february face

a blog for writing, naturally

[anemonewrites-blog]

bee1x1:

Curly took the time himself to list off the things he had never expected would come from his life, and wondered in tandem whether or not he really had changed. He liked to believe he was still the same Curly that Pockets—Peter, Peter, Peter—would remember and, for the most part, it could be said that he was. When working with the children he did, he still maintained his ebullient sense of humour, his vivacity for life and almost child-like behaviour. He could still out stubborn just about anyone. But then again, when it came down to it, he was very clear about who was the adult. He was even—dare he admit it—responsible. 

Curly laughed at that. The very idea that anyone outside of his workplace called him Thomas was laughable, but for Pockets to do so as well was simply unimaginable. “Well, I had t’,” he said, once the laughter had subsided, “Y’should’ve heard Cat, goin’ on and on about how I need t’grow up. I swear, her face was as red as her hair,” he said, recalling with fondness. His mother rarely raised her voice, only tutted in concern, but after months had gone by once Curly graduated high-school and he still had no plans for the future, the woman had finally spoken up.  

“And hey, yer different too,” he noted, “look at ya, all tall ‘n manly,” he teased, “what about you? D’ye go by somethin’ else now?” He asked, wanting to make a joke about how certain he was that there was no way he went by Pockets in prison, but thinking better of it. Part of him was hesitant in his asking as if Pockets’ answer would drone home how much things had changed. 

He tried not to let his disappointment show. Of course, it wasn’t a good idea, but Curly desperately wanted things to return to how they were. The gang all together again, sans-Peter naturally, having a laugh like the old times. It was a pipe dream, certainly, but a dream nonetheless. Feeling stubborn, he decided to argue, “I reckon not. Ash’ll be happy to see ya, at least. And Nibs, too. Slightly…well, he’s a right bastard so who cares about that one?” He joked, feeling he had made a good enough point, “And…y’know. I’m glad t’see you, too. Did ya guess about that one?” 

It took Curly by surprise, but once Pockets had spoken up again, he allowed himself to laugh. “Nah, you? Not causin’ a ruckus, I’m shocked,” he said, faceitiously, “I bet y’spent all yer time in there teachin’ the others like y’taught me, still wearing your pa’s coat the whole time.” 

It’s not a hard thing to picture; tiny, red-haired Cat cowing her newly-gangly, idiot son into getting his life together with nothing but the idea that she might be disappointed in him if he didn’t. Nobody else could ever have accomplished such a feat, that’s for sure. “How is she? Cat, I mean,” Three asks, feeling a familiar flicker of fondness for the woman whose home he had invaded so many times in his youth. He could almost forgive her for not writing when he had thought - or perhaps hoped - that she would.

Three scoffs a laugh at Curly’s comment regarding his supposed manliness, but he supposes that he isn’t really wrong. Although he’d been rather slight as a boy, it became clear as soon as Three hit puberty that he was going to inherit his father’s enormous height if not his robust build, and his time in prison had left him with a lean musculature that a person might become vain over, if they had the inclination. Yes, Peter Zolnernowich is a man now, but  Curly could have no idea the type of man he’s turned out to be.

“Oh, uh, they called me Three while I was inside,” he says, offering Curly an awkward half-smile as he idly passes his thumb over the tattoo scratched into the base of his ring finger. Three black strikes, one for each of them: Curly, Ash, and Pan. “I don’t know what it is about me that makes people want to give me nicknames, but yeah. Three.” The papers though, they’d never had any problems using his proper name. Three supposes its kind of funny really - people who don’t even know him with his name in their mouths, and his so-called friends incapable of spitting it out.

The idea of being in the same room as his school friends is strange, but the idea that any of them would be glad to see him is more so. Three wouldn’t be at all surprised if they had forgotten him, but it didn’t matter, because he remembered. Cataloguing their perceived slights against him had become nothing short of an obsession over the past ten years. “Ash?” He asks, “Not Soot?” Soot was the only other member of their little gang that he’d call ‘friend’ and really mean it. He was also the only one that ever bothered to visit him in the clink, but those visits had stopped abruptly a few years ago. Three supposes he got bored in the end.

“Give over, you soppy so-and-so,” he laughs, ignoring the way his stomach twists. “I don’t know, maybe we go for a drink just you and I first, then we see about the others. Ease myself back in gently, yeah?”

And just like that, Three’s smile vanishes, his icy blue eyes flashing with something like regret. The one tiny chink in his carefully cultivated armour, and Curly had found it without even meaning to. Damn him. “I... don’t have it anymore. Dad’s jacket,” he says quietly. He’d left it in his mother’s arms, shoved it at her before he walked through the metal gates that would separate them forever. Three hadn’t wanted her to see him cry again. He hoped she would see something of the brave, laughing boy she raised, not the convict she scarcely recognised. His father hadn’t even come...

Tugging at the sleeves of his ugly, borrowed parka, Three shakes his head and tries to recover, “Need to go shopping, eh? Look at the state of me.”

[anemonewrites-blog]

bee1x1:

Among many others, there is one pressing question that Curly has for Pockets (that he knows he cannot pose) given the topic of conversation. What life will Pockets lead now, newly fresh from prison? What on earth could he possibly do for work? Curly was never the brightest, both in general and amongst the gang, so he had long since believed his future was grim. Stuck in some factory–likely the very factory most people worked at in town–for the rest of his life. Pockets, on the other hand, seemed to remember everything he’d ever been taught and then some. The sudden realization that his future had been so much brighter than Curly’s weighs in him like a stone. “Yeah, if y’ask me Tink’s not too suited for it but Tulasi really is a wonder. You should see him in action,” he said, nearly adding that he could if he wanted to–Tootles often let people visit and introduced them to the class–before remembering that Pockets probably wasn’t allowed within ten feet of any school. “It’s a wonder,” he finished, simply. 

“I work with children,” he repeated, an amused look on his face himself as he shook his shoulders like a peacock preening its feathers. “I’m in social work–which, yeah, also came as a shock t’us all,” he joked, laughing lightly, though he was being genuine. Not only had he been surprised, but the rest of the group had been, too. “It’s…y’know. It’s work but I enjoy it,” he didn’t mention that he felt as if it was his penance for past sins. After all, at the very root of what he did was keeping youths out of trouble and out of jail. 

