Archive of Our Own

Lachlan would have noticed the spectacular leap and catch even if it hadn’t been made by an alien, but the blue blur of the comet-like trail streaming from their head certainly made it impossible to escape his attention. 

He'd just been walking across campus after class, his mind still going over the steps of making a demi-glace, and then, well, it was kind of hard to miss the impromptu game of blaseball that had sprung up in the quad, aliens or no. ...Or, not blaseball, not quite. There aren't nearly enough people to round out the teams, and it seems to involve a lot more chasing and laughing than Lachlan remembers. At the centre of it all is that enigmatic blue figure darting across the field, outrunning the others. 

Halifax has become home to a variety of unusual residents, drawn in by the intrigue of this half-abandoned, half-drowned place on the edge of the world. Many of those who dared to stay after the floods have been... changed, if even slightly, developing gills or fins or a slight blue tinge to their skin. And yet Lachlan remains stubbornly the same, a rare reminder of what life was like, before. 

Is that what makes the alien take notice? Or is it simply the fact that Lachlan’s been standing there for a while, watching the game play out? Either way, they break from the others and come to talk to him.

“You play blaseball?”

“Uh, no, not really. Not since Blittle League.”

“Well, I never played at all until I landed on Earth, so I think you'll fit right in.” They extend a hand. “I'm Simon Haley, but everyone calls me Comet. Because, y’know, I'm a comet. It's a very creative nickname.” They roll their eyes -- all four of their eyes, clear blue like the sky above, spread out among a field of freckles like stardust -- but they’re grinning.

“Lachlan Shelton,” Lachlan says, shaking their hand. It feels cold to the touch, though not unpleasantly so. “For some reason everyone just calls me Lachlan, not Human, even though I am one.” 

Simon's grin widens. “Well, maybe I can make it stick. Care to join us, Human?”

“Guess I could give it a try for a minute or two.”

It ends up being many more minutes than that. In fact, the game goes on so long that everyone else loses interest sooner or later and wanders off, leaving just the two of them sprawled on the grass talking. Simon asks about Halifax before the floods and Lachlan mumbles a few things before managing to divert the subject to his culinary courses, which Simon finds endlessly fascinating. Apparently there’s not much need for food up in space. When asked, Simon says they're studying “everything”, which is why they came down to Earth. They’re more than happy to talk about the places they’ve been, saying when I went to Proxima Centauri as casually as Lachlan might say when I went to Cape Breton.

That evening, Lachlan goes back to his house, his nice normal house on the outskirts of town, in just the right spot for it to have remained largely untouched by the water -- for now, at least. 

Is it wrong to feel far from home in your own house? Home may have become nearly unrecognizable, but at least it's the same place. At least he's not light-years away from where he started.

It must be lonelier than this, out in space.

Lachlan's not really expecting much of anything the next day, but on his way to class he hears “HEY, HUMAN!” He's not the only one who looks up at that, because, well, who wouldn't, but he's the only one who knows it's meant for him.

Simon’s standing there, grinning, tossing a blaseball in one hand. “Joining us again?”

“I have class in ten minutes.”

“So play for ten minutes.”

“Maybe eight,” he says, already jogging over.

And so that's how it goes, most days, even if no one else is there and it's just the two of them losing the ball in the bushes and chasing each other around until they collapse from laughing. They start to meet up off campus too, mostly where Simon tells him oh, I found this really cool spot! and it turns out to be somewhere Lachlan has known for years, though he does his best to seem surprised. Halifax doesn't have much left to surprise him with anymore, though it does have Comet now, and that counts for something. He’s been drawn into Simon’s orbit already, caught up by a force more powerful than gravity.

They go to Lachlan's house sometimes, just to hang out or to make use of his yard to practice where no one's going to yell at them for being disruptive. Lachlan does the cooking, of course. Though Simon can eat human food, he doesn’t need to, so it's not as if he's ever learned. He appreciates the experience all the same, though, and often volunteers to chop vegetables. ( No peanuts, Simon always says emphatically, and Lachlan shoves them to a dark corner of the cupboard. Soon enough he'll stop buying them entirely.)

They climb up on the roof one night, the stars shining in their rediscovered brightness now that half the city has gone and taken their artificial lights with them, nothing left but the stillness of the sky and the soft but persistent lapping of the water in the distance. Lachlan wraps himself up in a blanket against the chilly late autumn air and Simon simply sits in shorts and a t-shirt, incapable of feeling cold here on Earth. She shines brighter than all the stars she points to, telling him story after story and smiling with remembrance. Lachlan listens, and leans a little closer to her light, and wonders how it might feel to kiss a comet, and doesn't dare find out. 

It’s not as if there aren’t still humans in Halifax. Humans who remain unchanged, like Lachlan, or humans who are only slightly fishy. Why’d it have to be a comet?

Simon Haley is meant for more. More than this city can offer. More than Lachlan can offer, certainly. Simon’s not going to stick around, and will only drift away again, back to space, or at least to somewhere more exciting than here. Somewhere Lachlan will never follow. He’s stuck around here long enough to know that he’ll be stuck here forever.

So Lachlan’s surprised at how often they keep in touch after graduation. Comet’s off travelling the world, and sends Lachlan souvenirs and recipes and bright postcards from unflooded places, writing wish you were here! Lachlan has nothing new and exciting to say or send in return, but he does his best to respond anyway, scrawling out replies at his same old kitchen table. He doesn't go much of anywhere outside of his menial cooking jobs; having a culinary certification doesn't automatically mean he can just go open up his own restaurant even in the best of locations, but in a ghost town like this, it seems almost impossible, his dreams sunk along with the city. Still, he saves up, and practices, going over the same recipes more often than not. He can never quite get the donairs right, not as he remembers them. Something always seems just a little off; too much tomato, not enough garlic.

It's a few years later when Simon calls, actually calls with news that matters so much ze's almost unsure how to say it, sounding sad and anxious and wildly excited all at once.

“I'm going to play in the ILB, for the Moist Talkers.”

Lachlan doesn't even know what he says in response to that, maybe something like you're coming back to Halifax? or congratulations or oh no or why does it have to be you or even just nothing at all. He knew it had been Simon’s dream once, but that was before. Lachlan doesn't follow blaseball all that closely, but it's hard not to know about what happened earlier that year, about the opening of the book, the appearance of the Hellmouth, the eclipses, the incinerations... it seems almost like a death sentence, now, to be called up to the major leagues.

“His name was Trevino Meritt,” Simon says quietly. “And I didn't know him, but -- he was a person, a real person who had a life and dreams and people who loved him and -- and now he's gone and I'm supposed to take his place and be happy about it, and I am happy about it, because I want to play, but --”

Ze doesn't say I'm scared, but Lachlan hears it all the same.

“You're going to be fine,” Lachlan says, trying to convince himself too. “You're going to do great, and the fans will love you, and I'll come watch.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he promises, and hangs up, and spends the rest of the night worrying about the swift roar of fire rather than the gradual creeping of waves, for once.

It's unsettling, the way the sun shines brightly outside and immediately dims upon entering the stadium. The players seem to be used to it, though, or at least resigned to it. Lachlan has heard many rumours about the Moist Talkers: they’re a cult, they ritualistically drown a fan before every game, they have a giant monster living under their arena, one of their players is married to the moon and she might be the reason the country is flooded, another one of their players is a serial killer…

But none of that could be true, right? They're just a blaseball team.

Lachlan watches from high up in the stands. He couldn't get a good seat, not with everyone having flocked there wanting to get a glimpse of the Talkers’ first new player in a long time. Lachlan can barely glimpse him at all; Comet is just a blue blur down on the field.

He does well, though, makes a couple nice catches, bats in a run, and the Talkers win, and nobody dies. Lachlan figures that's considered to be a good game.

Simon is waiting for him down on the field, once Lachlan finally makes his way there.

“Hey, Comet.” 

“Hey, Human.”

And before Lachlan has time to say good game or welcome back or anything else, Simon is hugging him, and that's -- well, it's not new, they’ve hugged before, friends do that, but it's been a long time since they’ve actually seen each other, and maybe they weren't sure if they were even going to see each other again, and so if they hold on a little tighter than usual, neither of them say anything about it. When they pull away, Simon grins and says come on, let me introduce you to the team, as if he’s known them forever rather than having just met them himself, and Lachlan follows, because how could he not?

The captain introduces herself as Tyler Violet, both with the practiced ease of someone who's used to meeting people and the distractedness of someone who's still mourning.

“Simon's told us about you,” she says. 

Just about. Not all about. Not only good things about. But Simon has already told them about him, and they listened. 

They all seem surprisingly nice, actually, once he gets talking to them. Maybe they're trying a little too hard to come across as okay, after what's happened, but, well, they're trying. Tyler asks him about Simon, Morse asks him about his cooking, and Richmond just gurgles, which Lachlan isn't quite sure how to interpret, but it's rather endearing. One guy introduces himself as Oliver Notarobot and declares how wonderful it is to meet “another absolutely normal human man made of flesh, like myself”, which is unsettling, to say the least, but once Lachlan gets talking to him he seems nice enough. 

It's actually a pretty good time, and Lachlan doesn't end up drowned or stabbed or sacrificed to the giant arena monster (Hobbs informs him that she’s a Leviathan, actually, and she's benevolent and deserves to be treated with respect. He says it in a way that suggests you don't want to argue with him, and so Lachlan doesn't), so he considers it a success, and thinks that Simon might actually be in good hands, despite everything.

And so they're drawn back together, circling each other, drifting close but never quite close enough. It's almost like the old days, sometimes, and every now and then when the Talkers are home Simon will drop by Lachlan’s place and they'll sit and chat at the kitchen table or climb up on the roof. They don't practice together like they used to, not all that often. Simon plays plenty of blaseball already, after all, and when they do try to get a game going it's painfully obvious now that Lachlan just can't compete. Not that he minds, really, he knows he's never going to be a star and doesn't want to be one, either. Watching Simon shine is good enough for him.

And he does watch, goes to home games every now and then and sits in the ominous darkness, trying to enjoy the experience. He finds himself glued to the TV during the playoffs, the Moist Talkers away in Philly, and almost lets his soup bubble over when Simon hits a home run in the third game, the replay of the way they grin as the bat connects still playing in his mind even after the screen moves on. 

The Talkers lose the series. They get swept, in fact, but Simon doesn't seem to mind, already chattering away about the next season when she shows up at Lachlan's door, showing off her Rookie Of The Year award, talking about the team’s new star pitcher, saying she thinks the Talkers might have a real shot.

Of course, that was before the peanuts.

Peanut weather. It sounds -- silly, honestly. Certainly not more dangerous than a solar eclipse where players can spontaneously combust, and yet there's an even greater trepidation as Simon steps onto the field for the first time that season, knowing they're allergic. But two games go by without incident, the rain of legumes seemingly leaving them unaffected, and Lachlan stops worrying so much by the time the Talkers’ third peanut game rolls around.

Though Lachlan has a much better seat than when he first started going to the games (yes, okay, he bought season tickets, he figured it would save him money at this point), he still doesn't get a good view of what happens, doesn't realize it until it's too late, though of course there's nothing he could have done. Simon was in the dugout, it wasn't even her turn to bat, and yet all of a sudden every screen is showing her lying on the ground, gasping for breath as Mooney Doctor rushes over with an EpiPen. 

Moist Talkers hitter Simon Haley swallowed a stray Peanut and had an allergic reaction! the announcer declares, as if this is just some exciting new development, as if stray peanuts are supposed to casually fly into people's mouths and nearly kill them, and now the mystery of peanut weather has been solved, good job everyone, go home -- except, of course, they can't go home, everyone has to keep playing, even Simon.

She staggers up to the plate eventually, pale and shaking, but alive, and she strikes out, swinging as if she's not really sure where the ball is, but she's alive.

The game goes on forever (well, thirteen innings, which might as well be forever), and Lachlan can't get down there fast enough when it’s finally over. Simon is surrounded by her teammates, but she manages a weak smile, just for Lachlan.

“How are you doing?”

“I feel like I got hit by a bus,” she says. “But just one. Could be worse.”

Lachlan laughs, despite everything, and knows she's going to be okay.

Okay is relative, of course. It soon becomes clear that Simon can't hit like he used to. It doesn't diminish his spirit, though; he’s still full of energy both on and off the field, and finds a new way to channel it.

“The Anti-Peanut Alliance,” he says next time he shows up at Lachlan’s door, eyes gleaming with the look of a Plan. Lachlan’s not sure what difference this can make, how they can fight the weather, let alone the blaseball gods themselves, but he helps Simon make flyers anyway. When other players throughout the league start having allergic reactions, they join in too, helping it on its way to becoming a proper movement.

Lachlan spends so much time worrying about peanuts that he almost doesn't even think about eclipses anymore, almost doesn't sit on edge the whole time Simon's playing under the shadow of the moon. This game’s a good one; they're up 5-1 thanks to a great second inning, including Kennedy Alstott with a two-run homer and even Simon contributing with a single -- they hit one in the next inning, too, almost looking like their old self again.

There's no warning when it happens, no obvious reason, unless daring to hit a home run earlier counts as a reason to a rogue umpire. The Pies are up to bat and Lachlan’s eyes are on Simon, out in the field with their glove and grin. It's not until the crowd gasps that he looks over and sees the pile of ash where Kennedy used to be.

Lachlan won't remember what he thought in that moment, whether he's glad he didn't see it happen or guilty that he missed their last seconds in this world, and he's never able to decide on it later, either. But Kennedy -- Lachlan didn't know them all that well, really, but he knew them well enough to know that they were kind and they had a kid -- god, they had a kid, they showed him pictures of her the first chance they got, little Vela in her Shoe Thieves uniform, they were so proud and now they're dead, and she's two, can she even understand why her parent is never going to come home again?

Lachlan is thinking about this, and thinking about Simon standing motionless down there on the field, but he's not thinking about his feet on the stairs, doesn't even realize he's going down the stairs at all until he's already gone down them, and by then he's on the field.

“What are you doing here?” Simon demands, wide-eyed.

What is he doing here? He doesn't know. Doesn't even have time to think about it, either, because someone's already shoving a bat in his hands and pointing him towards the plate. He swings at the first pitch out of pure instinct and surprises himself when he actually hits it --  though it drifts lazily through the air and lands right in a fielder's glove. 

He doesn't go up in flames when he walks away, though, so it could be worse.

Comet nudges his shoulder when he reaches the dugout, managing a smile, because blaseball just keeps going on, and they all have to make the best of it. “Welcome to the Moist Talkers, Human.”

Lachlan leans into the touch for a moment, reassurance that they're both still here, still alive, and at least now they're in this together.

Lachlan's not sure if he'll ever get used to blaseball, really, at least not now that it's become what it has, but it does help that he already knows the team somewhat. They're not just “the team” anymore, they're his team, as evidenced by his jersey and his locker and his contract and his place at the start of the batting order because that's where Kennedy used to bat. His team, even if they might not feel like it yet.

He tries. He really does. But he never expected to be here, and he knows he'll never be a star, not like Simon was before the peanut or Kennedy was before --

Well. He tries.

The team doesn't seem to mind that he strikes out a lot. They're used to being mediocre. Most of their players can barely hit, and Morse is one of the worst pitchers in the league, though they don’t love him any less for it. They certainly aren't expecting Lachlan to be the one to save them all. He'll never be popular like Simon or TyVi or Richmond, either, and that's fine; if he's going to be here at all, he's content to be in the background. He brings in food for the team, because he's not going to let something like an unexpected blaseball career stop him from cooking, and they appreciate it, at least. Even PolkaDot, their enigmatic new star pitcher, gives him a nod every time he shows up, which is about as much as anyone ever gets from them.

So, Lachlan's been accepted by the team. That's good. That's half the battle. Maybe someday he'll accept that this is his life now, too.

They work on it together, Lachlan learning how to play professionally and Simon learning how to play with the new peanut-related limitations. It's not easy, but it's not always difficult, either. Being on a team with Simon is like being in college with Simon but more. They sit together on the long flights, poke each other to stay awake during the early morning practices, talk about everything and nothing and try not to worry about the weather. Best of all are the rare moments where everything goes right; Lachlan manages to get on base and Simon steps up to the plate, winks at him, and hits a line drive to bring him home while the team cheers. It's like old times but better, because this means something to everyone else, too.

Everyone else. Simon is close with the whole team; sie always has smiles and friendly nudges and long conversations with them, too. More and more Lachlan wonders what it is exactly that the two of them have. Has Simon ever been anything more than just hir usual friendly self towards him? He thought they could have been, could maybe become something else in addition to best friends -- but are they best friends, even? What is this thing that they have, if they have it at all? No one would question that Richmond and Hobbs are inseparable best friends forever, or that Mooney and her wife are deeply in love, but what are Lachlan and Simon? Simon is popular. How do you know if someone so popular likes you the most? How can Lachlan be that person to Simon? He's so normal, so average, and Simon is beautiful and special and spectacular. No amount of peanuts can ever change that. 

Simon doesn't visit as often, but sie has no need to, of course, not when they see each other every day. Some nights after home games, though, Comet will drift along back to Lachlan’s house and help him chop vegetables for supper while they chat about the old days -- which really weren't that long ago, though they seem like they belong to a different lifetime. Up on the roof, Simon sounds a little more wistful as sie points out the constellations, home seeming further and further away as the years go by. They fall asleep next to each other on the rooftop with their bodies not quite touching, the last little bit of distance between them suddenly feeling as vast and unreachable as the space between the stars.

Lachlan's not at the point where he can get through an eclipse game without worrying about it, and he's not sure if he ever will, but he tries to think that maybe it will be okay -- only one incineration last season for the Talkers, only one so far this season, and it'll stop there. Hopefully.

It's another glorious game, at first. They're down 2-0 against the Flowers, but with Lachlan and Hobbs on base, TyVi steps up and knocks one right out of the park, bringing the team ahead just like that. They barely get done celebrating before Elijah follows it up with a homer too, and the whole stadium is still buzzing at the top of the next inning. Lachlan's caught up in the moment, and he groans along with the crowd when the Flowers tie it up, turns to look at Tyler and is going to make some silly comment about how she'll have to hit another one, and --

And she's on fire, she's burning, she's burning right there in front of him, she's screaming, everyone is screaming, Lachlan is screaming, and someone in the crowd is screaming loudest of all, sharp and anguished, and she's burning, and Kennedy is burning, and Trevino is burning, and Simon is burning, and Lachlan is burning, and --

He's back in the dugout, somehow, and Tyler is a pile of ash on the field, but he's not, he's here, and Comet is here too, grabbing his hand and saying hey, Human, it's okay, you're going to be okay, and her voice is shaking and her hand is shaking and his hand is shaking and it's not okay at all but neither of them is burning and they're alive.

