Sooo I’ve been thinking of this sort of Modern Magic AU where Tiny is Ohm’s animal companion. Like Disney Princess style animal companion where Tiny follows Ohm everywhere (without a leash tsk tsk he’s breaking the law) and is his best friend and partner in crime. He’s just always at his heel.
Sometimes, however, people wonder why Ohm named him Tiny. It’s a cute name for a small dog, they guess, but Tiny isn’t all that, well, tiny and is actually pretty big for a Jack Russel. It’s just kinda weird. But when asked, Ohm just gives them a big smirk, points at Tiny, and says “Oh you haven’t seen nothing yet”. Turns out Tiny is a magical dog that can transform into a giant, ferocious version of himself. He’s about the size of a grizzly bear and Ohm sometimes rides him when Tiny lets him. Ohm is just a dork that really likes the irony of the name.
Some nautical krii7y written for my personal aesthetic mostly that I thought I may just share with you guys. In fact, I was so hyped that I didn't even really proofread lol :)
[BTW, if you like my writing (by whatever miracle) you can expect an unholy amount of BBS and GBG Christmas stuff incoming in the next month and a half:]
Ice cold. That's what Smitty's mind screams the moment he regains consciousness.
He gasps twice very hard, once as his face is flooded with the feeling and taste of salty seawater, and again when he feels the overwhelming pain in his chest. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the stinging and darkness, blinking chunks of mucus and foggy tears away, before they allow him to see the ship around him.
He registers quickly that the wooden splinters in his back prodding at his skin are from the deck of the ship, which is not even his ship he notices, and twists into a sitting position. He is lying face up in a slight divot, the boards pushed in no doubt from the force of his body slamming into them, if the already deep-set pain in his bones was anything to go by. It was also likely what knocked him unconscious, he realizes absently.
With some difficulty, he manages to completely pull himself from the creaky floorboards, but not without jostling a bloody gash in his arm. He pauses and tries to assess it, but it's more or less out of his field of vision, the only evidence of it being the spotty drops of blood staining the light wood red, just now beginning to ebb away. How long had he been out cold?
He shakes his curiosity away and stands, finding a much better vantage position on his feet. Right now, what he needs to focus on is strictly getting back to his ship and helping his crew with the recovery. He couldn't remember much, but he could at least gather that this fight must have been a nasty one. They were probably strung somewhere worried and furious at his disappearance. He needed a compass, but right now he would have to make do with using the north star.
Above him, the sky is a mess of puffy clouds, dim yet plentiful stars, and their weak light competing with the reflective moon. He catches himself staring for a moment, and realizes that the lights were slowly getting further and further away: he had to be falling very slowly.
He runs over to the rails and looks over to discover that yes, the ship is sinking, and the nearest island is too far to simply swim to if he wants to live. He plops down right where he's standing, panting in a panicked sweat. This was how it would end for him, lost aboard an enemy ship with an island just close enough to be a blue blur off to the distance and nothing more. His heart hammers inside his chest so hard he thinks he might be able to hear it.
Suddenly, a harsh wave strikes the ship, almost knocking him overboard as it forces it into a near-horizontal tilt. His fingernails split and his knuckles go white as he grips the rail for his life, fear lacing his blood like oxygen. The severity of the wound in his arm is still unidentified and screams sonic protests that he is forced to ignore. There must be a whirlpool just off the distance, spinning and sucking water into it and causing some sort of backlash pulling system, his brain supplies weakly, but it does little to quell his rising panic. He forces himself to catch his breath as the ship is uprighted and left to rock in place. He needs a plan and he needs it fast.
Smitty looks over at the island again, really eyeing the distance and chewing his lip in thought. Brown eyes flicker back between the railing and the dense line of trees, counting paces, praying to deities he hasn’t thought of since childhood. After a moment, he decides that if there is anything he needs to do, it's try. It seems like the only chance he has at surviving right now, but even the thought makes him swallow thickly.
Well, the very least he should do before he goes is to search the ship.
He dashes over to a ladder and hatch near the wheel, but pauses short on the steps. The second floor had long since begun to take on water, and now was over halfway full, still rising. The only things still visible were the barrels that this crew had used to likely store food, and a chest full to the brim with riches. He toys with the idea of wading through the water, but ultimately shrugs and settles for a bag hanging haphazardly from one of the ceiling beams. A quick rummage inside shows a few gold coins and a beaded necklace, but nothing overly personal. Perfect.
Next, Smitty makes to run into the navigation port and pick up something like a compass and a map, but he quickly realizes that those are useless after they’ve been wet, and there are no small rowboats in his vicinity. They would be ruined after the swim.
And that’s where his mind is when he sees the man.
It’s not until he turns back to cut his losses and head down the ladder that he spots another figure, slumped in half on one of the planks leading up over the edge of the ship. He can’t see much from this angle, but the body spasms and twitches with life even though it appears so dead.
Carefully, he approaches and watches for any sudden movements, but the person, distinctly male he can see as he nears, is completely unconscious. He can’t help but feel a tug on his heartstrings.
Smitty winces, but drops his bag and reaches down, dragging thin arms around his shoulders to hoist the body up onboard, but stops short. God, the guy is heavy.
It’s odd, considering how normally sized the person seems, but he just shakes his head, squints down at the rising water levels, and pulls with all of his available strength. The body follows, and he gets the wind knocked out of him under the force with which it comes crashing onto his chest. He lies there for a moment, panting and staring up at the sky again before he rolls himself free, only to gasp at the creature lying next to him.
The upper half was just as he had become well acquainted with, curly brown hair and oddly bare chest aside, the figure looked strikingly human. But the bottom half consisted of a long, thick, and shimmering tail where legs should have been. What he had thought before was a man had turned out to be a merman!
