thestrayco

indie multi-muse

[dailybuddie]

#heart eyes

[kindheartedtruth]

Buck and Eddie (& Christopher)

please make them a family

[hayaomiyazaki]

Josh O'Connor and Daniel Metz in HIDE AND SEEK (2014) dir. Joanna Coates

[half-synth]

[erika-writes]

[allofusandco]

the right thing || conrude

[thestrayco-blog]

allofusandco‌:

Jude is, sort of, nominally at least, aware that Bell is still standing there. But he has to know that he’s the least sterile thing in the room, and also, that there is no one else available to make sure the tiny, fragile life on this table doesn’t become, say, a law suit. Eventually, he disappears through the curtains again. If he has half a brain in his head he’ll pretend he didn’t even see this. If there are actual, living parents out there, admitting that a random surgeon popping by to visit his boyfriend saved their kid’s life and he’d tried to stop it wouldn’t go down well at all.

“Someone get me a stronger light in here?” Jude asks, once he has the patch and the suture kit. A nurse comes up behind his, expertly angling a small but very powerful flashlight over his shoulders so Jude’s own shadow isn’t interfering with visibility anymore. “Thanks,” he says.

Jude’s hands feel so large. None of this is unfamiliar work, but this tiny kid isn’t a soldier. His body isn’t grown. He does exude the strength, the toughness, of the soldiers who Jude has treated for bullet wounds before and he’s just grateful that a few months of treating kidskin Haiti stops him from feeling like someone else should be doing this altogether.

“Suction?” he asks, and moments later the field is cleared so he can apply the patch.

It’s fiddly work, and it feel like it takes forever, but in truth it’s only a few minutes before Jude has repaired the artery. If he had a scrap of religiosity in his entire body, he’d throw a prayer up right now.

“Moment of truth, people,” he says, removing the first of the clamps. The patch holds, and Jude breathes out. He removes the second, not even breathing, and lets out a sigh of relief. “Got it.” A smattering of quiet cheers go up in the makeshift OR, but Jude only has eyes for the monitor. BP recovering, heart rate returning to normal, pulse ox fine. He grins at Conrad over the surgical mask, for just a moment, and knows it has reached his eyes.

“Alright, I’m gonna close,” he says, accepting a suture kit he doesn’t even remember asking for. Scrub nurses are worth their weight in gold, every one of them. Half a dozen internal and eighteen external sutures later, he’s done.

“Look at these,” he tells Conrad. “I think about the sand box sometimes and how everything was geared to just keeping blood and organs inside, and the sutures might as well have been industrial staples. Having enough time to do a decent job is never going to get old. With good care he might get away without a scar, at this age.”

Jude turns to a nurse. “I’m assuming that bullet hadn’t been sterilized, so let’s start him on antibiotics, can let that get infected. Amoxycillin, but monitor for a reaction in case he’s allergic, since we still don’t have a medical history — unless that’s changed? And let’s get him cleaned up so we can monitor the wound. Thanks, everyone,” he says, stepping through the curtains, letting a nurse strip away his filthy surgical apron.

“I missed working with you,” Jude says to Conrad, with a grin that definitely skirts the territory of lecherous. “What are we doing next? I’m not leaving — Bell can charge me, if he wants. A broke surgeon volunteering for MSF versus a greedy CEO with shaky hands wouldn’t be a hard call for a jury.”

It’s a relief when the boy’s side is stitched up. Things like this    they shouldn’t happen anywhere. Not on the streets of Atlanta, and not the dozens of places he and Jude have traveled as doctors, where wounded children are a terrible rule, rather than an exception. He’s just glad Jude’s there. There aren’t any hands he’d trust more with a life than Jude’s, and while Conrad would’ve done everything in his power to keep that little boy alive, he’s not sure how things would’ve gone without Jude.

Amazing how much of his life that’s true for. 

He shakes the thought away, mustering a relieved smile as he tugs off his gloves crosses to press a quick kiss to Jude’s cheek. “Missed working with you, too,” he says. Working. Living. Waking up alongside. His smile curls a little wider when he thinks of the next morning, waking up not to empty sheets, but to Jude’s warm weight curled up beside him. 

He slips an arm around Jude’s waist, steering him away from their makeshift OR while the nurses and maintenance figure out exactly who’s responsible for cleaning up the mess. Normally, Conrad would be right there with them, unless he got called away to another patient. But his pager is silent, and as guilty as Conrad feels about leaving someone else to clean up his mess, Jude is back. And as long as nothing is on fire, and nobody is actively bleeding out, he would really like two minutes to just stop and process that. 

“Bell’s an ass, but he’s not an idiot,” he tells Jude as he steers them away from the patient intake area. “Going after the MSF surgeon who saved a kid’s life in the middle of a crisis.” They’re two floors away from the on-call room, and a break room not too far from where they are, but Conrad resists the urge to drag Jude into either of them. The power’s still out, and there’s still work to be done. They probably only have time for a quick hello before the next emergency. 

He’ll make do. “Think they’re getting high-risk patients ready to move, in case we need to start moving people to other hospitals. I’m sure shit’s crazy up in the OR, too. Mina might appreciate an extra pair of hands.” Hands that he takes into his own, pulling them snugly around his waist as he shifts in close. No break room, no on call room, but he’s pulled them into a nook near the nurse’s station that, if not private, is at least out of the way. 

His smile softens as he stares up at Jude, trying to soak up as much comfort and warmth as he can in the short time they have. “But I think the first thing you need to do is kiss your boyfriend hello,” he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over Jude’s knuckles briefly before reaching up to wrap his arms around his shoulders. Fuck, he missed this. He always misses this, and the sheer relief at having Jude back in his arms again makes his knees feel a little spongey. “Before his pager goes off, and he has to dive back into the crazy.”

[thestrayco-blog]

heaven and earth

[thestrayco-blog]

allroundlostcause‌:

Jesus fuck, it hurts.

Not Bellamy resting against him, that’s all he’s ever really wanted. No, it’s the raw pain in Bellamy’s voice, echoing through Alaric’s own heart, the way his body shakes. It’s so fucked up. Bellamy should never have been in this situation. Alaric had always kept Bellamy’s mother at arm’s length, even when she’d clearly appreciated the way he watched out for Bellamy, and the way he helped make Octavos feel normal. Because he hated that she’d ever put Bellamy in this situation. And now, because of her, all of this has happened to Bellamy and Alaric wishes she hadn’t been floated, yet, so he could tell her in exquisite detail how her life choices have ruined Bellamy’s life.

He can’t regret Octavia, or blame her.

If he forces himself to be logical, he can’t even blame their mom, because she was as much a victim of circumstance as anyone.

But right now, all Alaric really wants to focus on is the way Bellamy’s body is racked with sobs, the way his fingers are digging into Alaric’s skin like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

Okay. So he has to say some things.

“Please, Bell,” he says. “I know I don’t know how you feel. I can’t imagine what you’re goin’ through right now, but I know that those people in the mountain — I get that they were doin’ what they felt they had to, but they were parasites. They needed to die.

“No, you know… they weren’t even parasites. Parasites are part of the natural order. Those people, they weren’t. They couldn’t be allowed to keep using us — or the grounders — to keep themselves alive. That’s not evolution, it’s exploitation. It’s murder.”

It probably doesn’t make any difference at all, and Bellamy definitely isn’t ready to hear it, but Alaric can’t help himself. He keeps his mouth shut for a while, though, holding Bellamy against him, running his fingers through those gorgeous curls. After so many weeks of assuming that Bellamy was dead, he can’t keep at bay the feeling of relief that he’s here. And that he kissed Alaric, and that he’s here with his ear pressed against Alaric’s chest, that he is within reach.

His minds wanders unwillingly to the day they looked for volunteers to be floated. He’d been so willing, assuming that Bellamy and everyone else was dead. There had even been a kind of relief in it. He’d missed Bellamy for years, from the moment he’d taken a step away from Alaric, vowing not to take Alaric’s down with him.

But he is selfishly relieved, so relieved that it’s ugly, that his decision had been rejected; because as bad as this is, it’s not as bad as it would be if Bellamy was here alone.

Alaric would kind of like to punch Clark. Also, tie her to a chair and explain all the reasons it’s not okay for her to just leave this way. Much as he thinks he understands it.

Hey, hey. I love you, you know that? Fuck, you’re strong. I don’t know how you’ve kept going. You need to stop beating yourself up for making the best decision you could under the circumstances. Please, Bell. There is not one single leader in our world or any other who hasn’t had to make a decision that hurt them.”

Alaric’s words are familiar; he’s heard them before. Repeated them to himself dozens of times in Mount Weather: they were leeches. Vampires. They strung human beings up like blood bags and drained them dry, and that was before they found out what Skaikru’s marrow could do. Their life wasn’t compatible with anybody else’s, and he knew that. Knows that. 

But God, there were children. 

They didn’t know what they were doing. They didn’t understand the treatments, had probably never seen the tower of cages where they’d kept the Grounders. They didn’t know what their little lives had cost, and how     how could Bellamy blame them for that? How could Bellamy hate them for that? 

The problem with war, Bellamy had learned, was that enemy and villain didn’t match up quite as neatly as they did in all the stories. Bad guys weren’t always bad people, just the ones standing on the other side of the line. 

