about The Long And Winding Road, which one do you think as the more heartbreaking: “you’ve never known the many ways i’ve tried / you’ve always known the many ways i’ve tried “ ?

OMG. This is such a good (by which I mean painful) question. To answer, let's consider both options and their implications, shall we? Because that's a normal way to answer this question, and not thinking too much about things.

You've never known: Here we have toiling for years and never being recognized for that effort. The thing that destroys me, is the idea that the person who you've loved, given yourself to and tried to open up with, never really knew you at all. They never understood you. Not only that, they've thought the worse of you. The fact he's saying this at all (repeatedly) suggests he's being accused of not trying/caring.

Upside: Potential to pretend you never cared anyway.

Downside: nagging suspicion that you could have done more, you could have kept trying to show how much you did care and maybe that would have made a difference.

You've always known: They did see you and it... didn't matter. It reminds me of the James Acaster line, "What if every relationship you've ever been in, is someone slowly figuring out they didn't like you as much as they hoped they would?" You have been seen, assessed and then you've been tossed aside.

Upside: there's no doubt you tried your best.

Downside: it wasn't good enough.

Conclusion, this is going to be personal, huh? Would you rather be perceived and rejected or realize the person never really got you and thinks the worst of you? AHHHHH. I think. I think. The second one is easier to recover from? So the first is more sad, but only in the long term, because in the moment the second one is way more painful.

Absolutely devastating to have watched Paul vacillate wildly between these two concepts ever since he wrote this. Cool stuff. Not personally wounding to me at all.

While I was writing this I got to thinking about how this confusion is why we see Paul go from apologetic to however you want to term the vibe of RAM.

Option two gives you RAM because it's a very knowing, "You've rejected a good thing here, buddy, and also fuck you." You can see how it'd be easier to be mad about that option, once you're over the initial drinking yourself into oblivion for a few weeks. But, the first one... you can see someone like Paul who likes to Do Well and be Recognized for Doing Well, feeling like a failure and wanting to make amends, even if he's not sure how to do that. Plus, John's behaviour probably at a certain point must have read like he was right the first time.

What do you think, Nonny (or anyone)? Which is sadder?

with you, a girl could get bolder (i just wanna be a little bit closer) - part two

PART TWO: i’m in your head now, from every second now Series Masterlist Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Rating: Mature Featuring: Angst; Fluff; No Additional Warnings Words: 7894 Summary: So, you had sex with a co-worker under the influence of a super-powered aphrodisiac. What do you do now? A/N: First of all, BIG thank you to everyone who liked/replied/reblogged Part 1!! Honestly overwhelmed by how lovely you all are 🤗 Second of all, there is no smut in this part so if you wanna skip this one and catch up on Part 3 (which does have smut) I totally get it and you will receive no judgment from me!! Sorry for the wait on this one, Part 3 won’t take this long I promise! ________________________________________________________________

You sleep for a long time, deep and dreamless, and wake to the hot midday sun streaming in through your open curtains. You’d been so out of it the night before you hadn’t even bothered to shut them. For a moment or two it feels like a normal day, albeit a lazy one. Like sleeping in on Sunday and waking up easy and refreshed. You reach for your phone to check the time when recollection kicks in, reminding you exactly why you’re in bed at noon on a Friday, stripping away any feelings of peace or rest. You want to stay in bed, bury yourself under the covers until you die. Or at least until someone from the compound reaches out to you, but there’s too much nervous energy thrumming under your skin, making you restless and jittery and you finally give in and leave the warm cocoon of your blankets. You spend the day at home, stress-cleaning your entire apartment and stress-eating your entire fridge, vacillating between panic and calm. One minute you’re stuffing your face with week-old stir-fry and checking your phone with every mouthful; the next you’re elbow-deep in dishwater, resigned to your fate – whatever it may be. In worried moments, you can’t imagine how you can possibly go back to the compound after everything that’s happened. How can you discuss schedules and mission reports when everyone you work with knows you got railed by an Avenger on one of the jets they use to fly around saving the world? How can you face Bucky again? Even if he doesn’t blame you for what happened, he’s bound to have some negative feelings about the whole thing. About sleeping with you. It’s not like you’d been friends before. Not like he’s been harbouring secret romantic feelings like you have. If Bucky’s harbouring any secret feelings about you, they’re probably feelings of annoyance and dislike. What if every time he looks at you now he’s reminded of how you begged, needy and naked and pathetic, for him to fuck you? What if he’s disgusted by you? Somehow that’s the worst thought of all. That the first person – the only person – to have seen your body laid bare, to have touched you in the most intimate ways possible might be repulsed, not by what happened, but because it happened with you. It’s a thought you try not to dwell on for long, but you come back to it over and over throughout the day. Each time, shame and self-loathing and heartache flood your body until you force yourself to think about something else. To eat something else, clean something else. You remind yourself there’s no point worrying about things that might never happen. You’ll only have to endure the reactions from Bucky and the team if you actually go back to work, which might not be an option anymore. No one’s reached out to you all day – no calls, no emails, no texts – and the radio silence has you fearing the worst. That no one has reached out because they’re busy working on your termination paperwork. As the hours slip by, those moments of calm get fewer and further between. By the time you’ve eaten all there is to eat, cleaned all there is to clean, and paced what feels like a hundred miles across the length of your apartment it’s nearly midnight and the only messages you’ve gotten all day are promotional emails and a meme from one of your friends back home. You wish you could talk to her, tell her about everything and get another perspective, but the ironclad NDA you signed on your first day of work rules out telling pretty much anyone other than the Avengers and their support staff – none of whom you want to talk about this with. If nothing else, at least your nervous energy has burned off, leaving you drained and eager to sleep for another twelve – or twelve thousand – hours. But despite your exhaustion, sleep doesn’t come any easier than the night before. You toss and turn for hours it seems, and when you do sleep, it’s light and fitful. You wake early on Saturday morning, feeling no more relaxed than when you first shut your eyes. +++ After another morning alone in your apartment with no news, you think you’re going to go insane soon. You’ve drafted a dozen emails to Maria Hill, to the head of R&D, even one to Steve, but can’t bring yourself to hit send on any of them. Trying to find the line between professional concern and desperate pleading proves to be very difficult. You’ve just started yet another message to Maria – since she coordinates all Avengers operations (including the one that landed you in this situation) – when your phone rings. It’s such a surprise after the silence of the last two days that you’re frozen for a moment before you scramble for your phone, almost dropping it in a mug of lukewarm tea in your haste. A glance at the screen reveals it’s Maria herself on the line, as if summoned by all your unfinished emails. Knowing her background and capabilities, you wouldn’t be surprised if she somehow has seen them… Brushing away that uncomfortable thought, you take a breath and answer the call, trying your best for a confident and casual, “Hello?” Characteristically brusque, Maria wastes no time getting straight to the point. “Can you come to the compound this afternoon? The research half of R&D has an update for you and I figured we should talk, too.” “Uh—” you start, wondering how to give a firm fuck no while still being agreeable and cooperative. Luckily, Maria picks up on the reason for your hesitance. “Right, that would probably be uncomfortable for you. We’ll come to you. Three o’clock?” she offers. “Three is good?” It’s not like you have anything else going on. “Great. I’m supposed to call Secretary Ross at three and I do not want to. See you then.” And with that, the line goes dead. Maria has very little patience for pleasantries, you’ve learned. +++ At three o’clock sharp there’s a knock at your door. You open it up to find Maria waiting outside with a middle-aged woman carrying a black medical bag. You vaguely remember seeing her face among the half dozen or so you saw during the debrief after the jet. Maria says hello and makes the necessary introductions. “This is Dr. Sakina Singh,” she says, face expressionless. “She’s from R&D. You might remember her from –” “The extremely intrusive round of questions I asked you two days ago,” Dr. Singh interjects with a grimace, looking about as uncomfortable as you feel. This probably isn’t what she imagined she’d be doing when she accepted the offer to work with the Avengers. You laugh politely if a little awkwardly. “I remember. Nice to meet you, officially?” She smiles and you shake hands. “Can we come in?” Maria asks, reminding you they’re still standing in your open doorway while cold February air blows into your apartment. “Right! Sorry!” You bring them through to your kitchen, gesturing for them to sit at the table and making the obligatory offers of tea and coffee. Maria and Dr. Singh take one side of the table and it makes you feel a bit like you’re about to have the worst job interview of your life. The fact that Maria was actually at your last job interview doesn’t help. You start to fidget with your hands, relieved the table hides the worst of your nerves. Dr. Singh starts off the proceedings. “I mostly just wanted to check in and see if you’ve experienced any other symptoms, anything out of the ordinary, and to give you a bit of an update on what we’ve found out about the chemical you and Sergeant Barnes ingested,” she says, looking more at-ease now the small-talk portion of the conversation is over and she can focus on the science of it all. “I feel normal,” you reply quietly. “No symptoms since Thursday night.” She nods. “That’s good, and consistent with what Sergeant Barnes reported.” Even the mention of Bucky’s name is enough to have your face flooding with heat. Your hands clench, fingernails pressing crescents into your palms. She carries on, explaining what she and her team were able to determine about the chemical. It’s nothing ground-breaking or unexpected, not after having experienced its effects first-hand. A super-powered aphrodisiac with no discernable purpose beyond making people horny. Just the sort of thing you’d expect to uncover in some mad scientist’s underground lab. Why try curing cancer when you can make people fuck instead? “It provokes extreme sexual arousal while simultaneously decreasing inhibitions,” Dr. Singh explains. “It appears to be neutralized by the chemicals released during orgasm. More than that we don’t know. And since the only uncontaminated sample of the chemical was destroyed, it may be all we will know. But the good news is we don’t see there being any lingering physical impacts, though I would like to take another blood sample from you to be sure it’s completely out of your system.” You consent to the blood sample and she heads back to the compound after it’s done, leaving you and Maria alone at your kitchen table. She’s been nearly motionless this entire time, watching you and Dr. Singh converse, but offering nothing in the way of commentary or even acknowledgment. If you didn’t know better you’d think she wasn’t paying attention at all.  But you do know better, and you have no doubt she could repeat word-for-word everything that was said since you opened the door half an hour ago. Regardless, the stony-faced reticence is unsettling and gives you no clue as to how your conversation with her is going to go. And it’s this conversation you’re really worried about. After a moment of silence that feels endless, Maria lets out a big, heaving sigh, her shoulders dropping as she relaxes into her seat. “Well, that was awkward.” Oh. That’s how your conversation is going to go. It’s so not what you expected her to say and yet so completely like her that a shocked giggle forces its way out of your mouth. She grins at you across the table, but you feel your own smile fade. “God, Maria, I’m so sor—” “If you’re about to apologize, so help me God,” she says, with a look on her face that dares you to argue with her. “I apologize, sincerely, on behalf of myself and the entire Avengers organization. This shouldn’t have happened. We have a dangerous chemicals procedure for a reason, for fuck’s sake,” she adds, with a stormy expression that has you pitying the poor techs who loaded the jet. “I mean, it’s no one’s fault, really. I’m sure that case wasn’t purposely unlatched.” You don’t want anyone to get in trouble for this. You feel guilty enough already about Bucky. “Probably not,” Maria concedes. “But regardless, we’re not treating this as business as usual. This isn’t SHIELD. It won’t be swept under the rug and dismissed without investigation.” You’ve read a handful of the documents Natasha leaked during the fall of SHIELD. You can only imagine how many lab accidents were concealed; how many weren’t accidents at all. It’s a dark line of thinking with no end in sight so you change the subject, asking a question that’s been on your mind for a while. “I wanted to ask – who knows about what happened? I know you can’t hide it, obviously, but –” you shrug, wondering exactly how many people you’re going to have to avoid eye contact with in the halls, or around town even. Maria nods. “The Security Council has access to all our files and we have to report this as a safety incident, but no names or identifying details are recorded. And we didn’t say two staff members had intercourse on a quinjet,” she adds wryly. “Just that there was a chemical spill and two individuals were affected. The only people who know the details of what happened and to who are me, the Avengers, and Dr. Singh and her staff. And they’ve all been made very clear on what will happen if they breach confidentiality. Believe me, they won’t tell anyone.” You believe her. “Speaking of the Avengers… What’s the mood there? Am I totally fired?” Maria snorts. “Fired? Because of a costly mistake for which the organization takes full responsibility, resulting in you ingesting an unknown chemical compound? No. You’re not fired.” Okay, when she lays it out like that it makes your fears seem ridiculous. Still… “Seriously, Maria. Should I just quit? Or be reassigned? Somewhere I will never have to look at any of the Avengers ever again, maybe?” you ask, with a cringe. “Are you concerned it will be awkward for you, or them?” “Well, both. But obviously, their feelings would come first in this situation. They’re the Avengers. I'm a secretary.” Maria rolls her eyes at that comment but chooses not to address it. “Well I can’t do anything about your feelings, but I can assure you that you won’t be treated any differently because of this.” You gape at her. “Seriously?” How could they not treat you differently? Maria levels you with a look. “Do you really think this is the strangest thing that has ever happened on that team?” she says, with the distinct air of a woman who has seen and heard too much. You’re not convinced. “Stranger than two of them banging on a quinjet under the influence of a crazy sex drug?” You’re pretty sure if this were the Strange and Unusual Olympics, that would earn you at least a silver medal. Maria doesn’t seem to agree. She straightens her back and takes a breath. “Giant octopus monster in the Thames. That time a wizard transformed Steve into his pre-serum body for a week. Wanda, daily.” She looks at you, eyebrows raised. You have to admit she has a point. “But –” “Last month I walked in on Steve and Sam having sex in a conference room. A couple years ago Barton got wasted during a game of truth or dare and told everyone how much he enjoys getting slapped around by women in leather. There are multiple sex tapes of Tony on the internet.” She pauses, making sure she has your full attention. “Dealing with weird shit and knowing way too much about the people you work with? Pretty much the two things that bind the Avengers together. Welcome to the team.” Once again, she manages to make things seem so simple. You want to believe her. You almost do believe her. There’s just one thing… “What about Bucky? Maybe everyone else can brush it off, but this happened with him. He can’t possibly want to work with me anymore.” “Fair enough,” Maria says. “But I actually spoke to Barnes this morning. He made it very clear he did not want this to impact your employment in any way.” She shrugs. “Like I said. If it’s not a problem for you, it’s not a problem for them. They’re professionals. Well, mostly.” You nod. This conversation has been enlightening – in a few ways – and Maria’s given you a lot to think about. Also a lot to very purposely not think about (Clint! And presumably Laura!). Maria leans back in her seat, considering you for a long moment as you try to process what she’s told you and come up with some sort of response. The silence stretches on until finally, she speaks. “I’ve had a lot of weird, bad sex in my life.” You stare at her, wide-eyed and mouth agape. Luckily, she doesn’t wait for a response. “I know what happened to you wasn’t just a shitty hookup and you have every right to feel however feel about it.” She says, for the first time looking less than perfectly at ease. She takes her time with her next words. “But I guess what I’m trying to say is it doesn’t have to count. Sex doesn’t change who you are. It doesn’t have to mean anything unless you want it to.” You nod dumbly, not sure what to say. You feel the sudden intense need to be alone for a while so you can sit with all the new thoughts running through your mind. Maria nods back, face settled again into cool composure. “Okay, no more feelings talk. The point is: you’re welcome to come back to work anytime. FRIDAY’s taking on as much as she can, but an AI is only capable of so much. Even that one. Think about it.” +++ You do think about it. You spend the rest of the day thinking about it. You go for a long walk in the crisp winter air, thinking about it. You journal, thinking about it. You Google “I slept with a co-worker, what now?” in various combinations and read several unhelpful articles, thinking about it. After hours of introspection, what you come up with is this: you love your job. You love your life. You’ve always been cautious, careful to a fault. Never a risk-taker. Until a few months ago, you lived in the same town you were born in. Happy enough, but not exactly satisfied. Until you applied for this job. Until you packed up your life, left behind everything you’d ever known to start over someplace new. And you’ve never regretted it. You finally felt like you had a place where you belonged. Over the time you’ve worked with the team, they’ve become friends, not just-workers and you love getting to know the real people behind the glossy media personas the rest of the world is familiar with. You love the sense of pride you feel, knowing the work you do matters, contributes – even in its own small way – to something as unfathomably huge and worthwhile as world peace. You don’t want to give that up. You can’t. The sex thing? Yeah, that sucks. You may not have dreamt of rose petals and scented candles, but you were pretty determined there’d be love and commitment involved. A partner, not just a person. But Maria is right. Sex doesn’t change who you are. Virginity is a goddamn social construct and this doesn’t have to matter unless you want it to. You had sex for the first time with someone you have feelings for, someone you respect. And maybe the circumstances (weird sex drug, floor of airplane) were less than perfect, but you can’t deny the sex itself felt good (amazing). Better than a random guy that couldn’t locate the clitoris with a GPS and flashing neon lights. You feel like you’ve been given permission to let this go. To let it be something that happened, but not something that defines you. Just one moment out of millions. You know it’s not that simple. That one illuminating conversation isn’t enough to silence the part of you that still feels ashamed, embarrassed, and heartbroken, but it's a start. A new perspective and one that has you feeling a hell of a lot better than you did just a few hours ago. There’s just one roadblock in this journey of self-enlightenment to being a mature, grown-ass woman who is handling this like a fucking champ – Bucky. But if what Maria said is true, and you have no reason to think she’d lie to you, then maybe that’s not such a roadblock after all? If everyone, even Bucky, can go on as usual (whatever that is with the Avengers), then you’re basically in the same place you were before all this: hiding your unrequited feelings for a man that doesn’t think about you at all. Just with the added aspect of remembering what his body felt like on top of you, inside you. How his tongue felt in your mouth, and on your… Anyway! You’ve decided. You’re going back to work and it’s going to be totally fine. You’re all going to be adults about this. Having drug-fueled sex on a plane is basically the Avengers equivalent of getting too drunk at the office Christmas party anyway, and many an administrative assistant before you has done that and come out the other side. You call Maria and inform her you’ll be back at the compound on Monday, and you can’t help but think there’s a little note of pride in her crisp acknowledgment.  +++ Sunday passes in a blur of nervous anticipation. By the end of the day, you’re nearly crawling out of your skin, desperate to get the embarrassing part over so you can move on with your life and dreading it at the same time. When you wake up Monday morning there’s a significant part of you that wants to call the whole thing off and stay in your apartment for the rest of your life. You remind yourself you did nothing wrong, that you have every right to your job and your life, but apprehension only grows as you get ready for work and begin the drive to the compound. As the heavy metal gates slide shut behind your car you’re suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling you’ve made a terrible mistake. But after a brief almost-breakdown in the parking garage, you manage to pull yourself together and get out of the car. You make your way to your office in the Avengers’ private wing without running into anyone other than security and custodial staff. It is eight in the morning after all, and it’s not like the Avengers usually congregate outside your office like a welcoming committee, so you’re not sure why you felt like you’d be seeing them all at once. They might not even all be in the building – you’ll have to get Maria to update you on any new missions that have been assigned while you were off. You pass an hour or two catching up on emails and reaching out to a few different contacts around the compound, but no one on the team. The first person you see who knows why you really were off is Sam, making a smoothie in the kitchen when you come in for your morning tea. You steel yourself for the ensuing awkwardness, but it doesn’t come. Sam doesn’t behave any differently than he normally would, acknowledging you with a friendly smile tossed over his shoulder as he prepares ingredients. “Morning,” he greets, handing you a mug from the cupboard over his head as you fill up the electric kettle. “Thanks.” Sam nods, immediately launching into a story about his weekend that has you almost in tears from laughing so hard. “I don’t know why you’re laughing,” he scolds playfully. “I was stuck in that tree for like ten minutes while Tony took pictures, even though it's his fault I ended up there since he designed the damn wings. Anyway, how was your weekend?” he asks with an expression of exaggerated innocence. If it was anyone else it might feel rude or intrusive or even mean. But Sam, all easy charm and genuine warmth, has a way of making people take themselves less seriously, and you find you’re smiling despite yourself as his smirk splits into a cheeky grin. You manage to hold eye contact for a couple of seconds before you’re both laughing uncontrollably, the utter absurdity of the situation suddenly hitting you as actually kind of funny instead of completely tragic. “Yeah, it was alright. Just hung around the house, really,” you tease, catching your breath, and the conversation seamlessly turns to what you’ve both been watching on Netflix. You’re still smiling when you sit back down at your desk. You know there are bound to be awkward moments ahead, but the relief of knowing things can be normal, that the awkwardness will pass, has a tension leaving your body you’d been holding onto for days. Over the next couple days as you go about your normal tasks and routines you run into members of the team in ones and twos. Some are more uncomfortable than others – you and Bruce share a particularly stilted exchange until Tony barges into the room – but after the initial acknowledgment, almost everyone carries on like it never happened. Almost everyone, because by the middle of the week there’s still one person you haven’t seen or heard from. Bucky. You aren’t sure if you’re relieved or disappointed. Sure, you’re not exactly eager for that first – almost certainly uneasy – interaction. But at the same time, all you want is to move on and put this behind you and you don’t think you can do that until you’ve seen him. Until you’ve assured yourself he really is okay, and okay working together. The longer you go without seeing him, the more you begin to wonder if he’s really as fine with you being back as Maria said he was. If he truly wasn’t bothered, wouldn’t you have run into him before now? It’s not like Bucky was a social butterfly before, especially not with you, but you work with him in the building where he lives – it’s rare to go this long without at least seeing him in passing, outside of times he’s on a mission. And he isn’t on a mission – you checked. The sense of acceptance you’ve built around what happened on the jet is fragile, and relies almost entirely on knowing Bucky is alright, that he doesn’t blame you, or hate you, or feel disgusted by you. If none of that is true, you can’t move on. At least, not while continuing to work with the team. It wouldn’t be right. Each day, that acceptance weakens as it becomes clear Bucky is intentionally avoiding you. He must be. The agonizing waiting game finally ends on Thursday in a conference room. You’re tidying up after a meeting, gathering pens and water glasses, when Bucky turns the corner into the room, eyes glued to the tablet he holds in front of his face. At least, until he notices the room isn’t empty and his eyes snap to you. You’ve been imagining this moment for days now – seeing Bucky again for the first time. You’ve crafted and perfected so many scenarios of how it might play out – maybe you’ll be cool and aloof, brush it off like it’s no big deal, like you haven’t thought about it at all. Or maybe you’ll crack a joke like Sam would, and Bucky will laugh and tease you back and the tension will be broken and everything will be fine. In the moment, when it actually happens, all you can do is stare. Bucky looks – not well, really, and it squeezes something in your chest to see him this way. You’ve been around him before when he’s having a downswing and it’s not as bad as that, but there are dark circles under his eyes that speak to sleepless nights, and a stiffness in the way he holds himself, as though every muscle is tensed. It makes you want to hold him. To wrap him in your arms until that tension bleeds out of his body. But that’s the last thing Bucky would want, considering you’re likely the source of the tension. Your eyes find his and he holds your gaze for a moment – just a moment. You’re not sure what he sees in your expression, but he clearly doesn’t like it because his brows furrow as he turns on his heel and leaves the room. And just like that, you’re back on the quinjet, naked and trembling on the cold floor as Bucky bolts from the room without looking back. The rejection is clear, unmistakable. You’re fully clothed but you may as well be stark naked for how vulnerable you feel in that moment. You can’t help the tears that gather in your eyes and spill over as you stand there staring at the open door like an idiot. You roughly swipe a hand over your face to brush them away and make a hasty retreat to your office. The day passes in a fog as you try not to break down at your desk. The dam breaks the minute you step through your apartment door as the tears you’ve been holding back for hours come flooding out. You fall to your knees and you know you’re overreacting. You tell yourself it’s probably a misunderstanding. Bucky realized he’d forgotten something. Or maybe he was just surprised to see you, wasn’t ready to talk to you yet and had to leave, but not because he hates you. Your mind clings to the idea, latches onto it like a lifeline, even as your body continues to drown – sadness like physical pain in your chest, throat sore from deep, heaving sobs. You calm down eventually, mind winning out over body at last, but the crying has you feeling a little hollowed out. You fill the space with food and mindless media consumption, telling yourself you’ll feel better after a night of sleep. +++ You do feel better in the morning, thank God. You’ve successfully convinced yourself what happened yesterday had to be a misunderstanding. Maria wouldn’t lie to you about what Bucky said, and honestly, it’s self-centred to think just the sight of you is enough to scare the Winter Soldier out of a room! You head into the office feeling a little uneasy still, but mostly okay. That feeling lasts until lunchtime. You’re taking your lunch break in the common room, eating a sandwich and watching an episode of House Hunters with Natasha. She’s in the middle of a sentence, noting the lack of defensible positions and the overabundance of wood panelling in the mid-century bungalow on-screen when Steve and Bucky enter the room. They’ve clearly just come from the gym, likely looking for a post-workout snack. They amble into the room, playfully shoving at each other as they head for the kitchen. You can hear Alpine trotting in behind them, meowing for the treats she knows she’ll get if Bucky’s in the kitchen. Bucky’s hair is tied up in a messy, damp bun and his t-shirt clings to his torso with sweat, toned muscles on display. Steve’s there too. You see the moment Bucky realizes you’re there partly because you can’t look away from him – the shadows under his eyes are still dark, but his face is flushed and lively from the workout – and also because his step very noticeably falters and the teasing expression is wiped from his face, the colour quickly draining from his cheeks. If yesterday could be brushed off as a misunderstanding, this confirms you were right to fear the worst. Bucky was avoiding you, doesn’t want to be around you. He mumbles something back to Steve you aren’t able to discern and turns back the way he came. Instantly you feel your face heat with shame. Now Bucky can’t stand to even be in a room with you and other people? Exactly how uncomfortable do you make him? Does he think you’ll leap up from the couch and throw yourself at him? You catch Steve and Nat sharing a look out of the corner of your eye, but you have no idea what it means. You feel thoroughly wrong-footed, as though everyone in the room knows something you don’t. Something you probably don’t want to know. They make an effort to gloss over Bucky’s hasty exit, Natasha more successfully than Steve, but you just want to get back to the privacy of your office as quickly as possible so you can ruminate in peace. Or, if not in peace, at least in solitude. Choking down the rest of your lunch in record time, you make your escape – by a different route than Bucky, lest you accidentally cross paths again and he’s forced to jump out a window to escape you. TGIF, you think. +++ That weekend is rough. You journal, you pace, and you think and cry and eat and Google. Finally, you end up spilling your guts to an EAP counsellor (under the guise of a drunken hook-up between co-workers) and you come to the conclusion: fuck James Buchanan Barnes. Yeah, he’s smart and kind and strong and beautiful and maybe you’re a little in love with him, but he is just a man and you have cried over him enough. You didn’t ask for this! You didn’t mean for it to happen! And it’s not like you forced him to have sex with you. It’s not like he was cowering in the corner while you were throwing yourself at him. If anything, you were equally taken advantage of by each other – by that stupid fucking chemical and whatever mad scientist created it! He was the one who said he didn’t want your employment affected by what happened! As though running screaming from the room whenever he sees you doesn’t affect your employment. The least he could do is try to be a little more subtle in his distaste. Whether he finds you unattractive or not he should be able to treat you like a human being – not some sort of leper. And if he can’t do that, he can say it to your face! You don’t deserve this, no matter how Bucky feels about what happened. Which is exactly what you’re going to tell him when you see him on Monday. And you will see him. Bucky Barnes might be an internationally feared former assassin who evaded detection for over seventy years, but you manage his calendar. He’s got a meeting in the morning with PR and you’ll be waiting outside to catch him as soon as they’re done. On God, by noon on Monday, this will be resolved once and for all. +++ Ten a.m. sharp you’re standing outside the PR office suite, reminding yourself why your anger is justified and trying to hold onto the feeling itself. You’re more than a little afraid that the minute you see Bucky you’re going to forget all about confronting him and just start crying. But you didn’t spend hours curating a fuck you, girl power playlist and practicing speeches in the mirror to admit defeat so quickly. You’re standing directly opposite the glass doors, no opportunity for hiding – or for Bucky to hide from you – so you see each other the minute he approaches the door. There’s a flash of surprise on his face, quickly turned to grim resignation as he opens the door. He obviously knows you’re there to see him and he stops outside in front of you. “Hi,” he says, avoiding your eyes and staring at his feet instead. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?” He nods, gesturing down the hall and you follow him a few feet to a small seating area, out of view of any offices. He stands back and finally makes eye contact, looking a little like he’s staring down a firing squad instead of an unarmed civilian in a fuzzy pink cardigan. You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts and remembering the plan. You ask him the big question. “Do you want me to quit?” Bucky shakes his head almost frantically. “No, I – no,” he says. You stare at him, wait for him to continue speaking but he just stands there, hands in his pockets looking miserable. ‘No.’ That’s all he can say? No? No! Something inside you snaps, your carefully prepared speech dissolving in your mouth like sugar as words start to pour out of you. “Really? Because Maria told me you didn’t want me to be reassigned so I thought we were good. But then you avoided me for days and the two times we did see each other you looked like you were going to be sick and practically ran out of the room, which makes me think you’re definitely not okay with me being here.” “I—” “And like, okay, that’s fine, but I wish you would have just said that? Because I get it, I do. This is super weird and obviously, you didn't want to sleep with me and I know I'm not like, a supermodel or even a JC Penny catalogue model, so yeah, you wish it could have been literally anyone else but you don't have to run away from me like I have some sort of flesh-eating disease, okay?” “That’s—” “Because that really sucks, Bucky. And not just because I’ve had a crush on you forever or because it was my first time but because I actually really just like and respect you as a person and I know you didn’t like me even before all this so maybe you don’t believe me, but I didn’t mean for this to happen. I promise. I would never try to take advantage of you – of anyone – like that and –” “What?” he interjects sharply. It cracks through the air like a whip, finally snapping you out of whatever insanity possessed you to say all that. To say all that. Oh, fuck. “What do you mean crush? Wait, first time?” Bucky’s eyes are wide and he’s staring intently at your face. Your own face burns and your hands shake as you try to come up with something – anything – to say. Thirty seconds ago you couldn’t shut up! The silence stretches unbearably long as Bucky stands there looking at you, waiting for you to answer him. It looks like he’s about to speak again when an alert sounds from both of your phones. “Oh, thank God,” you breathe. It’s the unmistakable tone that signals a drop-what-you’re-doing-and-Avengers-fucking-assemble emergency. You’ve never heard a sweeter sound in your life. Bucky holds your gaze for another moment before he swears and jogs off down the hallway, tossing you a conflicted look over his shoulder as he goes. +++ The emergency turns out to be a false alarm; some new system Tony was working on triggered it accidentally, so you got away from Bucky and nobody died. All in all, a pretty successful day. Except for the part where you confessed your feelings to the man you’ve been crushing on for months and told him he was the first person you’ve ever had sex with. During what was supposed to be a mature, adult conversation where you asserted yourself calmly and professionally instead of projectile word-vomiting like the girl from The Exorcist swallowed a dictionary and spat it back up. If there was ever a chance you and Bucky could move past what happened on the quinjet and co-exist in mutual agreement to never mention it again, it’s gone now. There’s no dramatic breakdown this time, no floods of tears or self-loathing or panic. The last week and a half has been an exhausting roller coaster of emotions and honestly, you just can’t anymore. It is what it is. It happened and there’s no going back. You can’t summon up the energy to freak out. Tomorrow you’ll go to Maria’s office and request a transfer. Maybe the UN has an opening for a secretary in Antarctica. But tonight you will wear flannel pyjamas, eat greasy pizza, and watch the Great British Bake Off, where everything is lovely and nothing hurts. Just as you’ve finished turning your couch into a cozy oasis, laying out your softest blankets and fluffiest pillows, there’s a knock at your door. Right on time. You grab your wallet and open the door, a polite smile on your face for your usual delivery man. But that’s not who’s standing on your porch. It’s Bucky. Pizza box balanced in one hand, the other fussing with his hair. “Hey,” he says, voice soft and almost hesitant. You step back, silently letting him inside and shutting the door behind him. “I didn’t realize you delivered for Ronzoni’s now,” you say, cringing immediately after. Bucky looks at the box in his hand like he forgot he was holding it. “Oh, uh, yeah, I got here the same time as the delivery guy.” “I see that.” He hands you the box and you lay it on the floor behind you. “Thanks,” you tell him awkwardly, eyes fixed on the floor in front of you. “Look, Bucky, I’m really sor—” “I do like you,” he blurts and your eyes flash to his, wide in shock. “What?” Bucky shifts on his feet, stands a little straighter and nods, more to himself than to you it seems. Like he’s steeling himself to face something difficult. “I do like you. I’ve always liked you. Just took me a while to figure it out. It’s been a minute. Haven’t had a crush in about seventy years; I’m rusty,” he says with a sheepish smile, ducking his head and looking at you through his lashes. His smile fades. “And you’re always so nervous around me. I thought maybe you were scared of me. Or hated me, maybe, for everything I did when –” “Oh, Bucky, no,” you can’t help but interrupt, can’t let him finish that sentence. You haven’t really processed anything else he’s said, but you can’t bear the idea of him thinking you blamed him for being abused and controlled for decades. “Yeah, I was a fucking idiot,” he says with a humourless laugh. “I know you’d never – but I didn’t then.” His face softens as he looks at you. “And even though it was ‘cause you were scared of me, I still thought you were so cute when you’d start running at the mouth. Stumbling over your words and getting all embarrassed,” he says, with a fond little smile. You groan, hiding your face behind your hands, thinking of all the times you’ve looking like an idiot in front of him. Bucky chuckles warmly and tugs your hands down but doesn’t let them go, holding them in a loose grip. You can’t believe this is happening. He likes you. He likes you and has liked you for months. He likes you and he’s holding your hands and staring at you with an affection you couldn’t have captured in your wildest fantasies. Bucky’s smile turns a little wistful. “I was so jealous of everyone else. How easy you were with them. I wanted you to be like that with me, all happy and cheeky and –” he cuts himself off. “Then that fucking drug. If there was any doubt about how I felt about you that definitely made it clear. That was something else, doll.” His grip on your hands tightens before he lets them go. “You’re so – that shit you said about not being a model or whatever? I couldn’t care less. You’re perfect,” he says, voice intense. He shakes his head a little, like he’d gotten off track. “And then it hit me. This goddamn revelation for me was probably the worst moment of your life, and I fucking liked it. I felt like a creep, like a fucking monster. And that’s why I avoided you. I thought I was doing you a favour, staying away. It wasn’t ‘cause I hate you or I blame you or anything. Pretty much the opposite.” You laugh softly in disbelief, shaking your head at how wrong you were. How wrong you both were, all this time. “I thought maybe it reminded you of Hydra,” you tell him. “You know, losing control, being forced to do something you didn’t want to – not that I think what we did is the same as being forced to kill people, obviously. I just mean, the principle of it –” Bucky kindly cuts you off. “I know what you mean. But trust me,” he says. “That’s not how I feel. At all. I mean, yeah, that’s not really how I wanted things to go. I hate that that was your first time. I hate that it was my first time I can clearly remember. But I’m glad it was you. What Hydra did to me and what happened to us, what we did together – doesn’t even compare. I don’t regret it.” And finally, with those words, spoken with such undeniable sincerity, you feel the last piece of the puzzle fit into place. Even with everything he’s already said it still felt too good to be true. Like it could be a confession and a rejection at the same time. An acknowledgement that if you’d figured it out sooner you could have been together, but you got the pieces so mixed up that there’s no sorting them out. Better to throw them away and pick a new puzzle. “I don’t regret it either,” you tell him. “I wish it had happened differently, but I’m really, really happy it was you, Bucky.” He looks at you, soft and sweet and a little sad and you can’t help but throw yourself at him, finally giving in to an urge you’ve felt a hundred times, wrapping your arms around his neck. He hugs you back, holding you just as tightly as you hold him. You feel warm and bright and happy, bubbling over with joy that spills out of you with a giggle as you pull back just enough to look him in the face with a dopey grin. “So… you like me?” He laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah, doll, you been listening?” “I can’t believe you’ve had a crush on me for months. You never speak to me!” Bucky snorts. “Hey, we don’t all let our anxiety spill out our mouths like you.” You glare at him but he does have a point. “That’s fair,” you acknowledge, stepping out of the warm circle of his arms to give him a long look, crossing your arms. “So for months I thought you didn’t like me, and you thought I didn’t like you. And the whole time we were super into each other?” Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks on his heels, nodding. “Yep.” “Sounds like we’re pretty dumb, huh?” “Sounds like we’re perfect for each other,” he says, leaning in close with a grin. You get a sudden glimpse of the charmer Bucky must have been back in the day and it takes everything you have not to kiss him. “You wanna stay for a while?” you ask. You don’t want him to go yet, but you don’t want to keep standing up in front of your door either. “I’m watching Great British Bake Off. And you did pay for the pizza so it’s technically yours.” “You askin’ me on a date?” You think he means it to come out as flirty and confident, but he says it with a shy, boyish expression that’s somehow so much more attractive. You nod, smiling. “Yeah, I guess so. I wish I wasn’t wearing pyjamas, but…” “Hey, pizza and GBBO? I wish I was wearing pyjamas,” he counters, picking up the pizza and letting you lead the way to the living room where he sets the box down on the coffee table. You sit with Bucky on your couch, sharing a blanket and stuffing your faces as you talk about your favourite Bake Off contestants and it feels right. Feels like the start of something really, really good. And to think, you have an evil, horny scientist to thank for all your current happiness. Welcome to the Avengers. A/N: If you have made it to the end - thank you for reading! This is definitely the piece I struggled with most and I am very open to feedback! This part is so long and so sexless lol so I’m very interested to see how it reads re: pacing, interest, cohesiveness, etc. Feel free to like/comment/reblog and let me know! My ask box is also open to anons if you have feedback but you’re feeling shy! I definitely wanna hone the skill of series-writing as I have a loooooot of longer ideas. Part 3, which will be shorter (I think!) and definitely sexier, will be out in a few days 😚 

