Code Name Karma

Destroy everything you touch, today. Please destroy me this way.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Motorcyle Drive By

“Alec, Alec please Listen to—“

“No.”

“Please Alec, it—“

“No.”

“Alexander—“

“NO!”

This is how it starts—the day that changed everything.

Magnus’ shoulders sag as he chases after Alec—always chasing after this stupid, beautiful man, he thinks, with a weary smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

The hallowed walls of the former New York Institute stretch up on either side of him, still impressive and imposing, despite the ruin they now stood within. It had been foolish of them to think that they could have won, that they could have even survived…after everything they’d lost? This world belonged to Sebastian now; there was really no sense in denying it at this point. They may have outrun it for a time, seeking refuge here in New York for a little while but really, hadn’t they just been avoiding the inevitable?

Foolish, indeed.

Magnus’ hurried steps echo off cracked stonewalls as he follows after Alec, who was purposely putting distance between them—making the Warlock work for it. He wants to be indignant about it—after all, he was the one slowly turning into a monster, not Alec—but he couldn’t…he wouldn’t.  

He finds Alec standing in the library, which is now just a shell of its former self. Tall book stacks now stand barren, save for a thick layer of soot and ash and the occasional torn page that hadn’t been burned in the fire. The fall of the institute had felt like the very last of their hopes finally being snuffed out and although Alec would never say it, Magnus knew that he was mourning, for what once was and perhaps what could have been.

Now there was nothing except fire and blood and death…so much death.

Magnus is silent as he carefully navigates through the debris that litters the floor. He’s making his way towards Alec, who has his back to him and is staring down at a large piano that was lying in two halves, as if someone had sliced right through its middle. It’s a grim sight to behold, even amidst the ruins that crumbled all around it. Magnus knew why Alec was so fixated on the piano. He knew it and it broke his heart.

“Alexander…” He starts slow, gentle, as if he could somehow coax Alec into seeing things from his point of view with a whisper and a smile. Ah, if only it were still so easy..

Magnus stills behind him and reaches up to place a gentle hand on Alec’s stiffened shoulder, ignoring the way his veins sing with pain under his skin with even the subtlest of movements. He knows that Alec is thinking about Jace and he wishes, more than anything that they had the luxury of time to dwell on such things…but they don’t. They’re already living on borrowed time; Magnus can feel it inside of him. Demon blood that was once his source of existence, of power, had been twisted and deformed by blight and soon, he would be gone. Too soon.

His resolve steels when he is met with only silence and he continues, because he has to. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear but—“ Alec whips around to face him so fast that is shocks him, fury and hurt and tears burning in his enormous eyes. Magnus’ resolve crumbles and his words die on his lips, which quiver with an unspoken agony that mirrors in his eyes.  

“You think this is easy for me?”  Alec asks, and his tone is so cool that is chills Magnus, all the way to his bones. “There is no reality that you are ever a burden to me.”  

Alec’s words are sharp and they cut Magnus down to his core because they were stupid, foolish words that he himself had uttered to Alec once—back before the world had fallen apart and they still thought they had a fighting chance. It felt like someone else’s life now; distorted, like a faded picture that was hard to make out.

Magnus’ chest heaves with a sob that he was desperately trying to keep inside. He needed Alec to understand, before it was too late. “But I won’t be me anymore, Alec…” He whispers brokenly, ignoring the agony that radiated beneath his skin where Alec’s hand gripped him firmly.

Magnus had seen the effect that the blight had on the Warlocks. It had started with the very oldest of them first, their very own demon blood burning away their humanity until there was nothing left but a mindless demon on a tight leash—that Sebastian wielded. He knew it was coming, he’d been feeling it for weeks, the subtle simmer that slowly turned into boil as his veins began to blacken beneath skin that felt cracked and curled and raw, like wallpaper catching fire. They couldn’t outrun it, no matter how much they tried, and Magnus was so tired of running.

His gaze lifted tentatively, seeking the comfort in Alec’s eyes that had always been there before now. Now they just looked haunted. Magnus hated himself for asking Alec what he was asking, but he couldn’t bear the alternative—he just couldn’t.

“It has to be you, Alec, I’m not strong enough…” His voice hitches dryly, even as the words force themselves out of his throat, as if desperately trying to remain unsaid. Alec looks stricken, as if Magnus’ words had slapped him, hard and Magnus thinks for a moment that he is going to deny him.

Alec is already pulling away, taking a step back and forcing that distance again. Ever determined. Magnus loved him for it, even if it was all so very…pointless. “Please, Alec,” Magnus sniffled then, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He could feel the tears pushing up against the walls he had built to keep in all the emotions that he could no longer process in this world. It was taking every ounce of energy and sheer willpower for Magnus to retain control of himself for as long as he had already managed, he couldn’t afford to lose control—not now, when they were so close to the end.

“It has to be on my terms Alec…please…please…I need you to do this for me…please.”  Magnus had never begged for anything in his life but here he was, dropping to his knees and clinging to Alec’s legs, begging for the unthinkable. It was agony, in every sense.

Alec seemed frozen in place, his eyes tired and hollow as he gazed down at Magnus like he was a stranger crumpled at his feet. Agony.  

Silent tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and Magnus sniffled again and choked on another sob, struggling to retain some semblance of dignity. Whatever for, he did not know.

Something seemed to switch on behind Alec’s gaze and he jerked suddenly, like he’d just woken from a nightmare and needed to clear his thoughts. He said nothing, just held up a hand in front of him and shook his head, and then he was gone. Turning on his heel and stalking out of the room, broken glass and splintered bits of wood crunching beneath his boots as he left Magnus alone—a crumpled, broken mess.

For a long while, Magnus remained where he was, his shoulders shaking with dry sobs that bounced off the hollow walls. He felt hopeless and helpless and so many other things that twisted into a massive ball inside of him that was impossible to control anymore. Alec had asked him once, what scared him and it was this. Right here.

Magnus cried then. He cried for what they had sacrificed and what they had lost—what they had to lose still and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Eventually, like most days, Magnus finally managed to get himself back to his feet, wincing openly because there wasn’t anyone left to hide it from. The pain that simmered inside of him was constant and torturous and soon, it would be too much to bear at all, Magnus knew it was only a matter of time.

When he stepped back outside, the sun, which had already started to disappear behind the haze, was hanging duly in the sky, casting sickly shadows on everything around him. His gaze fell on Alec then, who was perched atop a motorcycle at the bottom of the steps, gazing off in the distance like a goddamn postcard. It was breathtaking and Magnus’ chest seized sharply, a fresh crop of tears already threatening to make their escape.

He didn’t know what to say. Alec looked like a natural sitting on the sleek machine and it stirred something in him, something that he feared was already beginning to burn away. Magnus wanted to ask him where he’d snagged the thing but found that he didn’t really care.

“Get on.” Alec says, just like that, without even looking at him.

Magnus blinked, his gaze flicking between Alec and the bike. He trusted Alec; would follow him anywhere in this entire fucked up world, but they didn’t have time for this. They just didn’t have the time. “Alec—“ It was the only word he managed to get out before Alec’s head snapped around so quick it was a blur and instantly killed any retort he thought he would like to make.

Alec’s gaze was fixed on him so intently that it commanded compliance and Magnus was helpless against it. He always had been, after all.  “Magnus.”  Alec said, simply, with just a hint of impatience that instantly softened his expression. It was just a simple thing, but Magnus understood it. He understood Alec and so he gave in.

Magnus nodded, once, firmly, as he walked over to where Alec sat, offering him a small, defeated smile as he climbed up onto the bike and tucked himself in right behind. Alec’s back was firm against his front and Magnus allowed himself to dissolve into that warmth that felt like home. He sucked in a deep breath and dropped his head down on Alec’s shoulder, arms snaking around his middle and holding on so tight he might never let go.

Alec kick started the bike with a confidence that made the very corners of Magnus’ mouth curl with the fondest smile. Alec was nothing if not determined.  The motorcycle roared to life beneath them and Magnus’ eyes fluttered shut, surrendering it all to Alec and this moment.

It didn’t take him very long to figure out the mechanical aspect of the bike and soon enough they were roaring along down one street after another. The wind was warm and sharp and it whipped painfully at Magnus’ skin and tangled his hair. Alec was like a steady, comforting warmth against him and Magnus sucked in another, deep, cleansing breath, burying his nose right between Alec’s shoulder blades. He smelled like leather and smoke and so many other things that Magnus didn’t want to think about.

Once upon a time things could have been so different and Magnus feels bitter and cheated that this had become their fate. It wasn’t fair, he thought, petulantly, as if he still had the freedom to be so childish. Those days were gone, along with all of their friends. There was nothing left for them here, not anymore.

Magnus feels Alec’s muscles tense against him as he removes his arms from where they were anchored around his middle and he smiles, leaning in close enough to press a small kiss to the back of his neck. Just a small assurance. Everything is fine, or, as fine as it can be, anyways. He smiles as he raises his arms up, stretching them out on either side of him as they zoomed down the street like they were the only two people in the world.  

Magnus knows what Alec is doing and he loves him for it, he always has. Alec was stubborn but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that there was no other way; Magnus had seen it in his eyes, even when he was denying it with his mouth.

When he tires of the wind’s relentless torrent his arms return, sliding back around Alec and locking him in place, as if he could freeze them right here in this very moment.  Magnus would never say it aloud but he was tired. Tired of running and tired of fighting and tired of pretending that he wasn’t going to die.

