the True Sequel™ to "chivalry is dead," colloquially and lovingly called "beliefs"
HERE IS THE BLOG I MADE FOR THIS AU
HERE IS CHIVALRY IS DEAD, THE FIRST FIC IN THIS SERIES
this series is very long, but i hope that doesn't deter you from checking it out! i can promise: dlamp, angst, witty humor, Shakespeare puns, sword fighting, hurt/comfort, and happy endings. eventually.
Summary: Roman is, understandably, a mess. One of his boyfriends played him like a fiddle in front of Thomas, which accidentally ended up creating a rift in their polycule big enough to tear it in half. And seven of his advisors are angry with him. Roman doesn't know where to begin fixing this situation but if it has to start anywhere, it'll likely start with himself. He just has to believe in himself, right?
But it's hard to hold beliefs when you don't know who to trust. He doesn't trust Janus. Doesn't trust Patton. Not Virgil, not Logan. Great Hades, Roman barely even trusts himself.
Long-term warnings: self-deprication, manipulation, paranoia, self-hatred, implication of self-harm (i mean, all of the advisors are semi-parts of Roman, right?), graphic depiction of violence, amnesia, swords, guns, swearing, depiction of death (place your bets for which one dies hehe. haha.)
every chapter will have their own chapter-specific warnings, too, but these are the big ones that either will be in every chapter or will appear eventually. if you're coming from AO3, you might notice that i don't warn about the death there. that is because i didn't know which warning to pick so i chose the most ominous one.
Long-term ships: DLAMP BABEYYYY YOU KNOW IT also OCxOC
Main Story Word Count: 28,243
HERE IT IS ON AO3
here are the chapters on tumblr:
1 (i wanna be like you)
2 (love is an open door)
3 (one jump ahead)
4 (whistle while you work)
5 (mother knows best)
6 (you're welcome)
7 (the mob song)
8 (prince ali)
9 (gaston)
10 (lost in the woods)
even have some floating one-shots that are....going to be VERY important to this story, so here they are
Bad Things Happen: The Most Dangerous Game (before MtB)
Scumble (takes place between chapters 5 and 6)
more to come, of course, and excited to be back on this journey with y'all!
i realize....i've posted art of everyone of course, but i don't know that i've ever made clear what everyone looks like by the time more than beliefs is happening? so here's a bit of an updated design look! some of these have been posted i think but i'm not certain.
from right to left, we have draco "the dragon," phillip "the damsel" or "the prince," eric "the thief," gavin "the child," cadence "the bard," macbeth "the director," david "the artist," and marlowe "the playwright."
the style is a bit inconsistent because i drew everyone's outfits and such on different docs. i was compiling what they looked like in different aus, then i pulled all of the same au ones into a doc together, but i didn't like. size match or make sure the line coloring was consistent.
A/N: well, howdy :^) long wait, i lost my job and got a new one in between, but im glad to be back on this! i finally finished a future chapter, so now i get to publish this one <3 and i get to write the real drama lol
WARNINGS: i think there's one injury but beyond that, there's just a lot of tension and some of the consequences of violence in previous chapters. honestly not much that warrants warnings for in this one.
Words: 6,424
here it is on Ao3!
here are the MtB masterpost and the full Chivalry series masterpost!
hope you enjoy :)
It should have been nearing daybreak, Logan thought, watching the sky. He was holding onto Patton’s waist, Virgil holding his arm and one of the Dragon Witch’s back spines. The Thief and the Bard were seated in front of them, both holding onto one of the Dragon Witch’s spines as well. Before them, the Dragon himself was carrying the Damsel and the Artist, who had made himself a shotgun. It kept shifting into a 30’s style Tommy-gun, though. Logan had a hunch he couldn’t decide on which weapon.
“Here,” the Dragon Witch hissed.
She gestured her head towards a patch of land, right at the ledge. Near the end of the river, actually.
The Dragon grunted in agreement and landed first, letting the Damsel and the Artist slide off before changing and hustling out of the way to give her a landing spot. While she let them off her back, the Damsel peered over the edge. The Dragon kept his hand on the Damsel’s shoulder, bracing him in case.
They were creations, after all. It wasn’t clear what would happen to the Sides if they were to fall into the Subconscious, the terrifying rift beneath even the Imagination, far enough from Thomas’ mind that he couldn’t ever reach it (hence the name) but all creations that Thomas thought less about were swept below. That’s what Remus had explained.
Remus had elected to just meet them there, and that’s what he did, appearing around the Dragon’s back near the edge. It was likely he hadn’t known about the border dweller either, since they lived on Roman’s side. Just barely.
“How did you meet this person again, Vi?” the Thief asked, gently wiping his sword on his leg.
The Dragon Witch changed back into her human form, hands folding neatly in front of herself. “I had been cleaning my wounds after one of Roman and I’s scuffles when I saw him. He has an entrance below the cliff.” She pointed down.
“You and Roman fight?” Logan asked.
“He’s got an entrance where?” the Bard asked.
The Bard blinked, stepping back and gesturing forward for Logan to ask his question. Acquiescing to him.
The advisors had been doing that more. Asking him things. Giving him room to talk.
Last Logan remembered, the advisors were usually reflective of how Roman perceived him. Logan pocketed the analysis but he was still surprised to be deferred to so many times. It was like Roman listened to him. But that couldn’t be right. Especially not after this morning’s argument, when Roman sprinted out rather than let him finish.
Or — and Logan hadn’t considered this at first, but the more he thought of it, the more it seemed plausible — Roman was so upset because he took Logan’s word seriously. So Logan telling him that his ego was too big…meant something to him. And Logan didn’t know how to feel about that, knowing that his words held that much weight. He wasn’t really used to it.
“Sorry,” Logan still said, and the Bard waved his hand.
“Nope, no worries!” he hummed, and when the Thief called the Bard closer to the edge, he followed.
Hm.
Logan cleared his throat and looked back at the Dragon Witch, who nodded slowly. She was still somewhat difficult to read. She reminded him, a little, of Patton.
“Yes. Someone has to train the Prince and the Duke in their ways.” She clicked her claws together. “I was made to help guide them. Made to be a guide, by them. And sometimes that involves a spar or two.”
Remus interrupted now, patting the Dragon Witch’s arm in a familiar way. She reached over, gently rubbing his shoulder. Her size meant her hand nearly engulfed his entire upper arm, though. A little intimidating.
“Brother dearest and I have made a lovely little family ever since we Split,” he chirped, grinning ear to ear. “In here, it’s just been Roman, me, and Mommy here.”
Patton cringed and the Dragon Witch herself sighed. “Remus,” she snapped.
After the fourth ‘Mommy,’ Virgil shoved Remus’ arm, and he laughed even louder. At least Virgil was chuckling, too, and the Dragon Witch was hiding a grin behind her hand. With her other hand, she gestured toward the ledge, and the advisors hurried toward it. Logan followed quickly, not wanting to follow Remus’ shenanigans, and once Remus followed Logan, Virgil was close behind.
Patton hung back, one hand gripping either end of his cardigan in a nervous way. This whole situationship was nerve wracking and he had a few questions for the Dragon Witch. But he didn’t really know where to start.
He cleared his throat and tried, though. “So you’re pretty familiar with Roman and Remus, yeah?”
“I am,” she seemed…not cold, but guarded. Patton wondered what she thought of him. Both of the twins had pretty strong feelings about him, after all, in completely opposite ways.
Patton scratched the back of his neck, watching Logan talk quietly with the Damsel as they looked over the edge. The Bard approached and the Dragon wrapped his tail around the Bard’s waist as he, too, leaned over the edge to look for the entrance. They were all careful and not at the same time.
Suddenly, Patton’s stomach felt tight. There was a lot he could have done to be more careful. Should have done. Should do. He wanted Thomas to be the best person he could be and he knew that, because that was one of Thomas’ wants, it was something Roman pushed himself to do, too. But he didn’t even know what made someone a good person.
Roman staked his whole good-twin-evil-twin dynamic on Patton’s rights and wrongs. But Patton didn’t know what was right. What was wrong.
And Remus seemed…Remus cared. A lot! About Roman.
Patton wanted to ask the Dragon Witch about what Roman and Remus were like. About what he’d missed. But there must not be enough time right now for that conversation.
No wonder no one took him too seriously. He didn’t think he could handle it, in all honesty. To be taken too seriously.
So now Patton was here.
Standing in front of his ex-boyfriend’s actual self-made mom.
Surrounded by his other ex-boyfriends.
Wondering if he was even good enough at his job to be worth it, let alone a good enough person.
Golly gee. He hadn’t meant to get that deep!
“So,” he started. And stopped again.
This must be awkward. He knew what he wanted to say but he didn’t know how to put it into words. He swallowed and began again. “You did a good job. Raising them and all. Roman is…a very good person.”
The Dragon Witch huffed, shaking her head. “I taught them how to fight. And gave them a place to keep talking to each other. What makes Roman a good person is his desire to be one, and that’s all,” she argued softly.
“Mhm.” Roman did just want to be a good person, right. “But thanks for…thanks for taking care of him. And Remus.”
There was a lump in Patton’s throat stopping him from admitting the final thing. The final part that really, really made it hurt. The part he failed at.
The unspoken words must have gotten through somehow, because the Dragon Witch chuckled. Her smile was slight, but the sound she made was guttural, like it came from deep within her stomach. She lifted a claw and lightly dragged it along Patton’s forehead, brushing some of his hair out of his face, and with one click of her claws again, pushed his glasses up for him.
“You’re too hard on yourself, Morality,” she hummed.
Well… “Golly,” Patton smiled a bit, and it must have been more of a grimace, because hers tightened ever so slightly, too. “I’ve never been told I’m too hard on myself, more of a softie and all.”
He patted his chest to enunciate the joke and she sighed — maybe he laid it on too thick.
“But…thanks. In all truth, I don’t…everyone’s all mad at Janus and, well. He’s been a bit of a spoilsport while trying to make his points. But I feel like…I don’t know. I let Roman down,” Patton fixed his glasses again slowly, watching everyone examine the border.
The Bard gestured for the Dragon to hold his waist, said something Patton was a little too far to make out, and then the Artist created a rope. They got to tying the rope to the Bard’s waist so he could be lowered down. As tall as he was, he was still the lightest of them all, it seemed.
Logan was directing the group, explaining how to make a pulley for the Artist, while Virgil fussed over making the Bard the best harness.
The Dragon Witch hummed beside him. When Patton looked up, he saw her watching the group as well, idle thought written across her face. The ends of her scarf were dancing in the breeze behind her and it must have been pinned impeccably for it to not come undone in the whipping wind.
“Perhaps you did. Perhaps everyone did. But disappointment is not the end of the world. In fact,” she glanced back down at him with a shrug. “It can turn into a new opportunity, if taken wisely.”
“Like…a second chance?” Patton asked.
The Dragon Witch grinned. “You could call it that.”
It hurt. Disappointing people, upsetting people, making the people he loved sad always hurt. But it was just as important for him to not forget that he had another opportunity.
Patton nodded, turning her words around in his head. “Thank you, Vi. That was really nice to hear,” he said.
All sincerity. No jokes to be had.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile, too.
“Holy fuck—Eric!” the Bard shouted.
The duo turned their full attention back to the group as the Thief’s cloak flapped once more, falling over the edge. Patton yelped, hurrying forward. The Dragon lunged forward, too, almost letting go of the rope holding onto the Bard.
Still, the Thief seemed to have jumped with a purpose. He landed on a ledge, skillfully. Knowingly?
He was looking all around the cliff face, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Virgil bent down, kneeling on the ground to watch him. He quickly leaned back when a bit of the ground crumbled beneath one of his hands, but the Damsel grabbed the back of his hoodie with an open hand.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” Virgil shouted at him.
The Thief looked up. There was terror in his eyes for sure, but not just of the cliff.
“I’ve been here,” he shouted in response.
The Bard made a face, eyebrows pinching in confusion and anger. “How the hell have you been here?”
“I’ve — here,” the Thief slid to the side, gripping onto the wall on holds and stabbing his feet into holes that….he must have known were there. “Jump where I just was. The entrance is on that platform.”
With one of his legs, he pointed down, toward a platform that was just far enough down to seem like ground. To not seem like a platform at all, other than how the Thief had called it.
This was risky. Patton glanced at the Dragon Witch, who watched the advisors move with her lip bitten. He wished they’d all had more time together. If she’s important to Roman and Remus, then she’s important to her, a member of the family, and he wished he got to catch up some more. He wonders what the advisors are, to her. This must seem extra dangerous.
“Here,” the Dragon took the rope from the Artist with both of his hands, tail leaning back as a counter weight, as did his wings. “I’ll hold on, Cadence. You get onto the ledge and once you’re on the platform, untie yourself. I can fly myself and Philly down but everyone else’s gotta climb. The platform’s too small for me to be full dragon.”
“I wonder if that’s on purpose,” Logan murmured. “Vi, you said this advisor, this…Director. He seemed paranoid?”
The Dragon Witch nodded. “Yes—”
“Sorry, Scary Godmother, but can I ask for a bit of quiet? I need to focus,” the Bard called out.
He was already climbing down to the other platform that the Thief had just jumped to. And he wasn’t the most acrobatic of the advisors, not known for literal parkour like the Thief was, so these were some tricky maneuvers.
It got the Dragon Witch to quiet up and there was a brief moment of tense silence as the Bard climbed onto the first platform. He brushed himself down and watched the Thief — who’d waited, holding onto the cliff as the Bard reached solid ground — as he shuffled to the side and then literally, again, jumped. Onto the final platform.
Once on the final platform, the Thief walked forward, disappearing briefly into what must be a cave before walking back out. “It’s right here, and there’s enough room once everyone’s on. It’s just a hard jump,” the Thief lifted his arms, pointing to the holds he had just been on. “Grab there and shuffle to the side. I’ll tell you when to jump.”
The Bard shifted his ukulele behind himself and puffed up his cheeks. They were both stressed about this. He was trying to focus and the Thief was just stressed, point blank.
“You’ve got this, Cadence,” the Artist called from the top. “I’ll go after you.”
The Bard looked up at them, giving a quick thumbs up to the Artist before reaching for the first hold.
He tried not to think of how far the fall would be as he shimmied, keeping on the front of his heeled shoes. The Subconscious looked like nothing because it was nothing, it was a pitch dark void of nothing and it was every color imaginable. It was everything and nothing all at once because that’s exactly what it was, the lack of thought.
He tried not to think about how actually slippery the dirt was under his hands. How there was dirt that was going to get under his nails. He’d just done them a few days ago, gotten them done at some place in the cityscape daydream with the Playwright and the Damsel.
Oh, fuck, he just tried to think about the Thief below him.
“You’re good there, Den. Jump and you should be good,” the Thief shouted.
The Bard didn’t hesitate another second before jumping. The holds weren’t exactly over the platform so he was jumping sideways, beneath the waterfall created by the river flowing over.
He had one leg on the platform and that was enough for the Thief to grab his shirt, then his arm, and yank him fully on.
The Thief’s arms wrapped around his waist and the Bard pressed his face into the Thief’s hood.
Oh, god.
The Thief pressed his lips against the Bard’s head, kissing him messily and whispering, “You did it, Den. You got it.”
“How the fuck do you do that every day,” the Bard hissed into his neck, letting out quick, adrenaline-filled breathes.
The Thief laughed, and the Bard held him tighter.
“Are you two good?” the Dragon shouted.
They should get up. The Thief helped the Bard up, gently helping brush the dirt off his dress before signaling up. “We’re good! Gonna untie the rope and step back.”
The Artist climbed down next, realizing halfway through that he could create a slightly bigger platform for himself. He couldn’t redirect the water too much and he didn’t want the platform hitting the waterfall, but it was just big enough that his jump was much easier. He scrambled up besides the Bard, hugging his arm, and the Thief threw the rope back up for Logan.
“This is so fucked up,” Virgil groaned. “Oh my god.”
“Are you coming with us?” Patton asked the Dragon Witch, who put her hand on her chest.
“Me? Oh, no, I don’t think I should. I imagine you’d want someone watching from up here,” she said.
She brushed her dress down and stretched her wrists, watching Logan slowly and methodically climb down.
“Couldn’t you just create stairs?” he asked the Artist.
There was a pause, and then a laugh. “Shit, you right.”
“DAVID! YOU MADE ME CLIMB THAT SHIT!”
“HEY-HEY, I CLIMBED IT TOO! DON’T HIT ME!”
“Hit him harder.”
“WHAT THE FUCK!”
Logan sighed. The Bard had smacked the Artist over the head as he laughed, a small delay before he waved his hand and a stairwell popped itself out of the stone cliff face. He even made a railing on the other side, boxing Logan in so he wouldn’t fall. It was at a weird angle to get to the platform, but at least it was safe.
The stress must be taking the edge off his critical thinking. That would make sense. Once he reached the platform, Logan gently patted the Artist’s shoulder, and the Artist waved him off with a tired grin.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“It’s alright. I should have suggested it earlier,” Logan countered, but the Artist shook his head.
“Nah. Glad you brought it up now. I can’t even imagine Pops trying to make that jump.”
True to form, Patton managed to trip on the safe stairs, and Virgil kept him upright until they were on the platform.
With stairs present, the Dragon and the Damsel just followed last. The Dragon opened his wings near the back for the cliffside wind to buffet. Once they had descended, the Artist handed everyone flashlights he’d made and he flicked his own on the entrance.
The light shone on the Thief, who’d moved closest to the cave’s entrance. Despite being carved into the side of a cliff, the cave itself looked very unnatural. The walls were uncharacteristically smooth, dark grey with cuts of white quartz sparkling in the light. At some point further within, the Artist’s flashlight illuminated a wall at the back of the cave with two directions splitting off. On the wall were cuts in the stone, barely visible. Two arrows pointing either direction. One, the one on the right, had a slash through it.
“I’ve been here,” the Thief repeated, pointing toward the cave. “I made those cuts.”
The Bard was besides him, holding his shoulder with one arm. It must be grounding in some way, because the Thief was still shaking in his arm.
“When?” the Bard asked.
“In…I’d have nightmares. I thought they were nightmares. Of a maze. Sometimes there was a guy telling me to get out. But there was always a maze. And I’d solve it, and it’d change,” the Thief explained. “That…I thought they were dreams, but it must have been the Director.”
“It’s beyond weird to have a maze as your foyer,” Virgil grunted. “What’s the point?”
“We didn’t try any other method of getting in. It’s possible other entrances are laden with traps and the only way to truly enter is the maze,” Logan suggested, gesturing toward the maze. “I assume there’s no light inside?”
The Thief shook his head. “No. I sleep with a short sword, that’s how I made the marks, but…well, sometimes there are torches. But…”
Now, he tilts his head, rubs his forehead.
None of them had slept. The Dragon, Bard, and Artist had searched through the night. The Damsel had been thinking. Virgil and the Thief had been looking for the Child, and Logan, Janus, and Patton had waited for them at the Tree. Suffice to say they were all tired.
And the sun was just breaking. Logan could see the sky changing color, a bright glow coming from the east. After they settled here, they should regroup and rest.
“I met him. He’d come and taunt me,” the Thief explained with a sigh. “But it also…felt like he was afraid of me. Even though like, he was the one bringing me here, making me run this circuit. I don’t know.”
The Bard squeezed him tighter and the Thief gently patted his arm. He leaned his head against the Bard’s shoulder with a slow exhale. To the Thief’s other side was Virgil, who was staring into the lit cavern, eyes trailing over the rock.
It was manipulative. Felt pretty stereotypically evil to have a rock maze, but Virgil had learned that no one here was really a stereotype.
“Did he ever introduce himself?” he asked.
Maybe it wasn’t just the Director they were going toward.
The Thief nodded. “Yeah, but not by the Director. He said his name was Macbeth.”
“Maybe that’s his name,” Patton suggested.
“He said he was one of us, but I…I always thought it was a dream. So I didn’t take it seriously.” The Thief gestured forward. “Macbeth would make me find my way out. Maybe he was dropping me in the center.”
“It would be very-very opportune of him to have dropped you at h-at his own house,” the Damsel warned. “And this is a labry-lab-la…labyrinth. I imagine there are traps inside.”
The Thief snorted. “Crazy shit, if that’s his security system. Why me?”
To that, the Damsel just shrugged. Hard to know for sure without knowing more about him, but if the Director is that paranoid…hm.
Logan did enjoy puzzles and mazes were no exception, but this was more dire than he could normally stomach. There was one more option, though if this…Director were making sure every counter was accounted for, then it might not work. But it was worth a try nonetheless.
“Before we truly enter,” Logan interrupted, holding a hand out as the Damsel tried to enter the maze. “David?”
The Artist had been staring into the darkness of the entrance, face set in a slight scowl. Otherwise blank. For such an animated man, the lack of reaction was harrowing at best.
“Yeah?” he sounded tired.
“Is there any way for you to manipulate the maze?”
Patton gasped. “Oh! Yes!”
The Thief perked up, too, and all eyes quickly turned to the Artist. Who just sighed.
His disappointment was obvious in his tone, waving his hand, fingers tense. “I’ve been trying. Since we got to the platform, realized it was a maze. But none of the changes are sticking. It’s…”
Now he rubbed the back of his neck, tugging a little at the fabric of his hoodie. “It feels like there’s someone else resetting all the changes. I think this guy can manipulate the environment.”
Inopportune and unideal.
“That makes sense,” the Bard murmured. “I don’t imagine he carved out a whole maze by hand. This’ gonna be a whole heck of a rabbit hole.”
“Well!” The Artist snapped and waved both his hands, as if to cut off any other conversation, then pointed back into the cave. “This’ the only thing we’ve got. And if this dude’s crazy enough to have kidnapped Roman, Marl’, and Gavin, and he makes a habit of kidnapping Eric of any of us, then we really have to get in there. None of us are happy with Janus and I don’t think this Director Macbeth guy’s gonna be any nicer to him.”
His outburst quieted the Bard, though the Thief and Virgil both glared at him for it. Patton held Virgil’s arm in surprise as well. Logan simply crossed his arms; displays of aggression like this weren’t going to phase him. The Damsel’s lips were pursed but the Dragon’s tail wrapped around his hand with a tight squeeze. He looked back, to make sure the Sides were accompanying them before motioning forward.
“Well, Eric. You seem to know this place the most. Lead the way,” the Damsel suggested.
And the Thief did, starting into the maze slowly. It was much easier to navigate with flashlights and especially easier since the Thief had already navigated it a few times. Some of his markings were gone, and he used his sword to carve in more arrows, cross out paths that were deadends or led in circles. Logan suggested the lack of markings meant the paths had been changed in those locations, because there were still some turns where arrows and “X”s were present.
It was a circle, Logan noticed. He was keeping a mental map of the maze and path that they’d been taking, holding Patton with one arm (Patton was clinging to his arm like no other, shying away from the dark) while the other kept up a flashlight. At some point, he took out the Playwright’s blank notebook and began writing what he thought the maze was, based on the routes they were taking.
They had been wandering for about five minutes when they triggered their first trap. The hall looked the same as the others, but the Dragon’s wing scraped against both sides of the wall as they walked. One side pushed inward with his wing — he recoiled them back but it was too late, and dozens of openings opened on both walls.
“Darts!” the Damsel called out, hand slamming against Logan’s back to shove him down.
Logan pulled Patton down, and the Thief grabbed the Bard and Virgil, pulling both down. He threw his cloak over both of them as well and, as the darts hit, they just bounced off. Whatever the cloak was made of, it was puncture proof.
In front of them, the Dragon grabbed the Damsel, but the Damsel drew his sword and swiped at some of the darts coming toward them. Somehow, he cut a flurry in half. The pieces bounced off Logan’s back and rolled down. One went through the edge of the Dragon’s wing and he growled in pain, but the Damsel had prevented any from hitting his body.
“Well,” Virgil said, poking his head out.
No more darts were flying at least. It must be the end of the trap.
The Damsel re-sheathed his sword, the solid coating returning as he leaned against it as his cane again. He turned to the Dragon and motioned to see his wing; as the Dragon opened it, more careful now of the walls, they could see trickles of blood from a small hole.
“It isn’t that bad,” the Dragon mumbled, but the Bard cut him off with a small scoff.
“Don’t even worry, Dragon Tale, I’ve got you,” the Bard promised, taking out his ukulele as he did.
He strummed once, twice, just getting a feel for the tuning, before he began humming a small melody. And once he did, the Damsel nodded forward. “Let’s keep going, while the Bard works.”
The Bard’s song echoed around the stony corridor as the group marched onward, the Thief leading the way with his flashlight and sword raised. There were some walls with tick marks, arrows cut into the stone. Each one reminded him of having run the gambit around this place in his pajamas.
It had felt like a vivid nightmare, but he was prone to those. Roman himself didn’t produce many nightmares, and those he did make sure as fuck didn’t come from the Artist or Playwright. The Thief was worried that it was abnormal to be making nightmares, but it was never something he actually made. More like something he experienced. He usually chocked it up to living near Remus’ side.