He had expected…well, he wasn’t certain just what he had expected from Pockets in that moment, if he would admit to expecting anything at all, but it wasn’t the nonchalance he delivered. Then again, why wouldn’t he be so…unsurprised? It was as he said: everyone could see it, though Curly still counted himself luckier than ever for somehow ending up as her partner. “Y’think?” He asked, genuinely, “I couldn’t see it. Y’should’ve seen me when she told me, I think my mouth dropped to the floor,” he said, shaking his head at the memory. Quickly, and before he could think it through, he snapped his fingers, “Y’know, y’should come out with us all sometime, are y’staying in town?” He asked, the feeling of stupidity sinking into him once it had come out. While he was certain he would be welcome, there was also a great chance he wouldn’t be, a greater chance still that he wouldn’t want to, either. But he couldn’t help asking–he wanted to see more of Pockets, he didn’t want this to be their only meeting, and genuinely he wanted to know if he was planning on sticking around. 

Curly took the moment Pockets’ eyes averted as the time to let his true emotion show at his words. This was one of the moments he had been waiting for. The guilt he felt in that instant was so heavy it was a wonder he didn’t sink through the floor. “I, uh…yeah. Nope. Still been here, just, uh, keepin’ outta trouble…” I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

It almost makes him laugh, the idea that he’d ever be allowed near Tootles’ place of work, the image of parents signing permission slips to let their little darlings sit in a room with a convicted criminal like he was some sort of road safety mascot. Three tries to stop his mind from wandering too far from reality these days, but he does take a moment then to picture himself in Tootles’ place: a teacher, maybe at a high school, clever but just effortlessly cool enough as not to alienate his students. He would’ve taught history, lived in this stupid flat with his stupid best friend and been stupidly normal. Might’ve been nice. 

“Girlfriend, job, flat,” he lists off, giving his head a little shake as he chuckles, “would it be rude of me to say ‘you’ve changed’? I’m half expecting you to turn around and tell me you prefer to be called Thomas these days.” And as jarring as the physical changes to his old companion had been, these other conceptual changes are more so. Even as they reached their adolescence Curly had always been rather juvenile, a fact that was reliable as much as it was frequently frustrating, but now this skinny, bearded stranger seems to have reached something resembling... maturity. This version of Curly is a man, perhaps even more of one than Three is himself.

If he were of a different sort, Three might’ve rolled his eyes. Of course Curly hadn’t noticed Tink’s interest, he’s always been so blind to the intentions of others: hers, Pan’s, his own. It would be pitiful if it weren’t so ridiculous. 

“I... am staying in town,” he admits slowly, as if he’s unsure whether or not to admit this information to Curly. “But I don’t know if me coming out for a drink is a good idea, Curls. I mean, I came here looking for Tootles, but realistically how many of the others are gonna be glad to see my face anywhere except the newspaper.” His eyes flicker back towards the coffee table, where his own young face is reflected at him in black and white print. By the time he sees the others again, Three swears to himself that he will have his own clothes, and face them on his own terms - he will pretend at being their old friend, but nothing remains of that boy now.

“Me too, that’s why they let me out early,” Three says offhandedly as he takes another mouthful of his tea. A couple of beats of silence pass before he speaks again, looking up at last as a wry smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I s'pose it’s too early to joke about it.”

[anemonewrites-blog]

bee1x1:

“Uh, yeah. Him and Tink’r both child wranglers now,” he called from the kitchen. There’s a chill that goes down his spine, but as he did in the past, he ignored it–though not without some discomfort. It had been a long time since he’d had to pretend it didn’t exist, and it had been even longer since he spent nights wondering what it could mean. He focuses on the present, never having been one to think of the past in any case. He thinks of his life now, of the one he’s been working so hard to create. The one he cannot afford to lose. He thinks of Tink’s skin beneath his fingertips, and he inhales a breath and pictures her brown eyes smiling mischievously at him. It works for a moment, but it’s instantly shattered, replaced by a pair of betrayed blue eyes. It’s such an unexpected change that he feels like he’s trapped in another nightmare–until it occurs to him he may as well be.  He shakes his head and shivers once more before returning into the living room. “‘Spose I am too, though," 

 As he places the cup down, he instantly realizes his mistake. Idiot. He’d forgotten about it entirely–and Pockets had to have seen it. But if he wasn’t looking for trouble, if he wasn’t here to curse Curly for what he had failed to do…then Curly wouldn’t mention anything. He could pretend. And he could also pretend he believed fully that there was nothing more to his visit. He lets out a short laugh, "Yeah, well, it’s Tink–some days ’m surprised she can put up with anybody, much less me.” He feels strange talking about her with him–but he can’t place why. Though, he supposed, plenty of things felt strange to discuss with him. An apology rested on the tip of his tongue, a mouthful of words he’d always wanted to say–meant to say, should have said–but they catch in his throat and he swallows them down as if he’s swallowing glass.

He’s jarred by his words, and it shows on his face. Curly had never been–and likely will never be–good at hiding his emotional reactions. It was one of things his supervisor always commented on, something about it not being good in this line of work to become so emotionally involved. He never fully remembered because he never listened–it was something he could not change about himself, nor did he agree with that statement. It was exactly his expressions that made him so good at his job. His eyes search Pockets’ face for evidence that he hadn’t just heard that in his head–he’d been thinking it himself so damn loudly–and finds more than he’s looking for. Pockets is a stranger, and Curly has no one to blame for it but himself. Worse still, he looks much more of a man than Curly could ever hope to be, no semblance of the scrappy and awkwardly limbed teenager he once knew: yet another thing Curly was indirectly to blame for. All he saw when he looked at him was guilt and shame. And yet: he sighs. “Christ, it’s good to see you too,” 

And as he speaks it aloud, he knows its the truest thing he’s ever said. It doesn’t matter that there’s a gnawing feeling in the back of his mind that’s screaming it’s all too good to be true, it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t deserve to be sitting here casually with him, it doesn’t matter that they haven’t broached what he’d done and one day soon probably will: what matters is Pockets is out, what matters is the void that had been left in him nine years ago could finally be filled.  

