The Great War

I vowed I would always be yours

Summary: Feyre Archeron's kingdom has been warring with King Rhysand for longer than she can recall. When, on an unlucky stroke, he stumbles upon her and her sisters locked in a tower, Feyre will do whatever it takes to keep him from finding them.

Even marrying him.

Happy @feysandmonth (but really LB appreciation month!) My only multi-chaptered offering.

Read more on AO3

“Someone’s on the horizon.”

Feyre Archeron looked up from her chair at the far end of the tower she lived in. Her sister, Elain, sat on the open window ledge, head resting against the slate gray stone. Her lips were tinged blue from the cold, not that Elain seemed to care. She merely tugged the threadbare blanket tighter around her shoulders, brown eyes never leaving the horizon. 

Nesta leaned up from the fire she was keeping alive, her eyes pinched at the corners. They had been out of everything for months and it showed. Feyre could see her eldest sister's collar bone jutting from beneath a dress that had once fit her like a glove—it now hung like a sack over her too-thin frame. 

Endless war had convinced their father to hide them away, terrified his enemy to the east would one day try and steal one of his daughters. It was supposed to be temporary—he’d promised six months or less. Feyre’s eyes slid towards the wall where Nesta kept count. Eighteen months had passed without a word and their supplies had run out well before then. 

“Who is it?” Nesta asked, running her tongue over chapped, broken lips. Elain shrugged fragile shoulders. She, too, was suffering from starvation. All three of them were. “Is it father?”

“I can’t tell,” Elain admitted, squinting against the glow of sunset. “Who else would know where we are?”

Feyre and Nesta’s eyes met. He hadn’t come in so long they’d just assumed he’d forgotten—or worse. Sometimes at night, Feyre wondered if he hadn’t left them here to die. It was no secret that General Graysen Nolan was his preferred heir and that one of them would be married to him eventually. It would only ever make Graysen king consort, which irked the male-centric court of the north. Men had ruled in an unbroken line for centuries.

And then Nesta had been born. 

Followed by Elain.

And then Feyre.

There might have been more–more daughters for their father to ignore, to abandon in the too-small tower, had their mother not died. Even a new wife couldn’t usurp Nesta as heir to the throne, and so laws were squabbled over, abandoned when King Rhysand of Velaris attacked their border, drawing her father's attention to the military.

They’d all been spared political marriages, ones that would surely grind them all into dust. None more so than beautiful, docile Elain. Feyre suspected she’d be given to Graysen and Nesta wholly disinherited. She’d overheard her father's council of advisors suggesting Nesta be sent to a temple far in the mountains where she would remain unmarried, a devotee to the gods. And Elain, who was easier to control, who was sweet and lovely and uninterested in ruling, could take Nesta’s place and Graysen rule through her.

Until she birthed him a son.

After all, women died in childbirth all the time. It was such a strange thing, to hear these men hope that her sister might die bringing a male child into the world, so they wouldn’t be forced to serve beneath a lowly woman. Feyre knew Nesta would be far kinder to their people than Graysen ever would be—and Elain would do as she was told.

“Is it father?” Elain’s voice cut through Feyre’s guilty thoughts. She didn’t equate to any of his plans. His forgotten youngest child, she knew he’d offer her up to some noble in exchange for riches or military might. 

All at once, the three of them scrambled upwards. They were supposed to be locked in, unable to get out. Once they’d realized he wasn’t coming back, the three had set to work. Elain, sitting at the highest point of that massive tower, had made nice with a local fisherman’s son. He sent up fishing line and hooks when she told him she needed it for mending, along with the occasional fish and bread. 

That hook and string had helped them get the latch to the bottom door opened. Nesta collected firewood and Feyre hunted small game for them to eat. It was never enough, especially now that they were in the brutal season of winter. The fishermen were gone and so were most of the creatures Feyre meticulously hunted. They hadn’t eaten in days and Feyre was starting to get desperate.

Starting to think they should steal one of the boats left behind and take their chances in the frigid water. 

They hid everything they shouldn’t have, rearranging the tower so it looked exactly as it had when they’d first been locked inside. Elain straightened the navy rug on the floor while Nesta remade the bed and Feyre hid her little weapons behind a stack of lumpy pillows.

Elain slammed the shutters of the tower closed and grabbed her knitting needles. Nesta picked up a book and Feyre…Feyre merely stood there. She’d run out of paint long ago, just as Elain had run out of yarn and Nesta had read the book many times over.

It didn’t matter. They heard the grunting of whatever soldiers were yanking open that heavy iron door, followed by the sound of clanking chainmail and heavy boots on the winding stairs. None of them dared to look at each other, jumping when a pounding fist banged against the trap door.

“Girls?”

It was their father, just as Elain had said. Feyre came forward, her body heavy with exhaustion. She pulled back the rug Nesta had just arranged, yanking the iron ring with her limited strength.

Their father's head, adorned with a heavy iron circlet, appeared next. Hatred burned in Feyre’s gut at the sight of his full cheeks, of his glowing health. He certainly hadn’t suffered that last year and half. He climbed the rest of the way up, drinking the sight of them.

“There you are,” he murmured with relief. As if there was any doubt that they’d still be here. He looked from her to Nesta before his eyes fell fully on Elain. Feyre’s stomach knotted, nervous though she couldn’t explain why.

“Have you come to bring us home?” Nesta asked hopefully. Feyre, too, wanted to leave. The tower was perpetually freezing and they were hungry and exhausted. The fortress they’d grown up in wasn’t much better and yet they were at least well fed and warm bottles were placed beneath their bedding to keep them warm at night. 

“Soon,” he murmured, not looking at Nesta at all. His eyes were still fixed on Elain, a frown ghosting his features. They looked so similar, though, on their father, those rich, brown eyes seemed soulless whereas on Elain, they were filled with warmth. Starvation couldn’t dim Elain’s beauty, though her once bouncy curls hung limp down her back and her heart-shaped face was thin and drawn. Elain, too, could have used some sleep.

“I will return for the three of you in a week's time. We are so close to beating the east back into those empty mountains.”

As if any of them cared. Nesta’s eyes sharpened. “We are out of food.”

Their father didn’t flinch. “You have enough for one last week.”

“And then what?” Feyre asked, cutting Nesta off before she angered him. 

“Nesta will go to the priestess's temple at Sangravah and Elain will marry Graysen—”

Elain rose to her feet. “What?”

“Feyre will stay with me for the time being,” he added, ignoring Elain entirely.

“A priestesses temple?” Nesta demanded. It was all as Feyre had once heard. He’d decided it, then. Decided to sideline Nesta and hope Elain would be the easier-controlled ruler. Or worse, that she would die before him, giving Ellesmere the son he’d denied them. Elain didn’t respond at all, though her face was so pale it might have been bone. Graysen was not known for being kind or gentle. He would use Elain until she was nothing but a corpse, and her sister knew it.

“It’s been decided,” their father snapped. 

“By who?” Feyre dared to ask. She could have reached for her bone knife beneath the pillow and tried to bury it in his neck…but he was her father. 

And he had a broad sword hanging from his hips. 

“By me,” he told them. Nesta scoffed while Elain said nothing, her eyes glazed over as she imagined this new future. “And you will do as I tell you or you will suffer my wrath.”

“We are already suffering,” Nesta informed him, her hatred burning in her eyes. Of the three of them, she looked the most like mother. Perhaps that was why he disliked her the most—he couldn’t look at Nesta’s silvery blue eyes and her golden brown hair braided atop her head like a crown and not see his once beautiful wife staring back at him.

Banishing her to a temple was like exorcizing a ghost. 

“What’s a little more, then?” he all but whispered. Daring her to disobey him. Nesta couldn’t pick this fight. Not when her skin all but clung to her bones and not when he could have driven his blade through her chest with no repercussions at all. Feyre dropped into a chair, more exhausted than she’d ever been and Nesta followed suit.

To their father, who didn’t imagine they had any thoughts he did not permit them to have, it was an act of submission. 

“It was good to see the three of you in good health,” he said, walking to Elain and brushing his fingers over her cheeks. Elain closed her eyes, clearly trying to keep herself from bursting into tears. 

Feyre scoffed but said nothing else. 

“Just a week, and then it's over,” he told them. As if it would ever be over. A new hell was waiting just over the horizon and Feyre had no intention of meeting it. She wouldn’t be separated from her sisters, either. She wouldn’t leave Nesta to die in a temple and Elain to perish in a marriage bed. 

They waited until their father descended back down the stairs and that iron door slammed shut so hard it rattled the stones around them. They held silent and still, listening to the gallop of hooves and the accompanying silence as the sun finally set.

Elain broke first, drawing her knees up to her face with a soft sob. Nesta rose to her feet, pacing the floor, her hands outstretched before the fire.

“We’ll take the boat,” Feyre whispered. “We’ll take the boat and go south. They say their king grants asylum to those that make it to his shore. We can hide there for a time and make our way across the ocean.”

“We won’t survive,” Nesta said, her voice devoid of its usual emotion.

“I can spend the next two days hunting,” Feyre insisted. “We can scavenge for anything the fishermen left behind.” 

Nesta shook her head but Elain looked up, wiping her eyes on her sleeves. “What does it matter, Nesta? We either die at sea or we die at his hands. Either way…” her voice broke with a sob. “I don’t want to be married to him.”

“It would be a terrible way to die,” Nesta said, though Feyre wasn’t sure if she meant death by their father's design or death at sea. Feyre was willing to take her chances, though. They could bundle, they could take water and food, and any other supplies in the covered ship that had been left behind. They’d be as protected from the elements within it as they were in the tower, and could fish if they ran low on supplies. 

“It’s better than doing nothing,” Feyre replied.

Elain and Feyre waited. Nesta was always allowed the final say, their deference out of respect for the sister they’d always hoped would one day be queen. Those dreams were dead—they would live in exile or they wouldn’t live at all. 

Two days—that was all Feyre was willing to risk. While she hunted, Nesta and Elain gathered supplies for the boat. Elain cleaned it during the day and Nesta organized until the three fell into bed each night bone weary and exhausted. They barely ate, trying so hard to preserve their rations for when they were out at sea and would have no other recourse. 

Feyre went to bed that night feeling the smallest flames of hope. Hope that they’d make it to the southern border before their father realized what they’d done. That Helion, the king of that realm, didn’t decide to ransom them back. And most importantly, they managed to make it over the sea where they might live free lives for the first time since they were born. Unshackled by the chains of their father, or the monarchy, of the unfair expectations placed on women. Elain could choose her own husband and Nesta and Feyre their own fates. 

The sound of someone pounding on the iron door of the tower dragged the three of them from a drowsy sleep. Their father had a key and the girls their own makeshift one—whoever was below was an interloper. 

Elain flew from the bed, pushing open the shutters to blink into the dark.

“The east,” she whispered. “Rhysand.”

“How–”

“He followed father,” Nesta hissed. “He led them right to us.”

Feyre blinked as Elain wrapped a cloak around her shoulders and tossed the rope down the side. “We go now,” she hissed. “Before he makes it up here and slaughters us all.”

Feyre nodded, though in her heart, she knew she wasn’t going with them. Everyone was on their boat and ready to go. All Nesta and Elain had to do was pull the anchor and set out. Rhysand would follow them—would merely drag them back where they’d be imprisoned or worse. Someone had to slow him down. 

Had to distract him. 

“Go,” Feyre whispered, reaching for her own cloak and her bone knife. She pressed the knife into Nesta’s hand, pretending she was getting her quiver of arrows as Elain propelled down the side. “I’m right behind you.”

The door wrenched open just beneath. 

“Hurry up,” Nesta hissed. Feyre knew if either of her sisters had any inclination of her split-second decision, they would have stayed, too. The point was to go together or not at all. Rhysand was cruel—evil and terrible. He’d lock them in a frigid dungeon, would ransom them back for land and coins and whatever soldiers their father had taken prisoner. There were rumors he stole women from the bordering villages and passed them out to his own men to use as they liked. Nesta and Elain didn’t deserve that.

She thought, perhaps foolishly, that she could withstand it.

Heavy boots on the stairs drew her attention to the trap door. Nesta was gone, halfway down the tower even as the trapdoor beneath the rug rattled. She wasn’t going to help him open it. Fingers clenched to fists, Feyre pressed her back against the wall and waited for what would happen next. 

The wood trap door exploded violently, splintering over the once carefully kept room. Feyre pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. The man who appeared was nothing like Feyre imagined Rhysand to be. She’d always pictured someone her father's age, someone who would look like the nightmare she’d been made to be afraid of.

Rhysand was young—early thirties at best. His dark hair seemed to gobble up the little light emanating from the fireplace as his violet-blue eyes swept over the room. They landed on her, crinkling at the edges when he realized it was just her. He looked like a warrior in his dark leather, a massive sword strapped against his spine. She tried to make herself smaller as he took a step towards her.

“Where are the other two?”

“Dead,” she lied as another man appeared. They could have been brothers—they shared the same warm brown skin, the same inky black hair. This man was perhaps lovelier in a classical sort of way, and far colder, if the stone cut of his face was any indication. 

“Cassian!” Rhysand, betrayed by the silver crown of stars around his head, bellowed down the stairs. His eyes were on the rope hanging from the window. “Bring me the other two!”

“RUN!” Feyre screamed out that window. Rhysand lunged for her, strong arms wrapping over her too-thin frame. She didn’t have the strength to fight him though the gods knew she tried. Feyre thrashed as his broad hand clapped over her mouth.

“So much for dead, huh?” Rhysand whispered against her neck. Feyre twisted, her foot kicking hard between his legs. He grunted but didn’t release her. “You look close to it already.”

He and the other man dragged her kicking and silently screaming down those stairs. Feyre endeavored to make it as difficult as possible, if only to buy Elain and Nesta more time.

It worked. By the time she was beneath that violet sky of stars, a third man was striding towards them. He was the biggest by far, tall and broad and terrifyingly imposing. A crisscross of swords over his shoulders made him seem more lethal than the other two men, though when he stepped into a beam of moonlight, she thought he had the friendliest face.

“They took a ship,” he said, amusement lacing his words. 

Rhysand pushed Feyre into the colder man so he could bind her wrists.

“Track them down. I can’t risk Archeron finding them first.”

Feyre kept her mouth shut. Her sisters had escaped Rhysand—they’d escape their father, too. Cassian—that’s what Rhysand had called him—looked her over, offered a smile that didn’t seem too threatening, and then turned to vanish back into the gloom.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asked him, her wrists bound in front of her body. Rhysand turned back to her, eyes sliding up and down her body. It wasn’t predatory or appreciative. In fact, he seemed almost disturbed by what he saw.

“How long have you been here?”

silver-edgedFeyre lifted her chin defiantly. She didn’t have to answer that. He didn’t care, either. Rhysand dragged her over the barren, frozen ground towards a midnight black stallion and hoisted her into a silver edged saddle with ease. He swung up just behind her.

“Would you like me to help Cassian?” the other man asked softly, his voice as dark as the night around them. 

“I’ll need you,” Rhysand disagreed. “Cassian can handle two unarmed women.”

He nodded. Absolute obedience, just like Graysen ordered their father. Rhysand lowered his head until she could feel his breath on the back of her neck again. “Cassian will find them.”

“And then what? You’ll kill us as a family?” she asked him, twisting back so he could see she wasn’t afraid of him. It was a lie, of course. Feyre was terrified. 

He didn’t need to know that.

Rhysand’s smile was cold—cruel. “Your father has something of mine. Now I have something of his.”

“Good luck getting it back,” Feyre retorted. 

Rhysand only laughed. 

 

It was a miserable night of riding. Feyre, half-starved and exhausted well before she was ever put in that saddle. By the time dawn broke, Feyre was miserably sore and hungrier than she’d ever been in her life. Her ribs ached, her thighs burned, and her head pounded. She was too focused on keeping herself upright to even think of her sisters, out on the icy sea all alone while a terrifying warrior tracked them down. 

All she could think about was the constant twisting of her gut. As snow-capped mountains loomed, Feyre felt her vision slipping sideways. She blinked, trying to right the world, but once her lids clamped shut, there was no opening them. She heard a soft swear and realized she had tipped out of the saddle and Rhysand had been forced to catch her or potentially let her die.

She almost wished he had. Surely death on a mountain road was better than whatever he had in store for her. Still, Feyre was too exhausted to fight him when his thighs tightened around her and his arm became a steel lock around her middle. She didn’t stop herself from leaning into his solid strength, nor did she care when her neck inclined at a near awkward angle, bouncing off his shoulder each time the horse jolted.

She slipped in and out of sleep, roused when he’d grab her with a surprising amount of gentleness just beneath her jaw and demand she take a drink. At some point, she thought a blanket was draped over her body, though when she managed to pry open an eye, she realized he’d merely covered them both in his cloak. 

“Will you walk? Or am I going to have to carry you into my palace?” Rhysand asked her, pulling Feyre from a rather strange, brightly colored dream. 

“Go to hell,” she whispered, forgetting almost immediately what he’d even asked. It seemed like an appropriate response to anything and everything he might ask. 

“I think she’s half dead,” another man’s voice murmured and Feyre swore he said those words with pure amusement. “Archeron beat you to it.”

“Shut up,” Rhysand grumbled. Feyre didn’t stay awake to hear the rest. For an unknown period of time, Feyre was lost to pure nothingness. Just bliss—utter, dreamless bliss. She could have died happy and, if she was honest, almost wished she had. 

Coming back was hell. Feyre twisted against the tethers that kept her trapped in darkness, desperate to resurface. She needed to know where she was—what had happened to her sisters. And when Feyre managed to pry an eye open, she expected to find herself lying on the hard, stone floor of a damp, cold dungeon. 

She was in a bed. In a room at least twice as big as the one she had at home. Bigger than the whole tower. Feyre was propped against a mountain of pillows and tucked beneath a sea of black and silver blankets. Curtains were tied from tall, wooden bed posts which made her feel, strangely, like a princess.

“You are a princess,” she whispered to no one in particular. In name only. Her filthy hair hanging in strings around her face and itching scalp told a wholly different story. Feyre pushed from the bed, strangely embarrassed to be in it at all. Her bare feet touched a plush, cream carpet that stretched the length of the bed against dark wood floors. 

A fire crackled merrily in a large hearth across the room, keeping Feyre warm even after she left her blankets. She padded for the jutting, rounded windows that were curtained in more glittering silver. Pulling them aside, Feyre clapped a hand over her mouth. An ocean of icy snow blanketed the world around her, broken only by the rising mountainside she was currently trapped in. 

That would make escape trickery, though not impossible. Feyre was used to the cold, the dark. If he thought to disorient her with the nice, furnished room, he didn’t know her at all.

Ignoring the bathroom, with a tub big enough to be a pool and a wall of glass that let her stare out into the snowy expanse, Feyre marched the curved, double doors gilded in more silver. He clearly had a color scheme, if nothing else. He also hadn’t locked her in. Feyre stepped into an empty hall, painted a soft lavender and trimmed in cream. No servants, no guards. Like she was no threat to him at all. 

That infuriated Feyre. She marched down the hall, forgetting she hadn’t eaten in days—months, even, given the sparseness of what was available to them. She hadn’t passed out from fear, but from exhaustion and hunger. Her anger quickly evaporated into fear as blinding white spots bloomed behind her vision. Feyre reached for the wall, holding herself steady while her knees trembled violently. 

“No, no, no,” Feyre moaned, her legs giving way beneath her. She clutched for the wall, looking for any purchase to keep her steady, but there was none. Only the tilting world and the brief flash of pain when her head bounced off the floor.

And then darkness again. 

She came back the second time fighting. Feyre shot upwards, the heavy blanket of her bed pooling in her lap as she gasped for air. A tray of food was set on her night table and Rhysand himself sat in a chair by the window. He seemed irritated if the set of his jaw was any indication. She supposed he had better things to do than babysit her. 

When she woke, he turned his head until those violet eyes were firmly on her. He cocked his head, causing a lock of his inky black hair to flop against the middle of his forehead. He was the picture of casual elegance. Bored, yet graceful, nobility. They didn’t have his type in Ellesmere–slick, polished, and arrogant. 

“Good evening,” he offered, his voice rough. Feyre didn’t respond, though she did pull her knees to her chest. He watched the whole thing, no hint of his thoughts betrayed in his expression.

“You should eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He didn’t smile. “Sure. I suppose you like it when I carry you down the halls like an underfed corpse?”

Feyre felt embarrassment rise through her chest. “Who asked for your help?”

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on powerful thighs. Feyre very much doubted he had ever missed a meal. She swallowed, hiding her hands beneath the blanket so he wouldn’t see how they trembled. 

“Maybe you should ask it, darling. If this is how your own father treats you, maybe whatever I have in store would be a kinder fate.”

She all but spat at him. Hatred bloomed in her chest knowing whatever fate he had planned likely involved her eventual death. The deaths of her sisters, her home, and everything she’d ever cared about. 

“How long do you plan to keep me captive?” she asked instead, pointedly ignoring what he’d told her.

Rhysand leaned backward, shrugging his broad shoulders. Clad in a tunic of black and silver that cut just beneath his jaw, he seemed strangely casual to her. No cape, no rings, no crown. Not even a circlet graced his forehead. 

“You’re hardly captive. More like my guest.”

“If I’m your guest, that means I can leave–”

“Feyre,” he interrupted patiently, “darling. You can barely walk down the hall. Where do you imagine you’re going?”

“Away from you,” she hissed, well aware she sounded like a petulant child. The curved smirk gracing his face told her he agreed with her silent assessment.

“Well,” he murmured, rising to his feet. She’d forgotten how imposing he was. Even without the leathered armor and the sword, he cut an imposing figure. “Maybe you should eat some dinner, first. It’s no fun to best you on a technicality.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, certain he was making fun of her. Warily, Feyre waited for Rhysand to respond. To mock her, as the courtiers back home always had. 

“Are you not the Huntress of the North?”

She hated him for his use of that nickname. It had only ever been sneered at her, her bow and arrows the endless source of amusement for the men in her father's palace. A princess who wielded a weapon was practically sacrilege. That she was any good? Well, they found ways to keep her in place.”

Feyre jutted her chin, determined he would not make her feel any smaller. “Yes. That is exactly what I am.”

There was no hint of mockery in his gaze. “Then eat.”

He strode from the room without looking back to see if she obeyed him. It was only after he left that she realized night had fallen, hidden as it was behind the semi-sheer curtains. How long had he sat there, waiting? It made her uneasy, to be so helpless in front of him.

And the thought of passing out, at being left at his mercy and hoping he’d be kind was enough to motivate Feyre into eating. She swallowed her guilt, hoping her sisters were safe and, if nothing else, not starving too terribly before she pulled apart a roll of bread. Steam curled around her face and Feyre nearly moaned at the sight. It had been a long time since she’d had anything hot. She tried so hard to go slow, so she wouldn’t be sick, but the vegetables were seasoned with spices she’d never tasted, and the meat and potatoes covered in a rich gravy that had her all but licking the plate. 

She could have kept going. She was tempted, even, to climb out of bed, find the kitchen, and ask for more. Instead, Feyre climbed out of bed, legs still shaky, and made her way to the bathtub.

Bastard as he was, Rhysand was right about one thing.

She’d never escape him in her current condition. 

Feyre very much intended to escape.

Just as soon as she killed him.

-

Feyre spent a whole week minding her own business. The decision had been more practical than anything–every time she stepped into the hall, a wave of dizziness sent her practically running back for the bedroom. She would be damned if Rhysand put his filthy hands on her again. Feyre’s pride wouldn’t let her be caught in a compromising position by her enemy, which in turn ensured she ate every meal that was brought to her. The first few days had seen her all but living in the bathroom while she adjusted, gulping water from the tap when she felt feverish. She slept, she ate, she bathed, and did little else.

She felt like a traitor. Her dreams were consumed by her sisters—were they safe?

Were they alive?