Never

Genre: Angst/Fluff

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader

Word Count: 1.8K

Warning(s): A non-graphic near-death experience.

Author’s Note: This is one of several stories inspired by these kissing story prompts. This is also probably the angstiest thing I’ve ever written, but I took a slightly different approach to “life-or-death” so things didn’t get too dark or dramatic. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! 💕

Prompt: Kissing Hoseok in the rain because the situation is life-or-death.

Never

It was a stupid argument. You knew it was stupid, and you knew it was stupid to be so angry. But you were. Angry and stupid. And wet.

Cold raindrops mixed with the hot teardrops on your face, making tracks down your cheeks, and no matter how many times you wiped your eyes, more rain and tears fell.

You were chilly, too. The night was dark and the air was cool and the rain was icy. And you were soaked to the skin.

It was stupid to be so angry, but it had been even stupider to think you could walk home.

In your defense, it wasn’t raining when you stormed out Hoseok’s door. But now the rain was unrelenting.

Water streamed down the sidewalk, flowing around your feet and into a storm drain in a noisy rush. Scowling and tugging your dripping coat tighter, you sought shelter in the doorway of a storefront, but it wasn’t quite deep enough. You flattened yourself against the door, but errant raindrops still reached you. 

Watching the rain continue to sheet down, the thought occurred to you to call Hoseok. He was the last person you wanted to call right now, but it was late, and you didn’t know who else you could ask for help. The streets were deserted, businesses were closed, and all your other friends were probably asleep.

You fetched your phone from your pocket and opened a rideshare app, hoping as you did that the device would prove to be waterproof as advertised. With trembling fingers, you searched for a ride, but there were no drivers anywhere nearby. By the time a car could pick you up, you could walk the rest of the way home.

The speed dial button to call Hoseok seemed to glow brighter on your phone screen as you stared at it. But you weren’t ready to admit defeat yet. Your anger was still too hot, and you didn’t want to give Hoseok the satisfaction. Besides, you were both so worked up when you left, you doubted he would answer even if you did try to call him.

With a bitter sigh, you stowed your phone, and stepped back out onto the walkway, resigned. The rain that immediately pelted you felt even more frigid than before, but you ducked your head and hugged your shoulders, left with no other option than to press on.

As you walked, the cold seemed to seep into your bones, and once again you thought about calling Hoseok. You tried holding onto your pride, recalling every little detail of your argument in an attempt to warm yourself by fanning the flames of your anger, but your temper was cooling as fast as your temperature.

The further you sloshed along, the stupider everything seemed. Your angry tears soon became sad, miserable tears, and you quickly decided you didn’t want to be mad anymore. You just wanted to be dry and warm. And home, with Hoseok.

Reaching a covered bus stop, you plopped onto the wet bench and pulled your phone out again. Mercifully, it was still working, but when you started to call Hoseok, you hesitated, your finger hovering over the dial button. You’d calmed down, but what if he hadn’t? What if he was still upset with you? You were sure walking out on him in the middle of the fight had only made him angrier.

A gust of wind blew as you sat vacillating, and you shivered. Looking up, you noticed the rainwater was starting to flood the streets, and worry and fear began to well up inside you. Your predicament wasn’t merely stupid anymore - it was rapidly growing dangerous. 

Still shivering, you lifted your phone with your mind made up. You couldn’t keep walking, and you couldn’t stay here. You had to call Hoseok. But before you could even dial his number, your boyfriend’s face lit up the screen. Relief washed over you, and you immediately accepted the call.

“Hobi!” You gasped, cupping the phone to your ear to hear him over the storm.

“Are you home?” He asked brusquely, obviously still mad.

“N-no.” You replied through chattering teeth.

There was a pause, then Hoseok’s tone changed.

“What’s all that noise? Are you - are you outside? Tell me you’re not outside in this weather.”

“I t-tried to w-w-walk home.” You shuddered, the wind picking up around you.

“You tried to what?!” Hoseok exclaimed, quickly getting worked up again. “You’re outside walking?! It’s pouring out! What were you thinking, are you trying to freeze to death?! Aish jagi, I thought you ordered a ride, if I’d known you were - You should have called me, why didn’t you call me?!”

More tears gathered in your eyes, and started spilling down your cold, wet cheeks.

“Hobi, please.” You plead, unable to stop shaking, and a sob escaped you. “I need your help.”

“Where are you?” Hoseok demanded, and you thought you heard the jingle of car keys.

“The b-bus s-stop in front of the b-b-bank.”

You could tell Hoseok was hurrying out of his apartment and towards his car.

“Listen to me, jagi, stay right where you are,” He told you, his voice firm, “I’m on my way. I’ll be right there.”

It was less than five minutes before you saw bright headlights beaming through the rain, but in those minutes you felt yourself slowly freezing, more and more by the second. Eventually, you grew so numb you didn’t even feel the cold anymore - or your fingers or toes. But you still shivered violently, your teeth clenched so hard your jaw ached. By the time you recognized Hoseok’s car approaching, you didn’t even have the strength to be relieved. 

Hoseok’s tires cut tracks through the flood waters as he pulled up to the curb in front of you, and the second he was parked, he flung open his door and began running. Splashing water with every footfall, he reached you in two heartbeats, and threw his arms around your thrashing frame.

“There you are!” He cried, crushing you against his chest, and his body heat hit you like a surging wave.

Hoseok held you tight in his strong arms, attempting to keep you still. His cheek was flush with yours as he held you, and the temperature of your skin shocked him.

“Jagi, you’re like ice!” He leaned back, taking your head in his hands. “What were you thinking?” He asked again, but this time there was absolutely no indignation in his tone as he hastily began kissing all over your slick face. “You could have hypothermia, you could have frozen to death.” He lamented, his eyes red with tears as he pressed his warm lips to your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your chin, and between your eyes. “Do you know how scared I was?” He was growing frantic now, his voice getting louder and higher. “Why didn’t you call me?!”

“I was m-m-mad at you,” You answered feebly, barely above a whisper, “and y-you were mad at me.”

Hoseok paused to look you in the eye, his own eyes flashing sternly as he grasped your face.

“Jagiya, look at me.” He commanded, and you groggily met his piercing gaze. “Now listen. I will never be too mad to help you. Ever. Do you understand?”

You nodded weakly, and Hoseok gave a curt nod back. Then his expression melted, promptly returning to one of heartfelt concern. With sudden urgency, he bent to touch his lips to yours, and as he kissed you gently, your heart began to thaw.

“Now come on, we have to get you warm.” Hoseok huffed, breaking the kiss. He didn’t wait for a reply before he swept you up into his arms.

You curled into his chest as he dashed back out through the rain to his waiting car, where he deposited you in the passenger’s seat before running around to climb in behind the steering wheel. When Hoseok was settled, he cranked up the heater first thing, and blessed hot air blew forcefully through the vents.

“What do you say we get you home and out of those wet clothes? How does cuddling under a fluffy blanket with a cup of hot chocolate sound?” Hoseok asked, shifting the car into drive before finding your hand and taking it. “Maybe after a hot bath?” He added, pulling back out onto the road, his windshield wipers rapidly streaking back and forth.

You gave another small nod, and regarded Hoseok’s face, your clothes dripping steadily onto his floor mats. He sniffed as you watched him drive, his eyes never leaving the road as he wiped leftover tears from beneath them. You could tell he was trying to be brave - for you.

“Take your coat off.” Hoseok instructed you as he headed back towards his apartment. “And hold your hands out in front of the air vents.”

You did as you were told, and by the time you were parked in his garage, you’d regained feeling in your limbs. You were still soaked, but you were no longer freezing, and had finally stopped shivering.

“I’m so sorry, Hobi,” You spoke up, your voice now much steadier, “For everything. I’m sorry for arguing with you, I’m sorry for storming out and for worrying you, I’m sorry you had to come rescue me… And I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner.”

Hoseok pressed his mouth into a tight line, his dimples showing. He didn’t look at you.

“I know, jagi.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. And I never should have let you walk out the door. I should have gone after you right away.” He shook his head, sniffing again. “You could have died, jagi. You do realize that, don’t you?” 

Hoseok turned to look at you, and you felt small under his gaze. But he wasn’t glaring at you; his expression was pained.

“If something had happened to you, I could never forgive myself.” He let out a shaky breath. “I can’t lose you, jagi.”

You reached for Hoseok’s hand, and squeezed his fingers.

“Let’s never fight again.” You suggested, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of Hoseok’s mouth.

“No more fighting.” He agreed, kissing your fingers. “It’s a deal.”

“I love you, Hoseok.” You managed to give a small smile back, warm blood finally reaching your cheeks.

“I love you, jagi,” Hoseok said, “Forever and always. No matter what.”

He then looked you straight in the eye again, and the love radiating from him was a palpable heat.

“You could never do anything that would make me stop loving you.” He added, gently moving a dripping strand of hair from your face. “Never forget that.”

Feeling warmed to your core, you shook your head and promised:

“Never again.”

Bonus: Ever

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 14 full text & content warnings below the cut.

Note: There are text messages in this one. The AO3 posting uses a custom work skin to format them. I’m going to upload them as images for the Tumblr post. Might be easiest to read on AO3, though. (Particularly if you use a screen reader or have difficulty reading white text on green backgrounds and need to highlight those portions of text.)

Content warnings for Chapter 14: Buried-typical elements (claustrophobia, inability to breathe/move, etc.); mention of past suicidal ideation; some anxiety/panic symptoms; brief description of a past depressive episode; relatively mild blood/injury; swears; some Unsettling Spider Trivia (personally I think it’s fascinating but if you don’t like spiders maybe just skip a bit ahead when you get to that part). SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 14: Up and Out

Much like the ebb and flow of the Buried, that sensation of being pulled vacillates. A few times now, it’s disappeared almost entirely, leaving Jon disorientated and suddenly doubting whether he’s headed in the right direction despite being certain only moments before. It always comes back before long, but each time it’s happened, he’s had to pause to fight down the knee-jerk influx panic.

Right this moment, he’s stopped – both because that sensation is dwindling again and because he’s simply winded. They’ve been in a particularly tight squeeze for quite some time now, and he’s aching and exhausted from the struggle.

“Jon?” Daisy prompts, panting even more heavily than he is. Nearly eight months of muscular atrophy and restricted lung capacity haven’t done any favors for her stamina. “A-are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just – just taking a break. Getting my bearings.”

“Anchor f-fading again?” He has a feeling she was aiming for casual, but the trepidation creeps into her voice anyway.

“Yes. But don’t worry, I’ll find it again. I just need to catch my breath.”

Daisy laughs. It comes out as some combination of a wheeze and a whimper.

“I d-don’t think I’ve been able to catch my breath in… I – I don’t know how long.”

“You will soon,” he promises, rubbing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.

“I – I c-can barely remember what that’s like. F-feels like I’ll never know it again –”

“I know,” he says gently, “I know. I – I know it’s worse for you – you’ve been here longer – but I do remember that feeling. I promise I’ll get us out of here.”

“And – and then what?” she says in a near-whisper. “The – the Hunt, it – it’s going to come back, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. But – but you’ll still be you, and I’ll still be me, and we’ll – we’ll both fight to keep it that way.”

“I – I never thought about it, b-but – I’m prey too, aren’t I?” Daisy makes a noise that straddles the line somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “It – it’ll always chase me down, and it’s – stronger, f-faster –”

“Maybe, but I think you might be more stubborn.” Daisy gives a weak chuckle. “We all are, aren’t we?” Jon continues, emboldened by her reaction and intent on distracting her from her burgeoning panic. “Wonder if it’s somewhere in the job requirements: must be stubborn, curious, and preternaturally unlucky.”

This time, Daisy actually does laugh – clipped and wet with barely-contained tears, but a laugh all the same. For a minute she’s quiet, before sniffling once and clearing her throat.

“Can you tell me what happened last time? Did I – was I able to…”

“You fought it, yes,” he says slowly. “The call of the blood was always in the background. Distractions helped to take the edge off, sometimes. You spent most of your time with Basira. You and I spent a lot of time together, too. Tried to listen to the quiet. Both of us.”

“It sounds like there’s a ‘but.’”

“There is,” he admits.

“It caught up to me,” Daisy guesses, sounding resigned.

“It did. But… you refused it right up until the point where it was your last resort. The Institute was under attack, and Martin was in danger, and the two of you stayed behind to deal with the threat to buy me time enough to find him. A pair of Hunters cornered you. Basira couldn't take them both, and you… were too weakened from resisting the Hunt to stand a chance against either of them. You let the Hunt back in because it was the only way you could protect Basira. You made her promise to find you and kill you when it was over, and you told her to run.”

“Do you – do you think if not for that, I would have kept resisting? Or was I just – using that as an excuse to give in?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. He hesitates, attempting to balance honesty with tact. “You were wasting away. We all thought that refusing to feed the Hunt might kill you eventually. But whenever the subject came up, you said you were willing to die rather than let it back in. You were – adamant. And I… think you would have followed through on it. Resisting, I mean. Even if it meant dying.”

“I see,” she murmurs.

“Actually, it’s – probably morbid to say, but I envied your resolve. You didn’t want to be a predator again. You thought death was preferable to being lost to the blood. Right up until the end.” He shakes his head. “But – but maybe we can find a – a different way. Me coming back has already changed some things that I thought were inevitable. Just – don’t give up hope?”

Daisy makes a noise of acknowledgement, but Jon can’t glean anything else from it.

“I know it sounds bleak, and – and maybe it is. But for what it’s worth, I’ll be right there with you. I’m not taking live statements this time around, and it – has similar effects on me that refusing the Hunt does for you. Reading old statements takes the edge off, sometimes, but based on past experience, it… won’t be sustainable, and I’ll – have to cross that bridge when I get to it, I suppose. It’s not exactly the same, obviously – our patrons operate in different ways – but it did… help, last time, having someone nearby who knew what it was like.”

“You… know things now, right?”

“It’s… complicated. There are a lot of constraints and” – he huffs – “I don’t have as much control over it as everyone wishes I did, but… yes.”

“Any educated guesses on our chances?”

“None,” Jon says with a grim half-smile. “The Beholding tends to be uncooperative when it comes to concepts like escape and recovery. I won’t lie – marks don’t fade, and as far as I can tell, once someone is fully an Avatar, there’s no undoing it. You embrace it, or you wither away. You feed it, or it feeds on you.”

“Sounds about right.”

“But,” Jon says emphatically, “you should also know that no one had ever escaped the Buried before we did. And we’re about to do it again. So… who knows. Maybe there’s a third option and we just haven’t found it yet. I can’t promise there’s another way, but if there is… we’ll find it.”

“Or die trying?” Daisy replies, a wry edge to her tone now.

“Suppose so. But not without making a nuisance of ourselves first. I still don’t Know if the Fears are sentient, but on the off chance they are, I find that spite is a decent motivator.”

“Naturally.” Daisy snorts. “I wonder what annoys the Hunt?”

“Don’t know. Fraternizing with someone who was marked as prey, maybe. You told me once that on bad days, my blood was the loudest thing in the Archives. We theorized the Hunt wasn’t too keen on you letting me go.”

“You… weren’t you afraid I’d turn on you?”

“No.”

“Is that because you were suicidal, or because you honestly thought I wouldn’t kill you?”

“I wasn’t –” Jon sighs. “My mental state aside, I trusted you. You were as stubborn as I was. Maybe more. Even if we weren’t friends, I imagine you’d have snubbed the Hunt anyway, just on principle.”

Before Daisy can reply, the earth around them begins to shake again, soil coming loose and raining down on them from above. They both hold their breath, waiting for the impending crush – but it doesn’t come, and after a few seconds, they exhale simultaneously. Jon’s comes out as something of a cough, jolted out of him by the now-familiar sensation of an insistent upward pull.

“Anchor’s back,” he gasps out. “Ready to move?”

As they move forward – up, Jon assures himself, we’re making progress – the perpetual squeeze begins to open up into a narrow passageway. Sometimes they need to dig to bypass blockages and widen their tunnel, but the closer they draw to the surface, the hard-packed earth gradually gives way to looser soil.

Between one moment and the next, Jon’s fingertips – already raw and bleeding from burrowing through the debris – scrape against something much harder and rougher than packed earth. Solid rock, hidden by a few inches of soil. He hisses as he feels another layer of skin peel away at the abrasive texture, but he brightens at the memory of the stone steps and walls at the entrance to the Buried.

“We’re getting close, Daisy,” he says excitedly, tugging on her hand. “We’re almost there –”

The Buried compresses in a blink, crushing them up against one another.

“Shit,” Jon hisses. “Shouldn’t’ve said anything.”

“Jon?” Daisy says, her voice pitched higher than usual, shot through with barely concealed panic.

“It’s okay, Daisy. This happened the last time, too. Just” – the earth contracts further, forcing a whine out of him – “wringing one last bit of t-terror out of us before we leave.”

“Th-that’s – greedy of it,” she rasps with a nervous chuckle.

“I find that – a-all the Powers tend to be – like that. Needy, spiteful things, all – all of them.”

So do their Avatars, for that matter. He thinks of how Helen couldn’t resist frightening him one last time before parting ways at Hill Top Road; of how Jude Perry knew she was going to die and chose to spend her last moments pulling him down to her level; of how Manuela Dominguez knew she had failed, but still wanted to take someone out with her; of how Peter Lukas couldn’t lose a bet gracefully, how he dragged Martin into the Lonely and tried to trap Jon there as well; of how Jonah wasn’t content to just have Jon read out his ritual, but had to hijack Jon’s voice to monologue first.

And Jon himself isn’t all that different, is he? Didn’t he force himself to confront Jonah in the Panopticon, even though he knew it would have no impact on anything? Doesn’t he regularly provoke the Eye with small acts of rebellion? How many times has he mouthed off to an assailant threatening his life? He just said it himself: spite can be a decent motivator. Failing that, sometimes it just feels satisfying.

“It’ll – let up,” Jon says, for himself as much as Daisy. “J-just – give it a minute.”

As if to be contrary, it actually takes several minutes before the pressure begins to withdraw. Slowly, so very slowly, the collapsed tunnel begins to expand again, releasing another downpour of dirt in the process. The passage is still tight and they have to squirm through in small increments, but after some of the squeezes they passed through on their way, even a few extra centimeters of wiggle room feels like a luxury.

That said, Daisy’s breathing is increasingly labored, punctuated by soft whimpers.

“You doing alright, Daisy?”

“Y-yeah, ‘m fine.” Her breath catches and comes out as a pained groan. “Chest hurts,” she says brusquely, before Jon can express concern.

“Your lungs aren’t accustomed to having this much room to expand,” he says instead, striving for a bland tone.

“W-well, they’ll just h-have to – get used to it.”

“They will, but – take it slow? Last time, you had a fair amount of bruising. A few cracked ribs as well. We both did.”

In fact, he thinks they might just be the exact same ribs he injured last time, if the pain is anything to go by.

“Listen,” he says, “I – I think we’re coming up on the exit soon.”

“Soon soon?”

“Fairly certain, yes. Before we leave, I should tell you – Elias doesn’t know that I’m from the future, doesn’t know how much we know, and I’d prefer to keep it that way as long as possible. He can’t See us while we’re in here, but as soon as we’re out – the only safe place is the tunnels, like before.”

“Got it.”

“And also, I…” Not much for it, he tells himself. Make your peace with it now. “I might lose my voice again as soon as we’re out. Maybe – maybe even before then.”

“Again?”

“I – I mean, I’ll be able to talk, just – not in my own words.” Jon tries to wet his lips and immediately regrets it, succeeding only in drawing more dirt into his mouth. He grimaces and sputters a bit, to no avail.

“Jon?”

“Y-yeah, sorry. I, ah – remember what I said, about – about the Archive? I’ve – outside of here, I’ve only been able to speak using the statements in my… library, I suppose.”

He says the last part with distaste, all but spitting the words out as if they’re poison.

“Huh.”

“It started partway through the apocalypse, and it followed me when I came back. Being in the Buried’s domain has cut me off from the Archive for now, but once the Eye can reach me again, I – there’s a chance it’ll take over again.” He sighs. “More than a chance, it’s – probably more of a certainty. I just wanted to let you know now, I – I’m still me, it’s just – the Archive puts limits on how I communicate, and it can be – off-putting. And annoying. And… abhorrent.”

“Abhorrent?”

“I mean… appropriating other people’s trauma any time I want to speak? It’s…”

There’s no succinct way to capture just how – how perverse it is, exploiting the words of the people who lived through the horrors retold in the statements. Some of them, Jon himself victimized. More than some, if he considers the billions he condemned in his future. Claiming their terror for his own use doesn’t feel all that different from actually taking statements: dehumanizing, objectifying, degrading. It’s all on the same ghoulish spectrum of monstrosity, just… slightly different shades of wrong.

All he says aloud, though, is the last part: “It’s wrong.”

And yet, you do it anyway, he thinks, disgusted with himself.

“Like going from one hell to another, isn’t it?” Daisy says after a pause. “Getting out of here, only for the Eye and – and the Hunt to be waiting on the other side.”

“Yeah. As much as I want to get out of here, I’m… not looking forward going back to – to that.” He sighs, then rallies himself. “But fresh air and a drink of water do sound nice, don’t they?”

“And a bath,” Daisy says, as if it’s the most beautiful word in the world. Jon laughs quietly.

“The Institute only has the one shower, I’m afraid. No tub, terrible water pressure, occasionally –”

“– occasionally runs cold without warning mid-shower,” Daisy finishes, an audible grin in her tone. “I recall. You won’t hear me complaining, though.”

“Nor me. Not for the next couple weeks, anyway.”

“Mm. Yeah, I’m sure you’ll hear me swearing up a storm at four in the morning about water temperature at some point.”

“Assuming that trivial detail hasn’t changed since I was last here, yes, I will,” Jon says with an amused chuff. He readjusts his grip on her hand and tugs gently. “Come on, we’re getting closer.”

Martin sits in his office, head in his hands and the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes.

Eight days. It’s been eight days since Jon went into the Coffin, there have been no signs of when – if – he’ll return, and there’s nothing Martin can do to reach him.

Stupid, he thinks fiercely, to think that sitting there and talking to a – a box of dirt would do anything.

Keeping vigil at Jon’s bedside at the hospital for months had done nothing to bring him back. Why would this be any different? When Martin’s predictions panned out, he felt almost vindicated that he was right – comforted by the confirmation that he is still all alone in the world, relieved by the reassurance that nothing will disturb his solitude after all.

There’s a part of him that still has the decency to feel ashamed at that impulse, but it’s small and distant and shrinking by the day. And yet… it’s still there, withered though it may be: a sentimental sliver of attachment that stubbornly refuses to die, both to his dismay and – to a lesser but nonetheless undeniable extent – his relief. No matter how pessimistic his outlook has become these days, he had still hoped against all the odds that reaching out to Jon would have some sort of effect.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. That sort of hopeless romanticism is for fairytales. Sure, given the existence of extradimensional fear entities, it isn’t inconceivable that some sort of… long distance psychic bond, or link, or – or whatever could exist. But Martin has yet to see any evidence pointing to the existence of powers like hope and love to balance out the existence of Smirke’s Fourteen.

That admission alone is enough to whittle away at that stubborn sentimentality of his just a little further.

And that’s for the best, he tells himself.

He can feel a bitter smile flicker at the corner of his mouth. The Lonely’s really got its hold on him, hasn’t it?

But no matter how well-suited he is to the Lonely, no matter how resigned he is to the idea that he’s destined to be alone, and that that’s exactly as it should be… Martin still cares for Jon. His emotions feel dulled most days, as if they’re happening to someone else, but the act of caring… he doesn’t have to feel in order to go through the motions. It takes effort and thought, certainly, but the impulse is second nature.

Peter tells him that he’ll be free of it before long. Martin doesn’t know how he feels about that. Nothing, usually, or something adjacent to it.

Apparently he hadn’t cauterized his feelings as much as he’d thought, though. For the past week, the sense of detachment he’s built up over months of practice and resignation and goal-oriented focus has been interrupted. The calm and quiet that have become so comfortable to him have been punctuated by windows of raw, wild emotion and sensory overload and sharp, racing thoughts, and it’s too much – especially all at once – after months of fog and cold and single-minded resolve.

He still doesn’t know what he feels, but it’s something rather than nothing, and it hurts.

“Brooding, are we?” comes a voice from right behind Martin, sending an icy chill through him.

“Peter!” Martin nearly snarls, glaring over his shoulder at him. “I told you to stop doing that –”

“So, Martin,” Peter continues, smoothly overriding Martin’s complaints, “I can’t help but notice you’ve been quite… distracted recently.”

Martin looks away, clenches his teeth, and says nothing.

“Oh, I’m not upset, Martin. I’m simply curious to know where we stand. To gauge the magnitude of this… little setback.”

“Setback?” Martin whips back around, incensed. “You really think I care about – about my progress right now?”

“Judging by your tone, I imagine not.” Peter smiles, that customary aloof smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not very reassuring, but I thank you for your honesty. It shows that we do still have our work cut out for us.”

Martin should keep his composure. He should keep his mouth shut. He should feign indifference and continue playing the long game to which he’s committed himself, but he can feel his heart hammering in his chest and he can hear his blood rushing in his ears and all the words he cannot – should not – has to say are brimming in his throat and –

He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice when the outburst claws its way out.

