Random thought (warning for major chadacter death): I'm thinking a 5+1 fic with 5 times Gaby and/or Illya save Napoleon and 1 time they don't.
Naooleon, I think, is the most kidnappable of them. Well, maybe Gaby should be, but I think Napoleon is more risk-taking and overconfident, so he puts himself in more dangerous situations than Gaby.
Anyway, it sort of becomes a running joke in the team because Napoleon gets kidnapped most often. Sometimes it's almost harmless and Gaby and Illya manage to find him and save him before anything bad happens. Sometimes he gets hurt. These kidnapings don't get joked about much and only after a while has passed. But ever since Illya came for him when he was in Rudy's care, Napoleon has a sort of unwavering faith that his partners will always find him and save him.
Until one time, they are too late.
If I was the one writing the fic, I would probably end the +1 time with Napoleon tied to a chair, bad guy pointing a gun to his head, ready to shoot him. This time the bad guys aren't interested in gaining information from Napoleon, they want to get rid of him and get away fast. So, Napoleon is sitting tied down, thinking until the last moment that any second now, Gaby and Illya are going to burst through the door and save him, like they did so many times before. And then the bad guy shoots him in the head. That's where I would end it, though exploring the grief and guilt Illya, Gaby and maybe even Waverly feel would be super interesting. I just don't think I would manage to write it well enough.
But I imagine that if I continued, it would go something like: The bad guys get rid of the body, throw it in a nearby river. They don't even bother closing his eyes. They just weight him down with some stones and let him sink to the bottom of the river. When Illya and Gaby arrive at the warehouse (or a different remote, slightly dilapidated, impersonal building), they only find a large blood splatter and a bullet buried in the concrete floor. For a while, they try to maintain hope - they found no body, afterall. However, once they manage to track down the bad guys, they find out that Napoleon was shot. That they were too late. And betrayed his trust. Due to their own failure, they lost him forever.
They search for the body, but the river is large and the current is strong, so it's entirely possible that it managed to overpower the stones, dslodge them, and moved Napoleon's body downstream. It was a rush job by the bad guys, so the corpse disposal was shoddily done. Waverly doesn't have unlimited resources to wastw looking for a corpse of one of his agents, so he eventually has to call of the search. Illya and Gaby are mad at him over this. They don't want to hold the funeral without a body, a tiny part of them stilling holding onto hope that Napoleon is somehow miraculously alive.
fsnfiction. i wrote this at like 3am in the morning because i chugged an entire energy drink and it did something to my audhd i think! cheers. share with friends and family
Tagged by @lottiesnotebook but purposely waited until Wednesday 😂
Alright so I currently have FAR TOO MANY WIPs... but let's share some of chapter one of my "Let's get Adrian Hawke out of the damn fade" fic - which still needs a title.
This is going to be a canon divergent, as a certain character is not dead.
Anyway Adrian has been trapped in the fade ever since inquision and basically everyone has stopped looking for him, everyone assumes he's died - they even had a funeral in Kirkwall.
The Crossroads were a strange place. Rook was getting used to the Fade—or at least she told herself she was—but the Crossroads still unsettled her. The strangest part, though, was the market. Some stalls never seemed to change, offering the same wares over and over again, while others presented something new each time she passed by. Were the goods real? Were they memories? Did spirits barter in favors, in emotions, in something else entirely?
She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Her gaze drifted over the strange offerings—a glimmering vial of what looked like bottled moonlight, a book whose words rearranged themselves the moment her eyes touched them, a dagger with no handle that shimmered as if it wasn’t entirely present. The moment her fingers brushed the air near it, a whisper curled through her thoughts.
What is lost can be remade.
Rook snatched her hand back, heart hammering. Spirits and their riddles.
"Rook?" She heard Davrin draw his sword behind her as Emmrich gasped.
Caitir turned sharply, hand drifting toward her staff as she followed their gazes.
A figure sat just beyond the market stalls. Hunched, half-shadowed by the stall behind them.
The figure was unmistakably human. A man draped in tattered leathers, unmoving. His head bowed, long brown hair tangled and matted around his face.
Davrin took a step forward, his sword still raised. “That’s not a spirit.”
“No,” Emmrich murmured, voice hushed with something like reverence—or fear. “That’s a man.”
Caitir stepped forward, but before she could get close, she felt Emmrich's hand on her shoulder. "Allow me," the professor insisted before slowly approaching the man and crouching down.
"Sir?" He spoke gently, trying to get the man's attention, but he didn't move. "Sir, can you hear me?"
The man's head rose slowly, and Caitir couldn't withhold the small gasp or the instinctive step backwards.
His eyes...
They looked like the night sky.
Like stars trapped within.
Emmrich did not flinch, though Caitir could see the tension in his shoulders as he studied the man before him. The man's mouth opened, but no words emerged. A look of confusion crossed his face before his left hand moved, trembling slightly, as he poked Emmrich in the chest.
Ok... tagging... no pressure, I am especially picking names out of a hat (or typing the first names that come to mind meaning I likluy sawa post from you in the last half hour) @vivispec @glowing-blue-feathermage @sulky-valkyrie @barbex
henry. feelings. lack of sleep. all relatable content.
Contaminated
Henry took his darkness for granted. He’d lived in for so long, learnt its presence. He grew up in it, was moulded by it, memorised it so that he knew it as well as he knew the back of his hand. He thought he could take Alex’s light, venture into it for a while, swim in it, experience it, find joy in it and somehow avoid being blinded.
Now, he’s a marooned man in a desert, desperately searching for reprieve from the scorching heat, and the darkness calls him back to it like a siren song.
It was the one year anniversary of you discovering the truth: that your husband, Rafe Adler, was dead after trying to find Avery’s treasure.
“I’ll leave you with words,
Under your door,
Below the singing moon”
(So yo girl had MAJOR writers block from ‘Bittersweet’ and decided to start something new for the time being, BUT DONT WORRY!! I will be finishing chapter 4 really soon! For now though, enjoy this angsty blob that I have no idea which direction its going in :) !!!!)
______________________________________________
You couldn’t sleep. It was nearly past 4 in the morning, yet your closing eyelids were no match for your fretful self. Tossing and turning had no effect either, and it was becoming insufferable to even try to doze off.
You shoved the satin duvet off of your chilled figure; goosebumps now lining your body from the temperature of the house. Your clothing choices for bed didn’t exactly help either. You only had on a large black t-shirt of his, and a small pair of pj shorts.
So there you were: cold and tired, yet unable to relieve yourself from both uncomfortable feelings. But with today being what it was, those feelings were the least of your concerns.
You sat on the silky sheets of the bed that was far too large for a party of one, but you tried to manage.
The whole house felt too big for you and the staff working alone during the day, but at night it was even worse. With the maids, gardeners, and other workers home with their families, the silence was excruciating.
There were times where you’d almost try to convince some of the staff to work nights, so you wouldn’t feel as alone.
But alas, it was too much to ask from them. The guilt of using them for your own personal tranquility would be another thing piled onto your weighted shoulders.
