#I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD I HAVE A DAMN TYPE AND ITS THOSE SMART MEN THAT CAN DEGRADE ME
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HOYOVERSE, I SEE WHAT YOU DID HERE
DR RATIO:
Why does the ending look familiar? OH. BECAUSE...
ALHAITHAM:
Both of them confidently leaving before the explosion of enemies.
#genshin impact#genshin#genshin impact x reader#genshin spoilers#genshin impact alhaitham#alhaitham#al haitham#acting grand sage#genshin alhaitham#honkai star rail#hsr#star rail#dr. ratio#dr. veritas ratio#honkai star rail ratio#honkai star rail dr ratio#I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD I HAVE A DAMN TYPE AND ITS THOSE SMART MEN THAT CAN DEGRADE ME#honkai star rail dr. ratio#star rail dr. ratio#honkai star rail dr. veritas ratio
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The Heartbreak Series
A Short Overview of Mark’s Love-life Throughout the Years
Mark-centric AU
Pairings: markhyuck, markten, yumark, renmark, jenmark, lumark, and side!johnten
word count: 3.4k+ words
written in bullet form cus I'm a lazy shit
unbetaed so read at your own risk lmao
very self-indulgent; i.e., I just really wanted to hurt Mark... sorry Mark
suggestive themes. contains swearing and mentions of alcohol, drugs, sex, and cigarettes. reader discretion is advised!
—————————————————————————————
MARKHYUCK - “The timing wasn’t right”
Mark didn’t hate Donghyuck when they first met; he just didn’t get him
Where Mark was quiet, respectful, and peace-loving Donghyuck was loud, brash, and always spoke what was on his mind without any regard to anyone’s feelings
But somehow everyone loved Hyuck and Mark couldn’t understand why
Until he took the time to properly get to know him
That was when he realized how irresistibly magnetic he was
He was funny in a crass way
And was horribly honest (for better or for worse)
He knew the best ways to rile people up but somehow always smiled his way out of any fight
And god was his smile beautiful
He made you want to be his friend with a single look
But understanding this didn’t mean understanding his own feelings (especially as a supposedly “straight” Catholic boy), so nothing truly develops between Mark and Hyuck aside from a weirdly tense friendship
Where Mark was constantly craving his attention
And Hyuck was constantly torn between giving it to him or staying away for his own sanity
They move away from each other after high school and end up in different universities so they don’t hear from each other again until years later
MARKTEN - “the mentor”
Mark was in his first year of college when he realized he might not actually be straight after all
Being away from his Catholic parents and being exposed to other types of people really helped broaden his horizons
But meeting Ten was the turning point
They kissed during a game of Truth or Dare and the next thing Mark knew was that Ten was bringing him home to his bed
The morning after a confusing but terribly pleasurable fiasco, Ten was laughing at Mark's naivety because
(1) he hadn’t left like most guys do after a one night stand and;
(2) Mark was a cuddler when he was drunk off his ass
A literal octopus that pouted and whined and unconsciously sucked hickies unto exposed pieces of skin he could reach overnight
Mark tries to make sense of what happened
He thought that he and Ten HAD to be a thing now after what they had done (and they had done a lot)
Mark doesn’t really understand yet the concept of a one night stand
Ten explains to him that they don’t have to date or be exclusive (Ten just doesn’t roll that way)
They can just keep things casual between them
But poor Mark just looked so lost
So Ten takes him under his wing
Ten spends the next few months helping Mark explore his sexuality
They try different positions and different roles and even have a few threesomes with Ten’s more regular hookup: Johnny
Ten goes to great lengths to teach Mark about the wonders of hookup culture and one night stands and bars with sexy drunk men and sex full of passion but without any of the strings attached
He does all this before sending him off into the world like a chick leaving the nest
But Ten is still Mark’s favorite go-to for a long time
He just never had a chance with Ten
Not really
Especially not with Johnny always around
YUMARK - “the first heartbreak”
Yuta was Mark’s first boyfriend
He was known around the school as the problem-kid in Johnny’s year because he had skipped and flunked so many classes, has repeated his 3rd year twice
He was also notorious for his black-painted nails, devil-may-care attitude, and smoking on school grounds
He was the type of boy your parents warned you to stay away from
And he was also Ten’s go-to supply for happy pills and alcohol whenever he hosted parties at Johnny's frat house
Mark had known about him for a while
Had heard about him from all his seniors and even his batchmates
But they first meet at Ten’s graduation party when Mark was in his 2nd Year
By then Mark had been well-taught and fully immersed in hookup culture and he wanted to try his hand on someone different like Yuta
He let the older boy take him to his dorm room which smelled of weed and cheap beer
This isn't really what Mark would call attractive
But somehow spending the night with Yuta made Mark crave more than was deemed healthy
Even Ten wanted him to stay away from Yuta after hearing he had slept with him
But something about his aura made Mark fall to his knees
So they spend a few more nights together wrapped up in each other’s embrace
Yuta showed Mark things that Ten didn’t dare (and that was saying something as Ten was quite kinky himself)
Mark would probably never disclose to anyone the kind of shit he and Yuta regularly got around to doing
But one of their tamer endeavors, and one that they particularly enjoyed doing, was fucking raw while they were high or drunk
During this time their inhibitions would be completely thrown out the window and their fucking would often border on dangerous
Like fucking on the windowsill with the window wide open
Despite living on the 3rd floor
On one of those blurry nights where their vision was hazy with smoke and their throats burned from liquor, Mark blurted out that he had fallen in love with Yuta
Yuta didn't exactly reply
But he pulled him into a kiss and they didn’t speak of it again
They spent most of their free time together making out, fucking, or chilling at Yuta’s dorm with bongs and Japanese horror movies after that
They skipped classes to go on long drives to the countryside where they’d happily fuck in (and occasionally on) the car
Mark picked up smoking as a habit after having been given the task of carrying around Yuta’s lighter and lighting his cigarettes for him
The hefty metal had ‘N.YUTA’ messily carved into its body with a box cutter
And carrying it around made Mark feel useful, powerful, and gave him a sense of purpose
But he didn’t realize how dependent he was becoming or how much of his life he was slowly ruining
Mark lived in this toxic relationship believing Yuta needed him
Yuta told him that he needed him
When in reality it was actually Mark who needed him to feel alive
One day the relationship took a nosedive when Mark finds Yuta cheating on him with Winwin
Mark had never known what rage felt like until that moment
Mark cried angry tears
And he threw the metal light out the window, shattering the glass and causing Winwin to wince at the probable cost of the damage
Yuta tried to apologize but ultimately they decided that the relationship had already died months ago
They weren’t good or healthy for each other
And this was apparently just an incident waiting to happen
So they broke things off without another word
Mark has long since forgiven Yuta but only because it was in his nature to do so
But despite having uttered the words “I forgive you” he still feels the sting of heartache every time he sees Yuta and Winwin together
Because he couldn’t deny that Winwin made Yuta better than he ever could
RENMARK - “the one that got away”
Renjun was unique and enigmatic in many ways
He was smart, funny, artistic, and had a great personality, but was closed off and always kept his guard up
He made Mark want to use big words he otherwise would never use on a daily basis (like Abstentious, Deleterious, and Grandiose) simply because it made him smile
And Mark really loved his smile
Renjun would tease him for it, saying Mark probably didn't even know half the words he spewed out
But Mark could handle a few hundred blows to his ego if it meant Renjun would look at him for a few seconds longer
Following his relationship with Yuta, however, Mark just couldn’t find it in himself to ask the damn boy out
Renjun wasn’t an overly affectionate person and was stingy with skinship
But that made it all sweeter when he would lean against Mark while laughing his loud, full-bellied laugh at something Mark had said
Mark avoided smoking around Renjun because he had said once that he didn’t enjoy the smell
And he had associated cigars to his absent father
So regardless of the heavy withdrawals he experienced, Mark eventually quit smoking altogether because Renjun was less likely to recoil from a hug if he smelled more like sweat than if he smelled of burnt nicotine
Mark thought that maybe this was Renjun making him better (the same way Winwin had made Yuta better)
This made Mark think "Ah yes, he's the one"
But he wasn’t
He knew he wasn’t because of one night where Mark invited Renjun to his dorm to watch a movie over some beer and popcorn
They watched Love, Rosie, because Renjun wanted something cheesy to cringe to
They weren’t cringing though
Instead, they had the lights dimmed and the movie set to a low volume as they seriously talked about what could’ve happened if Rosie and Alex had just confessed to each other sooner
Hearing Renjun’s thoughts made Mark want to confess his love for him sooner too
And it was a little deeper into the night when Mark was on his 5th bottle and Renjun was on his 3rd that Mark found himself staring at Renjun’s side profile
He allowed himself this moment to trace the boy’s features
From the soft curve of his eyebrow down to his dainty ears and his perfectly carved out jaw that was hidden underneath a smooth expanse of unblemished skin
When Mark looked up again, Renjun was staring back
A moment passed where Mark’s heart felt like it was trying to jump out of his chest
And then he was leaning in and kissing Renjun on the lips
It wasn’t rough or passionate
It was slow and all-encompassing
All sighs and deep breathes before a gentle brush of parted lips
Renjun ended up on Mark’s lap, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes closed like he was scared to know if this was real or not
But he knew it was real because he was holding unto Mark’s shoulders for dear life while Mark held him gently by the waist
Renjun sleeps over at Mark’s that night but they didn’t go beyond soft kisses and lips against smooth skin
Mark thought it was perfect
But when Mark wakes up the next day, Renjun had left him a note on his bedside table that said
“Please, let’s not talk about last night.”
So they don’t
Because when they meet again, Jaemin was all wide smiles and sparkling teeth
“I finally got the courage to ask Renjun out, and he said yes!”
Mark tries his best to forget about his crush on Renjun because he still wanted him around and because he couldn’t ruin his friendship with Jaemin
Even if he couldn’t rest his hand on his lower back or press gentle kisses on his forehead, having him around was enough
Mark tells himself that this is enough
Seeing Renjun happy, even if it was in the arms of another, is enough
Renjun’s presence and his friendship is enough
It was Mark that wasn’t enough
MARKJEN - “the rebound”
Mark wasn’t enough for Renjun and Jeno wasn’t enough for Jaemin even when they both gave their all for the other
Mark still avoided smoking around Renjun but without the boy teetering him down his withdrawals became too hard to resist
So he allowed himself a butt or two whenever he was out, drinking his sorrows away with Jeno
Jaemin and Renjun’s relationship became their common denominator and they decided, after multiple bottles of whiskey and gin, that they should fall into bed with one another
Sex with Jeno was surprisingly rough and fast-paced
There was no love there; just calloused hands on his body and teeth marking his tanned skin
And a battle for dominance which Jeno was surprisingly unwilling to relinquish
After having been emotionally used by Jaemin for years, something snapped in Jeno that made him refuse to bend over for anyone ever again
And Mark, after having Renjun take everything he could give, was happy to let Jeno take the reigns and give it to him harder than anyone else ever did
They didn’t fall in love with one another
They never shared gentle kisses or whispered sweet things to one another
But between them bloomed a strong friendship that helped patch the emptiness in their hearts and anchored them back to the ground all the way until graduation
MARKHYUCK (2) - “it was you all along”
Of all the people Mark thought he’d meet on the bus, he didn’t expect Donghyuck to drop unto his lap (quite literally) during his commute home
After suffering multiple heartaches throughout his years in college, Mark thought himself too old to believe in fate or soulmates
He instead believed in the art that is hooking up with strangers he would meet at bars (Ten liked to call it “going back to his roots”)
(Not that Ten had any right to speak when he and Johnny were getting hitched in two month’s time)
But meeting Hyuck had him thinking that maybe fate wasn’t all just a can of baloneys
Even after Donghyuck had quite literally fallen unto Mark’s lap, he still had the audacity to get mad at the older boy for sitting in that particular seat that he could’ve fallen into without incident
And Mark could barely believe his ears at the words
Donghyuck was still just as brash and rude as he was when they were in high school
But the mischief in his eyes was aged, more mature, and less childish
Clearly, he's seen and experienced things and grown up a little
Even if it wasn't obvious
Perhaps they shared a few experiences between them?
Mark didn't have time to ponder on this as he was completely stunned to silence
Mark got up from his seat and offered it to the angry boy, who wasn’t really all that angry to begin with because he didn't know what else to do
Donghyuck was hesitant but he eventually sat down on the chair that Mark offered
It was the wrong decision though as Mark decided to stay rooted to his spot, right beside the seat, a little rigid and causing Hyuck some intense discomfort
Mark stared down at Donghyuck who was getting red from all the attention
After barking out a “what?” Mark asked the first thing that was on his mind
“Do you want to get some coffee with me?”
Of course, Donghyuck was taken aback
But the guilt of having stolen Mark’s seat and STILL acting rude despite all of that made Hyuck turn away with a blush high on his cheeks and a silent “sure” falling from his lips
The silent 'sure' that made a smile blossom on Mark’s face so Donghyuck didn’t really mind (to him, Mark was still as handsome as he remembered)
They stop by the first Starbucks they see and sit down to catch up
Mark finds out that Hyuck had just started working at the same company he and Johnny worked at
Donghyuck was also scheduled to move into the same apartment complex Mark lived in–albeit on a higher floor
Something pleasant wriggled inside Mark at the knowledge that he could potentially be spending more time with Hyuck depending on what department he'll be working in
He was pretty fucking convinced that it was fate paying him back for all the years of heartache he endured
Mark quickly offers Donghyuck his assistance for the move but the younger of the two quickly rejects, telling him that he was plenty capable of doing it on his own
Mark wanted to argue further but he feared it would scare Hyuck away, so he let it be and simply settled with buying the boy jjajangmyeon to celebrate getting his own place
They quickly become close friends after that and Mark takes Hyuck as his + 1 for Johnny and Ten's wedding
Mark decides that slow and steady was a good move for him and Hyuck
But what he didn’t anticipate happening was Donghyuck meeting Jeno at the wedding and seemingly becoming infatuated with the other boy
Mark was starting to think that life was a bit too unfair to him as he watched Hyuck and Jeno become fast friends
He wanted to scream and retaliate
And tell Jeno to stick to his lane as he was already flirting with Jisung anyway
But instead, Mark runs away wanting to spare himself another heartache
And Hyuck was left to stand there, baffled by Mark's sudden inattention
LUMARK - “it’s not me, it’s him.”
In a desperate attempt to forget about Hyuck, Mark starts sleeping around once again and meets Lucas
He was a boy his age who he likened to a giant puppy
A puppy he definitely shouldn't have met at a gay bar because he was much too kind for his own good
Lucas is as sweet to him as life is cruel
On the first night they met, Lucas had bought him a drink, danced with him on the dance floor, patted his back while he hurled into a toilet from drinking too hard, and then let him cry on his shoulder after bringing him back home (supposedly to make out so more but that didn't exactly go as planned)
A week later and Mark finds himself getting picked up after work every single day
He walks him home, regularly takes him out for dinner dates, and even asks him if he wanted to move in after his lease was up
All within a month of dating him
Once again Mark finds himself thinking that maybe Lucas is the one even if he knows very well that he didn't deserve the giant puppy
He couldn’t deny, however, that the relationship fell short
Lucas was very kind about this and asked Mark if maybe there was someone else
Technically there wasn’t
But really... there was
Because Mark couldn’t get the thought of Donghyuck out of his head
Mark blurts this out one night but hastily explains to Lucas that nothing is going in between him and Hyuck
Mark could never cheat on anyone after suffering so badly with Yuta
And Mark hasn't really been out to see a lot of his friends since he met Lucas (mostly to avoid Hyuck) so he didn't really have the time to cheat on him
He will just try harder to love Lucas as much as Lucas loved him is what Mark says
But all Lucas says in response is “I am not Donghyuck, and that's okay."
MARKHYUCK (3) - “say yes”
After the relatively peaceful breakup with Lucas (who agrees that they should at least remain friends), Mark is once again alone in the world
Mark and Donghyuck still work for the same company and still go home to the same apartment complex
But where Mark used to have Lucas pick him up and walk him home, he now had no one to spare him the uncomfortable small talk that Hyuck has insisted they have
“What happened to Lucas?”