The new player shows up, bursting onto the field much like Lachlan did, though with significantly more rage and anguish. They don't need to introduce themself; the team has met them before, a few times, much like they'd all met Lachlan (and maybe meeting the Moist Talkers at all is a bad idea, a death sentence, you get caught up in their world and you can't leave, incineration is the only way out). TyVi had said this is my roommate, Ziwa, but she’d blushed a little when she said roommate, and everyone had teased them both about it, and -- and they'd all been happy, and now Tyler's dead and Ziwa’s standing in her place because what else could they do?

The Talkers’ newest player approaches blaseball with a desperate ferocity, throwing themself into the splort. For all that everyone loved her, Tyler didn't have many stars, and Ziwa has even less, but they get up there and fight for TyVi, hit a couple home runs in their first few games anyway.

And that’s even before the peanut. 

Despite Simon's Anti-Peanut Alliance, the rest of the team seems determined to eat the stray legumes anyway, and at least it's turned out much better for them. Elijah Bates swallowed one earlier in the season and the crowd has started to drop the ’T from their chants of BATES CAN’T BAT. 

Four days after their debut, Ziwa eats a peanut. Rather than nearly dying, it seems to give them a conduit for all their frustration. Fierce and focused, they hit a beautiful triple in the ninth inning before Bates brings them home to shame the Wings.

If Simon resents this, resents that their teammates only get stronger instead of almost dying, they don't show it, and they certainly don't say anything about it to Lachlan. They just keep trying to get the word out there, insisting that every player should be aware of the dangers of peanuts and take as many precautions as they can, because not everyone can be so lucky as to increase their star rank just by snacking. Like Ziwa, like Lachlan, like all of them, Comet keeps going, does the best they can, even if the game has decided that their best is now different. 

With Tyler gone, the Talkers are feeling the absence of not only a friend, but a captain. None of their most experienced or talented players particularly want the position, however. Mooney would rather focus on her research. Morse insists he's not the right guy for the job. Eugenia’s still getting the hang of being a person. Dot doesn't expect to be on the team next season, and rarely has much to say, anyway.

Ziwa never mentions anything about becoming captain, and maybe they're not consciously aiming for it, but they’re the one who tries hardest to follow in TyVi's footsteps. The one who pores over their former roommate’s notes, finishing the practice schedules and ideas she had been putting together. The one who starts trying to motivate more than just themself before games. The one who's decided to try and shoulder the greatest share of the burden of responsibility, because they feel the need to do anything at all to keep Tyler’s legacy going.

And eventually, somewhere along the way, the Talkers will start calling Ziwa Captain, without even thinking about it. 

They make the playoffs (again) and lose in the first round to the Pies (again). No one minds much, not even Ziwa; everyone’s mostly just grateful for a break after another chaotic season, and they're extra grateful when a long siesta is announced. Even the election leaves them unharmed. Sure, they don't win any blessings, but nothing bad happens to them, either. Dot even ends up staying, and seems more surprised about it than anyone. 

Lachlan figures they've all got a good enough reason to celebrate, so he spends the next day cooking and invites the team over. They gather at his place, at night in the yard so Mooney’s wife can be there and Richmond doesn't have to try and fit through any doors. 

It wasn't even a full season for Lachlan, and it was still a difficult one. He still feels like he's stumbled in over his head and he shouldn't be a part of this at all. But it's nice to be a part of it all the same, even a small one, on the days when things go right, at the times when he can feel like he's not letting the team down.

He's done something right this time, he thinks, watching them all gathered in his yard. Ziwa laughing at whatever Richmond’s warbling about. Morse and his husband talking with Mooney and her wife. Eugenia oozing around under the tables, happily collecting all the scraps. And Simon, of course, always Simon, drifting from group to group, but always coming back over to Lachlan sooner or later. 

He's here, not just with Simon, but with his team, and for the first time he can really stop and think yes, I have a team, these people are my team, and have it feel right.

The next season finally starts, and with it comes feedback.

It's not dangerous. Not like eclipses. Not like peanuts. The crackling static is unsettling even when you're not the one caught up in it, but it doesn't hurt you. Just rips you away from your team, your family, your home, which Lachlan would almost say was worse if he hadn't seen what he'd seen. 

They all feel it that time in Charleston, the first of many times, though none of them know it yet. The high-pitched whine echoing in their heads, the static intensifying. Standing in his position at first base, Lachlan does his best to ignore it and keep his eye on Workman Gloom as they step up to bat, because you've got to pay extra attention to someone who can hit as hard as they do.

And then suddenly the whole world flickers in a crackling pink flash and he's paying attention to Joe Voorhees instead, who's now at the plate, looking as confused as someone can manage to look without their face being visible. Lachlan turns to the outfield and sees Workman there, now with a glove instead of a bat. Unlike Joe, Workman has no mask with which to hide their emotions, but they do their best anyway, blinking and shaking off the static while managing to keep their face almost neutral.

This lasts until the inning ends and Workman joins the Talkers’ dugout. Instead of taking the mound, Beasley starts barking and trying to follow, several Thieves holding him back. Lachlan doesn't think the dog even realizes that this is permanent, that they'll never be in the same dugout again; he probably just thinks it's all a game and wants to join in. Workman has to go up and tell him to stay, and he does, because he doesn't yet know just how far away Workman is going to go. They come back and respond to their new teammates’ greetings with as much politeness as they can manage, then sit on the bench and pull their cap down over their eyes, saying nothing more. 

Lachlan leans very slightly against Simon and thinks at least it wasn't us, and wonders if he's thinking the same thing too. 

Nothing happens the season after that.

Well, no, that's not true at all. A lot of things happen, but none of them involve fire or static or anaphylaxis, and when he looks back on it later, Lachlan considers it uneventful, at least in the regular season. The waves of reverb crash over the team, but it's just a lineup shuffle, no big deal outside of its absurdity. The gods and the weather dictating their batting order just seems... pointless, and strange. And no, Lachlan isn't bothered that Simon doesn't get to bat him home anymore, and that he rarely gets to do it in return. Not at all. What does it matter, when they can still sit next to each other anytime? 

...Well, he's certainly not bothered about it compared to Richmond and Hobbs, who at first are practically inconsolable about not being right next to each other in the lineup anymore. Hobbs seems on the verge of threatening revenge on the gods until Morse defuses the situation by giving them both walkie-talkies (which need to be replaced often due to Richmond's extreme spit output), and then they chatter away more than ever.

It's nice, Lachlan thinks, to have small problems for a change.

The Talkers play well that season. So do the Crabs, surprisingly, and they find themselves facing each other in the first round of the playoffs. It’s a fairly close series, and though the Talkers are ahead two games to one, the Crabs are up 1-0 in the ninth inning of Game 4, a seemingly insurmountable Morse-Tosser game looming on the horizon, and Lachlan’s thinking oh well, we’ve had a good run, at least.

Simon’s not thinking that. Xe’s bouncing with excitement as Workman hits a single, nudging Lachlan and saying hey, you’re going to be up, you’re going to win this for us, and Lachlan scoffs, but soon enough he’s up at the plate, Workman on second and ready to run.

Okay. You’re losing. In the playoffs. Two outs. Bottom of the ninth. No pressure!

Just a good hit. Doesn’t have to be a home run. Just a hit. Swing. Just swing.

STRIKE, the umpire booms.

Okay, don’t just swing, also hit the ball. That part’s pretty important.

Watch closely. The next one -- no. Let that one go.

BALL. 

Again.

BALL. 

Now.

Crack.

It's not a spectacular hit, not heading over the fence, not even close, but a hit’s a hit. Lachlan slides into first, stands up, and watches Workman reach home to celebrate with the others.

He did it?

You did it! Simon is yelling at him.

He did it.

Finally. Finally, something he can be proud of in this splort. They haven't won, true, they're only tied, but they're one step closer to winning, one step further from losing, all because of him.

Well. And Workman. But that's what being part of a team’s all about. Lachlan doesn't need to be the star, it's just good to be something for once. Stuck on base, he can't go celebrate with the others, but as soon as Hobbs gets out, Lachlan is free to run over and join them all, being nearly tackled with excitement by Simon. 

Has a playoff game ever been this intense? It's only the first round, not even Game 5, but with the momentum and the energy of the hometown crowd, it feels more important than Lachlan ever thought it could. They really could win. They really could make the semifinals.

Thirteenth inning. Simon's up first, and this time it's Lachlan's turn to encourage xer, not that xe really needs it. 

“Go on out there and win it for us,” he says.

Simon grins. “Well, if you insist.” 

It's good to see xer so full of energy, so bright and alive, almost as if the peanut had never happened -- and it had, of course, but that's not going to deter Simon. Xe’s all focus at the plate, eyeing the first pitch carefully, watching it sail past outside. The next one’s hard and fast, and xe swings at it with all xer might, and misses. 1-1.

Xe barely connects with the third pitch, but xe’s fast, of course, and makes it to first, which is a good start. Lachlan looks away for barely a moment when Ziwa’s at bat, and then Simon’s sliding into second, bouncing up, safe.

A beautiful steal. But it doesn't even matter, not when Elijah Bates steps up, stares Bullock down, and hits the ball right out of the park. 

It's everyone else who freezes. Lachlan, the crowd, everyone but Comet and Bates; the two of them are off and running before it even clears the fence, shouting with joy, knowing it's gone before it even gets there, before everyone starts chanting SHAME, before Simon gets back to the dugout and laughs and grins as Lachlan's the first to reach xer, before Elijah comes home too and everyone else is there to join in the celebration.

Bates can bat, and he's batted them right into the semifinals.

Never mind that they have two entire series still to win if they want to be champions; it already feels like victory for the Talkers to be where they are. Morse has to pitch Game 1? No problem! It's okay if he doesn't win, they still have more chances, they still get to play a second Game 1 at all.

That first game is a blur when Lachlan tries to look back on it later, but so many moments still stand out -- Ziwa hitting a solo home run in the very first inning, Morse holding the Jazz Hands to five scoreless innings before they finally pull ahead, the Talkers coming right back to take the lead again, Simon stealing bases, Richmond stealing home, another joyful celebration at the end of the game, the team lifting Morse onto their shoulders even as he insists it was everyone else's hard work that won it.

Lachlan didn't contribute much of anything to that win, but he helped get them there, and he was a part of it along with everyone else, and that's enough, isn't it?

The next game is an effective mood killer, the sky growing dark, the excitement fading to anxiety. Even the playoffs offer no protection from eclipses. It's only been a couple years since the unforgettable championship series where the umps dared to silence Landry's thunder, leaving the whole league in mourning. 

Mooney, though, never seems fazed when the sun disappears. It means her wife has come to watch, though the Moon has no control over it, no control over the umpires -- as far as Lachlan knows, at least. Maybe there's something more behind the way Mooney faces these games with the smallest of smiles, as if she knows she's safe.

No point in speculating, though. It won't lead anywhere good.

It's a close game. A quick game. For all her quiet confidence, Mooney gives up a run -- just one, yes, but that turns out to be all it takes, and the Talkers lose 1-0. 

Do they care? Not really. Lachlan certainly doesn't. He'll take a loss where no one dies over a win where someone does, any day.

They need to win this next game, though. 

Well, okay, they don't need to, losing won't knock them out, but if they can't win with Dot on the mound, scraping up two more wins is going to be a struggle. And even winning this game won't be easy; August Sky is an incredibly capable pitcher in her own right.

That's why everyone's a little surprised when Simon follows Ziwa’s example from the first game and hits a home run immediately. Even Lachlan. Even Simon, who just stands there blinking for a moment at the place where the ball disappeared, but then he’s laughing as he runs the bases. Lachlan wants to memorize that entire moment forever, that look of surprise and then joy, the cheers of the team (they have to shout COMET extra loud to make up for the Breckenridge crowd), the way Simon looks for Lachlan first when he comes back to the dugout.

As it turns out, Lachlan will have a lot to remember about that day. They all will.

It's fairly unassuming, at first. The Talkers even extend their lead in the third inning, Workman batting Ziwa in to bring up the score to 2-0, but then Dot gives up a run in each of the next two innings, and they're tied for the first time since that one solitary pitch at the beginning of the game, before Simon swung.

If Dot is bothered by this, they certainly don't show it. They're unflappable as ever on the mound, steady and relaxed, as if this game has no stakes whatsoever. As if they're just pitching, and watching August pitch, and having a great time. Nothing more complicated than that. 

The innings start to fly by, five in a row without any runners on base, Dot and August retiring batter after batter after batter, one-two-three, switch, repeat. Even when players do start managing to get on base, nothing comes of it. At least Lachlan doesn't have to be ashamed of how badly he's doing; no one else is doing much better, no one else but Dot and August.

The eighteenth inning comes to an end, an inning that had everyone on the edge of their seats as Dot finally let a runner get to third and then had to face yet another great hitter -- and struck Valentine out with no hesitation. 

Eighteen innings. They've played the equivalent of two games within the span of a single game, and it's still not over.

“How long are you expecting to go on like this?” Ziwa asks Dot with amazement and maybe a little bit of frustration.

“I could do this all day,” they simply say, as if they're surprised anyone might think otherwise.  “So could August.”

“But do you have to?” 

“I am only doing my job. Scoring runs is not my responsibility. If you would like the game to be over sooner, I recommend getting at least one.”

It's usually hard to look right at Dot, as if they don't want to be seen, want to make everyone’s gaze shift away from whatever eldritch side effects their blessing has given them. Even so, Lachlan catches a glimpse of their eyes, shining in a way that has nothing to do with power and everything to do with amusement.

Workman’s laughing. “They've got you there, Ziwa.” 

“And isn't the goal to have as long of a playoff run as possible?” Dot says with feigned innocence. “I am doing my best to contribute to that.”

“Yeah, you sure as hell are,” Ziwa says, and then they're laughing too, and so is everyone. Well, except Greer, who's got her eyes closed and is making loud, over-exaggerated snoring sounds from the other end of the dugout, clearly unimpressed, or at least trying very hard to make everyone think she's unimpressed.

Lachlan finds himself on base in the twentieth inning -- which is an absurd number; as far as he's concerned, innings shouldn't have double digits, let alone double digits that start with 2, they've been here so long that the sky is getting dark for reasons completely unrelated to eclipses -- and when he looks to Simon in the dugout, Comet is flailing around in a way that seems to indicate he thinks Lachlan should try to steal.

Steal? He's no Thief. He'd rather leave the stealing to Workman. Or even Comet himself, who's still got the speed. Lachlan's not good enough to -- 

August looks away for a moment, and Lachlan takes off anyway, almost without even thinking about it, sliding into second just in time, hearing a particular voice rise above the other cheers from the dugout. Okay, maybe Simon was right. One step closer to scoring. Maybe he can actually make a difference in this game after all.

But Hobbs strikes out, and the inning ends. Oh, well. If everything beforehand was any indication, there will be plenty more opportunities.

He impressed Simon, anyway. It was worth it just for that.

And this is fun, Lachlan has to admit. It's not boring, even during the long stretches when no one gets on base. Watching Dot and August is enough of a spectacle. He can understand how they delight in it, an even matchup in safe weather, a duel with an equal. Not that Lachlan's much of an equal to anyone who's good at this game, of course, but it's nice to be on the periphery.

He starts to lose track. He looks up at the scoreboard when Hobbs gets a hit, registers that it's the twenty-third inning, tries to remember that. And then all the numbers go out of his head when Eugenia gets one too, bringing Hobbs to third with no outs, and the game looks like it actually might be able to end.

Hobbs seems to believe it will. He and Richmond exchange some muttered words (or gurgled words, in Richmond’s case) on their walkie-talkies, and they're in Breckenridge with no Leviathan to give them luck, but that's not going to stop Hobbs from trusting his best friend to bring him home.

The Talkers don't even cheer right away when Richmond gets that hit, when Hobbs crosses the plate. They blink as if coming out of a trance, almost in disbelief as they watch that 2 change to a 3, and then they erupt all at once.

But it's not over. The Talkers have to get three outs, and they've done it so many times in this game alone, and yet it's now that Dot almost seems hesitant. As if they’ve finally realized the weight of this game. As if now that success is imminent, the possibility of failure feels like more of a threat. As if they don't want this to end, but now it must, and they want to make sure it ends in the best way.

“No pressure, Patterson,” Greer says, teeth flashing, thoroughly awake. “If you mess this all up for us, everyone’s gonna have to count on me to save our asses next game. I'll be sure to put on a better show.”

“Good to know you have my back, Greer,” Dot says, distracted. Or just not realizing what she’s trying to do. Or messing with her. Lachlan's never sure with them.

“We do have your back,” Ziwa says firmly. “All of us. We’re a team. These three outs are ours, not just yours.”

“We'll be right behind you,” Workman promises.

Everyone chimes in, voicing their support, and maybe Lachlan's voice gets lost among the crowd, but he hopes Dot hears it anyway.

“Thank you all,” Dot says, quietly, and for a moment it seems as if they might want to say more, but then they simply turn to the field, and the others have to follow.

They hesitate for just a moment on the mound, but then they throw a pitch, maybe not one of their best ones, because Kathy hits it, and -- and Workman was right, they’re right behind them, scooping up the ball and making an easy throw to Lachlan at first base, who'd better not mess this up, but he reaches and it lands nicely in his glove, and he can breathe easy for a moment.

Two more to go. 

Dot fires a strike right past Holden, but the bat connects with the next pitch, sending it -- right to Workman again, who’s grinning as they make another throw, and Lachlan catches it, and Dot looks impressed.

One more to go. 

Dot’s all seriousness this time, staring down Tamara, and they let their pitches fly.

One.

Two.

Three.

Out.

And that’s it, it’s done, it’s over, it's finally over, and the crowd is cheering, on their feet for what they’ve just witnessed, even if their team lost, and August flies out of the dugout and circles Dot in solidarity among the applause, wings still steady after all those innings, and Dot tips their cap to her with the utmost respect, and smiles at her, and smiles at their team, bright and visible.

This is why they all want to play, Lachlan thinks. For games like this. Moments that can make them forget, even briefly, what else this splort has in store for them. Moments that can make everyone truly feel like part of the team, no matter how long they've been there, where they came from, how they got there.

Watching Hobbs parading around on Richmond's shoulders, and Beasley finally free to scramble out of the crowd to get to Workman like he's done every day of these playoffs, and Dot still smiling, and Simon running up to talk to Lachlan about those last outs, and, oh, all of it, Lachlan’s never felt more like this is where he belongs.

How do you follow a performance like that?

You don't. Greer knows it, as much as she might not want to admit it. To her credit, though, she actually tries, doesn't shove the cutout up there in her place, fights with all her fierceness to the end, even though it ends up being a 6-2 end in favour of the Jazz Hands.

“I would’ve won if I wasn't all stiff from somebody keeping me on the bench for hours yesterday,” she gripes afterward, not satisfied by everyone telling her she pitched well, especially Dot.

“You did not have to be at that game at all,” Dot also reminds her, to which she just bares her teeth and slinks away.

Game 5 of the semifinals.

Game 5 of the semifinals.

It's amazing to just make it there at all. Something to be incredibly proud of. Ziwa says as much in their pregame speech, the whole team gathered around.

