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def-march · 5 years

Text

ANCIENTS

Characters: Joshua and 777 Length: 11 google docs pages (approximately 4200 words) Desc: a small fic I made for @the-composer <3 Love ya, H!!

Summary: Just as the iconic era of the 80s was ending, 777 had died alongside his two best friends, Tenho and BJ. Struggling to make ends meet in their new life as a trio of Support Reapers, they’re visited one evening by a mysterious stranger with orders to retrieve the singer, and bring him face to face with non other then the Composer himself for a little “talk.”

“Seven, do you remember when we first met?”

The punk glanced at Joshua, trying to formulate thoughts in how he was going to answer as he cracked open one of the beers he brought along. 777’s eyebrows furrowed as he took a sip of his bitter drink.

“Ya finally invite me t’yer special place on 104 just to talk?” He grunted, “lame.”

“But, do you?”

777 sighed with a smile as he put his drink down on the ledge beside him. The city suddenly seemed to have quieted down from in top of the tall building, even though he knew it wasn't the case. Time felt slowed and muddled until he opened his eyes once more.

“Really, Joshie, ya think I can forget that easily? Give me some credit here, dude.”

------

When the doorbell rang in the middle of the day, everyone in the trio was tense that it could have been another eviction. (There's really not much room in a city like Shibuya, and besides, three youthful Support Reapers weren't immune to the rules of the living. They were a handful of trouble for everyone they knew.)

It was Tenho who answered the door after the 3rd ring, revealing the tall man in the snakeskin suit and flowing black hair. However, the most unnerving were the eyes, completely shielded away with glasses that were tinted so dark, a starless sky would look bright.

“W-who are you?” Tenho felt his voice shake, even though a part of him knew that this person was not alive by any means of the word.

Without any other words, the stranger moved past Tenho and BJ, despite cries of protest of not inviting the stranger in for starters. The way which he walked was silent, and filled with Grace as he made his way to the younger 777 sitting in the couch, arms crossed with a fierce scowl.

“Your presence is requested.”

“I ain't goin’ anywhere.” The young adult replied, narrowing his eyes as he glared daggers and tightened the grip he had on his red sweater. “I refuse.”

“That isn't very advisable.”

“I don't care!” The scowl grew into a snarl, hackles rising like a dog. “I don't know you, so why should I trust ya? Ya just can't walk right into my damn house, for fucks sake!”

“I was requested to retrieve the Support Reaper who has been causing problems. You seem to not know the meaning of 'respect,” Sven Saintclaire.”

“What did you call me?” 777 bared his teeth as he snapped right up onto his feet, hands clenched. He could feel the heartbeat in his ears. He could see his two friends from the corners of his eyes, faces concerned about the situation, unknowing what to do of the stranger, and of the fury that 777 harvested.

“YOU HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO RIGHT T’CALL ME THAT!” The young singer shrieked, throwing a punch at the man. Without hesitation, the man caught the blow and twisted the hand harshly to the side, earning a cry of pain from 777 as he dropped to his knees, glaring up at the other.

It really hasn't been that long since he became a Reaper. After his Game, he knew that he desperately had to work on his temper and.nit jump straight to violence, but really this dude just waltzed into his house like he owned the damn place! How was he supposed to react?!

“I did warn you, it was inadvisable.” The black haired man glowered at the boy, who shrunk down out of fear. “For someone who interests the Composer, you are a brat.”

---

777 followed the intruder, not really paying attention to the direction they were heading, as he was fixated on the person himself, observing the calm and collected movements he made with every stride.

Rain was beginning to fall in the form of a light mist. The way the water interacted with the Underground was peculiar. He could feel the cold wetness as the droplets fell, but they never landed on him. It passed right through, leaving 777 dry. Despite being part of the UG for just over half a year now, whenever it rained he was either inside or on the plane of the RG. He shivered.

This new life he accepted was...strange for lack of better words.

777 looked up again, and to his surprise Megumi had turned his head to look at the rock star wannabe, piercing golden eyes peering out of the side of his glasses, causing 777’s heart to halt and jostle around in surprise. “Your staring is impolite; I suggest now that refrain from it when you meet Him.”

“Where else am I supposed to look? I've been livin’ in this dump of a city before I died long enough, I know where shit is.” 777 spat with a grunt, digging his hands further into the sweaters pockets.

Megumi was silent, and then he turned his head away and continued walking without acknowledgement of the young Reapers words.

777 frowned and resumed his pace, trailing after the other. “Ya know, ya never told me yer name.”

“Apologies, it must have slipped my mind. My name is Megumi Kitaniji… and yourself?”

“Cut that politeness shit, Meggy, you already know my name…”

Megumi couldn't hide the displeasure in his face at his new nickname, his nose wrinkling up with disdain, but ultimately decided to ignore it, getting this Support Reaper to Him was already proving difficult enough. “Yes, it is Sve-”

“Like, the hell it is! I refuse to be called by that anymore! That's the old me!”

“It is what is written on your papers, it is what I will refer you as. Out of curiosity, what is your calling name then, hm?”

777 was quiet, eyes casting down on the sidewalk. Megumi stopped, causing the singer to walk right into him.

“HEY?! What gives!?”

“As I expected, you haven't thought ahead on the matter of your new name. Unfortunate.”

“No, you're fuckin’ wrong! I do have a name, asshat!”

“Then do tell.”

“Triple Seven! My name is Triple fuckin’ Seven!”

Megumi blinked in surprise, despite his facial expression remaining neutral. “Pardon?”

“You heard me! Triple Seven, like, three sevens?” 777 took his hands out of the pockets, tightening the fists until he could feel his nails digging into his skin as he looked up at Megumi, violet eyes unwavering. “MY NAME IS TRIPLE SEVEN!”

Megumi was quiet, bringing a hand to his chin in thought. This young man had such a strong vibe coming off of him, even though he has been here for a relatively short time. His personality was headstrong, as he was warned about, but it seemed to be worse than what he was even informed of. His whole character was...odd, to say the least.

“It sounds to me like you're trying to convince yourself, rather than me.”

777’s face melted into shock. Megumi was right; he was still coming to terms with his new identity after death, but before he could retort, Megumi spoke, “We have arrived.”

777 looked around, sewers, how nice. These people certainly did have shitty taste. Maybe they had tea parties with the rats. “Whatever,” he grumbled, following Megumi through the concrete passages, the smell of sewage reeked from every possible crevice.It was just one room after another, wasn't it?

He admittedly wasn't paying attention, so when they came into a bright room, that looked furnished and well, nice (even if it wasn't exactly his style,) he was a bit shocked.

“Aye, ya got booze. Nice.” 777 grinned, eyeing the bar and the many bottles on display behind it.

“Touch it, and I won't dare to hesitate on lopping your hand off.” Megumi hissed, golden eyes glaring from the sides of his shades. “I am aware you are an alcoholic. You may have a drink after, if you'd like, but you will pay for it. Come with me.”

The singer rolled his eyes, and followed, coming into a room that was suddenly spacious. A throne in the center with a glowing figure. 777 had to squint, but he did not falter beyond that.

“Interesting,” the figure spoke, his voice sounding like smooth chimes laced in silk. “You have no fear.”

“Should I? You're just like a mega sized neon light, really,” the singers voice was laced with sarcasm, clearly unimpressed. “Does only shades over there get a pair of glasses, or are ya try’na ruin my corneas?”

The Composer chuckled a bit. How entertaining this Reaper was. Not only that, but he was resilient and resisted against falling down against his powerful vibe washing over him. It was almost impressive.

“My apologies, I should have taken into account how my beauty is blinding.”

The rocker sneered as the light died down. 777 stopped squinting, eyebrows arching in surprise to see someone who's age was indefinite, but was clearly youthful, perhaps an older teenager or a young adult much like the Reaper himself, standing with a proper posture, right in front of him.

“Is this better?”

“I guess,” 777 snorted. “Ya look like a princess.”

“Do not talk to the Composer in such a manner,” Megumi spoke up, posture rigid, as if he was the one who was offended and not the pretty boy standing in front of them both.

“Megumi, relaaax, I take it as a compliment you see. I should not be seen as anything but royalty.”

“Yer porcelain skin would make a mighty fine throw rug.”

“Sir-- please,” Megumi started. “He's being rude-”

“Megumi, despite how long you have been part of the Underground, you still are extremely uncertain of your newfound status as Conductor. I suggest kindly, that you only speak when you're being referred to. Just watch, please.” Joshua sighed, rolling his eyes and placed a hand on 777’s shoulder. “Between you and me, he can be sooo protective, it's silly really. He's not new to the UG but he's new to the position of Conductor; really needs to loosen up a bit...”

“Don't touch me.” 777 snarled, causing the Composer to take his hand off the Reapers shoulders in slight surprise.

“Got it.” He didn't really feel like getting his fingers bitten off, especially in a setting like this. He needed this Reaper to trust him, even if it was only a little bit. Provoking would only make the matter at hand worse. “No touchy touchy~”

“What d’ya want?”

“My, extremely straight to the point, aren't you?” Slightly annoying, but it gave him the impression he wouldn't have to butter up anything he said. The Reaper clearly had already come to terms that he was dead and not returning to the living. The only issue at hand may be the personal Vendetta against the one who ruled the UG.

“At least tell me who ya are, “Mr. Composer”.” The sarcasm in the singers voice definitely wasn't going anywhere, nor was the heavy air quotes he made as he spoke.

“A bit of an irritating brat, aren't you?”

“Of course; gotta keep up my rep.” 777 cracked a smile, crossing his arms. “I aim to please.”