You spent the next couple of hours making your way through the empty home. The control you had on yourself was fading while your legs took over, walking through the memories that scattered the walls, and the floors..
But instead of seeing things how they were in the present day, vivid memories played before you, wherever you walked. Distant laughter, ear-splitting arguments; it was getting to be overwhelming.
As you finally made it to the kitchen, your face was already drenched in tears, and you grew limp. This room contained the last memory of peace before the destruction took over.
The calm before the storm.
Your gaze fell on a slightly younger, happier version of you standing by the sink, slightly humming to a miscellaneous tune while drinking what looked to be freshly brewed coffee, pleasantly. She held the mug close to her chest with both hands wrapped around it.
She stood by her lonesome, content with how things were.
A shaky, toothless smile found its way onto your face as you watched the recollection of events played out in front of you. It wasn’t until the sounds of echoing footsteps erupted down the hall, that your smile immediately faded.
You kept your focus on your old self to at least keep some composure steady. It almost felt as though if you looked towards his direction, the sight of him would drown you; suffocate you.
But, much to your dismay, he made his way to the sink, where she stood. It was unavoidable now.
His hair was unkempt, with strands of brown falling in front of his face. His chin looked to be lined with 3-day old stubble; something you always told him you found extremely attractive, but he would brush it off. He had on the black sweatpants you got him for Christmas the year prior, but that was all.
You half expected words to flow out of the two, whether it’d be snarky or loving, but then you remembered the reason for the silence.
Mornings were unbearable for the both of you, which meant talking was just as difficult. Rather, words were exchanged in the form of ‘good morning smiles’, and a desperate kiss, as if it was the last one.
Technically, in this case, it was.
He looked relaxed, more than he ever could be. He’d always been someone to secure the embodiment of uptight, but even so, he was such a different person then. It was almost like no matter how badly he wanted to erupt, he still had ounces of sanity left within him.
Not to mention, you’ve heard countless remarks from all sorts of people you both knew:
You were the one thing that kept his happiness from fading away.
You could even even recall Nate saying something along those lines, and he wasn’t exactly on good terms with Rafe at all. All of it caused you to feel responsible for him, making sure that he always felt loved.
Whether it be biting your tongue during his outbursts, or whispering sweet nothings as he calmed down from a night terror, you were there for him during his most vulnerable points.
However, even with the greatest of efforts, you knew it was bound to stop working eventually. The inevitable had power over you, despite how much you didn’t want it to.
But you still felt like you failed him.
You failed him.
Your stomach started to churn, while a knot looped around your chest.
You looked away from it all, closing your eyes forcefully as if it would crush the thoughts of him down into shards. But it wouldn’t.
You reopened your eyes in defeat a few moments later, only to find yourself in a vacant kitchen again, without you and Rafe.
Rafe.
God his name sounded like glass breaking; the sound of it shattering into a million pieces. It made you feel dizzy.
But you brushed it off, shaking your body as if a chill glided down your back.
‘Pull yourself together y/n..’
Making your way around the kitchen island, you figured a spark of caffeine could summon at least a lick of energy from your sorrowful soul.
You opened the enlarged cabinet by the sink, reaching for a mug on the upper middle shelf. Of course, given how much shorter you were compared to the cabinets, your first attempt was unsuccessful, leaving you slightly frustrated.
You let out a huff of air through your nose, before aiming to climb on the counter to reach. Your fingers finally graze the slick finish of the mug, nudging it.
Just as you were about to grab ahold of the handle, gravity decided to play with you. The mug began falling off the shelf. Before you could think, it bounced off the edge of the counter and imploded across the floor.
That was it. The last ounce of your facade was completely gone. Everyone warned you to let yourself feel, but you pushed them away, disregarding their pleads. And now you certainly felt them, tenfold.
You felt as though you couldn’t breathe.
You were screaming your lungs out, and with each profanity or cry, your voice became more distorted.
You failed him.
You threw the wine glasses you both used to drink the finest wine at the wall, shattering them.
He’s gone.
The custom set of mugs you got him as a running gag between the two of you, now in pieces.
It’s your fault.
You were on the floor now, with anxious tremors scaling your entire body as you held your head in your hands. Your screams had turned into weak whimpers.
You were now officially exhausted.
The sound of your phone vibrating on the glistening countertop above you made you jump.
You lifted your arm up and reached for the device, immediately noticing who was calling. Pressing accept, you suck in a breath as you bring the phone to your ear.
“Hey,” you manage to croak out. Your voice is pretty much gone now.
“Hey doll, how are you holding up?” Your lack of an answer and constant sniffles were quickly returned with a more concerned tone from the other line, “Y/N hey- are you doin’ alright?”
You run your fingers through your locks of hair while looking at the pile of broken porcelain on the tiles, quickly attempting to mellow down, “I- um, I just.”
Your vision fogged as your chest tightened once again, “Sam d.. you remember-”
“Shit.. that’s today isn’t it,”He knew before you had the stamina to say the words, “okay, doll please stay safe okay, I’ll be there soon.”
It only took 10 minutes before the echo of the door flying open from down the hall could be heard. The sound of Sam’s footfall became louder as he made his way closer to the kitchen.
“Y/N? Y/n where the hell are you honey?”
“In here,” you figured your tone was barely audible with your vocal cords being as shot as they were, but he surprisingly heard you.
“Y/n please tell me your o-,” you guessed that he was in the front entrance of the kitchen, staring at the massacre around him, courtesy of you.
“Shit,” Sam released as he breathed out.
He didn’t know what to expect when he walked into the house. Scenarios of what could have been were cycling around his brain on the ride there, and it terrified him. But when he could finally see what happened, he was speechless.
Dents were present across the walls, ripping pieces of the expensive looking wallpaper that was plastered there. Glass shards and the remains of ceramic plates and cups drenched the floors.
It wasn’t until he could see a shadow against the lower cabinets that he found his voice again.
“Shit, shit, shit shit shit,” each word fell out of his mouth like vomit as he rushed to you.
He was relieved to see you were still conscious, but not when you were stuck in an episode he wasn’t sure he could get you out of. You sat there, curled into yourself, with the palms of your hands pressed against your forehead.
He knelt down beside your shaking frame, but started hesitating with getting any closer. He felt that if he touched you, you’d crumble.
“I’m not poisonous Sam,” you hiccuped as you pushed the words out.
You were figured you’d hear a sly remark, or at least a dull laugh. But the silence remained, and it felt like he wasn’t even there.
You slowly lifted your hands from your forehead, looking up, only to see that he really wasn’t next to you. With your brows furrowed, you sat up slightly, glancing around the room.
“Sam?”
While frantically looking for him, your attention was immediately strangled by the monstrous compendium of what looked to be remnants of dishes lining the floors.
It shook you to the core knowing you were responsible for it all.
“Hey princess, I’m back, I just needed to grab something for you.”
Your eyes flick over at a disheveled Sam, carrying a wet cloth in his hands.
He carefully stepped over the shards, and knelt down next to you. You saw his eyes wander your face and arms, studying you.
“You have a bunch of cuts on ya, come closer.”