“We broke up.”
“Oh.”
“What happened to Jeno?”
“He’s with Jisung.”
“Oh!”
Mark was clearly taken aback as he knew Jeno used to flirt with Jisung long before he even met Hyuck
Shouldn’t having them hang out make Donghyuck uncomfortable?
Just like before, Mark was deeply baffled by Hyuck’s behavior
“Is he not crushing on Jisung anymore?”
“He’s literally head over heels in love with him.”
“Then why’d you let them hang out?”
An uncomfortable silence envelops them that causes Mark to look up at Hyuck properly
“... cus they’re dating?”
Mark was confused by this
It’s true he hadn’t been with his friends in a while, completely focusing on Lucas and avoiding Donghyuck
But he couldn’t have possibly missed something this big
“I thought you and Jeno were dating? You two became so close after the wedding.”
This time it was Donghyuck who gave Mark a confused look (although his was laced with anger)
“Mark Lee you can’t be that fucking stupid! I was asking him to help me ask you out.”
A whirlwind of emotions washed over Mark as he stared at the angry boy in front of him
He found it more and more difficult to do anything BUT stare at Donghyuck; he just had that effect on him
He stared so hard that he didn’t realize they had reached their stop and that Donghyuck was getting off the bus
Mark allowed his body to move on autopilot as he helplessly followed Hyuck into their apartment building
As if he was watching his life pass by like a movie, Mark watched as Hyuck pressed (slammed) the button for his floor for him and allowed himself to be pushed out of the elevator when he had reached his supposed destination
But instead of walking to his apartment, Mark turned back around to the closed elevator and stared some more
When the elevator doors opened again to reveal one of his startled neighbors, Mark suddenly snaps out of his trance-like stupor
What the fuck was he doing out here?
As the moments before suddenly rush back to him, Mark makes a move for the elevator (even getting slammed between the doors as it was closing) to go to Hyuck’s apartment
He bangs on the door loudly, not bothering to put down his suitcase that was undoubtedly scuffing the wooden door
Donghyuck flings the door open angrily to yell at Mark but is instead cut off by the older boy’s voice
“What do you mean ask me out?”
Hyuck stared at Mark in disbelief for a moment before attempting to close the door on his face
Much to his delight and Donghyuck's anger, Mark’s reflexes were much faster than either of them knew and he easily pushes himself into the room to simply ask again
“Hyuck, what do you mean ask me out? You were going to ask me out?”
“Yes you big oaf, I was going to ask you out! But your stupidly small brain encased in that big forehead of yours decided to date Lucas before I even had the chance.”
Mark bites back a smile but ultimately fails as he backs Haechan further into the apartment
“Ask me now.”
“What?”
“Ask me out now.”
At this point, Donghyuck looks downright murderous but Mark pays him no heed as he keeps smiling down at Hyuck
“I’m not asking you out anymore, Mark Lee.”
“Then I’ll ask you.”
“No you won’t, I’ll say no.”
“Go out with me, Donghyuck.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to anymore!”
“Please?”
Hyuck stared up at the soft, pleading look on Mark’s face and feels himself crumble for a moment
So he turns away from temptation, a scowl deepening the lines on his face
Mark only follows his gaze and smiles back at Hyuck
He could see the younger boy's resolve breakaway but he also knew that Hyuck was a stubborn bitch
So finally, in a last-ditch attempt to get what he hoped will make them both happy, Mark decides to take Donghyuck’s hands in his and looks directly into his eyes
“I know I was a dick, Hyuck.. but please give me one more chance? Go out with me...”
Hyuck seemed like he was at a loss for words
The last of his dignity and his inflated ego had been chipped away and he felt like he was suddenly laid bare in front of Mark
Completely and 100% at his mercy
So instead of dignifying Mark’s begging with a response, he looks away once more and gives him a curt nod
The small affirmation, however, lights up Mark’s face and he hurriedly throws his arms around Hyuck and pulls him into a tight hug before spinning him around once (completely ignoring the shrieking it caused)
When Mark pulls away, Donghyuck's face is flushed red and he's scowling at him once more
But that didn’t dim Mark's smile at all
Instead, he asks Hyuck if he could kiss him
And Donghyuck, of course, says yes
#mark centric#nct mark#mark lee#markhyuck#renmark#markten#johnten#yumark#lumark#markjen#jeno#jeno lee#renjun#donghyuck#nct ten#wayv ten#nct johnny#wayv lucas#nct lucas#nct yuta#nakamoto yuta#nct scenarios#nct imagines#mark imagines#mark scenarios#nct mark scenarios#nct mark imagines#idk how to tag this#markhyuck au
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Monsta x being jealous reaction
I really loved your writing for the Monsta x reaction to you being jealous, could you do it the other way, please?!
↬ Shownu
starting with our favourite leader
shownu is the type of guy who gets jealous but only tells you IF IF IF IF IF you notice
THE MEN HAS NO FACIAL EXPRESSION!!!
i MEAN he has but only on stage opsss
anyway he never gets jealous about just guys hitting on you
he gets jealous of your attention
so here you were, at changkyun’s birthday and you were helping kihyun and kyunnie in the kitchen
that's was fine
but you were laughing at the boys
and being gorgeous ( why are you being like this? CAN YOU TRY TO BE UGLY ???? shownu calm down boy)
so he kinda gets angry and wants your attention
BUT HE does nOT tell YOU!!!
SO you just keep going like nothing happened
until you ask him to help you
and he just looks at you like grrr
you: ?? honey?
then everything just clicks in your mind
he is: J E A L O U S
YOU HUG HIM
give him attention and he will be fine
sn: >:(
you : * smooches love and kisses*
sn: :3
yeah that’s it he is fine now.
the second they are less jealous they are just... baby boys, right?
↬ Wonho
BABY I MISS YOU SO MUCH
mbb keep fighting for your love he deserves everything
Anyway
We know he is needy and he is VERY jealous of mbb, imagine in a relationship
He trusts you thought... He just doesn't trust men. ( Who do I mean tf)
YOU are his precious treasure
nobody can touch you without your permission
so when both of you were in one of those jooheons party’s and a strange guy started to be touching and flirty with you, he was already all over the guy
the thing is, he is waiting for your “permission”
you stopped him
you: I already told you, I HAVE A FUCKING BOYFRIEND YOU IDIOT
you pushed the guy and held wonho’s hands
you: men are annoying
wh: that’s right, men suck, sorry for being one
you: I mean if all of them were like you...
wh: would it be better? yes but... you could replace me for someone better
you: Wonho, that’s not such a thing. I will never in my life find someone better and more perfect for me, you're the only one, my love.
wh: good, because I am all ours.
will kiss u in front of that asshole just because he can ;)
and bc he wants
I mean, he is very touchy with you in public to not get in these types of situation
his bigger fear is that your strong personality put you in a big fight and you get hit or worse you know?
he hates the fact that guys only respect you bc of him and not for the fact that you are a person
and he lives to hate men with you
and keeps telling that, harassment its NOT your fault and will never be.
yes mbb, we stan the right men <3
↬ Minhyuk
wjneiwnejeej a little mothafuckr
Follow me on this one
He is a free young spirit who is not controlling or do not wants you to feel trapped at all
bUT
You are H I S girl
Not just like a gf
You are his partner/best friend/ lover
So no!!! he is not sharing the moments you both are supposed to do with someone else
He doesn't care if guys eat you with the eyes ( unless you care, and you do, so rip to them)
So watching a hero movie in the theatre with kihyun because is the movie premiere and he is working as an MC that night? It's a no-no to him
And as every demon Scorpio, you should know revenge is coming
He is basically not hanging with you
At all
You both live together and he is like " oh hey StRanGeR"
So you just apologise bc you miss him
And he misses you too so he MIGHT feel guilty and apologise too
mh: " I hate eating alone and sorry I did use your favourite serum last night just bc I was mad but I will buy another one you know youareeverythingtome just just... Don't hang out with kihyun alone doing stuff that me ME YOUR BOYFRIEND Lee minhyuk should do!!!!! Iloveyousorrysorry"
You can only laugh and kiss him
And ofc you sure him that hanging with kihyun is like taking your old aunt out bc she needs her vitamin c.
He is never letting kihyun live after this
You both good.
:) he is too soft to make you in pain
↬ Kihyun
I honestly hate kihyun sassy ass
but I love him :(
he is A JEALOUS BITCH
a lil bit controlling... just keep him at his place and it will be fine
he gets more jealous of your friends and coworkers
because in his head, if you already like/love them, they can steal you
what a smart hamster
but dumb bc you wouldn't replace him
and even with a superego, like everyone, kihyun has his insecurities
so yes > afraid of losing you< its an issue here
one day you just keep telling about your friend wooyoung
and how happy you are for him and his lover
because he made like the cutest things for their one-year anniversary
and you just keep telling all the details, excited for your friend
kihyun gets jealous and mad because he thinks you’re saying that wooyoung is better, more romantic
kh: okay just date him already
you: ???? what?
kh: you only talk about how is he the most romantic guy right? i get it
you: no its not-
kh: I might not have a lot time for you bc of the band but I swear I try my very best for you, I mean if you are unhappy with me I understand but
you: kihyun shut up
he looks at you, damn he is mad
you sigh bc this hoe is mad for nothing
you: first of all wooyoung is gay and his lover is san
kh: ohh
you: yeah ohhh, plus I am very satisfied with you baby why would you say that? I love you bitch, I ain't never gonna stop loving you, bitch
kh: I love you too baby and stopping using old vines to tell you love me
you: no
you: I WANT A CHURCH BOY WHO GOES TO CHURCH AND READ HIS BIBLEEEE
kh: that’s it goodbye
kihyun has left the room
but smiling bc he loves you
↬ Hyungwon
GOD HE DOES NOT CARE AT ALL
maybe because we know hyungwon is a very straightforward person
and you two make sure to always make clear each other feeling and thoughts
so Won knows how much you love him
you love him and he loves you
what's more important than that?
so when the fandom and the media discover about you two
that was rumours about you cheating on him with your best male friend
and someone photoshopped a picture of you two kissing
hyungwon saw this and immediately made sure to speak to the press
hw: this picture is fake and y/n is only a friend of the male with her, she is loyal so don't try to break something that is unbreakable
you cried seeing that bc
your men>>>>>>>>>>>>
you: baby you didn't tell me about that
hw: I didn't want to worry you, it’s okay now
you: you really trust me huh?
hw: of course I do
he kissed you gently
hw: also, I am a 10 and your friend is a 7 in the max, seriously you must be crazy to even think about cheating on me
you: you're right, I could never
you hug him because he is so precious uwu
And damn he is right
He is a god
Could you tell me where can I find my own hyungwon?
↬ Jooheon
SO HAHA remember this lil shit?
with all that “ jealous is for ppl who don’t trust each other”?
haha BULLSHIT
once again joo trust you of course
but he gets annoyed
world please understand
YOU ARE HIS GIRL
PERIODT!!!!
so let's say that some pictures of you being hella sexy were out for the public
nothing promiscuous just
sexy you know?
so these pics were out ( was intentional bc you were promoting for a friend)
but everyone was talking about
so one rapper commented “ damn that’s hot”
and well
jooheon is not happy about this
he knows its only a campaign but DOES PPL NEED TO TALK THAT YOU ARE HOT?
jh: asshole hot is my fucking hand after slap your ugly face I swear I will cut everyone hand that commented those things about my girl
you: jooheon
jh: what???
you: well forget it, you're mad :(
he is sorry for being angry
jh: sorry baby, just tell me pretty baby ~
you: I was going to say... why don’t you do what they want so badly?
he still didn't understand
so you sit on his lap
kissing his neck, you whisper close to his ears
you: why don’t you show me what only you can do?
you: why don't you make me scream the name of the only person that can touch my body?
jh: oh baby, you can bet I will, gladly
he smirks and...
you know ;)
( I am not weak for angry!jooheon, you are)
↬ Changkyun
he is the most passionate guy
that’s why Kyun is so confusing in my eyes
he pretends he is cold, but he is soft
he pretends being dope, he is weird
he pretends to be a fuckboy but is romantic
he pretends he does not care, but he cares, waaay too much
maybe both of you are jealous
nobody has ever said about being exclusive at all
but it was an exclusive thing
both just didn't know ( clowns 🤡)
the game was going to be a draw
but kyun couldn't help himself when that guy was touching you way too much
taking way to much smiles and laughs of you
when he could look at you way to close
and dance way to sensual with you
no, he couldn't help himself of picking you and find an empty place to talk
ck: look I just... why are you with him?
you: kyun I mean, you were with that girl too and, wait, you're jealous?
kyun just keep looking at you like you discover his dark secret
you: good, I was with him to make jealous
ck: really?
you: yeah so just fucking kiss me
and he did
all night
making sure that from now, you're his
and he is yours
like is supposed to be
<3
#monsta x smut#monsta x drabble#monsta x scenarios#monsta x imagine#monsta x scenario#monsta x#monsta x au#monsta x imagines#monsta x reactions#mx#mx reactions#mx fluff#monsta x fluff#shownu#wonho#kihyun#Minhyuk#jooheon#hyungwon#i.m#changkyun#scenarios#reactions#kpop reactions#monsta x jealous
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We’ll All Float On
An It: Chapter 2 epilogue
Warning: Language; mentions of trauma and therapy; coming out of the closet; angst; fluff. You know what? Everything. It’s got everything.
A/N: I wrote this ages ago immediately after seeing the movie, but I’m just getting around to typing it up and posting it. The remaining members of the Losers Club deserve all the happinesses life can dish out. And in this house we ship Reddie!
Derry, Maine, 2017
Maybe coming back there wasn’t the best idea. After all, the last time they’d all gathered at that particular restaurant it had been a disaster, a God damned nightmare, and Mike had sworn to himself that he’d never eat Chinese food again. But as he gazed into the bubbling waters of the aquarium (this time tranquil and free of severed heads), his worries began to subside. And when the second of the Losers finally arrived his fears vanished completely.
“Jesus, isn’t there anywhere else to eat in this town?” Mike turned to see Bill Denbrough sling his jacket over the back of a chair and offering him a wide grin.
“Man, you grew up here, too, Bill. You should know that the answer to that question is a resounding ‘no’.”
The two men embraced with a hearty laugh, things already felt so much different than before.
***
Beverly gazed up at the glowing neon of the Jade of the Orient as Ben wrapped an arm tenderly around her waist.
“How does it feel to be back, Mr. Hanscom?” Bev asked, leaning into him.
“A lot better now that I’m not saddled with this overwhelming sense of dread weighing on my chest.”
Beverly circled both of her arms around Ben’s muscular torso which 28 years ago had not been so muscular. “Well, now the only thing resting on your chest is me.”
She hoisted herself up on her toes to lock her lips with his and Ben smiled into the kiss. “Easy now, Mrs. Hanscom,” he murmured. “Time and place. Time and place.”
“Get a room you two, before I lose my appetite.”
The lovebirds extricated themselves from each other’s arms to gape at the bespectacled man who’d approached them.
“Seriously, how the fuck is it that the two of you look even better than you did last year? And what the fuck am I doing wrong?”
“Beep beep, Richie!!!” Ben and Beverly cheered in unison as the pulled good ol’ Trashmouth Tozier into a bear hug.
“All right you two, lay off,” Richie laughed as he shrugged his way out of their embrace. “Don’t touch me, you don’t know where I’ve been.”
The three linked arms and strode to the front door of the restaurant like Dorothy, Scarecrow and the Tin Man sauntering down the yellow brick road.
“Alrighty, fellas,” Bev said, never afraid to take the lead. “Let’s do this thing.”
***
“Hello and welcome! How many in your…oh.”
The hostess trailed off as she took in the trip before her. Oh, she remembered these three, and the rest of their strange little gang as well. The last time the six of them had dined there they’d nearly destroyed their finest dining room. She didn’t need to open up a fortune cookie to know she’d be cleaning up more shattered dishes and splintered furniture that night.
“Right this way,” she said, clearing her throat. “The rest of your party is expecting you.”
Volleying quips and sharing in quiet giggles, Bev, Ben, and Richie followed the hostess as she procured their utensils and menus and led them to their seats.