She had no doubt if Rhysand had managed to find them, he would have paraded them about like his trophies like he’d no doubt done with her. The thought offered the faintest amount of relief. Only she was here. 

Whoever left the trays just outside her door didn’t seem to know who, exactly she was. Or maybe they didn’t view her as a threat. Either way, she’d been provided a steak knife each night, and Feyre had begun to collect them. The silver alone would be enough to fund part of her journey, and the sharpened point sliced easily over her pointer finger. It would do well enough against anyone who put the fleshy parts of their skin too close to her body.

Feyre woke to an actual servant the dawning of that second week. 

“The king requests you dine with him,” an elderly, no nonsense woman declared. As if that were the end of things. Feyre knew, from growing up around her own father, that the king's word was law. She didn’t obey him, though. He wasn’t her master.

“And if I say no?” Feyre asked in her brattiest tone.

An arched brow was the only expression she got. “I hear a palette of straw is far less comfortable than a bed made of goose down.”

She hated that woman, with her severe gray bun and her unsmiling eyes. Still, Feyre begrudgingly got into the tub and submitted to her all the same. She allowed herself to be dressed in an, admittedly, a pretty amethyst gown made of gossamer silk. She said nothing while her hair was curled and pushed off her face with a pearl-lined headband, or when thin, silver earrings were looped into her ears so it looked as if delicate trails of starlight clung to her skin. Her eyes were coated and lined until they looked bigger—more pronounced. Her lips were made softer and painted the most delicate shade of pink.

It all irritated her. Like she was a doll for dress up, like her too-thin, sharp appearance was solely for his pleasure. “Is this what your king likes?”

“Hardly,” that servant snapped. Speaking to her like that in her own home would have gotten someone killed–not that Feyre would have tattled. Still, the sharpness took her aback. 

“Then why–”

“You have a problem looking nice?” 

Truthfully, Feyre had no problem looking nice. Her problem was the way she felt as if she were little more than a pretty object. She didn’t want to look nice in Rhysand’s kingdom, at a breakfast he almost certainly would also be attending.  He’d see her and approve of her, which was the opposite of what she wanted.

Feyre marched down the halls, and for the first time since she’d arrived, there was no danger she’d fall flat on her face. The hall led into a larger atrium, with a winding staircase that led both upwards and back down into the palace. Feyre tried to memorize her path, but the steps leading down only directed her into another branching hall of the same cream and lavender and arching doors lined in silver pulled tightly shut.

She’d expected a large dining hall filled with people. That’s how Feyre had always eaten. A dozen eyes were always on her, listening for any morsel of gossip they could run to her father with. When the doors were opened for it, Feyre found an intimate scene. A table for five people, perhaps, but no more. Round, with only two chairs decently separated and covered in a selection of food she could directly spoon onto a silver plate herself.

Rhysand, too, waited with his usual boredom. He was framed by a line of windows frosted over from the cold. Same black tunic and pants, to the point Feyre wondered if he owned any variations to that outfit. He had taken no food, and stood when she entered. He nodded to the servant just behind, which apparently signaled to close the doors. Feyre was trapped in the chamber with him.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing towards her chair. Feyre hesitated, her slippered feet sliding against the wood just beneath. It was the wafting scent of chocolate that sent Feyre to her seat. She hadn’t had anything sweet in so long, a terrible curse for someone who liked sweets as much as she did. 

“Eat,” he ordered once she was in her chair. Feyre tried her best to ignore him, scooping eggs and fruit, and cheese onto a plate. She took sausage and bread before she realized the scent of chocolate was coming from a silver pot. Hot chocolate. 

His mouth twitched, watching her pour it into her porcelain cup. Feyre took a sip, trying to suppress the moan that rose in her chest. She didn't succeed and in response, his eyes widened ever so slightly. 

“Are you always so adaptable?” he asked, only serving himself when she was finished. Feyre didn’t offer him a response, too busy shoveling food in her mouth. It was, as it always was, perfect. His manners were more refined, reminding her that the time she’d spent in that tower had made her wilder than before. 

The silence stretched between them. It seemed unbearable for him, because Rhysand set his fork back to the table, eyes pinned on her. “Why were you in that tower?”

“Who were you expecting to find?” she sneered. Rhysand raised those dark, immaculately groomed brows and she realized belatedly he’d never meant to run into her. Who had he been looking for, then? Clearly, when the opportunity presented itself he hadn’t been able to resist and still…Feyre wanted to know. 

“Answer my question.”

“We were there because of you,” she whispered, gripping the knife just beside her plate so tightly the whites of her knuckles were exposed. 

If he felt guilt, he didn’t betray it. “How fortunate, then.”

She was going to stab him. If she stood, Feyre could bury the blade in his neck before he could react. “Fortunate? Did you find my sisters?”

Another casual shrug. “Cassian hasn’t returned.”

“Maybe he’s dead,” she hissed. Rhysand smiled. 

“Maybe,” he agreed, his tone suggesting he did not agree. “Can I ask, darling, why I was the cause of such a slow, terrible death for you? Why not behead his daughters and be done with it?” Feyre’s heart pounded in her throat as she rose, her plate half untouched. He was fixated on her face, unaware she still had the handle of that knife fisted in her fingers.

“Our suffering amuses you?”

“Confuses me. If your father sent you to that tower to die–”

“To protect us!” Feyre interrupted, certain he couldn’t be that stupid. “To keep you from harming us!”

He reclined in his chair as she moved towards him, her knife hidden in the flouncy material of her skirt. 

“You believe that?”

“Who were you looking for? What did he take of yours?” she asked sharply, halting just in front of him. Part of her was desperate for any information, even if it came from his lips. She had never once been granted any she hadn’t stolen, and even then Feyre couldn’t be certain it was true or not. 

He assessed her. “Why would I tell someone hoping to kill me anything?”

“You’re stupid?” she guessed, inching closer. 

“I’ll trade you, darling. I’ll answer any question you have if you give me the knife in your hand.”

Feyre hesitated. “Do you swear?”

Rhysand nodded, that lock of dark hair falling against his forehead again. Pressing a golden hand to his heart, he said, “I swear it.”

Quick as a viper, Feyre lunged. Rhysand shouted, unprepared to have the blade of her knife buried in the back of his hand. She’d stabbed with all her pent up fury, all but pinning him to the table by the point of the serrated blade. 

His face was altogether too close when she turned to look at him, those violet eyes blazing with some unreadable emotion. “You never said how I had to return it.”

Blood dripped onto the wood as Rhysand used his other, unwounded hand to pull the knife out of his hand. She waited for him to go back on his promise, to call her names or punish her—all of which she deserved. Feyre straightened. 

Bracing herself. 

“I want Nolan,” Rhysand gritted out, unfolding a napkin to press against his hand. “Finding you was merely good luck. I can trade you for the General. As for what he has that belongs to me, well...” he raised his hand, as if to show her why he wouldn't be divulging that bit of information. 

Feyre laughed. “You could trade Elain for Graysen. Maybe. But me? You might as well kill me right here, right now.”

“I won’t be doing that,” he hissed, holding the napkin against his wounded hand. He didn’t move from his chair, though she expected him to. He merely sat there, his napkin blooming the same red that was still puddled just beside his plate. 

“Then what–”

“You will live here until you die,” he interrupted snappishly. Their gazes held and for a moment, Feyre felt as though his eyes had tied a string between them, immobilizing her entirely. She’d forgotten, for a moment, a bloodstained knife had punctured his hand and that she’d been the one who’d done it. Standing over him was wild–intoxicating.

He blinked and the spell was shattered.

“Let me go,” she breathed, swallowing hard. He crossed his ankle over his knee, one foot bouncing anxiously. “I’ll tell you anything–”

“You know nothing,” he dismissed, eyes cutting towards the door. “Another of your foolish bargains.”

“You can’t keep me here,” she insisted, turning her back to him. Feyre made a show of lifting her skirts, of stepping around the droplets of blood, all the while Rhysand watched. 

“You would be surprised at what I could do. What I might do, if provoked.”

She looked over her shoulder to his wounded hand, bound in that napkin and held for her perusal. There was a darkness to his gaze that should have unsettled her. Feyre thought she could have counted the constellation of stars within it—a dangerous thought, given who he was. It struck her only then that he was handsome. Too handsome.

Beautiful. Certainly, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her entire life. She’d been so consumed with hating him, with survival, to pay him any attention before. Now, though, as her adrenaline ebbed into fear, she saw him for what he was. Just for a moment—lovely. 

She stamped that thought deep, deep down. 

“Hardly a punishment, keeping me in finery,” she taunted, swishing her pretty dress around her to emphasize her point. It was then that he stood, and Feyre so badly wished he hadn’t. She stopped her teasing, her body flooded with cold at the sight of him. 

“No. You’re rather pretty, dressed in my things,” he began, holding his hand against his chest as he surveyed her. “I wonder how much prettier you’d be in my bed chamber–”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed, her heart thudding in her throat.

“How even lovelier still, in my lap, on my throne—” “Stop it,” she half pleaded, half ordered. He raised a brow.

“Oh? Commanding me, are you? There’s only one person allowed to make such demands of me,” he said, stepping closer and closer until her back was pressed against the wall. Rhysand didn’t back down, his thigh sliding between her legs to pin her between them. Feyre couldn’t control her rapid breathing, hating how close he was.

How good he smelled.

“Ask me who,” he said. She shook her head no, unable to look away.

“I’ll tell you,” he continued, his tone far too heavy. “The only person who can give me a command is my wife–”

She slapped him, sending him stumbling back a step. He needed to learn what would happen if he invaded her space. “Under no circumstances would I marry you,” she hissed, slipping around him for the door. She’d just pulled it open, had all but begun running down the hall, when he called after her.

“Not to save your home? To end this war? To keep your sisters from being traded back to your father so I can hang one man?”

Feyre whipped back around, terrified of the intensity on his face. “I can’t trust you.” “I would shield them,” he all but whispered. He looked crazy, his shirt bloodied, his hand wounded. His face, was slightly ashen from how she’d hurt him and still decisive. “And you.” “How can you protect me when my greatest enemy stands four feet from me?!” she shrieked. He arched a brow, as if to call her statement into question.

“None of this would have happened had you not intervened!”

“There are things you don’t understand,” he protested, but Feyre took a step through the doorway, out into the hall.

“I won’t.”

“You will,” he replied, holding her again until his gaze tied a ribbon around her very soul. She shook her head, just to prove she could still move her body independent of him.

“I’ll kill you first.”

He laughed, then. 

“You may do whatever you like to me, darling.”

Everything they’d ever said about him was true. Feyre thought that as she turned her back to him, her body far warmer than she’d ever admit. Feyre knew two things with absolute certainty.

One, if she didn’t manage to escape and soon, she’d never be free of him.

And two—Rhysand wasn’t going to let her go. Not to her father. Not to the world.

Maybe not ever. 

A Dangerous Game

part 27

masterlist

“Mr. Tuan.” She breathed out in surprise eyes wide as she took in the sight of the man before her. “I was under the impression that you were no longer allowed inside the estate.” She raised a brow but continued snipping flowers from the bush. She’d taken to helping in the garden in to alleviate the boredom found by her newfound lack of babysitters.

Namjoon had been on cloud nine ever since the wedding. It had been a peaceful few weeks. With Namjoon having everything he wanted he had even eased up on the security directly surrounding her. With his new legal hold over her and the chip in her neck, he found no reason to keep her constantly surrounded. But that was not to say that security around the estate had gotten lax. Security around the wall of the estate had been increased. Even if she had no guard with her, she was well guarded.

“I was supposed to be smoothing things over with RM after Jackson caused a scene at the wedding. Your husband wasn’t happy with us you know.” Mark shrugged flashing her a charming smile as he leaned against the wall of the house.

“I would think that you would try talking to him at his office. He’s not at the house today.” She laughed as she stared him down. “And as far as I’m aware you’re not allowed to be here.”

“I’m not.” He grinned. “But Jackson wanted to know if you were doing alright.”

“I’m fine.” She huffed clipping a flower more aggressively than she needed to. “You can tell him that.”

He shrugged pushing off the wall and taking the shears from her, setting them down on the patio table. “You’re really fine? Because last time I talked to you, you were asking me to sneak you out of here.”

She had to stifle a laugh at that. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d asked the stranger in the garden to help spirit her away. “Haven’t you heard? It’s in your best interest that I stay here.”

“Is it in your best interest?” He asked offering her an arm which she took as he began to lead her into the garden. She was sure the walk wouldn’t last long though. One of the maids would have reported their visitor to Miss In by now, and Miss In would tell security if not Namjoon himself.

“I don’t think I get a say in that anymore.” She sighed staring up at the leaves. They were just beginning to change. “I’m married now. He won.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” He mused. “From what Jackson says, you’re far too tenacious to give up without a fight.”

“Marriage seems a little final, unless you’re telling me to murder my husband.” He made a face as if saying, ‘well are you?’. “He keeps all the weapons locked away, especially after I accidentally stabbed him.”

“Highlight of my year.” He laughed leading up the bridge over the koi pond. “So how long do we have until the cavalry comes to kick me out of here?” He whispered conspiratorially.

“I would think about two minutes.” She nodded laughing as they both settled to lean against the railing looking down at the koi. “You’re crew isn’t very popular around here.”

“What about you?” She looked to him in confusion. “Am I popular with you?” He clarified waggling his eyebrows at her.

“I don’t really know you, but you’re friends with Jackson, and I don’t really like him right now. That being considered, I’m going to have to say no. So sorry.”

“I can’t blame you for that. You know he really did want to get you out of here. JB had other plans though.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s a liar.”

“I guess it doesn’t.” He sighed running a hand through his hair. “I am sorry about it, you know. But you have a pretty sweet set up here.”

“Yes, because the inability to leave the house is every girl’s dream.” She rolled her eyes sarcastically.

“Still not allowed out?” He asked surprise coloring his tone. “I would have thought he’d have eased up on the house arrest after the wedding. Doesn’t he have guards with you all the time?”

“No babysitter anymore, but house arrest is still in full swing.”

“Y/N.” Hoseok called storming over to them his eyes narrowed dangerously and zoned in on Mark.

“Hoseok.” She greeted smile turning strained as the man reached them.

“Tuan.” He growled. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m going.” He backed away raising his hands in surrender though there was a Cheshire grin on his lips. “I’ll see you around, Mrs. Kim.”

Hoseok watched him go remaining stoically at her side watching the other man like a hawk until he disappeared from sight. “Namjoon wants you to join him for dinner tonight.” He told her once he was sure Mark was gone.

“I join him for dinner every night.” She pointed out confused by why tonight it had to be requested.

Hoseok sighed clearly annoyed by her lack of understanding combined with finding her fraternizing with the enemy. “He wants you to join him at a restaurant.”

She froze, her face the picture of shock. Namjoon wanted her to leave the estate to go to dinner? It didn’t seem possible. He never wanted her to leave her gilded cage. “You’re sure we’re talking about the same Namjoon?” She questioned brows furrowed.

“He asked for you to join him. Do you want me to tell him you refuse?” He asked quirking a brow at her.

“Am I allowed to refuse?”

“Not really.” He shrugged unbothered by the obvious lack of choice she had in her marriage. Namjoon was happy, and that was what mattered to Hoseok even if that happiness cost the freedom of someone else.

“Well then I suppose I should get ready then.”

Leaving the estate was slightly surreal. It was the first time she had been somewhere other than on the run or to Namjoon’s headquarters. He was far too paranoid to let her out of the house when she’d proven herself to be a flight risk on more than one occasion. Granted her odds of escape were slim to none when Hoseok was with her. The man wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in her leg if it meant keeping her by Namjoon’s side.  

But it was a relief to be outside the walls of the estate. She had begun to get a little stir crazy especially with no Jungkook to keep her distracted, Yoongi to play piano with, or Jin to play narts with. There were only so many activities to keep her occupied in the estate. She was almost beginning to miss having babysitters, which was worrying on so many more levels than she was willing to analyze at that moment. But she was thrilled to be outside of the estate, and that was what she was choosing to focus on.

Of course Namjoon had thought ahead, and she wasn’t going to be in the presence of anyone she could ask for help. Hoseok had led her directly to a private room when they’d arrived at a restaurant that was much fancier than she was used to going to, but she shouldn’t have expected anything less than excellence when it came to Namjoon.

He was sitting there waiting for her when Hoseok ushered her in.

“Y/N.” He smiled standing from his seat to come greet her placing a light kiss on her lips. “You look lovely, jagi.” He removed her coat handing it to Hoseok before leading her to her seat and pushing her chair in. Always the gentleman.

“What’s the occasion?” She asked unfolding her napkin and placing it across her lap before turning her gaze back to him.

“We’ve been married for a month, jagi.” He grinned happy as a clam. “I thought we should celebrate.”

A month. It had been a month since the wedding, and she hadn’t even realized. “I see.” She gave him a shaky smile trying to keep the peace though her fingers were nervously plucking at the napkin on her lap.

How could a whole month have gone by without her realizing it? Had she become that complacent with her situation? A whole month of mindless married life had gone by, and she hadn’t even noticed. Every day was the same as it had been for months with the exception of now Namjoon had a free pass for affection and sex, and oh was the man insatiable.

It was like someone had opened the floodgates. It sometimes came to the point where she didn’t get any sleep. She didn’t know where he got all the energy between making her life hell and running his criminal empire. The saving grace of it was that Namjoon was an exceptionally good lover. He always had her seeing stars. The worst part was that she couldn’t even pretend that she didn’t enjoy the sex, and his self-satisfied smirk didn’t help quell her fury.

“I honestly didn’t think I would be allowed outside the estate.” She chuckled nervously trying to look anywhere but at his eyes. This all felt far too similar to their first meeting with the exception of this time she was wearing actual clothing instead of being shoeless in a nightgown. But the dinner, the ambiance, it was all so similar to that first night.

“You’re not a prisoner, jagi.” He scolded lightly. “You’re my wife, and I don’t want you to feel trapped.”

“I haven’t left the house in weeks,” She pointed out. “And the last time I did so was for a meeting with GOT7. And before that I hadn’t left the house since you kidnapped me.” She chose to ignore the way that Namjoon’s jaw tensed in annoyance. “There’s not another word for it. It was kidnapping.” 

“When you’ve proven you’re not a flight risk, you’ll be allowed to leave the house, with supervision of course.”

“Of course.” She agreed keeping the brittle smile fixed to her face.

Namjoon sighed pinching the bridge of his nose. While he was pleased she was more like herself again, he had to admit he had not missed her barbs and false smiles. He’d enjoyed the weeks of her softer demeanor. She wasn’t quite as firey as she had been, but she had regained a fair bit of her former self, enough to argue with him again at least.

“I don’t want you to be unhappy, jagi.”

She sighed adjusting her smile so that it was a little brighter. “I never said I was unhappy.”

“But you’re not happy.”

Her smile dropped. “I’m trying.” She whispered shifting her gaze back down to her lap. “I’m trying to make the best of this, but you know this isn’t what I wanted from life. You aren’t what I wanted.” 

“I know you’re trying.” He sighed leaning back in his chair. “I’m sorry, jagi. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t. Forgive me?” He asked eyes softening as he looked at her. “I can make you happy. All you have to do is give me the chance.”  She quirked a brow as if challenging the statement but said nothing else though it did elicit another sigh from Namjoon. “I heard you had a visitor today.” He said changing the subject.

“I did.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll talk to the staff about keeping the riff raff out.”

“He didn’t mean any harm.” She sighed. “And at least it wasn’t Jackson.”

“Jackson will be shot without hesitation the next time he steps within a hundred feet of the estate.” Namjoon growled fingers clenched tightly around the stem of his wine glass.

“What about your alliance?” She asked carefully. Talking business was Namjoon would be moving into dangerous territory. He knew full well she had no loyalty to him, and telling her anything about the business would be a mistake on his part unless he succeeded in brainwashing her or she came down with a case of Stockholm syndrome.

He paused staring at her with distrustful eyes.  He didn’t want her anywhere near his business. He loved her, of course he did, but he didn’t trust her, not with this. “Jaebum is fully aware that if Jackson comes anywhere near you again, I won’t be lenient.” She didn’t need to know that the alliance meant very little to him though. He would get rid of them as soon as he had the opportunity.

“Don’t.” She whispered staring down at her place, her eyebrows scrunched together as though she was contemplating something serious.

“What?” He asked almost disbelieving.

“Don’t shoot him. I may not like him right now, but I don’t want him dead.” She explained. “I owe him a lot.”

Namjoon bit his cheek trying to tamp down his annoyance. Jackson would definitely have to go. He didn’t like the thought of her caring for another man so much, or the fact that she cared for him so much after he betrayed her. The only one she should care for so much should be him, and he had every intention of ensuring that he would be. She was coming around, slowly, but she was coming around.

“I’m trying to do what’s best for you.” He smiled, wiping away his sour look. “I have something for you.” She looked at his cautiously. She very seldom enjoyed his gifts. Namjoon pulled a black velvet box out of his jacket pocket placing it on the table in front of her. It was too big to be earrings and not the right shape to be a bracelet. “It’s not going to bite you.” He encouraged amused by her hesitance.

She opened the box to reveal a necklace, simple but beautiful in design. It was a delicate silver chain that trialed down to a small diamond. From that point two far smaller chains descended to connect the first diamond to a second larger diamond though it to was delicate and understated in nature, and she had to begrudgingly admit that it was beautiful and that she loved it.

“It’s beautiful.” She murmured staring down at the piece of jewelry.

“I thought you might like it. May I?” He asked gesturing towards the box, and she nodded. Namjoon stood moving to stand behind her delicately moving her hair away from her shoulder before reaching for the necklace and clasping it around her neck. “Beautiful.” He whispered into her ear before placing a soft kiss just below it. “Just like you. Happy anniversary, my love.”

part 28

perfidy;tom holland|17

chapter 17: the actors

enemies to lovers au/enemies with benefits

chapter summary: tom and y/n want to rule the world alone

pairing: tom holland x y/n

warnings:   angsty, fluff, Tom gets drunk, didn’t proof read

word count: 8.6k whoooops

here’s a playlist

and here’s another one

and here’s another one inspired by 1D

social media before you read (IMPORTANT FOR THE CHAPTER) :

tweets, texts and instagram: with Tom and y/n on their date and giving no updates to their friends

previous chapter next chapter series masterlist wanna be tagged?

Hi, it came early again! This is angsty because well it was coming but because Taylor released Folklore, go stream it!!! and i’m sad because of 1D so :)

A rain was falling down in a clear sky. 

Timothée. A perfect name. Perfect eyes, perfect nose, perfect lips. Perfect guy. Everybody said it. Everybody saw it. A melodic laugh that would be heard all across the room, bright eyes that were only meant to look at y/n. The curls falling down on his forehead and the bright beam everytime she looked at him. The gentle whispers, secret kisses.  The way they finished each other’s sentences and the way they sometimes had coordinated outfits without them even trying. The way he was in her kind of scene, and the way he always managed to picture her in her brightest glory, the way he pictured her being her. Because she was herself whenever she was around him. Never faking, always laughing. The way she’d be calm, and not doubting, not fearing. The way he fit her description of her perfect guy. As if they’d made him out of her dreams, sculpting it. A Greek sculpture, but hey, they guy only spoke in Greek tragedies. 

Tom was very well aware that the damned guy was everything y/n could’ve asked for. From the first moment he’d met him, Tom knew that y/n would completely fall in love with him. Y/N would end up with him. And he’d seen her fall in love with him, as Tim would watch her as she danced around the room, spinning that strawberry--or were they cherries?-- dress she loved to wear.  He’d seen her sing around him, because she trusted him. Tom saw Y/N find her happy place. Fucking Timothée. 

And he hated it was with Tim. Because he knew that Tim had been the one to be there when he broke her heart. When it should’ve been Harry. Even all of this crafted shit, Tom had fucked it up, because Harry had also distanced himself from y/n.

