ‘er to the ring. Ya don’ ‘ave too. I mean it’s been so long since we’ve been able to play with a tauren. Let us enjoy it. And we agreed that when this little sir loin came that she wasn’t important. I mean we have that dewfall cunt. But this one isn’t tied to anyone. And if she was liked by the fox bitch then why the ‘ell would she be working out of a run down flower shop for a senile old shit? You guys didn’t want her for questioning. And Graceford doesn’t want her. So let us keep her.”
The woman huffs in annoyance as she glances at the trembling form of the Tauren before turning to address the group again. “Yes but we were going to have the Pandaren fight a few rounds today, but he was taken out by the monk.” “Wait that half dead bitch killed him?” “Nah just knocked him out.” “Then fucking wake him up.” “He took a rock to the head he ain’t responding. So, we need a quick replacement.” And what you want to replace him with this thing?” “Tauren are fun to watch.” “But look at them, they barely have any meat on their bones and they’re to cowardly to hurt a fly.” “What do you want me to do? They wanted a Tauren and this is the only one in Black Haven.”
Tulla doesn’t understand what the demons are saying but the name stands out and she shivers. She remembers being dragged through a prison yard with a blinding headache as blood trickled down her forehead and into her nose. The people there looked dead even though they were walking. And the people that worked there… she saw them drag others away and the way people were looking at them like they’d never see ‘em again worried her.
They’d separated her from Caelinda before they brought her in but even so Tulla struggled as much as she could in the chains while they dragged her just to try to see where her friend is. But it didn’t work, she doesn’t know why but it’s like her limbs are made of lead. She can’t seem to move. If she’s being honest with herself, she honestly think they’ve been drugging her to make their jobs easier. At least it dulls the pain a bit.
She’s snapped out of her thoughts as the woman kneels in front of her and snaps her fingers in front of her eyes “Fine but if he doesn’t bring them in it your asses that I’m going to beat. Oi medium rare you want your friend back?” For once their words made sense. Nodding at the other her eyes gain a hopeful gleam. Maybe they realized what they’re doing is wrong and they’re going to let them go? That was quickly shattered as the woman fisted her hand in Tulla’s hair and dragged her to her hooves. “Get the chains off her” “…lady are you sure?” “What you said I don’t know how to have fun and when I try you are going to puss out like a little bitch?” “Well…. Fine.” They’d nudge the person next to them who walked up wearily and slowly undid the chains. “Oh come on boys she’s just a kid. Tauren are meant to be tall but this one can’t do anything.” They just nodded as the rest moved forward to unlock her chains.
As they were working the woman leaned in and whispered lowly in Tulla’s ear “Your friend Caelinda. Is two hundred feet down the hall, then two rights a left and up the stairs. You’ll get to the yard. She’ll be in the eastern block. So now that the chains are coming off and you know where she is what are you goi-” As soon as Tulla understood where the woman was going with this she didn’t even wait for her to finish. With strength she didn’t even realize she had left over she lowered her head as lunged forward with her arms out, Catching one man in the stomach with her horn. The one that ripped hers off. And the other in her arms she slammed them into the wall with a small crack against the stone. All of them slumping to the ground with pained groans.
Taking but a moment to heave in a deep breath she glanced behind her and gave the woman a bright smile. Maybe the mean things were just her pretending. She’s good after all. Turing to the open door to her cell she runs out as fast as she could. Which to say wasn’t that fast at all. “Fifty, seventy-five, a hundred, a hundred and fifty, two hundred! Here!” She’d turn so fast into the narrow passage way that she’d skid a bit her hands coming to the ground to break her fall and propel herself forward.
She can start to feel hope bubble up in her chest. She was going to find Lin and she was going to get them out of this terrible place! Just as she came up to the stairs a burning sensation wrapped around her ankle and again she was dragged to the floor. Her chin hitting a step and she tasted blood from biting her tongue. Struggling to her feet she doesn’t even look back as she continues to run. She can see the light from the yard now. By the Earth Mother she missed the sun. There were no windows in the area was in. All she had was candle light and darkness.
Another burning sensation wrapped around her wrist and the tugging on her ankle made her fall to her knees. Then the one on her wrist made her tumble back down the stairs. Crying out as she felt her free arm snap under her weight she hugs it to her chest as she struggles to her knees. Trying to lurch forward she’s stopped as that same burning sensation wraps around her chest. Finally looking down she sees that chains of ice were wrapped around her. Looking back she sees the owner holding onto them to be the same woman that freed her. A self-satisfied expression on her face as she tugged on Tulla’s chains and began to drag her back to her cell.
Staring at their back in disbelief as her back started to get torn up from the gravel and shards of glass on the floor she began to sniffle. “Why?” Her voice came out broken and sorrowful. Looking back with a small raised brow the other hummed in thought before shrugging. “I was bored. And the boys needed to see that even I can have fun. And the sweet innocent ones like you are always fun to break. I mean did you actually think I was going to help you? I like my job why would I get rid of that to help some nobody?” Halfway through her words Tulla’s turns her face to bury it in her out stretched arm and sob.
Throwing the Tauren back against the wall and put the old chains back on she looked at the group still slumped against the wall with a small whistle. “Have to give it to you. I wasn’t expecting that. I guess you have some balls on you.” Tulla just stares at the slumped over group with a sad expression. “I didn’t want to, I’m sorry.” The woman scoffs at her as she finishes up her job and drags the unconscious workers out. “And suddenly said balls are gone. Oh well this was a important lesson for you at least. You learned your lesson now.”
Tulla tilts her head and gives them a confuse look through her tears. “What?” “I mean now you can finally shut the fuck up about finding your friend. Don’t you see, you can’t escape. Even when we give you the opportunity you’re to big of a worthless piece of shit to do anything. And besides your friend was taken to Graceford. And that’s never a good sign. So it’s good that you finally gave up.” “I didn’t.” “…. Pardon?” Tulla stands with a wince before crossing to the now closed door to her cell and grabs a bar with her good hand and stares at the other intensely. “I said I didn’t give up. I never will. Even if you tell me it’s stupid or it won’t work or the other is gone I won’t stop.”
The woman stares at Tulla blankly before grinning wickedly at them. “Oh I like you. You know what? I know just the perfect thing for you.” With that she’d drag them group away and Tulla would slump to the ground exhausted. After a few minutes she’d hear multiple pairs of footsteps. Looking up she’d see the lady with several others behind her open the door. “Kid these will be your new health workers since you hurt your others. Have fun. Oh and the idea was mine. I figured it was good for irony sake.”
Looking up at the other with hooded eyes Tulla tried to keep herself awake as they all began to blur. Seeing the fuzzy shapes of her new tormentors she grows confused as she sees a small red hot …thing? Floating in the air next to them. That confusion soon turned to pain though as it was pressed against her arm. Jumping away from it her vision cleared and she saw them all snicker as one of them held up a cow branding iron. “Oi give me a turn.” “yay a but be careful. I don’t want this one to get an infection. Least not till I’m done having my fun with her.”
Tulla lets out a small scared whimper as they all laughed at the and began to work ono heating the brand again. Closing her eyes as their words started to shift into a language she didn’t understand she pressed her fist to her forehead as she tried to ground herself. She’s going to get Lin and Dusty back. She’s going to keep them safe.
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Credit to @phyripo for the header image.
Oh look, I’ve finally finished another fic inspired by a Pogues song! This time it’s NedRo, based on ‘Haunting’ and the tone is rather… different compared to my other fics. Whilst most stories in the series are rather angst-filled (though there are happier ones scattered in there to mix things up) this one’s… well, I don’t want to say funny, more stupid and terrible. And most of it’s in verse. Because I hate myself. This took months to write and I’m so glad that it’s finally finished and I get to share this monstrosity with everyone.
I’m sorry.
Also Ned's name in this is Siemen. Blame Phyripo. Also thanks to her, @peteradnan and @tikola-nesla for reading extracts of this terrible thing and letting me ramble.
It’s probably better to read it on AO3
Siemen – Netherlands
Isabel – Belgium
Luca – Luxembourg
Alin - Romania
“Sit down on that stool hear the cant of a fool,
And a strange tale I'll impart to ye…”
“Opa, will you tell me a bedtime story?”
A big fat ‘no’ wasn’t going to be an acceptable answer here, was it?
The last thing Siemen wanted to do was read anyone a bedtime story, but two pairs of bright green eyes were staring right back at him in the gloom of their shared room and he knew he could spend an hour arguing with a pair of screaming children, or he could just tell them a damn story. At least this way, he could be downstairs with a glass of wine in ten minutes.
Isabel and Luca’s room was a mess of toys and clothes and Siemen wasn’t sure he’d ever seen two people with so many possessions. When he was a child, he had a few toys and books and a little bike. That was all. How did they even have time to play with all these toys? Especially since he’d never seen Luca play with anything except an iPad and that one plastic cash register.
Okay, maybe he was a little proud of Luca for that one. Especially when the kid short-changed a teddy bear for being rude to him.
He stared down at his grandchildren in despair. They… really wanted a story, didn’t they? Was there not something they could watch instead?
No, a story was always the best thing to send a child to sleep with. That was what his daughter insisted when she caught him letting the children watch Watership Down until they fell asleep (the TV show, not the film – he wasn’t a monster).
“Okay,” he said, voice cracking, “what book do you want?”
“Can’t you tell us a story from when you were young?” asked Isabel. “You’re so old! You must have interesting stories, right?”
It was illegal to dropkick a small child out the window, right?
“What did you do when you were little?” asked Luca.
“Respected my elders.” A fat lie but oh well. It was a lie his family told him to get him to behave. It didn’t work but they could sleep easily.
“Did you have TV?”
“Yes but only a few channels,” he sighed, “and it was small and grainy.” And if anyone knocked the aerial then the image was fucked and he’d miss the end of Floris in the time it took to fix it.
“So what did you do when you weren’t watching TV?” asked Isabel.
“Rode my bike.” He smiled, remembering the long summer days wasted cycling by the beach in the sun, maybe taking a picnic with him and spending hours just looking at the sea.
If he was being honest, he had to ride his bike everywhere, because he grew up in the countryside and everything was stupidly far away.
It was how he discovered-
That’s it!
“What about a story a friend of mine wrote?” he offered. Anything to stop them asking questions about his personal life. Even his wife – God rest her soul – could only recall approximately 5 facts about his life. And that was before the dementia set in.
The kids perked up.
“Well, he wrote poems,” Siemen clarified, “but story poems.”
Luca’s face lit up. “Ooh, like Dr Seuss?”
No, nothing like Dr Seuss. “Oh, sure. Like that.”
Leaving an excited pair of grandkids to their chatter, Siemen hauled himself up to shuffle into his room. He always tried to keep everything as organised as possible, a habit that now served him well in his old age. For example, he knew – under his bed – was a battered old suitcase where he kept old mementos regarding a certain someone.
There were two books in the suitcase, one a heavy scrapbook containing preserved leaves and twigs, the other was a notebook on the verge of falling apart.
The unpublished poems of Alin Radacanu, his final volume.
Hand written by Siemen Morgens, upon the poet’s insistence.
Most of these could only be described as ‘sexually menacing’ and certainly not appropriate for adult human beings, let alone children. There was one though…
When he hobbled back to the bedroom, Luca had climbed on the bunk bed to fight Isabel. Again. It was almost perfect, like Alin had planned to have his poem read aloud – for the first time – to a pair of fighting kids.
He snarled and began with a growl.
“Sit down ya wee bastard,
I’ve a tale of disaster,
And romance all to tell ye,
About a young man,
His name was Siemen,
And a strangely attractive ol’ tree.”