Remus himself was fine. He actually hadn’t followed into the maze with them, electing to stay on the surface with the Dragon Witch. It was nice to have back-up like that. The concept of what Remus represented put the Thief on edge, though. He was glad Remus wasn’t here because he knew Remus could instigate with Roman sometimes, when Roman wasn’t feeling too good. And this whole situation reeked of Roman feeling not great.
They didn’t spring another trap, though the Thief found a few. A trip wire that he shone his light on and warned everyone about. A crack in the ground that looked like it would open up beneath them, if too much weight was on it. They crossed that one at a time, until the next seam in the floor.
It was maybe twenty minutes of walking before things changed. And that thing was the humming.
The Bard heard it first. He stopped walking, shushing the Thief as he began to ask what was wrong.
“Stop,” he whispered, and everyone did.
Everyone was quiet for a beat. Then, Virgil heard it. And Logan.
“Someone’s singing?” Patton asked, frowning at the Bard as he nodded forward again.
“I think it’s coming from the left?” the Bard suggested.
The Thief shone his light toward the fork in the maze, looking down the left path. There wasn’t any arrow so it must be a new addition. And they didn’t have much else to go on.
“I agree. It’s definitely coming from the left,” Logan murmured.
He had his eyes closed, focusing on the sound. It was familiar. But was it Roman? Or some other sound? Was it the Playwright?
The Thief led them left, the Bard close behind him, peeking around the walls, just in case. And the humming got louder and louder. Until it stopped abruptly near another fork in the road.
Inopportune. They were vehemently against splitting up, that felt like it’d fuck them up horrendously. Logan had suggested they not at the beginning, when Patton and the Artist wanted to take separate routes on a fork. It would be best that they face the unknown as a unit in this situation. If they found the Child, for example, the Thief would want to be there. They would all want to be there if they found Janus or Roman.
“Thief? Eric?”
The Thief whipped around toward the right-hand of the fork, shining his flashlight. His eyes were wide in surprise.
Janus was sitting on the ground, legs crossed. He was missing his hat, cape, and gloves — ah, the gloves were just on the ground beside him — slowly, he stood up. Between him and the group was a set of metal bars, like a cage. Like this part of the maze had been caged off just for him, because it had been.
“Janus?” Patton hurried forward, past the Thief.
He put his hands on two of the bars, pressing his face against one. Virgil hurried beside him, inspecting Janus with his flashlight.
“Are you hurt?” Virgil asked. “Did he hurt you?”
Janus shook his head. His eyes were wide in surprise and fear. Something must have happened.
“No. No, he didn’t—he has a gun. And I don’t know how to get out, I-he dropped me from the ceiling. It’s the Director,” Janus scooted closer, gripping one of the bars with his hand. “He has everyone here.”
“Did you see them? Did you see Roman?” Virgil asked, and Janus shook his head again.
“No, the Director-He got rid of me as soon as he could.”
The Thief whistled, and the Damsel elbowed him in the side.
“Par for the course. You don’t have a lot of fans this side of the Imagination,” the Artist mumbled, looking around at the bars. “I think-Eric, how much farther do you think we’ve gotta go?”
“I don’t know. We’re right near the middle, I think.” The Thief glanced at the wall inside the cage, then frowned. “Hang on. That mark on the wall…”
Janus looked backward at a deep, single divot in the wall beside him. Patton and Logan turned too, while the Thief pointed at it.
“That’s the end. I did that one, he’d been standing there and I went with my sword,” the Thief explained.
“You’ve been here before?” Janus asked, for clarity, but Logan waved his hand before more exposition could be given.
“That’s a very long story, and if this is the end of the maze — David,” he straightened up when Logan called his name. “Do you think you can you get rid of the bars?”
The Artist grimaced, but with a wave of his hand, the bars sank back into the ground. They must not be as permanent as the rest of the maze. But still…it might be alerting him. With that barrier gone, Patton leaned in and scooped Janus into a hug. They both shimmied out, closer into the group, as the Bard and Damsel peeked in the other direction.
For the first time in a long time, Janus returned the hug, hands gripping the back of his jacket. Getting shot wasn’t high on his list of things he’d wanted to experience and he had a brush with it today, having a gun pointed at him and all. It was easy to shelve the fear in the moment, lying through his teeth about not being afraid, but now that he was here, now that he wasn’t going to die, he was with everyone else…
Virgil also put a hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing him as Logan continued to direct. He leaned to look at Janus’ face, only to find his eyes closed tight. A few of his scales near his eye were…his eye was swollen. That entire side of his face was swollen, like someone had hit him. Hard.
His stomach tightened in anger, pure fury. Of course Janus lied about it.
The bars rose back up like a claw only a few moments after Janus vacated. Whoever this Director was, he seemed to have control of the environments here, and the Artist scoffed angrily when it moved.
“Are you going to be able to take down the wall?” Logan asked, gesturing to the wall before them, right outside the bars.
“I should, but I don’t know how deep in it goes. I don’t know what’s like, around here or anything, that’s stuff Marl’ would know,” the Artist explained. “But like, we could demo it. I can make a bomb. If we do something that actively breaks it rather than just…”
“A bomb might cause a cave in. Could you make a mallet? Something to break down the rock.”
There was a soft popping noise. Janus had come to recognize that was the sound of creation.
Interestingly, the Director hadn’t made anything, not from what Janus could see. He’d changed the terrain. Janus had slammed his head into part of the stone tube while sliding into his rocky cell and he was developing a headache. He’d also landed hard on one of his arms, he didn’t know how mobile his wrist was. Last time, when he got out unscathed, was seeming like a fluke.
A part of him had hoped that he’d get to talk to Roman, even fleetingly.
Apologize without anyone else there. Where they could talk. It was becoming very obvious that no part of Roman wanted to talk with him, though. Maybe he’d burned the bridge too far. Too much ash.
“Draco, you’ve got a meaner swing. Think you can take it down?”
A barking laugh. “I’d fuckin’ love to. Give it here.”
Virgil’s hand tugged backward and Janus opened his eye again. His other eye was swollen too much to be very useful. It might be smart to ask the Bard for merciful help but he couldn’t stomach it right now. “Get out of the way,” Virgil murmured. “Over here.”
Janus stumbled after him, held up by Patton’s tight, surprisingly strong arms. He felt a little ragdoll-esque.
Logan had taken command and it was surprising, just how much everyone listened to him. It was validating, in a way, and worrying. Roman listened to him, despite everything. That must be what got them in this mess, at a deeper level, but it meant he could be given an explanation. He could take space to explain and maybe that might help. Roman could maybe hear it from him.
For the time being, Logan just stepped toward the mark in the wall, denoting the end. “I think we should start directly on the mark,” he said, gesturing to it. “David, can you bring the bars down again, please?”
The Artist hummed, waving his hand again. The bars sank down.
“I can probably hold them down while we do this, but he might notice we’re holding them,” he suggested, and Logan nodded.
“That shouldn’t matter too much after Draco knocks the wall down,” he explained.
The Artist and the Dragon followed, with the Thief nearby. The Damsel was the one leaning closest to the other Sides while the Bard idly plucked one of the strings of his ukulele, watching cautiously. If anything were to go wrong, he could block with a shield, maybe. Janus didn’t look in any real condition for a fight and none of them wanted the Sides in an altercation.
“Why on the mark?” the Thief asked. “It’s just where I swung.”
Logan was happy to explain. “If Janus did indeed go straight into the Director’s room, then it stands to reason that the Director would spit him out besides his room. If he can change the terrain, he would just have to morph the wall into a door.”
He leaned over, knocking on the wall, and pursed his lips. If he was wrong, they might indeed need dynamite, but for right now…
“If this is where the end of the maze is and where he chose to house Janus, it may be the closest point to his actual house. He likely has another hidden front door that he hides using his terrain-adjusting abilities, but it would be easier to adjust as little terrain as possible, to conserve energy, act fast and make maintaining all of this space more efficient,” Logan rubbed his jaw as he spoke, finishing with a shrug. “That’s my hypothesis right now. If I’m wrong, then we may need dynamite, but we should start with the mallet first.”
The Dragon grinned, a little wild and angry, and he lifted the hammer with both hands. “If you say so, Logan. Y’ might wanna take a step back.”
Ah, right. The Artist and Logan both took a few steps back, Logan putting an arm out in front of the Thief. They all kept backing up as the Dragon wound up, one hand near the middle of the hammer, the other choking up the handle.
He squared his stance and reeled back.
As he swung, he beat his wings, too, to increase momentum. And the hammer pushed straight through the wall.
There was a scream from the other side of it.
A very familiar scream.
And then the Artist screamed, too, rushing toward the new hole.
i posted the full note on Ao3, but i got some very kind comments in the past few months and it's made me emboldened to actually post... i hope you enjoy <3
WARNINGS: suicidal ideation, general violence, illness (migraines), gun violence
Words: 8,258
here it is on Ao3!
here are the MtB masterpost and the full Chivalry series masterpost!
enjoy!!
“Is there anything we should prepare? For Gavin’s arrival,” the Director asked.
He’d made a new room, empty, with tiled flooring and normal limestone walls. It was an offshoot from the living room, but he hadn’t known what to put inside it. What tools do you need to kill an advisor?
Roman was standing in the doorway and he didn’t know, either, frankly. He’d never thought he’d have to kill someone.
“Probably a bed. Or like, a table,” Roman didn’t know what he was doing. All imagination and all creation was doing something that felt right. He was the authority on it, yeah, but he was just winging it.
If he was going to sever his connection with the Child, it felt like it had to happen on a table. It felt medical, almost. Like surgery. Cutting a tumor out of someone, removing something.
Plus, if he fought back, then it’d make it easier to hold him down.
Roman hoped he wouldn’t fight back, but he didn’t know. He couldn’t predict how the Child would react to the news. He could predict how he felt about it and could only hope that that was how the Child would feel, too.
There was the sound of a door closing out in the living room. Roman jumped, but the Director just hurried out toward the door. It was the sound of the Playwright’s trapdoor closing; they must be back.
Sure enough, the Child and the Playwright were standing in the living room. The Child’s hand was balled up in the Playwright’s sweater, the Playwright’s hand on his shoulder, almost comfortingly. While he waved at the Director upon entry, the Child was too busy looking around to see him for a little.
“Where is this?” he asked. “Is this where you’ve been hiding?”
“Not really hiding, I don’t think.” The Playwright patted the Child’s shoulder. “Here is the Director.”
That got the kid’s attention.
The Director. The Child’s head snapped forward, and he squinted at the Director. Slicked back blonde hair, piercing green eyes. Gloves. Who wears gloves, other than Deceit and the Thief? The Thief wore them to keep his touch light, though, and to hide the scars on his hands.
He was new. The Child had never heard of the Director before, had never met him, and thus didn’t really know what to think of him. He hid behind the Playwright’s leg a bit, inching away out of shyness more than fear. New people have had a history of disliking him and he did want to be liked.
“Hi, Mr. Director,” he greeted quietly.
The Playwright tilted his head. The Child looked up at him, hand balled up in the side of his sweater, and explained quickly, “I’ve never met him.”
“Oh,” the Playwright said. “He said he wanted to meet you.”
The Child nodded.
Too trusting. Clearly. The Director pursed his lips — the Child grinned a little.
“You look kinda like Princey,” he said. “You’re one of us, right?”
The Director, whose gloved hand was rubbing at his jaw, slowly sank his hands back into his pockets. He stood with his back straight, eyes hard and brow pinched. To him, he was thinking, but to the Child, he was confused, too.
“It’s okay. We were all kind of worried, when we first got made,” the Child stepped out a bit. “Did you get made when we got made?”
He was trying to get the Director to keep talking with him, which seemed to work. He blinked a bit at something the Child said but nodded all the same.
“Yep. I’ve been around since the beginning. But after what happened with the Dragon and Damsel, I wasn’t about to put up with getting stabbed. Much less flayed,” the Director scoffed at the idea.
The Child giggled. He even made sounds like the Playwright! Maybe they were friends. “None of us wanted to get stabbed. But Draco and Phillip don’t stab people much anymore. Sometimes they stab Eric, but, like. Eric kinda asks for it. Eric gets Draco more, too, it’s their like. Thing. Like how some people play football?”
“How can stabbing be their thing?” the Playwright asked.
The Child shrugged. His shoulders loosened, hand let go of the Playwright’s sweater, but when he picked up talking, he tugged at the ends of his shirt. It was making him uncomfortable to be here without the Thief or the Bard. The Playwright’s head being messed up was unnerving, to the Child. The big bandage across his head worried the Child, but the Director didn’t look like the kind of guy who would do that. Or maybe he did; the Thief, to the Child, didn’t seem like the stabbing type, but he knew that that guy definitely did stab a lot.
Maybe the Playwright had a bandage because the Director couldn’t heal, though, and the Child understood that. He couldn’t heal, either. The Bard was special for that, because he could heal the best. The Playwright could heal, but if he’d been the one who was hurt, and if he’d forgotten a bunch, then maybe he forgot how to heal. The Child certainly didn’t know.
“They’re good friends, though, so I think they like it,” the Child said. “You and David paint a lot. I don’t know how to paint.”
The understanding was not mutual, as the Playwright frowned in confusion. It was drawing them off-topic, though, and as soon as the Artist was mentioned, the Director knew he had to redirect conversation.
He waved his hand to try dissuading the Playwright’s worries, then he gestured to the living room couch.
Behind all of them, in the shadows of the new room, was Roman. Just watching.
The Child sat on the couch and crossed his legs. He looked around the room again — Roman was shrouded enough that the Child’s eyes missed him — and he clapped his hands. “Is this your house? It’s very nice,” he told the Director.
The Director looked around, too, quickly. He had more things he wanted to ask. He’d never gotten to sit down with the Child and talk to him; the opportunity was rare. “Thank you. I made most of it myself, but Playwright helped, when he’d stop by.”
“Did you bandage the Playwright’s head?” the Child asked.
When the Director nodded, it was almost all suspicions confirmed, so the Child nodded too. He looked down at the couch and began running the crease of the cushion’s leather beneath his nail, picking at its fibers.
“I get that. I bandage Thief sometimes, if he’s hurt and Bard isn’t around. It sucks not being able to heal people.”
“Mhm,” the Director agreed, not wanting to give any further information.
He kept watching the Child. The kid was nervous, but the Director didn’t know what was causing that. He was still quite talkative.
“Have you been alone since the beginning?” the Child asked.
A weird question. The Director frowned in thought, then nodded. “Sort of. I’ve only spent time with the Playwright, and he didn’t stop by often. Roman’s come by more.”
The Child’s eyes widened at the mention of Roman. Before the Director could make assumptions, though, he blurted out, “Is he here?”
Ah. The Director’s eyes flicked up, and he turned around toward the new room. There wasn’t much point in not answering honestly. “Yes, actually. He and the Sides had an argument, not sure if you—”
“The other Sides are looking for him. They broke into Remus’ room!” The Child turned around with the Director, following his line of sight into the darkened room.
There was still no furniture inside, Roman would decide on it later, but he felt the Child lock eyes with him. Even in the darkness.
The Child pointed.
“Hi Roman!” he waved a hand. “I see you! Are you okay? Do you need a hug?”
Roman took a few steps out, only enough to be seen in the light, but not enough to come out of the room. He waved back tiredly and leaned on the door frame. From the Child’s angle, he looked like a parent. Tired. Disappointed. “I’m okay,” he responded, voice soft.
“You don’t sound okay,” the Child retorted with a scowl.
Roman shook his head. “I’m very tired, and the others and I had an argument. I talked it over with the Director. He wanted to meet you.”
Hm. If the Director’s one of them, then he’s probably trying to help Roman, too. The Child turned slowly back toward him, hands picking still at the fabric of the couch. There was something…unnerving, though. Roman’s voice made his stomach do backflips, with how hollow his tone was. It was probably because he was upset, though. Arguments were upsetting, the Child knew that.
The Director looked like he didn’t know what to do with him, which was pretty fair, since most of the others didn’t know how to treat him. The Thief was kind of overbearing sometimes, but he was the nicest. And the Damsel was…the Damsel listened to him the most. He didn’t know why. The Child glanced down at his gloves, then back up at the Director. None of the others liked him much.
“Do those help you lift things quietly?” he asked.
The Director blinked in surprise. Apparently not.
“No. No, they just keep my hands warm,” he said, flexing out his hand. “I’m no robber.”
The Child grinned. “Is that ‘cause you don’t like stealing, or are you not good at being quiet?”
He could understand that, not wanting to steal and not being good at being quiet. The Dragon’s not that good at being too quiet and he doesn’t like stealing! None of them like stealing, really. They’ll do it, like how the Artist sometimes appears to steal the Thief’s food, but the Thief’s the only one who actually likes it. It’s his thing? It’s in the name, the Child thinks.
The Director doesn’t seem to understand the question, with how he’s not answering. The Playwright had walked over to Roman and they were talking quietly in the other room, which left the Child with the Director, and that was fine. The Director didn’t look….mean.
Still, being in a strange room with a stranger who wasn’t asking questions was weird. The Child kept picking at the couch, eyes trailing around the room. There was a kitchen behind a corner in the wall, like an open floor plan, kinda like the Tree. You could see the entire living space. It made things feel safer. Maybe it helped the Director feel safe, too, to be able to see everything. He must feel scared a lot, then.
“So.”
The Child turned immediately. The Director was watching him.
Under his gaze, the Child felt even more awkward than he had initially.
The Director crossed his arms, watching the Child intently. “From what I’ve gathered, we all have…at the highest level, the same goal,” he began.
The Child squirmed a little, hands balling up in the edge of his shirt. He kicked his shoes off and put his feet up on the couch, pulling his shirt over his knees. Curling up into a ball while he returned the Director’s stare. Something in his expression made the Child worried, like he was being scolded, but he didn’t know what for.
“Probably? What do you mean,” he asked.
The Director’s eyebrow twitched.
The Child didn’t know why the Director didn’t like him already. They’d only just met. But it seemed to be a trend, with people not liking him. The Child didn’t understand.
“You and I…and everyone else, want Roman to be happy. Right?” the Director asked. “We all have that goal. We want him to reach his dreams and be happy.”
Oh, oh yes. That made sense. The Child nodded.
If the Director lived in solitude out here, that meant he’d never been to any of their meetings. The Damsel ran most of them when Roman wasn’t there, but the Child sometimes directed conversation. Through everything — caring, acting, dreaming, hoping, dating, loving — all of them tried to keep Roman and, by relation Thomas, happy. Maybe the Director was just trying to confirm what he knew, the advisor instinct that they all had.
He nodded along with the Child, at least. “And there’s a lot that’s been getting in the way of that,” the Director continued, voice darker, quieter.
Now, THAT was a sentiment the Child understood. He pressed his lips tightly together, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he grumbled. “Stupid Janus. And then-and then Patton gave us that look that was like…it was like we ruined everything or something.”
The Child wrung his hands, then pulled them into his sleeves to wrap around his knees. It was probably weird to look at him sitting like this, but it made him feel comfortable, being able to tuck into himself and hold onto himself like this. New places and new things and new people made him scared, but he was trying not to be.
At least the Director didn’t say anything about it.
“But then…Roman was trying to be mean to Janus, by laughing, and he got mad at Thomas,” the Child murmured, nails rubbing against his forearm as he held his arms.
That was the part he found hard to understand. Why did Roman want to be mean? Sure, maybe Janus hurt him, but…being mean right back to him wasn’t the answer. Roman wasn’t mean. Not intentionally, at least.
The Director glanced over his shoulder at the darkened room, but saw that the door was closed still. Hopefully Roman and the Playwright weren’t hearing the conversation, because he was sure that analysis of what had occurred would piss off at least Roman, if not both.
One quick glance, and he turned back around with a sigh.
“Well. You’ve heard the saying that hurt people hurt people, right?” the Director mused.
He tried to keep his voice level, light. The Child was a child, after all. You had to explain these concepts slowly.
It must not have been a new concept, as the Child threw his head back and rolled his eyes. “Like, sure, but…but we DON’T want to hurt people, that’s the point. He knew it was hurtful.”
One of the Child’s hands popped out of his shirt and he rubbed his face, glaring hard at the sofa’s cushion. He and the Damsel had talked a lot about this, actually. Roman didn’t want to hurt people. He wanted to please. He wanted to make people happy. The Child had wanted that for him, he’d wanted Roman to be happy and to be able to keep his head up, so why was it so hard?
The Damsel had said he was doing good, that this was a lapse, but the Child didn’t get it. Wasn’t Roman done being a villain? When were the others going to stop toying with him and when were they just going to let him be happy? Wasn’t he ever going to be rewarded for believing in them? It stung, at first, but now it was just starting to piss the Child off.
The Director was quietly watching him, the Child noticed, and he wrapped his arm back into his shirt. He hated seeming like such a child. Especially in front of new people like this, it reminded him of when they’d first formed. When things were at the worst. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“Don’t worry,” the Director promised, waving his hand flippantly. “I understand, the others have been acting pretty….well. Stupid. But I have to disagree with you on one thing.”
The Child blinked, watching the Director as he added, “Sometimes, we do have to hurt people.”
Oh.
The Child’s lips pressed together again as he made a noncommittal whining sound. “I don’t…know. I don’t think we do.”
“Oh, come on. Everyone else gets to hurt us. Even Patton. Logan. Virgil, hell, even Thomas takes jabs. And we don’t get to do anything back?” the Director opened an arm out, gesturing widely, as if they were all present.
“Damsel says revenge isn’t always good,” the Child argued quietly, but even that was weak.
“Oh, like the Damsel’s never gotten revenge,” the Director tutted.
The Child giggled a little at that. The Director was right, the Damsel did have a knack for flipping like a coin and going for the throat. He liked a little revenge himself sometimes. And it made sense, what the Director said about getting back at the others when they hurt Roman. It just wasn’t something the Child thought was necessary. But maybe it was.
“Maybe I just don’t focus on that,” the Child said. “I’m not…I don’t like thinking a lot about who gets hit with what. I just…”
His voice trailed off, and he shrugged.
They were quiet for a few moments, silence more welcome than more confusing words, but the Director broke it with a huff. “Listen, kid. I’m sure you’re looking out for Roman how you can. But while he’s been here, we’ve been talking about the things you tell him about.”
Weird. The Child frowned. “What’s that mean?”
He glanced up and, for the first time, the Director looked…sad. No. Not sad. Disappointed. “You trusted Janus. Way back when. In the courtroom,” the Director’s voice was gentle, but it didn’t help how much the words stung. “Trust is a really powerful thing.”
The Child’s stomach curled and he looked back down at his lap. His grip on himself tensed. His back was starting to hurt, actually, from just how tense he’d been for the conversation. It was taking a turn he didn’t like, though, and he wasn’t able to loosen up.
“I was. I did,” he hid his face on his knees. “I’m-I shouldn’t have. It was stupid.”
He remembers being berated for it by the Artist, before the Dragon threw the Artist out the window. All of them had fallen for it, to some extent, but he was the one who had the final say. They were all upset over it. He remembers being devastated, even though the Damsel tried to warn them that Janus — the guy named Deceit — was probably lying. And the Damsel and the Thief had tried to not make him feel bad but, well….even the Thief hadn’t looked him in the eyes when he said it was going to be okay.
“It was, a little,” the Director sounded sad still. “And that’s what really started us on this snowball, wasn’t it.”
It was. That made sense. Things led into each other and now Thomas didn’t…
The Child bit his lip hard. He didn’t want to cry, but his throat was tight. He just hummed in agreement.
There was shifting on the couch. Something touched his back. He jumped, looked up, but it was just the Director. He’d slid closer and was gently rubbing the Child’s back, squeezing his shoulder. Trying to comfort, the Child assumed, and he leaned into the Director’s side.
The Director wrapped his arm around the Child’s back, hugging him tenderly.
“I-I thought he loved us,” the Child whispered, and his voice broke into a tiny sob. “I thought they-I thought they all loved us. And if you-if you love someone, you wouldn’t…I thought you wouldn’t do this to someone you loved.”
What a nice sentiment, eh? The Director sniffed, then he cleared his throat. No use dwelling on it. He squeezed the Child’s shoulder again, too. “I did, too. It’s okay,” he whispered.
This was a new person. Not the Thief, not the Bard, and not someone the Child felt comfortable with, so he did his best not to cry on the Director’s trenchcoat. He leaned away, wiping his face with his hand as he slowly let his limbs untangle from being balled-up.
It was a knot of guilt and depression he’d been trying to swallow since the break-up. The Bard led the relationship most, suggesting ways to improve communication and things they could do on dates and all the actual day to day, but all of them had some kind of hand in it. The Child believed in it. He thought they loved Roman, and so Roman loved them, and so Roman believed in them. And things unraveled. Maybe he held on too tight. The Child didn’t know, he just…
He had really wanted to believe.
“I’m really sorry,” he said.
The Director shrugged beside him. “It’s not something that we can’t learn from.”
The Child nodded in agreement.
“We’ll just have to be better. Improve from this. You understand that, right?” the Director asked, and the Child nodded again.
“Yeah.”
“Do you know how you’d want to improve?” the Director asked.
The Child looked at him, then back at the space in front of him. There was a rectangular coffee table.