“I don’t care, Peter. You promised –”

“That I would protect your coworkers from external threats,” Peter says mildly.

“You don’t think one of the Circus’s monsters just – waltzing unnoticed into the Archives hauling a bloody gateway to the – the literal manifestation of claustrophobia counts as an external threat –”

“By the time the intruder’s presence came to my attention, it had already been dealt with. Quite handily, in fact. As for the Coffin itself, our agreement did not extend to saving a self-destructive Archivist from his own foolhardiness. There’s only so much that I can do.”

“Then apparently I need to pick up your slack.”

Once again, Peter ignores him and steers the conversation to his liking.

“I will say, I was pleased to see that the Coffin’s call has no effect on you. It shows that your connection to the Forsaken is still intact.” Peter begins to pace slowly, hands folded behind his back. “I am interested to know why you’ve been spending so much time so close to it in the first place. Why you were… speaking to it.”

Martin huffs irritably. “I thought it might help.”

“I wonder where you got that idea.” When Martin doesn’t reply, Peter stops his pacing and sighs. “I don’t mean to be invasive” – Martin snorts derisively; Peter continues without pause – “but I notice you’ve spoken to that – woman quite a few times.”

“She’s no one,” Martin says hurriedly, hoping that Peter doesn’t notice his momentary nervous flinch.

“Is that so?” Peter gives a contemplative hum. “If she’s trespassing on Institute property and interfering with day-to-day operations, perhaps I should have her… removed.”

All at once, the world around Martin rushes into focus: clearer, sharper, brighter, louder, more real – every sensation more immediate, every thought more acute. He feels his spine go rigid as he sits up straight and locks eyes with Peter.

“Peter,” he says, balanced on a razor’s edge between firm and furious, “we talked about that. You agreed to let me handle –”

“Workplace disputes and employee conduct,” Peter says. “Not interlopers.”

‘Interlopers’? Martin thinks. Really, Peter?

“Here I thought you might be glad to have someone like her around,” he says, forcing calm back into his voice. “Give me some practice pushing people away.”

“Perhaps. But if she’s posing a distraction in the workplace –”

“Like the Archives aren’t a distraction all on their own,” Martin seethes, his impassivity quickly teetering into agitation again, “what with the – the spooky murder tunnels, and monster attacks, and clandestine coffin deliveries, and the watching –”

“You know what I meant. If she’s distracting you from your work –”

“When have I ever left any administrative tasks unfinished, hmm?”

“Martin.”

“Yes?” Martin says, meeting Peter’s eyes with a level stare. There’s a muscle twitching almost imperceptibly in the other man’s jaw. It’s not easy to provoke that sort of response from Peter, and Martin would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t feel just a bit gratified.

Peter takes a breath and when he speaks again, he’s regained his usual mild manner – but Martin can still detect just a hint of tension underneath.

“As I have told you before, you are the only one who can do this. The plan –”

“Which you have yet to explain –”

“– requires a servant of the Eye, imbued with the power of the Lonely. And the cultivation of that power depends on your voluntary isolation. I can’t force you to cooperate, Martin. I can only tell you of the consequences should the Extinction emerge – and if it emerges because you choose not to act, then, well…” Peter shrugs. “You can’t keep anyone safe from that sort of power, and that includes the Archivist.”

“You still haven’t convinced me that your theories regarding the Extinction are true.”

If anything, Martin is less convinced than ever. Jon didn’t exactly elaborate on what he knows, but he seems certain that the Extinction isn’t a threat. If that’s the case, the only other reason for Martin to cooperate with Peter is to keep Jon safe – or, barring that, to at least keep Peter away from him. And if Jon is gone, then… what’s the point of any of this?

Peter takes a step closer and slides a folder onto Martin’s desk. Judging by how thin it is, Martin doubts there’s much follow-up or supplementary material within.

“Then you’d best get reading,” Peter says amiably, backing away again.

“Peter,” Martin says, stopping him before he can take his leave.

“Hm?”

“If she disappears,” he continues, mirroring Peter’s faux-pleasant tone, “you can count on my non-cooperation going forward.”

“Come now, Martin. We both know you wouldn’t allow the Extinction to emerge over a single life.”

Martin lifts his chin defiantly and gives Peter a hard look.

“I’d do it for Jon.”

“And he’s gone.” There is an almost hungry glint in Peter’s pale eyes. The temperature plummets a few degrees as thin tendrils of fog begin to unfurl from around his feet. “You’re alone.”

“Exactly.” Peter’s smug expression wavers at Martin’s non-reaction. “You’re a gambler. Shouldn’t you recognize when you’ve shown your hand?” Martin shakes his head with a thin, humorless smile. The mist creeps closer: wispy eddies and grasping coils stretching across the floor to pool at Martin’s feet. “If Jon’s gone, you’ve lost your best bargaining chip. I’ve nothing left to lose. At this point, you really should be thankful for whatever leverage you can find.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Try me.”

Peter simply chuckles, but Martin can detect the faint uncertainty laced through it.

“I mean it. If my work performance is unsatisfactory, just feed me to your patron now if you can’t resist. Seems a waste to do it before you’ve gotten what you need from me, but it makes no difference to me; I’m Forsaken either way.” He leans back in his chair. “The only one who stands to lose anything is you.”

“And the entire world, should the Extinction evolve unchecked.”

“In that case, let her – let everyone connected with the Archives be. And don’t disappear any more staff, either.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds: “Or statement givers.”

There is a long silence in which Martin stares into Peter’s eyes, willing himself not to blink or falter. Eventually, the fog recedes and Peter’s fake, plastered-on smile reappears.

“Well, I think I’ve kept you from your work long enough.” Peter nods at the statement folder. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The moment the telltale static of Peter’s departure fades, Martin lets out a heavy exhale and rests his head in his arms on his desk. Every encounter with Peter tends to leave him feeling drained, but that one was more intense than usual.

“Prick,” Martin mutters to the empty office.

It takes a few minutes for him to register the low whirring coming from underneath his desk.

“Were you listening the whole time, then?” Martin scoops up the tape recorder from the floor. “Or,” he sighs, his eyes flicking to the waiting statement, “are you just hungry?”

Martin still doesn’t know what to make of the recorders. On the one hand, supernatural artefacts never bode well. There’s no telling what’s they are, what’s listening on the other end, what controls their spontaneous appearance or why. Eavesdropping and surveillance are on brand for the Eye, but Jon had a point when he said that the Beholding would have no need to use tape recorders to listen in, especially within its own temple. They weren’t Elias’s doing – apparently all of his spying is done through eyes. The Web, maybe? But to what end?

On the other hand, Martin has grown so accustomed to their presence that he was actually unsettled by their absence while Jon was – away. When they started manifesting again, Martin was… relieved, almost. It isn’t the same as having Jon nearby, but it feels like having a connection to him all the same. They’ve almost become a welcoming, comforting sight – at least for the first few seconds after their appearance, before they start making their usual demands.

Sometimes, Martin wonders whether Jon might be subconsciously manifesting them himself. Even before his paranoid episode, he seemed keen to document and catalog the world around him, as if it was the only way for him to make sense of it all. It made Martin's heart ache, how Jon could never seem to relax, to let himself just be in the moment. His hypervigilance was exhausting by proxy, and it’s only gotten worse as time goes on.

In any case, ever since Jon’s coma – half-death? – proved that the recorders’ existence is dependent on his, Martin has started to see their regular appearances as decent indicators as to whether Jon is alive at any given moment. And here they are, still showing up. Which means… what? Martin already knew that Jon is still alive. The Coffin doesn’t let its victims die; death would be a release, and it's incompatible with a realm predicated on unending pressure, on the experience of being trapped with no hope of escape. But if Jon was entirely cut off from the world, lost and unreachable, wouldn’t his connection with the recorders be severed as well? So, if they’re still here, does that mean Jon isn’t gone yet? That there’s still a lifeline tethering him to the surface?

If so, it’s a useless lifeline, isn’t it? The tapes always make their way to Jon in time, but what good does that do in this situation? It’s not like they’re two-way radios; Martin can’t communicate with Jon in real time.

Unless…

No. No unless. It’s not even a long shot, it’s just – daft.

But hasn’t he already been treating them as stand-ins for Jon for the last few weeks? And is it really any more foolish than talking to a coffin?

Martin sighs as he eyes the tape recorder, its reels still insistently spinning. It isn’t going to leave until it gets a statement. He waits it out for another minute or so, but in the end he gives in, just like it knew he would.

“Hi again, Jon,” he starts, picking at his cuticles as uncertainly as he picks through his words. “I doubt you can hear me. At least not right now. But I know you listen to all the tapes eventually. Don’t know if you’ll ever get to hear this one, though. If not, I suppose this is rather pointless, isn’t it? You’re always so diligent about listening to them, too.” Martin huffs. “Well, if you want this one, you’ll have to come back and get it. I’m very cross with you, and I’d prefer to tell you in pers-”

Shut up, shut up, what are you saying?

The recorder lets out a short burst of static, as if protesting the break in his confession.

“Oh, shut it,” he grumbles. “Not – not you, Jon. Sorry. I mean, not like you’re hearing this anyway, right? Whatever, just – you’re needed here, alright? It’s been too long. It’s time to come home.” Martin shakes his head and smiles weakly. “Funny, I – I remember when I used to have to nag you to go home at night. The more things change, the more they stay the same, right? Don’t know what good a persuasive argument does in this case, though. It’s not like you need convincing –”

Martin stops short, a sudden thought crystallizing cold and heavy in the front of his mind. For all he knows, Jon’s gotten it into his head that he needs to stay in there to keep the rest of the world safe. It sounds like the sort of conclusion Jon would reach.

“I mean, I – I – I hope you’re not willingly staying down there out of some misguided belief that it’s – safer, for everyone? Jon?” Martin laughs nervously, on the edge of hysteria. “I – I don’t know why I’m talking like I’ll get a response. Anyway, it’s – it’s probably more likely that you want to come back and you can’t, right?” He chuckles again, and realizes too late how teary it sounds. “I don’t even – I don’t know which of those options is worse, but – but it’s not like there’s anything I can do in either case, so – what’s the point of this, of any of this?”

Martin clamps both hands over his mouth to stifle his abrupt, stuttering intake of breath – the precursor to sobbing, if he isn’t careful. He takes a long moment to compose himself, swallowing back tears and slowing his breathing.

“W-well, in case you do need to hear it… things are not better with you gone, okay?” His voice still sounds thick with emotion. In an attempt to steady it, he ends up overcorrecting, his next words coming out far more vehemently than he had intended. “They aren’t. And I don’t know how to make you believe that, but – but – if you don’t come back, you’ll never get a chance to learn, and it’s not like you to pass up a chance to learn something, right, so – so just get back here, will you?”

He stops again. After months of suffocating, deadening quiet, raising his voice even slightly feels like shouting. He finds himself leaning closer towards the tape recorder, as if he’s sharing a secret. Despite the conscious effort to lower his volume, it does nothing to temper the intensity of his speech.

“Jon, you’re late, and everyone’s waiting. Georgie’s worried. Basira spends most of the day camped out in front of your office, just… listening for any change. I – I don’t think she’s been sleeping much. And Melanie, she –” Martin flounders. He hasn’t spoken to Melanie in weeks, but he has no reason to assume her feelings towards Jon have changed. “Well, she – she’ll be angry if you break a promise to Georgie, yeah? And I’m – I…”

Martin doesn’t know what he is.

“Look, Jon, you – you need to come back now,” he says, more softly. More like a prayer than a demand. “Come home, and we’ll… we’ll figure things out.”

He wracks his brain for more, but comes up speechless. There was a time when he could have spoken volumes about what Jon means to him, and the words would flow from him easily. Now, anything he could possibly say feels shallow and jumbled and meaningless. Absolutely useless. But since when did words make any difference anyway? Jon has always been resistant to an outstretched hand. He rarely accepted any offers of help or invitations to talk; could barely handle a kind word or comforting gesture some days. He seemed to be opening up in the weeks prior to the Unknowing, but then –

Martin lets out a sigh and shuts the tape recorder off. Almost immediately, it clicks back on.

“Seriously?” He stares daggers at the thing. “That wasn’t enough for you?”

He depresses the button again, perhaps a little harder than necessary. The moment he removes his finger, the reels resume winding.

“Can’t you just – piss off and let me have some quiet for five minutes?”

It can’t, apparently. After several more foiled attempts to stop its droning, Martin gives an aggravated groan. As tempting as it is to hurl it at a wall, all the archival staff know from experience that the recorders are practically unbreakable, taking only superficial damage regardless of the attempted means to destroy them. Martin could toss it into a bonfire and at most it would come out a bit worse for wear; the casing would never melt or warp so badly as to render the buttons entirely nonfunctional.

More than once, Martin has caught himself wondering whether they get their durability from Jon. It’s a morbid thought and Martin is always quick to shut it down, but, well – there it is again.

At least Jon’s persistence is – charming. Martin glares at the tape recorder some more. Unlike –

The recorder crackles with another impatient uptick of static.

“Fine!” He flips open the folder on his desk, seizes the statement roughly, and gives himself a papercut in the process. Another hiss erupts from the recorder when he swears. “Yeah? Well, I don’t care if personal commentary is unprofessional,” he snaps at it. He doesn’t know who he’s talking to.

When he finally turns his attention back to the statement in his hands, he makes no effort to hide his foul mood.

“Yet another statement about – I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s bleak and horrifying, or else it wouldn’t be so keen for me to read it. Recording by Martin Blackwood, Assistant to Peter Lukas, Head of the Magnus Institute…”

Daisy draws in a sharp breath and stops short.

“Daisy?” Jon tugs lightly on her hand. “You alright?”

“Jon, I – I feel something, like a – like a pull, I –” Daisy laughs breathlessly. “There’s an up.”

“What,” Jon says, grinning to himself, “didn’t you believe me?”

But Daisy isn’t listening to him, instead continuing in an awestruck tone: “I’m – I – I’ll get to – to see Basira again.”

Her voice pitches up ever so slightly towards the end, making the statement sound almost like a question – as if she didn’t believe until this moment that seeing Basira again was even a possibility, as if she still doesn’t quite dare to believe it.

Jon has repeated the same promise dozens of times now along their trek to the surface. Once more can’t hurt: “She’s waiting for you.”

“I know,” Daisy whispers, almost reverently. Then, louder, her mounting anticipation crowding out the remnants of disbelief: “I can feel it.”

So can Jon. For quite some time now, that feeling of being pulled along – almost like he’s an anchor being reeled in, oddly – has been relatively consistent. The strength of the sensation still fluctuates from time to time, but it’s been awhile since it last disappeared entirely.

Of course, now it’s also shot through with a far more unwelcome pull. He swears he can feel the Archive drawing closer the more they near the exit. Maybe it’s simply his imagination, increasingly overactive as his dread intensifies, but the outcome is the same either way: the Eye will have him again, and soon.

“Come on, then,” Jon says, suppressing the grim edge threatening to creep into his tone. There’s no point in worrying Daisy just when she’s started to feel hopeful. “Almost home.”

Not long thereafter, the passage widens again. They still have to walk single file with their shoulders angled, forced to sidle through a few tight spots sideways, but the soil has finally transitioned entirely to solid stone walls and there is a noticeable upward slant to their path. All the while, Jon doesn’t let go of Daisy’s hand.

He grits his teeth against the lancing pain surging through his leg with every step as the incline grows steeper. From the sounds of Daisy’s labored breathing behind him, she’s having a far worse time of it. He’s just about to reassure her again that they’re almost there when his foot connects with something and he stumbles, pitching forward and nearly pulling Daisy down with him. His free hand flails in front of him to break his fall, and that’s when he recognizes –

“Stairs,” he whispers, feeling the shape of them, their flat surfaces and angles.

“What?”

“Stairs, Daisy.” After pushing himself to his feet, he places his free hand against the wall as a guide. It’s still pitch dark, and it will be until they manage to lift the Coffin’s lid. “Not much further now. Watch your step, and go slowly. They’re uneven.”

Despite an abundance of caution, they both end up tripping several times on the way up. The steps are all different heights and depths: some short and wide shelves, some steep and narrow ledges nearing two feet high – which may seem negligible were they both not so weakened, winded, and wounded. Occasionally, a step that felt solid moments before would crumble underneath them, giving way like gravel; a few times, Jon could swear a step disappeared entirely just before he put his foot down.

He’s so focused on keeping his footing that he forgets to be wary of his head. When he places a foot on one particularly sheer step and propels himself upward with the other leg, his head collides violently with something just above him. The pain races through his skull, his neck, his spine, and he nearly topples backward in the momentary daze of the impact. He has just enough presence of mind to throw his weight forward so that when he loses balance, he collapses against the stairs instead of tumbling down them.

For a few seconds, all he knows is a high-pitched ringing in his ears and fireworks in his vision. He’s dimly aware of Daisy’s hands patting at him blindly, frantically; her voice is muffled, but he can detect the urgency there.

“‘M’fine,” he slurs. He tries to tell her to just give him a minute, that he recovers quickly from this sort of thing, but he’s pretty sure it comes out something more like gim’nit.

When he finally starts to come around, Daisy’s words, once fuzzy and indistinct, start to break through the haze: “Jon? Jon, are you alright?”

“Will be,” he groans. He pushes himself up with one hand and reaches up with the other, groping blindly. Either it’s closer than he thought or he put too much force into the gesture in his disorientation, but his knuckles collide with rough wood and he hisses when he catches a splinter.

“Jon?”

“Lid’s right above us,” he says unnecessarily. “Watch your head.”

Daisy snorts. “Noted.”

“I – I might need some help lifting it,” he says, his vertigo gradually fading. He places both palms flat on the underside of the lid. “Last time, it was a lot heavier on the way out than it was going in.”

“Got it.” Daisy crawls up a few steps to kneel next to Jon, and he can feel her hands brush against his as she reaches up to find a grip.

“Feel it?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Ready?”

“On three. One – two – three –”

As expected, it offers more resistance than it should, as if a force is pressing down from the other side. For a terrifying few seconds, it refuses to budge. Then, with a prolonged creak of protest, it starts to give. Even just the dim light of Jon’s office filtering through that first tiny crack is enough to hurt. Judging from the startled yelp next to him, Jon assumes Daisy is shutting her eyes as well.

Jon can hear the low chatter of the tapes he left behind, as well as something louder and clearer cutting through the white noise.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this on my own.” Basira’s voice, overlaid with the crackle of radio static. “I’m here, Daisy. I need you to be here, too. I need –”

As soon as the opening is wide enough to stick a hand through, the pressure lets up all at once and the lid swings up the rest of the way. Jon scrambles over the side and grabs both of Daisy’s hands, dragging her up and out. He winces sympathetically when she cries out – she hasn’t properly stretched those muscles in months, and it must be agony.

The moment she’s completely cleared the lip of the Coffin, Jon drops her hands and eases her to a kneeling position on the floor. Rising unsteadily to his feet with a pained groan, he takes hold of the lid and drags it back into place. He stumbles the short distance to his desk for the key and hastens to replace the chains and reaffix the padlock. On the way, he kicks a tape recorder and it goes sliding across the floor; an instant later, the knowledge comes to him: Not a tape recorder. A two-way radio.

His hands are shaking so badly that he fumbles the key four times before he manages to fit it into the lock. He’s so absorbed in that simple, seemingly insurmountable task that he barely notices the swearing and clattering coming from just outside the office as someone on the other side goes through the exact same struggle to unlock the door. Just as Jon turns the key, the office door swings open to reveal Basira, panting and wide-eyed, the radio in her hand dropping to the floor as her eyes rest on Daisy, shivering and gasping for air.

“You’re back,” Basira murmurs, frozen in place.

“Hi,” Daisy says with short, almost giddy laugh, before promptly collapsing forward onto the floor. It’s enough to spur Basira into action, lurching forward and going to her knees next to her.

“Daisy,” she says urgently, shaking her shoulder. “Daisy, please –”

“She’s – she’s alright,” Jon says breathlessly, on hands and knees in front of the Coffin, gulping for air to fill his screaming lungs. “Just – needs to –”

He freezes.

“Jon,” Basira says, disbelieving. “Your voice?”

“I – I – I thought I would – I would lose it again,” he stammers. He begins to move his hand up to his throat, but stops when his other arm trembles violently, unable to hold up his weight on its own. “I don’t – I don’t know, I – I might still, it – it –”

The thought turns to static and the words dissolve on his tongue.

“…it barely even sounded human as it – as it spoke in a strange monotone –”

Jon shakes his head frantically, bringing the lingering pain from his earlier head injury back into the forefront.

“…it was then that I became aware of them – hundreds of glossy dead eyes staring at me from all directions –”

“– a tremendous eye – turning to focus upon me –”

“– staring into me, acutely scrutinizing my reaction –”

“Jon!” He stops and looks up at Basira, suddenly realizing that she’s been repeating his name for several seconds now. “You’re hyperventilating. Just – breathe?”

He latches onto Basira’s voice, forcing himself to breathe – oh, god, he can breathe again –

“Good,” she says after a few moments, calm and steady. “Okay. Can you try talking again? No, Jon, listen – look at me,” she says when he shuts his eyes and starts shaking his head again. “Try talking again.”

“…but my inability to speak –”

“Humor me.”

“…it’s still there, still watching me. There’s nowhere I can go, a place I can hide that it doesn’t keep looking at me – I can’t sleep because they’re watching me – those unseen eyes that hover everywhere and won’t let me rest –”

“– I’m sorry – it won’t let me say the words –”

“Yes, you can,” she says. Firm, but not cruel. Authoritative, self-assured, decisive – a solid presence to fixate on. “You’re just – too in your own head. Focus on me and try again.”

“I –” he begins, then stops short. Not the Archive. He gives Basira an uncertain, panicked look.

“Keep going. Try – try something simple. Tell me your name.”

“My name is…” His voice quivers as he forces the words out one syllable at a time.

“Go on. Who are you?”

“The Arch –”

The Archive, he almost says, before a fearful part of him remembers that Jonah might be listening. Besides, right now it would be inaccurate, wouldn’t it. The Eye does not typically dispense outright falsehoods, and its Archive has no use for fictions. Deception is for the Stranger, for the Spiral, for the Web –

“Try again,” Basira says patiently, drawing his attention back to her. “Who are you?”

“The Archivi –”

“No. Who, not what.”

There is a long pause in which he cannot parse the instruction.

“Full name.”

“Jon,” he says slowly. The sound feels strange on his tongue. “Jonathan Sims. The Archivist.”

“Could’ve done without that last bit, but good enough.” Basira relaxes her posture. “You alright?”

“I – I don’t understand.” Lightheaded and trembling, Jon releases a shuddering breath and leans back on his heels, slightly hunched over with his hands on his knees. “How did you know that would work?”

“I didn’t. But you were spiraling, and I imagine that’s exactly what the Eye wants.”

“R-right. I, ah –” Jon runs a shaky hand through his hair. “I don’t know how long it will stay away, the Buried severed the connection temporarily, but now it –”

“Don’t dwell on it.” At his blank stare, Basira sighs. “Yes, I realize that’s not quite your speed, but try anyway.”

“But –”

“We’re dealing with things that feed on fear and can rewrite reality as they please, right? You said yourself that the feeling is all they care about. Maybe feeding it your fear just makes it easier for it to write your reality – in which case, accepting a hypothetical bad outcome as an inevitability is just creating a self-fulfilling prophecy for yourself.”

“That’s… certainly a theory,” he says cagily.

But it’s a theory that Basira must be invested in, because she leans forward, her eyes as bright and interested as when she’s engrossed in a good book or pouring over some compelling research.

“Yes, it is, but I don’t think it’s too far-fetched. Georgie and I have been pooling ideas, and – I don’t think ‘mind over matter’ is a panacea, but mental state does seem to factor in. I was studying the statements you left for me, the ones involving anchors, and – I’m still not sure about the exact mechanics, but would an anchor help someone survive one of the Fears if state of mind wasn’t a key variable? It might not be the most important aspect, but it does seem significant enough to affect the outcome. Not all the time – not even most of the time – but in some cases, at least. Under the right circumstances.”

“And the Fears wouldn’t even exist without minds to experience them,” Jon says, brow furrowed. It’s uncanny, hearing some of the same ideas he bounced off of Daisy to pass the time in the Buried parroted back at him by Basira now.

“Exactly,” she says excitedly, then closes her mouth just as she’s taking a breath to start on her next thought. She clears her throat, looking slightly self-conscious. “I’m getting sidetracked. We can talk more about it later. For now – priorities.” Her expression turns sharp and focused again. “What should we do with the Coffin?”

“Artefact Storage. Tell them – tell them about the compulsion, make sure they take special precautions. Maximum security. No interaction or hands-on research.” He forces the words out rapid-fire, still expecting the Archive to take over any moment. “Store the key separately, same restrictions. No public cross-referencing, keep the link between the two on a need-to-know basis, preferably restricted to the head of the department. In – in fact, refer them to case number 9982211. Joshua Gillespie had a rather – creative way of containing the key. Simple, but” – Jon laughs, shaking his head – “incredibly effective.”

“That’s…”

“The best we can do without –” Jon huffs. “Well, burying it. Sealing it in concrete.”

“Not a bad idea,” Basira says thoughtfully. She raises an eyebrow when Jon doesn’t reply. “Is it?”

“I – I don’t know. We got out, and it seems – wrong, to completely eliminate that possibility for all the other people trapped in there.”

“You think you can help them?”

“I… I doubt it,” he admits, voice dripping with guilt.

He could try, but he suspects he was only able to reach Daisy because he had a personal connection to her, plus the recording of her voice to help him navigate. Finding anyone else in there would mean wandering around aimlessly until he eventually crossed paths with someone by chance, hoping he could reach them before the Buried whisked him away again.

“But if someone else does make it this far,” he says, “I – I don’t want to be the one responsible for the moment they try to lift the lid and find it cemented shut. The chains will still be there, but at least there’s a chance of someone hearing them, helping them? Probably not, but – sealing it off entirely feels… I don’t know, final? Like we would be condemning them personally.”

“Yeah, okay.” Basira sighs heavily, absentmindedly stroking Daisy’s hair. “Point taken. Can you stand?”

“Not yet. Give me a few minutes. I’ll – I’ll be fine here, though, if you want to move Daisy. Put some distance between her and the Coffin. It’s a good idea.”

“Don’t read my mind, Jon.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay? I don’t feel right leaving you alone after…”

Jon meets her eyes again, tilting his head to the side slightly. Last time, she had no qualms about ushering Daisy away from the Coffin the moment she got a chance. She didn’t leave him alone for long – she wasn’t cruel – but still, he was undeniably a lower priority. He clears his throat and tries to look less stunned.

“I’ll be alright, I promise. Go ahead.”

Basira watches him shrewdly, frowning as she considers her options. Eventually, her shoulders slump and she relents.

“If you’re sure. I won’t be gone long.”

“Careful moving her,” Jon says. “Sorry, that – probably goes without saying? But just – mind her left side. She has cracked ribs on both sides, but two on the left are broken.”

A flash of sympathetic pain and vicarious anger crosses Basira’s expression.

“Thanks for the heads up.” Her voice is clipped, but not unkind. She’s simply trying to keep a tight rein on her emotions: deal with the situation at hand first, break down later – in privacy – if at all. “As soon as I have her settled, I’ll come back and – and help you move.”

He nods tiredly.

“Jon.” Basira waits until he looks back up at her. “Thank you – for… I really thought I’d never – I…”

“Basira, it’s okay,” he says as she fumbles for words. “I understand.”

“You know, or you Know?”

“Oh, uh…” Jon grimaces. “Maybe both? I’m sorry –”

Basira snorts and begins to gently position Daisy to be moved. “I was teasing, Jon.”

“O-oh. Right.” He shifts awkwardly. “Still, though, I – I apologize. I realize the Knowing can be – invasive, and – I don’t have as much control over it as I would like, but I should –”

“Jon, it’s fine.” Basira says it with an air of finality, but she doesn’t sound angry. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Sure,” he says, not quite knowing what to do with her lenience. “Thank you. I’ll just – I’ll just wait here.”

“Yes, you will. You’ve met your self-sacrifice quota for the month. No more pocket dimensions. In fact –” She stands and swipes Jon’s phone off his desk where he left it, handing it down to him. “Call Georgie, let her know you’re home. Keep you occupied until I get back.”

As Basira leaves with Daisy, Jon does exactly that. Georgie picks up on the first ring.

“Jon? Jon, is that you?”

Jon closes his eyes and smiles at the sound of her voice.

“Yeah, Georgie. It’s me. I’m back.”

“You got your voice back?”

“Seems so,” he says tentatively. “For now, anyway.”

Something about the tone of Georgie’s sigh tells him that she’s rolling her eyes at him.

“Why are you such a pessimist?”

“I’m not, I’m a –”

“Don’t you dare say ‘realist.’” He keeps his mouth shut. “Does Basira know you’re back?”

“Yes –”

“Are you hurt?”

“No – well, I mean, yes, but – nothing too serious. Nothing unexpected. I’m alright.”

“Okay. Did you find Daisy?”

“Yes. She’s with Basira now.”

“Good.” Georgie breathes a sigh of relief. “I was worried, Jon. Do you know how long you were gone?”

“I –” Jon pauses as the knowledge comes to him. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m – I’m sorry, Georgie, I really didn’t expect it to take – and it’s impossible to tell time in there, so –”

“It’s – it’s alright, I’m just – glad you’re back. Did you let Martin know?”

“Not – not yet, I – I’m not sure how he would feel about me contacting him.” Jon bites his lip. “Do you think I should?”

“Don’t know. He doesn’t seem to know what he wants. But I’ve spoken to him a few times now, and he seems to be – I don’t know. Thawing, I guess? Seems less cold. Easier to get through to him than it was that first time. Or – easier to get a rise out of him, at least. He’s actually got some fire in his eyes now.”

Jon smiles to himself again.

“Georgie Barker, are you annoying him out of the Lonely?”

“I –” She pauses, considers, and then chuckles. “You know – maybe? In my defense, it’s not difficult to do. He’s very moody.”

“O-oh. That’s…”

“Not necessarily a bad thing, Jon. I mean, it can’t be comfortable for him, but – at least he’s feeling something, interacting with the world around him? It’s like – well, he sort of reminds me of…”

“What?”

“Me, at certain points in my life? I think I’ve told you before, but – the lowest low of a depressive episode for me has always been when nothing can reach me. Feeling nothing, wanting nothing, being unable to envision any sort of future at all and not even caring about it.”

“You did, yes. I – don’t think I fully understood then, but now, I – I think I have an idea.”

“Well, when I start to get better, it can look like I’m getting worse to other people, because they can see the hurt, where before it was – quiet, subdued. All the things I couldn’t feel before, they all come out at once, and it’s – overwhelming, after so much nothingness. But it’s part of the healing. At some point, you have to let yourself feel again, even if it hurts. I know it’s not a perfect analogy, but – this might not be a bad sign, is what I’m saying. Sometimes recovery is messy. It helps to have someone to lean on for support.”

“But if he’s determined to be alone –”

“The thing is, I don’t think he is. But that’s something he needs to figure out for himself. I’m not saying you can’t remind him from time to time that he isn’t alone, but…” She exhales heavily. “You can’t force someone to accept help. You reached out to him. Give him the space to reach back.”

“So… don’t contact him? Because – because I want to respect his boundaries, but –”

Georgie gives an exasperated but fond-sounding sigh.

“Jon, if you want a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer, I can’t help you there.”

“But – but what do you think –”

“I think it’s your call. He might not respond, but… he’s been worried, and I do think he would appreciate knowing you’re back.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise.

“Well, you think on it,” Georgie says. “Listen, I’m walking out the door now, okay? Be there soon.”