You looked down at your body, noticing various-sized imperfections that split your skin open across your arms, and upper legs. The slices erupted with blood; some more than others.
Must’ve been from all the shit I threw flying around.
You reached for his hand that held the soaked rag, “Sam I’ll do that you don’t have-”
His occupied hand raises out of your reach,“No, y/n.” He didn’t shout, but his voice was stern, “now give me your arm.”
While he tended to your glass induced wounds, your eyes went adrift, floating aimlessly across his face. You tread through the creases amongst his forehead, that happened to be more prominent due to his focus, down to his flatlined lips. He looked so stressed.
An uncomfortable wave of guilt sharply crashed into you.
It’s probably you that’s making him feel that way.
The feeling of salt-filled tears burned your eyes, as they began to overtake your vision. You knew Sam had been going out of his way for you for over 3 years, ever since you met during the downfall that most would call a treasure hunt. Though, you actually met during a brief meeting the two had at the house, as Rafe didn’t bring you along on this journey, of course. You hoped the excuse was his protection over you at the time, but you slowly figured out the truth of the matter later on.
Avery’s treasure became more important than you.
You knew that it’s importance also compromised the partnership Sam had with him too. But it affected you more than it ever did Sam, which is why he stepped up to help when you needed it.
When Rafe couldn’t.
With every ounce of care Sam gave you, your guilt only grew stronger, leaving an unbearable weight stacked upon your shoulders; especially after an episode this huge.
Little did you know, Sam didn’t care how bad the collateral damage was, whether it came to you or the world around you. As long as you came out of it safe and sound, he felt the same.
After escaping the grasp of the broken chunk of wood that fell onto him in the ship, the adrenaline may have overwhelmed his senses, but he recognized that out of the three people he knew were amongst the flames, only two were still standing.
From the moment he left the ship, to the moment he knocked on the door of your home, you were on his mind; along with the knowledge that you were there, unaware that you were now officially widowed.
The amount of times he tried to rehearse how to break the news to you was unbelievable. As sinful as it was to think, he could care less that Rafe was dead. The walking menace of a man tried to end his brother’s life, and for that, forgiveness wasn’t even on the same planet for Sam. But he knew the love you two had before everything was irreplaceable.
He knew what it was like to lose someone you loved.
The pain can suffocate you until breathing isn't possible anymore. You become more than vulnerable, leaving you susceptible to almost anything.
And as soon as he spoke the words to you, that fact was proven true.
He could still remember how the first teardrop painted a streak down your left cheek, and how your body iced over at the words “he’s gone.”
It still sends a shiver down his spine just at the mere thought of that night.
Both of you return to reality as soon as you retract from Sam’s touch, hissing in pain.
“Shit, sorry.”
You wanted to tell him that his apologies weren’t needed, but the words you wanted to form were captured by your closing throat. So all you did was look down at a piece of severed glass, that lay on the ground against your feet.
“I’m gonna need ya to turn a little so I can put the bandage on this.”
You comply, but in the process, you skim your foot on the shard you were gazing at not even a moment ago, slicing it clean open.
“Fuck,” you curse under your breath, but tried to hush it as much as possible. You really didn’t want to seem even more of a broken basket case to Sam.
But your sudden change of pace in your breathing caught his attention anyway. Sam saw how the rise and fall of your breathing had fastened, just from the movement of your shoulders and back.
“Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong-” he tried to look beyond the back of you, but you tucked your legs into a cross cross position before he could see.
That unfortunately made matters worse, as your thigh applied sudden pressure to the wound underneath it. Not only did it send a jolt throughout your entire body, but you felt the chill of saturated blood gushing on the back of your thigh and onto the tiles.
“I’m fine,” you managed to force out of your mouth. Your tone even sounded harmed, and of course it didn’t go unnoticed by Sam.
“Y/n, please don’t bullshit me-”
“I’m not bullshitting.”
He didn’t respond, dropping the subject as he continued to tend to the gashes. Though, he still didn’t believe you in the slightest.
All he had to do was look to the left of you, to see a blade of glass clothed in your blood, along with a vicious trail leading straight to you.
He grew whey-faced, with his skin blanched to a ghostly shade of tan.
‘Fuck.’ He cursed in his head.
Despite the urge to scream and rush you to the bathroom, he tried to remain calm. But seeing how much blood that stuck itself to the floor, you were probably hiding it from him.
And that was exactly what you were doing. You felt the cool sensations of the air drying the old flakes of blood in between your foot and your thigh. On the bright side, you were getting used to the pain.
It was either that, or you’re desensitized to it.
“Love-”
A sharp jab to the heart is what that little nickname felt like. You could almost hear him saying it to you at that moment.
As if your heart couldn’t break anymore than it already has.
“I said I’m fine alright?” Your tone was rough, as a shaky exhale left your system before you continued, “please don’t call me that.”
A tense puddle of silence began to flood the room for you both, making it harder for the both of you to keep your cool.
“Y/n.. I know you can see the mess next to you, I’m gonna need you to stand up for me so we can stitch you up in the bathroom."
If there was one thing that you’ve learned Rafe was good at as your relationships slowly met its demise, it was secrecy. His ability to change the subject, and manipulate you into forgetting whatever you could suspect almost frightened you; especially when it turned into a massive routine.
You’d figure something out and accuse, he’d deny it. And when you began to pry, he came up with any excuse convincing enough for you to drop it. You honestly felt to this day that he took more skeletons with him to the grave than anything.
Seems that you didn’t follow in his footsteps in that regard.
You didn’t reply to Sam with anything but a swift nod.
__________
- 13 YEARS BEFORE -
The 12am winds beckoned a hasty draft through the opened doors to the balcony. It carved goosebumps across your skin, more so than the cool atmosphere the house created.
Nevertheless, you sat in one of the sinking lounge chairs that faced towards the bedroom’s terrace.
“You really do have a bizarre taste in books.”
You turn your head slightly to see your husband; lying comfortably on the silk bed sheets, with two pillows behind his head to hold him up. His hair was perfectly slicked rearwards, and only the smallest colors of exhaustion appeared under his eyes, but you could still tell he was tired.
You looked down to see one of your favorite horror novels in his hands: A Clockwork Orange. The book was wide open, with a chunk of its pages already flipped to the left. With that, you felt your lips quirk into a small smile as you turned your body fully to face him.
“I recall you saying it was complete nonsense.”
While he could feel your focus was on him, he only shook his head as his eyes never left the words on the page, “I never said such a thing-”
You laughed softly, “sure, and those mugs I bought for us the other day weren’t the cheesiest fucking things we’ve ever bought.”
He snapped his head up at you, with a smirk now apparent on his face, “oh so you agree with me on that now?”
You roll your eyes as you rise from the cushioned chair, making your way to him.
“ You shut up,” you jokingly scold him, as you throw yourself on to the bed by his side.
He scoffs at the remark, “you just don’t wanna admit that I really am always right, love .”
Despite your cheeks burning at the annual nickname that certainly made your knees crumble beneath you, you remained on your ground of stubbornness.