And all because he had fucked up. If that night he had had the guts to accept it. 

He wondered whether Harry would’ve been heartbroken or not. Correction, he wondered how heartbroken his brother would have been. And he remembered how for the first time, after that, Harry had ignored him. So angry at him. 

But nobody knew what Tom had gone through. How many times had he stopped himself from going to her and try to say he hadn’t meant it, to try and kiss her, mend her heart. When his own heart broken. And he had been lonely too, and he also hadn’t gone out. He didn’t have the energy, he only stared at the ceiling, asked questions that had no answers. 

And they hadn’t spoken after that, not even after y/n was slowly coming back into his life. He had gone filming, and sometimes he’d shed a tear but no one would know it. 

And then one day, y/n was talking to Harry again, and he heard her voice over the phone, and his heart had stopped. And he wanted to say he was sorry, and he wondered if she knew that he was also destroyed. 

And then, a party, James’ birthday, maybe. He couldn’t remember. And he had seen her, and she had avoided his gaze and he only wanted to scream everything he’d ever felt. But he had kept it to himself. 

And then, he saw him, Tim. A new friend of y/n’s Harry said. And Tom saw the way Tim looked at her, and the way he had made her smile. A smile Tom hadn’t seen in months. All because he had fucked up, Tim had taken away his chance. 

Did y/n see Tom? Did y/n see that Tom was also anxious and breaking? Did y/n ever listen to what he wanted to say? 

Y/N had approached James, and then was speaking with whoever had crossed her path. And Tom knew it was wrong, and he wondered if she had thought about calling him, too. If they had stared at the phone at the same time. If she ever wanted him to go to her door. 

Timothee had approached Harry and him. Tom stared at him, up and down. 

“So, I don’t know you,” Tom chuckled. “Hi, I’m Tom.” 

“Oh, I finally meet you, Tom, I’m Timothée.” 

And it sounded like one of the silly names y/n would come up for in her stories. A bloody main character. 

“Are you… y/n’s….?” Tom asked. 

Harry chuckled. “They’re just friends.” 

Timmy had smiled. “Yeah, for now.” 

Tom had hidden his frown and faked a laugh. “Oh, so you do want to date her?” 

Harry had pursed his lips and then watched Tim. 

Timothée had cleared his throat. “Yeah, she’s... “ And he had looked back at her, y/n had given Tim a faintly embarrassed smile, she had blushed.  “she’s just like a song, or a movie, she’s splendid. She is a main character, isn't she?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Tom had said.

“Look at her, she just stands out in a crowd, and I swear I can hear her voice across the room and it’s music to my ears,” Tim explained. “There’s so much mystery to her, I—.” 

Tom had to agree, and she was wearing that golden dress that made her perfectly different from everyone in the room. Bright as she could be, red lips and hair flowing.Y/N then looked back at them, and then she finally crossed eyes with Tom, her smile had faded away, and she had quickly looked away. 

“You’ll finally ask her out, then?” Harry chuckled. “It’s been taking you long enough.” 

Tim grinned. “Yeah, I just want her to be ready,” he explained. “She… Did she recently go through a breakup or-?” 

Tom had felt a stab across his chest, no, not a breakup, a heartbreak possibly. 

“No,” Harry shook his head. “But y/n is very complicated.”

“Very,” Tom added. “Too complicated, you don’t want to get there. She’s too crazy.” 

Tim chuckled. “And she mentioned you were her biggest enemy.” 

Harry laughed. “Yeah, he is so don’t listen to him.” 

Of course, from what he had initially seen, he thought Timmy didn’t have a chance. Sure the guy was perfect but y/n probably wouldn’t give him a chance. 

And it had started. 

“Y/N’s new boyfriend is perfect isn’t he?” His mother had once said. “He’s such a sweetheart.” 

And he had heard it once, and twice and everyone was saying it, at an early Christmas dinner y/n’s family had thrown. 

“He’s the guy she’ll end up marrying,” y/n’s mother, Elaine, had said. “It’s just amazing how good they are for each other.” 

“Yeah, I must admit it, that Tim really has won her over, and not only her, all of us,” James had said. 

“She’ll be spending Christmas with his family, in France we will see how it goes, he’s a good guy,” Richard, y/n’s dad had mentioned. “She’ll probably come back with a ring in her hand. I’ve never seen her happier.” 

“This Timmy guy, really, I’m glad she found him. She finally needed to date someone who treated her like the queen she is,” Sam had mentioned. 

And Tom knew it had been lost when even Harry had said it. 

“They’re perfect for each other. I am so happy she’s happy.” 

And if Harry was happy, when he had been in love with her. Then Tom should be, too, right? 

Then why wasn’t he? 

But all of them had been wrong, right? All of them had been completely and utterly wrong because y/n had not accepted the marriage proposal. Y/N couldn’t have been as happy as everyone had claimed she had been. Tim had been right where Tom should’ve been. 

Problem was, Tom knew she had been. And even if she had said that she had loved Tom, there was a part of Tom that knew that y/n had been lying about that statement. Because y/n had actually fallen in love so deeply with Timothee, and because Tom was well aware that he was only just for a little bit, to cease her thoughts. Tom knew y/n would end up realizing that Tom wasn’t what she wanted him to be. Because Tom was not Timmy. 

And Tom had that very present. That’s probably why he had searched for a thousand things to do with her, the film museum, then the picnic at the park, then maybe a philharmonic. Everywhere that Tim would’ve taken her. Because Tom feared that y/n would realize how different they were. 

And Tom feared that she had her heartbreaks very present. And that Timmy had been the one to pull her out of them. 

When he had found the ring, it made it even more present, y/n had kept it. Sure she had said no, but her no had meant “not yet”. The ring had meant that she, yes, wanted to know what it felt like to date Tom, but she’d eventually run back to Tim, because he was her endgame. 

But she had gone to give it back. And maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. If she hadn’t given it back on her own, she probably was still holding on to him. 

The fantasy had tumbled down in less than 5 minutes. And it seemed so crazy, less than 24 hours. They’d gone from her having dinner with Tim, with him admitting his feelings, with her saying she was in love too, to the perfect date and now. Back to reality. Knowing that their promises and apologies had barely meant anything at all. It would eventually fall out. 

Because Tom also feared that all of this was some sort of revenge y/n was planning and that she’d go back to Tim and be happy. 

Because they were both right, and they knew that they didn’t trust each other. And he was selfish. He didn’t want y/n to ever be around Timothée. But he knew that he could never control y/n, not that he wanted to. But he had the right. 

He remembered it, when they dated. How he’d be in the worst state each time Timmy placed his hand on her hips, or his lips on her skin. He hated it. He despised it. How he wished to be in his place. 

And even know that he knew that y/n probably was breaking Tim’s heart he couldn’t help but think about it, how with one kiss Tim could probably make her leave Tom. That’s all it took him, his fingers to delicately brush against her arm. That’s the power Tim had over y/n. 

And now he was calling her, he wanted her to be back already. Even if Tom was in shambles. 

He took out the alcohol bottles from the minibar, downing a shot of whiskey, he felt the warm liquor burn his throat. What if Tim caressed her cheek? What if with one look y/n realized the big mistake Tom was? 

He called her. 

Straight to voicemail. Tom tapped his foot anxiously. He needed another shot. He couldn’t wait for her right there. 

So he went down to the hotel bar. And he didn’t know if he was worried more about the fact she was with Timmy or that she was alone in a city like New York. He kept calling her, it rang a few times but then to voicemail. 

Tom ordered a gin and tonic, first, then a beer, and then a scotch and he ignored everybody in the room. He only kept trying to call her, and he texted only asking if she was okay. 

And she answered a simple yes. 

Which drove Tom crazier. He downed another drink. His body warming up, not sure if it was with rage, jealousy, or the alcohol. He clenched his jaw, she drove him completely insane. It would leave nowhere. 

He ignored his phone, everything, he only listened to the band that played gentle slow rock that was playing at the bar. And he kept waiting. Picturing the worst. 

But suddenly he had seen her walking into the bar, too, after a while, after yet more beers and another scotch. And he stopped to see if it was truly her. Undeniably, it was her. Slightly smudged mascara under her eyes, and a trace of her crying, but her lipswere bright red. She hadn’t seen him, she had sat near the band, ordered a gin and tonic, first, too. He only saw how her lipstick stained the glass. She seemed… angry, sad, confused. Tom could read those emotions just fine, the usual face she’d sketch whenever he was around. 

At least she wasn’t with Tim, thought Tom. He texted her again, she only lifted her phone and then took a deep breath. She didn’t text back. But he saw tears streaming down her face. 

It was particularly weird. Being in the same room. He waited for the song to finish until he decided to send her a drink. Another gin and tonic. 

He watched her, and she seemed surprised when the waiter had told her a gentleman had sent her a drink, she denied the drink until the waiter pointed at Tom. And she suddenly stopped, her eyes landed on him, as if she was deciding whether or not to walk over. But Tom was already wasted, so he made the decision himself. He paid for his and her drinks and then stumbled up to stand, he didn’t want to be in the same room as her right now. He was too dizzy, the floor was moving just as he walked out of the hotel bar and made his way to the elevator. 

But before the door closed, y/n ran into the elevator. Tom gave her a drunken smile, watching her yet again get far from him.

“Heeeeey,” a drunk and slurred voice came out. 

Y/N turned coldly. “Are you drunk?” 

“No,” he lied but then opened his arms, laying against the elevator wall. “Mmhm c’mere.” 

She didn’t look at him now. 

“Y/N,” he called her, loudly. “Are you—are we breaking up even if—hic—even if we only dated for like 10 minutes? Are you going back to Timmy Tim?” His words sounded slow and long. 

“Tom, stop, no, okay, you’re too drunk and I’m not in the mood to talk about this, okay? We’re not breaking up,”she confirmed and walked over to his side. He could now see she really had been crying, her eyes were still trying to hold back more tears, and she kept avoiding his gaze. Her cheeks were probably humid. 

He reached out for her hand lazily, and brought it to his lips. She looked away. He tried to kiss her cheek, but she turned around again. 

“God, you stink of alcohol, Tom,” she rolled her eyes as he mumbled an apology. 

He frowned, and tried to lean over, he ended up nuzzling into her neck. She sighed, but caressed his hair anyway. 

“Do you hate me?” He asked her. 

“Yes,” she answered. 

He pouted. “Y/N,” he hiccuped again. “Mm… didn’t ya love me?” His words were even more slurred now. 

“Yes.”

He tried to stand back up but he was so dizzy, that he decided to keep leaning against her.

“You’re being really annoying right now, I understand you got angry but right now I’m too emotional to deal with drunk you —” She pointed out as the doors opened, Tom didn’t move. “Thomas,” she sighed. “C’mon, let’s…Tom, I’m really not in the mood to do this.” 

It seemed like the floor was spinning, but he helped him out, as he was striding to their room, y/n helping him as he had a shoulder around her, using her as support. 

Before she opened the door, Tom took her hand again and brought it up to his gaze. 

“what are you—what are you doing?” She asked. 

“Checking if you’re not wearing the ring, babe” Tom mumbled. 

Y/N sighed. “I gave it back.” 

Tom looked at the blurry image standing in front of him and formed a smile. “Good.” 

She opened the door, and Tom stumbled right behind her, he was still angry, but that soothed him. Y/N guided him to the bed, sitting him down. 

“You’ve… you have,” he closed his eyes and burped. “You’ve been crying,” Tom pointed out as he watched her walking around the room. 

She then was right beside him, Tom didn’t even notice how, but she handed him a bottle of water. “Drink.” 

Tom watched her. “Have you been crying?” 

She took a deep breath, “yes,” she answered. “Just drunk the water, Tom.” 

“Why?” He questioned as she glared at him, “why are you crying?” 

“Tom—drink the water.” 

He took a sip, “You love him.” 

“Tom—right now I really—I know this is too simple for you, I know that this seems simple for you, if anything you’ll just go on and live with your life okay? But—I need you not to make this hard for me,” she snapped as she walked away.

Tom watched her. “I know, you just officially let go of the love of your life I know, I know.” 

She crossed her arms turning back to him. “You’re really being an ass.”

“I am just hurt y/n,” he admitted. “I am sooo in love with you and you just see me as...I don’t know”

She took a deep breath, “I didn’t mean to hurt you okay?” Her voice was shaking. “I was going to give it back I just—hadn’t found the right time but—I gave it to him, happy?”

Tom blinked, giving it a thought. “No.” 

“I...really don’t want you to be hurt okay?” She walked over, taking his hands.. “You were not supposed to know.” 

Tom gave her a cynic smile. “But I found it,” he shrugged. 

“Yes, but—Tom,” she sighed. “really just we will talk when you’re sober and when I’m not on the verge of tears—“

He wasn’t really listening, he couldn’t focus. “Did he kiss you?” 

She closed her eyes. “No.” 

“Did he… try to kiss ya?”he pushed.

“No, Tom,” she let him go, and then more tears were coming down her cheeks. “I broke his heart, and do you know how fucking difficult it was?” She gulped. “That’s why I—I hadn’t done it yet because I didn’t want to spend my last days in New York with you crying over someone else—“

Tom laid down on the bed. “Y/N you still have feelings for him.” 

“Tom oh my god, do you really want to go there?” 

He chuckled. “Just did, besides it’s clear you still love him because you’re crying.” 

“Tom, it’s not if I have feelings or not,” she pointed out. “I am sad because I just closed a very important part of my life for something—“

“For something not certain,” he finished her line. 

“You don’t even understand this, you’re too drunk for me to explain this.” She was angry, so angry. 

“Try then,” he sat up. He had a sad, cynic smile across his face, and he could barely keep his eyes open. 

“I don’t even know if I want to,”she admitted, arms over her chest as she leaned against the wall. “we’ve already yelled and fought at each other twice in less than two days,” she sassed.  “and I’m just here thinking hey, this won’t work!” She looked away. “because we don’t trust each other.” 

He felt like somehow that had sobered him up. “Good to know you don’t trust me,” he laughed with sarcasm, as he rubbed his face. 

“Well, do you? Do you trust me? If you did, we wouldn’t be helping this conversation.” 

He didn’t answer. 

She shrugged, chuckling. “There’s your answer, we are both so damaged, Tom. This won’t be easy and you just have to accept it,” she explained. 

He looked away. “Why did you keep the ring?” 

“Tom.” 

He took  a deep breath. “I just need to know y/n because I—I know how much you loved him and feelings simply don’t disappear—“

She only walked to the window. “Everybody said it, okay?” She sniffed. “And I’m someone who plans ahead and I’m someone who—Who ends up doing the right thing, and I kept—“he could see her breaking her heart. “I kept the ring because he told me to,”her voice was now completely broken. “, and because I thought everyone says it—and I—“

“That you were perfect,” Tom finished,

“And I’ve always been known for making all the wrong choices—“

“And Timmy is the right one isn’t he?” He cackled. “Great.” 

“Bloody hell, Thomas you’re not making it easy,” she snapped. 

He stood up. “Y/N literally what the hell do I have to do for you to fucking look at me?” He asked as he walked to her, placing his hands on her shoulders so she’d finally face him, and to not lose balance, as well. “All my life I’ve literally been doing the impossible and yet you always turn around—“

“Oh my god,” she closed her eyes as she pushed his arms away. “”I can’t believe you, I’m in love with you!” She yelled. “Don’t you fucking see it? I’m in love with you,” she cried as she walked away. “after crying for a fucking year for that night in the club, I can’t bloody look at yellow flowers without tearing up but guess what,” she chuckled angrily. “I still fucking choose you every time, Tom, you literally don’t have to do anything for me to always fucking choose you and that’s why I don’t get it!” She turned back to see him. “I don’t get why, and yet you still doubt it, and even if you we’re screwing me over and over I still chose you and even if there was either Tim or Harry or—“

“Harry?” Tom didn’t even let her finish as she finally paused. “Harry?”

“I—no, let’s not go there,” she shook her head and hugged herself. 

Tom was sober now. “No, I want to fucking know now.” 

“Tom no, you’re drunk let’s—“she closed her eyes, as she looked around, trying to escape. 

“What about Harry?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Did you know—“

“Yes,  Tom I knew—“She snapped. 

The weather had turned cold, he thought he heard rain falling down but the night sky was clear. 

“How did you know?” Tom asked, quietly. 

She huffed, “Because unlike you, he’s shown me his whole life that he loves me.” 

Tom felt it again, an anger or guilt  he had suffered from throughout his life. “Then why the fuck do you love me if you—Harry was perfect!” 

She blinked with confusion. “What?”

“You should end up with Harry.”

“See? Now you get it,” she sat on the bed. “Everyone says it, Harry or Tim how nice and perfect, and yet—I choose you, Tom I don’t even know why you’re angry at me,” she complained “they all said it, but you know what and they also always said I would end up dating you, people are strange huh? They say a lot of things.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

She gulped down a sob, but then calmed down. “I’ve heard it all Tom,” she explained. “I know. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, the heart wants what it wants.” 

“But—everyone says it.” 

“Yes I know, that Tim is my endgame and that Harry was the guy I should’ve fallen in love with, but guess what! They also said that we needed to sleep together to finally get along and look at us now, people are wrong, aren’t they?”

He closed his eyes, hurt, as he sat beside her. “No—I—“

“I need to sleep,” she stood up. They didn’t follow the routine that night, not together. 

“I don’t want to go to bed like this,” he said as y/n picked up a pillow and a blanket and walked over to the sofa. “Y/N no—come here. If anything I’ll sleep there.” 

She sat down, hugging the pillow, so he made his way over. 

“Y/N, no come on, please—Let’s, I’m sorry okay?” He sighed sitting beside her. She stayed quiet, but scooted closer to him. “Y/N?”

“I don’t want it to rain in New York, Tom,” she whispered. “And I’m trying, okay? I just hope you’re trying, too.” 

She then went quiet, but then snuggled close to him, with her eyes closed. Tom blinked, but wrapped his arms around her confused. He still had a lot of thoughts in his head. Very confusing, hurtful thoughts. Especially around what she said about Harry. 

But then again, she was right, why the hell did she doubt her if she’d chosen him over and over?

But then guilt, the guilt of not wanting to break his brother’s heart. He decided it right there in that precise moment, that he wanted to tell him. Harry was with Emma. It was now or never. 

And he understood what she meant, maybe she’d felt it too, the thunder striking outside, but… If he looked out the window, the night was clear, the stars were bright. 

The next day they didn’t even talk about it, y/n had woken up earlier than him, Tom had woken up sore from sleeping on a couch, but he knew that she’d held him all night long, he had heard her cry in the middle of the night, he had seen her pace around the room but then, eventually she came back and snuggled him.  But he woke up alone, and it felt weird, but she had gone out and brought him a juice that she swore would cure his hangover. Neither him or y/n addressed anything they had talked the night before. 

He understood what she meant. This was Rome. New York was the new Rome, the part where they both could be happy, live the fairytale and then it would come to London, rainy London. Even if the sky in New York had turned gray. 

 And though Tom was facing a constant headache they both quietly decided that they’d enjoy the clear sky in New York. They went to that museum in Queens, they walked through Central Park and enjoyed a Picnic, they even bought a kite and flew it. And they didn’t fight. Not once, or not in the way they had fought the night before. As if both of them were actively avoiding it, pretending they were fine. Laughs. On the edge, as if the other would bring up one heartbreak eventually. They were fine. Even if they weren’t. 

But maybe, just maybe, they were. Even if the fantasy they were living was crafted, a film he’d seen before, not with him. Maybe that’s why it felt different, because Tom was trying too much. And so was y/n, because that day they weren’t each other. Like they played a part of something they didn’t belong in. Because they were being seen, in a way. 

But Tom looked at y/n, and even if her eyes looked tired, and even if her smile was slightly sad, her eyes brightened up when they looked at each other. That’s probably what had him crazy, because she was choosing him, even if just last night they were fighting. Why did y/n choose someone who broke her? Why couldn’t he stop breaking her? 

He felt like he’d run out of chances, and he knew this was the last time. Not sure why it felt like that, but maybe that’s why they were trying so hard to make each other smile and forget the night before. 

Were they forcing this too much? Had they loved each other so much and they had been so impatient that they had forced this? Like a film. Playing a part. 

He knew what he had to do. 

New York became a memory that they didn’t want to let go. The last days of filming had gone very quickly, especially because Tim wasn’t around anymore, and there were no more peonies coming. Tim looked destroyed, Tom had caught him smoking cigarettes and hiding a tear. Tom knew how it felt, he’d been there before, feeling like someone else had taken his place, a place that belonged to him. He couldn’t blame him. 

And maybe Tom had just a slight bit of sympathy and guilt and maybe that’s why he hadn’t kissed y/n as much when Tim was around. The guy wasn’t to blame, honestly. Even if he despised him, Tim had nothing to blame right now. If anything, Tom respected him because y/n had broken his heart. 

And the last night, while they were in the bathtub, surrounded by bubbles and foam, his arm around her, her back against his chest, glasses of red wine in their hands, the lights out, they were quiet. They had been quiet those days. Words were their strongest weapons and this time they didn’t want to wound each other. 

“y/n?” he had talked. 

And he felt how she had shifted, turning cold, as if she didn’t want to have any conversation. “Yes?” 

“I… I uh, called my parents before,” he said. 

She nodded. “Yeah, I heard, that’s why I didn’t interrupt.” 

“Yeah,” he gulped before placing a sweet kiss on her shoulder. “I…” He gulped, “Apparently they’re… having another lunch party of sorts with your parents when we come back, and we have to be there.” 

“Ah, yeah, James told me about it, what’s with them always throwing parties together?” she chuckled as she blew some bubbles at him. “As if they didn’t see each other once a week.” 

Tom grinned, as he then decided to splash out some water at her. “And as if we didn’t hang out on our own.” 

She laughed, leaning against him, she took his hand and played with it.

Tom locked his fingers with hers, and took a sip of his wine. 

 “Oh, if they knew,” she chuckled. “We haven’t behaved, haven’t we?” she asked before turning around to beard him up with the bubbles.

Tom almost choked on his wine, but chuckled. “Y/N!” 

“What?” she giggled. “I don’t think this is exactly what they wanted when they told us to behave whenever we fought.” 

He grinned, agreeing. He really didn’t want this to die, not this time. Because this wasn’t supposed to be forbidden, this wasn’t them being silly children fighting, or kissing. This wasn’t illicit, the deal couldn’t be expired. 

“I told them I was seeing someone,” Tom mentioned after a while. 

She turned warm again and then turned to face him. “Yea?” 

He smiled. “Yes, hope you don’t mind” 

She chuckled. “I… did they ask who?” 

“Yes,” Tom gulped. “I didn’t tell them, told them I wanted them to meet her.” 

She laughed. “I love pretending not to know your parents,” she looked down at him and placed a soft kiss on the edge of his lips. 

“So, I told them that I’d bring her to lunch,” he whispered, hoping this wasn’t something that would bring their little act down. 

She paused, taking a deep breath. 

Tom then feared his words had been a knife and he had just stabbed her. But then, after what Tom felt was the longest minute of his life she turned to him. 

“Well, I hope they like her and that she’s there on time” And she’d kissed him. 

“And… I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I… also have a song for us.” 

“Ah, you do?” 

“Yeah, that’s what’s been keeping me awake these two nights,” he said, ignoring what had happened the night before. “It took me a lot to think about it.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes because it couldn’t be a normal song, you know? I can’t just simply choose a random one.” 

“Why not?” She chuckled. 

“Because it’s you, it either has to be an 80’s song or a One Direction song, I know you,” he laughed. 

She giggled. “But… If a song fits, it fits, you know?” She tilted her head. 