“Where is your sick friend? The small man who is allergic to everything? I don’t believe he’s arrived yet.”
The trio immediately fell silent. She’d been referring, of course, to Eddie Kaspbrak. Bev would had to have been blind not to notice Richie’s face fall and his body sag with an unspoken sadness at the mere mention of their late friend. Reaching behind her without looking, she grasped Richie’s hand tightly in her own and her stiff shoulders relaxed when she felt him squeeze back in thanks.
“He’s, um,” Ben paused as a he searched for the right words. “He’s one of the reasons we’re here tonight.”
***
Mike and Bill were already engaged in an animated discussion about something or other and hadn’t even noticed the others approach. Ben gazed wistfully at the joyful pair, admiring their exuberance and allowing it to overtake him as well before removing the padded mallet from its place and offering it to Richie. “Care to do the honors?”
Bill and Mike’s conversation was abruptly silenced by the thunderous echo of a gong and Richie’s announcement.
“This meeting of the Losers Club has officially begun.”
And just like that all of the pieces fell into place. The little family was whole, as it would ever be, once more.
***
“Shit, Mike, you actually went to Florida?” Richie guffawed before taking a pull from his beer.
“Mm-hm,” he responded through a mouthful of lo mein.
“Fuck, why?”
“It’s like I told you when we were kids. It’s just a place I’d always wanted to see. Now I’ve seen it.
“And?”
The other five eyed Mike in anticipation of an exciting story, but he merely shrugged. “It’s about as magical as you’d expect.”
“Yeah, I told you you’d hate it,” Richie snickered.
“It wasn’t all bad. I did meet a nice gal in Jacksonville.” This was met with a chorus of juvenile “oohs” and a salacious whistle from Bill.
“What was she, like, 70?”
“Don’t be such a smart ass, Rich,” Mike chided, waiting until Richie once again had his lips poised at the edge of his glass of booze before finishing his sentence. “She was 80.”
The gang hooted as Trashmouth Tozier choked on his beverage. Bill clapped his coughing friend firmly on his back before lifting his own glass.
“If Richie here can keep it down, I’d like to propose a toast.” The others followed suit and hoisted their drinks in the air. “To those we lost. To Stan and Eddie.”
They smiled they’d all been wearing throughout the evening finally began to falter as silence engulfed the room. After a moment of quiet hesitation, Bev tapped her glass against Bill’s.
“To Stan,” she said with a grin that took all of her strength to muster.
“To Stan,” they all repeated before clinking glasses and taking a swig.
“To Eddie,” Ben cheered, and the others parroted with a little more pep. All but one.
“Rich? You okay, man?” Bill turned to his left to see the usually boisterous comedian staring stoically into his half poised glass, his brow furrowed in concentration as if he was searching the bottom of his beer for something he’d never be able to find.
“To Eddie,” he whispered at last, clinking his glass against all the others.
***
Though Florida had been a bit of a dud, Mike did find happiness traversing other states, even other countries. Thanks to a little help from Bev’s keen eye, Ben had just designed, and would be supervising construction for, a swanky new chain of hotels. Richie’s third Netflix special would be available to stream by the end of the week. Bill’s latest book had just been nominated for an award and talks had already begun regarding a big screen adaptation. And all that good news coincided with the birth of his first child, a son named Georgie.
It certainly seemed that none of them could be considered losers anymore.
***
Another blanket of uncomfortable silence settled upon them as the waitress plopped the plate of fortune cookies in the center of the table.
“Enjoy,” she chirped before adding in a whisper, “and my boss has insisted that I ask you lot to please refrain from destroying any furniture this time.” To that end she left them to partake in their potentially hazardous desert, and the group eyed the plate of novelty snacks with trepidation.
“Okay, who wants to be the first to crack one of these suckers open?” Richie asked. “By the way, not it.”
After another moment or two of hesitation, Mike finally reached for the plate. “I got you all into this mess last time, so I might as well start making up for it. Since Eddie can’t be with us, I’ll be this evening’s designated risk analyst.”
He cracked a cookie in two and, popping one half inside his mouth and discarding the other on the table, withdrew the small slip of paper.
No blood, no milky eyeballs, no critters from another hellscape of a world. The only thing inside these cookies were fortunes. Mike read his without a sound, and he could feel the others watching him intently.
“If that fucking thing says ‘guess’ or ‘Stanley’ or ‘could’ or ‘not’ or ‘cut’ or ‘it’, I swear to God I’m fucking gone.” Richie laughed but failed to hide his growing unease.
Mike grinned as he read the fortune again, this time out loud. “‘The world is big, but time is short.’”
“Well that’s much less terrifying,” Bill sighed. “I’ll take that as a cue to dig in.”
Bill devoured the cookie and then vocalized his fortune. “‘The ending is the most integral part of the journey’.”
“Would you look at that,” Richie guffawed, clapping Bill on the shoulder. “Even a shitty cookie has offer it’s two cents about your lousy endings.”
“Fuck you, Trashmouth. My last two novels have ended quite nicely, thank you very much. Just ask my Booker Prize nomination.”
“I’d rather ask the award itself when you win it.”
Bill rolled the slip of paper into a minuscule ball and flicked it aside. “If I win it.”
Richie shook his head. “When.”
Bill patted Richie’s hand as a sign of thanks. “You know, I’ve actually been thinking about taking a step back from all the doom and gloom thriller stuff to take a swing at writing children’s books.”
“You’re kidding!” Bev exclaimed with a bark of laughter.
“I’m serious. I kind of thought it would be a good way for Georgie and I to bond. I write a story, then we read it together. You know?”
Ben leaned back in his chair and snapped his cookie in half. “Bill that’s…wow. That’s quite a change. Good for you, man.”
“What does yours say, honey? Bev asked, eyeing the slip of paper between her husband’s fingers.
“Yeah, honey. What’s it say?” Richie leaned toward the two of them, batting his eyelashes dramatically and resting his chin in his hands as the pair flipped him off at the same time.
“It says ‘he who builds the dreams of others should not neglect his own’.”
“Well, that’s oddly specific,” Richie said matter-of-factly. “You know, because you’re an architect? You build things….yeah, I’ll shut up now.”
“First time for everything,” Ben grinned.
“I want to read mine next,” Bev chimed in, holding the small piece of paper primly between her fingers. “It says ‘the smallest changes make the biggest difference’.”
Mike rubbed his chin in thought, nodding his approval at the depth of Bev’s fortune. “Anyone want to wager a guess as to what it means?”
Richie snapped his fingers as his eyes lit up. “Well, by jove, I think I’ve got it, gents,” he exclaimed in an overblown, piss poor excuse for a British accent they hadn’t heard him use since they were kids. “I do believe it means that if our dear friend William here could slightly alter his crummy endings, some of his books might actually make for a halfway decent read.”
Bill glared at his wisecracking friend. “Tozier, if you make fun of my writing one more time, I swear to God-“
“Don’t blame me, man. It’s the cookies that have it out for you!”
“I don’t think it has anything to do with Bill’s books, Rich,” Ben smiled just as Bill smacked Richie in the back of his head.
“I think it means that something small can have a huge impact on your life,” Bev clarified. She scanned the faces of her companions to see if any were catching her drift.
“What, like, a new haircut?”
“Or a baby, Richie.” Ben’s eyes twinkled when he grinned.
“Right. Or like-wait, what?”
“Bev that’s….are you really….?” Mike stammered happily.
“Three weeks along,” she confirmed proudly. “You guys didn’t think it was a little weird that I’ve been drinking water this entire evening?”
Bill leapt from his chair and threw his arms around the expectant couple. “Ben! Bev! This is amazing news! Congratulations!”
“Yeah, congrats you two crazy kids,” Richie added before Mike inquired if they’d been considering names yet.
Bev leaned into her husband affectionately. “Well, of it’s a girl, Ben has graciously agreed to name her after my mother, Elfrida. We’d call her Frida for short.”
“Beautiful choice, Bev,” Mike praised, taising his glass and taking a celebratory sip. “And if it’s a boy?”
The Hanscom’s looked silently, almost nervously at each other before answering, some sort of unspoken agreement passing between the two of them as the rest of the Losers looked on.
“If it’s a boy,” Ben finally said, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d even been holding, “we’d like to name him Eddie. Edward Stanley Hanscom.”
Richie instantly felt a lump form in his throat, and he had to cast his eyes downward to ensure that no one could see the pain that burned behind them. He chewed his lip quietly as he struggled to reel his unraveling emotions back in. When he looked back up his eyes immediately found Beverly’s. She searched his face silently. Hopefully.
“He would have loved that,” Richie finally croaked. “They both would have.”
Mike and Bill were too choked up to speak, so they just adamantly nodded their agreement.
“Alright, I think I’ve had about as much sentimentality as I can take for one evening.” Ben turned to Richie and tossed him a fortune cookie. “Come on, funny man, make me laugh. What does yours say?”
Richie made a big manly show of crushing the cookie in his hand before extricating the fortune from the rubble of the snack, and as he read it to himself his face blanched.
“Oh, this should be good,” Mike snickered, noticing Richie’s sudden discomfort. “Don’t keep us in suspense, Rich.”
He felt a wave of nausea overtake him as he read and re-read the small segment of paper. The clown was dead, he knew that, but this fortune felt like another of his cruel tricks. Richie felt as if he were being mocked all over again.
Love doesn’t come only once.
“Rich?” Beverly asked softly, her gentle voice cutting through the harsh buzz of white noise in his ears. Nuh-uh. No way in hell was he reading this shit out loud. He didn’t have the stomach to explain it to them. Not yet. Not like this.
“I, uh, I guess my new special’s gonna bomb,” he coughed. “It says ‘a career change can set you on your true path’.”
The others eyed him skeptically and he feared they’d seen through his fib when Ben at last said, “it’s probably for the best, Rich. You’re not that funny anyway.”
Richie mouthed a silent “fuck you” and the tension dissolved into laughter.
***
The first to arrive, the leave. Mike stood and slipped his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugging into it as he said, “I don’t know about you folks, but jet lag and alcohol do not seem to be mixing well for me. Any of you care to continue the conversation back at the townhouse?”
“You read my mind,” Bill said, polishing off the dregs of his third beer before following Mike’s lead.
“Me, Ben, and the Lima bean here,” Bev said with a Pat of her stomach, “would be more than happy to take you up on that offer.”
“I’ll handle the check,” Bill said, already removing his wallet from his back pocket.
“Slow your roll there, Stephen King,” Ben said, reaching for his own wallet. “I’ve got this one. Really.”
“Let’s at least split it. I don’t feel right about you taking the whole thing.”
“Girls, girls, you’re both pretty,” Bev interjected. “I’ll pay it myself if it keeps this from turning into an all night debate.”
Bill turned to Richie, who hadn’t moved an inch. “Well, maybe mr. big shot comedian here would like to contribute.”
Richie still made not a move to stand. He simply sat and stared at the collection of dirty dishes littering the table, gazing so intently that he could potentially shatter one of the plates with a single thought.
“Yo, earth to Trashmouth. You okay, man?”
Richie licked his lips nervously; his mouth had gone inexplicably dry and he struggled to dislodge his voice from his throat.
“I’m not ready to, uh….guys we can’t leave yet.”
The tone had shifted once again and a far sense of dread took hold of each of the Losers. Bill tried to laugh through the unease. “You planning on spending the night here, Richie?”
“You guys, I came here tonight to say something and, God dammit, I’m gonna say it! I just need…just give me a sec.”
Richie Tozier spent so much of his time joking around that the rest of the gang often forget that he was even capable of being serious. He felt sadness and fear just like the rest of them, and it was clear at that moment that he was scared to death.
He was gripping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles paled. Beverly slid into the chair next to him and took one of his hands in her own. He was shaking terribly.
“Richie, what’s wrong?”
For what was probably the first time in his life, Richie couldn’t bring himself to start talking. Tell them, Tozier, he commanded himself. Just tell them. They’re your friends, man. They deserve the truth. You owe it to them, and to yourself. To Stan. To…Eddie.
“Sweetie, you’re scaring us,” Bev whispered. “Talk to us, Richie.”
“I’ve been seeing a therapist,” he finally blurted, the words tumbling out with the gust of a breath.
The others glanced from one another, unsure of how to respond, until Mike placed a comforting hand on Richie’s shoulder.
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Rich. Shit, after everything we went through last year…” He trailed off as Richie shook his head fiercely, eyes screwed shut.
“I’m…um, I’m….gay.”
And just like that it was out. His “dirty little secret”. His painful truth laid bared before him for his friends, for the world to see.
“I’ve been having a really hard time accepting myself and….and processing all of these feelings. Especially after….after Eddie….” The rest of the words died on his tongue. He couldn’t bare to finish the sentence. It had been a year since he’d lost the only man he’d ever loved, but with each passing day the wound reopened. The pain was always fresh.
“Oh, Rich,” Bev cooed. She stroked his hair and pulled him close, already a loving mother in the making. “We know, honey.”
“You….what?”
“Richie, we know,” Bill confirmed. “We’ve always known, man.”
Richie could hardly believe his ears. Was it even possible for someone to be in so much pain but still find it possible to smile?
“Why the fuck didn’t any of you ever say anything?”
Ben slipped an arm around Bev’s shoulders and placed one of his strong but gentle hands over Richie’s. “Because we didn’t care, Rich. Who you loved didn’t matter to us. Because we loved you.”
“We still do. We’re your friends, Trashmouth,” Mike added. “We figured that, someday, you’d tell us when you were good and ready.”
Richie snatched his glasses from his face to rub his eyes as his vision went blurry. “I would have told you all a lot sooner, I think. But then we all left and….and we forgot. I forgot.”
Beverly laid her head against Richie’s shoulder. His trembling had only grown worse.
“Do you think….do you think that Eddie knew?”
“Eddie’s death hit us all pretty hard, Richie, but we could see how deeply it hurt you. Much more than any of us. We understand why now,” Bev soothed. “We all know how much you loved him, and we’re just so sorry that you’ve had to deal with all these feelings by yourself.”
He didn’t want to cry in front of them. Not again. But Richie had never been a good fighter, so the tears eventually won. Just like that day in the quarry one year ago, his friends held him as his body convulsed with harsh wracking sobs.
***
After his good healthy cry, Richie excused himself and snuck off the pay the check before either Bill or Ben had the chance to protest.
“So, I think Richie is definitely going to need another drink. How about I go grab a couple six packs and then meet you all back at the townhouse?” Bill offered.
The gang nodded their agreement as they all began filing out of the dining room and toward the front door. Suddenly, Richie came barreling past them back to the table.
“OhShitOhShitOhShitOhShit,” he chorused as he frantically snatched up as many napkins as he could that hadn’t already been soiled.
“What happened?” Ben inquired, quirking one perfect brow.
“I bumped into a guy at the register.”
“A guy?” asked Bev. “Someone you know?”
“Nope,” Richie responded, clutching two fistfuls of napkins. “And I literally bumped into him. Now he’s wearing his takeout as a suit.”
Richie rushed past them all again in a mad rush to clean up the mess he’d made.
Mike rolled his eyes. “Looks like Trashmouth has got quite a way with the fellas, doesn’t he?”
***
Cozy in the townhouse, they laughed some more, drank some more, and reminisced some more. They listened intently as Bill read aloud some of the rough passages he’d scribbled out for Georgie’s book. They helped Mike chart a course for his next adventure: a traditional backpacking trip across Europe. Richie offered to tag along if they could make a pit stop in Amsterdam for some weed.
As for Richie, the happily married Losers offered him some helpful advice for his next encounter with Don, whose number he’d been rewarded with after mopping up his spilled sweet and sour chicken. The very Don he’d promised himself to call when he returned home and felt good and ready to make a move. And Richie was starting to feel that “ready” may actually come sooner rather than later.
And as the week long visit neared it’s end, as their time together came to a close, the five collectively came to the realization that they were far from the losers that Derry had shaped them to be. But then again they never did feel like losers when they were all together.
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just follow my yellow light (and ignore all those big warning signs)
Warning! This fic includes mentions of depression, anxiety, needles (in a medical setting), and dealing with grief/trauma. Please stay safe should you choose to read!
