first contribution to @mcyt-soulmate-sweepstakes!
Challenge 1 - Week 1
Soulmate: @parkerparks
(i took too long to put this on tumblr so might as well just say it lol)
Title: Beep, Beep, Are You My Person?
Fandom: 3rd Life, Hermitcraft
Points: 2,100 (updated)
Words: 10,106
Characters: Joel, Gem, Skizz, Bdubs, Scar, Grian, Impulse, Mumbo, Etho
Summary: Joel meets some interesting people while driving them to their destinations.
[i cannot, in good conscience post the fic here, it's 10k words, please follow above link]
Story time! This time... YOU'RE the star! This was so much fun to write, like, soooo much fun. What happens when you & Sweet Pete cross paths? Let's find out...! I hope you enjoy it, @thebitchwhoneverlands! This one's for you! It's all under the cut, as usual.
💘
The Birthday Party
Your friend Jimmy had invited you out to a dinner for his good friend Sweet Pete’s birthday. It was a surprise party for Pete, and unfortunately, he didn’t have a lot of friends, so Jimmy and Bob were inviting a few extras to make the evening more fun. You had heard some less than innocent things about this guy, but decided that it couldn’t hurt to go to a dinner party.
You arrived at Chez Platypus at 7 o’clock on the dot, and told the waiter that you were there for the party for Pete. He led you to a table for twelve, at which Jimmy and some others were already sitting.
“Here, why don’t you sit here, (y/n)?” Jimmy said, ushering you into the chair between himself and the one that was reserved for the birthday boy himself.
“A-are you sure? Next to him?” You asked, a little trepidation in your voice. You didn’t even know Pete!
“Just trust me. You’ll love him!” Jimmy replied.
With a shrug, you took the seat, and not a minute too soon, because just then, Bob the Viking walked in with Sweet Pete.
“Surprise!!” The table cheered, yourself included.
And Pete certainly did look surprised. He scanned the table, and his heart hurt a little to see that at least half of the guests were complete strangers, and there were even some empty chairs. “Oh!! Hahah, thanks…” Pete smiled, appreciating the kind gesture. You could see that there was some sadness behind his smile, and felt bad for him, crime boss or not.
He took a seat beside you and you cleared your throat quietly. You were nervous, but you really weren’t sure why.
“Jimmy, Bob, you guys set all this up?” Pete asked.
“Yup! We know you never do nothin’ for your birthday, so we wanted to change that!” Jimmy replied with a smile.
Pete nodded and took a look at the menu. Truth be told, he didn’t really like birthdays. It just reminded him that he was getting older, and getting older was his least favourite thing in the world. It made him sad, and reminded him of all the opportunities that were taken away and would never be his.
Everyone placed their orders, and soon enough the food came out. Jimmy and Bob were doing most of the talking, since they were Pete’s closest friends. Mostly they were sharing silly stories about the three of them, and you sat, listening, but also worrying about the guy next to you. You could tell he wasn’t in a good mood, despite seeming to like the meal.
During a lull in the conversation, you finally decided to speak to him. “So, um, you make movies, huh?” You asked with a smile. “Th-that’s what Jimmy told me. I think that’s really cool. I used to want to be an actor myself…”
“Yeah, well, don’t bother, kid,” Pete replied, taking a sip of his Coke.
That hurt more than you’d expected. You frowned and returned to eating. “Oh, okay… Sorry to bring up work…” You said softly, glancing at him from the side now.
Pete bit his lip and cut into the steak he was eating. It was then that you accidentally spilled your lemonade all over his lap!
“Ugh!!” Pete groaned out loud, standing up quickly. His iconic green outfit was rather soaked now. “Really?” He looked at you incredulously. It made you want to cry.
“I–!” You squeaked. “I’m so sorry!” You pushed in your chair and quickly excused yourself, hurrying out to the front of the restaurant, crying.
“Hey, hey, she didn’t mean to, Pete, it was an accident,” Bob assured him, handing him a napkin. Meanwhile, Jimmy followed you outside to talk to you.
“I don’t even know half ‘a these people!” Pete blurted out in frustration, looking like he was going to cry himself.
Jimmy put a paw on your shoulder. “Aw, c’mon, (y/n)... It’s okay, he’s not really angry at you. I’m sorry he reacted that way. Pete can be a little touchy. It’s not you.”
You sniffled and wiped your tears away, looking up at the snow bear. “H-he didn’t have to be so rude…”
At that moment, Pete himself stormed out of the restaurant, and you could almost swear you saw a tear running down his cheek. He was booking it, and Bob was trying to keep up with him.
“Oh, geez,” Jimmy sighed, shaking his head. “I guess the party’s over. I better go pay these guys. Will you be alright?”
You nodded, composing yourself now. “Mhm, thanks for dinner anyway, Jimmy.”
The bear smiled and went back into the restaurant, and you started on home to your apartment. But you couldn’t help wondering about Pete. Surely it wasn’t you that upset him so terribly…
💘
Groceries
A few weeks after the party incident, you were grocery shopping in the Uncanny Valley’s biggest grocery store. This place had everything you could possibly need, and a little cafe, too. After paying for your groceries, you grabbed the bags– three large bags, mind you, and you only had two hands– and headed for the door. With a bag in each hand, the third was in between your arms, and obscured your vision slightly.
It really shouldn’t have been surprising when you bumped right into someone! Someone strong but squishy!
“Whoa! Sorry there,” a familiar, deep voice said, steadying you.
You lowered the bag to see who else but Sweet Pete! You blushed immediately. He was smiling at you, and he actually looked very cute. “Oh! N-no, I’m sorry, I couldn’t see where I was going!”
“That’s alright,” the man chuckled softly. “Here,” he took the third bag from you, “need a hand with these?”
You smiled gratefully and nodded. “Thank you! If you don’t mind, Sweet Pete…”
“Hah! Ya know me?” He smiled, raising an eyebrow as he walked beside you.
Oh my gosh, you thought, he doesn’t even remember. “Yeah! I was the one who spilled lemonade all over you at your party…” If you were blushing before, you were blushing twice as hard now.
“Oh!” Pete scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish at remembering the incident. “Boy, that… Yeah, uh, I’m sorry for shoutin’ at ya… I shouldn’t’a done that. Thanks for comin’. I appreciated it.” He spoke sincerely. He wasn’t sarcastic at all. In all honesty, Pete was only so tense that night because his birthday was such a sad reminder of his past, and on top of it, the turnout also showed him just how few true friends he had.