There was never a reality in which leaving Alec wasn’t absolute torment, but that didn’t mean it still didn’t have to happen. Magnus knew it, and he knew that Alec did too, deep down, in the dark places.

By the time Alec parks the bike back at the bottom of the Institute steps, the red sun had nearly sunk into the depths of a black horizon that would devour Thule with all the ugly things that crept around in the darkness. A small shiver shook him as he slid off the bike, his legs stiff and sore and crackling with a pain that made his fingers shake. Magnus glanced up at the darkening sky and frowned, his brows knitting together as he followed Alec up the steps and back inside the ruined Institute. He didn’t need to say it, Alec was just aware that they were running out of time as Magnus was.  He wanted to scream. Just scream and scream until his throat was hoarse and his lungs gave out but he said nothing instead, just stuffed down the agony and forged on—it was the least he could do.

Later still, the pain will become too much for Magnus to hide and he really will scream and the sound of it—the pure agony that resonated at its core—would break Alec. Break him right in half, like that stupid fucking piano. He will realize that he couldn’t ever really fix anything at all and it will consume him, much like the blight, that had turned all of love’s veins demon-black.  

In the end, it is blackness and it is red-hot pain and then it is nothing. Just sleep.

[suspicioustongueaction]

The Last

“The first one is always the hardest…”

It’s nights like these when your own words hit you the hardest; the deepest. You still remember the night you said that to her, so very many years ago now… She had come to you in Paris – that time you had considered yourself a painter. She had woken, screaming in the darkness for a ghost she could no longer touch and you had gone to her, fresh oil paint still tacky on your fingertips.  “It’s okay, I’m here,” you whispered into the tangle of her hair as you knelt down beside her on the mattress and scooped her up into your arms, folding her up in an embrace that was meant to comfort, but also anchor. Her cheeks shone with fresh tears as she pulled slightly away, gazing up at you with a fierce determination that overshadowed any embarrassment she might have felt in that moment.  Stroking a couple of fingers through her hair you smiled – that smile that was kindred in a way that only two such as you could possibly understand. “The first one is always the hardest,” you had said, with just a bit more sadness than you had intended.  She blinked a couple of times and you could practically see the gears of her mind turning slowly, as if attempting to assimilate the words to their meaning.

“The first?” She asked, her voice scratched and dry from fitful sleep.

“The first one you love who dies,” you supplied gently, still holding her in the shadows of the longest night of her life.  

Her face paled slightly and you instantly regretted saying it, perhaps it was still too soon for her; too fresh – too raw. A breath hitched in her throat and her fingers clawed at the front of your shirt, as if she was desperately trying to keep herself from falling apart in front of you. You – the one person who understood better than anyone else.  “It gets easier, after,” you added, quieter this time, as if trying to convince you both that it was true. She did fall apart after that and you sat there with her for hours, holding her together well beyond the first murky rays of a new day.

Tessa had always considered you a friend, but it was that day that officially stamped your name on her heart. Over the years you’ve travelled literal worlds apart, living separate lifetimes that often intersected but never intertwined and the bond that connected you never diminished, never severed. Not even a little bit.

It will be years and years into your future when she comes to you again, only this time it will not be her that is screaming for a ghost, but you.

Most people wait their entire lives to find the missing sliver of their own soul – that tiny little piece of themselves that is hidden deep within the soul of another.

You had waited several.

Fate is like that sometimes, isn’t it? Just when you think you’ve given up, in walks that missing piece, as if they had been there all along, waiting for you to be ready. You were ready. You were more than ready and you dived in headfirst, hard and fast and reckless because that was your way. For better or worse you were there, and you had certainly been dealt your fair share of both before time had slipped through your fingers once again.

Your life together read like the very best story, you know the sort – the ones filled with danger and excitement and love—so much love. From the very first moment you saw him you knew. You knew he was going to be the death of you and still you leapt.

Because, how could you not?

Never before had you met someone with so much love and so much devotion all wrapped up in an attractive, albeit unconventional package and you accepted him, all of him, and held on so tightly that it was now impossible to let go. You had taken his youth in stride and basked in it, riding that high through the best life you would ever live. He had come into your life and seen you for exactly what you are – all of your holes and imperfections that he simply absorbed with his love in that way of his – the one that still took your breath away, even now. He willingly gave you his entire life and you took it, desperate and greedy and aching for more.

Aching. That wasn’t what this was, not exactly. Aching would suggest that there was still something left to hurt, but there wasn’t because he had taken everything with him when he left. Be happy, he had whispered in a voice that was so hollow that it had chilled you to the bone, age-weathered fingers curled loosely around your own.  Live.

Live, he had said, as if he didn’t know you at all.

And then he had left you. Left you all alone to fend for yourself and for a sliver of a moment, you hated him. Hated him for loving you and hated him for leaving you, too.

“The last one is always the hardest,” comes a familiar voice in the darkness and you violently clamp a hand across your mouth to hold in the desperate and broken sobs that shake your entire body.

You say nothing at all as she comes to you, sinking down in the corner beside your huddled form. “I’m here,” she says as she folds her arms around you and holds you tight and although you do not say it, you appreciate her leaving out the part about it being okay because it will never be okay.

You will never be okay.

For a long while neither of you says anything at all. She holds you in the shadows that grow taller with each passing second hand and you sob without restraint, dark streaks of long-forgotten mascara carved harshly across your cheeks. It is longer still, before you trust yourself to speak and even then it comes out as a scratchy, broken whisper that burns your throat. “The last.” You repeat, and it is not a question because you think you understand what you both already know.  

The last one you love who dies.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Too lazy to repost blah. 

[servingkarmalikecake]

    —Everything is a mess.

If that wasn’t an accurate description of his entire life, he didn’t know what was.

Sure, he’d gotten really good at working with what he was given over the years, but the truth of the matter was that Quentin Coldwater had absolutely no fucking idea what he was doing anymore. This had all started with a quest. The Quest. The one that would change everything in irreparable ways before it was all said and done. Maybe, if he’d only been a little stronger, or a little braver, he wouldn’t be where he was now – sat on a window sill of this third floor walk up, chain smoking like his life depended on it.

Perhaps it did..

It seemed so long ago now, that fateful day when he hadn’t been himself and Eliot had found him. Except Eliot hadn’t exactly been Eliot either. For days and weeks he hung by The Monster’s side; subjected himself to the horrors and the blood because Quentin Coldwater also wasn’t a quitter.

Okay, well, he was kind of a quitter about certain things – but not this. Never this. This was different. This was Eliot and even if he died in the process, Quentin refused to give up. Eliot was in there, he knew it; believed it when none of the others did…not even Margo.  He had to be found, is all, and that was what Q held on to when things got bad.  

They’d been helping The Monster piece itself back together when everything went sideways. Margo had done the thing and Julia and Penny had done the other thing and then suddenly, he was just…gone. Quentin remembers the way it felt as the panic slowly started taking over, as he turned around in a slow circle, desperately searching for anything – anything at all. “El?” He had said, in that annoying, exasperated tone that he hated so much. “Eliot!?” He said, louder this time – scared - and the silence was deafening.

Never one to freak out (har har), Quentin clenched a fist and shut his eyes. He just had to think. Think Quentin, think. They had been so sure this was going to work; there was no reason that it shouldn’t have, so where had he gone?  This couldn’t be the way it ended, not after everything they’d done; sacrificed, to get to this moment. It wasn’t over. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. He’d come back because Eliot always came back. Right? Right?

When there was nothing more to be done and Quentin was feeling good and useless and hating everything about his existence he sat with his legs dangling out the window of Marina’s apartment, smoking cigarettes and replaying those last moments over and over in his mind. Eliot was still out there, he could feel it, and Quentin was going to find him. Or die trying.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Till the wheels come off

Klaus had kept his word. He’d kept it when he flashed Ben a coquettish smile and politely declined to answer his question about where he went after places like that club. He’d kept it as he wobbled down the middle of one deserted and darkened street after another, unsteady at best as he headed, not towards the darker, dimmer streets where you could trade hand jobs for benzos, but back to the Academy instead. And he’d even kept it as he crawled up the never-ending staircase on all fours, looking like some sort of gangly crab, and somehow managed to get himself to his bedroom. Sure, he didn’t quite make it to the bed, but that’s okay. He’d kept his word. To Ben. Poor, sweet, dead Ben.

As days bled into weeks and months, Klaus had found himself distancing from the Academy; his home. After Ben’s funeral (which was really just dear old dad erecting a fucking statue and giving them all some bullshit speech about trial by fire), he found it nearly unbearable to be there; all of them did. You could feel it in the air that hung all around them, like a silent bomb just waiting to go off. Everything was different now, they all felt it, and no matter how many lectures The Monocle gave them about toughening up for the good of the cause, everything slowly started unraveling. Klaus hadn’t been the first to leave, mainly because he was too fucking stubborn to give up a free bed when he was desperate enough, although the spans of time that he would disappear for days and weeks at a time were so frequent that no one thought to question it. Or cared to, was perhaps a better phrase.

That was it. Right there. No one cared anymore. Not Allison and not Diego, and certainly not poor, pathetic little Klaus. Ben had broken them all; every. One.