“The others ... ” He tries to focus on the gentle slide of Ric’s fingers through his hair, tries to time his breaths to each new stroke. Not because he thinks it’ll make him feel better, but because it might be the only way he can say what he wants to say without breaking apart into thousands of jagged, inhuman pieces. “Half of them, when they see me, they thank me. And half of them look at me like they’re afraid of what I’ll do next.” 

He takes another breath in. Out. The air leaves his lungs in a taut, hoarse chuckle. “I really don’t know which one’s worse.” He sighs. “I don’t blame her.” Feels good to say it out loud. “I’m pissed that she left. I’m    ” Hurt. Off balance. Sick. “I’m disappointed in her, leaving her people like that when she knew damn well they needed her.” When she knew I needed her. “But I get why she did it, I really do. Lost count of the number of times today I wanted to walk out that gate and not come back.” 

He leans back enough to look at Ric. “But then I couldn’t be here.” Clarke is a brilliant woman, but Bellamy knows something he thinks she doesn’t: guilt travels. Even if he left, it would chase him everywhere he went. At least here, he’s not alone with it. And they worked too damn hard to stay together to give that up now. “And right now ... here’s the only place I want to be.”

[allofusandco]

every breath | silverflint

[thestrayco-blog]

allofusandco‌:

James laughs, unexpectedly. Yes, he’s familiar with Woolf’s essay on Austen. Hadn’t necessarily agreed with every part of it, but he had enjoyed it.

“You probably steep the tea at boiling point,” he says. “It releases the tannins too quickly. Let the kettle cool for a minute, and you’ll find it a far more agreeable brew.” He never takes milk in his tea, nor sugar, so there is no disguising deficiencies. “Tea is an art, like war, or poetry. And like tea and poetry, experimenting is essential.” Brutalist, perhaps, with the reference to war, but no less true for all of that.

He opens his mouth to speak again and is immediately incensed by a loud buzzing in his pocket. His lip curls into a sneer, and he doesn’t even look at the name flashing on the screen before he has declined the call and turned the phone off, tossing it aside. Terrible things, if necessary. He resents the way their ubiquitous presence has instilled in petty minds the idea that one should always be available. Sadly, the department does contain more petty minds than any English department should, and though picking them off one by one has proved an enjoyable pastime over the years, James has not yet been able to redesign the entire faculty to his liking.

Yet.

“I have no inherent issue with populist fiction, of any era,” he says. “Nor issue with the right of authors to cold-bloodedly murder their characters; there is a reason we write. I have found it is rarely for such lofty aims as the desire to perfectly reflect the beauty of a sunset or a rainbow.” James has, himself, three published novels and six books of poetry. Anyone very familiar with the body of his work would suspect him of harboring bloodthirsty aspirations of his own, and would not be entirely wrong.

“I don’t even dislike the use of uncomplicated archetypes. And I would never suggest that Austen, in her time, was important, and remains important for the purposes of study. But you might have heard me mutter her name unkindly under my breath more than once, and the reason is simple enough.

“She bores the living shit out of me.”

James sips his tea again, quietly, before setting it on the dresser and reaching for his plated sandwich.

“I will never forget the first time I read Wuthering Heights. Of course, Brontë and Austen were not contemporaries, Brontë having been born shortly after Austen’s death, but comparisons were made and always will be, thanks very much to the dearth of published female authors at the time.” In his right hand, James holds his sandwich, mouth-wateringly tasty by design and execution, and in his left he holds the plate; but his lunch is near forgotten. His gaze is fixed nowhere, for a long moment. Perhaps fixed on his mental picture of the eponymous farmhouse, stark and imposing. “Wuthering Heights is a dreadful book, of course. Not one single character is likable. Heathcliff is cruel, Catherine is shallow, Linton is weaker than piss. Isabella might have set the suffragette movement back decades, had the book been published later. And yet I love it. It is bleak. I acknowledge that Heathcliff is now viewed as a romantic hero, but he’s an utter shit. The focus on his early days, facilitating Catherine’s sexual awakening, is shallow at best and deceptive at worst, when one considers the ugly end, his vengefulness and hatred — which frankly made him a far more compelling character. Did Catherine’s ghost haunt the farmhouse, or was he mad? I don’t know that it mattered, in the end.”

His gaze returns to John’s. John Silver truly is a magnificent creature. Perhaps one day James will show him the three poems in the most recent volume that were written with him in mind, but not today. He places the sandwich on the plate, and the plate on the bed, appetite forgotten.

“But you see, what Brontë achieved, and what I believe Austen tried to achieve and failed to — beyond the arguable depth of character, despite the use of such important archetypes — she saw that some people have passion, some people are fire. Passion,” he says, closing his hand into a fist, “which requires an intelligence which I believe to be damnably rare, is the only thing worth a damn. A life lived without passion, without the madness of passion —”

Suddenly, James feels Thomas’s knee hooking his shoulder, those cries of delight, the roll of his hips as Miranda pleasures herself on the bed beside them, and his train of thought is derailed.

He doesn’t miss them anymore. He did, for a long time. It kept him awake, it kept him miserable, but since it kept him writing as well, the rewards were equal to the misery. But their loss doesn’t ache as it did. It is simple, they are gone, and he remains.

:Mr. Darcy might have been compelling, was he less disinterested and aloof. Was he a more involved and passionate player from the moment we met him.

“Wuthering Heights is a poorly understood book. Those who sing its praises tend not to notice that it is, by most measures, utterly dreadful. Those who despise it fail to notice its importance as a metaphor and cautionary tale, decrying it as populist trash. Heathcliff is a terrible man, a terrible lover, and earned a bad end. And he rebelled in every second of his own destruction. And for those who read Pride and Prejudice as a literary curiosity, it has its place. But it is a poor place, and sprang from the mind of what a family friend described as, and I paraphrase, a husband-seeking social butterfly.”

James shakes his head.

“My apologies,” he says. “We were discussing Austen, not Brontë. And once more; she bores the ever-loving shit out of me. It makes her work no less important, of course. But should someone force me to re-read Pride and Prejudice at gunpoint, I would probably accept my gruesome end with all good grace. No matter how many heads she chops off, I will never care about any of Austen’s characters, whilst I adore the dreadful Heathcliff’s torment at the window, and the knowledge that his passion ultimately costs him his life — far later than he would have wished it.”

John is fire. James has seen it already, in their conversations, which have been too few. He is not broken, though he might argue that point. James stoops his head a moment in a mockery of apology — he does, after all, enjoy espousing at length on any topic that strikes him — but he is reliably informed that dominating a conversation is rude, and he wishes to hear John’s thoughts.

John could listen to James for hours, he thinks. Days. Eternities. There’s a fire in his words     a man who speaks not only of passion, but with it. It’s no mystery to John why his lectures fill so quickly. Handsome, captivating, with a speaking voice that could move dead men to tears. That’s not to say his lectures stay full; John made something of a game last term of how many stayed on after the first marks were returned. Culling the herd. Only the genuinely interested tended to stay on, and the rest ran screaming to the easier classes. 

Some of the professors John had spoken to said James’s expectations were unreasonably high; John personally suspected it was all a clever ploy to avoid droves of half-assed term papers come finals time. Fucking inspired, if you ask John.

James’s apology earns a snort. Might even be a proper laugh, in less distinguished company. “Apologies from the great James Flint,” he says. “Will the wonders never cease?” He wishes he could say the levity lasts, but perhaps, he thinks, it’s like a stomach taking food again for the first time in a long time. Small bites. 

Or maybe, offers a more pessimistic voice, he’s simply forgotten how it works. 

Whatever the cause, his smile slips from his face, and he sighs into his teacup. “You expect a great deal from your fiction and the sedulous souls who craft it,” he says slowly, thoughtfully. There’s a chance James might hear this as criticism, though it’s not; however, John has never shied away from criticisms, real or imagined. Builds character. And, more accurately, he just can’t seem to fucking help himself. “I wonder if you expect as much from the rest of the world.” 

I wonder if you expect as much from me. John wonders if James realizes it, what a precious and terrible weight his attentions are. People bloom like flowers in the light of his approval, and it’s so beautiful that John feels like he could drown in it. But with it comes this fear    this unholy, wretched terror of the day when the weather turns, and the sun withdraws its warmth. 

John still isn’t sure what to do with that fear. He’s lived the better part of his life determined not to pander to the wills of others. But he thinks    rather, fuck, he knows    that when the day comes  where he must choose between serving himself and pleasing James fucking Flint, it will be a much harder choice than it has any right to be. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly, more to his tea than to James. “What were we talking about again?” If asked, he’ll blame the painkillers for his distraction, but he rather hopes James won’t ask. 

[thestrayco-blog]

coming home

[thestrayco-blog]

allofusandco‌:

Jude gets it, he does, but honestly, if he can’t get comfortable with Conrad there, he’s going to have to say something. Because everything is uncomfortable enough without staying awake half the night trying to resist the allure of the morphine drip.

“I promise,” he says, earnestly.

Because the other side of this is — if he can’t get comfortably with Conrad stretched out beside him, without the familiar press of his body, the scent of his mint shampoo in Jude’s nose — he is probably going to just give up and have a long, self-pitying cry. And I he lets that start he’s never going to stop.

So he carefully shifts himself to the left. Honestly the padding and dressing on his stump is likes its own pillow, which does help to keep him comfortable, despite the drainage pipe snaking out from it. And if he gets close enough to the edge, Conrad can definitely fit; with Jude’s arm around his shoulder, with his ear pressed to Jude’s chest, the world’s best little spoon even when they’re not spooning.

