Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Salt air/and the rust on your door/I never needed anything more…

Betty/I won’t make assumptions about why you switched your homeroom but/I think it’s ‘cause of me…

Grantaire remembers the first time he’d entered Enj’s summer cabin like it was yesterday, even though it is going on…what the hell, five years?!? Since he’d first met Enjolras and the C’s (Combeferre and Courfeyrac, a perfect, matched set in more than just the first letters of their names) in grade seven. He remembers the anxiety crawling like ants through his system the first time he’d come face to face with the salt-weathered robin’s egg blue door – he’d stood there for what felt like hours before finally knocking. Most of the current Amis crew – they hadn’t met Marius, or Cosette, or Eponine yet – had driven down together, either in Enjolras’ parents’ cars or Combeferre’s, but Grantaire had two make-up tests to write and so had driven down a few days later. His mom almost hadn’t let him go. Were it not for Combeferre’s mom, and the eerily persuasive talents she clearly passed on to her son, telling Grantaire’s mom it would be good for him, he would have never made it out that first summer (or any of the other ones, let’s be real).

And now, here he is, faced with the same old, blue door. The same old, blue Ford is parked behind him in the drive now too, except he had driven it down this time, and not his mother. The only other car is Enjolras’ red Camry (Grantaire loves to ceaselessly tease Enj about the colour of his car and the surely expensive nature of his insurance, but Enjolras only ever sniffs and says it’s his duty to pay more since insurance premiums are so rigged anyway, and he is one of the few who can really afford it)(Grantaire just thinks he’s willing to pay more for a car his favourite colour).

Enjolras’ is the only other car here because Grantaire has driven down early. He was invited down. Early.

That first summer five years had been a turning point; before that, Grantaire and the Amis weren’t what you could really call friends…It was more like Enjolras and the C’s amassing an eclectic bunch of devotees throughout the school year, and Grantaire following them all around like a dog on a string for reasons unbeknownst to him at the time. He’d been a dumb kid, lashing out when he couldn’t make himself focus, which was all the time basically – undiagnosed ADHD sucks ass. Enjolras couldn’t stand him and his attempts at stand-up jokes.

He'd switched homerooms halfway through the school year, which he swears to this day had nothing to do with Grantaire and him being in the same one, but Grantaire isn’t fooled. He knew he was unbearable to be around, even at the time, but he couldn’t seem to stop it.

But Courfeyrac, for God only knows what reason, probably the sickening goodness of his heart, had invited Grantaire to the cabin along with the rest of the crew. And Enj hadn’t said no. And Grantaire’s mom hadn’t said no. And Grantaire, outside of the pressures of school and preteen angst, had been able to let go and be himself. He’d made friends.

In the time since, he’s grown up. Gotten diagnosed. Drives his mom’s old car. And knows with a sunken certainty in his bones why he treated Enjolras like the Pied Piper, even when Enj made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with him. Why he still treats Enjolras like the Pied Piper, honestly…

It’s been a long time since Grantaire has been nervous when faced with this door. It’s been the entryway to some of the best memories of his life. But the ants are crawling up his skin all the same. He takes one long, deep breath. In. Then out. Then he knocks.

The door is immediately flung wide open. The hinges squeak with rust in a way that makes Grantaire wince, but he doesn’t get to finish his wince before Enjolras is grabbing his face with both hands and tugging him into a bruising kiss.

Grantaire clutches at Enj’s t-shirt to bring their bodies closer, and sighs into the kiss.

Hello, Enjolras.

Hello, all that’s different this summer.

“Missed you,” Enjolras murmurs, only pulling back far enough to breeze the words past Grantaire’s already swollen lips.

“You saw me - ” Grantaire is cut off by another kiss and gasps, “ – yesterday!”

“Too long ago,” Enjolras murmurs, “too many people around. Couldn’t do,” he breaks off with a sigh when Grantaire gets his hands into the curls at the nape of his neck, “what I wanted to do.” He blinks some of the haze out of his eyes, smiling widely at Grantaire, and leans their foreheads together. “With you. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

Grantaire laughs. “I missed you too, Enj,” he admits, and folds the tiny blonde into his arms.

This is all relatively new. New enough that Grantaire’s blood is still half-singing with nerves. Part of him is sure this is some cosmic joke, that the universe would present him with more than he could have ever dared to want, and then will take it away just as quickly. The other part tells himself that the universe doesn’t care about beings as inconsequential as Grantaire, though it may care about the fire and brimstone that is Enjolras, so he might as well savour the moment. Always been great at that, Grantaire has (not!)

But…it’s the first time Grantaire has ever been early for anything in his life, especially the annual summer get-aways to Enjolras’ cabin…As they curl up on the sofa, lost in each other because of the privacy they’ve finally allowed themselves, he can admit that being early has its perks.

Chapter Text

Whispers/of are you sure?/never have I ever before…

She should stop staring at Eponine.

It’s a thought Cosette has, something she can recognize is weird and off-putting and something she shouldn’t continue to do. And yet…she can’t pry her eyes away.

None of this is Cosette’s usual modus operandi. But these day’s, she’s all afloat, all a flutter.

“There are easier, more practical ways to undress Ep than with your eyes, darling.”

Cosette whirls around and reflexively - honest, she does not mean to do this - spills her beer all over Courfeyrac.

“What the fuck?!?” he gripes

“You what the fuck! That’s what you deserve and -and more for sneaking up on a girl at a party.”

Courf is unimpressed. “A house party? Hosted by your adoptive brother, with only his lame friends in attendance?”

“You just called yourself lame.” Haha. Two can play at that game, Courfeyrac!

“I am the exception to every rule.”

Cosette sniffs. It’s like Courf has a sixth sense for when she’s already rattled and he takes it as his civic duty to rattle further. Without fail. Every time. “Well. It’s also what you deserve for being profane.”

Courf raises a brow. “Profane?”

“How about crude?”

“I’ve heard worse from Enj on a good day.”

Cosette scowls - “Uncouth, then!” - but Courfeyrac remains unphased.

“Now you just sound like my grandmother. The conservative one”

She gasps in almost actual offense: “How DARE you!”

And then they giggle together, because being cross with Courfeyrac is impossible, and then Cosette might as well give in, because hiding things from him is almost as difficult.

“Wanting to kiss girls doesn’t make me very conservative,” she admits on a mumble.

“Sexuality and identity can have nothing to do with political ideology,” Courf says, in his voice that means he’s parroting Enjolras. And then: “AHA! I was right!”

Cosette rolls her eyes. “Of course you’re right. Have you ever been wrong about something like this?”

Her idiotic but somehow wise friend beams. “Nope! I was even right about R and your brother, and everyone said I was crazy.”

“I didn’t,” Cosette feels pride-bound to point out, but Courf gets her there too:

“Insider Enj knowledge. Doesn’t count.”

Eponine laughs across the room, it must be at something R is doing or saying, she doesn’t laugh much other than those times, and Cosette’s eyes betray her again by straying to her…friend. Against all odds, she and Eponine are friends now, and Cosette has loved that and so how can she even be thinking about…

“Do you think I’m crazy?” she quietly asks Courf. He’s not a true idiot. He can see where her gaze leads, where it always leads these days.

“No,” he says. “She’s smokin’ hot.”

“Duh. I mean, do you think I’m crazy for…” but valedictorian Cosette is having trouble articulating the maelstrom of emotions inside.

“For…hoping? For thinking you should shoot your shot?”

For seeing herself in the tense shoulders of the girl across the room.

For selfishly wanting to see more of the golden goodness that seeps out of the cracks in her exterior when Eponine is around people she deems safe.

For wanting, when Cosette didn’t think she could. For wanting, when she definitely doesn’t think she should now.

Cosette can only nod.

“No,” Courfeyrac says gently. “No. I don’t.”

Cosette can’t breathe.

And then, much less gently, Courf exclaims: “Wait a minute! I thought you were aroace and didn’t like anyone like that?!? Isn’t that what you told Marius?”

The words barely register over the patter her thoughts have taken (Courf’s never wrong about this stuff, he’s never wrong, he’s never…) but she can still respond to the dumb question with the bluntness it deserves:

“Obviously, I was wrong. About…some of that stuff, at least.”

“Maybe you just didn’t like kissing Marius!” Courf jokes.

“Maybe,” Cosette manages, but as her gaze hasn’t strayed from the other girl across the room, she watches Eponine open the patio door and step out into the fall evening. Before she thinks the action through, Cosette is grabbing Courf’s half-full can out of his hand and marching after her.

Eponine looks up from her drink when she hears the door open after her. She never quite smiles, not unless it’s mocking or at her little brother, or sometimes even at Grantaire, but her lips tick up in the corners in that soft way Cosette likes to think only happens around her. Maybe Courf thinks so too.

“Hey,” Eponine says.

“Hi, Ep,” Cosette begins, and then her throat dries and she loses all her words.

Ep gives her a longer glance, like she was expecting more of a conversation opener, but she doesn’t have that watchful look she sometimes gets when people weird her out. Cosette searches for words, but ends up taking a swig of Courf’s drink. She makes a face, thinking longingly of the drink she spilled over him. Hopefully, he has since gone to change or clean up after she abandoned him to talk to Eponine. Too bad she’s not doing any damn talking!

“If that’s the stuff Courfeyrac drinks, it’s bascially watered-down piss.”

Cosette makes an even louder face. “Why would you say that? Ew?”

Eponine snickers. “It’s not like the pink shit you doused him in tastes any better to me.”

Cosette flushes. “You saw that?”

“He sure shrieked loud enough to draw attention.”

“He’s Courfeyrac, that’s his specialty.”

“Mhm.” Eponine takes a sip of her own drink, a much daintier sip than Cosette’s. They lapse into companiable silence. Cosette isn’t itching to fill it. Eponine can wield a silence like a pointed weapon, and Cosette has been on the receiving end of a few of those a time or two, but not for a long time, now that she reflects. This certainly isn’t one of them. It’s warm, like the dying summer light around them.

“Did you need a break from the party?” she finally asks, even though that’s not what she really wants to say, because she is curious as to why Eponine came out here instead of just leaving. Most of the Amis sleep over when Enjolras hosts these kinds of parties, but Eponine never does.

Eponine glances at Cosette again. She’s still mostly looking out at the trees preparing for fall when she says, “I came out here to look at the trees. Why do you ask?” There’s something a little more watchful in her stance now, not quite yet wary, but prepared to be if necessary. Eponine always makes being prepared for anything look like an Olympic sport.

Her almost-wariness makes Cosette want to back off and avoid any possible conflict, but she’s also quite sure her skin is flaying off and if she doesn’t give voice to some of Courf’s thoughts that he put in her head she will explode.

“I know you don’t like parties,” is what she finally settles on saying, and she takes a step forward to set her drink down (to get closer to Ep’s patio position). She doesn’t want to be holding watered-down piss for this conversation. “I wanted to be sure you were alright.”

“I’m alright.” It’s said like a knee-jerk response. “I like looking at the trees for a moment of quiet – I grew up in an apartment complex smack dab in the center of the city with no trees or parks around.”

“I remember,” Cosette whispers. She takes the chance to step even a little closer. They’re almost side-by-side.

Eponine turns to fully look at her then, and if she’s surprised that Cosette is a little closer than before, she doesn’t show it. Something complicated flickers across her face, but it softens in a way Cosette has never seen before. It makes her heart ache.

“Of course you would,” Eponine says. It washes over Cosette like one of those benedictions her dad is so fond of.

Cosette swallows. “Eponine,” she begins on a breath, but she doesn’t get very far.

“Why do you care if I’m alright?” the other girl asks, watchful and intense, but harbouring something bright in her black gaze.

“Because…I care,” Cosette rasps back. “Because I care about you, and I didn’t think I could care about people this way.”

Eponine’s face gives nothing away, except the brightness in her eyes grows. She takes one step forward, and then she takes both of Cosette’s hands in her own. Her palms are calloused. Her black nail polish is chipped. She must have put her drink down at some point too, Cosette has no clue when. She’s just fighting not to close her eyes and embarassingly lose herself in the sensation of skin already.

“I only go to parties I know for sure that you’ll be at,” Eponine intones.

Cosette stops breathing again. She clutches at Eponine’s hands even harder, but Eponine doesn’t flinch.

When she gets enough air to speak once more, Cosette whispers, “I would like to kiss you now. But I should warn you, I’ve never kissed a girl before.”

Eponine’s bright eyes are very wide. “I haven’t either.” If you’re paying close attention, and Cosette is, especially as Eponine draws closer, you can see the short, quick breaths Ep is having to take. It makes Cosette’s head go stupidly fuzzy to know she has an effect. As does Eponine stepping even closer, making her head or so of height advantage even more pronounced.

She brings one of her warm, calloused hands up to Cosette’s cheek, and Cosette could just die. Simply perish, right here and now. She doesn’t want to before she gets kissed, however.

“Are you sure?” Eponine murmurs. She’s looking right into Cosette’s eyes, searching for any hint of hesitancy.

They’ve talked about it before, once, after Cosette and Marius broke up, about how Marius meant well, and always asked before kissing her, but how he couldn’t always tell Cosette wasn’t into it. And maybe that’s not fair to put on him, Cosette herself couldn’t tell she wasn’t into it for the bulk of that relationship. But it did make knowing whether she didn’t like kissing anybody, or kissing Marius, that much more difficult.

If the way her body is singing right now is any indication, Cosette doesn’t think she has a problem with being physically close with people. She would like to carve a hole in her chest and carry Eponine safely away inside it. Which isn’t a normal thing to think about your friend whom you’ve been crushing on for ages, nor is it particularly sexual, but it does seem like the kind of metal, unhinged thing Eponine would go for.

“I’m sure,” Cosette declares. “Please kiss me.”

And so Eponine does.

Cosette doesn’t see Eponine’s first full smile directed entirely at her. Instead, she feels it crash against her lips like the inevitable tide, and thinks that Courfeyrac is going to be insufferable about being right this time too.

Chapter Text

Betty/one day I was riding on my skateboard when I passed your house/was like I couldn’t breathe…

There is a big, scary, black-coloured house at the end of James’ street. It looks like something out of those Addams Family movies Marlene’s parents let her watch, only the family inside is not cool like the Addamses.

All the kids on the block are scared of the house. Very rarely do they see people coming and going, it’s not a lively, busy place, but still there’s this challenge among the neighbourhood kids: you have to go past the house as fast as you can, so the evil witch and her husband inside don’t see you passing. The really silly kids also say you have to hold your breath while passing by too, so spirits can’t get into your body that way. Mary says that makes the house a graveyard, because that’s what you do when you’re passing graveyards, according to her mom. And if there’s one thing James knows, it’s that Mary and her mom are always right.

James always goes by the house as fast as he can, but he stopped holding his breath when Severus was bragging at the playground about how he doesn’t hold his breath and that he’s actually been inside the house. James doesn’t believe he’s been inside - even someone as nasty as Snivellus would have no reason to go inside, but since then he’d not held his breath. If the spirits hadn’t  gotten Snivellus, then they wouldn't get James either. It was perfectly sound logic.

But these days, James holds his breath again. Even though he turned ten in the spring and ten year olds ought to be smart enough to not be superstitious meanies (Lily’s words).

You see, no one expected there to be kids inside the scary house. And if there were kids who lived there, surely they were going to be nasty little gits like Snivellus, right? That’s exactly what James had thought, until one day when he was riding on his skateboard down the street, a boy had thrown a bunch of sheets tied together out the side window and shimmied down. James had been so shocked, he froze on the sidewalk, even though he was still within range of the scary house.

“That’s a cool skateboard,” the boy had said. He had long, dark hair like Snivellus, but his eyes where lighter and his hair looked nicer. More bouncy and curly.

“Thanks,” James replied, because you were always polite when meeting new people, everyone knew that. “It’s a Nimbus.”

“Wicked,” the boy said. “Can I…” he’d suddenly looked shy, for a boy who’d just climbed out his window, “can I…have a go?”

James wasn’t sure. “You don’t have a helmet.”

“I’ll be careful, I’ll be so careful, I promise! Pinky promise!”

“Ok, that’s fair,” James had said, and the boy had grinned so wide James could see where one of his teeth had fallen out. “My name is James.”

“My name is Sirius.”

And James had laughed. “What kind of name is that?”

“It’s a super fancy name ‘cause I’m named after the brightest star in the sky!”

“Oh.” James wasn’t sure how he felt about no longer being the coolest; his Nimbus was cool, but having a star name was a different kind of cool. But then he heard his mom’s voice in his head, reminding him to be nice and polite. So, he stuck his hand out for a shake. “Nice to meet you, Sirius!”

“Nice to meet you, James!”

Well, Sirius hadn’t been as careful as he'd promised, so James had taken him back to his place to got bandaged up, even though Sirius didn’t want to for some reason. And from then on, they were thick as thieves. Thick enough that when Sirius told James about some of the things that went on in the scary house, he knew enough to know that a) it was bad, b) they had to make a plan to get Sirius out, and c) he had to tell his parents.

When James told his mom and dad, they’d been worried, but they’d also been helpful, and they helped get Sirius out much faster than James could on his own, and with fancy legal help to make sure Sirius never had to go back. They didn’t even have to use Sirius’ sheet rope or his window!

They’d been so happy. And then Sirius had dropped a bomb the way only Sirius could: “We’re getting my brother out too, right?”

James didn’t even know Sirius had a brother! How do you not mention to your best friend that you have a younger brother?

It caused a big mess, and the legal adults did a lot of pinching their noses and sighing, but apparently there wasn’t much they could do. Sirius’ brother showed no interest in leaving, and they asked Sirius if his brother had ever gone through any of the bad things Sirius had and Sirius said no because he “was the good one.”

So they were able to get Sirius out no problem, but not his brother? It didn’t sit right with James. And it made Sirius very sad and mopey, and James always wanted to fight whatever made Sirius sad and mopey, but he couldn’t, because it was the big house at the end of the street and it was Sirius’ parents and everyone knows you can’t fight parents. And fighting a house that isn’t alive like Monster House is silly.

So Sirius is out, and living with James now, but he’s sad. He misses his brother. And James holds his breath when he passes the house again, because what if Sirius’ brother and parents know James and his parents took Sirius away? What if they curse James because of it? That’s what happens to knights and heroes who take things sometimes, James knows. You have to be careful.

That’s why he’s holding his breath now, and pushing his Nimbus as fast as he can past the house, when he hears something.

“Psst!”

James stops and nearly falls forward off his skateboard.

There’s another boy climbing down what used to be Sirius’ window with Sirius’ sheet rope. When he gets to the bottom of the rope and jumps to the grass (it’s mostly dead) he stops. He and James just stare at each other.

He’s small, smaller than Sirius, even though they look alike, and much smaller than James. His hair is sheared close to his head, which makes his eyes seem much larger. They’re bright green. Pretty. That’s what the grass would look like if it was healthy, James thinks.

This must be Regulus, Sirius’ brother. He’s so small, it makes James want to pick him up and carry him, though if he is Regulus, he’s only a year and a half younger than James. He’s got a black eye. James knows what they look and feel like because he got a black eye once after he punched Snivellus and Lily punched him because of it. It had hurt, a lot, and his had been much smaller than Regulus’. James doesn’t want to think about who has punched Regulus with a hand big enough to cause a black eye like that; it’s making his tummy twist nastily. So he stops.

“Are you James?” The boy whispers. His voice is trembling.

James nods. “Are you Regulus?”

The boy nods.

“Is Sirius with you?”

“He’s at my house.” He’s missing you, James thinks but doesn’t add.

“Can I…come with you?”

“You want to come with me? Are you…allowed?”

Regulus rolls his eyes, which is impressive, James can’t really do that yet, then looks like he regrets it because it hurt his black eye.

“No,” he says, “but I don’t want to stay here anymore. I want Sirius.”

“Ok,” James says. The adults said Regulus didn’t want to leave, but maybe they were wrong, or maybe Regulus has changed his mind. It doesn’t matter. He wants to leave now, and he’s asking James for help, and so that’s enough for James.

Regulus dashes over to James on the sidewalk. He’s even shorter up close. His eyes and ears are so large on his pointy face. He looks a bit like a princess from a story, which is silly ‘cause he’s a boy, but he’s the prettiest boy James has ever met.

James knows they have to get away from Regulus’ scary house fast, before anyone sees.

“Can you ride a skateboard?” he asks.

Regulus shakes his head forcefully.

“Ok, ok, um…”

Regulus is shaking and it’s not helping James think. He doesn’t snap at the younger boy, even though he wants to.

“Well, just stand on the board like this,” James helps Regulus balance and gets him up on the Nimbus, “and then use your foot on the other side to push yourself forward.”

Regulus tries this while clutching onto James’ hand too tight. James handles it like a man and doesn’t complain, but he’ll definitely brag about it to Mary and Marlene later.

“Ok,” he says again, as Regulus continues to roll the board forward. “Let’s just keep going forward like this. It’s not very far to my house.”

Regulus nods, and keeps looking forward. He’s still holding James’ hand. It’s nice. James hasn’t held hands with someone who wasn’t one of his parents before, but he likes it.

“That’s where Sirius is?”

“Yep, that’s where Sirius is!”

They’re past Regulus’ scary house now, and they’re picking up speed. James starts to jog so he can keep up and still hold Regulus’ hand.

“Don’t let me go, James,” Regulus cries out, even as he pushes even faster.

“I won’t!” James replies. “I promise!”

It’s a promise that James never intends to break. And he never does.

Chapter Text

I can see us lost in the memory/August slipped away/like a moment in time…

You heard the rumours from Inez/you can’t believe a word she says/most times/but this time it was true…

Alphabet Friends

10:30 am

Fey:

Guys.

10:31 am

Fey:

Guys!

10:33 am  

Fey:

GUYYYYYYYYSSS!

10:40 am

Fer:

Courf I stg.

Fey: 

I have news! Important news!

E:

Some of us actually like to put our phones away during class.

Fer:

Especially on the first day of Senior Year.

Fey sent the “Boo, you whore” reaction gif.

BAWHOREL:

Whatsup someone summoned me? What’s going on?

Fer:

It’s scary how you do that.

Fey:

Enj and Ferre are being lame nerds.

BAWHOREL:

I can see that. BOOOOO YOU WHORES.

Ponine:

I think we should put forward a motion at the next meeting that unless you have a uterus you can’t say that word.

Cosette:

I second this.

Mr. Cosette:

I also second this.

Fey:

You just said that because Cosette said it!

Ponine:

Still right.

Chetta:

Who’s right?

E:

Cosette

Chetta:

Oh, always. Duh.

Cosette:

<3

Fey:

Come on guyssssssssss we’re not focusing on the important thing here, namely: I have important news.

BAWHOREL:

How important can it be? You’ve only been at school for two hours.

R:

Nothing important can happen before noon, that’s just physics.