When things were good Klaus was shacked up with some pretty young thing or another who kept him just numb enough that the voices were like dull echoes knocking against his skull. He would chase that blissful high for as long as he could, stubbornly trying to harness that peace and quiet like he could pretend, for just a moment, that he wasn’t slowly going crazy – That this fucking curse wasn’t slowly driving him insane. When things were bad Klaus was crouched over a toilet or tied up in some strange man’s apartment, or even worse so, waking up in an emergency room with an oxygen mask and a burdened conscience. Ben was always there when he opened his eyes again, with his disapproving and worried looks. It should have been funny, Klaus thought, that through it all, no matter how many pills he swallowed or how many lines he snorted, Ben just wouldn’t go away. He was always there. Reminding Klaus of all of those serious, bad bits that he’d much rather forget. He’d tried so hard - so hard and somehow, he always failed. He always came back.

When Klaus opens his eyes everything is blurry shadows that move like ghosts in front of him. His eyelids feel like they are made of thick cotton and he blinks once, experimentally, and immediately regrets it.  “Oww,” he murmurs and then he groans because god damn is his head pounding. Must be numb o’clock again. He has no idea where he is. Jersey? Maybe? The last thing he remembers is following some pretty brunette out of a bar and into a car. There was definitely a car involved.  He thinks.

Klaus dropped his head to the side and blinked a couple of more times; red-rimmed eyes watering and so dry they were on fire. A lovely view of the underside of a toilet bowl came into focus and his brows knitted together curiously. Funny place for a toilet; he thought. He sucked in a shallow, wheezy breath that quite literally, rattled his chest and then he coughed. He coughed so much that his head felt ready to pop. He hoped it would. He really did.

He reached up to cover his mouth, not noticing the dirt caked beneath nails that were jagged and broken with bits of long-forgotten purple nail polish – compliments of someone’s girlfriend. He couldn’t remember now. What he did notice is the drops of vomit that were thick and congealed on his hand; or rather, smelt it.  “Oh no. No, no, no, no,” he muttered in a cracking (at best) tone, and then he sat up – skull-splitting headache be damned.

Its practiced skill that gets him to the bowl in just the nick of time, where he promptly chokes up bile and liquid that tasted bitter, like soured wine. His shoulder blades knock against one another as he continues to dry heave, his entire frame, gaunt and unattractive as it was, shaking involuntarily. This certainly wasn’t his shining moment, but a moment, all the same.

When the seizures finally stopped Klaus flopped back, utterly exhausted as he leaned back, the tiles cool against his bare skin. He could hear them now, the voices; muffled still, but steadily gaining momentum. Soon now, they would bust through that door that he tried so desperately to keep shut tight and locked. Soon, now. There wasn’t much time.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Ask me if I’m happy

          — Ask me if I’m happy…

As a child, you were happy. At least, that is how you choose to remember it on most days.

You still remember, with Technicolor clarity, simple things; silly, stupid little things that flash like moving pictures in the back of your mind when you least expect them. Playing hide and find with One and Five (who always cheated and always won). Dancing to Cindi Lauper in Three’s bedroom or dodging Two’s knives out in the courtyard…these were the good bits. The really really good bits that you clung to when you slept.

As a child you were happy. At least, that is how you choose to remember it on most days.

You don’t like to think about all the rest – you haven’t wanted to think about all of the rest in a very long time. You were just seven years old when your father finally figured out what your gift was. He had always been hard on you, all of you, but when you were seven he ceased being just dad and finally became what he’d always demanded – The Monocle. The leader. The Alpha male.  In the blink of an eye and one very stupid mistake your sweet life had turned terribly sour.

Suddenly you were an asset to the team and you were thrown in, head first and ass backwards and terrified – so fucking terrified.  He pushed you harder than he did the others because you were weak and you were scared and god damn it, you just wanted to be happy, you didn’t want to see these horrors anymore but he wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t let up. Wouldn’t let you just…breathe. You weren’t like the others, you didn’t want this curse; didn’t ask for it. The Monocle saw your fear as morbid weakness and decided for you that it was best to face that fear head on.

Twelve hours. Sixteen minutes. Thirty-two seconds. That is how long you spent locked in that fucking mausoleum the very first time. He had marched right into your bedroom and taken you by the arm, and you froze because he still scared you back then. You tried to put up a proper fight; you really did, but honestly. You weren’t exactly a match for a full-grown man and so he dragged you right down the stairs, wailing like a Banshee the entire way. Please dad. Please dad, no. One by one, doors cracked open, the faces of your siblings peering out between the spaces as you were taken away. Every one of you knew better than to disobey your father and yet here you were, crying like you were dying.

But weren’t you?

“It’s time for you to face your fears, Four.” He had said as he wrenched open the heavy stone door and unceremoniously shoved you inside. You stumbled for just a fraction of a moment and then you were up, throwing yourself at the door like you could change your fate – stupid, scared, weak number Four.  “Face them, number Four.” His voice was muffled by several inches of thick concrete but you heard them clear as day. Four little words you would never forget. You couldn’t face them, you could never face them. You just wanted to be happy, to forget, to un-see it all…

By the time The Monocle had finally let you out, you were frozen like the stone all around you. You had spent most of your imprisonment (because that is exactly what this was) screaming. Screaming until your were hoarse and raw and then switching to crying because it hurt a little less. The dead were suffocating and unrelenting and demanded attention – attention you could not and would not give, at least not if you could help it. “Get up, Four. Stand up straight and tell me what you’ve learned.” He was little more than a cold tone attached to an overbearing silhouette by then and as you lifted your head up off of your knees you shuddered and sniffled. The silence was deafening and glorious and you quickly stood up and dusted yourself off to stand before him, lest it get away from you and plunge you back into the bad place. “Well?” he said, with an impatient tone that made your pulse quicken and you swallowed and scrubbed away the wetness on your cheeks with the backs of your hands. It was impossible not to feel small beneath the weight of that gaze – the one that saw literally everything. You wanted to shrink back to your corner and cower underneath that gaze but you didn’t. You held your chin up defiantly and pretended to be strong. “I’m not afraid.” You heard yourself say and then it just hung there in the air between you as he studied you carefully, picking you apart with a narrowed gaze that lingered disapprovingly on your dirt-streaked face. “Go and clean yourself up.” He had said, after what seemed like hours of silence and the breath you hadn’t even realized your were holding came rushing out of you all at once. Somehow, you managed a firm nod and then you were on the move, teeth chattering against themselves as you made your way back inside and up the stairs. It wasn’t until you were sitting in the bathtub that you allowed yourself to breathe, and even then it was just shallow gasps that made your shoulders curl and shake. There was coldness in you now and you wondered if you would ever be warm again.

     ~

“Where did you go?” His voice is soft in the dead of night – that first night that was all shadows and nightmares and cold – so much cold.

A strip of pale light streaks across the floor as he opens your bedroom door just enough to slip inside and you just watch from where you are curled up, in the center of your bed. “I don’t know,” you whisper, a bit more honestly than intended.  The room returns to its shadowy darkness as he closes the door and you can hear his bare feet on the hardwood floor as he tiptoes towards your bed.  “Are you okay?” He asks, and his voice sounds terribly close now – just beside you in the darkness. You’re still shaking, even beneath a stack of blankets and it takes you a long while to answer him. You want to tell him that you are fine, that you are okay, but he’s always been the hardest to lie to. “I don’t know,” you say instead; cryptically, and you know that he will understand.

Out of all of your siblings, Six was, perhaps, the one who understood you best. Oh, sure, Two liked to think it was him and One would insist that it was him, but it wasn’t either of them – not really. It wasn’t Three and it wasn’t Five and it certainly wasn’t Seven, it was Six. It wasn’t ever explicitly said aloud, but you were kindred in your reluctance, in your fear. After that first night, the one where Six sat on the edge of your bed with his hand on your arm while you slept, everything was different. You were changing, becoming something else, and no matter how hard The Monocle pushed you to embrace your gifts and become the asset you were destined to be, Six was always there with a comforting presence that helped you sleep it all away.

You don’t remember now, when his presence stopped being enough. When the demons and the nightmares finally became strong enough to punch holes in Six’s light and shroud you in darkness once again. It was terribly difficult at first, numbing that part of you, and you did whatever you could to get by. Some cough syrup here, a nip into The Monocle’s liquor cabinet there; it wasn’t perfect and it certainly wasn’t happy, but it was enough to take the edge off, just a little bit. Time marches on and you learn to live with the horrors that consume you the best you can until you are finally old enough to do something serious about your denial.

One day you wake up and you’re a twenty-something junkie who doesn’t remember most of any given day. You are floating through life in a hazy shade of despair and damn, do you wear it well. You wanted happy; you tell yourself this is happy because you know what they say – fake it till you make it. Or break it.

There is a Five-shaped hole in the team the day that everything falls apart. Diego is sitting in the corner, stroking his knives like he gets off on the touch of cool steel against his fingertips and Luther is spouting off like one of those annoying people that you never want to meet at parties. You know the sort. The ones who love the sound of their own voice just a little too much. You are Klaus now and you think that you like that name. It sounds snappy on your tongue; you like the way it tastes on the lips of strangers. Ben (because he’s Ben now and you think you like that name best of all) is watching you from across the room, all dark clothes and hooded stares. When your eyes meet your wobbly smile falters for just a fraction and then it’s back, with a vengeance and a saucy wink to match. He looks worried, sweet Ben. Worried about you? The Mission? The weather? Global warming? Who could tell? Certainly not you.

Perhaps if you’d just been a little bit more sober, or at all in fact, none of this would have happened. Perhaps if you’d thought of someone else for just a second instead of your own selfish fucking needs you wouldn’t be out cold and covered in blood that was not your own.