“My name is Yoshiya Kiryu, but you may call my Joshua like the majority of those around me.” The Composer tilted his head, Ash blonde bangs falling over his face as he analyzed the Reaper. How peculiar of a personality; he really didn't care what he said to someone of authority, did he? Joshua returned a soft smile, finding that things from here on out would be entertaining, at the very least.

“I'm sure you're wondering why you're here-”

“Yeah? Kinda? I thought that part was obvious.”

Joshua rubbed his forehead, an irritated sigh leaving his mouth. Nevermind, would this be entertaining or borderline aggravating? “Will you please stop interrupting me and allow me to get straight to the point, you're only wasting your time here and prolonging the visit so be patient and kindly shut up.”

When no other smart alec comments were made, Joshua mumbled a relieved 'thank you’ to the Higher Plane. God.

“What I wanted to talk to you about was your points,” he began, clasping his hands in front of his face, his smile crumpling into that of a concerned frown. “You seem to be an exceptional Reaper of sorts, despite you not having the strongest Underground abilities, you have miraculous control of your vibe…” Joshua trailed off, listening to the music that this Reaper emitted. It was heavier than most would be, louder too, but it was steady and stable. The beat was consistent, a heart of a drum beat and a guitar solo of his heart on top of the static that was common among souls of the UG.

‘If he keeps developing at the rate he is currently,’ Joshua hummed as he thought to himself, ‘then it could very well be possible that it would only get louder and more refined; perhaps the static will vanish completely and the song will be in it's best form…’

“Is it true that you mastered the ability to shift planes within the first couple of weeks of becoming a Reaper?” Joshua couldn't help but blurt out the question. Normally Reapers took at least the first month to be able to figure out how to go back and forth between the RG and UG, and even then for those prodigies, it would still be a strain on their bodies, but here was a Reaper phasing in and out like liquid through a strainer. It was essentially effortless.

“Sorry, it's just-- you do so poor regarding most abilities in the underground. You have trouble summoning Noise, pins are almost completely useless for you, and your psyches as a Reaper are limited to brute force, but yet you somehow have extraordinary abilities in regards to your vibe and you are above the average Reaper when it comes to imprinting.”

“And?”

“And?” Joshua's sleek brows furrowed, momentarily stunned by the question. Didn't he know how atypical that was?! No, of course not, this Reaper had a brain full of songs and spare parts.

“It's absolutely fascinating!” Joshua couldn't just put it into words how intrigued he was with the other, it made him feel giddy with excitement. 777 couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in mild confusion; he wasn't around long enough to actually understand anything about him that Joshua thought was so amazing, but yet here he was, the Composer Himself acting like a preschool kid learning about dinosaurs. Joshua, catching wind if his actions, cleared his throat and straightened out his posture back to the professional facade it was before.

“I do believe you could potentially see yourself rank up if you get better in the other areas of performance, but enough of that,” Joshua paused, tapping his pursed lips with his delicate porcelain fingers in thought.

“The real reason I called you down, aside from my own fascination, was how you are with Players. You seem to be able to erase them without much of a second thought, but with others you will hold yourself back or even help them. It's not against the rules by any means, but I don't recall many Reapers, or even some at all, taking as much mercy onto the Players as yourself. Does this correlate with your abilities, by chance? Why do you do it?”

It wasn't really that hard for 777 to answer. “It's because I relate to them. I went through the Game, and I hope I became a better person because of it. They show potential, they deserve a chance to better themselves and it's going to only get harder with every passing day in the UG. They deserve that one ounce of hope.” 777 looked away, towards the ground. It felt weird hearing the words come from his mouth. It wasn't the entire truth by any means, but he hoped it would satisfy. For now, at least.

He just doesn't want anyone to go through what he did during his game. He wants to be that ounce of hope to help a Player through the day. 777 just wanted to mean something good for once.

“I think it's partially 'cuz I feel more human after the game, ‘specially compared to most Reaps that I've seen.”

Joshua's eyes widened slightly. Most Reapers would say they felt less humane, more monstrous, no longer inhibited by the rules of the living. In the Underground people could be who they truly were underneath their flesh and skin. It made sense though, here in front of him stood a Reaper who felt more human, one who not only frequented the RG, but interacted with it, taking pity on it and the people who walked that plane.

“We we're all human once, but when I was alive I stripped myself of my own humanity earlier than most would. The Game showed me how I was before was just. Wrong. That's not the way a human should act, no one should be like how I was.”

“We were all...human...once…” Joshua repeated the words slowly along his tongue. They felt foreign on his lips, like trying a new dish from another culture and being unsure of the taste. Was it like or dislike? Too spicy or too sweet?

“You seem to have a good grasp on yourself as a person.”

777 couldn't help but burst out laughing. “If I did, I don't think I'd even be dead!”

“True.” Joshua hummed. “May I ask what was your entry fee to the game?”

“My voice. Not just my physical voice, but my metaphorical one, too. I couldn't ever bring m’self t’ try and bring out what I really thought and wanted to say.”

“How unfortunate. And the fee you have after becoming a Reaper?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you feel discontent because of it? Not knowing the fee you lost to become who you are now?”

“I think bein’ a Reap was the bes’ thing to ever happen in my life.” A pause. “Unlife.”

“After life,” corrected Joshua.

“Whatever.”

“And why might that be?” Joshua asked. He could already guess the answer, he just wanted to hear it for himself. A confirmation of sorts, just to know how he should approach the Reaper in the future, if this Reaper would allow him to, anyways.

“I get a new identity. I get to be better than what I was before I died.” 777 looked to the side. “I can achieve my dreams like this, without havin’ 'em be wasted away t’ nothin’.”

“What dreams are those?”

“I wanna be a rockstar. I wanna influence people, show 'sm they're not alone in the world, that there's people jus’ as angry as 'em, just as upset as 'em, and together we can make a difference.” 777 narrowed his eyes, looking back at Joshua. “I don't fuckin’ know why I'm tellin’ ya all of this, I don't even know ya.”

“You know my name.”

“And nothing else.” 777 snorted, crossing his arms. “My turn to ask questions, then.”

Joshua blinked in surprise. He really didn't think the tables would turn so sharply onto himself, but he should have at least guessed as much, considering how the Support Reaper was acting.

“Do you have any dreams?”

“I've been dead for a long time, and I am the godly influence of a city, I don't think I have time for dreams--”

“Thats bullshit!” Joshua stumbled back in surprise at the sudden hostility and passion that was in the others voice. “Everyone's gotta have dreams, if you're older ya jus’ had more time t’plan yer attack an’ tackle em!”

“I do suppose, you may be right.”

“I know I'm right,” snorted 777, a smirk on his face. “Ya may be dead but that don't mean ya can't feel alive.”

“That's rich in itself, coming from someone who has stated they feel more human.”

“Bold of ya t'assume that feelin’ human meant like ya felt alive.”

Joshua frowned at those words. They had only just met, and this guy got it; he understood. Humans don't have to feel alive, they do not even have to feel. They just had to be, and continue being. Not one person in the world wished themselves alive, but many wished themselves dead.

777 could say that he didn't have a grasp on who he was as a person all he wanted, but he had a grasp on emotions and how they functioned, whether he realized it or not. You didn't need a reason to feel the way you do, you just had to exist. Did it often make sense? Of course not, but the world wasn't black and white and things were changing and evolving so much that it made the Composers head spin in circles the more he thought about it.

But really; what was going on in that mind of the singer? A sense of feelings but not a sense of self; the emotion of anger but where was the guilt?

Joshua pushed a strand of his Ash blonde hair behind his ear, watching the singer in an unnerving silence. Neither of them spoke, but each of their minds was frantically thinking. When should I go? Do I let him stay?

The Composer breathed in, an idea trickling through his head. Why would he doesn't and wonder about what the other was thinking when he could see for himself? He had control over the UG, after all, he could just scan the Reaper and send him on his way, back to whatever shit hole he crawled out from.

Joshua closed his eyes and concentrated, feathers falling from his wings as he explored the mind's eye. There was nothing there.

Almost nothing.

He could see a door, locked and chained shut with an animal in front, growling through bared teeth and intense violet eyes that shone through a fury that was masked with rage, but hidden underneath was the familiar defensiveness of fear.

Triple Seven here, Joshua thought, with the lull of a sadness that he and the singer shared, but we're no strangers of. Is afraid of opening up...

Suddenly, the vision shattered like glass as he was knocked out of his meditative state. Stunned and falling to his knees, he could barely register what had happened. He reached a hand up to his face, feeling the warm, sticky blood gushing out his nose and between his finger tips.

“--SIR!”

Joshua waved his hand, signaling that he was fine, that Megumi should stand down and out of the way. He looked back up at 777, mouth agape in shock.

“You felt that?”

“I dunno, but did ya feel that, bitch?” 777 shouted, both hands clenched as his sides, as if he was prepared to through another punch. Blood dripped down from his right fit into the floor.

“Don't fuckin’ try to scan me if yer preachin’ 'bout trust an’ shit if ya don't act on it! Ya want me to trust ya, and respect ya and whatever else bullshit ya want, yer gonna have to earn it like a normal fuckin’ person!”

Joshua's face of shock melted into a small giggle, before molding into a full blown laughing fit. He didn't care about the searing pain he had of a broken nose, he didn't care about Megumi frantically wanting to help him. This was definitely more entertaining that he had anticipated, he really just couldn't help but laugh in response.

The pain, the anger, this Reaper really was so human compared to the hardened Composer, he couldn't help but laugh at how alive he felt, tears forming in his eyes as he snorted. Joshua wiped the blood out from under his nose, starting at his bloodied hand, still laughing to himself.

“I can't believe you hit me.”

“I got more where that came from is ya decide to pull that shit again.”