“But we're gonna go out there and hand the Hands their asses anyway,” they add, and if they say anything next, it gets drowned out by the cheers. 

Jenkins is nervous, giving up a home run to Valentine in the first inning, but the Talkers aren't dissuaded. Simon's the one who finally opens the scoring for them, batting in Eugenia and Richmond as Lachlan cheers as loud as he can -- and then they promptly get caught stealing second, bringing the inning to an end.

“Why’d you have to go for it?” Lachlan laments when they get back.

“Gotta go fast,” Simon responds breezily, not remotely ashamed.

Any confidence Jenkins might have gained is quickly erased by the Jazz Hands scoring four runs in the next inning -- and then, incredibly enough, the Talkers tie it up. 

“Not again,” Greer mutters as they slip into extra innings for the second time this series, but she's as much on the edge of her seat as everyone else is.

And no, not again. Not twenty-three innings. Just eleven. Just Jenkins’ shoulders slumping as Valentine Games gets the better of them for a second time, batting in two runs, everything after that drowned out by the Breckenridge crowd screaming and chanting SHAME. Just the end of the Talkers’ playoff run.

And they all ignore it, ignore the chants, because what is there to be ashamed of? They had a great season, a fantastic series, nice and safe, and they're here, and they're together, and they're not moving on, but how much does that matter? Even Jenkins is smiling when the team swarms them, everyone still proud, always proud of each other, and that’s what matters. Yet another moment Lachlan wants to hold onto forever, this feeling of mattering, because he won't always feel it, he knows. Eventually the fans will complain, he'll feel like he's letting everyone down, like he's not good enough. In this moment, though, none of them were good enough to win, but they were damn good all the same, and that's what counts.

Lachlan manages to squeeze in next to Simon during the group hug, and as they all hold on tight to each other, united in their joy, he makes the mistake of thinking that next year just might be their year.

Things might have turned out a lot differently, if it had been anyone but Richmond.

It's unthinkable, the Moist Talkers without Richmond. Hobbs without Richmond. Richmond’s always been there; he's not just Hobbs’ best friend, he’s everyone's friend. His image had even become their mascot this season, because what could be more popular and beloved than Richmond?

Maybe the gods did it on purpose, knowing full well how the team would react, or maybe they just sat back and laughed as their weather did the work for them. Lachlan doesn't know, and he never will. He's no PolkaDot Patterson, he doesn't hear the divine whispers, he's just some regular guy caught up in something far beyond his understanding.

It doesn't matter how or why they do it, anyway, because they've done it, and the world is flickering and the team is staring at Fish in a Talkers uniform and Richmond is blinking back tears out on the field and Hobbs is cursing up towards the sky and the Leviathan’s cry is echoing above the static and everything has changed forever.

It shouldn't feel like the end of the world. Richmond isn't dead (though he is in Hades), he's fine, he's as safe as any of them can be, and they'll see him again. But they had all dared to be happy, and just like that, the gods made them miserable.

Lachlan doesn't remember much about those few days. They all wander around in a haze, as if the static of feedback has worked its way into their minds. Hobbs becomes sullen and silent, withdrawing to the Underarena more often than usual, but no one thinks he's doing anything more than moping, which is their first mistake.

But Lachlan remembers that last day, because he can't forget it. He's there in the kitchen staring into the fridge and not really seeing its contents when Simon shows up, bursting in through the door without knocking, because they're far past the point of needing that.

Lachlan gives up on supper and lets Simon lead him up to the roof, though the sun is only just beginning to set. It's chilly enough that he brings a blanket, and though Simon doesn't need the warmth, they manage to wiggle their way right next to him anyway, leaning their head on his shoulder as he wraps the blanket around them both. They've had more moments like this lately, moments that feel easy and familiar and yet terrifying all at once -- at least, Lachlan is terrified. He doesn't know how Simon feels; maybe they don't think anything of it. Just two teammates, two old friends, comforting each other.

Maybe he'll ask, someday. Maybe he'll ask now.

“What do we do now?” Simon whispers first. Lachlan panics for a moment, thinking they’re talking about the two of them, but no, they mean the team, of course.

“We keep going,” Lachlan says. Because they don't have a choice.

“We could run away,” Simon murmurs, leaning a little closer. “Go somewhere the gods won't catch us.”

“Just me and you?” Lachlan wonders if Simon can hear how loud his heart is pounding. 

“Yeah.”

“Where would we go?”

“ Space,” Simon mumbles drowsily.

He looks up at the stars, just starting to come out. “I can't live in space.”

“Space suits. They exist.”

“That's not a long-term solution.”

And I can't hold you like this in a space suit, Lachlan thinks. I can't kiss you in a space suit. He could kiss them now. Finally find out how it feels to kiss a comet. His comet. If that's what they want to be. If they could ever possibly want a human, especially a human like him.

“Comet?”

“Mmm?” Their eyes are closed.

“I…” He hesitates. What if he ruins everything by doing this? Their world is still turning together, and he doesn’t want that to stop.

Simon starts snoring. Lachlan sighs and snuggles closer. Tomorrow. Maybe he'll tell them tomorrow.

“Wake up.”

“Hrrrrmmph.”

“Wake up, Human!” The blanket gets yanked off him, and he yelps, suddenly remembering he's on the roof -- but he hasn't fallen off the roof, so that's a good sign.

Lachlan opens his eyes and sees Simon standing over him, blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape. 

“We have to be at the stadium in an hour ! Hurry up!”

Lachlan scrambles to his feet. “Why didn't you wake me up earlier?” 

“How am I supposed to wake you up if I'm sleeping?”

“Your snoring would do a pretty good job of it.” He follows her back in through the window.

“I don't snore ! That's just a human thing.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“I don’t !”

Lachlan is already pulling eggs out of the fridge. “Do you want to go on like this all morning, or do you want to help me make breakfast?”

“How about both? I’m good at multitasking.” She grabs a whisk. “And bad at snoring, because, as I said, it’s not something I can even do.”

He doesn't tell her when they're rushing to make breakfast and they bump into each other and laugh, and he doesn't tell her when they're eating side by side at the counter and their hands brush, and he doesn't tell her when a few of their teammates raise their eyebrows at the sight of them arriving late to the arena together, and he doesn't tell her when they're sitting next to each other on the bench, and he doesn't tell her before the game is over, and by then it's too late.

Lachlan's almost become desensitized to the feedback at this point, much like he has with the eclipses and the peanuts. It's the weather, and it might change your life forever or end it entirely, but it's always going to be there in some form or another, and if you spend every moment of the game stressing about it you're not going to accomplish much, so he tries not to.

He's been stressing about Simon instead. About finding the right moment. About how she might react. About -- 

his mind is full of static, suddenly, sharp and crackling, and the world turns several different ways all at once, and lightning is surging through his veins and when he tries to shake it off he's somewhere else and holding a bat instead of a glove and his uniform is the wrong colour and there's a giant plastic skeleton in his spot on the field and everyone is staring at both of them at once and --

No, this can't happen, it can't, not this, not now --

Jenkins is pitching. Jenkins is pitching to him, after a moment of hesitation. Lachlan stands there as if he's forgotten how to swing. Two pitches fly by. He has no idea if they hit the strike zone or not.

Swing. It's your job. Swing. You have to swing. 

He swings. He hits the ball. He watches it bounce along the ground. He watches it roll towards Simon. He watches Simon pick it up, automatically, and then stare at it as if she’s forgotten how to throw, and then stare at him, as if he might have the answer.

Isn't she supposed to throw it, so he can be out? Isn't he supposed to run, if she's not throwing it, so he won't be out? They're both just standing there. She’s supposed to throw it to first. Lachlan’s supposed to be there already. He was playing first base. Antonio Wallace is playing first base now. He was going to tell her. He didn't tell her.

Jenkins is yelling something. Simon throws the ball. Antonio catches it. Lachlan is out. He starts walking towards the Moist Talkers’ dugout. No, he can't go there. He walks towards the Shoe Thieves’ dugout. He didn't tell her.

The Thieves do their best to pretend they want him there. He does his best to pretend he wants to be there. Stu Trololol hits a home run to break the tie. They're all cheering. His new team is cheering. He's supposed to be cheering. No, he's not supposed to be here at all. He didn't tell her.

He tries to, after the game. Tries to say something, at least. Because it's not the end of the world. Because they're both still alive, and they'll see each other again, and they've been apart before, and it'll work out, because it has to.

She doesn't wait for him.

He doesn't tell her.

“Hey, Comet. It's me. Uh, sorry I didn't call earlier. I know it's been a while. I wanted to talk to you after that game, but I didn't get a chance, and then I was busy trying to settle in, and... well, you know.

“Charleston is nice. I mean, the Charlestons I've been to so far are nice. It's kind of confusing, honestly, but I think you'd like it. You can't see the stars as well in some of them, but you can see the stars even better in others. You'd like those.

“Maybe you can stop by my new place after a game sometime? It's not much, it's just an apartment and it's a lot harder to get on the roof, but… well. It's not bad. 

“Anyway, uh, call me back when you get the chance, I guess?”

“Hey.”

“Oh! Hey. Uh, hi. Hey. How's it going?”

“...Fine. How’s Charleston?”

“It's fine.”

“That's good.”

“How's the team?”

“They're fine.”

“That's good.”

“...”

“So, uh, you want to meet up, sometime? I think it would be nice to... talk. About things. You know.”

“Yeah. That would be nice.”

“So, next time you're in Charleston, then? Or next time I'm in Halifax. Whichever.” 

“I'll let you know.”

They don't.

Charleston is not “fine”.

Well, no, that's not fair to say. The various Charlestons are all nice enough. It's just that Lachlan's experience so far has not been “fine”.

Halifax hadn't felt like home for a long time, not the way it used to before the floods. Lachlan realizes now that he never truly knew how it felt to miss home. No matter how much the waves tried to wear his city away, Lachlan always refused to budge, refused to leave because of course it was still home, even though he had let himself forget it. 

But blaseball always takes what it wants, in the end, and so here he is, far away from home in an apartment with a too-small kitchen and a front door that doesn't creak and not even a balcony to replace the rooftop spot. His stuff sits in boxes, mostly; he's not sure if he can fit all his cookware into the cabinets and he hasn't bothered to try. Every time he walks out the door it's a different place, so how is he supposed to keep track of the best little corner grocery stores and farmers’ markets?

The team might resent him less if he could actually steal shoes. They don't even seem to mind that he strikes out a lot, that he can't hit like Antonio; they just mind that he's replaced another one of their friends and he doesn't even fit in with the team. He's a good cook and a mediocre blaseball player at best, but he's no thief -- he's not even particularly opposed to it, he doesn't mind that his new team steals more than bases, but he's not exactly excited to go out on a heist. 

He gets caught the first time he tries to steal someone's shoes, and rather than run, he blurts out a quick “sorry” and gives them back. The team is not impressed. Esme always looks at him with an expression that’s somehow cold and fiery all at once, and though she never confronts him directly, her message is clear. Lachlan doesn't blame her. He'd be upset too if his friends kept getting replaced; hell, the Talkers were hit incredibly hard by Richmond’s feedback, of course he understands. 

Part of him is glad she stays away, since he doesn’t want to get further on the bad side of someone who can drink primordial ooze and eat blaseballs. It does sting a little, though, knowing that under better circumstances they might be friends -- or at the very least, people who exchange recipes. Esme has a reputation for being an incredible pastry chef, which he soon learns is well-deserved. She brings some beautiful éclairs to a team gathering one day, and, feeling bold, he tries to go compliment her on her baking.

She turns away as soon as she sees him approaching and immediately strikes up a conversation with Stu. Lachlan wanders awkwardly past, knowing where he’s not wanted.

He expects Cornelius to resent him just as much, but it’s hard to tell when the Thieves’ founder barely even seems to acknowledge his existence at all. Cornelius probably figures Lachlan’s a lost cause, or maybe he’s just given up on trying to care about whoever replaces his original crew. Being overlooked is at least better than being openly hated, Lachlan supposes.

And Velasquez... well, Lachlan doesn't know exactly what she thinks of him, either, because he does his best to avoid her. No matter how old she is, she has those same big brown eyes that stared up at him from the picture Kennedy carried everywhere. Lachlan can't look at her without remembering how Kennedy said that's my girl, still with a hint of awe, as if they had never truly known how to be proud until she came along, and he can't remember that without knowing the picture burned up along with Kennedy, reduced to ash in a split second. Lachlan's only here because they died, and he's sure Vela can't forget that either. 

Joe is here too, of course, his old teammate, but Lachlan doesn't find his presence very comforting. They barely interacted back on the Talkers; he had always seemed... unsettling. The Thieves assure Lachlan that Joe “hasn't murdered anyone for a long time”, which he assumes is a joke. He brushes up on his sign language so they can talk more, but they really don't have much to talk about once they've exhausted the subject of knives, which Joe emphasizes that he only uses “for culinary purposes, like you do”.

Joe does try to give him advice about stealing, and so does Workman, who calls occasionally, but for all their efforts, Lachlan just really... isn't interested. Workman understands that, at least, and is quite willing to talk about anything else. They always end their calls with something like “give Beasley lots of pets from me” or “tell Beasley he's a good boy”, and Lachlan is more than happy to oblige. Beasley, at least, always seems happy enough to see him, but then again, Beasley is a dog, so it's not a very high bar.

He talks to a lot of his other former teammates too, of course. Ziwa takes it upon themself to make sure he's settling in okay (he's not, and they know it) and to let him know how the team’s doing, and Lachlan wants to believe that it's out of genuine concern and not just obligation. Richmond calls sometimes, and Lachlan has gotten better at deciphering his warbling. They talk about how it feels to be torn away from the team, and it’s nice to have someone who understands. Eugenia calls a lot to give him any news that he might have missed, and a lot of news that he already knew, but he doesn't mind, it's just nice to hear a familiar voice.

“Simon misses you,” Eugenia says pointedly, in a way that clearly suggests the two of them were made for each other, and they’re being ridiculous, and they just need to talk about it.

“If Simon misses me, they can tell me that themself,” he says, and swiftly changes the subject to Ziwa, who Eugenia could talk about for hours.

Simon doesn't tell him that, of course. He doesn't tell them, either. They do talk, sometimes, but it's like they've forgotten how, all awkward pauses and um s and yeah s, and they never get anywhere.

Lachlan calls Hobbs a few times after that swap to the Pies, hoping he can provide his former teammate some comfort, maybe some advice on how to adjust to a new team, not that he feels particularly qualified to give any. Hobbs doesn't have much to say, though; he mostly just mumbles about “the ritual” and eventually stops answering altogether.

Everyone knows about the ritual by now, of course. Necromancy. Lachlan will wonder, after, wonder if he had still been a Moist Talker, if he had been around, whether he could have stopped them. Whether he would have even tried. Whether he would have wanted to argue when Hobbs gathered the team, holding that terrible book, and said let's spit in the faces of the gods, or if he would have remembered the look on Hobbs’ face when Richmond was snatched away and remembered Ziwa’s screams as Tyler burned, and thought yes, we need to show them we won't take this.

He supposes it doesn't matter. He's never been the sort of person who could make much of a difference in anything.

Simon’s on TV not long after Jessica and Nagomi are shelled, promoting the Anti-Peanut Alliance, which has quickly been gaining traction. Lachlan would have gladly helped if Simon had only asked, but fae hadn't, and the thought that the shellings would spur Simon on to do something hadn't really crossed Lachlan's mind.

It should have, though. Of course it should have.

Lachlan tries to chalk it up to being distracted. Neither the Talkers nor the Thieves made the playoffs, which has allowed the Talkers to fully focus on necromancy, and the Thieves to continue trying to teach Lachlan the arts of shoe thievery.

He’s not all that surprised when the necromancy turns out to be far more successful.

For the most part they’re happy about it, at first. They did it, they defied the gods, they brought Jaylen back -- and yes, nobody knows where Mike has gone, and nobody knows what Jaylen has been through, she won’t talk about it… but hey, they did it, and that’s good, right? 

At the same time, Joe leaves, sent away to the Spies. It’s not that Lachlan particularly misses him, but Joe was his last connection to the Talkers in Charleston, and Lachlan’s never been more alone. Joe’s replacement, Howell Franklin, is a good guy who’s always friendly enough to Lachlan, but Lachlan can’t deny that it hurts a bit to see him take so quickly to stealing shoes and earn the respect of the team. It’s not that the Thieves hate new players, clearly, they just… well. Lachlan doesn’t fit in, and he knows it.

He tries a little harder when the next season begins. Almost manages to steal a sneaker. Steals a base or two. Almost feels like the team is starting to resent him less. Almost.

Being part of a new team gets easier. Losing your old teammates never does.

It happens during a perfectly normal day in Charleston, so normal that Lachlan would have otherwise forgotten it if it hadn't become seared into his mind afterwards. He’ll remember chatting with some of the Wings beforehand; remember the peanuts falling from the sky, harmless to him; remember that Blood hits two home runs and they win 5-3, so he doesn't feel too bad about not getting any hits at all, because at least they won; remember that he thought not accomplishing much of anything, as usual, would be the worst thing to happen to him that day.

He finds out after the game. The whole world knows, by then. Three players dead in Halifax, three in the same game, and all Lachlan hears is instability and chaining and debts and what have we done?

Elijah. They'd never been particularly close, but he was still a teammate, a friend, and now he's gone and Lachlan wasn't even there, he can’t be there for his team (they're still his team, in his heart, they always will be) because he's stuck in Charleston with all these people who don't really understand. They're horrified, of course, and they're sympathetic, and they're scared for Antonio, but they didn't know Elijah and they’re not the Moist Talkers.

He calls Simon, because he has to, because he can't let him walk out on that field next time without having said anything at all. Neither of them knows what to say, but for an entirely different reason this time. It's not an awkward silence, but an anguished one, and it says a lot by itself, but they manage to find a few words eventually.

Lachlan says I wish I could be there for you and Simon says I'm glad you're not here, I'd rather you be safe and neither of them say I love you but maybe that's as close as they'll ever get.

Lachlan doesn't even get to meet Kiki. He sees the replays, after, sees the way the smile barely has time to fade from her face in between catching the ball and being incinerated. Not even a payment, just unlucky, or the punchline of some cruel divine joke. 

He didn't know Antonio, either -- they were never on the same team at the same time, after all. But the Thieves knew him, and they mourn him as more than just another sad consequence, and they stop meeting Lachlan’s eyes for a while. He gets it. He knows what they're all thinking, because he's thinking it too: that was supposed to be him. And it's not that they want him dead, he knows that, he knows they're just grieving, but the fact remains that he’s still here and Antonio died in his place. How could they not wish that things had turned out differently, that Lachlan had never left Halifax and one other random Moist Talker had died instead of their friend? 

The league limps on without Cookbook and Elijah and Scorpler and Kiki and Tony, and then without Dominic and Murray and Sebastian and Yazmin and Frasier, more debts repaid. The instability hovers around the Thieves for a time, but they make it through. They keep playing. They don't have a choice.