The mention of Tink sets Three’s teeth on edge, and while the other man potters around making tea, he allows his features to contort with open dislike. The only girl in their old gang, and she’d been smitten with Pan and Curly both. Perhaps he could’ve forgiven her for the former (though he’d’ve seriously questioned her level of taste), but the way she hovered around his former best friend, poking and prodding and making him blush made Three feel sick to his stomach. Honestly, he can’t believe that they still hang around together. “Well, good for them,” he replies, sounding sincere in spite of the look of his face. With his criminal conviction, Three couldn’t work at a school if he wanted to, and he had missed the opportunity to go to university or even get his GCSEs. It’s hard not to be resentful - they’d ruined his life, and then moved on with theirs.

“You work with children,” he says, amusement colouring his tone in lieu of the surprise he feels. In his rational mind, Three supposes it does make sense - Curly always did have a childlike energy, even as they entered their adolescence, and his easy humour made him easy enough to get along with  - but all he can think of is the fourteen-year-old boy he had left behind when he went to prison, the same boy who couldn’t be trusted to keep a goldfish alive for more than a few days. 

No sooner has the cup been set down on the table than Three scoops it pack up again, taking a mouthful of the steaming brew without a care for the way it scalds his tongue. He hopes it’ll wash away the bad taste in his mouth, give him a second to respond to this revelation in a way that isn’t standing up and putting his ugly, donated trainer right through the screen of Curly’s television set. It’s irrational, and Three doesn’t do irrational, but god he hates her. “Oh, you and Tink?” It takes a considerable effort, but when the words finally come out he speaks them calmly enough. “Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time before you two got together. Everyone could see it.” He suddenly aches to mention Antonia. She’s not his girlfriend, but Three knows she could be if he wanted her. If only he wanted her... 

“What a pair, eh? Nearly ten years, and here we are again,” Three chuckles softly, making a show of avoiding Curly’s eyes as he refocuses his gaze on the depths of his mug instead. “I didn’t think I’d see you. I hadn’t heard anything, figured you’d moved away.”

[anemonewrites-blog]

schmidttywrites:

“Thank god for that,” Ethan replied lightly, as his posture visibly relaxed upon being released from Toby’s embrace. It was nothing to do with Toby specifically, and Ethan knew that Toby knew that. They had a silent understanding between the pair of them that physical intimacy of any kind was generally something Ethan preferred not to partake in. Hugs, even from someone who he had known for years was often met with a very unwelcome reciprocation. The last time Ethan had ever willingly hugged someone had been his grandparents…and well. 

His pen resumes its motions, lines blooming the tip of his pen as he sets back to work. “I can’t get into UCL without a portfolio. Figured I may as well start on it.” He knew what a big deal this was. He’d had his heart set on UCL before the untimely passing of his grandparents and his trip to Grimm. There had been a period of time when he was convinced he wasn’t going to go to UCL, never mind any other place of higher education. He was beginning to see now that that sort of mindset was going to do little to help him in the long run, and frankly, the thought of having to go back to Grimm was unappealing enough to spur him to get a move on with his life. Everyone else in his life had after all. 

He motions with his pen for a brief moment to a pile of designs and sketches that are already encased in a binder. “Take a look if you want. Just don’t spill anything on them.” 

“You’re trying out for uni again?” He doesn’t know why he sounds so surprised, Ethan is the smartest person he knows (except for maybe Owl), and for him not to get his degree would be a huge waste. Toby himself knows he’s not suited to higher education, though what he’s going to do with his life now he’s back home is anybody’s guess, and something he’s completely unwilling to think about at present. Still, to see his friends succeeding academically has always made him proud, and to see Ethan pursuing something Toby knows very well that he loves makes him all the happier.

“Wait, wait - art trade!” He says enthusiastically, snatching up his backpack from where he had discarded it on the floor and proceeding to rummage feverishly through its contents, occasionally dumping the odd piece of clothing out of the side in his haste. Eventually Toby is able to produce his own sketchbook - an ancient thing that he’s been carrying around since sixth form, largely held together by the colourful stickers plastered across its cover - and shoves it across the table at Ethan. “There is so much cool shit in Europe, mate, and even cooler people. All the new stuff’s near the back.”

With that said, Toby reaches out for the pile of immaculate papers his friend had gestured at, but then thinks better of it and gives his hands a quick wipe on the front of his jeans, mindful of Ethan’s warning not to wreck them. “These are great!” He proclaims, before quickly conceding, “I mean, obviously I’m no architecture guy, but still, aces! Are you putting all of these in your ‘folio? There’s a lot here...” Toby leafs through the drawings as carefully as he is physically able to, though he still leans in right close to examine the details. “You probably don’t even need to go to uni, I bet some big business arse would buy these right now.”

[anemonewrites-blog]

schmidttywrites:

His pen doesn’t falter as Toby begin his torrent of questions, and Ethan, without missing a beat answers each one easily as if he had been anticipating them. It’s easy when the questions aren’t about himself or about his wellbeing. Nothing had changed since he had left - he still hated speaking about himself - and it was one of the few things about him that probably wouldn’t change at all. “Winnie is fine,” or as fine as he could be, “And Roo is growing faster than Kanga can buy clothes for him,” a story that had managed to draw a rare chuckle out of Ethan when Kanga was telling him about it. 

Sophie’s name is next on his lips, but he’s interrupted by both Toby plunking his coffee mug down and the feeling of Toby’s arms wrapping around his shoulders. pulling him into a hug. His immediate reaction is to stiffen, and he’s sure that Toby can feel it because he’s shushing him, sending Ethan’s lips into a scowl. Despite his discomfort however, the corner of his lips turn down, giving him a tired and weary look. He let’s Toby hold him for several moments before letting out a sigh and patting Toby’s hand. “You done yet?” 

It’s gratifying to hear that everyone seems to have been doing well in his absence - naturally he’ll go and visit them all himself to get more details, but even vague affirmations from Ethan cheer him. Toby hopes the others will be pleased to see him when he comes around. 

“Almost. I’ve got a whole year to make up for, want to make sure I get my money’s worth,” he mumbles, letting a few more seconds pass before he gives Ethan one final squeeze and releases his grip. “There, you’re free, that’ll tide me over for the rest of the month, probably.”

With that done, Toby is smiling again, and he drags another of the dining room chairs over with a loud screech so he can sit as close to Ethan as social norms and his prickly friend will allow for. As he takes a huge mouthful of tea, he tilts his head to consider the papers spread out over the table, trying to make sense of them from upside-down.` “What’s that you’re doing? He asks, though he’s still wondering when it’ll be time to ask his real questions, the ones becoming an increasingly large elephant in the room.