Joshua looked up, back to his hand and the concrete floor, covered with blood drips, and back to 777. The smile never left his face as he got up, offering the singer his gentle hand as a truce. “I'll keep you under my watchful gaze.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” 777 snorted, looking at the hand and rolling his eyes. Yeah right, he wasn't going to take it from such a prissy boy, Composer or not. Spinning around in his heels, he turned to walk in the other direction-- away.

“Wait! The Composer hasn't dismissed you yet!” Megumi called out, taking a few steps forwards, only to be stopped as Joshua held his arm out, blocking the Conductors charge.

“Let him be.” Joshua said, glancing at Megumi and back to the Support Reaper, waving his hand in farewell at him.

“Goodbye, Triple Seven! Until we meet again!~”

“Ya didn't call me Sven.” 777 looked over his shoulder in surprise, stopping his walk to turn around and stare. Even though Joshua was socked in the face, there was still warmth to his icy cold facade, deep in his mulberry eyes.

“Of course not.” Joshua smiled softly. “This is who you are now.”

---

“I remember the outcome going a bit differently, don't you think? I distinctly recall you grovelling at my feet, kissing the very ground I walk on.”

“Duh, you probably had a goddamn concussion thanks to my fist.” 777 rolled his eyes, finishing off the can of beer in his hand and tossing it down the roof of 104, eyes following up as it fell until it could be seen no more. “We've known each other for a long time now, huh? Man, we're so fuckin’ old…”

“Absolutely ancient.”

#my motherfucking writing #the SHOW must go ON:|| HEADCANONS #Personal Jesus:|| aggravating young god #i am not gonna italisize things lmao i dont have the patience for that after just copy n pasting from my google docs #twewy #the world ends with you #i hope yall dont mind some fandom tags bc i worked really hard on this #i love writing and I love H's josh

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xsjakalen-blog · 6 years

Text

Free birds shouldn’t be kept in cages - 1/3

Part 2 Part 3

Part 1 - Pride

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence

''What the hell is this?'' Dad asks with a raised voice while looking through the monthly bills, eyes narrowed. Mom looks up from the ironing board in front of her. Dad is as usual seated in his armchair by the old television, resting his tired legs on the footstool, his cane by his side. Phil and Martyn are sitting beside him on the grey carpet, eyes fixated on the cartoon playing in the television. Phil keeps quiet. Martyn has taught him to.

Mom places the iron back on the ironing board and takes place beside Dad, who points at something on the paper with a stiff finger. She bends down to get a closer look, takes a step back as she finds out what he's referring to. ''The oven broke,'' She explains with a weak voice, folding her hands in front of her. ''I had our landlord come fix it.'' Dad grabs the remote, turns off the TV.

''Hands on the wall.'' Mom doesn't cry as she obeys, she never does. Phil clenches his small fists and looks to his big brother. They both know what comes next. Dad arises from his chair, grabbing his cane. Martyn covers Phil's eyes with a hand, but he can still hear the well known sound of wood against flesh, the screams of pain that follows. -x-x-x-

''Howell,'' A female guard commands Dan to step out from the line of newly arrived inmates, voice monotone and eyes fixated on the clipboard in her hands. She hands Dan a small paperclip and an identification card as he approaches her with stiff steps, signals for him to tag along with a quick, impatient hand gesture. Dan attaches the card to the pocket of his orange jumpsuit and follows her hasty steps. The obnoxious colour makes him stick out among the grey sweatshirts, white tank tops and jogging pants adorning the other inmates, signals his status as a newcomer, a newborn to the hierarchy behind bars.

''Breakfast starts at six, lunch at one, dinner at five,'' The guard informs him as she leads him past the dining hall and activity rooms, quiet criminals staring him down, calculating his every move. There's no hoard of dehumanized animals awaiting him, no wordstream of profanities and dirty promises flowing his way; just an agonizing, straining silence, making his ears ring and blood boil. A lot of them are covered in tattoos, steroid muscles prominent through their shirts. Dan has neither, got nothing but his pride. ''Work hours are between breakfast and lunch, phone and shower hours between lunch and dinner.''

Dan walks with his chin raised, face stripped from every emotion. He won't show them any sign of weakness. ''Got it,'' He responds and fixates his eyes on the prison's concrete walls, painted in a mocking pattern of blue and white, symbolizing qualities none of the men within these walls posses; hope and innocence. The entire interior seems cynical and impersonal, every single furniture Dan passes is made of steel and bolted to the floor beneath his white canvas shoes.

The guard guides him up a staircase leading him to an elongated corridor filled with claustrophobic cells, only segregated by metal bars. When he'd awaited his trial back at county he'd been isolated twenty three hours a day, but at least his concrete cell had provided him with an illusion of privacy and space. ''We lock down at nine, all lights are out at ten.'' The guard stops in front of a cell and scribbles something on her clipboard with the pen in her hand. The cell contains two steel beds bolted to the floor, two small steel cabinets mounted on each side of the wall, a small window in the middle and a steel toilet underneath it. No sink. ''Your cellmate is inmate Liguori, he'll fill you in on the rest.''

Liguori, a young man Dan guesses to be around the same age as himself, looks up from the book in his hand at the mention of his name, offering Dan a short nod out of courtesy. Despite the friendly gesture the man's hooded eyes are cautious and calculating, defined jaw locked in a tense frown, distrust engraved in stern facial features. Dan returns the nod and enters the cell, wondering how long it will be before that look adorns his own face.

''I don't get any toiletries?'' He asks the guard as he sits down on his bed, the thin mattress reminding him of a piece of cardboard. The question makes both the guard's eye and Liguori's lip twitch, one in annoyance and the other in amusement.

''This is a category B prison, inmate,'' The guard barks, finally looking up from the clipboard. Dan knows his existence has been reduced to nothing but a waste of air by the glare he receives. ''Not a goddamn hotel.'' The guard slams the cell door shut and storms away.

Liguori leans forward, watching her leave through the bars and only arising from his bed once she's completely out of frame. He grabs a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste from his cabinet, throws it to Dan.

''Thanks,'' Dan mutters as he catches the items, placing them beside him. He leans back against the bars, sighs as he tiredly rubs his face. The inmates at county all claimed prison would be better, some even adding additional charges to their sentences just to get transferred, but so far Dan can only doubt the truth of those statements. County is for the criminals who still have a chance of making it on the outside, prison is for the criminals who are no longer wanted on the outside.

''I'm not your friend, newbie,'' Liguori responds as he closes his cabinet, combing a hand through a mop of curly hair. Dan nods slowly in understandment, pushing his pride aside and respecting the yet undefined rules. ''But we were all new here once.''

''Yard time?''

''A privilege, not a right.'' Liguori takes place in front of the toilet, pushes his jogging pants a bit down and proceeds to take a piss. ''Hell, even the fucking air we breathe in here is a privilege according to those pigs.''

-x-x-x-

During breakfast the following morning Dan chooses to take seat at an empty table, defying the hierarchy among the rest of the inmates. The majority of them are visibly divided into groups, the leaders seated in the middle of the steel tables, their followers scattered around them. Apart from the tattoos, bland clothing and concrete surrounding them, the scenario truly looks like something taken out of an old renaissance painting. Dan doesn't want to take any part in it, his pride won't let him.

The movies all got one part right in their portrayals of prison; the food absolutely sucks, and Dan refuses to believe it was ever made for human consumption. He struggles to identify the grey sludge in the tray in front of him, but guesses it's supposed to resemble oatmeal. Before he gets to taste it the sound of approaching footsteps reaches his ears, and as he looks up a group is making their way towards him, steps laced with confidence and chests puffed up in a silly display of domination. Dan straightens his back, relaxes his shoulders and raises an eyebrow their way.

''Me and my crew would like to welcome you,'' Their leader starts out, his parade of dancing monkeys forming a half circle around him. Dan's cellie is there too, keeping his gaze down as Dan tries to catch his eyes. Their leader stands in the middle, arms crossed as he pins Dan down with his hazel eyes. He's older, a few years, with a square jaw and straight hair that haven't been cut in a while. ''Maybe we can help each other out while we're here,'' He says and moves closer to Dan, arms crossed over his chest. Dan can feel the rest of the inmates looking at them, eyes glued to the scenario as if it's an episode of a tv series. The guards near the two exits in each side of the dining hall are watching too, making sure all their tamed animals don't cross any boundaries. ''Make our stays a bit more pleasant.''

''I don't think so,'' Dan responds, the rejection finally making Liguori raise his eyes from the ground, offering Dan a gesture so subtle he almost misses it; a brief, sharp shake of his head. Dan squints his eyes at him, his fingers clenching around the plastic spoon in his hand, a vague fire of anger burning within him. Dan doesn't need help, doesn't need whatever protection both Liguori and the man in front of him seem to offer. He walks alone. He walks with pride.

''Careful,'' The man exclaims as he slams his fist down on the table, the force of it making the food tray clatter and tremble, specks of oatmeal escaping from it, landing on the steel surface instead. Dan takes a deep breath through his nose, calmly places his spoon in the tray. The leader bends down to meet him, points toward someone observing them from a distance. ''I'm not the only one who got my eyes on you.''

''Get your ass back in your seat or that's a shot, Kendall,'' A guard barks, but the leader, Kendall, stands still. Dan follows his finger's direction, is immediately captivated by a pair of wide, unsettling eyes a few tables ahead, bluer than the painted walls behind them and greyer than the concrete floor beneath them. They're like windows; the owner can look out but Dan can't look in.

''I only ask nicely once,'' Kendall continues the conversation against the shell of Dan's ear, but that's not what sends shivers down his spine. The face of the wide eyed stranger is graced by a touch of youth, childishness even, the only thing giving away that he's years older than Dan being the soft wrinkles in his porcelain skin, appearing near the corners of his mouth and eyes as he straight up laughs at the display before him.