“Oh, uh – right. I’ll – see you then, I suppose.”

“You’d better.”

When the call ends, Jon stares fixedly at a speck on the wall, debating whether or not to… what, send an email? That seems too impersonal, but a phone call might be too much. He could always text, but…

Glancing at the screen, he notices that he has several missed text messages. His thumb hovers uncertainly over the icon. It’s unlikely that any of them are from Martin, but he has an irrational need to prolong the confirmation one way or another, to put off knowing as long as –

The Eye informs him that they’re all from Naomi, and Jon heaves an agitated sigh. Not at the knowledge itself – he enjoys his interactions with Naomi, however sparse his side of the conversation tends to be these days – but at having the option of knowing removed from him. When he starts to read her messages, though, his sour mood rapidly evaporates.

“There,” he says with a private little smile. “One for each day I was gone. To start with.”

Once he sends the reply, he sets the phone aside. His mouth is dry, the taste of dirt clinging to his tongue. Luckily, he thought ahead and stored some water bottles here for when he got back, knowing it would take some time before he was ready to drag himself to the breakroom for a drink. Unluckily, he’d been so preoccupied with all his other preparations in the half-hour prior to entering the Coffin that he hadn’t had the foresight to put them within easier reach. As it is, they’re still stored in the hollow under his desk.

He’s still sore and stiff and lethargic, but the prospect of washing the grit out of his mouth is enticing enough to get him moving. Gingerly, awkwardly, he shuffles around to the other side of the desk. It’s slow going; he practically has to drag himself, and he spares a moment to be glad that no one is here to watch him.

Well. Except the Eye, he supposes. And possibly Jonah.

A noticeable chill shivers through him and his breath catches in his throat. Jon shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. He really needs to stop giving Jonah Magnus real estate in his head.

Just as Jon gets a grip on one of the bottles, his phone dings from where he left it on the floor. He bumps his head on the underside of the desk when he starts – not as hard as he did in the Coffin, but enough to send a new wave of pain coursing through him from head to toe. The phone dings several times more in quick succession.

“Okay, alright, give me a minute, Naomi,” he grumbles, rubbing the sore spot at the top of his head. No blood, but there’s definitely a bump. It won’t be there for long. He should be glad for his healing abilities, he supposes, inhuman though they may be.

The text messages continue pouring in as he makes the return journey to his previous spot.

“Guess she really is sending a photo per emoji,” he says to himself. The alert goes off once more just as he reaches for it. “Or more than one.”

When he glances at the screen, it’s not Naomi’s name that he sees.

Martin is typing up the new rota that Peter requested when it happens.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a tape recorder drops onto his desk with a loud clack. Before he can think on its sudden appearance, another comes plummeting down, smashing two of his fingers against the keyboard.

“Ow! What the –”

Another collides with the top of his head, and on impulse he covers himself with both arms. Four more fall – one glancing his elbow, three clattering to the floor around him – and then there’s a lull. Cautiously, he brings his arms down and looks to the ceiling, half-expecting more to come raining down. When none do, he relaxes somewhat.

“Huh,” he says to himself, bewildered. “That’s new.”

He’s used to the tape recorders materializing, of course, but usually it’s only one or two at a time, and they don't drop from the ceiling. They just appear – sometimes within plain sight, but more often slightly hidden from view: under his chair, behind his computer, once in a potted plant in the breakroom. They always click and whir to announce their presence – as if they want to be found, as if to reassure him that they aren’t trying to spy unnoticed.

Martin rolls his eyes at himself. Why is he always anthropomorphizing them, assuming they have intentions?

In any case, being pelted with a tape recorder shower is unprecedented. He rubs his hand where the second recorder hit him, then his head. He’s bound to have bruises, and his fingers are already swelling up.

“What the hell, Jon?”

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he has his phone in his hand and he’s tapping out a text message.

He briefly contemplates taking shelter under his desk. When no more fall, he turns his attention back to his phone.

Martin leans back with a sigh, dragging one hand down his face. What is he doing? It’s not like Jon is waiting by the phone for him.

Maybe that’s exactly why he’s doing this. It certainly highlights the loneliness. He probably wouldn’t be texting Jon if there was any chance of him answering, would he?

In the span of a blink, that loneliness turns to frustration. For months, his emotions have been dulled, almost to the point of numbness. Things were quiet. It felt comfortable; it felt right; it almost felt safe, the fog blanketing the world and muffling all of its sharp edges, shielding him from all the things that used to leave him hurt and grieving and wanting.

Then Jon went and ripped that blanket off him, leaving him exposed all over again. Ever since, it's been nothing but sensory overload and raw emotion that doesn’t even have a name. All he knows is that it’s too much and it’s all at once and he has nowhere to put it, and it’s manifesting as irritability and mood swings and a pervasive, indistinct sense of hurt that he thought he’d left behind.

He feels everything after months of feeling next to nothing, as if all the things he wouldn’t allow himself to feel are being regurgitated all at once in a nebulous chaotic tangle, and he isn’t equipped to handle it –

“Alone,” he says aloud. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s too much to cope with on his own. He is alone, and for the first time in what feels like forever, that scares him.

Biting his lip until he tastes blood, he picks up his phone again.

He blinks back tears. It feels wrong, unloading all of this onto Jon, but he’ll never see it, so what does it matter? It has to go somewhere or Martin is going to shatter.

Martin stops mid-rant, mind going blank when the typing indicator pops up. For a seemingly interminable amount of time, he holds his breath, watching as it stops and starts and hesitates before finally –

And before Martin realizes it, there’s a tearful, slightly manic laugh bubbling up in his chest and out through his mouth and he’s crying, when did he start crying? He's giving himself whiplash with his own erratic mood swings, but it doesn't matter, because he can just picture how frantic Jon is right now, stumbling over his words, mussing up his hair and muttering to himself. Martin probably shouldn’t find it so endearing, but when has that ever stopped him?

Martin rubs furiously at the tears streaking down his cheeks, sniffling. He’s debating on responding to save Jon from his own self-consciousness when another few messages come through.

Martin can’t help it: he starts laughing again. Then immediately feels a bit bad about it. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it before the next message comes through.

“Jon,” Martin says, shaking his head in fond amusement.

This is a side of him that Martin has always adored: how easily he gets sidetracked and carried away with his rambling, his tendency to trip over his words when he’s excited, the informational diatribes he launches into at the drop of a hat.

And now Martin’s tearing up again.

“God, what’s wrong with me,” he sniffs, rubbing at his eyes with his sleeve again.

It’s the heart that does it. Martin doesn’t know why – it’s such a little thing – but that last ounce of doubt evaporates and his reticence crumbles, just like that. The transition is unexpectedly gentle: an easy slip from one state into another, like stepping into a well-worn shoe, a stark contrast to the dramatic, jarring shift he would have anticipated.

He begins typing out a response.

Martin smiles into his hand, pressed to his lips. He’s always found it cute, if a bit silly, how stilted Jon can be sometimes, even when speaking through such informal medium.

And the idea that an emoji is somehow more forward than an overt declaration of love is just…

Martin’s heart glitches at the reminder of what Jon must have just gone through. If he really is more receptive to help now, maybe he can be persuaded to actually rest and recover for once, but Martin doesn’t have his hopes up.

Martin can feel the flush creeping up his neck and onto his face.

“Wait,” Martin says, squinting down at his phone screen. “Is he still…”

“Unbelievable.” Martin huffs an incredulous laugh. “He is unbelievable.”

Martin groans when the three dots repeatedly disappear and reappear.

“That’s a lot of typing for just fixing a typo,” Martin says, tapping his foot impatiently. “Go on, Jon, spit it out.”

Martin rubs the back of his neck and tries to ignore the heat pooling in his cheeks, on his neck, along the tops of his ears. One good thing about the Lonely: it all but eliminated his embarrassing tendency to broadcast his emotions to the world with a blush. Or maybe it just made it so that there wasn’t much to broadcast in the first place.

“So much for that,” he mutters sheepishly.

By necessity, Martin has learned to be adaptable. If circumstances have changed this drastically, he needs to reconsider his trajectory. Steeped in some disorientating mixture of emotion – mortification, giddiness, fear, relief, regret, and so much else he still can’t put a name to – he watches the clock and quietly starts to review his options.

End Notes:

hhhhhh hopefully you’re all okay with a slow-moving plot bc I have a feeling I’m going to continue drawing out the character-focused stuff?? (I know where the story’s going but my outline is extremely loose, which means my pacing has a personality of its own.)

Citations for Jon’s Archive-speak: MAG 144; 054/020/083; 002; 060/019

re: Archive-speak – I do plan on explaining the newest development more, I just didn’t get to it in this chapter. But expect more original dialogue from Jon from here on out, with some Archive-speak mixed in.  

I used this lovely guide to help me puzzle through creating an AO3 workskin so I could format the text messages properly. (On which point, I hope the texting isn’t OOC. I admittedly had a bit too much fun with it. Especially Jon’s. He said ADHD!Jon rights and I agreed.)    

Fun fact: Naomi and Jon have a system wherein any cat emoji translates to “Duchess status update, please”. It’s good she takes a lot of photos, because Jon makes judicious use of the cat emoji. Having a bad time? 🐱 Can’t sleep? 🐱 Bored? 🐱 Just looking for something to distract himself from the mortifying ordeal of Knowing and being Known? 🐱 Of course, she sends a lot of photos unprompted, too, as any new Enthusiastic Cat Parent is wont to do.

Oh, it’s happening - WWX goes to Gusu: Part 4. 10171 words, continued underlying vague mental illness from WWX, angry wedding planner JC, elder sibling appreciation hours now including JYL as well as LXC, shotgun-wedding-related drama, wedding resolution, Yunmeng sibling feelings and fluff, gratuitous Wangxian

part one | part two | part three | also on ao3

When Wei Wuxian woke, full bright light filled the jingshi and his body ached with too much sleep. It was late. Lan Zhan’s five-in-the-morning wasn’t even in the picture. For all he knew, it could be after noon.

It was, he discovered slowly and hazily, just after lunchtime. Lan Zhan had ordered him something and was going to wake him if he didn’t wake on his own soon.

He would have thought he might feel better, finally getting a powerful dose of the rest he’d lately been deprived of. Instead he just felt a different sort of unwell. But it faded to the background as he ate his lunch and worked some life back into his limbs.

It came to him distantly, nearly halfway through the meal, that he was married. Not quite, but at the same time more than he’d need a lifetime to process and believe. He should be doting on Lan Zhan. Being happy with him, and letting Lan Zhan – always so grim, so restrained – be happy in return. A husband had a number of duties, really, and Wei Wuxian had fulfilled none of them. He’d laid in bed for twelve hours and was now being dully led through the necessary task of eating as if he were a child.

Some portion of this train of thought must have shown on his face, because Lan Zhan said, “No talking during meals.” This prompted Wei Wuxian to actually look at him, and he looked frowny. “Unless …” Lan Zhan bit himself off mid-thought, as if realizing he himself was breaking the rule, and then after a brief vacillation was apparently unable to restrain himself. “Unless you have regrets.”

Did Lan Zhan think it was possible Wei Wuxian was sorry they were married? Was that the most likely explanation he could conjure for whatever dissatisfaction had touched Wei Wuxian’s face? The snort escaped before Wei Wuxian could contain it. “Lan Zhan. The only regret I could possibly have is that I am so unworthy of you.” He waved his hand, trying to banish Lan Zhan’s deepening dismay. “But for whatever reason, you want this with me regardless, and for that I will be grateful and as worthily unworthy as possible all my life. It’s too late for you now, Lan Zhan, you’re stuck with me!”

Relief. The softening of Lan Zhan’s face at that statement was relief. Wei Wuxian wanted to give him all the water in Yunmeng. He settled for asking if Lan Zhan had eaten his fill, and serving him a little more when he didn’t say yes, as if this wasn’t Lan Zhan’s house and every morsel of this meal wasn’t his to begin with.

It was all right, though. This next part would be where Wei Wuxian got to give something to Lan Zhan, hopefully over and over again for the rest of their lives.

The relief fell away too fast, and Lan Zhan parted his lips once more. But he didn’t actually speak – he simply closed them and turned back to his meal. It was as if he’d decided whatever was still bothering him wasn’t worth breaking the rule of silence for. Only Wei Wuxian’s worries measured that high.

“Lan Zhan, what about you, though? Do you have regrets?”

Lan Zhan’s bowl hit the table hard. “Never.”

Wei Wuxian allowed himself to drink in the powerful balm of his certainty for one moment before smiling and pushing back. “Lan Zhan, I’m think at some point in your life you’re going to have a regret, however small.”

Lan Zhan looked unhappy at Wei Wuxian. “Never this.” He looked unhappier at the table. “But.”

Wei Wuxian wasn’t even bothered by the dull ache of that drop. “But what? You have to tell me, since I’m your husband.”

Lan Zhan shook his head, and of course Wei Wuxian was joking anyway, but he did answer. “You were promised two weeks. I forgot myself, in my eagerness.” He hung his head, all beautiful and ashamed. “You should still have them, if you want them.”

Wei Wuxian had in fact been carefully ignoring that he was going to have to go back to Lotus Pier today. Their marriage was actually a fabulous excuse, a very distracting conceit, to keep him from having to think about having to conduct himself like a person again in front of Jiang Cheng and Shijie and Lotus Pier and the cultivation world, to leave this delicate bubble of quiet and rest.

A heavy dread stirred low in his belly, and he smothered it down – a dance so familiar he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it had been absent for several days. It would be better this time, though. He would be better at talking, better at being, better at ignoring the dark pit at his center and getting on with the things he had to do – and as well, Lan Zhan would be there. Lan Zhan had done this thing so he would always be there. Wei Wuxian’s heart bloomed, or rather felt some feeling that was wonderful even though it hurt, and he said, “Lan Zhan, do you not think the rest of my life is a great deal more than two weeks?”

Lan Zhan looked up at him.

“I don’t have any idea why you want to do this. I still think you must be mad – are you sure you haven’t been tying your headband too tight? Maybe your fifteen layers of robes are too constricting and you haven’t been getting enough air. Nevertheless, you have to understand that it’s everything. Do you think I wouldn’t do anything to make it happen? For you to have what you want, and for me to have you?”

Lan Zhan was staring at him, leaning forward, as if the small tea table between them was an intolerable barrier – and then apparently it was, because he moved, gathered his robes and shuffled around it until he was right beside him and he could pull Wei Wuxian into a slow, firm embrace.

“You should still have them, if you want them,” Lan Zhan repeated – not like he actually thought he could convince Wei Wuxian, more like he wanted to make sure he knew he really did have the option.

“Please, Lan Zhan, I have to get you all tied up before you come to your senses. I’d be willing to leave for Lotus Pier this instant, except we’re in the middle of a meal and I’m sure there’s a Lan principle about that.”

“Mm,” Lan Zhan said. He released him but sat very close next to him, the same way he had for Wei Wuxian’s first meal after he arrived here those few days ago.

Wei Wuxian reach across for his bowl and set it in front of him. It occurred to him this was going to be Lan Zhan’s last meal in his jingshi – at least like this, with him living here and not visiting as a guest.

“Of course, if you’d rather linger, we can,” Wei Wuxian said. “This is your home, Lan Zhan. I’m not trying to drag you away from it.”

Lan Zhan was quiet for a moment, like he was building up to a confession, and Wei Wuxian was ready for him to ask for a few days. But then he said, “I’ve already prepared,” and moved the edge of his sleeve aside to reveal a qiankun pouch. “There are disciples waiting to pack the remainder of my belongings and send them after us. Once we’ve departed.”

The gentle, happy flush on Lan Zhan’s cheeks and ears made Wei Wuxian feel like the insane one.

They finished their meal together, and Wei Wuxian laughed at him, and perhaps also got teary-eyed and clung to his husband (he was going to say it counted). When Lan Zhan escorted him from the jingshi and along the walkways of Cloud Recesses, it was in mutual triumph.

Lan Xichen was actually standing around in front of the hanshi as if he were waiting for them.

For a moment, Wei Wuxian felt ashamed himself – for being the reason all this upheaval was necessary in the first place, and for sleeping so long and making Zewu Jun wait. But he looked so pleasant, and not irritated at all – he was certainly well-suited to his position as sect leader. Wei Wuxian forced himself to smile as well as he said, “How are you doing on this beautiful day, Zewu Jun?”

“I am content.” He looked vaguely puzzled at Wei Wuxian – who wasn’t even sure himself why he’d chosen the title instead familial address. Maybe it was that now, in the light of day and without their red robes and dizzy urgency, it seemed ridiculous to presume Lan Xichen would recognize him as his family. But Lan Xichen replied, “And yourself, Dixu?”

Wei Wuxian was sure some measure of his thrill at being invited to address Lan Xichen in that way seeped through in his grin. “I’m plenty more than content, Da-baizi.” And what a miracle it was, for both him and Lan Zhan, that the good and lofty Lan Xichen was against all reason in favor of him.

“Xiongzhang,” Lan Zhan said, with a slight bow. “I will miss you, Shufu, and Cloud Recesses, and I know I am meant to cry, but I am not very sad.”

Lan Xichen’s responding smile overflowed like the most silver moon. “I’m glad, Wangji. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

These two exchanges, right on each other’s heels, connected a sticky and muddy pathway in Wei Wuxian’s mind – the possibility that Lan Xichen’s approval was somehow related to Lan Zhan’s quiet desperate joy. That inexplicably he, Wei Wuxian, might somehow truly add happiness to Lan Zhan’s life.

He would have to try very hard. He would have to be diligent, and careful, and true. There was something precious in his hands, and he’d dropped everything he’d ever been asked to hold, but … not this. Please, let him not drop this.

“Let’s go, then,” he said suddenly, before he could second-guess himself. “If you’re both ready, of course, esteemed Twin Jades – take out your swords and let’s depart.”

Lan Zhan immediately abandoned his fond gaze at Lan Xichen to squint at Wei Wuxian. “We will walk to Caiyi town and go by boat.”

“Lan Zhan, a boat would take forever! Of course we’ll fly.” The fear – the exposed horror of being high in the air on someone else’s sword, the memory of the plunge – was already stirring in his belly, but he disregarded it.

Lan Zhan assembled his response for a long time. “You would suffer,” he said finally. “That is counter to the purpose of this.”

“Lan Zhan, it’s one little sword flight. It could hardly be called suffering – believe me. How could we not go as quickly as possible to Lotus Pier? We’re, you’re …” Lan Zhan was married out of his own family and was not yet married into Wei Wuxian’s. That couldn’t stand.

“I am fine,” Lan Zhan said obstinately.

“So am I, Lan Zhan! Believe me, it would be very nice if we had been betrothed for years and now finally I had sent a luxurious palanquin for you on Yunmeng Jiang’s grandest boat and you could be borne to Lotus Pier in luxury, but we’re far beyond that. You can’t rush us through your half and expect me to let us amble around aimlessly for mine. Come on – you can hold me close on Bichen, and we’ll be there before you know it.”

Lan Zhan looked like he wanted to argue further – but luckily he also wanted to be married to Wei Wuxian.

Lan Zhan wore his regular Lan headband on his forehead – they still had to negotiate the betrothal with Jiang Cheng, so he could hardly show up in conspicuous wedding adornments – but Wei Wuxian took the red one and tied it around Lan Zhan’s wrist, where it would be hidden by his sleeve. It wasn’t a fine silk veil, but it would have to do. Then Lan Zhan drew Bichen and took Wei Wuxian onto its blade.

As they climbed into the sky, the terror began to shriek in Wei Wuxian’s chest – but he’d meant what he said. A single flight was nothing for Lan Zhan. The Burial Mounds was not waiting at the end of it.

Lan Zhan would not drop him. Lan Zhan would return him safely to the ground.

///

Wei Ying did not speak a word after they left the ground, and within a quarter of an hour he was curled stiff and catatonic into Lan Wangji’s chest. Lan Wangji felt himself going wild with concern and fury – at Wei Ying, paradoxically, for advocating for something that would so clearly harm him, and more rationally at himself for giving in. This had been his first test at caring for Wei Ying in his new capacity as his spouse, and he had failed it. He would have to learn from this. He would do better. Perhaps he should land the sword now and insist they complete the journey on foot.

But they were already well beyond Caiyi town, which would have been the most reasonable place to get a boat. It seemed unthinkable to turn back, to force Wei Ying to retread any of the terrain he’d covered at such high cost.

Lan Wangji looked at Xichen. He flew with Wei Ying to Cloud Recesses, and would have witnessed the extent of this fear. Could he not have warned him?

Xichen inclined his head in apology. When he spoke aloud, it was to Wei Ying directly. “Dixu, I feel I must express my gratitude to you. You and I both know Wangji has extended himself greatly on this matter out of a true and unselfish devotion, and as the one who allowed him to do so, I will be quite anxious until he is safely ensconced on the other side of it. I hope neither of you will find anguish in your care for one another, in small things or in large ones, so I regret you are doing so now; nevertheless, it does comfort me to know his commitment is returned in full measure.”

Wei Ying made a quiet noise in the back of his throat, and his hand gripped more tightly at the front of Lan Wangji’s robes – but they were passing over a mountain that dropped off precipitously, so it might have been a coincidence.

Lan Wangji held him and tried to feel loved. He did, he supposed, after some thought. Wei Ying was miserable, so there was no joy in it.

///

Wei Wuxian would have vowed he would never ride on a sword again, but that was likely to be impossible. He was a cultivator, whatever his method, and associated with cultivators who used them. He would probably have to ride on swords regularly. Perhaps even recreationally, because how could he deny Lan Zhan the easiest way to visit his family and his childhood home?

Wei Wuxian instead vowed to invent a talisman that would blank his mind and senses. He could stand unthinking and unfeeling in Lan Zhan’s arms and make whatever journey he had to. It would be substantially the same as this, except perhaps without the sickening, drenching fear that by the end of the journey consumed every inch of his limbs.

Wei Wuxian supposed they landed before the gates of Lotus Pier and Lan Zhan guided him to step off Bichen, but only because he eventually realized he was standing on the wood of the boardwalk and Lan Xichen was conferring with a servant at the door.

Lan Zhan still had his arm around him, and his low voice vibrated soothingly in his ear. Wei Wuxian leaned into him. After a moment, Lan Zhan shrouded him in a more intimate embrace.

“Jiang-zongzhu and Jiang-guniang do not know we are wed,” he murmured in Wei Wuxian’s ear – likely an argument for them separating and holding more space between them – but he didn’t eject Wei Wuxian from the shelter of his arms. His too-many robes were comfortable padding. He, Lan Zhan, was the safest place to be.

“There is really no need for Jiang-zongzhu to receive us formally,” Lan Xichen was saying. “I believe Wei-gongzi” – it was interesting hearing the distant title fall from Lan Xichen’s lips, after earlier, hearing the familial one – “was going to speak with him about a personal matter.”

“Jiang-zongzhu was very clear,” the disciple said nervously. “He will receive you all in Sword Hall immediately.” His anxiousness was uncharacteristic, from all Wei Wuxian knew of him. He would only expect it if something were wrong.

He had only been gone for a few days. How could anything be wrong?

Wei Wuxian extracted himself from Lan Zhan’s hold, and they crossed the courtyard of Lotus Pier as if they were their own instead of each other’s.

Jiang Cheng had the flint-cut face that meant he was mad.

Wei Wuxian had not even been here. How could Jiang Cheng still have found a reason to be angry at him? Was he still upset that he’d left at all? That seemed unfair – it had already happened, and they’d discussed it at the time. Wei Wuxian did not know if the accumulated weight of all his past sins and mistakes was something he could bear.

Shijie stood at Jiang Cheng’s side looking a little wilted, and Wei Wuxian hoped that was only the summer heat. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Jiang Cheng’s eyes raked over each of them in turn – Lan Xichen, Lan Zhan, Wei Wuxian himself.

It would be better for Shijie to be upset with him than for her to be unwell. If that was what was happening, Wei Wuxian would gladly accept those terms.

Jiang Cheng gestured at the tables that lined the room – they had been set, ominous in a way Wei Wuxian had not expected. Wei Wuxian took his place beside Shijie’s at the front of the hall, though Shijie did not come join him. Lan Zhan sat on his other side instead of across the aisle with his brother. Hopefully that wouldn’t be too conspicuous, since Wei Wuxian could hardly call attention to it by shoeing him away. They were known to be close. Wei Wuxian had gone to Cloud Recesses to be with him.

“I thought I told you to be carrying your sword when you returned,” Jiang Cheng opened, and his voice was acid and ice. “Though you’re back so quickly, I can’t help but wonder why you even left.”

Suibian was all the way back in Gusu, in the sword rack in Lan Zhan’s jingshi. It belonged there, after all, in Lan possession. Wei Wuxian had given it over to Lan Xichen, an elder member of Lan Zhan’s family. Lan Zhan had accepted it and offered his open hand in return. A more treasured return gift Wei Wuxian couldn’t imagine.

“I suppose we should feel blessed that Lan-er-gongzi has been relieved of his pressing duties to his sect. Mere days ago, he was so bound by them he could not have dreamed of visiting Yunmeng.”

His vitriol was bizarre. It meant something, certainly, but Wei Wuxian could not even begin to imagine what.

“How kind of you to return Wei Wuxian to my keeping early, Lan-zongzhu, after I let you take him from me temporarily as a favor. How fortunate he’ll be able to resume his post, and my A-jie won’t have to keep handling all his duties.”

Lan Zhan bristled and tensed to rise. Wei Wuxian clenched his fingers around his arm. They were not yet married by Yunmeng Jiang’s reckoning.

“Jiang-zongzhu,” Lan Xichen tried.

“A-Xian,” Shijie said, the first thing she’d spoken, and it was very much a warning.

“Jiang Cheng, let’s talk privately for a second,” Wei Wuxian finally got out. “I have something I really need to discuss with you.”

But Jiang Cheng was staring claws and daggers at Lan Zhan – at Lan Zhan’s wrist. “Is that red I see under your sleeve, Lan-er-gongzi? I thought you only wore mourning colors.”

Lan Xichen opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. He seemed to be warring between defensiveness of Lan Zhan and nervousness of Jiang Cheng’s mood.

Wei Wuxian tried to step in. “What do you mean, Jiang Cheng? Lan Zhan can wear what he likes, can’t he? I mean it, let’s go outside for a moment while the Lans get served some tea.”

“Lan-er-gongzi, raise your sleeve,” Jiang Cheng seethed, and that was when Wei Wuxian understood beyond any doubt that Jiang Cheng knew somehow and it was not good.

Searching for any information, he looked to Shijie again, and this time he finally was met with her eyes. They looked back at him with such sadness someone might as well have plunged a sword into his chest.

He had done something terrible. He couldn’t quite understand how – the thing he’d done was something that had made him feel more free and hopeful that he had in almost longer than he could remember – but he’d set out from Lotus Pier to try to drag the tattered scraps of himself more together so he could help Shijie and Jiang Cheng better again, and instead he had managed to cause them further grief.

Lan Zhan slid back his sleeve, revealing the red-and-gold ribbon.

“So it’s true,” Jiang Cheng choked out, eyes going wider with fury. “It’s true. You and Wei Wuxian are married.”

“Did you send disciples after him?” Lan Zhan asked frigidly. “Spy on the Lan sect?”

“We didn’t need spies! Zewu Jun sent a small army of disciples to Caiyi town yesterday, scouring the streets to find red fabric and auspicious decorations and any wedding clothes that might fit two young masters on immediate notice. They were shouting it up and down the canals. My sister heard it from her handmaidens, who heard it on Yunmeng’s docks in the evening. The very last people between Yunmeng and Gusu to know there was a wedding being held in Cloud Recesses yesterday were the two of us!” The spots of color on Jiang Cheng’s cheekbones had blossomed from faint impressions to full angry blooms. “Then, of course, we turned to the spies – what choice did we have? You had spirited Wei Wuxian away from us mere days before, apparently on false pretenses. For all I knew, you were forcing him into vows with a minor Lan disciple or bartering him over to some worthless Jin subordinate in a bid to remove him from Yunmeng Jiang. But no – from the spies we learn that gossip among the junior Lans indicates Lan-er-gongzi and Wei Wuxian were seen weeping in one another’s tender embrace the night he arrived at Cloud Recesses! Which makes it seem as though he and you were conspiring against me right to my face that day, so you could take him away from here and carry out some secret wedding neither I nor my A-jie knew anything about. We tried to tell ourselves there had been some mistake, some other conclusion to draw that we were missing, but we received word this morning confirming their tea ceremony last night!”

“Jiang-zongzhu, there has been a grave misunderstanding,” Lan Xichen said.

“Then Wei Wuxian is not married to Lan Wangji, and all that I have heard otherwise is in error?”

“He is not,” Lan Wangji intoned, before Wei Wuxian or even Lan Xichen could respond. “Wei Ying is not married to me. Yet. But I am indeed married to him. Xiongzhang means there was no deceit.”

“No deceit? How could he have left here three days ago to pass a short visit with Lan Wangji and come back married to him, without any premeditation?”

“Wei-gongzi and I truly had no ulterior motives when we left Lotus Pier that afternoon. Wei-gongzi and Wangji spontaneously decided they wanted to wed.”

“And they also spontaneously decided to do it immediately and in secret, and without my permission? And you along with them? Why, Lan-zongzhu, so you could carry his amulet off to Gusu for yourself? What do you take me for?”

“Wei Ying will not come to Cloud Recesses,” Lan Wangji corrected. “I will join the Wei Ying in the Jiang sect at Lotus Pier.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be a secret,” Wei Wuxian said to Jiang Cheng, to Shijie’s stunned gaze, begging them to believe him. “It was only to save time. So we didn’t have to travel back if you agreed.”

“That’s why we’re here now, Jiang-zongzhu, with minimal delay – to negotiate the betrothal with the Jiang sect.”

“To save time?” There was a pause. Jiang Cheng was visibly rocked when he finally decided they were telling the truth. It didn’t seem to calm him. “To save time? Wei Wuxian! And what if I don’t agree? What position do you put me in now?”

“It’s my fault, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian said, because whatever else it was, it was surely that. “Shijie.” Did she believe him? “It all happened suddenly, and I thought …” Wei Wuxian looked for the rest of that sentence, but it wasn’t there. What had he thought? The inside of his mind was the same thick grey as the air in the Burial Mounds. Maybe he hadn’t thought at all.

Lan Zhan’s arm appeared around his shoulders. “Jiang-zongzhu, the responsibility is mine,” Lan Zhan said, close by his ear. “I pressured Wei Ying to perform the ceremony before we came here.” Wei Wuxian tried to shake his head.

“In that case, how dare you, Lan-er-gongzi – but do you really claim Wei Wuxian should have allowed himself to be swayed? Since when would he not stick up for his own family?”

“Wei Ying is … tired,” Lan Zhan said. Wei Wuxian’s own mouth was still stuffed with cloth.

“Tired? In what way does ‘tired’ justify this?”

“Jiang-zongzhu,” Lan Xichen interjected, “the fault in this case truly lies with me, and I owe you, Jiang-guniang, and the Jiang sect my deepest apologies. Their only crime was to be eager in their affections, which I believe are deep and true. I, as sect leader, should never have allowed them to rush into this without negotiating your approval.”

“That’s right – you shouldn’t have! And you, Lan Wangji, you, you … But Wei Wuxian. Lan-er-gongzi says he will join you in the Jiang sect – not that he has my leave to do so – but it really seems as if you decided to go off and make decisions with him and the Lan sect, and never mind us one bit!”