“That’s okay,” you smiled kindly at him. “By the way, I don’t think I even introduced myself that night. My name’s (y/n)!”
“Well it’s nice to meet ya, (y/n)! Nice name,” the man smiled, his warm brown eyes sparkling as he looked at you. “Where we takin’ these groceries anyway?”
“Just up the street here, to my apartment. My family’s coming to visit soon, so I had to buy a little extra in order to make dinner,” you explained.
The two of you shared pleasant conversation as you walked, and you realized he was actually quite charming, and, like his name implied, sweet. You were so happy you had another chance to meet him. Pete brought you right up to your front door.
“Well, this is my place!” You chirped. “If you’d like to come in, you’re welcome to. I can make you something.”
“Really?” He smiled. Pete was really starting to like you. “If you’re sure ya don’t mind!”
“Of course! C’mon!” With that, the two of you went into your apartment and you fixed him a wonderful lunch.
💘
Thank You
More weeks had passed since you and Sweet Pete had quite literally bumped into each other at the store. And quite a lot had changed since then, too!
There was a knock on your door, and you hurried to open it, which revealed a smiling Pete! “Hiya dollface!” He greeted you, leaning in to give you a kiss as he entered the apartment. You loved his kisses. “I’m so glad ya wanted to do a movie night. I brought a good one,” he pulled it out from behind his back. “Beauty and the Cursed Dog Man!” Pete chuckled warmly.
“Fantastic! I’ve been wanting to see that one!” You chirped. “And I got the popcorn all ready!” You grabbed the big bowl of popcorn and set it on the coffee table by the couch.
The last few weeks had been the happiest of Sweet Pete’s life, on par with his childhood, if not even better. Ever since you fell for each other, he felt a new sense of purpose, and very, very loved.
After putting the DVD into the player, Pete took a seat on the couch and smirked at you, patting his thigh as an invitation to sit with him.
You happily curled up on your sweet boyfriend’s lap, wrapping your arms around one of his own. He was so soft, yet so strong, and not to mention warm and comforting. He was really perfect in every way, and you loved so much to be cuddled up close to him like this. He loved it too.
Pressing play on the remote, the two of you snuggled in to watch the movie that Sweet Pete himself had produced. He liked that you were proud of his work, and he found that it was a pleasure to share it with you.
Halfway through the movie, Pete looked down and noticed that you had fallen fast asleep, your head pressed against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, and it had lulled you off into dreamland, with the comfort and reward of knowing that it belonged to you.
“Aww, sweetheart…” Pete kissed the top of your head, gently rubbing your back. With his free hand, he turned off the television, and then wrapped you up safely in his arms. He’d be happy to wait to finish the movie another time, he just loved being with you. And just softly enough that you could hear, he whispered, “I love you, (y/n). Thank you… for everything.”
The “I love you” just comes out one day, with zero preamble or premeditation.
And it’s entirely Cas’ fault.
See, Dean is just sitting there, staring out the streaky diner window, waiting for Cas to bring their food over. He’s minding his own goddamn business.
The two plates drop down onto the table with a slight clatter. Dean lets out a perfunctory “thanks,” Cas responds with a perfunctory nod, and everything is completely fucking normal.
Until Dean takes a bite out of his burger, and is suddenly overwhelmed with crunchy, salty goodness.
He chews and swallows, mouth watering. “Did you get extra bacon on mine?”
“Mhm,” Cas says idly, distracted by his triple-decker club something. Unlike Dean, he doesn’t bother with decorum, and answers with his mouth still full. “You like bac’n.”
“I love you.”
Cas freezes, his sandwich half-crammed into his mouth, bulgy cheeks and even bulgier eyes sliding slowly across the table to meet Dean’s. There’s barbeque sauce on his chin.
Panicked like he’s never been in his entire goddamn monster-filled life, Dean instantly redirects his gaze to the burger in his shaking hands. “I love you – bacon. You’re. . . you’re just so good.”
And he shoves the burger at his face with enough force to make his teeth hurt.
Cas’ wide eyes narrow to two highly suspicious slits.
There’s twenty-one seconds of agonizing silence as Dean forces the gigantic bite down his gullet. “Yep, bacon. God’s gift to man, Cas, mark it down. He said so himself once, actually, come to think of it.” He’s rambling like a Gilmore girl and his face is on fire.
Cas nods, slowly. “I see.”
Dean’s heart is in his throat but mercifully, Cas seems to let it go. He returns his focus to his sandwich, and the two of them spend the rest of their meal in overwhelmingly awkward silence.
They’re finishing up, draining the last dregs of their coffees, and Dean starts to think that maybe, just maybe, he’s gotten away with it. His stupid heartbeat finally starts to calm the fuck down.
“I love you.”
Heart suddenly back to hummingbird levels, Dean whips his head around, only to find Cas focused and intent and serious and definitely, one hundred percent talking to his fucking coffee mug.
“Yep, coffee. Very good. One of my favourite things. Definitely.” The little shit is just sitting there, gravely nodding at the mug.
Dean can feel his face turning puce. His hands start shaking again.
Still not looking at him, Cas takes a sip of the coffee, and Dean suddenly feels weirdly jealous – Cas just sitting there, tonguing the ceramic.
So he does the only logical thing. He reaches across the table with both hands, yanks at the lapels of Cas’ coat, and smashes their mouths together.
About two seconds later he remembers that they’re in fucking public, so he rips his mouth away and sits back down on his side of the booth, clearing his throat about six times louder than necessary.
When he finally gets the courage to look up at Cas’ face, he’s grinning in a dazed kind of way, eyes drifting a little bit.
“I just, uh,” Dean mumbles, face still hot. “I just love coffee too.”
peter pan, peter pov, he never forgets wendy’s name
~
her name is the only constant thing he ever remembers, even years, decades, centuries later.
it's weird, because he can't remember anything else about her, not her face, nor her voice, not even the adventures they've surely had. just her name.
her name and, for a good long while, the house.
he always goes back to that house, that one always unlocked window with its wonderful stories.
there's always a child waiting for him there, always the possibility for new, exciting adventures with new friends, so he goes there every time he decides to visit london. sometimes, there are girls, and sometimes there are boys, and sometimes there are both, and he always, always teaches them how to fly and takes them away. he always brings them back, too.
he goes back to that house until one year, one spring, when he goes and the house is not there anymore, replaced by a tall, shiny building that doesn't have any open windows.
peter feels a sense of loss when he sees the strange new house. then, like any child, he shrugs it off, and goes to find a new open window, a new adventure.
the house with the open nursery window is forgotten.
the name is not, though.
but he never meets another wendy again. he meets annes, and daniels, and margarets, and johns, and janes, and once, even a peter (though he ordered him to change his name if he wanted to be taken to neverland). but never again a wendy.
and it saddens him.
well, as much as anything can ever really sadden peter pan.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
gift for @di-diwata as part of @mcytblrholidayexchange! hope you like it and happy holidays! and have a happy new years!!