It's a slight wrestle between Smitty’s self-preservation instincts and his inner curiosity, but in the end, he knows that he cannot bring himself to leave the being there to die, no matter the species
He finds himself chewing his lip again, but there is really nothing he can do in such little time, but jump and hope for the best. Unceremoniously, he leans over and angles the torso to rest over his shoulders and around his neck, perhaps his best option for transporting it. Then, he pulls the string within his bag and secures it to the threadbare loops in his pants so that it safe while he swims. With that done to the best of his bloody and shaky ability, there is only one thing left to do.
Smitty feels the wooden planks with an awakened sort of clarity as he climbs off the edge of the hull. The soggy rope, frayed and waterlogged, threatens to tear under his weight as he rocks with the waves. His eyes bounce between the restless ocean and still unconscious face next to his as his nerves spike again. He feels another deathly tilt, and this time the boat really does tip so far that there's no going back: it's going to capsize for sure. It takes more strength than he sure he has in all of his body to gather his faith in himself. The deep breath is not nerve-steeling enough to reassure him, but he leaps off the ladder and plunging into the water anyway, the lifeless figure gracelessly falling from its perch around his neck and following him down, the rope tethering him to the bag dancing wildly in the air.
He begins sinking the moment he hits, the sudden temperature change being the first to register on his skin. It is surprisingly therapeutic, even as it breaks him out in gooseflesh and instates the urge to shiver himself right off of his bones. The salt burns across the deep wound in his arm, pulling a hiss from his parted lips, but the sound is swallowed up by the bubbles in the ocean. He pries his eyes open and heads to break the surface, but just as he gasps, he feels an agonizing impact from above. Through the fireworks exploding throughout his vision, Smitty sees the distorted image of the prone figure come crashing down onto him before the world goes black.
Overhead, a flock of birds split apart from their formation and slowly drift until they're all going their own directions.
🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸
The ship was going down very quickly now, taking his last hope of survival with it. If anything, he was lucky to be alive after that encounter but was doomed because of it, and maybe he had done more bad than good "rescuing" this man. If he perhaps had more time to salvage what he could maybe gather some food, he may have had a better chance. The real question was how quickly would he this end for them.
John feels every muscle in his body screech for relief, but he forces himself to keep going. The wind is foreign on his soft skin, and his very bones seem to creak under the weight they are forced to support, bent akimbo to hold the body over the water.
However, he ignores the pleading and continues above the surface. The pirate is limp and heavy in his arms, even heavier when his muscles are so weak, but he knows that the creature is a human, and too much water inside them kills. His lips fall open idly and he squints to see the hazy alcove before him. Hope rises in his chest the closer they manage to drift towards it, but they're still too far to make it before he succumbs to fatigue.
With wobbly arms and a slight prayer to whatever would listen, John straightens his arms into the air and sinks below the surface, hoping the angle is enough to keep the human’s head out of the water. Immediate relief bustles through his system as he gasps heavily. His muscles thank him as the water eases the load, but he knows he can't stay like this. Nothing above the water is visible, and he can't navigate around the pesky schools when it's so dark. The air bites harshly at his fingertips, which have long since lost sensation aside from the fiery heat of the pirate's rough, dirty flesh. He takes a few more labored breaths before his arms threaten to buckle and he's stuck breaking out above the waves.
John doesn't know for sure how long he does it, or how he does it at all, but eventually, he's flapping his tail in short, sharp movements to carefully maneuver through the entrance to the cove. Dragging the lifeless body felt lighter than the bag locked between his teeth with all the euphoria thrumming through his blood. He felt like he was on fire, and he didn't need to touch the clammy skin of his comrade to know he was probably stone cold. In a sweep of pride and pure unadulterated joy, he swings the body past his own and onto the black sand. His shiny green eyes roll back as he sinks into the water to just stop and breathe. He'd saved the human!
He rises up to look at the figure, triumphant grin still locked in place, but the person is still and lifeless in the sand. Fear traces John's features, and he pulls himself up onto the shore to get a better look. He runs a hand across the face and presses his head to the cloth clad shirt, but the human is indeed breathing, if shallowly and in small pants.
That alone makes him feels grateful, but the thought doesn't last. The human is cold, injured, and perhaps even starving. He’ll need a fire if he doesn't want to freeze to death, and desperately needs something to cover that vicious cut for the night. The only thing the human has to protect himself is a short, dull dagger, chipped and dirty from what must have been years of use. John's teeth clench; it seemed like just when he thought he was out of hell another gate opened up. In a somewhat childish fit of rage, he curls his still hot fingers into a fist and slams it onto the human, hoping to will him awake.
And, it works. Sort of.
Water spouts out of the pirate's mouth like a geyser and his brain snaps into consciousness. John watches in slight fear as the human coughs and sputters more and more murky water filled with mucus and other fluid slime, dragging himself onto his side. It seems to help, as the human's fit comes to an end and his eyes finally fall open.
🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸
Smitty flops bonelessly onto his back and stares wide-eyed and shocked at what must be the roof of a cave. His chest burns just like his skin in that way that suggests it's from extreme cold, and a subconscious groan escapes his lips. He takes a moment to just breathe and feel his heartbeat hammer away at his chest. A shaky hand raises to wipe the salt caking the area around his eyes push his hair out of his face. Well, it looked like he’d survived anyway.
A shuffling off to his side brings him to the present, and a quick glance over makes him do a double-take. Laying next to him in the dark sand is the gorgeous merman, sprawled out with arms protectively curled around Smitty's own form.
"You're a mermaid." He says, voice hoarse and scratchy, and it sends him into another coughing fit. The merman pulls himself away from his prone figure but holds a hand out to help steady him, even after Smitty's natural flinch in response. He allows himself to be dragged into a proper sitting position, which also gives him the ability to properly breathe.