E:

It’s really not.

R:

Common sense then. Take pity on a guy, Apolloooooooooo.

E:

I hate you.

R:

I hate you too <3

Jollllllly:

How important is important? Bossuet is asking me because the last time he got his phone out in Darbyson’s Civics class it got confiscated.

Fey:

EXTREMELY IMPORTANT

Mr. Cosette:

Hold up, I’m trying to figure out which one of us is Fey? That’s no one’s nickname.

Fer:

Jehan accented the Fey in CourFEYrac in a poem once and Courf has been running with it ever since.

Chetta sent the “Stop trying to make fetch happen” reaction gif.

Feuilly:

Marius darling I am BEGGING you to use context clues. I just got here and I’ve got it.

E:

Not fair Fee, you’re you.

R:

Ouch, Marius, you gonna take that lying down?

Mr. Cosette:

Yeah. He’s right :(

BAWHOREL:

Too early for context anyway.

R:

This chat never has context.

Jehan P:

I would like context, what’s going on? Someone typed my name?

Boss:

Courf apparently has *important news* Enj and Ferre were being lame but are still here, Ponine thinks we should stop using the wh word because we don’t have uteruses, Cosette is always right, Marius is always confused, and Courf keeps trying to get people to call him Fey but all it’s doing is confusing the group.

Jehan P:

Thanks Bossuet!

Ponine:

Our next motion is to get Bahorel to change his chat name.

BAWHOREL:

Over my dead body.

Ponine:

Can always be arranged.

Jehan P:

I have a uterus but I’m not a girl, can I still say whore?

Ponine:

Yeah

Cosette:

Yes!

Chetta:

Of course.

Jehan P:

Yay!

Fey:

Yay! Bossuet and Feuilly are here, I can tell the news.

Boss:

This better be good, Courf, I don’t want to lose my phone again.

Fey:

Oh, it is SO GOOD.

Fer:

If it isn’t good, I propose Courf change his name to something understandable.

Mr. Cosette:

Seconded.

Cosette:

Seconded.

Ponine:

Seconded.

E:

Seconded.

Feuilly:

Seconded

R:

Seconded.

BAWHOREL:

If I agree, does this mean I don’t have to change my name?

Ponine:

…the uterus council will take it under advisement.

BAWHOREL:

SECONDED.

Fey:

Oh come ON.

Chetta:

Seconded.

Boss:

Seconded

Jollllllly:

Seconded!

Jehan P:

We’re outnumbered, love, I’m so sorry.

Fey:

Save yourself, Jehan, go be free!

Jehan P:

Seconded :( 

Fey:

Doesn’t matter anyway ‘cause this news is so good I won’t HAVE to change my name!!!

Chetta:

OUT WITH IT THEN!

Fey:

Someone snapped this pic of two people canoodling behind the nice park bench during first period.

Fey sent a picture file of two pairs of feet sticking out from behind a park bench on school grounds.

Ponine:

…….

E:

What the hell, Courf, who took that pic?

Fey:

Who knows, I got it from Leila in chem.

Feuilly:

They shouldn’t be taking photos of people without their consent.

E:

Exactly!

Cosette:

Everyone, this is why Feuilly is the favourite.

Feuilly:

You heard the woman :) Cosette is never wrong :) 

Cosette:

<3

R:

This was your fricken news?

Ponine:

Jesus christ.

R:

And everyone knows that if you want to make out on school property, you make out behind the fucked up park bench, that’s just common sense.

E:

;)

R:

Wtf Apollo???????

Jollllllly:

Courf, I love you, I do, but I’m failing to see what makes this important news, exactly.

Fey:

Leila thinks it’s two boys. Doesn’t it kind of look like it?

Chetta:

Plenty of female-presenting people wear pants.

R:

Eponine looks like she may just walk out of art class to beat you up, Courf.

Fey:

Is that a promise ;)

Ponine:

Don’t tempt me.

Fey:

;)

Fer and Jehan P, in a private chat 

10:55 am

Fer:

Are you ok?

Jehan P:

Yeah. U?

Fer:

I’m ok as long as you are.

Jehan P:

I can’t believe Courf doesn’t recognize us.

Fer:

He’s too excited, I bet. He’s gonna think there’s more gay people at this school than just the ones in the ABC, watch:

Alphabet Friends

10:55 am

Fey:

Don’t you guys see??? There are more queer people at this school! And they’ve found each other, behind the makeout corner no less! True love is real!

Ponine:

Yay.

Fer and Jehan P, in a private chat

10:56 am

Jehan P:

Oh my god.

Fer:

Are you sure you’re ok? He thinks it’s two boys.

Jehan P:

Darling Combeferre, I am more than ok. I just spent first period kissing my secret boyfriend. And Courf knows I am not a boy. If he knew it was me, he would stop saying that.

Fer:

Do you want him to know it’s you?

Jehan P:

Is this a tricky type of Combeferre question? It’s too early for one of those.

Fer:

No. Just a question.

Jehan P:

We said we would tell the group when we’re ready.

Fer:

Are you ready?

Jehan P:

Ready to tell my friends about how I was finally going to confess my five year crush on you with a poem when you brought me to the beach, and then you kissed me? 

Fer:

…….

Jehan P:

Love, I am always ready to talk about you. But only when you’re ready.

Fer:

As much as I loved having August to ourselves to figure some of this out…I’m always ready to talk about you too.

Jehan P:

Really?

Fer:

You don’t know how many times I caught myself almost telling Enj something when I was helping him unpack from his tree planting summer.

Jehan P:

Awwww.

Fer:

I just want to tell everyone about how happy you make me!

Jehan P:

Combeferre the sap. Who’d have thought? ;) 

Fer:

Just for you, babe ;)

Jehan P:

*swooning* Just the way I like it. You should tell Enj first, when you see him in Physics. I have Shop next with R, I’ll tell him then. The rest will have to wait ‘til lunch.

Fer:

Ok. We’re really going to do this?

Jehan P:

If you really want to!

Fer:

I feel like it’s supposed to feel too fast. I blinked and August was just…over. But…nothing with you ever feels too fast.

Jehan P:

OMG my face is so red rn, what if I get sent to the nurse?

Fer:

Then I’ll beg out of Latin to come to the nurse with you.

Jehan P:

I seriously like you SO MUCH.

Fer:

I know. I like you too :) 

Jehan P:

See you at lunch, fellow new mysterious gay.

Fer:

See you at lunch baby <3

Alphabet Friends 

10:58 am

Mr. Cosette:

Does this mean Courf has to change his name?

Feuilly:

Unequivocally

Fey:

:( 

E:

Come on, Courf, it was unanimously seconded. Rules are rules.

Fey:

:( :( :( 

R:

You heard our fearless leader.

Fey:

Ugh. Fine. I do this because my heart is moved by sympathy for Marius’ confusion, and with joy for the new gay couple at school.

Jollllllly:

Allegedly gay.

Chetta sent a “blah blah blah” reaction image.

Fey changed his name to Courf.

Courf:

Happy now?

Ponine sent the “I’m never happy” Zuko reaction gif.

E and Fer, in a private chat 

11:00 am

E forwarded Courf’s earlier picture file.

E:

Do you have something you want to tell me?

Fer:

……..

E:

???????

Fer:

Would you believe me if I said no?

E:

NO?!?

E:

You so have something to tell me! Tell me!

Fer:

Jehan and I…are dating.

E:

Oh my god it IS you in the photo.

Fer:

How did you know?

E:

I recognized your shoes.

Fer:

Coming from anyone else, that would be creepy, but it just makes sense coming from you.

E:

I bet Jehan can recognize your shoes ;)

E:

How did this happen while I was not aware? You’ve been in love with them for so long!

Fer: 

Ok ok ok no need to rub it in.

E:

Rub what in? You’re winning! You’re dating your life-long crush. Mine picks apart everything I say because he hates me.

Fer:

We’ve been through this before, R literally couldn’t hate you.

E:

And now I know why you’re being oddly optimistic about that, it’s because your judgement is clouded by your own lovesickness! Skipping first period? Who are you and what have you done with my Combeferre?

Fer:

I had a spare.

E:

And you would do anything Jehan asked.

Fer:

…..And I would do anything Jehan asked. They said they missed me too much :( 

E:

Seriously! When did this happen?

Fer:

Over the summer. You were off planting trees, Cosette took Ep and Marius with her to her dad’s cabin, Feuilly was working downtown, Courf’s parents took him to Europe, the trio was trioing, and R never leaves his basement in the summer. And Bahorel…

E:

Is Bahorel. Yes. Continue.

Fer:

So it was really just Jehan and I hanging out, and I took them to the beach one day and well…I kissed them.

E:

You kissed them??????

Fer:

……Yes……

E:

We are going to squeal about this in Physics, but first WHAT THE FUCK FERRE! If you’d waited until Jehan made a move, I would have won this bet.

Fer:

I hate you. And Courf.

E:

But Courf more for winning the money and being right?

Fer:

Yes.

E:

You love us.

Fer:

Unfortunately.

E:

I’m happy for you! And Jehan! It’s about time.

Fer:

Thanks :) 

E:

I mean it! I think you guys work really well together. You deserve to be happy, Ferre.

Fer:

Do you want me to melt in Latin?

E:

No. Just want you to have good things.

Fer:

Jehan is a very good thing.

E:

Yes. Yes they are.

Fer:

Ah, finally, there goes the bell. See you soon!

Alphabet Friends 

11:05 am

Jollllllly:

Bossuet wants you all to know that his phone got confiscated again, and he blames you, Courf.

Courf:

: (((((((((((((((((((((((

Chapter Text

The worst/thing that/I ever did/was what/I did to you…

‘Cause it was never mine…

Ballaster Kodeira watches from her office window as the people of Founder’s Wake go about their day. She rarely gets a spare moment these days, difficult when you can commune with a god in your head, but when she does, she likes to find her moments of peace in the people out in the city. Their bustling lives remind her of what she has done, and why she’s done it: to get them all here. 

Often, she imagines she can see a familiar head of hair sauntering through the crowds, and sometimes she even actually sees her. Very rarely do they speak like they did at Joshy’s Knuckle on Bagel Day, which is probably for the best, seeing as Kodeira can’t seem to stop thinking about their conversation since, or conversations from a long-dead past.

“What’s done is done,” she tells herself, and she tells herself that she wouldn’t have it any other way, but Kodeira knows just as well when she is lying. Either way, she remembers, and that day near the end most of all…

Oksana is standing overlooking the bay where The Biggest Baby waits. Not long now ‘til she and her crew are going to pilot her down below the waves to their new home. So much to prep in so little time and so much previous excitement and now…now all she can taste is ash.

“Bubba!” Ah yes, there it is: the tell-tale sounds of Amber coming up the path. She’s lugging some findings with her, as she usually is these days.

Did Amber ever think they’d get here? Did Oksana?

She looks into Amber’s glittering eyes, grinning up at her, and she has her answer: Amber didn’t. And she isn’t going to like what Oksana must do to get them where they’re going.

“Well, if it isn’t the mighty Ballaster Kodeira. I ‘spose I should be honoured she has time for little ole Amber Gris these days.” There’s a teasing lilt in Amber’s voice, but it still makes Oksana wince. “Barely seen ya since all that went down.” She gestures to The Biggest Baby with a slight sneer.

Only Amber could manage to make the strangest, most magical day of Oksana’s life sound inconsequential, but a lot of things are to her. Amber is not dumb by any stretch of the imagination, but she is a woman of simple wants and needs. Oksana used to think she was the same. Now, she’s not so sure.

At Oksana’s continued silence, Amber seems to realize something is different.

“Bubba?” she repeats, reaching for Oksana’s hand. “What’s eatin ya?”

Oksana flinches away from Amber’s reach; she regrets it the moment hurt blooms in Amber’s eyes, but she can’t take it back now that the action has happened. There’s so much she can’t take back that it doesn’t bear thinking about.

“I - I thought I should come tell you in person.”

Amber swallows. It would take someone who knew her well to detect the sadness in her eyes, but Oksana does. Or. She did.

Amber prompts, “Tell me what?”

“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it.”

“Well, that’s generally the best course of action, yeah.”

“We can’t be together anymore, Amber.” Oksana has to fight to make sure her voice doesn’t wobble, but fight she does. “I’m sorry.”

Amber blinks. Once. Twice. “Can’t?” she drawls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we can’t.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Don’t you? I’m to be a Ballaster! You know how the chaperones feel about…Joshy’s whole schtick. It wouldn’t be…proper.”

Amber’s face goes flat as stone. “That sounds like a whole lotta bullshit. I haven’t heard a good reason for why YOU don’t want to be with ME, though.”

Oksana has to close her eyes against Amber’s stubbornness. She’s so tired, already. How is she going to continue to do this? This first step is already the worst thing imaginable. But every voice, from the chaperones to her fellow Ballasters, to the god she’s just getting used to conversing with, say this is the right course of action. And if they’re not right, then who is?

“I can’t do this, Amber,” she says, weariness coating her voice.

“Then don’t.”

Oksana grits her teeth. “That’s. Not. How. It. Works.”

“Well…Why the HELL not?”

Something mean uncoils in Oksana’s stomach to see Amber finally lose her cool. She finally seems to be grasping the severity of the situation, and Oksana pettily feels vindicated. Feel as torn up as I feel about this , she thinks. This can’t be easy for you, because it’s not easy for me.

“Aren’t we remaking the world and remaking the rules? Aren’t you gonna be one of them rule-makers? Change the rules, Bubba! They’re stupid ass rules anyways.”

“I’m not going to - ”

“Why not - ”

“Because I don’t want to, alright?” Oksana snaps.

Amber’s mouth locks shut. 

“I don’t want to, so I’m not going to, because it’s not worth it to me. Getting to the city, that needs to be the top priority. This,” she gestures to The Biggest Baby and Amber makes a face, “needs to be the top priority. Without this, without me and my crew, there is no future for us to even consider being together.”

Amber’s face has gone colder than Oksana has ever seen it. “I don’t suppose you’ll want to give us another chance, once we get down there, eh?”

Oksana swallows the lump in her throat. “I suspect I’ll be too busy for anything of the sort.”

Human attachments , she can hear Coda sneering. Too distracting for someone of your caliber.

Amber nods, with a softer wince than Oksana was expecting, like that confirmed what she already knew. 

“Got it,” she rasps. “Message received. I’m not worth more than the creepy, talking ship, got it.” And she begins walking away. Just like that.

“Amber - ”

“No, no, no, by all means, tell me that’s not what you meant.” She stops, but she doesn’t turn back around. “But that’s what you said, Bubba. And all that,” - Amber spits the word, and Oksana wonders what ‘that’ exactly, she is referring to. Could be a lot of things - “that won’t keep ya warm at night. And we’ll be underwater. So it’s gonna be…really fucking cold, I expect.”

As she finally leaves, Oksana is expecting to feel better. Relieved, at least, to have said her piece and be done with it. But Amber’s falling face stays with her, even in the days of prep to come. 

Though she knows she may have to do many difficult things in her time in power, there’s a sinking feeling that losing Amber like that may have been the worst of the worst.

“What’s done is done,” Kodeira repeats to herself, turning away from the window. “What’s done is done.”

Amber sees her sometimes. Not often, and certainly not alone, but sometimes. Always in her stately, practical robes and armour. Always held. It seems to her, in the days following Bagel Day when Kodeira came by to make her laughable suggestion that Amber join the chaperones, that she sees her about the city more often. She’ll hear a laugh that reminds Amber of things she hasn’t let herself think about in a long time, sunshine and surface and smiles from bunks near each other, and then graduating to shared bunks. Nights spent talking, or sleeping, or neither. Nights in each other’s arms.

She wonders if Kodeira ever remembers those times fondly. Amber…tries not to. Better to live in the present than in the past. Those days almost feel like they’ve happened to someone completely different, but maybe that shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. After all, the girl Amber Gris was on the shore is long dead. She’s somewhere else, and so is the Oksana Amber knew. That Oksana is gone. Amber lost her before she could even bask in the comfort of lov- of having…someone. 

No matter. What’s done is done. Oksana chose their paths, and Amber can’t blame her for that. Not when one of those paths lead her to become Ballaster Kodeira. And Kodeira can come around here all she wants, poking holes in the life Amber has built, but it’s her LIFE. She’s not gonna trade for no fancy police force and a creepy ass ship. These are her people, even her weird-ass crew mates are her people now. People who’ve stuck by her, from the shore and after. 

All Oksana ever proved was that she wasn’t the type to stick by Amber. That’s fine. She was never Amber’s the way Amber might have wished her to be. All Amber wishes was that she’d known that at the time, but it doesn’t matter.

What’s done is done.

Chapter Text

I can see us twisted in bedsheets…

Sirius sees the man across the pub and is instantly transfixed. This man is tall, and lean, with sandy hair cropped short on the sides but in tousled waves on top. He’s leaning against the bar, chatting with the other man he’s with, so Sirius can’t see his face, but the rest of him is so gorgeous that Sirius is sure he won’t care what his face looks like. 

And then he does turn. He’s laughing at something his companion has just said. His smile is broad, but a little sharp. Mischievous. Long nose, thick eyebrows, and bright, bright hazel eyes. He leans back with both his elbows on the bar and surveys the room lazily. Sirius almost sighs out loud. Fuck. This man cannot be real.

As if drawn by the power of Sirius’ gaze, Tall n’ Handsome’s eyes rove over to Sirius’ table. He passes over Regulus with raised eyebrows, and then reaches Sirius. Somehow, the eyebrows climb even higher. Sirius’ stomach dissolves into jelly, and he can feel his face heating up, but he is nothing if not good at these things. So, he raises an eyebrow of his own and tosses his hair, just slightly. The man grins, unapologetic and still so sharp, so hungry, and Sirius is drowning in the heat of his eyes.

He sees a white picket fence around a much more modest, welcoming house than the one Sirius grew up in, past the green in the hazel of the man’s eyes. He can hear a dog barking, maybe the big black one he once told Regulus he wanted someday. The door to their home is always swinging open to let in friends and family (Reggie and Andromeda, mostly) and the kitchen is always pleasantly warm. The man is always smiling his sharp smile, teasing Sirius relentlessly when Sirius whines about something silly, but his eyes are always warm. His voice is deep when he says Sirius’ name. His hands are large, Sirius can see that from the way they hold his drink even from across the pub, and he imagines those hands on his waist, slow dancing in the kitchen they own, or just resting there protectively, OR as a prelude to less wholesome activities…

“SIRIUS!” 

Sirius blinks at his brother, who must have been calling his name and snapping his fingers in front of his nose for a while if the fussy indignation on his face is any indication.

“…Yes, brother dearest?” He tries for innocence, but Reggie is not fooled. He never is. 

“Were you listening to a word I just said?”

“…No.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. Hard.

“I know that bloke over there is pretty, but he’s also pretty blatantly invited me over for a drink, and I’m going, and you can’t get upset at me abandoning you on Brother Night because you just ignored me for five minutes while ogling a man, so.” 

Sirius blinks. His brain is admittedly taking a minute to catch up, still lost in picturing the life he and Tall n’ Handsome were going to have.

“I - he invited you OVER? And you’re GOING?” Sirius thinks he might be sick, though from jealousy or disgust at his brother picking up men at a pub, he isn’t sure.

“HelLO, have you SEEN HIM? He’s exactly my type!”

“No, he’s MY type!” Sirius says, aghast. “Your type is tall, dark, and handsome, not tall and blonde!”

“Jesus Christ.” Regulus drops his head to the table. “I’m not going over to chat up the BLONDE ONE!”

Sirius has very clearly lost the plot. “Well, then, who - ”

Lightning fast, Regulus reaches across the table, grabs Sirius’ chin, and points him in the direction of Tall n’ Handsome, who’s talking out the side of his mouth to his friend but still keeping his eyes over at their table. Ooooooohh. His friend. Tall n’ Handsome’s friend, who’s almost as tall as he is, wearing glasses and a tight red shirt, with hair and eyes a few shades darker than his skin. Also exactly Regulus’ type. Also winking at Sirius’ little brother as they speak.

Sirius clears his throat. “Well. I feel a little foolish.”

“You should,” Regulus sneers, and pushes his chair back to stand with a squeak. “Don’t wait up,” he tosses over his shoulder before sauntering over to the bar and the man in the red shirt. 

Sirius watches Tall n’ Handsome as he breaks out into a laugh, poking his friend while Regulus approaches. And then Sirius catches the look in the friend’s eyes as he avidly looks Reggie up and down…annnnnd that’s when Sirius decides he’s done looking. He’s already embarrassed and has shamed himself enough for one night, thank you. And he has no interest in watching Regulus pursue a man…or a man pursue Regulus. God, Sirius pities the poor sucker.

“Well, that was embarrassing to watch,” a smooth voice says. Sirius’ heart jumps in his chest and he looks up so quickly he almost bashes his head against the back of the booth. Tall n’ Handsome has just slid into what was formerly Reggie’s spot, and is smirking at Sirius over the rim of his glass.

He’s here he’s here he’s here he’s … “Which part?” Sirius manages to ask.

The man laughs. It’s even warmer up close, and it makes Sirius want to laugh along, so he does. This may be the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen, sure, but he can still do this flirting thing. He has it on good authority that he is exceptional at it (thank you, Mary McDonald, for the endorsement!)

“Oh, just the part where my mate pointed your…brother?” Sirius nods, “out from the bar and I looked over, only to find you looking back and then consequently felt every hope dashed when James said the most gorgeous man at this table looked interested in him because I thought he was talking about you…only to realize with delight that he wasn’t. Then I watched a similarly funny though more aggressive version of that conversation play out between you and your brother before he abandoned you and I was free to come on over.” The man sips his drink. His voice is very deep. “Lucky me.”

Sirius smirks. “You have better taste than your friend.”

“Listen, your brother is an attractive man. But he has nothing on you.”

“How about we stop talking about my brother? I’m much more interested in hearing about you. And how attractive I am,” Sirius says, leaning as far as he can across the table to try and be provocative. It works, if the way the man’s eyes darken is any indication.

“I couldn’t agree more. I’m Remus.” The man - Remus - extends his hand across the table for a shake.

Sirius grins like the cat who caught the canary, and shakes his hand, making sure to linger far longer than necessary. “Nice to meet you, Remus. I’m Sirius.”

“Like the star? Or like the emotion?”

“The star,” Sirius breathes out, all while thinking: oh you’re going to be so much trouble .

Remus grins like he knows it, the handsome bastard, and all Sirius can do is grin back and let the night take him where it may.

When Remus locks eyes with the man at the table James has just pointed out to him, he is instantly done for. The first thing he thinks is: oh, I’m going to climb him like a tree . The second thing he thinks is: so much for making my bed this morning, if the sheets are only going to get twisted beyond measure . It’s only by the third thought that it occurs to him to be disappointed that James has spoken for this guy first.