Fandom: Hermitcraft
Words: 2,253
Rating: General
Warnings: No Warnings
Characters: Hypno/xB, Hypno & xB
Additional Tags: Sentinel & Guide, Queerplatonic, Domestic, Casual Intimacy, Banter, Sick Character
Summary: Hypno has some downtime while recovering. xB is right there to ease and take care of him.
[fic under cut]
There is a creak seven steps before the door, one that xB never avoids just to drive him insane. Hypno’s eyes flicker to the door at the muffled sound, patiently waiting to hear the jiggle of keys and the slow opening door. It, too, creaks as the cold air rushes in, bringing the smell of cinnamon and takeout and alcohol. He smiles as xB takes his keys out, flashing a smile as he pushes the door close after stepping in.
Snow on his boots. The door clicks close.
Hypno drops his attention back to his screen, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index as his vision blurs, wincing when he tugs at his eyebrow piercing accidentally.
Somewhere in the flat, xB laughs at him.
He hears the fridge opening, the glass bottle clinking as the liquid inside shakes. He sighs, rolling his shoulders as xB pours himself some apple juice, the sweet smell tainting the air with sweetness. He grabs his warm cup, taking a sip of his coffee as he counts the footsteps—left, right, left, right, left, pause, half-spin, left, right.
The floorboards creak. xB inches closer to his space, the remnants of the outside cold sticking to his clothes and passing right to Hypno’s arm.
One gulp.
xB speaks, “Staying up late?”
“This is late?”
Tenderly, he raises a hand to Hypno’s forehead. His hand is cold, which feels nice but it retrieves too quickly to be enjoyed. Hypno chases it, grabbing him by the wrist to stop him. He sighs, sighs again when xB moves closer.
xB steals his hand back, gliding it behind Hypno’s shoulders. His fingers catch on the messy bun, tugging the hair tie free so the strands curtain down. He rakes up his hair then rests his arm along his shoulders, pressing down on him enough to tilt him over.
“Groceries,” xB whispers into his temple, his beard tickling slightly clammy skin. “And you need a haircut. And a shower, god, you stink.”
When xB laughs, it echoes right into Hypno’s bones, soothing his spinning head slightly. Grounding, almost. He pushes into his head a little, and xB squeezes his shoulder. He closes his eyes, still seeing the perfect picture in front of him with open eyes.
Every word on his screen, every page thrown on the table, the rings under his coffee cup and the two empty cups. Pens and pencils rolled to the side, folders and files stacked.
Everything is so clear still, his mind at an overdrive.
Until xB hums, his visions blurring until the words tangle and the shapes vanish. Though not quite darkness, there is an even emptiness in his eyes and mind. And xB ever present by his side.
“Groceries,” Hypno repeats.
“Yup,” xB nods, squeezing his shoulder again. “Empty fridge.”
“Empty fridge,” he repeats too, picturing himself walking to the fridge. Opening it, and coming face to face with the empty shelves. “What’s… All empty? Nothing? Absolutely nothing?”
“Nothing,” xB states firmly. “We need vegetables and meat, there is some in the freezer but we need to get more. And we need things for soups, because you’re sick. And—”
Hypno shakes his head, and xB falls quiet. xB still leans into him, even pushing to annoy him, so he pushes him back in retaliation. He opens his eyes, instantly attacked by the bright light of his screen. xB reaches over to push his laptop close, soothing his eyes.
“Is it bad?”
“Not really,” he mouths, patting his hand twice. xB lingers a second then pulls away, a coolness settling where xB once stood. He rolls his neck and shoulders, stretching his arms above his head before pushing his chair back, standing up. “I’m fine, really.”
Hypno turns to look at xB, looking up and down at him. His outside clothes and bunny slippers, thumbs hooked on his jean pocket, a lingering smell of alcohol and another’s cologne, and that playful look in his face.
When he extends his hand, xB takes it without hesitation but with a curious sparkle in his eyes. The corner of his lips twitch, trying to stay neutral but always breaking into a small grin. He cannot help smiling too, more openly and deliberately. Maybe from the slight delirium, or just because he wants to.
“There’s a night market,” xB says as Hypno tugs him closer, hugging his side with his other arm. xB mirrors the action, holding him steadier. “If you are feeling better tomorrow,” he hums as Hypno drops his forehead into his shoulder, “we can go together.”
Hypno hums non-committedly, swaying side to side carefully. Even though the movement makes his head spin, he continues because he likes the closeness more than anything. He hugs him and xB hugs him back, one hand snaking to the back of his neck, massaging the back of his head.
They sway a while, until his mind shuts and his senses dull. His coffee grows cold on the table, xB’s empty glass condensates, a wet ring forming under it. The world outside barely makes a sound, nothing but their hearts with their leisurely beats. Unhurried and calm, perfectly at peace with each other.
He turns his head slightly, kissing his turtleneck, then a little higher up to kiss under his jaw. xB returns the kisses, one on his temple and the other beside his eye. Soft lips, slightly sticking from the juice, warm skin and warm body.
xB pulls at the back of his shirt, peeling it from his back, and makes a face.
“You really need to take a shower,” xB demands, stepping back carefully. His beard tickles his cheek and the side of his neck. “Don’t touch me. Gross.”
“You are such a princess, so particular,” he hisses, reaching a hand over to smack his bicep. xB returns the action by pinching his arm, then swiftly jumps back to avoid retaliation. He glares at him but does not chase, the ache slowly creeping back into his limbs and joints.
Still, xB gives him a look and Hypno sulks to his room.
The process is mostly a blur—all he really remembers is grabbing his things and going to the shower, letting the steam fill the whole bathroom to break his attention from details. The hot water soothed his body, giving him a clearer mind. When his mind tries to think about the case waiting for him outside, he can bring himself back without xB’s intervention.
Still, he ties the robe and makes his way to him, unsurprised to find his area organized and moved over to the next seat.