[anemonewrites-blog]

schmidttywrites:

Ethan’s had enough sense to move the boxes that he has yet to unpack into areas of the cottage that most visitors don’t venture into. There are far less than there were before, and he’s challenged himself to unpack at least one on his cleaning day, and so far, he’s stuck to it. Centipede hadn’t been able to hide the pride in his voice during his weekly check-in’s over the phone. Having a routine, at least for a little while, was good for him, he explained. It’d give him structure and force him to commit to something - force him to commit to getting better. As a result, the cottage looks quaint and lived in, with his jackets and shoes hung by the door, blankets and a patchwork quilt his nan had made on the couch he had unearthed from the closets. For anyone who didn’t know Ethan had gone away for depression, they would have thought everything was business as usual. 

He wander his way back into the dining room, back to his drawings and organized mess, letting out a slightly snort as he mentions their raven-haired friend. When he had caught up with her, she had been fiery and still angry that Toby had left without so much of a word. That was a meeting that he didn’t want to be around for. 

“You ask too many questions,” Ethan responded as he took a seat again in front of his unfinished design. He isn’t a mind reader, but he can tell there’s questions that Toby is straining not to ask. Unfortunately, Ethan isn’t prepared to have that conversation with anyone apart from Sophie who had been there when he left. His blue eyes look briefly at him for a moment before he resumes what he had been doing before Toby had appeared at his door. “I got back probably about two weeks ago.” He knows it’s two weeks. He’s gotten good at remembering what day of the week it was, good at slipping back into the rest of society. “I’ve seen everyone. They’ve all been round. Or I’ve been round.” He gives Toby a dry smile though he doesn’t look up from his paper. “Though going round their places has been more of a demand than anything else.” 

“Two and a half, that’s not that many!” He protests, knowing full well that Ethan can read him like a book by now and must therefore be able to see the deluge of questions that he’s doing a terrible job of keeping trapped behind his teeth. “I’m glad you’ve seen them though, is everyone the same? How’s Pooh Bear? Roo must be getting big now, eh?”

Without being invited to do so, Toby wanders into the kitchen and starts clattering about making drinks, the gesture second nature after nearly two decades of treating this place like an extension of his own home. It’s good to see the kitchen with its curtains open, with clean dishes standing in the rack by the sink. It’s nice that the milk in the fridge hasn’t been left to spoil, and that there’s actually food on the shelves. All of these tokens of functionality point to a happier Ethan, and Toby feels an overwhelming sense of relief to see signs that perhaps the worst is finally over.

When he comes back into the living room, he pops a mug of his trademark disgusting coffee down next to Ethan, and then immediately wraps his arms tightly around his shoulders from behind, nuzzling his nose against his dark hair. Before the other man can speak or try to brush him off, he says, “I know, I know, you hate this, but I’ve got too much love for simple words to express so just shush and let it happen.” And though his tone is blasé, his expression is uncharacteristically serious where it is hidden from Ethan’s view.

[anemonewrites-blog]

schmidttywrites:

The way that the two had an uncanny ability to be in sync had clearly not changed in their year apart. The minute Toby comes tumbling through the door, Ethan had already stepped aside, ensuring that he wouldn’t get knocked down in the process. He looked down at his best friend who, although growing taller and filling out, had clearly not gotten any more graceful during his time away. At least that was something he could take comfort in. 

Ethan rolled his eyes before turning on his heel to retreat back into the house. “I think you’re just being overdramatic as always. Houses can’t beat people up.” Hopefully Toby would have the sense to close the door - but even if he didn’t, Hartfordshire was still stuck in that odd little comforting bubble where people didn’t have to worry about their homes being broken into. As a result, there were still some residents that didn’t lock their doors. Ethan, however, wasn’t one of them. 

“Have you gone to see anyone else?” 

Getting back to his feet and dusting off his jeans as Ethan disappears back into the depths of the cottage, Toby stops for a moment to scrutinise his reflection in the hall mirror. His nose doesn’t seem to be bleeding, thankfully, so he turns his attention to his orange curls, which he ruffles with his fingers in the hope that’ll make him look handsome and rakish. At least he’s not covered in acne anymore, right?

Pushing the door shut with the toe of his boot, Toby finally trails after Ethan, openly examining the familiar contents of the Bowdler home for visible signs that the dark-haired man is still... not himself. 

“Just Mum,” he answers with an idle shrug. His mother, Sarah, is the only one he’d given even the slightest indication that he was taking off to travel for a while, though he hadn’t given her any information on where he was going or when he’d be back, since he didn’t know himself. The poor woman deserves to be deified, the amount she’s put up with over the years. “I was thinking about going over to see Kanga if you still weren’t home, but luckily I can put that off for another day now.” Because she’ll certainly beat him to death for wandering off into the great blue yonder. He’s glad he got to see Ethan again before his inevitable end.

“What about you, have you seen anyone? When did you get back?” Where have you been? Why didn’t you tell me you were going?

[anemonewrites-blog]

schmidttywrites:

Ethan couldn’t help but snort at the beard comment; a part of him doubted that facial hair equalled a new found sense of responsibility. That being said, he didn’t know what a year away had done for Toby in terms of personal growth. So maybe he had grown a little bit more responsible (but, he thought dryly, not responsible enough for him to update their friends here where he had upped and gone…not that he could say much on that matter himself. It was like the pot calling the kettle black).

His eyebrow arched, at the mention of the Holy City. “Surprised it didn’t explode with you there,” he replied, though he still made no motion to open the door. Ethan was having trouble imagining his friend in the Vatican, but aside from that picturing Toby backpacking was an image that suited his friend well. He’s drawn from his thoughts when Toby’s finger wriggles through the mail slot - and Ethan quickly moves his head backwards away from it by reflex with a noise that could probably be equated to something akin of an agreement. But that really only if you read between the lines. 

“It was quieter without you around,” Ethan huffed, pushing Toby’s finger back through the slot and pushing the flap shut. In one swift motion he straightened up and unlocked the door without a warning to his friend on the other side. At least he was opening the door, right? 

“Are you calling me Satan? Thank you,” he says cheerfully. In truth, the Vatican didn’t have a lot to offer Toby in terms of excitement - he only stayed a couple of days in the end, just to say that he had been, and spent the majority of that time trying to catch the Pope out and about in his little clown car. 