“Sorry Adler, not a chance.”
An exasperated sigh escapes the mouth of the tired man.
You giggled while pushing your weight up with your arms, leaning over to place a sweetened kiss on his stubble ridden jawline.
Before you could pull away, you felt a bundle of weight shift off to the side of you. The weight then stacks itself onto the middle of your back, pulling you in; gravitating you towards your husband's side.
His arm curls as you bring yourself even closer to his body, if it was even possible. Even though he didn’t radiate as much warmth as you’d expect, you always felt comfortable in his arms. And in this moment it definitely was no exception.
You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, leaving butterfly kisses across the stiff skin he had there; he was so tense.
“What’s wrong, honey.”
With no misconceptions by the beguiling undertone of your whisper against his neck, you were actually concerned. Yes, he was a tense bastard with no ability to find tranquility unless he was knocked out, but the man against you now was downright frozen; an oak leaf struck by after-frost.
Silence thickened around the two of you, with anticipation sprinkled on your end, and guilt on his.
You felt him swallow harshly against your forehead, as you made eye contact with the glare of light hitting the glossy cover of the book in his hands.
“I have to go for a while. I leave tomorrow morning.”
The rime found its way to spread along your body, now frosting you in place. The only movement you could make was forming a tired expression.
You knew exactly what he was talking about. Normally he’d never be as dramatic with anything in regards to his family’s business endeavors that required a little travel. So based on his reaction…
That treasure.
God dammit…
He pulled a similar stunt back when you were still dating, about 3 years prior. He told you that two clever fools, who claimed to be treasure hunters, found something in a Panamanian prison. They apparently needed the expenses to stay in the prison without actual crime; that’s where Rafe came into play.
Not that the man minded, he was supposed to be getting a cut of the ‘treasure’ anyway. And the next thing you knew, he was off. You sat alone in your apartment for weeks, waiting by the phone like a pining wreck for Rafe to call.
Nothing.
That is, until he returned one morning. When you opened the door to reveal your then boyfriend, he looked destroyed. He carried more bruises across his face alone than you’d ever seen.
The image of him in that state flashed through your mind as you lay there; the feeling of deja vu pricking your thoughts.
Rafe felt you tense too, feeling the solem air become toxic for his lungs. He knew this would hurt you. He knew it.
But that treasure.
The treasure was out there for him to find.
Only him.
A few days prior, he finalized the payments for St. Dismas’ cathedral. As soon as the final document was signed and approved, a countdown commenced.
This countdown, pertained to him breaking the news to you. And during the cusp of the hour glass filling completely underneath his feet, the words finally found their way to his lips. What a procrastinator he was.
You honestly anticipated that a fight between the two of you would be your fate of the evening, but to your surprise, all you did was sigh heavily while squeezing your eyes shut.
That sigh broke you free from your crystallization, and you took the opportunity to break free from Rafe's hold.
You sit up against the extravagant headboard, almost similar to how Rafe was. The two of you sat there with the silence, chewing it up until there was nothing left but a force urging you to speak.
“For how long.”
You could hear him exhale next to you, but you didn’t bother to look up at him just yet.
“I don’t know.”
Those words nearly shatter you. They may have been expected for sure, but in this situation you longed for something more specific. Even if he did say a few months or even a year, it would have been better than being left with the uncertainties, like last time.
Yet again, however, you sighed.
You finally looked over at him, muttering the word, “okay.”
Hi, if it's okay with you may I ask for 3, 48, 71 please. Thank you so much 💖
3. “Please don’t walk out of that door,” 48. “Why are you crying?,” & 71. “You’ve been drinking tonight, haven’t you?” // also on ao3 (½)
((okay anon, I feel like you really wanted angst so, here you go! probably not what you were expecting, but I got (extremely) carried away and this is what happened 💙 also don’t worry - there will be a part 2))
––
It doesn’t happen how Lucas thought it might. Seeing him again. He’d thought about it a lot in the months directly after they ended things – what he’d be doing, where it would happen, how he would act. He’d even rehearsed a few speeches or at least plausible conversations. He forgot to account for his racing heart.
When it happens, it’s in the last place Lucas had ever imagined. It’s not at the grocery store, or at a cafe. It’s not even just a chance encounter on the street. It’s at a restaurant, at his boyfriend’s fancy work party.
Lucas isn’t quite sure how he ended up here, standing there in that restaurant. He knows that Oliver had made him promise weeks ago to be here, convinced that showing up with his boyfriend would help him seem more serious to his bosses, which might lead to some kind of promotion. At the time Lucas had been more than happy to say yes. It made Oliver happy, and making Oliver happy made Lucas feel good. It was enough.
But he’s had a long week and there’s a dull ache just behind his temples and he’s tired. He hasn’t really been sleeping well again. It’s like it was a year ago, when everything imploded. He pushes the thought out of mind quickly before it can consume him again.
Lucas had considered feigning some kind of illness earlier that day to avoid having to come at all, but then he thought of Oliver’s sweet face and how accommodating he would have been and it felt a little too much like he was taking advantage. So Lucas had come home from class, gotten dressed and made an appearance. It was for his boyfriend after all.
But he’s uncomfortable – his shirt and jacket are tight against his body making him very conscious of the sweat gathering at his back and his tie is pressing tightly against his throat. He pulls at it with one hand, holding his drink in the other. Even though it’s winter, just towards the end of January, Lucas is hot and the room feels suffocating. So Lucas sticks to the edge of the room, content to just watch the party unfold around him rather than participate himself.
He looks out across the crowded room and spots Oliver talking to someone he assumes is important – probably his boss. He knows he should go over and join the conversation, play the part of the supportive boyfriend, but frankly, that just sounds exhausting. Instead he leans back against the wall, feeling the cool brick against the back on his head.
He’s looking across the party but not really seeing, people fading into shapes and colors, the air around them dancing with the buzz of conversation. Lucas allows himself to be pulled by the loud sounds coming from the other side of the wall. The party is being held in a semi-private section of the restaurant that Oliver’s company has rented out, but the rest of the space is filled with families and first dates and friends getting together after work. Lucas drifts over to the booths that separate their space from the rest of the restaurant. And he allows his mind and eyes to wander.
He’s content to do that until Oliver is ready to head out. He actually sort of prefers the soothing hum of other people living their lives as he fights his fatigue and the headache that threatens to get worse.
But then his heart drops to his stomach, his pulse quickens and he forgets how to breathe. It takes a second for his brain to catch up with what’s in front of him.
Because there’s Eliott – Eliott – sitting at a table with people Lucas doesn’t recognize and he looks almost the same as when Lucas saw him last, almost a year ago.
He’s wearing all black and Lucas feels his eyes rake over him because he can’t help it – it’s like he’s seen a ghost – and his eyes land on the black jacket hanging on Eliott’s chair. And Lucas almost loses it right there, in the middle of a busy restaurant on a Friday evening in the dead of winter.
Because the last time Lucas had seen that jacket was when he’d handed it over to Eliott a week after their breakup. Eliott had come by to drop off the last of Lucas’ stuff and then he disappeared from his life with a whispered bye Lucas and the black jacket slung over his shoulder.