“No,” he said. “No, I don’t.”
The Director hummed once in understanding. And the Child had a thought. His name was the Director — as in, someone who directs. Maybe he had an idea. “Do you know?” he added on, turning to the Director.
His smile seemed warmer. “Sort of. I talked it out with Roman, but the big thing is you and Roman need to really…change your attitudes, going into these things. We can’t trust everyone with Roman’s heart.”
That made sense. The Child nodded. “Yeah. Like, we can’t trust Mister Deceit. He’s a fucking liar.” His nose scrunched at the thought.
Immediately, though, the Director laughed. He rubbed the Child’s hair; it was comforting, and the Child leaned into his hand. “Holy shit, kid, language,” his tone was so much lighter.
The Child laughed along, too, albeit quieter. “Mister Deceit’s worth using some language at!”
“I can’t argue with that one,” the Director’s chuckles died out into a beat of quiet, before he added. “Roman and I want to…we were thinking. About things that might help him, in the future. And a big one is changing you.”
The Director said that earlier, so the Child nodded. He didn’t know what they were going to change, but…well…
He’d gotten them into this mess, didn’t he? The Child shrugged slightly again, a tight, wry smile on his face. “Sure. I get that. Just….Just tell me what you want to change.”
Bullseye. The Director smiled back, a bit warmer. “That’s something Roman might break down better. But I’m glad I got to meet you, kid.”
The Child leaned over, wrapping his arms quickly around the Director’s waist. It was a move so quick, so sudden, that the Director jumped in surprise. Then, carefully, he hugged the Child in return.
He didn’t understand why the kid was so nice. Maybe he was just a polite little fuck. That didn’t explain why this felt…wrong, though.
“It was nice meeting you, too, Mister Director. I’ll go get Roman,” the Child scurried up and over the back of the sofa.
The Director let him knock on the door.
Roman opened it and the Child — without any ceremony — hugged him around the waist. The Director flinched in surprise and he wasn’t even the one being hugged, but Roman took it in stride. He knew the Child better, he was probably accustomed to this.
He slowly put his hands on the Child’s shoulders, then around his back, leaning down slightly to hug him.
“Hi, Roman,” the Child’s voice was muffled against Roman’s stomach. “The Director said you…I…I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Poor kid.
It would be merciful to separate him. He could keep the Child — Gavin, the character — around. He’d toss their connection into the subconscious but Gavin was a sweetheart. He was kind. Thoughtful. A good kid. Roman almost felt bad about what he’d have to do but maybe it would be good for Gavin to not have to bear his responsibilities.
Roman tried desperately to think that true, because it was a good way to fight against the lump in his throat. “For what?” he asked gently, rubbing the Child’s back.
The Child shook his head. “I thought Mister Deceit was actually being nice to us,” his voice was croaky and he sounded tired. It was pretty late at night, after all. “And that he loved you. That everyone loved you, and thought you were cool and a hero. And…and I was wrong.”
Roman sighed.
Behind him, the Playwright had been shifting his weight between both legs, but the explanation the Child gives makes him look up in surprise.
He…thinking back on it, he couldn’t really remember where they stood with the other Sides. He knew Roman loved them. But Roman also was the embodiment of Thomas’ love, so it was hard to say Roman “loved” anything in specific, since he was pretty consistently full of it.
That was part of the Playwright’s charges. He loved the art of love, the romance and wooing. The act of proving love.
Deceit had turned that on them?
He cleared his throat, too. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I’m quite confused. What the hell do you mean?”
On the couch, the Director waved a hand toward his neck, as if signaling the Playwright to stop. But the question had already been asked.
“Oh,” the Child must not have known the extent of his memory loss, because he leaned up from Roman’s chest, rubbing his blotchy eyes tiredly. “You, uh…”
He looked up at Roman, who also had turned toward the Playwright. He provided a better answer. “Your head injury is part of this all. We had an incredibly messy break up with the others. Lines were drawn.” Roman’s voice was tight and it was hard to tell whether it was from crying slightly with the Child or being reminded of the breakup. “Everyone picked a side.”
“Everyone…” the Child piped up again, letting go of Roman to wring the hem of his shirt. “Everyone kinda chose Deceit. Over us.”
That sounded quite catastrophic.
“And we’re….now we’re alone,” the Child’s voice cracked and he looked down. “Thomas thinks we’re bad. We are bad. We’re-We’re no better than any Dark Side.”
Very catastrophic.
So Deceit weaponized him in some way, against himself. The Playwright knew Roman had an ego by virtue of being the ego, but there were a lot of ways he could have been played. But to know that…To have that done unto him by someone he loved.
Line drawn in front of love, to have that done unto him by someone he looked up to. He had villainized Deceit but he still wanted his approval, he’d wanted all of his crushes’ approval.
“Oh,” the Playwright whispered.
It was interesting to watch the machinations roll through his mind. Roman watched his face drop, the Playwright’s eyes glaze over as he thought hard about what may have happened. If he could remember the scenario, then he’d’ve had his own opinions about it already, probably. The Playwright was full of opinions. But now, he was a little easier to manage.
One part of Roman really wanted to keep him like this. It was…cathartic. That was the right word. Cathartic, to watch the Playwright, usually so intelligent and so knowledgeable, stumble blindly through this spiders’ web of a problem. For him to come to the conclusions leagues after everyone else. No one knew what was going on, none of them. He didn’t know what was going on, why should any part of him pretend to?
It was cruel. The other part of Roman hammered on, disgusted at having done this to a part of himself.
Monster.
Power-tripping, selfish, egotistical idiot.
A quiet, third part wanted to do it to everyone else, because they were part of him. They should suffer the consequences of his failures. Just like he should.
“Gavin, I want to talk with you,” Roman ran a hand through the Child’s hair, trying to keep steady as he did so. “About what we’re going to do. It’s going to be really big. But it’ll fix everything, and we need your help for it.”
The Child leaned into his hand still, rolling his head to the side so Roman’s hand pressed against his cheek. He stared at the wall for a bit and Roman could not have fathomed what he may have been thinking.
“Okay.”
Roman hummed in approval, then gently nudged the Playwright’s side. “Give me a moment with the Child, please.”
The Playwright nodded, and the Child shuffled besides Roman, pressing into his side as the Playwright slipped out of the room and back into the living room.
The door closed quickly behind him and he jumped at the sound.
This whole situation felt…he knew he was missing his memories. Roman must have removed them. Blunt force trauma wouldn’t last this long without Imaginative interventions, no wounds do, really. But that didn’t make him feel any better.
That meant the Playwright had known something and Roman, specifically, had decided that he should not be allowed to know it. Not only that, he’d taken out everything. The Director and, fuck, even the Child knew more than him. There was a lot of context that the Playwright was missing. Why was he even here? He should ask to leave but if he’d left, who knew what the Director and Roman would do? And it wasn’t like they were telling him to leave. Would they let him leave? Was he a prisoner or something?
The Director was sitting on the couch, staring at the wall. There was no window and beyond this was a labyrinth, the Playwright knew. It was very intricate. The Director must have made it but the Playwright didn’t know what for.
Was the Director the Minotaur, trapped at the center for being a monster? Or was he Alice, lost in Wonderland, a world he didn’t understand? Was he in charge? There was no way he was in charge, not with Roman around. But Roman deferred to him on certain things, as if Roman wanted him to be in charge. But didn’t Roman recognize that the Director, the parts of him that Roman wanted to rule, were also parts of himself?
This felt so familiar. Where did the Playwright fit into this, where did Roman fit into this? What did they want out of this? His head hurt just thinking of it.
The Director was on edge. As much as he was reclining on a couch, he was staring daggers into the wall, jaw set and brow creased ever so slightly, enough to be stressed. His leg was bouncing, too, and his finger was scratching into the couch. What had him so tense?
And the Child. It was literally a Child. He’d been running in the woods when the Playwright approached, and he’d initially flinched. He said people were searching for the Playwright, that he’s been missing. Why wouldn’t he have told anyone where he was going? Was the Director a secret? Why?
He was just a child.
The Playwright winced. They had a headache growing strong, had one since they woke up, but it was swelling now. The pressure built behind their eyes.
They sat quietly for only a moment before the Playwright began. “I’m afraid for the Child.”
“Why?” The Director didn’t look up.
“What do you have planned?” Knowing might put the Playwright more at ease, but the Director just shook his head.
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
A misdirect, and a weak one at that. The Director didn’t sound very confident in and of himself.
“I feel like I have to,” the Playwright crossed their arms, sitting upright enough to crack their back. “Your plans are just…to change him. How much?”
How much can you simply change someone? They weren’t as malleable as characters. Roman probably knew that, though.
Did the Director? Maybe. He glanced up at the Playwright, eyes tired, and he rolled them slightly. Like explaining this plan would be a chore. “As much as is needed,” a non-answer. “Playwright, the planning part is my job. Your brain’s probably still fried.”
At the reminder, the Playwright felt a throb of pain in his forehead, just behind his eyes. He scrunched his nose and lifted his glasses, gently massaging his forehead and pressing on his eyes. It was as if he had a migraine. He shouldn’t be capable of those, though.
Likely another symptom of Roman’s memory removal. It could be his mind trying to remember things and finding the blockade.
In any case, the stress had been exacerbating the pain in his temples, and there seemed to be little he was going to accomplish by talking with the Director.
In fact, thinking was getting harder.
Maybe he was a captive here, and maybe that was his chain, the Playwright thought angrily. Maybe this is part of whatever “plan” the Director has.
“Mm. My head does hurt.” Rat bastard probably knew why, too, and wasn’t telling him. Maybe the Child was right. “I would have hoped that…oh, nevermind.”
The Director tutted once and the Playwright, in a show of patience, did not kill him. “If your head hurts, you should go lay down. Take a nap.”
A nap did sound nice. It was night time anyway and he wasn’t meant to sleep, he didn’t technically need it, but now his body felt as if it should.
He stood, and then he leaned back, holding the top of the couch, as the world violently lurched around him. Dizzy, he thought dimly.
“Shit, are you okay?” the Director asked.
There was a hand on his side, holding him steady. The Playwright nodded, covering his mouth. Suddenly, the lights in the room were too bright and the sound of the Director breathing beside him was too loud.
“I’ve developed a migraine,” he stated. “Do you have pajamas? I’m going to take you up on that-” oh, the nausea. “On the nap.”
“Uh, yes. Yeah, lemme grab them.”
He felt the Director’s hand leave. While the Director gathered him a pajama set, he slowly stood upright, squinting into the room without his glasses on. It helped alleviate the tension slightly, but he should still rest his eyes. And his brain.
The Director returned, gently nudging him with a stack of clothing. “Here. These should work.”
The Playwright took them with a nod. “Thank you. If you or Roman or the Child need me, feel free to wake me up.”
He shuffled out from around the couch, slowly making his way back toward the room he’d woken up in. At least he knew there was a bed there.
Behind him, the Director said, “Sleep well, Playwright. I’ll call if we need you.”
The Director was pretty sure, before this, the Playwright didn’t need sleep.
They fuckin’ broke the Playwright.
They were supposed to regenerate back up to whatever state they were in before injury. After getting his head bashed in, the Director had expected the Playwright to make a full recovery. That’s what happened to the Damsel after getting fucking flayed by the Dragon, right? Why the fuck was the Playwright needing sleep and having headaches, then?
He waited until he heard the soft closing door before turning around to stare at the wall.
One hand dragged slowly through his hair.
The Director closed his eyes.
It felt like things were wrong. Ever since he’d told Roman his theory, he’d had a nagging suspicion that things were going wrong. Like they weren’t supposed to happen. This all wasn’t supposed to happen, maybe he was wrong. But if his theories were right, then this should be how they fix Roman’s relationship with the others. This should be how they win the other Sides’ affection, attention, and assurance back.
An hour passed. Then another.
It seemed like Roman was staying in the room with the Child. After the third hour, the Director dimmed the lights in the living room and retired himself to his room. Unlike the Playwright, he needed sleep, and he’d always needed sleep.
Sleep likely wouldn’t be coming tonight, though. The Director sat upright in his bed, staring out the window besides it. He’d made himself a bed in his window’s nook, staring out at the waterfall. A while ago, the Playwright had told him that there was a river that ran through the kingdom, that it fell off into the Subconscious here. It was beautiful to watch the water run down, slipping into the misty nothingness below, sunlight and moonlight bouncing off its course. And at least it was something to look at.
The Director was a master of scenery. He controlled the outcomes and the place. It bothered him that he didn’t control more, but thinking of what the others could do, there wasn’t much option to control people. He couldn’t just control the Playwright, make him into a yes-man for his plans. He couldn’t control the Child enough to fix him, that’s why the kid had to die. But Roman could. Roman snapped his fingers and erased the Playwright’s entire fuckin’ history. The Director didn’t know why they were killing the Child when Roman could just make the changes he needed to.
It was scraping so close to the inevitable and the Director didn’t want to.
He needed to be confident. If he wasn’t confident in himself, then what was he confident in? What could he do?
He didn’t sleep much. There was so much to think about. He managed to go to sleep eventually, only to be awoken early in the morning, before even daybreak. Anxiety wasn’t an unusual emotion. He’d been apprehensive about talking with the Playwright, way back when.
Before making any decisions, the Director had followed the other advisors. He’d seen what the Dragon did to the Damsel. He’d been at the ball — or, rather, the outskirts of it, straying closer and closer to the castle until he saw fire raining from the ceiling. He’d seen the thunderstorm and decided that was the last straw, when he stood beneath the Tree and closed his eyes and expected, silently, to die. Only to live again. To hide in the forest again and return to the home he’d made for himself. And when the Playwright approached him….well. Lets just say he didn’t necessarily trust whatever “change” the others had undergone. And whatever it did change, it certainly didn’t help Roman, did it?
Still, though, he couldn’t get over a nagging feeling that he was missing something.
The Child had been so earnest. It was a little scary, really. How easily he’d trusted the Director. And how clearly he’d seen that the Child just…wanted Roman to be happy. Plain. Simple.
The Child is simple, yes. It made sense.
Maybe everyone was much more simple than the Director had made them out to be.
Maybe all of this was for naught.
The Director got himself a late night drink, a black coffee mixed with Irish cream liqueur, hoping it might be warm enough to sedate his worries and alcoholic enough that it would knock him out. While he made it, there wasn’t any sound from the room with Roman and the Child. It felt like he was alone again…peaceful, in a way.
Cradling the mug served to warm his hands but he couldn’t silence the quarrels in his head. He had to commit. As much as he was afraid, he had to commit. He wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t be.
“This is…” the Director exhaled slowly. “Fine.”
He took a sip of his coffee mixture.
The water outside continued to fall. The window was so cold.
“Roman thinks it’s going to work. He said I’m right.”
The Director didn’t know who he was talking to. He could see his own reflection in the window, so maybe it was just himself.
“It’s going to work. I trust him.”
Did he? Did he, though?
He was a part of Roman — or, he used to be, at least — and if he wasn’t sure of this, then what universe was there where Roman was sure?
Oh, if the Director didn’t trust Roman, who would he have?
“If he thinks it’s going to work, then it’s gonna fucking work.”
He set the glass down once he realized how hard his hands were shaking. “I know what I’m doing,” he repeated, like they were lines to a play. “Roman knows what he’s doing. It’s going to be perfect. This’ll fix everything, it’ll fix everything, it’ll be fine, fine.
“The kid’ll go away and-and Roman’ll be okay. It’ll be fine. It’ll be better than fine.”
The Director’s hands wrung through his hair, then he yanked them away. He couldn’t get the blood off his hands; he’d washed them of course, but he could keep seeing his hands coated red. Thick, red, dripping…
That was the first time he’d met any of them that wasn’t the Playwright. And kudos to the Playwright, but he was kind of cynical, kind of judgemental. The Director was, too, but the Playwright had a lot more conviction and a lot harder of a time shutting up. The Director liked keeping his cards close.
He’d had a lot of opinions on the Child but actually meeting the kid…he hadn’t meant to make a mess of things. And he wasn’t nearly as stupid as the Director had thought he’d be.
The Director couldn’t afford all this second-guessing.
“Roman’ll be that much better without the kid. We don’t fucking need the kid. We don’t.”
If he was wrong, he’d’ve killed part of Roman for no reason.
He’d’ve killed the most optimistic, the happiest, maybe the most Roman part of Roman based on a hunch and bias.
“We don’t. We don’t.”
The Director shook his head and curled his legs up to his chest, staring out the window. He should go take a melatonin pill or something. Maybe he can trouble the Playwright to make him something to quell the anxiety so he can fucking sleep.
Tomorrow, they were going to do something, fix the Child, something. Get rid of him, who knows. The Director didn’t. He had ideas and hunches but he didn’t know for sure if the Child needed to die. But Roman seemed like he knew. But maybe Roman only knew because the Director knew. Maybe the Director knew because he thought Roman knew but Roman knew because he thought the Director knew.
No, they had to be confident. No second-guessing.
“We don’t. We don’t fucking need him.”
God, he was so stressed.
When a hand rested on his shoulder, the Director didn’t hesitate to grab the gun stowed behind his pillow and whip the person in front of him with the handle.
He reached into the drawer beside his window bed, throwing his blanket out at the person and launching himself upright. His door hadn’t opened — ostensibly it could be Roman, but Roman knew better, and the Playwright and him were both more inclined to use the door. The Director knew the Thief, however, could get wherever he needed to in a pinch.
He grabbed the ammunition out of his bedside drawer and loaded it as quick as could be. It wasn’t until he’d cocked the gun and had its muzzle toward the person, standing over them, when he realized who it was.
Janus’ bowler hat had been knocked over in the attack, sitting on the ground besides himself. He was rubbing his face with a hiss, the Director’s blanket thrown off on the ground in front of him.
A real Side.
How had Deceit, of all of them, get in here…?
“Janus,” the Director grunted.
Janus looked up at him, red and dislodged scales around his left eye, and he winced. “Who are you?” he asked.
“None of your concern,” the Director held his gun with both bloodied hands, glare hard and guarded. “How did you get here?”
He should shoot him. Put a bullet through his head and while the Imagination fixed him — you can’t kill a Side, same as trying to kill the advisors, and the Imagination would heal them the same way — he could get Roman and they could figure out what to do. But he also didn’t know if Roman would want to deal with Janus right now. Fuck, the Director barely wanted to deal with him.
They’d never met and, yet, the Director fucking hated him.
But the idea of more bloodshed in his home…fuck. He didn’t realize he was going to be such a baby about violence.
“You were lying. To yourself,” Janus explained, slowly raising his hands as he noticed the gun pointed at himself. “Why do you have a gun?”
“To get rid of intrusive snakes,” the Director snapped.
Janus’ lips pressed tighter.
They needed to move him. Get him out of here. They could bother Roman. The Director didn’t feel comfortable making this kind of decision without him.
With one hand, he reached down and grabbed Janus by the shoulder, hoisting him onto his legs. Janus hissed again at the motion but the Director, about his height and a little brawnier, just shoved him forward toward the door.
“I imagine you’re looking for Roman,” the Director asked.
“Who are you?” Janus asked.
The Director clicked his tongue against his teeth in disdain. “Out,” he said, opening the door and pushing his gun against Janus’ back.
He usually practiced shooting above ground, but he’d fired it into the stone maze before, so he knew how loud it could be. If he had to shoot, it’d wake everyone. But he didn’t actually want to shoot Janus. He didn’t want to hurt the other Sides. If it were necessary, he could, but he didn’t want to. Everything could be fixed just by fixing Roman.
That didn’t mean he hadn’t half a mind to beat the shit out of Janus for what he’d done. That didn’t mean the Director, like all the other advisors, wasn’t fuming at him. If he did do something drastic to Janus, then it’d’ve served him right.
The Director pointed toward the couch. “Sit down. I’m going to try getting Roman.”
Dutifully, Janus sat.
The Director kept his gun out but lowered it, more worried about not shooting Roman or the Child. And he knocked on the door both had gone into earlier.
“Roman?” he called. “Janus is here.”
No response.
The Director knocked harder. “Roman,” he almost shouted before trying to handle.
Locked.
Damnit. Well, alright.
He could throw Janus out into the maze. It’d take him a while. It usually took the Thief a few hours before getting out and, much credit to the Thief, the Director was confident that he was smarter than Janus.
The Director sighed. This was unideal. He didn’t have a dungeon or anything to chuck Janus into. Maybe he should consider one.
Not for this, though. Tomorrow, once Roman woke up, they’d figure out what to do with him.
“Alright,” the Director grunted. “Up.”
“Are you the Director?” Janus was looking at him, snake-eye swelling a bit from the blow.
The Director stared at him for a few seconds.
Janus knew he’d hit the mark. His face stung, but this blonde person leveling a gun at him had all the makings of an advisor.
He was stunned by Janus’ appearance. He was holding a whole fucking gun. And Roman was here. He’d made a good call on transporting to wherever this liar was but maybe it was a little too soon, a little too late, because now, he was realizing, he hadn’t the faintest clue on how to get the other Sides’ attention. How was he supposed to let them know he’d found the Director?
“When Roman wakes up, we’re going to talk about what to do with you,” the Director hissed. “Until then. You’re going in the maze.”
The maze?
Before Janus could ask any questions about it, the couch split open beneath him. Janus fell straight down into a tube, blown and suctioned by strong winds as he went down and looped back up a different tube. The sides were smooth marble, painful to slam against, and he protected his head.
The ride only lasted maybe a minute before he was spat out onto hard stone. Janus stayed curled on the ground for a few more moments after being deposited, hands curled around his head. He had no idea if he would be moving again and he didn’t know what in god’s name the “maze” meant.
Once he was confident he’d be staying here, he looked around, blinking at the pitch dark.
For anyone else, it would be impossible to see. For Janus, however, with his snake eye, he could slightly see in the dark. It wasn’t perfect, especially with absolutely no light sources — his phone. Janus reached into his pocket and turned on his phone’s flashlight.
He was in a corridor surrounded on all sides by stone. The corridor extended forward in front of him as well as backwards. And it looked like there was a turn somewhere forward.
The maze, huh.
There was a dent in the wall in front of himself, like someone had struck the wall with a weapon, and the dents formed a crude arrow pointing right. There was another arrow pointing left that had been slashed through. Someone else had been in this maze before.
Janus exhaled and hoped the others would arrive soon.
He took a step forward.
A series of bars sprang up from the ground and into the ceiling, trapping him into one corner.
WARNINGS: a bit of a scuffle and a black eye — i don't think there's much else but, as usual, if you spot something and think it should be flagged, please let me know!
Words: 5,884
here it is on AO3!
here are the MtB masterpost and the full Chivalry series masterpost!
enjoy!!
As much as Roman had mentioned her, none of them really thought the Dragon Witch would be a real person. Or, rather, real character. Someone this real. A house. A role.
She was draped in very regal, medieval clothing. A scarf was wrapped around her hair, so long that the ends billowed and glittered above her cape. When she walked, it was hard to tell if her legs were moving down there or if she was just hovering in a line. Logan watched to see. He was impressed by the accuracy of her clothing. Sure, her dress was much closer to the fourteenth century than the fifth, when King Arthur allegedly ruled, but Roman must have put in a lot of thought to make her as accurate as he did to a time period, at least. And Logan was pretty sure that was an accurate way of pinning a headscarf. Roman must have done his research. Or Remus, because he seemed familiar with her.
Remus was chatting away in answer of her questions. Given that her home was on his side, it was probably safe to assume he knew her. Maybe they were friendly, even. That made her seem a little less of a stranger, like he were following the connected threads between them, though it still made her seem hostile. Someone that was friendly toward Roman and Remus both. Everyone was still trying to wrap their heads around the idea that the twins were friendly toward each other. Remus had seemed so concerned about his brother.
Out of all of them, Janus just wanted to talk with Roman. That’s all.
There hasn’t exactly been opportunity for it given Romans hatred of him now. But it was warranted somewhat. But if only Roman could understand that it was for Thomas’ good, that it was for the best.
If only he’d allow Janus to make his case. This was just so frustrating.
And none of these advisors WERE Roman. Yes, it was good to talk with them, to hear bits and pieces of what Roman thought of him. The Damsel’s assertion (or, rather, laughter) over how little Roman liked him was enough to fully convince him that he needed to talk with Roman specifically. Not any part of him. No fragmented communication was as useful or as thorough as a direct conversation. But, well. Thomas nor Roman were known for their abilities of confrontation.
As they walked deeper into the cave, the sides began straightening and smoothing out, jagged red surfaces turning into carved walls. At some point, the torches and lanterns shifted into chandelier lights, and the scorched rock beneath their feet turned into a thick gray rug.
The Damsel and the Thief were following closely after her as well. Janus brought up the rear, continuing to hide from view, but he wanted to get a better view. Virgil was next up at the front, eyeing everything with an air of distrust. This was technically Remus’ side, that’s where she lived. But this newcomer, the Witch, seemed to be influenced by both Creativities. Virgil was trying to size her up.
“Should we introduce ourselves?” Patton whispered to Logan while they walked.