By the time the team had realized everything was going sideways, it had been too late and you will never, ever forget they way it feels to hold a dying corpse, to cradle your brother’s lifeless body against your chest and scream and scream and fucking scream because you had been lying all along. You were scared, you were always scared and this was your entire fault and god damn it Ben, please don’t leave…

It had been Diego who’d finally gotten you to shut up, and that was really only because he punched you hard enough to lay you out so Luther could toss you over his shoulder and cart you back to the academy in peace. It was really for your own good, you wouldn’t blame them; any of them. What your siblings didn’t understand that day, would likely never understand, is that the fear of seeing someone you knew, someone you loved, invade your nightmares with the rest of the noise was suffocating. You didn’t want to see Ben. You couldn’t see him.

Please Ben.

Please.

         — I’ll tell you that I am if you tell me I’m dreaming.

[servingkarmalikecake]

When the Day met the Night

It was six months and two days since Louis had left Cornwall behind. Six months of seemingly endless study, both practical and theoretical, that delighted him more than it probably should have. True to Teddy’s word Maester Shalerock was a no-nonsense sort of man who bordered on bitter and oppressive. He was strict and his lessons were exceedingly difficult and Louis had never been more in his element. All of his life, all he’d ever desired (besides knowledge) was to be challenged. To be forced to pour every ounce of his will and concentration into solving a problem that at times seemed impossible. In six months time Louis had proved himself time and again to his teacher and had even managed to earn his respect – a feat not easily accomplished. In six months time Louis had come to the realization that curse breaking would be the perfect outlet for his willful energy and restless thoughts. To successfully break a curse without befalling harm required a sharp mind and more skill than he initially thought necessary. The apprenticeship challenged him in ways that he never before thought possible and although he would never admit it, by the time his apprenticeship was complete, he had a newfound respect for his father; and for Teddy too.

Currently, Louis was standing on a small patio that was attached to the modest room he’d been given for the duration of his stay. A hand-rolled cigarette dangled from between his slightly parted lips, smoke furling gently from it’s glowing orange tip. Smoking was a sedentary habit he’d picked up from his teacher, who spent as much time hand-rolling cigarettes as he did challenging and pushing Lous. You don’t spend sixteen hours a day with someone and not retain a vice or two – Maester Shalerock’s was fine tobacco.

Louis reached up, inhaling deeply before plucking the thing from between his lips, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The sunsets in Egypt were vastly different from the beachy, mellow sunsets he’d grown up with. They were warmer here; drier, and Louis had come to appreciate them for their differences.  The sun was halfway below the horizon as he exhaled a large plume of whitish smoke that was carried away on a too-warm breeze. His other hand was shoved inside his trouser pocket, the tips of his fingers resting against a small scrap of folded parchment that was well worn from being carried around for nearly half a year. Louis had received several owls since his arrival; family wishing him well and random owls from Victoire asking his advice on ideas for the wedding she was planning – mostly. Teddy had sent an owl too, but it wasn’t advice or well wishes or any of those mundane things that Louis didn’t really care about. Teddy was different.

Teddy was different because he understood Louis in a way that most people did not. He knew that Louis didn’t need luck or well wishes and it was that owl that Lou kept folded in his pocket – as a reminder. ‘Save a sunset for me’ it had said. Just like that. So simple, and yet the understanding was there; evident in every word and even more so in the words left unsaid.

Tomorrow Louis would leave Egypt and return to London – back to the home office for his first proper assignments. Tomorrow would mark the official ending of one chapter and the start of the next and although Louis couldn’t recognize something as basic as happiness or excitement, he was ready and accepting of all that was to come.

He smoked his cigarette in silence, quietly studying the deep purples and reds that were stretched across the sky as the moon slowly chased the sun away. He took in every detail, every slight nuance in the sky and air around him and committing it to a vast memory bank that he could access whenever he chose. This one was for Teddy and Louis was not leaving anything out.

By the time he stubbed the thing out in a small ashtray the sun had fully disappeared into the darkness and Louis breathed in deeply, taking all that Egypt had to offer him deep inside and holding it there for a long moment before letting her go just as slowly.

He would miss this place, he thought.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Maybe the Silence is Dangerous

As a child, Louis Weasley was happy and carefree – at least he thinks he was. He can still clearly remember the endless summer afternoons spent in his families cottage playing hide and find with his mother, or running barefoot across sandy beaches with the sun on his shoulders. He remembers the way the sky looked just before sunset as he stood on the front porch with his sister, who had held his tiny hand in her own and whispered a quiet story to him about the tragic love affair of the sun and the moon. Victoire had always been so dramatic. At the time, Louis had believed her; with all the wide-eyed wonder that only a still innocent child can possess. She had been his hero back then, Victoire. She was the statuesque goddess that snuck him extra cookies when their mother wasn’t looking and who threw the very best imaginary tea parties – of which Louis was always officially invited to attend. For years he basked in his sister’s light, blissfully unaware that one day soon he would have to give her up. He still remembers standing on a platform in a busy muggle train station, watching her leave for the very first time. He still remembers, peeking out from behind his mother’s cloak, eyes wide and red from too many tears, watching her rush up to meet her friends and shrieking excitedly – hoping she would turn back, just once, so he would know she wouldn’t forget him.  He still remembers.

As a child, Louis Weasley was loved and loved in return – at least he thinks he was. But Louis Weasley isn’t a child anymore, and just as the sun in the sky, the innocence of youth had been chased away by the darkness.  

There was a clinical explanation for the way that Louis was now. He had researched the subject himself, exhausting all resources available to him, - both wizarding and muggle alike – until he’d satisfied his need to know. In the end, it hadn’t really mattered…he wasn’t looking for salvation or absolution; he just needed to know. It didn’t change anything, didn’t stop him from slowly shutting down those tiny parts of himself. Emotions were messy and complicated; but as Louis got older he began to realize that they were so much more than that. Emotions were weakness and made you vulnerable and were just…pointless. Over the years it had become increasingly easy to disassociate. Cognitive disturbance a healer had suggested once, after his mother had dragged him to countless ‘specialists in an effort to fix him. Depression a muggle psychologist had said, after his father had taken him to muggle London at the urging of his grandfather.  The final straw had come at the hands of another healer – one who wanted to study Louis. His blood made him extremely rare and of great interest, considering. But Fleur, having been the subject of envy and interest her entire life, would hear nothing of it. Parents always want what is best for their children. To give them better than what they themselves had been given but in the end isn’t that just a lie that your mind tells you so that you feel better about yourself? Louis was special. But not in any ways that could be properly explained – not even the science.

In the end, his parents had given up and simply let him be. This didn’t upset Louis, it didn’t seem to bother him at all – but then, few things rarely did. Oh, there were occasional outbursts – those fleeting, elusive moments when he simply lost control, but even those lessened with age. Most of his extended family didn’t quite know what to make of him, and that was fine. They couldn’t help but be what they were –fallible; human. Often he was mistaken as being a bit soft in the head – as he’d overheard his idiotic Uncle Ron say once, but that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Louis was smart and sharp, to the point of compulsion. He spent his time absorbing knowledge from everything around him because it was far easier to view the world from a clinical standpoint. When you stripped away all of the cumbersome qualities of empathy and emotion you were left with, as muggles say, the science.

Louis Weasley was the science.

He didn’t quite know why he had agreed to come. Family gatherings had long since been lost on him. Maybe it was his mother’s insistence that he postpone his departure from Cornwall for just one more week. Maybe it was the owl he’d gotten from Victoire, which had been lovingly written in her elegant, looping script demanding his presence at her tea party – just as she had when they were children. Maybe it was his father’s quiet acceptance of his son for whatever he was or Dominique’s indifference. But it wasn’t any of those things, not really.

The first time Victoire had brought Teddy home was hardly the first time Louis had ever met him. He was after all, an honorary member of the legion he was forced to call family. But it was the first time that Louis actually had an opportunity to sit down and talk to Teddy – for more than fake pleasantries. Like Louis, Teddy was different and special and the more that Louis talked to him, the more interesting he became. Unlike the rest of his family he felt connected to Teddy somehow; on a level that other people would not relate to, and he spent countless hours over the span of his adolescent life, learning Teddy.

Currently, Louis was standing on the front porch of his families home, eyes fixed on the fading sun as it slowly disappeared beyond the horizon. The sounds of laughter and happy shrieking filtered softly out through the screened door and Louis smiled – Victoire had arrived, which meant Teddy had arrived.

Louis shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and inhaled deeply through his nose, a salty ocean breeze ruffling his hair and carrying away with it, a slowly exhaled breath. He didn’t move to return to the house, he didn’t need to see what was happening inside to know. His parents were always so happy when their first-born returned to the nest. Their eyes would light up with pride and love and it was all a very boring affair that he’d seen countless times before. It was better this way, leaving them to their reunion; they all knew it, none more than Louis.

His mind wandered back to Victoire’s tale about the torrid love affair of the sun and the moon as he stood there, facing the sea, and for just a moment, he envied the stars.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Blow Your Mind

James Potter has always been a selfish person.

For two whole years he was the perfect specimen that he was always destined to be; the Golden Child, the first born, and he had all of the attention to himself. It didn’t matter to James that he couldn’t even remember those two years, he knew they existed and that they were fucking brilliant.

But then tragedy struck.