Lucas stands frozen to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from Eliott but panicking at the thought that Eliott might look up and see him. He simultaneously wants to disappear, melt into the floor and vanish, and scream Eliott’s name as loud as he can muster, forcing Eliott to see him and acknowledge what they used to be to one another. It’s that battle, between fight or flight, that keeps him rooted to the floor.
In the end, Lucas doesn’t make up his mind fast enough because there’s a crash behind him as a waiter drops a stack of dishes and Eliott whips his head up to seek out the source of the noise. His eyes meet Lucas’ and something flashes across Eliott’s face that Lucas can’t quite place.
Lucas feels his eyes go wide and he contemplates spinning on his heel and running back to Oliver, disappearing into the crowd. But Eliott is leaning over to the people he’s with and saying something Lucas can’t quite make out. Then he’s standing and Lucas realizes a beat too late that Eliott is making his way over to him.
Lucas quickly turns behind him, finding Oliver in the back corner still in deep conversation with his boss. There’s a slight wave of relief because the last thing Lucas needs right now is Oliver being involved in whatever conversation is about to occur. He steps around the rope that the restaurant had put up to separate their private space from the rest of the customers and moves to meet Eliott by the wall that leads to the bathrooms.
It’s strange, really, how utterly unprepared Lucas feels in that moment. Despite the hours and sleepless nights he had dedicated to imagining how this would go, there’s nothing that can prepare him for how it feels to have Eliott standing there in front of him again.
He approaches Lucas with his head down, shoulders hunched, and hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn black jeans. And so when it happens – when that moment that Lucas has thought about for months happens – it’s at the wall between the toilets and the kitchens at 9pm on a Friday in a crowded restaurant.
Lucas had prepared speeches, he’d imagined a thousand times what he would say if he ever got the chance to stand in front of Eliott again, but when the moment comes, his mouth goes dry and his mind goes blank and he’s quiet.
Because it’s Eliott. Eliott with his ink-stained hands, and black jacket and messy hair. Lucas wonders if he still smells like sandalwood and his lavender shampoo. He wonders who the people he’s sitting with are. Lucas wonders if he got into art school, if he moved into a new place, if he’s…well, if he’s seeing anyone. And then Lucas thinks he shouldn’t be wondering about any of that. Because Eliott isn’t his to wonder about anymore. He hasn’t been, for a year. And Lucas has Oliver. So it should be fine.
They stand there in silence for what must only be a few seconds but to Lucas feels like years, the thrum of others’ conversations pounding in his ear. He can’t even bring himself to meet Eliott’s eyes and instead he finds his gaze flitting between Eliott’s face and the space just behind his shoulder.
It’s Eliott who speaks first.
“Hey.”
Hey. Hey. Lucas feels a slight twist of anger in his chest. Because it’s ‘hey’ – one word and no attempt at conversation and Lucas feels like he wants to scream at Eliott because there were so many things he wanted to say and they used to be more than that. They used to be everything.
A year ago Eliott knew him better than anyone else in the world. Now, in that one word, Lucas sees how they will finally end – be rid of each other for good – with half-hearted greetings and a lingering discomfort that makes them seem more like casual acquaintances than first loves.
“How are you?” Lucas manages to say back. Eliott sways slightly, his hands still in his pockets.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he says. “How are you?”
I was doing fine and then I saw you again, Lucas thinks.
“Oh, I’m great,” Lucas says.
“Good, good,” Eliott says, removing one of his hands from his pockets and running it through his hair. Lucas swallows. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, um, it’s a work party,” Lucas says, and he doesn’t want to elaborate, not really, because he can’t bring himself to say for my boyfriend to Eliott when the boyfriend isn’t him.
“Oh, cool.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh you know, here with friends.”
And there it is, the limit of their conversation, the limit of what they can muster in this new space of used-to-be. There’s a beat and Lucas looks up to find Eliott staring at him. It’s a look that’s a little too familiar and Lucas sudden feels his heart swell involuntarily. “You look good,” Eliott whispers.
And Lucas doesn’t know what to say to that because he wants to say that Eliott looks good too, but that kind of quiet familiarity might actually kill him. So he just nods. “Thanks.”
Eliott makes no move to leave and Lucas is left wondering how exactly to exit this interaction quickly because it’s starting to be too much, too much. Eliott looks like he’s battling the thoughts in his head and he opens his mouth to say something. A pause and then: “Look, Lucas…”
But that’s all he gets out because then Lucas feels an arm slide around his waist and he turns to find Oliver standing there, looking Eliott up and down with a slightly concerned expression on his face. Eliott is taller than Oliver, but in this moment, at the sight of Oliver’s arm wrapped around Lucas’ waist, Eliott seems to shrink.
“Hey babe,” Oliver says, pressing a kiss to Lucas’ temple. “Missed you in there. Wanted to see where you got off to.”
Eliott is standing stiff and his jaw is set tight and Lucas feels the shame of being caught begin to spread across his chest (though he can’t quite decide if it’s Eliott or Oliver he feels more caught by).
Lucas feels an urge to reach out and grab Eliott’s face and smooth the crease of his brow that’s appeared with Oliver. He’s surprised at how violent the urge is, even now, after all this time.
“Hey,” Lucas says to Oliver and then gestures towards Eliott. “I ran into Eliott, so we were just, uh, catching up.”
“Eliott,” is all Oliver says but Lucas knows he immediately recognizes the name. Lucas had told Oliver about Eliott fairly early on, not because he really wanted to, but because he had to. Eliott had been his whole story up until that point and Lucas felt Oliver deserved to know.
Oliver gives Lucas a look then, and Lucas is brought back to the situation in front of him, his worst-case-scenario for how this could have played out really, and realizes Oliver is waiting for him to introduce them. It’s bizarre and Lucas hates it but he knows he should, so he does.
“Oliver, this is Eliott. Eliott, this is Oliver,” Lucas says.
Oliver sticks out his hand towards Eliott and adds “his boyfriend.”
Eliott clenches his jaw tighter at the words but reaches his hand out to shake Oliver’s.
“Nice to meet you,” Eliott says.
“Nice to meet you as well,” Oliver says.
There’s silence then, drenched in awkwardness. Lucas wants to disappear.
“Well, um, I should be getting back to my friends,” Eliott says. “Good to meet you Oliver and um, it’s good to see you Lucas. Really.”
With those words, Eliott’s voice grows slightly softer and he gives Lucas a once over, meeting his eyes for a beat, only a beat, but Lucas’ heart skips. And then he’s gone.
Lucas is staring at the spot Eliott had just occupied and he notices that Oliver is looking at him. “You okay, babe?” he asks and Lucas finds it in himself to give a sharp nod.
“Yeah, let’s get back to the party.”
––
It’s a few weeks later and Lucas is trying to get back to normal. Or at least what had been his new normal in the wake of Eliott. He’s trying, he really is, to push Eliott out of his mind, focus on all the good things he does have, the life he built in the wake of their collapse. But it’s hard when he sees Eliott everywhere in all the things that used to remind him of Eliott, blaring loudly like symbols of what he lost.