The kids jumped, Luca falling off the ladder and Isabel looking at him in utter confusion.
“Dr Seuss never swore in his books.”
He would if he ever met Alin. “I said it was like Dr Seuss, but not entirely. Now, if you promise to not tell your mother about the bad words, I would like to continue, please.”
The kids nodded, eyes sparkling at the thought of hearing ‘bad words’ with cool Opa Siemen. And keeping a secret from mum.
“One night, a cold night,
A night full of fright,
He set off on his little old bike,
Off to a party,
His attire classy,
As the rain it speared like a pike.
If a journey could kill,
Oh, this man hated hills,
He much preferred land to be flat,
He was a Dutchman,
So hills he would ban,
If he had the power to do that.”
“Why don’t you just get a taxi?” asked Isabel.
“It was the 1960s and I lived in the countryside. We didn’t have taxis like those fancy fuckers in Amsterdam. Also I was poor.”
Luca laughed at him.
“You shut your bitch mouth.”
“The rain was too much,
The trip dangerous, as such,
And the hill a steep torrent of mud,
So this man turned around,
For shelter was bound,
Before he got knee-deep in sludge.
At the foot of the hill,
Trapped in a chill,
Our hero sat, sulks by a tree,
But lo and behold,
Gnarly and bold,
This tree was in fact me.
Now a prankster I am,
And I can’t spare a damn,
So as slick and as sly as an oyst-
-er, I bent down to his ear,
And in words loud and clear,
I simply said to him: moist."
“Your friend isn’t very good,” Luca commented.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Well, no.”
“Then shut up.”
“He was up like a cat,
Or poker to the back,
And let out a terrible shriek,
His face deathly white,
Oh, what a horrible fright!
Simply too fearful to speak.
When nobody was seen,
Except for this tree,
This young man decided to run,
Away from ground haunted,
By ghosts he was taunted,
I, the living tree, he did shun.”
“Your friend… is a tree?” Isabel raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“Mum was right; you’re a senile old bastard.”
“I swear to you it’s tr- I’m a what?”
Isabel shrugged. “Her words, not mine.”
Siemen glared at her for a long moment. “Can I continue?”
They nodded.
“Good.”
“Back on his bike,
Almost flew into a dyke,
In his haste to get away from me,
Shaken and shook,
Without a backwards look,
At me, the twisted old tree.
For weeks, I, alone,
Just stood and bemoaned,
The loss of a potential new friend,
I want him back now,
My soul he will plow,
Will my loneliness ever just end?
Then one silent night,
A strange speck of light,
This man had come back to me,
Though he was scared,
My power he feared,
A new friendship, could this possibly be?”
Luca raised an eyebrow. “You went back to the scary old tree?”
Siemen shrugged. There was a time where he’d been less sensible, almost reckless. And maybe he just wanted to prove to himself that ghosts weren’t real because, dammit Siemen, you weren’t raised to be such a gullible fool.
“If you had found out ghosts were real, would you not want to find out more?”
“Ghosts aren’t real, though.”
“Well, you are wrong. Very wrong. Wrong and stupid.”
Luca began to cry. Because that is what happens when you call a seven-year-old stupid, Siemen.
“Wait, no, I didn’t mean it!” he hissed, “please don’t tell your mother.”
“Give me €20.”
“Absolutely the fuck not.”
Luca cried harder.
The little fu- “Fine! Here!” He – incredibly reluctantly – opened his wallet and fished out a twenty.
He already knew that smug smile on Isabel’s face meant bad news.
“You’ll have to pay me to not snitch too,” she said slyly. Why did his daughter have to go and have 2 kids?
With a growl, he handed over another twenty. “Can I continue my story now?”
“Sure thing, Opa!”
“He kealt at my root,
His glare was acute,
And demanded to know what I was,
Malevolent spirit,
A vision too vivid,
Or was he a cruel laughter’s cause.
I spoke to him gentle,
A voice thin and fragmental,
I begged him to hear my sad tale,
I meant him no harm,
No need for alarm,
I am but a man, cursed and frail,
Though his eyes showed his fear,
Siemen’s ‘yes’ was sincere,
He wanted to know tragedy,
This blight called my life,
My well-deserved strife,
The price of noxious vanity,
Alin the annoying,
A poet so trying,
A genius hated by all,
Though his rhyme was sublime,
And looks so divine,
He was regarded as quite the arsehole.
He made a bet with the devil,
Their power was level,
And he simply won’t ever die,
He put a gun to his head,
And in one shot was dead,
In blood did that idiot lie."
“This moron killed himself to prove he was immortal?” exclaimed Isabel.
“Well how else do you prove it?”
Isabel thought for a moment, then scowled when she couldn’t come up with a reply. Ha! That’s what Siemen thought!
"The devil punished this poet,
Eternal life? He’d bestow it,
Let this man live his mistakes,
Trapped in a tree,
Trickle of time oversee,
Alone in a silent heartache.
Well now I have Siemen,
Promised to be my friend,
He’d come back to visit again,
And the next day he came,
My heart was aflame,
This feeling spread like a bloodstain."
“Eugh,” Luca pulled a face. “A tree fell in love with you?”
“A tree that used to be a man, mind you.”
“It’s still weird. I mean, you couldn’t fall in love with a tree back, right?”
Siemen fell silent. His grandchildren looked at him in horror.
“Well it’s more about personality, you see.”
“And what kind of personality did Alin have?” asked Isabel.
“A horrible one.” They both raised their eyebrows. “Not really. Well, he was very strange, but I couldn’t help liking him. He was funny, and witty. And, well, I don’t know.” He could feel a blush creeping onto his face, and wanted to punch every single one of his blood vessels. “I just found him charming.”
Luca stared at him for a good minute. “Wait, are you saying this actually happened?”
“Of course.”
“You’re senile.”
“Sinterklaas isn’t real.”
Five minutes of crying, and a €30 bribe later, Siemen turned back to Alin’s poem.
“Our friendship, it grew,
To the town’s harsh ado,
Their tongues, like me, were thorny,
Though we broke the taboo,
Our hearts painted rouge,
The truth was he made me so-“
Sieman stopped. Why, Alin? “Oh no, that’s a bit too rude.” As were the next few verses, it seemed. And this was supposed to be one of the cleaner poems.
“We sat in the sun and he told me poems,” he explained, in the hopes of distracting his grandchildren from the prospect of something with a rude word in it, because holy fuck did children love rude words and he couldn’t have them asking their mother what ‘horny’ meant. “We talked about our lives and grew closer. He had a lot of interesting stories, though I’m not sure just how many were actually true.”
He desperately scanned the poem for something that was’t complete and utter filth, vaguely remembering just how disgusted he felt hearing it from Alin’s voice all those years ago.
Ah! Here we go!
“Our cruel reputation,
Across this flat nation,
The madman who French-kissed a tree,
I go naked in winter,
His lip has a splinter!
And his step-child a family of bees!”
Well, it was cleaner than the last seven verses. Isabel still looked disgusted though. He couldn’t blame her. It took him a week to get that splinter out. And that was just the one he got on his lip.
“Our time was a blast,
But it could never last,
He was a human and I just a tree,
I had stood here for years,
Cried cold, lonely tears,
What I wanted was my soul’s release.
What I ask of you dear,
I make this quite clear,
To go set me free at last,
Take your little axe,
Plunge it into my back,
And chop me up quite fast.
I know you will miss me,
With ice where you kissed me,
But the only way to break my cruel curse,
Is to chop me down,
My spirit set down,
Your axe shall be my own nurse.
I’m ready to die,
My soul has run dry,
And my bark has grown dark and inky,
So cut down this tree,
And let me be free,
In fact, I’ll find it quite- God fucking dammit Alin!”
“He’ll find it quite what?” asked Isabel.
“…Stinky?”
“That’s not the word! We’re not idiots!”
Siemen had had quite enough at this point. “It is the word now shut up and go to sleep!” And he left the kids to their protesting, turning off the light and creaking downstairs to find that wine bottle. After locking up the unpublished poems of Alin Radacanu somewhere innocent eyes couldn't find them, of course.
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Reddit Prompt: Write a horror story where the protagonist doesn’t give a fuck.
They dragged me into a back room illuminated solely by candlelight. They gagged me, stripped me, and then tied me to a wooden table in the center of a chanting congregation. They whipped me a few times, and then this small decrepit old lady with Tweety Bird locks started writing things on my back.
I didn’t mind the gagging, the stripping, or being tied down all that much—it wasn’t all that different from what my boyfriend, Mike, and I did on especially frisky nights—but I kind of minded the writing. I don’t like being written on; especially when I don’t know what it says.
If they were going to write on me, they could have at least done it where I could see. It was pretty inconsiderate if you asked me.
When they were done, they led me—or rather pushed me—along another dark corridor that really started to make me question their ability to pay the light bill. Soon, they shoved me into another dark room and focusing on not tripping became more important than the state of their finances.
“Ellie!”
Ah, yes, where are my manners? My name’s Ellie. I’m 20 years old, I have a total of four friends, and one of them is my twin sister, Milly. You know how they say that in a set of twins, there’s always one that’s the fuck up? Or the one who’s never quite as good, or amazing, as the other?
That’s Milly.
No, I’m kidding, it’s me. It’s most definitely me.
But I never really minded not aspiring to go to Yale, or Harvard, or some other prissy school like my sister’s always singing about. I’m perfectly fine working at Starbucks to support my bullshit Anthropology degree while she rides out her super expensive law scholarship. Yeah, she’s perfect and everybody loves her; but I think she’s always so uptight. I mean, you should have seen her as a kid. Always trying super hard to be this girl that everyone loves, never taking the time to just smoke a joint and relax.
My parents and teachers always wanted me to be like her. Milly could do no wrong. Ever. Besides, it was easier to blame misfortunes on the crappier twin than the star. Do I resent her for it? Not really. She may be an uppity, pious pain in the ass, but I love my sister.
But, like all siblings, I take great satisfaction in knowing that she fucked up this time and I’m not the one who got us into this mess.
“Oh my god, Ellie!” Milly cried, rushing over to take my face in her grimy hands, “What did they do to you?!”
She looked like hell. Her perfect blonde hair—that she most definitely dyed to please her boyfriend because I am a brunette—was completely disheveled and hastily pulled up into a ponytail. Her pretty blue eyes were bloodshot, and there were bloodstains all across her face and clothes.
She was looking earnestly into my own matching pair, her hands shaking, and I mumbled slowly, “They did some stuff.”
“Stuff?” She echoed, kind of hysterically. “What kind of ‘stuff?!”
“You know, the kind that makes you say ‘ow,’” I answered and Milly shoved me away disgustedly to move to the other side of the dingy room.
“Fuck, Ellie! Can’t you be serious for once in your fucking life?!” Milly viciously raked her hand through her dirty hair, making it look even worse. “We’re going to die!”
Combing my hand through my own bird’s nest for hair, I swept my gaze across the small room while Milly had her own little melt down. There was only one entrance, so that obviously meant there was only one exit, but there was a small window in the corner that looked tampered with. Only, it wasn’t big enough to fit through so I didn’t really devote a lot of time scrutinizing it.
There was a noticeable lack of food or water, or even a toilet—which sucked because I really had to pee—in the room, but there was something even bigger that was missing.
Two bodies. Tony and Jimmy.
“Hey,” I called to my sister, rubbing my sore wrists distractedly. “Where are the guys?”
“Oh, Tony,” Milly moaned miserably, and when I looked back she was cradling her head in her hands. “They took him away, too.”