The first time James laid eyes on his brother’s wrinkly, odd-shaped head he knew that this tiny smelly creature had just fucked up his perfect life. Simply for existing. Oh, James loved his brother, there was no doubt, particularly as they aged, but that resentment was always there, like an underlying infection trapped beneath his skin. Everything that Albus had, James wanted more and better of and this would be the theme of their entire lives. Albus had a shiny toy broom while James was stuck riding his old worn-out one? That wasn’t going to fly. Literally. Considering that James broke Albus’ broom and made him cry. Somehow, despite all of James’ efforts, his little brother never put up much of a fight, which stoked the embers of James’ tiny little ego, feeding that flame until it was massively out of control. Harry and Ginny Potter, for all their efforts at trying to raise a semi-sane family, never managed to curb that thirst in James and as the years wore on, Albus became the butt of all of James’ very best jokes.

Again for two years, James was the king of the world. He had two entire years at Hogwarts before Albus came and ruined that, too. James was older now, wiser, and although he and his brother were on good terms, neither boy was under any pretense that James wasn’t going to make Albus’ first year extra special.  James had had two years to learn the castle and cement his status and it was going to be Totally Awesome! (lol, couldn’t help myself)

Except, Albus went and found himself a friend and seemed to forget James even existed.

At first James tried to ignore it. It was easy, considering they were in different houses. James dove headfirst into dominating the Gryffindor Quidditch team and life moved on. He was (in his mind at least) the most popular bloke in school, star of the team, loved by pretty much everyone (again, in his mind at least). He had it all and managed to soar through his yeas at school with very little effort on his part.  

If James were lying to himself, he would say that he couldn’t remember how it had started. Except James never lies to himself and he could clearly remember the exact moment that old familiar feeling had bubbled inside of him. He had been running drills after practice on the pitch, staying long after the rest of the team, until the sun was nearly set. By the time his feet were back on the ground he was sweaty and flushed and grinning from ear to ear. Quidditch was in his blood and it was perhaps the only thing that he truly cared about. James had thought he’d imagined it at first, that tiny tinkle of laughter that sounded like it had been carried on a breeze.  He was just locking up the broom closet when he heard it once again, louder, and coming from somewhere beneath the stands. James didn’t have to search long before he spotted a pair of heads hovering close together between the wooden slats that crisscrossed along the bottom of the seats. Albus and Scorpius were huddled together and having a good laugh about something that James couldn’t see and he watched them for a long moment, undetected. Albus looked annoyingly happy, but it wasn’t his brother, that had James’ attention. It was the other one. The bestie – the one thing that James did not have.

This. This is how it starts.

With the Marauder’s Map in his possession, nothing or no one was off limits to James. He started subtle. Turning up in places when Scorpius was conveniently not attached to his brother. Scorpius would be sitting out by the lake reading or doing classwork in the Library and suddenly James would be there, reading over his shoulder and not so subtly transfiguring the blond’s carefully written lines into nonsense phrases. It was fun. James thought it was terrible fun and it wasn’t until much later that he realized that this – all of this – had never been just about childish jealousy.

For his part, Scorpius didn’t exactly make it easy. He seemed to be one of the few actual people that genuinely loathed James. Which James found amusing and interesting; like a caged animal that he couldn’t help but poke at. James pretended not to notice when their visits slowly began to lengthen. Maybe Scorpius was building up a tolerance. Maybe James’ charming personality was finally wearing him down. Whatever it was, by the time James was in his final year at the school, he no longer needed to find Scorpius on the map because he already knew where the blond would be.

Like clockwork.

It’s late when he slips out of Gryffindor tower and creeps through a shadowy castle, map in hand. James wastes no time in making his way down the stairs and out of the castle, slipping through the front doors and breathing in the chilly night air. He paused at the top of the stone stairs, glancing back and forth before he quickly descended them and cut across a gravel path towards the lake. He eyed the map in his hand one more time before he stuffed it into his back pocket, tugging the hood of his jacket up over his head and stuffing his hands into his pockets. He reached a coppice of massive boulders near the far side of the lake and took in another deep breath, his eyes falling on Scorpius, who was leaning against a rock that was bigger than he was.

Color flooded his cheeks as he closed the distance between them, moving right up to the blond and pressing up against him, effectively sandwiching his body between James and the boulder. “How much time do we have?” he asked, gaze flicking to the swell of Scorpius’ mouth before returning to meet his eyes. His pulse was already thudding beneath his skin as his fingers smoothed along the blond’s firm lines, curling into sharply carved hipbones that were hidden beneath layers of clothing. His insides ached as he purposely drew out their reunion, a mischievous smirk curling the corner of his mouth. When he can’t stand it a moment more, James leans forward and kisses the blond and everything else disappears.

Somehow, someway, their little game had turned into something bigger; growing and distorting until it was something ugly and beautiful and completely unrecognizable. They both had their reasons for keeping these impromptu meetings to themselves, but those reasons never seemed to be enough to keep them apart. James knew that Scorpius lied to his brother about where he went when he was with James, which only fed his ego further. He had no issue with being a dirty little secret – reveled in it, even.

(Mwah.)

[servingkarmalikecake]

Beneath with me

Seven years. That is how long Albus has been telling Scorpius that he doesn’t feel like sharing. Oh, it had started innocently at first – jested comments between best friends – but a child’s game can only remain as such for so long before you suddenly look up and realize that seven long years have almost passed you by.  Since the moment they had met, aboard the Hogwart’s express like some sort of fucking pre-written fairytale, Scorpius had been the brightest star in Albus’ life. The shadows that bound him were circumstantially massive but Scorpius had always had enough light to chase them all away.

Had. Had enough.

For years Albus had basked in that light, breezing through life like he was fucking untouchable with Scorpius at his side. As time forged on the pair aged up from children, to adolescents and young men; their bond solidifying to the point of practical co-dependence. Scorpius had always had a flirty nature about him; it was one of the things that Albus liked about him best – particularly when it was angled at him. It was the other times, all of those other…moments in between, that Albus struggled with.

Not that anyone could ever tell. Albus was criminally good at playing off indifference. He had, after all, learned from the best.

Like most things in their interwoven lives, Scorpius had ventured into dating first. Technically speaking, he was the only one that had ventured there, but Albus would never give him the satisfaction of saying so because Albus Potter is also a very good liar. It amused him at first, how the blond flirted and toyed with Dylan fucking McCormack of all people, although that quickly changed when Scorpius was ducking out to meet up with the other boy. Albus, who refused to act like the jealous lover that he was not, did the only thing that he could do; he chose indifference.  If he didn’t care then maybe Scorpius wouldn’t care either because damn, this was easier than just saying what he meant, right?

Teenage boys are smart okay.

Scorpius’ tiny origami bird found Albus on his way back from the kitchens because eating your feelings is always a decent distraction.  He paused at the top of the stairs that led to the dungeons, reaching up to pluck the fluttering, folded piece of parchment from the air and carefully unfold it. Albus’ mouth pressed into a thin line as he read over Scorpius’ simple note, anger bubbling inside of him. If McCormack had laid a finger on his bestie, Albus would hex him into next week.

Don’t text him, Dylan; do you even know who his mother is? Albus knows things. Painful things okay.

But we get ahead of ourselves..

Albus crumpled the paper in his fist and quickly took the stairs, heading down into the bowels of the dungeon and slipping through the narrow passage that led to the Slytherin dwelling beneath the lake. He glared briefly at a group of obnoxious witches before his gaze found Scorpius’ blond head over by the fire, just peeking over the top of a sofa.  He swallowed thickly and pushed down all of that anger, for now, his mouth curving into a smirk as he leaned over the back of the sofa and peered at the blond, upside down. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to change into my nurses’ uniform.”  Ah, jokes. One of his best defense shields.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Chase This Light

Grass. He always smelled like grass.

It’s the one thing that Remus will remember, with glaring clarity – cruel in its way – years down the road, when he is alone. It will carry him and it will cripple him too, mostly in the dead of night – where reality creeps. When he closes his eyes, his mind becomes a vivid scrapbook, flipping through the pages of his life with an ease that hurts. Flickering images of time better spent – easy – he thinks, with a tired smile that is mottled by sadness. He will carry these tiny reminders with the edges that scratch, with him until he dies, but it will always be the smell of fresh cut grass that he remembers most.

Always.

Remus had never amounted to much. That was something that he not only believed, but also accepted. It’s not like he had anything to offer anybody that didn’t involve a potentially grave end or a cursed life. How many years and how many sacrificed galleons had his parents spent, trying to fix him when all Remus ever really wanted was to know that he was okay? But he wasn’t okay. He’d never be okay.

Over the years, Remus’ friends have slowly filled that gaping hole in his soul; the one born from solitude and fear, and he will be forever grateful for them, even if he doesn’t understand it fully. By the time he is leaving the folds of Hogwarts for the last time, he is an anxious mess with an uncertain future ahead of him. In the absence of Albus Dumbledore’s protection, how would he fare out there in the world? He had already resigned himself to the fact that his life would not be an easy one – werewolves weren’t exactly respected members of society. It had been Sirius’ idea, he thinks, that had suggested them living together. Of course he had objected. Of course he did, because how could anybody honestly think that he could have flat mates, much less, neighbors of any sort.

Sometimes Remus wondered if his friends really knew him at all.

“I object to your objecting!”  Sirius would say, and the way that his arm hung heavy around Remus’ shoulders was comfort – and cruelty too.

He wanted to explain to Sirius, all the reasons that this was a terrible idea. Hogwarts was one thing. The real world, was quite another. But there was…something that forced all of that back down. He gazed sidelong at the other, hardened expression softening like it always did when Sirius looked at him just like that.