The creature watches him take a few breaths before deeming him not on the verge of death and nods hesitantly. A closer look reveals familiar wisps of brown hair and moonlight pale skin. It was indeed the merman he'd dragged off the enemy's ship before he blacked out.
"You saved me?" He asks, but it sounds less like a question and more like a comment. The merman's eyebrows draw together at the words, and he shakes his head.
"I was only returning the favor. It was you who saved me first." He says quietly, but his voice reverberates heavily through the empty cove, although it is just as scratchy as Smitty's.
"Well thank you anyway." He concedes, clearing his throat and running a hand through his knotted hair, but the merman only shakes his head back.
"You don't need to thank me.” He says, voice much clearer now, as he re-positions himself into a crawl. Smitty watches delicate hands find purchase in the dark sand and begin dragging his ill-suited body back into the pool. “What you need is to get out of those wet clothes and get a fire started."
"You're right," Smitty says and winces into a stand. He makes it a good twenty seconds of attempting to shuck off his lone boot, having long since lost the other one in his impromptu trip, but finds that he’s not quite ready to be entirely upright just yet. He sits back down and his head thanks him as he slips his jacket over his shoulders and pulls his shoe off. His ripped brown shirt is next, but he hesitates with pants.
When he realizes why the human is staring at him so expectantly, the merman feels the strong desire to roll his eyes.
"Alright. While you do your thing, I'm gonna go find us something to eat." He sighs, face darkening slightly as he speaks. He opens his mouth as though to add something else, but gives up and turns to dive into the shallow pool.
"Wait!" Smitty calls, and he pauses for a moment, confusion crossing his subtle features as he twists back to face the human. Smitty crouches into a seat at one of the higher edges of the shoreline.
"What's your name?" He asks softly, now that they were so close. The merman stares up at him for a moment in consideration before seeming to mentally shrug and cock a brow.
"You can call me John."
Smitty nods lightly and brings a calloused, bruised hand to grip at the cold stone. "Well John, I'm Smitty," he conjures up what he hopes is a charming smile, "And I really do mean it when I say thank you."
John's eyes widen ever so slightly and fierce violet rises into his cheeks. He nods once before finally sinking into the water and taking his leave. Smitty watches him swim away until there is no trace of him in the cave, before he finally allows himself to attend to the agony of his cut.
All that aside, however, he can’t seem to wipe the grin off his face. He’d met a real mermaid today.
My bad! It was for the kiss prompts, lol! I didn't even see the tag for the drabble one, that's embarrassing...
Hoo boy, your mistake was letting me have a choice between angst and fluff. Uh.Prompt: 11. kisses that might be the lastWarning: Hinted DeathPairing: OhmtoonzSEND ME SOME MORE KISS PROMPTS
Decided to cross-post my little ohmtoonz ghost thing here :)
Chapter 1: Live Like You’re Still Alive
Luke sighs and crosses his arms, leaning forward onto the rusted rails in front of him. Behind him is a set of glass sliding doors and a large, empty room. Blank, golden brown eyes scanned the rows of buildings, looking out over the city. It seems that's all he can do now: spectate. He's been up there for longer than he can keep count for, and he can't seem to get down. He felt like a goldfish in a small bowl, stuck watching the humans go about their daily lives.
And, perhaps it was a bit of a pretty fish bowl. The balcony he'd been sitting on was pretty high up, and sprawled before him laid all that Chicago, Illinois had to offer. Luke is, by far, not the most observant person, but by now he's seen all there is to see. During the day, the nearby streets were a blur of cars speeding by and the ant-like figures of people making way down the sidewalks. From how high up he was, he couldn't even see the fashionably large coats and cars that dominated during this time of year due to the climate, just the ant-like figures moving around below him. The summer sun's overpowering rays were shrouded by the thick, grey winter clouds.
During the nights, nearly all the people down below cleared out the streets and all that was left was the chilled breeze against tall glass towers. Checkered light dotted buildings where janitorial crews remained busy decorated the dark sky, while neon signs advertised hotels and bars open late. A pale yellow glow illuminated the once busy roads, reflecting in the semi-melted snow. Muddied and marred crystals splashed onto the curb as the occasional car crept past. It served as a reminder that in a city as big and populated as Chicago, it was never completely quiet. Even in the darkest hour there was always someone on their way home from a late shift, someone walking across a parkway to meet another, someone smoking out on a porch.
All things considered, it actually took him a long while to realize he was dead. But once the signs make themselves known, he only wonders how he didn't figure it out sooner.
It starts with a lady in a nearby apartment complex taking her dog out for a piss. She has her brown hair lazily tied back and his leash loosely in her hands. The dog waddles around for a moment before he finds a grassy corner to go in, and it makes Luke think about how long it's been since he himself went. Then he remembers the last time he's slept, or eaten, or even simply spoken to another person. It's an an awful feeling, realizing your dead, especially when you have to be alive and conscious for it. Well, conscious. And in his many attempts to get somewhere, anywhere but this balcony, he's mostly just expanded his repertoire of different ways to give up. People came and went, but no one stuck around long, or even acknowledged him.
As he sat and watched the world pass him by, Luke had to wonder why. Why was he just sitting here? What exactly was stopping him from getting down from this accursed ledge? And after a quick moment of consideration, he decided it was nothing. He was leaving.
Or, so he tried. But anytime he attempted to pass from the balcony and into the room behind him, this awful heat in his chest would start up and kick into high gear, filling up the inside of him until it felt like he was drowning in it. The further it went, the worse it would get until it overwhelms his ability to move and he's forced back onto the ledge to relieve it. After a few failed attempts, he dejectedly gave up.