Well, since she was so distraught, I’m guessing Tony didn’t make it back.
“And Jimmy?”
Milly was silent.
“Milly?” I prompted and she shook her head, raising her hand to pick at her trembling bottom lip in a nervous tick I knew very well.
“He…” She started tremulously, licked her lips, then whispered, “He escaped. Through there.”
I followed the direction her head jerked to, unsurprised to see it was the window. Well, if anyone were going to fit through there, it’d be Jimmy.
“He said—he said he was gonna get help,” Milly shook her head. “He said he’d be back for us, but—but he hasn’t come back! What if—what if…”
Milly trailed off uncertainly and I sighed. See, Tony and Jimmy were Milly’s friends. We came here with them. I didn’t want to come to the creepy old cabin in the woods, and Mike was vehemently against it, but Milly begged me to accompany her. She’d said she didn’t want to be alone with two guys in a cabin; but I secretly knew that that was one of Milly’s greatest fantasies…The freak.
She just wasn’t attracted to Jimmy, who was a really lanky and small for his age guy, but he was Tony’s best friend so she was nice to him.
Then again, Milly was nice to everyone. Me? People tended to avoid the stoner girl in my neighborhood, but I like to think I’m pretty chill. Jimmy thought so too, apparently.
Milly thinks he has a huge crush on me, but I beg to differ. I just think that the poor guy is in love with his best friend’s girl and wants the next best thing. Whatever the case, Milly bribed me with cinnamon rolls—so of course I had to come.
I had to pretend I was single and flirt with the guy, which was pretty mean, but Milly promised me more cinnamon rolls which was also pretty mean. I hope Mike doesn’t find out—he’ll kill me and Jimmy.
If Jimmy isn’t already dead, that is.
The only reason we’re here is because of some urban legend Tony taunted Milly with. He’d called her a goody two-shoes, a girl too afraid to get her hands dirty and do something dangerous. Which, I mean, is true, but Milly doesn’t take well to being challenged or teased.
So, of course, we went to the creepy cabin in the woods.
I wasn’t too surprised that we had encountered a satanic cult living there who wanted to sacrifice us to their pagan god. What else did I expect? Mr. Rodgers? Blue from Blue’s Clues? Betty Crocker?
But I guess Milly and her friends did because they were super surprised—the idiots.
Turning around, I went and tinkered with the lock a bit, finding it flimsy and dated.
“Oh my fuck, Ellie!”
Looking over my shoulder at the sound of Milly’s horrified screech, I rose a brow, “What, Milly?”
“Your back!” She cried. “It’s covered in symbols!”
“Really?” I asked, surprised. Then I remembered that hardcore BDSM orgy in the other room and, well, duh.
“Oh, yeah, I don’t know what they did back there. Could you take a picture?” And remembering that Milly was a stickler for good manners I added, “Please?”
Milly nodded, and she pulled her defunct phone from her bra and took a blurry picture of my back. The poor girl was shaking so bad I wondered how she kept her bladder together.
Zooming in on the symbols etched delicately across the span of my back, I couldn’t help but breathe, “Wow, those are pretty!”
“Pretty?!” Milly screeched incredulously, drawing my attention back to her. “Ellie, those are ancient Satanic symbols meant to open a portal to Hell!”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Have you been sneaking into my room and reading my books? Bitch.”
Milly grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. “That’s not important right now! Oh my god, this is bad!”
I shrugged. MeeMaw always said that a situation was only shitty if you made it shitty, and I thought those symbols were pretty. It wasn’t like the average person could read them anyway, and I told Milly so.
“MeeMaw was senile!” Milly shouted. “Everyone knew that!”
“Fuck off, Milly! MeeMaw was a badass!”
All things aside, that Tweety Bird cult leader had some artistic talent. I bet if she opened up a tattoo shop in the city she’d make lots of money. Milly didn’t agree, but I ignored her. Milly rarely agreed with me on anything.
I tinkered with the lock a bit until it came undone with a snap and a jangle. My sister rushed to my side and she looked at the lock nervously, as if fearful that the noise was going to make Tweety Bird and the others come running.
When a moment passed and there was no sound of Death rushing towards us, I dared creep open the door. It opened with a horrible creak and we both winced, but when nothing happened, we took off running for an escape.
Well, I was going for a leisurely stroll because I wasn’t particularly athletic, but Milly grabbed my hand and made me run with her.
She wanted to look for Tony, but I think we both knew deep down that Tony was dead. Well, I said it out loud but Milly started sobbing so I kind of took it back. But I guess she could tell I wasn’t being genuine and she started ugly sobbing even uglier.
God, I’m glad I don’t look like that when I cry.
We hadn’t encountered anyone in our mad dash to the nearest exit and beyond, and I thought that was kind of lucky. But then an axe came at us from the left, and I thought that was kind of unlucky.
Milly screamed as an awfully cliché looking man with an axe came barreling out of the woodwork, and I twisted to the side to avoid a particularly vicious hack at my arm.
It was at that moment that I knew I fucked up.
I fell into a rose bush.
Which hurt like hell because I was pretty much naked, but I wasn’t worried about that. I was more worried about the thorn in my ass.
And I’m not talking about the rose bush.
“Milly!” I shouted as my sister fell on her ass and then scrambled away from her would be killer. “Get up and run, you moron!”
As I worked to untangle myself from the stupid nest of thorns—that was the real Satan here, if you asked me. Have you ever gotten a thorn in your hoo-ha?!—Milly ran out into the treeline and left me there.
What a bitch.
And then she came running back with three more guys chasing her.
Bitch.
Having since untangled myself from the bush, I grabbed Milly’s shaking hand as we backed up against a tree. I could think of better ways to go—cradled in Johnny Depp’s arms as he cursed at the Heavens was one of my Top Five—but I guess this was alright.
MeeMaw used to say that if the Universe always gave us what we wanted, I’d be a little bitch and she wouldn’t have saggy tits. Again, MeeMaw was a fucking badass.
Milly curled into my shoulder with a sob as the men approached and I braced myself for the feeling of being hacked to death, but then shotgun fire rang out.
It was Jimmy and Tony. Go figure.
Both guys shot at the cultists a few times until they were nothing but a bloody mess on the floor. Seemingly safe for a few moments, Milly threw herself at Tony for a tearful makeout session and when Jimmy expected the same, I held my hand up for a high-five.
He looked disappointed that I didn’t want to tongue fuck his throat. But I think he’d be more disappointed at his lack of teeth when Mike got a hold of him if he caught wind of it even being a thought in the guy’s head.
I guess it’s my fault though for leading Jimmy on.
After Milly and Tony reacquainted themselves with each other’s tonsils, Tony urged us to get a move on to avoid the other bat-shit crazies back at the house. They already knew we were gone, so it was only a matter of time before they found us again. Therefore, it was time to go.
Jimmy wanted to go back and finish them off, but Jimmy was fucking crazy and we all looked at him like he was an idiot.
Which he was.
And so we took off running.
We must have run for a few miles, or maybe like thirty meters, until we hit the road and amazingly caught some cell phone reception. Tony wanted to call the local police, but Milly—in a stroke of genius she was known for—suggested we call the city police. She thought the local police were in cahoots with the cult because that’s how these things usually go.
Tony thankfully listened to her, and within a half hour the place was swarming with city police, SWAT, and the FBI. They covered us all with blankets and gave us some hot cocoa in Styrofoam cups as the SWAT team disappeared into the tree line.
Within moments, the pleasant sound of gunfire rang through the night before they came back an hour later.
Despite cuddling up to her ‘hero’ boyfriend, Milly made it a point to sit next to me and hold my hand. After a few moments of comforting silence, I really couldn’t help myself.
“Well, that was eventful,” I said, taking a sip from my hot drink. “Think we’ll be on TV?”
“Oh my god, Ellie,” Milly rolled her eyes. “We could have died!”
“But did you?” I asked.
“What?”
“Did you die?”
“Well, no, but—“
“Okay, then. Stop your bitchin’.”
My name’s Ellie. I’m 20 years old. I have a twin sister named Milly. I’m a fucking barista at Starbucks with a bullshit degree in Anthropology. I got some cool Satanic tattoos in a cabin in the woods where my sister and I almost died, and I don’t give a fuuuucckkk.
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if Aphrodite gives a shit (and We created you in pairs)
Rated: T
Chapter: 1/5
Relationships: friendship Otabek/Yuri, Seung Gil/Phichit, implied Leo/Guang Hong, Yuuri/Victor
Summary:
When Yuri met Otabek, his timer had been showing him zeroes since he was ten. His Soulmate didn't come and find him. Cursed, people call him. Fuck off, Yuri tells them.
Otabek still has years before he's due to meet his Soulmate.
aka the soulmate timer au with a twist
read on ao3
-
Yuuri and Victor is a tale of misunderstandings made worse by bad communication and scandalous shenanigans.
Yuri's certain this year's season would look so much different if Victor could just admit to Yuuri that both of their timers went off at the Banquet (yes, it has a capital B now, because no one ever forgets the Banquet), that he wants to submit his useless self to domesticity for the rest of his life, and that he, as ridiculous as it sounds, has no desire to return to competitive skating, and the only reason why he did is because of Yuuri's dense, oblivious request.
Yuri can picture it so perfectly, it makes him want to barf: the two retiring together after Yuuri's mediocre silver, living in a luxurious penthouse because Victor is filthy, filthy rich, being embarrassing dog parents. They'd probably adopt ten more dogs—and kittens, too, for good measure, because they are that couple who walk into a pet shelter to get one and end up with twenty.
Disgustingly happy.
It offends Yuri. If they retire, then for the rest of Yuri's figure skating career, he will face an awfully predictable season. He hasn't even had the absolute pleasure to stand above Victor Nikiforov on the podium! It's entirely horrific for them to even consider retiring when Yuri isn't even done with this season. That's why he pushed himself to win gold at the Grand Prix, to remind Yuuri that he's still not half as good as he could be, the perfect opponent to fulfill Yuri's thirst for a real fight.
He didn't really count on Yuuri moving into Victor's ridiculously huge penthouse and becoming the Japanese in Team Russia, but whatever keeps the two on ice.
Besides, it's fun to watch Victor pine. Yuri delights in seeing five-time Grand Prix gold-medalist, two-time Olympian gold medalist, living legend Victor Nikiforov reduced to nothing but a pathetic bumbling fool at the face of something as idiotic as love.
The fun doesn't stay long, unfortunately. On a day such as this, however, Yuri desperately wishes that the couple could just sit down and talk about their stupid feelings. It makes him shudder just to think about it, but Yuri swears he will cut a bitch if he has to share a rink with Victor and Yuuri for one more day.
He's seriously considering moving rinks.
He knows how it sounds. Is Yuri Plisetsky, known for kicking people unceremoniously in the butt in greeting, yelling and insulting everything on Earth the whole time, considering to give up?
There's nothing more that Yuri Plisetsky loves more than a good fight, but even he knows how to pick his battles. Yuuri and Victor is a battle he can't win.
"But Yurio! Yuuri just moved in! You can't tell him to move back to Japan!"
"But Yurio! I need to practice and coach Yuuri at the same time! I can't be in two places at once!"
“But Yurio! Yuuri cooks the best katsudon in all of Russia! You love katsudon, don’t you?”
“But Yurio! We just ordered a new king-sized bed! It’d be shame if I’m the only one sleeping on it!”
“But Yurio! We just adopted a new dog!”
Victor has a lot of buts, but it's never this one:
"But Yurio! Yuuri and I are Soulmates!"
They are both so dumb.