“That’s not true,” Wei Wuxian intoned, prayed. “Jiang Cheng, it’s not true, I …”

“It is true!” Jiang Cheng snapped. “He wears red for you, and neither I or A-jie are involved.” He launched himself from the carved lotus throne. Shijie startled, but didn’t move or stop him. “If the Jiang sect means so little to you, don’t pretend to seek my permission. If you really feel so little respect for it and for my family, there was no need for you to return!” Jiang Cheng had to struggle with his cape for a moment, but he subdued it and stormed out of the hall.

Wei Wuxian stared after him. Every word he knew he’d never say sat on his tongue, heavier than lead or gold. It rendered him dumb.

///

Lan Xichen had not even considered the gossip.

He had indeed broadcast what was happening at Cloud Recesses; he had not even instructed the disciples to be circumspect. He had known they would travel to Lotus Pier immediately afterward, to close the circle with the Jiang sect. It had never occurred to him that news travelled on winds faster than any sail.

Wei Wuxian looked dazed, like he’d been struck. Or like he’d just been passed down a terrible sentence.

Wangji rose swiftly to his feet.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen said, but he ignored him completely. Wangji strode with rigid purpose after Jiang Cheng.

Jiang Yanli had looked pained when they arrived, which turned tentatively relieved when it appeared the Jiangs’ worst fears were unfounded, then increasingly dismayed at Jiang Cheng’s escalating fury. Now she watched Wangji’s egress with true panic. “A-Xian.” She darted from her position on the dais to Wei Wuxian’s side, shaking his shoulder. “A-Xian, you have to go after them. You can’t let them argue.” He wasn’t rousing himself fast enough, and she dragged him to his feet.

Lan Xichen made to rise also, but she said, “No! Ahem, Lan-zongzhu. Please allow us to handle this within the Jiang sect.”

Her request was flawlessly polite and reasonable and she was halfway out the door with her shidi when she said it, so Lan Xichen reluctantly sank back into his seat, alone in the Jiang’s Sword Hall. He had, perhaps, done all he could do for now.

If Jiang Cheng could not be mollified, if this marriage had been ruined by their impulsive preemption, Lan Xichen will have done far too much.

///

Jiang Yanli dragged A-Xian along the walkways of Lotus Pier. He was too limp, sluggish and slow, and they could not afford that now. A-Cheng had not had too great a head-start, but he would be quick from his ire, and Lan Wangji was certain to find him before they would.

He did. When she and A-Xian rounded the pavilion, they stood facing each other on the uncovered platform before the ancestral temple. A-Cheng had obviously been heading there, to seek privacy, feel his anger and move through it, but Lan Wangji had stopped him on the boardwalk, and A-Cheng was bristling the way Zidian might.

“Lan-er-gongzi,” Jiang Yanli called out. It was vital that a wedge not be driven between them. For the time being A-Cheng was just momentarily upset. The thing he was most upset about, A-Xian’s apparent betrayal, was not true. But if he and Lan Wangji said things that could not be unsaid … A-Cheng could be as stubborn as their father and as venomous about it as their mother. The thought made her want to cry. A real fight now could sour the chances of A-Cheng relenting forever. “Please, Lan-er-gongzi, if you would go back to the hall. Let us discuss this matter as a family.”

“Yes, Lan-er-gongzi,” A-Cheng sneered. “Despite your unsanctioned tea ceremony, Wei Wuxian’s family matters do not concern you.”

Lan Wangji did not back away. He stood rigid and unyielding, his hand iron-tight around his cold white Bichen.

“Lan-er-gongzi,” Jiang Yanli repeated, almost desperately. She shook her didi. “A-Xian, say something.”

Lan Wangji fell to his knees.

Jiang Yanli felt her feet lurch to a stop, a few paces away from them. This tugged A-Xian still as well, and he swayed back beside her. A-Cheng gaped – there was no other word for it. “Lan Wangji … You …”

“Jiang-zongzhu. This cultivator begs you to allow him to marry Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji set the luminous Bichen down on the weathered wood of the boardwalk. He circled his arms, straightened them, and bowed all the way to the ground at A-Cheng’s feet.

“Lan Zhan,” A-Xian croaked, which made A-Cheng’s gaze snap up at him. He stared back and forth between them in bewilderment – at Lan Wangji, in supplication at his feet, and over his head at A-Xian, who stood limp and hollow in the crook of Jiang Yanli’s arm.

“Wei Wuxian?” A-Cheng asked, in a very small voice.

“This cultivator understands the disrespect shown to the Jiang sect by our premature ceremony,” Lan Wangji continued. “This cultivator knows how and why it transpired. This cultivator begs Jiang-zongzhu to lay it at his feet alone.”

“Wei Wuxian?” A-Cheng asked again.

“This cultivator will accept any punishment Jiang-zongzhu would administer. This cultivator will do anything if Jiang-zongzhu will allow him to marry Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan ...”

“Stop!” A-Cheng’s voice was high and thin, like only his anger was keeping him from bursting into tears. “What is the meaning of this? Why is Wei Wuxian tired? Why is Lan-er-gongzi on his knees in front of me? Why did you want to save time? What’s happening?”

“Wei Ying was injured during his time in the Burial Mounds,” Lan Wangji said, and Jiang Yanli felt A-Xian jerk in her arms at the mention – the two combined sending a shiver of horror down her spine.

She’d known in some ways that A-Xian was different when he reemerged from his disappearance. She had … only suspected about the Burial Mounds. She had been afraid to think about it precisely, the what or how or why. She had been afraid to ask too often or look too closely. She had not wanted to make things harder for A-Xian. She had been giving him time and space, and waiting for him to go back to the way he belonged.

Now Lan Wangji was kneeling at A-Cheng’s feet over it, and she forced herself to consider – shamefully, for the first time – whether that might not ever happen.

“He is my counterpart, and I would give him my support. Please, Jiang-zongzhu, permit this marriage. I wish to stand always at his side with the Jiang sect.

“He was injured? He came back months ago. Wei Wuxian, what’s he talking about?”

“Jiang Cheng, he’s making too much of nothing, I’m fine, just fine, I …” But A-Xian had rarely been less fine in his life. That had been clear all along.

“A-Xian,” she murmured, stroking his arm gently. She was careful to avoid the touch of his Chenqing, the powerful and dark thing he now carried with him always, but she tried to lend him comfort regardless.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” A-Cheng asked him. “Why did you run off to Gusu to get Lan-er-gongzi to marry you instead of telling me you were hurt?”

“I didn’t go there to marry him,” A-Xian said. “It was just to visit. And then he asked, and I knew, and I …”

“Jiang-zongzhu, I care for Wei Ying. Please allow me to marry him.”

“Well, does he care for you? Wei Wuxian, you don’t have to do this for some desperate reason. You could just ask me for help. You could always have just asked me for help!”

Jiang Yanli thought of the thing A-Cheng had told her last night – they had been pacing the floor sleepless while, as it turned out, a great distance away A-Xian was getting married. He’d told her of how he’d made the choice to leave her to A-Xian’s care after the fall of Lotus Pier, how he’d given himself up to the Wen soldiers so they could get away. How A-Xian had let him down by going back for him instead of taking care of her, just like he was letting them down now by abandoning them in favor of Gusu Lan. She’d heard the underneath-story – the story of how he would do anything for his lifelong brother, and he couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t do the same in return – at least the way A-Cheng saw it. She looked at A-Cheng now. His face was flushed, and his eyes were bright. He was fighting back tears because A-Xian had kept all these things to himself. Because A-Xian had gotten married without them.

She also thought of A-Xian, and how his whole life the thing he’d been told was to always, always help them. He was her didi, not her shidi, and she had tried to live it so thoroughly he would believe it even if she had never really able to speak the words – not as able as she should’ve been, not as able as was right. But she glimpsed, at moments like this, how impossible it was for him to see himself as their equal. She knew he used his dark new power, the one that put a worrying terror in Lan-er-gongzi’s eyes, to protect them – and she felt uneasily responsible. She believed he would carve off pieces of himself, just like A-Cheng would, if he were asked to, only he would never feel entitled to anything in return.

Had it even occurred to him A-Cheng would be upset? Not because it flaunted his authority as A-Xian’s sect leader, but because he would want to be involved?

A-Xian stepped out of her grip – his hand trailing down her arm and squeezing her fingers, a silent ‘thank you’ – and went over to stand next to Lan Wangji. “Jiang Cheng.” He sank to his knees, head high and tilted back, tiredly. “Jiang-zongzhu. I will always return to the Jiang sect. I would never abandon my duty to protect and serve it. I … you … it means very much to me.”

Jiang Yanli pressed her hand to her chest, to both capture and restrain the feeling of those words. A-Cheng’s mouth had opened slightly, a silent plea for help. He was so silly, so dear, unable to bear hearing the thing he most wanted to know.

“I do care for Hanguang Jun, very much. Somehow, miraculously, he is willing to join our family and be with me always, and there are few things in the world I could ever want more. So please, forgive my disrespect, and I beg you to allow me to marry him.” Then he also began the gesture to bow at A-Cheng’s feet.

A-Cheng grabbed him by the arm before he could get that far, physically preventing him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he seethed wetly. “Both of you, get up off the ground and stop embarrassing yourselves. Two of the greatest heroes of the Sunshot Campaign, acting like maidens who’ve read too many love poems.” He practically hauled A-Xian to his feet. “I can’t believe I wish you were drunk,” he muttered, and gave him a shove. It was surely meant to be affectionate, but A-Cheng’s emotions were high and A-Xian staggered back.

Jiang Yanli reached one of A-Xian’s elbows and Lan Wangji surged up and caught the other, and together they prevented him from falling. She sensed Lan Wangji move in unison with her to stare pointedly at A-Cheng.

For his part, A-Cheng looked a little startled. He stared closely at A-Xian. “You’ll let him take care of you, then, won’t you? You’ll let all of us take care of you?” He scowled in desperate worry. “Is it that flute?”

A-Xian was paying no heed as he continued, stuck in growing elation at the first of A-Cheng’s statements. “You mean …”

“Of course! You can get married to the most stuck-up Lan alive if you want to. Bring as many illustrious spouses and concubines into the Jiang sect as you please. If you regret it and come whining to me later, see if I care.”

A-Xian sagged against Lan Wangji. “Just the one will do.” His eyes tracked over to Jiang Yanli, and he grinned. “Shijie, I’m getting married! Though maybe I should apologize. You really should have been first.”

That wasn’t why he might have needed to apologize, but Jiang Yanli would not hold ill will over that. She felt her own gaze draw up to Lan-er-gongzi’s face. He returned it steadfastly. His arm was circled protectively around A-Xian, strong and sure, and he would not easily let him go.

“There’s no need to apologize,” Jiang Yanli said, letting her relief spread a smile across her face. “I’m so happy for you, A-Xian – and you as well, Lan-er-gongzi.”

He nodded at her respectfully. He was quiet and perhaps odd, but for all A-Cheng’s scorn, she’d never found him objectionable. He was good, polite. He would be a fine person to have as a brother-in-law.

He already was, in some ways. “Shall we call for tea now, then, if you two are in such a terrible hurry?”

“Yes,” A-Xian said, his somewhat-husband nodding in agreement.

“No!” A-Cheng exclaimed. “You think is the Lan sect, and you can just drape some red bunting around your shoulders and call it a wedding? This is Yunmeng Jiang. We have some self-respect.”

///

Jiang Cheng made them wait three entire weeks to finish get married.

Lan Zhan was outraged – but where Lan Zhan had been able to sway Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren, since when it came down to it they loved him and wanted their dour young Lan Wangji to be happy, Jiang Cheng did not care one bit about Lan Zhan, so he dug his heels in and would not budge one single inch.

He did ostensibly care about Wei Wuxian, but that didn't seem to matter either.

“We need time to have robes made, time to decorate, time to plan the banquet.” He spoke as if Wei Wuxian was a five-year-old shidi who didn’t know his sword forms. “You’re lucky I don’t make you wait three months, so it would be after the Group Hunt and we could invite the other sects. As it is, we can’t upstage the Jin sect by holding a surprise event beforehand, not without insulting them, and I’m not about to jeopardize A-jie’s invitation from the peacock’s mother on your impulsive behalf.”

Wei Wuxian would never want that either, his low opinion of the peacock notwithstanding, but he also certainly wasn’t going to wait or make Lan Zhan wait three entire months. He tried to take the three weeks as the gift they were.

In fact, Wei Wuxian suspected they were more in deference to Lan Xichen’s uneasy heart than either his or Lan Zhan’s. Once everyone’s tempers had calmed, the two sect leaders had a very long, very sect-leadery conversation in which Lan Xichen once again expressed his apologies for any disrespect, and Jiang Cheng circuitously admitted he had probably gotten angrier than necessary considering everything that had happened had been done in good faith, and the Lan sect was a valued ally of the Jiang sect, and if for some reason Lan Xichen was willing to marry his younger brother to Wei Wuxian – which he clearly was – he himself was honored to welcome the Second Jade of Lan into the Jiang sect. In other words, he of course approved of the match, and he hoped he had not offended his new and powerful in-laws too terribly much with his outburst or the overt acknowledgement of the spies all the major sects had but pretended not to, please and thank you.

Lan Xichen was of course endlessly gracious about it. Perhaps this was simply due to relief that everything had worked out all right. Perhaps it was because he was Lan Xichen.

Once it was all settled, Jiang Cheng was deliriously happy for Wei Wuxian, in his own way that involved a lot of punching and shoving and rude words.

“How dare you, Wei Wuxian – we spent our whole childhoods planning the most extravagant wedding of the age for A-jie. How could you think I would ever let you do something slipshod for your own? Between you and Hanguang Jun, this should be an event the cultivation world talks about for generations, but you decide you can get married in front of me and the lotus stalks and that’s a grand enough wedding for Yunmeng Jiang?”

“We did that because Shijie is our beloved, beautiful, perfect sister!”

“Yes, and you’re a disaster – who even thought you’d get married at all? You’d need twice the pomp and grandeur for it to seem grand enough to be my head disciple’s wedding.”

Wei Wuxian had an emotional feeling when Jiang Cheng said that. He began to understand, possibly, where he had gotten things wrong.

Jiang Cheng kept haranguing him, but Shijie said something about it just once – “A-Xian, I wasn’t there to fix your hair, or help you decide to get married and prepare.”

“Shijie, you’ll be here this time, you’ll fix my hair when the day comes. That was mostly just Lan Zhan’s part, and he had his family there to help him.”

“You poured tea too, didn’t you? You made a promise to them. Weren’t you nervous?”

Wei Wuxian had been terrified. He remembered sitting in the jingshi, writing messy notes on Lan Zhan’s nice paper, trying to get his thoughts in order. When Lan Zhan had walked in, when he’d seen him, he’d decided everything was actually clear … but it would have helped, surely, to have Shijie there with him. Jiang Cheng too, even if he would’ve been intolerable about it.

“What I’m most nervous about is that Lan Qiren will decide he really can’t take it and come kidnap Lan Zhan back before I can secure him properly.”

Shijie smiled and laughed and consoled him over his agonizing wait, and made extra lotus and pork rib soup for Lan Zhan and Zewu Jun, and even helped Wei Wuxian evade Jiang Cheng’s extremely unnecessary sentries and sneak into Lan Zhan’s room at night.

That was an important balm, because being back at Lotus Pier was harder than Wei Wuxian would have thought, even with the blessed distraction of the wedding. Jiang Cheng wanted his help with everything – planning and preparing for the ceremony, Sect business, even picking what tea to serve the Lans at dinner in the evenings. This was probably an effort to make amends, for missing that Wei Wuxian was unwell, for needing Lan Xichen to come and whisk him away to compel him to acknowledge it. It was Jiang Cheng’s way of spending as much time with him as possible – but it was exhausting. Wei Wuxian tried to lean into and match his enthusiasm, but he was a tired person. His betrothal to Lan Zhan had not made a new golden core spring to being inside him, or made the seething darkness he’d replaced it with any less demanding.

So he poured all his energy into Jiang Cheng, and at the end of the day Shijie ferried him to his almost-husband’s side and he collapsed on the floor beside the tea table so Lan Zhan could pour him a drink, or lay with his head on Lan Zhan’s lap, or sat on the bed and meditated while Lan Zhan played him music – and even though beside that last thing this was objectively no different from relaxing or lying still in his own room, it was a thousand times better, because Lan Zhan knew he was tired and it was all right. He didn’t even seem to mind.

When one evening Wei Wuxian rubbed at his shoulder and called Jiang Cheng a barbarian, Lan Zhan looked very serious and told him he would come up with a way to stop it from happening. That doing so was, in fact, why he was here.

“Lan Zhan, you’re here because you enjoy my thrilling company, and also to kill low-level ghosts and monsters with your sword so I don’t have to use my cultivation all the time, not to defend me from my family. What can we say? ‘Jiang Cheng, please stop using your spiritual power to hit your shixiong and running him ragged with robe fittings, he’s a fragile man and can no longer take it’?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan said. “We told them you were injured at the Burial Mounds. We can imply that is the reason. We cannot spread this story to other sects, because strategically you must not be made to appear weak, but among your family, it is a version of events that will let us do whatever we need to do.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said, impressed. “You’re an esteemed Lan, and your brilliant solution is for us to simply lie?”

“Is it entirely a lie?” Lan Zhan asked severely, and Wei Wuxian was forced to admit it wasn’t.

They slept together, usually. Wei Wuxian lay with his head on Lan Zhan’s chest, listening to his heart beat. He curled around Lan Zhan possessively, running his fingers through his hair. He collapsed boneless on the bed while Lan Zhan got undressed, and was unconscious before he joined him.

Sometimes he made himself go back, sleep alone in his bachelor’s quarters. He felt like he should, for some reason – like he didn’t have the right to lie next to Lan Zhan at ease yet. Not without reservation, anyway.

He was unhappier that way. He thought Lan Zhan was, too. He didn’t like it, itched against it. Soon, soon.

Lan Xichen and Jiang Yanli took tea together nearly every afternoon. Sometimes they would invite one or all of the rest of them to join them, but more often they wouldn’t. A small part of Wei Wuxian hoped these intimate meetings would spark some romantic connection – he would much rather marry Shijie to the First Jade of Lan instead of some tasteless Jin. But probably that was a hopeless prospect. When he pretended to needle her about it (a clever ruse for actually needling her about it), she told him they were simply becoming fast friends over their shared experience being elder siblings to completely hopeless young men.

“That’s not a very nice way to talk about Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian joked back.

Shijie laughed at him. His heart was full.

“If that peacock isn’t as nice to you as Lan Zhan is to me, you can’t marry him,” Wei Wuxian told her.

“A-Xian, very few people could claim to be as devoted as your Lan-er-gongzi is to you,” she said, amused. “But I do take the two of you as an example – that rarely pure things can exist, and as a worthy ideal against which to measure my companionships.” She smiled. “It will only be ten more days now.”

“Jiang Cheng is torturing me! He’s abusing his power. Perhaps you should be Jiang-zongzhu.”

“So it’s mutiny, now,” Jiang Cheng said from the door. “The disrespect grows without cease.” He rolled his eyes so far back in his head Wei Wuxian wondered if he was looking for a nonexistent speck of kindness or mercy in his brain.

/

Wei Wuxian got properly finally married on a beautiful day. The air was muggy and thunderclouds rumbled over Yunmeng, but it was beautiful because Wei Wuxian put on fine, crisp red garments and went to the gates of Lotus Pier, and Lan Zhan – in ethereal robes and a red weimao – was there waiting for him. They stepped across the threshold of his home together and walked across the courtyard to the joyful din of firecrackers, and bowed in front of Jiang Cheng and Shijie, and bowed to heaven and earth and his ancestors at the Jiang ancestral shrine, and returned to Sword Hall to pour more tea, and then bowed – finally – to each other.

Then they had the greatest banquet of Wei Wuxian’s life. It wasn’t substantially different from other banquets he’d attended in terms of the refreshments or the guests – though Jiang Cheng had done an exceptional job on both, considering he only had twenty days and couldn’t invite anyone from the other sects. It was the greatest banquet of his life because Lan Zhan was sitting next to him in the most elegant crimson clothes, and the thing they were celebrating was that they could keep sitting next to each other forever.

Wei Wuxian was not required by tradition to cry, which Lan Zhan kept quietly reminding him, but he had to periodically wipe a tear off his cheek all the same.

/

When it grew late and it was time for them to leave their guests and retire, there were no petty guards between him and Lan Zhan. They could walk before every eye in the world to the same quarters, and no one alive could make an argument they should instead be apart. The bed and the room had been dressed in red and hung with symbols of happiness, and there were dates, oranges, lotus seeds, and wine laid out on the table.

Shijie had taken him aside and given him a gentle, private talk about wedding nights. When she’d brought it up, he’d asked her what she might possibly know about his and Lan Zhan’s wedding night, in a reflexive, panicked effort to either turn the situation toward the ridiculous or prevent the conversation entirely, and she’d replied very matter-of-factly that she’d asked Lan Xichen all about the considerations of other anatomies so she would be able to adequately advise him. This had been the most horrific revelation of Wei Wuxian’s life, on a list that included a number of quite horrific things, because it meant he now had to picture Zewu Jun and his Shijie – two luminous and pristine people – sitting at their tea table pragmatically discussing the explicit particulars of things that would be shredded into confetti if they were printed in a lewd book and presented to a younger Lan Wangji in the Lan Library Pavilion.

It was all for nothing, too, because nothing like that happened on Wei Wuxian’s and Lan Zhan’s wedding night. It wasn’t that Wei Wuxian had no interest in such things, either in general or with Lan Zhan (beautiful, lofty, his) in particular. It was just that they were both so relieved to be married they weren’t really worried about anything else. They sat very close together in their half-undone wedding clothes, and shared fruit, and drank wine (well, Wei Wuxian drank wine). Lan Zhan kept looking at him like he was shocked he hadn’t disappeared yet, and Wei Wuxian kept touching Lan Zhan’s hand, and arm, and knee, and hair, because he was right there and he could. Lan Zhan kissed him once, fast enough Wei Wuxian wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t imagined it, and then they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Wei Wuxian woke up the next morning, long after five, in that soft tangle of red sheets and red-and-gold robes and half-combed-out hair and a discarded weimao, and found himself gazing into Lan Zhan’s luminous eyes. He couldn’t imagine a more auspicious start.

/

Wei Wuxian spent the next few days showing Lan Zhan around his home. Jiang Cheng whined that he’d gotten used to Wei Wuxian’s assistance with things, and Shijie shushed him – which meant Wei Wuxian didn’t have to. He took Lan Zhan out on the lakes, they frolicked in the lagoons and pools (well, Wei Wuxian frolicked – Lan Zhan ‘enjoyed the natural beauty of Yunmeng’), and they visited the nearby townships and perused the towns.

Lan Zhan kept almost meeting him halfway and then drawing back. When their hands were close, their fingers would bump and then Lan Zhan would pull his own away. When they sat side by side in a small boat, Lan Zhan would put his arm around Wei Wuxian, shift even closer so they were almost very intimately embracing, then shift away so only his hand was on the small of Wei Wuxian’s back. It was a little maddening and very hard to read. Was Lan Zhan feeling out his own boundaries, or Wei Wuxian’s? Wei Wuxian didn’t know, and he was giving the situation a little time to run its course in case maybe he wouldn’t have to summon the energy or courage to confront it. They had all the time possible, after all. If Lan Zhan needed some, Wei Wuxian would not rush him.

On the fourth day, he had run through most of the things he thought Lan Zhan would particularly enjoy, so he took the excuse to show Lan Zhan his favorite wine house – halfway between the docks and Lotus Pier, near enough to easily walk even when pleasantly drunk but far enough Jiang Cheng might not bother walking that far to fetch him back to do real work. It was well into the afternoon, and he had no responsibilities except being with Lan Zhan, so it was a perfectly fine time to get into his cups – and Lan Zhan kept pouring for him with the most delightfully soft almost-smile, so he kept drinking with little reservation. By the time they left, he was warm all over and feeling very light, and when they reached Lotus Pier proper, he was swaying a little bit. Not because he couldn’t have righted himself if he absolutely had to – but because it was nice and he was having fun. Lan Zhan took his hand, then took his elbow, then released him entirely, then took his elbow again. And some combination of Wei Wuxian’s heart only being able to take so much of this treatment and the more uncertain pieces of his mind being anesthetized with baijiu made him say, “What’s the matter, Lan Zhan?”

This brought Lan Zhan to a halt. He hesitated. He let go of Wei Wuxian again and moved a terribly distant half-pace away.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian peered at him.

He looked very worried. “Wei Ying. I am not sure what you want for us.”

“What do you mean? I want us for us.” If the problem was he was worried about Wei Wuxian’s feelings, well … “You can do whatever you want with me, Lan Zhan. I think you own me, soul and body.”

Lan Zhan stiffened, aggrieved. “Wei Ying. No.”

“I don’t mean it like that, not like I’m obligated! I just mean, you don’t have to hold back with me, Lan Zhan. You’re mine, and I’m yours. Anything you want, I’m going to want as well.”

“Not anything.”

“Sure anything. I can’t think of any things I wouldn’t want.”

“It’s only you who can’t think of them.” Lan Zhan was giving Wei Wuxian a very harrowed look. “There surely are things.”

“No one’s ever accused me a lack of imagination before, Lan Zhan. Why don’t you try me, if there’s something you’re worried about?”

Lan Zhan was at first very still, but after a moment, he drifted toward him like a moth to a flame – a destruction he couldn’t resist. He cupped one hand at the base of Wei Wuxian’s skull. He looked long at him, searching. He kissed his lips to Wei Wuxian’s – lightly, like he was afraid Wei Wuxian would bruise like old fruit. Lingering, like he didn’t think he was going to get another chance. Then he pulled back.

He looked at Wei Wuxian mournfully, as if to say, see? I told you.

Wei Wuxian felt a smile tug at his lips, even if it was rude to laugh at him for being honest and vulnerable. He curled his hands around Lan Zhan’s shoulders, reeling him back in so they were chest to chest. “We’ve done that before, Lan Zhan, of course I could think of it. Try again.”

Lan Zhan held Wei Wuxian. “Wei Ying,” he said, pained, imploring. Don’t toy with me. Don’t tease. I can’t take it. Then he kissed Wei Wuxian again, and it was not light.

Wei Wuxian unsealed his lips and tried to follow along. He’d done this once or twice, with random people he hadn’t really cared about, and he didn’t know what he was doing – but Lan Zhan probably didn’t either, and they only had to get good at kissing one person (each other) so anything other than what Lan Zhan was doing was irrelevant.

Right now Lan Zhan seemed to be trying to devour him, mouth and teeth and grasping fingers, and Wei Wuxian … Wei Wuxian would gladly be consumed. He slumped a little, hanging on to Lan Zhan’s steady shoulders. Lan Zhan held him up.

It broke off suddenly. Lan Zhan stared at him, eyes terrified, chest heaving. Was I right? Was I too much? Do you despise it?

Wei Wuxian held that precious face in his hands. Why was this person so foolish? “Now I’m supposed to ask you to try a third thing, to complete the pattern, but we’re in the middle of Lotus Pier and I’m almost positive whatever’s next would be indecent. More indecent, anyway.” If a servant had seen them kissing passionately like that, it would get around like wildfire, and Jiang Cheng would probably whip him with Zidian. “I expect we’ll be happier to have a bed for it anyway. Am I right?”

Lan Zhan shook his head, and Wei Wuxian felt the brief drop of disappointment, but then Lan Zhan leaned in again and kissed him a third time. This one was slow, like the first, but deep – even deeper than the second. It moved, and moved, and moved, and Lan Zhan’s hands were in his hair. Then he drew back just far enough to kiss his cheekbone. Once, twice, three times. Each one purposeful, worshipful, sure, and he held and maneuvered Wei Wuxian all the while. He kissed his hairline. Kissed his jaw. Down the side of his neck. Across his shoulder.

“Mm,” Lan Zhan hummed in satisfaction into the top of his sleeve, while Wei Wuxian tried to put his heart back into a box that now seemed too small for it. Then, “There are some things I think of that would require the bed.”

“Me, too,” Wei Wuxian breathed, and Lan Zhan nodded serenely.

part five

Tears in heaven 5: Move on

Synopsis: Alexis O’Brien is about to get married but memories of her old life are coming back to haunt her.

MASTERLIST

Pairings: Liam x MC Drake x MC (TRR)

Warnings:  NO ONE UNDER 18 should read this story. This is an 18+ blog. This story will deal with very dark subjects such as death, severe depression and suicide attempt (among others) if you’re triggered by any of those issues, PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS STORY

To catch up: Masterlist

A/N: The story will go back and forth between three different periods of time (2010 / 2015 / 2019)

A/N: This is a filler chapter... I hope you enjoy it :-)

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Pixelberry.

Word count: 4,795

Songs inspiration: Tears in heaven by Eric Clapton

THANKS TO:  @burnsoslow​  for beta reading and correcting so many mistakes. I love you!

And to @pedudley​  your feedback gives me live!! I LOVE YOU BOTH! ❤️❤️❤️

May 2015

After spending one and a half months on Bastien’s couch, Drake had decided to get a job working on the docks. He knew that getting exhausted by the manual labor was the only way to get a few hours of sleep at night. He also became a regular customer at the local pub. Every day after work, he went and drank himself into oblivion. Many times during that month, Drake had thought of coming back to Cordonia, but every morning he decided to stay, paralyzed by the fear of her hatred. He was empty, a living corpse. His family was still present in his mind every single day with the same painful intensity, especially Tom, his little boy. His grief vacillated between a deep sorrow to a burning rage that consumed him more and more every day. He felt angry with anyone and everyone. More than once, he had picked fights in the bar trying to punish himself.

But that day it wasn’t supposed to happen. That day was supposed to be his last day in Andalucía. Olivia had called the night before and told him that Alexis needed him desperately, that she was destroying herself. He hung up to buy the plane tickets. In spite of what had happened between them that last day, everything that had been said and done, he needed to be with her. His judgment had been clouded by their last fight, but he understood now that he had reacted too fast, that she hadn’t been in her right mind. That they were meant to survive the pain together.

Drake barely remembered how all hell had broken loose. He knew he had drunk more than usual, anxious about seeing her again. He remembered that he had put his phone next to him, the phone with all the pictures of his son on it. He recalled that the man next to him had taken it and made offensive comments about Alexis, whose picture was the screensaver. He remembered the sound of his phone smashing when he had tried to get it back. Everything was blank after that. He had woken up in a cell with a black eye and a broken nose. Thanks to Alexis, he spoke Spanish quite well, so he understood the guards when they told him that the other guy was in the hospital due to a minor concussion. The lawyer that Bastien had gotten him, Alvaro Díaz, informed him that the other man was the son of a reputed local congressman. Mr. Díaz did everything he could, but the judge was a personal friend of the politician, so Drake had been sentenced to one year in prison. He had called Olivia and told her that he couldn’t come back without giving her more explanations. It was useless to tell them where he was and worry Alexis when she couldn’t do anything about it. He hadn’t been able to protect her from the pain back then, but he would protect her from that now.  

September 2010

Drake was making coffee for both of them. He was working the morning shift at the clinic, and Alexis had an early class. He could hear the noise coming from their room all the way in the kitchen. He smiled to himself. Alexis was always late and made a racket when she got ready. He took both their coffees to their bedroom. She was cursing in front of the mirror trying to apply mascara as she brushed her teeth.

He smirked at her, nodding his head towards her toothbrush, “The coffee will taste like crap now, Lexie.”

She tapped her forehead with her palm. “Shit! You’re right!”

He watched her look for her shoes all over the room until she found one under the bed and the other in the closet.

“What’s going on, baby? You seem more agitated than usual.” She was putting her tennis on quietly. He sat next to her on the bed.

“Hey, talk to me, Lex.” He placed his hand on her thigh. “What’s going on?”