“Easy,” he says, worried for a second that they might topple the bed. But soon Conrad is stretched out almost elegantly against Jude’s side. A whispers sylph, Jude’s favorite person, Jude’s person, full stop. A couple of hours ago, he’d told Conrad he should feel free to call off the engagement; it seems so fucking ridiculous now. Because this is them. And if the situation was reversed he wouldn’t let Conrad do that to him.

And. On the subject of tears?

This feels so fucking good he might cry anyway. Of course, it will be relief, and comfort, and the fresh realization that he has come home, home to someone who loves him.

But it might have to wait, because as that sense of home washes over him, he slips into the best night’s sleep he’s had since he lost his leg.

———

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” Jude asks Conrad, as he enters the room, a couple of days later, looking haggard. Convincing Conrad to take a lunch break is generally a waste of time, so he’d got Nic to do it instead. There are four burritos, less than steaming hot but still tasty, sitting on the table over his bed.

“He’s not my type,” says the orthopedic surgeon drily, and Jude grins.

“Good, because he’s got a really protective fiancé.” Jude points to his stump, currently uncovered for some debridement and then a break from being covered. “Almost no infection. And it’s healing.”

To anyone but a doctor, it would still look gruesome, but Conrad knows the score.

“Enjoy your lunch date,” says the surgeon, pushing her glasses up her nose and typing something into her tablet, before slipping it under her arm. “Dr Hawkins,” she adds, with a nod. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, Jude. Try not to steal a prosthetic and go jogging. You start upper body PT tomorrow. That’s upper body only. I’m saying it that way in front of the fiancé in hopes you’ll feel too guilty to cut corners.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jude tells Conrad. “How’s your day going? I heard a guy walked into the ER — walked — with six nails sticking out of his forehead? Is it true his wife did it?”

It’s a good thing Conrad doesn’t mind meddling. If he did, between Jude and Nic, his blood pressure would probably spike at least three times daily. Well. Three more times, daily. He knows where it’s coming from, though, and it’s not as if he doesn’t do the same    or worse, sometimes, if he’s being honest. So, when Nic sends him up to Jude’s room, which coincidentally happens to be stocked with enough food for two, Conrad only smiles. 

Of course, his smile widens considerably when he gets a read on Jude’s mood. Though he’s healing well, some days are still better than others; Conrad’s just pleased to see that this seems to be one of the better days. He nods to the surgeon as he passes her, so he can get a better look at Jude’s stump. It’s probably equal parts concern for Jude and doctorly curiosity, but he feels better when he can see the progress with his own eyes. 

“It looks good,” he says. Still not ready for the prosthetic, but once his upper body conditioning’s improved, he should be able to move around on the crutches well enough. Conrad knows he’s looking forward to it. Someone as independent as Jude, he probably can’t get up and moving soon enough. “But you heard the doctor: no overdoing it.” He gives the surgeon a wink     there, he’s done his duty as the responsible partner. She seems satisfied, at least, and once she leaves, Conrad moves up to steal a kiss. Chaste but warm, and he brushes his fingers through Jude’s hair as he pulls back. 

“You heard right,” Conrad says, debating between the chair by Jude’s bed and the bed itself. He settles for the chair    it’s nice, being close to Jude, but the chair is more practical for conversations; and with Jude’s stump temporarily unprotected, he’d rather be more careful    but only after pulling it right up to the side of Jude’s bed. “X-rays showed them penetrating the skull, but just barely. We’re flooding him with antibiotics right now, and making sure there are no bleeds, but it looks like the guy’ll pull through. Much to his wife’s chagrin. Apparently, Bring Your Mistress to Work Day didn’t go over very well at the construction site.”

It’s terrible; they really shouldn’t joke about this kind of stuff. But if they didn’t find humor in some of the shit they see from day to day, they’d probably all lose their minds. So. Jokes. 

He nods to the burritos. “You must’ve been hungry.” Oh, he knows damn well at least one of those is for him. It’s not the first time Jude’s “wanted to see him” conveniently close to lunch time, and it’s sweet. Really, it is. It’s also really damn hard to say he doesn’t have time to visit his bedridden fiancé, so there’s that. Kind of a dirty play, but it’s not like Conrad’s entirely innocent. They scheme because they care. 

[allroundlostcause]

forgotten places

[thestrayco-blog]

allroundlostcause‌:

It’s difficult enough to make himself leave without Bellamy following so close he risks stepping on the back of Alaric’s ankles. So much worse than that, though, is the way Alaric can feel the misery seeping from his pores, suddenly; Bellamy wants him to stay as much as Alaric wants to stay, so this isn’t making a whole lot of sense.

He’s got his hand on the doorknob, though, and this isn’t the time to discuss it. A goodnight kiss, and a reassuring smile, and he’ll go.

But will that be it, then? They spend their lives going home — separately — at the end of the night? Alaric might not have a lot of experience with serious relationships (people do get sick of taking second place to his camera, and he’s never liked anyone enough for that order to be upset, not until now) but he thinks it’s at least a general aim, falling asleep together, waking up together, snuggling in closer for five more minutes.

“You can’t tonight,” Alaric says, with a nod, slumping slightly as he takes a step away from the door, relieved beyond words at the way Bellamy has pulled him back, just a little way. “But now that I’m thinking about it — we’ve never spent the whole night together, and unless I misheard you, there was night last week when you said you had to get home to Octavia — a few hours after you’d told me she was staying with a friend. At the time I guess I thought you meant she’d be home early in the morning, but now… I mean…”

But his body is magnetized to Bellamy’s body, and his arms circle Bellamy’s shoulders, loosely, but (he thinks) possessively. And then tighter, pulling him in, enough to press their cheeks together and absorb a little comfort that way.

They really are in the early stages of this. Maybe Alaric is just pushing too fast. In which case, the course of action is clear; a goodnight kiss, a  cheerful smile, and a promise to meet for lunch. And then every night after this one, plan to go home, until one day, Bellamy asks him to stay. Unless he just doesn’t, in which case, Alaric can adjust his expectations. Not every relationship is conventional; Helen Bonham Carter and Tim Burton are happily married and they don’t even live together.

And that would be the plan, except.

Except. Alaric knows Bellamy well enough, now, to pick up on his tiny tells, and Bellamy wants this. And there is a plan B. Attempt to be an adult about it, and ask.

He meets Bellamy’s eyes.

“I love you, too. So much.” He reaches up to tuck Bellamy’s hair behind his ear, but it falls back into his eyes as quickly as it always does. “I came here looking for… something. I didn’t count on finding you.”

He rests his forehead against Bellamy’s and closes his eyes.

“I’ll go,” he promises. “I will, I’ll go tonight no matter what I hear, okay. And I will be here tomorrow. I don’t know how else to say I’m a sure thing, Bell, you can’t scare me away. But I’d like to know… why? Whatever’s goin’ on here, I’m sure it’s not easy to say, but I’d really like you to try.” He tightens his arms around Bellamy’s shoulders again, as comforting as he can be, a promise in every inch of his body, and turns his head enough to kiss Bellamy’s cheek, the constellation of freckles beneath his eye. “I won’t try to change your mind. I just want to understand.”

Alaric is unreal. Bellamy’s had the thought a lot of times, for a lot of reasons, but it strikes him now with particular force. He doesn’t leave. He would have every right to. Bellamy knows he hasn’t handled this well    practically kicked him out of bed without an explanation, and that’s just tonight’s transgressions. Alaric is doing the math. Remembering all the times Bellamy gave some terrible fucking excuse, so he could avoid having to own his faults. 

Bellamy isn’t sure he would be kind enough to stay. Patient enough to set aside the hurt, the embarrassment, the confusion, and try to find an explanation. But here Alaric is, draping his arms around Bellamy’s shoulders and pulling him close. Giving and taking comfort. That he even wants to find comfort with Bellamy tonight, it’s enough to make Bellamy’s head spin. 

The fact that he wants to give it, just makes Bellamy fall that much more in love. 

“Why.” He repeats the word, like saying it for himself will somehow make the answer come easier. It doesn’t, unsurprisingly. There are so many layers to that question. Why can’t he spend the night with Alaric? Why can’t he sleep without waking up in a cold sweat? Why can’t he be fucking normal, in this one thing. it’s sleep. it should be simple    one of the simplest things in the world. 

And yet, some nights Bellamy stares at his bed with a childish sort of fear in his chest. The monsters aren’t under his bed; they’re in his brain, waiting for the chance to come out and play. And the second he closes his eyes ... 

There’s truth in Alaric’s eyes, when he says Bellamy can’t scare him away. He means that, and Bellamy believes it. But there’s still that fear gnawing like termites in his bones. “I don’t ... ” He chews his lip. “I don’t sleep well,” is what he eventually comes up with, and that’s true, and it is an answer to Alaric’s question. A surface answer. But he’s working his way through it, layer by layer. “Restless. Nightmares. When I was a soldier ...” 

He gestures vaguely, struggling. “You know how these things go. You see things in war, and sometimes they don’t leave you so easily, ouais? I’m just not so good company at night, you understand? But I think,” that is, he hopes, “that it won’t always be like this. Everyone says it takes time, and I haven’t been back so long. So.” 

He pulls back with a shrug, not out of Alaric’s reach, but enough that he can see his face. Look into his eyes. Cup a hand to the curve of his jaw and pull him in for a short, chaste kiss. “So, not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow night. But sometime, yes.” He stops just short of promising. Wouldn’t be fair. “Is that ... is that all right?”