A/N: This is also a more plot-heavy fic, with most of the fiendery occurring in the very last sections, so please be aware of that!
Word count: 8499
Title: “Yellow Light” by Of Monsters and Men
The thing about hospitals is that they’re all the same.
Cal understands why people hate them—really, he does—but sitting here on the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath him, a blood pressure cuff tightening around his bicep, he can’t help but feel...safe. Understood.
He’s biased, he guesses. He grew up in one, doodling on prescription pads with crayons, running his favorite toy car along the floor (weaving around the nurse’s practical clogs on his hands and knees, look, Mom, look at how fast I am!), his mother Marianne bouncing him on her lap as she updated charts on her computer even though he was far too old for that, stray blonde hair that escaped from her tight bun tickling his cheek. Every once in a while, she’d turn to him with a wide, warm smile.
The whirring of blood pressure machines were his lullaby. The smell of antiseptic was the closest he got to the smell of home, and was in fact the very smell that followed him home from work with Marianne, permeated the whole house along with her tired sighs and her whispered arguments with his father Henry when she thought Cal was sleeping.
So, yeah. Cal likes hospitals. Don’t overanalyze it.
The nurse—Alicia, today—gives him a small, tired smile, the expression of someone who genuinely cares but is too busy to do much about it. “Dr. Moore says everything looks good, Cal. Just make sure to keep an eye on your lungs. Don’t bind for too long and keep doing your injections around the same time each week, okay? You know where to find us if you need something.”
“Thanks, Alicia,” Cal says, but she’s already whisking out the door. Cal wonders how many patients she has. Alicia oversees the hospital volunteer program, and even though Cal's known her for years, he swears her face is as young and beautiful as it was when he was a child. She’s funny and whip-smart and strong and she likes Cal best, he thinks, but lately she’s looked so tired.
He wonders if she’s one of the nurses who really cares about all of her patients. He wonders if that kind of thing is sustainable.
Alicia cares, he thinks.
He’s walking down the corridor, idly rubbing at the bandage across his forearm—and yeah, okay, if he has to name one part of the hospital experience that he could do without, it’s the blood draws—and he’s so fixated on reaching under the bandage to rub at the stinging skin there that he almost runs directly into Sweater Guy, who reaches out preemptively to steady Cal by the shoulders.
“Shit, sorry,” Cal mutters reflexively, then looks up to see that it’s him and, well, fuck.
Cal’s been volunteering at the hospital for six months or so, now, answering call buttons for the nurses and giving directions to confused family members and just grunt work, really, something—nay, anything—for him to put on his resume, and at every single shift he’s volunteered for, he’s seen Sweater Guy.
He’s Cal’s height but twice as skinny, collarbones jutting out underneath his sweaters (his endless sweaters, usually layered over collared shirts and rolled up to the elbows, no matter how swelteringly hot it gets outside). The sweaters bother Cal more than they should, because they all look expensive, and yeah, sue him, he’s a little bitter, because he buys one new pair of shoes a year and calls it splurging. He’s a candy striper, Cal thinks. He wears a pair of yellow-tinted glasses that Cal cannot for the life of him make sense of, constantly slipping down his nose (and yes the yellow compliments the rich brown of Sweater Guy’s skin beautifully, not that Cal has noticed, thanks). He has what Zara always insisted is sex hair, expression perpetually annoyed, like he always has something better to doing.
And he avoids the fuck out of Cal.
“It’s not on purpose,” Zara said one day a few months ago, leaning conspiratorially over their little table in the hospital cafeteria, mouth full of mediocre tuna fish sandwich, because Zara is a godless heathen who enjoys tuna fish sandwiches. “He’s just...busy, you know? He doesn’t avoid you more than he avoids anyone else.”
“Except he does,” Cal muttered, toying with the bottle cap from his soda. More than once he’d made eye contact with him in the hall, and then watched him completely switch directions, head ducked down low over his shoulders.
Not long after that, Zara--who had, until then, occupied the third room in he and Amy’s apartment--left school to attend a community college program for mortuary science, because Zara is, in addition to being a godless heathen, a chiefly ridiculous person, and now Cal doesn’t have anyone to complain to about this.
It shouldn’t bother him, except...Cal is likeable. He is. He charms nurses as though that’s what he’s getting volunteer credit for. Babies smile at him on the street. He’s likeable.
So what the fuck, you know?
“I apologize,” Sweater Guy says now, and Cal is hyper-aware of the guy’s chapped lips, of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously in his throat. He makes himself look away.
“You apologize? I’m the one who didn’t see you, dude,” Cal says, and God damn does that yellow sweater he’s wearing look nice on him. It shouldn’t. Yellow is categorically the worst color. Cal’s pissed.
Sweater Guy actually cracks a smile. “Yes, well. I’m glad we avoided a collision.”
And just like that, he’s walking off, and Cal doesn’t know what he’s supposed to make of it, if it means anything at all, but surely first contact after six months of silence means something.
“Hey,” he calls out before he can think better of it. “What’s your name?”
Sweater Guy stops and blinks, surprised, then pauses for a minute like he has to think about it. “Oh. My name is Quincy Washington.” He swallows. “What’s yours?”
“Cal.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Cal,” Quincy says softly, and Cal watches him walk away until he disappears around the corner.
*
Cal has a routine. He’s never been particularly organized, never been the type of person with color-coded planners or who lays out his outfits the night before, but he has a routine for check-up days: after picking up his inhaler refills and testosterone from the hospital pharmacy, he’ll treat himself to an iced chai tea latte with almond milk, hot if it’s cold outside or he’s feeling adventurous. He shifts his weight from foot to foot as he waits in line to place his order, his lips flicking up into a small little smile as he pulls out his phone, realizing he finally has an update, deciding to send it to the group chat he still has with Amy and Zara:
I figured out his name!!
Amy texts back immediately, and Cal’s little smile splits into a full-blown grin. ???????????
Sweater Guy, Cal types, shifting forward as the line moves. It’s Quincy Washington, apparently.
Cal grins when he sees a message from Zara appear: r u sure he gave u his real name? that sounds pretty made up ngl :* but hey u finally talked to him!!!! told u it wouldn’t be hard!!!!! <3 <3 <3 <3
Cal rolls his eyes a little, but good-naturedly. Zara was always convinced that Cal has a crush he’s not addressing, a conspiracy theory that has infected Amy as well, because no one fixates that hard if they DON’T have a crush, Cal, come on. Cal maintains that while he isn’t blind, there are about a million things more interesting about Sweater G--Quincy than how attractive he admittedly is.
Cal: In my defense, he talked to me first, and it’s only because I ran into him.
Zara: charming! did u gaze longingly into his eyes? did he gaze longingly into urs?
Cal rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. Well it wasn’t his EYES I was looking at. ;) (I was looking at his stupid yellow sunglasses.)
Zara: silly! u should’ve asked him if he needs roomies. it would be an honor if my old room went to The Cause :)))
Cal’s lips droop, the smile sliding off his face as he pockets his phone. He knows Zara meant nothing by it, but he’s been compartmentalizing the roommate situation until now, and it’s not something he can particularly deal with at this moment. He doesn’t have to, as it happens--at that moment, an impatient “--sir? Sir, may I please take your order?” breaks through his mental abstraction, clearly not for the first time, and he shakes his head to clear it, cheeks flushing as he approaches the counter, mumbling apologies. He orders his drink, iced chai tea latte, please, making sure to leave a hefty tip in the jar.
Eager to spare himself further social anxiety, Cal grabs his drink as soon as it’s placed on the counter, mumbling another apology as he grabs a straw and walks briskly out of the exit closest to the parking lot, sipping eagerly at the drink (he swears it’s even better than usual) and what do you fucking know.
“Quincy,” Cal says when he reaches his car, clamping down on the little thrill he gets from knowing the name. He swirls the drink a little like some kind of movie character with a glass of wine. He’s chill. He’s cool.
“Oh. Hello, Cal,” Quincy says sheepishly. He’s standing at the front of a car—not just a car, the car—its hood propped open in a universal sign of defeat. “I seem to...be having some car trouble.”
“No fucking way,” Cal breathes out, because some things are too strange to be coincidences.
“I’m...I’m sorry?”
Cal shakes himself. “No, you’re good, sorry. It’s just that, uh. This is your car?”
It’s a Mercedes AMG, and it’s been parked next to Cal’s car every day for a couple months now. Cal’s awe hasn’t dulled with time. He figured it belonged to some paranoid doctor, rich and extravagant and scared enough of car crashes to buy a luxury armored SUV. The fact that it belongs to Quincy isn’t strange all on its own—because sure, whatever, Quincy is well-off, that’s a thing that happens to people—but the odds of the day he realizes it belongs to Quincy being the same day he learns Quincy’s name after months of wondering and silence?
Well.
“Yes. It’s practically new,” Quincy says sadly, “but I’m hopeless with cars. It’s probably something rather foolish.”
And then, because Cal is a masochist, he finds himself saying “Well, I know a thing or two about cars,” and yeah, okay, this is happening, apparently.
“You do?” Quincy’s expression is nothing short of hopeful. “Cal, I would be incredibly grateful.”
“Of course,” Cal says, already moving toward the car, because who is he to say no to a beautiful boy in a yellow sweater, to a beautiful car with its hood propped open? “It’s no trouble. Keys?”
“In the ignition.”
Cal forces himself to focus on the task at hand, even though sitting in the driver’s seat makes him feel downright giddy. He tells himself it’s the car’s immaculate leather interiors, the sheer novelty of sitting in a ridiculous, extravagant vehicle, and not the boy standing in front of the hood with his arms folded across his chest in defeat. He takes a breath.
Although, he thinks as he twists the key in the ignition, surely this is an acceptable thing to be intrigued by. Why is unassuming Quincy, who looks no older than Cal, driving an armored SUV—and not just any armored SUV, but one that can sustain machine guns and hand grenades?
He guesses people could say the same about him and his car, because the upkeep of classic cars is a bit of a bitch, but Cal’s beat-up inherited ‘59 Chevy Apache isn't machine gun proof, and it certainly isn't new. She's valuable, of course, but she was passed down to him, not bought fresh off the lot, and that value is probably tempered by years of dings and scratches. She's not a symptom of extravagance the way this absolute mammoth must be. So. Not the same, actually.
When he tries to crank up the car, it makes a horrible grinding sound that he knows well, the needles on dashboard instruments shuddering. Cal takes great pains to compose his amused grin into something more sympathetic.
“Good news and bad news,” he says, slamming the car door behind him reflexively before cringing. This isn’t the Apache, with its squeaky doors and stubborn latches, and that door alone probably cost more than Cal’s college tuition. “The good news is it’s nothing serious. You’ve just got a dead battery.”
Quincy slumps a little with what Cal assumes is relief. “That seems manageable.”
“The bad news, though,” Cal says. “Do you have jumper cables?”
“No,” Quincy replies, ducking his head like he’s embarrassed.
“See, that’s what I was worried about.” Cal gestures to his own car. He sips at his latte, and is genuinely alarmed to realize it’s almost empty. It’s delicious, but still, he’s only had the drink for twenty minutes at the most. “I don’t have mine either. I--” Cal considers the location of his jumper cables, in a heap in the living room of the apartment, leftover from a Skype debate with Zara centered on a story her classmate insisted was true concerning jumper cables and nipples. Cal doesn’t regret the use of a visual aid--he won the debate, after all, because seriously, have you seen jumper cable clamps, there is no way--but he decides this is not something he needs to share with Sweater Guy. “They’re at home. I can go grab them and come back to give you a jump, though? Our place is literally right around the corner.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Quincy hedges, a little desperately. Cal sees him battling internally between the need to be polite and the need to get his car running again.
“You’re not imposing,” Cal says, “because I offered. Seriously. Apologizing to me when I ran into you! Thinking you’re an imposition after I offered you something! You’re too nice for your own good, Quince.” The nickname slips out without Cal’s consent, and he feels the tips of his ears warm.
Quincy looks at him, tilting his head curiously. “I have an anxiety disorder,” he says after a moment, very plainly, and Cal feels like the biggest asshole in the world. He feels like an even bigger asshole because his knee-jerk reaction is to laugh, because what a mood, really.
To his abject horror, the laughter actually bubbles out, warm and genuine and fuck, he needed it, but he can also feel himself blushing crimson, because Jesus Christ, Cal, this is not the kind of reaction you should be having to this information. “I’m sorry,” he manages after a too-long moment. “I’m so sorry, oh my God, I promise I’m not laughing at you. It’s just...fuck, we’re not allowed to be that blunt, you know?”
Quincy inclines his head again, an unspoken question, and yeah, okay, you made this bed, Cal, now lie in it.
“I just mean, like...okay. Example. I’m chronically ill, right? I have asthma, thanks for that, genetics, but anyway the point is that I tell people I’m sick and they’re like, get well soon! They don’t understand that I don’t...want that. They don’t get that I’m sick, and that it’s okay! That’s fine! If you’re sick, you either have to be dying, or you have to be overcoming it or some shit. I just…I wish I could introduce myself like hi, I’m Cal, I have depression and my lungs don’t work very well. But I can’t, because that’s weird, that makes healthy people feel awkward, and our whole lives are about making healthy people feel better about our fucking lives.” He takes a breath, a little more painfully than he would prefer because it's goddamn cold out. “I just mean...I don’t know. It’s refreshing.”
Well, okay. Emotional intensity with Sweater Guy is not what Cal banked on happening today, but Sweater Guy is Quincy Washington, and now that he’s looking at him up close, he kind of feels like he’s demystifying him or...or something. The expensive sweater, he sees, is fraying at the sleeve from being picked at nervously. That annoyed expression, the one Cal always interpreted as aloof, is the face Quincy makes when his glasses start slipping down his nose. His sex hair is just...really good hair, perhaps a little mussed at the roots from a tendency to run his hands through it with the air of an exasperated father in a movie, and what’s wrong with that, really?
Sweater Guy, as it happens, is just a guy.
Anyway, Cal’s shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, feeling the full force of the straight-up monologue he’s just delivered, but then Quincy is saying “That’s exactly it” in this relieved goddamn voice, so maybe things are okay after all. “What is that? Why do they make it so weird? It’s not as though it’s contagious.”
“Right? I don’t know. I’m just kind of exhausted of healthy people.” He inclines his head, toward his car, moving to the driver’s side because, again, it’s cold as shit and his lungs ache and he really should get Quincy that jump. “I’ll go grab those cables.” Something in the pit of his stomach grumbles at the movement, and he frowns, a reflexive hand coming up to rest on his belly. Weird.
“Oh, yeah,” Quincy says, like he’s forgotten what the whole point of this was (and doesn’t that just make something warm pool in Cal’s chest, God, he’s so screwed), and casts a withering glance toward the hospital doors. Cal looks at him for a second, shivering underneath his layers in front of his out-of-commission car, and before he can think about it any further than that he’s saying “You can ride with me there and back, if you want? It’s awfully cold out.”
Quincy positively beams. “I would like that very much, Cal.”
Okay then.
*
Amy is doing an honest-to-God tarot reading in the middle of the living room when Cal gets home, complete with candles and a red cloth draped over their coffee table, and isn’t that just their whole relationship summarized. He throws Quincy a put-upon glance over his shoulder, and Quincy bites his lip to keep from laughing. Has Cal mentioned that Quincy is attractive? God fucking damn it.
“Permission to enter the divination room?” he says in lieu of a hello, and Amy startles, nearly knocking over one of the candles.
“Cal!” Amy says, scandalized, staggering to her feet. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming! I would’ve gotten rid of these!”
Cal can’t help but chuckle. “I’m not going to have an asthma attack from candles, Ames.”
“You could! Go--go stand in the kitchen or something! Make your friend help me!”
Cal gives Quincy a look, a sort of see what I have to deal with? shrug, and Quincy responds with an amused smirk. “I’d be happy to help,” he says in a tone that sounds like he’s honest-to-God fucking with Cal. “What tarot deck is that?”