They don't get to be there for Workman, either, but they huddle together in the dugout, glued to the stream on their phones, watching the innings tick away under dark skies in Halifax, hoping it'll turn out okay but knowing it won't. 

No one’s ever gone out like this. A brilliant moment of defiance, lighting up the bases with one final home run, blazing a path into history.

And then it's over and it doesn't matter how it happened because Workman is gone and Beasley's chilling howls are drowning out everything else and the Talkers are numb with shock on Lachlan’s phone screen and the Thieves are numb with shock all around him, because Workman is gone.

If there’s any small comfort this time, it’s that this is at least a loss they can grieve together, struggling through the rest of the season in solidarity. The Thieves share their memories, say remember when Workman... and Lachlan doesn't remember because he wasn't there, but he wants to hear it all. In return, he tells them his own memories he’d made in Halifax with Workman, who had been his teammate and friend too. 

Maybe it’s because of that, or maybe it’s just that they’ve got bigger problems to deal with, but at least Lachlan’s team doesn't seem to mind all his failures at stealing so much, anymore.

The rest of the season doesn’t go much better for the Moist Talkers. They at least manage to reach Day 99 without any more incinerations, but then they’re swept up in the chaos of the idol board and Dot is left trapped in a shell. A sacrifice to keep York Silk safe (for now), and a harsh reminder that being a star has its own drawbacks. The Talkers don’t even make the playoffs, but Lachlan can’t head over to Halifax to be with them; the Thieves are performing much better than his old team, and they earn the unfortunate honour of playing the Garages in the first round.

Facing Jaylen never gets easier, especially not under the shadow of the moon. The sun’s fire has dimmed, but the fire in her eyes only glows brighter as she stands on the mound and stares everyone down. Some say she delights in hitting the batters, in watching them burn. Others say she’s nothing but a former pawn in the gods’ game who’s been promoted to a queen, far more powerful but still fully under their control. 

Lachlan doesn’t spare much thought for how she feels about it. He just wants everyone to get through it, alive.

Blood, Velasquez, and Sebastian. With every player she hits, the Thieves only seem to fight harder.

Lachlan watches the ball glance off Vela’s shoulder, watches her walk to first with lip quivering but head held high. He stares Jaylen down when he steps up to the plate right after, looks her in the eyes and thinks to her or the gods, anyone who might care to listen, how dare you, how dare you mark a child for death, and her face offers no answer.

He hits a double for Twofer, doing his best to bring her home where she might be safer (though nowhere is safe, not really, not as long as the sun is gone), and though she’s left on third, she ultimately comes out of it okay. They all do, walk out of the stadium and into the light, having lost the game but won another day to live. You take what victories you can, in blaseball.

The next few games are fine. No Jaylen, no eclipses. A win, a loss, another win, and they’re still in it. Lachlan strikes out, mostly, but it’s not as if anyone expects much else from him.

Game five, though. In Charleston, only feedback to worry about, and the chance to move on to the semifinals without the threat of instability hovering over their heads. It's not the same as that playoff run with the Talkers, never could be, but Lachlan still feels the energy of it all, feels connected to his new team in a way he never has before. It's almost effortless, when he swings and hears the crack of the bat connecting as it sends the ball far, far into the stands, the Charleston crowd and the Thieves cheering for him, for once.

The Garages pull ahead again, though, and the atmosphere grows tense, but in a good way. Lachlan finds himself on third, somehow, with two outs, Esme standing there ready to try and bat him home.

Or.

What would Simon do? Something spectacular. Something like what they told him to do two seasons ago, but better.

Lachlan’s still no Comet, but the pitcher looks away for a second and he takes off anyway, as fast as he can manage, sliding into home right in front of a very surprised Esme.

“Well,” she says grudgingly, over the screaming of the crowd and their team. “Guess you’re able to steal something, at least.”

They lose, in the end, but Lachlan still considers it a victory.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Saw you steal home. Pretty impressive.”

“You would’ve done the same, and made it look cooler. Wish I could have seen you in the playoffs.”

“Well. Maybe it’ll happen next season.”

“I’ll see you before that.”

“You coming to Halifax?”

“Of course. I miss… all of you. You’ll be around?”

“Yeah.”

They’re not around, much.

The rumors say Jaylen’s renegotiated her debt. Her pitches make people flicker, now, presumably leading to feedback. Nothing’s happened yet, but it’s only a matter of time. And feedback would be better, of course. No more Ruby Tuesdays. Everyone’s thinking it, thinking it so hard that they almost forget regular incinerations can happen.

Lachlan doesn't watch Hobbs die. Not even the replays. He doesn't want to see yet another friend turn to ash, and he definitely doesn't want to see Richmond's face when it happens -- because, yes, the Pies were playing the Tigers, yet another cosmic joke. Like Kiki, Hobbs wasn’t even unstable. Maybe it was just bad luck, maybe it was a punishment for daring to meddle in things he shouldn't. 

It doesn’t matter why, really. He’s gone either way. 

Hobbs died alone, far from home, on a team who probably wouldn't even miss him. Lachlan knows without even having to hear that some people will say he deserved it (he probably believed that he did too, which is even worse to think about), and some people will say nothing at all, knowing that they're just as complicit. The Talkers would just say that they miss him, because yes, he was angry and stubborn and let that cloud his judgement, but he was also a good friend with a good heart and he was their teammate, always, even from afar, but the Talkers aren't here. The Thieves offer some condolences of varying sincerity and leave Lachlan to grieve in peace in the locker room, head in his hands.

Well, most of them leave.

Lachlan hears a soft woof, and looks up.

“Beasley? Don't worry about me. I'll be okay. You can go home.”

Beasley whimpers. That was the wrong thing to say. He can't go home, not really. He stays with Esme, but his true home died last season.

“...Yeah. I know how you feel. I'm sorry.”

He puts his paws up on the bench and rests his head on Lachlan's knee.

The last thing Workman ever said to Lachlan was tell Beasley he's a good boy. They often ended their conversations that way, but there was a sense of finality that time, as if they knew they'd never get to tell him themself again.

Lachlan can't remember the last thing Hobbs said to him. He can't even remember the last time he talked to Hobbs. The last time he would ever talk to Hobbs, though neither of them knew it.

He looks at Beasley and tries to say you’re a good boy, but the words stick in his throat and he can't say anything at all until after he buries his face in Beasley’s fur and cries for a good long while. 

It’s not as if Lachlan hasn’t thought about it. Of course he has. He thinks about it every time the Thieves and Talkers meet under skies laced with static, thinks about the possibility of Simon, or even anyone, joining him -- or of being switched back to the Talkers himself, which is much less likely, though he still thinks about it.

He’s stopped thinking about it as often, lately, as if he’s become less desperate to run away from here. He doesn’t realize this until he’s on the field in Halifax with Eugenia flickering, and then he can’t stop thinking about it again.

It feels unthinkable, though, the Talkers without Eugenia -- though the Talkers without Richmond had felt unthinkable, too, and now they’re all not just thinking about it but living through it (well, those who are still living, at least). So Lachlan thinks about it, anyway.

The Talkers without Lachlan? Never unthinkable. Not like Lachlan without the Talkers. It wasn’t him being snatched away that drove them to revenge against the gods, and he’s under no illusions that it would have been, if Richmond had never left. Maybe Simon would have cared enough to do something, because Simon is the sort of person who does things, who fights injustices and never gives up on what they believe -- but maybe not here; they must not have believed much in Lachlan, after all, since they’re continuing to let the feedback tear the two of them apart.

The feedback. It’s particularly feisty today, warping the air, crackling through the skies and echoing in everyone’s ears. It’s almost overwhelming when Eugenia’s up to bat, and then

and then

and then

the world 

the world is

the world 

is not the same is different is lightning is static is everywhere and nowhere all at once like before but not

Lachlan is 

Eugenia is 

holding a glove holding a bat holding a glove holding a bat holding

wearing blue and red wearing blue and yellow wearing blue and red wearing blue and yellow wearing

Lachlan hears Eugenia’s voice, the sound of a sad smile ringing clear above the static for just the briefest of moments.

“It’s time you went home, Lachlan.”

Everything snaps back into place with a sharp jolt, and Lachlan is in blue and white once again, standing at the plate, staring at Snyder on the mound, who somehow looks more shocked than Lachlan feels.

Home. It doesn’t seem real at all.

Lachlan swings, because he’s supposed to. He hits the ball. He’s out. Beans scores. The Talkers are winning. His team is winning. The Talkers.

Home. He walks back to the dugout. His team’s dugout. The Talkers’ dugout. They greet him with amazement. Ziwa pretends to be happy that he’s here instead of Eugenia.

Simon. Comet. Standing there.

“Welcome back... Lachlan,” he says. As if they barely know each other. Lachlan thinks a punch in the face would have hurt less.

“Thanks... Simon.”

Simon goes up to bat. Lachlan sits down with a sigh. Well. They’re teammates again. They can’t avoid each other forever. They’ll readjust to the situation, and then they’ll talk, sometime. Lachlan will tell him, and if he doesn’t feel the same way, well…

They’ll work it out. They have to. Lachlan’s home.

Home. Home is different. The faces are different. Eugenia is gone. Workman is gone. Elijah is gone. Hobbs is gone. Richmond is gone. Dot is locked away in the silent, unmoving shell in the corner.

It’ll be okay. He’ll get to know the new teammates. Fish and Alston and Cedric and McBlase and Beans and CV. Lachlan was new once, new twice, he knows how it feels, he doesn’t resent them. It’ll be okay. He’s home. Simon is here. They’ll work it out.

Simon’s avoiding him. That’s okay. They’ll talk after the game. They’ll talk sometime. They have time, now.

Eugenia’s batting again. Flickering. Standing bravely in that Shoe Thieves uniform, resigned to being on a new team

new team

old team

new team

flickering static flickering crackling flickering warping flickering flickering

Eugenia

Simon

No, this can't happen, it can't, not this, not now --

It’s Simon, it’s Comet, standing there at the plate in a Thieves uniform, not standing in the field with Lachlan where he’s supposed to be. And Simon doesn’t flinch, lets the pitches fly by, walks to first. Doesn’t look at Lachlan. Celebrates with his new team when they score two runs, and it already looks like he belongs there. As if he never belonged here. As if he never belonged with Lachlan.

“I’m sorry!” Eugenia says as soon as the inning is over. “I’m sorry, Lachlan, I tried, I really did, I didn’t think he’d switch with me, I --”

“It’s okay,” Lachlan says numbly. “You belong here. You always did. Maybe he didn’t.” Simon could never be tied to one place; he’s always moved so fast the world couldn’t stay still around him. So fast that Lachlan’s never had a chance of keeping up.

The Thieves win. Simon’s team. The Talkers lose. Lachlan’s team. Lachlan loses.

He doesn’t bother trying to find Simon after the game. Simon’s made it quite clear that he doesn’t want to talk.

The team wants to talk. They want to tell Lachlan everything he’s missed, they want him to tell them everything they’ve missed, they want him to meet the new teammates, they want him to go out for donairs to celebrate. 

He goes, because what else can he do?

The others are like he remembered. Ziwa is happy he’s back, now that Eugenia’s back, too. Morse is sympathetic. Greer is obnoxious. Everyone who's still here hasn't changed much, at least. 

Lachlan talks to the new teammates, too. They all seem nice enough, but by the time he gets home, he doesn’t remember much of anything they said.

Home. His house feels huge and empty, many of his things still back at the apartment in Charleston. Nothing to cook with. Nothing to cook. Dust in the cupboards. Dust everywhere.

Lachlan climbs onto the roof, and looks up at the stars, and doesn’t sleep until he finally climbs back down and crawls into bed.

Being on the Talkers without Simon is better than being on the Thieves without Simon, at least. Lachlan’s back, he’s home, many of his old teammates are still here. He’s still without Simon, but at least he’s here.

He makes an effort to get to know his newest teammates. McBlase is intimidating at first with her air of serious professionalism and eyes always hidden behind sunglasses, but she proves to be surprisingly pleasant to talk to, and somewhat of a culinary expert herself. Beans, of course, is easy to win over with a little tuna, and soon starts purring every time she sees Lachlan.

Commissioner Vapor is… certainly enthusiastic. Once he finds out that Lachlan can cook, he somehow ropes him into cooking together live on stream in Lachlan’s kitchen, which didn’t sound too bad at first.

CV neglected to tell him that they would be committing heinous culinary crimes, however.

Once Lachlan’s recovered from that experience, he politely but firmly declares that they won’t be doing this again, and offers to play video games with him from time to time instead, which CV gladly accepts. Lachlan’s never been a gamer, but he doesn’t mind losing as long as it keeps CV’s mind off of new and horrifying uses for Dloritos and energy drinks.

As for the others… Fish is no Richmond; they’re not going to be everyone’s best friend, but they’re nice enough beneath that blunt, unapologetic exterior. Alston is at least entertaining, if rather over the top. And Cedric, having only arrived a couple days before Lachlan returned, seems to have a perpetually lost air about him. Lachlan knows all too well how that feels, and does his best to make Cedric feel welcome, though of course there’s no easy fix.

He calls Simon in Charleston, eventually, because he has to say something, at least. Simon can run away if ey want, but Lachlan is at least going to try. He’s expecting silence, awkwardness, anything but Simon answering cheerfully, chattering away about how wonderful the Thieves are, how many shoes ey’s already stolen, eir new best friend Howell, and so on, as if ey’s forgotten about the Talkers already. Or thinks it would be easier to forget.

It’s not easier. Lachlan can speak from experience. He doesn’t, though, just says “that’s great” and lets Simon ramble about everything except what they really need to talk about.

It's not the best season for the Talkers and the Thieves, but it's not a bad one, either. The rest of it passes by without any major shakeups, which is about as much as anyone can ask for, really. Neither of them make the playoffs, which should theoretically give Simon and Lachlan the time to actually meet up for once, but every time Lachlan calls, Simon always says it's just so busy, it's got all these heists to go on, maybe some other time?

Lachlan can take a hint. He leaves Simon to all its new friends and shuts himself in his kitchen, his very own familiar kitchen in Halifax that he finally gets to use again, and loses himself in his recipes, still trying to perfect that donair.

He almost makes some of Simon's favourite peanut-free cookies on more than one occasion, almost wants to send them to Charleston with a note that says something like thinking of you, but always decides against it. Simon seems to have had enough of Lachlan thinking about them. It's fine. He’s got other people to cook for, other people who will come over and help and talk to him. 

No one else who will sit on the roof with him and tell him all about life among the stars, though.

Lachlan wishes he had a better excuse to go hang out with Simon and the Thieves. Former teammate just doesn't cut it, not when he spent most of his time in Charleston actively not stealing shoes and being, at best, largely ignored. He'd been close to a breakthrough before the feedback brought him back, and now he wishes he’d tried a little harder, stolen enough to get Cornelius to notice him at all, gotten close enough to Esme to trade recipes, had any kind of a significant conversation with Vela. Instead, he just... didn't, and it feels like he's leaving behind something unfinished yet again.

Comet just keeps flourishing without him. The gods decide to smile upon the Thieves this election, and Radical Alchemy blesses her -- whatever that means; Lachlan’s afraid to ask, but she seems better than okay, her rating climbing up by two and a half stars, even higher than it was before the peanut. She's positively dazzling in the interviews, grinning at the camera, going on about how excited she is to show off her new abilities next season.

The Moist Talkers win… a barrel of tiny eggs. Peanuts. Lachlan supposes it's good that Simon's not there to experience it, at least. Peanut hatred aside, it feels like a cruel divine joke to Lachlan -- oh, here, use these to pay tribute to all your friends we let die! That's all you get. Go be sad again. 

But he does use them, of course, splits them evenly among all the fallen Talkers and even the Thieves he never knew but heard stories about while he was in Charleston. He watches the peanuts tumble impossibly deep down towards the Hall and hopes it can make some amount of a difference, at least.

Next season, Jaylen takes the mound with another new method of paying her debts. This one almost seems too good to be true: just a little bit of reverb making players repeat for a while, echoing themselves on the field. No death. No team swaps.

Still hurts, though, to have one of those pitches slam into you. She returns to Halifax fierce as ever, and Lachlan watches more bruises blossom in her wake, Ziwa and Alston just her latest targets -- though these, at least, are regular bruises, not the ominous all-encompassing soul-bruise of instability. Just a little reverberation. Nothing to worry about.

Most of the chaos now comes from Jaylen herself rather than her pitches, her own form having become permanently flickering. She's already in a Pies uniform the first time the Talkers face her that season, and by the time their second meeting rolls around, she's back on the Garages -- and only hits Fish that game; must be feeling a little less bloodthirsty than usual.

The third time is not, in fact, the charm.

Facing Jaylen in feedback weather usually only ends one way. Lachlan's always on edge with that static in the air, but at least this time it's the pitchers who are most susceptible to it. He shouldn't be the one to go anywhere. What are the odds that there's a regular swap too?

He's not the one he should be worried about, he knows. The Talkers’ rotation has remained the same for quite some time now, but by the end of the game, one of them will probably be pitching for Seattle, and Jaylen will be sitting on the bench of a team she's brought so much suffering to.

Needless to say, no one's looking forward to it.

Jenkins is relieved to be the one pitching; they know they should stick around, at least. Dot should too, still stuck in that shell -- the pitcher must throw the ball, after all, and they can't do it from in there. Mooney's already taking notes on the way the air warps around Jaylen. Lachlan suspects she wouldn't even mind leaving too much and would treat it as just another opportunity to study something. Greer's not there at all and has left the cutout leaning against the wall in her stead (positioned next to Dot’s shell, in a way that makes it seem as if it's trying to stare down the equally unmoving peanut. Lachlan's not convinced it's going to win), and might end up with a bit of a rude awakening next time she tries to come pitch for the Talkers. Morse is... his usual self, mostly. A nice comforting presence. If he's worried about what might happen, he doesn't let it show.

Jaylen throws her second pitch of the game directly at Eugenia. The ball doesn't bounce off, merely sinks right into her, hangs suspended there among apple cores and candy wrappers and things better left unknown, refusing to leave, her own personal variation on a bruise. 

Not that it seems to bother Eugenia. She oozes leisurely to first, leaving echoes of herself as she goes. Just a little reverberation. Nothing to worry about. Not from Jaylen’s pitches, anyway, only from her mere presence.

Jaylen’s having a fantastic game, as she tends to do. Lachlan figures it's good that she's pitching a shutout. They don't need to win, they just need to end the game before she swaps, and not scoring any runs when you're down by four is certainly going to end the game sooner rather than later.

Not soon enough, though. Feedback is relentless, and so Lachlan's not exactly surprised when Jaylen disappears mid-pitch in the seventh inning, leaving a confused Jesús to let the strike fly by, and --

And leaving Morse on the mound in her place.