[thestrayco-blog]

partners in this | sg!conrude

[thestrayco-blog]

allofusandco‌:

Jude is so far from perfect that with anyone else wrapped around him he’d break into a cold sweat; there’s so much Conrad doesn’t know about him, so far, so much he doesn’t share with anyone, but will, now. It’s not all good and Jude has more baggage than anyone might guess. But he doesn’t object, because he knows what it means: Jude is perfect for Conrad. They are perfect together, already feeling the stir of an echo through the bond. Jude knows this is true because there’s nothing Conrad could reveal about himself that would change a thing, and that can only be mutual.

It’s strange, when he lets himself think on it for a moment; all the crap Jude carries around, that he doesn’t talk about, he feels like that would be a burden for them, and none of their business anyway. But this certainty that he wants to share those slow-healing wounds with Conrad, that Conrad has some himself — because, yes, there are sore places in him that have nothing to do with his senses, nor with the kind of entertaining injuries that occur when you’ve got a decent mountain bike and no fear — and Jude wants to tend them, too. Relationships have always seemed so unbalanced, to Jude. But not this.

It’s dizzying, being the focus point for Conrad, knowing that he’s taking in so much more information through his senses than Jude could ever really understand; knowing, as well, that he likes it, that he wants it. Conrad feels so small in Jude’s arms, but his hands seem so strong and capable, mapping out bone and muscle, learning Jude’s topography through every nerve ending on his skin. He kisses like he means it, too, kisses like he’s analyzing the precise angles of Jude’s mouth. He inhales deeply against Jude’s skin so he can remember every detail, and there’s something… almost like delight, thrumming through the bond. Like Jude is a discovery. As if his skin holds buried treasure.

Fuck, does he kiss like he means it.

But he lets Jude keep control, which is a heady feeling. He lets Jude control it — guide him, maybe — and Jude loves it. Likes it even more when he first hears Conrad almost breathe the word ‘mine’, like he’s thought it just loud enough so his mouth took the hint. Jude knows about the possessiveness, and it’s one more piece of proof that the bond is there, growing, healthy and golden. Yes, he belongs to Conrad, body and soul, couldn’t even think about wanting to be anywhere else. But Conrad belongs to him, too, and he can’t remember if possessiveness is as much a Guide trait as it is a Sentinel one, but on balance, it seems pretty likely that Jude is just possessive. It’s not something h’s experienced before, but he’s never really met anyone he really wanted to keep, before, either.

“Yours,” he promises, with his head tilted back just far enough to see Conrad’s face, his eyes even darker than usual, porcelain skin flushed with heat. “I feel it. I’ve never felt so much in my life… fuck, Conrad, this is even better than I’d imagined. Can we run away from the army? Canada, maybe?” They wouldn’t. Neither of them. But it’s nice to imagine living in a cabin in the snow and never having to think about anyone else, about deserts and guns and IEDs.

Jude doesn’t know what he wants, but he wants. Wants Conrad to mark him, perhaps. He wants to explore a hell of a lot more of this body, but they’re both tired, despite the fresh rush of adrenaline and hormones, and that should be… well, special implies they take off their promise rings and fuck in a field of daisies, but it shouldn’t be like this, filthy and sore. And besides, this, just this, the roaming hands of a — no, of his amorous Sentinel… that’s what he wants. To feel that golden bridge between them grow stronger, as Conrad explores with his senses, and Jude explores with his heart and mind.

“And you’re mine, too.” He nuzzles against Conrad’s cheek and bathes in that contentedness, the feeling of home. “I’m never gonna let you go.”

Jude is everywhere. 

He’s sight and sound and taste and scent and touch, and Conrad’s adrift in the sensations in the best way possible. He’s never felt so settled. So calm and comfortable in his own skin, with Jude’s pressed snug against it. 

He’s a little dazed with it. Stoned and sated, and uncertain how he ever lived without this feeling. Every day before this suddenly feels like such a struggle. All those times, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists and fighting so hard to stay grounded when his own senses were threatening to wash him away. 

But now ... now, he can let go. He can relax, and trust Jude to keep him the current from dragging him under. This is a different kind of consuming. A good kind, that makes the rest of the world feel faraway and unimportant. He knows ... he knows he should be worried. So much happened, and so many people were hurt, and Conrad knows peripherally that there are things he could be doing to help. 

And yet. 

Not right now. Right now, this is what matters. There’s only room for this, for the warmth of Jude’s skin and the husky rumble of his voice, and that word. Mine. Conrad tucks himself as close as he possibly can, burying his face in Jude’s shoulder as he closes his stinging eyes. He’s not upset; he’s not. They’re happy tears. Maybe a little overwhelmed, dizzy with relief and so fucking grateful to have finally found this. To have finally found his guide. 

“I didn’t know it could be like this,” he whispers. He could never have imagined the difference this could make. Jude isn’t an anchor; he’s a harbor. He’s safety. He’s home, shelter from senses that Conrad has come to rely upon and fear, sometimes in roughly equal measure. “How the fuck can it be like this?” 

How can there be such a difference? How can the world be so much clearer, simply because someone   the one     is close enough to touch. 

He doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to leave this perfect little world they’ve built, just the two of them, within the confines of the quiet room. The needles beneath his skin have faded to a warm, comfortable tingle, and the cacophony of sounds has given way to the thump of Jude’s heart and the soothing rhythm of his breath. 

There’s something else there, though, among all that’s inherently Jude. Blood and cordite and clay mud. And Conrad doesn’t want to get up. He wants to keep his eyes closed, stay nestled against the warmth of Jude’s body, and sleep soundly for probably the first time in years. But as good as it sounds, as tempting as it is, Conrad feels the tackiness of drying rain beneath his fingertips and the lingering damp on Jude’s skin, and he thinks, dirty. He thinks unhealthy and sick and uncomfortable. His PhD knows that sickness doesn’t come from rain, but his instincts say it isn’t worth the risk. 

“Is there ... ” He hesitates, lifting his head and blinking the blurriness from his eyes. “Do you want a shower?” He’s not entirely sure how to ask, because the idea of not touching Jude for any period of time right now is sickening. But asking the man to shower with him seems like something of a big ask. Jude didn’t surrender his right to privacy when he clicked as Conrad’s guide. It’s not right to presume. “It just ... smells.”

[thestrayco-blog]

coming home

[thestrayco-blog]

allofusandco‌:

The ability to focus has just fled. But he’s still trying. Hidey-holes, where does Jude have hidey-holes?

“Other than my cache of passports and fake IDs, you mean? You must have found that, by now.” He shakes his head, trying to clear the sudden cobwebs. There was a number. He can’t remember now what it was.

“Did you know there’s a figure eight on the eight of diamonds? Like, a big fat one, smack in the middle.” It’s really not relevant to anything, and Jude doesn’t have the eight of diamonds so he can’t actually show Conrad what he means.

“I don’t think I have hidey-holes,” he says, rearranging his cards. “There’s the black suitcase. There’s the box in the closet — it’s not just crampons, you know. All my rope is up there. The climbing kind and the tie Conrad up while we watch movies and I touch him kind, too.” This is probably not something he should be talking about in hospital, but there you have it. He tosses Conrad the six of spades.

“I’m gonna end up addicted to this shit and then I’m gonna have to come off it, which fucking sucks.”

He knows, though. Pain isn’t good for the body. If he could just ignore it, he would, but it increases blood pressure, which is not good for someone dealing with an injury of this very special caliber; increases the risk for developing depression, which he’s really not interested in (there had been a couple of years during med school before basic where things had been ugly) and he has a family history of addiction which is just breathtaking. He reaches for another slice of pizza.

“Sorry. It’s date night. Even if there’s no beer and no sex, I should be trying to stay at least mildly cheerful. You know what I hate? I hate that I’ve spent the last… what is it, fifteen months? I’ve missed you so much and now I’m back and we can’t even share a bed. It’s not even a sex thing.” It’s mostly not a sex thing. “I just miss holding you, you know? And you’re running yourself ragged trying to save the world and save me too, and I can’t do a thing about it.”

He tosses the cards down, because he really can’t focus, an his brain is trying to make flushes or straights or something instead of the pairs he needs for go fish. And he reaches for Conrad’s wrist, circling his hand loosely around it. It’s not quite the norm but it’s close enough. Jude has no idea if he can ever be what Conrad needs again.

“Would they let you stay in here with me? If you were on my right you wouldn’t be near my leg. Please. I’m so sick of seeing you every day and still fucking missing you. Fuck,” he adds, rubbing his forehead and tossing the rest of his slice back in the box. “I’m so stoned.”

The circumstances are terrible, but Conrad can’t help thinking that Loopy Jude is a little cute. Full of random tidbits of information that are only peripherally relevant, and then not relevant at all. A blush pricks at Conrad’s ears when Jude mentions the rope in the crampon box, but he’s smiling as he collects his cards. 

It only falters a little when Jude mentions the painkillers. “We’ll keep an eye on it,” he says. He knows Jude’s family history, but he also knows that he can’t go without the painkillers. Not right now. Conrad’s not even comfortable dialing him back yet, not when everything’s still so fresh. 

And if it does happen, they’ll deal with it. The two of them, they’ve been through so fucking much. They can get through this, too.