“But what if I hurt someone, what if I—“ Remus paused, chewing at the corner of his bottom lip and heaving a quiet sigh. What if I hurt you? He wanted to say, but found he could not.  “I’m a danger to society,” he settled on instead, knowing before the words passed his lips that they would be dismissed.

Sirius calls him dramatic and a bunch of other things that he doesn’t really hear because he’s busy imagining all the various and horrible things that could happen if something went wrong.

More than anything, Remus feared that he would hurt Sirius – or any of his friends. He couldn’t bear it if he were to curse someone else to this fate.

In the end Sirius got his way (as always), which is why Remus was currently sitting on a single sofa sat in the center of an otherwise barren sitting room. He leaned back against the cushions and heaved a sigh, his gaze wandering around the room that was littered here and there with unpacked boxes - they had surprisingly little between them. He swallowed thickly and nibbled at that raw spot near the corner of his mouth – nervous habit, James had called it. They were really doing this. Despite all of his reservations and fears, Sirius had managed to talk him into a place that Remus most certainly could not afford – thanks in no small part to his beneficiary, James.

Remus lingered on the ratty sofa a while longer, hands folded between his knees. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, knew that he was being selfish for wanting this so badly, but he didn’t care. Sirius could handle this.

Sirius could handle him.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Young and Menace

Blah blah blah warnings. Click at your own risk. 

How many years has it been?

How many days and hours and minutes that have successfully bled into months and weeks and years?  

He touches you soft, like delicate fingers wrapped in silk that smooth over your skin. Who knows anymore, perhaps they are? Riding a euphoric high was easy – perhaps too easy. He makes it this way.

Easy. You don’t really enjoy that word very much. Easy is a double-edged sword. Easy is a liar. Is it easy every time he falls out of your grasp? Is it easy when you’re holding him like a small child, crouched in the corner of some filthy bathroom stall in some back alley after hours? Is it easy, picking up his puzzle pieces and desperately trying to make them fit again?

Easy is an unattainable dream.

But you’re okay with that. You’ve never much saw a point in lies anyway. Lies are for the weak and you are anything but weak. You are hardened armor, calcified over time – you need that. He needs that.

This could be any night, plucked out at random from the pages of your life together. The glitter freeze, he likes to call it, right before he laughs that coy little laugh of his and presses a cigarette between lips in a display that borders on obscene. Tonight is a good night. A great night. Your fingertips smooth over a sticky bar top and you lean in, lips dusting the dark curls that hung over the tops of his ears. “Let’s dance,” you say, loud enough to be heard as those creeping, spindly fingers of yours walk over the top of his arm like a spider might.

“Oh, we’re definitely dancing,” he says behind a tinkle of a laugh that reminds you of tiny fairy lights for some reason. His tone suggests a deeper meaning that doesn’t need explaining. Hell, at this point in your lives you didn’t even really need words anymore. But words were fun; unpredictable in their way.

The very corner of your mouth curls with the first hinting traces of a smirk and you reach up between you, gaze locked and loaded. Your fingertips glide purposely-slow vertical across his lips. This isn’t a tease, it’s a takeover and you come away victorious. “Let me help you with that,” you say in a tone that can’t really survive the deafening volume of the music pumping through every inch of the place.  The pilfered cigarette presses firmly between your lips like it belongs there and you revel in the slight moistness around the filter as you inhale deeply.

He watches you behind those eyes that still see you and you alone, even when they are clouded and hazy. He’s seen all he needs to and yet he can’t look away. Why does he ever leave you? Even he doesn’t know the answer to that question.

THE question. The one. The unattainable answer that neither one of you would ever achieve. This was simply the way it was, no fighting; no friction.

You wonder if this is madness when he presses up against you in the middle of a dance floor, pale skin glittering with a thin layer of sweat that never seemed to go away. He was hot, like fire on your fingertips, but you don’t mind. You long ago became accustomed to that burn. It’s part of you now, like a craving. There were few people in the world that would understand this bond that you shared with him, but perhaps it was never for anyone else to understand. You were two souls hewn from the same blood – perhaps it was always supposed to be this way.

His dancing pulls countless sets of eyes to him – that has always been his greatest gift. He knows it. He exploits that power he possesses as often and obscenely as he possibly can. You think you love him for being so unafraid; so free. But maybe you hate him a little bit for that too. It doesn’t matter to him, how many people look at him, all he sees when he opens his eyes is you. Lou. Perfectly imperfect, Lou. There are so many ways he wants to tell you how much you mean to him but complications are messy and he likes things not to be so…messy. He tells himself that you already know and he wouldn’t be wrong, but still he wishes he were better at showing it.  His fight or flight instincts would always be his greatest handicap but he isn’t sure he can even do that without you. He wonders if he’s already off the deep-end because his conscience will never really be clean or free. Oh but he tries, how hard little Albus tries. He wants to be perfect for you; for his Louis, but he knows he rarely is. But still he tries.

You can hear his brain working, despite the noise levels and you sigh softly, unheard. You have stopped wondering how many times you have to tell him that he is enough, that he doesn’t have to do all these little things that he does; doesn’t have to work so hard.  He spins away from you in an unpredicted move and you lose your hold, but you don’t chase – you never chase after him. You watch as a swarm of sweaty, swaying bodies swallow him up and you smile and you wait.

You wait like you always wait.

He will come back. He always comes back.

Fingers and hands smooth over every inch of him as he twirls aimlessly through a crowd of bodies and he lets them, lost on the sensation of so many people all wanting him at once. It was euphoric and consuming and he tossed his head back and surrendered to it. All of it. Foreign fingertips splayed across his chest and his spine, sticking the thin fabric of his soaked t shirt to his skin and pulling a throaty groan of approval from between parted lips. This was all part of the draw – the quiet undertones of the call that was always beckoning to him, like a devilish siren that he could not resist. Lost is he; drunk on the sensation (and also the whiskey). Slick, shining forms pressed up against him from all angles, sending him careening through a cradle of waiting hands. Albus is always lost – until he is found.

Like clockwork he comes back to you and your hands smooth around his waist, just above the too-tight jeans slung low on his hips. He is wildfire; a consuming destroyer of all things. He takes you down; down to that place that you can only visit when he says it is so. Your fingers curl into his belt loops lest he get away again, holding him close, like a tether. He is caught on your hook and it is precisely the sort of absolution that he is looking for.

Fingertips curl sharp and painful into the back of your neck as he presses in close, his body moving like a slave to this rhythm. You dance like you are the last two people on earth and there is nothing – nothing more defining than this moment.  He is your salvation and you are his sin and together you were unstoppable. Endless. Forever.

Later, after you’ve sweated out all the alcohol, he’ll tug you into the loo and push you inside of a dirty, questionably sticky stall. You’ll snort lines like they were going out of style and chase them with a hastily rolled spliff. By the time you stumble out of the bathroom, arm in arm, he is laughing that little laugh again; you know the one. Back up high is where you shoot and the music swallows you both up for another go. 

His skin tastes like whiskey and sweat and you think that it might be your very favorite thing. This is later still, after the music has stopped and you’ve found your way back home. His touch is soft in the darkness – delicate like silk and somehow still harsh and painful. The softest of sighs escapes you and you can only smile. 

Maybe this was easy after all.

[servingkarmalikecake]

We Were Here

In hiding or not, Magnus Bane never misses a party.

Any other person might take the fact that some over-compensating zealot was hunting his kind as a suitable reason to stay, well, out of sight.  Except Magnus had never really been any other person, had he? He’d lived through centuries, seen many try, and many fail to force skewed ideals through fear and panic. Valentine was no different than those that had fallen before him. He too, would fall – of this, Magnus was certain. Which was precisely the reason that he could currently be found loitering in front of a full-length mirror, fingering the glittering spikes atop his head. He’d already had every intention of attending the Downworlder rave; it was, after all, one of the biggest parties of the year.

Earlier in the day Magnus had received a fire-call from someone at the institute that had proved only mildly interesting – at first. It seemed the Shadowhunters had gone to a lot of trouble to procure a meeting with the Warlock and had their payment offering not been so enticing, Magnus would have simply refused.  As it stood, he was having a terribly difficult time convincing Elias that his absence at the lair was but a momentarily blip. Magnus would be fine – he always was, after all.

Eventually Elias saw reason (or simply chose to finally stop talking) and Magnus was gone in a wave of his hand – only a few rogue specks of glitter remaining where he’d just stood.  

Is one necklace really worth the risk?

This one is.

Magnus didn’t have to wait long; he’d barely finished his first mystery mai tai when the same blond Shadowhunter who’d called him earlier, snatched his attention. One look at him and Magnus decided he was definitely overcompensating for something. Poor thing. But it wasn’t blondie that caught his attention, it was his companion.

This just got a whole lot more interesting.

Oh, Magnus had always known this day would come. He’d warned Jocelyn of this very thing, years ago. It truly was a lot of work being right all the time. Magnus didn’t think enough people appreciated that about him. Hm.  Little Clarissa wasn’t so little anymore, or as sweet, as it turns out. She refused Magnus’ generous offer of sanctuary and even went as far to tell him he was a fool for trying to hide from his problems. Except none of this was really his problem, was it?