Even the static seems to stand still for a moment, the world stunned. Morse? No. Not Morse. He is -- was -- by far their worst pitcher, yes, but when has that ever mattered ? Lachlan hadn't seriously considered the possibility of losing him, because, well, the Talkers without Morse? Unthinkable. 

He doesn't get to think about it now, either, because there's shouting erupting all around him. Jaylen’s there in her new Talkers uniform, holding her hands up as if to say hey, I didn't do anything, and all the while Ziwa screams insults at her, barely restrained by Eugenia and Jenkins.

Things calm down a little, eventually. Jaylen goes to the very edge of the dugout, far away from Ziwa, sits next to Dot’s shell, looks up at it as if she wishes the pitcher inside was out here to back her up.

And Dot would, Lachlan knows. They’d say it's not her fault, say it's the gods who have done this, say she’s just as much a victim as anyone. Lachlan wasn't there that awful season, of course, wasn't there for his team, wasn't there to watch the Talkers burn, wasn't there to see some of that anger turn to Dot as they defended her.

It's always too late, isn't it? They'd started patching things up, but that shell closed around them before they could get beyond apologies and the beginning of understanding. At least they're missed -- and they really are. Lachlan feels that ache as he stands there, yet another type of bruise, the stinging loss of Dot being right there in the dugout yet impossibly far, of Morse being right there on the field but wearing the wrong uniform. 

It used to be fun when Morse would walk batters. He’d smile, happy to see everyone getting a turn on base, happy to always be chasing that elusive quadruple play. Sometimes they’d all cheer for him, and sometimes they’d all groan good-naturedly and say hey, Morse, can’t you strike someone out for once, and Dot would always seem utterly confused by his supposed strategies, and -- well, it used to be fun.

It’s not fun when Morse walks Jesús on four pitches and they steal second and third before scoring. It’s not fun when Lachlan has to stand at the plate and look at Morse up there, both of them trying to hold it together. It’s not fun when he swings at the first two pitches because… well, he’s not sure why he does, he just does, and he misses them both, and then lets the next four sail by (none of them even brushing that rectangle) and ends up on first. It’s not fun when Morse almost walks Fish, too (who’s still a Talker, even though they weren't supposed to be) before they hit the fourth pitch to Quack (who’s no longer a Talker, even though they were supposed to be).

It’s not fun when the Talkers almost catch up, start racking up those runs now that Jaylen and her shutout are out of the game and Morse is in her place. It’s not fun when they lose anyway, 4-3. It’s not fun when they watch him walk away with the Garages (with much waving and promises to keep in touch), and it’s certainly not fun when Jaylen has to walk away with the Talkers, though she’s quick to make herself scarce.

No one has much fun in blaseball, anymore.

Jaylen pitches her first game for the Talkers on the very next day, and if she's hesitant to be facing her former team again, she doesn't show it. She’s fierce as ever on the mound no matter where her pitches land, delivering strikes and beans. She hits Gwiff in the very first inning and then goes after both Quack and Malik in the fourth, leaving a third of the Garages’ lineup Repeating. 

Lachlan can't help but notice that she only hit players she never knew in her first life. Whether that's intentional, he has no idea, and he's not going to find out, either. He's got better, less stressful things to do than try to decipher how Jaylen’s mind works. 

Her arm undeniably works, at least. She pitches a proper shutout this time, with no feedback to break it up. How does she feel, striking out her former teammates, watching her new teammates who hate her get run after run against her old team, ending the game 11-0? 

Thankfully, she doesn't stick around to comment. In fact, she’s usually nowhere to be seen over the next week whenever she's not pitching, which is the ideal situation if she has to be here at all. The absolute best she's going to get is a lukewarm reception or being ignored entirely.

Lachlan does spot her a few times, though, when the field is quiet and deserted, no one there but the unmoving shell they always leave under the open sky in the desperate hope that some birds might come around. She simply sits there and talks, her hand that has wrought so much destruction now resting lightly on Dot’s prison as if she's just trying to reach out to someone who would understand. In moments like that, Lachlan can almost believe she’s still human.

Almost.

Talking to the shell has become a bit of a ritual for all of them, and Lachlan supposes she's entitled to it too, no matter what. If Dot can even hear them at all, it's best that they hear from everyone, know that the team still thinks of them.

Lachlan has, admittedly, spent a little bit of time wondering what the team would do if he was the one in there. Wondering if Simon would come all the way from Charleston just to try and talk to him. But it's pointless to wonder about that; he's never going to be popular enough to be trapped in one of those. Mediocrity is its own blessing, sometimes. 

And so he waits for Jaylen to leave (and then waits a little longer, just in case she comes back), and heads out there, and sits, and talks. What he talks about doesn't matter, really. If he were in there he'd just want to hear a voice at all.

No one knows if Dot can hear, but that doesn’t stop them all from talking.

Their first opportunity to get rid of Jaylen comes when they're playing the Shoe Thieves, because of course it does. Lachlan wouldn't wish her on them, doesn't want them to get further disrupted by feedback, but the Talkers need her gone, for everyone's sake, and at least she shouldn't stay long in Charleston, either. 

It's the other team’s pitchers Lachlan has to pay attention to this time. (Just the pitchers. Not Simon. Don't look at Simon, don't find out if he's still having a great time over there or if the feedback has him on edge, too. Don't stare at him hoping he can be bothered to look back.) Cornelius is pitching this game, and that's good, he won't swap with Jaylen. Nothing is more unthinkable than the Shoe Thieves without Cornelius; he built the team from the ground up and then had to watch the game tear them apart, but he's still there, and what would they do without him? Lachlan's glad they won't have to find out, at least not today.

Fitz swapping would be the best-case scenario, Lachlan figures. She's the newest addition, so her departure shouldn't sting as much as anyone else’s -- but of course, she seems to be part of the team already, and Simon’s had plenty to say about how great she is. All those new Thieves just fit right in, don't they? Good for them. 

Snyder's flames are flickering nervously as they stay close to Hotbox. Of course they don't want to leave; they've already had to adjust to this new world, they don't want a new team, too. Gunther is... well, Gunther is Gunther, he seems happy enough, but Lachlan can't imagine the Thieves without him, either. He's gone from mascot to terrible pitcher to an absolute star, and been beloved all the while. And then, of course, there’s Beasley…

It's already hard to watch Beasley at Talkers-Thieves games. He's always looking over hopefully at the Talkers dugout, knowing Workman used to be there, never ready to believe they're gone forever. Him swapping there only after his human’s death would be the ultimate in cruel jokes, and the universe certainly does seem to love those. 

When Jaylen takes the mound, though, it's hard to focus on anyone but her. She's always commanded attention, even before the necromancy, simply for her pure skill. Lachlan didn't follow blaseball too closely before the opening of the book, before Simon, but back then even he knew about Jaylen Hotdogfingers, the greatest pitcher of all time -- there are some who argue she still is, because it was always all her, her own natural talent, no stars bestowed upon her by blessings. 

It must be worse for her true fans, the ones who adored her and missed her enough to help bring her back because she was her, not purely to spite the gods, and have it turn out like this.

She doesn't hit anyone this time, though, much to Lachlan’s surprise. Maybe she's not in the mood to pay debts right now; maybe she wants to outrun the feedback, stay and cause more tension among the Talkers; maybe she simply stepped up there and decided she felt like pitching a perfect game today. 

Because, yes, the eighth inning has rolled around, and she's still in a Talkers uniform, and she still hasn't let even one Thief on base. Lachlan can't help but admit that, if nothing else, having her around is great for their win record.

He said he wasn't going to watch Simon, but how can he not every time Comet’s at the plate, staring Jaylen down, closer to the biggest source of static, closer to becoming another payment? He's not sure if comets can bruise, but he doesn't want to find out, even if it's just a little reverberation.

All three of her pitches hit nothing but the strike zone, though, and three is all it takes to send Simon back to the dugout, safe for a while. Would have been very satisfying to see him ruin her perfect game, though. Even if it's a perfect game that belongs to the Talkers.

Lachlan tries very hard not to cheer when Stu does just that immediately afterwards, hitting a beautiful triple.

...Would have been better if she didn't immediately get caught stealing fourth, of course, but when has a Thief ever not tried to steal something? 

By the time they reach the bottom of the ninth, the Talkers are up 10-0. There’s not much chance of it going into extra innings, and the disbelief is starting to sink in. Is she really going to stay? They need her gone. As bad as they'd feel about the Thieves having to endure another swap with them, as good as it is to have her pitching shutouts, they need her gone.

Lachlan doesn't take his eyes off her, expecting her to flicker away any moment, but still she pitches with relentless ferocity. Howell? Out. Esme? Out. One left. How is this happening? Ziwa looks about ready to charge the mound right from the dugout, ready to try and shove their own pitcher into the feedback.

Blood hits a single. Okay, good. Drag it out, buy more time. Lachlan eyes him nervously as Hotbox steps up; he looks like he might try to steal, and he'd better not get caught. Lachlan looks back at the mound, and --

Beasley. Beasley's there, looking around in confusion. Lachlan's not sure if the Talkers are supposed to laugh or cry or celebrate. She's gone, she's gone, she's the Thieves’ problem now, but Beasley …

He throws Blood out at second. Game over. Does he understand? Does he know he can't stay in Charleston with the others once this series is over? He tries to go back to the Thieves’ dugout and for a moment it's far too chaotic for anyone to even gently point him to the other one. Esme seems to be handling the Jaylen situation about as well as Ziwa did. 

Lachlan goes to collect him, not daring to get too close to the whole team, just close enough to call him. Beasley comes running over. He recognizes Lachlan, of course, even recognizes most of the other Talkers; he'd sometimes come visit Workman on days when he wasn't pitching. He wags his tail at them all politely before conducting a thorough investigation of the dugout, and, upon finding no trace of his human, whimpers and gives Lachlan an expectant look.

“I'm sorry, Beasley,” Lachlan says helplessly. “We’ll... we’ll take good care of you, okay? I promise.” And that's not good enough, of course it's not, but they're not bringing back the dead again, so it’s all they can offer. 

Lachlan finds himself waiting outside the Thieves’ locker room after the game, and this time it's not because of Simon. Beasley waits next to him, clearly wondering why they have to stay out here, but sitting patiently all the same.

Esme comes out eventually, scowling. “He stays with me until the end of the series.” 

The last thing Lachlan wants to do is argue with Esme, and so Beasley walks away with her, tail wagging. Not going home, exactly, but the next best thing, and even that will be gone in a couple days.

Beasley can't stay with her during the games, though. He won't be pitching this series and doesn't need to be there, but he's not allowed in with the Thieves, so it's up to his new team to look after him. He's restless in the Talkers’ dugout, trying to get back to his old team, and though Lachlan and the others shower him with attention whenever they’re on the bench, distract him for a while, it's not enough. 

He used to be such a happy dog, Lachlan remembers. He missed Workman after the feedback, sure, but he knew they'd come back to see him whenever they could. Watching the Glooms reunite was always a highlight of Talkers-Thieves games.

Workman's not coming back anymore. 

The Talkers lose the rest of the series, but at least they’ve lost Jaylen. Winning games stopped being the priority a long time ago.

After the third game, there's a Thief waiting for Lachlan on his way out. Not the one he most wants to see, far from it, but definitely the one he was expecting.

“Come with me,” Esme Ramsey says. Beasley follows without hesitation. Lachlan not so much, but he does follow, manages to keep up with them both as they wind through the streets of Charleston (which one? Lachlan's not even sure, honestly).

Esme leaves him waiting outside her front door. She's back in just a few minutes, her arms laden with Beasley's belongings, and holds everything out to Lachlan, who takes it all and staggers under the weight. 

“Here’s his toys, his dishes, his food, his favourite pairs of shoes, of course -- everything he needs, so don't lose any of it.” She then rattles off a list of instructions that Lachlan tries very hard to keep up with.

“Can you repeat--” 

“It’s all written down. Don't worry about keeping up now.”

She's clearly annoyed, but Lachlan can't blame her at all for that. It's one of the many emotions that comes with suddenly acquiring Jaylen at the expense of yet another teammate you care about.

Also, it would be unusual if she wasn't annoyed with him, or worse.

“I'll do everything I can to help him fit in,” Lachlan promises. “We all will, I mean. If he'd rather not stay with me, I'll make sure he ends up in the best place he can. We’re all going to look after him, I promise.” 

“I know you are,” Esme says, catching him by surprise. “You're a lousy thief, Lachlan, but you're not a bad person. Believe me, I wouldn't let you anywhere near him if I thought otherwise.”

Lachlan believes her. The last part, at least. He's not done being surprised to hear the first part.

“You're all more than welcome to visit him anytime, or we can bring him over here. Once a Thief, always a Thief.”

“Never said you had the right to recite that to me, though,” she snaps, back to being annoyed.

Lachlan cringes. “Sorry.” 

“Vela loves that dog,” she says, staring him down until he squirms a little.

“I'm sorry.” 

“God, you sound so Canadian. Stop apologizing and start doing something about it.”

“If she does want to talk to me, I'll talk to her.” 

Esme looks him over and finally nods. “I'll hold you to that. Now get going, I don't have all night.”

Beasley tries to follow her back inside, but she gently blocks him with her foot. “No, Beas. You have to go with Lachlan, but it won't be long before we see each other again, I promise.”

“You'll see her soon,” Lachlan promises as Beasley obediently turns to him. “It's just goodbye for now.”

Esme doesn't actually say goodbye, as such, but she closes the door and then it's just Lachlan and Beasley, out there together.

“Come on, boy,” he says softly, and Beasley follows, though not without quite a few backward glances.

They make it almost halfway down the block before Lachlan realizes his shoes are gone. 

Well, no point in turning back. He’s long since had to get used to going without them.

The first thing he does upon getting home is sit down at the kitchen table and unfold the instructions. There are quite a few, covering everything from Beasley’s favourite food to his favourite spots for scritches to his favourite activity of Reverse Fetch, plus frequent reminders to tell him he's a good boy. Did she write all these out in advance, in case something like this ever happened?

Lachlan looks closer, struck by a sudden thought. He knows that handwriting, that voice.

It's not Esme’s. 

It's Workman’s.

“Oh,” he says, involuntarily. Beasley looks up.

“Sorry, Beasley. Good boy.”

Beasley thumps his tail halfheartedly and rests his head on his paws again.

Lachlan’s about to set the papers aside, not ready to finish reading them, not now, but he catches a glimpse of something different in the middle of the stack, one page much newer than the others, the ink a different colour, the handwriting neater. A photocopy. Too deliberately placed to be unintentional. He pulls it out.

It’s a recipe for éclairs. 

“Oh,” he says, again. Beasley doesn't bother looking up this time.

Lachlan tucks it into his recipe book for later. At least it might not be too late to be accepted by the Thieves, after all. 

Lachlan's house is the ideal spot for a dog, really. A big yard, plenty of wide open space, still unclaimed by the waves. Beasley should love it here.

He doesn't.

He remembers this place. He's been there with Workman a few times when Lachlan invited the team over, and maybe that's part of the problem. He keeps sniffing around, pacing the yard, trying to stare over the fence in the direction of the arena, far away. Looking for someone who's not going to come back.

Lachlan does his best to distract Beasley, give him everything a dog might want, but he's always restless, and once he's in Gleek Arena, it takes a while to coax him out after the games. He knows Workman used to spend a lot of time there and figures it's the new best place to wait for them. 

A few days go by before Ziwa suggests Beasley try staying with them for a while instead. Their place is closer to the stadium, after all, and that might help matters a bit.

None of this is Lachlan's fault, of course, but as he watches Beasley walk away with Ziwa after the game, he still can't help but feel that he's failed again.

The season starts to come to an end, the Monitor’s icon looms on the idol board, and the Moist Talkers have a plan. Because, apparently, the terrible consequences from their last plan weren't enough to deter them. Sure, let's offer our star pitcher to a giant squid! What's the worst that could happen?

Lachlan's trying very hard not to think about the possible answers to that question as the Monitor descends, tentacles waving curiously, and lifts Dot’s shell into the air. He hadn't argued against CNMMUE, as they all seem to be calling it. Partly because he knew that once the team puts their mind to something, there’s no changing it. Partly because Mooney had assured them it was “more likely to work out well than not”, and of course they're going to listen to her over him. Partly because Lachlan misses Dot too, of course, and if this really is the best chance to get them back, the Talkers should take it.

But above all, because everyone knows that if something does go wrong, Dot would want it to happen to them instead of York. Nobody needs to be able to talk to Dot through the shell to confirm it. 

Lachlan turns away at the loud crunching sound and the chorus of gasps that follows, unable to look.

And then everyone is scrambling to get over there all at once, shouting in excitement, crowding around, and Mooney is ordering them all to back up, and Lachlan gets a glimpse of Dot, alive, changed and confused and overwhelmed, but free, and alive.

They’ve done it, somehow. They’ve finally had something turn out right.

Lachlan volunteers to throw the party for Dot and Morse. Because someone has to, and he's generally that someone. Because if he had just been freed from a giant peanut shell after two years or was about to fade into the Shadows, he'd want someone to do the same for him. 

And someone would, right?

They can call it retirement, sacrifice, anything, but Lachlan knows Morse would be going even if he wasn't willing. The Shadows, once so mysterious and heroic, are becoming nothing more than a convenient place to shove bad players.

How long before Lachlan ends up there? Could even be this election, really. Nothing's guaranteed. Just because Morse is planning to go doesn't mean he will. Just because the Moist Talkers aren't actively trying to win any shadow blessings doesn't mean they won't. Some fans would be more than happy to get Lachlan out of the way.

Well, Shadows or not, he's going to throw a party, because they deserve it. He invites all the Talkers, all the former Talkers, all of Morse’s current teammates, all of Dot’s former teammates -- not that all those people show up, of course, but more than enough of them do. Simon says she'd love to come, but she can't, not with the Thieves still in the playoffs, and, well, that's fair, honestly. Lachlan believes she genuinely wishes she could be there. So he wishes them all luck, and goes back to planning the event.

And it's all worth it, of course, to have everyone gathered again -- well, not everyone, not the exact same group, but still the team, and Morse, and more. Worth it to see Morse smiling with the others again. To see Dot’s amazement when they walk in, overcome that they were missed enough to be a guest of honour here. To see how everyone fits together in new ways: Beans purring as she wraps herself around as many ankles as possible, Ziwa peeling the liner off a cupcake and passing the paper to Eugenia, Jenkins laughing as CV tries to teach Morse a Flortnite dance.

And, a glimpse through a window as Lachlan ducks into the kitchen to get more chips: Dot and Beasley sitting on the steps, Dot reaching out a tentative, uncertain squiddish hand to pet him, Beasley leaning into the touch, tail wagging. Two lonely souls finding a bit of comfort in each other.

And when Beasley’s still trailing behind Dot at the end of it all, prepared to follow them to an apartment just a block away from the arena, a place quiet and unremarkable and much in need of brightening up? This time, watching him leave Lachlan's house behind feels a lot more like a victory. 

Simon has an invitation for Lachlan, in turn.