It does suck; he won’t pretend it doesn’t. He’s missed Jude more than he can put into words, and he thought ... that is, this was supposed to be Jude’s last trip. He was supposed to come back afterward, healthy and happy and satisfied, and they were supposed to start the next chapter of their lives together. Conrad was so looking forward to nights dozing off on the couch, catching up on all the Netflix they’d missed. To afternoons biking the trails until they were breathless and sore and couldn’t stop grinning. To mornings waking up tangled together, trading lazy kisses and touches until they had to get up and go to work. 

Those things aren’t gone. Not completely, though maybe some of them will be different now. It’s mostly just the wait. The hard times standing in the way that neither one of them had anticipated or prepared for. 

But that doesn’t mean they can’t have anything now. 

It’s almost Pavlovian, the way Conrad feels himself relax when Jude’s fingers circle his wrist. Conditioned responses. He raises Jude’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles and mustering his fallen smile. As he stands, he gathers the cards and sits them in his chair. He won’t be needing it, he hopes. Surely two PhDs can figure out how to fit in the bed together, even if Jude is a fucking tree and hospital beds are traditionally single occupancy. 

“Good news,” he tells him, conspiratorially, eyes crinkling as he toes out of his shoes and lays his stethoscope on the bedside table. The pizza box joins the cards on the table, and Conrad walks around to the right side of the bed with a speculative eye toward the space there. “I’m in pretty tight with the head nurse on call. I think she might be willing to let us slide, just this once.”  He’s painstakingly careful, crawling into the space on Jude’s right side. If he lays on his side, he doesn’t take up very much space, and he can slide under the covers without disturbing the wires and tubing snaked across the bed. 

“Tell me if this is uncomfortable,” he says, leaning in to press a kiss against the side of Jude’s head. “And I mean it,” he adds, sternly. “Don’t tough it out because you don’t want me to get up. We can figure out a way to make this comfortable, but I can’t do it if I don’t know I’m hurting you. Okay?”  

[allroundlostcause]

forgotten places

[thestrayco-blog]

allroundlostcause‌:

So considerate. And so, so missing the point. Although it’s briefly confusing and horrible when Bellamy leaps out of bed like he’s been shot, moments after he’d been looking at Alaric with the kind of open adoration Alaric has only ever dreamed about. But he’s always full of energy. Probably wants to clean up. Alaric should as well, but he’s too comfortable to move, even to make the morning a little easier.

“Don’t worry about it, babe,” he says, still grinning, sex-sleepy and sore in the best ways, letting his eyes close and debating pulling the sheet back up. “An early morning won’t kill me. I’ll go grab some of Lovelie’s pastries for breakfast and head out for some early morning photos.” They’d visited a place Alaric had loved in the dusk, but needs to see in the morning light if he really wants to capture it right. Actually, being woken up early might be ideal. “Though I’m still in for lunch.”

He’s waiting; not sure what for. For the mattress to dip as Bellamy climbs back in beside him, or to hear the water run in the bathroom. But there’s nothing but a waiting sort of silence, and Alaric rubs his eyes and pushes himself up n his elbow.

“It’s really fine,” he says. He could say so much more — he’s been quietly anticipating spending the whole night together since that first time they slept together, in Alaric’s hotel room. That he knows how to send someone off to work in exactly the right mood, if Bellamy is prepared to set his alarm a half-hour earlier than he’d planned. Nothing to start the day right better than a morning blowjob, as far as Alaric is aware.

And then he sees the look on Bellamy’s face.

It’s difficult to avoid jumping to conclusions. If this was anyone else, Alaric might be wondering if he’d got his lines crossed, somewhere along the way, if really this has been nothing but a holiday fling that will never mean more than some extremely memorable and athletic sex and an eventual goodbye as Alaric climbs into a taxi home.

In fact, that’s what his brain tries to tell him right off the mark, because he’s never been exactly lucky in love. But the second he forces himself to re-evaluate that, he knows it’s bullshit. You can’t fake what they’ve been doing. They’re in love — it’s complicated as fuck, and at some point Alaric is going to have to raise the question of how they can stay together when his visa is only good for six months — but what they have is real, and Alaric has a picture in his head that involves them living together at some point in the not-distant future, which means regular sleepovers is kind of a training ground for what he’s been hoping will be a very long future together.

“Oh,” he says, sitting up, because whatever the reason, this is happening. “Sorry, I…”

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, which has the bonus effect of allowing him to break eye contact with Bellamy. He reaches for his boxers with heavy rubber fingers and somehow manages to get them, and the jeans he’d been wearing (and regretting — yes, he needed to buy more shorts), onto his body without tripping over. And without throwing up, because anxiety has settled into his throat.

He stands, as he grabs his t-shirt.

“Is it okay if… I mean. Can you at least tell me… I mean, is it Octavia? Because I think she’s pretty clear about who we are to each other, and other than the very adolescent eye-rolling, she seems to be more than cool with it. I feel like the way we’ve been talking…”

Maybe it’s not that complicated. Maybe Bellamy doesn’t sleep well with someone else in bed with him. All those years in the military, he probably got very used to his bed being the only place he had some privacy, something like that.

“You know what? It doesn’t matter,” he says, forcing a laugh that doesn’t sound jovial in the slightest. “Lunch sounds good. Text me, I’ll meet you.”

Somehow, he manages to drag his t-shirt over his head without getting tangled in it. Pretending to be cool with this, pretending to be fine. He wants to at least offer Bellamy a goodnight kiss but somehow the moment is gone.

He does manage another smile, and he hopes it looks reassuring.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promises, grabbing up his keys, phone and wallet from the dresser, before he turns to go.

“No, that’s not ... don’t be sorry,” Bellamy says, helplessly. Don’t get up. Don’t get dressed. Don’t go. But he can’t say any of those things, because isn’t that exactly what he needs to happen? Not wants; needs. He needs Alaric not to see that side of him, the side that wakes up shaking and sweating and struggling against the sheets like they’re enemy soldiers. 

And he knows it’s stupid. Knows that, if this is something that is going to last    and he so badly wants it to be, believes it can be    they are eventually going to have to sleep in the same bed. That’s what couples do, no? They fall asleep together. They wake up together. They see all the parts of each other that maybe other people might not, and they accept them. Maybe Alaric has some uncomfortable habits, as well. A snorer, maybe? 

As if that’s somehow on the same level. 

He rakes his fingers through his hair, bending to pick up his jeans and tug them on. He should at least walk him to the door, no? And for Octavia’s sake, and the sake of his elderly neighbors across the way, he probably shouldn’t do it without clothes. Somehow, though, that makes it feel more final. More absolute. They’re both dressed, now, and as much as Bellamy wants to invite Alaric back to bed, this feels like they’re past the point of no return. 

“It isn’t O,” he admits, because if he’s going to be an ass about this, then at least he can be an honest one. “It’s ... not so easy to explain.” He falls into step with Alaric. He knows he has to leave, but Bellamy can’t seem to bring himself to let him go. Why do things have to be so complicated? Their love, it’s simple. They saw each other, and they knew. 

But their relationship? The practical realities of being together? 

That is not so simple. 

He falls back a few steps as Alaric reaches the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to soothe the hurt and anxiety he sees in Alaric’s eyes, no matter how badly he wants to. 

“I want to,” he tells him, as if that somehow makes it right. He just ... he needs Alaric to know. “I want to sleep with you. I want to wake up with you. I just ... can’t, tonight.” That seems unfair. Tonight. As if tomorrow is going to be different, or the next day, or the next day. One of them will have to be, he knows, but how long is it fair to ask Alaric to wait. 

But the idea of Alaric leaving, not knowing how badly Bellamy wants this, is almost as terrible as the thought of dragging it out. Maybe it’s selfish, the way he catches Alaric by the back of his jeans and pulls him back in, closer. Maybe it would be better to let him leave. But he’s pulling him around, settling a hand on his hip. 

“I want to,” he repeats, firmly, trying to catch and hold Alaric’s gaze. “And I love you. I need you to know that.”

[allroundlostcause]

forgotten places

[thestrayco-blog]

allroundlostcause‌:

Two weeks later

–

It’s been a very, very good night.

Not the first time he’s met Octavia, but the first time he’s really had much of a chance to get to know her; their dinner had been a cheerfully thrown together mix and match of things, with laughter, and music coming from somewhere down the street. Still terribly hot, but there’s no getting around that.

And then.

Just to be clear, Ric doesn’t see sex as the be-all and end-all of relationships; but that doesn’t change the fact that really fucking great sex does help. And he and Bellamy… it feels like their bodies were designed to fit together. Bellamy is all fire, passionate, enthusiastic, and very, very flexible. In more ways than one. Alaric hasn’t handed the reins to someone else in a long time, but he likes it, when Bellamy takes them.

And Ric is working. Not just working, not some painful trudging along, he’s got a vigor about him that is showing in his work. Photographs that he knows will affect people. Along with the outlines of a story that he knows he will sell, and sell somewhere amazing. Not National Geographic, that’s out of the question; it needs better distribution than that.

The crux of it all, is that he is in love. Head over heels, ‘so that’s what that’s about’, dopey-eyed love. Imagining a shared future love. Relieved that the apartment he has just signed a lease on is only down the street love. It makes him feel awake in such a way that he has started to wonder if he’s been sleepwalking, the last few years.

Right now, he’s exhausted, but happy, sweat gleaming on his skin and his heartbeat only just beginning to slow. He reaches up to press his fingers to the skin just north of his collarbone.

