#rothlow

[rothlow]

HARLEY SAWYER — PROLOGUE

Harley Sawyer had always been running.

He wasn’t running from anything specific—not from edgy, dark past or a lost dream. It was more like he was running toward something, something just beyond reach, a little farther out every time he thought he had it.

Tonight, the road was empty, lit by the pale light of a single, dusty moon. He found a strange solace in nights like these, feeling the smooth purr of his motorcycle’s engine beneath his hips, echoing in the silence as it passed right in time with his heartbeat. This was the freedom he’d always spent his life chasing—the feeling of endless speed, the wind whipping through his hair, and the unknown he can’t help but be drawn to like a moth to a flame.

A feeling akin to euphoria settled deep in his mind as he tightened his grip on the throttle. It was just him and the road, with only the stars above to witness the path he cut through the darkness.

Out there, somewhere—no matter how far or how long it would take, was a future waiting to be caught.

[rothlow]

A WISH YOUR HEART MAKES.

He is certain that this is a dream. He is certain by the light, a warm sunlight that spills over the land and gently hugs the skin. It pools across the ground in endless gold, blushing its beams upon all it touches until the world has come to a graceful silence. There is no urgency here, no reason to run.

Zenith can do nothing but stand in this warm, basking in its rays until he realizes that he is not alone. 

There is a man sitting in the grass a few paces away, his sleeves pushed up as he tilts his head to the sky. He revels in the sunlight, just as Zenith had moments before—and he is enthralling. The wind lazily shifts strands of his hair, moving through those brown locks just enough for it to shine in new light. It is strange seeing him so… soft. It is rare that the world would allow such a thing; a moment where the tension has slipped entirely from his shoulders, ease filling his body as watchfulness leaves his posture. 

It is peace, and it is strange. 

“You gonna keep starin’, or you gonna get your ass over here?” 

And there it is. That voice, that drawl he cannot seem to let go of. Even though he cannot see his face, he can hear the smile that tugs at his mouth as he speaks. It seems that a small tease and a quick beckon is all Zenith needs, for he slowly crosses the distant. Every ounce of his soul wishes to rush toward the warmth in front of him, to cling to it and never let go, but he finds himself unwilling to break this moment with hurry. This peace, fragile and rightfully earned, is meant to be protected. It is a sacred moment of silence, and it is wholly theirs. 

When he lowers himself beside the man, he can feel the grass bending beneath his weight, brushing softly against his hands. The warmth of the sun lingers in the ground, in the air. In the air they share. 

There he is. A man like the sun, radiant and glowing despite each and every odd that comes his way. A beacon of warmth and hope, and a call to safety in the darkest of nights. 

Harley Sawyer.

He doesn’t move away once Zenith settles himself onto the ground. If anything, he leans in closer, his shoulder brushing Zenith’s in an unthinking familiarity.

“C’mere,” he murmurs softly, speaking as though such an invitation was meant for this place and nowhere else. Zenith only hesitates for a mere second before he lifts his hand, his fingers sliding carefully into Harley’s hair. His hand hesitates as if he is learning something sanctified by touch alone. The strands are softer than he expects, warm from the sun and parting easily beneath his hand as he brushes them back from Harley’s face. Harley exhales softly at the contact, quiet and content, and turns his head slightly into Zenith’s palm. 

For a man who is wholly made of the raging flames of the forge, there is no resistance or guard now. There is trust, and it’s enough to make Zenith’s hand still where it rests lightly against the side of Harley’s head. His thumb brushes once along his temple, an instinctive gesture in its simplicity. 

This should know this is a dream, he quickly realizes. It is much too perfect, too complete. There is no distant threat or underlying tension that waits and waits to break through. There is sunlight and breath, and for once, there is no consequence. 

On any other day, he would recognize the signs immediately. But then Harley laughs, a soft sound as he opens his eyes and look sat Zenith with that teasing glint and all the honesty he has in his body. 

“You’re thinkin’ too hard,” he teases, his voice a cadence to Zenith’s ears. And he studies Harley now—Harley Sawyer, with every detail of his face illuminated by light, Harley Sawyer, who has hidden his true expression from everyone but Zenith. He feels something warm and pulling in his chest, a natural, spreading warmth and ease. 

The simple act of being cloe to him is not unfamiliar, not is it impossible. That is because it is what Harley has always brought into his life, even in the midst of chaos. Even in the darkest places, he is a light that shines without reservation and without condition, and in doing so, he changes everything around him. 

So Zenith chooses to not pull away, and to not question this moment. He lets his hand drift once more through Harley’s hair, memorizing each detail, from the shape of it to the way it falls, and the way it feels soft beneath his fingertips. Harley’s eyes slip closed once more, letting out a slight, quiet hum of contentment as he leans further into the touch. 