It must not have been quiet enough because she turned to look over her shoulder at them. Patton let out a small “meep,” but she chuckled warmly.
“You don’t have to, but you can if you would like. I know who you are, Morality,” the Witch had a cackle in her voice, just a little foreboding.
“Makes sense. Did Roman tell you about us?” Virgil asked.
She nodded. “A lot more than you would think. And Remus. I’ve heard a lot about you all over the years.”
Logan tilted his head at the phrasing. “Over the years?” he repeated. “How long have you existed?”
To that, the Dragon Witch just grinned. It was hard to tell if she meant it to be intimidating or if that happened accidentally, because she had rows of jagged dragon teeth. “Longer than you would expect, Logic.”
He glanced to the side, swallowing the excess water in his mouth. The motion made her laugh, at least, and she waved her hand.
“I was among the first forms that the Imagination made. Back when…Before Roman and Remus,” she sighed, looking back down the hall. “Come. The others are waiting for us.”
The Witch continued walking down the hall and, now, Remus was quiet. He was skipping, but he looked back at all of them with some kind of smugness.
Happy that they understood. Or, rather, were going to understand. Maybe they understood nothing. These fuckers were SO confident in their everythings that when things like this, people like Vi and things like the Tree, evidence of their depth, whenever that was displayed, they all seemed to lose it. And Remus kind of reveled in it? He loved throwing them off, surprising them. It wasn’t that hard. But it felt fulfilling.
Roman needed their help, though. Remus scowled at the thought, but that didn’t change how true it was. That’s half what he was, he was the truth-teller, he was the one without secrets. Without things to hide. He was an open book and the writing on the pages. Roman was the actor, the one who wanted no one to know anything about the reality of him. Remus was only ever a secret because no one, not Janus, not Thomas, no one ever wanted to ask.
Oh, he was going to beat the ever loving shit out of Roman for making him be responsible like this. Oh! The fucking nerve!
At the end of the hall was an ornate door and a very normal looking shoe rack, almost homely, almost intimidating. Vi didn’t take off any shoes but Remus immediately dropped to the floor, one leg kicking out in a death drop, and then began trying to pull his knee-length boots off.
Virgil, out of everyone, snorted at the motion. He’d been digging his nails into his palms for the whole walk, trying to size the Dragon Witch up. Unlike the Dragon or even the Damsel, it was hard. She was nothing like how she looked. Like, right now she just looked really pristine. But when she was a dragon, she was bigger than THE Dragon. Virgil had felt her nails. And she had Remus batting for her.
It was enough of a threat that she was friends with Remus. But she was also with Roman.
That was important, all of them were thinking.
What did it mean, she’d known Remus and Roman before they were two separates? They could barely remember Creativity, when he was around. The split had happened when they were so young, when they first started daydreaming, really. Patton remembered him the most, but…only the wonder and the horror.
They all had slowly taken off their shoes, dropping them near the shoe rack. Once everyone’s shoes were off, the Dragon Witch waved a hand toward the door, and its lock clicked unceremoniously. Inside was a homely foyer, like the inside of a Victorian house. Not much like a cave.
Patton was the first in, as usual, looking around with less apprehension and more curiosity. He was followed almost immediately by Remus, who barged in and shouted, “HEY FUCKOS, GUESS WHO’S HOME!”
Logan took a moment to organize the shoes in a row out of the way of the hall, the last one into the house. Once he was in, the door snapped shut, with the Dragon Witch still standing by it.
“Thank you,” she hummed. “You’re very organized.”
Logan didn’t know how to feel about that. He tried not to. “I do appreciate order,” he agreed.
At that, she chuckled.
“AYOOOOOO REMUS,” they heard the Dragon shout from around an opening forward. It looked like it led to a kitchen of sorts.
“You’re very afraid of disorder. I don’t know why. It doesn’t bite,” the Dragon Witch continued with Logan, and then she gestured toward the opening, saying louder for everyone, “Everyone’s in the dining room.”
The Sides didn’t seem very ready to move on. The foyer was huge, photos lining the walls, a coatrack with some cloaks and jackets that could belong to either of the twins. Patton was looking over the photos, many of which looked like paintings. Virgil was to one of his sides, eyeing Janus, who was at the other.
The twins had managed to hide all of this. Janus’ eyes were glued to a photo, an old one, a polaroid that was framed. It was of Roman and Remus, both maybe ten years old. They were holding foam swords and standing on top of a dragon, looking proud — the very same Dragon Witch who was ushering them into the dining area.
“Everyone’s here. They bring updates, so I’ve heard,” the Dragon Witch explained as she drifted into the dining area.
The Thief and the Damsel were first to lead the pack in, but their departure drew Logan. The room was an interesting look into a past that none of them were privy to. Remus followed close behind, familiar with these things.
Around the room were mementos of the past. Family photos of Remus and Roman as children. As teenagers. The Dragon Witch in the background and holding hands with both, her hands curling over both of their shoulders like a proud mother. There were a few paintings and decor on the walls, too. One of Remus and Roman standing over her dragon form, as if having won a fight, and even she looked happy about it.
Patton stayed by the wall, eyes turned upward at everything. There was so much history here, so much he hadn’t known. They hadn’t even known Roman and Remus were friends, really. They seemed to not like each other quite a bit. So this was interesting. Even hearing the Damsel was calling Remus in to help was unexpected. But…well. He shouldn’t assume to know everything about Roman, right, after all of this.
It was settling in, how much they’d all assumed. How much he’d assumed, Patton specifically. He thought he knew enough about Roman to be able to guess what he might be thinking or what he might want…but if he didn’t even know what Roman’s relationship to Remus looked like…
How much was Roman hiding? How much of his own feelings was he hiding?
Had he been hiding them at all? Had Patton just not been looking, not been paying attention? Had none of them been paying enough attention?
Had none of them asked? Even Virgil seemed surprised by everything, and Virgil had been on Roman’s side.
The Bard was helping bandage something on the Artist’s shoulder, his paint-covered hoodie sitting on the ground by his feet. It looks like they’d gotten into a scuffle with one of Remus’ creations, to which Remus acknowledged with a loud snort. The Artist shot him a glare.
“Don’t hate the player,” Remus put his hands up in mock surrender.
At least the playful sentiment got the Artist to roll his eyes. It must be a familiar argument.
The Thief shuffled besides the Bard, who looked up to him with a wan grin.
“Hey, hey,” he greeted, voice soft, but the smile dropped as he saw the Thief’s expression. “What’s wrong?”
The Thief, jaw firmly set, looked away.
The Damsel, too, grimaced. Neither of them seemed to want to say anything about it.
Janus would have been fine breaking the news had he not been wary of the other advisors being upset with him. Logan opened his mouth to explain, but the Dragon interrupted.
“Wait,” the Dragon asked, wings falling to his sides with a scowl. “Where’s Gavin?”
The Artist perked up, brow furrowing, and the Bard blinked in surprise. His eyes scanned through the crowd again — Virgil shoved his hands further into his pockets, dreading the upcoming confrontation — before he turned around to the Thief again.
“....Eric, I’m so sorry,” the Bard whispered, tucking the final bit of bandage around the Artist’s arm quickly. “Eric, baby.”
The Artist stood, stepping away from the Bard and the Thief as he put his clothing back on. When he moved away, the Thief all but collapsed into his vacant seat, and the Bard quickly wrapped his arms around the Thief’s cloaked figure.
They pressed into each other, the Bard biting his lip worriedly, and the Thief just…curled up. His arms pressed into his chest and he fought against the safety of the Bard’s embrace, trying to keep himself from crying, because if he thought too hard about how he’d failed the Child…
“The Child has gone missing,” Logan explained, voice more gentle, now.
No one interrupted. The Dragon nodded, mouth pressed into a firm line. The Damsel had shuffled to sit at the table beside him and he knocked his crowned head against the Dragon’s hip.
“Do you have any-any theories, Logan? I have one, but I would-I am interested in-in your analysis,” the Damsel invited.
Oh. Logan tried to keep his surprise to a minimum, but it was difficult. He hadn’t anticipated being called on like that.
Patton wrapped his arm around Logan’s, though kept quiet, as if he understood how big this moment was. As if it were anything at all. Virgil sat down; Janus elected to stand closer to the Dragon Witch. The animosity was lowest here.
“Well,” Logan began, clearing his throat. “Evidence tells us that something happened to the Playwright. And regardless of if he’d gone willingly to his assailant, it would stand to reason that, should they attack again, they would expect your guards to be up. Two is unlikely to be a coincidence, in this situation. I would hazard…that it could be three. That perhaps the Playwright and the Child are in the same place as Roman.”
The Damsel nodded in agreement, lips pursed. Janus, too, hummed softly. They were all on the same wavelength. They didn’t know where Roman went, but with advisors being kidnapped, it was all the more reason to believe either Roman too was kidnapped, or Roman…might be doing the kidnapping. To what ends, though? And is he alone?
“Hey, Eric,” the Artist asked.
He’d put his jacket back on and was rotating the shoulder that the Bard had just bandaged. He wasn’t as much of a tactical fighter as he was a no-holds-barred-anything-goes fighter. He was struck and he’d live with that injury, since the Bard was trying to conserve energy. And his arms were full of the Thief. If only the Playwright were here, though….
The Thief turned ever so slightly toward the Artist, and Virgil got the sinking suspicion that no matter what the Artist asked, it wouldn’t end well. The Artist must have had a similar understanding, because he put his hands up in as nonthreatening a way as he could.
“I don’t mean this in like, a judgemental way, but…what happened?”
Oh, god. No.
Janus winced at the question, and Virgil hunched more in on himself. He was sitting by the Damsel, almost hidden behind him, with Patton to his other side. Hopefully this wouldn’t be too explosive.
Whatever contrarian energy the Thief may have had earlier dissipated, though, as his shoulders slumped. Maybe it was the precursor that the Artist wasn’t trying to accuse, and maybe it was because they were searching for the same thing.
“Gav and I had an argument. He…He wanted to go out, help find Playwright with you all. I said we had to stay safe, stay home, keep everyone else out of trouble,” the Thief’s voice was heavy with grief as he explained. “I…when I was washing the dishes, I lost track of him. Or maybe even before that. I didn’t even hear the door open.”
He shook his head. The Artist winced at the explanation, as did the Dragon. And the Bard gave the Thief a squeeze.
It seemed that everyone knew how harsh this blow was to him. Logan wondered, what did this mean for everyone, that they were so intertwined. What was the impact on Roman. You’d hope that it meant Roman was at ease with himself.
After all, everyone was working together here. But Roman was the only outlier, he seemed to be in disagreement with all of them.
There were rarely moments where Thomas was in disagreement with all of the Sides. Considering how these advisors were like Sides to Roman…Logan rubbed his jaw a little in thought.
Thomas would turn on most of them if he was listening to one specifically. Similar to the play years ago, the one Deceit disguised as Patton had them put on, Thomas was only paying attention to one Side.
Perhaps Roman was listening to only one of them.
But all seven were here, in agreement, and Roman was nowhere to be found.
Were there seven?
“We didn’t find much over here,” the Artist confessed. “Just got here, actually, a few minutes before y’all.”
It felt like an effort to change to a more productive topic. The Artist blew out a long exhale before shaking his head. “I’m sorry, man. We’re going to find them.”
“I don’t know who…” the Thief’s voice trailed off.
“I’m telling you, I didn’t do anything with anyone, and no one I’ve made’d really do that. Everyone with a brain knows not to meddle with you meddlesome kids!” Remus squeaked in dismay, and then he cocked his head to the side in thought. Then, he shook his head again. “Nope, none’ve them’d.”
“Them’d?” the Damsel asked, and Remus snorted at him.
“I haven’t noticed anyone traversing too oddly, other than the border dweller. And even he’s been more reclusive lately,” the Dragon Witch agreed with a hum.
“Oh, a new border dweller? You’ve got a neighbor?” Remus asked.
Logan looked up immediately. That would make sense.
“We should stay on—” the Damsel tried to interrupt, but the Dragon Witch let out a small chuckle in continuation. His authority meant less here, anyway. And meant less to the Dragon Witch.
For good reason, too. “No, no, Roman’s border. The advisor,” the Dragon Witch waved a clawed hand. “He’s been lovely the few times we’ve spoken, but he’s a bit paranoid. He might know something.”
The word advisor sat with everyone for a long while. It took some understanding at the insinuation.
An advisor, who lived near the border between Roman and Remus’ edges of the Imagination. The Damsel frowned in confusion at the Dragon Witch, mouthing “border?” to himself. The Dragon must not have caught the insinuation at all, because he seemed even more confused by everyone else’s silence.
Slowly, the Thief peeled off the Bard with a squinted, teary-eyed face to stare at the Dragon Witch. Even the Artist was watching her, brow pinched but mouth hanging open.
“Excuse me?” the Bard asked, teeth gritted. He seemed to have made the connection first. “Sorry, advisor like. Like us, advisor?”
“That’s who Roman has been listening to,” Logan said.
Patton frowned, nudging his side gently. “What do you mean?”
“If the advisors are Roman’s Sides….well, we’ve seen what happens when Thomas only considers the opinions of one of us. He acts drastically and without much forethought. Roman seems to be acting the same way,” Logan explained, though he kept his gaze on the agitated advisors watching him. “It means he could be solely listening to another advisor.”
The Dragon Witch must not have known this border dweller was new, because she looked worried. She put a hand over her mouth and turned aside, breaking eye contact with the Bard.
He winced, waving his hand and approaching. “Hey. Hey, Vi. Do you mean advisor like us?”
“....Yes. No wonder he’s not here,” she responded. “I thought you knew of him. He mentioned he’s met some of you.”
The other advisors were missing something. Some sort of crucial information, some epiphany, some kind of connection, because it looked like something was happening in the brains of all of Roman’s advisors. The Dragon’s confused frown turned angry, the Damsel’s hardened into a scowl. The Bard was helpless, frown tight and nostrils flared as he glanced at the Artist, whose eyes were wide. His mouth was slightly open still, but now from breathing.
Virgil reached over and held his hand. At the very least, the Artist gripped back tight. All this tension was going to make the search later a lot harder, no one’d be able to focus.
The only person who seemed to not be angry was the Thief, who had been staring idly at the Dragon Witch’s feet, eyebrows raising. He must have been making some kind of realization, though, because his hand shot up to his mouth.
“Oh my god,” the Thief mumbled, voice muffled. “Oh my god, I think I’ve met him.”
The Artist turned so hard his back cracked, and he winced in pain, though he was undeterred from shouting, “YOU HAVE?”
The Thief nodded, eyes closing tight. He hadn’t thought it was real, but if this was someone new, someone who lived by the edge, and was going to start kidnapping them all….well. He always thought he was just good at escaping things. “I…I thought he was…I’ve-I probably have. Maybe I’m going insane. I don’t know. But I think I’ve been-I’ve had dreams where I wake up at the edge. And if there’s one of us that lives there, that’s on the border into the Subconscious normally, then it’s him. It has to be. It can’t not be.”
A dream. It sounded less plausible the more they turned it over in their minds. Janus scoffed — a dream — and Logan bit his tongue to not say anything, but the reality of their situation was damning.
It didn’t sound likely that a dream was where this mysterious eighth would introduce themselves, though dreams were as real as reality here. More than just the other Sides must have drawn this conclusion, because the Damsel pointedly put his hands behind his back, shoulders stiff and hiked. Guarding his own thoughts, as always. Or maybe guarding himself from the riling Artist, whose hands were pulling through his hair hard enough to pull his bun out of order.
“I’d’ve thought the one of us who knew him was Playwright,” the Artist shouted finally. “That fucker was always knowing more than he ever fucking said. He fucking-God DAMNIT.”
The Dragon leaned over, putting his hands on the Artist’s back in as comforting a way as he could, but the Artist just let go of Virgil’s hand and shrugged the Dragon’s hands off of himself. He jumped to his feet, pacing with his fists curled. Anger dripped off him.
The colors on his sweater, swirling and abstract, tinged orange. “He fucking-He promised Roman he’d find all of us. He probably fucking found this other guy—Vi, what’s his name?”
Everyone’s eyes returned to the Dragon Witch, who’d backed up a step. Her hands smoothed down the front of her shirt and she cleared her throat softly. It was something more painful than fear that danced in her expression as she played with the hem of her cape.
“He called himself the Director,” she confessed. “I’m so sorry, I…when I met him, he seemed level-headed. I didn’t expect this of him.”
The Director. As ominous a name as the Damsel, or the Dragon, or the Thief. Their titles were telling.
The Damsel turned the name over in his head. Director. Someone who sees themselves as a leader. But not in the same way as a Prince, no. They see it as fake. As a facade that they run and, well, more than lead. Direct. They have opinions. Strong ones.
Immediately, he likens the Director to himself. And…when he was formed, he had some pretty objectionable goals. With the disappearance of the Playwright and the Child gone…with Roman gone…could this Director be a catalyst of some sort? Some other conflict-resolution member? Why would he be hiding in the woods? Why would he have waited all this time?
Had he been alone, holed up by himself, when the likeness to Roman faded away? Had the brown hair and brown eyes, charming voice and sturdy posture, faded away into something else without him understanding why? It had ostensibly been years since then, though the Sides only experienced it in mere months. Did Roman know about him? Or had Roman happened upon him?
Did he get Roman to do this?
Logan met his eyes in a quick glance. They must be thinking similar questions.
They should get going. With a new player, there’s no telling what this Director would have Roman do. Even a name like that…gave implications.
“It sounds like a fair assumption, that Marlowe would know and wouldn’t say anything. He does seem the type to keep things close to his chest,” Janus quipped, shaking his head. “In any case, we should—”
The Artist’s fist collided with his snake eye before he could finish the sentence.
Janus was so surprised and there was so much energy rolled into the attack that he was knocked off his feet, stumbling backward and scooting away. Everyone was surprised; the Thief jumped to his feet, sword drawn immediately, while the Dragon’s tail wrapped around the Artist’s arm without warning. The Bard shouted, “DAVID!” in a scandalized way, just behind the Dragon while he pulled the Artist back.
In a quick move, Janus was blocked by Virgil, whose arms were spread out in front of him. He leveled a glare at the Artist, panic and anger matched in tandem. Immediately, too, Patton hurried to Janus’ side, holding his arm and pulling him back even more into his own grip.
The Artist’s eyes were wide, teeth grit in an angry, glaring grimace.
Virgil’s eyes were wider. His hands dropped in front of himself, preparing for the worst. If there were a fight, Virgil knew he could win. He wasn’t a fighter. Thomas wasn’t a fighter. But to protect one of them, he’d do fucking anything.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Virgil hissed, voice dipping lower in panic.
Logan stood by the Damsel, who was watching the scene play out. He glanced at the stoic prince, shoulders and back straight as he surveyed the turmoil, and stood solidly besides him. There wasn’t much they needed to do.
Even while he got yanked away, the Artist’s fists were shaking, and when the Dragon wrapped him in his arms, the Artist tried pulling himself out.
“Let me go, you stupid fucking—fuck,” he snarled. The Artist pointed rough at Janus, who was doing his best to not look over. “Keep Marlowe’s name out of your manipulative fuckin’ mouth, snake!”
The Dragon just sighed, holding him a little tighter. He cast Virgil a look that was bordering on apologetic, and Virgil didn’t move a bit.
Behind him, Patton held Janus’ shoulders gently. Janus hadn’t expected to be attacked, no sir. He knew Roman was pissed at him, so the advisors must be mad with him, but this was out of left field. This was unexpected. He’d messed up, sure, but this was uncalled for.
Roman was insane. He wasn’t in his right mind. Janus was fine to just say sorry and move on. Roman just had to stop being a dramatic baby, pushing him away, LITERALLY PUNCHING HIM.
“Oh,” Patton tutted, and his thumb brushed over Janus’ cheekbone as he cupped his face.
It was a soft hold, and Janus couldn’t help but lean into it ever so slightly. His eye was puffing up already, he could feel it.
“That’s gonna be a black eye,” Patton assessed. “Hey, Logie, can you take a look?”
God fucking damnit. Patton was always so gentle, so caring.
They weren’t dating anymore. That was behind them all now.
Patton leaned into a squat, looking back at Logan for advice, and Logan blinked as if he were surprised. An opportunity to be helpful and dispense some information wasn’t going underutilized, however, so Logan knelt down beside them and inspected Janus’ face as well. While he moved — while the Artist’s struggling in the Dragon’s arms grew weaker — while the Damsel and the Dragon Witch watched — the Bard pulled out his ukulele.
“We’re getting a little too riled up here, eh?” he asked the Thief, who was now hiding his face in his hands, head leant against the Bard’s shoulder.
“There’s a lot to get riled up over, Denny,” the Thief’s voice was muffled in his hands.
The Bard tutted and began to play his ukulele. The sound that escaped was smooth, resonating around the room, soothing like calm waves over everyone in the area. It pushed and pulled attention. He didn’t sing, but the ukulele’s tune did its own work, though a soft pink light danced between the strings and the Bard’s fingers. Maybe it was just his painted nails. Maybe it was something else altogether. He hummed along to the tune.
It was easy to forget the Bard’s healing magic when you weren’t paying attention to him. He swayed side to side as the song loosened the Thief’s shoulders and alleviated the tension behind Janus’ cheek, lifting some of the pain. He waved his hand at Logan and Patton, trying to dissuade worry, but Patton held his hand.
Patton just held his hand.
Janus held back.
Logan stood, reaching down to help pull Janus up as well. Once he was standing, Janus fixed his hat and rubbed the scales by his eye gently. It was going to swell and bruise, but whatever.
In the Dragon’s arms, the Artist’s pushing turned to shaking, body pressed against the Dragon’s broad chest. He rubbed the Artist’s back tenderly before just stranding there, swaying to the Bard’s music as well. He smiled weakly at Janus when they made eye contact.
Maybe the music wasn’t even magic. Maybe it was just the power of a pause in the action, a break in the narrative, giving everyone a moment to collect their thoughts and feelings. The Artist had even begun to cry.
The song began to slow, until the Bard plucked the final string. His humming lasted a little longer, but not by much, and he finally gave the Damsel a smile and a wink.
The Damsel returned the smile warmly. “Thank you, Bard. Your-Your calming nature is always welcomed.”
The Bard attempted a curtsy in his seat, and the Thief snorted at his attempt. “My pleasure, Princey. I hope your eye feels alright, Janey, wouldn’t want that pretty face getting too hurt.”
So forward. But maybe he should expect that from the Bard. He’s not exactly the most subtle one, and he’s often one of the more forgiving, understanding, and kind ones. Janus was still a bit afraid to make eye contact as he stood behind Virgil.
“I do,” he said, staring at the back of Virgil’s hoodie. “Thank you.”
“This is…fine.”
What?
Janus frowned, turning around. Patton and Logan to his either side, flanking him while Virgil still stood in front. While the threat of the Artist was gone, Virgil still seemed hesitant to let Janus and the other advisors talk face to face.
“I’m glad,” the Damsel responded.
His fingers drummed against his cane briefly before he pointed toward the Dragon Witch. “Guinevere. Are you able to take-to take us where you saw the other advisor?”
“It’s going to work. I trust him. If he thinks it’s going to work, then it’s gonna fucking work.”
Janus turned around again. Someone was talking, almost begging something to be real. It wasn’t. It was a lie.
He could hear someone lying to themselves, but everyone else was in front of him. It was so loud. They were lying about something very, very big, so big it was echoing.
“I should be able to, but I don’t know where he lives,” the Dragon Witch explained, still planning with the others. “I can take you to the part of the edge where I saw him.”
Sometimes, he could hear it, when the other Sides told a lie. They were basically incapable of lying to him, he could hear that all the time, but when they were telling huge lies, he could hear it through walls. It was like a beacon drawing him closer. It was something to protect, for him. Something to hide.
He could hear someone lying to themselves. It wasn’t Roman, but it felt like Roman. He didn’t think he could hear the advisors like this, but it had been a long time since he’d been in the Imagination. And if the advisors had a part of Roman’s essence within them, then it stood to reason…
“Roman knows what he’s doing.”
Janus didn’t want to interrupt. He’d caused a lot of problems, and maybe he couldn’t identify them, but he knew they were problems.
“That’s all we need,” the Damsel murmured. “If we poke around enough, we’re sure to find an-to find an entrance.”
“I hear someone,” Janus whispered, soft enough that only the other Sides around him could hear.
“It’s going to be perfect. This’ll….it’ll fix everything.”
“What?” Virgil asked.
“Oh, fuck off,” the Artist scoffed, and the Dragon shushed him harshly.
Janus’ brow furrowed. This plan. The person was trusting Roman and talking about a plan. This had been planned?
“Someone,” his voice was drawn out as he tried to focus on the voice. “Is lying.”
A brief pause floated over the group while they traded looks. Patton was the first to gesture around the room and ask, “Here?”
Janus shook his head. “No,” he frowned at the ground.
“The kid’ll go away and-and Roman’ll be okay. It’ll be fine. It’ll be better than fine, Roman’ll be that much better. Without. The kid.”
Janus’ eyebrows raised.
The implications were staggering, and the weight of the lie was getting stronger. Janus might be able to….