The kitchen is essentially attached to the living room, the two only separated by a narrow doorway, but Cal shrugs and takes this opportunity to wriggle out of his jacket and grab a soda from the fridge. He has a feeling he’s gonna be here for a while. As he reaches into the fridge, however, that strange little twinge deep in his belly makes itself known again, and he grimaces as a cramp seizes his insides. He closes the refrigerator empty-handed, leaning a suddenly-clammy forehead against the cool stainless steel. This does not bode well.
“So how do you know Cal, again?” Amy is saying just as he’s composed himself enough to re-enter the living room. Quincy has migrated to the couch, at least, albeit with his back ramrod straight, Amy apparently having been satisfied that Cal is not in any immediate mortal peril.
“He volunteers at the hospital with me,” Cal says before Quincy can say anything, and when Amy glances over at him, Amy mouths Sweater Guy over Quincy’s head. Amy’s eyes bulge, so Cal forges ahead before she can say something to embarrass him. “His battery died, so I came here for the jumper cables.”
“Riiight, the hospital,” Amy says, a barely restrained grin in her voice, and God, when Amy tells Zara that Cal brought Sweater Guy home he is never going to hear the end of it. “Did you put up the fliers, by the way? We’re really gonna struggle this month if we don’t get it figured out soon,” and Cal looks up sharply, idly placing a hand on his stomach when it protests at the movement. Why is Amy bringing up the roommate fliers now?
“I know,” Cal says slowly, trying to communicate please don’t do this now with just a glance.. He sits on the couch next to Quincy, careful to leave a socially acceptable distance between them. “I know, Amy. But...no, I didn’t.” He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, his stomach starting to churn in earnest.
“Cal,” Amy chastises, and Cal thinks he would prefer anger to disappointment. “Did you talk to anyone, at least? It’ll be easier if it’s someone we know for, like, negotiating rent and stuff.”
“Um,” Cal says eloquently, but then Quincy is saying, “Actually, he talked to me,” and alright then, that took a turn.
“Oh,” Amy says, skeptical, but her face has brightened nonetheless. “Really?”
“That’s part of why I brought him with me to grab the cables,” Cal says, because he’s rolling with this, apparently. He really is never going to live this down. “To show him the room.”
“I wanted to see it for myself,” Quincy says sagely.
“Uh, yeah,” Cal adds lamely.
Amy is giving him this proud goddamn grin, and Cal is having trouble looking at it, because seriously, it shouldn't be like this. Amy has left this whole roommate search up to him, which is a nice gesture—Amy could live with anyone, with her natural inclination toward small talk and her compulsive baking which is the least unwelcome coping mechanism and her goddamn optimism, but Cal, with his bound chest and testosterone injections, has a lot more to lose here. The thing is, Cal, for all his charm and his mock-flirting and his wolfish grins, has a hard time with people, so him bringing home a coworker (or whatever he's supposed to call Quincy—coworker doesn't feel right, and Cal's trying really hard not to overanalyze that) isn't exactly a common occurrence. Amy is a proud parent smiling at her kid for making friends on the first day of kindergarten, and Cal loves her for it, he does, but it also chafes against him like his chest binder on a hot day.
"Well, go ahead," Amy finally says, breaking what could have turned into an awkward silence. "Don't let me stop you! I'm Amy, by the way. What's your name? I’m not sure I caught it." She glances at Cal as she says with a terribly unsubtle wink.
"Quincy Washington," Quincy says in that same quiet way he told Cal. "It's wonderful to meet you, Amy. I’m a fan of tarot myself and you have an excellent eye for ambiance."
"Thanks!" Amy beams, and Cal wrenches himself off the couch and ushers Quincy down the hallway before Amy loops him into a conversation about the history of tarot or some shit. Cal loves her to death, but knows she’s practically chomping at the bit. He won’t be surprised if she’s texting Zara as he speaks.
"You did me a solid, there, Quincy," Cal says quietly when they're far enough down the hall to be out of Amy’s earshot, hyper-aware of how sluggish he is. "We can just waste a little time and then I'll get you that jump."
"May I see the room?" Quincy asks, and Cal's heart just about stops entirely. "I'm glad to have done you...a solid, but I do happen to be looking for a room to let." His voice catches strangely and unfamiliarly around the slang.
Cal stares at him for a second. "Seriously?"
"I am very serious. If you'll have me, of course," Quincy says then, rushing through the second sentence and looking self-conscious about it.
"No, I just..." Cal says in something like disbelief, then shakes himself off. "Anyway. I guess I'll show you the room, then?"
"Please," Quincy says, so Cal leads the way.
"It's kind of small," he says apologetically, pushing open the door and flicking on the lights. They're Edison bulbs, and they cast the room in buttery yellow. "And obviously we'd move this stuff out of here if you moved in."
Quincy doesn’t say anything, and Cal turns to see that his face is frozen in genuine, slack-jawed awe. It's more than a little endearing, and Cal tucks his fond little grin away before he speaks. "You're a book guy, huh?"
"You could say that," Quincy breathes, and moves forward a little. "May I—?"
"Go for it," Cal says, and Quincy reaches out to touch one of the bookcases.
The room belonged to Zara until she moved out, the smallest room by far but also the one with the most windows, all against the far wall looking out toward the main road. Pushed against the opposite wall are three wood-paneled curio cabinets that Henry once used as bookshelves, packed tight with the books he cared about most in this world. Many of them are leather-bound and there is more than one special edition, all of them older than Cal's grandparents.
"They're beautiful," Quincy finally says after a moment, "but why do you have rare books in your apartment?"
Cal snorts, because it is so contrary to what he was expecting, but also because this is a valid question. "Honestly," he says, "I just couldn't bear to part with them. They were my dad's." The words are out before he realizes he's just dropped the dead dad bomb, so he forges ahead. "Uh, like I said, we'd get them out of here before you moved in."
"Or you could leave them," Quincy murmurs, eyes darting back and forth as he scans the titles. "God, is that a livre d'artist?"
On some level, Cal registers that this a very pretentious question, and also that there is just something strange about the way Quincy speaks, like everything he says has been polished beforehand. On another, baser level, he finds it frustratingly hot. "Uh, that sounds like a question I should maybe know the answer to, but honestly, these were my dad's thing. I haven't opened up any of the books since he died. I keep the shelves dusted, but I'm not much of a literature person."
"Are you a book person?" Quincy asks.
"Come on, you can be one or the other. People can like books without liking capital L literature," he says, turning to look at Cal with this ridiculously excited expression. It's kind of heartwarming. "You know, people who hate Hemingway but loved Twilight."
Cal may or may not have the entire saga on the much smaller, far less decorative bookshelf beside his bed, but Quincy doesn't need to know that. "Interesting distinction. Yeah, I guess I am."
"I knew it. Team Edward or Team Jacob?"
"Wow I hate this conversation."
Quincy smirks and turns back to the shelves with a quiet sort of reverence that makes Cal smile. It also makes his heart ache a little because it reminds him so much of his dad, but it's an ache that has dulled with the passage of time.
"So," Cal says, trying to sound casual, "Are you a student?"
"Yes," Quincy replies, still scanning book titles with a feverish intensity that skirts perilously close to lunacy. "I'm a senior. Are you?"
"Yeah," Cal says thinly. There's still a chance, he tells himself, and has to catch his breath as his stomach cramps again. A low rumble has begun deep in his gut, like someone set it to simmer, his stomach doing lazy barrel rolls that make him swallow hard. "Senior, too. Pre-med."
"I'm a double major. Classics and Theology. Not the most practical, I know," Quincy says, sheepishly, like he's used to people reacting poorly to it.
Fuck. God fucking damn it.
"Oh!" Cal says, forcibly infusing his voice with something akin to enthusiasm. "That's really cool. Um. Side note, just by the way..."
Quincy looks at him inquiringly. Fuck. All at once, his stomach cramps harshly enough to have him seeing stars, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead again, and he can’t quite stifle a pained moan, clutching at his roiling insides, leaning against the doorframe for support.
“Are you okay, Cal?” Quincy takes a step toward him, evidently not too worried about whatever Cal was going to say, looking more concerned than Cal would expect from someone who avoided the fuck out of him prior to today, and he gives a pained nod, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Something bubbles in his lower belly painfully, and it hits him all at once.
“Fuck,” he hisses, noticing all at once how his stomach is puffy, poking out under his shirt and over the waistband of his jeans, how the cramps are accompanied by a near-constant rumble and oppressive waves of nausea. “Sorry, I’m--I just forgot to ask for—” He swallows again, hardly able to think about the damned chai tea latte, presumably made with full fat milk, churning around inside him. “I’m...lactose intolerant,” he manages, painfully aware that this is happening in front of Sweater Guy of all people. “I forgot to ask for almond milk instead of regular.”
“Are you alright?” Quincy sounds alarmed, eyes darting from Cal to the door and back again. “Should I get Amy? Is it an allergy, or—?”
“No, no,” Cal manages, laughing lightly. “You sound just like her, though. It’s just—” He grimaces, clutching at a twinge of nausea— “Just a pretty gnarly tummy ache. I’ll be okay.” He allows himself to rest a hand on his belly, straightening up through immense willpower. “Seriously, let’s just...move on, if that’s alright.”
“Of course,” Quincy murmurs, still looking rather concerned. It’s endearing, Cal thinks, even through the fog of nausea and the embarrassment tinging his cheeks red. “I believe you were saying something?”
“Oh,” Cal remembers, and looks at the floor. "My dad's name was Henry Kline?"
Quincy freezes. To his credit, he reigns in the incredulous expression relatively quickly.
"Cal," he says instead, very sincerely, turning to look at him with sad, sad eyes. "Cal, I am so sorry."
"Don't be," Cal mumbles, looking down, rubbing at the back of his neck. His stomach lets out a loud, angry rumble, and he flushes an even deeper shade of crimson. "I just, uh, wanted you to know from me. 'Cause if you live here, you gotta understand that people are gonna talk. They always do, about us. 'Specially when they hear our last name."
"Cal Kline," Quincy realizes all at once, and then, with that painful sincerity again, "I wouldn't listen."
Cal smiles despite himself. "Thanks, Quincy."
Quincy clears his throat, straightening up from where he's been crouched to pour over the books. Cal is sort of impressed at the sheer muscle tone it must’ve taken to forget he was doing a deep squat. "Cal, I have something to tell you as well."
This is it, Cal thinks. He doesn't want the room. Doesn't want to live with the bereaved Klines. It's too much. Just give him the jump and go back to never speaking again. The anxiety stirs up his upset stomach, and he clamps down forcibly on a burp that tries to burble up. His stomach lets out a low groan in response to the air being forced back into it.
"I was studying under Professor Kline," he says instead, and oh, okay. Which is to say, what the fucking shit, how many motherfucking coincidences can there feasibly be in one 12-hour period, but okay, it's better than what Cal was expecting. "I was a teaching assistant, and I was helping him restore his book collection." He glances back to the shelves. "I should have recognized them immediately, but I never saw them on the shelves..."
Cal's glad Quincy isn't looking at him anymore, because he can't vouch for what his face is doing. The ache Henry left is healing, dulled with the passage of time, but it still hurts if Cal picks at it. Quincy studied with Henry. Quincy knew him in a way Cal never did, never will, his brain screams, and something about that is just, well. His stomach flips, something cramping low and urgent in his belly.
Quincy is beautiful, and he is wearing a yellow sweater, and he likes Cal's car, and the only reason he cares that Cal's last name is Kline is because he doesn't want to be inconsiderate to Cal.
So, fuck.
"Well, now that we've got the awkward parts out of the way," Cal says, and Quincy flashes him a genuine smile that is positively blinding. He recovers from his seven consecutive heart attacks before continuing, "I can show you the rest of the apartment."
“Are you sure?” Quincy glances dubiously at Cal, who still has an arm curled around his belly. “You’re awfully pale.”
“That’s, uh—” Cal laughs nervously, feeling sicker and sicker by the moment. “Yeah. Maybe you could just...show yourself around?” At that moment, a low whine fills the apartment, a sure tell that Amy has gotten into the shower, and Cal’s stomach tightens. “Minus the bathroom, I guess. Sorry, our pipes do that when we use the shower. I’m just gonna, uh, have a seat in the living room.”
Quincy doesn’t question this, and Cal sends up a silent cry of gratitude to whoever may be listening. He settles into his favorite crease on the sofa, looking furtively over his shoulder to make sure Quincy is occupied with checking out the patio before pressing both hands to his grumbling stomach, feeling irritable movement beneath his palms. Oh, it hurts, cramps squeezing at his lower belly like a vice, a sticky, hot nausea plaguing his tummy. He tries in vain to soothe the ache, rubbing his hand across his bloated stomach as gently as possible, but the touch only sends up a dangerous belch that leaves him panting, hanging over the edge of the couch, the taste of chai and stomach acid coating his mouth revoltingly.
Quincy’s self-guided tour doesn't take long; their three-bedroom student apartment doesn't exactly contain multitudes. Cal has thankfully composed himself before Quincy pokes his head into the living room. “I have seen what I need to see, I believe,” he says with that stiff formality that seems to crop up occasionally.
"Yeah, that's the place! Nice and straightforward,” Cal says brightly, as convincingly as he can without moving around too much. “Any clutter you see is mine because Amy is an android, probably."
Quincy smiles, and Cal's cardiac health continues to worsen, God those fucking smiles. "Can you prove it?"
"Irrefutably. Evidence: runs for fun. Consumes spinach, also for fun. Wakes up and goes to bed at the same time every day. Possibly irons her clothes, but I'm still not sure on that one."
"She sounds...pretty human. Perhaps you're the android."
"No, I just have depression," Cal says before he can stop himself.
Quincy throws his head back and laughs, and it makes Cal feel so fucking warm. Has he mentioned recently that he is completely screwed in a way that has nothing to do with his cramping stomach?
"God, Amy hates when I joke about it. It'll be nice to have someone who understands around here when you move in."
Quincy straightens up. "When I move in?"
"What can I say. You sold me. If you want to live here, I want you to live here." He smiles, small.
It was kind of a done deal when you said you worked with Henry Kline, Cal doesn't say. The way you talk to me like I'm a normal person and the fact that you're fucking gorgeous are just bonuses.
"There is one more thing," he says, steeling himself. Much of his life is spent steeling himself. He pauses, waiting for Quincy to make a joke, to grin another heart-stopping grin, but he just looks at Cal curiously. "I'm trans. I wasn't born a male but I am and always have been a boy. I bind my chest and live as a male and use he/him pronouns. If you don't understand it, that's okay, but I will demand a certain level of respect in my own home, and it'd be preferable if that respect was voluntary." The speech is well-oiled from use, but Cal's voice still shakes.
"Is that all?" Quincy says, and Cal feels his entire body slump in relief, straightening back up a little when his stomach protests. "I mean, of course, Cal. I'm not ignorant."
"Oh, yeah, right. Thank you, gentle cis man. I worship at the holy altar of your allyship." He says it like a joke, but it takes effort to get out, because despite everything, it's taken him years to give this speech to a receptive audience and not feel like he's been granted a favor.
It's taken him years to say I'm here and not have it come out as I'm sorry.
When he told Zara, it was this whole thing, Zara reaching across the table to clasp one of Cal's hands in both of hers, you know I'm here for you, right? Cal's Facebook messages are full of Zara sending him every post she sees with the word trans in it, and like yeah, Zara, you're very sweet and supportive, but sometimes Cal just wants to be Cal, you know?
It's just that Cal's known Quincy for all of a few hours and he already feels so goddamn understood.
"I'm happy to pay whatever Zara’s share was," Quincy says, "And if you would be willing to leave Professor Kline's books, I would be honored."
"Consider it done," Cal says, smiling a little. He’s almost able to forget about the slow, sinister ache in his stomach. Almost. "Though get ready for Amy to talk about it all the time. She’s really not on board with them being here."
"I mean...religion isn't my cup of tea either, believe it or not, but I saw an original King James Bible. That alone has to be worth at least twenty grand. Literature person or not, that's...a really valuable thing to be keeping in your rented apartment."
Cal's eyes flit to the tiled floor, and he can feel Quincy's gaze on him, and he knows he's biting his lip, something he does often enough that one side of it is slightly larger than the other.