He'd even tried jumping as a means of escape, but it was only once. In an angry fit he'd narrowed his eyes at the ground below, and with a not even a single thought, leaned over the rail and let the sky have him. It didn't work, of course, a fact for which Luke didn't know if he should be happy about or not. He'd flipped through the air once, twice, and three times before he was speeding face first to the ground. It was the most terrifying moment, plummeting to the concrete unnoticed by any people below. Tears from the wind and perhaps something Luke doesn't think about blur his vision pretty strongly, but he can still see himself nearing the ground. At the last possible moment, when it seems the pavement is just grazing his skin, he blacks out. When he wakes up, he's back on the ledge like before, the memory of what feels like years before the only thing occupying his brain.
Luke felt so alone, even though he often found himself in the company of another lonesome stranger. Sometimes people would come out when they rented the party room behind him, for whatever reasons, and bring their odd conversations with them. He'd hear people sigh in defeat at a love not reciprocated while others partied their hearts out inside, or be forced to listen in as people complained about their situations at work or school, oblivious of his own problem.
One time, a guy even came out talking to himself and leaving convenient gaps for Luke to give his opinion, even though the man couldn't have known he was there. He never minded when people came outside, even if they seemed to ignore him or whine about problems that paled in comparison to his own. When you're clearly a ghost, any company is good company.
So, a little while later, Luke isn't too surprised to see a man enter the party room and cross over to the balcony. He wordlessly slides the glass door and step out onto the ledge, staring over at the people below. There is nothing going on in the building, so he must be scouting the area for a party later. However, when the guy's foot makes contact with the balcony Luke hears a snap, like the sound a rubber band when it smacks into your hand. He feels something in his chest reel, the way you would imagine a bullet tearing through your skin, shredding muscles and sensitive tissue until it finally drags its weight out of you. The sensation makes him whip his head back up in alarm.
The man looked as if he was hastily dressed, shiny brown tresses a mess around his head and tattered clothes free in the wind. His face is tense and slightly angry, but if you look past that, he's pretty attractive. Although, he has a sort of rushed air about him, as though a man on a mission.
Luke watches the guy scan the area, ghosting over him like everyone else. He raises a hand to his chest to soothe the odd pain and looks back over the edge to continue his miserable mulling.
It's not until the man takes a particularly sharp inhale that Luke looks over at him again, and this time, soft, hazel eyes are staring directly at him with a frightened intensity. It seems to take the guy a minute, during which he looks as though he wants to say something, but when he realizes what is so wrong he gasps for real. A pale hand reaches out towards the door handle, swiping and missing a few times before he finally gets a grip.
Luke realizes in one elated sweep that the man knows he's there--is looking at him--which he says as much as he can in a gasp of his own. He leaps to his feet, and other pales at his reaction, finally gaining his bearings and yanking the door open just wide enough to fit his body through before he throws himself into the room. He doesn't bother with a fleeting glance or even the slightest pause, just slams the door shut so hard the glass rattles in it's frame.
Not about to let his only chance of getting out of his hell escape, Luke reaches for the handle himself, only to phase through it and the door in turn. That feeling makes everything left in his body run cold and rush hot all at the same time. 'Now that has never happened before,' he thinks, and had to take a moment to appreciate the effortlessness of it, but that time quickly passes. Before, he's never been able to phase through anything else, but before he's never run into anyone who could see him. He's got to catch that person.
"I can't see you!" The guy shouts over his shoulder and makes a break for the stairs rather than the obviously slow elevator. Luke wants to yell something back about the absurdity of that statement, but finds himself consumed with laughter instead. In no way disturbed by Luke's amusement, he rounds a corner at the end of the first set.
"Why are you running from me?" Luke yells back when he gains his composure. He's a little surprised by the volume of his voice, but then again it has been who-knows-how-long since the last time he'd actually spoken out loud to someone. The other doesn't look like he cares about his inquiry, though, and instead increases his speed down the steps. Luke doesn't remember exactly how tall the building is, but he knows there's many more at this rate.
That thought, along with the fact that he's falling behind in their chase makes him jump to close the distance, almost losing his footing at the landing because when he reaches out for the handrail, his fingers glide right through it. When he finally rights himself, he picks up the pace as well to catch up.
Seemingly inspired by his show of diligence, the boy attempts a leap of his own, but misses a step at the bottom and goes down hard. With a departing yelp, he tumbles down the last few steps and smacks into the wall signaling the turn with all of his momentum. The fall looks painful as anything Luke has ever seen, and all the hopeful mirth drains from his face; in its wake is trickle by agonizing trickle of mortification.
"Holy shit, are you alright?" He slows to a stop a few paces away, watching in silent guilt as the guy examines himself. There is no blood, at least none that he can see, but there is definitely some major bruising and perhaps some swelling that is soon to come. When he decides nothing too incapacitating is amiss, he winces to sitting position and levels a reluctant gaze at Luke.
"I..." he makes to answer Luke's question, but pauses briefly, "No, I--uh--that was totally my fault." He directs his vision to the floor with a dejected gaze.
"Why were you running away from me anyway?" Luke prods carefully, assessing his companion's face as he processes the question.
"Listen man," he starts after a moment, obviously not inclined to answer the second question, "I know this is hard to hear, and it probably doesn't even make sense, but you... you're dead now." He looks up at Luke again, watching his reaction closely.
"Well I think I've realized that by now." He sighs and moves to sit as well and hopefully disarm the guarded look on the other man's face.
The guy just screws his eyes shut and tilts his head in a pained nod, bringing a hand to his head once again. "Fuck," he curses as he draws the hand back down into his lap, and Luke feels a pang of guilt through himself again.
"I didn't kill myself though." Luke blurts into the silence. He'd actually never thought that completely, but as the words come out of his mouth, he feels assured that they're true. He doesn't even need the memories of his life to understand that the pure terror he felt when he'd jumped after already being dead all that time was too unfamiliar to have been how he died in the first place.
The guy opens his eyes at the sound of Luke's voice, and nods lightly once more. "Yeah, I can tell. You looked more like a murder anyway."