“Okay, I’m just going to pretend you just didn’t say that,” he blinked. “Because I really wanted it to be perfect, and…I really had to think about it to fit your whole aesthetic, and crazy mind of yours, and  I came up with this one. And now, I’ll…” He reached for his phone. “I just want you to close your eyes, and…” 

“Does it have a meaning?” 

“I just feel like… It fits, you know?” he chuckled. “It’s actually a song about war.” 

She blinked. “War?”

“Yeah, war.” 

“Funny, I also relate a war concept to you,” she whispered. 

“Huh?” 

“Nothing, what’s the song?” She smiled. 

“Close your eyes….” 

And she did, and he played the song. Everybody Wants To Rule The World. Tears for Fears. And maybe that song did it for them, because they believed it. 

The flight back home had been quiet, and y/n said she never wanted to forget New York, the city that never sleeps, and the city where they barely had slept, tangled up in the sheets and yearning for an eternal moonlight, memorizing each other. The city where they had only found each other in a crowd, where no matter how chaotic, they’d found peace. A sun making its way back out after a storm. Tom didn’t want to leave the clear blue sky, the cozy nights, the hope, he didn’t want to go back to the rain. Because it felt like it was coming. 

But London received them with a bright sunny day, not a gray sky. It was sunny, and warm. And maybe it was telling them that it’d be alright. 

Tom had only gone back home, picked out a few clothes, avoided Harrison and then decided to go to y/n’s place. He avoided everyone’s calls. So had y/n. They needed to be alone before everything could explode. 

Because just the very next day, they’d go to the lunch thing. And he knew that he wasn’t nervous about his parents, or her parents. Both of them were nervous about Harry. Even if they hadn’t said anything, he knew both of them were very very very anxious about it. Especially now that Tom knew that y/n had known about his brother’s infatuation towards her. And he still hadn’t yet decided how to feel about it. Guilty, at least. Very, very guilty. And maybe angry at y/n. But was he, really? He loved her, and she loved him back. He couldn’t be stupid enough to think about how y/n didn’t love someone else. 

This was y/n’s fault, or was it Tom’s? Why the hell couldn’t he make up his mind about this. And he thought how it would go, how if she’d chosen Harry instead. How he’d have to stay quiet, be happy for his brother. But Harry? Would Harry be happy? 

Because Tom knew that that territory was dangerous, mostly because y/n had been right. Tom had never shown her that he loved her, and Harry probably would get defensive, and he’d probably be angry because everyone said it, and he knew what was coming: Tom will break y/n’s heart because that’s all Tom does. Break y/n apart. 

But Harry would bring Emma, right? It’d be okay. Harry had moved on, and the only thing Tom would have to deal with was the fact that TOm had hidden his love towards y/n. 

He knew the conversation was long overdue, with y/n, with Harry. Of course, that by admitting it with everyone else there, he’d avoid some kind of drama. But if they didn’t, Tom decided to enjoy his tranquility alone with y/n. Kissing, and cuddling and laughing and then with their clothes again on the floor, tangled in between the sheets, and longing for the night to never end because the next day, it could probably rain. 

They had a sort of plan, test the waters first. 

And she’d chosen that strawberry dress, yes, it was strawberries, on a pink dress that Tom loved. And Tom felt dizzy, as he’d given her one last quick kiss before walking in, to see Nikki and Elaine with a glass of champagne in their hands as they were talking to each other. 

They paused, watching Tom as he knew they tried to look behind him, trying to find the girl he had so talked marvels about. 

They both kissed their mother’s cheeks, and hugged the others’.

“Well, hello, you two,” Elaine said. “I’m surprised you’re both complete after spending two months together,” she commented. 

“We get along,” y/n laughed. “For now, besides, he was paying me so.” 

“How was New York? It was always a dream of yours, did you like it?” Elaine asked. 

“Loved it, it’s the best time I’ve ever had in my life,” she admitted with a grin. 

Tom blushed, but then cleared his throat to look at his mother. “Uh, we--” He cleared his throat. “I brought wine, so...I’m gonna…” 

Nikki grinned. “Tom, where’s your...girlfriend?” She sounded suspicious. 

He chuckled as he headed to the kitchen. “Ah, she’ll be here, she’s running late,” he lied. 

“Hm, not a great  first impression as the new girlfriend huh?” Elaine commented. 

Tom hid a grin, as he heard y/n chuckle. He took out two beers from the fridge and opened them

“So, y/n, thoughts on his new girlfriend? I assume you know her,” Nikki commented. 

Tom walked back over, handed y/n a beer and laughed. “You’re really asking my worst enemy her thoughts on my new girlfriend?”

Elaine smirked. “She’s the one who will tell us the truth.” 

Y/N snickered. “Uh- well,” she looked at Tom. “Mm, honestly she’s a little slutty, feel like he paid her to date her.” 

Tom choked on his beer. 

Elaine and Nikki widened their eyes with surprise. 

“What?” the three of them said in unison. 

“Y/N!” Her mother called her. 

“I’m kidding,” she laughed. “Uh seriously I’m joking, , honestly I… I’m sorry, I don’t think I have an opinion of her, I only know she’s got terrible taste if she wants to date him.” 

Tom smirked and faked a phony laugh. “Can’t deny that,” he grinned. “But, no, she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life, she’s stunning, so smart and talented.” 

“But, let’s just say they can rule the world.” 

Tom smiled.

Y/N smiled to herself. “So, where are the guys?” 

“Sam, Rich and Dom went to buy some stuff, Pad is upstairs-”Nikki explained. 

“And Ha--”Tom couldn't finish.

“I’m here, you guys arrived early,” James had walked in just in time for Tom and y/n to scoot away from each other. “Didn’t see your car, n/n,” he raised his brows with a smirk. He then turned with his coldest stare at Tom. “Thomas.” 

“Hi, bro,” Tom awkwardly fist bumped him. 

He said hello to Nikki and his mother. 

“So, what’s the occasion this time?” James asked as he snatched the beer from his sister’s hand, she pouted but then Tom discreetly offered his, y/n denied it. 

“As if we needed an occasion to have lunch together,” y/n pointed out.

“Tom’s got a girlfriend,” Elaine answered. “We’re meeting her today.” 

James’ eyes widened as he stared between the young couple. “Does he, now?” Tom only sipped his beer. “Ah, I’ve never seen you guys make such a deal out of a new girlfriend,” James snaked, chuckling. “Well, what about you, y/n?” James grinned. “Have you a boyfriend now?” 

Y/N now snatched the beer from Tom’s hands, taking a sip. “Hm?” 

James raised his brows, chuckling. “Fine.” 

“So…” Nikki cleared her throat. “Y/n, dear, I need you to help me out with something, you’re going to be Emma’s maid of honor right?” 

“Yes!” Y/N gulped. 

Nikki grinned, “amazing, can you come here a little and help me out?”

Tom held his breath as he watched his mother and y/n leave. 

“So, Tom, how really is she?” Elaine asked. “No need to impress y/n now,” she chuckled. 

“How is who?” James asked. 

“We were talking about his girlfriend, y/n called her slutty,” Elaine commented. 

“But she’s not!” Tom was quick to answer. 

“No, I know,” Elaine laughed.

James crossed his arms and chuckled. “Mum, I don’t think you should be asking him that.” 

“Well, she's running late, already making a bad impression, Tom, meeting the parents is always a deal breaker.” 

James let out  a long laugh. “I am sure they will love her.” 

“Do you know her, already?” Asked Elaine. “Is she—how do you guys say it? A hottie?” 

“Mum I really don’t think—“James chuckled. “Don’t.” 

“She’s beautiful,” Tom said, snickering. 

Elaine nodded. “So, Tom, I… I am going to ask you because well, you were there,” she sighed. “How did y/n do? With Tim being there?” 

Tom turned cold. Of course Elaine would ask about Timothée. James’ eyes widened and he coughed.

“Mum, don’t… Go there,” James warned. 

“Well, I’ve gotta ask,” she nodded. “I’m just worried, I… She was really bummed when they broke up. Tim really was the love of her life.” 

Tom blinked and cleared his throat, he shook his head. “I… You know what? I.. I don’t think he is,” he said. “But yea, she did fine… And I’m getting another beer.” 

Tom decided to not go back to that conversation and join his youngest brother instead, too busy playing on his Nintendo Switch, Tessa ran over to his lap. Eventually, he heard the door open again and men’s laughs filled the house, Richard, y/n’s father, Dom and Sam had walked in. No trace of Harry. 

Tom had walked backstairs again to see Sam and Y/N catching up, laughing at something she was showing him on his phone. Still, no trace of Harry. 

“Mum, where’s Harry?” Tom asked Nikki. 

“Ah, he had something to do with Emma, you know, they’re planning an engagement party and--” 

“They are? He didn’t tell me,” Harry frowned. “He’s not coming, then?” 

“No,” Nikki shook her head. “He told me that he was happy you had a girlfriend though,” she mentioned. 

Tom felt a stab in his chest. Did Harry know? Maybe he did, and if he did, was he happy? Maybe he had to tell this to his brother alone, not like this. This was the universe telling Tom that he had to speak to his brother, even if he’d been avoiding him for a while now. 

The afternoon continued, and Tom and y/n were trying so hard not to give hints yet, and it was hard, Tom was holding back from taking her hand, from kissing her cheek. They’d gotten so used to being alone that this wasn’t them. 

Tom and y/n had agreed not to say anything until the very end. But honestly, Tom didn’t know what this was even for anymore, their parents weren’t the ones who mattered and Sam and James probably had guessed it by now. For who was this surprise for? Paddy? This was the moment Tom had planned to tell Harry. Not… Well, if they were honest this was their way out to not be scared. To be alone even if they were surrounded by all of them. 

“Tom’s girlfriend hasn’t showed up, huh?” Richard laughed. “We’ve all been there buddy, maybe it was too soon to meet the parents, huh?” 

Tom laughed. “I… Don’t think it is.” 

“So, is she actually a real girlfriend or another girl you’re parading with?” Richard pushed. 

James took a long sip of his beer. “Yeah, Tom, is she a real girlfriend?” 

Tom laughed nervously. “I… she’s a real girlfriend, I’m really hoping it’ll last.” 

“Well, if she’s not here already, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Dom pointed out. 

Sam burst out in laughter and nudged Tom. “Uh-huh.” 

Tom managed a way to sneak out of the conversation as he had seen y/n walk in alone to the kitchen, he ran over to her and made sure nobody was watching before placing a kiss on her cheek from behind. 

“Oh, hi,” she grinned. 

“So how’s it going?” he asked, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. 

“So, my mum and your mum already hate me because I’m late and now they are wondering if I’m ugly because you’ve never said anything about it, and they really think I’m a little slutty,” she giggled. 

“I mean, last night...” Tom smirked. 

“Shut up!” She slapped his shoulder. 

“I’m joking,” he laughed as he nuzzled into her neck, giggling. 

“Well how is it going for you?” she frowned. 

“Pretty much the same, they don’t suspect a thing,” Tom admitted, kissing her neck again.. “Mmh, should we tell them now?” 

“I don’t know, maybe… We could wait, tell them she won’t be able to come and… I feel like… I dunno.” She turned around. “Now, this is obvious enough so,” she pushed him away before walking outside where they’d be eating. 

They were getting ready, their sitting arrangements just as usual, Tom and y/n far away from each other. A seat, usual Harry’s seat, empty. 

“And this is for your nameless girlfriend,” Nikki said as she placed an empty plate right beside Tom. “Whom I don’t think will show up now but…” 

“Actually, mum, I’m gonna be sitting over there,” Tom said, taking his plate and walking over to y/n. 

All the table went quiet, Sam and James only watched him curiously and about to burst into laughter. Seemed like the two of them had realized they both knew and they were having quite a lot of fun with this situation. 

“You guys are gonna behave?” Elaine laughed. 

“Yeah, think I can behave just fine with my girlfriend,” Tom smirked as he finally sat down beside y/n, finally holding her hand. It felt like the walls had tumbled down finally. There was only a wall far away, waiting to be tumbled, but Tom would take care of that himself later. 

The table went cold and quiet, shock coming from both their parents faces as y/n was also a bit in shock. But she smiled. 

“What?” Paddy was the only one to make a noise. “Didn’t you hate each other? What the hell?” He scrunched his nose with confusion. 

They remained quiet, their eyebrows were raised and their mouths shaped in big ‘o’s. 

The silence was broken with Elaine, gracefully turning to her best friend and smirking. “Give me my money back, and pay up.” 

“What?” Tom and y/n asked in unison. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Nikki blinked as Elaine grinned. “Are you guys serious? Are you actually?” 

“Yeah,” y/n chuckled. “I’m the slutty ugly girl who arrived late.” 

Tom laughed. “No-” 

“Pay up, Nik,” Elaine grinned. 

“What?” Tom asked again.

“Your mothers decided to bet,  Elaine said you’d end up dating with this and your mum said you wouldn’t,” Dom explained. “They’ve been doing this their whole lives and now it’s actually a--” 

“You guys are betting over our love life?” Y/N frowned, laughing. 

“You guys are dating?” Richard was the one to ask now. “What is going on?” 

Of course, Tom and y/n couldn’t tell them how they had actually started dating, they had come up with them starting to hang out more and realizing their feelings with each other, and technically that wasn’t a lie, but of course Sam and James weren’t buying it, but they kept quiet, so it was good,at least so after calming down their shock. Obviously then seeing their parents' reactions and regrets over past comments about making fun of Tom and his non-existent girlfriend or about how she probably was ugly. It went… great, it was calm and they finally could slowly hold hands and they finally let themselves go. They were free, out of a cage, out of a staged lie, and they were on their best behavior, for the first time they didn’t hear it ‘children, behave’, and he finally could place an arm around her, and they didn’t have to hide the fact that they were lovingly staring into each other's eyes.  They didn’t have to be alone now, and honestly, they could rule the world by then. Everything was perfect. 

The news was great for both families, and although the one Tom wanted to know the most hadn’t heard it yet, he wasn’t scared, not for the first time. Because he felt free, for the first time he really wanted to do things right. Even if he’d heard it, and even if they hadn’t talked about it, they’d have time because they didn’t have to hide, not anymore. 

He went back to her place again that night. 

“So, that went amazing,” y/n commented as soon as they’d walk into her apartment, Tom couldn’t keep her hands off of her. 

“I thought… I thought they wouldn’t like it,” he laughed. 

“Can you believe they’ve been betting their whole lives?” She laughed. “God, I mean, I understand they’re best friends and that they-- But?” 

He scoffed. “Maybe we should start betting on them too, you know? Stuff like, who’s going to go bald first or dunno.” 

“Whatever, I think we should celebrate,” she smirked. 

“Oh?” 

She giggled but then pulled him in for a long, long kiss, as her tongue explored his. She quickly pulled away. “Huh, wait, what time is it? I haven’t--I haven’t sent out that thing for my script, shit, shit shit,” she continued cursing as she let him go, she ran over to her room and took out her laptop. Tom blinked but followed after her. 

She was quick to type, and then she seemed so stressed as she kept swearing until she finally sent it in, whatever she was sending. Tom only sat on the edge of the bed watching her. 

“Where were we?” She asked, before crawling over to him. She hadn’t closed her laptop. 

“About to celebrate, I believe,” he smirked, as he wrapped his arms around her to kiss her again. She sat on his lap, and played with his hair. 

Her phone started to ring, she ignored it, as she was taking off Tom’s shirt and he was ready to take off her cherry dress. But it kept ringing. 

“Would you mind if---?” She asked as she took out her phone. Tom chuckled but kept his lips on her jawline, tracing it down with soft kisses. She cleared her throat. “Shit, it’s my boss.” 

He kept kissing her neck, though. 

“Uh, hi, Alessandra--”

“I’m sorry I’m calling you this late,” Tom heard her boss say over the phone. “I hope you’re not busy.” 

Y/N bit her lip as Tom chuckled, kissing down his way to her collarbone. 

“I’m… No, I’m not busy, it’s alright.” 

“Well, uh, we need to talk about the script I uh--” 

“Actually, um, Alessandra just give me a sec,” she cleared her throat as she quickly pushed Tom away and jumped off his grip. He pouted but then she placed a quick kiss on his lips before rushing out of her room. 

Tom chuckled, and then stared at her laptop. He pulled it close and saw the opened document, from what he could see it was her script. The same script she’d been so secretive about. Of course he was going to read it, he wanted to praise her work and talent, so he started reading it. 

But maybe he shouldn’t have, because just as he started, a storm started pouring down in London. 

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Paired Up - Chapter Two (Bucky x Reader)

Chapter 2/5

Previous Chapter 

FANDOM - Marvel MCU

PAIRING - Bucky X Reader

WARNINGS - Smut, Swearing, Alcohol

DESCRIPTION -

 If only you had known that Bucky knew sign language...

If only Steve Rogers wasn't such an evil mastermind...

If only you weren't stuck in a loveless (fake) marriage with the man you hated...

If only your hormones weren't so traitorous...

If only... 

Chapter Two

You dragged your suitcase into the common room and after checking that it was only Sam in there, dramatically flung yourself onto the sofa.

 “I’m a good person, I don’t deserve this.” You whined petulantly into the couch cushions.

“You’re an ex-mercenary…” Sam pointed out, turning away from the tv.

 “Emphasis on the Ex.” You rebutted, sitting up.

 “Still, maybe this is Karma.” He suggested.

 “Nothing I have ever done warrants being married to Bucky ‘I’ll make your life a living hell’ Barnes.” You gasped, feigning offense.

 “True, true.” Sam said, nodding in agreement.

 “I can’t believe that nobody told me he understood sign language.” You sighed, remembering the awful moment that your life had come crashing down around you.

 “It wasn’t that bad, you just said he was pretty. You can think people and pretty and still hate them with every fibre of your being. Taylor Swift is pretty, I still hate her.” Sam consoled.

 “Sam… It’s just me here… You can admit you’re a Swifty.” You snorted.

 “Her songs are catchy ok?” He said defensively and you held up your hands in mock surrender.

 “You’ve got a point though. So what if I objectively think he’s pretty? It’s not like he caught me saying anything truly embarrassing.”

 “Like the fact you walked into a wall when you saw him working out shirtless in the gym?” Sam asked.

 “One time Wilson and we agreed to never speak of it again.” You grumbled.

 “Or that you’ve had at least three vivid sex dreams about him?” He continued.

 “I need to stop telling you stuff.” You said.

 “Remember the time you crawled through archive footage of him from the 40’ so you could do a side by side comparison of his ass to see if it was a super soldier thing?” Sam carried on, ignoring you.

 “That was for science! The great mystery of Bucky’s Booty.” You insisted.

 “And?”

 “It’s not the serum, Barnes just has an amazing ass.” You told him, sighing.

 “You think I have an amazing ass?”

 Yet again, your heart stopped. You slowly turned around, like you were in a horror movie to see Bucky leaning against the doorframe casually and smirking at you.

 “How long have you been standing there?” You whispered fearfully.

 “Long enough to know I need to look into getting a restraining order against you.” He said flatly.

 “Oh no.” You groaned.

 “All this time, I thought you hated me and it turns out that you’re my biggest fan.”

 “I am NOT, I’m just a fan of….”

 “My ass?”

 “Did you know he was there?” You demanded, turning back around to look at… an empty chair?

 “Oh, I hate him.” You snapped.

 “Do you? Or are you secretly harbouring a crush on him and stalking him in your free time?” Bucky asked.

 “Dreaming about someone isn’t stalking them!” You defended yourself.

 “You dream about me?” He asked, grinning like he’d just won the lottery and you belatedly realised that he hadn’t actually heard that part of the conversation.

 “About killing you.” You quickly said.

 “Is that the only thing you dream about?” He asked lowly, leaning closer to you.

 You fixed him with a glare that usually had enemies running scared but he didn’t so much as blink.

 “I will stab you, I swear I will.” You vowed.

 “I didn’t figure you were into knife play but whatever gets you off doll.” He quipped and you made a low noise of disgust.

 He chuckled and pulled a couple of fake passports out of his pocket and tossed one at you.

 “Nat had these done. Apparently we are now Johnny and Lola Rogers from Brooklyn New York. We are madly in love, newly married and on our honeymoon. So, wifey, shall we go?” He asked, standing up and offering you his hand.

 You’d been briefed, you were packed and the quinjet was waiting. There was no more stalling to be had. You ignored his outstretched hand and got up, grabbing your suitcase and storming away.

 “Allow me darling.” He said and grabbed your suitcase from you, lifting it up like it weighed nothing.

 You flipped him off and meandered slowly behind him, trying to draw out the short walk outside.

 “You guys ready to go?” Steve called as you walked up to the Quinjet.

 You glared at the Captain and steadfastly ignored him.

 “Hey Nat, are you still an assassin? I’ll pay you to kill me right now.” You called as you walked up the ramp.

 “Why bother when you’re about to suffer such a slow and amusing death?” She responded, smirking at you and settling into the co-pilots seat next to Clint.

 You walked around the sports car that had been parked in the jet and took a seat beside it, choosing to ignore all your so called ‘friends’ since they were taking so much joy in your misery. You narrowed your eyes at Steve and Bucky who were having a hushed conversation as they walked onboard. Steve passed something to Bucky and the brunette super soldier immediately came over you and knelt in front of you and cleared his throat, holding up the wedding band.

 “Will you…” He began.

 “Just fucking give it to me.” You snarled, snatching it off of him while Steve, Clint and Natasha chuckled.

 “So romantic. You’ve really made me the happiest man alive.” He scoffed.

 You growled in annoyance and decided to sit in the car instead, climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door closed. You already knew everything you needed to know about the mission, so there was no need to suffer through any more extended proximity to Bucky. Instead, you could sit and stew in the car.

 After about fifteen minutes of reliving the series of embarrassing events in which he’d found out about your pesky appreciation for his physical attributes you started to nod off, until someone knocked on the car window. You opened your eyes to see his annoyingly handsome face and rolled down the window.

 “What?” You asked shortly.

 “Saw you were falling asleep, so I came to remind you not to have anymore dirty dreams about me. We’ve got company.” He said, winking at you.

 You gave him a cold look and put the window back up. He chuckled and opened the door to your exclamation od surprise and indignation.

 “Here.” He said, shoving his wadded up coat behind your head as a make-shift pillow and slamming the door closed again.

 You frowned at his retreating figure in befuddlement. Since when was he thoughtful?

 Well, since when was he thoughtful towards you? You put it down to nothing more than him getting in character and closed your eyes again, letting yourself drift back off to sleep. You were so tired you didn’t wake up when the jet landed, or when Bucky got in the drivers side or when he started the car and drove it down the ramp. You didn’t wake up until you were approaching the luxury ski resort.

 “Hnnmphgh.” You muttered as something flicked you on the cheek.

 “Darling wake up, we’re here.” Bucky said loudly and you opened your eyes to see his hand, flicking at your face.

 “Fuck off Barnes.”

 “Johnny… and we’re in love so be a bit nicer to me.” He chuckled.

 “Ugh, I will. When we get there and not a second before.” You decreed.

 He pulled up at the main entrance and an actual team of bellboys descended on the car. You got out at the same time he did, tossing the keys to a bellboy/valet.

 “Action.” You said under your breath and turned to him with a dazzling smile.

 “Baby, it’s even more gorgeous than the brochure!” You said excitedly as he came around the car and put his arm around your waist.

 “Only the best for my beautiful wife.” He said, gazing down at you like a man who was really in love.

 “Mr and Mrs Rogers, welcome to Chedi Andermatt. Congratulations on your marriage.” One of the men said and you and Bucky turned to him with matching smiles.

 “Thankyou, we’re very happy. Well I am at least, are you happy my love?” Bucky asked, looking at you.

 “So happy, happiest I’ve ever been in my life! Why wouldn’t I be?” You gushed.

 “Well we hope you enjoy your stay, and thank you for choosing to share this experience with us. Mrs Rogers would you like to wait in the lounge with a complimentary glass of champagne while your husband finishes checking you in and we have your bags sent up to your room?”