His smile only grows wider as Ethan dodges his poking and admits that it had been quiet without him. As far as Toby’s concerned, that’s as good as the dark-haired man saying he’d missed him too. “Never fear, I have returned to bring the noise back to your life, starting ten minutes ago,” is his enthusiastic reply, though he lets out a petulant ‘hey!’ as his finger is shoved forcefully out of the letterbox.

“God, I’m so lonely out here. I feel the darkness closing in,” he whines, spreading his arms out and pressing himself right up against the door with a heavy sigh. Of course, it’s at that moment that it finally swings open, and there isn’t a moment to catch himself before he goes tumbling over the threshold and lands with a yelp on the floor at Ethan’s feet. “Ha, knew you’d give in,” Toby says weakly as he pushes himself up onto all fours, trying to smile through the pain of yet another blow to his poor nose, “though you should tell your house to stop beating me up; I think I might be bleeding.”

[anemonewrites-blog]

schmidttywrites:

Ethan’s brain was still trying to wrap his around what he had just seen. That wasn’t Toby. But it sounded like Toby even if his voice was was a little deeper than what he remembered. What the fuck, he kept thinking, in an almost very amused manner in his own way. 

He’d probably never admit that he was slightly offended that Toby was suddenly taller than him. Out of all their friends, Ethan had always towered over everyone, but the title of tallest had clearly been handed to the man standing outside his door. 

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Ethan called back as the mail flap opened and a pair of eyes peered at him from the other side of the door. “I just cleaned the house I don’t want you messing it up.” After a moment he crouched down so that the pair were at eye level and pausing, wondering what question he should ask first out of all the questions that were buzzing through his mind. “Weren’t you off causing mayhem in another country?”

“I would never mess up your house!” Toby insists with a faux-offended gasp. “Well, not now anyway, look at me - I have a beard, I’m responsible and stuff.” And now they’re back together, he’s ready to start being a good, responsible friend to Ethan - he’s going to personally make sure that nothing turns him back into the sad ghost that haunted this cottage after his grandparents’ deaths. 

When Ethan joins him at the letterbox opening (and, ha, who’s silly now!), Toby’s eyes crinkle with his resulting smile. “Try several! In fact, try every country in Europe including the Vatican City,” he says, unable to keep the pride and enthusiasm from his voice. Fifty countries in a year, all on his own, and he hadn’t died even once! “Let me in and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Happy as he is to keep things light and breezy, the thought that still presents itself most prominently in his mind is to ask where on earth Ethan has been. He just sort of... vanished one day, with not a word to anyone about where. He doesn’t like to look at it too closely, but Toby has always relied heavily on his friends for the stability they provide him, and for his best friend to suddenly disappear after months of grief and self-imposed isolation had sent him into a bit of a crisis.

“I missed you,” he says then, poking his finger through the letterbox and trying to boop Ethan’s nose. His own nose still hurts from being slammed in the door. 

[anemonewrites-blog]

schmidttywrites:

Ethan had always felt as if time ran differently for him than it did for everyone else around him. The days spent at Grimm had all felt elongated and dragged on - each day bled into the next, and there were some days when Ethan wouldn’t know what day of the week it was. But the minute he had stepped into the city limits of Hetfordshire, all that time he had lost seemed to come rushing back. He could no longer ghost through the days pretending that he was a man who had lived outside of time. Sophie had bought him a calendar, and insisted on setting firm dates to see each other along with his other friends. Ethan’s weeks were now earmarked by these social responsibilities, his honest to god effort to get shopping done on Sunday, to clean his grandparent’s house (he was still getting used to calling it his), and perhaps most importantly, to apply for university.

Today was one of those days dedicated to his application. He was hunched over grid papers, pens and pencils strewn in a hazard fashion amongst his coffee mugs across the dining room table, when there’s a rap at the door. Ethan looks up, hair falling slightly into his face (a haircut was something on his calendar this week). His eyes narrowed, recognizing the knock but knowing full well that the person he was associating it with wasn’t home, and hadn’t been home in a year.

Please don’t let that be him, he thought wearily as he straightened up and headed towards the door with an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. When he finally opened the door, Ethan expected to see the Toby he had known when he had left: scrawny, a mop of orange hair and shorter than him. But now what he saw at his door was the complete opposite save for the mop of orange hair. He was looking at well…a Scottish highlander. He was silent for a moment before letting out a noise of disbelief - and closed the door in the man’s face.

Against all odds, the front door opens to reveal his old friend, his sharp cheekbones and grumpy expression the same as ever - even if he does seem to have shrunk a few inches in the time since they were last together. Something inside Toby’s chest rises like a balloon at the sight of him, and he can’t help but grin like an absolute maniac - he feels more at home right now than he has in ages.

More than ready to get the reunion underway, Toby opens both his mouth and his arms for the biggest ‘how the bloody hell are you’ and matching embrace he’s given in his life, only for the door to be unceremoniously slammed on his literal face where he had stepped forward to cross the threshold. “Mother of dragons,” he curses, rubbing his bumped nose and trying (unsuccessfully) not to pout at the obstacle that has reappeared between them.

But Toby is nothing if not persistent, so he squats down in front of the offending door and addresses Ethan through the letterbox. “Not to point out your mistakes, Eeyore, but you accidentally left me on this side of the door,” he says, peering into the house in search of the dark-haired man.

[anemonewrites-blog]

After hours upon hours of cycling, Toby Tilll is finally able to hop off his bike, leaving it to clatter to the ground behind him as he hops over the low stone wall that separates the Bowdler residence from the public footpath circling the Hundred Acre Wood. It’s been almost a year since he was last home, and to breathe familiar air again is something truly special. To be here outside this particular house is even more-so.

As he strides towards the familiar cottage, Toby finds himself scrutinising his surroundings in a way he usually doesn’t, trying to spot any sign that the place has been lived in recently. Ethan has been gone for so long, but Toby still has hope that his best friend (boyfriend? Can he still reasonably call Ethan that?) has somehow been able to read his mind and predict that his return would be today. He can’t wait another moment to see him; he feels like he might burst. 