Magnus had heard enough and was leaving. He wasn’t a lap dog for any Shadowhunters whims – not even one who may have pulled on a sympathetic heartstring or two. He prepared to portal, dismissing Clarissa and blondie’s attempts at forcing him to see reason. What was it with Shadowhunters and their frustratingly stubborn sense of superiority? Magnus had known their kind before, had even considered a few of them friends, but this was ridiculous. He was just about to successfully pull off a dramatic exit when it happened, and it was such a blur that it actually caught him a bit by surprise, really.  Someone had shouted, and then an arrow, pointed straight and true, had sailed through the air like a bullet with butterfly wings. Magnus stood there, blinking as he turned to the fallen circle member and then back to the other two. Movement behind them caught his attention and Magnus’ gaze lifted to a stairwell bathed in light, a quietly surprised gasp escaping past his parted lips at the vision before him. He watched as some tall drink of water took the steps with ease and strode towards them with purpose, a quiver of arrows slung over a shoulder like he was some sort of modern-day Apollo.

“Who is that?” Magnus muttered, eyes lingering on the blue-eyed mystery man for another moment, a regrettable sigh escaping him. Ah, if only the circumstances were different, less…life threatening.  Magnus shrugged his arm out of Clarissa’s grip and stepped through his waiting portal, lamenting missed opportunities as he took his leave, eager to put all this unpleasantness behind him.

Except, it was never really that easy, was it? Who could have known that a single button could change everything?

The lair’s location had been comprised twice that night – once by Elias and again by Magnus’ own carelessness. Rogue Shadowhunters had found them out and once again the pin-point of an arrow soared through the air, wounding his attacker enough for Magnus to finish the job.

Magnus smiled faintly to himself before turning around to face the other man, oh, fate was having a proper laugh at him today, wasn’t she?  

“I don’t think we’ve been formerly introduced.” Said Magnus as he sauntered right over to the other man. “I’m Magnus,” he added with a smile, offering him a hand.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Oh god…

He thought, eyes rolling clear back, velvety lashes fluttering against his cheeks. It was as if Alec had been gleaning every little thing that made his heart hammer in his chest and his breath lodge in his throat – stockpiling them like Smaug (oops wrong fandom!) and utilizing them all at once.

Magnus sighed, a soft, throaty groan of approval escaping him as the pink tip of a tongue traced wet lines over his skin. He squirmed impatiently beneath the teasing touch, another soft groan emitting from between parted lips. He didn’t have to wait long, Alec’s fingertips were pressing firmly against his backside, shifting him on the bed and —

Oh god…

This time it was a whimper and it was shameless and laced with a desperation and a need that was so acute that Magnus felt it clear down to the depths of his soul.

Alec was not playing around.

The tongue was back, swirling and teasing his most sensitive places and Magnus arched off the bed into Alec’s capable hands and mouth. Heat pooled in his abdomen and his blood roared in his ears and he just wanted more — all of it.  “Alec,” he breathed, hips shifting, thighs falling apart. Magnus’ fingers fisted the bed sheets so tightly his knuckles were white, and they’d barely started.

This was going to be a long night, and Magnus was more than ready for it.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Click click, boom.

It starts with silence and darkness…

Click click, boom…Click click, boom.

The creak of a door, the hum of fluorescent lights flickering to life, a faint pull of a zipper, the sharp crack of laces pulled tight against leather. These are the sounds you allow yourself, they are all you need and you feel them deep within your bones – louder than any music that drowns out the rest.

Click click, boom…Click click, boom.

You take the ice like an old friend, the metal blades you stand on, gliding reverently through her – just the shallow cuts for now. You coast for a moment as you tie up your hair – the hair that hides so much more than just your face. The ice guides you on a lazy curve as you press tiny, wireless ear buds into each of your ears – wedged firmly, no slipping now. This had become something of a morning ritual for you after the GPF – sneaking onto the ice before the sun had even risen, like a thief in the night. All of your life you have given yourself [mostly] over to the hands of strict authority and endless instruction. You wanted to be the best – needed to be the best, and you were not foolish enough to think you could achieve that all on your own. There would always be something to learn, you knew that, but as you aged you begin to wonder, at what point does the student surpass the teacher?

Growing up in Russia as an aspiring figure skater left little time for useless things that people of a more…sedentary life enjoyed. You were not a people person because you were never taught how to properly socialize. Rules have always been your only friend – restrictions, your religion and at the center of it all had been Viktor.

Had. Had been Viktor.  For so long you idolized him, striving to glean everything you could from him because you wanted to be him. But that’s the problem with heroes, isn’t it? Eventually even the hero has to fall.

Your expression wilts slightly and you gaze down at the mobile in your hand as you glide effortlessly across the ice, scrolling through endless lists of songs until you find the one you want. Ah yes, this song again… A familiar smile curls the corners of your mouth as you push off; gliding towards the half-wall that surrounded the rink and setting your phone there so it wouldn’t break if it fell on the ice. You linger only long enough to crank the volume all the way up and then you are off. You start slow, a couple of lazy laps because this is technically your warm up and Yakov would kill you if he found out you’d taken the ice without properly stretching out.

But you don’t want to think of Yakov or Lilia so you focus on the song blaring in your ears and you just skate.

It was a stupid song, really, and one that you wouldn’t share with anybody. It was two years ago – the first time you’d heard it. Before Viktor had left you for another and ripped out your heart in the process. It had been his idea. He’d come to you with popcorn and easy smiles and a promise of a fun time. At the time you’d protested loudly, although inwardly you were secretly pleased that he wanted to spend his time with you.  The movie was silly, you hardly paid attention but there was a moment, somewhere in the middle where you looked over at him sitting beside you – the living legend you had worshiped and adored for so long. Viktor’s attention wasn’t with you, it was with the television screen and the way that he laughed was so warm, so natural, and so beautiful that it made your heart hammer ferociously – dead center. The song shouldn’t have mattered to you – it was embarrassingly upbeat, but at that moment it brought everything into crystal clear focus. Viktor had been yours that night – the night you would never forget. Sure, it was only camaraderie and a movie, but for you, it was everything.

You pick up speed on the ice now, lithe form bending in half – one foot over the other as you streak down the center of the rink, wind whipping strands of your hair free of their bondage and sending them out on end. When Viktor left, you had been angry – more spitfire than you had ever been before. It was as if your entire world had been flipped upside down now that Viktor was no longer in it, and when you couldn’t take it – you followed him.  One look at Viktor and Yuuri together was enough to crumble what was left of the shattered mess that dwelled inside your chest. You had never seen Viktor look like that before, and he certainly wasn’t looking at you.

You decided to hate Yuuri on principle and it wasn’t for lack of trying that you failed in the end – because you had tried. It had taken you a long time to realize that Yuuri had actually helped you, and even now, sometimes it still stung a little bit to think about it too much. You didn’t love Viktor, you loved what he represented to you. You were blinded by confusing emotions and hero-worship and you couldn’t see that you would never be anything more than an adorably hostile little kid to someone like him. Watching them together forced you to face the truth of the matter and as time passed you by, and Viktor didn’t come back to you, you slowly began to realize that you didn’t need him.

You didn’t need anyone.

You focus on the steadily approaching curve of the rink, eyes narrowed as you bring your leg back for momentum, shining blade barely kissing the ice – once on the way up, and another on the way down. Click click, The jump is sloppy and you mentally chastise yourself for being so careless, so ordinary. You land with a weak boom… and skate on, leaving your failure on the ice at your back as you race for the other side. It wasn’t long enough past that you’d won gold at the GPF for you to be so weak – focus Yuri, yes focus. You ease up on the stride and take the long stretch of ice at a more casual pace, the song in your ears fading out like background noise. The lyrics that had become your unofficial and very secret life motto seemed sour on your tongue now, somehow. A soft sigh escapes and you flip around on your skates, swerving back around towards where you’d left your phone.

You were done living in the past.

You grind to a flawless halt on the ice and scoop up the mobile, swiping it to life and quickly killing the music before you started scrolling again – something new. Something new.

A cleansing sigh and you are off again, eyes shuttering slowly – arms outstretched. The piece you’ve chosen is progressive, meaning it starts slow, building and climbing with underlying intensity until it grabs hold of you and shakes you roughly. You need that. You crave that.

Your skates move of their own accord, mapping territory across the ice like you owned it – at this moment, you did. Wind whips sharply at the bareness of your arms and you open your eyes, a faint glimmer of fire behind them as you take the curve in stride – one foot over the other. Your body is reenacting the exhibition skate from GPF, you know the one. Welcome to the madness you had wittily decided to call it, except it was perhaps a bit more truth than performance. You had gone into that competition with a fierce need to beat them all, and had left with something…unexpected.  Ota, you had called him – the last time you’d seen him.

You aren’t stupid or naïve, you know what people called you – hear what they call you. Your skates pivot into a flawlessly executed Half-Biellmann spin – the one that blurs the lines that divide you and you close your eyes and just…breathe. Yakov had molded you into a strong and capable skater, with the ability to rule the world, and Lilia had transformed you into a prima ballerina – the most delicate flower in the garden.  Russian fairy, Ice Tiger, Yurio… they were just names. Monikers doled out by stupid, unimportant people who did not know you – and likely never would.  Nobody could possibly see what you see when you look in the mirror, and you had every intention of keeping it that way.

The piece was building towards its climax now and your pulse quickened and you picked up speed again, racing towards a dramatic finish that would leaving you sprawled out and breathless with ice on your back. A flick of wild hair; a smile. A fleeting memory of what it felt like when teeth scraped against the sides of your fingers. You’re too young, he would say, and he wouldn’t be wrong. You are barely seventeen now – still that stupid, stubborn little child. But still he had given you a lasting gift, the one thing you hadn’t known you’d needed more than anything else in the entire world. A friend.

No one’s ever asked you to be friends before.