It turns out to be a non-issue. 

Thank God Remus is a man good at following through on his thoughts.

Chapter Text

August sipped away/like a bottle of wine/cause you were never mine…

Narcissa Black loves August. She loves the hot days, but nights of beginning coolness. She loves the anticipation of the end of something faded, and the beginning of something fresh and biting. There is a predictable inevitability to August, despite how untamed the previous spring and summer months may have been. 

She loves the waning daylight, because that's where she feels most herself: half in shadow. 

Most of all, Narcissa loves preparing to go back to Hogwarts. She loves preparing in general, loves being able to plan something down to the last minute, be it a party or a trip or anything else in between, but Hogwarts is special. The people there are special.

There's her sisters, always, of course, but they are able to be more themselves and more distinguishable from each other at school. There's her cousins, who she is careful about when she sees, but she can SEE on her own terms, which is something in and of itself. There are friends, beyond the well-wishers and fortune-seekers who visit her at home. All of which are good.

There is also Alice. Who is better than good.

Alice is the best part of Hogwarts, the best part…of Narcissa’s life, in truth. 

She used to be convinced there was something wrong with her for not feeling anything for men (Bella and Dromeda certainly felt things for men, so where had that left Narcissa?) She didn’t know feeling like this with a woman was even possible, but Alice assured her that even though it’s not very talked about, in either the Muggle or the Wizarding World, it very much exists. There is a whole culture around liking the same gender, even! Narcissa has never really…found things she cared about the way her sisters did. Hobbies, people, pets and places, take your pick. Caring about things is dangerous. But she thinks she would like this culture Alice tells her about. 

She always listens as Alice talks about the things she likes, Quidditch and her friend Frank, and Muggle magazines that the girls in Gryffindor show her. Narcissa marvels at being able to explore things like that - even if some Slytherins are accepting, Narcissa’s family certainly isn’t. 

Alice sneaks in wine for their first rendezvous after returning to school. When Narcissa kisses her she tastes like it, honeyed and soft, like the August days Narcissa has said goodbye to and still loves. They talk about everything and nothing, summer activities, fall dreams. They talk about the new first years. Narcissa talks about how her sisters drove her crazy over the summer. Alice talks about how she wishes she had siblings to share secrets with at home.

“I would like to tell them about you, if I had them,” she whispers, while playing with Narcissa’s hair. Her hair band was thrown to the floor in the haste of their reunion. “Would you like to tell your sisters about me, if you could?”

Narcissa thinks about that. She really turns it over in her mind, because she knows Alice likes a well-thought-out answer, and she herself gets so few chances to think on a question (all the answers in her life are decided for her).

“No,” she decides, clasping the hand Alice is not using to play with her hair to her chest. “No, not even if I could - I’d probably only tell Dromeda, if I could but…” She smiles, sly, and Alice mirrors her, as if she knows the reason already. “I want you to myself.”

“And you’ll always have me,” Alice says.

“I missed you so much over the summer,” Alice says.

“I love you, Narcissa,” Alice says.

Narcissa doesn’t say it back, because she thinks she’ll have time to gather her thoughts and say it properly to Alice, say it first in the moment, instead of it being an “I love you, too.”

But there never is time, after they part from that first reunion at the beginning of Narcissa’s seventh year.

There’s just Lucius storming into the Slytherin dorm, and a vicious threat that he knows about Narcissa and Alice, despite Narcissa and Lucius being promised to each other practically from birth. If Narcissa doesn’t follow through and marry Lucius when she graduates, as decreed, then he will tell anyone with the power to make Alice’s life hell to do so. Lucius knows a lot of people in power. So does Narcissa, many of them are her family members. But she knows on whose side they will fall. And she knows on whose head the blows will fall if Lucius tells people. Nothing ever happens to Narcissa, good or bad. The men in her life make sure of it. But Alice…so many things could happen to Alice…

Narcissa, a girl used to few options, now finds herself with fewer still. So, she never tells Alice she loves her, though she does, more than anything. She just tells Alice they’re done.

And now, Narcissa Malfoy HATES August. She hates the tepid heat, never strong enough to truly warm, but just strong enough to linger and remind her of what she has lost. She hates the slow gradual descent into autumn, because real endings aren’t like that. They’re sudden and cruel. Though the true monotony never ends, August reminds Narcissa of a time when inevitability was her friend. It is no longer. 

She hates the waning daylight, because most of her life has been in shadow, but there was a time when she felt the warmth of sunlight on her skin.

Most of all, Narcissa hates preparing to send her son back off to Hogwarts. She hates herself violently for that, because to escape a joyless house is a gift she is glad her son has access to - she would know the importance of such a thing. But she misses him. And when Draco is gone, she is reminded of who she misses most.

Maybe it’s best Alice doesn’t remember their time together (she assumes Alice, in St. Mungo’s, doesn’t recall, but she has no idea and is not permitted to find out). Alice was never Narcissa’s to have, so one can assume it’s better not to remember, not to care and hurt.

Narcissa remembers. Because all she has are August’s reminders.

Chapter Text

But if I just showed up at your party/would you have me?/Would you want me…

Merlin has just gotten into the swing of hosting his reunion party when the doorbell rings.

“Figures,” he mutters.

True, none of his guests know it’s a reunion party, and Merlin has come around to that fact, though it has taken him some time.

The first one he’d run into was Gaius, which he supposes now makes sense, given that Gaius was the first he’d met in Camelot. Merlin had almost had a conniption when he first laid eyes on his new Kinesiology professor (he makes a point to go back to school to take some science courses every fifty years or so, just to keep up with the changing times.) It had been clear Gaius had not known who Merlin was, or…who they’d been to each other at one point. His presence had sent Merlin into a tailspin, the likes of which Merlin hadn’t dealt with since losing friends to the AIDS crisis before the turn of another century.

What did Gaius being here mean? Nothing? Everything? He didn’t know Merlin. But was he supposed to? Was Merlin supposed to do…anything about any of this?

It felt as though fate and the goddess were having one final laugh at him, after all the many they must have had throughout the years. Here’s what you’ve been waiting for , they seemed to whisper from the shadows of his room late in the night, but not in the way you’ve expected or hoped or prepared for .

In the end, Merlin hadn’t done anything, nor had he needed to, because the next week he met Gwen and Morgana in his Geology class, with the same results: they didn’t recognize him, but they got on like a house on fire. Or like re-incarnated best friends from centuries ago. The presence of Morgana had given him pause, but Merlin tramped down the suspicious, worried voice in his head with his own, much nicer voices, hard won after years (and years and years and years) of reflecting on his mistakes in Camelot.

Mostly, the sight of her and Gwen as old childhood friends in a Geology class together made his heart ache in a warm way that it hadn’t in so long. 

Of course, with Gwen came Elyan, and Elyan and Gwen were also childhood friends with Leon AND Gwen was dating Lancelot? So, that was one fell swoop of running into familiar faces. They adopted Merlin into their circle of friends, which already included Percival. The whole lopsided group stumbled across Gwaine at - where else? - the popular campus bar, and so the whole group had to adopt him as well. Quite suddenly, and without any hesitation on anyone’s part, Merlin was surrounded again. 

It is a bit like being chucked into a deep hot spring headfirst: while it is nice and comforting, he still needs to learn which way is up in order to float. Merlin hasn’t let himself be around a group in so long. He can’t afford to often, with his whole ‘Not Dying of Normal Old Age’ thing, and after so long it just…hurts. Merlin is always being forced to leave people, and he really never wants to.

But this group is not the same, for many obvious reasons, despite the still-glaringly obvious missing centerpiece of his friends’ returned glory. So, Merlin has allowed himself…friends. Friends who often say he seems to know them better than they know themselves, friends who say he knows them better than he knows his Arthurian legends, and that’s saying something. Friends.

He smiles to himself at the sounds of Gwaine and Percival arguing about something as he makes his way to the door. Just like old times . With the expected chaos of his ‘reunion’ party going on in the background, Merlin almost doesn’t mind the interruption, whatever it might be. 

And then he opens the door. 

The first thing Merlin registers is the gleam - his porch lights reflecting off of something bright, something metallic. The next thing he registers is that his front steps are wet, and it’s not raining - something else is dripping onto them. And then he registers the man in front of him, and his brain, with thousands of years of words in different languages, loses all sense of them.

“Ar-Arthur?” Merlin gasps. He can’t feel his toes or his fingers. For there in front of him stands Arthur, as clear as the day Merlin lost him, in gleaming, dripping armour, blonde hair plastered to his forehead. The tips are drying, he must have gotten out of the lake (for surely that’s where he’s come from?) not too long ago, but of course Merlin doesn’t live far from the Lake of Avalon. He’s ventured away before, but it always calls him back. It has finally called him back for a reason this time. There might as well be a lake in Merlin’s eyes, the way they’re welling up.

“Merlin,” Arthur says with a sigh of relief, and that confirmation that he knows it’s Merlin, his Merlin , is enough to send Merlin into action:

“Come in, come in, come IN clotpole, you must be freezing!” He grabs Arthur by the wrist to drag him past the threshold, then eyes the armour calculatingly. Merlin was as familiar with this armour as he was with the man inside it, once upon a time, but it has been several thousand years. He’s not confident enough in his muscle memory to rid Arthur of his armour here in Merlin’s front foyer without making a lot of noise and taking too long. They’re too exposed here for casual magic, any of the party-goers could stroll by the stairs.

“Downstairs it is, then,” Merlin mutters, before pushing Arthur towards the stairs leading downward.

“Merlin, what’s going on? I need to talk to you, I need to say - ”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Merlin mumbles. “There will be time enough for talking later, my lord.”

“Merlin - !”

He doesn’t push Arthur down the stairs. What, he doesn’t! He just gives him another short shove, and Arthur takes care of the rest by stumbling down. He’s clumsy in his wet armour, but he’s upright as Merlin reaches the bottom and that’s what matters. 

“Merlin?” Fuck, that’s Gwen. “Who was at the door? Are you ok?”

Shit. Fuck shit fuck.

“Yeah, it was…a pizza order! I’ll be right up.”

“Need any help?”

“Nope!” he practically yelps, and shoves Arthur through the first door to their left. It’s a spare bedroom. One of Merlin’s many hobbies is redecorating it every year or so.

“Merlin, I really am glad to see you, but I would like to know what’s going on, and I’d like to - ”

Merlin loves his king. He does. He accepted that long before their time in Camelot together came to an end. He’s just simply not listening to Arthur at the moment. 

With a snap of his fingers, the larger, more difficult straps of the armour loosen, mainly on the chest plate and the arms. With another snap, and a quick word in the old tongue, Merlin summons several towels from the closet behind him and chucks them at Arthur. 

“Take off what armour you can and begin drying off, I’ll be right back!”

He bolts to the door.

“Merlin -”

“Don’t. Touch. Anything. Else!” Merlin commands, and then he’s up to the foyer again.

Allows himself one deep breath. Goddess, I know you’re somewhere laughing . He swears he can hear the echoes of Kilgarrah too. Then, with a nod, several words from the old tongue and some newer ones, plus a flash of his eyes, Merlin is holding four pizza boxes. Three would have been more than enough, but four will be seen as a boon and he’s not actually paying for it, so…(Merlin as a rule pays for something whenever he can, because of course he has stockpiles, but desperate times and all that).

He takes the upper stairs at a running leap.

“Pizza!” he cries. “Help yourself to drinks in the fridge, or the cooler outside. I’m just gonna run downstairs and change shirts, because I spilled on this one. Be right back!”

He takes his leave again to a chorus of “thank yous!” and “but you just got back!” and “the party can’t start without you, Merls, it’s YOUR party!” (that’s Gwaine). He doesn’t quite teleport - that magic is finicky at the best of times - but he could have, given how fast he sprints back to the spare room.

Back to Arthur.

When Merlin slams the door, he’s struck dumb by the sight in front of him. Arthur succeeded in getting the chest plate off, and one arm brace, so the genius clearly decided to take as much of his shirt off as he could, which means it’s soaking his right side and the bedding beside him while hanging off his shoulder, because it can’t come off his arm before the right arm brace does.

It’s so familiar, and yet so foreign, so much like a dream. So much like a nightmare. Arthur, in front of Merlin, in the same armour he died in, though it bears no sign of those mortal wounds. Arthur, shirtless.

“Well,” Merlin quips, to keep the lake from returning to his eyes, “you did better than I expected.”

“Merlin,” Arthur breathes out, relief plain in every part of his being.

“Yes, sire, I’ll get you out of that right away -”

Arthur catches Merlin’s wrist before he can touch the arm brace. “Merlin,” he repeats, low and serious, “I have something I want to say to you. Trust me, I’ve had a long time to think about it.”

Merlin heaves a (fake) put-upon sigh. “Can I not take off your arm brace while you say it to me?”

Arthur ignores him. His grip on Merlin’s wrist tightens. Part of Merlin is annoyed by this, but a larger part never wants him to let go, because nothing bad can ever happen to him while he’s holding onto Merlin here in Merlin’s basement. Flawed logic , his brain supplies. Logic that has been proven to be flawed !

But all the voices shut the fuck up when Arthur says: “I love you.”

Well. Merlin was expecting “Thank you,” or “I’m sorry” or even “Where are we?” But this. This takes the cake and takes his breath while he’s at it, too. 

He keeps his gaze on Arthur’s, that disarmingly sweet shade of blue he half-thought he’d never see again, and uses his king’s slack grip to remove his arm and reach for the arm brace.

“Did you hear me, Merlin?” Arthur rasps, as Merlin sets to work on removing the brace. “ I love you . I have pretty much since the beginning, only I didn’t know what love even was back then, and then I was too cowardly and too… me , I suppose, the king, my father’s son, to tell you, but I do. Love you. So much.” Arthur shakes the arm brace a little. “Stop looking at the armour and look at me when I tell you I love you. A response would be nice!”

Merlin murmurs, “Let me get the arm brace off, let me dry you off -”

Arthur shakes his arm harder, so hard that the brace flies away on its own and crashes into the night stand, knocking some books and an alarm clock to the floor. Merlin whips his head up to glare at him. Arthur glares back.

“Aha! There you are!” He flails his arm so his damp undershirt goes flying towards the night stand too. Merlin stands up from where he was leaning to loosen the arm brace, and crosses his arms. He’s never been afraid to show Arthur when he is unimpressed with him.

Arthur, now free and in only his breeches, leans back against his hands on the bed. He’s trying to look demanding, but his chest is rising and falling a little too fast for it to be very convincing.

“Now that you’re looking at me, I would like a response. I say: I love you, Merlin. And you say…?”

Merlin steps up to Arthur and stands between his legs. He knows now, for certain, after literal centuries of going back and forth, that he is not imagining Arthur’s shaky intake of breath as he does so. He reaches past his king for one of the dry towels. Still without a word, Merlin unfolds it, and wraps it around Arthur’s shoulders with gentleness, with warmth, and with, yes, love. Then he brings the towel corner up to Arthur’s still damp hair, dries it off as best he can, and replaces it with his bare hand on Arthur’s drying cheek.

Merlin kisses Arthur. In the spare bedroom. Centuries from when they first met, from when Merlin first wanted to.

Something within him settles that hasn’t been at peace in so, so long. The difference and the relief is so startling, it brings tears to Merlin’s eyes. Arthur uses another towel corner to wipe them as they pull back from the kiss.

“You absolute idiotic clotpole,” Merlin breathes, and from the smile Arthur graces him with, it appears he doesn’t hate that word as much as he always claimed, “of course I love you. I don’t wait around for thousands of years for just anybody.”

Arthur grins. His cheeks are rosy. He pulls Merlin down with what seems to be the intent to sit Merlin down on his lap. And though Merlin protests - “No, Arthur, no, come on, your breeches are still wet!” - the kiss that follows (and the one after and the one after and the one after that) was worth waiting centuries for.

Chapter Text

Would you tell me to go fuck myself/or lead me to the garden…

Mordred’s pulse is jumping loudly in his head, and Emrys’ magic is making his own magic thrum and fizz with demands for attention, as it always does. Being near Emrys is always like being near lightning. The saddest part is that Mordred does not think the great sorcerer knows. 

“Because Arthur is right,” he manages to murmur. “The love that binds us is more important than the power we wield. Morgana had forgotten that.”

Emrys has to believe him! Mordred knows he has made mistakes, some publicly and some very recently, but he’s never believed something as whole-heartedly as he believes in this. Morgana has forgotten all ties to anything but her power, and Mordred is not an idiot; that would have come to bear on him sooner or later. He made a split-second decision to help the Pendragon that not only had once helped him, but still seemed set on helping Morgana too. Now, Mordred must live with that decision, which means co-existing with Emrys.

But Emrys is already turning to go before Mordred even realizes that is his intention. 

“Emrys, wait, please, I have more I want to - ”

Emrys whirls and grabs Mordred’s wrist with a startlingly firm grip. “Do not call me that,” he snarls. “Not anywhere in the castle.”

Mordred trembles. There is fear in his veins and his magic has picked up on it and the way it is all swirling within him is making the world around him swim. He is unsure of what he is feeling, but the power of it flushes his skin.

He gasps out, “I only want to say that - that I want nothing but the best for the king, and I know you don’t trust me, but I - ”

Without a word, Emrys turns around, and starts off down the corridor he was headed when Mordred followed, still gripping the new knight’s wrist. Mordred stumbles after him.

Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow …He does not know where Emrys is taking him. By the goddess, OW! He does not care if Emrys can hear him in his mind or not. He deserves to know if his actions are hurting Mordred.

If he can hear, Emrys also does not seem to care.

Emrys stops in front of a nondescript castle wall. It has nothing on it or in front of it to mark it, no tapestry or drapery or cabinet. Emrys looks furtively down the corridor, then raises his hand.

“Gàrradh nàdair,” he intones, and his eyes flash gold.

Mordred feels, as well as hears, a great rush of power through the corridor. Then, the wall in front of them begins to split down the middle. All is silent, there is no great grinding of stone or anything else alarming, just pure presence and power. Mordred is in awe.

Through the gap in the wall, he can discern daylight and emerald green grass. Emrys steps through the entrance and Mordred has no choice but to follow, though he would anyway because he is fascinated. Beyond the castle wall that has once again moved silently to close behind them, Emrys has brought Mordred to a small garden. 

It is not very large, smaller than Mordred’s new knights’ quarters by several square feet, but it is bright and teeming with life. Trees and vines climb the castle walls that encase the garden. They reach up to the bright blue sky far above. It may be a trick of the light, but Mordred thinks the sky looks bluer here than it did from the windows of the throne room during his knighting ceremony. Moss and grass and forest flowers carpet the ground. Mordred notes there are no paths, benches, nor any fancy focal points like a fountain, but there do seem to be places Emrys likes to sit: low-hanging and curved branches, a shady spot for napping under a bush or two. They all bear the signs of a place well-frequented and well-tended.

Emrys finally releases him, and Mordred is struck by the sudden realization that Emrys could have brought him here to do him harm. It sends a jolt of alarm zinging up his spine. While he does not think Emrys prefers to operate that way, he also does not think he could withstand the great sorcerer with his own power.

“Relax, there’s no need to get your knickers in a twist.” Emrys strolls over to a patch of moss and makes himself comfortable. “This is a safe, secluded place where we can talk freely.”

“I can talk with you in my mind,” Mordred is compelled to point out.

Emrys waves a dismissive hand (he is being less cold, but still sharp with his words. It is very odd, and the difference from how they were just speaking in the corridor outside the throne room has Mordred’s hair standing on edge). “Yeah, but I don’t like to do that. It doesn’t feel natural.”

Mordred moves over to the moss and Emrys cautiously, settling a few paces away. 

“How is it such a place like this exists within the castle?”

Emrys raises a brow, like Mordred is an idiot. “I created it. Cast a spell.”

Well. Mordred feels properly chastised. He is constantly fighting the urge to act like the scared little boy he once was in Emrys’ presence, and the great warlock is not making it any easier for him (though Mordred does suppose some of that is warranted, he’s killed Camelot knights before). The power it must have taken to create a place like this silently and without others knowing is astounding, however, and so Mordred can be forgiven for not assuming one man has the capacity to do such a thing.

“I needed some place to recharge, and to practice,” Emrys continues. “A garden felt fitting.”

“It seems like a good place to talk.”

The older man turns fully to face Mordred, face blank. “So talk.”

Mordred tenses. Ah. He has the distinct sense that Emrys is a farm animal on guard, and he is guarding against Mordred. One wrong move, and Mordred will be treated like a fox who made it into the henhouse.

“You do not trust me.” Mordred forces the words past his lips. “And I know why.”

Emrys says nothing, but his mouth thins.

“I know you have seen visions. I have seen terrible visions too! I have had them since I was a child, and they frightened me. But…they did begin to make sense after you and Arthur saved me. I used to think,” here he stops, because his brain was ahead while trying to explain his reasoning, and Mordred is not sure this piece of information will go over well. He manages to make himself continue: “I used to think it was my destiny to kill Arthur, and I grew to relish in it.”

Emrys clenches his fists. “Used to?” he grits out.

Mordred considers himself lucky that he has not been smote by lightning. Yet. 

“Yes, Emrys,” perhaps the honorific will endear Mordred to Emrys, but he just winces at the name, “used to. I no longer relish them, and I no longer believe them to be the only path towards a future where we are free.”

Emrys is silent for a long, long time. Mordred holds his breath almost as long.

“What made you change your mind?”

“I grew up,” is Mordred’s honest answer. “I have seen what people do to persecute people with magic, and it is terrible, yes, but I have also seen what magic users do in kind, because they have been so twisted by hate. Magic users like Morgana. She is not the kind woman I once knew.”

Emrys sighs and looks away. His voice trembles as he murmurs, “She hasn’t been for a long time.”

“And that greatly saddens me!” Mordred cries. “I do not want to become like that. I do not know what to say to convince you of that, Emrys, but it is true. That is no way to live. Help me to not become like that, I am begging you.”

Emrys has gone rigid beside him.

Mordred brings his knees up to his chest and squeezes his eyes shut. He has to block out the world to be able to admit: “I am scared, Emrys. I do not want to be a murderer. Again. Anymore.”

Mordred knows there is no changing that he already is a murderer. There is no absolution, no freeing him from that fact. But he still childishly wishes it could be so. He wonders if Emrys and Arthur wish that too, for they have both killed in the name of their goals. 

He does not think Morgana wishes to undo her killing, which is why he is here, and not with the High Priestess.

Emrys is still quiet when the tears begin to press against Mordred’s throat. Emrys is still quiet when Mordred decides to let them flow. The only person he can be truly honest with all the time is sitting beside him, and Emrys hates him, and Mordred is just realizing for the first time how alone he will be in Camelot if Emrys continues to shut him out with hatred.