“I think the Director is lying to themself,” Janus stated, eyes wide enough to make his bruised one throb.
“Can you hear it?” Logan asked. After Janus’ ability to hear and appear during heightened deceit was revealed during Roman’s previous breakdown, Logan had wondered how far reaching the ability went, and if it followed into the Imagination. It seemed as though it did.
Janus nodded, then closed his eyes. He had to focus.
“We don’t fucking need the kid. We don’t. We don’t, we don’t, we don’t, we don’t fucking need him.”
“I’m going,” Janus muttered.
Then, he disappeared with a soft popping sound. Virgil flinched, turning around all the way, as if to confirm there was no one behind him now. “JANIE?!” Remus shouted in similar surprise, looking around.
He hadn’t been very privy to the conversation, it seemed. Patton reached over, the lack of a hand in his making him search for Logan's. Luckily, Logan seemed aware, or at least he didn't seem to mind when Patton latched onto him. Virgil let out a long exhale and when he looked up at the other two, his determined gaze found two of the same.
The Damsel stood. With one hand, he patted Remus’ shoulder, and the other he used to lean on his cane. “We have to-We have to go, too, then,” he said, glancing at the Dragon Witch. “Please take us, Vi.”
ID: drawing of Gavin poking both of his cheeks with his fingers and winking at the camera, with his tongue sticking out. There's a star coming off of him. It looks vaguely mischievous.
A/N: me: oh no, AO3 is getting DDoS'ed :( and i just finished a chapter of beliefs so I can post another chapter! damn
me:
me: wait i can post another human chapter
anyways, please stay off AO3 for the time being and here's a post with more information, but they're facing extreme server overloading and opening AO3 pages makes it harder apparently. i don't know, i'm a communicator, not a programmer, so i'm just passing along what i know.
anywho! here's another snippet of the human au i'd been writing. if you would like to read the first part, here is the first snippet, which also has some more background on the au. check here for descriptions of the human au.
this is likely to be the last of this big story i'll be posting. i might post some of the oneshots i have in this au, as i have a few that are sorta unrelated to the plot that i'm comfortable with posting, but...well. we'll see. i finished chapter 13 of more than beliefs so i've 1) begun writing chapter 14 finally and 2) might post chapter 11 soon :D not having anything to do with my life right now is good for catching up on sleep debt and writing fanfiction! yipee!
i hope you enjoy!
Words: 7,265
WARNINGS: having a panic attack and being sad, not much more i don't think but if there is, let me know and i'll make note of it!
(in lieu of a diving image, please take this human au meme LOL)
“So. Bartender. Your name’s Eric, right? That’s what Marl’ said.”
“Mhm,” Eric hummed.
“Thanks for driving them home. Marlowe would’ve flipped tomorrow if he woke up and realized he’d left the car somewhere else. He’s gonna flip either way, though, since the idiot teaches tomorrow morning,” David snickered a little, leaning against the car door in a casual manner.
At the very least, the flippance was making it more evident that David wasn’t, like. Mad at him. Or something. Eric nodded again before remembering that David was now driving. “Uh. Yeah. Would have been a kinda problem.”
“Mm,” David hummed. After a few beats of silence, he added. “You got anything to do tomorrow?”
Tomorrow? Why was he asking? “I, uh, have work at four. At the bar. Other than that, no,” because truthfully, he was only scheduled five days a week at the restaurant.
He tried to get his shifts at the restaurant and his shifts at the bar to not line up, but five days a week at both jobs meant there wasn’t ever a chance of that happening. When he did need a full day off, though, for parent-teacher conferences especially now that Gavin was going to school, he managed to get the exact days precisely. Which was probably because he was so punctual and dependable. Which was what he tried to be. But sometimes, he worried that wouldn’t be enough, so he always clocked the days he’d need two months in advance.
Tomorrow was just a lucky day though, to just have one job and not both. Often they stacked. Sometimes they didn’t.
“Wanna meet up for lunch?” David’s proposition cut through Eric’s tangential thoughts.
He turned to David again now, a slight frown on his lips, before asking, “For lunch?” as if he hadn’t heard properly.
David nodded. “Yep. My treat, for bringing my boys home safe,” he shot Eric another grin. “Also you like, haven’t at all told me where the fuck to go. I’m assuming it’s closer to downtown but unless you just wanna keep driving in circles….”
Fuck. Eric looked out the window for real now, trying to figure out where they were. It was the highway going into town. “You’re going to want to take the Concord exit,” he said.
“Okay,” David said. “But, yeah. Lunch.”
“Lunch,” Eric repeated, quickly averting his eyes back to the dashboard. “You and me and lunch?”
He didn’t really want to look directly at David, but just in case David like. Grabbed him. Or something. Eric wanted to see him in his peripheral. He saw David shrug.
“I mean, yeah. You ever been to Lucy’s on Main? Such a great diner, I used to go with an old girlfriend every night almost,” David pulled off the exit.
“Right. And then left at the, uh….fourth light.”
“Gotcha. Lunch. At Lucy’s on Main?”
Lucy’s on Main wasn’t the fanciest place, but Eric had only been once, and that was for Gavin’s fourth birthday. He liked their theming, even though it wasn’t an actual children’s diner or anything, and Eric was never one to deny his brother when he asked for something achievable.
If he could, he’d get Gavin the world. Snatch it right out of God’s hand
Going there with a stranger, though….if David wasn’t dating like, at least two other people, Eric would be worried this was a flirt attempt. And he wasn’t really in the mood to be romantic. He kinda wanted therapy first? And he hadn’t thought about romance in a while, not since his boyfriend in high school. Now he was an adult with responsibilities, he couldn’t just ditch school and smoke weed by the train station with Schmidt.
This was just some guy being thankful, though, right? And he wasn’t doing anything tomorrow….and the idea of food, especially free food, was pretty enticing. A guaranteed meal would be nice. And at this point, he didn’t think this was going to be a trap. He knew Lucy’s on Main. He wasn’t...this was awkward, but it wasn’t like he was going to get mugged or anything.
The silence dragged, just a bit, and David sighed. “If you wanna say no, you can. I just know this’ probably way outta your ways, and you seem like you’re not gonna kill me and steal my car, so it’d be nice to hang out once and say thanks.” David sounded tired, too.
Though that explanation was pretty straight forward. Eric nodded slowly in something like understanding. If David was worried Eric was going to be mugging him, and Eric was worried that David was going to be mugging him….well, he could just be saying this to get his guard down. Eric knew he consistently looked like his guard was up, more often willing to fight than he wasn’t, but maybe that was off-putting here. Maybe he was the scary one, here.
Ah, the mom friend override.
“No, I, uh. That’d be cool,” Eric said, then cleared his throat and continued. “Thanks for the offer. Would noon work?”
“Yeah, sure,” David smiled as he took the turn onto Concord Avenue. “Meet you there?”
“Sure,” Eric said. “You can pull over anywhere on this block.”
He gestured out the window. His building was maybe two blocks down, but, well. He didn’t want to take this dude all the way to his apartment.
Did he?
No, no he didn’t. Also, his days of one night stands were like, two years long gone. Eric wasn’t about to bring a whole adult (WITH TWO BOYFRIENDS, MIND YOU, AT LEAST TWO) to his tiny apartment at almost four in the morning with his kid brother sleeping in the same bedroom. Like, sure as fuck that wasn’t happening. Regardless of how pretty David looked in the moonlight.
Yeah, he was tired as fuck if he was just going to start mentally waxing poetic about how pretty these boys were. Eric looked around at the car, out the window, then back at David. Who was watching him with a smile ever so slight, almost knowing, almost cocky.
“What, you want a goodnight’s kiss too?” he joked.
Eric snorted, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m just….” Confused.
This was all so much, in one night.
He had a hundred fuckin’ dollars in his pocket?
And David’s boyfriend’s phone number? This dude just drove him home, too, for nothing, and was going to take him out to lunch tomorrow?
“This’ a lot more social interaction in one day than I get most months,” Eric joked, almost confessed really, and shrugged. “It’s also four in the morning.”
“Huh, would you look at that,” David looked at the clock and pulled a face, as if he’d just noticed the time.
Wouldn’t that be a riot? What the fuck was he doing awake, even? Eric snorted, hiding his eyes behind a hand as he laughed. “Stop no, it’s too-it’s too early for this,” he said between laughs as David began to chuckle a little himself.
“Damn right. You head home, get to bed, and make sure you’re up at at LEAST noon!” David waved at Eric as he got out of the car, into the night air.
It nipped at his nose, much colder than he thought it’d be. Granted, he thought he’d still be warm from the bar, too. Eric turned around, waving at David as he whipped a completely not-legal U-turn in the middle of the road, then headed back where he came. It looked like David was going to wait until Eric got into a building, which was kind of nice of him, but once Eric stood still and waved, he hit the reverse. Which was also fair. And also part of Eric’s plan.
He didn’t exactly….Now okay, tomorrow morning this was all going to register as flirting. Eric was going to take off his shirts and lay down in his bed and watch Gavin sleep for maybe fifteen minutes before passing out himself out of just exhaustion while wearing his bartending slacks and without actually being beneath his pillows. He was going to not think about the implications behind the three men’s actions until tomorrow morning, while making breakfast, and he was going to be quiet enough in thought for Gavin to ask if he’d done something wrong while they were on their drive to school.
“No, Gav, you’re fine. Peachy, actually, sweet pea,” Eric said, while he and Gavin waited at a stop light.
Gavin was supposed to hold the motorcycle’s safety restraints while they drove, but more often than not he ended up holding Eric. He had his own safety jacket and belt buckles, which Eric installed as soon as he found out they were a thing. He’d gotten the bike before he’d gotten Gavin, and he wasn’t giving the bike away.
“What’re you sad about?” the kid asked.
The light was still red, so Eric leaned one arm back and gave Gavin one of their bike hugs. Positioning was always awful, but Gavin knew the drill, so he snuggled his helmeted head beneath Eric’s arm for a moment and hugged him tighter.
Now, though, how to like. Explain this to the four year old.
“A friend asked to go to lunch together today,” was what Eric landed on.
Gavin gasped, excitement filling his voice in a way that almost made Eric feel bad. “A friend?! Yay!”
“Yeah, a friend. I’ve got those,” Eric joked.
“Daddy’s got one friend,” Gavin said with his own snicker, and Eric laughed, too.
“Daddy’s got more than one friend,” he said, and for a moment, thinking about the phone number written on the bill at home, he meant it.
Gavin seemed happy with that explanation and with those jokes, and Eric was as happy as he’d let himself be. He dropped Gavin off and promised to pick him up later, told him to have a good day, that he loved him.
Kid’s school got out at 1:38, which would be a fair reason to leave lunch, if it got like. Unbearably awkward. Which was a real possibility, if you asked Eric. Wasn’t last night awkward enough? This dude really saw Eric at his normal messiest states at four in the morning and decided that the best decision was to spend even more time with him. Granted, he was in his pajamas last night, and he seemed pretty out of it, too. It might be nice to have a real conversation outside of being ground into dust levels of tired.
Also, it wasn’t Eric’s worst, and he thought he’d held it together pretty well considering the outlandish circumstances. In nearly any other case, he would have gone running for the hills at the mention of having lunch alone together with a stranger, or even being handed a bill with a fucking phone number on it. He’d been hit on at the bar before; everyone likes the stoic type bartender, until he starts rejecting advances. Then he gets the drink thrown on him and slurs thrown his way, which like, really? The owner’s queer and they think it’s going to be okay to say slurs? Idiots. Eric knew it was a situation better than that kind of shit, but he didn’t know what made him say yes to these advances. Something about the genuine-ness of it all, maybe.
And these like. Were definitely advances. There were no ifs, ands, or buts. He didn’t process it fully last night, but now that the lunch date was starring him in the face, he could see it for what it was: a date.
Three people, though. That was three extra people to disappoint. And, if he really thought about it, Eric didn’t know if he could, like….handle that. On an emotional level but also on an anxiety level.
Still, to not show up to lunch and flake would be rude, and he may be a coward but he was anything but rude.
Eric took some time between dropping off Gavin and heading to the date to prepare. He had tried while putting his hair up, a looser ponytail rather than the pinned bun he had for either of his jobs. Usually, he’d’ve preferred to keep it down, but. Well. It got everywhere. It was kinda scraggly, probably 90% split ends. Good to have it out of the way.
He threw on a quick t-shirt, a pair of black jeans, and his regular leather jacket. If this was really just lunch, then it was a one and done kind of situation. Not much else for him to do, other than lay down and try to nap for an hour before heading out.
Lucy’s on Main was fairly crowded for lunch on a weekday, in Eric’s opinion. People were waiting outside when he got there. And he didn’t see David waiting amongst them, so he put his own name down for a table and went to go stand outside. There was a couple sitting on the bus stop bench, though. Smoking. It’d been a few years since he managed to kick his nicotine addiction, but he wasn’t exactly fond of the scent of smoke anymore, so after a moment of taking in the wind and hyping himself up to talk to a stranger, a whole ass stranger, he went back in.
And that was when he heard a “YO! ERIC!”
Eric jumped, turning around towards the inside of the diner. Most of the tables were filled, and one had a guy with his arms up, waving him down. Literally. Waving him down.
“HEY!” David called out.
Eric saw him crack a smile as he recognized him, as Eric waved back just a little. They were turning heads a bit. Just a bit.
He told the host that he was with “that guy” and made his way over, sliding into the seat opposite David. And he tried to kind of avoid looking at him, because being yelled at across a public space was never something Eric was too fond of. As soon as he sat down, though, David waved in his face.
“‘Sup, Harley,” David said. “Nice bike.”
“Thanks.” Eric looked up, briefly, then froze. And looked up again.
David’s hair was down, though it’d been brushed and was pinned back with a bobby pin or two. He was wearing a puffy varsity jacket and a t-shirt underneath, the varsity jacket covered in patches that seemed to be hand-sewn on. There was a pin, too, on the jacket’s collar, with the inclusive rainbow. Cute. His glasses were cute, too, framing his face in a way that made his smile look a bit wider as he also looked over eric.
He….Well. In last night’s dark, he hadn’t really caught what David actually looked like. He was smaller than Eric but they had similar styles almost. There was something comforting casual about David’s posture, though, and in the way he leaned back against the booth’s seat.
Surrounded by hot men. Eric turned away as the waitress came over, hoping he wasn’t blushing as much as he thought he was, and ordered himself a plate of fries. Before she left, David interrupted.
“Nah, you can order more, dude. I’m paying,” he reached over and motioned towards the waitress. “Get a milkshake at least, Lucy’s shakes’re the fucking best.”
Now, Eric didn’t really want to be wasting someone else’s money, and the plate of fries was definitely more than he’d been planning on having today. But David was watching him. And Eric couldn’t really say no. Not when he was being watched like this. A burger did sound good, too, but….
God, he didn’t want to make David spend money on him. Eric stuffed his hands into his pockets slowly, playing with the edge of his phone’s case. “Can I, uh. Can I get a chocolate shake, too?” he asked.
“M’kay,” the waitress said with a knowing smile.
“And make his fries the bigger size! I’ll steal some,” David grinned at the waitress, who chuckled at his antics but wrote down the change.
And then she left.
Eric leaned back in the seat, and he didn’t really know what to feel. In a weird way, it was good that David just started to converse, then and there.
“Like I said, cool bike. What kind is it?” he said, as if he knew of it.
“Uh,” oh, jeez, the bike. “It’s a 2005 Night Train.”
“Sheesh, a Night Train! And she’s still running? Do you do your own maintenance?”
“I, uh. Yeah. Yeah, I do. Maintenance and modifications.”
And that got him talking. Which, like. Was hard. On standard, getting him to converse was hard. But then David mentioned his old bike, how he used to have a 2002 Softail Deuce, how he always found it hard to maintain. Well, ‘course it’s hard to maintain if you don’t keep checking on it, especially after not riding it for a bit. Eric installed the second seat and had to buy her new brakes, just in case and to help with smoother rides.
He talked about how he kept his parts and mechanical tools in a case in his apartment. Usually he’d keep it stuffed under the coffee table, better than leaving it out in the garage.
David said it was cool, that he knew enough to maintain the bike himself. Yeah, Eric just liked keeping up with it and making sure he knew enough about it. He didn’t know any mechanics in the area well enough to trust them to actually take care of it as well as he could. Plus, if anything went wrong, he’d know what the situation was. He liked knowing that.
It was nice, to talk to someone about these things. Eric didn’t notice his tension easing up with David. It was almost natural.
David mentioned having a bike. What did he do with it? He had to get rid of it, he didn’t take good enough care of it. Sold it to someone before he moved out here. He’s originally from Michigan but relocated for work, since it’s better to be near a lot of galleries. Selling the bike helped pay for life after college.
What did he work in? Art. He worked most in oils, something like a modern impressionist kind of painting. The big one was sculpting. He liked to chisel, but marble was kind of hard to come by. He’d gotten into wood carving, though, since the house was nearby a forest. He’d take down a tree somewhere on their property, replant a few saplings, then bring it in pieces into his workshop to carve. It was in the basement, but they’d set up a ventilation system well enough. He did like painting realism sometimes, as a hobby, though.
Eric didn’t know anything about art. He would love to see his works, one day.
Well you could swing by. I don’t think anyone’d be home to mind. If you wanna hang out some more.
“Who’s home?” Eric asked then, almost confused.
David blinked at him a few times, trying to process what was confusing, before realization entered his face and he snapped his fingers. “Shit, yeah. I’m supposed to….yeah. So, uh. Me and the boys wanted to get to know you more. ‘S why Princey and Marl’ were at your bar.”
“Oh.” What? Who the fuck are the boys? “Who’re the boys?”
“You’re gay, right? Just want to clear that up, ‘cause this is about to be so fuckin’ awkward if you’re straight.” David sipped his milkshake expectantly while Eric made a face, and before Eric even answered, David snickered. “Sorry, dumb question, you don’t need to be gay to like, get this. I dunno if anyone told you directly, but Phillip and Marlowe and I, and Cadence, and another dude you haven’t met named Draco, we’re all in a relationship. Poly, gay, all that. We’re all in a relationship.
“And like, we aren’t gonna reel you into a relationship with all of us. Cadence just said you were nice, so’d Marlowe and Phillip,” David put his hands up—Eric’s face must have been some kind of slack jawed, but he was more trying to decipher what David was saying than paying attention to himself. “We thought it’d be cool to meet you. Well. I thought it’d be cool. Like, as friends and stuff. And like, we move like a pack. I don’t wanna speak for the others on what they’re thinking, but I just wanted to make sure you knew like, this isn’t a date, not for me. But like, I dunno. You’ve got everyone’s interest now.
“So if you’re like, wondering why a bunch of randos’re meeting up with you out of nowhere, it’s because you seem cool and we all share one braincell that befriends people at the same time. We all wanna meet you. I dunno what everyone’s specific desires are past that, I just kinda wanna get to know you, but I think we could be friends. That’d be cool.” David leaned back, indicating the end of his explanation, and picked up his almost empty milkshake to sip from as Eric digested all of that new information.
“Oh. Okay,” Eric’s voice sounded hollow, even to himself.
Was that like getting stalked? Was he just getting stalked now, but a frat house of gay dudes? Was that what was happening? He didn’t know. His ears were kind of ringing a little as he tried to process that.
So he’d run into a gaggle of dudes who wanted to be his friend. All of them? They’d talked about him—of course they’d talked about him.
One of them was fucking famous? Eric didn’t know what being friends with a famous person was like, but he didn’t want cameras in his face all the time if that’s what it meant.
Was he even good enough for that? Eric wouldn’t have considered himself friendship material for any regular person, not to mention multiple people at once, one of whom was famous.
He had a lot of concerns, off the bat.
“It’s kinda a lot to explain. Mostly, we’re just gonna be annoying, since you seem cool and we wanna be friends. If that’s okay,” David said. “That okay?”
What would they want out of him? He didn’t have money. He barely had a personality, if you asked him. There wasn’t anything really to gain from being his friend.
Why the fuck were these people interested in him?
Eric barely heard him. He just. Starred. For a moment.
That was when Eric became acutely aware of where they were. Of who he was talking to. That this was...well, it was a casual conversation, but a proposition to come home. He had to—he checked his phone, it was 1:10, holy fuck. He had to pick up Gavin soon. Like, now even. He had to go.
He had to go.
He just had to.
“Okay. I,” what was he doing here, what did they want out of him? There was no way— “I need to go.”
David raised his eyebrows but said nothing of it. His smile faded. “Okay. Go ahead, I’m handling the bill,” his voice was a lot more gentle now, as if the fervor he’d spoken with earlier had been sapped out of his bones.
Eric almost missed it.
He’d been lulled into a false sense of security, out of talking about fucking motorcycles and art. He stood, one fast motion that is more abrupt than he should be, and turned down the hall. He could apologize. David seemed nice. So did Phillip. Marlowe. Cadence maybe even. It might be nice, to talk to some more people, to get to know them.
Gavin had said earlier that he had a friend. He could stick his neck out there. Reach out to people. He had a phone number. He could turn around and talk to David right now.
David had looked real sad when Eric left.
Instead, he walked down the hall and out the door. He tried his best to breathe evenly, because panic driving the bike was never smart, and in doing so he just. Swallowed. His feelings.
Eric took a big gulp of air, actually, and grabbed his bike’s helmet. Already, he was just zoning out. He was going to go pick up Gavin! Then, he was gonna make sure the kid was doing his homework. And then he had a shift at the bar.
What would they even say about Gavin?
He revved the bike’s engine and pulled out of the parking lot without looking back.
His brain was static empty by the time he pulled into the parking lot at Gavin’s school, a whole ten minutes early. He didn’t have to leave that fast. But he couldn’t just stay there. What would he do? Go back and talk to David? Face that kind of unknown? He...he couldn’t. He’d stormed out like something was wrong, and wouldn’t David be mad for that? He didn’t know him much anyways. He didn’t owe him anything, either.
If only he could convince the guilt weighing in his stomach the same thing.
When the school bell rang, Eric perked up, taking Gavin’s helmet out from where it gets hooked and clipped onto the back seat. He drummed his fingers against the top.
His kid came bursting out from around the portables, running around to where Eric usually parked. Gavin threw his arms up in the air when he saw Eric, so Eric threw his arms up as well. He climbed off the bike and squatted down, holding his arms open enough for Gavin to launch himself into a hug.
They did this just about every day and Eric didn’t see himself ever getting tired of it. Gavin snuggled his face against Eric’s shoulder and shouted “HI THIEF!”
“Hey, kiddo,” Eric said with a sigh. The nickname was a dour one, but it was hard to train Gavin out of it. He’d gotten upset about enough things, today, and he was waiting until they got home to do something about the rising panic he was literally just barely tamping down.
He helped Gavin onto the motorcycle’s seat, strapping him in while he asked how school had gone. It was a Thursday. Gavin had math tests on Thursday, which he loved. They were doing fifty in a minute with addition, which the teacher said Gavin was really good at. Better than reading time, since he was bad at focusing. The teacher suggested he get Gavin checked for reading disorders or attention disorders. But Eric didn’t have the money for something like that.
Still, it was nice hearing Gavin talk about how happy he was to finish the fifty. He was the first one done. “You’re such a smarty pants,” Eric joked, patting his hand on Gavin’s helmet once he got it strapped on.
“Mm,” Gavin frowned at that one, then shrugged. “Not really. I just like the numbers.”
“You’re good at the numbers, too,” Eric reminded him as he sat himself back down, too. “What homework do you have tonight?”
“Wait wait, but I wanted to know,” Gavin grabbed Eric’s sides, balling his hands up around him. “How did lunch go?”
Lunch.
Gavin was asking about. About how lunch went. Eric was really glad he wasn’t looking at him, because there’s no way he could have hidden how much his face fucking fell at the question.
“It, uh. Went alright.” Eric put his own helmet on, not turning around to see Gavin. “I’ve got work tonight, so I’m going to cook dinner when we get home, and you’ve gotta do your homework. Okay?”
He didn’t want to talk to his four year old brother, of all people, about that travesty of a date. It wasn’t even a date. It fucking felt like a date.
He didn’t want to hang out with anyone. He didn’t even want to have to talk to any of them, not if they were going to all pile up on him and what if anyone ever started taking offense to him? He didn’t want to join their group. And he probably wasn’t even good enough for it.
He didn’t want to think about how he’d walked out on David.
Shut the fuck up about it, Eric. You’ve gotta go for a bit of a drive. Then you get to panic about this.
“Okay,” Gavin’s voice was quiet, a little sad. Probably because Eric wasn’t answering his question. Usually Eric gave him an explanation before a nonanswer. But he didn’t need to. And Gavin wouldn’t understand. Eric could think of a thousand reasons why not to talk to Gavin about that.
“It’s fine,” Eric said, as if he could comfort Gavin with that harsh statement. And he revved his engine before he could hear Gavin’s response, if any.
The drive was quick. Some kinda force must have been on Eric’s side because every light was coming up green. He parked the bike in his unit’s garage and Gavin hopped off fast, beating Eric to the door, and disappeared inside.