''Last warning, inmate!'' The guard barks once more. Kendall stands up straight again, not yet leaving, both him and the observing stranger awaiting Dan's answer. The stranger rocks gently from side to side, bites down on plump lips and burrows thin, long fingers in black hair in excitement. He looks absolutely mad. Dan can handle mad. Dan can handle Kendall. Dan can handle every fucking thing as long as he got his pride.

''I only decline nicely once, too.''

-x-x-x-

''How's home?'' Dan asks as soon as Adrian picks up on the other end, his voice a frail whisper despite the hallway being completely silent, empty. A fight had broken out in the yard a few minutes earlier, and Dan had seen an opportunity to finally make the call. Violence has never really entertained him anyway.

The phone in his hand is old, connected to an orange box mounted on the concrete wall through a curly wire. Calls in prison are expensive, each call charging the receiver around two pounds a minute, which is money Dan is very aware Adrian doesn't have, not anymore. He'll keep it short. He just needs to hear his brother's voice, just needs to know that life goes on outside the prison even if it feels as if the earth has stopped rotating inside it.

''Shitty,'' Adrian responds after a few quiet moments, Dan guessing he too is at loss for words. They haven't talked since Dan was first incarcerated, not even at Dan's trial. It's not that Dan hadn't had the opportunity to call at county, he just hadn't known what to say before now. He knows Adrian feels guilty and responsible for what happened, but not more than he does himself. Dan doesn't regret his crimes as much as he regrets the costs of not getting away with them. ''How's prison?'' He sounds tired, yet the languid voice still bears a touch of the cheekiness that used to characterize Dan's little brother.

''Pretty shitty, too.'' Dan relaxes his shoulders as the conversation goes on, slowly easing into comfortable familiarity. He wonders where Adrian is staying, how he manages to get by. There's so many questions he wants to ask, but also so many answers he's not ready to receive. He rests his free arm against the wall in front of him, looks down at the floor, mahogany orbs fixated on a speck of dirt on his white canvas shoes.

''You'll survive,'' Adrian promises, voice laced with a fierce certainty despite the layer of dullness wrapped around his vocal chords. The words result in an ugly grimace spreading across Dan's facial features, making his eyebrows knit together and the corners of his mouth tug downwards. He's tired of merely surviving; it's the bare minimum of life, a weak, shameful state of living reserved for society's fuckups, the bottom of the food chain.

''What about you?'' Dan truly couldn't care less about his own well being. It doesn't matter if he'll spend the rest of his days locked up, rotting away in his prison cell. Nothing matters as long as Adrian is okay. Nothing ever has.

''I'll survive, too.'' Adrian's certainty isn't so fierce anymore, but Dan is still grateful for the lie.

''Good.'' The sound of lazy footsteps in the distance makes Dan resume his prideful posture, body standing tall within seconds, the vulnerability that had previously adorned his face quickly turning to stone. ''I'll call again soon, okay?'' He promises, the air heavy with words that'll never be spoken. They don't need to say it, never really have. They just know.

''Yeah, yeah,'' Adrian responds, the sound of shoe soles scraping against concrete floor becoming louder, approaching. Dan turns his head as the steps comes to a screeching halt a few feet from him, and is immediately met with the same mixture of grey and blue from the dining hall a few days ago. The man just stands there, staring at Dan with wide eyes while fiddling with the hem on his sweatshirt. ''Take care, don't drop the soap,'' Adrian bids his farewell on the other end. Nothing about the man's demeanor reeks of danger, yet Dan still feels intimidated and cautious underneath his unnerving gaze.

''Little shit,'' Dan responds even though Adrian has already ended the call. He places the phone back on its stand and then turns to face the stranger, who looks as if he has something he wants to say. ''Got a problem?'' Dan asks, taking a step towards him, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. The question seems to entertain the man, a tight smile claiming his lips in seconds, revealing a row of white teeth. He's skinny, but Dan can still sense the patches of firm muscle beneath the sleeves of his shirt. He takes another step forward. There's only a feet between them now.

''You won't survive on your pride in here,'' The man responds as if he got his plan figured all out, sees right through the tough facade Dan trusts to keep him safe in here. His voice is deep, a smooth sound laced with heavy excitement that makes Dan's blood boil. He closes the gap between them, standing barely an inch taller. He reaches out, grabs the small identification card attached to the man's shirt.

''What will I survive on then, Lester?'' He asks, the name tasting foreign and bitter in his mouth. Lester doesn't flinch, doesn't front, doesn't do anything. He just smiles as if he can predict the future, as if Dan's fate is a book he has already read and knows the ending to.

''Submission.'' The word drips off Lester's tongue like venom, but he speaks as if it's the antidote. Behind the madness in his glossy eyes there's a primal emotion; hunger, need, desire. Dan feels sick.

''I'd rather die.''

-x-x-x-

The day Dan finally gets to discard of the obnoxious orange jumpsuit is the same day he gets assigned to work in laundry. The laundry room is in the prison's basement, a cramped and damp room without any windows, the only source of light being a small lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. The small room is filled with the soft humming of the washing machines and dryers, filling in the silence between Dan and his work partner. They're standing at a steel table, folding the grey jogging pants and sweatshirts, stacking them according to size. The job pays barely a pound a day, but Dan is still grateful for the solitude and comfortable atmosphere. Down here he's not a prey.

''It's pretty nice, isn't it?'' The man on the other side of the table asks, offering Dan a friendly smile as he looks up from a pair of pants. He's fit, a bit shorter than Dan, smooth skin baring traces of a tan that refuses to disappear despite being deprived of sunlight, eyes warm and brown. ''Keeps your mind busy.'' Dan nods slowly, agreeing. It reminds him of home somehow. ''I'm Padilla,'' The man introduces himself and reaches his hand across the table.

''Howell.'' Dan takes the hand, shakes it and reminds himself he's not in prison to make friends. Him and Adrian used to do the laundry every third day together. When they were younger Dan would take the warm towels from the dryer, cover Adrian's tiny, thin frame in them while he folded their clothes himself. It's the weirdest, smallest things he misses in here.

''First time?'' Padilla asks and Dan wonders what gives him away; the heavy bags underneath his eyes or the permanent lines of worry between his eyebrows. He'd gotten a glimpse of his reflection in the cell window this morning, and could barely recognize the person staring back; curly, untamed hair and a five o'clock shadow had never been part of his appearance before now. ''What are you down for?''

''Are you asking me what I did, or what I'm convicted of?'' Dan responds, earning a humoured chuckle from Padilla, proving he too knows the law system doesn't care about intentions, merely evidence; that is if you're too poor to afford an actual lawyer, and is stuck with a public defender like Dan was. The court didn't care that Dan was trying to save Adrian. The court cared that Dan had shot a guy and left him paralyzed from the waist down. ''Armed robbery, twelve years.''

''Parole?''

''In eight.'' He'd accepted a deal, plead guilty to one count of armed robbery, and in exchange they'd looked past around five counts of burglary alongside the possession of an illegal firearm. Twelve years is a long time, but some might consider him lucky. It doesn't matter now. Whoever said time is money couldn't have been more wrong. ''You?''

''I've done three so far, got one left,'' Padilla informs, face briefly lightening up with joy at the mention of how little time he got left. ''Got caught with a couple of grams on me.'' The guy seems like a ray of sunshine, and Dan can't even bring himself to feel jealous. Maybe he can befriend a single person in prison, just one. ''Wrong place, wrong time.''

''I can relate to that.''

-x-x-x-

''Boys,'' Dad warns during dinner, nodding towards the brothers' plates from behind the newspaper in his hands. They're all seated at the big dining table, just like a normal family would be. There's a big portrait of the Lesters hanging on the wall behind Dad, his hunting riffle mounted on the space above it. The plates are nearly empty, just a few pieces of steamed broccoli left on each of them. Phil hates steamed broccoli. ''Eat up, your mother spent a lot of time cooking this.''

''They're not hungry,'' Mom excuses them. Dad looks up from the newspaper with narrowed eyes. He calmly folds it in his lap and places it beside his own plate, then grabs Mom by her hair and bangs her head repeatedly against the surface of the table. The boys both shovel down the remaining broccoli, Dad only releasing Mom once both plates are completely empty.

''They don't pay for the food in this house,'' He says and picks up his newspaper again, chuckling a bit at a comic strip. Mom thuds to the floor, covering her bleeding face in her arms. Martyn grabs Phil's small hand underneath the table, clenches it reassuringly.

-x-x-x-

The nights are the worst. Dan always lies awake, tossing, turning, mind a battlefield for aggressive, undefeatable thoughts. He thinks about a lot of things; how Adrian is doing, what cell Padilla is in, when Kendall is going to approach him again. He tries to keep Lester out of his mind, but his unsettling, grinning face always appears as he's finally about to fall asleep, immediately stirring him into full consciousness again.

''Liguori?'' He asks one night after giving up on getting any sleep, instead staring at what the cell's tiny window allows him to see of the night sky. There's a bunch of twinkling stars adorning the blackness tonight, making the darkness seem less empty.

''Shut the fuck up and go to sleep, Howell,'' Comes the respond a few delayed moments later, Liguori's voice rough with sleep and hostility. The man pulls his blanket over his head and turns his back to Dan, trying to end the conversation. He can't blame him.

''I can't.'' Silence dwells upon them for a few moments, and Dan briefly thinks his cellie has fallen asleep again. Liguori groans defeatedly, the bed creaking as he sits up, something humane behind the tough facade awakening. He tiredly rubs the palms of his hands against his face, yawning.

''Look, man,'' He starts out and rests his back against the steel bars. Dan finds his hooded eyes through the darkness, the stern look engraved in Liguori's facial features softening a bit. ''Prison sucks, but you'll be fine.''

