not sure if this is embarassing or lovely, however I did finish this tiny piece for Lina and Tatum as a part of my Creative Writing class assignment, so I tought I would share it here as well. Not tagging anyone because I am pretty sure nobody is here anymore, but if you are and you enjoy this, thank you! <3
It isn't the sound of running water that catches Tatum's attention as he steps into the apartment. It's the other sounds, blending into the buzz of water falling onto the tiles, almost indistinguishable to other people, were that other person not Tatum.
But Tatum knows. He would recognize it anywhere, anytime.
It cannot be, though. For how long did he wish to hear it? Whole months, months of darkness, months of grief, months of silence.
When he himself cried, because the heaviness sitting on his chest was too much to handle without tears, all he wanted was for her to let out some of that burden out, too.
Lina's sobs.
He doesn't think twice before crossing the living room and walking into the bathroom.
"Lina," Tatum breathes out, his voice barely above a whisper.
She is curled on the floor of the shower enclosure, clothes still on.
"Lina," Tatum repeats and walks in, sits down next to her and the water burns his skin, but he doesn't care, doesn't turn it off, because this is Lina crying, his Lina, and his hand is shaking when he cups her cheek, his throat is tight and all he can do is whisper, for the third time: "Lina."
She doesn't say anything at first, doesn't even look up at him, but Tatum knows she feels his presence, knows by the way Lina leans into his touch.
"I am here," he whispers and takes a moment to turn the water off, just in time to realize that Lina's sobs are slowly subsiding too. "I am right here."
They stay like that for a long time and Tatum wants to ask so many things, wants to take her as she is, curled up against his chest and carry her somewhere, anywhere, away from this. But he doesn't - instead, he sits there, the wet clothes now cold, stiking to their bodies and it makes him shiver, still he stays as he is, waiting, unmoving.
"Tatum," Lina croaks out after a long moment and for the first time in weeks, she looks him in the eyes. Searches his face, as if believing she might find something there. Some hope, perhaps. Answers. A future that has been taken aways from them.
"Is it all my fault?" she asks after a long while and her voice breaks at the end.
Tatum's heart drops at the words.
He wants to shake her out of those thoughts, wants to scream, no, it was never your fault, none of this is of your doing, Lina.
Instead, he gets up and stops the water. Grabs the towels, sheds his wet clothes. All his movements steady, almost mechanical. Helps Lina get out of hers and drapes the towel around her shoulders. She lets him - after weeks, she lets him. Lets him help her, lets him in.
The room is silent, but not painfully so, not anymore. This is the silence Tatum knows between them, the understanding silence, the one that keeps them close.
It is only when they are both dry when he takes Lina's face into his hands again and speaks (quietly, gently, a slight tremor to his voice).
"It is not your fault, Lina. It is not my fault, either-"
"Of course it is not your fault," she interrupts. "How could it possibly be?"
There are still silent tears streaming down her face, her cheeks flushed, but after so long, Tatum sees Lina. Sees the woman he loves, not a shell of her.
"It sounds foolish to blame me, doesn't it? It is just as foolish to blame yourself," he whispers. "There is nobody to blame. But there is still something to love, Lina. Me. Yourself. Life itself"
Lina keeps looking at him, studies his face silently, tenderly and even though she doesn't say anything, he knows she wants him to talk.
"I know," he gulps, feeling his own tears in the corners of his eyes. "I know how much you are hurting and it pains me to think that you would hate yourself over this."
Silence fills the room once again as she hugs him tightly, nestles her head in the crook of his neck.
A heavy silence, indeed, but it's their silence. The one he is familiar with, the one he can read. Without speaking, there are words flying around them.
I am sorry. I need you. I am afraid of needing you so much. I have missed you. I cannot do this without you. I am scared. I love you, I love you, I love you.