Luke's eyebrows fall at the odd words, and the man seems to mistake his silence as balking at the statement. "Look, right here is not the best spot for this. We can go to my place and I can explain it better, okay?"
Luke gives the guy an assessing look as he thinks it over. He's wearing grey hoodie, ripped and frayed at the wrists and a scruffy pair of no doubt unintentionally distressed blue jeans. His bedraggled shoes were the most worn of all though, complete with a belt of duct tape around the toe painted white in a semblance of normality. Truly, they looked as though they were being held together by sheer willpower more so than any of its threads.
But then he also watches the tension in the guy's expression unwind, almost as if just the idea of being at home makes him more comfortable. Well, it wasn't like he had any reason to distrust the only person who'd even seen him in weeks, and he's already dead, so what's the worst that could happen?
"Sure, sounds good." He nods and they both rise and head down that last few flights of stairs.
"I'm Luke, by the way." he supplies as they step out into the sunshine, but the guy doesn't react at all. At first Luke thought it to be a bit rude, but as people look and even speak through him, he realizes that he's being ignored because no one can see him. Even he can conclude that standing around talking to no one is pretty strange. But as he observes the crowd a bit more, he realizes that people are naturally giving them a wide berth. It was almost as if the other people could tell he was different, not knowing anything about him. Luke made a mental note to ask about it later.
[][[][][][]][]
The guy doesn't stop until they reach an apartment complex that Luke wouldn't give a second glance at if he was still alive. Although, a muted grey building with white trimming and a graffiti collage on the alley-side wall isn't much to blink at for most people anyway. They turn down a path leading to more buildings in similar condition, and Luke frowns. This can't be where he lives, can it?
Luke himself had never been especially well off, but he would never consider his family poor growing up either. They fit more snugly into the upper middle-class sector. He did believe he knew what poor looked like though, and despite his clothes, he refused to believe that this man lived in such bad conditions. He must have been taking a shortcut.
Only now, muddy tennis shoes with no recognizable brand were stomping up cement steps leading up to the second floor and Luke's eyebrows knit together as he follows.
"Sorry about earlier" he speaks up as the near the doors, and at first, Luke isn't sure if he's talking about running away or ignoring him until he continues, "But I'm sure you understand why I can't really talk to you in public. My name's Ryan." He throws Luke an exasperated smile over his shoulder as he routinely walks over to a door near the end of the corridor and pulls out a pristine silver key from his jacket pocket. The wooden door has a worn and chipped plastic address on the front, characters reading 6A bolted haphazardly to it. Is this really where Ryan lives?
"And sorry about this too, but it's gonna be a bit messy inside," Ryan grins apologetically, wrestling they key into the dubious looking lock and working it open with slight difficulty. When the old, creaky metal finally gives, he pushes the door open and lets them both in.
The interior really is a mess, but Luke gets the feeling that isn't entirely Ryan's fault. Chalky, inconsistent manila walls are losing more than just their paint in the corners, and white carpeting is always a bad idea. But aside from those things, the room's mostly organized state convinces Luke that Ryan is a clean oriented person. He probably didn't even make those stains on the floor.
"It's not that bad." Is his leisure reply. Ryan reaches for a light switch that Luke half expects to flicker and blink into life, it would go with the rest of the working in this place.
Except the light just comes on, no humming or flickering included, prompting Ryan to plop onto the gently loved sofa and dig around for something underneath one of the cushions. He pulls a laptop out as if withdrawing it from a storage, and Luke raises an eyebrow when expectant eyes turn up towards him.
"You can start by just telling me anything you remember, as far back as you can go." He lifts a hand and drops it onto the back of the couch, and Luke stills at the smile he receives.
It occurs to him that Ryan really is trying his best here, and he gets the feeling that it isn't his first time of him having to go through this with someone. He looks tired and a little defeated, but undeniably means well by all this.
"I don't remember a lot," He confesses reluctantly, but when Ryan's look of support never wavers, he goes back as far as he deems relevant.
"I was at a party," Luke begins, and as he speaks the memories come back a little, "It was for me, At least I think it was... No I'm sure, I'm pretty sure I had done something, or gotten something. It definitely wasn't a birthday party." He can hear the soft taps of Ryan typing on his laptop as well.
"Maybe a graduation or something?" Ryan pipes and pauses the ticking of his note taking to level Luke with a curious glance.
"No but, similar..." Ryan nods and types some more, but Luke feels and odd sensation of confusion rise in his chest. It was as though the memories of that night had just been erased from his mind. "I remember a fight-- as in, I'm a boxer, so maybe it had to do with that."
He waits a moment for Ryan to asses and decide what he want to write, and eventually receives a nod,"Okay, you can go on," he encourages as he finishes typing, and Luke continues.
"There was a shit-ton of people there. I'm talking rooms all the way down the corridor full of people. I'm sure there was no way for me to know them all, and there were so many were people I hadn't seen in a while. Everyone was constantly taking pictures. And, for some reason I remember something about wild bananas." Luke's face contorts from introspection to back into confusion as his brain conjures up the hazy images.
"Sounds like an interesting party." Ryan chuckles as he types, flashing him a quick look of disapproval, but a good 'your-friends-are-weird-people' kind of disapproval. Luke would laugh lightly at the situation too, but a sobering thought arises.
"But, I remember some other stuff too." He takes a deep breath before continuing. "I remember standing by the door were you found me. I think I got into an argument with someone, or something like it. I was so angry and..." Sad?
Luke pauses with the word on the tip of his tongue, almost tasting it, but something about it wasn't right. And suddenly, he is filled with the sensation of familiarity. The most vivid memory so far: he can feel the phantom flurry of emotions from that night wash over him again like a wave, and they go far beyond sadness. Betrayed. His brain supplies with another hazy image: raised voices, the goosebumps left behind from a feral yell, and the only emotion that reaches deeper than anger. He had been deeply, deeply betrayed.