"Oh...Cal, I apologize. I didn't mean to intrude." It's that stiff formality from their almost-collision at the hospital again, and when Cal glances up, Quincy is backing away from him, hands folded behind his back. "I'm sure they're insured, or...even if they're not...I just mean, it's your business, of course. I apologize."
"No, it's fine." Cal clears his throat nervously. "You're right. Zara and Amy just kind of went a little crazy helping me get rid of his stuff when he died, and they wanted to donate them to the university. I probably should have let them, but..." He shrugs, wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, presses his lips together around another burp that he forces down, wincing at the added pressure. "It's not like these are even all the books he had. There are probably hundreds in the storage unit. But I'm ridiculous, and they were just his thing, and for some reason the thought of them just sitting in a dusty room with boxes of his old clothes and the lawnmower and literal cobwebs just didn't sit right, so."
"So you brought them here." Quincy looks at him like he understands, and isn't just that the worst fucking thing? "I get it."
"I kind of do want to donate them, as it turns out," and wow, okay, Cal didn't realize that until he says it out loud. "I'm just a little worried because I haven't exactly been...maintaining them, or whatever. I wouldn't even know where to start. If I'm going to let the university open up the Henry Kline Memorial Library or whatever the fuck, I don’t want to give them dusty books with cracked spines, you know? He would've hated that."
Quincy clears his throat, licks his lips a little, and wow, okay, Cal's feeling things again. "I don't know if this is something you'd even be comfortable with, but...I could continue the work I was doing with Professor Kline. We were in the middle of restoring his collection, and I learned his technique well. I still have access to the labs. I could take it one book at a time. With your approval, of course."
Cal blinks. "Um...yeah. Yeah, okay. That's super cool of you, thank you."
"Are you kidding?" Quincy blurts, and then scratches the back of his neck a little like he's embarrassed. "I mean, it's just that you're doing me a favor. Henry Kline's book collection...I'll admit that I've missed them."
Cal can't help the little smile that tugs his lips up, and seriously, he has to get these feelings under control, God, the guy hasn't even moved in yet.
Before he can say anything, Quincy's face softens into that aching sympathy again. "And Cal...I miss him, as well. He was a good man."
Cal kind of wants to cry, so suddenly and desperately that it takes his breath away for a second. His stomach churns audibly, and Quincy looks at him in alarm.
"Quincy," he says when he gets his voice back, "How soon can you move in?"
Quincy beams. "How soon will you have me?"
*
When Amy gets out of the shower, Cal is sprawled across the couch, openly groaning, clutching his stomach with both hands.
"What happened to Quin--Cal?” Amy blurts out as she enters the living room, rushing over to the couch when she takes in Cal’s sickly pallor.
“Finally drove him back and jumped his car," Cal groans, still marveling that he was able to hold it together long enough. He may or may not have had to pull over on the way back, heaving up a trickle of stomach acid and chai tea latte onto the side of the road, at least as much due to anxiety as it was to lactose intolerance, but Amy doesn’t need to know that. "Says he'll take the room…"
“Okay, that’s great, we’ll unpack that later,” Amy says, sitting gently at Cal’s feet, “But what’s going on with this?” She doesn’t wait for permission, laying a soft hand on Cal’s bloated belly, kneading gently at a cramp, ushering up a soft burp. Amy is sort of a miracle worker.
"’S gonna pay Zara’s share,” Cal murmurs, leaning into Amy’s touch, grimacing as the pressure ushers up a burp that brings up a wave of stomach acid. He swallows hard.
"Again, that’s great, but,” Amy says, rubbing his belly in wide arcs, maintaining a steady pressure that does wonders for the cramps. “What the hell?”
“I got anxious getting my latte,” he mumbles, letting his eyes slide shut. Amy’s ministrations are easing the worst of the nausea, and he is so, so thankful for her. “Forgot to ask for almond milk.”
“Cal,” Amy says, all faint disapproval and warm concern. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You were showering,” he whines, then whimpers a little at a particularly strong cramp, and Amy moves closer, applying a bit more pressure as she kneads at the cramp, massaging her other hand gently over the burbly places in his lower belly. “I made him show himself around. He didn’t even mind.”
“Sounds like a dreamboat,” Amy says, her voice light and teasing.
Cal doesn't know what to say to that that won't be self-incriminating, so he just says, "He really likes yellow."
"I noticed that,” Amy agrees. "When does he move in?"
Cal keeps his eyes shut, studiously avoiding eye contact. "Tomorrow."
"Oh, wow, so soon! I can't wait to get to know him." Amy’s tone is completely genuine, probably working out what she can bake that properly conveys a message of thanks for living with us! She applies a bit of firm pressure unexpectedly to the bloat beneath Cal’s ribs, and he groans, feeling a flutter in his stomach as it tries and fails to expel a rush of trapped air. “Oof--please don’t do that again,” he manages, clutching at his chest.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Amy says, sounding genuinely sad, and Cal slowly opens his eyes. “Just seems like you’ve got quite a lot of air stuck in there. Would you like some tea? Not chai, I guess...”
Cal groans, shoving a couch pillow over his face. “I know. I’m an idiot. Oh, my tummy—”
“Let me make you that tea,” Amy says lightly, giving his tummy a little pat before wrenching herself off the couch, and Cal loves the fuck out of her, has he mentioned?
"I think you'll like him," Cal calls as Amy moves into the kitchen, deciding to take this opportunity to drop the bomb, adding more quietly, "Oh, and, small world, he worked with my dad."
The rustling in the kitchen pauses, then starts again almost as suddenly as it stopped. "Does he...?"
"Yeah, I told him. Didn't seem to bother him. He really likes the books."
"The books," Amy murmurs, and oh God, not this again, but Amy is already following up with "Have you thought any more about what you're going to do with them?"
Cal takes a deep breath and feels it stutter a little in his chest, reminding him he's been binding for a bit too long. "Yeah, actually. They were working on restoring the books when Dad died. He said he'd help me get them back into shape and I think I'll donate them to the university."
"Oh," Amy says, pleasantly, and Cal reminds himself that Amy is good, that Amy is only doing what she thinks is best, what Zara told her would be best, that most rational people would question the wisdom of having cases of books worth thousands of dollars in an apartment not known for its impenetrable security measures. "That's really cool. He sounds like a really neat guy, Cal."
Cal thinks of yellow-tinted glasses, of that scar on his face and the way he looked at Cal like he understands him. "Yeah," he says softly. "He really is."
“Ginger or mint?” Amy calls, and Cal is thankful for the change of subject.
“Ginger, please,” he calls back, carefully cupping his stomach with his palm, and takes a very deep breath.
*
A long while later, Amy has fallen asleep on his shoulder, a hand still splayed across his slightly-less-bloated belly, old episodes of The Twilight Zone streaming at a low volume on the TV. Cal can’t be bothered to move, too comfortable, too deep in thought, the churning of his belly finally soothed by Amy’s ministrations and a few shamefaced trips to the bathroom.
Cal thinks about his dad every day, and that is no euphemism. He sometimes drifts past the extra room (Quincy's room, he thinks, something blooming in his chest in a way he doesn’t want to deal with right now) and sees his books, or catches sight of the scar on his knee he got the first and last time he and his dad went fishing when they were supposed to be studying for Cal's math test the next day, when a stray hook went straight through and he needed stitches, remembers the ice cream after, I'm not going to say don't tell your mom, but I'm going to say I won't if you won't, and he smiles, just a little (he didn't tell his mother). Every night he lays in a bed across from a desk that's been flush to the wall underneath the window since the day his dad built it, the one they picked out together at IKEA before Cal moved in, the one that had him muttering profanities for three hours on a blisteringly hot day in August while Zara’s mother, Virginia, poked her head in intermittently, how are those PhDs treating you, Dr. Kline? Cal thinks about his dad all the time.
It's just that he can't remember the day he died.
It's just that he knows that he's the one who found the body, that he's the one who, somehow, called 911, who clung to Amy when the ambulance came, but he knows it the way you know stories about your fourth birthday party or your first day of school—more retelling than memory. Something you know because you're told.
If he tries hard enough, he thinks he can remember what his uncle was wearing that day, what the perfume of the hospital secretary smelled like, but he can't for the life of him remember his dad's face, what the last thing he said to him was. And when it comes down to it, maybe he doesn’t remember what his uncle was wearing at all, maybe he just remembers him saying at the funeral, he bought me this tie, you know.
You'd be surprised how many people come to a funeral for a professor, how many handshakes and hugs Cal got just for losing someone. How many looks of pity he got (gets) when they hear his name: Cal Kline, the guy who found his dad dead.
And he can't even remember it.
Psychogenic amnesia, Dr. Hodge told him in one of their first sessions, because yeah, when you're trans and you find your dad dead and can't fucking remember it, the one thing you spare no expense on is a really badass therapist. His brain couldn't handle what happened. He repressed it. It was the emotional shock, was the trauma, was the pain, yeah, Cal gets it.
It's just that the one thing you should be allowed to hold onto are lasts, and Cal can't even remember his. He thinks of his dad and sees fishing, sees the lectures he sometimes sat in on, sees a receding hairline and eyes just like his and of course I still love you, sweetheart, daughter or son, you're family, and it aches.
He wonders if Quincy's lost someone, if that's why he looked at him like that, eyes soft and understanding but not pitying. I get it, he said, and Cal believes him.
Cal rolls that around in his head like a marble.
I get it. I get it. I get it.
Yellow's an awfully pretty color.
#timeline#Cal#Zara#Quincy#Amy#okay yeah i forgot to write a bio for zara we'll get to that later#i. did not proofread this#belly rubs#spot the myx shoutout :P
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* 𝖎𝖋 ur ready to two step into some absolute BULLSHIT�� tomfoolery , ya girl 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 is ready for u with my lil firecrotch son , 𝖘𝖆𝖒𝖘𝖔𝖓 . strong silent type , ABSOLUTE buffoon , barely keeping it together so hopefully by the time we’re done w him he’s still in something resembling one piece :’) all my love to u and u cute asses ! i’m so excited to get this all poppin !
⋆ ╰ another year at hollingsworth , another year of the big six rivalry . i hear that SAMSON MAILOTO is ensuring SIGMA ALPHA NU gets a solid pledge class and stays at the top of the ranks . oh , you’re not familiar with HIM ? SAM is the KJ APA look alike from THE BRONX , NEW YORK . a part of PC ‘16 , he is majoring in KINESIOLOGY and has plans to ENTER THE MMA AND ESCAPE FROM THE PUBLIC EYE after undergrad . it makes sense they pledged their house , their PHLEGMATIC & SOLICITOUS attributes make them perfect matches . however , their TREPIDATIOUS & AUSTERE attributes keep their name alive on greek rank . if you don’t catch them dancing to BLEACH - BROCKHAMPTON at a fraternity band party this year , you’ll be sure to catch them nursing their morning hangover at THE SNU HOUSE . cheers to another wild semester !
⋆ ╰ 𝑺 𝑻 𝑨 𝑻 𝑰 𝑺 𝑻 𝑰 𝑪 𝑺 .
𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 : samson ioaleki mailoto
𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 : sam , sammy
𝒃𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒆 / 𝒂𝒈𝒆 : february 4 , twenty
𝒛𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒄 : aquarius
𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒚 / 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒔 : cismale identifying with he / him / his pronouns
𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 : heteroflexible and pansexual ; he’s never actively considered himself as lgbtq+ but has also never given it much thought ddjdjdjdkjdk
𝒐𝒄𝒄𝒖𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 : kinesiology major at hu , aspiring welterweight mma fighter , us olympic representitive for men’s boxing in the 2020 olympics
𝒉𝒐𝒈𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 : gryffindor
𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 : eliot alder from mr robot , kylo ren from the new star wars series , detective elliot stabler from law and order svu , steve rogers from the mcu
𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔 : - trepidatious , austere , apprehensive , hesitant , antisocial , hostile , bellicose .
+ phlegmatic , solicitous , benevolent , rational , stalwart , loyal , reliable , optimistic .
𝑃𝐼𝑁𝑇𝐸𝑅𝐸𝑆𝑇 located here !
⋆ ╰ 𝑨 𝑵 𝑻 𝑬 𝑪 𝑬 𝑫 𝑬 𝑵 𝑻 .
bullet points for the win bc who has time for all the tomfoolery i could spew from my ass !
sammy’s mom was a housekeeper in upper manhattan for some fancy dancy homes who needed their gold toilet seat covers sanitized 3x a day , u know the type 🙄
samson grew up in a run down apartment in a small samoan community in the bronx and has always been a lil antisocial weirdo since those warm dark eyes came into the light . he rlly minded his own business n wasn’t really curious about literally anything besides running and wrestling w his cousins . his mom struggled to keep him fed and housed and dressed and worked relentless hours but never left sam needing anything , a literal fucking legend of a woman and he’s proud to carry her last name !
sammy always felt the weight of never wanting to be an extra burden to his mother and learned to really be self-sufficient , likely explaining his satisfaction with being so alone
he vaguely remembers the night his life changed in middle school , the hushed strained whisper from the living room , he’s your god damned son too , think about him for once in your fucking life . it hit like a fucking train once the story picked up , 5 time nfl superbowl champ father to secret love child . think arnold schwarznegger’s secret son level scandal ! suddenly his shithead of a dead is trying to salvage his image , fighting for split custody arrangements , telling the press how much in child support he payed , anything to save his ass
this is the first time samson remembers being fueled by rage in his life , as a relatively well-tempered child , the injustice of having this near-stranger try to be a “ DAD ” to him while shitting all over his mother’s name made his fucking blood boil and becomes a theme for his future
he spends the next chapters of his life going to the fancy private schools in new york his dad picks for him and tearing his tie off on the ratty bus ride into the bronx to go home to his mom . he hates having to haul ass back and forth , wishing he could stay with the only family he’s actually given a shit about , but bears it for the sake of not causing his mom any more torment . his father is as awful as could be imagined , and samson hates every second of existing with him , the snarky little comments at school and in the ritzy wealthy circles that make him feel more of a black sheep than he ever asked to be
this becomes the root of his anxiety , bearing the weight of the world’s expectations on his young shoulders and repressing his own needs and desires as a result . he goes into every sport imaginable , his father’s DNA being increasingly difficult to deny , but finds a particular talent with fighting and takes on as many fighting styles as he’s able to master
turning 18 should mean freedom for sam , but nothing is ever as simple as he could ask in his life . in order to keep the child support payments that admittedly help keep his mother afloat , his father asks one more thing of samson : hold off on his pro mma dreams for just a little longer in order to attend his alma matter , hollingsworth university , as a publicity move and then he’ll be out of sam’s life in every way except financially . with the dream of completing college like his mom always aspired for him , sam agreed and went on to appease the man one last time , joining his former fraternity to sweeten the deal ( and secure a lovely brownstone in his childhood neighborhood signed in his mother’s name ) and is a year out from graduating and letting mma be the only reason his name would ever appear in the tabloids .