I love how Tatum Mendoza throws phrases like "I would rather not have Lina out of my sight" around, like a good bodyguard he is when we all know his whipped ass would rather not have Lina out of his sight ever
Hello! (I guess? I am not sure what do you say when you are about to post your writing after almost 4 years of not posting it). Not sure if anyone is still here, but I am overwhelmed with inspiration and a sheer need to write. Therefore, I am sharing this little snippet from the fic for Ethan and Chiara that I am currently working on - it's continuation of chapter 11 in book 2, as Chiara is recovering from the maitotoxin attack, still in the hospital.
"I wish I could take some of that away. Some of the pain, some of those memories," Ethan whispers into the silence.
"Don't. You have been through enough yourself. I know the fear running through your veins when you think about your close ones dying," she still does not look at him, her eyes distant.
Ethan wishes she would look at him. More than a year of knowing her, of working, of existing near Chiara and he always finds himself wishing she would look at him, always relishing in the quiver of his stomach as he loses himself in the green of her irises.
It turns out, he always loses himself in her, because she is still not looking at him and he is lost, lost in the warmth of her palm in his, lost in her scent, lost in-
"Back in that room," she speaks again, her voice raspy, "when I believed I wouldn't make it, I thought how incomparably easier is to die than to learn how to continue living in the world where the people you love are not anymore."
if anyone is still here, please do reach out! I would love to know how you guys are doing ❤️
okay I just finished Open Heart Book 3 for the first time *ever* (I stopped playing after chapter 7 and never turned back... until now) and well - yes, through this whole book, Ethan was SOMETHING but the Last chapter was actually... so fucking sweet?
I am embarassed to admit that there were tears in the corner of my eye when I finished it.
thank you so much for this and I am sorry I am this late, I bet you forgot you sent this:D
all she wished to be was his (he called her a midnight sun)
This was not supposed to be Chapter 8 rewrite but it actually fits the events, so let’s consider it a canon-divergent version of, uh, the comfort scene in that chapter.
WC: 1.1k
Warnings: hurt/comfort but I think it’s harmless. Soft and very E & C like.
*** *** ***
Chiara has gotten to know Ethan.
She knows that. She doesn’t think so, she knows she knows Ethan.
She knows his silence, too.
And the ride home was silent. Watching Ethan from the corner of her eye, she recognized the mask he was wearing – seemingly stoic, concerned at most. There was a thunder in his eyes, though, blue irises a shade darker and screaming rage. He was angry – with himself, with Leland, with the situation he has found himself in or with life in general, she was not sure.
The dinner was silent, too. Heavy, serious silence only interrupted by the clinking of their cutlery – not uncomfortable, though. He needed the silence and she respected that and in that, they found comfort.
„Will you-„ he gulped after they finished the meal. „Could you stay the night?“
She nodded, of course, and Ethan didn’t say anything else, hugging her quickly (quickly, but oh so tightly. So tenderly) in a response.
Two years ago, Chiara would've called him grumpy. Rude, perhaps. But she has gotten to know Ethan.
They couldn’t be more different when it comes to dealing with difficult situations if they tried. Chiara needs to talk it through – talk and analyze, share her worries with someone. When Ethan is not there to listen, she talks to Bryce or she calls her mom. Ethan deals with his problems on his own, within the safety of his own mind and only when he comes to his own conlusion, he considers sharing them with someone.
The bedroom is poured in silence, too. The bedside table’s lamp flooding the room with warm light, shadows lazily dancing on a wall opposite of the bed Chiara is currently occupying. Back comfortably resting against the headboard, book in her hand and she looks so peaceful when Ethan steps into the room, dark grey pajama pants hanging low on his hips, few forgotten water drops hiding in his chest hair. He stops in his tracks and part of him hopes Chiara doesn’t notice him so that he can observe without being interrupted.
Of course she notices.
(Of course she does. She sees him even when he doesn’t want to be seen. She sees him always.)
A smile welcomes him. Smile warm, soft and brilliant (like Chiara herself) and she waves her hand lightly, beckoning him to join her in bed – and one could think that she is wordlessly telling him come here, you can talk to me; that she is convicing him to trust her and talk to her.