Yuri is not even destined to have any Soulmates, yet he still understands the importance of communication.
Yuri has every right to complain, as he has previously attempted to take matters into his own hands. All of his efforts die in vain. Yuuri believes Yuri is just messing with him when Yuri tells him (which, fuck off, Yuri would never joke to anyone about Soulmates, even if he thinks Aphrodite is nothing but capitalist propaganda. He's a mean little shit, but he's not evil), Victor cries ("He told me he wanted to end things! After he proposed to me!"), and Yuri decides, right then and there, that he is done.
He delivers them a strongly worded ultimatum.
"LISTEN ASSHOLES. FIX THIS SOULMATE SHIT OR I WILL NEVER RETURN TO THIS RINK. RUSSIA WILL LOSE ITS BRIGHT FUTURE—BECAUSE FACE IT, VICTOR, YOU'RE SENILE—AND YURI'S ANGELS WILL ALL PERSONALLY END YOUR LIVES. YURI PLISETSKY OUT."
And then he boards a plane to Almaty.
-
[20:45] me: better wait up for me cos im coming over
[20:57] otabek: Alright?
-
"When you told me you're coming over, I didn't think you meant right now," Otabek says in lieu of greeting. He doesn't offer to bring Yuri's suitcase, which is nice. Yuri hates people thinking he's weak just because he's lithe and slender.
"I can't deal with them," Yuri whines. "They turned figure skating into a one-year-long cockblocking, Otabek. I don't know anyone who does that. I can't concentrate. And now that Georgi's moved on and Mila’s found Sara, normal life is out of the question."
Otabek raises his eyebrows, seeming to communicate, aren't you the one who didn't want them to retire? Otabek doesn't say that, which is a good move because Yuri would have punched him, best friends be damned, and instead asks if Yakov is on board with this.
"He better be," Yuri grumbles. "Listen, if it's what it takes to make the pig and the old man to communicate, I will fucking do it, because my mind is about to blow up with their sickening pining."
Otabek halts in his tracks, then, like he’s just realized something. Yuri looks back at him in question. Otabek gives him this look, like he's fond of Yuri, but doesn't make any further comment regarding his impulsive decision. “If that’s what you want,” he says, and somehow it sounds so cryptic, coming from Otabek.
-
Otabek’s apartment is roughly the size of grandpa’s house. It has two bedrooms, one bathroom, a small kitchen area and an even smaller living room with a flat TV. The balcony is bigger than the kitchen and living room combined, an old-school rocking chair placed in the corner, overlooking the busy streets of Almaty. Yuri peeks into the room that Otabek calls the guest bedroom.
“Why is your balcony bigger than my room?” Yuri asks.
“It’s not your room,” Otabek says patiently. “I like to work out outside. It’s refreshing.”
Yuri steps out into the balcony, hit immediately by a strange combination of cool breeze and carbon dioxide. “I think I like St. Petersburg better,” he decides. Otabek joins him in the balcony, looking amused.
“Then why’d you come to Almaty?”
Yuri sighs dramatically. “I told you, I need to escape Victor and Yuuri.”
“The Russian national championship is coming,” Otabek points out. “Are you sure you really should be here?”
“Ugh,” Yuri hates how Otabek is always right. “Fine. If in five days Yuuri and Victor haven’t made up their stupid minds, I’m coming back to St. Petersburg.” He braces both hands on the railings, looking out into the city. The sky is obscured by light pollution, rendering stars invisible. They don’t say anything for a long time, until Otabek nudges his shoulder.
“I didn’t realize we’re on that stage of friendship where you can just show up unannounced at my apartment,” Otabek remarks. "In another country."
“Alright, you’re one of the few friends that I don’t want to kill every hour, so you better feel damn special, asshole,” Yuri nudges back.
“You sure do set the bar really high,” Otabek replies dryly. “You can stay here and watch the sunset if you want, but frankly, if you want a better view, you should go to Medeu. I’m going to inform my coach about your arrival.”
“Nice,” Yuri says. After a beat, he adds, “Thanks.”
Otabek nods and leaves him. Yuri takes the opportunity to take numerous pictures of the view from Otabek’s apartment. Otabek, the old soul, for the love of him cannot figure out how to use his Instagram, and it turns out that the only picture he’s ever posted—the one where he’s in the airport—is taken, captioned, and posted by one of his three older sisters, Sabina. In turn, he teases Yuri about being the Z Generation, even though Otabek is barely three years older.
They’ve been talking non-stop since last year’s Grand Prix Final, and gone past the weird stage where they’re still trying to test the waters. Otabek, Yuri learns with horror, is the only person Yuri knows who texts with grade-A punctuation and grammar, on top of his inability to use emojis. Even Victor, who’s basically a mummy at this point, uses smiley faces on his texts. Katsudon uses those automated texts that show as cat faces or a human doing very Japanese things.
He’s about to post the fifth sunset picture he takes when Otabek trudges back to his side. “My coach said okay to coaching you temporarily,” Otabek says. “On the condition that you should let no one except for Yakov and your grandpa about your location.”
Yuri’s thumb freezes just over the post button. “Ugh, fine,” he relents, defeated. He closes the app. He can survive without posting anything on Instagram. Cavemen have tried, he, a more advanced human being, should be stellar at it.
Otabek doesn’t look like he’s sympathizing with Yuri even a little bit. Yuri begins to wonder if this friendship is worth it. “Let’s go inside,” Otabek says, touching the edge of the skin where Yuri’s skin meets his palm, grazing the end of his dead timer just so. Otabek’s own timer, very much still working, catches the sunset’s weak light and for some reason, it reminds Yuri of the rings Victor and Yuuri wear. A sealed fate. “Help me make dinner.”
Yuri pointedly does not think of Soulmates for the rest of his stay in Almaty.
-
Miraculously, Yuuri and Victor get their shit together by the fifth day. Aphrodite herself must be shitting. Mila livestreams the whole thing for the international skating community. Apparently, instead of sitting Yuuri down in their big-ass apartment with some hot tea and sappy music playing in the background, Victor yells it instead at Yuuri after practice, unprompted and out of nowhere, as if he takes one look at Yuuri and decides that he cannot contain all the feelings inside him any longer.
It’s like Victor wants everyone to know.
Now that Yuri thinks about it, Victor most definitely does, has wanted to since Beijing. It is not quite taboo in most Western countries to have a relationship with someone who is not your intended, but Yuri supposes the culture must differ in Asia. Russia isn't really big on Aphrodite, though the laws are pretty strict about these damn timers. If Victor’s not absolutely sure about Yuuri, he wouldn’t have acted so careless with his affection. Yuuri is too wrapped own in his own insecurity to notice, and Victor is not helping by any inch by staying silent and doing what Yuuri thinks he wants to do, without asking him what he wants even once.
“YUURI, I AM YOUR SOULMATE,” Victor shouts in the livestream. Yuri winces and immediately turns down the volume. He should’ve known there would be loud declarations of love.
It’s already lunch time in Almaty, and Otabek, startled by the yell, drops his spatula and spills some of the curry he’s making. The mixture is sizzling, and Yuri hears Otabek hiss in pain, but it looks like nothing serious as the Kazakh simply wipes it off with a clean napkin and moves to sit next to Yuri, who is furiously watching Victor’s latest idiosyncrasy.
“What is happening?” Otabek asks.
“Watch my lunch,” Yuri says, “I don’t want you to burn the curry.”
“Is that Victor and Katsuki?” Otabek raises his eyebrows.
Yuri cranks up the volume in response. “—IN LOVE WITH YOU SINCE THE NIGHT OF THE BANQUET,” Victor continues to yell. “I KNOW YOU DON’T REMEMBER BUT I DO. AND I LOVE YOU, YUURI KATSUKI, AND I DON’T WANT TO GO BACK TO SKATING UNLESS IT’S WHAT YOU WANT.” Victor’s next words are, thankfully, not yelled, but Yuri can’t catch it despite the silence that has dawned on the rink.
“He’s saying, ‘honestly, I’d much rather skip the gold part and marry you,’” Mila whispers behind the screen, barely-contained excitement evident in her voice.
Mila is not standing too far away from where the story develops, so Yuri can make out Yuuri’s reactions, pixellated as they are. Yuuri is frozen, still as a marble statue, no doubt having trouble processing all of this. He hears sobs that are far too distant to be Yuuri’s; it must only belong to one and only Georgi Popovich, in love with love.
After a while, Yuuri skates to Victor and pulls him roughly into his embrace, and kisses the live out of Victor. Mila’s whoops are the most audible among the cheers that fill the ice rink. Georgi is straight up wailing. The screen goes blank for a few seconds, before it switches to front camera, showing Mila’s red face. “Yuri Plisetsky, if you’re watching this, please come back immediately. The nationals are in less than a month!”
Yuri cuts off the livestream after that, and immediately goes to Twitter, vexed to find that, once again, #Victuuri is trending. “Well, I guess now I have no reason to stay here,” Yuri scowls. “By Aphrodite’s name, they are going to be more sickening than they already are. I take it back. I want to stay here until they stop being gross.”
Otabek makes a face. “Well, I suppose that’s never going to happen.”
“Now I regret everything,” Yuri groans.
Otabek gets back to his curry. The spicy smell fills the apartment, prompting Yuri’s stomach to growl. “Why do you call them gross and sickening, anyway?”
“Because,” Yuri takes a deep breath, “they are.”
“They’re Soulmates,” Otabek says, like that explanation is obvious. Like it’s enough for Yuri to excuse Victor’s rash decision to abandon his career and chase down a person who, in the end, didn’t even remember.
“Yeah, well.” Yuri feels the weight of his timer like a ring of fire around his wrist. “Some people just don’t like PDA.”
Otabek is not a complete social recluse. If he’s truly been keeping track of Yuri’s career like he claimed, then there’s no way he wouldn’t know about his dead timer. Yuri's timer stops counting down when he's ten, training at Yakov's camp, but nobody in the room comes to him. Nobody runs to him for a sweet embrace. There are no fireworks going off in his head, lightness in his chest like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, nothing changes. In that moment he knows, with gut-wrenching clarity, that there is no one for him. He wonders if Otabek is there when it happens, or if he's left for Vancouver by then.
Yakov is there when it happens, and he freezes, taken aback. His eyes fill with pity. Yuri has always known pity—it's in his Grandpa's eyes when Yuri spends the first night at his house, mother-less and father-less but not an orphan, in his neighbor's eyes when he tells them that no, he doesn't remember his mother, his mother who fucked off to Aphrodite knows where to marry a man that's not her Soulmate, but very rich and resourceful.
Maybe this is a punishment, a curse from Aphrodite. No one is supposed to split from their Soulmate; the thought itself is anathema.
But the concept of god has always seemed funny to Yuri, and at ten years old, he couldn't care less about a Soulmate. He cares about his flexibility and the choreography Yakov has assigned to him more. He cares about putting food on the table and keeping his Grandpa out of hospital. At sixteen, he still cares about those things. He hones that mindset as he grows up, growing opinions on Soulmates that are contrary to what the general public believes: that meeting your Soulmate is not the best possible thing that could ever have happened to a person.
To Yuri, the best thing that could ever happen to him is a gold medal.
Otabek must know that.
Yuri braces himself for the obligatory pity that’s coming. Instead, Otabek sets down two plates of vegetable curry on the table. “Eat,” he says, like that’s not what Yuri is going to do anyway.
Otabek borrows his mother’s car the next day and drives him to the airport. He gives Yuri a very manly pat on the back and a thumbs-up.
“I’ll see you at Worlds,” Otabek says instead of goodbye.