''Thanks,'' Dan says even though it isn't himself he's worried about, and for a brief moment he thinks he sees a glimpse of a smile dancing across his cellie's lips. Maybe Liguori's not so bad after all.

''I'm not your friend,'' He reminds Dan as he lays down on the thin mattress again, turning his back and leaving him to ponder his thoughts alone. Silence dwells once again upon the suffocating cell, a serenade of muffled screams of submission somewhere further down the corridor eventually lulling him to sleep.

-x-x-x-

''Wanna sit at our table?'' Kendall whispers against Dan's ear while they're standing in line for dinner, the exhales of air against his skin making the bile in his stomach rise, the small appetite he had for the prison's poor excuse for food immediately lost. ''Final offer.''

''No thanks,'' Dan responds flatly, directing his rejection to both the man behind him and Lester's eyes imprisoning him from across the room. The inmate behind the kitchen counter slides him a food tray. Dan seats himself at his usual table, alone and prideful.

-x-x-x-

The last friday of each month the inmates are allowed to watch a movie in the activity rooms, cramped together on a row of steel chairs in front of an old tv. It's Dan's first movie and he has almost survived a month in prison. He's trying not to keep count, knowing he'll have to endure a minimum of ninety five more, a hundred and forty three at max. Tonight they're watching a documentary about predators in the savannah, which has been carefully picked out by inmate Lester. ''You've got an admirer,'' Padilla whispers in Dan's ear while shoveling down a handful of stale gummy bears from the commissary. Dan doesn't need to turn his head to know who it is, can feel the lunatic's eyes resting on him, his skin burning where they linger, observing his every move. In the TV a lion is doing the exact same thing, hiding among some yellow grass, waiting for a nearby, unsuspecting gazelle to pass him by.

''Crazy eyes over there is the least of my problems,'' Dan responds and leans back against his chair, the words raising doubt behind the secure facade. There's a reason Dan haven't been jumped yet, put in his place and stripped of his pride. He suspects it has something to do with Lester, always watching from afar as if his gaze is some kind of forcefield. He's not proud to admit he seeks out those wide eyes from time to time.

''I wouldn't be so sure about that.'' Padilla looks to the unopened bag of liquorice resting in Dan's lap. He shoves it towards him with a roll of his eyes, Padilla throwing his fist up in victory as he rips open the seal. Dan would smile if he didn't feel so cautious. There's a burning curiosity flickering inside him, a desperation to get under Lester's skin now that the man is under his own. The gazelle in the TV is moving closer. The lion prepares to attack.

''Why?'' He asks, immediately biting his tongue in regret. He's not sure his pride will save him once he knows what Lester is capable of, what lengths the man will go to. The gazelle is standing right in front of the lion now, merely seconds away from becoming prey.

''Kendall might be a hardcore criminal, but he isn't convicted of two counts of first degree murder.'' The lion springs from its hiding place with a mighty roar, burrowing its sharp teeth in the gazelle's neck, tumbling it to the ground. The gazelle fights for a brief moment, quickly giving up as the blood starts to flow, succumbing to the predator. In the corner of his eyes he sees Lester rocking aggressively from side to side in his chair, unable to contain his madness and excitement, a tight smile dominating his lips. His eyes aren't even on the TV.

''Really?''

''I think he's been down thirteen so far,'' Padilla informs, stuffing a few pieces of liquorice into his mouth. A guard who's been keeping track of the inmates moves from the room's door frame, turns the TV off as the credits starts to roll. ''Spent four years in psych before that.'' All the inmates arise from their chair, making their way towards the exit. Kendall slides a firm hand across Dan's neck as he passes him, and Dan can't help but think the most dangerous predators doesn't approach their prey, they wait for them to come on their own.

-x-x-x-

''Dropped the soap yet?'' Adrian asks as soon as he picks up on the other end. It's one of his good days, Dan can hear that by the hidden snicker lingering in his dull voice. He can imagine how the cheeky brat is smirking weakly on the other end, and can't help but smile a little himself. There's no fight in the yard this time, inmates standing impatiently in line to use the phones. He'll have to make it quick.

''Little shit,'' He responds even though Adrian hasn't been a little boy for a couple of years now, twenty years old. He'll always remain the little brother Dan had to keep close during thunderstorms, the one he'd sacrificed his childhood for so he could have one himself. Their parents had crashed in their old Toyota when Dan was sixteen. Adrian must have been ten. ''How are you?''

''I'll be fine,'' Adrian yawns, the brief moments of silence allowing the beeping of a heart monitor to inform Dan where he's staying. Adrian being in the hospital means he has a roof over his head and food on the table. It also means he's reached a point where he's no longer able to take care of himself. Dan chooses to look on the bright side of things. He has to.

''Good.'' He'd found the marks when Adrian was thirteen, specks of blue and purple scattered down his spine. He hadn't taken him to the doctor until the reoccurring nosebleeds started. Maybe things had been different if he had. ''Visitations are on Tuesdays, you coming?''

''I'll try, yeah?'' Adrian offers, a female in the background muttering something inaudible to him. Dan hopes the nurses takes good care of him. ''Next week, maybe.''

-x-x-x-

The prison's shower room is like the laundry room a small, cramped and damp room without any windows, but instead of a single lightbulb actual lamps are mounted to the ceiling. It's the only part of the prison Dan has been in so far that isn't completely made of concrete, the floor beneath his naked feet instead made of linoleum tiles. He guesses they've been white at some point in time, but either the shady lightning or years of filth and dirt makes them appear yellow.

In one side of the room the faucets are lined up, rusty pipes staining the concrete wall with specks of brown and red. In the other is a bench where the inmates can place their towels and clothes. There's currently one set of each folded neatly on it, but Dan can hear the rustling sound of someone discarding of their clothes behind him. Showers in prison aren't safe. There's no guards placed at each side of the exit, keeping a close eye on their caged animals, making sure they remain tamed. He feels the heavy gaze find rest on him, lingering on his naked form; that exact animal isn't tamed.

''Kendall wants you,'' Lester announces and turns on the faucet next to Dan, combing a hand through his black hair as the luke warm water wets it, slicking his fringe back. Dan turns his face towards him, takes in his form. Lester's skinny, but Dan can see the subtle outlines of muscle engraved in his pale skin. There's scars, long and thick across his back, the skin raised and bearing a purple tint. Where Dan's body is yet smooth with youth Lester's isn't, a thin trail of dark hair leading from his groin to his navel, starting again at his chest.

''I didn't know,'' He responds, eyes finding rest at Lester's face, voice coated in a layer of heavy sarcasm. The man lets out a short chuckle, a soft sound that makes Dan's blood boil and sends shivers down his spine. Lester does a weird thing where he rolls his tongue and bites down on it with his front teeth, a gesture Dan would consider adorable hadn't it been executed by the lunatic. ''Jealous?''

''Yes,'' Lester admits shamelessly, eyes never leaving Dan's. Sharing eye contact with him is like staring at the sun for too long. They're too bright, making him feel dizzy, and Dan thinks they might burn through him if he continues. ''Do you fear him?'' The man asks with a tilted head, curiosity and amusement gracing his deep voice.

''No.'' Dan doesn't fear anyone, his pride won't let him, so when Lester in a single step is standing in front of him, trapping him against the wet wall by placing a hand on each side of his face, he simply stands tall, chin raised. ''Fear is a choice.'' They're close, Dan can feel Lester's calm heartbeat where their chests are touching, his own heart beating fast with adrenaline.

''What else is a choice?'' Lester asks, leaning closer, hot exhales of air landing on Dan's plump lips. He turns his head, studies the hand trapping him to his left, constantly clenching and unclenching, desperate to touch. Lester turns Dan's face towards him again by grabbing his chin with his other hand, demanding and awaiting an answer.

''Pride,'' Dan responds, eyebrows furrowing as Lester releases his chin. The answer makes that unsettling, tight smile reappear on Lester's lips. Dan can't decide if it's in mockery or amusement. A combination of both, maybe. He looks like a kid on Christmas Eve.

''Submission, too.'' He begins caressing Dan's cheek with rough fingertips instead, his touches too soft and gentle to come from such bloody hands; Lester is petting him. Dan takes a deep breath, the words making every cell in his body burn with anger. He reaches behind him, turns off the faucet and pushes Lester's hand out of the way. Lester takes a step back, releasing him.

''That's not an option.'' Dan says, making his way to the bench, grabbing his towel. It's not entirely true, he knows that; whatever game Lester, Kendall and him has been playing is about to come to an end. There's only two possible outcomes. Either Dan unwillingly becomes a prisoner or he willingly imprisons his pride.

''Pride can be taken,'' Lester reminds him as he gets dressed, taking place underneath the spray of luke warm water again. ''Submission can't.''

-x-x-x-

''Howell!'' Liguori yells from behind Dan, making him stop in his tracks. He's standing in the hallway between the dining hall and yard. Lunch starts in half an hour, but he finished his work shift in laundry early today. Liguori must have too. The man jogs till he reaches him, places a hand on his shoulder, a friendly gesture that's unfamiliar and doesn't usually characterize his cellie. ''Yard time?''

''Maybe later,'' Dan responds and feels Liguori's hand twitch through the fabric of his sweatshirt, catches the way his lips raises in a frustrated snarl for just a single second. He tries to catch the man's hooded, wandering eyes, narrows his own as he fails. They start walking again, their steps echoing off the walls in the empty hallway. It's just the two of them. The other inmates are still working.

''Come on, let's shoot some hoops,'' Liguori continues, voice coated in a thick layer of desperation. He practically jumps in front of Dan as they reach the entrance to the dining hall, blocking it and prohibiting Dan from entering. Dan crosses his arms over his chests, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. ''It'll be fun, yeah?'' The amount of conversations they've had so far can be counted on one hand and definitely haven't been about basketball. Something is up.