Usually that was a surefire sign the kid was upset, but at the moment, Eric couldn’t really find it in himself to care. Nor fault him, really. Eric was on edge, was being pretty unreasonable.
On the flip side, he had to make dinner. It was 2 p.m. and he had to be at work at 4, so he had to leave at 3:30, and he had to make sure Gavin was doing homework. A conversation like this could take hours. He didn’t have that kind of time. And he’d have to understand himself why this was all happening. Why he was doing this. What was so terrifying.
Eric didn’t have the time nor the energy to confront that. So he wasn’t going to.
Quietly, he trudged into the kitchen, jumping when the door to the bedroom slams closed. Gavin, most likely. He usually did his homework in the kitchen, but, well…
Eric slung his jacket over one of the kitchen chairs and went to work cooking. It was always a tossup, leaving Gavin home alone. He was a smart kid. Eric told him not to touch the stove or the oven or touch any of the knives on their stand, and Gavin had never done anything like that. Eric also would punch in his phone number on the landline phone and colored in the “call” button with green sharpie. If anything happened, Gavin knew to just hit the green button. That’d call Eric, and he could always get home within ten minutes. If anything super bad happened, Gavin knew to hide in the closet. All of the neighbors on their floor had been asked, please, to call him if something happened to the building or his unit.
That was the best he could do, really. He didn’t have the money nor knew anyone well enough to let them watch Gavin. Once, he tried to leave Gavin with the neighbors, but he’d somehow escaped their apartment and gone back to Eric’s. The kid was attached, the neighbor had explained. And Eric didn’t really want anyone watching him in their apartment, when he wouldn’t be there.
Sometimes, the kid will do the dishes for him. Once, Eric was pretty sure Gavin cut his hand while trying to wash a knife, but Gavin said a bully got his arm caught on a door hinge in a fight. That was a specific enough lie that worried Eric that maybe both had happened. Poor kid had to deal with living with him, bullies on top of that?
He made pasta with some marinara sauce. It was a solid batch, and if Gavin didn’t finish it, then Eric would have some. He’d already eaten more than enough at lunch, though. And he was used to being hungry by now.
He stared at the cooking pasta with a blank expression.
Once dinner was ready, Eric checked the clock. Twenty minutes before he had to leave. Which was pretty standard for him, save for how he now had to go into the room where Gavin was hiding so he could change. He wasn’t about to go out in what he’d consider his nice clothes, to a bar where he could get thrown up on.
He stopped in front of the door. And took a breath.
“Dinner’s ready whenever you want it, Gav,” Eric said, voice soft as he also knocked on the door. “Can I come in? I’ve gotta get changed to go to work.”
“Sure,” came the soft reply.
Eric braced himself internally, pursing his lips a bit as he pushed open the door and peeked in. Gavin was curled up in his bed, backpack and shoes kicked off on the ground besides it. The blanket was pulled over his head, probably curled up into a ball under the sheets.
He could just throw off his clothes and change real fast. But Eric only got his shirt off before Gavin’s head popped out.
“Did your lunch make you sad?” he asked.
The question made Eric freeze. Part of him wanted to turn around, growl at the child to shut the fuck up and stop asking. It would be easier, to be cruel. But he could never...he didn’t want to be his parents, and when the kid was worried about him? That kind of idiot’d do that.
“A little,” Eric responded, trying to swallow the guilt that arose when he was reminded of how sad David had looked, how his smile had disappeared in the instant Eric stood up.
“Does Thief not have any more friends?”
Eric put on a black t-shirt and started taking off his jeans. “My name isn’t Thief, baby,” he tried to keep his tone level.
Gavin wilted a little. He hated it when Eric reminded him, but Eric hated that name, and it was going to be better to train Gavin out of it now rather than later. “Sorry, Daddy. But did your friend make you sad?”
He sighed. Persistent fucking kid.
Too good for Eric, always worried about him. Sometimes, Eric wondered if Gavin got that from him, too. Always just a little too worried for it to be healthy.
He heard Gavin flinch back into the sheets, so he turned back around. Gently, Eric scooped Gavin up, blankets and sheets and all, and kissed his forehead. “A little,” he answered. “He was a new friend. I don’t think he meant to make me sad.”
“Okay.” Gavin snuggled a little more into Eric’s arms, and he felt Gavin hold onto his shirt. “Did you make him sad?”
Heh. “A little. We were both a little sad,” Eric gave him a squeeze, rocking slowly. “It’s okay, though. Sometimes you make yourself sad. Sometimes other people get sad. Being sad is okay. It’s—”
“It’s about what you do after you’re sad,” Gavin finished. Probably excited he remembered it. Kid’s always been bad at focusing, anyway.
It’s something Eric’s told him before, quite a few times. He wished he could hide his panic and depression and honest despair from Gavin, but in a two room apartment? He didn’t want to leave the kid alone in the apartment, too. As little as he could. Gavin had seen him panic and Eric had pulled himself together to stop Gavin from worrying too much. The three year old kid had too big of a heart in him for Eric to keep making him sad, too. And now he was four.
“Yep, you’ve got it. Smart baby.” Eric lifted him as Gavin reached his arms up, giving him a tight hug around his neck and shoulders.
Gavin’s arm went around his head at that weird angle, where it was the only place where his arms could feasibly wrap around. “Are you gonna make it better?”
“I’m gonna try.”
That seemed to be good enough for Gavin, because he gave Eric a kiss on the forehead, too, and then made a motion to go down. So Eric set him back down on the bed, ruffled his hair, and went back to changing his pants.
“I set up dinner on the table, it’s noodles.” He always tried to get the ones that looked like sea shells, because Gavin thought they were fun. “After dinner, you can leave your plate on the kitchen counter and do homework at the table. I’ll be back before bed time, okay?”
Shift was supposed to be shorter today; he’d be off at 9, and it wasn’t like it was that long of a walk.
“Okay!” Gavin waved his hands. “Have fun! I love you!”
Eric, clothes changed and keys in hand, waved back. “I love you too!”
He closed the door to the apartment, locked it from the outside, and hurried down the stairs. “I’m gonna try,” he mumbled again, quiet to himself.
The phone number.
Eric still had the bill in his other pants’ pocket. He never took it out.
It’d been a while since he, like. Had friends. And had to socialize.
David likely told all of them that Eric had just walked out on him. He didn’t know what they thought of him.
But he had to try. Right?
At the very least, Phillip had seemed nice. Phillip had seemed like he knew what Eric’s anxiety looked like. And maybe that’d be….
Eric could try. There wasn’t a harm in that.
Work went smoothly, both works. No one went too crazy at the bar and Eric left when the next shift lead came, just in time to catch Gavin brushing his teeth before bed. He’d managed to tuck the kid in, clean the kitchen, and even managed to fall asleep at a reasonable time. When he woke up, he took Gavin to school, then immediately went to his second job. Things were going well and, when he dropped off Gavin, the kid had wished him good luck in calling his friend.
Eric held onto that until his lunch break at his other job. During lunch break, he went across the street to a coffee shop, ordered a dirty chai, and took his phone out. He’d taken a photo of the bill’s phone number, wasn’t about to wave a hundred dollar bill around in public, but the picture was good enough.
Here goes...well. Nothing, really. Everything. And nothing.
Just call the damn number.
His finger hit the call button before he could think any more about it, and he waited.
It took two rings for Phillip to pick up.
“Hello?” he asked.
“Hi.”
That was when Eric realized he had no fucking idea what he was going to say. What, was he calling to say sorry? This was Phillip’s number, not David’s. Did he want to hang out with Phillip? What do adults do when they quote hang out unquote. He didn’t want to do anything that’d involve money too much, he wasn’t able to pay for a dinner or something. Did he even want to meet up with him, in person? And he had so many questions about the arrangement, of the what, five men in a relationship thing. Did all of them want to talk to him? Why?
“Oh, Eric. Hello! I ha-I hadn’t expected you to call,” Phillip laughed a little, a sound that eased the tension off his shoulders. “Are you...What did you want to ta-to talk about?”
His voice sounded light. That was good. He didn’t sound mad.
“I, uh. I just wanted to….”
There was a pause. So Eric just took another sip of his coffee and said, quickly, “Did you want to go to a museum? Or hang out or something?”
A museum.
Eric hadn’t been to a single museum in the whole fucking city.
What the fuck was he thinking.
Phillip must have either pitied him or was picking up what he was trying to suggest, because that was when he responded, “Oh! If you want to-to walk around and ta-talk, we could go to the-the university’s botanical gardens.”
Botanical gardens? And walking around might be nice. Eric’s never been to the gardens. To be honest, he didn’t know they existed, and also didn’t go to the city’s university. It was a little farther away from the downtown and it wasn’t like he got an education past high school level anyway.
He’d always wanted to go into mechanics, what with working on the bike and all. It just never worked out.
Flowers seemed nice.
“Sure! That, uh, I’ve never been but that sounds nice,” he said.
“They are qui-quite pleasant,” Phillip hummed quietly, then added. “If you don’t mind, would it be alright if I exte-ex-ex-if I invited Cadence as well?”
Cadence. Cadence, the famous one?
“Is he, uh….is he allowed to like….” Eric, frankly, had no idea what protocol was around famous people. “Sure?”
Phillip chuckled quietly, just quiet enough for the phone to pick it up, and said, “He’s definitely allowed to be in publi-public, if that’s your worry. Being famous doesn’t make it illegal to be in places. He’d wanted to see you again, but, well. Bars are cro-cro-crowded. If you want, I won’t.”
“No, no, it’s okay. Sure. I’d, uh. That’s cool.”
Why did he sound like an awkward teen? Why did this sound like asking someone out to prom? Eric was going to lose his mind.
Thankfully and graciously, Phillip seemed to understand his plight. David must have spread the word of him being an anxious mess because, to some extent, Phillip was planning this date for him.
Not a date. Just hanging out. Still weird for him, but markedly less weird.
“When’s the next weekday you’re free?” Phillip asked.
It wasn’t that hard of a question. “Monday,” Eric responded.
He didn’t have either job. Well, that was a lie, but he was picking up another late shift at the bar. He didn’t have to be there until eleven.
“Great. Monday at ten?”
“Works for me,” Eric said.
Phillip hummed in approval.
Eric almost wanted to ask about David. If Phillip heard. Things had been going well, for the most part, until David explained the polycule situation. And something about that had just made Eric’s chest seize.
That was so many people to disappoint. They’d discussed him. Eric never liked being the point of discussion, for any people. So the idea that this group of people who were all dating had talked about him to the point that the others wanted to meet him was surreal.
Plus, he couldn’t help but be wary of the insinuation that they just wanted to be friends with him. Phillip was very regal, pretty and polished. Cadence was so fucking handsome it was unfair. David had been handsome as well, beautiful in a casual way. Eric was too fucking gay for this. He hadn’t seen Marlowe in much other than lowlight, and while the dude was drunk, but even then Eric could tell the dude was adorable. It was un-fucking-fair.
There was a….worry, deeper down. That while they might not want him in a romantic way, he’s just going to be a nervous gay wreck the whole time.
“See you then, then, Eric,” Phillip’s voice held something of a smirk, and then he hung up.
Eric lowered the phone, starred at the call screen for a moment or two before things began to click on his head. He was going to hang out with Phillip. And Cadence.
A/N: the way in which i didn't expect to be updating this ., before thomas' next sanders sides video.,., anyway like i keep saying, life is crazy. i now have a masters degree.
also ! im going to post., another snippet of the human au .,., a little later today,.,.., i am getting Bolder lol
i'm going to try to be more proactive with responding to comments, especially on ao3! if you have any questions about anything, feel free to ask, and enjoy the read <3 !
WARNINGS: death threats, a kidnapping, and a very, very long fall — i don't know if there's much to tag on this one but if you think i've missed anything, please let me know!
Words: 5,248
here it is on AO3!
here are the MtB masterpost and the full Chivalry series masterpost!
enjoy! <3
Tonight’s only stroke of luck was that none of Remus’ beasts had made it to their side of the Imagination. The Thief was still out, combing through the woods.
It had been hours. The sun had yet to rise, and searching rarely went well in the dead of night.
Virgil was following him around, from the ground. Sometimes, the Thief scaled a tree, which didn’t feel like something he should be able to do. It must be the upper body strength. Why didn’t Logan work that extra gym time into Thomas’ schedule, damnit.
Janus stayed outside. He didn’t want to be inside, and it was good to keep the door open. It helped him think.
Plus, being inside meant waiting around with Logan and Patton, and as much as they were all fighting on the same side, it wasn’t as though they weren’t fighting each other as well. And he couldn’t put up with Patton’s faux fatherly friendship. He knew it was fake. It had to be.
It was early morning when Janus saw someone approaching the Tree. He stood, squinting into the distance. The person was much too tall to be the Child. They were moving slowly, too, and had an amorphously red shape. Janus could barely make them out in the moonlight.
“Who’s there?” he called out.
“It’s me,” the Damsel’s voice echoed back.
Oh.
Maybe he was just getting paranoid. Janus sat back down on the doorway, holding the tree bark door open with a leg.
“Good morning, Phillip,” he called.
He didn’t receive a response until the Damsel, much closer, sighed. He leaned on his cane and looked around up at the Tree, the surrounding forests, before returning his gaze to Janus. He seemed out of breath. It must have been a long walk, or he must not be used to walking the distance.
“Could you spare some room,” the Damsel asked.
Oh, huh. Janus scooted to the side, opening space for the Damsel to sit, and he did. He rested his cane against the side of the Tree and grunted as he sank down, leaning on the doorframe’s side. One of his legs extended forward, straightened out, while the other pulled beneath it.
“Sorry,” he hummed, voice muffled slightly by his scarf. “I’m not the best with distances. Usually the Playwright or the Dragon help me travel, but….but they’re not accessible.”
Right. The Damsel’s leg. “There’s no need to apologize. I’m sorry you had to come out here,” Janus waved at the forest while leaning his chin onto his other hand. “Did the Thief call you?”
“Virgil did, off of Eric’s-the Thief’s phone.”
He let out a sigh as he cracked his back in both directions, then he leaned back onto his hands. Virgil had called in a panic; the Thief had unlocked his phone and dropped it to Virgil. The Child was missing. They were coming back to the Tree but they hadn’t found the Child. The Thief had combed every part of the woods faster than the Child could have traveled, so it was likely he’d been kidnapped. Did he get kidnapped out of the Tree? No, he ran after he and the Thief had an argument. Inopportune, but tensions were high, even between them, if the Artist’s anger was anything to go off of.
First the Playwright, now the Child? Something must be picking them off. Could it be one by one? Luckily, the other trio was together, and the Damsel and Thief were with the other Sides. They would have to stay together. But what could be trying to capture them like this?
And for what purpose? The Damsel’s…darker tones had never left. Never been removed. So a part of him wondered…perhaps Roman was trying to finish the deed. But no. That would be foolish, after everything they’d been through.
The Damsel shook his head, clearing the thoughts, before sighing again. He didn’t want to look at Janus but who else was there for conversation — mirthlessly, the Damsel chuckled. Maybe that was why Roman would try to finish things.
Janus didn’t know what to make of him. Ever since their first escapade and then some, even when they started actually getting to know the guy, he just couldn’t understand. What were the implications of a part of Roman being almost as cut throat, as ruthless, as ends justify the means, as himself. What did that mean for Roman, for something like the Damsel to exist inside him.
There were few and far between opportunities for him to be alone with the former Prince, and he’d been the one to unravel Janus in the very beginning. This might be untradeable time. He should take the chance.
But for what? He wanted to understand more about Roman’s psyche, what could be causing all of this, but…for what? What part did he want to know? He’d thought he had a strong profile of the prince on lock, until Roman went against that, went against everything he’d known about him, just to prove him wrong. Out of pure spite. What did that say about him, and what didn’t it say that Janus needed to understand?
“When did the Chil-the Child run away?” the Damsel asked.
“Quite late at night. Maybe eleven. It’s been hours,” Janus responded. “Virgil and Thief must have been walking for miles and they hadn’t found him.”
The Damsel nodded slowly. “Two out of seven’s more than just a coincidence.”
Hypothesizing, and reserved.
“I’m surprised you followed them in here,” the Damsel continued. “I wouldn’t have-I didn’t expect you to care as much.”
Janus flinched, shooting the Damsel a glare. In response, though, the Damsel just cocked an eyebrow back to him, challenging him to argue.
“We…I’m on good terms with Roman,” Janus said. “We’ve had our disagreements, but—”
The Damsel laughed. He laughed so hard he leaned forward, holding his hand over his mouth like Janus had done to the other Sides so many times, as if he could stifle the sound. It grated on Janus’ ears. It sounded too much like Roman to be comforting and it was harsher in the way it was different.
“The only terms you think you-you think you have Roman are on the terms and conditions, because of how often you use him. A ‘funny, wholesome prank’ you enjoyed,” the Damsel turned so fast his scarf brushed Janus’ arm and he jumped at the sudden tonal change as the Damsel hissed angrily at him. “Playing into his love of theater, being right, AND desire to be a good person? That’s sinking low. Even for the leg-less snake.”
“I wouldn’t have to—the *leg-less snake?!” Janus couldn’t wrap his head around the Damsel’s report of his being.
“It’s a metaphor. You know, as you so enjoy. Speaking in tongues rather than-rather than play your cards openly, and I thought we-I thought-I thought you would have learned,” the Damsel growled in response. “You are the reason we-we didn’t go to the callback. You are the reason Roman’s self-love has been eradicated. And you are the reason Roman is missing. And I have no qualms with saying it, even if others-others do..”
Janus stared at him with wide, undilated eyes. He hadn’t noticed, but he’d pressed himself against the wall, one hand gripping the step into the Tree while the other scratched at the Tree’s wall, trying to find purchase. One more bout and he might run.
Good. The Damsel reveled in it, Janus’ fear. He knew he had to stay level headed — someone had to — but it felt good to finally unveil the source of everyone’s hostility. As much or as little as everyone knew. He’d spoken with the Child about it a few times, who was disappointed. He’d hoped that he could trust Janus, only to be proven wrong. It broke the kid’s heart. The Damsel hoped that that was all it had broken.
Slowly, he pushed himself up again, grabbing his cane with another sigh. Rougher this time. In the distance were more figures. Two, to be precise.
“Get inside before Thief sees you. He’s-He’s not as good at holding back his sword when anxious, and he won’t make your death as painless,” the Damsel warned, the growl never leaving, and Janus wasn’t willing to argue that point.
He hurried back up the stairs, trying to wrap his mind around what the Damsel had accused him of. That basically meant Roman felt that way. Or was it a third party perspective. Or was it both. Could it be both?
Did it even matter?
Logan was in the kitchen, a mug in his hands as he leaned on the counter and checked his phone. He was typing something. Patton, too, was in the living room, also typing on his phone. Something else. Janus didn’t even want to ask what it could be or what was happening; he just wanted to get on with it. Who knew if either of them had similar feelings.
“They’re back,” he said. “And Damsel’s here, too.”
Logan looked up first, pocketing his phone in an instant. “Oh, good,” he nodded toward the stairs.
They hurried down in time to see the Damsel catch the Thief in his arms with a grunt, cane still propped up against the Tree’s side. Patton strayed near the back, but even he could see the Thief tuck himself into the Damsel’s chest, arms curled around his head and fingers raking through his own hair. Virgil, behind them both, waved a hand to the others, signaling that they stay put. The Thief’s anxiety had only gone up, skyrocketing in a way that worried him. Sure, everything worried him, and even that much worrying was a bit worrisome, but this was another level kind of worry.
The Thief…worried Virgil. Every time he looked at Roman, knowing that he literally had an Anxiety was somewhere at the top of mind. That they’d torn him down so far that he had multiples of that, he had parts of himself that were willing to kill and fight and live in fear of every day. Had Thomas done that? Or had they? Did the things that he and the others say contribute to that? Last time he was here, everyone was able to quote back things at them, as if those quotes were what had built them. And the Thief was built on wanting to leave Thomas.
Virgil carefully approached them both, but the Damsel shook his head at him. One of his hands reached up, rubbing the Thief’s back in patterned circles.
“Eric. We need to-We need to get going. Reunite with the others,” the Damsel suggested.
“I’m so fucking stupid,” the Thief’s voice cracked on the swear, and his arms closed on himself tighter. “I don’t-I don’t know if he ran or if-Phillip, we were arguing, he-If he got taken, I wouldn’t know, I didn’t-I shouldn’t have let him out of-out of my sight.”
“We can find him again, we just need to re-reunite with the people who can travel easiest,” the Damsel murmured, a sharp and gentle contrast to how he’d threatened Janus. “I reached out to Remus, he should be here soon.”
The Thief nodded but made no moves to relocate himself. It felt a little awkward.
If Remus was coming, though, that must mean that they’re going somewhere else. Janus stepped back into the alcove at the front of the Tree and pulled out his shoes. Logan did the same, after a second. Better get going soon.
Behind them both, Patton stepped out, feet already crammed into his loafers. “Hey, Eric,” he whispered, right behind the Damsel.
The Thief flinched at the sound, but still lifted his head. His eyes were red, bright and tired. He hadn’t slept a wink, while at least Virgil got an hour or two earlier. His head hurt from the shouting and crying. And he stared at Patton with as much of a glare as he could muster. It wasn’t much.
“What,” he asked.
Patton glanced at the Damsel, who was also watching him curiously, before opening his arms. “I’ve heard I give Patton-tedly good hugs,” he offered with a soft voice, warm as the hearth.
That was Patton. Always full of love, at the end of the day and the worst of times. It was a very high-stress situation, and he didn’t want to not help. He wanted to comfort.
The Damsel let go ever so slightly and let the Thief lean to the other side. He pressed himself into Patton’s arms and curled up tight again, and Patton rested his arms on the top of his back, pulling him in just as close. After a beat, the Thief began shivering again, and Patton hummed softly. He could tell that the Thief was crying again.
“Being a dad is so FUCKING hard,” the Thief grumbled into his shirt.
“Hey, take it from me, it sure isn’t easy,” Patton said with a chuckle.
“You know, you’re not actually a father,” Logan interrupted, fixing his tie as he approached.
“Oh, no, no, I’ve only got a father figure,” Patton joked right back, giving the Thief a squeeze. “Amirite?”
The Thief snorted quietly, and even Virgil shook his head with a grin behind him. A bit of comedy to lighten the mood did wonders, in Patton’s eyes, especially when the Thief began to uncurl from his hug.
“Thanks, Patton,” he muttered.
“No problem, kiddo. I’m always here to help cheer you up,” Patton looped his arm around the Thief’s for a quick side-hug, which the Thief returned with a lean.
It was good timing, too, as a horn sounded behind them. Everyone turned, facing up as another horn went off. It was difficult to see without sunlight, but the moon and thick coat of stars cast just enough light for them to see the floating barge.
It was an old-timey sailboat, painted black, with green trims and a face of horror at the bow. The ship’s sails had been let down, displaying lime green splatters across their formerly-white surfaces. It was a wieldy vessel indeed.
Only one person could be driving it.
“Welcome aboard!” Remus shouted, and everyone stumbled as they were unceremoniously teleported onto the ship’s deck, above the treeline.
The Damsel was first to regain his footing, reaching out with an arm toward their new captain. Remus, wearing a black tricorn hat, greeted him by yanking him into a tight hug. And squeaking. Like a squeaky toy. The Damsel laughed at the gesture, hugging him back quickly.
Their camaraderie was noted. Once again, everyone was surprised about the relationship they had. Didn’t Roman hate Remus, and didn’t Remus terrorize him?
On the other end, the Thief pulled back, helping up the other Sides. He made sure Janus was stably standing last and shot him another angry look before turning away.
Janus brushed himself down. He didn’t understand.
He was warranted anger toward Roman all the same, so what the fuck was all of this animosity?
“Good to see you all in one piece again, and glad we’re gonna be playing One Piece again,” Remus shouted at them all.
The Damsel meandered toward the side of the boat, looking around. The dusty wall of fog that separated their sides was so close, here. This was closer to the the Imagination’s natural form, with the kingdom world’s edges all being clouded in fog that you could only really see at this height. Beyond the fog was more worlds that they’d invented, like the city seen previously. Even other kingdoms technically existed, with different rules and plotlines, but this one was home. It was the oldest setting, based on Thomas’ slew of Disney knowledge as he grew up. Others were more mature. One was based on the Game of Thrones’ settings, though it was more a daydream than a fleshed out world. There were alternate paths for their lives, even, with duplicates of Thomas’ home abound in every universe. They were all daydreams.
So nice, to see the world again, especially from such height. They were higher up than even the Tree. The setting was designed to not show any of the too obvious spaces between the worlds, so even the highest point wouldn’t show off the bounds. Only the Dragon, Dragon Witch, or something like this, a flying boat, could give a good vantage over the whole of the kingdom. It wasn’t a sight the Damsel got to see often.
Oh, he remembered sometimes, like this, what it was like to rule it all. To be Roman.
The self-loathing often mellowed out into melancholy, grieving a power he was technically never granted and was absolutely never promised. And the knowledge that he had to cultivate the rest of his Round Table. Especially his heir.