She was going to wait until that night to talk to him, but he was her husband, her best friend. And he could read her like a book. It was better to get it off her chest now.

She bit her bottom lip. “I’m late.”

He laughed, taking her in his arms. “You’re always late, but your teachers always seem to forgive you, Lexie. Don’t worry about it.”

She shook her head no. “No, Drake. I’m late.” She gave him a knowing look.

Drake took a second, but he finally understood. He took a deep breath before he spoke. “Have you taken a test?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Do you have one?” he asked as he placed a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Yes - I was going to take it later, but I guess I’ll do it now.” She stood up and went to the bathroom after she took the test out of her backpack.

She came back to the room with the test in her hand and placed it on the table next to her bed. Drake took her arm, pulling her into his lap. For three minutes neither of them said anything, too nervous to talk. When the phone went off announcing the end of their wait, Alexis stood up and looked at the test.

“Well?” Drake couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer.

She barely nodded, still too overwhelmed to talk. He jumped off the bed and swept her off her feet. She looped her arms around his neck, roaring with laughter.

“You have no idea how happy you just made me, Lexie.” He steadied her with his arms and kissed her passionately. His heart was about to burst with happiness.

He cupped her face to kiss her again and noticed the shadow in her eyes. “And you? Are you happy about this?”

She honestly didn’t know how to answer. “I’m feeling so many things that I might explode, Drake. I don’t even know how this happened.”

“You do, Lexie. I told you it broke.” One passionate night after too many whiskeys, their condom had broken, but they had been too caught up in the moment to care.

She sat on the bed. “I don’t want you to think I’m not happy, Drake, because I’m ecstatic, but I’m also worried. I really wanted to finish school first, get my degree, get a job in a publishing house, write. We wanted to travel together and enjoy our married life. We’ve only been married for two months … And …” she sighed, “so many things.”

He felt guilty. She looked extremely young in her tennis shoes and a ponytail. Of course it was easier for him. He was 25, not 21. His seven-year degree was almost finished, and thanks to Liam, he had traveled all over the world. She had done none of that. He was dying to have a kid with her, but he’d wait if she wasn’t ready.

He sat next to her in the bed before affirming, “We’ll do whatever you need to do, baby. It’s your decision.”

She shook her head no. “I want to keep it, Drake. I’m sure of that. I’m just nervous … I guess.”

“Come here, baby.” He leaned his back against the headboard, and she climbed on top of him. He stroked her hair and her cheeks soothingly. “I get where you’re coming from, Lexie. Completely.” She nodded against his chest, and he held her tighter. He wanted to show her that he understood her fears and that they were going to face them together as a team.

He wasn’t a man of grand romantic gestures, but he loved her like crazy and knew her better than anyone. She needed to be reassured, she needed to know that she would still be able to fulfill her dreams.

“What if I call in sick and you skip school? We can spend the day together and talk about options.” He took her chin with his fingers, turning her face towards him. “But I want you to know that even if you have to stop for a semester, you’ll go back to school. I swear, Lexie. We’ll manage.”

She grinned at him. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

“I’m the lucky one, baby. I love you so much.” He kissed her, then he placed his hand on her lower belly and added, visibly touched, “I love you, too.”

Her eyes watered; her heart was so full it could explode. She was still a bit stressed about the future but not worried anymore. “We love you so much already - you have no idea, my little peanut,” she said, placing her hand on her belly as well. She yawned.

He looked at her, concerned. “Are you tired?”

“Remember when you told me last week that I seemed tired lately?” She looked down at her belly. “I guess now we know why.”

All his instincts screamed to protect her. He undid the covers and put the blankets over them; she snuggled against him. He wrapped her in his arms and leaned to kiss her forehead. “Sleep a bit, baby. I’ll be here next to you.”  As he stroked her face while she fell asleep, he thought about how happy he felt. He knew he had many joyful moments to come, but he had never felt so happy as he did right then with the woman he adored in his arms and their baby on his way.

April 2019

Alexis was deeply nervous about the party. She looked at herself in the mirror again, trying to ignore the knot in the pit of her stomach. It was going to be the first time in more than four years that the three of them were going to be together in the same place. She hated herself. Drake and Liam had been good friends all their lives, and now, thanks to her, they didn’t even speak to each other. If she hadn’t been so weak after his death, if Drake had come back for her, if Liam hadn’t helped her so much, maybe everything would be different now. She tried to put her lipstick on, but her hand was shaking; she was extremely anxious. She took a deep breath to calm herself. His return had opened too many old wounds. Too many memories that would have been better to leave buried. Especially at this time of the year when that dreadful date was approaching. She took another sharp breath and stopped her tears; if she thought about her son, she wouldn’t be able to leave the bed. With a steadier hand, she applied the rest of her makeup and went downstairs to meet Liam.

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Liam put on his cufflinks and his tuxedo jacket; the Beaumonts had decided to throw the most elegant anniversary party of the year. He poured himself a scotch while he waited for Alexis. As he sipped his scotch, he pondered his upcoming encounter with Drake; he was apprehensive about seeing him again. It was undeniable that he missed his best friend deeply. However, he was aware that there was nothing he could do about it anymore. As much as he hated the idea of Drake despising him, it was the price that he had had to pay for Alexis and he didn’t regret his life with her. After all, he had been in love with her for almost 10 years.

If Drake loved her as much as he claimed, he’d have to recognize that she was alive and well thanks to Liam. It had been Liam’s love and strength that had helped her to rebuild herself after Tom had died and Drake had left. Drake and Alexis weren’t good for each other anymore. That’s why he had given Drake her letter that day. He still felt guilty about it, but he couldn’t admit the truth - not if that meant he would lose her.

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Drake sat in his jeep waiting for Kiara; he knew she would be right there in exactly 10 minutes. She was always punctual, unlike Alexis, who was eternally late. That flaw had been the source of countless fights during their marriage. Conflicts that inevitably ended the same way: with both of them in bed being even later to wherever they were going. He wasn’t even that irritated by it, but he loved to tease her and see the fire in her eyes when they fought.

He sighed, wondering when he would stop comparing Alexis to any other woman he dated. It wasn’t as if he was still in love with her. It was just that Cordonia had brought back a lot of memories that he thought were forgotten. His thoughts inevitably drifted to Liam. He didn’t know how he would react when he’d see him again. One side of him wanted to demolish his ex-best friend. The other side was painfully aware that without Liam she would be dead. That side couldn’t help but to be grateful to Liam; he didn’t dare to imagine a world without Lexie in it. He saw Kiara leaving her house and got out of the car to open her door; he smiled to himself, thinking about how much Alexis hated that gesture.

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Alexis sighed, slightly irritated; she hated to wait until someone else opened the car door for her. It was a waste of time, but Liam was a genuine gentleman; he couldn’t conceive of not doing it, and she didn’t want to fight for something so futile. Besides, she was going to be the Duchess of Valtoria soon;, the earlier she got used to all the etiquette rules, the better.

When they entered the ballroom, the herald announced them. She hated the spotlight, but she wore her best smile and took her fiancé’s arm. No one could have guessed how uneasy she felt inside.

“Liam Fabien Rhys, Duke of Valtoria, and his fiancée, Lady Alexis O’Brien.” Liam took her hand, and they went down the stairs together.

Drake was nursing a whiskey at his table when he heard the announcement. His stomach did a flip at the herald’s words, but it was nothing compared to the moment when he saw them together. They looked perfect for each other. He was regal in a perfectly-tailored tuxedo. She looked … gorgeous. She was wearing a white dress that highlighted her tanned, soft skin. Her shiny hair was cascading down on one side of her elegant neck, as her full lips were tempting him with a deep shade of red. 

“I wish I could get some Bordeaux.” Kiara’s voice broke the spell.

“I’ll go to the bar and ask for a glass,” he offered, standing up, anxious to go anywhere far away from them.

Bertrand greeted them by himself; apparently, Savannah was occupied with other guests. Since Alexis had gotten engaged to Liam, Savannah had been polite but cold and had avoided the couple as much as she could. Alexis didn’t blame her; she probably would have done the same in her shoes. Francesco soon joined them, and their conversation turned to their negotiations with Italy and the Commerce treaty the country was signing with Valtoria. Alexis knew they could talk business all night long. She turned her head, a little bored, and there he was, next to the bar, sipping a glass of whiskey distractedly. Her heart skipped a beat. She blushed and turned her head back, immediately grabbing Liam’s hand; his strength was the only thing that could help her get through that hellish party.

Drake came back with a glass of Bordeaux for Kiara and a tumbler of whiskey for himself. Kiara looked around the ballroom, admiring the decoration.

She suddenly squealed, “Mon Dieu, Drake! C’est ma collègue ! Ça alors!”  (God, Drake, that’s my colleague. I can’t believe it!)

Drake liked Kiara. She was smart, warm and beautiful but that habit of changing languages every five seconds really unnerved him. He was going to ask what the hell she had said when she took his hand and dragged him to the center of a ballroom. Drake understood who she was talking about when it was too late. Before he could prevent it, Kiara tapped Alexis’ shoulder. She turned her head and went pale.

“Coucou, ma belle! (Hi, darling) I knew it was you!” Kiara hugged Alexis affectionately.

Alexis was unable to speak or move; Drake’s gaze was fixated on her, and Liam completely paralyzed her.

She barely heard Max scream, “Drake!” He hugged an unresponsive Drake, who was as numbed as Alexis. “Fuck, man! You look great! I missed our midnight talks, buddy!” Seeing that his three friends were still in shock, he extended his hand to Kiara, trying to dissipate the awkwardness. “Hi! I’m Max Beaumont and this is-”

“The Duke of Valtoria, I know. We translate a lot of documents for the duchy at the agency we both freelance for, n’est-ce pas, Alexis?” (isn’t it true?) Without letting her answer, she proceeded, “I’m Kiara Theron.”

“I’m charmed to make your acquaintance, Kiara.” Liam gave her a charming smile. Then he turned to Drake. “Hello, Drake. It’s been a long time.”

Drake looked at both of them contemptuously, his fists balling. “And a lot of things have changed since then,” he growled.

“Oh! You know each other!” Kiara exclaimed, excited that her date knew one of the most important men in the country.

Drake scowled, “We used to. A very long time ago.” Alexis lowered her eyes, blushing.

Maxwell was desperate to break the tension, so he decided to change the subject. “I don’t know if Sav told you, Drake, but thanks to Liam’s support, the Parliament passed a new law legalizing gay marriage. Rash and I are engaged!”

Drake grinned; if anyone deserved to be happy, it was Maxwell Beaumont. “Congratulations, Max. I’m actually very happy for you both.”

Kiara was curious; they had been working together for a year, but Alexis was extremely discreet about her personal life. “I didn’t know you were a noble, Alexis,” she inquired.

Drake snapped, “She’s not; she’s just marrying one.” No one missed the bitter tone in his voice.

Alexis squinted at him angrily before answering, “He’s right. I’m not. I’m as common as they come.”

Kiara understood that something extremely odd was going on, and she wanted to know what it was. “So, you know my boyfriend, too?”

Alexis felt a pang in her chest. Someone else was being possessive of him. Someone else was calling him her boyfriend. She swallowed before she could speak. “As he said, we did a long time ago.”

“Ki knows everything about my past. We don’t keep secrets. She knows I’m getting a divorce.” Drake was well aware that he was being an asshole, but it was driving him mad the way Liam had possessively circled her waist with his arm. “Alexis was,” he smirked at Liam, “well, she is still my wife.”

Kiara was a lot of things, but she wasn’t stupid. He had never called her ‘Ki’ before; it was obvious that he was trying to make his ex-wife jealous. They would have to talk; as much as she liked Drake, she didn’t want to get in the middle of something so complicated.

Maxwell tried to lighten the atmosphere again. “What kind of documents did you translate for Liam?”

Kiara and Liam engaged in the conversation, but Alexis and Drake didn’t exchange a word. She feigned interest in their discussion while Drake excused himself and left the group to talk to his sister. He couldn’t bear to be next to them another second. Liam gave Alexis a reassuring look. He hated to see her so anxious.

Soon everyone was dancing. Alexis felt safe in Liam’s arms. He was sweet and gentle and treated her like a princess. She needed his love, his protection, and she loved him back; she was sure of it. That’s why she didn’t understand why seeing Drake troubled her so much.

Drake sat at the bar alone while Kiara danced with Maxwell. When he was married to Alexis, he enjoyed dancing with her because she loved it passionately. Back then, just seeing her move and making her happy was incentive enough for him. But those days were gone. He didn’t dance anymore.

He leaned on the counter and took a swig of his whiskey. He was trying very hard to avoid looking at the dance floor, but it was stronger than him. He felt a mix of rage and sadness seeing them together, seeing the woman he had sworn to love forever in the arms of the closest friend he had had. Drake saw Liam glide her across the dance floor assuredly, and then lean his lips towards her ear telling her something that made her smile.

His heart broke a little when he saw her face. She tried very hard to hide it behind a beautiful smile, but it was obvious that she was suffering. All the makeup and fake grins in the world wouldn’t be enough to deceive him. He knew Alexis inside and out. She was still in deep pain about their son, but instead of accepting it, she was trying to bury her real feelings as deep as possible. He was aware that when something was too difficult for her, she chose to ignore it in the hope that it would disappear. In the past, Drake would force her to face it, to deal with it, but Liam had the same tendency to ignore what he didn’t want to see. It couldn’t be healthy for either of them.

Suddenly she raised her eyes and looked at him, too. They stared at each other intently, both of them feeling their hearts racing and their stomachs fluttering for a few seconds. Alexis shook her head, breaking the spell. She said something to Liam, and they went back to sit at their table. She sighed, exasperated at herself. She desperately needed to sign those divorce papers and never see Drake again. Liam was rubbing her arm absentmindedly while he talked to Francesco. That’s what she needed: Liam and a new life. Her marriage and her responsibilities as a duchess would keep her too busy to think. Drake should stay where he belonged, buried in the past.

She saw Olivia on the other side of the ballroom and decided to go and apologize for her outburst at Maxwell’s loft. She was about to reach her friend when the band started to play a song, their song. She hadn’t heard Crazy Love in five years, and she wasn’t ready to hear it now. So she turned around, trying to locate the nearest exit until she finally saw one. Once outside, she leaned against one of the walls of the gardens and sighed, relieved. In that moment, she saw Drake sitting on the stairs. She hesitated for a second, finally deciding to sit next to him.

“The song?” he asked. When she nodded quietly, he added, “It hit me too. I hadn’t heard it in five years.”

“Me neither; I can’t seem to be able to erase it from my playlist, but I never listen to it.” She sighed before adding in a low voice, “There’s a lot of things I can’t do anymore.”

He looked at her, and for the first time since he had come back, he saw a glimpse of the old Lexie.

“Same for me.” He gave her a sad smile. “I can’t stand watching Seinfeld anymore.” He sighed, thinking of all the Saturday mornings they had spent in bed making love and watching endless Seinfeld marathons.

“Indiana Jones.” She bit her bottom lip. “Even a commercial for it makes me anxious.”

“Stargazing.” The last time he had gone was with Tom and Alexis for her birthday, only a few months before his death. “And I haven’t read Mark Twain again,” he said carefully, aware that he was approaching dangerous territory.

Her breathing accelerated, but she forced herself to say, “I can’t say his name. I haven’t said it once since the accident.” Her eyes teared up.

His heart broke for her; he wanted to hold her and make the pain go away, but he knew he couldn’t. He had tried very hard in the past, in those few months they were together after his death, and it had been impossible.

He wiped her tears with his thumb instead. “You have to try and talk about him, Alexis. I know it’s horribly painful, but ignoring it won’t make it better.”

“Because living among his things like you do makes it better?” she snapped. “No, Drake. Nothing will ever make it better.” She couldn’t avoid crying any longer.

He circled his arms around her shoulders. “I know, Alexis. Believe me, I know.” His embrace had something extremely reassuring. He smelled as he had always smelled, of sandalwood and cut grass. His strong arms around her made her feel safe and nostalgic. She let herself go in his arms, crying for Tom as she hadn’t allowed herself to do for a very long time.

“I just miss him so much; it’s terrifying.” He kissed the top of her head but didn’t interrupt her; she needed to talk. “Sometimes I’m having a good day and then a small detail, like a firefighter’s truck in a movie, brings it all back. I feel like that first day when I got the news. The pain makes it impossible to breathe, to function.” She turned her head towards him; he was watching her with so much tenderness in his eyes that she felt compelled to continue, “That’s why I avoid saying his name or anything that could trigger a memory of him, of us.”

Drake frowned. “You can’t live avoiding everything, Alexis.” He paused; even if he wanted to know the least possible about her relationship with Liam, he needed to be sure she had someone to talk to. “Don’t you talk about him with … Liam?”

“No, I get too sad, and he worries too much about me.” She stopped, thinking about the other reason. “Besides, I feel disloyal-”

Drake stood up; he was fuming. “This isn’t about him, Alexis. It’s about you! And if he thinks that it’s disloyal talking about your own son, then he’s a bigger asshole than I thought he was.”

She stood up as well. Her eyes had tears of sadness mixed with tears of fury. “Who the hell do you think you are? You come here after five years to tell me and Liam how to manage our grief? I was going to say that I felt disloyal towards you, talking about our son with Liam. And I don’t even know why. I have all the right. He was the one watching me cry myself to sleep. He was the one comforting me night after night. Fuck! He was the one who saved my life. The worst part is that I wanted so badly to have you instead. To have your arms, your words consoling me. But YOU WEREN’T THERE. You promised you would always be there for me, and then YOU FUCKING LEFT!” She was so angry she barely realized she was shoving him.

He held her wrists to stop her, and the momentum pulled her close to him. The electricity between them was almost touchable; they were trembling with fury. Their hearts raced as their eyes sparkled with fire. 

“You know damn well why I left! Did you forget what happened? Because I sure as hell haven’t!” As he spoke, his face got closer to hers. He could smell her perfume, see her lips only a few inches from his. He let her wrists go and cupped her face, but she turned around.

“I know why you left, but I never understood why you didn’t come back.” She looked sad, broken.

He tried to approach her again, but she took a step back. “I know it took me long, Alexis, but I did come back.”

She shook her head; five years was too long, wherever the reasons he had had.

“Am I interrupting something?” Liam had stepped out to the gardens, looking for her.

“No, we were just talking, but there’s nothing else left to say. I was about to go back to the ball.” She walked towards the door, but Liam stood in the middle of the garden looking at Drake.

“Actually, Alexis, I would like to speak a moment with Drake. If he doesn’t mind.”

Drake smirked, “Of course I don’t, Li. Why wouldn’t I want to catch up with such an old and loyal friend?”

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sorry I don’t have more Scattered for y’all this week! but, see, i finally moved out of my terrible living situation uhhh yesterday so things are a bit hectic at the moment. hopefully next week? wish me luck y’all. IN THE MEANTIME, THO. An au that’s been stuck in my head for a while, that i realized i could chapter out to encourage myself to work on it more. hope y’all enjoy?

thorns that burst from my skull in the night (chapter 1)

[ao3] [ch 2] [ch 3] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, The Keep, Sir Damien, Rilla

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Canon Compliant, Prophetic Dreams, Alternate Universe, canon typical Arum ignoring feelings, (very mild suicidal ideation or at least. canon typical arum being reckless with his own life)

Summary: Arum has always seen glimpses of the future in his dreams. This gift is sometimes useful, but more often than not it leaves him with more questions than answers. The dreams of the flowers are particularly unhelpful.

Notes: I've had this one on the back burner for a while, but I moved into a new apartment literally yesterday, everything is a mess, and I did NOT have time to write a proper chapter of my current in-progress WiP, so here's the first part of something new! because that's always a good idea what the heck. Title from the song Pyrrhic Victory by Minimall.

~

Arum dreams a garden. It is the reoccurring dream the lizard Lord wakes from most often. Wakes gently, which is an interesting change from the vast majority of his prophetic dreams.

It is more abstract than his augury usually is, a flurry of soft petals, a distant singing, and the twang of- something. Something he cannot place. Elements of the dream rise and fade as it reoccurs, dragging out between years as it becomes just another part of his life. At times it comes with the distinct clash of steel, at others he hears a second voice join the song, and still again he feels either a frighteningly delicate touch, or the bite of manacles at all four of his wrists.

It bodes ill, Arum thinks. Flowers and song, and softness, it must either be a metaphor or an outright lie, and neither option puts him at ease. Even laced with the more ordinary threat of restriction and weaponry, he does not trust any of it.

He barters his services in exchange for access to the libraries of monsters he knows have an interest in botany, digs through tomes and guides until he can identify the other two of the three flowers from his dreams. The first he needs no assistance with; it is him. Always him, though it vacillates between the delicacy of the arum lily and the imposing spire of the titan arum. The other two, he finds with relative ease.

Honeysuckle, and amaryllis.

There is no direct connection between them, botanically speaking. They are unrelated entirely. They do not even grow in the same places, which is worrying because it indicates that this dream is almost certainly symbolic, and Arum abhors dealing in symbolism. It utterly undermines what little usefulness there is in his limited gift when he needs to wade through interpretation to find any actionable information in his prophecy.

He grits his teeth through his research into flower symbolism. It is almost entirely useless. Most flowers seem to have a wild array of meaning attributed to them, sometimes with ideas that entirely oppose one another. Amaryllis consistently seems to carry connotations of pride and determination, which Arum does not find distasteful, but it also means radiant beauty, which Arum could not care less about. Honeysuckle is more worrying; the meanings are all so soft. Happiness, devotion, affection, generosity, bonds of love-

Saccharine sentimentality, and selflessness. Nothing a monster should do anything but sneer at.

Another version of the dream arises around this time. He sees himself as he was in youth, the smallest of reptilian whelps, sees himself curled and sleeping in the throat of a flower, something not uncommon even in his adulthood. However, this time the flower in question is a beautiful and over-sized amaryllis bloom, with the other version of himself clutching to the pistil, the entire scene infused with relief and restfulness and safety. Arum wakes and feels hollow, that morning. Feels cool, feels uncertain, feels irritated with himself and his augury before he shakes the softness and rises to work.

That one of the flowers is arum, is Arum himself, concerns him further. If one of the three represents him, it raises the possibility that the other flowers represent someone else as well. Two different someones, likely.

He plants each of the strange flowers in his greenhouse. It is an act of defiance, of course, an act meant to rob the prophesy of any power it might otherwise have. He makes the symbol into something literal, something he can brew into a poison or a tea, depending, something he can touch outside of his dreams.

There, he thinks viciously, tending to the plants as they grow, pruning and fertilizing and brushing his knuckles soft down vibrant leaves. There. This mildest of prophesies is fulfilled. Here the flowers will be, and then the dream needs haunt me no more.

The honeysuckle blooms first. It fills the greenhouse with the scent of subtle sweetness, and when Arum places a flower on his tongue it tastes like a loose sunbeam, it smells precisely as soft as all of its adjacent symbolism, it makes him feel-

Well. It doesn’t matter. It is only a flower, after all.

The amaryllis are slower, but the blooms come just as wild in their time. They could be useful, he thinks, for brewing certain poisons, but he does not pluck a single flower. He could not explain why. He does not want to break any of those stems, and so he does not. It is enough of a reason in itself.

The dreams, of course, do not cease. The do soften, however. They come less often, but now the scent is more real in his dreaming snout, the sunbeam flavor filling his mouth until he could drown in it, but at least it is no longer a suffering of every single night. He may forget it, for days at a time.

He does not forget it. He could, he thinks. But he does not.

He hardly has time to worry over the matter anymore, anyway. His hard work and spotless reputation as an architect have (despite his other reputation as rather difficult to work with) gleaned him some arguably fortunate attention. Arguable, because while the eye of the Senate may be beneficial to him eventually, may earn him some protections or benefits he could not even predict, they are also powerful enough to threaten even Arum’s territory. If their attention turns sour, if they are unhappy with the results he produces (highly unlikely, his skill is unmatched), the repercussions could be severe.

The work is difficult. Demanding. It leaves little time for sleep, which allows him to avoid the dreams entirely, both those concerning his blooms and the other more troubling ones besides.

(cavern dark and wet, no magic here, only blight, only threat, only steel and mud and hatred and fear so sharp it curdles in the air)

(wilting song, wilting song)

(squalling of hundreds, his denizens, his charges, afraid afraid afraid and ready, as any animal, to bite back)

(weight unbalances, and so from the scale you must be)

Context. If the dreams gave even a hint of context he could use the information, but as it stands-

Arum works. The Keep works with him. They need be tireless, they need work beyond their means. He finds the Moonlit Hermit (another flower of which he has dreamed relentlessly, though at least those dreams had some use) and the work is easier, then, if no less time consuming. He must continue until the Senate is satisfied, or-

(wilting song, wilting song)

Or who knows what they may do to his home. He is relentless. He creates. He ceases to take satisfaction in this work. There is no time for that, and the weapons that the Senate demands are cruel in a way that Arum finds distasteful, regardless. There is skill in the work, of course, but Arum is diligent, and he samples his own poisons in safe quantity, and he knows what these things will do, to whomever the Senate turns them upon.

Arum does what he must. It was never his desire to make a crueler world, but-

But there is a war on. His desires pale in the shadow of it.

(the moment the first stone was thrown)

He dreams the Citadel, which is almost certainly the worst of portents thus far. It is an augury that makes sense more quickly than is typical. If his newest project can be coerced into doing as he intends, if he can manipulate them to grow fast enough to please the Senate, the resulting creature will require a tether. A focus. A direction in which to aim its ire, and that will mean-

Infiltration.

He wrinkles his snout in distaste at the idea, and the feeling of human-carved stone under his claws echoes back out from the dream. He is going to have to infiltrate personally, perform the task on his own. If he asks the Senate to find another to seek what he requires for his work, it will show too much weakness. He has no choice. He is running out of time to give the Senate what they desire, and his Keep is (wilting song) ill. And quickly becoming more so. He has no time. He has no choice. He must end this employment so he may turn his attention inward, so he may fulfill his deepest purpose.

He sharpens all his knives, and he does not sleep the night before he journeys out.

Perhaps this is foolish. His dreaming could give him some hint of danger, could allow him to see the troubles he may face, but he cannot stand relying on them, and he does not wish to attempt this reckless heist with the scent of flowers stuffed into his snout. If he fails, it will certainly be death, one way or another. He is willing to face that without debasing himself to the capriciousness of the dreams.

He will realize, later, that even if he had slept, the dreams would have only shown him the same as they had been showing for years.

Arum, and honeysuckle, and amaryllis.

Musings on  Existential Chaos and an Ecological Mindset

As Chronos is currently on my side, I find that I wish to use this opportunity to manifest some personal truth as to how things are within my own mind and how I believe they should be in the world around us. Rousseau wished to give us the experience of living out our own existence to the extent with which he recorded his own, so on his behalf I will do my best to achieve such experience and express it to you likewise.

For some time now I have had the idea of Ecology present in most every moment my conscious mind decides to take hold and pay attention. Though this most surely can lead to a form of undervaluation of the personal experience of both myself and my loved ones around me – you know who you are, my dear and dears -  I find it to be the truest archetype of our collective, living experience. Not only our living presence but those of inanimate objects seem compelled by this interaction of individuals to create some greater system of forces and expressions in their environment. A single atom inside a beaker is surrounded and impacted by all others surrounding it, its movement and reaction predicted and evoked by the relationship of the other to itself and from its smaller parts to itself. We humans experience the same sort of relationships in multitudes. Our experience of memory, our vast collection of cells, our landscape of thoughts and ideas all compel our action toward some desire or unknown end depending on the other humans, outside system pressures, even the degree with which the sun’s rays caress the space of Earth we find ourselves in. It seems to me that humans have been imbued with some sort of will to discover just exactly how these systems of individuals and their resulting culminations affect their aims and experiences so that they may somehow cultivate a world in which they wish to live. This tension between living in a world they would not have chosen themselves and that which they wish to create is a paradox I have yet to grapple with. I do not know if I ever can or if there is any reason to; for if one who is living is always compelled to seek out a world in which to live, how can I do anything but live and seek to live.

It is this interesting paradox that results in the division between the outer and inner world of experience. Those who focus on the inner world wish to remove the pressures from the surrounding environment that harm the ability to experience the world in which they wish to live; those that focus on the outer world wish to remove the pressures from the internal environment that harm the ability to experience the world in which they wish to live. Discovering that both paths lead are fueled by some sort of desire for control and that at any given moment we may shift from one mindset to another is the originator of understanding the chaos we find ourselves in and create for ourselves. Understanding this leaves us with two options: 1) give up all seeking and resolve oneself to the chaos of life or 2) seek to identify those factors that we have some effect on and do our best to create the Ecology we desire through proper control of these factors.

In the second, these Ecological factors become our dearest friends and our most hated of enemies. They become our Gods and our Devils, seeking to help cultivate or destroy the Eden or Atlantis long forgotten or kept from birth. In the first, our embrace of chaos allows for the purest receptivity of existence, leaving us untethered to any deity or dogma, including that of time. I think the truest secret is knowing that both mindsets are in their own vacillation within our heads, the ocean wrapping its stretching hands around the sky plunging it down into the water, the bubbles dancing to the surface to celebrate their coming release. Some of us are blessed with longer forms of consistency in one state, then the other. I am not one thus blessed, and thus am prone to feeling thrashed about in a storm rather than embracing the constant change from desire to chaos.  

Reprieve

Word Count: 1.9K Category: One-shot; Angst; Heart-Grabber; Soul-Stirrer; Introspection; Life Choices; Redemption; Second Chances; Lessons Learned Rating: (Older) Teen & Up Character(s): Reader/Female O.C.; the second, you’ll know after the first line; the third, I suppose, is optional Warnings: Moderate allusion to past trauma: suicide; see my Fic Warnings Master Post should you desire more detail without being spoiled entirely - it is linked off of the Master Post which is linked in my profile (see below for why not linked here) Author’s Note: *This is a re-post minus tags and links in an effort to make it show in searches*; it’s been suggested I tackle this subject/setting multiple times, might not be exactly how you’d imagined it playing out, but let’s see if we can’t remedy the situation to some degree of satisfaction because, to be sure, it’s been a long time coming; more post-story Overall Summary: There are many mistakes thought lost to time, filed away as impossible to fix. But perhaps they aren’t as far gone as it seems. Perhaps it’s just that some mistakes can’t be set right by the ones who’d made them.

So this was the infamous Cage.

The entrance sealed itself not a second after she’d taken her first steps, she’d known it was coming, no need to turn around. Placing a hand on the rail, she surveyed the area ahead as she began her descent. Not terribly impressive, her host, but the details of the welcome mat were an intriguing pitch, she’d give it that much.

A lifetime ago, when she was maybe six or seven years old, she’d gotten separated from her parents as they were all rushing down the steps leading to the subway, and she distinctly remembered the entirety of the incident, the entirety of the day when her life changed course. The nervous excitement she’d felt that morning upon her father saying, “Let’s go take a ride”, and her impatience with her mother fussing over what outfit was most appropriate for a trip to the zoo. She’d had a small camera, a recent birthday gift from her grandmother, in her pocket, and could recall the very serious concerns she’d had on the walk to the station, wondering if the exotic birds could be captured by her lens, or if they’d fly too high for her to find.

And then, in the time it took her to blink, the only two people she had in her life, the ones who’d vowed to protect her, had vanished.

The sounds of the people chatting loudly above her and around her and beside her made her ears throb, the smell of food and cigarettes on their clothes as they brushed by her face stung her nose, rolled her stomach, and how their bodies bumped each other, jostling her around, their weight pressing into her - it brought up an emotion she’d not yet experienced in her young life. It was the panic of abandonment. She was surrounded, but alone.

