ू 🐝 ・゜・。・゜

we write for peace, we create for joy

[bee1x1]

anemonewrites:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cat had lived to see Curly enter a post-secondary institution, but she would not live to watch him graduate. It’s easier to mention her now, long gone are the days he flounders to bring up her name, but faced with having to tell someone she had passed—something he had not done in ages—he finds himself floundering. Opening and closing his mouth, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he finally runs a hand through his hair before replying, “Uh, she’s passed. Emphysema, actually. She uh, y’know, she promised me she’d let up on the smokin’ but...” he trailed off, shrugging, as if to say it wasn’t really all that big of a deal, but likewise, as a sign he wasn’t ready to talk about it all that much.

“Three?” Curly asks, pronouncing it much more like Tree than anything else, a little unsure of his questioning. Peter—Three—would always be Pockets to him, but if he preferred to go by a different name now then so be it. It was, after all, the least he could do given—well, he just wouldn’t think about that now would he? In any case, he had to know, “Where’d that come from?” He laughed, “I think it’s just ‘cos your full name’s such a damned mouthful. Zolnerowich,” he said, completely and utterly butchering the pronunciation. There was another reason, he knew, that Pockets was called such, but he also imagined the man would rather not be reminded of that.

Curly felt immensely guilty and more stupid than anything else at the mention of Soot. It had been just two years since the accident, and Curly was painfully reminded of him each time he so much as glanced at Ash. The two were vibrantly different so not much of Soot could be seen in his brother otherwise, but they were identical in features. “Oh,” he says, utterly idiotic, “nah, I reckon not...he’s uh, he’s passed too. Car accident,” he nodded, as if this would explain everything. He felt newly incensed at the circumstances of his passing, and he had to dig his nails into the skin on the palm of his hands to resist the urge to go on a tirade.

Shaking his head, twisting his thoughts until they were something nice again, he reaches over to give Three’s shoulder a playful nudge with his hands, “I’ll give over when me body’s cold and buried,” he replies, not realizing his joke was in poor taste given the tone of the conversation. He brightens up at the idea of going out to a pub with Three, and the look on his face reflects just that. “That sounds like a plan. We’ll have to do it soon, I expect we’ve got a couple of years to replace,”

Curly was not bright. He wasn’t great at reading the emotions of others, but even he could notice how quickly Three’s smile disappeared. He felt yet another pang of guilt and, for the first time in a long while, saddness for Three’s situation. He didn’t understand, exactly, what the situation was or why he was newly grim but he didn’t need to know the details. “Yea, well, ye’d probably be grown out of it by now,” he offered, muttering.

Still, ever the emotional coward, he was grateful when Three decided to change the topic. Perhaps they would talk more seriously over drinks, when Curly had enough liquid courage inside of him. “That’ll be step two, then. ‘Take Three Out Shopping’, I’m quite the fashionista, ye know,”

[bee1x1]

anemonewrites:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[magda-lennah]

[quotemadness]

How wonderful it is, to be silent with someone.

Kurt Tucholsky

[quotemadness]

If one man can destroy everything, why can’t one girl change it?

Malala Yousafzai

[sheehanspam]

Bad Samaritan (2018)

[bee1x1]

M O O D B O A R D: ‘walkers’ ( 0 0 1 )

  WE MUST         P R O T E C T WHAT WE HAVE LEFT. 

“It may be thou shalt be as we”            ‘And ye?’ “Are everlasting.”           ‘Are ye happy?’ “We are mighty.”          ‘Are ye happy?’ “No: art thou?” 

@anemonewrites

[bee1x1]

M O O D B O A R D: ‘poppets’ ( 0 0 1 )

the sting of betrayal is the one wound time  c a n n o t  — will not — erase.

“I could never hurt him enough to make his betrayal stop hurting. And it hurts, in every part of my body.” 

@anemonewrites

[bee1x1]

M O O D B O A R D: the future morgan-carlisles ( 0 0 1 )

nathan carlisle, rose morgan, christopher & jackson carlisle & hope carlisle

“When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching — they are your family.”

@morgan-rose

[quotemadness]

Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it so that the other half may reach you.

Khalil Gibran

[bee1x1]

anemonewrites:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[bee1x1]

morgan-rose:

The longer they spoke, Rose could see how truly different they were in almost every single way. At their cores, maybe they shared similar values and beliefs (though she was starting to doubt that too) but so far it seemed like they were coming up empty handed. He was great at conversation and she liked coffee (maybe one thing they had in common) so she wasn’t in any hurry to rush out of the coffee shop yet. Rose thrived on routine. Every morning she woke up at six to take a run, somewhere between three to six miles depending on how she felt and the weather. When she returned, she showered, ate breakfast, and mentally went over her plans for the day as well as her to-do list. Finally, she put on makeup and fixed her hair before putting on the outfit that she had laid out for herself the night before. She ate lunch with her father at the same time every week at the same diner and her nighttime routine was just as organized and systematic as her mornings. To her, it always set her up for a productive day and a calm evening. She imagined the difference between Rose and Nate’s mornings looked something like the opening sequence to Freaky Friday or maybe she’s Cher Horowitz and he’s Ferris Bueller. She wasn’t sure what was worse. If she was having coffee with Ferris Bueller, she couldn’t imagine not taking out a half an hour or so to reprimand him for his actions. There was nothing funny about skipping school, stealing cars, or hijacking a parade that many people worked very hard to put on! Plus he deceived his parents and an his entire town purely for attention. Worst of all, he got away with it. To be having coffee with a Ferris Bueller type seemed like a nightmare and considering she had met Nathaniel in the precinct, the thought did cross her mind. But the circumstances were in that rare grey area that she wasn’t completely convinced even existed. She decided, maybe for her own sake, that Nathaniel was not the Ferris Bueller type. “I cannot imagine a life without routine but I commend you being able to do so. It seems like a stressful way to live; I just think my mind isn’t built for it. So since you’re not one for routine does that mean you’ll stick to freelance work or do you think someday you’ll head for that 9-5 life?”