“I’ll crush you at Worlds,” Yuri promises, then because he now can, snaps a picture of Otabek and posts in on Instagram. He captions it, thanks for granting me asylum from all this lovey-dovey bullshit, and tags it #Almaty.
-
He falls asleep on the plane and returns to training to Yakov’s incessant anger and Lilia’s death glares.
Victor and Yuuri have decided that this year’s World Championship will be the last for both of them. Victor never intends to go back to the ice to compete, and only did so because Yuri requested him to, very nicely. Regardless of who gets gold, they will get married. Not that Yuri cares about their love; their impending retirement means that Yuri truly only has one shot in beating them both. The GPF gold medalist title pales in comparison to how World champion sounds in Yuri’s ears, and he is taking them from both Yuuri and Victor.
At the Russian national championship, Victor takes gold to Yuri’s respectable silver. Yuuri, to absolutely no one's surprise, bags gold in Japan. But respectable isn’t the goal for Yuri, so he pushes himself, spends more time in the rink than he needs to. This is the last season for them, and Yuri's running out of time. A week before the Russian team flies to Shanghai, Lilia Baranovskaya physically wrestles him into his grandpa’s house and practically tells his grandpa to strap him to his bed. Yuri immediately rattles off to Yakov, but the old man is, apparently, the brains behind the operation to get Yuri to lose.
(“To rest, help me, Aphrodite—to rest,” Yakov says.)
Betrayed, Yuri loads Skype and calls Otabek. Yuri hasn’t been able to reach Otabek since his gold at Kazakhstan nationals. The World Championship is the most important event in a season; he is no doubt on phone-prohibition, avoiding all distractions to spend his waking days getting worked down on the ice. He regrets dialing his Skype now. It’s 21:47 in Almaty, Otabek must be sleeping like the dead, worn out after a full day training. Yuri envies him a little. His quads have been sloppy with the extra length in his lower limbs, and he hasn’t been able to do one with both arms raised since the nationals. This must be the puberty Mila warns him about.
“Hello?”
Yuri is not expecting Otabek to answer at all, so this new development startles him. “Otabek, hi,” Yuri says. “You should be asleep.”
“And you shouldn’t be calling me,” Otabek says. “Everything okay?”
Yuri’s rants are on the tips of his tongue, but he refrains, noticing the disheveled look Otabek’s sporting—he looks good still, and it pisses Yuri off—and his droopy eyes. “No, never mind,” Yuri shakes his head. “Go to sleep. You look like a zombie.”
“I was about to protest, but I walked past a mirror and you’re right, I look like I’ve been run over by a bus twice,” Otabek says, “and come back to life just to eat your brain.”
“You are surprisingly eloquent for a zombie,” Yuri smirks. He feels infinitely better already. This must be another side effect of puberty.
Otabek hums. “Sorry, I’m beat tonight. I’ll talk to you later?”
“At Worlds?” Yuri suggests.
“Too long,” Otabek protests. “But okay.”
Yuri surprises himself by saying, “Good night.” If Otabek’s nearly as surprised, he doesn’t show it. Otabek waves an absent hand on him sleepily. Yuri ends the call, and cannot believe his chest feels lighter than before. And he didn’t even get to vent.
With nothing to do, he ends up browsing his Instagram feed. No one has posted any new posts except for Phichit Chulanont, whose feed now is filled with hamsters. He writes cryptic captions under every picture, complete with suggestive winky faces and a bunch of Thai words Yuri doesn’t care enough to translate. Yuri somehow finds himself on YouTube, coming from a link posted by an skater fan on Instagram, watching a recent performance of Otabek at a charity dinner party. He’s wearing last year’s free skate costume, the white and blue one, but the song is Romeo and Juliet. The program flows smoothly like water. It’s the most relaxed Yuri has seen Otabek skate.
Well, to be fair, Yuri’s only seen him skate live twice.
He watches Otabek’s past programs until exhaustion creeps in and forces his eyes to close.
-
At Worlds, Phichit and Seung-gil meet for the first time. Their timers hit zero immediately.
Phichit gapes, his mouth opening and closing like a fish stranded on land, for the first time in his life, at a loss for words. Seung-gil looks like he’s struck by lightning. A thousand cameras flash, and today makes history for the day that Phichit Chulanont, notorious for documenting every aspect of his life, looks uncomfortable under the scrutiny of camera lenses.
Seung-gil runs off to the Kiss and Cry. Phichit skates his short program looking dazed the entire time, and turns two of his jumps into singles. After the disappointing Kiss and Cry, Yuuri sprints to his side and leads him away from the press, away from prying eyes of the reporters. Yuri is reminded of how fierce Yuuri can be when protecting his loved ones.
Yuri, on the contrary, is not a complete asshole, and therefore worries about Phichit, sunshine personified and possibly half of the reason why Yuuri is still alive, but decides to keep his questions until after the competition.
Besides, Otabek’s skating next.
“Davai,” he tells Otabek just before he skates off.
Otabek offers him a thumbs-up.
Otabek easily diverges the attention from Phichit to his skating. He doesn't just diverge; he commands attention, and Yuri can't find it in himself to look away. He may even go as far as saying that he is enchanted, but no one will ever hear him say it aloud. Yuri remembers how difficult it is to reach Otabek, how their Skype calls turn, for the most part, into Yuri slowly watching him fall asleep before he taps the end button. He’s modified Samarkand Overture for a greater difficulty and higher scores. Otabek has been working his ass off, and he delivers.
The only thing that Yuri hates about the program is the ugly ass costume.
Otabek places second, below Yuri and, Yuri notes happily, above JJ. This will change when Victor and Yuuri take the ice. Yuri bites his lip at the score panel. At this point, he will end up taking home bronze to Victor and Yuuri's silver and gold. He will have to break down, and rebuild himself in the free skate.
Phichit stays at fourteen.
Otabek gets off the Kiss and Cry and approaches Yuri. "Not my best," Otabek says in lieu of greeting.
Yuri still thinks Otabek is enchanting. "Yeah, the last spin was completely lazy," Yuri says.
"Completely out of power," Otabek agrees. He glances briefly up at the rink side, where Leo de la Iglesia is taking off his blade guards, and his eyes narrow. "It's Katsuki's turn after Leo, right?"
Yuri nods. "Fuck knows where he is."
"Is he still with Phichit?"
"Probably, but Victor isn’t here either, so take my words with a grain of salt,” Yuri shrugs. He puts his hands behind his head and leans back. Leo’s program looks much smoother than when he debuted it at the Grand Prix, but still not flawless. His enthusiasm reminds Yuri of Phichit. No wonder they’re close friends, despite their age gap. “You know, I would have expected that Phichit, out of everyone, would be delighted to meet his Soulmate. Taking pictures of everything at every angle and shit. But I guess... you never really know."
Otabek’s eyes are still trained on Leo. "It is unexpected."
"Aren't you concerned? We’re supposed to feel like, ten times lighter and like the sun is shining out of the ass-crack of your Soulmate. You believe in Soulmates, right?"
Otabek, the asshole, replies, "Do you?"
Yuri scoffs. He crosses his arms over his chest. He feels defensive, all of a sudden. "Come on, Otabek, you have to know. My timer's been dead since I was ten, and nobody came to me. I don't have a Soulmate."
"I don't believe that,” Otabek says.
"That I don't have a Soulmate?" There’s a tightness in Yuri’s chest that comes with talking—or thinking about in general—about Soulmates, refusing to go even when Yuri is forcefully telling himself to calm down.
"Yes. We are created in pairs, we—"
“Then what the fuck do these zeroes mean?”
Otabek’s an idiot if he doesn’t think Yuri knows that. Yuri cuts him off, "Spare the preaching, Aphrodite. I know.” Does he think Yuri doesn’t go to school? He hears what people say to his grandpa about his mother. He’s read every book that has ever been written about Soulmates, even ones not written Russian, just to find a clue to what the fuck is wrong with him. He knows. “Look, do you think I never tried to find out what the fuck is wrong with me? I got people back there at DEI prodding and tugging at my timer, at me, but nothing works. It stays dead. I'm soulmate-less."
His eyes begin to feel warm. He tries to focus his vision on Leo’s eyesore of a costume, succeeding in avoiding eye contact with Otabek except all he sees is blurred colors. Fuck. The World championship is hardly the place to cry like a fucking baby.
"If Aphrodite is so good and loving, then why the fuck is Greece collapsing collectively as a country? Her temple is everywhere at every corner in Greece, she's worshipped—she's loved, isn’t she? Then why the fuck is there still a war happening?"
He needs to get the fuck out of here before he humiliates himself further. He stands up abruptly and leaves a dumbfounded Otabek behind.
-
[11:37] otabek: I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.
[11: 38] otabek: Where are you?
-
Yuri wakes up feeling infinitely worse than when he went to bed. His phone lies dead on the nightstand. He’s run out of the battery last night playing CandyCrush and deliberately not answering any texts. He goes to wash his face in the bathroom, and the sight that greets him almost makes him shriek.
He has a pimple.
What the fuck.
His already foul mood is further ruined when Mila points it out at breakfast, humiliates him in front of international skaters and Otabek, who hovers near him but doesn’t make any move to talk to him. It’s only fair that Yuri spills his apple juice on her. He takes his toast back to his room and eats while he sulks in his hotel room.
Lilia glares at him when he shows up to the public practice.
“You will apologize to Mila after this,” Lilia orders. Yuri sits down and ties his skate, grunting absentmindedly. Lilia seizes his hair and starts pulling it into a ponytail. Yuri scoots away from her in lightning speed.
“Yuri Plisetsky,” Lilia warns.
“I don’t want my hair to be tied,” Yuri defends.
“The reason why you have pimples right now is because you are growing,” Lilia explains.
Yuri is too humiliated to be angry. “I’ll just cover them with my hair,” he grumbles. His pimple itches. He wants nothing more than to pop it to oblivion. He wants it gone.
“It will only make it worse,” Lilia reasonably says. “Your hair is dirty.”
Yuri growls at her and snatches the hairtie from her hands. “Whatever,” he groans, but ties his hair anyway. He feels so fucking inadequate, despite landing all of his jumps and quads. Lilia doesn’t comment on his posture, so he must be fucking dreaming. Yakov doesn’t look too pleased and tells him to go over it one more time.
Meanwhile, other skaters have started to leave the rink.
Yuri skates exceptionally just to spite Yakov.
“That was amazing, Yurachka,” Yakov applauds. “But save some for the actual performance.”
It takes great strength for Yuri to refrain from punching his only coach.
-
Of course, he blows it at the free skate.
(He doesn’t get a davai from Otabek. The asshole isn’t getting one either)
(But Phichit—
“PHICHIT,” Seung-gil yells, and for the first time in his career, shows any other emotion other than disgust. “DON’T FUCK UP.”
Phichit lights up like a Christmas tree)
He freefalls from third after the short program to fifth, below fucking JJ, and Otabek replaces him in his stead. Yuuri gets, predictably, gold, and Victor a respectable silver. They both hold a press conference afterwards. Probably about their marriage or fucking retirement, but Yuri will never know because he does not give a shit. He slips away at the banquet and sheds his expensive suit—the only suit he owns—that he bought only because Mila kept telling him to, “Treat yourself!”
He spends hours walking on the streets of Shanghai, and when he realizes he’s lost, his phone is dead and he has no way of contacting others.
“Yuri, get on.”