She could still call up the feel of her small hands pressing into her ears to drown out the noise, and the sensation of the collar of her pink chenille jacket against her face when she ducked her head, wanting to hide and be seen in the same moment. She’d clenched her eyes tightly once she’d managed to make it to a barely-there corner just to the side of the staircase, and it worked well enough. But clearest of all in her mind was the flashing and the buzzing.

One of the overhead lights at the bottom of the stairs had been flickering its last, sending out a death rattle at a pitch that snaked into her head no matter what she did, its pulse vacillating between hardly a shimmer and something like the sun, cutting through her eyelids. The feeling would never leave her, the sense that there was little she could do if the world was conspiring against her. The sense of being caught in a maze, struggling to find the one turn that would mean freedom, only to realize the exit was actually a trap.

The Cage had done its homework. The number of stairs, and the myriad cracks in the tiled walls were exact, the rounded entryway to the platform the precise shade of yellowed-white, and while there was no ceiling to speak of, just a boundless void, it did arrange for some ambiance via scant buzzing and muted flickers, despite the lack of the overhead light. One thing, however, was different.

A bright but pleasant glow was coming from around the corner, from the platform and the train, the effect waxing and waning, as if the Cage were calmly inhaling and exhaling - a prodding from her host, a not-so-subtle Come this way. She had such recall, it didn’t matter, not the light, not how dark it was in the stairwell, nor that the void was trailing lazily behind. The whole of it could’ve been a starless night, and she still would’ve known the way.

Initially, when the current task fell upon her shoulders and before she was fully briefed, she’d expected to find a winding catacomb of sorts, filled with nightmare-inducing imagery, God’s very own memento mori for his fallen star; then she’d been told the Cage was different for everyone. It was adaptable, solid and fluid all at once, balanced but unhinged, exacting yet scattered. A real oobleck oubliette.

The stray thought caused her to break form, a corner of her mouth tilting a bit despite the circumstances, but she sobered right up when the non-existent light cut out with a sharp pop that sounded - to her ears - like the shatter of the camera’s lens when it hit the concrete floor, the day she’d first been here. She’d dropped it at the initial shock of being lost. Lost, and to her heart, forgotten. And every person in that loud, smelly crowd were oblivious to her precious camera getting kicked around, to how their stomps ground the plastic and glass into powder, a crunching she could hear, even over her sobs.

The present crunch beneath her boots was more resonant, filling the space, but she’d learned how to do some ignoring herself as time went by. She didn’t want to know what it was, she didn’t bother to imagine what it was, same with the nearby scritching and distant growls, and she’d have told the Cage it could do better than that, but it would’ve been a waste of breath. It could, it would, and it did.

A lifetime ago, when she was maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, she’d gotten separated from her parents as they were all rushing to anywhere and everywhere, and she distinctly remembered the entirety of the incident, the entirety of the day when her life changed course The conviction she’d felt when she’d decided on the how and the when and the where, the apathetic manner in which she wrote and signed the note, and the curiosity, after, when she was hovering in the corner of her bedroom, hearing her father make some sort of inhuman sound as he dropped to his knees, the note falling with him. She watched the stoicism he’d carefully cultivated in himself as he’d grown older, grown bitter, fall away, too.

Then, later, the curiosity had persisted. She was still just out of sight, it seemed, since her sharp-eyed mother looked right through her on the repeated trips to and from the closet, fussing over what outfit was appropriate for the viewing, even though there couldn’t be a viewing, which was obvious, which was why it was curious. And most curious of all was the last thing they did for her, a gesture she’d not seen the likes of in many years, one not afforded to her, certainly not to each other. She’d been standing in the shadow cast by the thick trunk of a tree, unnoticed, when they’d placed a small photograph atop her casket; not one of the three of them, she hadn’t smiled in those for years. This was her favorite picture, and she hadn’t thought they’d known.

It was the one-and-only she’d taken with her camera, en route to the subway and the promised ride to the most wonderful place she’d ever been. The photo was of a pigeon who’d been toddling along a brownstone’s porch, caught just as it had begun to flap its wings, preparing for launch. It was off-center, and blurry, and messy, and perfect. The captured memory had been salvaged from the dropped camera, the film roll bruised but not broken, because in truth, they’d found her quickly that day. They’d scooped up the pieces, lifted her high off the ground, took her away from the chaos. She’d remembered this part far too late.

That was the most curious of all - the clarity. Some things couldn’t have been helped, but plenty could’ve. No convoluted reasoning, no one thing on which to hang understanding; she’d reached her limit, the end. Walked out the door, straight to the subway, same line from the way-back-when, even, and kept a steady pace right off the edge. Pity no one can testify to those who remain about the crushing regret that kicks in approximately one second into taking the leap, how it invades the brain right when the point of no return arrives, how its friend clarity disappears the current, once-perfect plan, and the list of solutions to previously unsolvable things steps in to take its place.

She remembered the brief joy of the realization that the impossible just might be do-able, live-able, before she came to an abrupt halt. And she knew exactly what she would say if she could speak to those who remained: I thought you gave up on me. But that’s not really why I left. I left because I gave up on me. That’s the catch when it comes to the deals offered to folks in her position: you can only remember what you want to forget.

Because she knew this already, it was surprising that her custom-fit cage didn’t. There was enough hazy illumination drifting about as she passed by the tracks for her to have seen the stopped but still-vibrating cars, though the Cage didn’t bother with the screech of the brakes, or the onlookers’ screams, none of the pounding footsteps of their escape, didn’t even go the extra mile and splash around any blood. Like the last time she’d found herself in this spot, she paid no mind to what surrounded her, and her pace didn’t slow, and she didn’t falter as she went over the edge, but on this occasion she hopped, landed solidly on her feet, proceeded down the tunnel, even walked atop the rail for awhile, executed an occasional gymnast-worthy spin, until, she supposed, the Cage had given up trying to pitch its hopeless sale.

She’d already bought hopelessness once, kept the receipts, and returned it long, long ago.

The room where she found him had three walls, no door, she simply went from the tunnel’s uneven gravel to the smooth wood flooring of the strange diorama. It was here she opted to peek over her shoulder - this she had to see, if the Cage was actually going to have once last go, if it would, if it could, and it did, though the effort was half-hearted, so to speak; the wall that had appeared was easily punchable plaster. No chance she couldn’t tear it down. And if what she’d been told was accurate, if she’d succeeded in navigating the maze, the exit - the real exit - would be right on the other side when it was time to leave. In her mind, that moment had arrived; as for him, she couldn’t be sure. Stay long enough, even a tomb can start to seem like a home.

It wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t light. It wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t quiet. There was no torture, but there was no peace. It just was. Unnerving little nook, she’d freely admit it. And then there was its occupant: he was an unmoving figment, a breath away from being out of sight, the kind that would vanish in the time it took to blink.

She’d prepared her mind, practiced the how, done her homework on the when and the where, all the things one does when readying themselves for a difficult task, yet now that she’d pushed through to the end, when it was almost finished, she didn’t have the first clue as to what to say. What do you say? There weren’t enough apologies, never could be, and who’d care? She was a stranger, and on purpose, just some a-hole on a holy mission. She wasn’t anyone who owed remorse. She wasn’t anyone who owed love. She was no one to him, no one at all.

So they stared at him, she and the Cage, had the feeling he was staring right back, watching as the walls began to warp, and her weight shifted from foot to foot, one or the other occasionally tapping as she pondered, the floorboards creaking as the Cage did the same, and just when the shadow started to slink away—-

“Hey, Adam…”

The retreat was halted. The weakened walls began to crumble. The soft smile she seldom showed made a one-night-only appearance as she extended a hand.

“…let’s go take a ride.”

Want more stories? My Master Post is linked in my profile, and it tells you about getting on the Tag List, too! If for whatever reason it gives you trouble, don’t hesitate to send an Ask and I’ll link you.

Re-blogs and feedback are fuel for a writer’s soul - please do let me know if you enjoyed. 😘

Author’s Note #2: She/You can be whatever “thing” you want her to be. Truly. I’ve had a “plot bunny” for awhile now - related to supernatural stuff but not related to SPN, per se -  that persons who die by their own hand—

[And not meaning in a, like, I’m-gonna-take-out-all-you-f*cks-with-me way, and conversely not in an I’m-willfully-giving-my-life-for-XYZ way, or in a this-is-a-terminal-disease-and-I’m-going-out-on-my-own-terms way, I mean specifically, those who - like her - are at their limit for whatever reason]

—-have been offered a chance at an afterlife wherein they can be something to someone, accomplish things they wanted to but couldn’t while alive, etc. So for me - and don’t let me stomp on your imagination! - I’d love it if these folks/souls were the angels of death (a.k.a. - Reapers).

Feona Attwood, Interview with Zygmunt Bauman, 21 Sexualities 131 (2017)

Feona Attwood: In Liquid Love (2003) you suggest that human bonds are increasingly frail and impermanent. Do you still hold to that?

Zygmunt Bauman: Today, in entering into binding relationships, people are very much concerned with the exit scenario. When two people meet to live together it’s all that ‘We will see how it goes. We will see how it goes’. That makes it frail. Because if you swear to each other, take the oaths of loyalty, even if you are encountering difficulties, well, two characters, two prerogatives meet. They have to meet and negotiate. Their pasts, their friends, their habits, their preferences and so on. It’s always very dramatic stuff. There are difficulties. In the past, divorces were not yet so popular as now. Now, it’s just matter of routine, no problem. If you want to divorce, okay, let’s divorce. That’s it. And most of the divorces take place in the first year after the marriage.

Feona Attwood: Why?

Zygmunt Bauman: Because it just lost the romance. People didn’t have time yet to negotiate, you know, togetherness. How to live together 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. If you know the exit is so easy, then even the smallest disagreement will be easy to jump over, be kicked aside or forgotten. All trifling disagreements, trifling difficulties arise to the level of a principles disagreement. So that’s hopeless. Once upon a time, but not long ago – you don’t remember because you are young - but I remember a time when you bought a gadget for yourself with the intention of keeping it for many years. If it broke, you could always repair it. You just worked on it and repaired it. Now when it breaks, you go to the shop and buy a new one. If the commodity I bought is not up to my expectations, or if I hear on TV, or on Facebook or on the internet or whatever, that each of you shops for better gadgets, then there’s no reason why I should not exchange it. The easier the facility with which relations can be tied together and broken, that constitutes the fragility. But we are losing the skills necessary to really make our relationships stable. Love is not a found object. Love is something which needs to be made and re-made. The recipe is for very hard work until really death do us part. Forever. It’s a life-long job, not something you can miraculously find or destroy, or just open a website and seek a date, and that’s it. People see essential discrepancies, a contradiction between our longing for easiness, comfort and convenience in life, and at the same time, our yearning for intimacy, for real love, deep love, relationship. There’s a clash between the two. But the idea of progress today, it’s the idea of getting rid of troubles, making life easier, giving and having instant results. Like instant coffee, you just sprinkle some powder and pour some water, and you drink, that’s it. So yes, my answer is that human bonds are increasingly frail and impermanent. And mind you, the research shows that this is the case. I’m not inventing. I’m not fantasizing about it. The hard facts – in America, which is, as always, in the avant garde of progress, 80% of marriages end in divorce, that is the first marriage and in the second and the third marriages the rate of divorce is even higher. The first divorce is difficult. Slightly. The second is easier. The third comes without any problem. It appears that 40% of American children are born in a household without a father. 40%. About 60% of American children at some point of their lives experience living without one of their parents. There is the wish for a deep intimacy. Every moment of togetherness to be lived through as a moment of eternity, which can last forever. But, the morning after, people wake up – oh, that is a horror. Lasting forever? Without the capacity to throw it away if such a thing doesn’t work properly? That is what makes people so uneven in a moment of happiness. It is precisely contradiction. On the one hand, safety. I always want the option of opting out. If it doesn’t work, I’m not committed forever. I can start anew. There’s always the chance of a second life, a second identity. So, that’s one side. On the other side, it’s a real, very deep, very satisfying, very gratifying experience of two identities coming together, complementing each other, giving each other happiness. Now, how to reconcile that? There’s nothing that enables you to enjoy both things at the same time. As the English say, to have a cake…

Feona Attwood: And eat it.

Zygmunt Bauman: You can’t. So it’s always, all the time, in the moment of full satisfaction they feel subtle anxiety that the other is in danger. You can’t have it at the same time. I’m not condemning; I’m simply reminding us that whatever you select, you always give something and lose something. There’s no other way. Unfortunately, you can’t have it all. So people are vacillating, people are hesitating. People are on the seesaw between two equally powerful overwhelming needs in us.

Feona Attwood: Do you see any positive changes in human relationships and connections in recent years?

B: Well I don’t know whether it’s positive or not. There are substitute medicines. Substitutes, not resolving the difficulties, mostly sweeping them under the carpet. Removing them from sight. Creating a feeling that everything is okay. Forgetting that something is not very socially okay, but you simply are liberated from the pressure to think about it. Examples? Well, we mentioned Facebook. We mentioned Twitter. There’s a great, great invention. You remember the Walkman?

Feona Attwood: Yes, yes.

Zygmunt Bauman: You remember how the Walkman was introduced into the market? What was the slogan? The slogan was ‘never again alone’. Never again alone. For the first time, we could go into the forest alone, walk on a meadow somewhere far away from people, no one beside you. And when someone was shouting to you, you just listened to it. Never in the history of humanity had there been something like that was. When they were alone, they were alone. Full stop. Now, when you’re alone still you hear human beings somewhere talking to you, addressing you; even singing for you. Well, it was a premium gadget because you could hear but you couldn’t talk.

Feona Attwood: You’ve argued that we are moving to a situation where we prize connections rather than relations and ‘virtual relations’. You’ve talked about the way that technology allowed connections to become ‘more frequent and more shallow, more intense and more brief’. This was before the creation of Facebook in 2004 and Twitter in 2006. How do you think the developments in technology have impacted on our relations since you wrote Liquid Love?

Zygmunt Bauman: Well, Facebook created something different. You can talk. You can address. You can converse with a human being, even if this other human being is hundreds of thousands of kilometers away. You can be sure that 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, there is always someone somewhere who is ready to receive and even respond to your message. When you send to Twitter, simultaneously to thousands of people, not just to one person, one friend, irreplaceable, but on the contrary, ultimately replaceable by hundreds of them, you just contact, report, or add it on Facebook. There are people who are proud to say they make 500 friends in one day. I didn’t make 500 friends in my life and I have lived almost 90 years now. So there’s a difference, you know. It does not necessarily mean that they are no longer alone. Really, in real life, they are threatened by the social position which they earned through hard work, that it may disappear simply because the company which they dedicated their life to disappears. It may be eaten up by a bigger company. You may lose everything. So the fear of being abandoned, of being excluded, or being evicted is quite real. It’s not imaginary. It’s reality that you have to live all alone. Now the youngest enters adult life; a different kind of life. They have no future, no career or luck, no prospects. The fear of losing, of abandonment is quite real. It’s not imaginary. But when you sit in front of your computer, you may forget about it. Because of the community. It’s not a social bond, but it is a connection. But the disconnect with people is also a difficulty. According to the latest research, the average person spends seven and a half hours – half of the waking day – in front of a screen, not in front of other human beings, but in front of a screen. All sorts of screens; laptop, desktop, iPhone, iPod. We are never parted from screens. You carry screens with you, wherever you go. If you forget it, you feel like you forgot your trousers or skirt. So, the illusion is that we are not after all alone. But in the online world that we inhabit we just put our worries to rest. Yes, forget about it, because the pressure of being constantly attached to hundreds of people just stifles it for the time being.

Feona Attwood: You said that people have the illusion or impression of being connected. Do you think technology becomes a way of really relating, or are they just illusions? Is it an illusion of communication and connection?

Zygmunt Bauman: Online and offline have different rules to work. And for example, people suffer. There’s a big problem today – the big migration of great masses of people. Suddenly, the whole environment in which you live changes, its character changes; people with different languages, different habits, different ways of life. So because you would lose your learnt familiar expectations, which made your life at least seem safe and certain, you want your neighbours to be more or less familiar to you. You learn from their behaviour what to expect from them; what they are good for, what they are bad for. Suddenly, there are masses of strangers who are very difficult to read, so to speak. They are also living now in a multi-centred world, where one steady, stable binding or hierarchy, or values or preferences does not exist any longer. You are exposed to contradictory views. One side praises, the other condemns. For every thesis, there’s antithesis. The atmosphere is of big loss. Uncertainty, contingent on uncertainty. You don’t know how to behave. And whenever you go out from your home, go for a stroll along the street, or when you come to your workplace, or the University or the school where you are studying, you are in this offline world exposed to precisely that, to this tremendous variety. The variety of messages, that falls eventually to you personally, to reconcile that, to find your way between contradictory signals. And to make choices and to build responsibilities from your choices. Then you come to your online world. You are at rest. Finally you find a shelter from all this havoc, you know, chaos. On the internet, in the online world, unlike the offline world, you can avoid everything which creates your anxiety in the offline world. You can just bypass it. In addition to the views and ideas that you like, which are comforting to you and so on, there are views and intentions with which you hotly disagree; that actually make you uncomfortable that they exist. Online, you can eliminate them. If you come back to a website, which conveys ideas which create your unease, you just press ‘delete’, and you find another sector of online reality where there are only people who think like you, who applaud you, who reinforce your ideas. Only they are allowed to speak. You are in a comfort zone. You may believe in it but it’s impossible. As I have told you, when you are coming back to the office, you see people of all colours, of all ideas sitting around, you have to engage in a dialogue with them. They negotiate. They quarrel… trying to reach some sort of agreement. All that is taken away. You put them aside when you are in the online world. Research shows that people who are online have hopes that the World Wide Web will expand our horizons. We have access to everything which happens everywhere, to all countries, to all issues, to all ideologies. Everything is within our reach. I don’t have to strain myself to reach it. It’s all there. Therefore the grounds for mutual suspicion, the fear of diversity would disappear. The result is actually the opposite. Because most users of the internet create what can be called echo chambers in which all the sounds you hear are echoes. That’s a very comfortable place But, if you spend so much time in this online world, and come back to the offline world, you are doubly anxious. Living with differences requires strategy and is very often quite frightening. You can escape from the necessity of living with differences face-to-face. But when you return to other human beings, facing them, then you are in trouble because you have forgotten the skills of how to deal with it. So instead of uniting people, on the contrary, it stops you from listening to other voices. It’s simply shuffling away the voice about being alone, and therefore you stop fighting against the sense of loneliness, because you have this illusion that comes from the internet that you are not alone. Mark Zuckerberg, the owner of Facebook as you know, has made 50 billion on the stock exchange, on what? On our fear of loneliness. The success of Facebook is very simple. There’s no secret in that. Mark Zuckerberg put his finger on the gold mine. And the gold mine was people’s fear of being abandoned. Facebook is the way in which in spite of being lonely, we are connected. That’s one process there. The other process is commercialization. The fragility of human bonds that we have discussed already makes us feels guilty. However we treat it or depict it, we feel guilty. Parents divorce, their children belong neither here nor there. We love our children, right? We want the best. If we don’t behave as we should, as our love should tell us, we have a guilty conscience. You can buy tranquillizers. You go to a shop, you buy a gift for your child. It’s like a tranquillizer I think. Come Christmas, you have a gift for your dear ones and you have one year of quiet conscience. Of course, it’s not a replacement for being together, for sacrificing your own time, your own preferences, for reports about the ups and downs of experiences or of work, or who was bullying your child at school. And how difficult is the task which you both do, both do together. That is what you should do. You should just, you know, offer your own welfare in order to satisfy the needs of your beloved. But you can’t do it. Life is not like that. It’s different and disorganized. So what do you do? You want to replace them with tokens of your love. The more expensive they are, the more money you spend, the higher the moral value of it. This is another kind of substitute, endless, endless substitutes. It is mediating between you and your conscience. This is the service which is offered in the market. Again, the effect is ambiguous because they give us the tranquillity which we need very much. Cover up the real situation. On the other hand, they exacerbate our inability to do the real thing.

Feona Attwood: One of the most dramatic changes in western society in recent years concerns lesbian and gay equality. For example, just very recently it has become possible for same-sex couples to marry in the UK for the first time. How do you view and interpret these changes?

Zygmunt Bauman: When I was a child, I understood that you married once and forever. No way out. You may be out, but you would be condemned till you died. There’s no question about that. That was the idea of it. Now marriage, wedding, wedded couple, household is very much like a motel. You can come and you can go, and in this rendition, why not people of the same sex? They can even have children. You can adopt or things like that. So everything is possible. Why not, therefore, allow people to play family? That’s a universal human right. And I think it’s slowly being accepted. It’s no longer a hot issue. More and more countries are accepting this possibility. Sooner or later, I think, in our cultural area anyway, it is quite, quite, probable that it will be universal, finally. Of course, there are Islamic countries where it is very, very unlikely. The standing of women is most important. You can’t jump stages. Perhaps – who knows, I’m not a prophet – perhaps it will come even there, the idea of same-sex marriage, but there are many stages which are universal that should be passed and above all, the equality of women.

Feona Attwood: In ‘On Postmodern Uses of Sex’ (1998) you talked about the way that eroticism had become separated from sexual reproduction and love and associated with seeking pleasure and sensation, but that this led to huge anxiety rather than satisfaction. You talked in particular about ‘the spectre of sex’ haunting the relationships of adults with children. How do you think that this aspect of our culture in the UK has developed in recent years?

Zygmunt Bauman: Oh, I have a little theory about that. You remember Michel Foucault? Michel Foucault wrote about this. There was a panic about masturbation. It posited that children are sexual subjects, not sexual objects, but sexual subjects. Of course the idea wasn’t supported by the medical authorities – masturbation was tremendously harmful, created all sorts of psychological, psychiatric impacts, invited all sorts of illnesses – and the message was, if children are inclined to engage in these sorts of awful, very harmful practices, that the parents, the mother, the father should survey them constantly. The idea of the Panopticon. Watching. The door leading to the child’s bedroom should be always open. Children should not lock themselves in the bathroom. Now, Michel Foucault had a question, what was the function of it? Well, the function of it was to increase parental power. That was the period of pathological family. It was a very good excuse to engage in this sort of pathological practice. To watch their every step, get full control over their life. Now the masturbation panic is over. Instead we have the panic of child abuse. Sexual child abuse. But who is the culprit? Who is the victim? It is now the sexuality of the adult, of the parent, which is seen as the problem. Children are just passive objects of their desire, of their lust. Well, they keep away from their children. Let them take care of themselves – let them lock tightly the doors to their rooms. Give them freedom to follow their instincts. Because if you want to interfere, that is because you would prefer them to follow our instincts. The problem of their guilty conscience is because of the loosening of the family bonds. The reality for their children, because of the pressure of the deregulated labour market, is a fear of losing their jobs. They must be on call all the time. So there are many reasons for neglecting their children. Many causes. But you pay a price for that. The price is a guilty conscience. It is explained in a way to you that it’s all because you have unhealthy, criminal desires to use your children. You wanted to kiss them. Who knows? Perhaps you are a potential rapist. You want to rape your child. So you have a very noble, very comforting explanation for keeping your distance from your child. There are some gains. There’s no question; we are safer, we are more vigilant now. But on the other hand, hundreds of thousands of children and parents are suffering because most children are brought up in homes where the manifestation of love is eliminated, apart from repeating over again, over and over again, particularly in America, I love you. I love you too. I love you. I love you too. I love you. I love you too. But bodily expressions of love are prohibited. And children are brought up under this condition. We don’t know the results yet so far. It’s too short a period to be shown. But there is a suspicion, there’s a possibility they may grow callous and insensitive. Simply because this closeness, this proximity, has disappeared from their life, the atmosphere around young people is an atmosphere, not of proximity, but of distance. I very much recommend to you a dystopian novel by Michel Houellebecq called The Possibility of an Island. It’s a fantasy. It presents the society of the future if it develops according to our present tendencies and nothing is done to change it. The vision is of solitary, separated units so to speak. Each living beyond the fence, beyond neighbours, communicating – oh, constantly communicating with each other but only with electronics. I think it’s very, very wise, very insightful. It’s very treacherous ground. The results of it are not fully predictable. You can only guess what will happen. But we should think twice before deciding what are the gains and what are the losses. But, well, I believe that I had a life full of love. I experienced real love. I was with my wife for 62 years. Ups and downs. We worked through very difficult tests but we survived. I repeat what I already mentioned. Love is not a recipe for a quiet life. It’s not something you can find, or put in the corner, put in the wardrobe or on the table. It is something which you have to work at over and over again. But the products are very, very tasty.

“Into the Unknown! – Part I”

Author Noel Pinnock, B.S., M.P.A., C.A., CCC

www.noelpinnock.com

 Merriam-Webster (MW) defines “mind,” in the noun tense, as the element or complex of elements in an individual that feels, perceives, thinks, wills, and reason. Furthermore, MW defines “set” as to put, lay, or stand (something) in a specified place or position. When you concatenate these words, we arrive at mindset. This compound word is so powerful that it can drive countries as well as individuals, alike, into mass turmoil or elevate them to great prosperity. The interesting thing about mindset is that it vacillates because its nature is predicated on situations and circumstances. We all have internal processes that govern our growth and development. Some may have a fixed mindset; therefore, growth and development can be limited. While others have a learning mindset and adjustments are made along our life’s journey. Whether fixed or learning, a mindset  is a set of assumptions, methods, or notations held by one or more people or groups of people and can also be seen as arising out of a person's world view or philosophy of life. Our mindset or logic box is our collection of knowledge, attitudes, skills, and habits (KASH) that often limit our perception and acts as a restriction on objective thought and creative expression. What is in your mindset? What are your views and perspectives that have eroded some of your best intentions with unintended consequences?

In 1972, one of the best-known slogans in public-service was “A mind is a terrible thing to waste.” The United Negro College Fund ran this slogan in print, radio, and television as an intentional campaign to close a persistent gap between African Americans and other groups in college completion. They understood then as we know today that in a land that is constantly going through entropy only the learned will survive. We can no longer rest on the scaffold of mediocrity and not take the leap into the unknown.

The animated movie Frozen 2 was a mega-billion dollar hit at the box office and the soundtrack was equally successful on the music charts. One song, most notably, Into the Unknown, aligns with the perspectives of this article, in huge part because we fear what we don’t know, and many don’t ever like asking questions because it will make others believe that we don’t know thus the paradox.  Check out the first to verses of the song:

“I can hear you but I won't Some look for trouble while others don't There's a thousand reasons I should go about my day And ignore your whispers which I wish would go away.

 You're not a voice, you're just a ringing in my ear And if I heard you, which I don't, I'm spoken for I fear Everyone I've ever loved is here within these walls I'm sorry, secret siren, but I'm blocking out your calls I've had my adventure, I don't need something new I'm afraid of what I'm risking if I follow you”

 These words are very powerful for a seminal audience to comprehend but if you dissect its meaning, you will understand the humanistic nature of individuals whose mindset has been hindered or restricted because they don’t want to leave the porch, get out of the boat, or take the leap into the unknown. The unknown is scary and unpredictable. It isn’t something that we are used to. We prefer routine and certainty but as I have always told my staff, certainty is the enemy and uncertainty an ally. Our 10-year old daughter sang this song so much during the Frozen 2’s hey-day that I became so curious that I woke one early Saturday morning to watch it for myself.

The movie’s plot was rich, and it captivated me. Elsa the Snow Queen has an extraordinary gift -- the power to create ice and snow. But no matter how happy she is to be surrounded by the people of Arendelle, Elsa finds herself strangely unsettled. After hearing a mysterious voice call out to her, Elsa travels to the enchanted forests and dark seas beyond her kingdom -- an adventure that soon turns into a journey of self-discovery. Synoptically, Elsa discovers that the voice calling to her was the memory of young Iduna's call; that her powers were given to her by nature because of Iduna's selfless act of saving Agnarr; and that Elsa herself is the fifth spirit who would break the water dam that would save their kingdom.

You see, the voice calling Elsa (like you and me) into the unknown was challenging her mindset and comfort zone. She was doing just fine after Frozen 1 but there was an agitation that persisted and kept her up at night, trepidatious and reluctant to escape from the comfort the has confined her perspectives. We all get comfortable and enjoy what comfort brings. Many people see comfort as an adjective, describing an attribute or something, when, in fact, comfort is a noun.

Comfort enters your home as a guest, remains as your host, and will eventually become your master. Comfort is a silent killer and has been charged with homicides in careers, families, marriages, and almost every place imaginable where growth and development are quintessential factors to success. Our limited KASH affects our ability to create or solve problems in two important ways: it heavily influences the kind of opportunities or problems that we recognize as being important enough to create (opportunities) and/or solve (problems); and it influences the analysis of the potential (opportunities) and cause (problems) and therefore the proper course of action to maximize the opportunities in life or to minimize the duplication of problems that have been solved in our past. What’s the definition of insanity? There, you got it, doing the same thing while expecting different results or better yet…being fearful of entering the unknown.  

Our mindset should be challenged. We should have a desire to grow but that’s not innate in us. Physically speaking, our bodies do this on the regular. When we are hot, our bodies don’t sit there and internally combust. No, our bodies respond to the external stimuli by sweating to ensure we don’t overheat and dehydrate in the process. If the hairs in our nose tickle a bit, we sneeze. In other words, our bodies respond to external forces and are not going to be suppressed by anything.

Like our physical nature, our psyche (not psychic) nature, which comprises of our mind, will, and emotions should, like a thermostat, adjust to the external environment to maintain the proper climate in our lives. To do this we must be committed to the foundational premise of continuous learning and development. Without challenging ourselves, we subscribe to an internal newsletter whose content never changes. Imagine that, picking up a magazine and reading the same articles over and over again. Certainly, the cure to insomnia. So, if you want to challenge your mindset and are daring to enter the unknown to discover and unlock your internal talents and gifts, you must evict comfort because comfort is the enemy of change. Not to mention, we must dismiss the notion that nobody likes “change” but a wet baby.

Apostle Paul, whose mindset was drastically change on the Damascus Road, wrote that we are not to be conformed to the ways of the world but be transformed by the renewing of our minds or mindset. He realized, like we should, that transformation doesn’t end with age or experience, but it continues daily as we invent and reinvent ourselves. If you can agree with this, then you must establish parameters to keep your mind percolating and hungry for more.

Gertrude Ederle became the first woman to swim the English Channel in 1926, on her second attempt. 19-year-old Gertrude Ederle swam 21 miles from Dover, England, to Cape Griz-Nez across the English Channel, which separates Great Britain from the northwestern tip of France. On August 6, 1926, Ederle entered the water at Cape Gris-Nez in France at 7:08 a.m. to make her second attempt at the Channel. The water was predictably cold as she started out that morning, but unusually calm. Twice that day, however–at noon and 6 p.m.–Ederle encountered squalls along her route and Burgess urged her to end the swim. Ederle’s father and sister, though, who were riding in the boat along with Burgess, agreed with Ederle that she should stay the course. Ederle’s father had promised her a new roadster at the conclusion of the swim, and for added motivation he called out to her in the water to remind her that the roadster was only hers if she finished. Ederle persevered through storms and heavy swells, and, finally, at 9:04 p.m. after 14 hours and 31 minutes in the water, she reached the English coast, becoming the sixth person and first woman to swim the Channel successfully. Furthermore, she had bettered the previous record by two hours.

Afterwards, Ederle told Alec Rutherford of The New York Times, “I knew it could be done, it had to be done, and I did it.” She went on to say that she was successful the second time around, not because of the incentives outlined by her father but because she possessed a mindset that failure was not an option. She started the journey with intentionality to reaching the English coast. It was in her mind from the beginning even though she felt like giving up and her body became fatigued. She was set on not breaking the record but breaking up the comfort in her mindset that would oftentimes tell her she wasn’t capable, or the feat was impossible.