...Well, okay, not just for him. For the whole team. But they call him first, tell him all the Talkers are invited to come watch the Thieves play the championship series against the Crabs. It'll be a very hectic few days bouncing back and forth between stadiums, but at least there's a Charleston near enough to Baltimore that it's not too inconvenient.

Lachlan wouldn't miss it for the world, anyway.

The Crabs have become an even better team since the Talkers faced them in the playoffs just four seasons ago. They've won two championships since then and finished this season with the best record in the league. Lachlan has to admit ascension seems likely, no matter how much he'd like to see the Thieves win.

It's not about the winning, though. Well, maybe it is for some people, but for the most part it's just nice to have another reason to celebrate, another reason for their teams to spend time together. Sure, maybe Simon and Lachlan’s paths don't cross very often over those first few days, but they both have plenty of former teammates to catch up with. It's not just about the two of them, anymore, and it hasn't been for a very long time.

Okay, so Comet’s better at the whole catching up with former teammates thing, because the Talkers are a lot happier to see them than the Thieves are to see Lachlan. Hell, the Thieves even seem happier to see Eugenia, who was on their team for all of five innings. Lachlan tries not to take that personally; it's hard not to love Eugenia.

It's not that he doesn't have a good time. He does. It’s impossible not to be happy upon watching Beasley's enthusiastic reunion with the Thieves; even Dot is smiling. Lachlan even dares to tell Esme that he tried her recipe and it turned out great, and hands her one in return -- and then tries to steal her shoes while she's reading it, succeeding at nothing more than getting her to laugh at him (with derision? pity? pure amusement? he's honestly not sure at this point), but he'd like to think he at least got points for trying.

The games are close, but the Thieves always seem to be playing catch-up, and for a while it doesn't seem like they'll ever be able to overtake the Crabs, especially now that Nagomi's been freed from her shell. Trailing 5-0 in the first game, the Thieves rally and tie it up, only to ultimately lose 7-5. The second game is an equally close 3-1 loss, but a loss nonetheless, and it's starting to look as if they might be swept.

Lachlan doesn't give up, though. He knows what that team is capable of. What Simon is capable of. And, perhaps most importantly right now, what their next three pitchers are capable of. 

Slowly but surely, the Thieves prove they're still in it. Gunther and Jaylen lead them to back-to-back 5-2 victories. They couldn't be any different, of course, the beloved penguin and the hated revenant, but right now they're both Thieves, and they've put their team in Game 5, and they can be united in that, at least.

Could the Talkers have made it all the way there instead if Jaylen had stayed with them all this time, especially when Dot would have been free to pitch in the postseason? Maybe. Would it have been worth it? Maybe not.

Jaylen's game was the best so far, though not because of her. Simon hits a solo home run in the fourth inning, and it's beautiful.

Lachlan's not sure why he does it. He should know better by now. But he finds himself waiting outside the Thieves’ locker room again, wanting to congratulate Simon, wish him good luck in the final game, unsure if they'll see each other before that. The Thieves will need to focus, to prepare, and that means minimal shenanigans with their sister team beforehand.

It’s Vela who comes out first, though, and they both freeze up for a moment, staring at each other.

“Where’s Beasley?” she finally asks.

“Dot took him for a walk. They should be back soon, if you want to wait around?”

“Maybe,” she says noncommittally.

“Uh, I was just leaving, if that's what you're--”

Vela rolls her eyes. “You're allowed to be in the same room as me, Lachlan. You’re not going to make me spontaneously combust just by looking at me.” 

Lachlan flinches. “I'm sorry, I--”

“It's not your fault, okay? Yeah, it sucks, and I wish my parent wasn't dead, but you avoiding me all the time isn't going to bring them back. I barely even remember them, and do you really want me to remember you as the guy who’s always running away?”

Well, that’s him. The guy who’s always running away, and not just from her.

It's hard to look at her when she's just a little kid, but it's not much easier on days like this when she's twenty-two, grown but still young, not unlike Kennedy was when they --

“You look so much like them,” Lachlan says helplessly.

“Well, yeah, of course I do. That's how genetics work. But I'm not them. I'm me. I'm Velasquez. I'm more than just the poor little girl who lost her parent to this splort. I get enough of that already.”

“I'm sorry if I’ve been making it worse. I just -- I’ve always felt like I shouldn't be here instead of them, and I'm sure you have too, and I wish it had turned out differently.” 

“A lot of stuff should have turned out differently,” Vela says. “They shouldn't be dead. My age shouldn't fluctuate every day. My friends shouldn't keep going to Canada and dying. You can be bad at stealing, we can forgive that, but it's like you never even tried, and not just about the shoes. When I see you I've stopped thinking oh, there's the guy who's only here because my parent died and started thinking oh, there's the guy who keeps avoiding me because he's only here because my parent died, and I like the first one better.”

“You're right,” Lachlan admits. “I -- well, I had a lot to deal with, and I was far from home, and I still felt so guilty about being here at all, but none of that is really any excuse. I could have done better, and I know it. You're incredible, Vela. Kennedy would be so proud of you, and I should have said that a long time ago.”

“Everyone says it,” she says. “But thanks, I guess.” 

“You can talk to me anytime, if you want,” he offers awkwardly. “About them, or Beasley, or anything.”

“Maybe,” she says, again. “We don't have to be best friends or anything. I just don't want things to be so awkward.”

“Me neither.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

And it’s still awkward, of course, the two of them standing there, and it’s awkward when they turn away. But it’s a start.

Lachlan didn’t stay to wait for Simon, after that. One serious conversation with a Thief is more than enough for one day. So he sent a good-luck text instead, and Simon had eventually responded with “thanks”, and, well, that was that, and now Lachlan’s sitting in the crowd without them, waiting for the game to begin.

When Simon had started playing in the ILB, Lachlan had hoped they’d make it to the finals and win a championship ring one day. Hoped they’d survive long enough for that, and much longer. 

Of course, he hadn't expected them to make it there under quite these circumstances. 

They deserve it, though, far more than Lachlan does. Comet gives the Thieves a much better chance of winning than he ever could. Even so, Lachlan’s surprised to realize how badly he wants to be down there. Not just to win, not just to be with Simon, but to be a part of it all -- and that's silly, really, he'd never fully felt like he was a part of the Thieves before, he’d missed that chance.

He can see them all from up in the stands, but he can't hear them, can't hear Stu boasting in her fake accent or Snyder and Hotbox discussing the latest sitcom they've been watching or everyone making plans for the next heist (Lachlan has no doubt that, win or lose, every Crab will be walking away from this game without shoes). But they made it here without Lachlan, and they're all better off for it, and he got to come home, so what is there to complain about?

Nothing, of course. He’s up there in the stands with his teammates, sitting next to Eugenia, who's already cheering loudly for the team she spent less than a full game playing for. Eugenia, who'd brought him back to the Talkers. Not her fault she got to come back too. Not her fault Simon’s happier on the Thieves.

Beasley was supposed to be on Lachlan's other side, between him and Dot, but even before the game starts it's impossible to keep that dog still; he's already bouncing enthusiastically around in the aisles, always the Thieves’ biggest fan. 

It's the kind of game that would make anyone want to jump with excitement. Cornelius on the mound is a fitting finale to the Thieves’ playoff run, and it would be a perfect story if he personally led this team to their first championship.

Right in the first inning, though, he walks a player no one should ever let on base -- Forrest Best. Two steals and a sacrifice fly later, the Crabs are already on the board, which does nothing whatsoever to crack Cornelius's composure. Lachlan can almost hear him saying every run is intentional, insisting he's there to put on the best show possible -- which, of course, provides a nice distraction; nobody's paying attention to their shoes while they're cheering.

Lachlan thinks it's a pretty convenient excuse.

The Thieves even the score immediately, though, Vela batting in Hotbox. Twofer's got grey hair today, but age has never slowed her down before, and Lachlan cheers for her as loudly as he can.

The next few innings are just as exciting. The Crabs bring it up to 4-1 before the Thieves rally a bit and narrow the gap to 4-2. Once they hit the fourth inning, though, the scoring just stops, the pitchers finally finding their rhythm, and as the end draws closer and closer it gets absolutely agonizing to watch. The Thieves are running out of time.

And it's Vela again, in the top of the ninth, with a single, just a single, but it's a start. And then Simon, because of course it would be Simon, and Lachlan's not down there to say go out and win this for us (because it's not us, not really), he can only watch from afar, on the edge of his seat, as the count ticks up to a full 3-2, and Simon lets the next pitch go --

And it's a ball, and then they're on first, and Vela’s on second, and the Charleston crowd is revitalized, everyone on their feet, waiting for something more to happen. There are no outs, still. Several more chances. 

This isn't all on Stu Trololol, but she wants it anyway, saunters up to the plate, starts taunting Tosser -- Lachlan can't hear what she's saying over the roar of the crowd, doesn't know if it makes any kind of a difference, but then her bat's connecting, and the ball is sailing high, high up into the stands, and she's running, and Simon is running, and Vela is running, and then they're all piling on top of each other on home plate, shrieking in triumph, and the crowd is chanting SHAME, and Eugenia is yelling in Lachlan's ear, and Beasley is barking with joy, and the Charleston Shoe Thieves are ILB champions.

It's not quite over. There are still three outs to get, all the formalities to suffer through, but those are lost among the excitement. There will be no ascension this season. The Thieves have done the impossible, and the Talkers are already descending the stairs, eager to rush out there and congratulate them. 

And then come the sirens.

Lachlan's witnessed a lot in blaseball. Incinerations. Allergic reactions. Blooddrains. Swarms of birds choking the sky. Feedback, so much feedback. And none of those things ever made the Commissioner’s voice echo through the stadium, confused and panicked.

EMERGENCY ALERT

INCOMING

SEEK SHELTER

Parker sounds terrified, and that's more than enough to make Lachlan feel the same, even before he sees what's coming.

The Shelled One. Back to torment them all. 

TIME TO TEACH YOU SOME DISCIPLINE, it says, and then the field is full of familiar faces -- but not quite, there's something wrong about these players stepping out of their shells, their eyes red, their movement unnatural.

And there Lachlan goes again, running towards something he shouldn't, stumbling down the steps after Beasley, because that's his other team down there, that's Simon, and of course he's not going to be any help, he never is, but he can't just leave them --

He doesn’t get a choice in the matter. There's some kind of invisible force in the way, keeping the Thieves on the field, keeping everyone else off. The Crabs are trying to get back, trying to help, and Lachlan looks at them, and they're still wearing shoes, and he’s struck all at once by the seriousness and absurdity of it all, and he laughs, helplessly. The Thieves didn't have time to steal anything but the championship, and all it's won them is an impossible fight with a god.

Cornelius has just pitched an entire game, but he's trying to get to the mound again, ready to defend his team, and in the brief time it takes Dickson to drag him back, Jaylen's already taken his place. Did she know? Did she know this was coming? Did she swap to the Thieves just so she could face it? So she could help them take it down?

So she could help it take them down?

She seems just as surprised, just as desperate, as the rest of them, though, even standing there in the static she's come to know so well. 

Peanut Bong comes up to bat moving like a marionette, stiff and jerky, no different from the other Pods. When Jaylen gets him out, his teammates seem to cringe in unison, just a little, but it's something, it shows that they're not invincible, that maybe the Thieves’ chances aren’t completely hopeless. 

The crackle of feedback fades, and then out of nowhere, birds are swarming. Jaylen does almost smile, then, grim and determined, and, somehow, the crows rise up in unison and rush like a wave towards Wyatt Quitter. The former Taco shows no sign of fear as they run for the dugout, but still they run.

And then Francisca Sasquatch is out, too, and the Peanut seems to be playing by the rules, because the Pods all start walking towards the field to take the Thieves’ places. Just a game of blaseball. They got through the first half of that inning, and that wasn't so bad, was it?

It's bad. Of course it is. Every strike, every out, sends the Thieves reeling. And, oh, they fight through it; Dickson hits a triple and Vela brings him home, but no numbers go up on the scoreboard, because this isn't about scoring at all, it's about surviving. Simon steps up next and Lachlan doesn't even know what he should hope for. Is it better that they just get out right away and take minimal damage, or swing for the fences and hope it will make any kind of a dent in the Pods’ armour, or --

And then Comet’s out immediately, and tries to stumble back to the dugout, but no, that's the end of the inning, and they have to take the field, they all do, and it's only been three outs but they're all wearing down already. 

It doesn't matter how many runs the Thieves score. It doesn't matter how many times Jaylen calls on the birds, or how many batters she manages to strike out. The Pods shake it all off and keep hammering away at the Thieves, who feel the force of every blow.

YOU ARE NOTHING, the Shelled One says, and the Thieves collapse, and get up again, and stagger back to their positions.

BOW BEFORE MY PODS, the Shelled One says, and all of Stu’s swagger is gone as she faces down her own brother, pleading with Axel, her words having no effect.

MY DORK, the Shelled One says, and York Silk no longer seems too small to be wielding a gunblade, and he does not turn to either Nagomi or Dot as they both scream and attack the barrier with renewed ferocity.

And Jaylen pitches, still, though she's barely standing. This time Lachlan believes she doesn't mean it, believes that when the ball slams into Quitter’s leg it’s not out of malice or desperation or forces beyond her control, only exhaustion. Quitter’s entire body starts to echo along with the Shelled One’s laughter, reverberating as the Thieves fall to the ground again. 

This time they’re all up quickly, revitalized. For a moment, Lachlan almost dares to hope, until he hears what the Peanut is saying.

The Pods had been holding back this whole time. Toying with the Thieves. No more pity. No more mercy.

It gets worse from there, so much worse, until Lachlan wants to look away, but he can't, can't allow himself that, he got to be safe, got to escape this, and if all he can do is witness it, he's going to at least do that.

RING RING, the Shelled One says, and Jessica Telephone does not react as she hits the ball out of the park, and the Thieves fall again, and this time they don’t get up.

It’s over.

And then the Shelled One and its Pods are disappearing, promising to return, and when they go, so does the barrier. Lachlan pushes forward onto the field along with the Talkers, the Crabs, everyone trying to help, hoping they can help, and Lachlan's not sure if all the Thieves are even moving, if if any of them might be -- well, he can't dwell on that, can't help everyone, and he stumbles around until he finds the bright blue heap in the outfield.

“Comet?”

No answer.

“Simon? Comet, please, don't do this to me, come on, wake up, please, I can't --”

Four eyes slowly flutter open, and blink, and blink again, and try to focus on him.

“Hey, Human.”

“Oh, thank God,” Lachlan says, and sinks to the ground next to them.

Simon closes their eyes again. “Did you miss the part where God just stomped us all into the dirt?”

“Thank whatever gods weren't involved with this, then, I don't know, what do you expect me to say, I just watched you and the entire team almost die, I don't know, I don't know anything right now, Comet, I'm sorry, I -- are you okay? No, that's a stupid question, obviously you’re not, I mean, how do you feel, I mean -- god, Comet, I'm sorry, I've been so stupid, I --”

They cringe. “Whoa. Okay. That's way too many words right now.”

Lachlan opens his mouth to say sorry, closes it again, sits there helplessly.

“Maybe I'll just stay here a while,” they say after a moment. “I feel like I got hit by at least four buses.”

Lachlan makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob. 

Simon forces their eyes open again. “You can say something.”

I love you comes to mind, but instead he says “It's probably better that we get you off the field, if you think you can handle moving.” The ground is cold, and torn up, and bloodstained, and -- he decides to stop looking at it.

Simon considers this. “Okay. If you help me.” 

It's a long and awkward process, but eventually they’re up on shaky legs, and leaning on Lachlan. The other Thieves are starting to get to their feet too, thankfully. Lachlan looks around for Mooney, but Simon insists there's nothing she can do about a curse like this (it terrifies Lachlan to hear them speak of it as a curse with such certainty, as if the Shelled One has burned this knowledge into their mind), nothing anyone can do. If anything at all can heal them, it will be time.

“I just want to go home,” they say, and they sound so small and insignificant, as if the Peanut has crushed their spirit entirely.

Home, for Simon, is an apartment in Charleston. Lachlan's never been there, and he doesn’t know how to get there, and he doesn’t even know which Charleston they’re in, but somehow they both manage to make it there as Simon mumbles directions. He half-carries them through the door and helps them into bed, and, oh, it all feels so surreal.

He turns away, and then turns back, and then turns away again, because what is he supposed to do? He can't leave them alone, but he can't stay, but --

“Don't go?” their voice says softly behind him. Not a demand, or a request, but a question, and a particularly uncertain one.

“No,” he says. “No, of course not, not again, not this time, if you don’t want me to. I… I can sleep on the couch, or the floor, or --”

“Here. Here is fine.”

And it shouldn’t be, really. Three years have gone by since they’d last lain next to each other on a roof, and the space between them should not be so easy to cross, and it can’t last, of course it can’t, it’s only a matter of time before the gap widens again. It shouldn’t have had to take a crisis to pull them back together, and they both know it, but that’s not something they can even try to focus on right now.

So when they finally collide, it is not earth-shattering, not after so much has been shattered already today. It is only the two of them, scared and helpless and hopeful and needing to be anything other than alone. Lachlan climbs in next to Simon, and finds them trembling uncontrollably.

“I-is this how it f-feels to be c-cold?” they ask through chattering teeth, and Lachlan has no answer, so he just wraps himself around them and holds them tight for what might be a minute or might be a whole night but is most certainly eternity, until the tremors finally subside and Comet slips into sleep, utterly exhausted.

And, somehow, Lachlan follows.

He wakes, eventually. He's still here. Simon’s still here. He still has no idea what they're going to do about this.

He watches the slow rise and fall of Simon’s chest. Watching someone sleep might be considered romantic, if their situation wasn't so complicated, and it might be considered creepy, if there wasn't a legitimate concern about whether Simon is going to continue breathing. Maybe there isn’t a word for what it is right now. It just is.

Those eyes flutter open again, eventually.

“Hey, Comet,” Lachlan says softly.

“Hey, Human,” is the barely audible response.

“How do you feel?”

Simon considers this for a moment. “Like I got hit by three and a half buses.” 

“So, better than yesterday?”

“Yeah. But not better enough.”

“Do you want breakfast?” Lachlan asks. “I can do breakfast.” Food. That's one thing he still understands.

“I don't need to eat.”

“I know. But I do. And it might make you feel better? But if you're not up for it, I won't make anything for you.”

“Coffee.”

“You only drink decaf. That won't help you wake up.”

“ Coffee,” Comet says decisively, and Lachlan doesn't argue, only gets up and finds his way to the kitchen, shuddering at how disorganized it is -- but, of course, someone who doesn't need to eat also doesn't need to cook, it's good that there's anything for him to work with at all.