“I think you did it again,” he says, absently, and ‘think’ is not the right word, because this hickey is so thorough that it’s actually just a little bit painful. In a good way. And hey, at least he’s coordinated now. Probably a nice match for the one just below his navel, and the one on his hip.

“I think you broke me, though,” he says, with a grin. “Not that I mind. There are worse ways to go.” Alaric rolls onto his side, propped up on one elbow, and reaches out to run his fingers over Bellamy’s chest. All tightly-coiled lean muscle, strong from construction, from being a soldier, not from pumping iron in front of a full-length mirror at the gym for five hours a week.

It’s too hot to spoon, but he’s probably gonna try anyway. Once they’ve cooled down a little.

“We should sleep,” Alaric says. Strange to think this will be the first time they actually spend the night together. Bellamy has O to think about; he usually leaves Alaric’s hotel by midnight, at the latest, and Alaric has been waiting in keen anticipation for the moment he wakes up and Bellamy is the first thing he sees. “You wanna turn the lamp off?”

It’s better than anything Bellamy could’ve imagined. 

It’s not like he’s never wanted to be with someone. When he got back, it was one long string of one-night stands and flings that didn’t mean anything, and the whole time, he knew it wasn’t what he needed. It was just something to do. A way to be close to people, without expectations. 

This is ... different, in all the best ways. Yes, it’s sex, and it’s fooling around, but it’s more than that. It’s spending time together with something in mind other than the quickest route to the flattest surface. It’s meeting up after work to drink and talk about their days. It’s visits to the market to buy groceries for the week, and to feed Ric’s new hot sauce addiction. It’s sharing lunch while Bellamy looks through Ric’s new photographs, and maybe it’s just the island air    he’ll admit, there’s a romantic part of Bellamy that likes to think he’s had something to do with it    but he swears his photographs are getting better. They have more life in them, more energy, and Ric looks excited to share them in a way that makes Bellamy’s chest warm. 

It’s a romance of the mind, he thinks, as much as the body. And as Bellamy lies beside him, tracing idle patterns on Ric’s side, he can’t think of a time he’s ever felt so fulfilled. It’s a strange thing, to be so satisfied with what he has, and to be so excited for more. There’s a future, here. Bellamy knows he’s not the only one who feels that way. He catches Ric looking at him sometimes, and there’s this warmth in his eyes, this light. 

Bellamy means what he said: he wants forever with Alaric. 

That part, he knows. That part, it’s simple. But there are ... complexities. 

Ric doesn’t live in Haiti, for one, and there is a limit to his visa that seems to be creeping up on them faster and faster with every passing day. But that’s a down the road sort of problem.

He has a problem now. Namely, the realization that Ric is planning to sleep here. In his bed. Through the night. It’s not as if he’s never dozed off with him before. Afternoon naps in the sun, nodding off on the couch after a meal. That, he can do. Has done, without incident.

This isn’t that. It’s different at night, when the sleep is deeper. It’s like his dreams take their lead from the sky, darkening as the sun slips below the horizon. He sees things     things so real that he tastes sand and gunpowder on his tongue when he wakes. Smells the iron of blood, feels the sun-warmed press of metal against his hands. He sleeps, and he’s there, and sometimes, he’s still there when he wakes up, and he    

It isn’t normal, is the thing. And it isn’t so safe to be around him, as Octavia nearly found out one night, a few weeks after he’d come back to the country. The thought of going to sleep with Ric like this, it’s nice. Arms around him, warm and weighted down    it’s good. But the thought of waking up screaming, or worse ... it makes sweat prickle at Bellamy’s skin. 

He’s sitting up without really meaning to. Abruptly, maybe too abruptly, he’s on his feet, looking down at Alaric and trying to think of what the hell he’s going to say. The truth? suggests a small, earnest voice in the back of his head, but he nearly scoffs. Ah, yes. I have nightmares, sometimes. Big ones, nasty ones. It’s distinctly possible I’ll attack you if you startle me, but by all means, settle in. Of course I’ll get the lamp. 

He shakes his head, aware only belatedly that it probably doesn’t make much sense to an outside observer. Shaking his head at nothing. There’s something wrong with you. It isn’t news, but it doesn’t get any easier, the more he thinks it. It doesn’t get better. 

“I don’t really,” he starts to say, but he doesn’t know how to finish it. Probably should’ve found his clothes to have this conversation; not as if he hasn’t spent a fair bit of time naked with Alaric, but he feels oddly exposed right now. He clears his throat and tries again. “I have a very early morning,” he manages to say, and it sounds steady. Honest. Considerate, even, and he hates himself a little for it. “I wouldn’t want to wake you up when I leave. Maybe ... it would be better if you slept at your own place tonight.” 

He offers a smile that hopefully looks less forced than it feels. “I can come by at lunch, bring something to eat. If,” he adds at the end, pushing his hair back from his face, “that would be all right with you?” 

Fuck.

[allroundlostcause]

forgotten places

[thestrayco-blog]

allroundlostcause‌:

Alaric listens. He listens hard, because it’s always interesting to hear the perspective of someone who doesn’t live on his side of the camera, and he listens because it’s nice to feel like someone is trying to understand, and he listens because watching Bellamy talk is a treat all by itself. Those sparkling eyes, the ways his mouth moves, the occasional word of French thrown in; and he’s right, about a lot of things. It’s true that a photograph can only capture a moment, but there is still something indefinable about the portraits Alaric loves, something he doesn’t feel he has ever achieved.

But maybe Bellamy is right. Maybe he is making something out of nothing, maybe he just needs to practice, maybe what he’s chasing isn’t so different to what he has now. The thought of photographic Bellamy appeals a lot. Black and white, maybe, all of those freckles stark against his skin, looking right at the camera, looking at Alaric; defiant and beautiful as he is, he would be an excellent model.

Alaric likes the idea too much. Maybe at the cove on a rough day. No shirt, nothing to hide behind.

He takes Bellamy’s face between his hands and kisses him hungrily, but briefly.

“I’d love to take your photograph,” he promises, before Bellamy starts looking through the day’s haul.

There are some fantastic pictures in there. Something breaking the surface of the water — some kind of fish, Alaric hadn’t been able to see it before it disappeared under the water again, but he’d captured the moment with a very high shutter speed, the splash appearing suspended above the surface.

“I read French better than I speak it,” he says, ruefully. “Benefits of a classical education. And I can understand most of it. I’d never get the nuances of what you were saying.” He reads several languages he doesn’t speak well. More Latin than the average, as well. All of which is the sort of empty thinking which is allowing him to pretend he didn’t hear Bellamy’s question.

Safe word. What a dumb thing to say — good as Bellamy’s English is, Alaric doubts he’s ever sat around with his army buddies discussing the finer points of consent in BDSM. Not that it’s the only context for a safe word; probably, he can get around this by being vague, but that seems cowardly and frankly pretty disingenuous.

He’s blushing.

Alaric likes to entertain the delusion that he stopped blushing when he was still a teenager, and it has definitely improved, though it’s far from gone. Maybe he couldn’t light up a room the way he used to anymore, but he can feel the heat in his cheeks.

Keep it simple.

“Safe word. It’s, ah… well, for some sorts of power dynamics. In sex and relationships. You know, if you push too hard, someone can safe-word out and…” He stares intently at the screen, mouth suddenly dry. It’s not something he has an enormous amount of experience with, and definitely not something he’d raise less than twenty-four hours after meeting someone, but…

He glances at Bellamy’s face. Bellamy looks to be trying very hard not to laugh.

“You asshole,” Alaric says, grinning and sitting up straighter. “You’re fucking with me. You just wanted to see me blush, didn’t you? Well, congratulations,” he adds, pointing at his flushed cheeks. “You won.” He pulls one foot up to the chair, resting his arm across his knee, and watches as Bellamy continues through the photos.

“You’re right about my dad. He was a happy man. And he and my mom loved each other. When she dies, he only lasted another few days. He’d been sick, and he’d been looking after her, and it was like once he didn’t have her to look after anymore, he didn’t want or need to go on.” Bellamy hasn’t mentioned a father, just his mother and sister. Alaric doesn’t want to pry; he assumes there’s a story there, and he assumes if and when Bellamy wants him to know that story, he’ll tell him about it.

“Tell me about your sister. Octavia is a hell of a mouthful — is it a family name or something?”

Bellamy’s been kissed before. Many times, by many people, in many ways. He’s even been kissed well     the kind of kiss that leaves lips warm and tingling and a little swollen, head buzzing with all the best kinds of chemicals. 

Bellamy has never been kissed the way Alaric kisses him. 

He doesn’t even know how properly to describe it. They’re not all the same. Deep, lingering, like the ones they traded in bed. Shallow, fleeting, like the one he presses to Bellamy’s lips with his face between his hands. Each one leaves him feeling the same kind of breathless, though. A little flushed, a little stoned, smiling as he tries to focus on the pictures on the screen, and not the one playing out in real time just inches away.

Alaric is beautiful when he blushes. Beautiful when he isn’t blushing, too, but there’s something sort of disarming about the way the blood pinks his cheeks. It’s like his whole face gets involved, scrunching up the corners of his eyes and tugging at his mouth. 

“Maybe fucking with you a little,” he says with a grin, holding up his thumb and forefinger a short distance apart. “It’s a good answer, though. You know something about it?” He’s still messing with him. Mostly. The way Alaric describes it is not the way Bellamy has heard it described, and the differences are ... interesting, maybe. 