Without even looking back, xB speaks up, his voice colored with faux annoyance, “The chair was all gross and sticky.”
“So are my things, then! But you still took them!”
“Uh, this is my case too, I’ll have you know. And if we don’t get it done, then I will get in trouble too.”
“We will.”
“I don’t recall caring about you,” xB huffs.
Hypno rolls his eyes, then re-directs his path to the kitchen. The lights are dim to prevent a headache, though giving enough that he can see. He checks the fridge, finding the half-drank apple juice bottle beside three beers, a couple condiments above them with the empty jar of pickles. There are a couple tomatoes and a box of leftovers, butter and nothing more than a wrapped sandwich.
Not quite empty, but pretty much empty.
Out of instinct, he thinks of a list, which leads him to think about the supermarket and then he falls into remembering the aisles, perfect recreations in his mind. This time, his mind does not even try, preferring to close the door without a second thought.
On the counter, a plastic container awaits him. There is another near the sink, but that is not for him to worry. He picks the bowl of soup, watching the noodles and other contents dance through the condescended lid, bringing it over to the chair he sat before.
He returns to grab the chopsticks then sits down, letting the keyboard keys fill the silence alongside his slurps and the shuffles of papers.
Occasionally, he looks up to look at him, and xB does not take long to sense it, looking back shortly after. Sometimes with a smile and other times with an eye-roll, but mostly with fondness that he feels very presently.
With a final gulp, he sets the bowl down, exhaling after a good meal. xB spares a look, playful twinkle and smile on his lips, plenty fond glossing over him. He smiles back, crossing his arms on the table and leaning onto them.
xB, nonchalantly, looks away like they are not having a full conversation in between looks. “The list of witnesses has been narrowed down, okay? I know we should do it as soon as we can, but we might have to leave it until Monday—if you are better by then, that is. If not, then I will go on my own, Monday still. Gee, why did you have to go and make yourself sick?”
“I didn’t choose to—”
“Also, forensics are done. I will go pick up the report in the morning, take it to the precinct and leave them a copy, then I’ll come back. We can discuss anything then—of course, if they find anything during my time there, I’ll give you a call.”
Hypno nods, opening his mouth but xB gets ahead of him as if nothing.
“Tuesday or Wednesday is suspect interviews, I think. With the way things are during the holidays, I can’t really say.” xB makes a face, picking his phone that is laying on the side, eyeing the screen briefly before putting it down. He sighs, then returns to typing on the keyboard, swiping the mouse a couple times. “Again, if you are better by then, you will be present. If not, I will email you copies or bring them over in the afternoon.”
Then, boringly so, xB spends a couple hours going over their case, making sure they are on the same page. He speaks with a leveled tone, stating facts without watching for a response. His voice fills the air plenty, smooth and sweet like making hot chocolate during the coldest night of winter or lightly up that one candle they are reserving for ‘the right moment’.
Hypno leans his cheek into the heel of his palm, tilting his head and simply watching him at work, the swiftness and precision of his actions. The concentration is carved into his brow, his lips slightly glossy from his water with a couple droplets on his beard. His eyes narrow and focus, jumping from every corner of his screen to the pages back to the screen.
Until the night falls further and the windows to the outside are dark. A little light reflects on them, catching the reflection of passing cars and sometimes the lights from other houses—briefly, he can also see the branches swaying.
By then, the tiredness gets caught in his eyes, nothing like the awake and aware eyes of xB. He yawns, though xB gives no reaction. He leans into his arm further, sliding off his heel to rest against the inside of his wrist, sheepishly trying to follow along.
The facts are long over, so now xB is only throwing assumptions and possibilities into the air.
In his current state, however, the only fact Hypno is aware of is that he loves xB very, very much. Still unshaped and still without a concrete label, but he loves him and he decides that is that. First and foremost, he is too tired to think about it like he would do other days. And secondly, xB has stopped talking, now simply looking at him with a raised brow.
Meekly, he asks, “What?”
“You didn’t hear me?”
Rather than fighting it, Hypno shakes his head.
xB squints, then breathes in deep and lets out a long sigh, leaning back into his chair. It creaks and whines, even slides back a little. He rubs the back of his neck, rolling his neck a little. He shakes his head, disappointed.
“Nevermind.”
“Oh, come on. Be nice, I’m sick!”
xB grins, giggles. “Nah. I will stay mad, thank you very much.”
Hypno rips a sticky-note, scrunching it up and tossing it at xB’s head, shaking his head at him. He pushes back on his chair, taking his empty bowl back to the kitchen. As he pours himself a glass of water, he finds his empty coffee cup drying.
“I’m headed to bed!”
“You are so unbelievably lazy,” xB calls back, perched on the back of the chair to look at him. Grinning mockingly, but grinning nonetheless. “Don’t forget to take your medicine.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
Hypno makes his way to this room as xB’s giggles follow him, growing softer between his muffled footsteps. He does not bother with the lights, simply walking to the bed and sliding his legs under the blanket. He shrugs the robe off, letting it fall on the side of the bed.
Once his head hits the pillow and he closes his eyes, his mind blanks of everything unimportant. He pictures xB working, burying his face into the pillow that smells of him, drifting off to the sound of the keys clicking away.
At some point, during the middle of the night, the bed dips and a short chill runs down his back, quickly chased away with the warmth of another.
I wasn't gonna write more for the time being, but I was writing with pen and paper (shocker ain't it), and I randomly got the urge to write them again. So yall get a bit more
(Previous snippets)
Also, @mellioops, hi, hello :3c
___
“It's festive.”
Jimmy looks over his shoulder when he hears Tango's voice falling behind. The lights fall over him so softly he can't help stare. White, red and green lights touch his face. It's soft and he glows, his eyes so bright.
Tango turns to look back, the line of his lips breaking so naturally. Jimmy can almost pretend everything is fine. They are just walking home from the market, their bags heavy with goods, Pixl waiting at home, and Tango beautiful as ever.
His voice box crackles when he speaks and the illusion breaks.
Jimmy fixates on the cracked face plates, the mismatched shades of his skin, the missing synthetic skin on his left hand. There is a stiffness in his posture, no doubt worsened by the cold.
But he smiles.
Tango smiles and Jimmy shatters the only way Tango won't.
“Hey, Jimmy, look over there.”
A little ahead, a group of kids are having a snowball fight. A nanny android watches over them, holding a bundled up baby. They laugh loud, rivalring the noise of the city. Happiness bursts—they echo in his sound processors.