Emrys is silent as Mordred whimpers, “My mom would not want me to be a murderer.”

And then, finally, like a sunbeam reaching through the forest canopy: “Well, I don’t want you to be a murderer either.”

Mordred immediately sits up and wipes his eyes. “So, will you help me?”

Emrys looks over and smiles a tired smile. It makes Mordred’s breath catch in his throat (Emrys IS a handsome man), because he can tell that this is a genuine smile from Emrys himself. Maybe the first Mordred has seen since returning.

“I will do my best, Mordred,” he vows. The layers of the phrase are clear: Emrys may be willing to help him, but he is also willing to stop him, should that be required. Mordred is going to do his best to make sure it is not required, and the mighty Emrys is going to help him. His childhood village would have celebrated for days, if they could know that Mordred was to be so honoured to know this wondrous sorcerer.

“Thank you, Emrys,” Mordred says simply.

Emrys nods. “I’m really going to need you to stop calling me that, Mordred. My name is Merlin.”

Mordred bites back the instinctive response he has, which is: that is what those with less power than you would call you . He knows Em…Merlin’s ties to the non-magical people of the castle around them are much deeper than Mordred’s are as a new knight. Mordred often thinks everyone else’s ties to people are unbreakable bridges, whereas he cannot seem to forge lasting ties with anyone. Perhaps, Mordred , the voice in his head prods, a good place to start would be to honour… Merlin’s request .

So he smiles, small, but with all the hard-won hope he possesses.

“Thank you, Merlin.”

Merlin beams. “You’re welcome, Mordred.”

Chapter Text

Your back/beneath the sun/wishing I could write my name on it…

Courfeyrac is once again canvassing the beach in the days after he was mysteriously saved from the shipwreck when he trips over something. Down he goes, cursing the whole while. It brings his sheep dog, Gavroche, loping to his side. Gav is just one of the many who have been glued to Courf’s side in the days since he almost drowned.

“Exactly!” he can hear his advisor Combeferre saying, pacing and waving his hands in the air. “You almost drowned! You shouldn’t be chasing after mysterious pretty boys who you think saved you, but are most definitely illusions caused by swallowing too much sea water…”

Courfeyrac mostly drowns Combeferre out when he’s ranting.

He pets Gav to make sure the dog knows he’s alright, and then he roots around in the sand for what he tripped over. The tides cause the make-up of this beach to change every day, but Courf has been down here just as often, searching for the mysterious soul who saved him - he knows this beach like the back of his hand, and he doesn’t simply trip, sea legs OR land legs. 

Courf’s hand finally makes contact with something in the sand. It’s an old rum bottle. Through the warped, bronzed glass, he can make out something curled up inside. Hurriedly, he tips it over, only to find the mouth blocked with…a cluster of seashells and pearls? He has to use his paring knife to dislodge it. It takes some shaking to free the paper inside, and once he has, Courf realizes it is not paper. It’s dried seaweed sewn together. There is writing on it in thick, dark ink and strange letters. He’s so disappointed he cannot read it that he almost tosses the letter, bottle and all, back to the mercy of the waves. But something stops him. The symbols are no language he recognizes, and being a prince, he’s been schooled in quite a few. He is smoothing the seaweed out to take a closer look, when something miraculous happens: the more Courf stares, the more the letters start to arrange themselves, until, finally, he is staring at a language he can read. He snatches at the seaweed with a start, and the first words he comprehends do nothing to calm his heart.

To the pretty human boy I saved from drowning:

Courfeyrac continues to read avidly.

I was called to your ship like the wind calls to the sea,

For though I have longed to breach the waves, I

Feared to do it so near to your kind. But I could not resist you

And your revelry, and I am

Most thankful I did not. The call brought me you, pretty human boy,

And in a way, it brought you me,

For had I not been there, the sea

May have claimed you for her own. But now she cannot,

For I have taken her place, just as

You

Have taken place in my heart.

That is a bold claim to make, separated by land and sea

As we are. I know this.

I can not know for certain

These words will reach you, and if they

Will be legible in your tongue, and yet…

I do know. 

You called me to you and the sea

Made it so. I saved your life

And the sea was easy. We shared

A moment on fine, white sand. I chanted

My name and traced it on your skin

So we would both know the truth of our

meeting

And never forget. If the sea

Has left this bottle for you to find, you will know

It is because the sea willed it.

And because 

I love you, pretty human boy.

It is strange to not know you yet

As I would like, and to know this, 

But

Know it I do, with all the tides within me.

If you can read this, I will

Have no doubt you know it too. 

And someday,

We will share the sun

And bask in it, and trade our names in voices

Instead of tracing them on skin and seaweed and the sea’s waves.

Until then, I remain,

Forever and always yours,

Jehan Prouvaire, Prince of the Seven Seas.

Courfeyrac is crying before he realizes it, the tears dripping down his cheeks and making him taste salt. Salt only reminds him of the beautiful boy…er…siren? Merman? Sea spirit? Who wrote such beautiful words.

With more care than Courf has maybe shown anything ever, he folds the seaweed up and tucks it into his breast pocket, where it can reside near his heart all day. He must go about the monotonous duties Combeferre will have laid out for him.

Somehow, he survives, all while picturing the gorgeous soul who saved his life. Who loves him. The image in his memory is hazy, but beautiful. It and the letter in his jacket will be enough to sustain him until he can see that face again and profess his own love, because, as crazy as it is, Courfeyrac feels the exact same as the author of the letter. It is a joy and a truth simmering under his skin. It’s so simple and blinding, he almost feels as if it is imprinted on his skin itself.

It’s only when Courf is finally back in his chambers and changing before bed that he notices something in the mirror. On his back, right across his right shoulder blade, in the same swooping script as the most precious letter he now possesses, is a name: Jehan .

Chapter Text

Will you call/when you’re back at school/I remember thinking I had you…

In the garden/would you trust me/if I told you/ it was just a summer thing…

September, 1971

A smaller letter tucked inside a fancy envelope featuring the Black family insignia, alongside a much longer, more stuffy letter. The small letter reads:

Siri, 

Maman made me write the first letter in this envelope, because the only way I'm allowed to send you post is if she supervises to make sure my calligraphy penmanship is coming along. I'm jealous that your name is shorter and has less U's. They’re a pain, aren't they? 

Anyway, I was smart and careful, just like you told me to be, and I was able to sneak this letter in with the other fake one full of family news. I was very clever and you should be very impressed because I'm not even ten. The most important news is this: I think their anger at you being sorted into Gryffindor is getting better - again, I've been careful and really good, so I've not been punished. You should have seen Maman’s face when you sent that owl saying you can't and won't switch houses (you were right, she did turn purple!) Still, I think it best if, when you come home for the holidays, you try to be on your best behavior. That would probably make it easier for you when you finish the term in the summer. I'll bet before we know it, you'll be done your first year at Hogwarts and soon I'll be joining you. I hope so. I can't wait to come and join you! I'm sure Maman will be reassured when I'm sorted into Slytherin, so there really shouldn't be anything to worry about. We'll be smart and careful like the good team we are. 

Please write as much as you can, even if you have to be formal and practice your penmanship for Maman's benefit. I'll even tell you your penmanship is better if it makes you write sooner.

Talk soon,

Reggie

September, 1972

A note slipped onto James Potter's desk in Transfiguration class, which reads:

Look, Prongs, I'm sorry I didn't write all summer, honest, but my mother wouldn’t have let me send the owl to your parents house, and Reggie caught me sneaking out once to try and was a right little git about it, so I couldn't go through with it! I don't have your invisibility cloak, mate! 

A note slipped onto Sirius Black's desk, which reads: 

This doesn't change anything, right? You're still my best mate? 

Another note slipped onto James Potter's desk, which reads:

Always! Marauders for life!

An origami bird, that floats over to the two desks, unnoticed, until it bursts into a Howler from Professor McGonagall at the front of the classroom, which shrieks and scares the boys apart:

“James Potter and Sirius Black, if I catch you passing notes again that will be detention after class!!!!”

Chapter Text

I’m only seventeen/I don’t know anything/but I know I miss you…

It is strange for Wylan to have an adult in the house. It’s strange for Wylan to have a house , period. It’s all strange, and it is extra strange because the adult is his mother, and she hasn’t been a mother or an adult in so very long.

Jesper is there, thank Ghezen, a balm against all the strangeness and wrongness that Wylan works to fight off, but still finds it seeps into his bones like a canal chill. Or, perhaps balm is the wrong word. Jesper is not calming. He is safety in the middle of the storm. He is the harmless chemical agent that causes an explosion when mixed. He is the sharp music note that brings the whole chord together in perfection.

Sometimes, it makes Wylan immeasurably sad that he’s more familiar with Jes than his own mother (even though he and Jesper are navigating a new relationship and now having a mansion to their names). They’re working on it, of course they are, but he is realizing that he has no more clue how to go about being an attentive son than she does about being a mother. They mostly sit in silence, or enjoy making art together. She will listen to Wylan play, or he will watch her paint, and sometimes attempt to join in. Jes never needs any prompting to be a willing participant with either of them.

Sometimes, it makes Wylan immeasurably angry, when his mother struggles with her memory, or when Alys comes to visit and Wylan thinks about this girl barely older than him who has a baby waiting for her in the countryside. Or when he flinches at the slam of a door in some far reach of the house. 

The urge to march down to the Hellgate cell his father is languishing in surges through him strongly more often than Wylan would like. He’d stride in, and his father would be hunched over, pitiful, brought low by daring to go against Kaz Brekker - by Wylan’s own part in Kaz’s scheme - and Wylan would…he’d what?

That’s usually where the imagining falls apart. Turns out, you can face your demons and your fathers -  and sometimes you kill two birds with one stone - but they can still haunt you.

The worst times are when Wylan misses his father.

To tell you the truth, he doesn’t quite know what he misses. Not being berated for his various inadequacies, that’s for sure. Not being told to be quiet when his heart longed for music of any kind. Not when being good with numbers and music notes, so much so that going to one of the best music schools in the country was a possibility, was not good enough (nothing ever was, for Jan Van Eck. Wylan hopes his cell is cold, and then adds that to the list of things he should feel bad about. Kaz would tell him not to feel bad. Inej would tell him that feeling bad is simply a sign that he is a better man than his father. So. Wylan figures ending up somewhere in the middle most days must be alright, then).

Perhaps he misses something prior to being branded a disappointment. Perhaps Wylan misses something he never actually had. He does not know.

“Hey.”

Wylan looks up, and there Jesper is leaning against the door to the music room, like the most vibrant picture from Wylan’s wildest daydreams. Jes always make leaning look like the most indecent thing a person can do.

Wylan turns on the piano bench, away from the infernal empty bars of sheet music taunting him, and towards his boyfriend.

“Hi.”

Jesper’s smile is soft, but his eyes are a little crinkled with worry. “You’ve been playing the same note for the last five minutes. At least, I think it’s the same note. Come up to bed?”

Wylan hesitates - he really wanted to get this melody down, but once he sat down to play it eluded him - but then Jesper comes over to pull him to standing, and he has no more fight. Who is he to complain about his handsome boyfriend dragging him to bed?

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jesper asks, once they’re tucked in. He plants a kiss on Wylan’s forehead, right below his curls. “What was bothering you before?”

Wylan sighs. “Sometimes…” His lip quivers, and he stops.

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes…I miss him.”

Jesper doesn’t have to ask who it is Wylan misses. “Mhm,” he murmurs, and rolls a little closer. “That makes sense.”

“This house makes me feel like he’s going to jump out at me around every corner.”

“That also makes sense.”

Wylan is silent. Making sense doesn’t make it better.

“Personally,” Jesper muses, “I want him to rot in Hell forever, but I suppose Hellgate will do for now.”

Wylan giggles, and then the giggles swiftly turn into quiet, hiccup-y sobs. “Sometimes I want that too,” he admits.

Jesper doesn’t tell him that makes sense (even though it does) and he doesn’t tell him that’s an awful thing to think about one’s father (even though it is). He just pulls Wylan to him, and lets Wylan cry there in the warmth of his arms.

It’s strange. And sometimes it’s all wrong. But Wylan’s mother is not dead, she is very much alive. And Wylan is in love. He’s learning what love is supposed to feel like. And Wylan’s father can’t get him any longer. He can’t touch him. Wylan’s friends made sure of that. Wylan himself made sure of that, and that’s enough to give him hope that this will get better.

It’s only a hope at this moment, but Wylan also dares to hope Jan Van Eck’s ghost won’t be able to haunt him someday, too.

Chapter Text

Betty I know where it all went wrong/your favourite song/was playing on/the far side of the gym…

As the Leavers’ Ball begins to dwindle down, I am forced to face facts as they are: Simon Snow has not come.

I should head up to my room. That would be the sensible thing, instead of hanging around so long that even the wildest partiers have taken the show somewhere else. People are taking down the streamers (why that can’t be done in the morning, I have no idea). Some of the professors are starting to look at me with pity, and I can hardly abide that. But what I cannot abide more is the thought of our, of MY, empty room.

It’s not as if I imagined I would have reason to have a date to my Leavers’ Ball when I was younger. I was a little too busy picturing the world ending, or Simon ending my world, such as it was, to picture a pathetic prom. But still. I do have a boyfriend, even if he is catatonic. I do love him, even if he is not here right now.

I glance around once more, coolly, checking to make sure Snow isn’t present and that a graceful exit is possible. Headmistress Bunce catches my eye and gives me a nod as I turn to go. She’s a decent sort. It’s easy to see where Bunch got that terrifying ability to pursue any question and come up with the answer from.

The walk back to Mummers is even more depressing than the party. Honestly , I think, my mother’s grave in the catacombs was more lively than that .

My leg bothers me less these days. It's warm, almost summer, but by the time I’ve made it up the stairs to the top of our, ahem, MY tower, it’s aching. I want nothing more than to flop into Simon’s bed and pretend he’s here with me.

And then the numpty himself gives me a heart attack (difficult, when one doesn’t have a beating heart, but Snow is always managing to do the impossible).

“Baz.” The voice is behind me in the dark as I close the door, and even though I recognize him, I jump.

Thank Methuselah he can’t see as well as I can in the dark. He shouldn’t be able to sneak up on me like that, I’ve impeccably vampiric senses, but he doesn’t smell like himself these days. Doesn’t smell like he used to.

“Crowley, Snow, warn a man!”

“I just did.”

I open the light, and there he is in all his glory.

“Snow,” I say slowly, as if every word I speak has a chance of spooking him (everything I do these days has a chance of spooking him), “are you wearing a suit?”

He blushes, lovely thing that he is. “It’s Penny’s brother’s.”

“You look nice.” He does. I know at least ten tailors in central London alone that would fit a suit to him better, but it’s true. Simon would look nice in much less; he has before.

The blush deepens. He’s having trouble meeting my eyes, but that’s nothing new these days. It’s actually nothing new, since, like, ever. Unless he was staring me down before a fight. I almost wish he would.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask. I’ve been known to be coy a time or two.

Snow mumbles something indistinguishable.

“Pardon?” I put on my poshest accent, just to annoy him a little (it’s the only way I’m really comfortable getting a rise out of him. I’ve since learned there are other, nicer ways…but old habits die hard and all that).

“Leavers’ Ball.”

“Oh, was that tonight? I’d almost forgotten.”

Snow rolls his eyes. “Baz. I wanted to come to your Leavers’ Ball.”

“Hence the suit.”

He almost whines in frustration, and the sound does something not unpleasant to my insides. “Bazzzzzzzzzz. I wanted to come to your Leavers’ Ball, but I…I…tried but I…I’m late.”

“Hence the waiting to ambush me in our darkened room?”

Snow tilts his head. He reminds me of a puppy. “Did you say our room?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Right.” He nods. “Because it’s just yours now.”

“Why’d you come, then, if you’re so late?” That’s not really what I want to ask, but it’s a close second. And if there’s anyone with whom I can get away with a very ungraceful subject change…

“I…” Snow’s throat clicks around a harsh swallow. “I wanted to see you. I miss you.”

That softens me in about 0.5 seconds flat, more than anything else has so far. I’m butter. “You’d have seen me this weekend anyway, love.” Pathetic, Basilton. Have a spine . I’m not sure who the voice in my head belongs to. 

“Yeah, but,” - he steps forward and takes one of my hands in his. I let him - “I wanted to COME to see you, instead of you coming to see me. I feel like that’s all you’ve been doing lately.” He takes my other hand, pulling me further into the room. Our room. It could never feel empty with Simon Snow here with me.

“Baz,” Simon murmurs. “I wanted to be there for you at your Leavers’ Ball.”

“Mucked that right up, didn’t we?” Instantly, I regret the words after they leave my mouth. 

Simon used to take the vitriol I spat with nary a flinch, but these days…he’s softer. And I want to be softer for him, I do try, but I’ll be the first to admit to missing our banter. It was something as familiar as the yearning for him that’s always present in my chest. 

But Simon doesn’t seem to take the words to heart. The lights are on, but it still feels like we’re in half-muted light. Maybe that’s just the effect of the presence of my boyfriend with wings and a tail, who I have been in love with since our fifth year. Simon pulls me closer to him, and my breath hitches. He rests his forehead on my temple.

“I’m here now, Baz.”

Before I can say anything else, a familiar sound begins to float around us and the rest of the room.

“Snow.”

“Baz.”

Well. I suppose he can be coy too. He must have learned from the best (Wellbelove and I, naturally). “What is this?”

“It’s your favourite song.”

I raise my brow and listen more closely. “So it is.”

“And we’re dancing!”

“We are?”

Simon bites his lip (I’d like to do that. Not with my fangs, with my human teeth). “I mean, uh, if you’d like to.”

“Generally? No.” 

Simon wilts, but I can’t really regret it because his wilting, as it were, draws him even closer to me. I’m practically holding him up. If that fact didn’t remind me of more frightening times, I might enjoy being the strong one. Though I’m often the strong one, these days (Bunce and I take turns).

“With you, however,” I murmur, and brush my fingers through his curls. They’re the longest they’ve ever been, “I could be persuaded.”

Simon shivers at my touch (and doesn’t that intoxicate me), and then, very tentatively, puts my hands on his shoulders and his hands on my waist.

The song, one of my more melodramatic, melancholic picks, wails around us. Simon tries to rotate us around the room, but we mostly sway in the same place. Probably better with Simon’s wings and tail. Even when they’re spelled away, their presence is very hard to forget. 

Who knows how long we sway quietly in the room that is ours once again, but I’m not keeping track of anything that isn’t Simon. He’s so warm. He’s so handsome. He must have figured out how to use a non-magical speaker, OR had Bunce spell the room to play this song. It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone has done for me that wasn’t saving me from fucking Numpties.

Finally, he murmurs, “Baz. I’m sorry I didn’t make it in time for the party.”

“I understand.”

Simon looks away with a frustrated sigh. “I would understand if you didn’t. I would understand if…if you…”

What passes for my heartbeat begins to speed up. “If I…?” I prompt.

“If you…didn’t want…because I’m not…what I once was, and I mean, I would understand, I DO understand, I promise, it’s not that I - ”

“Simon. I’m having a hard time understanding. What are you saying?”

His grip on my waist tightens. If I wasn’t a vampire, I suspect there would be bruises. I wish there would be. Then everyone who saw them would know that Simon Snow held me like I was important and nothing else would matter.

“I’m saying,” he growls, “that I know I’m not…what you signed up for…anymore.”

Now I’m genuinely even more confused. “Signed up what, exactly?”

“TO DATE!” Simon explodes. “To be WITH! Christ, Baz!"

“And who, exactly, said I don’t want to be with you?!?” I explode right back. “I’ve certainly said no such thing!”

He falters. “Well. No. Not exactly. But…”

“But what? Do you not want to be with me? That would be something else entirely, Simon. We can have THAT conversation, if that’s what you want.” I’m snapping, but it’s all an act and I’m sure he can see through it.

Previously, I had laboured under the assumption that I, as a vampire, was a mostly-dead creature. But now, facing the possibility that Simon is prepared to be done with me for good (no shared room, no classes together, no magical class war bent on pitting us against each other), I think I must be alive in some capacity, because facing that Simon may not want me already feels like death. I’m not positive that him saying yes, he wants to be rid of me, wouldn’t incinerate me on the spot. 

But Simon shakes his head, and all my insides resume their regular, half-tempo operations. “That’s not what I said, Baz. I’m just not…what I used to be.”

“And thank Merlin for that!”

We’d stopped dancing as the conversation escalated, and just now, Simon decided he wanted to resume, but he stumbles in surprise at my answer before we really get moving again.

“What do you mean?”

“Simon,” I breathe. 

His face lights up at the sound of his name.

“The way you were was unattainable. The way you were was going to get us both killed. The way you were was an unnatural creation forced by the Mage, and it was unsustainable.” He’s staring at me with those wide, blue eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Simon?” I demand. “There wasn’t a time where I thought we wouldn’t deal in bloodshed. I would wake up every morning and think: this will end in flames. I don’t anymore, and I’m so glad. I can’t tell you how glad I am, love, truly.”

Maybe I should anticipate what happens next, because we stop dancing once again, but it still takes me by surprise when Simon surges forward to kiss me. He is frantic and eager, and I am so happy to go along for the ride. He kisses me and kisses me and kisses me. Part of me wonders if these are the flames I was thinking about. Part of me is not thinking at all. His lips steal my every breath, my every thought. 

Simon pulls back long enough to beam at me and say, “I really like you,” on a breathless exhale.

“I really like you too, Simon.”

“If you still want me to, I’d still like to be your terrible boyfriend.”

“You’re an idiot for saying ‘if’.” I lean in once more and brush my lips lightly over his, like I’m a ghost and this is my visiting. “I’ve rarely wanted few things more, Simon.”

He flushes, pleased, and then he nods none-too-subtly to my bed. “Let’s sleep.”

“Are you asking me to sleep with you right now?”

“NO!” he yelps, and I laugh. Hard. When I recover enough to wipe my eyes, I see Simon grinning sheepishly. “I was thinking we could cuddle and just…fall asleep together. If you’d like that.”

I’m done dignifying stupid ‘if’ statements like that anymore. I throw away the blankets, sit down, and pull Simon down with me. “I would like that very much, love.”

It’s a little awkward, getting comfortable together under the blankets. It was so long ago since we did this, and only once, in a much larger, more comfortable bed. And Simon had less appendages then. But we get situated. Simon holds me in his arms, and I’m holding his tail gently so it doesn’t lash out and get either of us in the face. 

“Goodnight, Baz,” he murmurs, and presses a kiss to my neck, and then my cheek. My eyes flutter. If this is what I survived the vampire attack and the Numpties for, I’m starting to think maybe it was all worth it. This is beyond my wildest dreams (there was far more blood in all my dreams, even the nice ones. This trumps them all).

“Thank you, Baz,” Simon says. I thought he was falling asleep.