⋆ ╰ 𝑨 𝑵 𝑨 𝑳 𝒀 𝑺 𝑰 𝑺 .
personality wise , i describe sam as the stupid bitch w big npc energy , if u want him to talk u gotta talk to him first and even then he might just give u that hostile stare and just .. . . remain silent KSDFSDF
he’s about as NOT a people person as physically possible , would really be content just sticking to his inner circle for like the rest of his life without concern . he seems like this rude stand-offish dick but the truth is he’s PAINFULLY SHY and has a p severe case of generalized anxiety disorder so interactions ? w new ppl ? are a HARD pass
did i mention he’s on steriods bc that def adds to his anxiety and hostility ! lmao ! he started juicing in high school when his dad kept pressuring him for football and how he was “ twice your size ” at that age , n he HATES the dude but he’s also lowkey insecure abt his lack of a father figure so ? used daddy’s money to start his first cycle and pay off to test clean and now he’s been hooked on and off . he’s currently starting a new cycle to bulk up for the new season and prep for the 2020 olympics but swears he wont be on them forever :/
they make him SUPER aggressive when set off , it’s a decent thing that sam’s so monotone and shy that he’s also pretty laid back and kinda hard to rile up . he really doesn’t take much personally and won’t do a huge “ chest pumped bro lets do this ” show bc he ? thinks all those guys who do that are tools LMAO but find the right button to push n he’ll become the very thing he despises !
if u can get past the literal awkward silence and resting bitch face , sammy is actually really well known for being just a generally decent guy . the perception is often that he’s a dick bc he think’s he’s better than a lot of ppl , but the truth is he’s just too nervous to start conversations n most ppl assume its an ego thing vs a “ i’m about to piss myself thinking abt all the ways this convo can go wrong so i’ll just not talk and glare @ u instead ” thing
if he had his shit together he would definitely qualify as a dad type , but since he doesn’t , he won’t SSHSHSHSH but he’s really just a softie deep down , he has a stupid as HELL sense of humor and is really objective and level headed . the gryffindor in him is DEEPLY loyal , like to the death , but he’s got lots of hufflepuff in the sense that he’s really willing to get his hands dirty to help those in need . u need help moving ? someone to keep u company while u babysit ? feel nervous walking alone after class at night ? sammy might leave u on read if u text him bc he’s a Dumb Bitch like that but he’ll show up on the dot , hands in pockets , exactly where u asked him to be ready to do what u asked him to do . the mans is a super hard worker
he def still feels kinda weird at uni ? he’s p smart but some of the classes unrelated to athletics and anatomy have given him a REALLY tough time ( dance appreciation for his fine arts credit almost tanked his gpa LMAO ) and he’s not top of his class or anything but ppl still try to talk to him bc of the whole “ famous dad , future olympian ” thing , which he can pick up from a mile a way and makes him super uncomfortable . even being in a frat w a bunch of old money rich boys makes him DEF feel like the odd one out , and he’s just counting down the days until he’s OUT OF HERE
in conclusion : i love u all . lets suffer together . :~)
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DFD032618 - Sacrifice
The eyes...so many eyes of stone, glaring into them as if it were a living thing. Some baleful creature encased in the wall above a small basin of water where offerings to appease it were cast. Something told Baldric that if this thing were real, a few coins would mean nothing to it. The eyes...they wanted something more substantial. Just to be safe, he reached into his pocket and made his offering.
“Didn’t you say something about a curse to those who didn’t make an offering?” He responded to the questioning look Siggrun gave him.
“Aye, still...I’d think twice before offering that thing anything.” The ugly sculpture offended the priest. He felt like so many evil things were all looking at him, all at once, from a single glaring optic.
“Wow...I’d...I’d think twice about that assessment choir boy.” Baldric felt his muscles instantly loosen, and a lightness take over his entire body. He felt...good...damn good. Better than he had any right feeling in a place like this. Confident even...well...moreso than usual.
“Hmm?”
“I dunno...all I can say is that the way I feel right now is worth one measly coin.”
A small splashed sounded behind him, Baldric turned to see Surtur tossing a coin into the basin, and almost immediately reel back, throwing his hands to his head.
“Nnngg. The hells? Was that supposed to be some kind of joke boy?” He shook his head once, then twice, trying to clear a sudden fog that had rolled into his mind. He had to stop for a moment and try and remember where they were. Things were...slipping away. The crypts...he remembered that. A cabin? Was there a cabin at some point?
“Surtur?” Siggrun put a hand on his shoulder but was immediately shrugged off.
“I’m fine. Blasted thing. Why is it my coin be worth less than his?” Things were coming back, slowly. He leaned up against the stone wall, trying to force away the fog, but no matter what he tried, there it remained blanketing everything in an obscuring haze.
“I swear I didn’t-” Baldric didn’t get a chance to finish, Siggrun waved him away and approached the basin muttering a prayer to Gor. He dipped a single finger into the waters and the blackness that swirled within retreated from his gloved flesh as if it were too painful to bare until finally, the waters were clear and a glistening pile of gold could be seen towards the bottom.
“These things cannot be trusted. Let’s keep moving.”
They made their way further into the crypts, with each step the strange hymn grew louder and louder. They were definitely getting closer. There was something else however that grabbed their attention. The ice that covered the seemingly endless rows of tombs...was melting. Another scroll was found, this one tucked away without a glance. Baldric was growing more leery of them, despite the two harmless Bardic hymns he now possessed, without someone opening them for him, he wasn’t going to take the chance.
Deeper and deeper they went, discovering more secrets hidden away beneath the mountain, horrors hiding in the shadows beyond mundane doors. A seemingly innocuous room produced more runes on a bronze plaque secured to a podium. A pot of ink next to a pile of bloody needles. Baldric stared down, remembering the gigantic books written in blood while Siggrun examined the runes.
“A scribe room?” Baldric thought aloud, but no one seemed to care to answer. Least of all Siggrun.
The priest read the runes, and then read them again just to be sure. A moment’s hesitation passed and he stood and walked towards the door. “Just another prayer room.”
“What about the plaque? Would you care to share with the rest of the class?”
Siggrun turned and stared Baldric dead in the eyes. “It says you’re fucked.”
---
In the distance, barely audible over the growing hymn music, another skull of ice shattered as it fell to the floor. They were becoming more frequent now, and even though they had thus far no clues to suggest anything as a result, gave them all a dark sense of time running out. Combining that with the fact that Siggurn still refused to say what was written on that plaque, Baldric was starting to get nervous.
“Hey, seriously now I’m don’t asking.” He reached out and grabbed the dwarf by the shoulder, cold dark eyes peered behind him and glared at the hand being laid upon him. “I know we have our differences, but if I’m in danger, I need to know...now.”
“Boy, the only thing you’re in danger of is having my axe between your legs.” Siggrun shrugged off the hand and glared ahead of him, his mind much more focused at the horror that stood before them. “It was a riddle.”
“There, was that so...” Baldric trailed off as his attention too was drawn forward. Another large vault door, wheel secured in place, but flanked on either side were a set of statues cared in a dark marble. Children, doubled over in what could be described as nothing short of agony, spewing a dark liquid from their mouths into basins at their feet.
“Just when you think this place couldn’t disgust you any more.” Raven murmured to herself, hugging her arms to her sides.
“All the more reason to keep moving.” Surtur spun the wheel, his mind was on other things. The shield was near, he could feel it, his flail trembled in his hands with anticipation. He yanked on the doors and once again an explosion of mildew, rot and dust invaded their nostrils. What lay behind the threshold would be something they would never be able to wash clean from their memories.
Standing upon a row of pedestals lining the central hall of the mausoleum, where hundreds of mummified children. Toddlers, adolescents, and young men and women just barely reaching their adulthood, stood solid in their preserved state, heads turned to face the doors. So it was, that an army of dead young ones, stared them down as they stood in stunned silence in the doorway.
“You know...this is probably the only time in my life I’ll say this, but I’d really rather we not loot this place.” Baldric instinctively reached for the holy symbol around his neck before realizing nothing was there. He wasn’t the religious type, the motion was almost an instinct, something pre-programmed into the depths of his human brain, a comfort response passed down to him from ancestors that he could only assume were more pious than he. He hoped it provided them comfort, and for once in his life, he wished he wasn’t so cynical to own one himself.
“Why would you do such a thing?” Raven turned away, not being able to bare the image any longer.
“It looks like they were being worshiped...or at the very least honored in their death,” Siggrun offered, “if that’s any comfort to you.”
“No. Not at all.”
Without another word, Siggrun closed the doors and whispered a prayer to Gor. Taking out a small grease pencil, he drew his lord’s symbol upon the door hoping this small gesture would bring the little ones some kind of peace. “Let’s keep moving.”
They continued down the corridor, the source of the eerie music was so close now, they could feel the reverberations through the stone at their feet. Then, something came into view further down the corridor. To their right, an opening in the wall. Another passage way? Another door? Something didn’t look right, something opaque and milky white was hanging halfway out the doorway. Neither of them could figure out what exactly it was, the shape was bulbous and seemed to undulate with the music.
“What is that thing?” Raven slowly reached for her shortsword, the passageway finally directly across form them now, the object in full view. Despite it being directly in front of her, her mind still could not piece together any kind of meaning in the collection of shapes.
This...thing...took up nearly the entire room beyond the portal, a massive amorphous blob of milky white fluid. A gelatinous blob of this ichor with a galaxy of glittering objects suspended within it. To her horror, she finally recognized the collection of shadows and highlights within it’s center. What at first seemed like another strange growth protruding from it’s body, was now quite clearly a face, a human face gaping and gasping at the air as it sang it’s haunting song.
“Steady, let’s be smart about this.” Siggrun put a hand on the pommel of Raven’s shortsword, pushing it back down within the sheath. “The globes inside it...”
“Liquid time?” Surtur finished his partner’s thought who responded with a nod of the head. The four of them stood silently, pressed up against the wall opposite trying not to stare at the monstrosity before them.
Taking a deep breath, Siggrun closed his eyes and sent his mind out into the aether, out beyond this place, beyond the mountain, beyond the skies and the earth, beyond this very realm. He reached out to the realm of the Gods in all its light and splendor, across the vast battlefields of Gor where those loyal to him engaged in glorious battle for all eternity. The ultimate reward. Every time he gazed upon it his heart ached, hoping that one day he would prove to be worthy of such an afterlife. He moved forward, yearnings for another time, and into the tent of Gor, the tent of a warrior chieftain where his god awaited him.
“Why do you hesitate? Your path lies forward.”
“I seek your guidance oh Glorious Gor.” Siggrun addressed his god with all the respect and reverence that was demanded, despite Gor’s rather brusque manner of speaking.
“Speak quickly, your quest is almost complete.”
“I am hesitant to act against this creature.”
“Normally I would punish such cowardice, however in this case it is most wise. If you slay it, the liquid time within it will spill out and consequences would devastating to your cause.”
“How should I proceed?”
“Pacify it. The song the creature sings, if played back to it, should do nicely. Make haste, I grow impatient.”
Siggrun’s eyes snapped open and found himself back in the depths of the cursed mountain. Although he had been traveling the sacred realm for minutes, barely an instant had passed in the realm of mortals. Surtur was already moving towards his flail.
“Surtur, there is a better way.” The dwarf then turned his eyes towards Baldric, transfixed upon the creature before him. “Take out your lute Boy, time to prove your worth.”
“Excuse me?”
“Play its song.” Baldric just stared at him. “Just do it curse you!”
“Fine...” Taking the instrument off his back, Baldric plucked two of the strings, checking it’s tune. He carefully turned and made the necessary adjustments, all this hiking up the mountain had knocked the strings around quite a bit, but soon enough it was in perfect order once again and slowly, he began to mimic the sounds emanating from the mass of fluid in the doorway.
With the very first note the mass trembled, the haunting music it sang paused and lessened as it listened to the warm music of the lute. Its “head” swayed and nodded, its own signing dying into silence. There was a horrific sucking noise, the sound of something wet and heavy slapping against stone. Before their very eyes the mass began to shrink back, the head lolling back and forth before retreating within itself. The echoing slosh was sickening, their stomachs churned and Baldric had to struggle to remain composure, but with one final PLOP, the creature disappeared into a small circular hole in the floor, leaving the room empty and open for exploration.
Once again the Lute was slung across his back and Baldric stepped forward with his companions to examine the chamber. If it had not been for all the things they had already seen, he would have claimed it an impossibility, but he was wiser to the workings of this place now. A perfect replica of the painting form the cabin stretched out before them. It was all here. The altar with twin goblets of gold. The massive tome. The giant gray skeleton, arms stretched wide, looming over all with its permanent grin of death.
But there was something else on the altar, something that wasn’t in the painting. Slowly, Siggrun stepped up the dais and reached out for the small polished box caked in dust. It clearly didn’t belong here, its decoration of ivory inlay and elegant carvings did not match the macabre theme running through all other cult items they had found thus far. With a slight groan in the brass hinges, it opened upon a deep purple velvet inlay, and resting gently in the center was a gleaming platinum key with the Umber Family crest engraved on the end.
---
“Where’s the gold?”
“What?” Raven snapped out of some kind of trance, turning back to Baldric who had by this point examined every inch of the chamber. She had been staring at the altar, her mind nagging at her. Something was missing. The image of that painting would forever be burned into her brain, there was no forgetting it. Yet as she stood here now, this chamber was not yet a perfect replica. She hadn’t found out what yet, but something was not here that should be.
“The gold!! The hoard!! Everything these wretched people stole. We’ve been in every room in this place and have found nothing!” Baldric stamped up the altar steps and swiped one of the goblets from the altar. An image of Surtur drinking from this chalice in the painting flashed in his mind, but his annoyance quickly pushed it aside and he stuffed the cup into his pack before returning to its partner.
Surtur ignored his tantrum, slowly walking up to Siggrun who knelt before the base of the altar, examining yet more runes leafed in gold. He had his own frustrations. There was the shield to find, that and an inconsistency to address.
“You say Gor rewards the warrior, and that glory lies in combat.”
“Aye.” Siggrun did not bother to turn his head, his fingers brushing up against the engravings.
“Then why do we sing that thing lullabies?”
“That would not have been a test for you. Besides,” Siggrun stood “I believe there is more to fight here.”
“Quit your sulking lad,” the war priest spat “the stones say there are two doors to be found here.”
“Secret doors?” Baldric immediately perked. “Secret doors usually hide treasure.”
“Usually, yes.”
“Great, did the stones happen to mention how to open them?”
Siggrun’s eyes went dark, he cast a glance to his feet and debated on whether or not to say anything at all. In the end, it was wise to inform everyone of the stakes. “Aye...one can only be opened by force.”
“Great, that’s easy enough. The other?”
Siggrun looked down at the runes at his feet, glittering in gold, and read them aloud. “ ‘We hail to nothing and offer this one onto it.’ “
Surtur felt something try to claw its way into his brain. He felt cold talons gripping his mind and whispering vile things. To his horror, they didn’t sound that unreasonable. What was one girl against his destiny? NO! What was he thinking?? He shook his head violently.
“Nnngg...a human sacrifice...” Surtur looked up at Raven. “It want’s the lass.”
Raven took a step back, her eyes wide with nothing short of pure terror. Shockingly, Baldric took a step to the side, blocking the path between her and the alter.
“Well...we’re obviously not doing that.” It was less a statement than a question. He didn’t like the look of struggle about Surtur, and he didn’t think he could overpower him if it came to that.
“Of course not.” Siggrun answered for all of them, the tone of his voice final. He stopped as his dwarven fingers found an imperfection in the stone, unnoticeable to anyone who was not of the great people of the earth. Stepping aside he nodded to Surtur.
CLANG
CLANG
CLANG
The massive flail cried out with each swing, crashing against the stone that refused to budge, creating a cacophony that bounced off the walls and rang in their ears. A familiar sickening slurp sounded behind them, turning, Baldric watched in horror as the white blog began to twitch, and rise from its slumber. Quickly, he pulled out his lute and began strumming the strange hymn once again.
“Think we can keep it just below a racket?!”
“Blasted walls are tough!” Surtur sung again and again, his arms quaking with each strike, tensing his muscles. He could feel it starting to give. Just a few more hits.
CLANG
CLANG
CRASH
Stone and mortar flew away in chunks and large boulders tumbled inwards as a blast of cold musty air escaped from its prison, a long hall stretching out beyond the hole. Surtur turned in triumph but his grin quickly faded from his lips. Baldric continued to strum, but to no effect. The beast had awoken, its gelatinous body rising and growing, the “head” stretched out towards them as a long stalk grew between it and the massive body. With a wheezing gasp, the mouth gaped open, its body bulging as it took in a great bellyful of air.
“TAKE COVER!” Siggrun screamed and raised his shield just in time to block the icy blast that spewed from the montser’s lips. He could feel the freezing cold through the steel, through his gloved hand, through the chain mail beneath even. Such a cold blast of ice, nature would never hope to contend with. Beside him Surtur cursed and threw his shield down on the floor with a clatter of ice and iron. It was little more than a useless slab now, riddled with chunks of ice that rendered it brittle and far to heavy to heave up to a protective stance.
Siggrun turned towards the others, following the trail of ice upon the floor the solid stream of ice left behind. What he found at the end of it, he never expected to see in his days.