On the side, not too far, also watching over them with fondness is an old couple sitting on a bench. She holds her cane on one hand, and her lover's on the other.
“It's that time of year, huh?” Tango laughs, and how real it sounds to him. How perfect, unbroken.
Jimmy looks above them, the canopies of trees and the twinkling lights. The way they embrace Tango so softly—he feels jealous.
But he walks over, limp and creaking, and there's nothing Jimmy won't do to meet him halfway. And he takes his hand, tight. Tango won't feel it this lifetime—maybe they'll be luckier in the next.
Characters: Joel, Scar, Gem
Summary: Joel helps Scar tend to Gem's garden.
[fic under cut]
“You know,” Scar starts, softly and sweetly, a bit like warm honey with a slight punch from a citrus, “it’s great that sunflowers don’t have thorns.”
Joel doesn’t reply instantly, instead, he turns to look at Scar, squinting against the sunlight streaming behind him. He brings a hand up to cover his eyes, cringing when skin touches skin and he realizes he’s all sweaty and gross, but he watches. Golden browns and glistening skin, Scar’s sleeves rolled up to expose his scar-littered arms, worn gloves on his hands. Instinctively, he stretches then clenches his own hand, feeling the newer fabric and material, how it squeaks when it folds and stretches. His other hand tightens on his shears, the bushes beside his leg tickle him for his attention.
Scar smiles as he cuts another dead leaf, throwing it into the pile. “I still wear gloves, but I guess that’s just a habit.”
“And because you’re scared spiders will bite you,” Joel grins, amused when Scar sputters.
“I– No, I mean yes, they can be venomous! I need my hands to work, Joel, of course I need to take care of them!”
Joel giggles, but doesn’t push the issue further, so he turns back to his bush of roses. Their smell paints the air with their fragrance, something that sticks to his mind and his clothes and—
“Ow.”
“Joel? Are you okay?”
Scar walks around a stalk of a sunflower to him, instantly worried as Joel steps back, shaking his arm like it would get rid of the pain. He brings it up to eye level, a small pinkish dot that he can feel pulse when he stares at it. He examines it closer, rubbing the back of his arm on it, in time for Scar to approach him. Scar had taken his gloves off quickly, pulling Joel’s arm up to examine it himself, swatting his other arm away when he tried to rub it again. Carefully, Scar pinched the area around it, making Joel wince.
“Gosh, I’m fine, Scar, just a—”
“See?!” Scar huffs, shaking his head but not letting go of Joel’s arm just yet. “Those damn thorns! This doesn't happen with sunflowers, I’ll let you know. You and… and your roses, and their thorny stems! Now look at you, injured. And– and possibly getting an infection, can you imagine, Joel? Getting an infection from this. That’s…” He trails off, shaking his head with a disappointed sigh.
By then, Joel’s gotten tired of his antics, yanking his arm back. He ignores Scar's disapproving look when he rubs his injury again, then half-turns away from him, giving him the shoulder.
“I’m fine,” he states, as firmly as possible even though his arm tingles a bit. There is an itch around the area, and if he focuses, he can feel a slight burning too—all of which he ignores, of course, because he cannot prove Scar’s point right. “Let’s just finish this, okay? I’m hungry and the sun is killing me.”
“Hats are important, Joel.”
Joel seals his lips as he rolls his eyes, dropping them back to the bush—this time, approaching more carefully. Not scared, but wary. He kneels down and moves some parts around, looking at the stems and the leaves carefully, making sure there are no wilting or diseased spots. His glove catches on the thorns sometimes, and he even childishly pokes one, trying to wiggle it and test how sturdy it is on the stem. It stays in place, as he expects, though it puts up a fight when he tries to pull his hand arm. Leaves and petals brush on his arm when he finally frees himself.
They work quietly, the occasional snip of their shears and rarer sighs and grunts, the heat making their heads hot and their skin sweaty. Sometimes, a breeze swirls around them, giving them a moment of peace but it stays a moment only, caressing their faces goodbye each time. They make their way down the rows, leaving their main flower to look at the rest of the flowers, taking as much care of them as any other.
A chill runs down Joel’s body which makes him sneeze, breaking their moment of peace in such a silly way. He wheezes a bit, then runs his arm across his forehead, wiping the sweat off. His hair is damp, he notices but nothing he can do about it for now. His gaze flickers up to his companion, only to find him standing up from a patch of lavenders, hands behind him as he arches his back, looking content despite the quiet grunt of pain.
Joel stares a moment, then Scar looks at him with a smile.
“I think that’s enough for today,” he says with a chirpy tone. And Joel only nods in return.
Joel slides his shears into the pocket of his overalls, carefully to not topple back when he stands up, kicking his right leg to stretch it some before repeating with his left. Then his arms follow above his head, dropping them around his head, his head is burning up and maybe that is the reason why he suddenly has a headache, either way, he ignores it and goes about following Scar back to the house. He steps on his shadow, playfully stepping on his head then shoulders, back on his head to his back, until he bumps into Scar’s back.
“You’re distracted.”
“And you are…” Joel pauses to think his words, probably not the best idea to call his pseudo-employer a loser, or an idiot, much less a ‘blummin’ idiot’, but he considers it regardless. “In my way!”
Scar looks at him with a little amusement, a little playful twinkle in his eyes, before he smiles and steps aside for Joel to carry on walking. Once Scar moves, Joel can see a whole lot of wall in front of him, the only thing of interest being the hose at the base. He looks at himself and realises there is nothing he needs to wash, so sheepishly stands to the side to let Scar do whatever it is that he was going to do. At least he has half the mind to turn his back to Scar to not see his face, though it means he cannot see what Scar is doing—whatever, he decides, faking a yawn as he folds his arms behind his head, admiring the garden in its entirety.
Patches of vegetables and patches of flowers. Lots of dirt. Dry dirt.
Oh.
Silence falls between them as the water goes, Scar spraying the garden from where he stands. Some droplets fly to Joel’s cheek and side, the back of his neck, almost refreshingly. He steps back further into the shadow of the house, sighing with the comfortable and rewarding ache on his muscles, almost glad to be doing this though, well, he will never admit this to anyone. Because he could never be wrong, ever.
Still, he subtly turns to Scar, admiring his profile. His muscles, the way his shirt clings to his body. He sighs again, closing his eyes to enjoy the sudden breeze on his face, delighted to cool down.
“Done already?”