Shifting the weight of his backpack over to one shoulder as he tries to think of something clever to say, Toby taps out a cheerful pattern on the front door and tries not to fidget as he waits for a response from within. What will he do if Ethan still hasn’t returned? He glances back at his canary yellow bike, madly thinking he’d just have to get right back on it and go to Europe for another year, and just keep to-ing and fro-ing until his Eeyore reappeared.

... God, his mum would kill him. 

Worth it.

[anemonewrites-blog]

bee1x1:

‘Curly’ always had sounded different when it came from Pockets–it had been that way since they were kids, and the man had never been able to understand why. Only that it did, and that the only other person who realized this fact was the other Peter. So when he utters it, disbelief evident in his tone, Curly feels his heart thud resoundingly within his chest. In that instant, he felt as if he had simultaneously been set on fire and frozen to ice. He runs a sheepish hand through his hair, recalling a time when he swore he’d never give in to cutting it. He felt his own changes mirrored in Pockets’ expression, and he found himself feeling ashamed—for what he had done, yes, but also for growing up and moving on without him. It was a stupid idea to invite him in, stupider still to call him by his old nickname as if he had any right left to use it. “Course, yeah!” but it’s straining for him to speak in such an upbeat tone. The back of his calves burn with the need to run away, while his feet felt like they had been turned to stone. It was as if his whole body was conducting a civil war between itself. “So, uh, y’ve come for Tootles?” He asks, cringing as he does so, having not meant to make it sound so ominous. “Er, Tulasi.” As if that remedied anything. 

Curly, not as well-practiced, shows his embarrassment quite easily and a hand goes up to his face in his own defence. It takes him only a second before a comeback is on his lips, requiring only little provocation before his mind forgot who he was speaking to when a retort was involved, “My girlfriend says it makes me look distinguished,” he joked, in a haughty tone, pronouncing the word as if he had just learned it the other day and was quite proud of the fact. The expression fell quickly, though, the tension too plain and awkward for even Curly–who is usually so apt at these things–to ignore. He gestures to the couch as he leads Pockets in and debates whether or not he should change. It felt fitting the two of them meet looking like this—just as dishevelled and mismatched, an echo of the childhood they spent together—yet Curly had the urge, for reasons he didn’t understand, to make himself look…better. Whether he meant better than Pockets, or in general, he wasn’t sure.

“What…” he trails off, failing to find an end to that sentence that wouldn’t be uncomfortable. What have you been up to? Obviously he’d been in prison. Any other question seemed inappropriate too. It was difficult to resist all the various temptations rising within him—the ones to ask, to explain, to joke around with ease as if no time had passed—but it only resulted in him sitting across the room from Pockets, an awkward expression on his face. He felt so heavy he could barely breathe. “What would…Would you…So, uh, tea?”

The physical transformation in Curly is astonishing, certainly, but it pales in comparison to what these changes represent as far as Three is concerned. As boys they had been close, very close, Three had even... well, he had half convinced himself that there was something more between them. How wrong he had been, and the slender, short-haired man that stands before him now serves as undeniable proof of Three’s wrongness. It burns him. “Mm. I heard he was teaching up at the school, thought I’d pop by and say ‘hello’, since I was in the area,” Three lies as he steps over the threshold and into the flat. Of course, he hadn’t ‘heard’ anything of the sort, because nobody bloody speaks to him except to tell him he should be ashamed. He’s a pariah in this town, and he would move on for good if not for the ties that bind him here.

The flat itself is small and untidy, as he supposes he knew it would be with time to adjust his expectations to fit the residence of two young men instead of one, but it looks comfortably lived in, and he feels something else prickle along his spine. Envy. He could have had this too, maybe even had it with Curly, if not for that one fucking day nine years ago. “Your girlfriend,” he repeats, not caring for the way the words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. It’s just another reminder of how far he has been left behind (at least, that is what he tells himself). He has Bambi, of course, but she’s nothing to him, means to an end. Still, he forces a laugh, “Can’t believe you found someone to put up with you, Curls.”

It’s clear that Three is more at ease with their current predicament than Curly is - perhaps they had started on equal footing, both surprised, but Three is adaptive and better at handling himself. “If you’re making one,” he answers distractedly as he sits down on the squashy sofa, his eyes catching on an open newspaper that has been left on the coffee table, the mugshot of a fifteen-year-old killer splashed across page three. Logically, Three knows the picture is of him, but there is nothing he recognises about the boy in the photo, from the length of his floppy hair to the fear writ large in the grim lines of his face. Three isn’t afraid of anything anymore. That is what he tells himself.

The sound of Curly clattering around in the kitchen prevents him from lingering on the image too long, and he gives himself a mental shake, the cogs of his brain whirring back to life. None of this has gone according to plan, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make the most of a bad circumstance. Wetting his lips, Three digs for the right thing to say, the right person to be, and when he finally speaks, it is after a long spell of silence with his shoulders hunched and his eyes averted. Vulnerable. Unsure. “It’s good to see you,” he says quietly.

[anemonewrites-blog]

bee1x1:

It takes him a few minutes to understand where the miscommunication lay. At first, he almost breathed a sigh of relief–there was no battle, Pockets wasn’t expecting to see Curly, and perhaps he didn’t want to see him at all. That he would rather go away without much of a fuss, no desire to serve revenge for the mistakes he had made as a stupid teenager. That theory didn’t hold for long. After all, he’d said Tootles’ full name–so either he’d been recently hired as a delivery man (and was not doing so great, since there was no package in sight) or he’d been here to see Tootles, and not deliver retribution on Curly. 

His reaction, while initially confusing, suddenly made sense. Pockets did not recognize him. Somehow, this causes his heart to sink in his chest. Had the years really changed him that much, that he was no longer familiar to an old friend? Then again–wasn’t he at fault for that lack of recognition? He had to stop referring to him in that way; Curly had shown long ago that he was undeserving of such a friendship. It was clear he had a choice to make. His urge itched towards letting him believe it was a mistake–he had the wrong flat, he would leave and never return and Curly would hide underneath his bed like he did as a child until it was finally safe for him to go out into the world again.

Interestingly, though, as much as shame led him to that idea in the first place it was shame that had him choosing against it. Not the idea that perhaps the lie would eventually be revealed, but rather, should Tootles discover, he would never hear the end of what a mistake it had been. “No!” He shouted, a bit too forcefully. Perhaps there was also another part of him, then, that didn’t want Pockets to go at all, for reasons too selfish to utter. “Uh, no, no. ‘Course I recognize ya,” he offered sheepishly, “’spose y’can’t say the same for me,” he was tripping back into his old habit of chewing his words. “Y’look ridiculous, Pockets,” he finished, finally, pointing at the man’s legs. He braced himself for the response, half sure that he would be just as willing to play the facade as much as Curly was, and half sure he’d just ignited him into a fiery rage. 