But Ethan has gotten to know Chiara, too.
He knows that she is wordlessly telling him come here, lay down, I am here.
I am here and that’s all we need for now.
She doesn’t persuade him to talk, because she respects him. Because if there is something they have both been feeling to each other for years now, it’s respect.
Chiara’s attention is back on the book in her hand by the time Ethan crosses the room and slumps on the bed next to her, but her arm stays stretched out, still beckoning him to come closer, to find his comfort with her.
And he does find it. The moment he puts his head on her stomach, one of his hands curling around her thigh, he feels some of the tension that has been building in his temples dissolve.
More silence, less heavy, less serious, but just as comfortable and Chiara tangles her free hand into Ethan’s hair, soft and still damp from the shower, delicate, silky curls forming at the nape of his neck-
(and God, how much does she love those curls, subtle and only there for a while; only seen by a few, soft curls like his soft side, precious and hers to love now)
-and she strokes them gently, massages his scalp occasionally. He keeps on caressing her thigh with his thumb, his hot breath (a little bit ragged still, she notices) tickling her skin in the most pleasant way possible.
There is still no talking, just more content silence, rustling of Chiara’s book and Ethan’s quick, shallow breaths getting deeper, slower, calmer.
„I don’t know what is going to happen, Chiara,“ he whispers after two chapters,
„None of us ever really does,“ she chuckles softly, closing the book. „That’s the magic of being alive, isn’t it? We never really know what happens next.“
„I don’t believe in magic, to be honest.“
That earns him a wholehearted laugh from Chiara, the first loud sound of all evening.
„Well then, you will have to believe in me and in what I am saying,“ she chrips and even though she cannot see Ethan’s face, she thinks he is smiling, too.
(He is.)
Taking a deep breath - not ragged anymore – Ethan feels the scent of Chiara –body lotion (white tea and citruses), faint remnants of her perfume and then her, her natural scent, sweet and oceanic and so Chiara-like – ground him, calm him down better than any whiskey he would be drinking now, hasn’t she been here.
(The secret smile never seen by anyone – only there when he thinks of Chiara and Chiara only. Hidden from the world, hidden from Chiara herself, only known by the inanimate objects that witness his intimate musing.)
By no means could he call himself an artist. A poet.
No, he is a man, an ordinary, always rational human with minimal care for poetry.
Yet, how could he only adress her as a woman?
(His woman, no less, but still a woman. No, no, she is more than that.)
As his partner or something juevinile as girlfriend? Even the love of his life is an understatement.
She is –
Everything.
All he ever longed for and never allowed himself to believe in.
Everything.
- the first ray of light creeping through the darkness the North Pole suffers through for those 179 days of polar night.
Not the blinding kind of light. Not the one he needs to cover his eyes from, not the one he needsto adjust to.
His life has been a polar night, the dark not dark enough to swallow him (to end him) rather the creeping dusk that makes his chest tighten, makes the lump in the throat bigger and bigger until it can be felt behind his ears and it suffocates him (not enough to end him, no), makes him choke-
-until the first ray of a midnight sun breaks through and there are 186 days of light and nothing but light, warm and welcoming and wondrous.
Chiara Ray is his very personal midnight sun.
And if almost four decades of his life were 179 days, then he could only hope those 186 days of light (warm and welcoming and wondrous) she could guarantee him would be enough to last until his own last breath.
(And hope he did)
*** *** ***
thank you so much for sending this and for reading! <333 love you all
the last part was not originally planned as a part of something bigger, but here I am fitting it here because I like it
I got a request asking if I could share the Pi Day fic here and look, I am totally aware of the fact that I said I am done posting so if you want to call me a hypocrite (I am looking at you, person who keeps sending those awful anons) - go on. I will post it under the cut and I won’t tag anyone, so hopefully it won’t bother anyone all that much.
so, so valid of anthony to barely be in this season because he canonically can’t stop fucking his wife long enough to be a functioning member of society