“For what?”

“Just…thank you.”

I sigh. I think I know what he means, where he’s coming from.

“Thank you for coming, Simon.”

Chapter Text

I was nowhere to be found/I hate the crowds/you know that/plus I saw you dance with him…

I’ve been up on the balcony a long, long time before someone else joins me. 

I made my usual excuses about not attending dance practice for the ball: I’ve been in ballroom shoes since I could walk, I have better things to do with my time like study, I can’t be seen mingling too much with my inferiors…Alright, that last one was mostly a joke, and only Dev found it funny because his family is just a stuffed as mine. The truth was all and a bit more of that. 

It doesn’t matter now; the other truth is, I don’t think Snow even registered my absence. Ever since he and Wellbelove put everyone out of their will-they-won’t-they misery by becoming official, Snow has been decidedly less interested in my supposedly nefarious goings-on.

I wish I could say I am enjoying the peace. But Snow never leaves me in peace, not really. Not even when he leaves me alone to frolic with his girlfriend. 

As I watch, Snow manages to twirl Wellbelove through his arms without tripping either of them - he looks stupidly pleased with the results. Agatha is all radiant smiles and golden curls. She looks like the other side of a painting someone would fill in if they saw Simon standing there. She’s the white and gold to his bronze and blue. She looks like she belongs at his side, and they’re both so fucking thrilled by it.

It makes me sick. 

“I know you like to brood, Basil, but this is just getting ridiculous.”

I would like to say I’m surprised at Bunce’s appearance here on the balcony, but I’m not. She’s even less cut out for dancing than Snow is, the difference being she has no one she wants to impress by dancing at the ball (as if anyone would be unimpressed by Penelope Bunce, please. Even I can admit that).

I sneer in her general direction without turning completely. “Did you come to join in my brooding, or to mock me?”

Bunce stares at me cooly. “Can it be both?”

I don’t have the energy for this today. “I suppose.”

She moves to join me at the railing, though not too close. I’d still have to reach quite a bit if I wanted to nudge her with my elbow (the temptation is there, but I don’t give in. No need to act like the school numpty when there’s already one below us trampling over Wellbelove’s kid leather shoes).

I continue to watch Snow with her, because I’m incapable of doing anything else. He’s smiling. I am always watching him smile at other people, and never at me. But that was never going to be the nature of our relationship. I should get used to and accept this, but Morgana knows I’ve never managed it.

“Does it hurt?” Bunce asks suddenly. Her breath stirs the air. It’s just barely cold enough to see. 

“I’m afraid I’m going to need some specification. Does what hurt?”

She rolls her eyes, then nods her head to the couples practicing below. To one very identifiable couple. “Does seeing him with her hurt?”

I recoil. “I - I don’t - what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Basil, please.” Penelope grabs my arm with a surprisingly strong grip. Technically, I could free myself from it with my vampire strength, but she already knows one of the cards I’ve kept closest to my chest. No need to go revealing another one.

“I know,” she continues. “I’ve known for a long time. I won’t tell anyone. I haven’t.”

“If you had, the whole school would know by now.”

Bunce mimes lining up a zipper alongside her mouth and zipping it shut. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Merlin and Morgan and Methuselah!

“I did ask you a question, Basil. I’d like to have the answer before I continue on.”

I’m so tired. I’m so miserable, and there’s only so long a bloke can cover his misery with anger before the cracks surface. Clearly, Bunce has seen through them.

Maybe it’s because of all of this, or maybe it’s just because for some reason I trust Bunce not to tell anyone, not even Snow. That would be ceaselessly cruel, and if there’s one thing I can trust from both Bunce and Snow, it’s that they’re not cruel (not on purpose). Besides, Bunce is the brains of the operation.

I give her one, solitary nod, and she winces back. I can’t tell if it’s in sympathy or in general distaste of emotions. Maybe both.

“I’ve tried to tell him it’s a bad idea,” she whispers.

I raise my brow.

“Being with Agatha,” Bunce elaborates, and I snort, “but Simon is hopeless. He thinks she’s his destiny, his prize for making it through long enough to get the happy ending. Never mind that’s not a way to treat an actual relationship you want to have with an actual person. And never mind that Agatha is only dating him because she thinks that’s what’s expected of her.”

My face must twitch in surprise (Crowley, I must really be losing my touch if I’m telegraphing all my emotions to Penelope fucking Bunce now!) because Bunce gives a resigned little chuckle.

“My point is, they’re useless together.”

“Wellbelove seems happy enough,” I manage to croak out.

“Mhm,” Bunce muses. She’s watching them dance ‘round the room. They make a circle of the perimeter once, twice. And then, Penelope gets this wicked sort of gleam in her eye and turns to face me once more. 

“You know,” she says, “Agatha may not drag this foolishness with Simon out for too long if she thought there were…other options.”

“Other options?” I repeat (like I’m Snow and I’m thick).

Bunce gestures to me with a meaningful tilt of her head. “More…forbidden options.”

Aleister Crowley.

“Ah,” I rasp. “And what if I were to say that I am not an option, not for…someone like Agatha?” My hands tremble. I think that’s the closest I’ve ever come to saying out loud that I’m gayer than the goatherd Snow trails after (who, for the record, lives alone with her goats).

“Agatha doesn’t have to know that, does she?”

My stomach drops out from underneath me. Now that is diabolical. Very smart. Very manipulative. And maybe a touch cruel. Perhaps I have still managed to underestimate Penelope Bunce, despite my healthy respect for the fact that she’s the only fellow classmate that challenges me for top marks.

“That’s either a terrible idea…”

“Or?” she prompts.

“Or not.”

She snorts. “Eloquent as always, Basil. Anyway. Enjoy your brooding.”

And then she pats me once on my arm, turns, and leaves me alone on the balcony again.

I’m frankly flabbergasted. And more than a little terrified of Penelope Bunce. She’s one to watch, that’s for sure. But perhaps Wellbelove is as well. After all, if there’s even a sliver of doubt in her that she shouldn’t be with the Chosen One, then she shouldn’t be. Simon deserves someone who wants to be with him for himSELF. I know that can never be me, but perhaps it shouldn’t be Wellbelove either.

And if Bunce is to be believed, they will both need help realizing this. 

I, for one, would be happy to help them come to the proper conclusions.

Chapter Text

Back when we were still changing for the better…

Morgana has many dreams. She always has. Once, they were horrifying visions of the future, or reflections of the present she had no means of understanding. Those dreams were bad enough.

Nowadays, she is tormented by a different type of vision: visions of her past, memories of moments already lived. She sees them, night after night, in series. The man she thought was her father. The boy being raised alongside her as if he was her brother…as if…and all the people who came with him. Servants. Knights. Sycophants. Gaius, giving her sleeping draughts to help. Or to keep you helpless and placid, Morgause’s voice in her head sneers. Uther, the man who often cared for her as a daughter. Except you are his daughter, and he was a lying coward who let the crown fall to your younger, pathetic brother! Merlin, kind and loyal enough to always try and help the underdogs. Too loyal, to people who are no longer you!

The most recent recurring dream is the worst one.

In it, Morgana is fourteen, and lying on her bed, bored out of her adolescent mind. There is some banquet or other she is required to attend in the evening, and Gwen, dear, sweet Gwen, is running around to get Morgana’s gown ready. Morgana is needling at her to stop her work and come entertain her instead.

“Gwen, please, you’ve been running around all day,” she pleads. “Rest. My gown is clean and hemmed and will suffice!”

“You’re kind, my lady, but there is one more adjustment I would like to make…”

This back and forth had been going on for what feels like hours. Morgana sits up and petulantly twists her skirts in her lap.

“No one will be paying any attention to me anyway,” she mutters. “This banquet is to welcome some princess and her father.”

Gwen blinks over at her. Morgana thinks her eyes and eyelashes are the prettiest things in the world, but every time she tries to tell Gwen so, her servant waves her away with a blush. “Can the guests not pay due attention to you and the visiting princess?” Gwen asks.

Morgana almost smiles. Gwen is so sweet that most of the time, she cannot see the reason for two girls in a room to compete. She does not see that everyone else in the room has already pitted the two girls against each other. And how could she? Gwen doesn’t think like that, and so, to her, no one else would either. Morgana loves that about her. In the dream.

“The princess,” Morgana sneers a little, “is specifically here to meet Arthur.”

“Arthur?” Gwen screws up her nose. “Why?”

Morgana just raises her eyebrow. “Why do you think?”

It takes Gwen a single moment, and then she’s squealing and covering her eyes. “Not for a courtship, surely?” she pleads. “Arthur’s younger than you!”

“Not a courtship, I’m sure. Not yet. But I suspect Uther is playing his cards so it could become one later.”

“That’s smart, I suppose,” Gwen sighs, and as she finally leaves messing with Morgana’s gown and comes over to sit beside her on the bed, Morgana feels as if she’s won a tournament. Gwen’s proximity brings sunshine, like the new flowers of a fresh spring.

Then Gwen screws up her face even more, as if something awful has just crossed her mind: “Goodness, imagine being married to Arthur?!?”

Morgana shudders, and she’s only partly joking. “I feel sorry for the poor girl. The banquet hall can look at her all they want then. I want no part of that.”

“Nor I,” Gwen declares. It’s a dream, but it’s also something she said, once.

“Getting married seems like such a waste,” Morgana bemoans, and she lies back against her bed.

“Why do you say that?” Gwen asks. She waits a beat, but Morgana has left the right side of the bed tantalizingly empty on purpose, and Gwen takes the bait and lies down beside her. Now they are very close. Perfection.

“Why would I want to get married, when I can simply live in my own chambers and spend all day with my beautiful best friend?”

“Who’s your best friend? You spend most of your days with me.”

Morgana cannot help it, she bursts into laughter. “Oh, Gwen! I meant you!”

Gwen blushes. “Oh.” She laughs, and it tickles Morgana’s head with her breath and makes Morgana’s stomach feel fuzzy. These feelings would almost scare her, if Morgana was the type to get scared of anything.

“You’re my best friend too, Morgana,” Gwen whispers.

Morgana reaches across the bed and takes her friend’s hand in her own. “Then let us promise: best friends. First and forever.”

“First and forever,” Gwen echoes, her voice awed. 

“We shall always choose each other and our best friend’s happiness.”

Gwen echoes that too. 

“Always,” Morgana vows, and she brings the hand she is holding up to her mouth to gently kiss it.

“Always,” Gwen repeats, and kisses Morgana’s hand in kind. She’s blushing again; Morgana can feel the heat emanating from Gwen’s face. It’s so vivid, in the dream.

Morgana has never been happier. The elation fills her, and carries her up, up, up, and away, until…

The dream ends. It always ends. Right there.

Morgana always wakes up gasping. The dream, the memory, is as vivid as if it just happened yesterday, but years upon years have passed.

She sees them all, the people she once knew in Camelot. But Gwen is the worst one, the beautiful face that haunts both her nightmares and dreams of pleasure alike. Guinevere. Her first friend in Camelot. They had grown up together, learned the ways of court, TOGETHER. They had lived together and fought together and suffered Arthur’s ego and Merlin’s strangeness and Uther’s rages, together. Only for Gwen to turn her back on Morgana at the first sign that Morgana might be different. Only for Gwen to conveniently forget about forswearing marriage the moment Arthur showed her the slightest bit of favour.

Guinevere chose Arthur. She chose him , even though Morgana was her best friend, and now she’s married to him and she’s the queen of Camelot and that’s Morgana’s, that crown should be Morgana’s , it’s hers, it’s hers, Gwen was hers and then Arthur stole her, just like he’s stealing the crown even as she speaks. He’s a thief, he’s a thief, he’s a THIEF - !

Suddenly, there is the bloom of an idea in Morgana’s mind.

She has been very alone, since her failures at Ismere and with that pitiful princess of Nemeth. It is a constant sting in the back of her mind, Morgana’s loneliness, but it has allowed for plenty of research and learning. 

Maybe her lying crown thief of a brother has given her a gift after all. Taking a page out of his book shouldn’t be too hard now, should it?

If Arthur can steal the crown and Guinevere from Morgana…well. She’ll just have to steal them right back! She knows a wonderfully dark spell or two…

Though it is the dark dead of early morning, Morgana rises from her makeshift bed and goes about her daily preparations. There is much to do to be ready for this ambitious plan, but she is once again filled with purpose.

Gwen will once again be hers, as she once promised. As she always should have been. And Arthur will lose his queen, and then his crown. He will suffer.

As Morgana has suffered.

Chapter Text

I was walking home/on broken cobblestones/just thinking of you…

Since moving out (rather forcefully, as Enjolras tends to do everything) from his parents uptown “mansion” (Courf's words), he has lived in a much older part of the city. Most days, he loves it. He has very strong feelings about maintaining older parts of the city, and restoration and housing efforts alike - he can hear Grantaire saying he has strong feelings on just about EVERYTHING.

And that's why Enjolras’ mood is so sour this evening: thoughts of Grantaire. Well. That and the broken, ragged cobblestones he keeps tripping over. Living in an older, more affordable and less gentrified part of the city would be more accessible to people if the ROADS WERE PROPERLY MAINTAINED - !

Ugh. It's been a long time since Enjolras has stormed out of an Amis meeting like that, and even longer still since he's challenged Grantaire about why he attends meetings at all if he’s so dead-set on disparaging every effort to make the world a better place. 

Lately, Enjolras would go so far as to say that his thoughts towards Grantaire have been downright genial. Warm, even. They've spent many an early morning getting ready for parades and protests together, just the two of them, even though R swears he's rarely up before ten voluntarily. Enjolras is even referring to him as R in his thoughts! And…if such thoughts also come with a fixation on R's paint-covered hands and the rough burr of his voice and a bunch of stomach butterflies, that's no one's business and nothing at all to worry about! 

But. Today. Today, Grantaire had come in so obviously drunk, and it had shattered Enjolras’ hopes for a nice conversation he hadn't even known he was harboring faster than a car crash. More violently, too. Those broken pieces made him mean, and harsher than he's been in so long. Harsher than he wants to be…but there are times when he simply doesn't know how to stop. There are times when Enjolras doesn't want to stop, because he wants other people to feel as hurt as he does. 

He doesn't even know who started it. Maybe he'd snapped, or maybe Grantaire had laughed that biting laugh of his that perfectly gets under Enjolras’ skin, or maybe nothing. The next thing Enjolras had known, they were blowing up at each other, the worst blow-up they'd had in who knows how long, and Enjolras was demanding Grantaire leave the meeting. In previous times, Grantaire would fight him on that, or tease him until all was forgiven, but not this time. Today, he had narrowed his lovely eyes that were much warmer usually, but not now, and had stalked out without saying a word.

The room had been very quiet, and then everyone had basically exploded at Enjolras, as if he didn't already feel terrible enough.

“Christ, Enj, R said he's barely been sleeping at all this week!” Joly had wailed. 

“Really?” Enjolras rasped. “What's going on? Why hasn't he said - ”

“He won't tell me what's going on, no matter how many times I ask. But you shouldn't need to know that to have compassion! Jesus!”

“Maybe it's best,”  that was Combeferre, always there to save the day with a measured voice, “if we all adjourn early and head home.”

Enjolras had wanted to protest, but one look at Combeferre’s face told him the man was Not Joking, and also Not Taking No For An Answer.

So now, here Enjolras is. 

He knows he is a very privileged man in society, in so many ways; because he’s worked so hard to be so aware of this, he likes to think he doesn’t wallow in self-pity. Not a productive emotion, that one, not like rage or joy or hope. But. He’s feeling distinctly sorry for himself here and now. He doesn’t know how to make it right. He hopes Grantaire got home alright in his state. He’s a very high functioning drunk, but…

But…

Enjolras had thought R was doing better! He’d thought the two of them had moved past the strange antagonistic phase, and into something breezier and teasing. Something a shade warmer than social justice friends. Or, is that just what Enjolras wanted, and wanted to see? Is that why seeing Grantaire drunk set Enjolras back two years? But what had sent Grantaire spiralling? Did Enjolras even have the right to ask, or was that just another one of his ways of trying to stake a claim on a man who wants nothing to do with him?

If Enjolras didn’t think he was in no fit state to try and apologize, he’d march over to R’s place right now. But he can’t smash the garbled run of thoughts in his head into something coherent, so he just lets it go as he meanders home through the old Paris streets.

His spiral is only stopped when Enjolras’ toe catches on a particularly poking cobblestone. He is not fast enough to catch himself with his feet, and in the blink of an eye, finds himself on his knees. The pain is sudden and burns . 

Damn. Fucking ouch.

As quickly as he’d fallen, something else happens that Enjolras can’t quite describe. He blinks, trying to find his head in all the pain, and it’s like the city street before him is layered over with a slightly different version - thatched roofs and smaller windows and cobblestones as far as the eye can see. What the - ?

He blinks again, and is assaulted with a series of images so bizarre and so fast that Enjolras isn’t sure he’s not having a seizure. He sees his friends in vastly different dress, and he sees the front of the Musain surrounded by what looks like a makeshift barricade. He sees Grantaire, looking disheveled and drunk, but also wearing a…a waistcoat, Enjolras thinks those are called? He’s just computing that Grantaire looks attractive as hell when there’s the sound of something that sounds like gunfire (Enjolras unfortunately knows that sound). Oh wonderful. His hallucinations are auditory now as well. He sees…guards of some sort. They’re facing him, leveling their muskets at him, firing squad style. There is sadness and rage and such immense grief within Enjolras at the sight of the weapons. But there is also a blanketing sense of peace. And then Enjolras is watching Grantaire, still disheveled and still wearing a waistcoat, stumble over to him. Many emotions blaze through him as the other man stands tall beside him in front of the guns, but the most blazing emotion of all is pure and potent and terrifying. As one, the muskets fire.

Enjolras blinks, and it is all calm once more. He only sees one street before him. His knees hurt like a motherfucker. He can hear a wheezy, raspy sound that makes him think there may be a wounded animal nearby. And then he realizes it’s himself, trying to breathe.

He doesn’t know what any of that means. Is he supposed to know? The only thing he does know is the root of the emotion still warming his body. It’s something… someone Enjolras can no longer ignore. With a groan, he pushes himself to his feet.

It’s not too far to Grantaire’s place from here, but it is out of his way. Enjolras doesn’t care, though his freshly bruised knees do protest.

He’s expecting it to take him about fifteen minutes, but he’s only about halfway there when he hears a shout from behind him. He turns and sees Grantaire, and for a second he looks as he did in those images, messily dressed like someone’s great grandfather. He was beautiful then, and he’s beautiful now, and Enjolras wants to tell him so. It’s a clarity he feels down to his bones.

“Enj!” Grantaire jogs up to him.

Enjolras doesn’t think he’s seen Grantaire jog anywhere.

“What are you doing here?”

“I - I came to see you?” He says it like a question, which is just another mistake in a long line of them that Enjolras is making today.

Grantaire’s eyes go flinty. “Oh. Well. You can tell whoever is making you check up on me that I’m fine. I appreciate their concern - is it Joly? It’s probably Joly - but I really am fine.”

“No, no, no!” Enjolras chants. “No one made me come, Joly didn’t make me - I wanted to come see you, yes, but to apologize.”

Grantaire blinks. “Apologize? Enj, I’m the one who showed up to the meeting drunk.”

“And it was pointed out to me that I was being less than considerate about that. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire blinks again, then widens his eyes. “I am having the strangest week,” he murmurs to himself. Maybe he thinks Enjolras can’t hear him; Enjolras just elects to ignore it for later.

Grantaire seems to muster whatever he is dealing with back behind his usual fake charm. He smiles at Enjolras, and Enjolras’ heart jumps in his chest. The smile is tired, and a little self-deprecating (all of Grantaire’s smiles are) and complemented by heavy eye bags, but he looks like he actually means it.

“I’ll be ok, Enj, I promise. I’ll sleep it off and be right as rain tomorrow.”

“Joly says you haven’t been sleeping,” Enjolras murmurs to his shoes.

Grantaire scoffs. “And you still say he didn’t send you?”

“He didn’t send me, I swear - !”

“Alright, alright, it’s fine. Jesus.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, which is neither of their natural state, but this whole day has been unnatural. To hear Grantaire tell it, it’s been a very unnatural week. Enjolras would really like to know why, because he doesn’t want Grantaire to be alone in the strangeness. He doesn’t want Grantaire to be alone, period, and he thinks he can finally find it within himself to admit why. Strange street visions must be good for something, he thinks.

“R - Grantaire,” Grantaire’s head whips up at the nickname, “I came to see you because I care. Because I’m really sorry for how I behaved in the meeting. That’s not the kind of leader I want to be,” Grantaire opens his mouth, but Enjolras keeps speaking, “and most importantly, that’s not the kind of friend I want to be. I saw that you’d been drinking, and I was worried. Joly mentioned you hadn’t been sleeping, and I was even more worried, and I - ” I fell and I don’t know, jostled some strange version of a world where we died together and you looked great but not while you were dying obviously and it’s forced me to come to terms with some things… “ - I had hoped that we were in a place in our friendship where we could admit to caring about each other, and to being wrong. I was wrong. And mean. And I’m sorry.”

Grantaire’s eyes are very wide. “You know,” he muses, “Jehan has pointed out to me a time or two that you only ever admit you’ve been wrong when something goes wrong at a protest or when you fight with your friends.”

Enjolras sighs.

“Apparently, you admit you’re wrong the most when it’s about me. Half the time, not even TO me. I gotta hear it from one of the others. Why is that, Enj?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t sleeping well?”

Grantaire flattens his mouth and shrugs. “The reason is stupid.”

Enjolras crosses his arms. “Try me.”

Grantaire must be really tired, and maybe a little sorry, because he does: “I’ve been having these weird…dreams, I guess. About us.” He flushes. “I mean, about the Amis, about the whole group, everyone is there, but we’re…I don’t know, in olden times or the past or something? Everyone’s in fancy dress and there are barricades and then we - meaning just you and I this time - we…”

“We die,” Enjolras breathes. 

Grantaire sucks in a little gasp.

“Right?” Enjolras asks. “We die. Together. The guards are pointing their guns just at me, and then you…show up and…”

“And join you. Yeah.”

The two men stare at each other.

“What the actual fuck!” Grantaire runs his hands through his hair and makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a giggle. “How did you know - ?” 

“I think we’ve both got some catching up to do,” Enjolras says. “Can we…maybe…go back to your place?”

Grantaire flushes again, and it makes Enjolras’ chest burn. “Yeah! Um, yeah. Yes. We can. Do that. Sure.”

He lopes off down the street so fast that Enjolras has to jog to catch up to him (Enjolras also doesn’t jog very often). Grantaire doesn’t say anything, but he keeps glancing over at Enjolras with awe and relief in his eyes, and Enjolras thinks they’re going to be ok. There’s a lot of oddness they have to iron out, and likely more confessions to come down the line, but he also thinks that’s ok.