Start with the coffee, though. Nice and simple. Grind the beans. Scoop them in. Find a mug -- there's one in the cupboard that's achingly familiar; it had been a gift from Lachlan years ago, one he'd found at a local craft fair back in Halifax. The dark blue swirls and white flecks had reminded him of the night sky, and he knew Comet would love it, so he'd grabbed it without hesitation, then. Now, he hesitates, settles on one that's plain yellow and chipped, looking as if it gets used more often -- Pour the water. Wait for it to filter.

He opens the fridge and stares at its meagre contents, and then does the same to the cupboards. The kitchen has clearly been stocked by someone who’s come to enjoy food but has no need for whatever nutrition it might offer. Marshmallows, horseradish, bacon bits, popcorn, watermelon, Kraft Dinner, limes, licorice... there has to be something coherent he can make, right? He could, he knows, he's had to make far weirder things before thanks to CV. 

And, of course, there was that time that Simon had started watching Chlopped with him and thought it would be fun if they went out and bought some random ingredients, challenged him to combine them, and never seemed surprised when it always turned out good --

“Coffee ready?” Simon asks, shuffling into the kitchen.

“I was going to bring it in to you!” Lachlan says, alarmed. “You should be resting.”

“Wanted to be here,” he says stubbornly. He manages to sit on a kitchen stool and wraps the blanket over his shoulders even tighter around him, almost hiding the dirty uniform he's still wearing from yesterday. 

“I was going to make… uh…” Lachlan looks around. “Uh…”

“You don't have to. Coffee’s good.”

“Coffee's ready.” Lachlan slides it over to him. Simon wraps his hands around the mug without actually picking it up, as if the warmth of it is all that matters.

“We can just order pizza or something.”

“For breakfast ?”

“It's four p.m.” he says, looking at his phone. Lachlan can see from here that it's full of notifications. Simon blinks at the screen, once, twice, not really seeing it, then sets it aside.

“Oh.”

Lachlan had wanted to make something, though. That's what he does. He's the guy who makes food. He's not the guy who gets hits or steals shoes or has fans cheering for him or confesses his feelings before it's too late, but he's the guy who makes food. 

Or, he was. Now he's just the guy who stands in Simon Haley’s apartment in Charleston and has no idea what to do about anything.

Simon looks up at him. “Just because you didn't have to fight a peanut god yesterday doesn't mean you aren't allowed to take it easy, too.” 

And then whatever motivation he might have had left is gone, and he picks up the phone, and he orders a pizza. He has to ask Simon for the address and apartment number, and Simon stumbles over it, unable to remember, and Lachlan has to go out and open the door and look, but it gets done, eventually, and then they wait.

Simon's watching something on his phone. Something familiar, something that hasn’t stopped replaying in Lachlan's mind.

“You shouldn't be watching that.”

“I didn't swing,” he says, still staring at the screen. “Maybe I would’ve struck out. Maybe we would’ve lost.”

“It was the finals,” Lachlan says sharply. “Who doesn't try to win in the finals? You took the walk because it was the best thing to do. No one in their right mind would blame you for that. Are you blaming Stu for hitting that homer?”

“...No.”

“It should have been me,” Lachlan says before he can stop himself. “You're a better player than me, we've always known it. If I had still been there, the Thieves might not have made the finals at all. You wouldn't be--”

“You think I want that?” Simon demands, and he’d sound angry if his voice wasn't barely audible at all. “You think I'd rather it was you?”

“I don't know what I think anymore! I know you could have died, and you -- and -- and you -- and I --” and he can't finish his sentence, because somewhere along the way he’s started crying. 

And then Simon’s saying something, and slowly getting up, and Lachlan tries to tell him no, don't do that, don't hurt yourself, and tries to get over there, and then they both just kind of... sink to the floor, together, in a puddle of blanket and tears.

“I'm sorry,” Lachlan says, finally, and he doesn't care if he sounds ridiculous and Canadian, because he means it. “For all of it. I was pretty stupid, and I'm sorry.”

“We're both pretty stupid,” Comet says. 

“We have to talk about it sometime. Probably not now. But sometime soon. When we're ready. When you're better.”

Simon's quiet for a moment. “I don't know if I'm getting better.” 

“Don't say that,” Lachlan says, terrified. “Of course you are. It hasn't even been a day yet. Of course you'll get better.”

“I mean... not like before. They fixed the stars I lost with alchemy. This is different. It's a curse.”

“You keep saying curse, what does that even mean?”

“I don't know! I just know it’s a curse, and it sucks.” 

“We'll figure it out, okay? Somehow. We have to.”

Not now, though. They’re interrupted by the pizza arriving, and they get up, and they eat it. A comparatively easy task. The figuring out can come later.

They don't talk about it that day. They don't talk about it the next day, either, when Simon goes to meet up with the other Thieves. Lachlan doesn't stick around for that, because he has no right to. He was once a Thief, yes, but he didn't fight a god with them. Even Jaylen was a part of that. Even Jaylen is more of a part of their team than he ever was.

They do need to talk. Of course they do. But there are more pressing things to heal from, first. Bigger problems than who was avoiding who. Once you’ve stared up at the figure of a god blocking out the sun, everything else seems pretty small in perspective. 

Once Simon is feeling up to staying alone, Lachlan goes back to Halifax. Back to his kitchen and his recipes. Back to his own team. This time, though, they keep in touch. So, yes, they talk. They just don't talk. Not yet.

Another election comes and goes. Far away in Seattle, Morse fades into the shadows, and Mike returns. The gods are kind to the Talkers for once; their hitting gets boosted, and though Lachlan feels the power surge through him, he knows all his teammates feel the same, so he’s still no better than anyone else.

They could use the boost, yes. But the Thieves could use anything at all, anything that might offset their curse even a little, and yet they get nothing for their efforts. Nothing but the same three modifications every team gets, in preparation for next season's forecast. Nothing but eclipses, blooddrain, and birds. Lachlan supposes he should be glad there won't be any feedback or peanuts, but most of the upcoming season seems even more dangerous.

The Talkers also win the “tiny eggs”, again. This season a line has appeared under the top fourteen names in the Hall of Flame. Lachlan's not sure if that's a good or bad thing, but Workman is above it, and Kiki, and Morrow, one of the Thieves he never met. All of them up there among even bigger names like Landry and Boyfriend. He decides to tribute the peanuts to those who are below, instead. Workman will always be remembered by the fans, but how many will remember Trevino and Kennedy?

Not that dumping a few peanuts down there makes any kind of a difference, he's sure.

It happens on the seventh day of the season. Seven days of the Thieves flinching at the first pitch every time they step up to the plate. Seven days of them having to deal with not just the Shelled One’s curse, but also an extra base to run.

They've won every game so far, anyway. They're still champions. Even worn down and cursed, they're still strong. They still fight.

Peanuts have never been able to stop Simon Haley before.

Lachlan's not there to watch it happen, of course, but he can't take his eyes off the replays. It was only the second inning, Pies versus Thieves, the Thieves already up by two. They know how to make the best of a bad situation; being unable to swing until getting a strike can have its benefits, if you're facing a pitcher who throws a lot of balls.

Mora loads the bases, and this season that means four players. Esme, Blood, Hotbox, and Vela. There's no pressure for Simon to score, really. Not with the Thieves undefeated, already winning, early in the game, one out.

There's not much she can do, at the start. Watch one ball fly by. Turn away, instinctively, involuntarily, as the next pitch rips through the strike zone. But then she's all focus, trying to judge the next pitch -- it's a close one, and she lets it go, but the ump calls it a strike. Undaunted, she ignores the next one, too, watches it sail wide.

The next pitch is hard and fast, right down the middle, and she doesn't flinch, doesn't hesitate, only swings, and connects, and watches it soar out of sight. 

And then they're running, all five of them, flying around the bases as if the curse had never happened, and they did not need this to win the game, but they needed it, all the same. Simon's teammates lift her onto their shoulders as she smiles brighter than Lachlan’s seen since -- well, since the Thieves had something else to celebrate, but this time there's nothing to cut it short.

A pentaslam, they're calling it. The first one ever. Simon’s still smiling in the interviews as she holds the newly discovered Blagonball, not seeming to mind that it's dripping blood all over her; she’s just played in blooddrain, after all. 

She’s amazing, and Lachlan makes sure to tell her so when he calls.

The Pies get vem back the next day.

Well, maybe it's not fair to say that. Lachlan doesn't really think any of them are upset about the pentaslam. Doesn't really think anyone would specifically target the Thieves, not when they suffered so much for their championship. A third of the games this season are in blooddrain weather, so of course there are going to be blooddrains. Simon's not the first Thief to be drained this season, and not even the last drained in this game (both of those unfortunate honours went, ironically, to Blood). Yeong-Ho Benitez is the Pies’ siphon, and of course they want to use that new ability to help their team any way they can. Who wouldn't do the same? 

(Lachlan would, probably, if the gods had decided to give that power to him instead of Beans. He's never drained anyone, doesn't ever want to, but if that was his job, his responsibility, if he had a way to be helpful for once... well, he probably would, as much as he'd hate it.)

Even so, it feels unreasonably cruel when Benitez takes advantage of Simon's curse to catch vem off guard and take vir blood. Again, Lachlan's not there to see when it happens, but he forces himself to watch later anyway, watch how they just -- they just charge right at Simon at the plate, the ball having barely passed vem by, and ve’s still flinching, not even looking at them, and Benitez just -- they just attack -- 

Lachlan never thought comets had blood. He was wrong.

“I'm fine, Human, honestly --”

“You didn't look fine! You don't sound fine! You're still cursed, and now this --”

“I don't care ! It's just blood. It happens to everyone. It happened to you. We didn't…” ve trails off. 

“Yeah. We didn't talk after that happened.”

It hadn't been a big deal, true. It was -- well, it wasn't fun, sure, but it was far from the worst thing that had happened to Lachlan even at that point; it was barely a season after he'd feedbacked to the Thieves. They were playing the Tacos, and Lachlan was in his usual position at first base, and Basilio Fig had hit a single, and -- well, Fig had just kind of leaned over and jabbed him while he stood there, stunned, and then that was it. Having some blood taken by a sentient tree: just another absurd day in blaseball. 

At least it was baserunning. At least he had a few more stars to lose there. At least it wasn't hitting. He’d felt sluggish and faint for the rest of the day, and Simon hadn't called, and he hadn't called Simon, but he was fine, and it hadn’t made him any worse at hitting. 

Maybe they would have talked about it eventually, if they hadn't had bigger things to worry about just three days later when three players went up in flames.

“...Sorry about that,” Simon says, and ve does sound genuinely apologetic, for a moment. “But I didn't call then because I knew you’d be fine! Just like I'm going to be fine.”

Lachlan’s not buying either of those excuses, but now’s not the time to be talking about who didn't call who.

“Sure, I was fine, but I wasn't cursed. I’m just--”

“Yeah, you're not cursed! I get it, okay?” All of a sudden, vir voice is rising. “I don’t need to hear about the curse all the time, and how you feel guilty about it! I get it! You want to be part of the almost-got-killed-by-a-god club because then you'd have more of an excuse for feeling so goddamn useless all the time! You escaped it and now you’re stuck trying to help everyone who didn’t! Well, I don't need your help, and I definitely don't need your pity, because I'm fine, okay?”

And ve hangs up, leaving Lachlan in stunned silence.

The Thieves’ next game is far bloodier, a duel of siphons. Benitez, unrelenting, gets both Stu and Woodman. Dickson retaliates with his grappling hook, drains Farrell Seagull and then hunts down Benitez for some proper revenge, and looks like he enjoys it, too.

At least, that's what Lachlan hears. He doesn't watch any of it. 

“Uh. Sorry about that.”

“It's --”

“No. It's not okay. I was having a very bad day, and I'm having a very bad curse, but you were just trying to help, and -- and I guess I’m tired of everyone trying to help, even if I need it, because I hate needing it. And I don’t think it’s fair to expect you to keep helping me, after… everything, and I shouldn't have said those things, because they're not true.” 

Some of them were true, Lachlan thinks, which is why it hurt so much to hear them. But he doesn’t blame Simon for saying it. Not too much, at least. He had certainly been thinking some of it already.

“I can back off a bit, if you want? I’m not trying to assume you need help all the time, but I want you to know I’m still here if you need me. Like I used to be. It’s just -- you know, I’m worried! Not just about you, but about all of it, and maybe I’ve been bad at communicating that the right way.”

“I’d say you’ve mostly been bad at communicating things to me at all, except I know I’ve been pretty terrible at it too. And that’s not even counting yesterday.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? We got used to not talking to each other, and now that we're trying to do it again, we’re not always going to get it right. So I don’t blame you for that.”

“That’s a really nice way of saying “well, I can forgive you being a dick to me because it's better than you ignoring me”.” 

“Well, that's not exactly why I forgive you, but… yeah. It would be nice if we could avoid both of those things when we see each other tomorrow, though.” 

“Okay. I'll be perfectly polite when I hit another pentaslam and rub it in your face.”

He can't help but laugh. “Sounds like a plan.”

“...I really am sorry, you know.”

“I know. Me too.”

The series is in Charleston. Maybe it's better that way; Lachlan won't be tempted to invite Simon over, just like old times. They still have a ways to go before it can be just like old times.

And something's different. Lachlan gets to the stadium early, finding Simon waiting for him outside, and when they look over --

“What is that?” he exclaims, shocked.

Simon blinks all five of their eyes, suddenly self-conscious. “What? Haven't you ever seen an eye before?”

“Well, yeah, but -- another one? Is… is that normal? Do comets just grow eyes to match their number-related accomplishments?”

They cast all their eyes down. “You think it looks weird?”

“No!” Lachlan says quickly. “No. You look beautiful.” Nothing about Simon could ever be anywhere near as weird as so many of the other things that happen in blaseball, anyway. So he's in love with an alien. So what? He got used to that a long time ago.

And they do look beautiful. The new vertical eye in the middle of their forehead has made the other four shift a little, the top and bottom eyes in each pair now tilting closer together towards the middle of their face and further away on the ends, their eyebrows arching higher. The overall effect makes it seem even more like a celestial butterfly has landed on their face and spread its wings among the constellation of their freckles. 

...He didn’t say any of that out loud, right? 

“You're still staring!”

“You're still beautiful!”

Are they blushing? 

“No,” they say, turning away. “I don't deserve that. Not now.”

“I'm not mad about the other day. Honestly.” Maybe a little upset, still, but that's not all Simon's fault.

“Well, maybe you should be!” All five of those eyes are suddenly staring him down. “Do you realize what a doormat you are? You just let the world walk all over you and then you get up and keep being nice. You can't let people push you around all the time, even when those people are me.”

“Okay,” he says. “Fine. You want me to push back for once? Let's talk. Enough avoiding it. If you don't want your curse to be an excuse, then don't tell me you're not ready to at least talk.”

Suddenly, they’re all hesitance again, as if they didn’t expect him to actually fire back. “...Now? Before the game?”

“Well, I guess we don't have time,” Lachlan admits. “After, then.”

“It’s an eclipse.”

“There are a lot of eclipses this season.”

Simon’s first season was all eclipses, though. A third of the season under dark skies is nothing compared to that. Nobody’s died yet this season. It’s only been nine days, but, still, nobody’s died yet. They have two eclipse games in a row, but statistically, they’re not likely to die.

And they’ve had to get used to it. They’re more used to it than some of the newer aspects of the splort. That doesn’t make it easy, but at least the moon casts a much smaller shadow than gods do.

“Yeah,” Comet says eventually. “Okay. After the game. So don’t die.”

“Only if you don’t.”

“Deal.”

It’s the first time all the Talkers and Thieves have met up since last season’s finals, and today it’s far more subdued. But Beasley’s happy to see his old team as ever, and that eases the tension a bit, at least. (Not for the first time, Lachlan finds himself very, very glad that Beasley didn’t end up cursed.)

Mooney's always calm in an eclipse, and that helps the mood a bit too, even as she loads the bases in the very first inning. It's Simon who ends up on first this time, which of course means they're right next to Lachlan.

“Hey, Comet.”

“Hey, Human.”

“I thought the plan was you hitting a pentaslam.”

“Decided to give someone else a chance this time.”

At the plate, Stu flinches.

“You got this, Stu!” Simon calls out. “Time for Pentaslam 2: Electric Stugaloo! You can do it!”

“Yeah, Stu, hit a pentaslam!” Lachlan adds before he can help himself.

“Oi, mate, you stay out of this!” she shouts back at him, but she's still smiling even when she hits the ball and Beans immediately leaps up to catch it.

They go through a similar process with Woodman and Howell, though with notably less fake accents in response. No pentaslams are hit, but nobody seems to mind too much.

It's a good game. The Thieves win 2-0. Simon bats in one of the runs. Lachlan hits two singles. Nobody dies.

Simon's waiting for him, after.

Lachlan has to admit to himself he's not sure which Charleston they’re in when they step out of Choux Stadium. Can't be one of the Canadian ones; it's not damp in the slightest. Even so, it feels a little bit like home, back in the days when there were still parts of home with no ocean anywhere in sight. 

They're on a bench in a nearby park. It’s not a rooftop, and there are no stars to see in the daytime, and no waves whispering in the distance, but there are soft clouds drifting overhead, and flowers bending in the breeze, and birds chirping in the branches, and Simon is sitting close enough that if either of them shifted slightly, they'd be touching.

All in all, not a bad place to be.

“When did you realize?” Comet asks, finally breaking the silence.

“It wasn't any one specific moment, really. Just gradual. But I was thinking about it so much that night, and I was going to tell you the next day, and… well.” He drums his fingers on the bench. “You know how that turned out.”

“I didn't realize it,” they say softly. “Not until then. Until you were gone, and it was too late. And -- and I didn't know what to do. I thought maybe you were running away from me, because you somehow knew how I felt before I did, and it weirded you out. And it was just... it was just so much to deal with, all of a sudden, so I pushed it all away.”

“I might have been running away, in a sense,” Lachlan admits. “Because I was afraid of how you would react. I didn't think someone like you could ever feel that way about me. It's not that I wanted to leave, of course it's not, but maybe the feedback picked up on my emotions, my hesitation, and gave me a way out. Even though I didn't want it.”

“I think it kind of did that to me when you came back. Because I still wasn't ready to deal with it then, even after spending the last two years running from it. I just... kept running. And maybe that feedback wasn't my fault, either, but I embraced it anyway, even though it meant leaving the Talkers.”

“But you've been happy on the Thieves?” He already knows the answer to that.

“Yeah. Happier than I have any right to be, I think. Because I loved the Talkers, and they were always good to me, but -- this feels more right, somehow. And I know it never did for you, so I'm glad you got to come home.”

“I think it could have, if I'd tried harder. If the circumstances were different. But I guess it's working out okay in the end. We're learning.”

“Shouldn't have taken a near-apocalypse to teach us, though.”

“No. We’ll know better for next time.”

“There will be a next time. That's the problem. And I don't know if any of us are going to be ready for it. I... I can't go through that again.” They sound very small, suddenly.

“You won't have to,” Lachlan promises, though he knows that doesn't mean anything. “Someone else will win the championship. A team who's better prepared to take it on. We'll find a way. We have to.”