''Fine.'' The words seem to ease Liguori, who lets out a relieved breath of air Dan didn't know the man had been holding in. Liguori moves from the entrance, guides Dan further down the hallway by placing a hand on his shoulder once again. There's a tiny voice inside Dan's head screaming for him to get away, but the mighty roar of his pride drowns it out. He pushes open the door to the empty yard, enters the small area secured by a barbed wire fence. There isn't even a basketball court, just a few weight benches and other work out equipment. ''We're not here to play basketball, are we?''

''No, you're not,'' A voice states from behind him. Dan turns his head and is met with Kendall's hazel eyes, his hoard of puffed up gorillas standing behind him, arms crossed over their chests as they keep watch by the door. Kendall pats Liguori on the back, but Dan's cellie doesn't look proud. There's still twenty minutes to lunch, the other inmates and guards wont be nowhere near the yard for at least a quarter.

''I'm sorry,'' Liguori says as Kendall retreats his hand, makes his way towards Dan. The apology is sincere, he can hear that. ''Survival and loyalty doesn't walk hand in hand in here.''

''Had to happen eventually, I guess.'' Kendall cracks his knuckles. ''You're not my friend,'' He says, mimicking Liguori's catchphrase. The man looks genuinely remorseful, shameful even, can't even meet Dan's eyes as Kendall's followers approach him. He doesn't fight back when they grab his arms, twisting them behind his back, offering him to their leader. Dan stands tall, chin raised.

''Sorry,'' Liguori repeats, turning his back to him as Dan receives a knee to his torso. He involuntarily bends over in pain, bites his lips to prevent any sound from escaping. A guy behind him hauls him back up by his hair, and Kendall repeats the process. He hears the ribs crack before he feels it, isn't allowed any time to react before his face is repeatedly met with Kendall's fist. His left eyebrow and lower lips splits, blood oozing down Dan's face, coating his sweatshirt and dripping onto the concrete beneath him.

Kendall takes a pause to wipe his bloody fist against his jogging pants, then motions for the gorillas to release Dan, who drops to the ground. He spits out some blood, wipes his sleeve across his face then looks up at Kendall.

''Still got your pride?'' Kendall asks with a cocky smirk, and Dan can't help but let out a deep laugh. The voice sounds deranged to his own ears, a crazy, cackling sound that makes the man in front of him frown and swing his white canvas shoe into Dan's stomach. He falls over on his back, lies on the ground while clutching his stomach.

''It's going to take a lot more than that,'' He manages to croak out between the laughs. He doesn't know what's so funny, maybe it's just the irony of it all. Kendall makes a swift hand gesture, making his followers repeatedly slam their shoes into his sides. Before Dan loses conciousness he looks up into the sky above him, a beautiful mixture of grey and blue, remembering Lester's words.

-x-x-x-

''What are you doing?'' Martyn asks, observing Phil chasing the small sparrow that always flies around in their backyard with a piece of bread. Phil huffs as the bird takes shelter in their apple tree, looking down at the brothers from a safe distance.

''I'm trying to feed the bird,'' He exclaims excitedly, jumping up and down in front of the tall tree, waving the bread at the bird who turns it head, uninterested. Martyn sighs and grabs the bread, sits down on the grass and pats the space next to him.

''You have to make it come on its own.'' Martyn plucks the bread into tiny pieces, then throws some of it in front of him. Phil sits down and watches in awe as the bird flies down from the tree, plucking at the bread on the ground with its beak. Martyn then places the remaining pieces in Phil's hand, slowly guides it toward the bird.

''Do you think we can get one?'' Phil whispers quietly, careful not to scare away the bird now eating directly from his hand.

''Dad would never allow it,'' He responds, earning a frown from Phil. He pats his brother lovingly on the back, following the bird with his eyes as it flies away after finishing its meal. ''And free birds shouldn't be kept in cages.''

Part 2 Part 3

#phanfic #phanfiction #phanfic au #prison au #inmate!dan #inmate!phil #tw!violence #tw!drugs #tw!cancer #phandom #phan smut #tw!death #tw!non-con #tw!dub-con

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zecretsanta · 6 years

Text

To: @merouses

From: @aleena-san

Alee here with my Secret Santa for merouses!

prompt 1 – luna tending to plants

The air was ripe with the sweet scent of flourishing flowers. Luna could taste the honey of their petals upon her tongue as she swept in a small breath of hot summer air, a breath that delightfully seared at her lungs with heated relish, and promised even warmer days to come. She couldn’t resist the small smile tugging up at her lips at the thought. Sunnier soaked days like this meant even more time in the company of her most favorite friends in the whole wide world!

…That being the flowers. Laugh all you want, but Luna could almost hear their soft chatter carried upon the soulful whisper of a breeze. A cheerful hum sprung to life within her throat, as idle hands began their busy work scuffling through dirt and tending to wrinkles written within the leaves. It had become a routine of hers, one might say; indeed, it wasn’t rare to see the young girl of ringlet locks and gentle blue eyes surrounded in a wreathe of her precious dahlias and daisies. Her fingers worked like magic on soil that was once rough with age. Now, the dirt thrived with life, and the sturdy stems of her friends grew thick and healthy.

“Oh, Scarlet, you look happy today.” Luna’s smile grew even broader as her hands came to gently caress the petals of a blood-soaked rose. This beauty towered above the rest with pure royalty intertwined into its very aura. “Let me guess. Good sleep?” Though it could not utter a reply in return, Luna liked to think that it was nodding its head in gentle affirmation under the sway of the wind. “That’s good. Here! You must be thirsty on such a hot day.”

The watering can breathed life into soil turned crisp by the sun. Already her flowers seemed to perk, their roots digging deeper into what Luna must’ve imagined as now very comfortable moist earth. She didn’t notice the shadow blotting out blue sky until a familiar voice jolted Luna from her reverie.

“Um…Ms. Luna, what are you doing?”

“Quark!”

His head just came to level above her shoulder. Wide, curious eyes reflected the objects of her handiwork. “Gardening…?” Luna couldn’t help flushing with embarrassment at the note of ire held within his voice. Quickly, he glanced shyly away. “I didn’t know you liked tending to these gardens too, Ms. Luna. I mean – not that I come here often or anything.” As if to accentuate that fact, he puffed out his cheeks and blew a whistle of air through tightly pursed lips.

“Oh! You like flowers, too?”

Quark’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “I mean…when I’m bored…or there’s nothing else to do. But if you’re here that’s okay. I’ll go play somewhere else.”

A small part of Luna was almost glad that he might leave. Perhaps the only selfish bone in her body was reserved for this garden – her secret place as one might say – and to share it with anyone else might just dampen the magic in the air. Though perhaps that was merely her anxiety speaking on her behalf. Sometimes, silence was comforting, but it wasn’t always welcome.

Maybe sharing her garden with Quark would fill the air with even more magic then before.

It was sheer instinct that had Luna grasping onto Quark’s hand, just as he was about to trudge on his way.

“No. Don’t go.” She smiled and gestured to a small shovel near her feet. “To be honest it gets a little lonely, out here all by myself. The flowers are nice, but they aren’t exactly the best talkers. So…would you care to join me?”

Quark paused. Luna barely even acknowledged his tiny nod until he plopped himself down by her side. His hands sought out the tiny shovel, and with the vigor of a playful child, he began burrowing a new hole for one of the many plotted plants she had yet to set.

Sun soaked the earth in pools of molten gold; birds screeched as they soared above thermals on wide open air; and friendship filled the wind with the scent of roses and dandelions, a scent that Luna would be sure to treasure for the remainder of her lifetime.

prompt 2 – lotus playing video games

“Ha! This’ll be a piece of cake!”

Clover’s beaming proudly from her perch on the couch. She’s looking adorable as ever, with arms tucked neatly against her chest and one leg swung across the other in an almost royal pose. “Hate to break it to ya, Lotus, but I’m the Queen of this game! Are you prepared for the bitter taste of defeat?”

Lotus is not at all impressed. With a huff of air, she flops down next to Clover and snatches up a spare controller. “Sure. So let’s make this quick, alright?” It’s no secret to the gathering crowd that Lotus hasn’t even touched a gamepad in her life before this very moment. Raising two kids and holding down an array of part time jobs didn’t exactly leave much time for childish activities like this. At Junpei’s urging, however, she finds herself forced into a challenge she really cares little about.

Clover plucks up her own controller and leans forward, eyes glinting with the fires of determination. Mortal Kombat’s screen flashes upon the television set, its foreboding music reverberating throughout the room in the looming promise of war. “Ready?” Junpei asks. Sweat clings to his forehead as if he can taste the competitive spirit hanging in the air.

“Ready as I’ll ever be!” Clover chirps.

“Sure, whatever.”

“On your marks…get set…Go!”

The war is on.

First, choose a character. Clover predictably goes for a woman dressed in flashy pink. Lotus doesn’t really care which one she has – they’re all just a bunch of ones and zeroes dressed to look pretty, after all – but, she finds herself drawn to Kitana, with her deadly aura and bladed fans. The game began mere seconds after.

“H-Huh?”

Clover lurches back. Not even three seconds have passed and already the first round has come to its end, ending with none other than her character avatar knocked out upon a cold metal floor. Her cheeks flush scarlet. “Hey! You’re cheating! That’s no fair!”

“Cheating? I just pressed a few buttons and boom. You’re dead.”

Clover turns to Junpei for help. “You’re gonna let that pass?”

“Sorry…but Lotus didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. It’s fair game so far.”