 “Go on sweetheart, I’ll be right there.” Bucky said, pushing you towards the lounge.

 “Don’t leave me alone for long Johnny, I’ll miss you.” You said, blowing him a kiss.

 You heard his fake, convincing laugh as you accepted the champagne and settled in front of the fireplace on the lounge chair. You looked around in awe and wide eyed wonder, or at least that’s what anyone watching you would think. You were mentally mapping the layout and studying the staff. Satisfied with your findings, you sipped the champagne.

 You’d only been playing your role for a few minutes and you already felt ill. Alcohol was a necessity at this point. You stood up and moved closer to the fire, grateful for the warmth. A pair of arms snaked around your waist and despite the highly convincing flesh glove over his hand, you could feel the stiff, unyielding metal.

 “Von Straughten checked in yesterday morning, he’s in room 24.” Bucky whispered, nuzzling into your neck.

 You shivered in the fake lovers embrace and he of course noticed. You felt his smirk where his lips were pressed into your neck.

 “And what room are we in?” You asked.

 “The Furka suite.” He informed you, releasing you and offering you his arm.

 “Ooh fancy.” You said quietly, linking your arm with his.

 You passed your empty glass to a dutiful member off staff was hanging around as Bucky led you towards the elevator. All the way to the room you played the part you’d been assigned, leaning your head on his shoulder as the elevator ascended. The second he unlocked the suite you sprang away from him and inside. You just wanted to get away from him but when you saw the room your jaw dropped.

 It was warm, cozy and luxurious all at the same time.

 “Look at the bed!” You exclaimed, taken aback by the sheer size of it.

 You ran into the bathroom excitedly.

 “Look at the bath!” You called loudly.

 “Can you calm down you godman child? It’s a room, just a room.” Bucky said, rolling his eyes.

 “You know what Barnes? Fuck you.”

 “On the bed or in the bath?” He asked.

 It took you a second to realise what he just said and you threw the room service menu at him. He caught it without flinching and casually perused it.

 “We should go down to the restaurant, start scoping out the place.” He decided.

 “Fine.” You agreed.

 You dragged your suitcase over to the bed and started unzipping it to find something to wear to dinner.

 “What?” Bucky asked when you made a shrieking sound.

 You pulled out a line of condoms and he snorted at first but even he was taken aback when you kept pulling them out, like some kind of smutty magician.

 “Just how much sex do you think we’re going to be having doll?” He asked.

 “None! This wasn’t me!” You insisted.

 “None? Are you sure about that? You telling me you didn’t pack these either?” He asked, reaching around you to pull a black lacey thong out of the suitcase.

 “Paws off my panties Barnes.” You snapped, snatching them back.

 “So they are yours?” He asked smugly.  

 “Pervert.” You muttered, shoving them under a sweater.

 “Prude.” He shot back.

 “I am NOT a prude.” You said.

 “Then how come I’m not having any sex on my honeymoon?” He asked with a wounded look, sitting down on the bed.

 “You can have as much sex as you like, just not with me.” You told him, finding a suitable dress and pulling it out of the suitcase.

 “I can feel the love.” He snorted.

 You gave him a one fingered salute and stomped over to the bathroom, slamming the door.

 “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He shouted and you groaned and opened the door again.

 He was dangling the thong from his fingers with a shit eating grin on his face.

 “Unless you’re planning on wearing nothing under the dress?” He asked.

 “Ugh. I fucking hate you!” You hissed, slamming the door again.

 “Does mean you aren’t wearing any underwear to dinner?” He yelled and you opened the door and stormed over to him, snatching your underwear out of his hand and storming away again.

 You slammed the door for the third time and resisted the urge to bang your head against it.

@boxofteenageideas @nerdy-bookworm-1998 @anamcg317 @thosesexytexasboys @musingpredilection @spnrvt

The question was inevitable, Nero supposes. He’s been encouraging Natalya to be curious, to ask questions---  and Elena was the point of no return for the Furans and G.L.O.V.E. Elena is the reason that Anastasia sent the girl after him and it’s only natural that she would want to know the details. Still, when she asks, suddenly “Who was Elena?” he freezes under a sudden stab of grief and pain that he’s starting to think will never truly go away- though it might lessen, he supposes, once new, fresher griefs and pains  supplant it—

             “I’m sorry,” Natalya says in a small voice, shrinking back against the hospital pillows. There’s something faintly fearful in her face, and he wonders what’s showing on his face to provoke that expression. He pulls his hand down his face and attempts a smile, moving the bookmark back between the pages of A Tale of Two Cities, closes the books, and puts it on to Natalya’s bedside cabinet.

              “Elena.” he says. “Yelena Mikhailova Furana. She was Anastasia and Pietor’s younger sister, by all of three and a half minutes.” He smirks suddenly. “She was very irritated about those three and a half minutes,” he remembers. “She said it might as well have been three and half years, the way they babied her- and if it had been three and half years it might not have been so annoying,” he sighed. “The Furans were the Russian representatives for G.L.O.V.E,” he says, and Natalya’s eyes go wide.

                 “They were what?” she demands.

                  “They were the Russian representatives for G.L.O.V.E.,” Nero repeats, remembering the fiasco that that had been. “They butchered their way to the top and the joke of it all was that they hadn’t even known G.L.O.V.E existed, they had thought that Vladimir Ivanovitch  was simply another shadowy mafia figure…of course, Ivanovitch was very old, he was loosing his grip as it was, which is why Number One allowed the Furans to replace him, rather than avenging the insult. They were young. Ambitious. Effective. Efficient.”

                       Raven studies Doctor Nero’s expression. It’s neutral, but there’s a faint tension to his muscles that suggest  he’s  keeping it carefully so and she’s beginning to understand what that means. “You don’t agree with that decision,” she hedges, and Nero’s eyes sparkle a little when he looks at her. He’s pleased at her deduction. Nevertheless:

                        “It’s not so simple as that,” he says, “Ivanovitch needed to retire. But I liked him- he was one of G.L.O.V.E’s original founders. Razor sharp, excellent sense of humour. Taught me how to play poker badly in order to distract my opponents long enough for an accomplice to clean out their hotel rooms safes. And the Furans weren’t trained to follow G.L.O.V.E.’s code of conduct and nor did they seem particularly interested in investing themselves in it. In hindsight, perhaps, we were asking for trouble. But, Number One ordered me to help integrate them in to the organisation, and I did as I was told— and Anastasia was brilliant. Is brilliant, I suppose, although-“ he breaks himself off abruptly. “We were discussing Yelenechka”

                          Yelenechka?! Raven thinks. How close were they, exactly? Nero doesn’t seem to have noticed his slip , though when he next speaks, he’s changed back to the anglicised version of the third Furan sibling’s name.

                            “Elena was very well suited to G.L.O.V.E.,” he says, and there’s a faint undertone of pride to his voice. “Her siblings broke laws to advance, to survive, to grasp for power- she did it for those things as well, but also because it was a challenge, it was exciting, it was fun.  We started working with each other, rather than alongside each other- we spent two years trying to steal every Faberge Egg in existence just because we could.”

                            “And did you?” Raven asks. Nero grins.

                           “All fifty-seven,” he says, “They’re in our house in Prague. Number One gave us a lecture about meaningless distractions and a £57,000 bonus each.”

                          “Were you in love with her?” Raven asks. Nero’s grin fades.

                     “That depends how you would define love, I suppose. We sort of- fell in together, almost by accident: we were friends, then we were best friends, and then we suddenly realised that we had been living with each other for months without noticing and people were coming up to us after G.L.O.V.E meetings to ask when we were getting married.” His smile is wistful, this time. “Elena said we should, if only to get expensive engagement and wedding presents from our colleagues. I pointed out that  “killed at own wedding” was statistically one of the leading causes of death in our field, although the tax breaks might be welcome-“

                             “You pay taxes?” Raven blurts out, disbelieving.

                              “Funding for the arts and civil infrastructure is very important,” Nero says, with great dignity. “As is public healthcare. Anyway, we didn’t get married. We were already close enough- perceived to be close enough- that we were painting targets for our enemies on each other’s backs. And besides, we weren’t lovers. Queerplatonic Partners would have been a more accurate term.”

                              Queerplatonic? Raven files the word away to ask someone else about- Professor Pike, perhaps, or else Mr. Darkdoom. She isn’t sure that Nero would mind more questions- he seems to encourage them, which is still  strange to her, but she doesn’t want to push it. And he’s growing sad, staring at something that isn’t there. “Elena and I were so wrapped up in the thrill of being dazzlingly brilliant we forgot  that Anastasia had never been as interested in succeeding in G.L.O.V.E as we were- taking over, that was more her style, and--- I don’t know why Elena, of all people, was one of her first – she did love her. But she was loyal to Number One first, and Anastasia second, by the time Anastasia was ready to show her hand- if Elena tried to warn him, or if she tried to warn me…” he trails off, looking at Natalya and reaching for Dickens. “Do you mind if I change the subject?” he asks, and Natalya shakes her head.

                  “No,” she says. “I’m sorry I asked-“

               “No, I’m glad you did,” Nero counters. “Never-“

               “Never be afraid to ask questions,” Raven completes, and feels a slight urge to roll her eyes at the now-familiar phrase- and feeling the urge to roll her eyes makes her, in turn, feel faintly warm and safe. Nero opens the book and settles in to read to her, and she’s growing more and more convinced that she made the right decision in trusting him.

Thick as Thieves Chapter 5 Update!

Chapter five is up and ready! Link to the fic is in my sidebar of my blog, in case tumblr is still screwing with links not showing up in the tags. Chapter one is included below for anyone new who wants to check it out.

title:Thick As Thieves

fandom: Dragon age

Pairing: Solas/f!Cadash

Summary: Everything he had planned for the last several centuries has gone up in the literal smoke still billowing from the Conclave and his only hope lies embedded in the hand of a petty criminal dwarf who looks barely old enough to buy a mug of ale. It takes all his self control not to cackle in some forgotten corner like the  mad Fen'Harel of Dalish infamy.

Rating: PG - PG 13

Tags: slow (slooooowwwwwww) burn, enemies to friends to lovers, culture clash, Solas has a judgey mouth and it gets him in a lot of trouble

The dwarf who  bears his mark is not in any way intimidating. She reminds Solas of a child, not just in stature (though the top of her head barely graces his shoulder) but in her countenance. With round cheeks splattered with freckles and eyes like a fawn,  she carries an air of innocence. In fact, the most frightening thing about her is the pair of wicked daggers strapped to her back and even they look out of place, a child playing dress-up. It makes Cassandra’s caution look almost comical.

He can tell from the bewildered expression on her face that she has had few interactions with powerful magic. She has no issue stabbing demons, yet stalls in front of the rift, forcing him to grab the mark and do it for her. Afterwards, she stares at her in hand in morbid fascination.

“What did you do?” she asks.

“I did nothing. The credit is yours.” Millennia of practice allows him to speak these words with a smile as he swallows bile.

Noticing Cassandra’s agitated pacing int he corner of his eye, he launches into an explanation of the mark and it’s abilities, based on his “theories.” The lies fall easy from his lips, a skill he is not proud to have. Cassandra, desperate for hope, swallows them without question.

“It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he tells the dwarf, and the bitter irony of that statement nearly chokes him.

She just looks at him, lost and perhaps a little horrified. He almost feels pity for her, this simple creature who stumbled into magic far beyond what she can handle. A protective urge wells up in him and he stamps it back down.

“And here I thought we’d be ass deep in demons forever.” Varric pipes up, unable to handle not being the center of attention for more than a few minutes.  "Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and, occasionally, unwelcome tagalong.“

He throws Cassandra a wink, who rolls her eyes. Solas secretly wants to join her.

"Are you with the Chantry, or …” she trails off.

Solas laughs, he can’t help it. The thought of Varric praying piously in front a statue of Andraste, his chest hair on full display – "Is that serious question?“

Her deadpan tone says yes, but there’s a gleam in her eye, a spark of levity that suggests otherwise.

"Technically I’m a prisoner here – just like you,” Varric says, which immediately offends Cassandra.

“I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine. Clearly that’s no longer necessary.”

“And  yet here I am. Lucky for you, considering current events.”

The prisoner  graces Varric with her first smile. It’s small and weak – barely more than the twitch of her mouth – but the spark of warmth it brings promises that the full effect could be dangerous indeed.

“It’s good to meet you Varric,” she says.

“You may reconsider that, in time,” murmurs Solas. Despite the shortness of their acquaintance, Varric and Cassandra bicker more often than most married couples that Solas knew.

“Aww, I’m sure we’ll become great friends int he valley, Chuckles,” Varric shoots right back to him. It took him approximately half a day to bestow an ironic nickname for Solas that, unfortunately, shows no signs of dying down.

“Absolutely not.” Cassandra steps in between them, lording her height over Varric, who does not back down.

Solas braces himself for yet another one of their spats.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” he says to the prisoner as they argue in the background. “I’m pleased to see you still yet live.”

But not for much longer. He stopped the mark from killing her instantly, but he can only hold off it’s effect for so long. Eventually it will destroy this dwarf, devour her like dry firewood.

“Shay Cadash,” she says, turning that small but dangerous smile on him.

“What he means is, ‘I kept that mark from killing you as you slept’,” Varric interjects, surprising Solas at how quick he is to give others credit.

Her smile drops immediately. A strange look replaces it- like she swallowed something bitter. But she covers it up quickly enough to make Solas wonder if he had seen it at all.

“Then I owe you my thanks,” she says, turning towards him and giving him a solomn bow of her head.

She looks anything but grateful.

“Thank me if we manage to close the breach without killing you in the process,” he says. He has no need of her gratitude. He wants to get rid of the Breach and get his orb back – and if the dwarf dies, well that makes getting his mark back remarkably easier.

He assures Cassandra that no mage, much less a dwarf, could ever have the power to create the Breach.  And though he has nothing to recommend him – no allies or education or background to vouch for him – Cassandra accepts them without protest. He does not know if she is merely naive or has an innate judge of character, but her trust in him will be easily exploited.

“We must get to the forward camp quickly,” she says and they move on, the dwarf trailing behind them.

“So let me guess: Surface dwarf, maybe part of the Carta?”

They’ve headed into the forest, snow drifting from the pines overhead at the slightest breeze. Varric walks beside the prisoner as if they’re on a leisurely stroll to admire the scenery, his crossbow slung over his shoulder.

“What makes you say that?”

“I can tell a proper Orzamarr dwarf from fifty paces. Also you got that shifty smuggler look to you.”

Solas raises an eyebrow. He has seen shifty smuggler dwarves – eye-patches and rough beards and scars. The prisoner's  guileless brown eyes and freckled cheeks does not resemble them any more than Solas resembles the Dalish.  

The prisoner certainly stiffens at the remark. "Are you calling me a criminal?“

He can tell she is fighting to sound nonchalant.

"You are a criminal,” Cassandra says, disgusted.

“Now now,” says Varric in a condescending tone that is sure to grate on Cassandra. "There’s nothing wrong with being a criminal. Keeps the guards in business.“

If Solas had any doubts that Varric dabbled in illegal ventures, they have all but disappeared.

"Well I’m not the only one with the shifty smuggler look,” says the prisoner, looking at Varric pointedly.

“Varric didn’t destroy the conclave,” Cassandra snaps.

“That you know of,” says Varric. “We shifty smuggler types can be tricky.”

He winks at the prisoner. An hour into their acquaintance and Varric is already trying to adopt her. Solas wonders how long it will take for the prisoner to gain an embarrassing nickname. He had “chuckles” in two days.

It does not escape his notice, however, that the prisoner does not deny her Carta associations. It seems almost unbelievable, looking at her, but that might be the point. She might use her youth and air of innocence as tools to make her enemies underestimate her. He can’t deny their effectiveness – he fell for it himself. It makes this entire mess of a situation even more complicated and Solas bites his tongue to keep the hysterics down.

Everything he had planned for the last several centuries has gone up in the literal smoke still billowing from the Conclave and his only hope lies embedded in the hand of a petty criminal dwarf who looks barely old enough to buy a mug of ale. It takes all his self control not to cackle in some forgotten corner like the  mad Fen'Harel of Dalish infamy.

Every aspect of Fen'Harel he crafted to be a spectacle, from his dress to his mannerisms to his speech. His name alone summoned dread in his enemies and strength in his allies. Even a thousand years later, the Dalish fear to speak it.

Solas, by comparison, must be invisible.  Mild. Polite. His clothes simple, his voice pleasant, his words comforting and informative by turns. Solas the humble apostate is no less a fabrication than Fen'Harel and compared to Cassandra’s intensity and Varric’s quick wit, he melts into the background, forgotten. Free to watch the bearer of his mark and what he notices does her little credit.

They call her the Herald. Cadash either confirms or denies this, depending on who she is talking to. Much of the Herald’s disposition changes with her surroundings and companions. It makes it difficult to pinpoint exactly who she is. The only constants are her levity, a trait blooming to life now that she has grown more comfortable and the threat of execution no longer hangs over her head, and her ability to win over each and every person in the Inquisition with a systematic determination that disturbs him.

Cassandra’s suspicions lasted barely the first night. Part of this stems from her own intelligence, for not even grief or anger can blind her from seeing the truth of a situation. She lives up to her title in that respect. But Cadash’s continual expressions of respect for Cassandra, discussions of her faith, her immediate loyalty to the Inquisition’s cause certainly helped that forgiveness along.

Cadash speaks tactics and shares underworld contacts with Leliana. She compliments Cullen’s leadership and spars with his soldiers. She trades quips with Varric and insults Orzamarr Dwarves and of course she has read all of his books.

She doesn’t quite know what to make of Solas – no one here does – but she always offers that dangerous fragment of a smile for him and combats his formality by trying to make him laugh. In fact, she goes out of her way to acknowledge him, even if it’s just offering up a “good morning” or asking how well he slept. No matter how much he tries to stay in the background, he always attracts her attention.

It would all seem coincidental if Solas has not witnessed the calculating expression that creeps on her face when she thinks no one is watching her. No matter how genuine she may seem, it’s clear her interactions are charades, carefully calculated and flawless executed to secure the people’s loyalty.

It leaves the truth of Shay Cadash a mystery, but one Solas will piece together.

“Good morning, ” she greets him the day before they head out for the Hinterlands.

“The Chosen of Andraste,” he says, a hint of bitterness he can’t control seeping into his tone. “The blessed hero come to save us all.”

She looks over at him, her lips quirked and that gleam in her eye, as if they two of them are sharing an inside joke.

“That sounds a lot flashier than Freckles,” she says, citing Varric’s nickname for her. “Tell me, am I riding in on a shining steed?”

A smile twitches on his face before he can stop it. He must admit, it’s hard not to be charmed by her at times. Parts of her interactions are genuine. But her sincerity to makes her insincerity all the more believable.

“I would have suggested a griffon. But sadly they're extinct. Joke as you will, but posturing is necessary.”

As if she needed such advice, but Solas needs to find a role to play if he wants to stay in the Inquisition and Mentor gives him a perfect amount of influence.

The Herald rolls her eyes and leans closer to her him, lowering her voice.“This whole thing sounds like a farce, to be honest. Some great joke of the universe. All I wanted to do was find out how the mange/templar was going to screw with Lyrium sales. Trust me, I did not ask for any of this.”

She glances down at her gloved hand, the light of the Anchor barely imperceptible through the leather. Rather than parade it around, the mark stays hidden, as if she cannot bear to look at it.

“But someone has to seal the Breach and no one else’s hand has been possessed by ancient, unknown magic, so I guess everyone is stuck with me.”

For a brief moment she looks lost, uncertain, a dark cloud stolen over the sunlight of her disposition. Needles of guilt prick him, but Solas ignores it. This is nothing but an attempt to make him feel protective of her and he cannot be manipulated.

“Spoken nobly indeed,” he says instead.

Judging by the raised eyebrow he gets from her, he did not entirely suppress his sarcasm.

“You think I’m mocking you. This age has made people cynical.” He turns and looks over at the cage of mountains that surround them. “I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade and ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clashed to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.”

He turns back to her.  "Every great war has it’s heroes. I’m just curious as to what kind you’ll be.“

He allows his words to linger, to settle like heavy fog between them. Let her know that he is watching. Let her know that her every action is being weighed and judged. She may not care what an apostate thinks of her, but Fen'Harel’s conclusion will be a matter of her life and death.

If she notices the weight of his speech, it does not show in her face. The cloud has passed and her eyes are bright.

"Hopefully the kind that chases kids off my farm with my cane and rambles on endlessly about the glory days to anyone who makes eye contact with me in a bar.”

Despite his best efforts, the corner of his lip tugs up.  "I  can think of worse fates.“

She takes her leave then, to finish packing for the Hinterlands and finalize plans with Cullen. Solas watches her go, frustrated. Her jokes give him nothing of substance to analyze,  tell him nothing about her save perhaps an aversion to taking anything seriously. (No wonder she and Varric get along so well.)

He cannot shake the feeling that she did so on purpose.

Solas keeps his suspicions of the Herald to himself. It’s clear now, after gaining three more recruits, that Cadash is very good at what she does: she systematically finds a point of commonality between her and any given member of the Inquisition and exploits it. It doesn’t matter if they are a Qunari spy, a Grey Warden or a street urchin with a bow – Cadash won them over in the time it takes Solas to choke down a cup of tea.

Only he remains unaffected from her guileless tactics, perhaps because his situation so closely mirrors hers. They are both outcasts, pretending fealty to the Inquisition to secure their own survival, manipulating the people around them to hide the truth of their identity.

Shay Cadash isn’t the chosen messenger of a goddess any more than Solas is a humble apostate. The hypocrisy of his disapproval is not lost upon him; yet Solas finds something dishonest in how far she will take her manipulations. He keeps his companions at a polite, but firm, distance with strict boundaries – he would never go so far as to fabricate camaraderie.

The Herald has no such compunctions; Watching her trade stories with the Iron Bull, or prank ideas with Sera or discussing Grey Warden history with Blackwall – watching them slowly open up to her, while she plays them like puppets on a string, leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He refuses to join them, keeping up his rigid formality in the face of all her questions and humor. It frustrates her, he can tell. She drags him all over the Hinterlands for weeks as the sole mage of the party, peppering him with question after question. The Fade fascinates her.  A part of Solas would like to believe in her insatiable curiosity, but he knows that if he did not value the Fade so openly, she would have lost interest in it weeks ago.

That does not stop him from enabling her behavior, if only for the pathetic reason that he dearly wishes to have someone with whom to discuss it. She may raise some eyebrows at his ideas, but she never openly passes judgement upon them and she listens to them with a seemingly open mind. He wishes everyone else had the open-mindness she appears to have and he wishes, secretly, that it wasn’t an obvious ploy to win his loyalty.

It’s almost enough to make one forget that she’s the member of a ruthless crime family. But she gives herself away in her deft hands, able to pick any non-magical lock, or in her silent footsteps, the way she can sense even the subtlest traps. No matter how enthusiastically she embraces the Inquisition, Solas has no doubts that she schemes for ways to give herself power and influence through it.

Unfortunately, just as he can sniff out a fellow deceiver, so can she. Cadash has been sniffing him out with less subtlety than she believes. Cloaked in flattery, in the fascimile of friendship, in the nonchalant air of a joke, she keeps him close, prods him with questions, tests his answers. She neatly side-steps all questions about her life in the Carta and yet has no issue probing into the depths of everyone else’s personal life, most notably his.

It’s on one such occasion that his polite veneer finally cracks.  She is plying him with questions about his origin. He counters them with  the same vague, inconclusive answers she gives everyone else, but inside his temper boils. He’s sick of her distrust, her false overtures of friendship, her hypocrisy.

"You said earlier you’re from the north, Solas. How far north? Are you used to snow? Is that you can walk around with bare feet all the time? Or is that magic? Or is it just an elf thing? Do elves have special feet?”