Yuri purposefully ignores him and keeps walking. Who cares if he doesn’t know where he’s going? His GPS is working just fine on his phone. He just needs to find a café—or any place that has electricity accessible to public—to charge his phone, get it to at least twenty percent, then he will be fine. He doesn’t need a repeat of last year’s hero/fairy debacle, and he definitely does not need Otabek, with his rented bike, to save him.
“It’s getting late, and you’re lost.”
“Is this what friends do?” Yuri snaps. “Annoy each other to death?”
Otabek sighs. Sighs, like he’s dealing with a child. “You took off at the banquet without telling anyone where you went. We were all worried.” The thrum of the engine sounds overwhelmingly loud in the empty street Yuri’s managed to get himself to. Yuri still stubbornly strides on. Otabek catches up easily—because he’s on a damn bike. “I’m stopping you from doing anything stupid. That’s what friends do.”
Yuri kicks the black rented bike, and carefully does not wince when his shin meets hard, cold metal. “Oh, fuck off! Go back to your Soulmate bullshit and cuddle up with your stupid bronze medal!”
Otabek turns off his engine. The sudden silence feels deafening. “I’m sorry,” he says earnestly. “I didn’t mean to—rub salt in your wounds like that.”
“I am not wounded,” Yuri hisses.
Otabek’s expression is carefully, carefully blank. “I know. It was not my intention to imply that.”
Otabek’s no longer following him. He sits on his bike like a pathetic bastard. Yuri still hates that he still finds Otabek enchanting anyway, even when the older skater is pissing him off to no end. “Fine,” he spits out. “I’m hungry. Dumplings first, then hotel.”
Otabek’s mouth turns into a miniscule smile. So tiny, Yuri wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t spent nights watching Otabek trying to keep himself awake oceans away, through the pixelated image of his phone screen. “Your birthday was March 1, right?” he tosses Yuri a helmet. “I know a place. My treat.”
Yuri hadn’t even remembered his birthday. He probably would’ve, if birthdays are treated as anything other than a normal day in his household of two. Grandpa bakes more pirozhkis and gives him more pocket money on his birthday, and it’s funny because the entire time it’s always been Yuri’s competition money. Sure, Yuri’s Angels are especially rowdy on Twitter on his birthday, spamming his timeline with a thousand kitten edits, but really, it’s hard to tell the difference.
Yuri hasn’t forgiven Otabek yet. He gets on the bike with a scowl. “These better be some amazing dumplings,” he threatens.
Otabek revs the engine alive in response.
-
The dumplings are amazing, but Yuri would first plunge into Mariana’s trench before he lets Otabek hear him saying it.
“Guang Hong told me about this place,” Otabek says.
“I’ve forgiven you, you don’t need to make small talk to make sure I’m not still mad,” Yuri replies.
Otabek doesn’t look amused. “I really just wanted to tell you Guang Hong told me about this place.”
Otabek seems to be friends with a lot of skaters. Considering that he moves around the continents to train, it’s probably a given. Yuri remembers Otabek casually mentioning Leo’s and Guang Hong’s name in a conversation, even a suspicious Jean, who can’t possibly be—
“Otabek.” A realization strikes Yuri down to his core. He thinks he’s going to be sick. “Are you—are you friends with JJ?”
Otabek blinks once, then twice. Drinks his iced tea (people drink tea with ice on this continent, it’s bizarre). All too calmly, he answers, “We shared a rink together in Vancouver.”
Yuri has never, ever felt more betrayed in his life. Not even when Yakov made Lilia force him to rest. The dumplings turn to cardboard in his mouth. “I can’t believe—“ Yuri points an accusatory finger at Otabek’s chest. The latter looks positively unfazed. “Do you take him on dramatic motor rides in Barcelona, too? Save him from his stupid JJ Girls? Aphrodite help me—is the haircut a matching friendship haircut?”
Yuri is ready to bolt out of the restaurant if that were the case.
“No, Yuri,” Otabek answers gently. “That’s all you.”
Years later, Yuri will remember today as the beginning of everything, and laugh good-naturedly at how dense sixteen years old Yuri had been. Present Yuri, however, has no idea what the fuck is happening, and why his chest lifts at the implication that he’s special, according to Otabek. It almost makes him forget about his fifth rank.
Yuri drags the rest of the dumplings close to his plate. “Any friend of JJ isn’t going anywhere near my dumplings.”
“I bought them.”
“Whatever. I can’t believe you wronged me so bad.”
“Dramatic,” Otabek flicks his forehead. Yuri reels, hissing, touching his forehead, forever contaminated by the hand of a friend of JJ’s.
“You are no longer my friend.”
Otabek ignores him completely and steals his precious dumplings. Yuri is in a state of disbelief. “Oh, also, Katsuki and Victor are not retiring from figure skating,” he mentions, casually like he’s talking about the damn weather, and Yuri almost chokes.
“What the fuck,” Yuri says.
“They’d retire after the Grand Prix Final,” Otabek says. “Katsuki says it’s fitting, that they’d start everything at the Grand Prix Final and end everything at the Grand Prix Final. That means—“
“I still have a chance at beating them,” Yuri says. “Holy shit.”
“If you were at the banquet instead of running off to God knows where,” Otabek sucks from his straw, “You would’ve known.”
Yuri grimaces. “I may have overreacted.”
“If I’d won gold at the Grand Prix and finished fifth at Worlds, I’d feel humiliated too,” Otabek assures easily. Yuri is about retort that it isn’t true, then remembers that Otabek is nowhere to be seen at last year’s banquet. Otabek has won two bronze medals at the World Championship for two years in a row now, and yet not one medal at the Grand Prix Final. “But maybe, next time, make sure your battery is at 50% at least. Leaving anywhere when your iPhone is at 12% is practically a death sentence.”
“You were robbed last year,” Yuri tells him for the umpteenth time. Otabek shakes his head and doesn’t disagree.
After the meal, they ride around on the bike for a while, driving past Shanghai Disneyland. Yuri won’t admit to anyone that it’s his lifelong dream to go to Disneyland. Sure, he thinks Soulmates are nothing but bullshit, but he loves Mulan, and is still salty that Frozen has no musical number with ice dancing in it. It’s a complete waste of ice.
Otabek parks his rented bike at the hotel; someone from the renting agency will pick it up tomorrow, as he has to leave for Almaty first thing in the morning. Team Russia—well, it’s mostly Victor—requests a day off in Shanghai to go sightseeing. Lilia doesn’t look very happy to oblige, but then again, the only time Yuri’s seen her make a face that resembles a smile in the slightest is when he broke Victor’s world record.
And… well, he can’t exactly break records every day, can he?
Guang Hong, having gotten his driver’s license, happily offers to drive Otabek to the airport. Yuri sees him off in the hotel lobby, covering his Team Russia jacket with his favorite black hoodie that he hopes obscure the huge pimple on his forehead. He seriously hopes, for their sake, that no one sees. The world will never see Yuri with pimples, and if someone does—well, Yuri has no other choice but to kill them.
Otabek, the asshole, sees right through him and peels off the hoodie from his head. Yuri slaps his hand and pulls the hoodie over his head immediately. “DO YOU WANT TO GET KILLED EARLY IN THE MORNING, ASSHOLE?”
“Covering it with your hair makes it even worse.”
“STOP SOUNDING LIKE LILIA.”
Otabek rummages through his bag like Yuri isn’t currently screaming bloody murder at him and waking up the entire floor. The Kazakh chucks a pinky-sized white tub at Yuri, hitting him squarely in the chest before falling to his open palm.
“Acne cleanser cream,” Otabek explains. “Works like a wonder on me.”
“Ugh,” Yuri whines. He keeps the tube in his pocket anyway. “I fucking hate puberty.”
Otabek mock-salutes him. “See you at the Grand Prix. Try harder to defend your goal!”
“You try hard! You didn’t even make it to the podium!”
Yuri watches until Guang Hong’s car disappears in Shanghai traffic, and texts Otabek that he hopes Otabek doesn’t die in a plane crash, because it’ll seriously be a shame if Otabek dies before winning his GPF gold.
Nonetheless, Yuri’s not letting anyone take away his gold.
Not even the pig and his trophy fiancé.
-
Defending his GPF gold, as it turns out, insanely difficult.
It wouldn’t have been, if it weren’t for his fucking growth spurt, and now the god of puberty rains down on him with stupid, new curses, breaking his body every day and forcing him to relearn jumps and quads. It’s like he’s back to being ten and clueless on ice, adoring Victor for all the wrong reasons, practicing for hours just to be let down by the limitations of his own body.
No one is happy about this new development. Lilia has been drinking wine for dinner, Yakov is looking up retirement plans, and Victor offers to coach him. “Like an actual coach,” Victor says. Right, because the year he spent with Katsuki really isn’t him actually coaching him. Yuri’s answer is to plug in his earphones, listens to death metal, and works on his now imperfect flexibility.
Except for JJ. The Canadian asshole is having a field day.
Whoever says Canadians are nice have never breathed the same air as JJ.
He keeps posting pictures of bent at ridiculous angles and sending it to Yuri. What the hell is he trying to accomplish? Death?
He gets even more infuriating now that Isabella (good Aphrodite, please give him some love now that he’s learnt her actual fucking name) agrees to marry him. Poor her, saddled with JJ at such a young age. This is why Yuri thinks Soulmates are bullshit. No one should be so unfortunate to be bound to JJ for life. Nobody even wants to be JJ’s friend!
Well, except for his own best friend, apparently. Yuri will always be butthurt over that.
He’s regained at least some form of his old regality back when the assignments for the GPF are announced. The GPF might not be the most important event in a competition, but it still makes money. Grandpa has been doing well this year, all his medications are working, and he doesn’t get tired as easily as he used to. He even shows up to practice one day—a practice where Yuri, not knowing what to do with his longer limbs, falls over on his ass not once, but twice—and takes him to get milkshakes afterwards, just like the old times.
Yuuri’s assigned to Rostelecom Cup and Cup of China, in an amusing repeat of last year. Victor will be competing in Skate Canada (pfft, say goodbye to that medal, JJ) and Trophee de France. They’re both crying dramatically over it, unable to imagine a competition apart, and start making promises to do this and that once they advance to the Grand Prix Final.
Yuri has Trophee de France with Mila (and Victor, ew) and NHK Trophy with Georgi.
Yuri immediately calls Otabek, who, miraculously, picks up.
“Where did you get assigned to?” Yuri asks.
“Skate America and Cup of China,” Otabek answers, and Yuri’s heart sinks a little at that.
“Well, we better meet at the GPF.”
Yuri finishes second at Trophee de France to Victor’s gold, predictably, and aims for gold at the NHK Trophy. Yakov reminds him not to push himself, since his body is growing each day, and advises him to aim realistic. Getting another silver—or bronze—would be enough to bring him to the final, where he should redirect all of his efforts to. But for Yuri, aiming realistic is aiming low, so he only pretends to listen.
Georgi’s not a real threat at the NHK when he’s seen him skate countless times. Yuri knows his weaknesses and flaws. He should keep an eye out for Phichit, who he knows has been practicing as hard as he is, if the videos he keeps tagging as #teaser on Instagram were any indication. He can handle the rest just fine.
When he gets to the hotel in Beijing, he’s greeted with the sight of Phichit embracing Seung-gil—who is not even competing, he withdrew due to an injury—in a hug that is way too intimate for public view. Yuri wants to kick them both, but hesitates because even he doesn’t have the heart to do any harm to sunshine personified, Phichit Chulanont.
Besides, Seung-gil has a goddamn Siberian husky. They’re practically wolves, for all Yuri cares. Dog people are not to be trusted. They probably know ten ways to kill a person with an elastic band, and Yuri still wants to live, really.