There’s plenty of time for Enjolras to tell R he’s in love with him. After they sort out what the fuck is going on.

Chapter Text

Wanting was enough/For me/it was enough…

Lily gets a text from Mary four hours before her birthday party:

Hey. I’m sorry. Can’t make it tonight.

“Oh,” Lily says out loud (there’s no one in her flat to hear it yet) and then she texts it:

Oh. Really sorry to hear that. Everything ok?

Mary takes more than several minutes to respond.

Yeah. I just don’t think I’m ready to tell everyone yet. And I went pretty hard this week at work. But you have fun! I don’t want to be a downer.

You’re never a downer, baby. You can still come if you want, we obviously don’t have to tell anyone if you’re not ready to.

I can’t, Lils. I just can’t.

And then, a few seconds later, like it had to be in a separate text so Lily would get the importance of it from context clues:

And I know I said I was ok with pet names…but I don’t think I am, actually.

Lily takes a deep breath. There’s a lead balloon in her stomach that keeps getting heavier.

Oh, alright! Thanks so much for telling me. Rest well tonight!

She agonizes over whether to end the message with a heart. Mary hasn’t been sending hearts back when Lily does all this week. Ultimately, she signs it off with an xo, even though that makes her simultaneously feel like her mother and like an extra on Gossip Girl.

Then, she goes to get ready for the party. It’s several hours too early, maybe, definitely , but Lily needs to move, and if she can’t prioritize what her body wants her to do on the day of her birthday party, then when can she?

Mary doesn’t respond. For an hour, as Lily cleans the flat. 

For two hours, as Lily heads out to pick up last-minute party fixings, and attend her acro-jazz workout class.

For three hours, as she returns home, showers, and begins setting up.

For four hours, as Marlene and James get there a little early to help finish setting up and everyone else begins to trickle in.

It doesn’t bother Lily in any extravagant way, especially with people around. Her group of friends are her most favourite people in the whole world - they’ve all gathered for her, and put effort in for her. If Lily had asked for a party on the moon, James had assured her more than once, they would have found a way to make it happen. But she’d only wanted two things: a party she could host and have complete control over with her nearest and dearest, and…

And…

The hurt and bother hit her on hour seven of no response from Mary, when, like a surprise downpour on the day of a planned picnic, it occurs to her that Mary never even wished her happy birthday.

Lily rushes off to her ensuite bathroom. She hopes no one will notice for a few minutes - Sirius brought Twister, and the game is quickly devolving into cuddle piles and strange yoga poses courtesy of Pandora.

She sits there on the lid of her toilet, knees crunched up into her torso because if she curls up into a ball maybe it won’t hurt so much. That’s when Lily realizes she was carrying around that lead balloon in her stomach all day. It never went away. She just tried to ignore it, but it kept getting heavier. She hunches over in the bathroom, trying to take the pain like a punch to the gut and not succeeding very well.

She whimpers. “Ugh, this is such a stupid thing to be upset about!” Lily cries out loud. Her words convulse around tears that threaten to break through, but she’s not going to let them. Ironclad, that’s Lily. “One out of two wishes for your birthday is actually pretty damn good, Lils.”

But she hears the nickname in Mary’s voice. And she thinks about how Mary hasn’t called her in two weeks and hasn’t sent her a heart in one and isn’t DOWNSTAIRS telling people they’ve been dating for two months, and then the tears come.

She really doesn’t know what she’s done wrong, and it seems like Mary won’t tell her. May hasn’t told her, every time Lily has asked, and it’s really freaking her out. 

The thing is, Lily knows what has to be coming, at this point. There are some things you just know, some blows you can see coming from a mile away, no matter how hard you fight to avoid them. Lily is very good at ignoring things that don’t please her, but she can’t ignore how this hurts, and she frankly doesn’t want to. She’s not going to let Mary go without a fight, because though their relationship is still fairly new, this feels like the thing Lily has been waiting for all her life. She feels understood, and held, and she and Mary are going to figure out what this means for them and their friends, slow and steady, step by step. 

At least, she did feel understood. They were going to figure this out together. And now…

Lily knows there are family…issues, for Mary. She knows a girlfriend is something they could never know about. Mary has to be exceptional at all times, oldest daughter, best chance of family success, bright and beautiful and capable and the one who always does as she’s told. Lily knows that. And she thought she’d made sure that Mary knows she knows that, but maybe she didn’t do a very good job.

God. Happy fucking birthday.

She resolves to text Mary in the morning. She washes her face. She rejoins her own birthday party. Everyone is screaming because Twister has turned into Remus and Sirius making out on the floor and everyone else jumping up onto the furniture, floor-is-lava style, to avoid getting in the way. Lily smiles.

The next morning, Lily types:

Hey love. I hope you got some well-deserved rest last night. I was wondering if we could chat, maybe on a call? I miss you, and I’d like to check in about a couple things. I understand not being ready, or not being able to come to the party last night, but I will say I was a little hurt. I feel like we’ve been missing each other lately, and I want to make sure we’re still on the same page. I’m crazy about you, Mary, I think I’ve made that clear from the beginning, and I want us to continue this relationship at whatever pace is best for both of us. If I got too excited and tried to rush things, I’m very sorry. Please tell me if I’ve upset you or overwhelmed you, I know it’s a lot. Please talk to me, Mary. Chat soon! Xoxoxo.

She feels good about it. In the light of the new morning, getting Mary to talk this out seems more than possible. They both want each other, right? The pair of them have had conversation after conversation about that, marvelling about all the little things that had to go wrong to lead them to their feelings for each other. Lily used to think the odds of someone feeling the same way she did at the same time she did were near impossible, until Mary proved her wrong. It was the purest magic. They were magic, they can still be magic!

Mary doesn’t respond for the entire day.

So, Lily goes out on a hike with James, because the psycho swears a hike is a great hangover cure, and she doesn’t have to pretend to be happy around him but he won’t press her unless she wants to be pressed. She very much does not, because there’s not much she can say without Mary’s consent.

Anyway, it helps. James always helps.

Mary does respond the next morning:

I’m sorry, Lily. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I just don’t think I’m ready for a relationship. There’s too much for me to figure out right now, and this has moved too fast for me. I can’t be with you. I think we should just be friends, but I’m going to need some space for a while. 

Lily rereads the text three times, until her eyes start to well up, just to be really sure she’s comprehending what she’s reading. She types through eyes blurry with tears.

Of course, Mary. Thank you for telling me. We can be friends, with some space and time. That’s the most important thing to me anyway, your friendship.

Mary immediately responds. It’s the first time she’s done so in two weeks:

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry too.

Lily sobs.

Chapter Text

To live for the hope of it all…

Inej turns the lock on the door to her room in the Slat, and breathes. And breathes.

It’s coming up on her first full week here. Her first full week away from the Menagerie. Every few hours, she has to remind herself it is real. The first day, she had to remind herself every few minutes.

She’s still learning her way around, but she’s got the hang of this block well enough. This building, the Slat, as everyone calls it, is familiar. It doesn’t quite feel safe yet, but there’s a small, small part of Inej, one she thought she’d let die, that dares to hope it might, one day.

She begins her nightly preparations, which have much less to do with readying herself for sleep than trying to trick herself into relaxing. Even though Kaz was forthcoming with a room and a lock, and the other things Inej requested to separate herself from her time at the Menagerie, she still can’t quite let herself believe in it. She is trying, though. Kaz hasn’t lied to her yet, just as he said he wouldn’t.

Now in sleepwear, Inej makes her way to her bunk and sits down. She finds it easier to calm her mind and her breathing while in a sitting position, and then gradually lower herself down. Tonight, coming up on this milestone of almost a week of freedom from Tante Heleen, she’s going to try sleeping six hours in succession. She is most accustomed to two hours asleep, two awake, as that was the best way to stay safe with the other indentures. She has made it four the last couple of nights. And tonight, Inej will sleep six.

She closes her eyes and rests her hands on her knees. Immediately, her brain is screaming at her to make sure she knows where her knife is, but she reminds it that she does. It’s resting under her pillow. She will check its position as she lies down, just as she always does. 

Inej breathes. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears. She breathes again. Images flit through her mind - the sunlight on the canal water. The way the Barrel looks from the Slat roof. The way Kaz’s mouth ticks up in the barest hint of approval when Inej learns something useful. She breathes, and her heartbeat continues to slow.

This is mine, Inej reminds herself. It will not be easy, and it will come with a price, or many, but this safety here is mine. This new vocation and learning is mine. Saints forgive me, but I am taking it for myself. Whatever future is coming is my own.

She feels her lips uplift in a light smile.

I will continue to live, and I will continue to hope, and it will all be mine.

She lies down, checks the position of her knife, and falls asleep to the image of her mother kissing her forehead when she was a child.

When Inej wakes up the next morning, she does not know what time it is, but the sunlight is bright through the slats in her window. 

Later, she will learn that not only did she sleep through six hours, she slept through eight. Completely through the dark night to the warm dawn beyond.

Chapter Text

Cancel plans just in case you’d call/and say/meet me behind the mall…

The back of the Old Valley Mall is not bad looking, as far as the backs of malls go. Eponine is an expert in a select few things, but she is an expert in the behind lots of malls. She’s seen enough of them.

Montparnasse’s idea of romance used to be meeting Eponine behind the back of various malls across the city and chain smoking HER smokes. When Eponine cited the fact that he didn’t take her on any real dates as a reason to break up, he’d incredulously declared: “what about our mall dates?” As if they’d ever gone inside the malls proper.

There were more serious, pressing reasons to break up with Montparnasse, namely that she was in love with Marius and also that she didn’t want to date a dealer anymore, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

God, Eponine used to hang out at the back of this specific mall and wait for Marius to get off his Orange Julius shifts. She used to pretend she was tagging or smoking or doing other appropriately hooligan-adjacent things. Pretending that she didn’t have his work schedule memorized because she’d hacked into the scheduling app Marius’ managers used. She used to lay about and hope .

“He’s meeting you behind the mall?” Gav sneers from beside her. He’s fiddling with one of Combeferre’s retro Game Boys. Eponine told him it would have been cheaper to buy him one of those fidget toys, but Combeferre had insisted that Gav couldn’t do much damage and that there were no batteries anyway when he gave it to him. Her lips twitch up involuntarily at the memory, and then she remembers Gav is watching.

“I asked him to meet us here.” Eponine is too tired to make her tone more sharp, but she raises an eyebrow to make sure her brother knows she is not joking about this. 

She’s not quite sure why she asked Combeferre to meet them back here. Maybe for old times’ sake.

“Fucking weirdo,” Gav says, going back to his fiddling. “Your boyfriend’s going to think we’re planning on murdering him.”

“He will not think that. And don’t swear! You haven’t managed to murder him yet, so I’m sure he’ll manage to find us just fine. ”

“If Med School hasn’t gotten me yet, I think I’m safe in your hands.” Combeferre’s voice has Eponine turning around and smiling.

Gav makes barfing noises behind her back, but Combeferre never rises to his bait, and that’s something Eponine is learning not to do in turn (another thing she’s an expert at: always rising to the bait or challenge before her).

“Hey,” Combeferre greets, his usually mild voice even softer to Eponine’s ears. “How did shopping go?”

She gives him a quick hug, and both of them begin ushering Gavroche towards Combeferre’s car. “Shopping went well. We didn’t get kicked out for shoplifting like last time.”

Combeferre squints at her through his glasses. “Is that a joke? I can’t always tell when you’re joking.”

All three of them clamber into the car. 

“It’s a joke,” Gav explains. “Although the time before that we did get followed around for a bit before being reported.”

Combeferre scowls. “Even though you were simply shopping like everyone else, I’d suspect.”

Eponine swats his arm, her clear signal for him to drop it before he gets Gav riled up, and Combeferre nods without another word. 

“What do we want for dinner?” he asks as they begin the drive to his place.

“Pizza?” Gav choruses hopefully.

“No. We had food court food for lunch, we gotta have real food for dinner.”

Gav pouts until Combeferre suggests:

“How about you help me make that fancy egg pasta Cosette taught me how to make?”

Gav cheers and Ep hides a smile from her easy-to-please brother and her genius boyfriend.

Not that Gav doesn’t deserve all the joy they can scrunge up for him. Back to school shopping to the level they did today is a fairly new phenomenon, now that Ep’s making steady money as manager at the Musain. And not that she’s particularly hard to please either. All it takes for Combeferre to please her is to be nice to her brother and meet her at the back of the mall whenever she asks. He never asks why she wants to meet there, but he always takes her somewhere nicer after.

This is all a fairly new phenomenon too, Combeferre , that is. He’d flown under Eponine’s radar for the first bit once she’d properly joined the Amis. In a group with members like Enjolras the vengeful sun god, Courfeyrac the sparkly drama queen, Jehan the Romantic poet, and Bahorel the near Olympic-level boxer, it kind of makes sense. But she did notice Combeferre was always unfailingly kind and patient with Grantaire, and with Eponine by extension. He explained things she didn’t understand, even when she hadn’t asked for help. He offered her and Gav rides when he could, long before he was obligated with a boyfriend title. He was far too nice and too genuine, and Eponine didn’t think anything of it until she realized he had replaced a lot of Marius thoughts in her head. Then she thought too much of it, and was suspicious whenever he came around to chat or offered a ride or to hang out.

And finally, one day, after they’d become friends and Eponine had realized she wanted to be more and that that was a PROBLEM so she’d pulled away, Combeferre had shown up at her and Gav’s place. He’d stated very plainly that he missed her and he really liked her and that he would like to take her on a date. And, perhaps most importantly, that if she said no, that would be the end of it.

Obviously, Eponine didn’t.

And now, they’re three months in. And Combeferre never leaves Eponine hanging or waiting for too long behind malls. She thinks she’s probably in love with him, but there’s no rush: she’ll tell him when she’s ready.

She lets her hand rest on his thigh as he drives her and her brother back to his place. His smile when he glances over at her is blinding.

Eponine is so glad she didn’t let him fly under the radar for too long. Her boyfriend shines. And she is so glad she gets to be a part of it.

Chapter Text

When she pulled up like/a figment of my worst intentions…

Only a few more steps to trudge, and then Remus is home. It’s been a particularly long day, full of paperwork and headaches and parts of the Wizarding World that Remus hasn’t thought about in a very long time.

He and Dumbledore finally finished the paperwork to onboard him as a Professor at Hogwarts. It barely feels real. Remus has spent the entire day ready to jump out of his skin; it feels a little like how his skin feels too stretched over his bones right before a full moon. He even saw a large black dog right when he exited the ministry and jumped sky-high. He was very embarrassed at the time, but now he is too tired to care. He can’t wait to get into his flat and make a nice cup of tea - now that the nights are cooling down again in preparation for the upcoming fall - and put the events of the day (and the reminders of the past) to rest.

Except.

There is a big black dog inside the entryway of Remus’ flat complex. He stops short when he sees the panting creature.

“Hello,” he mumbles. “What brought you in here?” He reaches to look for a tag, but there is none. The dog looks quite mangy and scrawny, and Remus feels a pang of kinship. He’s looked in similarly rough shape a time or two. 

Thinking that the dog must be a stray, and that Remus barely has the space in his shoddy flat for one tall man, let alone a large black dog, he re-opens the front door, and tries to shoo the mutt out into the night. It won’t budge. It has stopped panting, and is just looking at Remus intently. It shows no signs of wanting to return to the outdoors.

“You know what, I’ve had enough,” Remus sighs. He wishes he didn’t react so strongly to every black dog he sees, but it’s been twelve years and he hasn’t stopped yet. In the darkest corners of his heart, he doesn’t think he ever will. In the darkest part of his mind, Padfoot the dog never committed atrocities so painful they changed the course of Remus’ life irrevocably, so part of him still misses his dog companion. Part of him misses quite a few things. 

For twelve years, Remus has just been made of missing.

He resolves to climb the stairs and come back with some water for the dog. The flights of stairs are one of his least favourite things about living here, but not once has Remus ever considered using magic to get up. The Statute, for one, and Remus’ general avoidance of as much magic as he can since Halloween twelve years ago, for another. 

He briefly contemplates it now as he begins his climb with his aching joints. He supposes he should begin practicing before he gets to Hogwarts…Then, he stops. The dog is following him. It’s followed him up two flights of stairs already. It stops a few paces back when it sees that Remus has noticed it, but it doesn’t budge, and it doesn’t show signs of stopping.

A terribly paranoid idea takes root in Remus’ mind. No , he thinks. No, no, no, no. Do not even go down that road. 

Too late.

Remus is down that road and then some. Something flares up inside him, a mangled corpse of pure rage. He has his wand in hand before he’s truly thought about it, and raises it at the dog. The dog bows its head. Remus’ arm quivers. He doesn’t want to harm an innocent dog who just happens to remind him of…

Something else has flared up inside of him, a terrible, sickly sweet kind of hope. Remus could gag on it. He doesn’t want to hope for anything, it’s a very unfamiliar emotion, and he really really really doesn’t want to hope the dog is Padfoot. 

Thinking this dog could be Padfoot is one thing. Hoping this dog is Padfoot is a completely different one. 

“Padfoot?” Remus whispers. He immediately closes his eyes against the foolishness of his heart. Of course this dog isn’t Padfoot; escape from Azkaban is impossible, for good reason. Si…Sirius is in Azkaban for good reason.

Remus’ heart has never cared about those things as much as it should.

He hears a little snuffling sound, and the pads of animal feet against stone, and then feels the dog nuzzling at his hand. Absently, Remus scratches the dog’s head the same way Padfoot used to love (mostly while in dog form, but not exclusively). The dog wags its tail and thumps its right hind leg, exactly the same way Padfoot used to.

Remus’ heart drops like a stone. Merlin preserve me and my sanity , he begs.

“Padfoot?” he repeats. The dog - Padfoot - ducks its head in a very human-like gesture. Remus pulls his hand away as if he’s been burned and turns to head up the stairs in one fluid move.

Padfoot continues to follow him up.

Remus races his way up the stairs so fast he is winded by the time he reaches the top. He blows his door lock open with a quick spell, and strides into the living room of his flat. He can just barely hear Padfoot following over the roar of his own heartbeat.

He closes his door with another flick of his wand, and the moment he does, Padfoot begins changing.

And then, Sirius Black is standing in Remus’ living room. A little gaunt, and very pale, and trembling like a leaf in the wind, but still unmistakably Sirius. Remus would know that face anywhere. It’s a face he sees night after night, in his dreams and nightmares alike.

“Remus,” Sirius croaks (it sounds like he hasn’t used his voice in a very long time).

Remus doesn’t let him get another word in before he’s turning and punching Sirius across the face.

There was a time, after leaving Grimmauld Place and moving in with the Potters, that Sirius began to bulk up and quickly became the stockiest of them all. James had always been tall, and with his rigorous Quidditch training was quite strong, but he did have to be speedy on a broom. Remus’ metabolism always ran too fast for him to truly put on muscle. Peter had never seemed to have the desire. But after whatever happened at his parents’ house that finally drove Sirius away, he’d decided he was “going to get wicked buff,” whatever that meant. 

It meant that Sirius used to go for the Deatheaters with his fists as much as his wand, and take hits like a boxer.

There is none of that strength and skill now - he goes down like a lead balloon. Remus’ hand aches, and he realizes a little belatedly that the only person he’s punched properly before WAS Sirius (after the disastrous prank with Snape).

The realization breaks his heart, and he didn’t think anything else could after Sirius had smashed it wide open twelve years ago. There is a high keening sound that Remus just becomes aware of in the room; at first, he thinks it’s Sirius, but the man is groaning and beginning to move from where he dropped. The keening must be Remus. As soon as he becomes aware of it, he forces himself to stop, and raises his wand towards Sirius.

Sirius sees. “Wait!” he wails. “Wait, Moony, please wait - ”

“DO NOT CALL ME THAT!” Remus roars, and Sirius shrinks back.

“Remus, please…”

Remus’ wand is shaking in his grip. He tries to make something come out of his mouth, words, spells, curses, anything, but his vocal chords seem to have failed him.

Sirius begins to crawl forward, babbling the whole time: “Remus, Remus, Remus, listen to me. I - Halloween, - I, it wasn’t me, I swear, I promise, I swear on my life, I swear on the way I love you and I loved James and Lily, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t, it - it - it was PETER!”

Remus stares at the former love of his life, reduced to a blubbering mess of an escaped convict, and doesn’t know what to think. His mind has gone curiously blank.

“Think about it, Remus!” Sirius rasps. “No one knew we were Animagi, so what did Peter do? He killed those muggles to frame me, and cut off his finger, and transformed into Scabbers! No one would know to look for him except for us Marauders, and James…” Sirius sobs, “And you…” 

Remus has to look away.

“And I…Well. He made sure I couldn’t tell anyone in any way they would believe me.”

He falls silent, and the room is filled with his ragged gasps and the roar of Remus’ heartbeat in his ears.

“Remus.”

Remus looks at the man he once knew.

“Do you believe me?”

Yes , Remus’ heart cries.

Never again , Remus’ mind cries.

I miss my friends , all of Remus cries.

He shrugs. Something that looks like a grin flits across Sirius’ face, and it’s so familiar it takes what remains of Remus’ breath. 

“Do you have any Veritaserum? That’s a sure way to confirm what I say is true.”

Remus’ head snaps to the briefcase he’d taken with him to see Dumbledore. 

Remus has spent the last twelve years avoiding as much of the Wizarding World as an unregistered werewolf could get away with - he’s really only been using magic when absolutely necessary, and certainly not brewing very difficult potions. But Dumbledore had handed him a small vial of Veritaserum right before Remus had left him today, saying cryptically, as he always did, “One never knows when the light of truth may be revealed.”

Remus goes hot, and then cold, all over. It’s frighteningly similar to how he feels right before he transforms. There is rage, and elation, and a million and one questions flying like snitches through his mind, but only one question really matters, when it comes down to it: is Sirius telling the truth?

And Remus has the means to discover if he is.

As if in daze, Remus rises and goes to the briefcase he threw across the room before he punched Sirius (he still can’t quite believe he punched Sirius). Sirius watches him with the wary eyes of a prey animal. It takes Remus a few tries to open the briefcase because his hands are still shaking, but finally he does, and finds the vial.

The minute Sirius realizes what Remus has in his hands, he lurches towards him. There is none of his former aristocratic grace or power, just pure need and desperation. Remus wants to keen again. 

He almost, very selfishly, wants Sirius to be lying. Because if he is telling the truth…The things Remus will have to upend and contend with now…Peter…

James would want me to do everything I can to find the truth, Remus thinks. Lily would want me to be strong.

He hands the vial to Sirius. Sirius downs it all in one gulp, even though Remus isn’t sure that is the safest use of the potion. He shudders at the taste, and then straightens. Remus watches his pupils grow almost double in size.