What has kept you anchored in a position of mediocrity? What has prevented you from going to the next level? I can guarantee you this…that something would be your mind. The richest place on the planet, found in every place across the globe, is the graveyard – filled with so many people who could have, would have, and should have, but for many (not all) were scared to enter the unknown. I am inspired by these words myself, and will likely archive this article because I, like you, will no longer be afraid to enter the unknown, because when we are there, we can unlock some of our life’s greatest experiences and moments. There I say again, let’s #getatit!

1. The M.O.

Why did I start this blog?  I have no plain and straightforward answer to offer; it’s a coalescence of several factors—some tangible; some I’ve yet to identify; and some rustling around in the pit of my stomach, for which I lack the words to will into coherence.  But I will try my best to explain:

2019—my 25th year of existence—I will always reflect on and refer to as “The Crumbling.”  It was the year when I lost myself to a number of competing forces: work, love, extraordinary circumstances, and the cyclical churn of life.  Those who’ve known me for a long time would characterize me as incredibly stable; risk-averse; always planning for the long-term; cripplingly self-aware; and always doggedly marching uphill towards a set of well-defined, high flying goals.  My tunnel vision was impressive.  My modus operandi clearly articulated.  My drive unflappable.

The inertia behind it all was guilt.  I had guilt about a lot of things:

Firstly, I had access to the full gamut of opportunities that were ripped away from my parents by war and displacement.  I had to make up for this as their only child.  Fuck selfish millennial self-realization.  I had to live for three.

Secondly, my birth-given liminality.  That I, as a second-generation immigrant/migrant/refugee (whatever legal or sociocultural label you deign to ascribe to my personhood), stand at the boundary between homeland and foreign land (cum new “home”), Vietnam and America, past and present.  It is difficult to occupy two spaces; oftentimes, I feel that I am in neither, and that the only comfortable place to inhabit is the hyphen that tenuously connects “Vietnamese” and “American.”  To straddle two identities is to be constantly uncomfortable.  It requires a lot of shifting, recalibration, and a lot of stumbling.  I was never Vietnamese enough, and so others shamed my parents for not doing a good job in raising me.  I was never American enough, and so I shamed myself into invisibility.

Third, being a Vietnamese woman.  The consequences of veering off-course extend far beyond you.  The stories uttered in hushed tones about one’s paternal second cousin twice removed from Cleveland or what have you:  She had such promise.  She had the potential to become an engineer or doctor—to elevate her family’s social status.  But she just had to succumb to the vices of the typical Vietnamese woman:  boys, hard substances, and the cold, hard draw of under-the-table cash from working in auntie’s nail salon.  And so my existence as a young, OK-looking, Vietnamese-American woman in a foreign land with many foreign ideas inherently made me a flight risk.  And so be it.  And so it is.

Turns out, guilt is a great motivator.  It led me to unbelievable achievements at a very tender age:   becoming valedictorian of my high school class; being the first of my family’s generation to go to college; graduating summa cum laude from an Ivy League institution; becoming a Rhodes Scholarship finalist in one of the most competitive districts in the U.S., winning a full scholarship for a master’s program in the United Kingdom; graduating with high marks from the world’s best refugee and migration studies course at the University of Oxford; landing my first real job working for USAID; and having the privilege of serving as a Program Officer for the Syria humanitarian crisis during some of the most tumultuous times in the war’s history.

But what is the point of great material achievement when it comes at the expense of other, more important aspects of your life?  

For most of my adult life thus far, I have foregone love, social engagements, precious time spent with family, and beloved hobbies in the ruthless pursuit of achievement.  I let go of art, music, good men, and good times.  I was constantly hunched over my laptop, producing—worrying my friends and family sick in my permanently crooked state.  And I kept going, motivated by a dangerous cocktail of excitement over how much I was gaining and the eternal damnation of imposter syndrome.  I thought that I can rest only when I become successful, with no clearly identifiable marker or metrics for success.

I get easily carried away, but I am not stupid.  I knew the bubble had to burst at some point.

I just didn’t know how violently it could.

///

“The Crumbling” was a sudden conflagration with a long kindling period.  The first match was struck at Oxford, when my lack of romantic savvy led to my falling in lust/infatuation with a narcissistic, well-networked man who offered me manufactured kindness during a very confusing time in my life.  To put things colloquially, I was “lost in the sauce.”  I was fixated on how much I didn’t belong at my graduate institution and felt so sorry for myself.  I craved validation and understanding; it was the soporific I needed for my weeks’ long insomnia, the Xanax for my constant worries, and the energy boost I needed to wake me from my malaise.  I was emotionally hemorrhaging.  And smelling blood, he barreled towards me.

He raped me when I was drunk in my own bedroom.  He weaponized the insecurities I shared with him against me.  He further emptied me of whom I was, spun a narrative of how I was a pitiful, love-drunk woman who deserved what he done to her; and made my home away from home a fundamentally unsafe place.  And the only coping mechanism I knew was to dive head-first into work—to fill my empty spaces through the only way I knew: producing.  

It was the wrong answer.  But I managed to see myself through to the end of my master’s with it, albeit with a few sacrifices:  Never attending my own graduation out of fear of seeing my rapist again.  A bitter distaste for life.  An inherent fear of men and relationships (and of my own shadow) that went long unresolved.  Strained communication with my parents.  And a further shattered sense of self-worth.

///

Things were fine for a year or so when I was caught up in a flurry of new beginnings: moving to a new city, starting a dream job in a dream organization, and making my first furtive steps into adulthood.  I was occupied with finding my identify as a young professional and invested my heart and soul into my new career.  And on a fateful afternoon in September 2018, I was tapped for my first humanitarian deployment to Adana, Turkey—a three-month commitment that doubled just a month into my stay.  

It was thrilling.  It was exhilarating.  It was empowering to be the face of U.S. humanitarian assistance in northern Syria at 24.  But as exciting as it was, it was also overwhelmingly terrifying to sit at the helm of a humanitarian juggernaut as the trajectory of American foreign policy changed overnight.  From December onward, Turkey was an amalgam of mild PTSD, living in hotels, unpacking and re-packing, armored vehicles, Jack Daniels, furtive puffs of Marlboro Milds, military men, street cats, insecurity, getting rowdy, hardened alternative trailer systems, over-caffeination, and exhaustion.  

I traveled to beautiful places.  I broke hearts, and I encountered love.  I was where the action was.  I was living out my wildest dreams.  I had purpose.  I felt alive, and maybe for the first time.  I sincerely believed that I would always look back at Turkey as my golden era.

/// Wheels down ADA-FRA-IAD.  Enter “The Crumbling” in full force. ///

What does it mean when the “golden era” of your life—the moment when you most felt alive—was wholly illusory?

When you look back several months later, scratch through the vermeil, and find nothing but the shaky foundations underpinning your drawn-out, whisky- and cardamom-scented daydream?  

When the person you fell in love with—the first after being raped, the one who earnestly listened to you recounting your survivor story—ended up emotionally using and abusing you, as well?

When, despite putting in blood, sweat, and tears into your work (quantified at approximately 10-12 hours a day, inclusive of weekends), your supervisor tells you to reconsider whether humanitarian work is right for you?

When deployment is no longer an option for you because of that, and you come face-to-face with the crushing reality that you never built a life in your home base.  (Rephrased:  When there is no escape from the void.)

When the wounds finally start to seal up, and then your grandfather passes away.  And suddenly you’re shoulder-to-shoulder at his altar with the extended family who narcissistically abused you during your youth? (Re: The past rears its ugly head again.)

The symptoms of all of this occurring within a 3-month timespan were:

Losing 20 pounds;

Vacillating between sleeping constantly and not at all;

Your loved ones remarking that the light in your eyes has completely vanished;

Hours and hours of self-help podcasts;

A lot of consolatory chocolate from coworkers who’ve noticed that something is terribly amiss with you;

Near-constant mental haze;

Ostinatos of teary-eyed apologies to your friends, whom you’re convinced you’ve burdened;

Manic consumerism;

Trying to harvest endorphins through prolonged cardio sessions;

Taking a lot of strange vitamins and supplements that didn’t do anything, other than make you dehydrated;

Frequent panic attacks; and

Desperate forays into various branches of spirituality (inclusive of a cheap [actually not cheap at all] psychic who tells you that you’re the victim of both black karma and an inter-generational love curse [!]…but at least she had an adorable cat.).

Tl;dr:  It’s depression.  Horrendous, soul-crushing depression, and constant anxiety over the other shoe dropping.  It’s coming to terms with the daunting reality that the only way out is to roll your sleeves up and start laying the foundations of your identity brick-by-brick.  It’s coming to grips with the fact that you have no sense of self outside of what you do.  What is the point of accumulating achievements when you never pause to appreciate them?  

What is the point of working tirelessly for others, when you make no time to sit with them and to enjoy all of the abundance together?  What is the point of life when it is all prospective?

Do you truly have a sense of self when you have relied on others to give you meaning your entire life?

///

As the thick haze of “The Crumbling” dissipated, I arrived at a bit of clarity:  That what had passed had not happened to me, but for me.  That the shaky foundations on which I rested my already fragile sense of self needed to collapse—that I needed to collapse—in order to build something that was truly steady and purposeful.  

All is not lost.  On the contrary, the ashes borne from the waves of trauma that I endured over these past several months are but the rich inputs for a more fortified way of being.  

I would be remiss to not document the process along the way.  A process I will affectionately refer to as “The Awakening.”

PERFUME GENIUS - EYE IN THE WALL

[6.00]

A creepy little, sneaky little...

Tobi Tella: Aims for haunting, lands at monotonous. By the four-minute mark I was wondering if it had anything else to do or say -- it doesn't. [3]

Katherine St Asaph: Commit to audio the lyric "I'm full of feeling" and you better goddamn deliver. Fortunately, "Eye in the Wall" does: noirish, erotic, almost unbearably tense drama and danger, heady enough to lose oneself in yet immediate enough to feel like it targets individual nerves; drawn out to a luxuriating eight-plus minutes and yet too short. I hear Róisín Murphy (a lot of her, particularly in the extended instrumental), Patrick Kelleher (ambition and mood), Susanne Sundfør (if she recorded things like this still), Carla dal Forno (the bass, especially), Annie Williams (if you can track down "Beau," do), Jun Miyake (the Pina soundtrack in particular, which makes sense, since "Eye in the Wall" was conceived as choreography), yet also a singular, hypervivid musical vision, the point (was it earlier, and I just didn't notice, or bounced off?) where Mike Hadreas truly earned the stage name. [10]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: I like how quietly jarring the song is, its hushed vocals and vacillating synths and jittery rhythms forming a rather cohesive whole. It's not compelling enough to be this long, though. [4]

Michael Hong: Perfume Genius' "Slip Away" was a densely packed monster of a track: right after a muttered "let all them voices slip away", the instrumental forcefully upends everything. Layered drums! Tightly wound guitars! Thundering synths! "Slip Away" comes crashing down with such force, as if tumbling down a mountain, constantly gaining momentum. "Eye in the Wall" is in some ways completely opposite, but at the same time, no way less grand. Rather than in rapid shifts, the track slowly evolves, dropping new electronic flourishes and continuously morphing drum rhythms. Perfume Genius' position here is also different, acting as a keen observer instead of the protagonist of the track, focusing the instruments around him, his voice taking a backseat to the surroundings, often only a droning chant. The track takes its time, and it's not until after the first minute that the drums finally arrive, setting a rhythmic through-line that feels just as meditative as Perfume Genius' hushed vocals. The rhythm of the drums conjures the stage for the mass of twisted bodies that arrive on the dance floor, proceeding to get increasingly frantic as every minute passes. Every word might be hushed, but the command to "give it up" is entirely clear, the only option being to dive into the mass and surrender to the pulsating rhythm. But Mike Hadreas, never content with stasis, edges towards greater anxiety, and around the six-minute mark, the rhythm of the drums is replaced with an agitated rattle that's steadied only by an occasional guitar flourish. The track contorts itself from the dance floor to a state of euphoria under strobe lights that evaporates not unlike the feeling of leaving the club. "Eye in the Wall" is a sprawling epic that beautifully captures the slow burn of the dance floor, all the while toppling any expectations you've set for what a Perfume Genius track can be. [9]

Alfred Soto: By escaping his ever-loving self with the help of loops and backward instruments, the artist known as Perfume Genius shows an unexpected flexibility. Now he has to figure out what to say. [4]

Kylo Nocom: "Eye in the Wall" reduces Mike Hadreas into a specter, sensitively muttering sexual commands like an oppressive line dance routine. His strong suit is confessional songwriting, no matter how sparse or grand his arrangements are, so for him to be a minimally used instrument among many loses a lot of what makes Perfume Genius matter. He takes an approach much like that of The King of Limbs, filling in the gaps he leaves behind with percussion and electronic loops. A YouTube comment says that this explores "the inherent homoeroticism of exotic rhythms," but "inherent" it is not and "exotic" indicates that this person is white. The queerness of dance music specifically originates from the history of the nightclub as a safe space, as a place that is communal and liberating; Hadreas's experimentation here seems to be a conscious exploration of this idea within the context of whatever "queer aesthetic" is, and he puts in a wonderful amount of effort towards making every minute kinetic and fascinating. But there is a disconnect between artistic stylings of queerness and my own experiences that leaves me cold. When the song enters into its second half, I am not transfixed but simply pleased. I am entertained by the myriad of ways queerness can be expressed, yet while listening to this I also remember that the connections for most of them are lost on me entirely. [6]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

Welcome to day 15!

So, earlier this week I’ve been talking about motivation. And now I’m going to help you with all those steps that we established.

So one of the things the experts recommend is to make a plan and another is to track your progress. It might seem like working out or eating better is all you need to lose weight, but it turns out that there is a lot of prep and continuing… paperwork, for lack of a better word. If you really want to commit to losing weight and getting healthier, and you want your best shot at succeeding, then the “paperwork” is kind of important.

You’ll want to spend a little time journaling in advance, and then some kind of tracking throughout. You might also need/want to return to the journaling as you progress.

So, basically, there are two ways to do these things; analog and digital.

I’ll start with analog. So if you’re more inclined to this, get yourself a journal and/or calendar and/or planner.

I like journaling for the “why” kind of things. You can find all kinds of journals with blank, lined, or dotted pages on Amazon or in any book store. I also keep finding gorgeous journals in places like Michaels. There are even ones with motivational or fitness-related covers, if you want a little extra inspiration.

Another great thing is that you can get them in different sizes and thicknesses. Do you want an index card sized one that fits in your pocket, or a large paperback sized one that fits in your purse? Or a full on notebook sized one that’s in the 8.5 x 11 range? What will you actually keep track of, keep handy, and return to?

So that’s for the journalling side. For the tracking kind of things, I really like a school planner. Even when I was in school I had trouble finding the kind I liked. The kind where you’ve got the month at a glance and then the week breakdown, so you can track in multiple ways. I could always find one or the other, but it was tricky to find both. For this, I like Mead, especially their tropical beaches version. And you can find it both in the printer paper size, small size, and the pocket sized.

As it happens, Roly Mama and I are doing a variation on this right now. We got a big desk calendar

which we’ve hung on the wall, and some great ridiculous stickers from the dollar store. So we’re tracking our workouts on this by adding stickers when we do something.

Now, this is just for our workouts and activity, not for food or anything else that we should be or are tracking. But if you’re an analog person, seeing a calendar full of stickers can be really motivating.

You can also combine these things into something like a bullet journal. And I’m going to sorry - not sorry - link you to buzzfeed and these two great articles on bullet journals.

https://www.buzzfeed.com/rachelwmiller/how-to-start-a-bullet-journal

https://www.buzzfeed.com/annaborges/all-the-bullet-journal-ideas?bfsource=relatedmanual

Bullet journals, if you don’t know, are a way of kind of combining calendar, list, and journal into one gorgeous hybrid by people with way more time and way better penmanship than me. They are inspiring to look at, even if I can’t imagine crafting one half as well.

I will, however, recommend my favorite pen: the PaperMate InkJoy. I’m normally not a fan of ink pens instead of ballpoint because they can bleed through, but these don’t bleed as badly as many I’ve tried. And they come in lovely colors. And they have decently soft tubes, so they don’t hurt your fingers. I love them!

Now, personally, I have switched to digital for my scheduling needs, because I do way too much rearranging and copy/pasting, and it made my physical schedules look all messy. I tend to vacillate between two options.

The first is Evernote. I love the way I can do tick boxes, and I can color code the text.

I also love the way I can sort notes into folders and give them tags. Plus I can clip things from online, draw on it, and/or add pictures! Downsides are that columns are non-existent, and that it can get a bit hard to find notes if you have a ton in a single folder or tag.

The other one is Google Drive, which I love because I can access it anywhere. And for that I tend to use Google Sheets, because I can rearrange it really easily. I can also color code both the text and the boxes. I also can see a bit more at a glance than I can with evernote. (Because of the aforementioned lack of columns)

There is also apparently a digital version of bullet journalling, called Good Notes, which I just discovered and have yet to try out. If you have, let me know what you think!

Another thing that can help with our weight loss and health goals is tracking our habits. Again, this is the kind of thing that you can track on a calendar or journal, but you can also go digital.

Now, there are also some great apps for this kind of thing. I currently use Habit List.

I love that you can reorder the habits, and you can set them to be daily, on a certain day of the week, or so many times a week. You can also backtrack to fill them in, and look at a month-at-a-glance. If you are on top of your habit, the little bubble is green. If you missed yesterday, it is yellow, and if you are more out of date it is red. Oh, and ones that are optional, like “once a week” are grey. You can even have it send you a reminder at a specific time for a habit. The only downside I have for it is that you can’t archive a habit. You can either change it, or delete it and all of your past check ins.

Another one is Habitica.

Habitica takes your daily chores and turns them into points in an RPG. It isn’t as customizable as I’d like, but if you’re into sprite era gaming, RPGs, and rewards you might love this one.

Atracker lets you color code your habits, and it will show you your habits on a daily calendar or a pie chart. It has an interesting twist wherein you actually can “start” a habit. And then stop it when you’re done. So you can see how much time you spend on something. But, for habits that aren’t really time specific, or things like meditating as you fall asleep, which you can’t “stop”, this might be less useful. And if you forget to turn it off, it can screw up your numbers. But I do like the daily calendar breakdown aspect of it.

Productive seems to have the best of Atracker and Habit List, with color coding and month-at-a-glance calendars, but you have to pay $30 a year to use it.

There are lots of other habit tracking apps, like Coach Me, Noom, and Any List, so check them out and see what works best for you!

So, these are general habit trackers. But there are also more specific tasks. Now, I’ve already talked about tracking your water specifically, and tracking your exercise and activity as it ties to a fitness tracker.

There are also exercise and diet specific apps, which I am doing a whole episode on as I get to food. But there are a bunch of them. So you can keep track of all of those things to keep yourself motivated.

Again, this is if you want to do it with apps. You can always put all of these things in a physical journal or calendar too.

Finally, one of the recommendations was to celebrate successes, and to have a positive attitude. I have two apps I recommend here, for different reasons. One is Happier.

This is great for posting basically short tweets to the Happier app about things that make you happy that day. You get a little toss of confetti when you post it, and others can smile and comment. The whole app is geared towards positivity and supporting each other.

Now, that’s not to say you can’t post something emotional, or if you’re having a bad day or something. In fact, you can, and you get great support from the community. You can post multiple times a day if you want, and some people seem to post a dozen times every day! You can follow people whose posts you like or find inspiring, and they can follow you.

The second app I like for this is HappyFeed.

The goal of this app is to basically make a 3 item gratitude list (or happy list) every day. It is private, so no one else sees your posts, and there’s no social aspect. But it helps you build a habit of looking for the positivity and gratitude in life.

I had actually made a goal, because I had been told to in self help books, to note three things I was grateful for every day. And I was doing that in my daily “to do” list or my note app. Then I found HappyFeed, and it fit that goal perfectly!

So these are both great apps for celebrating your successes and for keeping a positive attitude. Check them out!

This is also the kind of thing that can be fun to put on a calendar or journal that you can look back at, if you prefer more analog. Again, I really like making it pretty with colorful pens and stickers and things. It should be something that you can look back at when you’re in need of some extra motivation, so pick something that will motivate you!

So, that is it for today.

This has been Roly Poly Weight loss. As always, I am your host, Roly Poly. Please share your motivations, and your roadblock plans, with the hashtag, #Motivation. And join my social group for support and maybe a little friendly competition by @-ing me!

And please join me next time!

**content warning for descriptions of multiple forms of abuse**

so, it's national best friend day today, and i'm feeling heartsick, because the person who used to be my best friend for over three years was also one of my abusers, and has been forcibly and violently removed from my life for 9 months. i've been thinking about her a lot lately, trying to process my myriad of complicated feelings and express them with words. so this is what i can do. (heads up: this is a very long, stream-of-consciousness narrative.)

i first met linnéa through a dating site back in october 2014, right around the time i broke up with gustavo. we went on one date and quickly agreed that we didn't want to pursue any kind of romantic relationship and would rather be friends. we talked on and off for the next few months, but then she went into radio silence for a long time, seemingly dropping off the face of the earth. she finally reached out to me again shortly after i started working at the 5th avenue theatre in february 2015, and we arranged to hang out. i took her to a play, and halfway through the show, she started cuddling with me, resting her head on my shoulder through the remainder of the performance. that made me very uncomfortable, so i told her about it afterwards, explaining that i liked her and i liked being friends, but i typically reserved things like cuddling for romantic partners. she was hurt and confused, and this would become a repeated point of contention throughout our relationship.

from then on, we talked to each other almost constantly, and hung out nearly every weekend. it felt like going from 0 to 100 at a breakneck, borderline uncomfortable pace. but we enjoyed spending time together, and we drew from each other's experiences. i learned a lot from her about trans issues and the nuances of gender and sexuality, and i helped her considerably with figuring out various aspects of herself in regards to her own gender and mental health. despite the speed at which our friendship developed, things felt relatively stable and mutually beneficial.

after a while, it started to become abundantly clear that i was linnéa's only friend, and the sole fulcrum of her life. she continuously messaged me every day, which was fine at first, because i liked texting regularly and was used to it. but then she would get upset whenever i was busy at work or something else and i couldn't talk for a couple hours. she became increasingly demanding of my attention, saying and doing passive-aggressive things that would make me feel guilty when i didn't give her my time at the moment she wanted it. later, she became jealous and possessive whenever i made plans with other friends and partners. sometimes she would sulk so much that i'd feel bad enough to cancel plans entirely with other people, just to appease her. she would even get mad at me for watching movies or shows with other people that she felt were only for us to watch together.

in the fall of 2015, linnéa became unexpectedly homeless. she vacillated between staying with me and her mother in the interim, and i quickly found temporary housing for her with my girlfriend at the time and her husband. while she regrouped in the several months that she lived with them, i encouraged her to look for permanent housing and apply to as many places as possible, because my girlfriend and her husband would not be able to house her indefinitely. she said she would try, but as the weeks continued to pass, she kept asking me to look for her instead, and despite my best judgment, i did. i made multiple posts and spread them all over social media to hundreds of people, and i eventually connected her with one of my chorus members. so linnéa moved in with her, once again gaining a roof over her head almost exclusively because of me, barely putting in any effort herself. but i told myself that it was fine, because she was my best friend and she needed help, and i could give that to her.

then when i suggested that she investigate therapy options after she talked to me about her mental health concerns, she persuaded me to do the heavy lifting with that search as well. i understood her difficulties to a certain extent, because she had severe social anxiety that made doing things like making phone calls challenging at best. but when i recommended that she send short, easy emails with the same template to potential therapists instead, even making up a template for her to use, she insisted that she couldn't do it, and repeatedly asked me to do it for her even though the notion made me really uncomfortable. eventually i gave in, and she managed to get me to log in to her email account, type up a message draft, and send it to a therapist's office, posing as her. and somehow, the entire time, i rationalized the situation and convinced myself that nothing was wrong. but everything was wrong, and this was only one example scratching the surface of the stark imbalance in our relationship.

in april 2016, we moved into an apartment together. we adopted alexander that same month, and things seemed like they would be better. linnéa finally had stable, permanent housing, and we would see each other every day now that we lived together, so maybe she would gradually become more okay with me doing things independent of her. and for a while, that felt like it could be true. but then she developed fibromyalgia, inexplicably and rapidly. due to her pain and fatigue, we agreed that i would do most of the labor heavy chores, and she would do a designated list of lighter chores that took less time and energy. we also agreed to go grocery shopping together once every couple of weeks. this arrangement worked, for a little while at least. but as the months passed, she did less and less at home, even though she appeared to have reserves of energy for other activities. i gradually took on all of the housework, making dinner for both of us every night, and often making breakfast and lunch on the weekends as well, on top of everything else that needed to be done in the apartment and working full time. half a year in, i was doing grocery shopping for both of us every week, even though she was entirely capable of using a grocery delivery service. i became increasingly overwhelmed with everything that i was doing, and all the while, linnéa continued to be clingy and possessive of me, demanding my attention and company even more than before we started living together. i felt like i was suffocating.

in may 2017, linnéa confessed that she was in love with me, and had been for the bulk of our relationship over the years. i was gobsmacked. i reminded her that we had established from day one that our relationship would not be romantic, and i was sorry, but i didn't return the feelings she had for me. she was obviously upset, but she told me she understood, and we agreed that we would remain friends and roommates. yet after that, she barely talked to me for several days. then in early june, she and her girlfriend penelope asked me if penelope could move in two weeks from that point, because afterwards she would be kicked out of her parents' house and face homelessness. they had been talking about this with each other for months and chose not to bring it up to me at all until that moment, essentially leaving me with no choice but to say yes. and so by the end of june, penelope moved in, and linnéa continued to withdraw emotionally from me, giving me the cold shoulder. she went from spending nearly every waking minute with me in some capacity, to sending me one word messages maybe every couple of days and holing up in her room with penelope whenever i was home. i tried repeatedly to talk to her about things, asking what was wrong, if we were okay, and if she was still upset about what i'd told her earlier in response to her declaration of feelings for me. she barely communicated with me at all, giving me vague non-answers that skirted my questions, saying that everything was fine even though that was clearly not the case, and eventually just ignoring me completely. i was frustrated and confused as all hell.

then in late july, we adopted casper, and the day after we brought him home, linnéa and penelope neglected to close the screen door on our balcony, which allowed him to escape and jump. casper was missing for 4 days, and i was in a state of constant panic, stress, and fear. i spent every available second gathering and expending resources to search for him, while linnéa and penelope did absolutely nothing to help. i was the most distressed that i'd ever been in my life, and the person who was supposedly my best friend offered me no comfort or support of any kind. on the day that we found casper, i was simultaneously elated and furious. i demanded that linnéa cut the bullshit, stop avoiding me, and just talk to me, because i deserved some kind of actual conversation after everything she put me through. yet she continued her non-committal silence, completely apathetic to my pleas, so i gave up, at my wit's end.

one week later, everything imploded. while i was at work, linnéa told me flat out that she didn't want to be friends at all, that she didn't love me anymore, and she wanted to be strictly roommates. she claimed that i was too much for her, that it took too much energy to be friends with me, and she couldn't handle it any longer. i was stunned, asking her what the fuck was going on, because that didn't feel true to me. she finally admitted that after i told her i didn't return romantic feelings for her, she lost all love for me completely, and i went from being the most important person in her world to someone for whom she felt little more than indifference.

i was devastated. i felt like the ground was caving beneath me, and i was scrabbling desperately for purchase. i had no idea what to do. linnéa claimed that she and penelope could continue to live with me as roommates, as long as i gave them my bedroom, continued to pay two-thirds of rent because penelope wouldn't get a job, still do both my and linnéa's grocery shopping, and do half of the household chores. i told them those demands were ridiculous, and moreover, i couldn't continue to live with linnéa when she all but hated me. i asked them to move out in a month, and they agreed at first, but then went back on their word days later and demanded that i move out instead. i refused, doing everything i could to stand my ground. but over the next month, my will was slowly crushed, with linnéa and penelope barely sparing me a word, if even a glance, and leaving me more and more work to do at home. they constantly criticized how i took care of the pets and complained about them almost every day, focusing on things that weren't their fault and that i couldn't control. it got to the point that i dreaded coming home every day, literally sick with anxiety. finally, i couldn't take it anymore so i told them i would be moving out as soon as possible, and i was taking casper and alexander with me. linnéa tried to drain a month of rent from me that i didn't owe, as well as half of the adoption fee i had paid for alexander, saying that the money belonged to her. and it got worse from there.

they forced me to do all the work to find a new roommate for them, refusing to help at all. then they turned around and banned me from interacting with their new roommate once i secured an agreement with her. they dragged their feet even further during the process of getting our paperwork done in order for me to move out. they jerked me around constantly, refusing to commit to a time to meet with our leasing office, and claiming that i had told them i'd be moving much earlier than i said i would. and they were relentless in harping on me about chores while they did very little themselves, and bitching about my pets being too loud when i was keeping them cooped up in my room because they were so stressed being around linnéa and penelope. they barred me at every step of the way, and by the end of the ordeal i was so strung-out and exhausted i was crying myself to sleep most nights.

when i finally moved out on september 1st, 2017, i knew that linnéa had cut me from her life forever, with surgical precision. she didn't even say goodbye. that night, lying in bed under a new roof, my stomach was in such painful, twisted knots, i felt like i'd been eviscerated.

when i think back on my relationship with linnéa now, i realize more and more just how toxic she was, and how much she'd used me with no real regard for my personhood. for her, our friendship was about how much she could get from me, and how much i could benefit her. so once she discovered that i'd given her all i had, that she'd wrung me out like a sponge until there was nothing left, she dropped me and moved on. and maybe that's reductive of me to say, maybe i can't truly know her intentions and feelings without getting inside her head. but regardless of her intent, her words and actions had an irrevocable impact that scarred me. she said she loved me more than anything else in the world, that i was her best friend and favorite person, and she wanted me to be happy and safe. yet she controlled and restricted me, she made me feel guilty for wanting anything or anyone outside of her, and she made me feel like i was a bad friend and a bad person for needing to take time for myself and other people and obligations. she convinced me that i was responsible for many aspects of her life, and those were more important than my own. she made me believe that i was the center of her universe, but if i couldn't give her everything she wanted, and if i didn't have the exact same feelings for her as she did for me, then our relationship was worth nothing, and in turn, i was worthless to her.

she built a tower for me and locked me inside at the top, then brought it crashing down until i was buried beneath the rubble. but i survived that destruction, and bit by bit, i've been dragging myself out of the ruins, emerging once again into sunlight and greenery, breathing fresh air and feeling solid ground for the first time in years.

i think writing this post is loosing one of the last chunks of rubble that i've been stuck under for a long time. it's imperfect, and messy, and probably not the most cohesive i've ever been in expressing my thoughts, but it's out there. and now that i'm standing fully upright, free from the remains of my tower, i feel calmer, lighter. free.

i found out today that linnéa moved to wisconsin about a month ago, so i will likely never see her again. i'm simultaneously relieved and melancholy about this fact. even though i know she abused me, and i know i'm much better off without her in my life, the part of me that truly loved her and all the positive experiences we shared together really misses my best friend. i miss her, and oddly enough, i miss her needing me. i miss what our friendship was, and what it could've been. i miss who i was before i met her. i miss everything.

but she's gone now, and she's been gone for a long time. i have to keep walking. i have to leave my tower behind me. i don't need it anymore. i don't need her.