The Damsel, once the Prince, gripped his cane tighter. Oh, Child.
After he’d mellowed out, as the others put it, he tried to manage the actual town around the castle. And it became clear that the responsibility he was overburdened by was almost also visible in the Child. No one else seemed to handily understand how their perspectives impacted Roman — from the Thief’s judgements to the Artist’s drive and motivation, only the Child seemed to care about how his input impacted Roman and Thomas. And that responsibility was something the Damsel had been hoping to cultivate.
Of course, the Thief and the Bard were reluctant to like. Co-parent with a known murderer and the Dragon. But the Damsel appreciated the Child’s input, when he was allowed to receive it, and he did his best to respect the Child’s opinion.
“Which of you wants to walk the plank first!” Remus exclaimed, gesturing around with a rapier.
He poked it against Logan’s chest a few times, enough for Logan to see the tiny morning star affixed at its end, and the gesture was returned by a withering glance over. Janus snorted, at least, and Patton coo’ed at how tiny Remus’ weapon now was.
“Awh, it’s so cute!” Patton praised.
Virgil, on the other hand, waved his hand at the weapon. “Get that off his chest. We’ve gotta get to the Dragon Witch, with the others. You’re taking us there, right?”
Remus’s lips upturned, pouting as he leaned over closer. “Awh, boo! All work and no play makes Virgil a dull, dull boy,” he flicked his finger against Virgil’s nose and, before Virgil could retaliate any more than a growl, turned around quickly. “Yes, we’re on route for that. Shouldn’t be too long before we get there and drop trou.”
“I believe we’d be dropping anchor, when we arrive,” Logan corrected, following Remus first up the deck.
The whole troupe moved after him. Around them, the sails were being managed, ropes pulled, and steering wheel turned by invisible forces. It was like the ship were being manned by invisible people, but it was likely only run by Remus, who was hopping up the stairs.
“Oh, sure, whatever you want, Nerdy Nummy,” Remus said with a grin, gesturing over the side of the boat. “I’ll sure be dropping trou, at least.”
“How are the others?” the Thief asked quickly, trying to ignore Logan’s quizzical look.
Once again, Remus waved his hand. “Oh, you know!” he barked out a laugh.
Well. What did the Thief expect, with that one. He scowled at Remus’ back, a few ideas on how to get him to talk dancing through his mind before he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Behind him, Janus shook his head.
And before the Thief could grapple with the snake and throw him overboard, as if sensing the imminent danger, Virgil yanked Janus back in a quick, sharp motion.
Behind both of them, Patton stumbled into the Damsel, who held onto the railing and caught Patton around the midsection. Virgil held Janus steady off by the side, watching as the Thief slowly brushed his cloak down. The air was tense around the whole party, even though Remus was skipping his way up at the top of the stairwell.
“Eric,” the Damsel murmured, trying to break the tension. “Eric, come-come on.”
The Thief’s eyes moved from Janus to the Damsel, squinting a little harder at him.
The Damsel let go of Patton to gesture forward, as if tired. Condescending.
Janus took it in quietly, eyes flitting between both, before Virgil shoved him up toward — past — the Thief. “C’mon, guys,” he grunted.
That shattered the tension. The Thief hopped off the steps in one vertical leap, landing on the railing and hurrying up the rest of the rail as if it were a balance beam.
At least they weren’t fighting. That’s what Patton was most afraid of, any more big fighting. They’d done that earlier today and they had to stop, really. It was going to start hurting Thomas at some point.
There was so much hurting. Who hurt you, who hurt me, hurting, revenge, and Patton didn’t agree with any of it! They just needed to sit down. Take a breather. Talk things out. But everyone was so tense and no one was willing to just breathe.
“Don’t worry, kiddos, we’re doin’ great,” he mumbled to himself. “I’m all good.”
The Damsel snorted behind him — Patton completely forgot he was there, too. He helped Patton upright, which he thanked him for, and they both began up again. The Damsel had a slower gait, holding the cane with one hand while he gripped the railing with the other, so Patton let his stride slow to keep pace.
“How’re you doing, Philly boy,” Patton bobbed his head as he spoke.
It was a silly nickname, sure, but the Damsel stopped fully again, squinting his eye at Patton with so much vitriol that he almost flinched. Almost.
“Philly boy,” he repeated.
“Mmmmmhm,” Patton glanced up the stairs with his eyes before stopping himself.
“I’m doing alright, Patty boy,” the Damsel responded with a small smile, shaking his head as he continued to climb. “How are you?”
Oh. Thank heavens. Patton laughed, clapping. “Wow, I’m glad you liked that one. I was about to start crying.”
As they got toward the top, the Damsel patted Patton’s shoulder gently. They were closer to the stern, going toward the wheel, which Remus approached himself. He waved his hands away at whatever was controlling it and gripped it tight himself.
“ONWARDS!” he screeched.
Somewhere, seagulls screeched, and the Thief jumped at the sound.
The ship turned quickly, careening to the side, though it didn’t throw off anyone’s balance too much. Remus was nice enough to think about that, at least. They faced the wall of mist that Virgil had crossed prior, the one that cut the Imagination in half, and began drifting toward it. The wind caught the sails in ways that defied logic and gravity, given that there was next to no wind blowing against them on the deck. Logan looked around at the world, approaching the railed edge slowly.
It was beautiful. He didn’t think he told Roman that enough, when they were together. It was hard to call something beautiful objectively, since it was, by definition, subjective. But the beauty of these creations, even at night, as the moon’s faint glow trawled over the edges of each tree. It faintly glittered on the river that cut through the forest and the town, dull light emanating off the terracotta roofs in town…
He missed Roman. Logan didn’t know what to feel about everyone else here, the arguing they’d been going through, but at the very least. Well. Roman did listen to part of what he’d said.
They should be able to discuss this like people.
God, fucking, and also damnit.
He ran his hand through his hair and took off his glasses slowly. It was giving him a headache and not because of his aid of the Imagination’s creating.
“It sure is pretty out here,” Patton sighed.
“It’s about to get even better, Daddy-o. Hold onto your pants!” Remus shouted.
Before any of them could ask what the fuck that meant, the fog of the split approached and engulfed the ship. It was impossible to see the hands in front of their faces, let alone the world around them. A whole shift.
And in almost an instant, it was gone. The fog swiped past them, drifting off the ship in slow rolls. Logan watched it drift back into a wall behind them, smoothing back down, before glancing over the world before them.
It was less dark than he’d expected. It was day, in a way, the other half of the sun glowing red more than the gold of Roman’s side, bathing the world in a bloody glow. The lighting poked holes between the pitch dark trees and between the tangles of brambles that surrounded the grounds of Remus’ world. In the distance was another castle. It was much taller. Much less clear how physics worked here, if Remus kept it in mind or if he pointedly discarded it. Logan had a hunch it was the later, building things that he knew wouldn’t work, because the largest tower of the castle had a full 90º bend in the middle. There was a bend, then another bend, then it continued upward, like someone had pushed it over a chunk.
To Virgil, it was a little familiar. He’d traversed both sides, though Remus’ far less. Back when he had to make nightmares more often, he’d have to go in through Remus’ mirror rather than Roman’s door. He also leaned over the railing besides Logan with a sigh.
“Hello everyone, this is your captain speaking.” Everyone jumped, Virgil nearly a foot off the ground. They whipped around to see Remus in a captain’s outfit — all green, of course — holding a radio speaker whose chord seemed to disappear into thin air above him.
He waved his fingers at the group and only the Damsel waved back, as per usual. “We are hovering above our destination now, and I hope you’ve enjoyed your flight. Beginning our descent into the Dragon Witch’s lair in t-minus five. Four. Three.”
“Oh, fuck,” the Thief groaned, holding onto the Damsel’s arm.
“Two.”
“What?” Virgil asked.
“One.”
The boat disappeared, as did Remus. For everyone else?
They began their descent.
For a moment, just a brief moment, it reminded Janus of the last time they visited. What, with trap door falls and all that.
Below them was the Subconscious, just besides the ground of Remus’ side. Virgil screamed — words can barely explain the stress he was under — as did Patton. The Thief had curled around the Damsel’s waist, cloak shielding them both and actually breaking some of their descent. It gave them a wider surface area, especially as the Damsel’s scarf undid itself. He kicked one of his legs out as well to increase surface area. Logan, at the furthest to the bottom, had his back to the fall as he watched everyone else.
It really felt like they were going to die here.
Until the shadow passed above, blocking out the little light they had. Logan could see it, it was a dragon. The Dragon? No, it looked larger. He couldn’t remember the Dragon’s actual dragon form’s size and length. Maybe he should take measurements.
“WHAT THE FUCK,” Janus managed to choke out through the air that was surging past them.
The dragon passed by again, closer this time. It dove and, with one claw, grabbed the two Roman figments. The Damsel wrapped his arms around its claw as it dove beneath them again. In this movement, it swiped Patton straight out of the air.
Somehow, Virgil screamed louder.
Then even he was silenced by the dragon’s tail coiling around them.
Impact must be coming soon. They were getting close to the tree tops at least, and while the Subconscious was an impossibly further drop below, even Logan was getting worried. He couldn’t see how far they were falling but it’d been about eleven seconds. That felt like quite a bit.
Claws wrapped around Janus in front of him then, quickly, himself as well. The dragon wasted no time in reaching up with its front arms and depositing them both onto its back, which was much wider than Logan remembered Draco’s being. And much more purple.
This must be the Dragon Witch, then. He patted her back with a sigh.
Virgil was still hyperventilating, holding one of the Witch’s protruding spikes with both of his arms. Also his legs. Patton was too stunned to make sounds, jaw hung open, and Janus, as soon as he was deposited, scrambled over to hold a spike himself. That was probably wise. Logan grabbed one.
They were safe.
“That was fun,” the Damsel said, coughing a few times. “Wow.”
“Shut the fuck up,” the Thief croaked.
He was just as pale as Virgil, almost moreso, as he held onto the Damsel and as the Damsel held one of the spikes. The Damsel laughed a little at the Thief’s anger.
“That was AWFUL,” Patton cried.
Logan blinked a few times, only to find his vision clouding. Oh. He took off his glasses, making sure to grip them tight as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Wetness. Ah.
“No, it was fucking great,” Janus snapped, jaw closing so quickly it made a biting sound, only for him to let out another small scream as the Witch ducked into the side of the cliff, into a dark opening.
They held on for the bumpy landing, wincing as they rolled a little on her scales. Slowly, though, she leaned to the side and stilled.
An opportunity to get off. No one was unhappy to oblige, and the Damsel, remembering how, slid off first. One by one, they disembarked, looking around the cave.
It was large. Red clay and brown limestone walls were illuminated by hanging fire lanterns and columns of fire within, ones that seemed to spin flame into itself but not anywhere outside. It was as big as an airplane hangar, expansive and echoey. At the very least, it had to be large enough for her to fit, didn’t it.
Once Patton descended, the last person off, the dragon began to shift. Her expansive golden wings coiled in on herself, pressing into her body, compacting her. They managed to cover the entirety of her magenta and forest green form, tail wrapping in all the same as she kept shrinking.
“Draco?” Virgil asked, and Logan shook his head.
It seemed everyone else had made the incorrect assumption. “No, no, she was much too big to be the Dragon,” Logan explained.
“She?” Janus asked.
“She indeed,” the Witch hummed, voice booming from her giant form.
The gold wings peeled off then drifted back into two long, billowing ends of a shawl. It was wrapped around her shoulders and trailed behind her, punctuated by the thick, swirling gold cape over her shoulders. She was still an imposing presence in her human form, standing taller than even the Dragon, shoulders squared further by her thick coat. A horned headless, somewhat accurate to medieval style, saw on her head like a crown.
She opened her arms in one dramatic bow.
“Welcome in, everyone, it’s so good to finally meet you. My boys’ve told me so much,” she held out a hand, first to Janus, and her glowing eyes were striking.
Slitted and golden. Like him. “My name is Guinevere, but you can call me Vi.”
another series of human au pics but this time, it’s CADENCE!!!!! who is my angel!!!! i love him so dearly!!!! he’s so good and also the best <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
IDs: Pic 1 [Cadence posing with his hands folded beneath his chin, smiling excitedly. He is wearing a fur coat and shimmering black dress with lots of gold jewelry, and his make-up has gold eyeliner. There are soft-glowing string lights behind him.] Pic 2 [Cadence posing in a field of lavender in a big, poofy, shimmering pink dress. He is wearing a flower crown made of lavender and smiling joyfully.] Pic 3 [Cadence is coming in to hit you with his ukulele. He looks very mad. He is wearing a short pink pleated skirt and a pink sweater with black knee-high boots. His ukulele has many stickers on it.]
A/N: so....i actually have...... maybe 100,000k words unpublished with the boys in human au.,.... and since the human au infodump, i've been wondering if i should post things from the spinoff au. i asked a friend and she suggested i post at least a bit since there Were Folks who enjoyed these characters. im hugging everyone who has been keeping up :') thank you and i love you and you don't know how much this means to me, that people like my work.
i do plan on updating more than beliefs, though as you can probably tell, updates are pretty slow. i've had big weird life changes over the past three or so years, which is kinda sad, since i used to be able to update chivalry literally once a week :'D but thank you all for sticking with me through it!! i'm hoping, once i'm done writing my thesis, i can get back to updating MTB more often. i've had the whole thing plotted in my head for a while and you all deserve to see more of macbeth, along with where he was during like. all of chivalry.
heads up that this is NOT going on AO3 — it's a bit far from the actual fandom space so I'm really hesitant to put it up there. it'll only be here! somewhat related, but i might spruce up this blog layout. the banner image is kind of old/i don't like the anatomy, and same with the icon. and i just took a look at the blog and went "wow the text is smaller than i remember it being..." so that's a sign that it's Too Small! time for a change probably.
Words: 7,615
WARNINGS: descriptions of anxiety disorder, descriptions of past child abuse, suicidal/depressive thoughts, someone's ankle breaks (don't run in heels, kids!), alcohol and drunkenness
if i forgot anything, please let me know! this is only one chapter of a longer thing (i'm still on the fence about posting all of it but frankly, if i do revamp this blog, i straight fuckin might. i don't plan on publishing these novels for market consumption, but i would be happy to know if folks out there enjoyed them :') )
enjoy the snippet! <3
Eric Yuan hadn't considered himself lovable in a long, long time.
The anxiety disorder was just scraping the surface. There was the legal battle he'd gone into against his parents for custody over Gavin. He was so responsible it was irresponsible, sleeping odd hours, sometimes none at all, and living off of the cheapest coffee he could find to keep himself awake. There was the lack of time, the long hours of work to pay for the apartment and his and Gavin's lives, between working at the bar and at the restaurant, trying to pull together something to keep them afloat. He survived off of lunch and, when tips were good, the occasional dinner.
Gavin had noticed, of course, but he was nice enough to not say anything. Eric tried to be as honest as he could about how sometimes they couldn't get new games or new things, how he would have to stay late at night at work. If Eric was thankful for anything, it was how understanding Gavin was. That kid rolled with as many punches as were thrown and while Eric knew he shouldn't have to, knew that his brother deserved a better upbringing than the shit that their parents and now the world were putting them through, he also recognized that this was the best he could do.
He tried to hide himself in work, two jobs that provided enough money to keep them going. Honestly, if he’d talked with his managers and budgeted hours differently, he could get by with just the bartending job. But the days without work were spent taking Gavin to school, watching Gavin at home, laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling. He had to have something to bury himself in so he wouldn’t be stuck with his thoughts, the ones that promised danger, contempt, building paranoia and anxiety until he choked on his own breath. Thoughts that promised a kinder world. On the other side.
If he killed himself, Gavin would go right back to their parents, and Eric had to stay alive if only to prevent that. That was….that was the only reason.
Sometimes, he wondered if Gavin knew, because on nights like that the kid always managed to find his way into Eric's bed. He'd crawl in and snuggle between Eric's arms and tell him he had a nightmare. Eric never knew how honest he was being, but he never turned the offer down.
He had to keep alive. So he did.
And like, man worked a lot. Often, too much. How the fuck was he supposed to keep up with the world around him if he barely used his social media, didn't watch any of the new content put out in recent years, didn't engage with new platforms. Well, he had a Twitter, but that was just to look at funny memes. Those were his favorite development in recent years. Twitter also helped keep up with the news somewhat, but he didn’t exactly pay attention to that. Also, cat videos, those were important to him.
Yeah, he was fairly disconnected, but what else was new and what could you do.
Eric Yuan's life flipped when he was opening the bar at 4 p.m. on a Wednesday. He wasn't an owner or manager, but he was a shift lead. The most dependable shift lead, if you asked his manager, and while he often told Eric that he was pretty reliable, it wasn’t as though Eric processed that kind of praise. He did know that he got the most done, and was the most efficient, because he could take that kind of metric comparison. But, like. Most reliable? He didn’t know how true that was. Eric liked to take the opening shifts, helped get home at a reasonable enough hour to see Gavin to sleep and for him to sleep enough to take the lunch shifts at his other job.
The opening shift consisted of a few things. Making sure dishes were racked for the night, that the trash was all arranged and the bins were out in the alley, that bottles that looked like they were going to go empty had restocks close by. It was slow and quiet, for shift leads, but it was perfect for Eric. He liked to turn on some music and walk around, working efficient and quick enough usually to have a few minutes of quiet before the bartenders started showing up.
The alley behind his bar was more like a driveway than anything, wide enough just for one car. Most of the time, the neighboring businesses would just put their bins back here during work hours.
While opening on this day, though, Eric noticed a man running. He'd turned the sharp corner near the bar and hurried partway down the block, panting as if he'd been running a while. Eric actually pulled his own bins back as the man passed him. Then promptly tripped. What idiot runs in heels, anyway?
The man tried to get back up, but a few steps proved his ankle injured enough for him to collapse again. And that's when he looked up, frantically looking around for help, and his eyes locked with Eric's.
Eric waved, ever so slightly. And, well. He's always been the type to help someone who needed it. He didn't know what the man was running from, but it seemed that time was of the essence. He jogged over and picked the man up easily, making sure he didn't grab the man's dreadlocks accidentally beneath his arm, and hurried him into the bar. At least the dude was pretty light, and he let Eric pick him up, wrapping his arms around Eric’s shoulders.
The first and only real thing Eric noticed was that he smelt a little floral. Must have been perfume or something. The man wasn’t wearing clothes that Eric would have called casual, especially with the heels. A fall like that must have hurt his ankle.
"Thank you," the man whispered, and Eric noticed how gentle his voice was, how lofty and warm. "Close the door, please, they can't see me."
Eric didn't know who the fuck "They" was, but Eric kicked the door closed on his way in. Just as he did, too, he heard the sound of footsteps at the end of the alley. Eric helped the man hide behind the bar, out of view of the door, and shushed him quietly as a knock sounded on the door.
He wiped his hands on his apron, stepping back towards the door. He paused before opening it only to prepare his face, so he could open it with the deadliest glare. And there were. People. There. Were many people. Many with cameras. All looking fairly out of breath.
How did that guy outrun a whole ass crowd?
The man who had knocked was haggard, taller than Eric but with an obviously lankier build, wheezing as he asked, “Have you seen anyone come up this road?”
He sounded kinda desperate. Eric shook his head slowly, cogs working in his head as he put together a cover story. “No, I’ve just been trying to open up shop. I took the bins out,” he gestured to the trash bins, set alongside the wall. “But I didn’t see anyone then. If someone was out there, they could have run past while I was stocking.”
The man nodded, either willing to accept that lie or too frantic to look too deep into it. Eric watched with sharp eyes as he and the group looked up and down the street. He didn’t think this concerned him, though, and he wanted to check back in on the absolute rando’ he’d just let into the bar. So he nudged the guy’s hand.
“I think the candy shop over there’s open, around that corner.” Eric pointed to the end of the alley. “If someone ran past, they could have seen them. Other than that though, I don’t have anything, and I’ve gotta get back to opening.”
Just a few well-placed white lies. The man at the door nodded and motioned the group to leave without another word. Eric let the door slam behind them.
Well. Then. He exhaled slow, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, then turned to the bar counter.
The way the bar was arranged was such that there was a peninsula counter, sticking out of the wall with seats arranged on all sides. On one side, too, was a small stage. Often, they would just play music. Sometimes they had performers, live musicians, and every Thursday was comedy night for local comedians. In June, they have a small drag show every Friday, and in December, they have a run of charity shows. There are still fliers and decorations up from the last one; Eric should take them down while he’s opening.
The man who he’d snuck in slowly peeks his head around the counter. There was something awfully familiar about him, like Eric had definitely seen this dude before, but he isn’t attuned to the daily gossip. Maybe it was just because the man was pretty as could be, eyes a warm brown that lingered around Eric before darting back at the door. His brows were perfectly shaped. Eric could see a little heart on his cheek, too, and silver decorations in his dreadlocks. Very, very pretty.
The man scan the area, see Eric going around to take the chairs out from where they’ve been stacked in the corner. And he asks, in a voice almost more delicate than Eric could have imagined, “Are they gone?”
“Yeah,” Eric said, setting down the barstools as he went around the bar’s lounge area. “They stalkers or something?”
As soon as Eric said the people chasing him were gone, the man sighed, standing up all the way and cracking his neck. He scooted to the sink behind the counter to wash his hands, which was fair. It wasn’t like the bar ground was the cleanest, even just before opening.
Someone like this dude, this put together and manicured and astoundingly beautiful, shouldn’t have had to put his hands on the bar’s fuckin’ ground.
“Basically stalkers. Paparazzi,” the man sighed.
“Paparazzi?” Eric asked, looking back at the man.
Was this dude fucking famous? Eric couldn’t recognize him. Damn, he was that far removed from things, that he couldn’t recognize an entire celebrity.
The man must have realized now that Eric hadn’t known who he was, because his grin turned sheepish as he wiped his hands on a towel. “Yep! I’m, uh. Songbird? That’s my stage name. And my YouTube channel.”
That name rang, like, literally no bells in Eric’s head. Figures, though. He rarely watched Youtube.
They stood in relative silence for a few beats before the man tried again. “Cadence? Cadence Beaulieu?”
“Oh,” Eric said, and it must have been obvious how he didn’t know who the fuck this Cadence dude was, because Cadence laughed a little in his face.
“You’re cute,” Cadence said, limping out around the bar, holding onto the bar’s side. “I don’t get that much anymore.”
“Cool.” Eric instinctually hurried over, holding Cadence’s arm and waist as he helped him onto one of the bar’s seats, but his head was reeling from the idea of a famous celebrity calling him cute. Like? That didn’t just happen. Did it? This guy was fucking famous?
What the fuck was he supposed to say? How do you talk to famous people? Eric helped him settle into the seat before asking, “Do you want water or something?”
“No, I’m good,” Cadence smiled at him.
Eric was going to loose his mind, he got called cute by a famous dude and now he’s looking at the famous dude and realizing how cute the famous guy was. He hadn’t paid attention to that earlier, too preoccupied with getting the guys at the door to leave, but now that he was actually looking at this guy—his anxiety was about to start kicking in, hard, he could tell. What if he made an ass of himself in front of the famous dude? The incredibly pretty famous dude.
“Cool,” Eric looked down, at the bar, and whistled a little. “If you want, you can, uh, stay here for a bit, until your car comes?”
He figured the famous dude isn’t driving around himself.
Cadence nodded. “If that’s okay,” he murmured, taking out his phone. “I can stay outta your way, then.”
Slowly, Eric nodded, too. He had to get the extra drinks ready. Finish opening up. And. He couldn’t really. Process? What was happening. He just thought he was helping someone up off the street, having tripped, and….Wait.
“Wait, how’s your ankle?” he tried to swallow his anxiety, looking back at Cadence, who seemed to be idling on his phone.
Cadence looked back up at him, then at his ankle. He was wearing strappy heels, flowy pants, a tight shirt, and an old oversized jacket, and none of these looked like clothes that were good to be running around in. Especially those heels. Eric didn’t know much about heels but he figured they might be an inch? And that was probably enough to fucking break a leg. Rude to stare, though. So he just. Averted his eyes back to the glasses he was stacking for later.
This guy was so fucking pretty. Eric was holding him earlier. He’d carried him—Eric had deadlift carried a whole ass celebrity.
“Probably sprained,” Cadence said with a sigh. “When I get home, I can ice it. I don’t think it’s fully broken, though, I could put a little weight on it.”
Now, they had ice in the box. Eric grabbed one of the spare bags for their limes and filled one with ice, part of their protocol for when drunkards would hurt themselves. He wrapped it in one of the clean towels and, once the Grey Goose was restocked, brought it over to Cadence. Who took it. Gratefully. It seemed.
“Thanks,” Cadence gave him a smile, which like. Eric still didn’t really know how to feel about this.
“No problem,” he said. “Sorry, uh. For, uh, being quiet. And not knowing who you were.”
Because like, that felt like something he should apologize for, you know? If Cadence is used to people recognizing him on the streets and some level of respect because of it, then maybe Eric treating him like a regular person (maybe even ignoring him, since he’s just sitting in the corner) might be rude? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the fucking etiquette for talking to famous people, this isn’t a problem he’s ever had!