FINISH HER

Clover can scarcely believe her ears. She whips back around to the screen, only to see a bored looking Lotus punching buttons in any random order, which inevitably leads to her character’s gruesome execution. A booming voice proudly accompanies the red text that flashes over the murder.

FATALITY

“Uhh…Lotus wins…I guess?”

Everyone present awkwardly claps.

Laughter pours from Lotus’ lips. It’s almost as surprising as the fact that she beat Clover in less than ten seconds at a game she knew nothing about. She leans back into the couch, a mischievous smirk painted upon her lips. “Hey, that was actually pretty fun! Wanna do it again?”

Devil-woman. The terrified thought echoes through all the minds of the Nonary Game survivors. “I think I’m good,” Clover begins.

“Me too…” says Akane.

Needless to say, Lotus was never allowed to touch a controller again.

prompt 3 – snake tries to learn another instrument

Light wasn’t very familiar with the strings of a guitar.

He couldn’t exactly say he was fond with the way they tore at the soft pads of his fingers, or how the clunky instrument seated lamely above his leg. It felt less than graceful to hold, and sounded even worse to his ears, especially since he had naught a clue on how to tune the beast. Beside him, he could hear Clover’s breath taut with anticipation.

“You’re gonna do just fine!” his sister chirped. “It’s not hard at all, I swear!”

“I don’t know…” The sigh that left his lips was more sombre than usual. “I cannot say this feels the same as a piano. Nor does it have the feathery weight of a violin.”

“Well duh. Of course it doesn’t. It’s something so much cooler!”

He frowned. “Cool…er?” The word tasted foreign upon his tongue.

Clover gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. “Jeez, you’re such a grandpa. Just give it a try.”

“Hmm…”

His fingers brushed polished wood and came to tug at the individual strings and nobs of his new toy. No matter how much he plucked, or twisted and turned in a futile attempt at tuning, nothing seemed to work. Frustration curdled in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t used to being genuinely bad at something, let alone unable to overcome said ‘badness.’ Badness. Great. The guitar was turning his brain into mush if that was the only word he could think of!

Clover, however, would beg to differ. She hummed off tune in sync with his awkward fumbling and poor strumming of its strings. “You’re enjoying this?” he inquired, brow furrowing to rest close against his eyes.

“’Course! I’ve always wanted to hear you play guitar.”

He smiled. “And why is that?”

“No reason. I just think you’d do well in a band!”

A band! What a ludicrous thought! Despite that, he couldn’t help laughing in good cheer. “Sorry to disappoint you, Clover, but I don’t think the guitar is for me.” He could feel the weight of the air plummet under her predictable pout. “But…I suppose I won’t mind if it’s just you and me. Provided my talent with this awful thing never leaves this room.”

And the air was light again, surely because of Clover’s broad smile. “Awesome! Does that mean I can play your piano, too?”

“I don’t see why not. Perhaps you will have more luck.”

She didn’t. But the sound of random key smashing and off-tuned guitar strumming echoed throughout the Field residence for many days to come, and it was a sound that – while awful for the neighbors – meant the entire world and more to two very tight-knit siblings.

#zero escape #virtue's last reward #merouses #aleena-san #zecret santa 2017 #submission

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easterwings · 7 years

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11 Questions

RULES

1. Always post the rules 2. Answer the questions given by the person who tagged you 3. Write 11 questions of your own 4. Tag 11 people (or however many you want)

I got tagged by @1000-directions @dearmrsawyer and @alligatornyc

Thanks all of you for thinking of me! And @writsgrimmyblog said I could consider myself tagged and I’m gonna. :))) I hope my answers are at least a quarter as interesting as all of yours were. :))) I’m going to put them under a cut as it got a bit long:

what is a food that you associate with your heritage or culture, whatever that means to you? Cornbread. When I was little my grandmother use to make it in a certain baking tin so it’d come out shaped like ears of corn. I wish I knew what happened to that baking tin. Also, iced sweet tea. Ya’ll.

what is the best smell? Clean baby, rose petal black tea, both old and new books

what’s a bad habit you wish you could change? I overthink things a lot. I wish I could turn it down a notch or eight. I also care a bit too much about things and people and I wish I could turn that off sometimes.

what’s something you like about yourself? I like to think I’ve got good taste.

what’s a book from your childhood that had a huge impact on your life? A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle. I barely remember it because I’ve read so, so many things in my life, but I do remember it, and that’s really saying something.

what’s your ringtone? The Verizon default. On my old phone it was one of the Tenth Doctor’s opening titles but I don’t remember what I did with the audio file.

what do you wish more people realized about you? That I’m really not someone to be intimidated by. I’m awkward and horribly socially anxious, and I don’t initiate conversation a lot because I’m terrified I’m going to screw it up.

what song always pumps you up? “21 And Invincible” by Something Corporate. I have it on my walking playlist and it always makes me want to move a little bit faster.

do you grocery shop with a list or do you wander aimlessly? I have a list I make using the Google Keep app on my phone. I have a really bad memory and I’d be lost without a list.

what is the best dessert? Cake. Give me all the cake. Yes, even that weird American fruit cake. Give me that too.

will monsters get you if your feet are not completely under the covers at night? Whether they will or not, I’m still sleeping with my feet sticking out. I hate having hot feet.

Do you have a favourite plant? I realize this is probably a general question, but I’m going to say that my favorite plant is the Calibrachoa I have hanging on my porch. It’s very fluffy and it’s got loads of little yellow flowers.

Have you travelled anywhere internationally? If so, where? If not, where’s your number one place you’d like to go? I haven’t but I really really really want to go to Japan.

What do you feel when you look at the stars? Like the universe is looking back at me. It doesn’t scare me, though.

When you study/write/do whatever you do, do you feel more productive working on paper or on screen? Depends. Usually I’m more productive when I’m working on screen, but sometimes the only way to get the story moving is to write it out by hand.

What is the pillow situation when you sleep? One pillow, can’t be too soft.

Do you still buy DVDs or do you prefer to just have everything digitally? If it’s something I really love, then I’ll buy the DVD. Same with books.

What’s your favourite kind of jewellery to wear? Do you like earrings, necklaces, rings, etc? I suppose it’d be rings. Right now I’m just wearing my wedding set, but eventually I’d like to get a set of stackable birthstone rings, one for my son (garnet), one for my daughter (diamond), and one in memory of August Baby (peridot). I also want something huge and ridiculous to put on my index finger.

Favourite concert experience? This is going to make me sound five million years old, but R.E.M. was playing The Omni, and I went to see them when I was about fifteen. They had an open stage and during “Nightswimming” (my favorite R.E.M. song at the time) they turned toward our section and performed it facing us.

What’s a book on your shelf that you haven’t yet read, but are really looking forward to? Tokyo on Foot by Florent Chavouet. Chavouet is a graphic artist and he went with his girlfriend to Tokyo for her internship. And he’d wander around while she was out and draw what he saw, so it’s full of his little sketches.

Do you still have any favourite toys from your childhood? I still have my Bunny Beans from when I was a baby. It’s a baby doll in a very faded pink bunny suit. I gave it to my daughter.

Do you hold onto old things or do you enjoy throwing away things you no longer need? I tend to hold onto things until they’re absolutely falling apart and can’t be salvaged. And even then sometimes I’ll keep it anyway.

When do you feel sexiest and/or most confident? When I have on very high heels. Not stiletto heels, because I’m not graceful enough for that, but definitely something four inches or more.

Mortifying teen-aged memory? I’m sure there’s tons, but I’ve managed to block them all out.

Go-to outfit? Sweater and a skirt.

Dream job? Book shop owner in a little village on a coast somewhere.

Favorite villain? Laurie from The Rifter Series. I get her.

Tumblr pet peeve(s)? The inability to use XKit on the mobile app.

Kindest gesture you’ve ever received? I don’t know if it’s the kindest thing ever, but a few nights ago someone sent me a very lovely message right when I needed it. They don’t follow me but they’d noticed the tags that I’d put on a post that I reblogged from them, and it was so kind of them to send that lovely note and one of the best possible ways to end what was a really bad day. And my readers, they’re always kind too. They say the loveliest things. And while I was filling this out, Steph wrote me a story and it has so many of my favorite things in it. <3 <3 <3

Kindest gesture you’ve ever done for someone else? I like to make grids and things for fics that I like, but I don’t know if that’s something that’s considered kind or not. And sometimes I like to go on anon and send people nice messages, especially if I see someone getting really shitty anons. And one day I spent hours trying to hunt down the owner of $500 in cash that I found in a parking lot, but I think that’s more along the lines of doing the right thing.

One Direction and/or solo 1D member dream photo shoot? Louis, hands down. I don’t care what else is going on as long it’s Louis. They can take pictures of him wearing a bin bag eating bran flakes, and I will stare at them endlessly and love them.

Relationship/views on money/personal finances? My husband and I have separate checking accounts and one joint savings account, and we’ve split up the household bills to where he pays some things and I pay others and we buy fun things for ourselves and each other and the kids out of our own accounts. I have no idea what that’s called (or even if that makes sense) but that’s how we’ve been doing it for who knows how long now.

Favorite dynamic/type of chemistry you like to read about in novels/fic or see on TV/movies? I usually like a snarky smart-ass and the person who’s done with their shit but who also cares about them deeply. And I like it if they’re kind to each other underneath all the gentle teasing. I just really like it when they’re kind.

BONUS: Song, including lyrics, that best describe you? Well, if we’re going for honesty, probably all of Garbage’s “Only Happy When It Rains.”

What’s your favourite quote from a book or poem? From The Fellowship of the Ring, “The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.”

What song makes you want to dance like nobody’s watching? “Pon de Replay” by Rihanna

What’s your favourite ship to read? Tomlinshaw, forever and always.