“Sirius?” Remus whispers.

“Remus.”

“Did you betray Lily and James Potter, and kill Peter Pettigrew?” 

“No,” Sirius chants. “No, no, no, no.”

It’s Remus’ turn to drop to the floor, and Sirius follows swiftly after.

“Do you hear me, Remus?” he crows. “I didn’t do it! I’m telling the truth.”

Remus grabs for Sirius’ arms, and Sirius crawls closer. They’re almost breathing the same air.

“You’re telling the truth,” Remus intones. Tears spring to his eyes, and that’s all it takes for tears to well up in Sirius’ as well.

The two men collapse against each other, sobbing.

But for the first time in twelve years, they get to sob together.

Chapter Text

She said/James get in/let’s drive/those days turned into nights/slept next to her but/I dreamt of you all summer long…

So much for summer love/and saying us…

It takes James exactly nineteen minutes to walk back to his parents’ cabin on the lake from his summer job at the fishing store. Twenty-five minutes if he stops for ice cream. This is usually a time-honoured, much anticipated part of James’ summer. He doesn’t get much time to himself, he doesn’t NEED much time to himself, but those nineteen to twenty-five minutes are precious to him.

Except.

Everything is different this summer. 

Not only has James shown up to the beach-side town with the Black brothers his parents have taken in, James has shown up with a three-month-old relationship with one Lily Evans. Really, he shouldn’t be happier.

Really.

He still can’t quite believe he and Lily have finally made it to where they are now. She has always been beautiful and brilliant and unattainable, all things James knows enough about himself to now see he adores in people. But James had been…well. He’d needed to learn and grow. And he had. Puberty will do that to you. Having your best friend and his little brother turn to you when they have nowhere else to go after their parents disown them will ALSO do that to you.

James and Lily had gotten close as friends first, because James was captain of the lacrosse team at university, and Lily was the editor-in-chief of the school-wide paper, so she and Dorcas (the sports editor for the paper) spent an awful lot of time around the fields, interviewing players and such. James and Lily had to work closely together to coordinate schedules and game play and interview coverage in time for weekday newspaper spreads. It was how Lily learned James was no longer the spoiled child he’d been, how she saw him take care of his team and the pressure he put on himself. It was how James learned just how brilliant and driven Lily was, how she was already applying to and being accepted into Masters programs, how she had won more prestigious writing awards than James knew existed (it was also how Marlene, one of James’ teammates, and Dorcas started dating!)

It was also also how James and Lily grew to know Regulus. Sure, Regulus was living at James’ house, but the younger Black almost seemed to make it a point of pride to avoid James like the plague. Sirius had said that was just how Regulus was, and that he was going to take adjusting to the Potters harder than Sirius because Sirius already knew them.

James, being James, had wanted a way into Regulus’ good graces. As it turned out, lacrosse was that way.

He had run into Regulus coming out of the men’s changing room on campus because Regulus’ team had the field right after James’. James, again being James, had stayed to watch Regulus play, and in a flash, his whole life had changed.

Regulus doesn’t play for the school, he plays recreationally because his parents had never let him try out for a school team, so he had to play in secret. But he really should play for the school; James thinks Regulus makes him look like a kid learning how to walk; he’s that good. He told Regulus that once, and he’s never heard him laugh that much. He’d told the same joke to Lily on their first official date, and she had laughed just as hard.

Once James and Regulus were actually on speaking terms, mostly about lacrosse but not exclusively, James had hired Regulus to help drill the guys on his lacrosse team. He wasn’t sure if that was something technically James was allowed to do, but both Lily and Regulus had said if there were no rules against it then he was fine (they’re always doing that, ganging up on him. Or. They were always doing that. Back when they were all speaking).

All had been good, and golden, for a while.

And then James had finally gathered up the balls to ask Lily out, because he’d been in love with her since their grade school days. Not only had she said YES, but the date had gone spectacularly. James had excitedly told Regulus about it the day after, dancing around his room like he was Cinderella and Lily was the prince. And that was when everything changed. Again.

Regulus, for whatever reason, withdrew back to his own devices. He was taciturn when Lily went to him for his lacrosse expertise in preparing her interview questions. He stopped coming to team dinners and events, made a point to be out of James’ parents house when James was throwing parties. He even stopped sending Lily nerdy threads on Instagram and Twitter. 

James has Lily. It’s better than he ever could have imagined, being with her. Together, they are exploring this fresh and exhilarating thing between them, this lightning in a bottle that James is convinced is right and true. But…he also feels a bit like a starfish that is missing one of its limbs and trying to regrow it. He misses Regulus, the bark-that’s-worse-than-his-bite of him. He misses his friend.

It doesn’t even matter that Regulus is here for the summer with James and Sirius and their parents. He has made it very clear that he doesn’t want James to speak to him. Every time James tries, Regulus blinks at him blankly until James gives up.

So, the nineteen minute walk feels more like a death march, today. James doesn’t even want to stop for ice cream. Christ, are thoughts of Regulus really keeping James from his ice cream? Ice cream ?!? Why isn’t he happy? He has the girl of his dreams! He just…also doesn’t have the guy of his dreams. Wait. What?

A car rolls to a stop beside him on the curb. James doesn’t bother looking up, until whoever is driving lays on the horn. He does look then, and is met with the glowing smile of his girlfriend. Lily melts some of the sadness surrounding James like butter, but there is always an undercurrent of guilt that James is still sad about something when he is so constantly overjoyed by her.

She opens the door of her truck, and beckons with one finger and a sly smile. James gets up into the truck with a single bound.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he says, kissing her cheek. “Missed me too much to wait the extra ten minutes ‘til I got back?”

Lily rolls her eyes. “As if. I was running some errands. And…” she casts a glance over at James. “Doing some thinking.”

“Thinking?” James repeats (he can hear Regulus sneering ‘Are you unfamiliar with the concept of thought, Potter?’ or something similarly sharp. It makes his chest ache with want. Weird). “About what?”

Lily sighs. “Truth be told, babe…I’ve been thinking about Regulus.” James must look at her oddly, because she rushes to say, “‘I know you miss him. I miss him too. And I was thinking about…why he might have pulled away.”

“Maybe he just decided he was done with us,” James pouts.

“That doesn’t sound like him, and you know it.”

James throws his hands up in the air (he can, he’s not driving). “I just don’t know what I did wrong! I wish he would talk to me, so we could at least try to make this right again.”

Lily purses her lips. “I don’t think there’s anything either of us did to really upset him…” she says slowly, like she’s talking to a toddler, “except…we started dating.”

James blinks. Realization dawns like someone cracking an egg over his head and letting the yolk run down his face. That’s how James feels, literal egg on his face, being confronted with the knowledge that Regulus is likely jealous and upset. 

“Oh,” he murmurs. “Ohhhhhhhhhh.”

Lily gives an encouraging nod.

“Are you telling me you think Regulus likes you, and that’s why he’s upset with me? With us?”

Lily stops nodding. “James,” she says again, in her slow voice. James knows this means he’s missing something, but he feels like he does when he’s not wearing his glasses: he can see the shape of something in front of him, but what it is is fuzzy and indistinct. 

“What?” he asks, a little panicked. “Just tell me, Lils, I’m playing catch up here!”

She chuckles a little. The sound always manages to calm James’ whirly-top brain. “James. People can be gay.”

“Well. Yeah. Obviously. Did you forget that I live with Sirius “Freddy Mercury and Remus Lupin conspired to make me gay” Black?”

“ James ,” Lily cries. “We’re not talking about Sirius!”

“Yeah, we’re talking about Regulus so I don’t know why…” Abruptly, he stops. “Wait.” He swallows. His throat is suddenly very dry. “You think…you think Regulus…likes me?” James’ stomach twists at the thought, but it is not as unpleasant a sensation as you might expect. It is suddenly very warm in Lily’s truck. James’ brain is stuck like a damaged record, stuck repeating “Regulus likes me?” with a growing speed.

“Actually…” Lily says, and then she does two of the last things James would expect her to do. 1) She blushes, turning her face almost the same red as her hair, and 2) she pulls the truck over to the side of the road. Safely parked, she unbuckles her seatbelt and turns to face James fully.

She takes a deep breath. “I think - ”

“Are you breaking up with me?!?”

Lily slams her mouth closed. “What?” she whispers.

“I just…” James looks around the truck wildly. “I’ve been like five steps behind in this conversation, and just now you said Regulus maybe liked me, and I had a very confusing reaction to that, Lils, and then you had a more confusing reaction, and so now I’m just…if you want to break up with me, fine, but I…” James laughs, a little helplessly. Maybe his world as he knows it is ending for good. “I really don’t want you to.”

“Jesus Christ, James, I don’t want to break up with you! I want to ask Regulus out on a date!”

It’s James’ turn to close his mouth in shock. “Uh. What?”

Lily reaches out to brush one of James’ wild curls away from his eyes. “What I was trying to say, before I was interrupted,” James flushes sheepishly, “is that I think…well, I don’t know, maybe I hope , that Regulus likes…both of us.”

Both of us.

James’ whole body feels like it may explode. “I - is that…allowed?”

Lily laughs. “Is it allowed? I mean, bi and pan and polyamorous people exist? What do you mean, is it allowed ?”

“I just…” James blinks, and swallows, and blinks again, startled to find his eyes wet with tears.

Lily seems equally as startled. “James, I was just teasing, I wasn’t trying to be mean, I thought - ”

He grips at her hands, and that calms some of her rambling. 

“I thought there was something wrong with me, Lily,” he admits. “I was having all these confusing thoughts, and I missed Regulus and, God, I wanted Regulus, I think I can finally admit I wanted Regulus, but I’ve never stopped wanting you, Lily, you’re everything, I didn’t know…I don’t know…”

Lily is quiet now, letting James sort some of this out through his rambling. It’s one of the things he loves best about her, how she just instinctively knows what he needs. Regulus does that a lot too , he thinks, and feels pathetically giddy about it.

“I can have both of you?” James checks. “I can want both of you? And that doesn’t make me a terrible person?”

“Why would it?” Lily whispers, raising her hand to James’ cheek, “if we all want each other?”

“So you…you want…me? And Regulus?”

Lily nods, her eyes warm. “I’m dating you, aren’t I, Potter? Why would I do that, if I didn’t want you?”

“Right, right, right. Yeah. Just checking. And…Regulus?”

Lily flushes again, and James’ heart speeds up. She is the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

“Well, we’ll have to ask Regulus if he wants us, but…” she bites her lip and James has to restrain himself from kissing her senseless in the middle of her sentence, “I think he wants us. And I want him,” James imagines Lily and Regulus kissing then, and is not very surprised when he is not jealous and his heart triples in speed, “And you said you want him, so…” Then James is imagining himSELF kissing Regulus, and thinks he may pass out.

“Where is Regulus right now?” he asks breathlessly. “Is he at my cabin?”

“Yeah, I think so - ”

“Then drive, woman!” James cries. “We shouldn’t wait another second to find our missing piece!”

Lily laughs and laughs, eyes bright. She continues laughing all the way back to the cabin.

“Missing piece?” Regulus repeats, incredulously, carefully putting his toasted marshmallow onto his prepped graham cracker. “Tell me you didn’t really say that?”

“He did so,” Lily answers. “He was more sappy about it than I was.”

“This surprises nobody!” James protests.

Regulus just rolls his eyes. Lily lays her head on his shoulder, and Regulus lets her. His face softens a fraction, even though he’s gazing at their campfire, and James’ chest is so warm looking at the two of them. His two. It’s been an amazing summer with his two.

Then, Lily tries to sneakily bite Regulus’ s’more, and he shoves her completely off the back of their shared log.

James erupts into laughter. “Is that any way to treat a lady, love?”

Regulus smirks at him. “It’s the way to treat a thief.”

James gets up to cozy next to Regulus on his other side, forever drawn in by the other man. He is so glad he understands why now, and doesn’t have to fight the pull. It was like struggling against an ocean undertow. 

Regulus simply looks over at him, and then, without any warning, leans in for a quick kiss. His kisses never fail to steal James’ breath, or make him forget everything around them. Everything except Lily. She’s the most unforgettable thing in the world. Speaking of…

“Oh sure, have all the fun while I’m picking myself up out of the underbrush,” their girlfriend gripes.

“Oh, Lils, do you need a hand?” James asks, at the same time that Regulus says:

“Nothing more than a thief deserves!”

They laugh, and Lily regains her spot beside Regulus. James thinks that this is the perfect spot for his boyfriend, right between himself and Lily.

We found you , he thinks. I like saying the three of us so much better than the two of us .

“I don’t mind being a thief,” Lily says. “Stole both your hearts, didn’t I?”

Regulus groans, and even James says, “Babe, that was pretty bad, even for you.”

“I don’t care!” she insists. “It’s true, and I’m happy it’s true!”

She looks over at them, as if daring them to disagree. Regulus surprises James, in that way he’s so good at doing, by smiling a soft, bashful smile. 

“Me too,” he says.

“Me three,” James doesn’t hesitate to add, and they all laugh some more. Their laughter rises, and the flames crackle on, and James is so glad his summer love did not go the way he expected. He thinks things never will, with his two brilliant and beautiful partners, and he’s never been happier.

Chapter Text

You weren’t mine to lose…

Cas isn’t expecting to like her. And then she does. 

The lost princess, returned. Representing everything Cas should be, and can’t. Everything Cas should aim to be, but won’t.

What Cas wants. But knows she cannot have.

The lost princess, found, but still so lost. Cas isn’t expecting to become friends with Rapunzel, the two of them drawn together by their equally lost lives. But she does.

And it is nice, for a while, even if they are the sun and the moon, on opposing ends of personality. Rapunzel shows Cas how to have fun, how to prioritize being herself. Cas shows Rapunzel what duty can mean, and how a princess should honour such a position. Theirs is a relationship that flourishes, as unexpected as it may be.

But Cas hits a wall. As she always suspected she would. 

Things around Rapunzel often seemed too good to be true.

And they seemed that way because they were. Cas learned that the hard way. Zhan Tiri is showing her that the hard way, just as her mother did before her.

Cas should have known better than to trust Rapunzel, but what’s worse is that she should have known better than to like Rapunzel. Enjoy her precious Raps’ company. 

Look at where that naivete has gotten her: Cas gazes around the tower she’s constructed in the place her mother constructed one as well, and she feels satisfied. She feels pleased. She feels…powerful. All things that she rarely felt in the precious princess Rapunzel’s presence.

So what if Cas has sacrificed relationships with people she thought were friends? So what if she can just make out the form of Varian huddled in his cage outside the tower, and he looks pitiful and scared? So WHAT? 

So what if Rapunzel will never smile that sun-warm smile at Cas again? Rapunzel was out of reach long before Cas was ever in a position to lose her. Rapunzel was never truly Cas’, never truly her friend.

It doesn’t matter that after this, Rapunzel will be lost to Cassandra forever.

She always was.

Chapter Text

Betty/I’m here on your doorstep and I’ve planned it out/for weeks now but/it’s finally sinking in…

Deep breaths, Regulus. Deep fucking breaths.

He hates this. He really fucking hates this. Why oh why oh WHY did he let Sirius talk him into planning a surprise for his boyfriend? Regulus is not the one who plans surprises; Regulus hates surprises, everyone who knows him knows this. James is the one who plans surprises and elaborate romantic gestures. Regulus is more the one who makes dinner just the way James likes it, or instructs everyone to leave his James alone for the night because it’s been a long fucking week. Regulus does not DO big gestures like this, certainly not in front of people.

But it was pointed out to him (*cough brutally yelled about over the phone by his police siren of an older brother cough*) that because Regulus was going to be away for work for the two weeks leading up to James’ 28th birthday, James might be a little despondent. So, here Regulus is. Plucking up the courage to approach his own fucking doorstep.

You see, James’ birthday tends to fall at the end of Spring Break. James, as somewhat of an interesting combination between a sporty frat guy and nerdy scholar, always has to celebrate Spring Break with a large blowout party, and still has Spring Break because he’s working on his PhD. 

James Potters’ Spring Break Bash is as infamous as James himself, campus-wide and otherwise. James has it down to a fine science, which usually means Regulus gets to help in very specific ways, and then gets to avoid the bulk of the party by babysitting Harry so his moms can live it up with the rest of the old school crew. The baby doesn’t let Lily and Pandora get out much, and he would much rather spend the night with a two-year-old than a bunch of drunk partiers, though there is not much difference between the two groups once you get down to it. 

This infamous party, however, is NOT James’ birthday party, so it is more than alright that Regulus misses it anyway. Though James likes his parties as much as the other frat guys, he likes his meaningful moments to be just for his nearest and dearest. The tradition to celebrate his birthday is that Regulus makes first breakfast, brings it to James in bed, and then they meet their most important friends out for a quiet brunch at James’ favourite tea n’ scone place.

When Regulus knew he had to travel for his next magazine piece, he purposefully booked it so he would be back in time for James’ actual birthday celebration, because that is what is most important for him to attend. 

And then Sirius called, only a few days into Regulus’ trip, saying that James wouldn’t tell Regulus this but that he was miserable without Regulus there, and moping around the house, pining for his magazine-article-writing boyfriend. Not that Regulus would admit this to Sirius of all people, but he was feeling the same. Detached and cold without his Jamie to warm him. Regulus doesn’t even care if that’s frightfully co-dependent. He wants what he wants, and what he always wants is James. So. That’s how this hair-brained scheme of surprising James by flying back in time for the Spring Break Bash a few days early had come about, concocted by Sirius’ devious mind and Regulus’ James-deficient soul.

Swallowing, Regulus pulls himself out of the car. He texts Sirius the bare bones: I'm here. coming up to the door now. Make sure James is the one who opens it.

He can hear the beat of the party music, even outside. It grows louder the closer Regulus gets. Why did I do this to myself, why? For James, he reminds himself. James deserves to be celebrated in ways that matter to him too.  His heart pounds in time with the bass. 

The minute he is in front of his familiar door (that he had to keep James from painting a fire engine red by compromising on a rusty burgundy), Regulus knocks. It is either knocking immediately, or puking from nerves.

What if James doesn't want to see me?

The traitorous thought rises in his head.

What if he never really wants me at the party because I cramp his party style?

Never mind the fact that James always asks, when planning, if there’s anything he can do to get Regulus to attend. He’s even promised to shorten the guest list on many an occasion. Regulus is just an insecure bastard. 

Can you blame me?!? He thinks, a little hysterically and shifting his weight impatiently, Have you SEEN my boyfriend?

And then the door is opening and said boyfriend is right in front of him.

James’ eyes go very wide.

“Hi, Jamie,” Regulus murmurs. He can make out a crowd of people gathered behind James, some of them friends he knows and some of them not, but all he has eyes for is his beautiful sun right in front of him. “Surprise.”

“Regulus,” James breathes. Then they’re both rushing forward and meeting in a perfect reunion kiss.

James tastes like his favourite drink, rum and coke, and he’s already a little sweaty, though the night is young by party standards. Regulus knows he must be a little disarrayed from the plane (even first class will do that to you), but he didn’t care enough to change before heading to the party. He wanted to see James. And now he’s kissing James, in front of all those people behind them, and all is right with the world.

“I missed you,” James breathes in Regulus’ mouth. “I missed you so much, love.”

“Mhm.” Regulus tries to get some of his thoughts in order, but James has stubble that’s at least a few days old and it’s driving Regulus absolutely mental with its scrape and burn. “Missed you more.”

James laughs. 

It’s one of their things, ‘I missed you more’ or ‘I love you more’, because Regulus is also a contrarian bastard, and James just had to beat him to the punch and say he loved Regulus first, so Regulus had to one up him. He’s been trying ever since, and he may have finally accomplished it with this surprise. 

Ok, so maybe this idea wasn’t such a bad one, he charitably thinks. Thanks, Siri.

James immediately steals his attention back by stepping out onto the porch, walking Regulus back and scrambling his brain yet again, and closing the front door with his foot. It takes a moment for Regulus to register what the noise means, but the moment he does, he pulls back. James whines and tries to follow his mouth, and then pouts when Regulus starts to speak instead.

“James. What are you doing? The party’s in there. Don’t you want to go in and show me off to all your guests?”

James’ eyes widen, as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

“You would do that?”

Regulus hits him lightly on the arm. “Yes, you idiot, that’s why I’m home early! Thought I’d finally come to your…” James pulls Regulus over to their porch swing, and yanks Regulus down so he lands on James’ lap when he sits… “...party.”

James begins mouthing at Regulus’ neck, because he knows Regulus is powerless to resist that. “Mmmm, fuck the party,” he muses. “Wanna stay out here with you. God, I missed you so much, Regulus, you have no idea.”

“I might,” Regulus pants, “have some idea.”

James’ eyes gleam.

At one point, Regulus pulls back to ask if James is sure about ditching the party, and James insists he is. It doesn’t take much convincing for Regulus to get lost in him again.

At another point, once they’ve lapsed into cuddling and trading tales about their time apart, Sirius texts James:

U coming back?

Nope <3, James responds. Go Host mode for me <3.

And Regulus thinks maybe he needs to do more surprising in the future.

Chapter Text

Betty right now is the last time I can dream about/what happens when/you see my face again…

There are moments of lucidity, beneath the Lake of Avalon. It is not all swirling and darkness, though it very often is. Arthur supposes it's a nicer way to spend 1500 years. Much faster, that way. 

He is unsure what determines whether he is lucid or not, as he can't seem to control it (and try he did, the first time he opened his eyes to find himself beneath the lake). And… lucid isn't quite the right word. Nor is ‘awake’. It is not unlike what Arthur remembers falling asleep and waking to be; however, it is more that he is in the half-awake state of early morning, before the true consequences and effects of the day bear on a person. Nothing really comes to bear for Arthur, nothing connects. He remembers feeling, but can't quite seem to grasp emotions themselves. He is aware, but only just barely. There are a couple presences he perceives, one much closer than the other. The other is unmistakably Merlin. When Arthur focuses on the phantom of Merlin’s presence, it is the closest he comes to feeling alive. The presence nearer to him is a stranger, but she does become more familiar as the years pass and pass and pass.

And pass.

And then, finally, one day, a voice is heard: “It is time, Arthur. Farewell.”

There is a rushing and a roaring and a light suddenly appears, growing closer and closer at an alarming speed. Without warning, it is as if Arthur has been tipped right-side up, and then continues tipping forward, until he is moving through a wall of water and crashing to his knees on something solid.

Arthur chokes, and coughs, until water comes spewing out. There is water up his nose, dripping down his face. He is clad in sodden, soaking armour. He can hear it clanking. He can feel the weight. Arthur sputters there on what must be the lakeshore for a long time.