The sun is still shining. For a moment—longer than a moment—Zenith truly allows himself to believe that this is not a dream at all. Because Harley, and every feeling he brings forth into Zenith’s heart, has always felt like stepping into a brighter world. 

If this is a dream… then it is only because reality has already taught him about what this kind of peace feels like. He knows once he opens his eyes, that same, gentle sun spilling through the windows, it won’t be long before he is greeted with a charming, “Mornin’ sunshine.” 

[rothlow]

HONEY, WHERE IS MY SUPERSUIT?!

The sun had just barely gone down as the world prepared itself to be engulfed in yet another quiet night. That failed to last, as it didn’t take long for the house to dive deep into chaos. From within the bedroom came the sound of drawers opening and shutting continuously, not out of panic, Zenith would insist, though it was becoming difficult to call it anything else. 

“Harley,” his voice called out, deep and stiff, “where is… Apex Stratos? My helmet… is missing.” 

However, in front of the bathroom mirror, Harley didn’t bother to turn around. He was a busy man, leaning close to the glass and carefully sliding in one gold earring, as concentrated as a surgeon as he perfected his appearance. 

“What?” 

Zenith strode to the doorway, halfway armoued except for the very conspicuous absence of the most important piece. “My suit,” he spoke slower, as though clarity would help the situation. “Where is Apex Stratos’ helmet…?” 

Harley finally glanced over at him, blinking once, almost as if the question itself were deeply unreasonable to him. “Oh,” he hummed, “I moved it.” 

“You… moved it.”

“Mhm.”

“Where?” 

Harley turned back toward the mirror as he spoke, “I put it away.” 

Zenith stared at him incredulously, “... Where away?” 

Harley adjusted his second earring as he spoke, “In a safe place.”

Zenith let out a sharp breath, taking a step into the room. “Harley.”

“Yes, sugar?” 

“Where. Is. It.” 

Harley turned around, leaning back casually against the sink. Despite every ounce of seriousness that came from the man before him, he felt no sense of urgency—nor did he seem the least bit bothered. 

“Why do you need to know?” 

“Because people are in danger.” 

“My evenin’s in danger!” 

Zenith could only stare at him, blinking in surprise. “Harley.” 

“No.”

“I need the suit.” 

“And I need you not runnin’ otu there doin’ no daring-do!”

“There—there is an emergency.”

“There is a reservation. At one of the finest damn restaurant’s this city’s got, mind you!” 

“The city is under attack.” 

“And I jus’ did my hair.” 

“Harley Sawyer.” 

Harley lifted a finger, “Don’t you Harley Sawyer me.” 

“I am asking one final time. Where is it?” 

Harley folded his arms, “You tell me right now that you ain’t plannin’ to go fight some bastard in the middle of our date night.” 

Zenith hesitated in response, for only the briefest second—but it was his fatal mistake. Harley narrowed his eyes, gasping at the audaciousness of the bare thought of it. 

“You are.”

“Harley—”

“Nope.”

“Lives are at stake.”

“‘N I was gonna order a damn steak.” 

Zenith looked, for one extraordinary moment, genuinely defeated. That was until Harley sighed, never once breaking eye contact as he walked out toward the bed, reaching beneath and dragging out a long metallic case and nudged it forward with his boot. Zenith could only stare at the case, then down to Harley. 

“It was under the bed?” 

Harley could only laugh, shaking his head. “You never look over it. Too damn easy, if you ask me.” 

Zenith opened the case before allowing the nano-technology to dissolve into the metal of the rest of the suit, forming the helmet he’d been searching for. Finally, Apex Stratos was complete and untouched. He turned for the door, only for Harley to call after him. 

“This is what you get for hidin’ my good cologne in the med bay!” 

Zenith paused, looking over one shoulder. He couldn’t help the quiet, soft chuckle that left his lips as he nodded once. 

“... Fair. You should wear mine instead.” 

And then he was gone. Harley watched the door swing shut as he sighed with all the dramatics he could muster up, and returned to putting on his rings. “Man will gross goddamn galaxies,” he  muttered to himself, “but can’t find his own supersuit.” 

He paused just then, taking a good, long look at his reflection in the mirror before sighing. It was about time he’d gotten his own attitude returned to him—understanding and accepting the inevitable burden of loving someone incapable of behaving. Is that how Zenith felt every day? Suddenly, a lot of things were making sense…  

“Well,” he said to the empty room, pushing away from the sink, “there goes date night.” 