Instead, he yells at them, “GODDAMMIT, IS EVERYONE TURNING INTO VICTOR AND YUURI?” and slams the door on his way into his hotel room. He informs Otabek of this new nuisance, threatens to slash Otabek’s tires if he doesn’t make it to the GPF this year. Otabek texts back, I guess some people can really turn winter into summer, obviously referring to Seung-gil and Phichit. So cheesy; Yuri can’t believe he is friends with the guy.
At breakfast, he slips into a seat next to Leo de la Iglesia, who only looks at him half-terrified before he resumes his breakfast. Georgi is sitting with hockey players and Yuri is having none of that. Leo keeps looking back and forth between his phone and Yuri’s face. After two minutes of silence, Yuri decides he’s had enough.
“What?” he demands.
Leo’s eyes boggle. “Um! I was just asking Otabek how to proceed with you! Because I have no idea how and you’re so fucking intimidating, holy shit, why did Otabek wait around for you for five years?” Realizing he accidentally insulted the current GPF champion, Leo adds hastily, “I mean, um, you know! In a good way! Intimidating in a good way!”
Yuri is not at all offended. After being babied by Victor for so long, it feels like a success when people four years older than him finds him scary. “Don’t bother with texting Otabek. He won’t answer until hell freezes over when he’s in a competition like this.”
“Oh,” Leo pockets his phone. “You… you text him often?”
Ah, the classic, ‘Try to find a common topic so we won’t sit in silence’ move. “Yeah. I’ve been trying to get him to use emojis, but he’s so hopeless with technology.”
“I know, right?” Leo is now grinning. “He doesn’t even understand memes.”
Leo’s phone buzzes, and like any other millennial, he fishes out his phone faster than lightning. His smile grows as he reads the text that just came. His thumbs fly on the screen in that same impressive speed. If Yuri cranes his neck just long enough, he’ll be able to see that Leo is texting Otabek’s Chinese friend, Guang Hong Ji.
But he’s smiling like Victor is when he sees Yuuri.
That’s when Yuri realizes the bare strip of skin around his wrist. Leo’s not wearing his timer. Right, he’s from America. Talks of making the timer optional for its citizens have been brewing in America for quite some time, to the approval of the younger generation and opposition of religious groups. Many teenagers in America show protest by detaching the timer from their wrists without the approval of local DEI. It does not lead in immediate penalty, like in many countries including Russia, but it’s still frowned upon.
The only times a timer may be removed is when one has met their match, or if it simply stops counting, like Yuri’s did. He wonders if Leo’s taken his off in protest, or if he’s met his Soulmate, and he can’t remember for the love of him if Guang Hong’s still wearing his timer.
Yuri finishes his breakfast quickly so he can start practicing early. He likes it when the rink is vacant except for himself; it gives him a calm he never achieves in his home rink in St. Petersburg or through yoga. His plan is ruined in an instant when he sees that there are already two people there, Phichit in his sports gear, and Seung-gil, leaning on his crutches, putting on a hamster hat on Phichit’s head. Yuri hates to interrupt such a heartfelt moment, but no one is indeed allowed here except for the coach and the skater who is competing. Seung-gil is, visibly, not a competitor.
Yuri coughs twice, subtly. Seung-gil staggers back as fast as he could in his crutches, and gives Yuri a curt nod before exiting the room. It may be the first and only time Yuri will ever get to see the almighty Korean skater blushing.
On ice, Phichit has already started his warm-ups. He looks lovestruck. Dear Aphrodite, if you want everyone to be happy and in love, please don’t also make them as dumb as Victor.
Yuri takes off his blade guards and skates to where Phichit is. “So, you and the grumpy guy are going good, huh?”
“Aw, Yurio! Are you asking me if I’m happy?”
“I clearly did not!” Yuri makes hurry to skate away from Phichit’s shit-eating grin, but Phichit is leaner and shorter and therefore faster, and he cannot get away.
“I’m happy, if that’s what you’re asking,” Phichit answers joyfully, lifting an arm as he jumps a Triple Axel. He touches down on one arm, but he didn’t fall. Yuri notices his bare wrist, the lighter strip of skin where the timer had been, and feels for his timer, still wrapped around his wrist.
“That’s under-rotated,” Yuri says quietly. Phichit smiles at his comment, and does the axel once more. He lands it perfectly.
“You must be wondering about my poor reaction at Worlds,” Phichit says.
“Not really,” Yuri lies. No amount of explaining will make him understand the feeling of finding your Soulmate. He doesn’t have one.
Phichit claps his hands together, all too indulgent to recite their first meeting story. “Well! If you must know, I was definitely shocked. I knew that I would be meeting my Soulmate that moment, but I didn’t expect it to be him. We never talked before, and he was so distant, so—disgusted at the thought of fraternizing, I didn’t even want to get anywhere near him at first.”
“Still didn’t ask,” Yuri insists.
“Besides, I didn’t expect my Soulmate to be a guy!” Phichit cheerfully disregards him.
Yuri raises one eyebrow. “Uh, sorry if this offends you, but your favorite movie is The King and the Skater, which is like, every gay person’s favorite movie.” The King and the Skater is a classic movie about a male skater from Detroit who falls into a time machine and lands in some ancient kingdom that is probably meant to a mix between Thailand and China, except it only stars one Thai actor as the king’s second best friend who speaks probably seven lines, and are possibly Korean. The skater ends up marrying the king, until he gets sucked back into the time machine, wherein their story continues again in the sequel. “You choreographed two programs to it! Even the horrible sequel!”
“Okay, you’re right. I always knew, I guess, but the moment it happened, I was—dumbstruck, I guess. Even if I’d known. I just never expected it to happen while I was on international TV.”
“At least you didn’t kiss him like some people would.”
Phichit giggles. Dear Aphrodite, this guy is five years older than him, and he still looks cuter doing it. “The thing is, I’ve always felt a little… apprehensive with the idea of Soulmates. That someone up there is controlling how we love, who we love… it’s scary. I didn’t want the person I’m supposed to be in love with for the rest of my life to be forced to love me, and I don’t want that for me either. When it turned to be Seung-gil, I was sure I’d handed my head on a platter.”
“That’s… probably the meanest thing I’ve heard you say about anyone.”
“And I feel bad now for even saying it!” Phichit waves his hand. “But you know, I remember this one line from The King and the Skater—“
“You are such a stereotype.”
“’It only takes time for two people to fall in love.’ So that’s what I gave to Seung-gil and me. I gave us time,” Phichit looks around, nostalgic as if he hadn’t just seen his Soulmate three minutes ago. “And look where we are now.”
Ever the party-pooper, Yuri says, “You do realize that after the king said that, the skater fell into the time machine and never saw the king again, don’t you?” They meet again in the sequel, but it’s a horrible sequel so Yuri will forget its existence.
Phichit touches his hamster hat with smitten smile. He does not seem to hear Yuri.
“Why hamsters?” Yuri finally asks.
“Ah, I was hoping you’d ask me that, Yuri! Listen, there’s this project that I’ve been working on called Phichit On Ice…”
-
The final results have Yuri seething because the pig, in all his ‘I’m going to retire to become a full-time househusband’ glory, stands atop the highest part of the podium with a new world record for the short program. He doesn’t care at all that his silver technically wins against Victor’s bronze, doesn’t care at all that JJ got what he deserves at the last place.
The official celebratory picture that ISU posts on their official website is of Victor kissing Yuuri’s gold medal while Yuri stands on Victor’s side, eyes boring daggers into his back, turned to Yuri.
They want to get married as soon as they can. They have no specific request except to have the wedding take place in Hasetsu, so naturally, Phichit takes matters into his own hands. He invites everyone to a groupchat (dubbed by Chris ‘Victor’s Coming of Age,’ which Phichit unfailingly changes back to, ‘Wedding planners’ every time) and begins to organize the wedding of the year (according to Russian QG) in under two weeks. Victor and Yuuri are just in time to have a Christmas beach wedding.
While Chris mostly slacks off to flirt with his brown-haired choreographer, Phichit is doing actual best man work, like making sure Victor and Yuuri don’t go elope before the wedding is even officiated and reminding Yuuri’s old ballet teacher—who, surprise, surprise, knows Lilia from their time skating together—to lay down the sake and to say, once in a while, Yuuri, you are doing the same thing when Seung-gil and I get married, to which Seung-gill responds with, We are not having a beach party.
Phichit’s appointed Yuri to the task of babysitting Makkacchin. If Yuri doesn’t tolerate him, he would have blanched and slapped Phichit goodbye. As a cat person, watching a dog makes him feel like he’s committed treason to the High Council of Cat People. Thankfully, Leo, who arrives suspiciously in the same car as Guang Hong Ji, is as stupid about dogs as Victor is, and volunteers to entertain the ring-bearer. Yuri makes him promise to lay down his life before anything happens to Makkachhin or the rings he wears around his neck before leaving Leo and Guang Hong to complain to Otabek.
The person in question is sitting near the water, his shoes and socks off, slacks folded up to his knees. Yuri plops down beside him. “Aphrodite help me, I need a drink. And careful with the sand. Phichit’s going to throw a fit if your suit’s dirty before he even gets a decent picture.”
Otabek looks at him. “You’re not even of legal age to drink.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that I need a drink.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be watching Makkacchin?” Otabek asks.
“I got Leo and Guang Hong watching them,” Yuri says. “Can you imagine me watching over a dog, Otabek? A big, old dog?”
Otabek turns his eyes back to the waves, gentle and crashing at once. “I see you’ve met Leo and Guang Hong.”
“How did you meet them?” Yuri asks. “Did you save them on a bike and rabid fangirls, too?”
“I had the same coach as Leo when I was still training in Boston. I didn’t know enough English and he taught me. I know Guang Hong because, well, they come in pair. Order one for two.” Otabek bumps their shoulders teasingly, allowing a brief smile before his face turns serious again. “I told you, that’s all you.”
Yuri scoffs. He pulls his knees to his chest and hugs them, looking out at the line where the sky meets the sea, blue and blue. They’re sitting on the part of the sand that’s dry, close enough to the water that they get tiny splashes, but far enough away their suits will not be ruined. Waves lick the edge of Yuri’s white sneakers. They’re a new pair, a gift from Victor and Katsudon for his sixteenth birthday. They most’ve cost a fortune and Yuri initially refused to wear such nice shoes to the beach, where they will get dirty, but Victor insists.
“Why isn’t Leo wearing his timer?” Yuri asks bluntly. He doesn’t want to overthink the meaning of that’s all you, if it means anything at all to Otabek.
Otabek looks taken aback. This is the first time Yuri’s seen him surprised. Yuri can see that Otabek is considering his next words very carefully, and Yuri realizes that perhaps it’s a topic that he should ask Leo himself. “He fell in some with someone else,” Otabek answers simply in the end.
“The protestors in the US,” Yuri says, “Is he a part of it?”
“No,” Otabek says. Then, “Yes.”
“Which one is it?”
Otabek makes a pained sound in the back of his head. “I think you should ask him yourself,” he suggests. “This is personal, and I don’t feel like giving out details that he would’ve liked to keep to himself.” Yuri is almost annoyed at that. Does Otabek think he’s going to rat out Leo? He’s not a child, he’s good at keeping secrets. Then he thinks of how he never tells anyone why he still keeps his timer, and decides that he can understand Leo, a little.
Yuri nods and lets the subject go.
Wow, he is growing so much.
-
Yuuri and Victor exchange rings—thank you, Leo and Guang Hong for ensuring Makkacchin is on his best behavior—and by the time they finish saying their vows, there is no dry eye left in the party. Even Seung-gil looks somber.