He sees Eliott in the lattes the people next to him order. He sees him in a tattered notebook on a table, in the people sketching in the park, in the box of tea Eliott had bought once when he was sick that’s sat collecting dust in Lucas’ cupboard since he left. But mostly he sees him in tall strangers with messy hair and black jackets and every time he spots one his heart leaps into his throat. Until Lucas realizes it isn’t him, it’s never him.
And now it’s another Friday night and he finds himself at a party with his friends and Oliver by his side and he really just wants to be in bed, but he’s gotten better at putting on the mask when he feels like this. He doesn’t want them to worry.
The party has been going on for a few hours and all of his friends are around him, drunk but fairly in control compared to what he’s used to. Emma is leaning sloppily on Daphne’s shoulder as she tries to continue dancing to the music. Arthur and Basile are yelling frantically about something Lucas had tuned out a while ago. Yann and Oliver are standing next to him dancing and trying to speak above the music. And Lucas is standing there, nursing his beer, unable to get himself to really join the fun.
He knows that Oliver has noticed. Yann too. But Lucas realizes gratefully that they seem to be giving him the night off. Because he can’t talk about it, he really can’t.
So it’s unfortunate then, that it happens again like this, on a Friday night at the end of winter at a party where everyone is having fun but him. Because Lucas sees him again.
Only this time Eliott doesn’t see him.
Lucas hadn’t noticed him come in, and really, it’s the worst possible way this could have gone down. Because when Lucas does notice him, when he sees Eliott for the second time in a month, some guy has Eliott pinned in the corner, his tongue down his throat.
Lucas thinks he might be sick. And suddenly, he can’t be here anymore. He really can’t be here, he can’t face that. He tugs on Oliver’s shirtsleeve, getting his attention and whispers a frantic can we get out of here, please and Oliver is looking at him with those concerned, kind eyes, and he nods.
So they leave. Lucas tries his best to keep it in, to sew up the ragged tear that sight had made in his chest, and he really should be good at it with all these months of practice. But as soon as they’re in a cab on the way back to Lucas’ apartment, the tears start to fall.
He turns, looking out the window, trying to hide his face, willing the tears to stop before they have to get out of the car. Oliver doesn’t say anything – just finds Lucas’ hand and gently strokes the back of it with his thumb.
When they get to his apartment, Lucas tries to quickly dry his face and compose himself as he unlocks the door. Lucas notices that Mika’s shoes are gone and Lisa is out of town this weekend with her family. He knows that Oliver notices too.
So the atmosphere in the empty apartment should be different. So different from the somber concern that’s radiating off Oliver in waves. And Lucas is trying to hold it in, but it’s not working.
“Lucas, why are you crying?” Oliver asks softly, reaching to wipe a tear off Lucas’ cheek. Lucas flinches away from his touch.
“It’s nothing,” Lucas answers, quickly, too quickly and Oliver only sighs and sits down on the couch, leaving room like an invitation for Lucas to join him.
“That’s clearly not true,” Oliver says. “You’ve been quiet all night and now something made you upset. I just want to know what happened.”
Lucas’ mouth clamps shut and he can’t talk about it, can’t tell the truth. Because if he gives voice to the emotions he’s feeling right now, if he airs them out where they can be heard, then he’ll have the acknowledge the way his heart still raced when he saw Eliott, even a year later. That his heart felt like it broke again at the sight of him kissing someone else. And he knows that shouldn’t be the case.
But now Oliver is looking at him, peering into his eyes and trying to decipher what might be the problem, what it could be that is so clearly bothering Lucas. What had made him so upset that he practically dragged Oliver from the party without so much as a goodbye to anyone else.
Lucas knows he’s going to have to tell him, is going to have to say it’s Eliott, I saw Eliott again and that’s not going to go over well. Because it shouldn’t have affected him so much. It’s been a year since they broke up, a year, and it shouldn’t hurt so much anymore. But it does.
Lucas knows he has to say that and he knows that when he does it will hurt Oliver. Gentle, sweet, perfect Oliver who has done nothing but be there for Lucas. Oliver, whose only flaw is he isn’t Eliott.
The thought jolts Lucas back to his apartment with Oliver sitting there, looking at him. The silence hangs thick and Lucas tentatively makes his way closer to Oliver, thinking about sitting next to him on the couch, holding his hands, stroking his cheek with his finger while he talks to him. But Lucas knows he can’t do that, not really. He sits on the chair instead.
“It’s Eliott. I saw him again.” And then it’s out there. Lucas is hit, for a moment, with how small this thing is, how much it shouldn’t be bothering him, how much it’s thrown him despite it being two quick moments over a month. But it’s Eliott.
“Eliott, your ex. The ex,” Oliver says, his voice soft.
He’d told Oliver about Eliott in the first few weeks that they started dating, wanting him to know Lucas’ past, know about the intensity Lucas had been coming from. Oliver had been surprisingly understanding about it but Lucas hadn’t told him much – just that they’d been together for a long time and he’d taken it pretty hard when it ended. That was all he could get himself to divulge. And now he’d been with Oliver for a little over three months and that should feel solid. But talking about Eliott with Oliver is shaky ground.
And something is bothering Lucas, but it’s not what he expected it to be. Oliver is looking at him sympathetically, too sympathetically, like he’s going to be understanding and sweet about the pain that comes with seeing someone again who used to be such an important person in your life. Lucas knows he could nod and Oliver wouldn’t ask him about it and they could move on, but his brain is stuck on the words. The ex.
The ex. To hear his and Eliott’s relationship reduced down to that. Two words. Not even a sentence. They’d been together for two years – two years where Lucas had found a family, reconnected with his mother, graduated from high school, started college, and experienced his first love (and at the end, his first heartbreak). Eliott had been there through it all, knew him better than anyone else and now, sitting here a year out, their relationship was only that. The ex.
Lucas sighs and fights back a fresh wave of tears. It’s so stupid, to be here a year later and still crying over Eliott. He thought he’d left that behind months ago. He looks up and wills the tears not to fall. He meets Oliver’s eyes and can tell he’s trying to assess the situation, figure out what Lucas needs, how to help him. For some reason, Lucas feels irritation run through his body.
They’re quiet for a while. Lucas is looking around his empty living room, noting the mess, the tattered couch and chairs, the DVD he hadn’t put away, the wind making the curtains flutter, the light from the lamp casting a sideways glow on the wall. Oliver and his shadows grow large on the wall and make Lucas feel small. He wants to shrink, hide in the darkness they provide. But he knows he has to be honest if he wants his heart to stop feeling like a lead weight in his chest.
“What happened?” Oliver’s voice is soft, too soft. Lucas hadn’t realized the tears had started to roll down his cheeks. He wipes them away quickly with the back of his hand.
“He was at the party. He was kissing someone,” Lucas says and Oliver’s face hardens.
“He was kissing someone,” Oliver repeats and then he stands from the couch and walks towards the window, his back to Lucas. “So that’s what’s bothering you?”