“It’s okay, no, don’t even worry,” Cadence giggled—that sound, that fucking sound was so soft, what the hell?—and waved his hand dismissively.
“Okay,” Eric nodded. And he didn’t have much to. Like. Add?
So he turned around and went back to restocking the bar. And he didn’t say anything about how he could feel Cadence watching him. He didn’t say anything, but he could feel Cadence’s eyes on his back every so often, when he’d look up from his phone.
Maybe he was tweeting something about him. Eric didn’t know much about social media so if he did get tweeted about, he definitely wasn’t going to be able to find it. Or maybe he was texting his famous friends about the weirdo bartender who’s just ignoring him as he lifts the crates out of the storage room and cracks them open.
There’s no way this dude would be bullying him over shit like this for no reason, right?
Regardless, Eric wasn’t about to start a conversation and ask. He just knew that the guy was staring at him. For what felt like an hour. Realistically, only like, half an hour. But for fucking forever, man.
At some point, though, it had to end. After about twenty minutes, Cadence stood up, wobbling a little on his hurt ankle. Eric, who’d been restocking the limes, looked up, then stood up.
“Your car here?” he asked.
“Yep,” Cadence smiled a little at him. “When does this place open, anyway?”
“Uh,” Eric frowned, checking the clock on the wall. “In ten.”
Where the fuck are his bartenders, anyway? They’re supposed to get here at around now. Fuckers.
Cadence nodded, though, noting the time. “Glad this all happened before hours, then. Wouldn’t want it to get too crazy in here for you,” he looked at the clock on the wall, then back at Eric, with a small smile that made Eric’s already quick-beating heart skip a beat thinking of how his eyes creased with gentle happiness.
“Uh. Yeah,” Eric tried to smile, too, but something told him it looked a little more like a grimace.
Cadence waved, Eric waved. Then Cadence left. And the door closed behind him.
And that was the that. On that.
Eric was fairly zoned out for the whole shift. He was mixing drinks on autopilot, not so much as handling customers. Some drunkard got rowdy, Eric wasted no time to tell them to fuck off. His patience was zilch.
He got home and Gavin’s already put himself to bed, tucked in and in his PJ’s, though Eric heard him get up when he closed the front door. Eric picked him up, tucked him back in again, and kissed him on the head. Poor kid hated being alone late at night, especially when he had to put himself to bed. Eric laid on the bed with him, one foot off to hold himself steady, and made sure Gavin was all the way asleep before he stood up to change his own clothes.
Only once he was sure Gavin’s not getting out of bed again does he check his phone, too.
“Cadence Beaulieu” had over four million followers on Twitter, over fifteen million subscribers on Youtube, and an Instagram account that makes Eric blush almost inappropriately. And this is the guy who was. In his bar. Talking to him. Eric picked this man up earlier and didn’t even notice that the heart on his face was made up of three moles. It looked like a tattoo almost, but no, apparently.
He spent almost too much time binging Cadence’s content before he managed to pass out to the sound of one of his beauty tutorials. Interesting, that this is the guy he met. This is the guy who he picked up, carried into his bar, hid in the corner.
Interesting.
But not every day is so interesting. So Eric goes back to work and expects nothing to change. He tries to put this rare celebrity encounter behind him. Tries not to think of how much of an idiot he must have been, seeming to just fade into the background and ignore what could have been a real moment had he asked more questions, became something more memorable perhaps. He could have asked Cadence how he was doing, at least. How his day had been. Anything, really.
Instead, Eric just has the memory of the prettiest man on the planet sitting in the corner of the bar, of his bar. Alone together. A stranger, sure, and maybe Eric understood somewhere that that was part of why the anxiety was so strong? But c’mon. Man was pretty. Nice, too.
Damn. This is why he’s single, he joked bitterly to himself. Lonely, the joke in his head twisted. He didn’t have the gall to actually talk to anyone, what was he supposed to do.
He had been cleaning out glasses at the bar, late one night. He’d picked up a later shift, after Gavin had already gone to sleep. Usually, Eric liked to be home while the kid slept, but sometimes the scheduling didn’t work out like that and he’d need to pick up extra hours for other bartenders who had to tap out. He was a very strong cover, apparently. And on the spectrum of “thank god that lucky ass thing happened,” this was right below Cadence’s accident.
About two weeks after Eric meets a whole ass celebrity, two men sit down at the bar during one of the live musical performances. It was Eric’s time working behind the bar, and he saw the one with the eyepatch wave him over. Which, like. Okay, sure, he was getting there. But customer service and you never know how many drinks they’ve had before they walk in at one in the morning and you definitely don’t want to get mad at the dude giving you the tip and maybe this dude’s never been to a bar, who the fuck wears soft cashmere at a bar, and his buddy there was in a bowtie and suspenders like this was some kind of book club and not remarkably past midnight on a Thursday.
Like, okay, nerds, maybe they’ve just never been to this kinda bar. Sure. Fine.
“What can I get started for you boys,” Eric said, slinging his washcloth over his shoulder on his approach.
“Two cosmopolitans, please,” the one with the eyepatch said, giving Eric a smile that read polite.
Eric looked at the one with curly hair and glasses, who nodded in confirmation. “One shot in both? You got any vodka preferences?” he asked, taking out the house vodka and two tumblers.
Before the eyepatch’ed one could reply, the one with glasses butted in, saying, “One with one shot, a double in the other, please. And if you have Ketel One, that would be grand.”
“A double shot? Marlowe!”
“What, it’s been a good day! I think I deserve a double shot. And you know two shots isn’t enough to do much.” This Marlowe guy sounded pretty cocky, if you were to ask Eric, but no one ever asks the bartender. So he didn’t say anything about it.
He tuned out of the argument there, as soft as it turned. Much less of an argument, more aggressive flirting, and that was something that was easy for him to zone out of until he set the two cocktails down. “Double shot,” he said, setting the double in front of Marlowe. “And a single. If you boys need anything else, my name’s Eric and I’ll be at the bar all night.”
“Eric,” the one with the eyepatch smiled, and it was kind of pretty in that controlled, poised way that some models do. “Thank you. If we need anything, I’ll-I’ll call.”
“Thank you, Eric,” Marlowe said, raising his glass and taking a long sip.
Eric just nodded and went around, checking on others. Earlier, he’d seen some dude try to roofie a girl, and had taken the drink back. She had left with a friend she trusted, and he’d kicked the guy out pretty forcefully, but the moment still left quite the imprint. He was always on edge whenever that happened, hoping to prevent it from happening again.
He did a few rounds before he ended up in front of Marlowe and his friend again, maybe half an hour later. This friend was on his phone, typing something out, while Marlowe flagged Eric down, with an empty glass before him.
“Hello, Eric,” Marlowe raised the glass. “Would you be a dime and make me a Long Island Iced Tea?”
Okay. This dude had to be a heavier drinker, if he was going to be calling out drinks by name. And it wasn’t necessarily Eric’s job to know how much someone could drink, especially strangers. The guy didn’t, like….he didn’t look drunk just yet. You know? So Eric nodded.
“Sure thing. You got any preferences?” he asked, taking the cup back and pulling out a tall glass.
Now that seemed to be the right question, or at least one the man hadn’t thought of. Marlowe reached up, cupping his chin in thought, and spared a few glances at his friend still typing. Hopefully this wasn’t, like, for the friend. Eric would have to watch for that. But after a bit of time, Marlowe nods. “Yes. Ketel One again for the vodka.”
“Sure.” They had Ketel One under the vodka cabinet, but people rarely ordered it. It was one of their premium vodka’s and house vodka was Smirnoff.
“Do you have Patrón for tequila?”
“Yeah, I’m….pretty sure,” Eric, before he could be made to swallow his words, took a stride to the tequila cabinet and checked. “Yep, I’ve got Patrón for you.”
“Excellent. I don’t know enough about the other three alcohols to have preferences, but if you could tell me what you put in, I’d love to start learning.”
An….interesting request. But Eric knew the house drinks like the back of his hand (and he might not be able to hold his liquor like the best of them, but he’d still tried all of the standard drinks. For posterity.) so he pulled out the Bacardi first. “This’ the rum. In house, we use Bacardi. Pretty light for a rum, but it does have a better taste than Captain Morgan. A lot better to mix with,” he explained.
Marlowe had turned himself toward the counter, watching Eric pour in the Bacardi first, then the Ketel One, then the Patrón. Then, he put those three down. The triple sec was all out on the shelf, since they were common enough and the bar stocked a small enough range to have the whole selection out for viewing. Eric pulled down a bottle of Bols to add, then Henrick’s gin from the shelf below. They were running out behind the bar anyways. “Bols is the triple sec,” Eric said as he poured. “It’s really good for mixing with multiple alcohols. Sometimes a drink’ll play nice with other alcohols and sometimes it’ll only play nice with, like. Coke.”
“That makes sense. The consistencies are very different,” Marlowe hummed.
Sounded like this dude was the analytical type. Which might explain why he had some of his preferences on hand. If you don’t go to bars often, you’re going to be scared of the unknown. Eric was almost proud of the guy for that, if this was him trying new things.
He just hoped Marlowe wouldn’t throw up in the bathroom or something. That would fuckin’ suck. Always a situation when the patrons didn’t know their own limits.
“Henrick’s is the gin, and it’s just a easy gin to use,” he said with a shrug. “And then we just….”
He pulled out the cola spritzer, topped the glass off with cola, and put the slice of lemon in. And then he slid it over to Marlowe, who took the drink in one hand with a fascinated look. Dude even pushed his glasses up.
“Interesting. I’m excited to try it,” Marlowe said, glancing back up to Eric with a smile.
And before Eric could even warn him about how strong of a gut punch it was about to be, Marlowe picked up the glass and took a swig about a third of the cup. “Woah, buddy,” Eric couldn’t stop himself from jumping at that. “You alright?”
“Marlowe, what the fuck are you doing?” dude’s friend finally looked up from his phone to see Marlowe slam the glass down and cough into his arm.
“Holy shit,” Marlowe said, fixing his glasses with a smile that seemed a little too wide to be sober. “That’s quite strong, but very, very good. Thank you, Eric!”
His glasses were still crooked. Eric almost leaned forward to fix them, before the guy’s friend got to it first, and that was all for the better. It’s not like Eric knew these people, after all.
Marlowe took out his phone and Eric took the chance to lean towards his companion. “He asked for a pretty strong drink,” Eric warned. “If you need a hand taking care of him, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve held a dude’s hair back in the bathroom.”
His friend must have been surprised at the suggestion, but it can’t have been an uncommon thing considering how quickly he got over the possibility. “Thank you, that’s very k-very kind. He’s not usually one to drink a lot,” the friend sighed, then nodded to Eric. “Thank you for your service tonight, Eric. My name is Phillip.”
Phillip, alright. “Good to meet you, Phillip,” Eric said, and he went back around the bar to do rounds.
It was another hour and half before the bar closed, though. Eric wasn’t technically the shift lead for closing, but he was on the shift. When it got close enough to three, he turned on Semisonic’s song “Closing Time.” Most of the people had left by then, quick to leave on their rides or to new bars.
But still sitting at the bar were the two people Eric had pegged as nerds earlier, Marlowe and Phillip. After Marlowe finished the Long Island Iced Tea, Eric had poured a water, but the man still ordered a margarita on top of it. And now it looked like he was paying for it, given how he was literally leaning on Phillip’s shoulder, arms wrapped around his waist. Phillip didn’t look all too pleased, however.
“David is going to be worried si-worried si-sick when we get home.” Eric could hear Phillip chide Marlowe as he got close.
“It’s-It’s all dandy. I love David,” Marlowe hiccupped into Phillip’s shoulder, then leaned around and pressed his face into the base of his neck. “I love YOU, Prince.”
Phillip tutted, reaching back to run his hand through Marlowe’s curled hair. “I love you-love you too, you idiot.”
Cute. Really gay, and cute. Eric put away the cups he’d just washed and approached the pair, noting how they’d slowly but surely become the last people at the bar.
“Hey,” he said, waving slightly. “Phillip, right?”
“Mhm. Eric,” Phillip greeted. “Sorry to still be here. I can see you’re closing up.”
“Eh. Marlowe’s falling asleep on you, I get it. Do you two have a ride home?”
At that, Phillip winced. And Eric could have guessed the follow up, honestly. “Actually, Marlowe was supposed to be the driver,” Phillip confessed, patting Marlowe’s hand. “I think he overshot how much he could drink, though. As per usual.”
“I only had three drinks!” Marlowe interrupted, all too proud of himself for having three drinks that had the alcoholic consistency of a freight train.
Phillip and Eric both seemed to be on the same page, though, because neither acknowledged him. Save for a few gentle pats from Phillip as Marlowe buried himself more in Phillip’s back.
“Okay. Do you need to call someone?” Eric asked.
Phillip rubbed the back of his neck, thinking for a moment before nodding. “Yes. I know someone who’ll be awake who can come help, but….well. Marlowe’s car is still in the parking lot. It has a parking limit in the morning, which will quickly become an issue.”
Fuckin’ city parking. Eric had definitely gotten a ticket or two before, parking his motorcycle in the wrong place. He usually just walked to work, though, since he was two blocks away. So he didn’t have a vehicle to worry about….
A drunk man and a man with a cane could get picked up real easy this late at night by some unfavorable people. Maybe that worry was what made Eric offer. Maybe it was because Phillip and Marlowe had been fairly kind to him throughout the night. It could also have had something to do with how nice Phillip seemed to be taking it now, how calm he was handling the situation. And maybe, too, how Phillip himself didn’t ask.
There was something nice about being able to offer help, rather than having it asked of him always.
“If you want, I can drive you home,” Eric suggested. “I’ll catch an Uber back to my house from yours.”
Phillip blinked, and Marlowe giggled. Eric didn’t know what was so funny. He thought it was probably pretty shady to offer. He knew he wouldn’t let just any stranger drive his bike, after all. But he’d gotten to the point where he could do a solid vibe check just by looking and interacting with someone, and these two seemed nice. He could see himself accepting this kind offer, under similar circumstances, from either of them.
Still, kinda scary to think he’d be driving someone else’s car to their own house. He wouldn’t know where it was, Phillip would have to direct him. But Phillip legally couldn’t drive, not with the one eye gone, and Marlowe definitely couldn’t drive if he tried. Which he shouldn’t.
“That would be so-so lovely, thank you,” Phillip said.
Getting clearance to drive some drunk patrons home was a breeze, knowing it was Eric “workaholic glad you’re getting out early” Yuan. Soon enough, he had his arm looped around Marlowe’s waist, helping him up as Phillip led them to the car, which was parked about half a block away. Phillip also used a cane, which would have been a pretty difficult thing to work around if he needed to carry Marlowe himself. All the more reason Eric was glad to help them home.
They walked up to a nice sedan, likely a newer model judging by the built in navigation. Phillip helped Eric lay Marlowe in the back seat as he mumbled something about a pony, and Phillip himself climbed into the shotgun. The car wasn’t that hard to drive, now that Eric looked around at the controls. Same as any. The break was a little more tense than he was used to, but once he got it onto the road, he could manage.
Phillip, in shotgun, turned on a jazzy, late night radio station. And directed Eric gently towards their home, probably. Neither of them made conversation much but, to some extent, it didn’t seem like it was necessary. And that was kind of nice, to Eric. He didn’t always like conversing, especially with patrons and folks who didn’t know him. Which accounted for most people. But Phillip’s presence was nice, calming almost, which was rich for a guy who Eric had just met. He was tense, like he usually was, but for a stranger? In this kind of precarious circumstance?
It’s when the drive took them onto a small, two-lane road at the edges of the city and beginnings of the forest that Eric starts to worry. Was Marlowe actually a heavy-weight? Maybe he was pretending to be drunk back there so they could mug him? Take his kindness for granted and leave him in a ditch? He didn’t think he looked like he was worth mugging, but like….maybe. Was that a necessary cane or was it a weapon?
“It’s this-this house here,” Phillip said, pointing to a gravel driveway, and Eric swallowed despite the dryness of his mouth.
“Sure,” he murmured, pulling onto the gravel.
As he did, the house’s porch light turned on, front door thrown open as someone else jogged out. Eric stopped, threw the car into park immediately, but Phillip didn’t seem too phased by the newcomer. Instead, he turned to Eric and held out a one hundred dollar bill. “Thank you so much for all your help this evening,” he said with a smile.
Eric looked at the bill, then up at Phillip. He hadn’t really expected to be tipped for this, in all honesty. But it made sense. You know, if he’s going to drive you home, tip him. He’s done over the top enough. But a hundred fucking dollars? This dude just whipped a hundred dollars out on a tip? How loaded were these gay dudes, and then they didn’t have someone to drive them home?
“That’s a hundred dollars,” he said, unthinking.
He blushed a little, stuttering on words to add on and say he didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but Phillip just laughed. His laugh was breezy, like leaves in the wind. “Yes, it’s a hundred dollars. I think it’s-it’s warranted, considering you drove me and my idiot home,” Phillip put the bill on Eric’s lap and undid his seatbelt. “It’s a hundred dollars plus something-something extra.”
Eric looked down at the bill, picked it up, and there was. A whole ass phone number written on the side. With the “Phillip & Marlowe” written on the side.
Before he can ask what the fuck is happening and if he’s been dreaming this whole time, the backseat door opens. “Davy,” Marlowe’s voice is so slurred it’s almost incomprehensible, but the person who’d come out of the house, this “Davy,” unbuckles Marlowe swiftly.
“Jesus, Marl’, how much did you drink?” Davy grumbles, pulling Marlowe out by his arms.
Instead of setting him on the ground, though, Davy just wrapped them around his shoulders and then slowly, steadily, lifted Marlowe into his arms. Marlowe let him, swinging his own legs up to make it easier for Davy to catch them. Once he had some semblance of a grip, Marlowe leaned forward and pressed his face against Davy’s, kissing him rough enough for Phillip to laugh at, Eric to stare confusedly at.
“He gets like this, when he’s-when he’s drunk,” Phillip leaned over to explain, though it does nothing to clear up Eric’s questions.
At this point? He’s a lot more willing to walk home. Just get out of the car and walk.
“Alright, y’ sap,” Davy grumbles, pulling Marlowe off of himself and nestling him into more of a hold.
Eric was still sitting in the driver seat, just watching through the passenger window as Phillip opens his own door and climbs out. Davy leans his head towards Phillip, who pats his shoulder warmly and looks down at Eric.
All three of them are looking at him now.
The odd one out.
And, like, fair. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing here, either.
“Uh,” he said. “I can just, uh. I can call myself an Uber now.”
“Who the fuck’re you?” Davy asked, almost at exactly the same time.
Eric put his hands up and slowly climbed out of the car. This Davy person didn’t really look mad—Phillip leaned over, whispering something to him, and Davy nodded along. And Eric didn’t know what the fuck that was about really, but he didn’t feel in the mood to test anything. Not at three in the morning, in someone else’s driveway. He had to get back home.
“I can just….” Eric gestured to the road again, taking a few steps back.
Davy shook his head. “No fuckin’ way, dude,” he was much more abrasive than the other two, and something in the sturdiness of his tone got Eric to shut up. “I’ll drive you.”
On literally any other day, Eric would probably have started running right then and there. His palms were sweaty still, from gripping the steering wheel tighter than ever and from the mounting panic of driving someone else’s car to a house he didn’t know. In a car with a bunch of strangers.
But, to be frank, Eric was just starting to believe this wasn’t real.
He was probably just tired. He didn’t usually work shifts this late, and this was a whirlwind of a night already, and he’d already swallowed whatever panic arose earlier, which usually left him without the energy to worry about semi-tense situations. It was a kinda numb feeling. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? He dies and Gavin goes back with their parents? Bit too late in the night for Eric to care about something as trivial as dying.
So he nodded slowly to Davy’s suggestion. “That would be nice,” he said.
Davy grinned. He lifted Marlowe a little and said, “I’ll put this one to bed and come back out, ‘ight?”
Eric just nodded again, which must have been good enough for Davy, because he just turned around and marched himself back into the house. Phillip stayed outside, though, leaning on his cane with both of his hands. Eric shuffled around the car, now feeling a little more awkward, and Phillip gave him a small shrug as if to say he sympathized.
“I’m sure this is-this is strange,” Phillip added on.
It sure as fuck was. But Eric was like, almost too out of it to properly acknowledge that. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “This’ gonna be one hell of a dream to wake up from.”
Phillip chuckled at that one, laugh light like air. He leaned over and rested a hand on Eric’s shoulder—Eric flinched, hands reaching up into a defensive stance, and Phillip pulled back quick.
It was. A little out of his comfort zone.
Just a little. He didn’t like people touching him, especially people he didn’t know, because for the longest time he’d been used to sudden motions as a threat. And while he used to take it, Eric had long since trained himself to fight over flight. So it did take self-control to not just deck this dude.
He turned back around to Phillip, shoulders hiked enough for his neck to stiffen just a bit, and he tried to lower his own hands. They were shaking, much to his chagrin, so he stuffed them into the pockets of his jeans.
“Sorry,” he fumbled over his words. “Sorry, I, uh. I’m kinda...it’s late, and I don’t really like, uh. People touching me.”
“No need to apologize, that-that was on me,” Phillip responded. “No need at all. I should-I should have known better, but I’m ti-I guess I’m tired my-myself. I’m very sorry for touching.”
Eric smoothed himself out slowly, as best he could, and Phillip rested himself against the side of the car. He glanced over, watching Phillip as the man looked up at the tree line. In the moonlight, Eric could see him smile, ever so slightly. He looked weirdly regal, with how prim he was, even after being at a dive bar for three hours. His hair was still brushed to the side like it’d been gelled, though Eric had seen him run his hand through it a few times. And although it was dark, he could still make out the freckles that dotted Phillip’s face, like stars in their own right.
He turned away, looking at his feet, and hoped Phillip didn’t feel too badly. It wasn’t his fault Eric was a nervous fuckin’ wreck. But he didn’t say anything. Getting a little too tired to hold proper conversation.
They both look up as the front door opens and closes again, as that Davy guy jogs out. He’d changed out of his clothes into other pajama looking clothes, or maybe he’d just thrown on a jacket.
“Alright, nerd’s been sung a lullaby and is all tucked into bed.” He clapped his hands, rubbing them together slowly. “You gonna be able to get yourself in bed okay, Princey?”
“Oh, I’ll be okay. Just-Just sad my favorite artist won’t be there to kiss me goodnight,” Phillip said, and Eric did a double take at how flippantly the flirt was doled out.
Wasn’t Phillip dating that Marlowe guy? Eric glanced between Davy and Phillip as Davy scoffed and grabbed Phillip by the shoulder of his sweater, yanking him close and kissing him for a second. Were they like, all dating? Was that what was happening here?
Eric was more confused than anything else. He knew of polyamory. He’d just never seen it. Then again, he didn’t know about a lot in the queer community. Once, one of the queens who came in for drag night called him “gnc as hell” and he had to get an explanation from one of the girls sitting at the bar. Polyamory, though, was a new kind of fear for him. That was just more people to disappoint.
He looked back at the car and climbed into the passenger seat while Davy pulled back from Phillip and mussed up his hair. Eric very intentionally ignored eye contact while Davy climbed into the driver’s seat and rolled down Eric’s window, though he did wave at Phillip while Davy pulled away.
“Drive safely, David!” Phillip called out, waving a hand.
“Be back in a sec, baby!” David must have been his name proper, because he blew Phillip a kiss through the window and then rolled it back up.
Eric just kept sitting. Quietly. He almost wanted to pull his knees up, but this was someone else’s car and he didn’t really want to put his shoes on the leather seats. He put his hands on his knees, though, and tensed his knuckles a little.
Whereas the ride to the house was quiet in a calm manner, Eric felt a lot more tense now. He didn’t know this David. And this David dude seemed a lot less poised than Phillip or Marlowe, given how he just turned off the radio and mumbled music lyrics, off-key and without any actual tune. And Eric could recognize that only because, at some point, David was singing some Shinedown song he knew. “State of My Head?” Probably.
Would David be mad? If this was a polyamory situation, would it be like encroaching on territory to have driven Phillip and Marlowe home? Eric didn’t know. He didn’t want it to seem like that; he just didn’t want them to have to call an Uber and get a ticket. Shit was expensive.
At the first red light off the one-lane road, David glanced at him, and Eric caught the sight of a birthmark near his neck. It looked faded but it was still a recognizable shade of red. Eric looked away almost immediately, so David wouldn’t notice him staring. He must not have been too successful, though, because David chose that moment to start a conversation.
i don't know if i wanna do these in like, big dumps, but i definitely knew i had to post these two. i thought i'd already posted them both :'D
IDs: Picture 1 [Gavin wearing a yellow shirt and white overalls, excitedly waving and shouting "DAD!"] Picture 2 [Eric and Gavin sitting in a car on the way home from school, with Eric driving. Gavin asks "why does Cadence call you 'babygirl'?" and Eric responds "how about we stop talking for a bit." Like the meme.]