Joel turns to the direction of the voice, of the door, seeing Gem pushing the door open with her shoulder, shielding her broken arm. She looks at the garden then back at him with a smile, head tilted slightly. He shrugs, gesturing at Scar with his head. Despite her question, Gem walks to him and stands beside him, both watching the man-made rain falling on the garden. She rocks on her heels a bit, back and forth, and her usual posture of arms behind her back is foiled by her broken arm.
Joel looks at her and laughs quietly, though not enough for Gem to not notice.
She turns to him with a squint, “What’s so funny, huh, Joel? Not enough community service for you?”
He makes a face, then rolls his eyes, “It’s not community service.”
“You are serving the community, hence community service.”
“You broke your arm, idiot.”
“You helped me break my arm, idiot,” she ends, repeating his insult mockingly. They exchange looks, then glares, then offended huffs as they look in opposite directions. Childish, plenty. After a while, Gem walks in front of him toward Scar, and Joel follows her figure, watching the both of them from where he stands. “Please don’t say it was bad,” she starts, sounding completely different to when she talked to Joel.
Scar jumps a bit, loosening his grip on the hose before grasping it firmly, he turns to face her as he relaxes, offering a typical smile of his. And reassuring, too, judging by the wearing voice of hers. “Oh, no such thing, Gem!”
“No? I think it was. I don’t know why I tried to…” she gestures at the garden, then sighs, shaking her head, “tend to do all this by myself. I just thought I’d be able to, since I always do it. But…” Gem sighs again, shakes her head again, but she still looks at the garden with longing, already missing working on it like she used to do before—just two days ago. “Thank you, Scar, I mean it.”
Scar, too, shakes his head. “Anytime!”
Gem smiles, as he does, then turns on her heels, dragging the grass under her shoes before walking back towards Joel, lightly punching his shoulder. She smiles at him too, friendlier now. “Thanks you too, loser.”
“You’re a thorn, you know that, right?”
“What? Am I interrupting something?”
Gem squints in suspicion, tries to study Joel’s face, then an idea flashes across her, quickly turning to look at Scar. Wide-eyed, she crowds Joel, poking his chest with her good hand. Her words come out in hushed whispers, a mix of curiosity and accusation on her brow, “You can’t be serious, Joel.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gem.” He hisses back, taking a step back and away from her finger, from her whole person, then rolls his eyes when she chases. “Whatever, I’m going back inside. Since you are so hysterical and emotional and delusional and short and injured.”
She blinks in bafflement, sputtering before Joel walks away, her right behind him. She has questions, friendly poking and lots of annoyance to do—eventually, she knows, Joel will give her the answers. Until then, however, she is free to interpret his silence as she wishes.
gift for @plushtive as part of @trafficteamsupportexchange! hope you like it!
Fandom: 3rd Life
Words: 3,401
Rating: General
Warnings: No Warnings
Characters: Scott/Martyn, Scott & Cleo
Additional Tags: Dreams vs Reality, Character Death In Dream, Dancing, Implied Fantasy Setting
Summary: After a recurring dream, Scott goes to find Cleo.
[fic under cut]
Candle-lit halls, flickering lights and dancing shadows, the sweet melodies of a live-band swirling with fancy gowns and floral scents—Scott places his hand atop of his companion’s, a gentle touch of skin on skin. He peers through his domino mask, the sharp edges suddenly loud against his skin despite their flushness to his face, his eyes landing on the stranger in front of him. Handsome face and charming smile, piercing blue eyes and lengthy blond hair tied back—their clothes different, foreign with embroidery and frills and threads new to his knowing eyes, more than a stranger to his mind but a stranger to the state, perhaps to the country itself.
They speak, softly under the notes of the violin, scarily close to a dream; “You look like you’re thinking.”
Scott blinks, from studious eyes to teasing ones, softer around the edges with a smile that meets their eyes. He returns the smile, cheekier as he steps his right foot forward, messing up their dance. The stranger smiles, a glint in their eyes like sunlight caught under the waves, pulling him along in a big twirl, opening them up to take space on the dance floor. Brushing against other pairs, stepping into the notes and following, lows and highs drawing a smile, a couple laughs bubbling like champagne in new glasses. Like whirlpools, gentler, intentional and chasing.
And it makes Scott stop thinking, floating on polished floors, hand in hand with a stranger, as content as he has never been. If he stops, he knows, the thoughts will come flooding back—if he stops, all of this will stop, he knows.
When they come together, stepping into each other’s spaces, hands tight on each other—their hand falls easily on Scott’s side, pulling him closer until their chests are mere inches from touching. Even then, without it, Scott would have crossed the distance—if for nothing, then to fluster them with wicked smiles and mischievous eyes, for now, though, he is content to follow in the steps of another. Like a shadow, a devotee.
Scott thinks, briefly, that he would put his life forth for this stranger.
And the thought makes him squirm.
His expression betrays him, the knit on his brow or the down-quirk of his lips, the stranger points it out with worry—much too nice, too lovely, Scott nearly trips over himself to explain and let the words flow out of him—quiet words for him only; “Something is troubling you—is it something I have done?”
Scott’s lips part with a quiet ‘no’, but he presses them close, choosing instead to shake his head. A ringing in his ears follows, echoes of a pounding in his head as his vision blurs—he winces, must have, because the stranger’s brow downturns with worry, holding him tighter as their free-flowing dance slows, studier than before. Stiff, closed off, they hold him up but they stay, right there, in the middle of the crowd where every dance step rakes down his ears. Echoes and ghosts, thundering heavy like a drumming on his head.
They spin, over and over, his head spins twice as fast. The people around them stare, judgement in their eyes, Scott wants to stop, his legs want to give out from under him. They spin and spin and spin, the faces mere silhouettes and shadows, blurring together, melting together into eyes, so many eyes. He tries to close his eyes—he can see them looking at him from the shadows of his mind, haunting and mocking and attentive, watching, watching, watching—
Scott scrunches up the fabric of their shoulder in his hand, breathing heavy.
“I’m sorry,” the words come out in a foggy state, water in his ears. Scott’s vision blurs, topples over them, unsure if the words grazed his lips or if they bounced on his cheek. But they linger in the air, sticking and halting the music. The notes are too sharp, the melody unsynchronized, choruses start and end at arbitrarily—Scott’s head pounds more, tries to breathe into his collapsing lungs.
But they hold him tight, closely—warm, so warm.
“Are you alright?”