“Too–uh, Tulasi won’t be home for a little bit, since I reckon it’s him y’ve come t’see?” He took a step back, the invitation for Pockets to enter still open, “but y’can stay ‘til he does…if y’d like,” 

As a result of years of careful practice Three does not flinch at the shout, but he does take another step backwards, ready to flee down the stairs and back to the relative safety of Bambi’s house. He’s not too proud to run from this - his revenge is more important, his life is more important than proving he’s tough to some stranger. He doesn’t proceed though, the man’s fumbling suggestion that Three should know him ludicrous enough to give him pause - he doesn’t know anyone anymore. 

Still, with one hand on the banister, he narrows his eyes and regards the man through a more critical lens: he is skinny, and pale, and his skin is freckled here and there; his face, though fairly average, is not unattractive and seems to lend itself easily to expression, but there is nothing Three really connects with until he meets the man’s eyes. The warm green of them is familiar, the cause of many sleepless nights as a teenager, and when that old nickname is spoken, he feels his insides turn to ice. “Curly?”

And it is, the very same. Although he is no longer chubby and his namesake curls have been shorn to a near socially-acceptable length, Curly is still undeniably himself. Now that Three sees the man for who he is, he wonders how he could have possibly missed it. His best friend... all grown up.

It takes everything Three has not to reach over and throttle him right then and there, for not visiting, for not writing, for getting him into this mess in the first place. But he has thought too long about meeting him again, about what he would do. Now isn’t the time. “Well, so do you,” Three replies defensively, catching the toe of his shoe on the hem of his jeans and trying to drag them down, to make them longer. If he was anyone else, his cheeks would be burning by now. “I mean, where’s the rest of you? And what the fuck is that on your face?”

“I-” He should say no - this conversation has thrown his world into chaos, all his careful planning gone to nothing; he isn’t ready for Curly - but he finds he can’t. It’s strange how compelled he feels to stay with him, after everything. It’s a shame the feeling clearly isn’t mutual. “Just for a bit. If you’re sure.”

[anemonewrites-blog]

bee1x1:

The news coverage had been extensive. There was not a single citizen in their sleepy little town who wasn’t well aware just whose prison sentence had ended, and Curly found that he looked altogether different as much as he looked exactly the same, only aged. While he had clearly grown up well, there was no sign of the boy sent away all those years ago. His eyes were an icy and unforgivable blue.  

His first instinct is to slam the door right back and go straight to sleep, clearly delirious. He blinks stupidly at the man on the other side of the door, and all he can think to say is, “Where’s t’package?” Like an absolute git. Panic rushes through him, and nothing his mind is coming up with is remotely reasonable, or even rational. Years ago, there had been many moments when the door would ring that Curly would open it, half expecting Pockets to be standing on the other end and all would be well. That fantasy has long since been lost to age, yet he still finds himself waiting for his eyes to adjust and the ghost of the man he used to call his best friend would disappear. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear his mother’s voice chastising him, something about things he avoided would one day appear at his doorstep. He was certain she couldn’t have meant that so literally. He decides the best route to follow is the same one he followed his entire life. He stepped aside from the door, tried for a lazy smile–did it hide the fear in his eyes?–and spread an arm inwards. “Well, what are ya waitin’ for? Get in!” As if the two had planned this visit, as if there weren’t a million questions racing through his mind, as if he wasn’t petrified this was his karma finally being served. 

The man that opens the door is not Tootles. In the beat of silence that hangs in the air between them, both parties shocked beyond words, Three looks the stranger up and down, taking in his bare feet and the tangled mess of his hair - he’s clearly just woken up, so it seems safe to assume that he lives here. Fuck. 

“Oh,” Three says lamely, his confusion written only in the minute crease between his eyebrows as internally he reels. How could he be such an idiot as to get this information wrong, to put himself at risk like this? He thought he’d been so bloody clever to track Tootles down, to look him up, to get himself in this position of power and surprise him with his sudden reappearance, and he’s gone and fucked it! The public hasn’t forgiven him for the crime he was put away for, Three knows that much, and to mess up like this is just... unforgivable. “Sorry, mate, I must have the wrong-” but the man has cut him off before he can extract himself with a chuckle and no-harm-done.

Still Three takes a careful step away from the door, back towards the stairs, not believing for a moment that the invitation extended to him is anything more than a cover for some malicious intent. Fuck, fuck, fuck! A part of Three that he had attempted to strangle long ago roars inside him, protesting the unfairness of it all. He doesn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve any of this. “You know who I am.” Not a question; he must. Three can’t help but sound weary when he speaks again, “Look, I don’t want trouble. I’ll just go, alright?”

[anemonewrites-blog]

bee1x1:

He hated the sound of that stupid buzzer, but most especially when he’d slept not a wink the night before and had just a few more hours of sleep left before he had to return to work. It had been two years since he’d gotten his placement, the one time in which his checkered past had finally benefitted him, but his latest charge was causing him significant duress. Groggily, he crawls out of bed and throws on a pair of trousers, a puzzled look on his face as his half-asleep mind tried to remember who in the hell Tulasi Bashir was.

Though it had been years since they’d officially grown out of the nicknames, Tulasi would always be Tootles to Curly–just as Curly would always be, well, Curly to him. It was a habit he’d long since resigned trying to change. He took his sweet time getting around to letting in the delivery boy, wondering why Tootles had failed to mention to expect a delivery at all. Stepping into the bathroom, he took in a shaky breath. 

The past few days, and the days leading up, he had only left the house for one reason alone: work. He wasn’t oblivious to the news, and Curly had always preferred to avoid anything and everything than to face it head on. He brushed away thoughts that appeared in his mind, ones ladened with fear and paranoia, and splashed cold water onto his face. He had lived with guilt for nine years now, it was a familiar feeling, one he never made any effort to change. 

By the time he presses the button to let the stranger in, several minutes have passed, but he can’t find the energy to feel guilty. “Come on up,” he says, but in his morning voice, it sounds more like comnup. 