"Luke?" Ryan asks his silence, leaning to enter his field of view. Luke just shakes his head.
"Then, I stepped outside for some air, because I was just getting angrier and angrier. I slammed the door behind myself before I was pushed over the edge. I don't think I actually saw anyone out there, I didn't even think to check, really. But suddenly there was nothing but wind and sky around me, and I'm positive I didn't just walk off."
When Luke looks over, Ryan still has not continued clacking away at his keys. Instead, his eyes remain openly trained on Luke, hands slack at his sides. He has this expression on his face that's not quite legible, but Luke decides he doesn't like the way it makes him feel.
"After that it was just me up on that balcony for the longest until you showed." Finally, after a bit more hesitation, Ryan begins typing again.
"Any idea how long?" he asks quietly, and Luke meets his gaze as he thinks.
"A month, maybe two?" he hazards a guess, "It got pretty hard to keep track."
"That's okay," Ryan hums lightly and looks up at him, stalling the movement of his hands, "Time goes by a little funny when you're dead."
The words don't sit too nicely with Luke, but he doesn't say anything in retaliation. It really is going to take some getting used to it for him to easily joke about this. I mean, he was dead for god's sake. Instead of voicing this this thought though, he sits quietly as Ryan begins looking for anything online surrounding his death.
"Hey, I think I found something." He speaks up, after a while. "It says here that you were at a party a friend was hosting for you." Ryan pauses as though the statement is unfinished, and appears to read over it a few times before continuing. "And, that you won a UFC Championship against the former champion. It was big, huge even, televised apparently." He says in disbelief, and the words draw a gasp from Luke's lips.
Ah yes, that sure jogs the memory. It was the biggest event of his career, and it was even better when he won. How had he forgotten! Now, he didn't even have to guess at how so many people he barely spoke to somehow arrived at the party now. If he won something that huge, Jon was probably hosting the after-party, and you could bet on the fact that Evan was on the VIP list. And these days, if Evan was doing anything, his entourage was quick to follow in a mess of plus-ones and questionable invitations.
"It says that it was a tremendous party turned tragic when you committed suicide. There were no eyewitnesses in the vicinity, but no one else was believed to be there when you jumped off the balcony. It made the news."
"I didn't commit suicide," Luke's frown deepened, and he started pacing again, "I was murdered."
Ryan nods but doesn't say anything else, eyes scanning his laptop screen a few more times before he closes it and looks up a Luke.
"Wait. If you could have just looked it up, why did you ask me?" He laughs a little, but it feels empty, especially when Ryan just levels him with a admonishing look.
"I know you didn't commit suicide Luke, but the police don't, and that is a big issue for us. Right now, the best thing you could do for yourself is try to remember as much as you can." After he says this, his eyes soften and a shy smile graces his features. "But on the other hand, whoever pushed you might be a little easier to find since it's been so long. They've likely stopped being careful and keeping away from suspicious areas, thinking they've gotten away with this. I think that if we really work at it, we'll be able to find the bastard who did this to you." He giggles lightly, and Luke can't keep the small grin off his face.
He tames it though and nods, settling himself to the sound of Ryan's confidence. As much as he hates struggling to remember his own damn life, he must say that he hates being dead even more. If anything, he was stoked just to be away from that ledge and with someone who could see him, if if the guy might just be crazy for it.
"Thanks, man." He says with as much genuinity as he can muster, and his faith is only strengthened by Ryan's winning smile.
Perhaps this whole being dead thing could work out for him.
The Nights were beginning to get cooler, so Smitty began trading out his summertime boxers ensemble for a more winter appropriate t-shirt and sweatpants combination. Right now, He lay on his bed, on top of all the sheets with his limbs spread out in every direction. Occasionally, he looked over at the screen of his phone as it sat haphazardly over the edge of the dresser next to him. It was nearing two-thirty in the morning and he was still awake. With a defeated sigh, he sat up and reached for the phone on his nightstand, as well as the red sticky note next to it.
His therapist, a kind but slightly over-invested man by the name of Ryan, had told him to call if the medication wasn't working and he couldn't find anything to put him to sleep. Well, that had been the case for as far back as he could remember their sessions going, and the meds hadn't ever worked.
Smitty had started seeing Ryan once a month in May, actually about his strange bouts of moodiness. He'd noticed a pattern of shutting himself off from his friends and family and decided that for once, he was going to face a problem head on before it really became prominent. Within their first couple of visits, Ryan ensured that they spent their time simply talking and just getting to know each other, as well as getting an understanding of how to navigate Smitty's problem.
Around his third visit, however, Ryan brought to light his deduction that Smitty's Season Affective Disorder (SAD) was the result his body to the different sunlight availability and lost sleep.
"Which is an easy fix," He'd laughed when he told Smitty of his hypothesis.
But it wasn't. Smitty wished he could just go to bed earlier and feel better about everything, but he couldn't. Luckily, despite three more visits with reportedly bad news on that front, Ryan did not lose faith.
"It's okay, Smitty," he'd admonished when the younger expressed his concern, "What's important is that you remain open about you options. Now, if you're alright with it, i'd like to start you on some Non-Benzodiazepine Hypnotics."
Unfortunately, those hadn't worked out too well either. The most they did was cause drowsiness during the day and make working harder for him. Accordingly, Ryan upped the dosage, and even prescribed stronger medications, but they all had similar effects. Even then, however, Ryan could not be dissuaded.
"Here," He'd mumbled as he scribbled down onto a small stack of sticky notes towards the end of their last meeting. He looked reluctant and frowned at the clock for a moment, holding the note in his hand as he considered, but in the end handed Smitty the square. "If at any time between now and our next visit you find any evidence of oncoming insomnia, just call me. Maybe we can talk through it, or at the very least, get a better idea of your brain processes during one of your fits." He began gathering his things, and Smitty idly noted the employment of another psychological technique: the way he stated every alternative as if there was always something to gain from something he man not really want to do.