The questions pop out like fireflies, as if one question in turn inspires another and she must ask them all before she forgets. Her child-like curiosity is almost winsome, but Solas refuses to be charmed by it.

He is sick of playing this game with her while she thinks she can charm his suspicions away like she has done to everyone else. As if he’s as naive as a toddler.

“I know what you’re doing, Herald,” he says. “And I must warn you, it will not work on me.”

Shock flickers across her face, quick as as candle flame before she snuffs it out. He treasures it all the same, a mark of triumph.

“Oh God,” she says, closing her eyes in mortification. “I’m being really annoying, aren’t I? I didn’t mean to intrude, you're just literally the most interesting person here. You can tell me to shut up if I get to be too much. It won’t offend me. My cousin’s done it a hundred times.”

Oh, she is good. In the face of her sudden embarrassment, Solas almost feels guilty for calling her out.

Almost.

“You’re probing me. Trying to catch me in a lie. Testing my loyalty.”

After a moment her features relax into something more sheepish – but not at all regretful.

“You caught me,” she says with a rueful smile. “But you can hardly blame me. You’re so distant and mysterious. It’s hard not to be curious about you.”

How tightly she still clings to pretense, as if she still had a chance to deceive him. She has no idea who she’s dealing with.

"And the fact that I’m both an elf and an apostate mage has nothing to do with your curiosity?” He struggles to keep his tone neutral.

Her eyebrows raise. "I don’t know. Does the fact that I’m a Carta dwarf have anything to do with the fact that you don’t like me?”

Her words leave him floundering for a reply.  

“It’s not hypocritical to be distrustful of a criminal,” he snaps, his control breaking. “It’s just common sense.”

Hurt flashes in her eyes, just a split second before her face shutters into apathy. Solas curses himself and his temper. He is too old and too experienced to allow someone so young and idiotic to get to him. Besides, the Herald has power and influence in the Inquisition now; it’s dangerous to make her an enemy.

“I apologize,” he says, though the words taste bitter in his mouth. “That was uncalled for.”

Her demeanor shifts. The look in her eyes grows sharp and calculating. She stands confidant, chin up and shoulders straight. No trace of her genial, sunny disposition remains. Like a veil lifted, Solas finally sees the true Shay Cadash.

“Oh, don’t bother,” she says sweetly. “You were just being honest. Probably for the first time. I appreciate it, actually, more than that polite mask you wear all the time. And I’m not the only criminal here, apostate. We’re both in a precarious boat and you’re not exactly in a position to be alienating potential allies.”

“And what do you mean by that?” he says. The implication in her words is clear, but it’s impossible for anyone to know of his part in the destruction.

“I mean, if I were going to point fingers at who blew up the temple, I would start with the weird apostate who knows everything about the Fade and showed up out of nowhere.���

Solas keeps his expression very still. He does not allow himself even the tiniest of flinches, for none would escape the notice of her keen gaze. But still, it unnerves him how accurate her suspicions are, how easily she jumped to such conclusions when no one else has.

“You cast suspicion to draw attention away from yourself,” he tells her shortly, aiming his tone for offended and disdainful. “I was no where near the temple at the time of the explosion. Leilana has confirmed this with multiple witnesses. Do you not trust her word?”

Her gaze does not waver, unconvinced and unfazed.

“What’s your last name, Solas?”

A multitude of names, both real and stolen, fly through his mind, but he waits too long to answer.

“That’s what I thought,” she says and her smugness cuts through him like a knife.  “See, Solas, here’s the thing. I have just about as much control of being a part of the Carta as you have over being a mage. But at least the Carta taught me that loyalty matters above all else. We might back stab everyone around us, but we’re loyal to our own. Without that loyalty, infighting makes the Carta fall to pieces. By those standards, this Inquisition isn’t any different. And already, people from all races and beliefs and classes have started to unite themselves for this goal. Except for you.”

Her conscious mind knows nothing dangerous about him, but her instincts practically scream his duplicity, he can see it in her eyes.

He is stepping on thin ice here.

“How do you come to that conclusion?” he asks. “I volunteered my services. I’m here because I chose to be.”

Unlike you, the implication clearly states, but if it insults her, the Herald does not let it show.

“You shun all company,” she says, ticking it off on her finger.  “You give almost no personal information about yourself, and you distract others from this by being free and open about your esoteric information on the Fade that, conveniently, only you know. Everyone else here has ties and history and relationships. You are a complete unknown, even to our spymaster. If anyone could just up walk away from the Inquisition and sell all our secrets, it would be you.”

In the last year Solas has found himself lost in the remnants of a world unmade by his own hand, with nothing but a paltry shadow of his former power to protect him from the violence that springs up in every corner, and stuck in the middle a powerful organization out for his head.

And yet the instincts of a simple dwarf, this young woman barely out of childhood, this criminal street rat, makes him feel more vulnerable than any of the other dangers combined. It infuriates him. Solas has played the Game flawlessly in a court a thousand times more vicious and bloodthirsty than Orlais could ever hope to be. Yet he cannot fool one simpleminded, magicless dwarf.

“I assure you, closing the Breach is of the utmost importance to me,” he says, not that his words have any impact on her. "The Inquisition has my complete loyalty for that cause.“

She waves his reassurances aside with a dismissive hand.

"Your assurances are meaningless if I don’t know the kind of person you are. And I’ve tried to figure that out by befriending you, but you have too many walls up. Maybe if I were another elf, they might come down. But a dwarf stands no chance, does she? And certainly not a criminal.”

Solas does not know how to respond to that in a way that would not further offend her. His people never understood or agreed with Dwarves, and he carries that with him into this new age. Not all Dwarves are inherently bad, but they lack imagination and have little concern over issues that outside their sheltered world. Both qualities do little to inspire faith in this woman’s ability to handle the Breach.

Something in her gaze shifts, her glare softening into something …tired. “You want honesty, Solas? Here’s some honesty. You frighten me. You saved my life and therefore I owe you a very great debt. I don’t like not understanding the kind of person I owe and what they would ask of me.”

Before he can respond, Leliana appears. Solas would be real coin that she eavesdropped on at least part of their conversation, but she is too professional to let it show on her face.

"Ah, Herald. How did I guess I would find you here?” she says. “If you have a moment, I would like to share with you some information on Redcliffe that’s come in.”

“I have the time,” the Herald says and she leaves without giving Solas so much as another glance.

After their conversation, the Herald changes. She still keeps up appearances, asking him relevant questions about the rifts, taking him with her to the Storm Coast, where she picks up a Qunari spy without so much as batting and eyelash at the dangerous implications of having such an ally.

When the others are present, it is as if the argument never happened. Only Solas can feel the difference: smiles that no longer reach her eyes, questions that are short and to the point without any of her usual curious rambling, ignoring his presence when she passes him in Haven instead of walking over with a greeting and a smile.

He thought he would prefer it.

Instead he finds it nearly intolerable.

Did she ever feel this patronized by his own brand of distant civility, as if he were too stupid to notice how thin the polite veneer was over her dislike? Every murmured “good morning,” every health poultice tossed to him in battle, feels somehow like a slap in the face; a duty rather than courtesy.

To add insult to injury, comparing their interaction with those she has with the other companions makes the chill of her attitude even more apparent. She and the Iron Bull connect near instantaneously, as only fellow liars can. Only because of its absence does Solas notice how often the Herald had tried to engage him in laughter and discussion before.

The most pressing issue is how his position within the Inquisition is now at risk. With each new success, both big and small, The Herald gathers more power and influence within the Inquisition. If she does decide to pursue her suspicions of him, Cassandra would have him banished before nightfall, and Solas needs the power and resources of the Inquisition to reacquire his orb.

Allowing his irritation to push him outside the boundaries of propriety and anonymity was a stupid, reckless move, the kind his younger self would have made. Solas cannot afford any more such mistakes; he walks a precarious line here, as Cadash infuriatingly pointed out.

If he wants any chance of his plans coming to fruition then he must return to the Herald’s good graces. And soon.

But underneath his frustration lies a true kernel of guilt that refuses to stay hidden in the background noise of his thoughts, like a stone in his foot wrappings. In that split second after he called her a criminal, Solas saw a flash of genuine pain. He had hurt her and he could tell its sincerity by how quickly she buried it.

Her words haunt him for days after.

“It’s not hypocritical to be distrustful of a criminal, it’s just common sense.”

Indeed.  Such words could be thrown back at him and ring more truthfully. She can’t know. She cannot possibly know and yet her instincts tell her otherwise. Her unerring, perceptive suspicions make him afraid and in his fear he has lashed out and made an enemy.

Three thousand years old and he still acts like a child.

Here’s some honesty: you frighten me.

Solas. Frightening. To others the idea may seem absurd, a reaction he carefully cultivates. The truth of his identity would truly terrify her more so than the blank of the unknown that she despises. But these words haunt him more than the others. She doesn’t fear his magic or his love of the Fade as the others do, but the vulnerability of being in debt to someone who could extract a terrible price for it.  And she has no way of knowing that he would never ask of such a thing.

(The bitter irony that she believes he saved her life disquiets him.)

He can tolerate this no longer. He needs the protection that her friendship would provide – and if that means to fabricate an apology and start over, then so be it. Two can play at that particular game.

(Solas ignores the thought that hovers in the back of his mind, that he may have genuinely misjudged her).

He waits impatiently for their return to Skyhold and the opportunity to speak with her privately, finally securing one as she leaves the stables.

“Herald,” he calls, increasing his stride to catch up to her. She stops and waits for him, even though it would take but a moment to for his longer legs to close the gap between them.  Her face shifts in a mask of indifference.

“May we speak in private? I have something important to discuss with you.”

A wariness crosses the Herald’s face and Solas feels a pinprick of guilt.

“Alright,” she says.

She must think he has information about their upcoming meeting with the mages to follow him. Not everyone in the Inquisition would welcome such an alliance, but the Herald is adamant for it. She’s sold smuggled to too many desperate, bloodthirsty templars to trust them, or so she says.

He leads her to the shack that houses him, opens the door, and gestures for her to walk inside. She gives him a calculating look, no doubt looking for a potential threat in his behavior, before stepping inside. He follows, leaving the door cracked open and standing so that she is closest to it.

“If it’s something this sensitive, perhaps we should go to Josephine or Leliana,” she says.

Solas shakes his head. “It is something personal, between us.”

" …Oh.“ She shifts her footing, anxiety spasming across her features before she schools it under control. Solas does not like to see her cage her emotions, when she lets her personality fly free around everyone else. He is indeed a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but no one is supposed to be frightened of him yet. Much as she irritates him, Solas does not wish her actual harm.

He underestimated how much pride she has, which should have been the one dwarf stereotype he remembered.

"I would like to offer my sincerest apologies for my behavior the last time we spoke,” he begins. “I had gravely misjudged you, blinded by my own prejudices. What I said to you is unacceptable and I beg your forgiveness.”

Judging from the surprise on her face, she probably expected more abuse from him, and it shames him. But even still, her eyes remain wary, an unwillingness to believe him.

“What brings this on?” she asks. “That argument was a month ago.”

“Your words and my own observations. I initially mistook your camaraderie for manipulation, but I now see that I was wrong.” He gives her a self-deprecating smile, using her tactics against her. "You, however, were completely right about me. I’m used to a solitary life, so I naturally shy away from attachments, but I’ve also made it easy to slip away if I needed to. I’m an apostate mage, surrounded by Chantry forces. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you must understand my caution.“

"I do,” she says, and her shoulders relax. “But you’ve stuck around to help. I’m not going to let anyone use that against you, not even someone as scary as Cassandra.”

“And how would you stop them,” he asks. Despite her easy confidence, she is so very young, not even into her third decade yet.

“However I had to,” she says and it doesn’t sound cocky or self-assured. It sounds like a forgone conclusion.

He’s unexpectedly touched by it.

“Even someone who has hurt you?”

She levels him with an exasperated look. “We’re all on the same team, Solas, and the problem we face is far bigger than any petty squabbles and personal prejudices. You’re a useful ally and I owe you my life. No one is going to lay a hand on you.”

Her ability to see the bigger picture, to put aside infighting for a common goal, sound so far from what he expected from a dwarf. Perhaps he should reevaluate his opinion of her.

Though the situation doesn’t merit it, Solas has to inwardly smile at such defense of his well being. It has been a very long time since someone has underestimated him to such a degree and he finds the untruth oddly freeing.

“Thank you,” he tells her. “And, please, do not worry yourself over your debt. You owe me nothing.”

The Herald graces him with a sad, half smile. “That’s a sweet sentiment, Solas, but a debt is never forgotten or forgiven. One way or another, it’s always paid.”

“That’s quite a cynical view of things.” Not surprising, considering her past, but Solas wisely does not voice this.

“From your point of view, perhaps. But to me, a favor for a favor keeps things equal and honest and everyone knows where they stand with each other. I find that preferable to people who hand wave a debt, only to remind me of it later when they need something from me.”

What situations she’s experienced to have such a pragmatic view so young he can only imagine.

“I cannot fault your logic,” he says.  "I will consider your debt repaid, then, when you close the Breach.“

"How convenient, when that’s already my goal,” she says, the side of her mouth quirking up.

He wants to make a joke in return, but his sense of humor (withered and twisted for centuries of disuse) comes up short, especially facing the sudden intensity of her gaze. She studies him, no doubt looking for signs of trickery or insincerity.

Still not trusting him.

He can only look back at her and hope he doesn’t come up short in her scrutiny.

“I appreciate your apology, Solas,” she says softly. “I know how hard those can be and you didn’t have to.”

"Perhaps we can put this whole fiasco behind us, then,” he says.

“I think I would prefer to start over.”

The Herald sticks her hand out and graces him with the full brilliance of her smile and he understands a little why the others follow her so readily.

“I’m Shay, if there are to be introductions.”

His own words from that fateful day, verbatim. Perhaps he made a bigger impression on her than he had thought.

“Solas.” Instead of shaking her hand, he bends down and kisses the tops of her fingers. It’s an impulsive decision, but she deserves a gentleman’s manners, if only to make up for his lack of decorum before.

Besides, she isn’t the only one who knows how to charm.

Judging from the way her cheeks glow, he succeeded. A step in the right direction

The Odyssey

Day 11 of 12 Days of Prompts

TW: bullying, homophobic slurs, language, drinking

Summary: High school au where Phil is bullied for being gay and Dan thinks he should have just stayed in the closet. But it just so happens Phil has a big family and can't get any studying done, and Dan’s house is the perfect place to study.

Length: 12k

Themes: highschool au, enemies to friends to lovers, bullying, boxer!dan, studious!phan, Homophobia, family/sibling drama

 "Stupid baby," Phil muttered under his breath. "Why can't they just move back again? I finished studying at one last night, and she didn't stop screaming until at least three." 

 "Stop whining," Greyson suggested, speed walking over to the fridge. "Naomi can stay as long as she wants, she's family. OJ?"  "Toss it." He did, and Phil caught it easily, his clumsiness forgotten when it came to food. "Family's overrated."  "Feel lucky. I tried for kids with Myrel for six years with no luck. Marrying your mother was the best thing I ever did. Five kids, just like that, and I didn't have to do anything!"  Phil grunted into his cereal. "Six, if you include the rodent."  "She's not a rodent, she's a baby. She's going to cry, you'd better get used to it."  "Who's going to cry?" Asked Tucker, hurrying into the kitchen and grabbing the cereal from the counter. "Amanda?"  "The rat," Phil explained.  "Amanda cries a lot too. I think her baby makes her sad."  "She's just tired," Greyson explained. "Hey, didn't you need a permission slip signed? Something for school?"  "Rocket museum field trip. I already turned it in."  Greyson leaned against the counter. "Really? Who signed it?"  "Mum did."  "That means he did," Phil explained to his bowl of cereal. He stared into it like it was trying to communicate with him, tell him the answers to his Calculus test or his problem with the baby. "He's getting good at faking signatures. You should see him do mine."  "Snitch. Greyson, would you like some eggs sir?"  "Yes please. But you're still grounded."  Tucker came up behind Phil and gave him a light smack on the back of the head.  "I need formula," Amanda declared, stepping into the already crowded kitchen. "Janie's crying again."  They all strained their ears to hear. Sure enough, the baby's wail sounded through the house from the upstairs, loud enough to hear but not loud enough to be bothersome. None of them had noticed yet; it had become a familiar background noise.  Greyson frowned in worry. "I thought you were still breastfeeding?"  "If I breastfed her every time she was hungry I wouldn't have time to do anything else. She's a hungry little baby. Lots of growing to do."  "She's fat," Phil corrected.  "Your mum."  "She's your mum too."  "Is mum up yet?" Sandy asked, coming into the kitchen and grabbing a bowl from the cupboard. Her old purple bathrobe that was two sizes too big dragged on the floor, her tangled brown hair falling in messy waves down her back. She sidestepped Tucker with ease, sliding in between the crowd of people trying to navigate the too small kitchen all at once.  A few of them shook their head. Phil continued to stare into his cereal bowl, not even eating anymore.  "She's sleeping," Greyson explained. "She had the graveyard shift."  "She did animal surgery at a graveyard?" Sandy asked, eyes wide.  "It's an expression. It means the late shift."  "And it wasn't animal surgery," Greyson explained patiently. "The clinic your mom works at has someone on site 24 hours a day, in case anyone's pet gets sick and needs help right away."  Phil's phone beeped, and he got up quickly, grabbing his backpack that was slung over the other chair.  "Have fun at school!" Greyson called out.  "Have fun selling used cars," Phil called back unenthusiastically. He walked right out the door without looking back, letting it slam shut behind him.  "He's a great kid," Greyson muttered. "Works hard. We shouldn't be too hard on him."  "School makes him boring," Tucker half agreed. "I like him better in the summer." --------  He wasn't wrong.  Phil rode the bus in silence, putting his backpack on the seat next to him so no one would sit with him. Headphones in, he pulled out his homework and started to review for his A-levels physics class.  Getting to school, he went throughout the day in silence. He talked to a few friends along the way, but all in all it was uneventful. He took a test and got another test back. B+. He'd have to do corrections.   When he got home, he went up to his room and started studying. He only had an hour until Tucker got back, and then the house would get progressively noisier and noisier until ten that night when it would simmer down, and he'd be able to study in silence again. Tucker had the top bunk, so he didn't mind Phil keeping his lamp on for most of the night, as long as the overhead light was turned off. However, sometimes his snoring distracted Phil.  After half an hour of reviewing, the rat started crying again and Phil was ready to stab someone. He changed out of his school uniform and into grass-stained jeans and a t-shirt and started going around the neighborhood, going through his checklist. Mrs.Henderson needed the hedges outside her house pruned every Thursday, and it was also the day he mowed the Howell's lawn.  An hour and a whole lot of sweat later- it was far too hot for November- Phil was knocking on the Howell's door.  It swung open after a full minute, revealing not Mr.Howell, but his son, Dan. "Hey Phil."  "Hey Dan. Is your dad here, I finished-"  The boy turned around, calling into the house, "Dad! Phil's here!"  They waited a few beats. Dan turned back to him. "How much do we owe you?"  "25 pounds."  "Jesus, you're ripping us off."  "Better your dad pays me to mow the lawn than make you."  Dan shrugged. "Probably."  His dad came running down the stairs, panting a little. "Phil! Good to see you!" He was a mess, almond brown hair sticking up almost at random. He stepped forwards and almost stepped on his son's foot if Dan hadn't stepped back.

 He scanned the front yard quickly then the boy in front of him. "How much is it again?"  "30 quid," Dan answered for Phil.  They both watched as his father emptied out his pockets, turning each one inside out hurriedly before finding the one with his wallet in it. "Ah ha! Here we go!" He pulled out a fat stack of cash, pulled off a few bills, and handed them over. "There you go. Payment for the week. Have any more leaves fallen?"  "No. That tree's been bare since the beginning of October."  He nodded quickly, stuffing his wallet into a different pocket than he'd pulled it out from. "That's great. And the lawn looks great, thanks for doing such a great job. I have to keep working now, but um, have a nice Thanksgiving!" He turned and hurried back up the stairs, skipping a few steps.  Dan and Phil watched him go. "It's two more weeks until Thanksgiving," Phil observed. "I'll see him at least two more times until then."  Dan snorted, still looking at the stairs where his father had sprinted up. "Yeah, he's a clutter-brain. Everyone tells me he's a genius, but... well, I have my doubts." He looked back at Phil. "He works in his office upstairs. All day. Sometimes doesn't even come down for meals."  Phil nodded, not really relating but at least understanding. "He's loud at night?"

 "Nah." He looked up, not really looking at anything in particular. "He hardly makes any noise in there. Sometimes I hear a crash, but that's just his clumsiness. He knocks down stuff every once in a while, but besides that, our house is usually dead."  "Must be nice. My house is always too loud to study in. You taking any A levels?"