He reached for his hat where it hung by the door, that old, familiar cowboy hat being a familiar weight on his head. He gave the brim a sharp tug before he bent, opening the drawer by the entryway and pulling out his sidearm. He checked the chamber before holstering it at his hip, pausing only to snatch his keys from the counter as he called toward the open night, hurrying after Zenith. 

“You better not start havin’ all the fun without me, big guy!”

And just like that… he was gone too, the door slamming shut behind him. He ran after the only man he’d ever known like the back of his hand, a gun on his hip, his hair wild with the wind, and absolutely no intention of letting Zenith steal all the fun for himself. 

[rothlow]

SEPTEMBER FIELDS.

Strange, to watch mortals mark their time by seasons. They divide their lives into chapters, marking time with birthdays and harvests.

On my homeland, the sky hardly ever changed. Light shone past the horizon for centuries. But on Earth, in the September fields behind that country house, there I learned that life truly ended and began, all at once.

He loved that place. I learned that quickly. The beauty was understandable, a form of home as gold spilled across the vibrant grass.

It was where he walked when he could not be still, where he lay flat on his back and counted the stars. And every evening, I followed. His boots were abandoned by the porch steps, that silly hat tilted over those stunning eyes. The world was covered in amber, the gold shining in his hair as the wind tousled the curls I know all too well.

He felt most like himself here, and that is where we built our life, piece by piece.

“You’re staring,” he said. But I hadn’t realized I was.

On my world, we formed bonds. I never understood this word—love. But in the September fields, as the wind gently breezed through the grass and the sun felt warm on our skin, I remember his laugh. He laughed beautifully over something I cannot even remember now.

I remember that he spoke about the future.

“I dunno,” he would say, so soft I wanted to check if I was dreaming. He traced patterns in the dirt with a stick as he spoke, “Would be nice to stay somewhere for once.”

I would have centuries, and he would have seasons.

I was fond of the days when he would repair that same engine, arms dirtied with grease as I swiped away dirt from his jaw. The moments inside that home, where music always played. He would hum as he cooked, leaning back into me from the moment I stepped behind him.

But he was bright, sudden when he turned to me.

“You ever think ‘bout forever?”

Forever was ordinary where I am from. But in the September fields, I could not help but feel as though forever was mere theft.

“Yes,” I answered. And he smiled. Oh, how bright he smiled, as if I had graced him with only the most precious and prized of things. But I knew that when humans say 'forever,' they mean 'together,' not 'endless'.

My lips never allowed the words to slip free. Instead, I lay down beside him in the cooling grass, watching as the sun fell further underneath the horizon. Our ‘forever’ was every moment we shared. When he would leave his boots by the door, only for me to line them up as I passed. When he would drag me out into these very fields at dusk, lie flat in the grass, and point at every constellation he could find.

“That one’s all yours,” he would say, a bright smile on his face. “So you don’t get homesick.”

He did not understand that I had already chosen my home. It was there, in the September fields, in the kitchen light flicking on at midnight, in the sound of his breathing beside me, and the band on our fingers.

I then realized what humans mean when they say they have fallen.

It is not a choice. It is knowing that one day this field will be empty, the house will stand without him, and the grass will turn gold again and again and again—and I will still be here. September will return, and he will not.

Years passed, full of harvests and repairs, small arguments about nothing, long drives with no destination, and his hand finding mine in the dark without fail. He always joked in these moments, claiming he was only ensuring that I was ‘real’.

Even as his hair silvered at the temples, his laughter did not change. He grew older, just as all life did. He softened, but warmth never dulled through what had once been sharp and keen.

I did not change.

On the last September we shared, the field was as bright as the day I fell to my knee in front of him, offering ‘forever’. He walked slower now, but still, he walked. We lay down in the grass like we always had, his head resting against my shoulder. Just like always, his hand found mine.

“Still here,” he hummed, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Always,” I answered.

Humans close their eyes at the end. And that is how it happened.

His breath did not return, and the hand clutching my own loosened.

Even with his absence, the fields never changed, and always stayed. They are bathed in gold each year, and that stubborn house still stands. September comes back, time and time again, but he does not.

This is not the end of our story. For as long as I exist, as long as I walk those fields and remember the sound of his boots clicking on the porch and every time he brightly renamed the stars for me—he has not left me.

Forever does not end with a life. It ends once my love withers away, alongside my body, only to be reborn when I embrace him once more in fields of gold.

As long as the west wind moves, I will love him in every September that follows until I reach its end.

[rothlow]

A LITTLE BIT HARDER NOW.