Well, now was a time between their meetings, and Smitty saw some pretty clear evidence of insomnia. Although, he had been debating the real value of calling the psychologist at such an ungodly hour, Ryan had insisted it was better than him lying in bed alone all night, so he went ahead an typed in the number. The dial tone was loud in the silence of the night but he surprisingly didn't have to wait long.
"Hello?" came the raspy and somewhat confused voice on the other end, immediately striking Smitty with a pang of guilt for waking him up.
"Hey Doctor Wrecker, its me, Smitty. I'm sorry to wake you up, but you told me to call you if I was having trouble sleeping...and I am. So..." There was an anticipating quiet on the other end, during which he thought about how silly he sounded. Cringing only the slightest bit, he prepared to apologize and hang up, the voice spoke up again.
"Sorry dude, but I think you got the wrong number."
Oh.
Smitty froze and pulled the phone away from his ear to compare the number on the paper to the one he's typed in, but they were identical. Ryan must have accidentally given him the wrong number.
"Oh, my bad man. I'm sorry to wake you up." Smitty shook his head and prepared to hang up, thumb hovering over the End Call button, but he was interrupted once more.
"It's fine, you didn't." He said as though he'd known Smitty all his life. The sound of shuffling fabrics could be heard before the silence of stillness. "You said you couldn't sleep tonight?"
Smitty felt his eyebrows raise at the words, eyes falling to the window leading out of his apartment and into the city. A finger traces the edge of the sticky note as he thought, but eventually he shrugged and tossed it aside.
'What else am I gonna do?' He thought to himself with a shrug.
"Nope. Haven't slept since I moved here."
Through the slight distortion of the phone he heard the guy click his tongue as he answered. "Sucks man. How long have you been here?...Wherever 'here' is."
"A year. And 'here' is America. I moved to about a year ago, but ever since then, I haven't been able to sleep properly." He sighed through his explanation and shifted into a more comfortable position.
"Really? Where are you from? I didn't notice an accent."
Smitty opened his mouth to answer, but paused. Was he really about to give his whole life story up to a complete stranger? However, just as quickly as the thought occurred, it was dismissed. What was the harm? "I was raised in Canada, but I moved to California for my degree."
"Oh cool dude, my--" the guy on the other end continued, but the second half was drowned out by a terrorized scream that had to have been coming from a television. His assumption was confirmed by the loud ensemble of music following the shriek.
"What movie are you watching? I can hear it all the way over here." He said lightly, a smirk lighting his features as he heard the other laugh.
"I don't know actually. I turned on the TV right before you called and I just haven't changed it."
"Sounds intense," Smitty sat up and turned as though speaking to someone in the room with him, the smile still upturning his lips. "Does it look interesting?"
"Well so far there's this girl who's crying every time she's on screen and the beginning of what might be a family reunion, so I don't really know."
Smitty chuckled and asked for a description of the woman, and that's how the man on the other end wound up narrating the rest of the movie, which turned out to be a rerun of a midnight soap opera, The Tears of Tomorrow. As they came to the realization, Smitty imagined the man would change it in favor of something more entertaining but he didn't. For just over thirty minutes, the guy narrated the show, adding his own commentary and cracking jokes about the characters as he saw fit. And Smitty didn't mind, as he also succeeded in making it interesting up until the ending credits rolled and the following infomercial aired and the guy said he had to get going.
Smitty couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to tell someone not to go.
🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸
Work had been tiring. One of the new interns had decided not to come in on their first day, so Smitty had to fill in as makeshift secretary. He had never taken up so many sheets of paper with nonsense, and he was content to never do it again. It was one of their busier days as well; people ran in and out like ants with their orders in varying states of ready. Despite this, he still felt accomplished, even if he did stumble into his apartment hardly awake.
It was going on a week since he'd first met John, the guy who he'd accidentally called looking for his therapist, and they had spoken every night since then. And just as the thought occurred, he grinned and pulled out his phone, only for the smile to melt off of his face as he realized the time.
1:47 am.
This would be the earliest he'd ever called, and he had no idea whether John would even be awake or not. And come to think of it, he really had no idea what John did before or after they talked, or what kept him awake at night. He contemplated waiting about an hour more before calling, but in the end decided against it. If John wasn't awake, maybe he deserved a break.
"You're up early." He muttered, an audible smirk in his voice when he answered on the third ring.
Smitty felt his lips twitch to mimic the expression as he leaned on the counter, gingerly toeing off his shoes as he spoke. "Yeah, I thought you might enjoy hearing my perfect, soothing voice." He got a sarcastic laugh in response.
"You know me so well."
In the background, there was a thump and and the sound of glass clattering to the floor along with a muffled curse. "What are you doing?" he asked and made his way to the bedroom.
"Shit. I was painting my nails, but I just spilled my favorite blue on the floor."
Smitty paused just at the foot of his bed. Sometimes when John talked like this, he couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. "You paint your nails?" he asked to be sure.
"Yeah..." the reply was distant, like John had laid his phone down to clean up the mess, but not in the least bashful or ashamed.
"Oh." he stated and resumed climbing into bed. He thought back to moments before when he'd been wondering about John, and decided that this would be the time to get to know him. "Every night?"
"No. Not even regularly. But the old paint was chipping really badly and I have somewhere to be tomorrow." He was back closer to the phone as he sighed, and Smitty didn't know what to say for an awkward moment before John speaking again brought them back to their comfortable banter.
"But it's whatever," the sound of the small glass meeting the surface of a table punctuated his statement and precluded his next, "So are we watching a movie tonight, or more Tears of Tomorrow?"