His smile falters a bit when Alaric talks about his parents. Losing them both in such a short span must’ve been hard; Bellamy would’ve been a wreck just losing one, if he hadn’t needed to keep his shit together for O. And the way Alaric talks about them, Bellamy gets the sense that their relationship was very different from the one he had with his mother. 

“You were close to them, ouais?” He brushes a kiss against Alaric’s temple, in silent apology. Sorry for his loss. Sorry to dredge it up. Sorry he didn’t know him sooner, so he could’ve ... what? He doesn’t know, exactly, what he would’ve done. But the idea of Alaric suffering and not being able to do something, even if it was before they met, makes him ache. 

Maybe it’s too early for that kind of thinking. Almost definitely is. And yet, he thinks it anyway, and pushing them away seems like a waste. He feels the way he feels. He thinks the things he thinks. When they’re good, what’s the point in pretending otherwise? “They sound wonderful, mon ami.” Maybe theirs was the kind of love where it’s better they passed so close together. Bellamy doesn’t know what he believes in terms of an afterlife, but sometimes, he’d like to think there’s a life after this one. A life of less troubles, and less loss. A life where he might see his mother again, and tell her he’s sorry. 

He stands, as if he can physically move himself out of that head space and into a different, better one. Alaric’s question helps, even if it makes Bellamy a little sheepish. “Ah, I gave it to her,” he says, scratching the back of his head. His turn to blush, it seems. “My mother, she really liked Greek and Roman mythology. History, too. I’d read about the Emperor Augustus in one of her books, and about his sister, Octavia. Not that I thought I was an emperor,” he adds, hurriedly, blush deepening. “I just liked the name, you know? It had ... power to it. Strength. I know that isn’t what made her strong, but she is. Too strong, sometimes, for her age, but children tend to grow up quickly here.” 

It’s a sad truth, but a nearly universal one in Haiti. Whether it’s poverty, sickness, or natural disasters, there are too many forces in the world that seem to try to rob children of their childhoods. “She wants to be a nurse. I think she can get a scholarship for football    not the American kind, although I think she could probably teach some of your players a thing or two,” he adds with a quiet laugh. 

He stops behind Alaric’s chair, bending to wrap his arms around his shoulders from behind. He likes being close to him. It’s unreal, the way he’s drawn to him. “She’ll like you. Maybe you can teach her boxing.” He pauses. “Or maybe that’s not such a good idea. She might break your face.” 

He leans a little farther, until he can kiss the curve of Alaric’s jaw. “And I like your face.” He likes the way it looks when it’s pink with a blush, or crinkled with a smile. When it’s slack with sleep, or furrowed with concentration. “It’s a good face. And a good neck. And good shoulders.” He kisses each in turn, smiling warmly. “And a good, well.” He flicks his eyes downward, pointedly, and winks. He did say he wants to see that blush again. 

Though he’s not so sure a blush is the only thing pinking those cheeks. “Looks like you got a little sun, eh?” he tells him, brushing a knuckle along Alaric’s cheekbone. “It suits you.”

[thestrayco-blog]

heaven and earth

[thestrayco-blog]

allroundlostcause‌:

Kind, tired eyes. Haunted. As Bellamy takes Alaric’s hand, he swears that one day he’ll find a way to take that guilt away from him, but right now, it’s too fresh, too raw. Bellamy wouldn’t hear it even if Alaric had the words to say.

Which he doesn’t.

He grips those strong hands, though, and lets his eyes close as their foreheads meet. So they’re not going backwards; that’s a relief. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike Bellamy to decide to punish himself by denying himself this, but maybe, like Alaric, he needs somewhere in this world where he can just be himself. Alaric would swear his heart rate has slowed, as they stay that way for a long, beautiful moment.

It has to end, though.

“It was too busy down there. I have advanced field medic training. There’s not many of us left who do. There are a couple of kids in the hospital wing who have bone infections from the marrow extraction, nasty shit. Ugliest debridement I’ve ever seen. I took some pain killers, though.”

Technically true; he took them. They’re on the dresser. He hadn’t wanted to screw up because he was out of it, or fall asleep without seeing Bellamy. Speaking of; Alaric gives him privacy to change, but it’s impossible not to notice the deep, red bruises on his body. He forces himself to look away so he won’t fly across the room and demand to see them all. He’s sick of everyone getting hurt; he’s sick of this life of struggle. As much as he hadn’t loved the Ark, the earth seems even more hostile, and that’s before he thinks about that wide, intimidating sky.

It’s been several hours since he looked at his arm. It’s a damn pity he didn’t get it stitched up back then, because now, the swelling is making everything that much more tender; the surrounding bruise has all the colors of an oil slick, thought it’s not nearly as pretty. The crust of blood doesn’t look great, either.

“Sinclair always liked me,” he says, rubbing his eyes, and waiting for the pain. “And there’s space. I think we’re good for now.” He doesn’t mention the exchange they’d had when Sinclair had shown him to the room. Couldn’t if he wanted to, with his teeth gritted hard together. The alcohol burns like fire.

Some anesthetic would be nice. Or half a bottle of moonshine. Surely, the kids have got a pot still set up by now. Probably the first thing they did when they got on the ground. He clenches his teeth, he closes his eyes, he tries to think of good memories. His parents dancing in their tiny quarters on the ark while Alaric read his history textbooks on the sofa. Teaching O to play blackjack. The moment just hours ago when Bellamy kissed him for the first time. That one works better than the others.

“I heard scars are hot,” Alaric says. “Supposed to make me look all badass and brave, right?” He closes his mouth again, and refuses to cry out, even as his blood pressure is rising, even as tears spring to his eyes. He turns in time to watch Bellamy blow his hair out of his eyes, and watch it fall straight back into place. He reaches across with his good arm and tucks it behind Bellamy’s ear. “It’s gotten so long,” he says, with a smile, and a resigned nod. “I’m alright. Just keep going.”

Fortunately, there’s not much left to do. Alaric breathes a sigh of relief as Bellamy ties off the last stitch. The tension that has been building in his neck and shoulders drains off a little, and he forces himself to look.

“Not bad,” he says. “Thanks. I’ve got a couple of shirts you can do tomorrow, if you’ve got time.” Maybe it’s too soon for levity, but he needs some regardless. Oh, fuck, it hurts, it hurts it hurts. But it will be better. He reaches for the piece of notebook paper he’d carefully folded around four tablets, and takes two of them. “Do you do buttons, too?”

He turns, so he can rest against the pillows pressed against the wall, since his own body is working very hard to just slither to the ground and stay there.

Bellamy looks haunted, and much too far away. Alaric parts his knees, and holds out a hand.

“Just come here and let me hold you for a while, would you? You’re exhausted, and we’ve been in constant crisis mode from the second I laid eyes on you. We’ve got some quiet, some privacy.” He doesn’t add that Bellamy probably needs to fall apart; it’s true, but there’s no need to make a deal of it.

Bellamy fits so nicely in his arms.

Alaric runs his fingers through those beautiful curls, and runs his hand over Bellamy’s back and shoulders, soothing. Gentle. Something that seems to be in very short supply, down her on the earth.

“I missed you. I missed you when I was on the Ark and you were down here — I missed you when we were both up there, too, after…” He can’t even finish that sentence. But knowing Bellamy had gone through that, losing his mom and O at the same time, had been made so much worse in Alaric’s head because he wouldn’t take any support. “I missed you when you were in the mountain. Not sure I could bear to have you out of my sight again, after all of this. Maybe we could agree to keep an eye on each other.”

Come here and let me hold you. 

Bellamy’s frozen for a second, torn between what he wants to do and what he knows he ought to. Because he wants nothing more than to crawl into the space between Alaric’s knees and curl up against the solid warmth of his chest. He wants arms around him, and hands on him, and the steady rhythm of Alaric’s heartbeat in his ear so he can remember why he fought so hard to survive in that concrete hell beneath the mountain. 

But he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t, because Alaric needs to rest, and he needs to be careful with his arm, and why the fuck would you want to hold something like me?

He swallows hard against a surge of panic that tries to rise in his chest. He’s been pushing it down since he first felt that blindfold settle over his eyes, but it’s not so easy now that there’s nothing else to hide behind. It’s there, a vicious little hissing in the back of his head. They trusted you. They helped you. They died in agony because you fucking        

He forces his feet to move, claiming that last bit of distance to the bed so he can fold himself into Alaric’s waiting arms. It’s stupid. Childish, even. Thinking he can hide from the guilt of what he’s done if he just buries his face in Alaric’s shoulder and wills it all away. 

Alaric somehow makes it better and worse. Those hands moving across his back, so warm and gentle. His voice, washing over Bellamy with such earnest affection. It makes Bellamy feel safe in a way he hasn’t since ... since he lost everything. 

But he doesn’t deserve it. 

Why should he get to feel safe? Why should he get to feel loved, after everything he’s done. Hundreds of people’s blood on his hands; he shouldn’t get to hide from that. He can’t hide from that. He closes his eyes and sees a little girl trotting after her class with her backpack and that name. He sees Vincent and Maya, risking their lives to help keep their people safe. He sees that lever slowly descending, and the pain in Clarke’s eyes as she walked away from him outside the gates of Arkadia.

He sees ... 

He sees ... 

Everything.  