If you could own one item of clothing belonging to any celebrity what would you pick and why? I want one of Nick’s coats. Or one of his jumpers. I like his taste in clothing and I adore him. Or Louis’s Skate Tough top. I love that one and him.

Gif with a hard or soft ‘g’? Hard ‘G.’ Otherwise I’m going to think we’re talking about a brand of peanut butter.

What’s your favourite fanfic ‘getting together’ trope? I do like a good drunken snogging. And it’s cheesy as hell, but I also love the whole “realizing feelings while being sang to during karaoke” thing. I love that a lot. And also if they were together before but split up because reasons but then get back together somehow later.

What’s your guiltiest pleasure? This is going to sound so boring but probably Tim Tams. I don’t let myself buy them too often, because I could probably eat all of them in one sitting.

Most relatable 1D (or solo 1D) lyric? Louis’s solo from “Moments.” Sorry. June’s just been a really shitty month.

If you could give one piece of advice to a celebrity, what would it be? Illegitimi non carborundum

Tell me your favourite joke. I really love puns and this one from the Gryles interview of legend is one of my favorites: “I was just looking at my ceiling. Not sure if it's the best ceiling in the world, but it's definitely up there."

If you were famous for a day, what question would you most dread being asked during an interview? Probably the what do you do in your free time one. That’s the one I can see myself freezing up on the most.

If you’ve managed to get this far, thank you so much for reading!!! I will write something in your honor if you tell me what you want. <3 <3

#about #i finished this on too much coffee #i can see space

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ectopuppy · 7 years

Text

Crash Chapter 3

[Chapter 1.1] [Chapter 1.2] [Chapter 2.1] [Chapter 2.2]

On fanfiction.net!

Crash is off hiatus! This was a fun chapter to write. If you’re wondering about why this chapter is “chapter 3″ instead of “chapter 5″, that’s because I reformatted the story on fanfiction. So now what were chapters 1 and 2 are chapter one. (same for 3&4)

Anyway here we go!~

Two hours later Sam pulled into their garage, reminding herself to pick up her car tomorrow. She hated driving her mother's Lexus, it was too fancy for her tastes. She cut the engine and leaned her head on the steering wheel for a moment. Time to go play nice with mom and dad, She thought. You're only here for the summer then you're back at school where you don't have to deal with them. She allowed herself a few more seconds of self pity and then got out of the car, steeling her nerves.

“I'm home,” She called as she entered the house. Her mother, who had been in the sitting room the garage opened up into, accosted her immediately.

“How did it go?” Pam started, patting the couch beside her with a dainty motion. Sam sat, knowing that abstaining would be 'improper and impolite'. She sighed inwardly. Nineteen is too old to worry about being scolded.

“You were out all night last night and, it was so last minute –very unprofessional, by the way– you probably had no time to prepare. Just look at your makeup, it's far too dark for an interview.” Pam caught her daughter's pointed look and frowned. She made a high sound in the back of her throat and continued. “Did it go well Pumpkin?”

“Yes, actually,” Sam replied, biting down the urge to scream. She drummed her nails on her thigh in an attempt to soothe herself. She plastered a proud smile on her face. “It went very well. I start on Monday.”

“That's wonderful, sweetheart.” Pam exclaimed, clapping her hands together with the same grace all her actions seemed to have. “Which internship was it? The accounting firm? I know your father put in a good word for you with a friend there.”

“No,” Sam said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “It was the record label. I met one of the producers assistants last night and she recognized me from my application. We hit it off pretty well and she offered to set up a meeting with her boss. Wild, huh?” It wasn't the exact truth, but Sam wasn't sure how well her mother would take the whole 'I Yelled at some Rockstars and they Asked Me To Come Party' thing. She wasn't sure how well she was taking it to be honest.

“Well, at least we know you're good at networking,” Pam said, laughing to herself. Sam shifted on the couch and straightened her skirt. Pam placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. “Why don't we go out for dinner to celebrate. Your father and I haven't taken you out in ages. We could go to the country club! I'm sure everyone would be excited to see you.”

“Sounds good,” Sam said, her voice dripping with the kind of false enthusiasm that her mother had a hard time detecting. There was no arguing. She could tell her mother had already made up her mind. She wanted to parade Sam out in front of her friends, and tell them all how perfect she was. Sam mentally shook those unwanted thoughts away, and stood from the couch. “I'll go change.”

“I should as well,” Pam replied, following suit. She smoothed out her already immaculate dress, and hummed to herself. “Oh! That reminds me; I bought you a dress today you should wear it,” Sam's nose wrinkled up. “don't give me that look, it's not pink.”

“Okay,” Sam sighed, keeping herself from rolling her eyes. With a nod, Pam left to go find her husband and prepare for an evening out. Sam started her trudge up the stairs. She entered her room –the only room in the house not painted in pastels –and eyed the white box on her bed. She kicked off her heels and sat down beside it before pulling out her phone.

Danny Fenton: Congratulations! Jazz told me you got the job! :)

Sam Manson: Thanks. My parents are taking me out to celebrate.

Danny Fenton: Sounds like fun. I'll let you get to your evening.

Says the celebrity taking time from his day to text me, Sam thought, an amused smile on her lips. She still couldn't stop the giddiness that bubbled up in her heart whenever she thought about Danny. Every other minute she would remember that she now had the personal numbers of her favourite band on her phone and her heart would explode a little.

She was determined to not be weird about it. Maybe she'd had a bit of a crush on Phantom since she was sixteen, but that was just some silly fantasy. Now he was Danny. He was real. Once she got to know him –oh my god, she was going to get to know Phantom –the butterflies in her stomach would subside. He'd just be a colleague. A friend maybe. A dreamy blue eyed friend who just happened to be plastered on her wall. Sam buried her face in her hands. Those posters would have to come down now.

With a sigh, Sam steeled herself and tossed her phone down on her bed. Enough stalling, time to see what her mother had bought her. She removed the lid from the box and looked down at the dress in the box. It was lilac with a violet floral pattern. Could be worse. Sam thought, pulling it out of the box. It was a sleeveless tea dress, with a high collar and a white taffeta underskirt. She went to the mirror and held it up to herself. It was probably meant to be knee length, but with Sam's long legs it would end a few inches short. She could make this work.

She went downstairs forty minutes later in purple lipstick and dark eyeliner, her hair pulled into a tight bun. She'd chosen all black accessories, trying to go for a pastel goth look. Her father smiled at her, and looped his arm through Pam's. Pam gave Sam a quick once over and pursed her lips for a moment before smiling. She was displeased enough for it to show on her face, but not enough to say anything. A balance Sam had perfected in her senior year.

“Ready to go ladies?” Jeremy asked, taking no notice of the brief tension between his wife and daughter. Pam's smile became more genuine, and she leaned into him. Sam checked her purse for her phone, and then nodded. “Alright, let's go.”

“I can't believe you got a concussion, dude!” Danny practically howled, dropping his phone onto his bed with a dull thud. Jasmine knocked three times on his wall, a signal she'd used since they were kids to tell him to be quieter. Cujo padded over and sniffed the wall, interested in the sound.

“Whatever,” Simon's voice chimed out of Danny's phone speaker. “I was drunk. Back flips are cool.”

“Only when you stick the landing,” Danny laughed, softer this time. He held a red flannel shirt up to himself in the mirror and then tossed it on his bed. “Between you pulling that and Latch renting a peacock, I'm sure we made a hell of a first impression on Sam.”

“She seemed pretty chill about the whole thing,” Simon replied. Danny could just barely hear Tucker and Latch talking in the background. He strained to hear them. “Yeah, Tuck says they had a good morning. I'm gonna put you on speaker.”

“I mean she was a little flustered maybe, but in my presence who wouldn't be.” Tucker added. Danny heard someone smack him, and snorted. “She's really nice, though. I was a little worried at first to be honest.”

“Yeah, like, we made a pretty big snap decision.” Latch said. Danny nodded to himself. He hadn't had much of a chance to talk to her at the after party. He'd been pulled away by the press pretty early on. Jazz had nothing but good things to say about her, though. Danny had learned to trust her judgment. Latch continued. “She could have been... You know.”

“A stalker...” Simon finished for him. An uncomfortable second of silence passed over the group. Simon cleared his throat and continued.

“But, I agree. She seems very genuine.” Danny let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Simon never hid what he thought of someone –it had gotten him in hot water more than once –so hearing that he had accepted Sam was a relief.

“Still,” Danny said, a tentative edge to his voice, “we should give her time to prove herself.”

“Of course.” Simon replied. His voice was softer than before. Danny opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by a knock at his door.

“One second,” He said in the direction of his phone. “Come in.”

“Hey sweetie.” Maddie said, opening the door. She still had her lab coat on over her clothes. Cujo bounded to her side and nuzzled her hand. She pet his head in gentle circles.

“Hi Maddie!” Danny's phone chorused. He rolled his eyes.

“Hey, mom.” Danny replied, a warm grin on his face. It was nice to spend time with his family for once. He was glad this tour was over. “What's up?”

“Hello boys, “ Maddie laughed. “I just wanted to say I'm home, and ask if you planned eating with us or not.”

“Oh,” Danny rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn't considered that his mom might want to have dinner. “We made plans already.”

“Dude, are you kidding!? Can we come over instead!?” Latch's voice yelled from the phone. Maddie smiled. “I haven't had a home cooked meal in months.”

“Of course you can.” Maddie replied. She lingered in the doorway for a moment, gauging Danny's reaction. When he didn't object, she smoothed out her lab coat and grinned. “Be here by seven. We're having spaghetti.”

Cheers erupted from Danny's phone, and his heart swelled. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this.

“Thanks mom.” Maddie shot him a final smile and slipped out the door, pressing it closed with a click.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #my fanfic #screamo au

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