“What?”
“That he was kissing someone else,” Oliver says and he turns around again to look at Lucas. “That’s the thing that’s bothering you, that made you so upset you had to leave the party?”
And yeah, when you put it like that, Lucas knows it doesn’t sound great. Because it shouldn’t bother him that much – Lucas is literally dating someone else. But it was so unsettling to see Eliott with someone who wasn’t him.
“I just wasn’t expecting to see him,” Lucas says lamely.
“Yeah I know,” Oliver says. “But you’re gonna run into him sometimes and this, the way you’re acting? It’s like it’s still fresh.”
It had still been fresh when Oliver and Lucas met. And maybe that’s ridiculous because it had been almost ten months at that point but it had taken Lucas six months to even contemplate looking at other people and another three getting the first few first-kisses-that-weren’t-Eliott out of his system. So when Oliver and he met, it had still felt fresh to Lucas. It was the first time Lucas had felt like maybe he could date someone else.
“It hasn’t been that long,” Lucas whispers because he doesn’t know what else to say, how else to justify his behavior.
“I mean, it’s been a year. That’s a while Lucas.” Oliver’s voice sounds sharper and when Lucas looks up Oliver’s jaw is set tight, his teeth clenched and he’s looking down at his hands.
“I’m sorry,” Lucas says. “I can’t help it.”
Oliver sighs. “You’re acting like he broke up with you last week, Lucas. I mean, I get being a little thrown, but is this going to happen every time you see him? Shouldn’t you be over it by now?”
And that’s not fair, not really. Because this is Eliott they’re talking about and he’s, well he was Lucas’ first love, and it ended abruptly and Lucas had been confused, so confused because he’d stopped imagining a future without Eliott in it, and then suddenly he had to live in one.
“It’s complicated,” Lucas says, because he doesn’t know how else to explain.
Oliver is looking at him then, his eyes sad, and he sighs. “I don’t think it is. I think you’re still in love with him.”
It’s not a question. Lucas still tries to protest.
“With Eliott? I’m not…I mean I can’t…” He’s not convincing.
Oliver shakes his head. “Or at least you haven’t found a way to move on. And that’s okay Lucas, it takes time, but that’s not fair to me.”
Lucas says nothing because he can’t. He wouldn’t know what to say.
Oliver takes a deep breath and looks like he’s choosing his next words carefully. “Lucas, if you wanted to be with me, you would have had your moment to process and moved on. And, as I think we can both tell, that’s not the case.”
Lucas tries to think of something that will turn this conversation around, turn it back to the way they normally talk – gentle and kind. Nice. Lucas can do nice. “But I do want to be with you,” he tries.
“No,” Oliver says gently. “No you don’t.”
They sit in the quiet for a moment and Oliver looks at Lucas and gives him a weak smile.
“You know you never told me why you two broke up,” Oliver says and okay, Lucas was not expecting that.
Lucas thinks that it’s probably because he doesn’t really know himself. “It just sort of happened,” Lucas says. “And by the time I realized it, I was too scared of the answer to ask.”
Oliver nods. “Well, that might be the problem. You’re holding onto it because you want answers.”
And Lucas has never thought of it that way but maybe Oliver is right. He’s quiet, thinking it over.
“I think I should go,” Oliver says and Lucas jumps up.
“No, Oliver, please,” Lucas goes over to him, tries to touch his arm but Oliver flinches away.
“I can’t be with you if you’re in love with someone else,” Oliver says. “That isn’t fair.”
There it is. Those words again. Lucas doesn’t know what to say but he tries anyway.
“Stay, please.”
“I can’t.” Oliver reaches out and gently grasps both sides of Lucas’ face, looking at him intently. “You haven’t denied it, you know, which just makes it feel true. So I’m going to ask you once, just for the record – are you still in love with Eliott?”
Lucas should be able to say no. Say no and Oliver stays and his life goes back to the way it was. Neat and clean and nice. Nice. There’s nothing wrong with nice. Just say no, he’s not still in love with Eliott and it’s over.
But, for some reason, he can’t bring himself to say it.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” Oliver repeats and drops his hands from Lucas’ face. “I can’t do this, Lucas.”
Lucas watches as Oliver walks neatly around him and towards the entryway pulling on his coat as he goes.
“Please don’t walk out that door,” Lucas pleads as Oliver reaches it. He’s not sure he can do that again: the silence, the loneliness. He was good at being alone before Eliott. Eliott ruined that for him forever.
Oliver turns suddenly and makes his way over to Lucas leaning in and gently kissing him on the cheek.
“Goodbye Lucas,” he whispers. “I hope you figure it out.” And then he’s gone with a rushed step and a slamming door.
And Lucas is alone again.
––
The next time it happens, the next time Lucas talks to Eliott, is later that night and it’s because Lucas seeks him out. And it’s with help from the vodka he found stashed in the bottom of his closet away from Mika’s greedy hands.
When Oliver leaves, Lucas finds the bottle and crashes to the floor, his back propped up against his bed as the hot tears he’s been trying to hold back for the past few hours begin to fall.
He brings the bottle to his lips and takes a long drink, reveling in the burning feeling as the alcohol hits his throat. He takes two more swigs in quick succession, and then sits there, bottle close to his side.
Stupid Oliver, he thinks. With his stupid ideas about Lucas, and his deciding to break up with Lucas because of Eliott. And oh, perfect stupid Eliott with his dumb messy hair and ink-stained hands and his perfect face and that stupid boy who had walked out of his life and left a gaping hole in his chest and hadn’t told him why…
The warmth from the alcohol has started making its way up Lucas’ legs and into his thoughts, making everything fuzzy and more distant. Normally things hurt less here. And yet, Lucas thinks, bringing a hand up to his chest and feeling for the heart that should be beating there, the dull ache that has been there since Eliott left (that hasn’t gone away, just become something he learned to live with) is more pronounced now that it has a name.
Love. Lucas had managed to convince himself it was gone, that part of his life was over, but Oliver knew better. His stupid heart is still in love with Eliott. Even thinking his name makes his heart beat faster. Eliott. Lucas takes another drink.
Somewhere in the haze of alcohol and the darkness setting over the city, Lucas has a thought. Just a thought at first, but his alcohol-soaked brain latches onto it (though Lucas can’t be sure it’s not actually his heart calling the shots) and won’t let go.
He stumbles out into the hallway, pulling on his shoes and his jacket, grabbing a scarf to be safe. He laughs when he realizes it’s the scarf. Yann had eventually stopped asking for it back and Eliott had always said it looked good on him. Lucas has been so blind really. It’s been a year and he even kept the fucking scarf because Eliott said once that Lucas looked good in it.
But when he throws open the apartment door into the night, it’s snowing heavily, too heavily for a February night. Lucas can’t help but laugh a little bitterly. It had been snowing that day last January too, right after the start of the new term, when he and Eliott decided to part ways, call it quits, break up. He’d told himself it was a mutual decision but he’d never been able to look at snow quite the same way again.