Except for Yuri. He definitely has dust in his eyes.
Afterwards, there’s music and dancing and speeches from both best men. Phichit’s speech is, of course, lengthy and funny, and he tells it like a bedtime story. Chris’ speech is, astonishingly, age-appropriate, and then he ruins it by making a dick joke at the end of his speech that turns Yuuri’s ears red. There’s booze, and Yuri is very tempted to steal some, but with Otabek on his side that’s not happening any time soon.
He means to approach Leo and interrogate him on the subject of his timer when a bouquet of flowers falls into his arms instead.
“Who the fuck—“
His eyes skim the party-goers and notes, curiously, of two things in common: they’re all quiet and staring at him like he’s grown another fucking pimple. Then it dawns on him that he’s caught the bouquet.
Aphrodite is a cruel god.
And it’s a cruel joke—the next person to be married is the only person at the wedding with a dead timer and no Soulmate to match. If there’s no Soulmate, then there’s no wedding, because it’s a crime to marry someone who is not your Soulmate in Russia, in almost every country around the world.
Yuri can’t comprehend how the goddess of love can be so cruel. The only conclusion that he can draw is this: Aphrodite is a false god.
He shoves the bouquet to Seung-gil because he’s nearest, who accepts it bewilderedly, and tells everyone to fuck off and continue partying. He sees Yuuri making a move as if he wants to go to his side, but Otabek beats him to it. He grabs Yuri by his wrist—by his timer—and drags him to get food. Yuri is grateful that he doesn’t try to offer him comfort, and understands that what Yuri needs instead is a distraction.
The giant chocolate fountain proves to be an excellent distraction. Yuri takes about a dozen strawberries and drizzles them in chocolate.
“How many more hours at the gym would I have to add if I eat all twelve strawberries?” Yuri asks.
“One strawberry has about 30 calories, multiply that by 12 and you have 360 calories. Add that up with the amount of calories from the chocolate, which are around 500, and you have a sum of 860 calories that you have to burn. That’s about one hour running at a speed of ten miles per hour.”
“Wow, okay, never mind,” Yuri puts down the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries in horror. “I’ll just eat one and let the Nishigori triplets have the rest.”
“You’d give them sugar high,” Otabek says, “and they’d drive Yuuko insane.”
“Then eat one!” Yuri picks one strawberry from the plate. “The triplets will have one less strawberry to eat, and they’d drive Yuuko a little less insane.”
Otabek steps forward. “They’d still drive Yuuko insane regardless.”
Then he leans down, steadies Yuri’s hand, and eats the strawberry from his fingers. The wet stripe of Otabek’s tongue stuns Yuri, and his breath hitches, eyes unable to leave Otabek’s dark irises as he pulls off with an obscene pop. There’s chocolate on the corner of his mouth.
“Why is your hand trembling?”
It takes a while for Yuri to register that Otabek is asking him a question. Fuck if he knows the answer. He yanks his hand off Otabek’s grip and petulantly says, “Wipe off the damn chocolate, you dumb hick. What are you, a primitive?” He shoves tissues into Otabek’s hands.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Otabek won’t let that go. Yuri’s managed to land a friendship with somebody so earnest and he does not know how he should feel about it. He knows that right now, his heart is beating at a faster rate than normal and his fingers feel impossibly hot.
Yuri is saved from the humiliation of answering by Leo dragging him into dancing with him, shouting, “I’ll return him to you in one piece, Otabek!” He looks around for Guang Hong and finds Phichit dancing with him, twirling him around. Seung-gil, still in crutches, frowns at the dance floor. Yuri can’t tell if that’s just his face or if he’s truly exasperated at the party.
Yuri is only mildly miffed that Leo is the one leading the dance. Still, if Leo dares to do this at any other time—aka, any time he’s not trying to forget the wetness of Otabek’s tongue—Yuri will have him killed.
Leo smiles at him like he’s trying to tell Yuri something. Yuri scowls.
“Not a single comment,” Yuri warns.
“Wasn’t gonna say anything!” Leo says.
“If you tell me that what I did was admirable or brave—“
“What if I think it really is?” Leo challenges him. Yuri narrows his eyes, contemplating if he should kick him in the shin, then remembers Otabek and his tongue on his fingers and decides he can plan the American’s death later.
“To keep the timer even after—“
“Shut up,” Yuri hisses. “Don’t want to hear it.”
“I took it off because it felt like freedom,” Leo tells him. “Aphrodite is the goddess of love, but she doesn’t control love. She doesn’t dictate how we love. She doesn’t pick for us the person that we should love for the rest of our lives. It’s not what she does.”
Yuri feels his chest tighten. “Then why the fuck do these timers exist?”
“I don’t know,” Leo says. “But I know that I want to love on my own volition.”
“You can’t, not without the timer,” Yuri says. “You can only fall in love with your Soulmate.”
“What if I can pick my Soulmate for myself?”
Yuri has nothing to say to that.
Leo squeezes his shoulder with a meaningful smile, and releases him to find Guang Hong.
Alone in the dance floor, there’s nothing much for him to do other than observe the others. Victor and Yuuri (the Nikiforov-Katsukis, they insist to be called from now on) are lost in each other’s eyes, wearing matching rings and matching smitten, happy smiles. Mila is demanding a dance with Otabek, much to Sara’s annoyance, an opportunity her brother exploits to tow Sara into dancing with him, that Czech puppy following them the whole time. Sara breaks free from her creepy brother’s grasp and steals Mila away to dance near the other newly-weds, JJ and his poor Soulmate, Isabella.
It’s a miracle Yuri doesn’t barf from all this love bullshit.
Now partner-less, Otabek catches his eyes and tilts his eyes slightly. Yuri folds his arms over his chest. If Otabek wants a dance, then he’s going to work hard to get it.
Sighing, Otabek approaches him and extends a hand.
“Are you going to dance with me or not?”
Yuri sticks his tongue at him. “But I’m leading. I’m growing taller than you, after all.”
Otabek throws his head back and laughs. Yuri still has no idea what’s so fucking funny even after the music ends.
He wonders if kissing is exclusively reserved for lovers, because in that moment, he kind of wants to kiss Otabek.
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[HR] I worked in a care home and some old people are just plain bad
I thought old people we're meant to be sweet and kind. My grandparents were sweet and kind so I just figured all old people were nice.
When I started work in the care-home I thought it was going to be an easy job. I thought the old women would just be fussing over me trying to pinch my cheeks. And I thought the old men would be telling me their wartime stories and how lucky we whippersnappers had it.
That didn't seem to be the case though. In the first week. I was spat on, punched, I had stuff tossed at me. One old bastard hit me on the forehead with a heavy ornament and I had to get stitches.
They were relentless, mean old bullies, that got off on causing pain and suffering. Not all seemed bad. There seemed to be a gang of them, who sat around plotting on how to make people's lives miserable.
Mr Jones was the leader of the gang. I would've loved to know where they got all their energy from. Mr Jones was 105 and he had the energy of a child and he was strong. I tried to get him to go to bed one night and he caught me in a chokehold and whispered in my ear.
"Don't fuck with me boy or I will snap your neck like a twig." I'll be honest, I was really scared he was going to kill me but he just let go and laughed at me.
"You're as pathetic as my dead son, " he shouted at me as he stood over me.
It's the other old people I felt really sorry for. They ganged up on the more vulnerable old-timers. They had it in for one guy, poor Micheal. He got landed here a few days before I started. Nobody knew where he came from, he was just here one day.
I was helping Micheal change his clothes after Mr Jones had thrown hot tea in his lap. Micheal turned and gave me a sorrowful look.
"I'm not meant to be here, " he said to me. I looked at him confused.
"What do you mean Micheal?" I asked.
I'm not old. I'm not bloody old, " he cried.
He grabbed my arm and looked me in the eye.
"Ring my wife she will tell you, " he asked as tears rolled down his eyes.
I really started to feel sorry for him.
"What's your wife's name, Micheal?" I asked as he put his hand to his face.
"I can't remember her name. Why am I here?" he asked as he became upset and confused.
I put him to bed and went about checking on the other residents. As I'm doing the checks, I noticed the old gang of delinquents were missing. I searched everywhere for them and the only place I could think of was the cellar.
I made my way down below and as I searched around I began to hear sobbing coming from the back of the cellar. I slowly made my way through the dark. The sobbing turned to pleas for help. I found a light and switched it on. The gang of old bastards were gathered around something. As I got closer I realised they had one of the staff members pinned to the ground. A young girl named Mary who had only started working here.
"Get off her," I shouted. They all turned and hissed at me. They ran at me like wild dogs. They moved unnaturally on all fours, as they charged me. I started swinging and punching like a mad man, but they overpowered me. And before I knew it, I woke up in the cellar and everyone was gone. Including Mary the young girl, they were attacking.
I phoned management to complain or tell them to do something about these old creatures. But they didn't want to hear it.
Later on, that night when I got home I couldn't stop thinking about what they were trying to do that young girl. I even questioned my own sanity. "Did I really see what I saw? Course I didn't, weird shit just doesn't exist." I said to myself.
I was making something to eat when I heard something moving around in my back garden. I grabbed a hockey stick I kept lying around for safety reasons and made my way to the back garden. I cautiously looked around. My heart was going a million miles a minute. I heard giggling coming from the large oak tree in my back. When I looked up I was horrified by what I saw.
"What the fuck Mrs Janette? What the hell are you doing up there?" Why aren't you back at the care-home?" I screamed angrily.
She looked at me and just giggled before lunging from the tree down on top of me. She hit me hard, knocking me off my feet as she landed on hers.
I got to my feet as she made a run for me. I raised the hockey stick and hopped it off her head as she came at me, knocking her to the ground. She picked herself up and dusted herself off. She fled by jumping my fence. I tried to run after her, but I couldn't keep up with her, that old bitch ran faster than Usain Bolt.
The next day back at work I tried my best to not let those old bastards get the best of me. Poor, Mary must've been too scared to come back to work as there was no sign of her all day.
I slowly walked past Mrs Jannetts room as I made the daily checks. She was sitting on her bed silently staring at me with a sinister smile spread across her face.
It was coming to the end of my shift and I was waiting for the late staff to take over. I couldn't wait to leave. The night staff were always late getting to work. As I waited patiently I heard a scream come from Micheals room. I thought he was hurt so I ran straight into his room and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the cellar with a pounding headache.
Two of the old creatures were holding me down as Mr Jones stood over.
"You don't get to my age and still be this active by just drinking prune juice if you know what I mean, " he said as he smirked down at me. He pulled out a strange-looking knife. Mr Jones and the rest of the creatures started chanting some kind of nonsense. I screamed at them to let me go. I struggled and struggled but they were too strong for me.
Mr Jones sliced his hand with the blade, showering me his blood. Mr Jones looked around at all the other old bastards.
"This one's mine, " he smirked. And then he leaned in to kiss me.
When I came around to my senses a searing pain shot through my body. My bones felt weak and they ached all over. I had a splitting headache. I was back in the t.v room and I was sitting in one of the recliners. My legs didn't work and I couldn't get up.
I looked down at my hands and couldn't believe my eyes.
Two off the late staff had already arrived. And came into where I was sitting. They looked at me and looked at each other.
"Why is it when one staff member goes missing, they dump another senile old bastard on us? Come on let's get you to your room."
The two carers picked me up by my arms.
"I'm not meant to be here. I'm not old, I'm not old," I tried to shout, as they dragged me down the hall.
"Save it for someone who cares, you old fart."
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