 "Yeah, I'm in a few of your classes. Calc, and Lit. And forensic science, but that's not A levels."  Phil nodded, his cheeks a little warmer. "Sorry. I don't really talk much in class."  "I don't either. But I still look up every once in a while." He sighed. "I'm just procrastinating by talking to you. Have to write an essay. I'd rather throw myself into oncoming traffic."  "While I'll let you get to it then."  "Which one, studying or throwing myself into oncoming traffic?"  He shrugged. "Either or. But if you do decide to end it all, let me know so I can have your room. I'd be able to get stuff done so much quicker if I had some quiet."  Dan smiled. "Okay. I'll give you a heads up, put your name in my will maybe?"  "Definitely. See you around, Howell."  "See ya Lester."  As Phil walked home, he counted the money Mr.Howell had given him. Thirty pounds. Phil had been working for the Howells for at least a year now, and every single time he got paid he was asked how much it cost. Mr.Howell was clearly a cluster-head, and that was a nice term for it. ---  Phil knew he'd made a mistake the second the words came out his mouth.  The teacher was out for the period in general health and nutrition class, and no sub had shown up, so they got their desks all in a circle and decided to play a game of never have I ever. Phil didn't have any friends in this class, and he hadn't really talked to anyone in it recently, besides Dan, but that one time a week ago on his porch had hardly counted. Apparently, Dan and him had four classes together total. Phil had looked up in each class long enough to check.  The game was going fine for a few minutes. Phil, who never went out or did anything especially stupid, had most of his fingers up still. And then it got to the next person.  A girl, who smiled and proudly declared "Never have I ever kissed a girl."  Laughing, some people making noises and their friends put fingers down until someone noticed Phil didn't put any down. "Phil, did you put a finger down?"  He could feel his heart jump a little. "No."  All eyes were on him. "You've never kissed a girl?"  "I'm gay."  The reaction was immediate. Wide-eyes-open-mouths-chairs-scooted-back-worst-case-scenario "I didn't know there were any fags at our school!"  A few football players looked mortified. "We had gym together! Were you checking us out?"  "What? No!"  "Oh my God, he's kissed a dude!"  "That's disgusting!"  "I can't believe-"  "I'm sorry I'm late, class," the nutrition teacher stated, hurrying in through the front door of the classroom, coat and bag in hand. "My car had a problem and had to be towed, and my phone ran out of battery so I couldn't call anyone. Please arrange your desks back in their proper order, and we'll get started."  Everyone hurried to do as she said, doing their best not to touch Phil. They acted as if he had the plague, like his gay was contagious.  After a few minutes, they were all in their seats. Phil looked around and realized that there was a ring of empty desks around his seat. ---  Word traveled like wildfire.  After that class, he was afraid no one in the hallway would want to touch him. But to his surprise, only a few people seemed to know what had happened.  He practically ran to his next class. He sat down and put his head in his arms, mouthing the words it's going to be alright, it's going to blow over, no one will care, no one will care...  And no one in that class did care. Or so it seemed. Phil did his best not to look up.  He ate lunch in that class. Hopefully, already everyone in that God forsaken class had forgotten.  But by the time it was passing period again, it seemed like everyone knew. During lunch, everyone had been able to go on their phones and talk to their friends, and people stared at him in the hallway like he'd grown a tail.  "Gay."  "Homo."  "Lester, yeah, the boy with the black hair and the pasty skin-"  Phil put his headphones in at that point, drowning them out in music. He'd fucked up. ---  Dan answered the door that afternoon. As soon as he saw Phil, he scowled. "Dad! He's back!"  Phil leant up against the doorway, his breath shaky. Dan's expression made him want to curl in a ball on the floor. "Do you hate me too?"  "I'd be stupid not to."  "Because I'm a fag," Phil clarified.  Dan looked back, making sure his father hadn't appeared yet. "Because you can't keep your big mouth shut. Didn't you know that it'd ruin everything?"  Everything? "Everything?"  "I'm here!" Dan's dad appeared on the stairs, running down so fast it was a miracle he didn't trip. "How much?"  "25," Phil said quickly, daring Dan to correct him. He didn't need his help.  "25," Dan's dad agreed, quickly pulling out the bills. "Such a great thing you're doing, I'm sure everyone in the neighborhood appreciates it. I've always hated mowing the lawn."  "I've never minded it," said Phil, trying for an upbeat tone. "Good exercise."  "You kids need lots of exercise," the man agreed. "Daniel here does boxing. Great full body workout, keeps you healthy. Sorry, I've got to-"  "-get back to work," Dan agreed, glaring daggers his way. His dad didn't notice, just turned and left, back up to his office.  Phil turned to Dan. "I didn't know you boxed."  "I didn't know you were a fag," he sneered, turning and slamming the door in Phil's face.  He blinked. "Um, okay. Well... I guess I'll see you later too then." ---  "Anything interesting happen at school?" Phil's mum asked.  They went around, all of Phil's younger siblings sharing. Tucker got an A on his blah blah blah, Sandy got asked out by blah blah blah, and Phil's youngest sister, Anna, got made fun of for wearing her hair in a side braid when all the other kids wore theirs in a french braid.  "Kids can be cruel," Greyson advised, his paternal wisdom straight from a parenting book. "You can't let them get to you. The only people who are bullied are people who let themselves get bullied. You have to stand up for yourself..."  Blah blah blah. Blah blah. Blah. Phil was amazing at toning his family out at the dinner table. Now if only he could tone them out as efficiently when studying...  "And Philip? How was your day?" His mum asked brightly.  "Fine."  "Anything interesting happen?"  "No."  "How'd you do on that Lit exam?" Greyson offered with a smile.  "Fine."  ---  It was ten at night. Amanda was on her phone in the next room, the paper thin walls barely muffling her voice. On the top bunk, Tucker snored obnoxiously.  Phil closed his eyes and tried to think about Moby Dick. He had to study. He could not fail A-levels Literacy.  He was smart enough for this.  Would he have any friends when he went to school tomorrow? -------  Cereal. Backpack. Bus. School.  Yes, he still had friends. Yes, they accepted that he was gay. No, they didn't want to talk in the hallway. Yes, they were still his friends. You're right, you should have kept it to yourself, they said. You just royally screwed yourself over.  Class. Class class. Bus. Home. Study. Change. A note was stuck in the back pocket of his navy, school-issued trousers.  Faggot.  He threw it away, then thought better of it and tore it up, then threw it away.  By then Tucker was home, and soon Sandy and Anna were too. The house got louder and louder, and Phil's focus became less and less.  Finally, he gave up, tossing his folders and notebooks into his backpack, and heading out the door. ---  The bagel shop also sold coffee. However, it tasted horrible. Phil bought a small cup.  He chose a corner table and dropped his backpack, digging through it to find his materials, and sat down, immediately starting to write. He had to write a five-page report on the first half of Moby Dick, and he wrote without thinking.  Phil felt the presence next to him before he saw it. "Moby Dick? Interesting. You liking it?"  Phil looked up. "Hardly. What are you doing here Dan?"  He waved his bagel, making a duh expression. "I'm actually just leaving now. Enjoy the Dick book. But knowing you, I'm sure you will." He bit down on his bagel, reached out and knocking Phil's half empty coffee over, spilling all over the paper and his lap. "Oops."  He left, and Phil was left staring at the mess. Only half aware, he pushed his backpack and the book aside before the coffee could stain them. The pages he'd written so far were already ruined. He looked over them, trying to read what was written.  It didn't matter. Nothing he'd written had any sort of meaning or rhythm, and he'd used the same example at least three times. He balled the papers up and threw them away. ---   People pinched him in the hallway. He didn't know who it was but knew from the snickers it was the same people. He didn't react.  "Ooh, I think he likes it," a voice giggled. "Maybe he wants you to do it again."  "I bet he'd like it more if there weren't so many people here," another voice remarked quietly. "He'd be on his knees before you could snap your fingers, so desperate to get-"  Phil stuffed the headphones in his ears, turning his music on quickly. The louder the better. He tried to walk faster, ignore the looks. He really tried. ---  "Phil, anything new and excited happen at school today?"  "No."  "You've been giving the same answer all week! Surely something must have happened."  "No, nothing has. I presented that Health and Nutrition thing."  "Oh! That's nice, how'd it go?"  "Fine," he lied. "Can I be excused? I'm meeting with a friend."  He was exused, and as quickly as possible got his backpack and got over to the bagel shop. A cup of coffee in hand, he made his way to a table more out of the way than the first one, plugging in his music.  Peace and quiet, he thought, because music doesn't count as noise. My closest friend. ---  He couldn't afford to go to the bagel place every day. He was saving his money for uni, and mowing lawns didn't make that much.  The next Thursday, when he went to the Howell's house to collect his money for that week, Mr.Howell answered the door for once. "How much?"  "25 pounds. Is Dan at boxing?"  "Hmm? No, he's upstairs studying."  It took longer than normal for Mr.Howell to find and count the money. Phil shifted uncomfortably on the porch. "Dan's pretty lucky. I have to study at the Bagel shop by Main, my families so loud."  "Oh, you could always study here," Dan's dad said easily, counting out the pound notes. "Downstairs on the dining room table. Plenty of room, my wife works until nine most nights, and Dan studies upstairs, so there's plenty of room."  Phil blinked. "Are you serious?"  "Of course! You seem like a nice boy, I trust you. And you wouldn't be bothering either of us. Come over tomorrow with your study stuff, and you can just go at it. You seem like a nice boy."  On one hand, Dan hated his guts. On the other...  "Okay. Yeah, thanks Mr.Howell, I really appreciate it." ---  It took three days for Dan to notice him.  Phil let himself in after the first day, when Mr.Howell said it was easier for everyone. Then he studied at the dining room table, the house so quiet he questioned whether anyone was home at all.  He came back the next day, and the same happened. And the next day was shaping up to be the same, when Dan came downstairs to get a snack and stopped in his tracks. "What are you doing in my house?"  "Reconsidering my life choices," Phil answered immediately. "I should've taken easier classes. School is whooping my ass."  Dan walked over, surveying the mess of school supplied splayed across the table. "I bet you like that though."  Phil attempted a smile. It didn't work. "Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm kinky."  "You didn't deny it," Dan noted. Before Phil could defend himself, he was talking again, saying "But actually, what are you doing in my house?"  Phil rubbed his temples painfually. "Your dad said I could. I needed a quiet place to study."  "And you can't study at your house because...?"  Phil looked at him like he was an idiot. "Because I need a quiet place to study," he repeated, slower, as if to help Dan process it. "I have four siblings, not to mention the rodent."  "The rodent?"  "My sister had a baby. She never shuts up."  "The sister or the baby?"  "Both." Phil tilted his head to the side, considering. "Mostly the baby though."  "Cool," Dan deadpanned. "I'm going upstairs."  "Have fun."  He didn't respond. ----  Across Phil's locker, the word 'Twink' was spray painted, bright green. He tried to wipe it off with a wet paper towel, but it did nothing. ----  Beep. "The number you are calling is not available. Please leave a message, after the tone." Beep.   "Hey Peej, it's Phil, I was just wondering if you wanted to go the new movie theater sometime, check it out. I don't care what we see, um, you can choose. So... yeah. Call me back." Beep.  Beep. "The number you are calling is not available. Please leave a message, after the tone." Beep.   Beep. "Hey Mark, it's Phil! Do you wanna hang out sometime? It feels like it's been forever. So, uh, yeah, call me back!" Beep.  Beep. "The number you are calling is not available. Please leave a message, after the tone." Beep.   Beep. "It's Phil, I heard you and Julie broke up? Just wondering if you wanted to rant or talk about it or whatever. We could grab lunch or something. Um... yeah. Call me back." Beep.  Beep. "The number you are calling has been disconnected and is no longer available." Beep.   Beep.  ----  "I'm going to die," Tucker was saying, laying on his bed with his head hanging off the end. "I'm actually going to die."  "It's only report cards," Phil reassured. "You're smart. You'll be fine."  "I did horrible in Science this quarter. I didn't even turn in my notebook, I forgot. Mum's going to kill me!" He rolled over, staring at his older brother miserably. "I wish I was like you and actually liked school."  "I don't like school."  "That's all you ever do though. You go to school, then you get home and study. How could you not like school?"  Phil shrugged. "Guess I don't really like the people there. We don't really see eye to eye." ----  "Dunk! Dunk! Dunk! Dunk!"  "Better close your eyes, bum-chum!" Phil's head was dunked under, water pouring onto his face as they flushed the toilet. He sputtered for breath, the chanting and cheering being literally drowned out by water.  They let him go and he threw himself forwards on the disgusting bathroom tile, coughing and spitting, desperate for air.  "Funny. I always thought that you'd swallow."  More laughter. Phil wanted to cry, or die, or kill them or all three.  The bell rang, and everyone dispersed, leaving him in a wet pile of tears and toilet water. ---  Dan was staring at him.  Phil had done his best to dry off, but he could only do so much. He refused to let the bullies make him miss class though, especially Calculus. He already hardly understood the class, he couldn't afford to miss a full day of instructions.  Phil tried to ignore the other boy's gaze on him, instead listening to the teacher. "...I'm sorry, but I don't let anyone take home the textbooks. We have a class set of 30, and that's all the district will provide for us for the next 20 years, basically. However, if you'd like you can stay after school..."  Dan was still staring at him. What happened? He mouthed from across the class.  I'm gay Phil mouthed back. He didn't know if Dan understood or not, but the boy's eyes widened, and Phil could tell that he'd made sense on at least some level.  After school that day, Phil was studying where he always did when Dan sat next to him. "Finish Moby Dick yet?"  "Last night. It was amazing, a fine piece of literature, blah blah blah."  Dan nodded. "I hated it. I still have twelve pages left to go."  "The last bit isn't so bad. It's better with the end in sight."  Dan nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense. On a scale of one to ten, how gay exactly are you?"  Phil almost got whiplash from how fast Dan had turned the conversation around. "Um... I don't know. I'm not that gay."  "You're lying," Dan observed. "I'm not going to hit you or anything. Or make you go swimming like your friends from earlier did."  "They weren't my friends."  "I didn't think so. Now come on, scale of one to ten, one being straight and ten being so gay that you-"  "Ten." Phil cut him off, not sure if he wanted to hear the rest.  Dan's eyes widened. "Seriously? So you'd-"  "I'm very gay," Phil agreed. "So gay that I've never kissed a girl and never want to. So gay that I can't even imagine dating a girl, or marrying one, ever."  Dan leaned forward, interested. "So you'd like, suck dick?"  Phil winced. "In theory."  "And you would like, take it up the ass, and-"  "God Dan, please shut up. Maybe. I don't know, are you offering?"  Dan's eyes got wide.  "It's... it's a figure of speech," Phil explained, backing up. "Not a real question. Now, can I get back to studying, or-"  "Yeah, yeah!" Dan stood up so quickly he almost knocked the chair over. "Yeah, I was just curious. You can go back to studying, you're just like... the only gay person I know."  "There's more of us," Phil said, trying to hide the annoyance in his voice. "Other gay people at our school, in fact. There have to be, the stats don't lie."  "Not that any of us would know it. After everything happening with you, you'd have to be stupid to come out at our school."  Phil scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah. I guess you're right."  "Yeah!" Dan took a step back, then shuffled forwards, bumping against the chair unceremoniously. "I'm going to go... study!"  "Okay," Phil responded with slight amusement. "Have fun."  "I- I will!" He turned around and almost ran straight into a wall. He quickly sidestepped, then was up the stairs, turning into what was assumably his room.  Phil shook his head, smiling only a little bit. ---  "The game's coming out in the New Year, but I want to preorder it now. Then I can get it as soon as possible. It has these super amazing graphics, honestly, I want to a design class or a graphic art class or something like that so I can learn how to do that sort of animation, because have you seen it? It's so cool! It's too expensive, but I'll get it anyways, I have some money saved up..." Phil trailed off, looking around. "Why are you all looking at me like that?"  Greyson was the first to clear his throat. "Um, it's just you've been so quiet lately. Is there anything new, or anything? You've been spending a lot of time away from home. New friends?"  Phil shrugged. "Not really. Just... the game I guess." His shoulders slumped forwards slightly.  "Tell us more about it!" His mum prompted quickly. It was the first time in a long time that she'd seen her son so vibrant, and she wasn't about to let him go back to sulking so fast.  Phil perked up. "Yeah, it's got these controllers..." ---  "No you spoon, it all goes back to the limit definition of the derivative. You have to define the variables, see, here..." Dan underlined a few numbers, gesturing with his pencil. "And then.... multiply here...." He was completely entranced in the work, marking and drawing lines connecting the dots, getting wrapped up in the math of it.  Phil didn't really remember how they got in this position, with Dan sitting at the table with him, showing him how to do the homework. Phil had had no idea, and he still didn't fully understand it, but it was becoming easier.  "Like this," Phil muttered, taking out another pencil and adding onto the equation Dan was writing. "You square it." 