The lack of response sends anxiety lancing through his stomach and Three starts to fidget, feeling all the more conspicuous the longer he waits on the exposed doorstep. Stupidly, he hadn’t considered the possibility that Tootles wouldn’t be home at eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning. Maybe he’s seeing somebody, or he’s on holiday, or he takes bi-weekly cookery classes - all possibilities for a man free to do as he pleases. He’s about to give up, cursing himself for not planning this thoroughly enough, when the speaker finally crackles to life and a croaky voice acknowledges his presence. 

“Ta,” is all Three can muster in response, his hand slipping off the buzzer as the door buzzes open to admit him. He frowns to himself as he steps over the post that has been left in six neat piles on the bottom stair, almost disappointed to find that he recognises nothing of the fifteen-year-old boy he had known in the man who had answered him. But then, why would he? Nine years is a long time, and he knows he is different too, and that would be so even if he hadn’t spent half his adolescence as a guest of Her Majesty. But it is for that reason that people know Three’s face. It’s been on the news every night this week.

It takes three flights of stairs for Three to compose himself, but by the time he has climbed them he is standing on the narrow landing between the fifth and sixth flats of this building. Once there he breathes in sharply through his nose, relaxes his shoulders, and knocks a lazy pattern on the front door.

“Delivery.”

[anemonewrites-blog]

The first thing Three notes as he rounds the corner onto Sycamore Street is how normal it all is. Dirty cars are parked on the curb, petals from the last of the summer flowers are being buffeted around by the wind, and a couple of fat pigeons sit cooing on top of a television aerial, just as they would be if he wasn’t here. Observing this, Three is struck again with the realisation that the world did not end nine years ago - it’s been here the whole time.

Checking again the address he hastily scrawled on the back of a receipt a matter of hours ago, Three approaches the tenth house down, his hands in his pockets and the collar of his coat turned up against both the cold and the prying eyes of any neighbours peeping through their curtains. He finds he feels uneasy being here without the comforting weight of his shabby leather jacket, and the jeans he had been given on his release from prison are too short for his long legs, which he hates. Three doesn’t like to be here like this, so unpolished. He had imagined it better.

When he reaches number 10, he takes in the peeling paint facade and dark windows of the building before him, feeling uncertainty prickle at the back of his neck. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here, but Three has been waiting for this day a long time, and he will not turn around now - he owes himself this. Resolved on the matter, he presses his finger against the buzzer for Flat Six and speaks into the intercom. 

“Package for Tulasi Bashir. It won’t go through the letterbox,” he lies in a bored voice, as if this is a minor inconvenience in life of a random delivery boy and not the moment in which Peter Alexei Zolnerowich is reunited with the first of the seven men who ruined his life.

[anemonewrites-blog]

bee1x1:

At first, his instinct is to be offended. Stealing something from the captain, let alone the ship itself, is something he is perfectly capable of and if he ever made it out of this alive he had half a mind to return and do the same thing, if only to spite Peter. But his next comment is enough to sweep Curly off of his feet–or, at least, it would be were he not at the current moment already sitting–the very notion that someone believed Curly to have more inside his head then…well, his curls, was the greatest compliment and one Curly could never have imagined hearing. And if it came from Pockets, who was the smartest person Curly had ever known, then it must mean something. Instead of accepting the compliment like a normal person–though his body language said it all, the spark in his eyes and the way his head practically shot up with joy–he sneered. “Well…well, y’can’t prove it!” 

In fairness, while Pockets may be old and hairy now, even Curly couldn’t deny that he could have grown up to look a lot worse. He’d always thought Adults eventually just grew uglier, but Pockets…well, he didn’t really know how to describe it, but he supposed he grew into his coat rather…nicely. He wondered if his smile was still as dopey as he remembered it, or if age took away such things. Did Peter smile at all? Did he laugh so hard he had to grasp his stomach as he fell over? Has he ever gone to the Dreamy Meadows, to play with the dandelions? The thought that he didn’t hurt Curly more than he could have imagined, so when Pockets reveals a genuine smile–and Curly can tell, because he hadn’t forgotten it, or if he had, he just needed to see it once more to know–Curly practically breathes a sigh of relief. 

“You wish what?” He asks, tilting his head in confusion. What did Curly’s accent have to do with wishing? It clicks in after a minute of confusion that Pockets must be referring to Ireland, which is just about the sum of what he can remember from his life on the Mainland. That and glimpses here and there, and some days he can remember certain words he knows don’t belong on the island. But if Pockets knows this word, does…does that mean that–“Have y’seen it?!” He’s so excited, he coughs briefly. 

He stores away that word. ‘Prat’. He’ll be sure to use it next time he runs into Slightly. “Y’should see how prat-y he gets over his books. He’s got loads of them, ‘n not a single person’s allowed t’touch,” 

He isn’t quite sure what a bulldog is, though he assumes it must be a dog, so he doesn’t offer comment other than, “Ye’d be a better judge o’that,” 

It’s the right thing to say, and Peter well knows it. He remembers from when they were children how often the others would tease Curly for being ‘stupid’, but he would never join in with them - their derision is part of the reason he started their reading lessons all that time ago. It’s then that he wonders if Curly remembered any of the things Pockets taught him, or if they had faded away with the boy himself. “No, I suppose I can’t,” he says, shrugging his shoulders as he takes another puff of his cigarette. His gut still says that his initial assumption is true.

Peter doesn’t bother to correct Curly himself, merely waiting for the other boy to catch up with him. He always gets there in the end. “I have. Briefly,” he says, still eyeing his former friend with suspicion when he coughs again. The cigarette probably isn’t helping... Peter stubs it out. “It’s an old place, and green. The city we went to had a cathedral right by the sea.”

“Hm, now that sounds awfully familiar,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. Apparently Slightly hoards his stories as jealously as Pan had before him - the sharp-featured boy had always been insufferable about the vast scope of his knowledge when compared with the rest of the group, and Peter supposes it makes sense that his new-found power has stoked his already enormous ego. He wonders if it’s prerequisite that any leader of the Lost Boys be an absolute git. “I’d steal them, if it were me. Hide them. Just to see his face.” He’d probably read them too, just to prove that he could. Slightly’s a little weasel, and scares him not at all. But...

“He reads to you, then? Slightly?” The idea could almost make Peter jealous. Almost.