It’s just, he’s never really understood why he and Eliott broke up. It had been a hard year, sure, and Lucas’ first semester at university had been stressful for them both. It was a lot, it was always a lot, but Lucas never thought it’d be too much.
It’s just that Eliott had kept looking at him like he was waiting for something to snap and Eliott had been good for so long and Lucas had been looking for a sign that something was going wrong, but there wasn’t anything to point to, nothing to name.
Christmas and New Year’s had been good, sure, but after the forced magic of the holidays, things felt flat. They fought here and there, just bickering and apologizing and doing it all over again. And then Eliott had looked at him one day as they sat on his couch having not spoken in the two hours they had been sitting there and he’d said the words Lucas had been dreading: I think we should break up.
Lucas hadn’t had the strength to fight it. He’d simply said okay and looked out the window, watching the snow swirl in the streets and feeling a new chill invade his body.
Thirteen months and four days. That’s how long it’s been since they broke up. He keeps saying a year because he knows that people don’t care for specifics. But Lucas does and he knows. He always knows.
The harsh slap of the cold sobers Lucas up just enough to realize that he can’t go out in this, can’t stumble drunk around Paris in the middle of the night just to go to him. So he heads back inside and does the next best thing. Laying in the middle of his bedroom, scarf still wrapped around his neck, Lucas presses a button and puts the phone to his ear.
It rings and for a minute Lucas thinks he won’t pick up. Or it’s too late and he’s asleep and then Lucas is regretting this decision and almost ends the call. But then he hears his voice.
“Lucas,” Eliott says. And then: “Do you know what time it is?”
Lucas does not. It assumes he’s late but the vodka had blurred the hours together.
“Why are you calling?” Eliott asks.
“I needed to talk to you,” Lucas says, because it’s true. It’s been true since last January. It’s been true for thirteen months.
Eliott is silent on the other end of the line and then Lucas hears him sigh. “You’ve been drinking tonight, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Lucas says, because he needs to be honest for once. It’s time to start being honest. “But I do need to talk to you.” And then it all comes out in a rush because Lucas can’t hold it in any longer. “I need to know why we broke up. Why you broke up with me, why you left. I thought I was doing better and then I saw you and it all came back. And I need to know what went wrong. What I did wrong.”
It’s quiet on the line and all Lucas can hear is the sound of Eliott’s breathing. Finally Eliott speaks and his voice sounds thin and ragged.
“Oh Lucas,” Eliott says, “it’s not like that.” A pause. “I think we need to talk. But not tonight. And not over the phone.”
“Okay.” Lucas feels a little nauseous.
“I’ll text you in the morning,” Eliott says. And then: “Goodnight, Lucas.”
Lucas can barely breathe and by the time he can bring himself to speak the line is already dead. But he whispers it anyway: “Goodnight, Eliott.”
And somehow he falls asleep like that – curled up on the floor, wrapped in his scarf, clutching his phone to his chest, with the promise of seeing Eliott again enough to let his fatigue overtake him.
@claraxbarton wanted to hear more about the kidnapping fic, so;
Clint gets kidnapped by Hydra and by the time the fic starts, he’s been gone for months. He and Bucky were already in a relationship at this stage, so he and Natasha are just catatonic, lurking around his apartment in Bed-Stuy.
-----
“Did you lose him?”
“He was injured,” Sam says. “Something fell on his leg during the explosion, he can’t have gone far.”
Natasha glances at him, and the look on her face is torture. “Should I go get him?”
The words are offered kindly, because Natasha’s trying to be good to him but she’s worried he’ll let Clint hurt him, won’t be willing to knock him down if he’s not all there. Bucky’s compromised, he knows he is, but he needs to get Clint himself or he’ll go insane, so he just shakes his head tightly and strides past them. Broken glass and things he doesn’t focus on too much crunch under his boots, but none of it is relevant in his search. His hand clenches tight around his gun, but there’s nothing when he glances around another shipping container. He’s got to be here somewhere, and even if he is dazed and hurt and quite possibly brainwashed, he’s Clint, so Bucky just has to stop and think about where he’d go if he were Hawkeye.
The answer, of course, is up.
There’s a couple of crates that haven’t been burned or blown to pieces, stacked up a few meters high, and when Bucky drops his weapon and pulls himself up onto the first one, he’s greeted with a knife bouncing off the metal of his left shoulder. It falls to the ruins below and he twists to the side, where a low-hanging piece of steel shields him from where the knife came from. There’s nothing else, however, not even movement, and after a pause he peeks out, hoping there’s not another blade heading his way. His eyes land on a dark shape in the corner, smears of blood on the metal, and for a second he stops breathing. His hunch had certainly been right, at least, because the broken, battered-looking blond sitting in the corner, looking wild and dangerous, is Clint Barton, although there’s no recognition in those sharp blue eyes. They’ve got him wearing different hearing aids, black and barely visible in the shadows, but at least they didn’t leave him deaf.
He raises a hand and Clint flinches back, even though he’s too far to have any damage done.
“Clint,” he says, and his voice cracks, just a little. “’m not gonna hurt you, doll, it’s okay. I came to take you home.”
TW: depression, self harm, suicide, victim blaming, referenced child abuse (physical, emotional, and verbal), referenced alcoholism, heavy angst
you've been warned
Today was the day.
Today was the day he would commit to it.
Today.. was the day the visit to the roof would be something more.
Today was the last.
The last for him to wake up cold.
The last for him to go to bed starving.
The last for him to wonder when he'll get his next meal.
The last for him to have to deal with his father's drinking.
The last for him to have to deal with his father's hitting.
The last for his father to tell him it was his fault their family was in shambles.
The last for him to wonder if his father was right.
The last for him to spend hours staring at the ceiling.
The last for his teachers to look on him with pity.
The last for him to be ignored by the authorities who were supposed to protect him.
The last for him to wonder how many pills would stop the pain.
The last... of his days.
The boy went up to the rooftop of a building abandoned for as long as anyone could remember. No one had wanted to reuse it after the villains using it had been arrested. No one even went down this way. Not unless they didn't want to be found. He didn't want to be found. He would rather they never found his corpse.
The rooftop was peaceful like usual. He's forgotten how many times he's been up here, watching the city move on without him. What was he but an insignificant speck in the universe? Would his father miss him? Who was he kidding? His father would be relieved that he was gone.
His father... the boy remembers a time when that man used to have nothing but love in his eyes when looking at him. How long has it been since he last saw his father's love? He remembers a time when he wasn't constantly drunk. He remembers when his mother was there, his father used to drink a lot less.
The boy looks to the sky. He sees.... birds..? They don't quite look like birds. He doesn't care to look into it any further, though. It won't matter soon, anyway. Nothing will. Not for him.
The boy takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes. He walks closer and closer to the edge. He opens his eyes again, climbs up the ledge, and takes in the view one last time. He jumped.
Falling...
Falling...
The wind whipped his hair.
He felt free... the freest he's been in five years.
He fell on the ground, and the last thing Skizz felt was his 13 year old body coming in contact with pavement.
The only thing left was a body, blood pooling around it.