❝ Y'know, sugar... if you wanted me on my knees, all you had to do was ask. ❞

The alley is hot, thick with the scent of sweat, city grime, and the faint burn of neon buzzing overhead. The distant beat of a club’s bassline thrums beneath Harley’s skin, rattling through his ribs like a heartbeat that isn’t his own. But right now, all he can focus on is the poor bastard in front of him, bloody-lipped and breathing heavily, barely keeping his stance.

Harley? He’s far from winded—from even trying. 

He exhales slowly, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip, tasting the copper sting of his own blood. Not much, just a nick. A tease of a real fight. His jeans sit just right, belt loose, his shirt clinging in places from the humidity, thin enough to show the way his chest moves with each breath. And still, through all of it, that damn smirk remains, lazy and knowing.

“C’mon now,” he drawls, his voice syrupy smooth. “Ain’t no fun if you’re already foldin’.”

The other guy wipes at his mouth, glaring. “You think this is funny?” he spits, voice rough, half-growl, half-breathless. “You’re a cocky little shit, y’know that?”

Harley grins, wide and damn near delighted. “Mhm. And I know you love it.”

The man snaps. His fist comes swinging—sloppy and thoughtless, making it desperate—and Harley’s already quick on his feet, stepping just enough to the side to let him stumble past. He doesn’t stop there. Before the guy can right himself, Harley’s behind him, close enough that their bodies nearly press together, close enough that he can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. He leans in, his breath warm against his ear, as his voice drops to something sweet and condescending.

“Now that,” he hums, letting the words drip like molasses, “was just pitiful.”

Then, as fast as a rattlesnake, he drives his elbow into the man’s ribs. A sharp, brutal crack rings out, followed by a strangled wheeze as the guy stumbles forward, clutching his side. Harley lets him stagger and gives him a second to process the pain before stepping in again, pressing in close and guiding him back against the brick wall close enough to border on intimate.

“Atta boy,” he purrs, licking the blood off his knuckles slowly. “Knew you had a little more fight in ya.”

The guy glares up at him, his teeth bared. “Fuck you.”

Harley’s lips twitch. “Well, now you’re flatterin’ me.”

That earns him another furious swing, but Harley catches his wrist mid-air, squeezing just hard enough to make him grunt. The smile never leaves his face.

“Y’know what your problem is?” he muses, head tilting, his voice casual enough as if they’re talking over drinks instead of in the middle of a fight. “You want so bad to be the one callin’ the shots. But here you are—strugglin’ ‘n sweatin’, damn near beggin’ for me to put you down.”

The guy snaps, shoving Harley back, gripping his throat with both hands, trying to force him against the wall instead.

For a second, Harley lets him.

He lets strong fingers press into his skin, lets the air thin just enough to make his vision sharpen.

Then, with a goddamn grin, wide and teasing, downright criminal—he manages to rasp out, “C’mon, you can squeeze harder than that.”

His attacker hesitates, though only for a second. And that’s all Harley needs.

With a sharp twist of his hips, he breaks free, slamming his knee up into the guy’s stomach, making him double over with a pained choke. Harley wastes no time, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and yanking him forward until their faces are close—too close.

“You shoulda quit while you were ahead,” Harley murmurs, his voice a deep, dangerous thing, his breath warm against the other man’s cheek. His grip tightens in the fabric, his other hand sliding down just enough to hook a finger into the guy’s belt, tugging just enough to throw him off balance. “But I do admire the dedication.”

The guy spits blood, panting. “You’re fucked in the head.”

Harley laughs, breathless and thrilled. “Careful now,” he purrs, “keep talkin’ dirty like that, I might just start likin’ you.”

The guy lunges.

Harley lets him. He loves this game—to make him think he’s got the upper hand for a split second before twisting out of his grip and landing a sharp, punishing uppercut to his jaw. The man’s head snaps back, then he finally falls, dead weight, hitting the pavement with a dull thud.

Harley exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off something insignificant. He adjusts his belt and runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair as he takes a moment to relish the quiet. The bassline from the club pounds in the distance, still calling, still oh so tempting. He kneels down, taking out a necklace from the man’s pocket—a necklace that looked as if it were a river of diamonds. 

“Gotcha,” he mumbled, slipping the jewelry into his pocket and patting it for safe-keeping. 

“Well,” he sighs, stepping over the unconscious body with all the lazy confidence in the world. “That was fun.”

He walks over to his parked motorcycle, his boots tapping against the pavement. The sleek black design camouflaged itself in the night. He kicked one leg over, twisting the throttle… and just like that, he was gone, vanishing into the night. Harley fucking Sawyer, a goddamn menace wrapped in denim and the sweet temptation of sin. 

Still, he thinks—

The poor sucker could’ve hit a little harder than that.