Although his lips fall open with the word ‘no’ on his tongue, a deafening silence follows as he heaves—candle-lit halls, flickering lights and dancing shadows, the jarring melodies of a live-band he has yet to see swirling fancy gowns and melting guests.
“I’m sorry,” the words fall on Scott like a bucket of cold water, like diving head-first into the icy water of the poles. It shocks him, makes him shiver, all the warmth gone—from his companion too, replaced with the coldness of loneliness, of the void and—
Scott’s eyes go wide when something plunges into his back, piercing through the fabrics and his skin, the warm escaping from his back onto the hand of his attacker. His fingers twitch, grasped tightly on foreign fabrics, tearing the frills and threads on his fingertips. His vision unfocuses on the chest of his companion, the buttons of their shirt suddenly multiplying, bouncing back and forth until he looks up, confused, scared, met only with the indifference of a stranger. He looks for guilt, for an explanation in those blue eyes like summer waves now ranging ones.
Their lips move but no sound comes out, Scott’s vision blackness at the edges, dimming in the confusion of the situation. He pleads without sound, and finally plummets into the darkness when he reads the words on their lips—I’m sorry.
His fall stops on his bed, shaking his body awake and disoriented—eyes suddenly open, dark room, his uneven breathing and his thundering heart. He closes his eyes, breathing heavy into his lap, glimpse of his dream—or nightmare?—flashing before his eyes. The memories persist, the touch of someone else, the base of their hold, the warmth of their embrace; it messes with his head, leaving him in a limbo of dream and reality, caught between two worlds where he knows and does not. His hand reaches into the darkness, gliding across the mess of his sheets, and finds no one to hold his hand.
Pain trickles down his back, gentle and almost lulling, phantom pain of the past or future—hard to tell, when his head spins trying to remember a blurry face; golden hairs and striking blue eyes, warm smile and…
Time ticks by and the room lights up in cool tones, a blue wash from the light through the curtains. Despite the turmoil and his daze, Scott throws the blankets off him, throwing his leg off the bed onto the cold floors. He stands on shaky legs and makes his way around his routine, muscle memory as his mind lags behind.
Soon rather than later, he finds himself sitting across Lady Cleo, neither talking over warm cups of tea. There is a book in their hand, and there is his cup in his. Untouched, unlike hers. The shadow of the parasol falls over them gently, with an even gentler breeze touching their faces. He stares at the small, occasional ripples on the surface of his tea, the sweet aroma tickling his nose—and he finally takes a sip, finding a pair of green eyes looking at him looking at him curiously. Not pushing, but knowing, and he sighs as he puts his cup down, the thoughts pooled on his mind enough to finally let them go.
“It happened again,” he starts simply, staring at his disrupted drink. The smooth surface of his cup is kind on his shaky hands, an overwhelming sense of dread washing over him, pulling and tugging on life stuck on land. “The dream,” he reiterates, though they both already know the tale, “it happened again. I saw them again, we danced again, they…”
“Betrayed you again?” She asks, carefully sliding the flattened weave between the pages before closing, undivided attention on their companion. Scotts nods, then sighs, and Cleo can see the resignation on his face. They are countless, the time they have discussed this, though they are never any closer to solving the dilemma. Still, regardless, she reaches a hand across the table, her palm facing up—and Scott always meets her halfway, through his turmoil his hand lands on theirs, something sturdy to hold him together in the time being. “You know this place,” their words come out serene, squeezing his fingers reassuringly, “it messes with you.”
“And yet we come back.”
Cleo smiles, ‘caught’, “And yet we come back.”
Scott sighs again, shakes his head as he sits up, straightening his shoulders. Though not as radiant as his usual smile, Cleo is witness to the light of her dearest friend, him the waves to her shore—her lighthouse to his storm. He smiles, weak and tired, but flowers bloom on their own, at some point, on their own time. He reaches further and squeezes their hand, warmth between them.
“It’s only been four years,” Cleo says with a smirk.
Scott returns one in kind, “How awful—how many more to go?”
Cleo shakes their head, the twin strands framing their face swaying playfully. The answer falls between them, the unknown going unspoken—not that there is an answer, they are both aware. Still, her gaze falls outside of their shade, to the open field where other tables are set-up like theirs, other pairs and groups lounge, all bright and lively. The suggestion barely appears on their tongue before Scott, all knowing, smiles and tugs their hand.
“Care to go for a walk?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Their possessions lay in wait, tea abandoned on the table as they push their chairs back, standing on steady feet.
Scott in his light-blue, regal suit, the tail of his coat hugging his hips loosely and dragging behind him like a tail. Purple, lilac, yellow and cyan scale-like stains with blues adorning his coat, and the waves weaved on top; its vibrant colors also stained into the threads that catch the light; foam-like frills on the cuffs of his sleeves. A simple white button-up, tucked under the pearlescent white vest, shimmering greens and yellows; framed under the yellow to pastel orange gradient open lapel. A lilac sash belt that drapes down his tight thigh; black pants that twinkles like the universe, a wave of purple and white stars from his hips raining down the outside of his thighs; and open shaft latex boots of uneven heights—his right cut off at his calf, the blue collar cut like coral encasing this thigh while the left is red, cutting off some inches above his knee. The colorful diamond-shaped necklaces dangling on his neck, glittery lines on his neck like gills, the encrusted jewels atop his head like a halo of stars with its shadow replicating the shape of corals. Like his shirt, his hair is kept simple, long blue strands loosely gathered in a braid, tied at the end with a rich red ribbon.
A couple days ago, the attire made him feel untouchable, walking on auroras—now, however, it only makes him feel like a performer in a show. Suffocating, everything. He feels unsteady on his feet, head spinning a little.
Cleo offers their arm, which Scott takes easily, his loud whirlpool of colors hand-in-hand to their calmer, sturdier match. Cleo folds her arm a little, his hand graceful on their arm, his other hand on top. And Cleo’s suit matches well, though he has yet to give it a proper look. For another time, he thinks as he breathes in, exhaling carefully until his mind clears. He shifts his focus on their walk, on relying on Cleo as they always do—when things go wrong, they always find each other.
A lesson, maybe deja vu—the right term is not important.
“The ball is happening soon,” Scott says, trying to sound nonchalant like the whistle of the wind above them. Shaking the canopies, startling the birds off their rest. The main event, the reason they are here in the first place. “Have you had a chance to meet them yet?”
“The parents? Or their son?”
He smiles, lightly resting his head on her shoulder, “Either.”