"Tears of Tomorrow, dude, its our show." he smiled and leaned back against the pillows , waiting for Johns comically enthusiastic approval as he began narrating to opening.
They talked as usual, John taking the time to answer any questions he had. ("Wait, who's Lui again?" "Daithi's on-again off-again boyfriend dude, keep up.") But started slacking off as the episode progressed. At one point, all he got in explanation was a scandalized gasp and silence.
"What? What happened?" Smitty prompted.
"We're with Craig in the hospital. It doesn't look good."
"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, "Is Tyler there?"
"Nope, he's still off sleeping with Evan--"
"Craig's boss? That bastard!"
"I know!" John said, his voiced raised well beyond what was necessary, as he laughed at his out of character excitement. "I think we may be getting a little to into this."
Smitty blinked into the darkness with a laugh, but didn't directly reply. He wasn't ready to admit his growing addiction to their shared soap opera, but instead of having to answer, was asked a question.
"Hey Smit, you have a TV don't you."
"Of course, wh-- oh." Smitty laugh and hopped up to grab the remote. Why hadn't he thought of this before now?
"Yeah, that'll be easier than explaining everything to you."
Smitty smiled harder and switched to regular television, typing in the channel that was advertised between all the commercials John loved to make fun of.
🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸
"He's not gonna do it." Smitty whispered.
"He's gonna do it." John whispered back, sounding assured.
"No. There's no way." Smitty scoffed, "He raised him. He loves him. He's not gonna shoot him just because--"
And right on time, a single gunshot rang out. It could be heard in the background of both of their rooms as Smitty's eyes widened. He couldn't believe it. Scotty had really just shot his foster brother, Marcel. "No," he breathed, heartbroken and thoroughly defeated as John laughs in the background. Marcel was one of his favorite characters, but so was Scotty, how could he have been so wrong about him?
On the other end of the line, John snickered. "I told you."
"That's so shitty," he began, but they both erupted into groans when the ending credits rolled.
Smitty saw no more value in pretending he wasn't addicted to the show. They hadn't bothered trying to hide it since the night he'd come home a little late and John had called him, urging as though his life depended on Smitty turning on his TV. He even sometimes found himself talking to his coworkers about the character like they were real people.
Although he sometimes got strange looks, he didn't mind as long as he got to come home from a late shift, make the quickest thing he could think of to eat, and talk to John as he relaxed. It was great. The past few nights when he called, they would go straight to talking about their days and watching The Tears of Tomorrow. It had only been three weeks but they were talking and teasing like besties.
Speaking of the such, John was talking right now, mentioning something funny about how fervently Daithi always said 'revenge is not the way' right before he tried to run over Luke (in the man's own truck no less) when Smitty nodded off. When he woke up four hours later, his phone was 12 percent charged and John had long since hung up. A little guiltily, he called the next night with an apology on his lips, but John acted as thought nothing had happened.
And so began the cycle of Smitty finally falling asleep when the sky went dark.
🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸
Smitty had missed two episodes of their show.
He'd agreed to go out with Fitz and a few other coworkers for drinks, and didn't come home for almost an hour after he'd expected to. He'd been feeling better lately, good even, and thought he should top it all off with a night with his friends. He'd had a pretty good time, but it would have been better if he wasn't so consumed with the thought of leaving John without an answer or explanation. He debated even calling at such a late time, but decided why not. If John was asleep, he probably wouldn't wake up.
Except, John was awake, and ready to fill him in on the missed set of episodes.
"Wait, so Jon and Luke are long lost brothers or something? But they don't even look alike."
"I know dude! Oh-- and it turns out that Brian was the one Brock was having the affair with."
"What!?" Smitty nearly yelled. "When did this happen?"
"Back at the big New Year's Party, the one Evan threw for the whole company."
"Whatever. I still think they really shoehorned that one in."
"They shoehorn everything in," John laughed, and Smitty smiled into the distance in his room.
"Anything else?"
"Mmm, Anthony's getting a brain transplant."
"Anthony? A brain Transplant? Are you serious?"
"Of course not," John giggled again, "But I kinda wish they would give him something crazy like that, you know? Anthony deserves more screen time."
"I guess I get that," Smitty shuffled further under the covers, "I mean, I don't think they characterize him enough for all this saving he does to everyone else."
"Exactly." John says in that unique way of his that stretches out the syllables and highlights the sounds Smitty never really pays attention to. "Hashtag Give Anthony His Own Episode."
Smitty felt his eyes drooping, but he didn't feel as guilty about being so tired since John would probably be off to do his own thing in a few. "More like 'Hashtag Give Anthony His Own Character Arc' to be honest."
He smiled at John's agreement and listened as the older started a rant about his favorite underappreciated characters. Now, Smitty was never one to brag, but he would happily report that he made it all the way until they both hung up to fall asleep.
🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸🕸
"And honestly, I wouldn't really mind if they postponed season five if it meant they wouldn't have to replace my boy Lui. Having anyone else just wouldn't be the same." Smitty paused to level a pointed look at Ryan, only to see that he was no longer taking notes, but watching Smitty with a pointed look of his own.
"What?" he asked when Ryan hesitated to speak.
"Nothing, you just seem to be in a pretty good mood is all" The psychologist replied with some difficulty around his smirk. He looked down and fiddled with his pen for a second before he continued, "Did something happen?"
Smitty narrowed his eyes at the suspicious tone and answers slowly, "Yeah actually. And, I forgot to mention it earlier, but you gave me the wrong number at out last meeting."
"Did I?" Ryan smiles widely, but tries to hide it behind his clipboard. It doesn't work, obviously. "My mistake."
Smitty tries to suppress a knowing frown as he watches Ryan scribble a new number down on a piece of paper with a minutely shaking hand. This one looked absolutely nothing like the one he'd received before.