Raven laid out upon the floor, holding herself up by a single arm, a look of utter disbelief upon her face. There was not a scratch on her. The blast was a wide cone, there was no way it did not reach her. Then he saw him, Baldric, standing in a pained hunch above the woman clutching at a patch of frostbite that ran up his arm and just at the edge of his shoulder.
“Can you still strum that thing lad?”
Baldric offered a curt nod and shook off the pain, propping up his lute and continued his song, albeit in a far more restrained performance. Good enough, Siggrun thought, before holding up his axe and shouting out words of magic that bound the creature in place. He could feel the thing struggle against its magic, but Gor was strong, his magic was strong, let it fight all it wants. He could hear Baldric’s playing improve, a second wind boosted by the ease of pressure the hold spell granted him, and soon enough the monster’s head once again lolled on its neck before sinking back into its hole with more sickening slurps.
Raven took the hand Baldric offered her and was pulled to her feet, still staring him down as if she had seen some kind of miracle. “Baldric...I don’t know what to say.”
“Save it, I may be a scumbag but I’m not a complete monster.” He favored his arm, turning away. Out of embarrassment or something else, she could not tell. She felt a pang of guilt shoot through her. Not so much because she had judged him harshly, no. What he did for a living, she still could not condone or tolerate within her establishment. But she had not thought that perhaps he had some kind of humanity to him as well.
“Apparently not.”
A hearty slap on the middle of his back shook his entire body, Baldric winced slightly as it rocked through his wounds. The two dwarves stood behind them with just the barest of grins upon their lips.
“Well done lad. Perhaps you’re worth something after all.”
“Yeah, yeah. let’s just hope that leads to the hoard.”
---
“BALDRIC!! DAMMIT, SNAP OUT OF IT!!” Siggrun’s warning came too late as two massive fangs sank into Baldric’s shoulder, the giant white tarantula attached to it wrapping it’s legs around it’s prey, readying to cocoon him whole.
The pit from which it scurried had been lined with a strange phosphorescent paint. He didn’t have time to think too much of it at the moment, but Siggrun guessed it was that paint that had sent both the Bard and Surtur into their trance from which only now did they awake. A trap to make easy prey for the cult’s little pet.
Baldric howled in pain and struggled against the hair legs that were attempting to close in on him. Despite his wound he managed to wriggle free, ducking and tumbling out of the way. Hefting his flail high, Surtur swung in a powerful arc that connected with the arachnid just as it left for another attack. The thorax made a dull crunch and gave in with the hit, Surtur could feel the sudden lack of resistance through his grip. He followed through, turning his hips and crushed the giant spider between his mighty weapon and the stone wall. A sickly green ichor poured from the creature, and it’s legs trembled and spasmed until dead.
“You alright?” Surtur walked up to the edge of the pit where Baldric was already peering back downward. Before the attack, they had spotted a small cave about twenty feet down, and something sparkly.
“I’ll live. Think you can get down there?”
“Try and stop me.” The shield was down there, Surtur had no doubt now. He could feel the aching longing in his flail. It wanted to be with it’s mate. It’s partner. The three of them lowered the dwarf down slowly to the lip of the and a kaleidoscope of color bounced off the walls with the light of the enchanted candlestick. So gold and gems and other assorted treasure. This should shut Baldric up. He trudged ankle deep into the treasure, pushing his way towards the back of the cave. There, just a bit further.
The face that greeted him, was that of a steel Gargoyle, howling triumphantly with piercing eyes. Yes. His flail practically sang on his back. Here it was, he was now complete. They were now complete. Gently, with great reverence, he lifted the shield and attached it to his arm. How light it felt, like an extension of his own arm. Like it was meant for no one but him. He felt as if a weight had been lifted from his spirit, and now, he could finally move on. His eyes fell to the treasure at his feet, and he readied his bag.
Between himself, Raven, and Baldric they were carrying several hundred coin worth of gold, gems, and other exquisite artifacts. It was difficult to move too quickly, and their backs would be sore from the extra weight, but they all agreed this was something they could deal with. As they exited back into the dark altar room, their ears were treated to the sound of another skull shattering to the ground where they first entered.
“Well, I’d say I’m about ready to get the hell out of here.” Baldric was much lighter in spirits now, knowing his purse would be much heavier for the effort they had just made. He found no argument from the others, save a lingering look from Surtur towards the back wall next to the hole they had wrent. He stroked it longingly with gloved fingers, peering into the stone, past it, into some unseen destiny beyond.
“Siggrun? Time to go.”
“No...Gor demands I press on.”
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Late Night Musings
A/N: For tarched’s HTTYDArtAugust event, Prompt 7: Friendship above all. Just really fluffy Stoick/Gobber fluff. Nothing like poking a bit of fun at RTTE to celebrate the new season.
Kind of a meta title, as this really is me typing late at night. I have to admit, I sorta rushed this, which is why it’s all meandering fluff. I originally had another story involving Heather and Astrid’s friendship, but it was a very speculative post-HTTYD3ish thing and was...pretty dark (very much takes the “Friendship above all” prompt and kinda stomps it in the dirt). I kinda like it, though, if only for how angsty it felt to me. Maybe I’ll expand on it some day, spin off a whole story about the rise of Hiccup the Cunning’s Archipelago Alliance after Drago’s defeat and the Last Stand of the Berserkers under Heather the Unhinged.
Was fun doing all this. Not even kidding, I enjoyed forcing myself to crank out these drabbles in three days. Hopefully I can get more involved in the fandom before it probably slows down to a crawl post-HTTYD3 or I get swamped by homework because I’m an Electrical Engineering major.
Stoick always imagined that he looked quite foolish to his own people whenever he was working with his little wooden ducks—a massive man like him chipping away at small blocks of wood with a tiny knife—which was why he rarely worked on them outside of the privacy of his own house.
The truth was he just liked the shape, and at this point, they were by far the easiest thing for him to carve.
“What’s wrong?”
Stoick reluctantly put down his knife and the barely-chipped block of wood—a girl, he decided, to go with the boy he’d just finished—on the table and looked up. Gobber was staring at him with that same look of false indifference he always wore, absent-mindedly scratching the stump where his left hand used to be.
“Nothing,”
“Then why are you carving your little ducks?”
“It’s soothing.”
“In the Great Hall?”
Stoick looked around him. The Great Hall was dark and mostly empty, but the few villagers still hanging around were all giving him quick glances, their heads tilted off to one side in the hopes that it’d help them better hear what he and Gobber were discussing.
“I just came here for something to, uh, help me sleep,” Gobber said. To prove his claim, he pulled out his favorite mug attachment and strapped it to his stump. “Then I see you here, whittling away, and everyone’s staring, and then everyone stares at me, because apparently I’m your mother.”
“You’re my friend, Gobber.”
Gobber poured himself a cup of ale from the nearest keg. “I just don’t see why your own brother—”
“Half-brother,” Stoick corrected. “And Spitelout’s...”
“...mother was a whore?”
“Gobber!” He quickly swept the entire Great Hall with his fiercest glare, and everyone inside not named Stoick and Gobber collectively decided that it was getting late, and that they should definitely head home.
“Sorry, Stoick.” Gobber hobbled over next to Stoick and took a seat at the table. “Saw the chance and took it. Drink?”
Stoick reached for his mug and looked into it, only to remember that he’d never filled it. He just shook his head and let awkward silence fill the Hall.
He had just picked his knife back up when Gobber suddenly asked, “You two fight again?”
“Who?”
“You and, you know, him.”
“Spitelout?” Stoick said as he dropped the knife, annoyed. “No, why would—”
“Of course not Spitelout.” Gobber took a swig. “Hiccup.”
“Then you should be clearer next time. Hiccup does the exact same thing.”
“Do what?”
“Be ambiguous!”
“Well maybe you should be less ambiguous about that.”
Stoick gently balled his hands into fists. It was no wonder that Hiccup was so good at getting on his nerves; Gobber had been an excellent master.
“Okay, noted,” Gobber said lamely. “So, about Hiccup...”
Stoick sighed. “No, we didn’t fight.”
“Because I was just about to say that you should stop scaring Hiccup back to the Edge. Or one day he and his friends might just never come back. He might be your son, but he’s also my best man at the forge.” He chuckled, no doubt thinking himself very funny. “Be a shame to lose such talent, eh?”
“No, we parted on...good terms, today. I think.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Stoick furrowed his brows. “Before he left, he said something.”
A pause. “Uh-huh,” Gobber said. “What was this about ambigui–”
“Something about how ‘peaceful’ the past few years have been since, you know, the merging.”
“Peaceful,” Gobber said almost wistfully. Stoick wanted to believe that they were both thinking of the same moment from twenty years ago: All of Berk aglow not with the flames of dragons but cheerful little fires, its people cheering and feasting and drinking, and in the middle of it all, him and Valka, twirling and laughing because finally, praise Frigga, they were married.
“This isn’t peaceful, Gobber,,” Stoick said, rubbing his eyes. “Not really. Not when some madman just tried to bring Berk to its knees with a single dragon. And not when my son’s off in the north fighting some war against this Viggo bastard. Hiccup, his whole generation, they don’t know what that word even means.”
“Do any of us?” Gobber countered. “Three hundred years of dragon raids, Stoick. Maybe this really is as peaceful as it gets. You’ve said it yourself before, ‘We’re Vikings...’”
“‘It’s an occupational hazard,’” Stoick muttered. “But that was before all...this, Gobber. I just thought that with the dragons gone, maybe, maybe things would change. But now it’s worse. Outcasts. Berserkers. Thunderheads. Dragon Hunters. Gods knows who else Hiccup has crossed out there and hasn’t even told us about.”
“I don’t know about ‘worse’,” Gobber said skeptically. He leaned over to point at his peg leg. “I haven’t lost any limbs fighting Berserkers yet, you know?”
“Because we haven’t been the ones fighting them,” Stoick growled. “Hiccup has. Astrid has. They’re out there fighting our wars and don’t even tell us about it, because they think it’s all fun and games, and everyone else seems to be just fine with it. Does that, does that not bother you, Gobber?”
“Seeking glory through battle and stupid decisions? Sounds like a Viking tradition.” Gobber grinned. “Haddock tradition, in particular.”
“I should be out there, on there ‘Dragon’s Edge’, fighting with them. I know it. But I can’t because I have a whole fucking village to watch over!”
Gobber raised an eyebrow. “Then why don’t you call them back? Force them to stay on Berk with all your chiefly authority.”
“You know why.”
Because Hiccup would didn’t give a damn about his authority. Hiccup would defy him anyway. The only difference would be that he’d be trying to bring down Viggo while also avoiding getting caught by his own father, even if it meant getting himself killed in the process.
Gobber nodded. “Yep. So just count yourself lucky that he didn’t decide to run off all those years ago. He has friends with him now. Just imagine him facing someone like Viggo with just Toothless and the clothes on his back.”
Stoick could imagine it. “Even if he didn’t end up...meeting Valka,” he said softly, pointing above to wherever Valhalla was, “he’d probably end up bitter. Hopeless.”
“Probably a drunkard.”
Stoick gave Gobber a quizzical glance.
“Just...just speculating. The whole world seems like a bad place. Worse monsters out there than dragons. I can see myself drinking to forget.”
“That’s what I mean, Gobber. Dragons are...they’re cunning, but they’re still beasts.”
“Don’t let Hiccup hear you say that.”
“They make sense,” Stoick continued. “When they kill, there’s a simple reason behind it. Food or territory or...things. But men? Some men will kill because they think it’s funny. Or it makes them powerful.”
“Like Drago?”
Drago. Now that was a name Stoick hoped he’d never hear again. It brought memories great men turning being reduced to screams and cinders, and it made him feel that same strange guilt all over again. He was the only survivor of Drago’s cowardly ambush that day.
“You ever tell Hiccup about Drago?” Gobber asked.
“No!” Stoick snapped, with enough bite to make Gobber flinch. “Not...don’t mean you, Gobber, but can you, can you imagine what would happen if I told him about it?”
“He’d hop on his Night Fury, fly over to wherever Drago lives, and let Toothless turn your problem into a stain on the ground.”
“He’d hop on his Night Fury, fly over to where Drago lives, and get himself killed!”
Gobber’s right hand swatted the air. “Yakshit, he’s got your damn Haddock luck. And if that’s not enough, he’s got Astrid.” He scratched his beard. Speaking of which, are they a...you know, a pair, yet?”
Stoick took a deep breath, glad to move on to a lighter topic. “No, no he hasn’t,” he said. “But soon, I’m sure of it.”
He never imagined that his boy Hiccup would ever have a chance with Astrid Hofferson. But Hiccup had done it. Stoick would never say it out loud, for fear that greater powers would punish him for his arrogance, but he just knew in his heart that Hiccup had already won Astrid’s heart, and she had won his even before then. The boy who tamed dragons, his boy, with one of the greatest Viking warriors in the entire Archipelago? Even he and Valka surely wouldn’t have compared if...
Well, if he and Valka had ever gotten the chance.
“Really? You know, for all his smarts, that boy can be just so...stupid.”
Stoick nodded, knowing that fact better than anyone. “Aye, but she really is watching out for him, though, isn’t she? Like a...a valkyrie riding on his shoulders.”
Gobber snickered. “Sure, riding his shoulders.”
Stoick frowned. “Come on now, Gobber.”
“I swear one night he’s going to sneak back here and just to warn you, ‘Dad, I want to marry Astrid. Like I sort of have to.’” Gobber started cracking up.
“Gobber...”
“I’m just saying, an island mostly to themselves, whole day’s flight away from Berk...they’d have to be idiots not try something, you know? You know, Stoick? You, you might already be a...a grandfather. You just...just don’t know it...”
It was honestly rather fun watching even Gobber wither under his menacing glare. “Too far, Chief, I know” the blond man practically squeaked. “Sorry.”
Stoick couldn’t help but break the act with a wry, “Though I do like the idea of grandkids.”
Gobber tried and failed to hide his sigh of relief. “Aye, I envy you.”
Stoick almost smiled, but a sudden, rather sobering thought occurred to him. “Do you, Gobber?” he asked.
“What?”
“Envy me.”
Gobber’s...strange preference in men over women as lovers was something everyone on Berk knew but few acknowledged in the open. Neither Gobber nor Stoick nor...anyone, really, had ever really pushed for more open dialogue about it.
“Well, no, Stoick,” Gobber said quickly. “I guess...I guess I see Hiccup as my own—Wait, no, forget I said that.”
Stoick slapped an arm on to Gobber’s shoulder. “You’re right, Gobber,” he said, putting on his best Chief voice. “You’re my brother.”
Gobber snorted. “Brother,” he said incredulously. “Not just half-brother?”
“Blood brother. Dragon’s blood brother. Forged in the raging fires of countless battles. Nothing else compares to this bond.”
Stoick finally found the motivation to get off his seat, to grab a keg of ale. He casually brought it on to the table with one hand, shoving aside the ducks and the knife off to the side with another, and poured both Gobber and himself a drink.
“Can I ask something of you, Gobber?” he quickly asked before the other man could take a sip.
“So long as I can say no, then yeah, sure.”
“If something happens to me—”
“Which it won’t.”
“I want you to...really watch out for Hiccup. You know, when I’m not around.”
Gobber took some time to nod deliberately. “As if I don’t do that already?”
Stoick grimaced, staring at his ale. The jab was too accurate for him to be upset about. “I really am a terrible father, aren’t I?” he muttered.
Gobber tilted his head and looked up at the roof of the Great Hall in thought. “Well, who knows if he would have turned out like...this if you actually did a better job?” His mustache twitched. “Can I ask something of you, Stoick?”
“Anything, old friend.”
“Smile more.”
Stoick blinked. “What?”
“Gothi says it’s good for your face and your spirits, or...something.” Gobber scratched the back of his head. “Maybe just smiling more might make you a bit less...stoic, all the time, eh?”
Stoick laughed at that pun, if only to please Gobber. “I suppose I can try.” He lifted his mug. “To our boy Hiccup. And brotherhood.”
Gobber raised his own. “And Astrid. And to dragons, because why the Hel not?”
“To Berk, and forty years of friendship,” Stoick said, smiling.
“Forty years!”
And so they drank.
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