Though his eyes do not see it, he feels them shaking a little—a head-shake, he presumes—then the words follow, “I’ve not, no. I don’t believe anyone has, despite promises that we will meet them before tomorrow.”
Then Scott chuckles, shaking his head in his own amusement. “Our parents, probably.”
Cleo replies, quieter, “Probably.”
It takes a couple minutes, but Scott exhales, the thoughts melting in his head. He opens his mouth to speak, finally breaking the silence between them.
“Something new happened,” he starts, calmly though the memory makes him shiver. He tries to shake his shoulders, shakes his head, “In the dream, I mean. Something new happened in the dream—it has been a while since something new plays out.”
She hums, a soft encouragement to continue.
“They apologized…” he mutters, replaying the words on his head—watching their lips whisper those words like the last thing he will ever hear. The words die on his tongue, but he pushes through. “After they… stabbed me, say, they apologized. A couple of times, in fact. Before I fell, and before I woke up.”
“Do you think it means anything?”
“That, I cannot answer.”
“One day,” they mutter, bringing their other hand to pat the back of his. And her touch is warm, a touch of cool but overpoweringly warm, reassuring and safe. “For now, let’s not worry about it, alright? We will worry about it after the ball, when we go back home.”
Scott sighs, nothing else to be done for now but agree with her.
Their walk under the canopies and branches is pleasant, aimless and carefree. Slowly, it washes the prickling fear, the incessant paranoia, yet he is to know what of. The thought of tomorrow raises worry, though not enough to make him back down. He thinks of his parents, of the possible conversation and the inevitable disappointment that is to follow—he swallows his feelings, distracted by the salty air that touches his lips, eyes flickering up to an open garden. Unlike the other places, this one is lonelier, tucked away far from the main house.
And in the middle of the bushes, someone stands, their profile to them.
Blond hairs and pale skin—something drops inside of Scott.
“You’re shaking,” Cleo whispers, stopping at the edge of the garden. Their eyes do not need to land on Scott to know, he does not try to hide his emotions or his actions—the breeze touches his cheek, reassuring as her touch. “We don’t have to.”
Still, he shakes his head, an odd sense of confidence washing over him. Curiosity and confidence, one masked as the other, hand-in-hand, he doubts himself as much as he trusts his instinct. The other, stranger to them, turns without acknowledging them—their back to them, Scott squeezes Cleo’s arm, fixated on the blond hair loosely tied near the base with a red ribbon. A vivid memory flashes before him, of that very morning, him in front of his vanity, braiding his hair, blue strands between his fingers, a rich red ribbon on his own hair.
He wonders if it could be cut from the same spool.
“Something wrong?”
Cleo asks—Scott shakes his head.
“I will see you later?”
Scott asks—Cleo nods.
They part easily, with confidence and security, knowing that their paths will cross again by their own hands—dig a new path if they have to. Still, as Cleo takes her leave, Scott already feels unsteady on his feet, despite the foundation he is own his own. He stands as tall as he can, relaxing into his skin, taking the short steps into the garden under the sun. Warm on his head, bright on his body.
Scott walks the rows of bushes, eyes tracing the flowers and the buds, the leaves and the stems, wondering what kind of flowers they could be. What season falls on the state, where exactly they could be in the world. Regardless, he makes his way to the middle of the garden, looking back at the maze of bushes and shrubs before focusing on the small fountain in the center.
By then, his presence is known, casually watched by his companion.
Scott looks at the water, the ripples caused by the running water, then lightly traces the edge of the fountain with his fingertips—rounding as the stranger walks on the outer side, following the impromptu clockwise dance.
“This place is quite hidden,” he says to no one in particular, letting the words be carried by the wind. One foot in front of the other, around and around slowly. “You have to go out of your way to find it, hm.”
Despite his lack of expectations, Scott receives a response, a voice too familiar; “I was told—about this place. Pointed to it, in fact.”
Scott hums, smiles to the water, “That so? Pleasant hideaway. You don’t mind if we share?”
This time, Scott asks for direct acknowledgement, thrown into the air with no commitment. Though he looks for it, he could do without, with no hurry for any particular outcome. His chest tightens with anticipation, dressed as dread, a touch of paranoia—the water is red at the edge of his vision, so he looks away to the world in front of him, of greenery. Around and around, merrily.
“I… cannot stop you, even if I wanted.”
He stops on his track, a half step behind him. Closer than before. Curiosity tickles his fingertips as he drags it away from the concrete, back to his side. He looks at the fountain, then firmly in front of him as he slowly spins on his heels, finally face to face with the stranger.
The first thing he notices; the striking blue eyes. The second; the lack of warmth on their face.
Something twists inside of Scott as he looks for that kind stranger, chasing any bit of warmth from his memory. Maybe he expects too much of someone unrelated, but he knows, with certainty, that this is his person. Standing before him, watching him with intent, something cold yet alive—Scott tries to remember if he has ever seen that in his dreams.
More real, right in front of him.
If he reaches out, he could touch them—could finally know what his dream self feels, touches, lives.
“You look familiar,” they say, carefully, with intention.
Scott smiles, tilts his head as he crosses his arms over his chest. “In another life, perhaps.”
They squint, then relax, taking a big exhale. “Perhaps.”
They stand in place for a moment, and suddenly, they extend out their hand, palm to the sky and between their bodies. Scott’s eyes go wide momentarily, a familiar scene playing before him—though the hall is replaced with trees and blues, natural and real. His breathing halts, his ears ring—could this be happening?
“If you don’t mind,” they say, their body barely moving as they speak.
And Scott opens his arms slowly, hesitancy he has never felt before. His eyes focus and unfocus on the offered hand, staring as his own shaky hand is placed atop their—cold, he notices first; real, he notices second. Then he steps closer, one foot in front of the other, until he is invading their space, close enough to be called trust. He puts a smile on but his companion keeps the lines of their lips tight, and he finds himself not caring much.
At ease, finally.
So they dance, slowly, not like in his dreams but something better. Clumsy without practice, easy without worry. Not under candle-light, but with a constant light and only their shadows, no real music around them—Scott holds their hand tightly, fearing losing it all if he lets go, despite the tremble of what could happen next. At least, he thinks with a smile, he will lose his life outside where the sun cradles him softly and the breeze soothes him.
Scott chuckles, content as their shoes drag across the grass, lacking the polish of the floors inside. His companion looks at him with a raised brow, expression relaxed as they twirl.
“I guess,” he says playfully, to their amusement, “this will be our secret date.”