“I graduate in the spring and then hopefully move right on to graduate school.” She said simply with a smile. It was a fact that she was proud of and knew that graduating summa cum laude and getting a masters degree was impressive. It had gone to her head slightly after so many people told her how smart she was and that they were impressed with how dedicated she was.

The rules of this game weren’t real since it wasn’t a real game. However, Rose couldn’t bring herself to fight it any more than she just had. Instead she decided to heavily censor everything. She had gotten the impression that Nate did not care one way or another if she swore. However, she cared if she swore and she was sure the mothers of the little ears in the coffee shop would appreciate that as well. “Fine. Well, to be fair, he didn’t start off ranting about you. It started as him being angry that I had talked him into letting you go in the first place. There were some very unkind and sexist accusations but it’s nothing I haven’t heard and couldn’t handle. From there he went on to talk about how I didn’t know what I was talking about and that even if you had the cleanest record, it didn’t excuse you from the consequences. He started going off about how he could tell you were truly a bad person and that I didn’t have the eye for it yet.” She tapped her fingers against the table, pretending to think as if the conversation couldn’t replay crisply in her mind. She thought maybe if she pretended like it was hard to remember the insults it’d seem like there were fewer of them. “He called you trash, then vigilante trash, a no good… person…” she censored the paraphrasing “that thinks that just because he assaults someone doing wrong that makes him in the right and better than the police officers doing the real work. There were a lot of choice words in there that I don’t feel comfortable using. But that, in essence, is what he said about you. You’re welcome for the abridged version because I did not enjoy the fifteen minute long one.”

He supposed, since ‘knowing’ Rose--that is to say, since being a borderline stalker of Rose--he had to have developed his own routine. Much to his chagrin. There was nothing about her that ever stepped outside of schedule, and he wondered (not for the first time, and certainly not for the last) with a sort of sick amusement what it would be like to throw a wrench into her plans. What if, say, one day--she wasn’t able to get lunch with her father at exactly the same time? What if something came up, what on earth would she do with her time? Break, probably. But to break a Morgan that way would be all too easy. This plan would be far more satisfying. Why go after one when you can attack the foundation? That was how he had been raised. The Carlisles never went after small fish unless it was part of a bigger picture.

He had to resist the urge to laugh. He’d sooner die than check into the 9-5 life, what could possibly motivate him to desire such a mundane reality? Nate absolutely needed chaos to feel alive. Anything less and his mind would go insane. The idea of having children to come home too--no doubt a fantasy of Rose’s--was even more unsettling. Offspring sounded like his worst nightmare come to fruition. But this was not the time for honesty. This was the time to appeal to Rose. That was the trick to manipulation, it had to be peppered with moments of reality, yes, but lies were always necessary. “Well, you know. I’m young right now. I guess this life suits me, but I don’t think it’s forever,” he was careful not to sound too wistful here so as to seem mocking. He always tended to make critical mistakes in that sense. Sometimes, he just couldn’t help the condescension that slipped into his tone when talking to people with goals as monotone as Rose’s. “One day, I guess, I’d like to. You know. Do that whole thing,” he tried to sound embarrassed, “Family, and all that,” he sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. Perfect.

Rose was intelligent. He knew that much about her from the get-go. It was practically a stipulation of his: he wouldn’t spend all this time for some dim-witted Morgan. It had to be challenging. It had to be real, require hard work and research. Lots and lots of research. This was the way in which Nate was a contradiction in himself. He enjoyed doing things that required as little effort as possible, enjoyed instant gratification as it were, but needed to be pushed where it mattered--or he’d half-ass and screw over the whole thing. Not that he was given the option to have stipulations, since things didn’t work that way in his family, but still. It was a rule. Rose had to be smart, or he wouldn’t bother with the whole charade. It seemed such a waste for her to pour it all into school, and he allowed himself the fantasy of turning her against her own family and convincing her to join the Carlisles in rank. If only for the pure, simple reason of her beautiful mind. In any case, all those twisted thoughts aside, he’d sincerely rather blow his brains out. In fact, he was tempted to say as much. “Smart kid. Let me guess: summa cum laude, too? Your CV will be action-packed. I bet you’ll be beating back offers up to your throat,” he let out an impressed smile, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe who he was talking to. “Oh, sorry. There I go again. Calling you kid.” 

She seemed...uncomfortable relaying all of this to him. Which didn’t surprise him whatsoever, both from what he knew about her and what he knew about Morgans. They weren’t fond of discussing unpleasant things and neither did they enjoy honesty or bluntness when it came to opinions they had of others. That was one of the many ways in which their families differed. Marilyn, in particular, was one of the bluntest people he’d ever known. There was no hiding from her cold gaze. She’d tell you what she thought, no matter how cruel it came across. His father, on the other hand, was much more calculated in relaying his honesty. He’d only ever use it to his advantage, but he’d still advocate for it over anything else. Nate supposed that was simply what happened when you were that powerful: you didn’t have to be kind. “Huh. He called me a vigilante? I’m flattered. I’ve always wanted to be a superhero,” he joked, hoping it would lighten the mood and ease her discomfort. “You don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings, Rose, I’ve heard plenty in my life and I’m positive I’ll hear plenty more.” He paused. “What, no pressing questions?”

[bee1x1]

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

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

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

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

[bee1x1]

anemonewrites:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[bee1x1]

anemonewrites:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[bee1x1]

anemonewrites:

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

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

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

“Delivery.”

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

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

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

[bee1x1]

anemonewrites:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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