 Dan stared at it for a long moment, blinking. "Um, no. You don't square anything. If you wanted, you could root it... actually, you probably wouldn't want to do that. Here, look." ---  It made more sense for them to work on their homework together. Phil didn't remember when it was decided, but one day Dan started bringing his work downstairs and working at the table with Phil, going over problems together and complaining back and forth. Dan was good at calc. Phil was better at Lit. Neither of them liked forensics. And both of them thought that generally, government class was stupid and signing up was a mistake.  They were talking one day when one of their phones went off in the pile of papers and notebooks scattered across the desk. "Get it," Dan suggested, nodding to the pile.  "Well it's not my phone."  "That's not my ringtone. You probably just usually have it on mute."  "Who would be calling me?"  Dan shrugged. "Well answer it!"  Phil jumped up, digging through the pile and flipping over his near-empty backpack, grabbing the phone and answering at the last second. "Mushi Mushi?"  There was some crackling at the end of the line.  Phil caught his breath. "Hello?"  Silence. Then, after a beat, a low deep voice growled "you have seven days to live."  "Dan, it's for you." Phil handed the phone over to the very confused Dan.  "Hullo." He paused, listening to the voice. Phil could barely hear it.  "Seven days..." it whispered guterally.  "Thank God," Dan mumbled in reply. "But can we speed up the process a bit? I have a test before that. Could you just kill me now?"  The voice seemed to consider this. "Not now. Tonight."  Dan clicked flirtily. "I'll light some candles. See you at 7." He closed the phone, hanging up with a grin. "Friend of yours?"  Phil shook his head, smiling lightly. "Nah, little brother. He got his own phone last week and has been prank calling people ever since. I'm actually kind surprised it's taken him this long to try it with me."  Dan laughed. "Amazing. I always wanted to have a little brother."  "I don't know. Tucker's all right, but I'd prefer to have my own room. Then I wouldn't have to come over and invade your space every day."  "You're not invading my space." The air seemed to crackle with electricity, or maybe something a little more dangerous. Then it disappeared. "Have you seen my room yet?"  "No. Wanna give me the grand tour?" ---  Phil had never had his own room. Dan practically had his own floor.  "There's Dad's office, which he spends about 23 out of 24 hours in, so it doesn't really count. But they technically sleep in their room downstairs, so I have loads of space."  Dan's room was at least twice the size of Phil's, and it looked even bigger with a double bed instead of the bunk beds that took up most of Phil's space. The bed had hidden storage under it for Dan's clothes, and next to it sat a nightstand crowded with figurines from animes, little mementos, and a few condoms.  "Nice," Phil said dryly, staring at the latter, which was out in plain sight.  "Um, ignore that!" Dan opened the drawer and swept the condoms and a bottle into it, closing it quickly. "No one ever comes in here, so it's not like I need to hide them."  "No one ever comes in here," Phil repeated, picking up an empty wrapper from the floor. "Yeah, I believe you."  Dan snatched the wrapper out of his hand, stuffing it in the drawer with the others. "Shut up." His cheeks had turned a bright pink.  "Why do you have two desks?" Upon further inspection of the room, Phil realized there were two desks inside of one, one in each corner opposite the bed. Only one had a chair by it, and that was the only one with papers on it. The other had a stack of discarded clothing on it, like it had been downgraded to a laundry hamper.  Dan looked where he was staring. "Oh, that's dad's old one. He gave it to me, like I'd have use for two."  Phil shrugged, glancing around. Nothing else was of much interest to him, unless he was willing to ask Dan more about the condom wrappers, which he wasn't.  "Wanna get a snack? I'm hungry." ----  The coffee tasted much better at the Bagel shop when he was sat at a table for two. It turned out, Dan was actually quite funny, though most of his jokes were horrible and caused Phil to snort so hard he almost directly inhaled his coffee.  Other new information learned: the bagels at the bagel shop taste about as bad as the coffee. Dan got one, and it was so stale he could tap it against the table and make a noise like horses galloping on pavement. Dan ate it anyways.  The whole building was so warm. Phil felt like he was wearing a woolen jumper. How long had it been since he'd felt so warm? Too long.  Dan smiled wide and laughed loud. And Phil did too. His cheek muscles ached from so much exercise after so much disuse. ---  Phil was just setting his stuff down on the Howell's dining room table when Dan called him upstairs. When Phil got to the top of the steps and peeked in his room, Dan was sitting in his rolling chair, the end of a pencil between his teeth. "Do you want to bring a chair up here? I don't get the Lit assignment." ---  There were few things that felt better than leaving school for holiday break. Actually, two, to be exact: leaving school for Summer Vacation and leaving school for good.  Dan whooped, tilting his face up to the starry sky and leaning back, stumbling only slightly. The brown paper bag he clutched in one hand sloshed around with his movement, the drink inside it still half full.  Phil's drink was half full too. It was strange- earlier that school year, he would've called it half empty. But lately, a lot of things were looking half full.  "I'm gonna to be an astronaut when I grow up," Dan slurred, stalking forwards, eyes trained on the stars. "'m gonna see the stars up close, and personal. Get all up in their space." He squinted, daring the stars to disagree.  "Is that what you're studying at uni-"  "Don't say that word!" Dan commanded quickly, cutting him off. "Evil. I'm in a good mood, satyr, don't ruin it with your talk of the future."  Dan's insults had been getting more and more interesting ever since they did the unit on The Odyssey in A-levels Lit. Dan had done an essay on the various ways mythology was ingrained in the culture of the time, and needless to say, he'd gotten a bit into it.  Phil took a big swig from his bottle, letting the liquor pour down his throat like molten lava, stinging and burning his tongue. They walked in curved lines, words slurred but brains still mostly aware. The empty space in their bottles wasn't enough to get someone drunk, but luckily for them, it wasn't all they'd been drinking that night.  "I hate parties," Dan mumbled. Most of his filters had been strewn on the floor, sloshed around and discarded like bad mouthwash. "Too many stupid people."  "It was your idea to go," Phil reminded him.  "Stupid," he repeated. "I don't even like dancing."  Phil raised the bottle to his lips and gulped, doing his best to wash the memory away. Dan had danced with a girl, some stupid brunette who was significantly smaller than him. They'd danced, and then made out, before Dan pulled away and spat on the floor. No one cared. It was too late and the air smelled too much like vomit and beer for anyone to care.  Phil wished he didn't care. "You like her?"  Dan didn't need to ask who he was talking about. "Not really. Just someone to dance with, someone to kiss." He sipped from his bottle, stopping to giggle lightly. "Not that you'd know anything about that."  "In my defense, I can't kiss people. Nobody around who'd want to."  "Oblivious potato you are." He cackled up to the sky, eyes gazing around as if waiting for Zeus to appear and pluck him from the ground. "'My name is nobody'," he quoted, smiling vaguely.  Phil shook his head, trying not to think about The Odyssey any more. Dan was referring to the passage where the brave Odysseus was face to face with the monstrous cyclops, Polyphemus. When asked his name, Odysseus replies 'My name is nobody'. Later, he stabs the cyclops in his one eye and escapes with his men, and Polyphemus chases him blindly out to the shore screaming bloody murder. When the other cyclopes on the island hear him and ask what's wrong, he screams 'Nobody stabbed me! Nobody stabbed me!' and Odysseus is able to escape.  He stared at the boy next to him, face illuminated solely by the thin scrap of moon that was visible. Phil wondered if he was thinking about the Odyssey too.  "She was a horrible kisser," Dan mumbled. "Tasted like cigarettes." He turned and looked at Phil sincerely, voice scratching out, "Don't smoke. I don't want any campfire kisses."   Then he stumbled forwards, continuing to walk, quoting: "'Of all creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than a man.'"  Phil giggled. "You should probably head home now. Sleep it off."  Dan nodded tiredly. His shoulders were weighed down visibly, as if he still carried his backpack jammed full of expectations and textbooks. "'There is a time for many words,'" hiccup "'...and there is also a time for sleep.'" ---  Phil awoke with a pounding headache and a light blush across his cheeks. ---  "Your friends can't come over on Christmas," their mum insisted. "Christmas day is for family only."  "Sweetie, let's not be unreasonable. They just want to have fun! What about Christmas Eve?" Greyson suggested, ever the mediator. Sandy stared at them from across the dinner table, her puppy dog face on maximum level.  She frowned, thinking it over. "Fine. But Sandy, only bring one or two friends over, we hardly have enough room for everyone in the house as it is. Phil, could you go to the store sometime this week and get hot coco and eggnog?"  "And whipped cream!" Sandy added excitedly.  "Probably need two cans," Greyson agreed.  Phil nodded, making a mental note. "And, um, if Sandy is having friends over, do you think I could invite someone too?" ---  Phil sat on the carpeted floor, leaning against the maroon couch. His hands were wrapped around the warm mug of eggnog, and he sipped it slowly, trying to savor it. He was only allowed one glass, as Greyson insisted that it was important not to start drinking too young. Needless to say, Phil wasn't about to tell him about his and Dan's activities the week prior.  Dan sat closely nestled next to Phil, also with a single mug of eggnog and an overly festive jumper. The main difference was, Dan's was black with a reindeer on it, while Phil's was covered in reds, greens and whites. When Dan first saw it he claimed Phil looked like an 'obnoxious candy cane', to which Phil replied with something that wasn't supposed to be sexual, but of course Dan ended up taking it that way.  Dan was very warm, and their arms pressed against each other, though Phil reminded himself that it was because there was so little space. Sandy and Anna had friends over, meaning that there were currently around a dozen people in the sitting area and kitchen, which were made even smaller by the almost invasive presence of the plastic Christmas tree. "We should get a real one this year!" Phil had suggested upon seeing Greyson carrying the box down from the attic.  "No can do," he'd replied easily. "Real Christmas trees are a potential fire hazard. Do you know how many people get electrocuted watering Christmas trees naked, a year?"  No, Phil had not know, and no, he did not enjoy that mental image.  Dan was quieter than normal, sipping his eggnog and observing the goings on of the family and extras.  Finally, Phil spoke up. "I'm glad you could come. Are your parents celebrating with friends?"  Dan shook his head. "Mum might be. But Dad's spending the night in his office. Hopefully he'll get up and go to bed before it's time to open presents."  Dan's father was an extremely intelligent man, with a spattering of fancy degrees and an extremely prestigious job. But Dan talked about him like he was a deadbeat.  "It's weird being here," Dan admitted. "I've never had siblings."  "I've never not had siblings. I used to hate it, middle child syndrome and all that. Now... I don't mind it as much."  "I bet not. Especially since you don't have to study at home anymore."  Across the room, Phil's younger sisters and their friends laughed loudly, talking in quiet, fast voices among themselves. In the background, the song 'Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree' played, and Amanda and Tucker danced to it on the small stretch of floor in between the kitchen and living room. Amanda looked happier than normal, probably since Janie finally managed to go to sleep and hadn't woken up since the party started. Tucker smiled too, though he looked a little embarressed to be seen dancing with his big sister.  "Come on," Phil urged, feeling a sudden impulse. "Let's dance."  He got up and pulled Dan to his feet, ignoring his complaints. "But I have two left feet!"  "I have four!" Phil retaliated, yanking Dan over to the tile floor and grabbing his other hand, spinning him.  "How is that even possible?" Dan complained, spinning and catching himself on Phil's hand. "Now I know why you're failing Calculus. You can't count!"  They swayed, doing something that almost resembled dancing.  "Everyone dancing merrily, in a new old-fashioned way,” The music played.  More people moved over, starting to dance along. Phil tried not to cringe as he saw his mum being tugged over to the floor, Greyson pulling her over to dance.  "I'm not failing Calc," Phil defended, intertwining his hands with Dan's more comfortably. "I have a B minus!"  "Potato po-tat-o." Dan spun him, and Phil only stumbled slightly. "You're right, you have no coordination."  "What's that quote?" Phil recalled. "'The gods don't give out all gifts at once..."'  "'Not build and brains and flowing speech to all. One man may fail to impress us with his looks but a god can crown his words with beauty, charm, and men look on with delight when he speaks out.'" Dan looked like he was somewhere else, reciting the quote easily. "'Never faltering, filled with winning self-control, he shines forth at assembly grounds and people gaze at him like a god when he… when he walks through the streets. Another man may look like a deathless one on high but there's not a bit of grace to crown his words. Just like you, my fine, handsome friend.'"  "Wow."  ‘Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree’ ended. Dan didn't seem to notice that there was no more music. He seemed to be staring at Phil's lips, his own lips parted slightly.  "Wow," Phil repeated again. "I'm genuinely impressed. I can't remember quotes for the life of me."  "They spoke to me," Dan replied with a shrug, trying to start swaying again to the beat of the new song playing, Let It Snow.  The weather outside is frightful. But the fire is so delightful. And since there's no place to go. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. ---  Christmas day was exciting, but not like it usually was. They each got a few small presents from their Mum and Greyson, and Amanda, Phil, and Tucker each had a present for each family member. Sandy and Anna couldn't be bothered to buy presents, but they were young enough that it was excusable.  After all the presents had been opened, the adults went into the kitchen and started preparing lunch, and Phil and Tucker wrestled around a bit. Phil may be 18, but he would never be an adult to his parents, just as Amanda had a job and a kid, but she still sat at the kids' table at family gatherings.  Tucker was small for someone his age, still in early high school, but he was a decent wrestler. Phil had the size advantage, but it was a pretty even match.  "I wanna do karate," Tucker said later, after they were done. "Or boxing. Or wrestling, I guess. Something like that."  A memory tugged at the back of Phil's mind. "Dan does boxing, I think."  "You think?"  "His dad mentioned it once," Phil explained. "I don't know if he still does, actually. He never talks about it."  "That's a weird thing not to talk about," Tucker observed. "If I did boxing, I'd probably never shut up about it." ---   "It's never come up in conversation, I guess," Dan explained, kicking off his snow boots. It was still Christmas Day, just a little later, and Dan had walked over to Phil's house to collect him. 'My house is quiet and I'm bored,' he'd explained, shivering in the cold. 'Come over?'  Phil had taken his first opportunity to ask about Dan's boxing, and sure enough, he boxed. "I go to practice three times a week, compete most Sundays, and train most nights before bed."  "And you've never thought to mention it?"  He shrugged. "It's not something I talk about. It's... weird, you know? I have like... a personality, that everyone knows, you know? And boxing just doesn't fit into it."  The two boys walked upstairs to Dan's room automatically. Phil sat on his bed. "Why not? Boxing is cool."  "And obviously I'm so cool," Dan muttered sarcastically. "I have like, negative two friends."  "You have me."  "Yes, there is that. But as you are the only openly gay student in our school, that doesn't score me much points." He winced. "Sorry."  Phil tried not to be offended. "Well, you're not wrong."  "If you wanted, you could use my locker at school," Dan offered quickly, desperately. "I don't use it. And then, you wouldn't have to see... you know..."  He was referring of course, to Phil's locker, which still had the word 'twink' spray painted across it. Phil had tried to scrub it away, but nothing worked. He'd reported it to the office, but to his knowledge, they hadn't even bothered to try to get rid of it.  Phil exhaled shakily. He hadn't thought about the bullies ever since the break started. He shook his head, changing the topic of conversation back to boxing. "You said you trained? Where?" ---  Phil had never realized that Dan's mom never parked her car in their garage. He also never realized that Dan's dad didn't even have a car.  "He's too much of a social recluse to have a car," Dan explained, leaning against the wall of the garage. Instead of being a space for parking cars, it had been converted into a gym of sorts, with a tattered old punching bag in the middle of the room. Pushed against the walls were boxes, some filing cabinets, and a new looking bench press covered in clothes and gloves.  "I don't use that," Dan explained, seeing Phil's eyes train on the press. "It's too boring."  Phil walked around the punching bag, observing where the material was faded or torn. A few spots were patched up with duct tape, and a few spots looked like it was about time they be patched up.  Phil noticed something out of the corner of his eye and walked over to where an open cardboard box sat again the wall. Dan realized what he was doing too late, and by the time he shouted "Wait!" Phil was already leaning down.  "Trophies?"  "I'm not any good," Dan promised. "Most of them are just participation!"  Phil pulled one of the medium-sized ones out. It was covered in a layer of dust, which he brushed aside. "Second place?"  "It was a small event!" Phil looked up, and for the first time noticed how panicked Dan looked. "Could you please put it back? Hey, I got the new Zelda game, do you want to try it out?"  Phil wanted to ask more about boxing. Obviously Dan was being modest; the box was stuffed full of trophies, and there were other boxes in the room. Did they contain the same things?  But when he saw Dan's expression, he knew there was no way he could push him any further. For whatever reason, Dan was ashamed of boxing, or something like that. Phil wanted to know why.  But now was not the time to ask. "Yeah, cool. Show me the game?" ----  Phil didn't not welcome school back with open arms.    Something had happened over the break. What, he didn't know, but everyone was glaring at him which such malice he wondered if he'd killed someone without realizing.  He pulled his headphones out, allowing himself to hear the chatter. His next class was on the other side of the school, and after he'd been walking a few minutes, he'd heard a shred of conversation that made him keep listening.  "....grounded. Chuck was caught sleeping with him-"  "With Lester?"  "Yeah! I mean, who else would he sleep with? It was a dude, and his dad got so pissed he beat him."  "Dude. How'd the fucking fag get Chuck to sleep with him in the first place?"  "I dunno, but now he won't be able to play in the game on Friday. We really need a win if we want to make it to regionals..."  Phil put his headphones back in his ears. Apparently, there were at least two other gays going to his school: Chuck, and another boy who'd been caught sucking him off. -----  "What happened?"  "Got in a fight."  "With who?"  "This guy at school." Correction: these guys at school. "We had a difference in opinion." ----  Dan prepared him an ice pack. "I heard the news. About, you know, you and Chuck."  "I didn't do anything with Chuck. I don't even know him that well."  "I know you didn't." Dan zipped up the bag of ice, handing it over with a towel. "Hold this over your eye, it should help the swelling."  "Doctor Daniel," Phil teased, taking the ice thankfully. His eye was beginning to swell shut, and his chest ached. At least he could hide bruised ribs. It wasn't so easy with the eye.  "You caught me at a bad time," Dan admitted. "I was going to practice now."  "Sorry. You want me to go, or... can I watch?"  Dan almost considered it. Phil could see the gears turning, but the awkward smile made his answer clear. "Sorry, I think you'd better go. I think it'll be a rougher workout today, I've got some... stuff to get out."  "Stuff to get out," Phil repeated. "Yeah, I can go. See you tomorrow?"  "Yeah, sure. And stop getting in fights, bruising doesn't suit you."  "That, we can agree on." ----  The rumors kept swirling. Chuck was not gay, it seemed, he'd just been put in an awkward situation and took advantage of it. "A mouth is a mouth," he laughed with his friends. "Trust me, I didn't want the fag to touch me but he wanted it so bad, you should've seen him. So wrecked." When his friends asked more about it, he replied quickly "No, I didn't like it! If he was a girl it would have been so hot though. He was so sweaty his hair got really curly- yeah, like that. Don't worry though, he'll pay for it. Trust me on that." ----  Dan was so sweaty his hair got even curlier than normal.  "Woah," Phil said as soon as he saw him. "Boxing practice?"  "Yeah. I'm getting ready for a big meet, have to be prepared." He took the strap of one of the gloves in his teeth, ripping it off easily. Phil tried not to stare too much. "Anyone else give you crap today?"  "Anyone not give me crap? It's fine, school's over. I don't have to see any of them again until tomorrow." He willed his voice not to crack, his hand not to shake. His head hurt from being slammed against the lockers.  Dan nodded, not making eye contact as he took the other glove off. "How's Calc going? I wish that he just let us take the book home, it'd be so much easier."  "It would." Phil didn't really know what else to say.  "I'm going to... erm, I'm going to do my homework in my room again. Come with?"  Phil's head throbbed. "Yeah. Sure." ----  Phil didn't know when he snapped. But if I had to say a moment in the altogether miserable week, it'd probably be when he was laying on the floor of the boys' bathroom, sopping wet from the swirly. After they'd dunked him in the toilet, they'd used him as a mop, swinging him around by his legs and splashing water on the ground for the back of his favorite hoodie to clean up.  Then they left him, far more interested in getting out of the school than they were in beating up the fag.  Phil laid there, not bothering to get up. His favorite hoodie was filthy, with dirt and toilet water and he didn't even want to know what else. And he was all alone on the bathroom floor, his bus having already left.  And something snapped.  Phil stood. He tore off his jacket and stuffed it in the trash can, hefted his backpack, and only made one stop before marching out of the school and walking all the way home. ---  Phil went home and changed out of his stupid school uniform into comfortable work clothes and went around, doing his yard work for the day. Then he went home, got his backpack, and marched to Dan's house, going straight up to Dan's room without knocking.  Dan wasn't wearing pants. "Phil! I didn't-"  "I stole something."  Dan blinked. "Um, what?"  Phil opened his backpack on Dan's bed, dumping half of it out and pulling out a Calculus textbook. "I was angry- I'm still kinda angry- and I'm failing the class." He paused. "And I'm not giving it back."  Dan blinked. It took him a little too long to process. "I'm not wearing pants." He repeated.  "You mentioned that already. I just stole a textbook."  "Yeah, you said that too."  They both were frozen.  Phil cleared his throat. "You can put on pants now. If you want."  "If I want," Dan repeated.  "I mean, I don't care."  "No, you'd probably actually prefer I don't put my pants on."  Phil scowled, messing with his backpack. "Don't put words in my mouth."  They were quiet for a few more moments.  "I'm going to put pants on."  "Okay." ----  Studying was a lot easier with the calc textbook. ----  "We could just sit on the floor," Phil suggested, eying the small couch wearily.  "Nah, this is better. Come on, hop up." Dan sat down, bowl of popcorn in hand, and patted the small space next to him.  Phil sat, the couch so small there was no way for them to sit without touching. "It's a good movie," Dan said, "so don't you dare fall asleep."  "I promise I won't," Phil laughed, snuggling up to his friend, albeit still cautiously.  Dan started the movie and leaned against Phil, his head on his shoulder. ----  Phil fell asleep during the movie.  But it was okay.  Because so did Dan. ----  "Oh, hello boys."  Phil had been half awake for a few minutes, not wanting to move. He was too warm, too tired, and besides, Dan was still asleep. "Hi Mr.Howell. We watched a movie last night, and fell asleep."  Dan snored, snuggling closer to Phil.  "I promise it's not as bad as it looks-" Phil started, but Mr.Howell cut him off quickly.  "Oh no, don't worry about it. I know about you two, Dan has boys over all the time. He didn't tell me specifically, but I notice things."  Phil blinked, still only half awake. "He has boys over all the time? What do you mean?"  "Well, not since you've been dating I'm sure. We've never talked about it, but I know he's homosexual, or bisexual, or whatever the kids call it these days. I'm not as oblivious as all that."  Phil blinked again. Apparently, Dan's dad wasn't that oblivious, but Phil certainly was. ----  Dan woke up a few minutes later.  "Crap, I fell asleep," he said as if that weren't already obvious. "Wait... don't tell it's morning already?"  "We both fell asleep," Phil admitted. He observed Dan as he stretched, pulling himself up. The words you're gay? got clogged in his throat, refusing to come out.  Just like Dan. Funny how that works. ————

They were in Dan’s bed. It was late, and they were both just a little drunk on exhaustion and booze. Not drunk enough for their thoughts to be incoherent or their voices to slur, just drunk enough for Dan to quote "The Odyssey" every other minute.  "You know you’re my best friend, right?" Dan said quietly. He was staring at Phil, his eyes slightly lowered. Phil sighed contentedly, his eyes trained on his 'best friend's lips.  "Yeah, I know. You’re my best friend too." Phil shuffled slightly, wondering if it’d be too gay to cuddle up closer to Dan. Then again, it sounded like Dan was also gay, at least partially. Maybe it’d be okay.  He was stuck. He was stuck, right in between wanting to kiss Dan and not wanting to lose him, because he knew that out of the two options, he could likely only choose one. And he couldn’t loose Dan.  Shoveling the sidewalks as quickly as he could just so he could be paid by the neighbors and get to Dan's house as fast as possible, just to study. Going to the bagel shop for a special treat and eating the almost indigestible bagels and coffee, because it was convenient and it was quiet and he’d go anywhere with Dan, really. He like being around him a bit too much, and eventually it’d probably screw him over, but for now, it was worth it.  They liked going drinking Friday nights. Always some party, and if there wasn't, there was always booze for sale. They didn’t drink every week, but they did when they could. When Dan was tipsy he often lost track of personal space, and he’d bump into Phil or stand so close that Phil would wonder if he was going to kiss him. But then he’d pull away, saying something about why the government had set them up for failure, or ramble on about textual themes. He loved quoting the Odyssey. They walked through an empty field to get home most times, and it was just out of the way enough that they could see the stars, and Dan would say something about how "It is the wine that leads me on, the wild wine, that sets the wisest man to sing, at the top of his lungs, laugh like a fool – it drives the man to dancing... it even tempts him to blurt out stories better never told." And Phil just listens and smiles and wonders if Dan somehow managed to memorize the entire Odyssey, or if perhaps, he recites it in the shower.  He loved Dan. That much was clear. He loved him like a best friend. He loved him a little more than that maybe, loved him like he was angry, loved him in spite and loved him in secret. And it seemed as though Dan loved him as a best friend too. And there was that love, that love that Phil had no idea what to do with, so they could drown it out with booze and homework and chit chat and stale bagels and complaining about their families/classes/experiences/lives, but you can never truly drown love, love can swim.  Phil wonders if there’s a quote about that somewhere in The Odyssey. The entire story is about a man, Odysseus, trying to get back home to his wife Penelope. The journey is painful and long, but when he comes home, it was almost as if he’d never left. Phil supposed that the love between Odysseus and Penelope was buoyant too.

———— "Because of you, Chuck wasn’t there for the game. Because of you, we lost."  Phil backed up, the three boys stalking towards him until he was flush against the lockers, banging against them with a little clanging noise from the cheap metal. He knew where this was going. Chuck stood to the side, cracking his knuckles. In front of him, Trevor was the one leading the assault, his dirty brown hair falling in front of his eyes. Caleb stood to the other side of him, dumping his backpack on the ground as if he didn’t want it holding him back.  "It wasn’t me," Phil insisted again like maybe this time they’d listen. They didn’t, just continued pressing forwards until Phil had pressed himself so closely against the locker he could feel its hinges digging into his back. Phil’s gaze fluttered from one boy to the next, looking for any signs of hesitation, some sort of human emotion. He found nothing.  He swallowed. "I have standards. I wouldn’t get anywhere near his dick."  The first punch came before he’d finished his sentence, a sharp pain across his face that made him slam back against the lockers. The rest came in rapid succession, his ribs, his face, his stomach. He doubled over, gripping his stomach and desperately trying to protect his head as fingers dug into his head and shoved him to ground.  "This is for being a fag!" Phil’s breathe was torn from his throat, forcefully expelled by a harsh kick to the lungs.  "And this is for costing us regionals!" Chuck's voice, and a swift kick to the head. Phil wondered if he knew that it wasn’t him who he slept with, and was caught by his father. Phil wondered if he cared.  Phil tasted blood. His body twitched away from every blow until he was curled up in the fetal position on the dirty school floor, and as he was being attacked on every side all he could think about was how stupid it was for him not to book it out of school as soon as he’d had the chance.  A filthy shoe made contact with his face, and he tasted blood. Phil covered his head with his hands, just wishing them to go away.  "What the fuck are you doing? Hey, get off of him!"  The kicking stopped temporarily, but Phil didn’t dare try to get up. There was a scuffle, and then a body was slammed against the locker.  Phil looked around quickly then scrambled to his feet, his assailants more busy with someone else. A new person had appeared, his body shoved up against the locker as he yelled back and forth at the bullies.  A balding teacher left his classroom, coffee mug in hand. He watched the fight for a moment, then retreated back into his room, locking the door behind him.  Phil was frozen in shock as Trevor was kicked backward, stumbling a meter then falling on his ass. The person was still shoving the other two away but somehow managed to rear his arm back and punch Caleb so hard he crumpled against the lockers.  Dan grabbed Chuck by his greasy blonde hair and yanked his head down, making contact with his knee. Phil flinched, taking a step back so he was leant against the wall, still catching his breath but in too much shock to move. Dan spun Chuck around and slammed him into the lockers with so much force Phil’s back ached in sympathy.  Dan was bleeding, a long scratch right under his eye from a nail or something. He had a split lip. But he didn’t look any weaker from it, hardly even seemed fazed.  He held Chuck against the locker, holding an elbow directly under his chin, but then adjusted his hands so he was holding Chuck still by his neck. Dan panted and wiped some of the blood on his face away. Chuck's hand came up to cup his own bleeding nose, but Dan slapped it away, pulling Chuck back and slamming his head against the locker easily.  "I hear you’ve been spreading rumors," Dan muttered. His voice was deep and gravelly, but he stared at Chuck easily, not intimidated in the least. "People seem to think that Phil was the one you were caught with."  To his side, Travis started getting up, but before he could Dan kicked him in the stomach so hard he fell back down. "Shh, listen." Dan brought his attention back to Chuck, who wouldn’t look at him. "Who was it?"  "It was you," he admitted. "You were the fag. You think you’re so special Howell, thought you could keep it a secret-"  Dan slammed him against the locker again, and Chuck shut up, his hands flying up to Dan’s hands still wrapped around his neck, trying to get him to loosen his grip.  Dan licked his lips. "Listen up, all three of you. Stop screwing with my boyfriend. Or they’ll be hell to pay."  He let go of Chuck, shoving him down onto his knees as he stepped back. "Feels familiar, doesn’t it? You on your knees. All we need now is a broken lock on your door and your raging father, isn’t that right?"  He took another step back, glancing over his shoulder and grabbing Phil’s collar, pulling him into a kiss. It was sloppy and tasted like blood, and Phil could still hardly catch his breath, and nothing was processing, because was Dan really kissing him?  Dan pulled away, but still held onto his collar. They stayed there a moment, eyes interlocked, when the next impact came.  Dan was thrust against the wall, stumbling to get up. Travis stood over him. "Cocksucker," he snarled, raising his foot to stomp Dans lights out. But Dan was too fast, grabbing his leg and yanking him down. They wrestled on the floor for a moment until Dan came up on top, muttering something about Travis being 'surrounded by cocksuckers' before landing another punch.  They started brawling for real, hitting and punching and clawing and before Phil knew it, he and Chuck were locking eyes and running over to pull them apart before they could kill each other.  Finally, a few teachers ran down the hallways, shouting something about stopping, and all five boys had just enough time to stand, regard each other harshly, and glance down one last time. "Fuck you," Phil spat, before balling his fist and punching Chuck square in the jaw before turning and sprinting away, Dan right on his heels.  He hit the door with so much force that it actually hurt, but everything hurt at this point and Phil was bleeding and so was Dan and they had to get away before anyone spotted them. They sprinted around the side of school, panting turned into exhausted laughter as they turned the corner and collapsed against the brick wall. It was that type of pained laughter that physically hurt, because Phil’s ribs were definitely bruised and maybe worse, and his hands were stained with blood, and he was definitely imagining things because Dan was there too, the area right under his right eye splotchy and red.  "I can’t believe-" Phil started, but they didn’t have all day for him to say everything he didn’t believe had happened, but somehow, through the pain in his knuckles in the ache of every breath, he knew it was real, it was very real. "You kissed me," he said finally, looking up at Dan with a look of respect. "You actually kissed me."  "After all that just happened, that’s what you’re thinking about?" Dan’s entire face was contorted by the smile, and he looked like such a wreck but Phil couldn’t care because there was no way he looked any better. "Sorry about that, by the way," Dan added, wiping some of the blood on his lips away. "I thought it’d be dramatic. Scare them off. Didn’t work that great."  "Yeah, no shit." Phil tugged on Dan's collar, pulling him close but stopping him before they actually collided. "Thanks. I appreciate it." He eyed Dan, the cut on his cheek, the split lip. "You look like a mess."  "You do too," Dan agreed. "I want to kiss you again."  Phil yanked him into another kiss, tasting of blood and exertion and sweat and a little bit like hot chocolate. "I’m not going to be able to stop," he admitted, halfway through the kiss.  "Its fine," Dan mumbled against his lips, not even bothering to pull apart. "I won't either."  They kissed for what could have been hours before Phil mumbled "My hand hurts," and they finally pulled away. ————-  "You’re doing so good!" Phil handed Dan his water bottle as he took his mouth guard out, wiping his sweat away from his forehead.  "Only a few more matches." Dan’s eyes had this far away look to them. He never had so much pride in anything but his competitions. It was one of the reasons why Phil insisted on coming every week.  Dan drank from the water bottle as someone jogged over, patting him on the back roughly. "Hey champ, nice match! Who’s this?"  Dan’s eyes sparkled as he looked at Phil. His lip had heeled, and the cut under his eye had faded, but he looked the same as he did the day they first kissed. Sweaty, with his hair plastered back away from his forehead, but so proud and happy Phil couldn’t help but smile.  "This is Phil. My boyfriend."  Phil’s heart literally fluttered in his chest.  "Oh yeah? Phil, do you box too? Bet I could find you a decent instructor, huh?" He nudged Dan’s side playfully.  Dan laughed. "Nah, Phil doesn’t box. The last time he punched someone, he broke his thumb. It’s a pretty good story though."  Dan’s friend's eyes widened with interest. He looked to Phil. "Oh yeah? Tell me."  "I don’t know, it’s a little crude. I doubt you can handle it," Phil teased.  "Oh come on, try me!"  "Well..." Phil tugged his bottom lip in between his teeth, looking at Dan as he tried to decide how mean he wanted to be. "It all started when Dan got sucked off by the most popular boy in school..."

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