Simon shakes their head. “It doesn't matter who. None of us can beat that thing. It's too strong. We all know what it can do.”

“Yeah. We do.” Lachlan sighs. “I'm sorry. It's just -- if we can't find a way, what happens? I don't want us to run out of time. Not now. Not when we're finally working through this.”

Simon's quiet for a minute. “I still don't think I'm ready,” they finally say. “Not with all this going on. It's not -- it's not that I don't love -- it's -- it’s just, you deserve better. I'm so tired and angry all the time now. I said some awful things to you, and I didn't mean them, but I still said them, and I can't expect you to stick around when I'm like this.”

“That’s kind of what love’s all about, though, isn't it? Being there for someone even when they’re tired and angry.”

“It’s not going to work if you’re only there starting with the tired and angry.” 

“I know we haven’t always been there for each other, but we used to at least be there a lot. I think we could have that again, and more, if we tried.”

“You can say it. It was me who stopped being there, mostly.”

“It was,” Lachlan agrees. “I could have done better, too, but... yeah. I can’t pretend that didn’t hurt, because it did. It hurt a lot.”

“So, what, you think I can just apologize and then everything will be fine? Because that’s not how it works, and even I know it.”

“I think you made some bad decisions, and so did I, and it’s better to try and fix it than to make it worse by walking away again. Because I don’t think either of us want to do that.”

“I’m trying so hard at so many things right now. It’s exhausting. I don’t -- I can’t -- I don’t want to do nothing, but I can’t do enough. Not for us. Not now.”

“I can wait.” He’s gotten pretty good at that.

“That’s not fair to you, either.”

“It is if we’re doing our best to communicate. To try as much as we can, however much that might be.”

“...Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“We'll try. We can... I don't know. Get through this season, somehow. Defeat the Peanut. And then we'll see where things go.”

“Okay,” Lachlan says again. “And I'll be here if you need me, okay?”

“Here, on this park bench?” A smirk is slowly working its way onto their face.

Lachlan shoves them, very gently, and they laugh. 

“Here wherever, however you need me to be.” 

“Me too. At least, I'll try.”

“Thank you.”

And then they're quiet for a while, just sitting there, but it's not awkward in the slightest.

“Another eclipse tomorrow,” Lachlan says finally.

“Lots of eclipses this season.”

“Don't die.”

“Only if you don't.”

“Deal.”

They don't die. Nobody does. It's a perfectly unremarkable game without incident.

And then comes the third game, in blooddrain weather.

Lachlan's been dreading what might happen. He hates the thought of any of his teammates, former or otherwise, attacking each other. Shudders to imagine Beans’ sharp teeth or Dickson's grappling hook sinking into anyone he cares about. Draining is just part of the game, yes, but it seems cruel under any circumstances. And for these two teams to go after each other…

Dickson doesn't use the hook, at least. When he gets Ziwa it's quick and relatively painless, though they shout and try to fight him off the entire time and angrily spit blood in his face afterwards. 

All that for an out. Was it worth it? No one's in a good mood when the series ends, that's for certain.

Lachlan tries not to dwell on it. It's part of the game. It happens. The Thieves are fighting as hard as they can this season, and he understands that.

“We're playing the Pies again next,” Simon informs him before they part ways for a while.

“Well, I hope you can avoid any blooddrain games,” Lachlan says, concerned.

“I don’t. I want my blood back from Benitez.”

There's something cold and fierce in all of her eyes, for a moment, and Lachlan shudders. What happened to it’s just blood ? He doesn't know how to respond.

“Be safe,” is what he settles on. 

“You too,” she says, sounding more like her old self, and hugs him, briefly, and then she’s gone.

But only for a while. They’ll see each other again.

At least, Lachlan has to believe they will.

Yeong-Ho Benitez is incinerated during the Pies-Thieves game the very next day. 

Lachlan ends up on the phone with Simon for hours. Good that Simon wants to talk, at least; if this were just a little while ago he wouldn't have reached out to Lachlan about it. And Benitez wasn’t someone either of them knew, or liked, but on the other hand, neither of them wanted Benitez dead for taking Simon’s blood, of course. But to watch someone burn to death in front of you, after that, and for the first time since that awful season…

Not that Lachlan had to see any of those incinerations in person back then, either. It's been a very long time since he saw someone die. He's always in the right place at the right time, or maybe the wrong place at the wrong time. Always on the outside, far enough away that he never feels a part of it. And that should be good in situations like this, right?

It’s a lonely feeling, either way.

It's a rough season. It's a bloody season. But it's not an unbearable season. Even with countless games played under dark skies all across the league, the umpires claim only one more victim: Annie Roland of the Magic. Everyone else lives to play another day.

Lachlan figures the peanut wants them to stay alive to witness its glorious return, and he doesn't expect they’ll live much longer than that.

It won't be for lack of trying, though. The Thieves don't want to be in that position again, but they're preparing all the same. The Crabs are still the favourites to win, and they're training even harder. If they can manage to ascend this time, maybe they'll have a better crack at the nut -- but no one actually knows how ascension works, of course. 

The world's eyes have been on Dot, too, even more so than usual. An already-powerful pitcher, freed from their shell by the Monitor, just in time to escape becoming a Pod? There's been plenty of speculation that Dot might be the one to save them all. 

It's far too much pressure to put on any one player, and Lachlan can tell they're struggling with it, but it doesn't affect their performance on the field. In fact, they have their best season yet, only losing one game and leading the Moist Talkers into the playoffs for the first time in years -- but that doesn't mean they're ready to face the Shelled One, of course. 

If anyone's ready, it’s Jaylen, who stepped up to face it before. Jaylen's been making deals and plans with the microphone. Jaylen's refusing to stand by and accept whatever terms the Peanut is going to give everyone.

Jaylen dies again.

Lachlan hopes her plan works, even if it means she won't stay dead. She's not the enemy anymore. Maybe she never really was. If she can find a way to stop the Thieves, the Talkers, anyone, from having to face that thing... well, Lachlan will be grateful. 

But did she really have to let Tillman Henderson, of all people, take her place? Lachlan doesn't have to put up with Tillman directly, but he does have to put up with all of Simon's complaining about having to be on a team with Tillman Henderson.

It's probably better for the Thieves in the long run, though. Tillman's nowhere near as good of a pitcher as Jaylen, and if he can get them knocked out of the playoffs sooner, they can hardly complain. But even with Tillman, even cursed, the Thieves are still champions, and they make it past the first round.

The Talkers don't.

It shocks the world. How is Dot supposed to face off against the Shelled One if the Talkers don't even come close to making the finals? Is it really going to be all up to the Crabs?

Lachlan doesn't know how it feels to be a star, and he probably never will. No one has high expectations for him. The way he lets people down is not dramatic; it is underwhelming, and constant.

But he knows the guilt. The guilt of being helpless to protect someone. Of not being able to make it to the place you should be. Of having to stand back and watch others fight the battles you don't want to fight, but that you would still fight for them, if you could.

Maybe he should talk about that to Dot, but what is there to say, really? Just because they’ve all been making more of an effort to understand each other doesn’t mean Dot can relate to Lachlan’s unremarkable life, guilt or no guilt. Nobody’s ever expected Lachlan Shelton to save anyone.

They don’t have many opportunities to talk now that the Talkers’ season has come to an end, anyway. They’re not on the field together, and, like the rest of the world, their eyes are on the remaining teams more so than anything else.

The Thieves make it all the way to the finals, again. The Talkers go to watch, not because they're under any illusion that they can have a good time together, but because how could they not go? All the other teams are there, too. Whatever happens, it's going to be big. Forget about not wanting to miss it; they've all got the feeling that they won't be able to miss it whether they choose to go or not, so they go.

It's not even close, not with the Thieves being cursed and having an extra base to run. No one really expected it to be. And that's good, Lachlan doesn't have to worry quite as much. If they lose, Simon should be safe, or at least safer, and the Thieves are certainly doing a good job of losing. This time when the third game rolls around, nobody's cheering for a reverse sweep. The Crabs are resolved to win and give the Peanut their best shot. As the innings tick on and they’re up 9-0, victory is clearly inevitable.

It's not a close game, but everyone's on the edge of their seat anyway, knowing full well that the end of it will only be the beginning of something bigger. Eugenia is anxiously, gradually, oozing closer to Ziwa; Lachlan's not even sure she's aware she's doing it. Dot sits like a statue save for clenching and unclenching their fists, echoes of fourth-dimensional squiddish fingers shifting in and out of view. Even Beasley has gone silent and subdued.

It should be unremarkable. Just another run scored, another small part of the Crabs’ dominant performance. Lachlan's not even paying too much attention when Tot Fox steps up to the plate, or when they hit the ball, or even when Silvaire comes home and the score ticks up to 10-0.

But it's impossible not to pay attention afterwards -- at least, he tries to, but suddenly everything is happening all at once, the sky is cracking open, going bright and dark and then bright again, and shouts of panic erupt all around him, and Mooney’s anguished cry rises above it all.

Words are flashing up on the screens, and Lachlan's not sure where they're coming from or what they all mean, but --

THE CRABS ACCUMULATE 10
THE SUN COLLAPSES
THE MOON IS SWALLOWED
THE BLACK HOLE FORMS
SUN 2 RISES
The Crabs collect 10!
The Black Hole swallows the Runs and a Shoe Thieves Win.

...The… what? Lachlan blinks, trying to make sense of it all. How could something as simple as a single destroy the sun and moon? He looks for Mooney, but she must have run off somewhere. Whatever’s gone wrong, if anyone can fix it, it's her. 

The game has paused for a moment as the players stare up at the sky, but at least they all seem unharmed.

PLAY MUST CONTINUE, the umpire booms, and then the finals are back underway. They should be over soon -- but, no, the scoreboard’s been reset to 0-0. Why can't it just end ? No more second chances, no more games, the Thieves need to lose now.

Extra innings. The Crabs have scored ten runs, the Thieves haven't scored any, and they're going into extra innings. On the field, two-year-old Vela stomps her feet and shrieks in frustration, expressing what they're all feeling.

Fortunately, Forrest Best gets on base in the eleventh inning, and then it's over almost before anyone has time to blink. The Crabs are finally three-time champions. The Crabs will be ascending.

The Crabs aren't going anywhere, though, not yet. The Thieves are forced off the field (safe, or safer, at least, for now), and the Crabs stay, stand strong as the Shelled One appears.

It laughs at them. It looks at what is probably the strongest team the league has ever had, and it laughs at them. They don't falter, don't turn away, just take their positions as the Pods appear, ready to fight, and still it laughs.

Wyatt Quitter hits a single, and it's all over.

PATHETIC, the Shelled One says. The Crabs are lying on the ground. The crowd has gone quiet. The Pods are standing still, awaiting their orders.

It's all over.

Simon. Comet. Lachlan has to get to xer before it's too late, and he tries to get up, and --

And Dot suddenly leaps to their feet, looking at the field as if they've heard something that no one else can, and Lachlan almost dares to hope, and then Eugenia’s shouting -- look, look!

There's a crackle of -- no, not feedback, lightning, actual lightning, and when it clears there's someone else on the field, and the Peanut is shouting in shock and outrage, drowned out by a laugh like thunder.

Rise in violence, Landry says, and they do.

As if a dam has burst, more and more players come pouring on to the field, swept in from the Hall, called upon in their hour of need, all the names who were above that line, Kiki and Morrow and Boyfriend and Randy and --

And Beasley launches himself down the steps, barking, howling, yapping with excitement, and Dot chases after him, and -- and, yes, it's them, it's Workman, looking around, smiling at the Thieves on the sidelines, and then they look up to where all the Talkers are screaming their name, and look closer -- did they nod to Lachlan up there? he thinks they might have -- and finally find Dot holding a squirming Beasley up so the Glooms can see each other better, and their grin widens. Whatever Workman says is lost among the roar of the crowd, but Beasley barks back anyway, tries to wriggle out of Dot’s many hands and join them, but of course he can't get on the field, nobody can.

The fight is beginning. The real fight. They just might have a chance this time, if the Peanut’s  outraged complaints are any indication. For once, it's not the one in control.

Jaylen's back, and this time she's prepared, calling on the feedback, saving Axel, swapping back and forth to sabotage the Pods. The home runs start to fly -- when Workman hits one it's beautifully unremarkable; they smile as they run the bases, and no flames come to claim them, though the sky has grown dark.

(The moon can't be gone if there’s an eclipse, right? What else would be eclipsing the sun?)

Sebastian Telephone burns right after, and someone else takes his place. Are the Hall Stars truly alive, then, if they can die again? How cruel, to be offered a second chance and then have it taken from you. 

Scrap Murphy. Lachlan remembers seeing his name on the list, nowhere near the top. Many fans are muttering in confusion. Scrap Murphy? They haven't heard of him. They don't know he was a pitcher for the New York Millennials. That was years ago. He had an unremarkable career, certainly not the kind that earns anyone piles of peanuts in the Hall and gets them drafted to a team of the world’s favourites.

He hits a home run, and the whole crowd chants his name.

It ends, eventually. Dominic Marijuana cracks the Peanut’s shell right open, and then the Monitor is upon it. The god that's tormented them for years disappears with a simple cronch, and it's over. It's done. The Monitor fades away, informing them that the Boss is coming, and the Hall Stars vanish with it, and the Pods are gone too, and --

It's over. 

What does that mean? What happens next? No one's really sure, yet. But in this moment, it almost doesn't matter. They killed a god. They killed a god, and its reign of terror is over, and everyone is laughing and crying and screaming and hugging. Someone gets a hold of the PA system, and the garages’ music starts surging through the stadium. 

we're gonna fight gods, fight gods! we're gonna fight gods, fight gods, and we're gonna win!

Thousands of voices join in, blending together until it is no longer a song, but an anthem, a promise, a truth. 

Lachlan is just one among many, but he raises his voice to the sky along with the others, because they're all here, they're all a part of this, he’s a part of this, he watched the Shelled One fall. 

And then he can't stand there anymore, he's got to go, got to get to Simon, the barrier’s gone, the Peanut is gone, and he tries to weave his way through the crowd. 

no gods, yeah, we're killing all gods, and don't tell me the odds, cause we're killing all gods!

They're still singing.

It's not a perfect victory. He passes what's left of the Tacos, looking up at the sky, wondering where their teammates have gone. He passes the Crabs, sitting exhausted and apprehensive, though a few of them are managing to smile and sing along. Many Thieves have gathered to help them, returning the favour from last season and offering advice on how to deal with being cursed.

The Shelled One is gone, and the Crabs are still cursed. 

The Shelled One is gone, and the Thieves are still cursed.

Beasley wanders by, sniffing the ground. Vela tries to break away from the group and toddles after him on excited little legs, but Esme scoops her up before she can get too far.

“Not now, Vela,” she says softly. “There'll be time for that later.”

Beasley's going in circles, desperately following a trail, and Dot’s trying to get him to settle down.

“No, I don't know where they went,” Lachlan hears Dot say as they pass by. “But I’m sure they will come back again. They would never want to leave you behind, Beasley.”

Dot doesn't really know if Workman’s coming back, Lachlan can tell. They just want to believe it.

riding in the front seat of a train car, hurtling towards the heavens, the crowd sings.

Why not, though? Why shouldn't they come back? The Hall Stars can't be gone forever, just like the Pods can't be gone forever, just like the Crabs can’t stay here forever. There's still an election. Something big always happens during elections.

Lachlan's going to believe. It's better than the alternative.

There's a shout of “Human!” and then Simon practically tackles him into a hug.

“Oof!” he says, and then “Comet!” and then he might be crying a little, but who isn't?

Somewhere along the way, the music's changed. Even the garages only have so many songs about fighting gods, Lachlan supposes.

I don't wanna let you go in the feedback, cause I don't know I'd get you back...

They pull away and look at each other.

“Want to get out of here?” Simon asks.

“Please,” he says, without even having to think about it.

Simon slips xer hand into his and pulls him through the crowd, laughing.

Even outside the stadium, people are singing, cheering, shouting; the whole world celebrating. Neither of them know Baltimore well enough to have much of an idea where they're going, but they stumble their way towards the bay, away from the crowd. The noise starts to fade into the background, though Lachlan expects they'll still be hearing it for a long time.

“Over here!” Simon points to what seems to be an abandoned fishing shack.

“That thing? It doesn't seem safe.”

“So what? Neither is playing in an eclipse.” Xe starts stacking up crates.

“We survived all that just to die by falling through someone's old rotten roof?”

“It's not rotten!” Simon calls down, already up there.

Lachlan gives in, of course, and joins xer. How could he not?

It's not Halifax, and it's not Charleston, but he’s up on a roof with waves crashing all around and stars overhead and Comet next to him, and nothing has ever mattered as much as that last thing.

“What are we doing here?” Lachlan asks, suddenly self-conscious. “We shouldn't rush into anything just because--”

“Yeah, yeah, we killed a god, but we have no idea what's coming next, and it might end up worse, and I'm still cursed, and so on. Do you have to ruin the moment?” 

“Well, all of those things are pretty significant! Especially the curse, since we know for sure you still have it.”

Xe shrugs, trying to make it seem like it's no big deal. “Maybe it'll go away. Let's not worry about it right now, okay? I don't want it to be an excuse anymore. It was never really about that, not as much as it was about us being stupid, and me being not ready to entirely stop being stupid.”

“It wasn't stupid to wait this season. We can wait longer, if you want.” 

“I don't want! I want to stop being afraid, and one of my biggest fears just got eaten by a squid, so what is there to be afraid of now except us? And we’ve talked about us, and learned to be boringly mature, so can we stop being boring now?”

“What else is there to be afraid of?” Lachlan echoes. “The new boss being even worse. More eclipses. More peanuts. The Hall Stars never coming back. Falling through this roof. CV’s cooking. Clowns.”

“ Clowns? ” Xe’s laughing.

“I just think they're creepy!”

“How about we worry about all those things later? And not even tomorrow. Tomorrow, we wake up in a world without the Shelled One, and we can do anything we want! We can be in Halifax, or Charleston, or somewhere else, it doesn’t matter where because we’re free, even if it’s just for a while! But maybe it’ll be for a really, really long time.”

Lachlan can’t help but smile at Comet’s enthusiasm. Doesn’t xe deserve to be happy? Don’t they both? For a while, or even for a really, really long time?

"And tomorrow I can help you make donairs,” xe continues. “Without peanuts."

"Donairs don't have peanuts, you know that."

"Well, yeah, that's why I said without peanuts !"

He laughs, safe and free in the starlight. “I’ve missed this.”

“Me too.” 

Xe’s staring right at him. He doesn’t look away.

“I was going to tell you something last time we were up on a roof.”

“Well, I’d like to hear it.”

They’ve both said it since, sort of, in a way, but not like this.

“I love you, Comet.”

“I love you, Human.”

And the world keeps turning, and the two of them turn together.

Kissing a comet, Lachlan finally finds, is, above all, worth the wait.