You reach up and press fingertips against your lips, smiling privately for just a moment – suspended in time. Your leg swings back and once again, the blade kisses the ice; once on the way up, and again on the way down as you land a clean jump, arms high overhead.

Click click, boom…

The sun is nearly up by the time you step off the ice; flushed, sweating and exhilarated. The ice will always be the best friend you will ever have – you know that in your bones and you willingly accept your fate because you live to skate and you will be the best.

You will.

[servingkarmalikecake]

My name is Ruin

Growing up in a shadow is hard work, Albus Potter would know. From the very moment he had been born, the shadow had already been cast upon his life. His father, the hero, had made certain that all of his children and anyone vaguely connected to him would live in his shadow. Forever.

Fucking over achiever.

As a child, it was much easier to ignore it – that tiny voice that lives inside his head that tells him that he will never be good enough and never be smart enough. It takes nurturing and growth, but by the time he was boarding the Hogwarts Express for the very first time, Albus Potter and that little tiny little voice had become the best of friends.

His first year, as he was preparing to leave his family, Albus’ father had knelt down to his level, peering into his gaze from behind those glasses. You know the ones. The very same that made his eyes shine just a little bit greener and his shadow just a little bit bigger. So many people stopped to watch the moment that was meant to be a personal exchange between father and son. Albus tried not to notice the stares and the faint murmurs of ‘awh,’ but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t an oblivious child anymore. His father smiled warmly at him and assured him that he would be proud of him; no matter what house he sorted into while somehow subtly assuring him that Gryffindor was a viable second choice. Of course, Harry was merely trying to assure his son that one house wasn’t better than the others, but he hadn’t really mastered the whole ‘how to talk to your kids like your not a fucking idiot’ thing yet.

He was working on it though.

In the end Albus had sorted Ravenclaw – a decision based solely on the fact that his strange new friend that he’d met on the train had sorted Ravenclaw first – and also because he wanted to spite his father, but mostly because of the other boy.

Scorpius was unlike anyone that Albus had ever met and it quickly became apparent that this boy didn’t seem to have a single ounce of shadow covering him, despite having a rather notorious family name as well. Albus was awestruck and intrigued and maybe just a little bit jealous too, but he didn’t let any of that stop him. Scorpius was everything that he was not which made them a tolerable combination of shadow and light.

As the years passed them by, they slowly began to age up from children to adolescents and young men; each solidifying in those roles that had been so clear-cut for them, all those years ago.  

Today Albus is very little like the child that had boarded the train that very first year.  Today Albus is colder and he is darker – jaded by the world that made him and the circumstance that binds him. He hadn’t always been this way, but his father had changed all of that the day he said that he wished Albus wasn’t his son. The shadow magnified after that; swallowed him up whole and refused to spit him back out again. He was the difficult child. The disappointment. The ruin.  

And he liked it that way.

[servingkarmalikecake]

“Come back to bed,” he says, in a voice that sounds somewhere right between thunder and a light rainfall.  Your chin drops to your chest and you smile, although you do not leave your current post at the window facing the street.  You don’t know what’s out there but you feel threatened somehow, as if this entire existence is in jeopardy.  “Come back to bed,” he says again, and he’s closer now, his fingertips ghost along your forearm slow, like molasses.  

“I can’t,” you murmur, cat-eye gaze fixed on the total and utter nothingness beyond the double-glass windowpanes. “And why not?” He asks, stepping right up behind you, his hands sliding over your hips, palms smoothing over the flat surface of your abdomen. “It feels like I’m losing my mind.” You say, your voice brittle and dry, like torn paper. “It doesn’t feel that way to me,” He says as his palms slowly travel over your front – over the delicate curve of your chest and up over your shoulders to hold you firmly against him.  

You smile; that private smile that you save just for him. “We’re not safe here, Alexander.” You protest with words even as your eyes fall slowly shut and every ounce of air inside of your lungs is exhaled in one singular, fluid exhale. He makes you forget your words and trip on your own sentences and even though you think you should be offended by it, you secretly love it. “I’ll always find you,” he says between libertine kisses upon your shoulders and the base of your throat. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” you whisper sadly, neck slowly craning to the side, allowing him all of the room he would ever need.  “We’re not safe here,” you murmur again, breathless.

Alec’s soft laughter is like tinkling Christmas lights and it gives you hope, even when hope has long ago vacated the premises. “What’s so funny?” You ask with a nervous sweat that you play off like casualness. Your head drops back against his shoulder and your fingertips drag over his hips, bringing him closer; closer. “Wait for me.” He whispers as he gently tugs at the sleeve of the black silk robe you wore – the one with the large blue dragon curled across its back. Alec’s lips press to a newly bared shoulder and your eyes shutter involuntarily.

A breathless sigh of approval leaves you and you press yourself more firmly against him, eager to be as close to him as possible while it was still an option. Alec was laughing softly again, the sort that sounded playful and carefree, but never mocking and when you cannot stand it another second you turn around in the circle of his arms and gaze into those eyes – always the eyes. Your hands fall to his belt, fingers methodically working the buckle free – working on memory alone. You feel as if you are running against time and you long for so many things that you cannot have. You slide Alec’s belt slowly, guiding it carefully out of his belt loops before tossing it carelessly aside. “What if I can’t?” You ask finally as your fingertips ease beneath the fabric of his t shirt and smooth across taut, flawlessly defined skin.  

Alec smiled and reached up to brush the topside of your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. He leaned so close to you that you could have kissed, the warmth of his breath beating against your cheek.  “I’ll always find you,” he said again and then he did kiss you and the rest of the world ceased to exist all around you.

When Magnus woke it was with a weary jump. His eyes were still closed but he could still hear the sounds of shouting and commotion beyond the brick prison he was currently dying in. “What’s happening? Are we finally dying?” He croaked, trying to lift his head and failing. The air tasted thick with dirt and sulfur, which were two of Magnus’ least favorite things in the entire world. When he didn’t hear a response he tried to lift his head again, glancing around briefly. “Luke? What’s happening?” Magus coughed and felt spectacularly light headed afterwards.

“Lot’s of commotion out in the courtyard from what it sounds like. I don’t know what it is.” Luke was there like he always was, good old reliable, werewolf-y Luke. Werewolves were nice people, far less temperamental than vampires.  Ugh. Vampires. That made Magnus’ heart hurt a little bit.  He felt like he’d drunk one too many mystery mai tais at Hunters moon and he smiled a bit lopsided in the general direction of where he assumed the window still was. His mind wandered back to his dream he’d been so rudely awoke from and he smiled a bit hazy. Dream Alec had said to wait for him, but what if dream Alec was just a fever dream and a side effect of slowly dying? It didn’t matter anyways, soon enough Magnus really would be dead – it was inevitable at this point.  

A particularly loud explosion caught his attention and his eyes widened slightly. “Ooh, that sounded close, didn’t it?” His only regret was that he couldn’t stand up – he would hate to die lying down that was just lazy and tacky.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Sober

There had never been a point in Louis Weasley’s life that he wasn’t in complete control of. From the moment he was born Louis had been watching and learning, editing and re-editing – constantly evolving. As a child he was inquisitive and precocious which distorted into calculated and clever by the time he had reached adolescence. Louis’ thirst for knowledge was a never ceasing tug at the corner of his mind, never satiated.

The moment he’d finished school he had left England and never looked back, having exhausted her resources to the point of boredom. There were so many thing the world had to offer someone like Lou and it seemed an easy choice for him to pursue the sort of career that would gain him the most access to the mysteries of this world that he had yet to know – curse breaking.

Louis had the knowledge, the ability, and the thirst that made him a complete natural in the field and although this shared profession between he and his father should have brought them closer together, it did not – Lou had never had the time nor the patience for emotional attachments.

So here he was, twenty years old and still seeking to quench that thirst. He’d left Egypt three days gone and was currently on assignment in Palermo, seeking to locate a long-rumored hidden tomb somewhere near the catacombs. Louis loved his job; it gave him something interesting to do and kept his attention extremely efficiently. He had been debriefed about some sort of Quidditch event but had paid it no mind as he strolled down the streets of Palermo with his hands clasped behind his back, taking in the city nightlife in silence; solitude.

Eventually he ended up in an over crowded pub, leaning over a sticky countertop and ordering a drink. Louis never put himself in these situations without a reason, he wasn’t exactly a people person, as his mother liked to remind him whenever she got the chance. Louis was like the girl in that muggle story, trapped on the other side of a looking glass – observing but never immersing. Oddly enough, he’d never once felt trapped. Human nature interested him, in an odd, detached sort of way. He had always had quite a knack for picking people apart to see how they work, which, while delightful for Louis, wasn’t terribly so for the wronged party.

Louis was sitting at the bar, entertaining himself with a rather amusing conversation overheard between the couple sat beside him. He curled his fingers around his glass, yellow gaze moving slowly around the pub, taking everything in. One particularly large head stuck out like a sort thumb and Louis’ gaze quickly backtracked as it slid over the enormous thing. Sure it was just the back, but he’d watched that particularly fat head walk away too many times not to recognize it. Lou’s brow quirked and a faint smirk curled the corner of his mouth – what an interesting turn this night had just taken.

He didn’t approach Travis, but not because he was scared or embarrassed or any other such nonsense thing. No. Louis remained where he sat because he knew it was only a matter of time before Karkaroff turned around and saw him, like a ship caught in a tractor beam. Louis didn’t have to wait very long, he knew it would happen because it was inevitable, and just like that, he felt like seventeen-year-old Louis all over again.

Interesting..