The first sob catches him off guard, lodging in his throat like a razor blade. Fuck, no, stop. He grits his teeth, tries to swallow it back, but it sticks. It sticks, and it chokes him, and his eyes are burning, but every time he closes them, they’re all there. Streaks of light across the sky. Three hundred lives, because he was too afraid to face the consequences of his actions. 

He didn’t even know how many people he’d killed this time. It seemed like something he should know. What the fuck kind of man doesn’t know how many people he’s killed? 

Not a man. 

Not anymore. 

He really is a fucking monster. 

“Ric.” It’s a plea, but he doesn’t know what for. Make it better, make it quiet, make it stop. But he can’t, and maybe he shouldn’t, because maybe this is what Bellamy deserves. Hundreds of ghosts inside his head, clawing to get out. 

He doesn’t know how many more ghosts he can take. 

“Ric, I can’t    ” Fuck, why is he shaking? Shaking so hard it hurts, choking on his own breath, tears burning his eyes like smoke from every flame he’s ever set. It doesn’t seem right, that destruction comes easier to him than anything else. Doesn’t seem right, that he’s killed more people than he can ever possibly love. “I can’t stop hurting people.” 

[allroundlostcause]

forgotten places

[thestrayco-blog]

allroundlostcause‌:

Watching Bellamy put clothes on is just awful. Taking them off had been better. Though he does fill out a pair of jeans very nicely, so there’s that. Alaric finds his shorts and tank, and heads to the bathroom to give himself a quick once-over with a wet washcloth, before dressing. Pity the air conditioning is up as high as it can be; it’s still pretty warm for a Boston boy.

It’s difficult to put into words why Alaric isn’t good at portraits. When he wants to take a photograph of a place, he does so very well. Not just the fact of the place, but its character. He can convey the feeling of the place, with the right angle, and the right approach, make it seem insignificant against a vast sky, or looming, or even haunted. The right focal length draws the eye to specific features, or highlights something people would only usually see if it was pointed out. He does photograph people, sometimes, but those aren’t really portraits; a photograph he took of a boy playing soccer in the streets of Goa earned him a good sum of money, and he was proud of it, but it wasn’t a photograph of the boy; it was a photograph of simple joy, the hopefulness and innocence of childhood.

“Your thinking is worth everything,” Alaric says, pulling a chair from the tiny kitchen table over to the desk so they can both sit down. A couple more beers, while he’s up, because it’s so refreshing. “But let me show you something.”

As Bellamy gets comfortable, Alaric pulls up an image search, and opens a photograph of a woman. “Okay, see this? If someone asked most people what this was, they’d probably say it was a photo of a woman. But it’s not. It’s a photo of her makeup. And this one; okay, you see how she is staring straight at the camera, and her mouth is a little open? She looks so passive. This is a photograph of a hair product. And because she looks vacuous and sexually available — I mean, seriously, have you ever seen a woman look like that? It’s clearly supposed to suggest she’d be happy for you to stick your dick in her mouth — it’s specifically a photograph of a style which will make men want her. You know what I mean? You probably wouldn’t recognize her in another photograph, because she’s a prop. But that’s just marketing.”

He opens another search. “Okay, so more reportage style. This is a photograph of why you should have insurance on your home. And this one is about why women shouldn’t walk alone at night. She’s happy and smiling, the photo was specifically chosen to make her look innocent. She didn’t deserve this. But it’s conservative media, and she’s white — if she was black, I guarantee they’d have a photo of her at a bar in a low-cut top, and it wouldn’t be a photo of her, then, either, just a photo of why women should be at home having babies instead of drinking. All of these photos, they’re of people’s faces, but they’re not portraits… okay, look at this. Politician. It’s not a photo of him, it’s a photo of the American dream. It’s actually more a photo of JFK than of him.”

Okay, he is getting way too into this. Another search, this time of a photographer he admires. He opens her website and navigates to the gallery.

“These, though. These are portraits. This one is of her wife, who’s a sculptor. Look, she has clay in her hair, and on her arms, and look at her smile. Her hair is untidy. You can see she loves her work, just so much, and that she takes pride in it. And she’s interacting with the camera, too. She’s curvy, but she’s not craning her neck to hide the extra little bit of skin under her chin, because why the fuck would she? She doesn’t define herself by her looks. And there’s… okay, look, this man is a Cherokee lawyer. The expression on his face says he won’t back down, that he’s a proud man, proud of his culture and his people — he wears a suit, but he has feathers tied into his hair with leather, because even in a white man’s court he is a Cherokee man and he’s not trying to be anything else. This old lady, extreme close up, macro lens, every single day of her life etched into her skin… these are great portraits. Rachel is amazing. I swear, if I ever got a chance to meet her, I’d probably get on my knees and beg her to teach me. These people, you’d recognize them if you passed them in the street because you know them through these photos.”

Alaric switches into his own gallery, and opens a photograph of his father.

It hasn’t miraculously fixed itself. It is definitely Ed, but somehow Alaric never managed to capture enough; his wisdom, his kindness, his patience, his enormous heart. None of it. It’s a photograph of his father, and it hangs in a lecture theater he donated when he retired, and it’s adequate. But it does not capture the soul of Edward Saltzman.

“You see?”

Maybe he’ll get it eventually.

Also: fuck, he’s been talking non stop for about five hours. Well, maybe not five hours, but long enough to bore even the most stalwart and affectionate of supporters.

“I’m gonna give you a hot tip,” he says, reaching up to brush his fingers over Bellamy’s face. “If we’re doing this, you need something like a safe word but for when I start ranting about something. I try not to talk about this stuff too much. I get caught up, you know? Anyway — as you can see, it’s not a skill of mine. But I wanted to show you the photos from today. I only skimmed them, but there’s some good ones. And maybe the one article I managed to get published in National Geographic.” The pinnacle of his career, so far, and some people might let themselves feel cynical about that. But Alaric believes in himself. Not sure why, exactly, but he has an absolute conviction that if he works like a dog he will, eventually, be successful. “Now, the cove. Just use the arrow keys. And please, stop when you get bored. I took a million, you won’t want to look at them all.”

If he’s honest, Bellamy doesn’t completely understand what Alaric’s saying about the pictures. 

He understands the advertising. Selling a product with a face; it’s not so different from construction, in a way. They sell a project, an investment of millions of dollars, with a drawing of a what will be, and a reminder of what has been. Pictures of women and children wasting away on streets. Crumbled buildings in the wake of the earthquake. Destruction and sadness and chaos, and all of it can be cured if only they sign on the dotted line. 

He understands selling. And to a degree, he understands reportage. 

What he really doesn’t understand, no matter how Alaric explains it, or how many pictures he shows him, is why Alaric is so convinced he can’t do that. He doesn’t understand what it is about the lines of a face, versus the lines of a bird in flight; what it is about the curves of a woman, versus the curves of a wave, that makes these portraits so impossible to someone with as much talent as Alaric clearly has. And he doesn’t understand what makes the ones Alaric idolizes so different from the one he took himself.

“Sorry, but ... I don’t see,” he tells him, earnestly. “This man. Your father?” he hazards a guess. They have similar features, but he is too old to be a brother. “He looks like he smiled a lot. Big smiles. Warm smiles, like he was happy in his life.” He shifts his chair closer, until he can bump his knee against Alaric’s. “To know that from a picture, it’s impressive. It really is.

“But do you know what I think? I think no picture can ever tell you everything there is to know about a person. A picture is just a moment, and no matter how good you are, you can’t fit a lifetime into a moment, because no person is ever exactly the same person from one second to another. You see these portraits of people that you don’t know, and you see all the things they were in that moment. The clay. The feathers. You see all the things the pictures tell you.” 

He reaches over to brush his fingers through Alaric’s hair. He likes it. It’s soft. A little sweat-damp. “But when you look at pictures you take of people you know, all you see is the things they don’t tell you. You see all the different versions of that person, the ones you knew, but the ones that weren’t sitting in front of your camera that day. You see the things that are missing, because you know they are missing. Because you know the person, not the picture, and no matter how incredible you are with a camera    and mon ami, you are incredible    those two things will never be the same.

“But these people in Rachel’s pictures? You don’t know them as all the people they are; you know them, you see them, as the person they were in that moment. That is why you think they show you so much. But what is it you think Rachel sees when she looks at those photos? Do you think she sees everything she knows that person to be? Do you think she can reduce the woman she loves to single photograph?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. But I think she does it anyway, because she sees the beauty of a moment. She sees the beauty of that person in that moment.” He rubs his arm. “I don’t know if I am explaining it well.” A soft, almost sheepish chuckle. “It would be easier if you spoke French.” 

But maybe, he thinks, there is another way to make himself understood. He kisses Alaric’s cheek, offering a smile. “You should take a picture of me,” he says. “Or pictures. Whatever it is that goes into portraits, I think you should do it with me. Before you know all the things about me that you won’t see in a photograph. Bien? And maybe you will learn a thing or two in the process.” He’s not especially keen on the idea of posing for a camera; the thought makes his cheeks heat a little. He’s never known how to smile for pictures, or how to stand, or what to do with his hands. But he wants to make a point. And he thinks he could do it, if Alaric will humor him. 

In the meantime, he thinks the mood is much too somber all of the sudden. As he leans in to start moving through the pictures     fuck, they really are beautiful; so much life, even if it is just a slice of it     he cuts his eyes over at Alaric. He’s not much of an actor, but he likes to think his confusion looks genuine enough. “Now what is a safe word?”