Finally, he is able to take some air back into his lungs and blink his bleary eyes. The colours around him swim, until they sharpen with a sudden, bright focus. It is blinding, to be faced with a world in full colour. Arthur looks around. He is on a grey beach of hard, small pebbles. There are some light clouds in the sky above him, but the sun is managing to peek through and dapple the surface of the lake behind him. It highlights the far shores of the lake in the bright green of foliage, so everything around Arthur seems to shimmer. Just past the rise of the pebbled beach, there seems to be some kind of path of dark black tar or pitch. Arthur is not looking forward to investigating that.

The beauty of the world around him takes his breath, but even not breathing properly feels so good because at least he is feeling. He is alive, again! Fully!

Suddenly, the truth of what that means comes crashing down. Merlin . He doesn’t know what age, what time he is in. Merlin . The world is different than he knew it, and he may be far from any civilization. Merlin . He’s not even sure if he can stand properly. Merlin . The last time he was breathing, he was in Merlin’s arms. Merlin . He was dying. He died. Merlin . Merlin had to deal with that. Merlin…

Arthur has spent the last 1500 years not able to completely feel. And let’s be honest, he was no paragon of expressing and honouring his emotions when he was alive either. The force of that hits him, and hits him, and hits him. It’s a flood. 

The Once and Future King sits on the beach and cries. For joy, for fear, for loss. Because he is once again able to be with the man he loves. Because he was never brave enough to be with him when he was alive. Because what did Arthur ever do to deserve a second chance, when so many across time have not? Because he wants to tell Merlin he loves him, and he does not know where he is. If he is.

He must be alive. Arthur’s heart beats his name. It always has. It is simply that after 1500 years not being able to hear it fully, Arthur is listening more intently than he ever has before.

Suddenly, through the moment of calm and the breath of air he takes, Arthur is made aware that he can still feel Merlin’s presence, like he could when under the lake. Though it is faint, it is stronger than he has ever felt before. It takes him several tries, but he staggers to his feet, armour still dripping. He plunks his way to the path of pitch, and chooses a direction at random. About five minutes down the path, Arthur realizes the presence in the back of his mind is vibrating more faintly, so he immediately turns and heads in the opposite direction.

This is how he proceeds, and how he intends to proceed, until he finds Merlin. 

He makes it to the outskirts of a village that is unlike any Arthur has ever seen before he is unlucky enough to encounter the beasts that roam the pitch path. He is nearly flattened, but makes it out unscathed, only having been yelled at by the person who appeared to be in the belly of the beast (Arthur had offered to free them, and that went over even less well than almost being flattened).

He picks his way through the strange buildings, avoiding the black paths when he can because there are many more beasts, forever following the presence in his mind that is humming ever louder.

He reaches a point where it seems the presence cannot increase any more, standing in front of a large house with many beasts parked in front of it. He is not sure how he is so certain, beyond the almost-ringing of the presence in his mind, but he is certain Merlin is in this strange house. There are beautiful trees on either side of it. The tips of their leaves are just starting to turn with the season. There are pillars in front of the house, and ivy wraps around each. 

Arthur marches up to the set of steps leading to what must be a door (it looks like no door or gate he’s ever seen) and freezes. He realizes he is frightened. It washes over him like a cold bath. Merlin is here. So near. But Merlin has a life. He must; he has not been where Arthur has been. And he would live, even if he’d had to do the 1500 years the hard way, because his Merlin was so full of life and love and magic (as Arthur now knows) that he would undoubtedly live. Merlin is here.

And Arthur is not sure what Merlin will do when he sees him. Will he bow? That would truly be awful. Will Arthur be barging in on something Merlin is doing? That might serve him right for never knocking in Camelot. But also…Arthur is about to upend Merlin’s life, and he is tired of doing so. Upended it by becoming king, by dying. And now by reviving. 

If he had somewhere else to go, Arthur may just go there for a moment, to breathe and panic. He never thought himself a coward, but maybe he is. What if Merlin turns him away? Is 1500 years enough to change the man he’s always loved? It hasn’t been enough to change Arthur’s feelings.

But…he has no other place to go. The people in this village think him and his armour very strange, that much is clear. Arthur is not sure what they would do to him were he to keep wandering. And he does not want to do so. He wants to see Merlin. He wants to love Merlin and see Merlin and TELL him he loves him with every new breath in his body.

What if Merlin smiles? What if Merlin faints, and Arthur gets to take care of him for a change? If Merlin hugs him, Arthur will return it. If Merlin kisses him, Arthur may just perish on the spot. Again. Faster than a mortal sword wound.

However Merlin reacts, Arthur will take all of it. Anything and more. He will take whatever Merlin will give. Because he loves him. 

And suddenly, the need to see his love outweighs any and all fear. It moves through his body and propels him forward up the steps, where he presses a strange dot that has a ‘press me’ label above it in strange, reflective calligraphy. 

Arthur experiences the same kind of rush and fade of noise that always happens right before a fight or battle breaks as the button makes a strange noise that rings out into the house. His blood rushes around his head like the water he emerged from.

And then the door opens.

And Arthur is home once more.

Chapter Text

Remember when I pulled up/and said get in the car/cancelled my plans just in case you’d call…

The only thing/I wanna do/is make/it up/to you…

The thing is, Barty is aware that this is dumb. Colossally aware. And colossally dumb. But the need to impress the new, hot kid at school outweighs all sensible thought (though Regulus would argue Barty doesn’t have much of that to begin with, and Barty, who would usually protest, agrees wholeheartedly at this moment).

But still. Rule of cool applies.

He pulls up in front of the Rosier household and gingerly opens both his and the passenger door to wait. He’s been waiting for three days for Evan to message and say he was bored to enact ‘The Plan,’ as Barty’s been calling it, so waiting a few more minutes shouldn’t be too hard. It still is. Barty bounces his leg in time with whatever music his dad was last listening to before Barty jacked the car, something in swing time with lots of brass instrumentation. Not bad, for old man music taste, that is.

Thankfully, Evan doesn’t keep him waiting for too long. He lopes out his front door, the picture of grace and effortless coolness, and Barty’s heart flips in his chest. Damn. He really hates it when it does that.

Evan whistles as he gets to the car. “Woah, Crouch. When you said you were picking me up ‘cause you had wheels, I didn’t quite believe you.”

Barty flashes something he hopes looks like a Devil-may-care smile.

Evan climbs in, closing the door much less carefully than Barty opened it (Barty fights off a wince). “Where’d you get this?”

Barty really smiles this time. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Rosier.”

Evan smiles back. “Fine. Where are we going?”

Instead of answering directly, Barty floors the gas.

Barty, despite all his earlier reservations and thoughts that sounded a lot like Regulus and Dorcas in his brain, thinks the evening is going swimmingly. 

They’re not even doing anything too riske. Barty just took Evan to his favourite lookout spot where they could see the lake stretching out before them and where they were just secluded enough by the surrounding trees and bushes that they could be hidden, if they wanted to be.

He was stupidly self-conscious about driving Evan up here - what if the cooler boy didn’t like it, and Barty had to pretend he didn’t either? - but Evan had just breathed out a simple, “Wow.” And when Barty had asked him what that was all about, Evan had replied, “I didn’t think there was anything beautiful here. And now, I’m thinking I was wrong.” He’d been looking at Barty when he’d said that, and Barty had blushed like the fool he is.

Now, they’re sitting on the hood of Barty’s father’s Rolls Royce and smoking. Their feet have gotten progressively closer and closer as the minutes have ticked by, and Barty thinks if he gives it a few more minutes and turns, Evan will kiss him. He can feel the anticipation hovering in the air between the two of them.

Naturally, that’s when the cops show up.

Everything is quiet, and soft, and then it is very much not. The lookout explodes into sirens and lights.

“Shit!” Evan leaps off the car hood and stomps out his smoke. Barty stands a little more resignedly. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

“It’ll be ok, Evan.”

Evan has the gall to roll his eyes. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not surprised to see them?”

Barty grins with his teeth.

The largest cop comes over, one Barty doesn’t recognize. “Bartemius Crouch?” he asks.

Barty bats his eyes. “Oh, officer, please. Bartemius is my father. Call me Barty.” The cop grunts, and Evan’s eyes pop farther out of his head. 

“Earlier tonight,” Mr. Business Cop continues, “Mr. Crouch reported this luxury car stolen.”

Barty tries for a laugh. “Maybe Pops just forgot he gave me the keys for the night.”

“May I see the car keys then?”

Shit. Barty wasn’t thinking that far ahead. Of course he doesn’t have the car keys. He shrugs. And then he sees Officer Meadowes stalking over, and knows the jig is up.

“Barty,” Dorcas’ father sighs, “we know you took the car without asking. We’re just glad we found you with it, and you’re lucky your dad had his suspicions before reporting it further.”

“Barty,” Evan hisses, “What the actual fuck were you thinking - ?!”

“Apologies, Officer.” He sounds contrite because he is a little contrite…about being caught. Then: “I just had a really cool date I wanted to impress.”

Evan blanches even further, and Officer Meadowes pinches his nose. Maybe he has a headache coming on. He should probably get more sleep, and drink less coffee.

“He didn’t know about the car,” Barty continues, pointing at Evan with his thumb. “Is he free to go?”

Officer Meadowes sighs again. Barty watches Evan try and school his face from one of panic and shock into one of panic and shock and innocence.

“Yeah, alright,” Officer Meadowes grumbles. To Evan, he says, “Yeah, son, Officer Fenwick over there will take you home. We’ll explain to your parents there was no trouble with YOU.”

Evan mumbles something that sounds like, “Good luck with that,” as he follows Officer Fenwick to another cop car.

“I will always love you, Rosier!” Barty can’t help but call out after him. Evan has the audacity to flip him the bird without looking back, and still look so beautiful while doing it that Barty swears his heart follows after him all on its own. Barty grins at Officer Meadowes. “Oh yeah,” he says. “He wants me.”

“Get in the car, Barty.”

For the record, Evan is aware that this is dumb. Colossally aware. And colossally dumb. But he feels awful that he got off (relatively) scot-free and that Barty is cooped up inside his miserable father’s house. He hasn’t heard from the other boy in weeks, and, as embarrassing as it is, he misses him. Evan feels like they were at the start of something good.

“If you feel that way,” Pandora had said, when Evan went whining to her about it, “go do something about it. I mean, he stole his father’s car for you, Evan. Is there more that you could want from a guy?”

Some sensible thinking , Evan had thought in the moment. But look at him now.

He’s standing in the Crouch backyard, after having scaled the fence, and examining the windows. He knows, because he asked Dorcas and Regulus (yeah, that’s right, he reached out to the scary emo kids at school, he’s that desperate and stupid), that the second window from the right is Barty’s. At least, he really hopes it is. 

Evan’s only spent a few hours with Barty in total, but he’s heard enough from the other boy and the kids at school to know just what kind of tough, evil bastard his dad is. Evan does not want to get caught throwing rocks at Mr. Crouch (Sr.)’s windows. He would rather take his chances with the cops. Again.

But he does want to see Barty. He wants to make it up to him. He wants to maybe get that first kiss it seemed like they were on track to get. So he throws the first stone, and then another. They both bounce with quiet pings.

Really , Evan muses, Barty technically threw the first FEW stones by stealing his dad’s luxury ride just to take me on a date, and then told the cops that was why . He shouldn’t feel warm and fuzzy over that, but he does. Fucking mental.

Just as he’s thinking he’s going to have to throw another stone, a soft light turns on and the window opens. Barty sticks his head out, hair going every which way. Evan stifles a laugh and waves both hands in the air to get his attention. Barty is so startled to see him, he hits his head on the window he’s just opened. Evan winces, and quietly chuckles, and watches as Barty climbs down the nearby trellis. He told Evan that was his favourite way to sneak out, on their…date.

“What,” Barty whispers, after he’s run across the manicured lawn to Evan, “just what, pray tell, are you doing here, Rosier?” Evan can hear the smug grin in his voice.

“I had something pretty big to make up for. It’s not everyday someone steals a car to impress me.”

It’s pretty dark, but Evan can still see Barty’s eyes sparkle with delight. He leans in even closer. Either he doesn’t care about his bedhead, or he’s forgotten. Evan thinks it’s charming, and then thinks that he’s lost it, falling head-over-heels for the town psycho after one date interrupted by the cops.

“Make up for it, then,” Barty whispers.

And well. Evan doesn’t need to be told twice.

Stealing his dad’s car does get Barty his first kiss, after all.

Chapter Text

So I showed up at your party/will you have me?/will you love me?/will you kiss me on the porch in front of all your stupid friends…

The dining hall doors open with a bang, and I’m immediately on my feet when I see who has opened them. Baz. Baz, Baz, Baz, Baz. My Baz.

It’s been the worst, with him gone, not knowing where he was, not knowing anything. I didn’t think anything could be worse than the months spent in care homes and not at Watford, but being at Watford without Baz was worse. It was the worst thing ever. It was like whatever hunger for magic and people and scones is always pulling at my skin from the outside was pulling at my skin from the inside , tugging me deeper and deeper into a hole.

As if Baz was lost to me forever. With him gone, I had to face the fact that I did not want him to be. Watford didn’t feel like Watford without Baz’s signature sneer. I thought I would finally enjoy being alone in my room, but my skin just itched worse without his gloomy presence. I kept thinking I would see someone with his widows’ peak around corners, but who am I kidding, no one has hair that glorious (except Agatha, and her hair is blonde. Opposite of Baz’s, really. Bouncy and curly while his is slick and just as deadly as the rest of him).

Penny kept saying I’d gone mental, and I told her I hadn’t, but I knew that was a lie. I also knew the only way I had a chance of regaining my fucking limited sanity was to find Baz. So I searched. And searched. Fucking hell, I withstood a visiting FOR Baz, in the hopes that maybe the ghost would know where he was. She didn’t. We’d both been heartbroken that night.

And now, he’s here. Silhouetted by the sunlight behind him. He looks a little worse for wear - eyes dropping more than usual, skin more ashen, darker eye bags - but still so bloody fit. The sight of him burns down to my throat, and to…other places. The hunger and the itching in my skin aren’t gone, with the sight of one of my (lesser) sworn enemies, but they do…change. Maybe someone has cast Let there be light! because, all of a sudden, I feel like I’m seeing clearly for the first time, maybe ever in my life. I’m seeing Baz clearly, and it hurts, but it also heals. It feels like what I thought being with Agatha was supposed to feel like. I think I know what that means. As much as I know anything, I mean.

Baz casts his gaze around the room, and lands on me. We stare at each other, and the rest of the dining hall seems to vanish. All I can see are the swirls of grey I thought I’d never see again. He pulls me in, as always.

I’m moving before Baz gets the chance to. I stumble a little, because I basically go from standing still to a quick jog. I’m glad I keep my footing - doing the Mage’s bidding must be good for something beyond the good of the World of Mages. Anything to get to Baz all the faster.

I watch as his eyes widen at my approach, and even that is cause for joy now that I think I understand (I can’t believe I understood before Penny did, but I am living in my body and she is not. Oi, can you imagine how odd that would be, if she were in Simon Snow’s body?)

“Snow,” Baz cries, as I get closer with no signs of slowing down, “what do you think you’re - ”

I crash into him, and then I have Baz (a frightfully thin Baz) in my arms, and I don’t let another second go by before I’m smiling at him and kissing him. 

The operative point here is that I never think about or know what I’m doing. So far, it seems to have worked out in my favour. I dare to hope it’s even working now.

Baz freezes, probably from the shock of it all. He is a great line of tension in my arms, even as I discover the joy of kissing him. It occurs to me to be self-conscious about Baz’s lack of response, but then my right hand, with a mind of its own, much smarter than my actual mind, reaches behind Baz to hold the back of his neck and tilt his mouth for a better angle. I can feel his hair and any and all other thoughts simply dissolve. 

At my touch, it’s like someone has flicked a switch, because Baz goes from rigid to pliant in a heartbeat. He groans, low and into my mouth, and his lips start responding in kind. I can sort of tell I’ve done this more than him, because he is slow, as if uncertain. I feel a wild thrill. Have I finally found the thing I’m better at than Baz? 

All of a sudden, I feel his tongue whispering at the seam of my lips, and I lose all other sense of control I might have had. I tangle my hand further into Baz’s hair to drag him and his tempting tongue closer to me. His hands begin to grip at my hips, and he groans again. The sound burns right through me. 

I kiss Baz, and everything is finally beginning to make sense.

Baz kisses me back, tugging at my hips to keep me close, and I think this is what magic ought to feel like when I’m casting.

I swipe at Baz with my tongue, and he whimpers, and I could take on the Humdrum. I could take on a million Humdrums, and the Old Families. I could - 

As suddenly as we started, Baz pulls back. His eyes are wide, his pupils as blown as I have ever seen them.

“Snow,” he breathes. “What the fuck was that?”

I shrug, trying not to wilt because he used my last name with the tongue that’s just been down my throat. “I missed you. I wanted to kiss you.”

Baz’s breathing is ragged. “Why?” he begs.

I don’t dare to look away from his sparkling eyes, and the barest hint of a flush that I must have put in his cheeks because they never flush normally. It feels like it’s just the two of us in the entire World of Mages, though every single person in the dining hall has undoubtedly seen us making out.

“Would you like to go up to our room and we can talk about it?” I say. “Let’s just say, I came to some realizations while you were…absent.”

“Well, I’d fucking reckon. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” I chuckle. “Would you like to, Baz?”

Slowly, very slowly, like he’s scared that if he moves too fast, this will all vanish, Baz nods.

“I would like that.” He swallows, and my eyes track the movement. Is it gay to want to bite your roommate’s/enemy’s Adam’s Apple? Probably. 

“I would like that,” Baz repeats, “Simon.”

I can’t help the smile that beams at him from my face. “Right. Let’s do it then.”

I have to step out of the circle of his arms, which is shite, but when I reach out with my hand he takes it with his own, so all’s well that ends well. We begin the walk out of the dinning hall to Mummers. Everything is deathly quiet behind us. I don’t dare look back. I don’t want to see what Agatha and Penny’s faces are doing. It can be a fun guessing game I can play later, when I don’t have this sorting out to do with Baz.

I can’t help but look over at him as we walk down empty corridors, still holding hands. It feels like a rare miracle that he is even here with me right now, let alone that he kissed me back in front of the entire school. I wonder how long he’s wanted to do that. I wonder how long I have. He’s beautiful, and terrifying, and my world was ending when I found out he wasn’t back yet; it just kept on ending when term started and he didn’t return.

“What?” Baz asks, abruptly.

“What what ?”

He rolls his eyes, like he always does, like I’m an imbecile, but there is a light smile on his lips too. “You’re staring at me.”

“That’s not new, I always stare at you.”

His lips twitch (I know what they feel like against mine. I will never not know. Why are we talking when we could be kissing again? Right. Sorting things out). “Do you always stare at me like a lovesick fool?” His voice shakes a little on the last words, like maybe they’re brushing a little too close to… something . I decide to be kind and ignore it.

I shrug. “Dunno.” And then, softer: “Baz. I missed you.”

“So you said.”

“It’s the truth.”

We’ve finally made it to our own door in Mummers. Baz opens it carefully, holding the door open and beckoning me to walk through it.

“In that case,” he murmurs, “I missed you too, Simon.”

I walk through the door I’ve walked through a million times already this term, but with Baz striding in behind me now, it finally feels like home again.

I have a good feeling about how this sorting out is going to go already.

Chapter Text

Back when I was living for the hope of it all…

This is going to sound…ungrateful at best, and worrisome at worst, but sometimes, Joly misses before he, Bossuet, and Musichetta were dating. 

Not in any way that means he wants to not be dating them now! Don't freak out! It's simply that…

It's just that…

You see, sometimes Joly looks back at the scrawny, chronically anxious kid he was, and wishes he could tell that kid all that has unfolded since. That kid thought he was going to be forever alone, because he was in love with his best friend and thought he would never have him. And now, not only does he have Bossuet, he has…

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Joly looks up as ‘Chetta joins him on their couch. That the three of them (mostly Joly and Musichetta, Bossuet got bored) picked out together. Because they live together. It boggles Joly’s mind - a mind which is already in a pretty constant state of boggle.

“Does anyone even have pennies on them anymore?” he asks.

‘Chetta shrugs. Joly feels her shoulder brush his as it moves up and down.

“And why would I even want a penny? Do you know how filthy those things can get?”

She rolls her eyes back at him (it’s her fond eye roll, don’t worry). “Believe it or not, I do. We have the same conversation every time I use that expression.”

“Well. It bears repeating.”

“Mmm hmmmm.” Her gaze flicks over his face in that discerning, penetrating way ‘Chetta has. Her eyes are the most beautiful shade of amber. Joly gets lost in them every time.

He once had to listen to a poem Bossuet wrote (tried to write. With Jehan’s help!) about Musichetta’s eyes, back when she was the new bartender at the Musain and they were just two hapless university students on their first degrees (Joly), who conversely thought they were gay (still Joly. That whole ‘in love with his best friend’ thing) or straight (Bossuet. Unaware that not everyone wanted to snog their bff’s face off). The truth was so much more complicated and so much better. So why does Joly yearn for those times then, at moments? They certainly weren’t simpler or quieter.

Musichetta gently brushes Joly’s bangs back from his forehead, and the contact brings him back into his body violently. He shivers.

“Seriously, Jollllllly,” she says, rolling the seven l’s like r’s. “You had your think face on. Where’d you go, baby?”

“Do you ever think about when we were younger?” he asks.

She nods. “Yeah. ‘Course. Who doesn’t?”

“True, sure, but do you ever feel…” Joly trails off. “...Do you ever feel like you were more hopeful when you were younger because you were craving so many things that you never thought you would get?”

‘Chetta tilts her head thoughtfully (Joly privately thinks she looks like a cocker spaniel when she does this, but wisely never says so). “Is this about pining for Bossuet again?”

“Yes. And no. I - I don’t want you or Bossuet to think I’m ungrateful, I’m not, by any meaning of the word, but I - sometimes I worry that I stagnated because I got so many wonderful, THE TWO most wonderful things, pretty early on in my life. What if I never reach for anything again, because I don’t need to hope, I have what I wanted.”

“Well. This is a typical Joly pickle, that’s for sure. Too bad Combeferre isn’t here.”

Joly and Combeferre have a standing agreement, that if one of them sinks into a thought spiral or thought experiment, about anything, and are in the vicinity of the other person, they are allowed carte blanche to grab the other person to confer with. It fills Joly with immense satisfaction and joy, every time.

“I don’t want to tell Combeferre about this,” Joly says. “I’m telling you, because you’re one of the smartest people I know, and you’re also my gorgeous girlfriend and I love you.” He slumps back against the couch and Musichetta puts her arm around him, using it to bring his head to rest against her shoulder. “It’s such an illogical feeling to have!” he whines.

“I don’t necessarily think so,” Musichetta argues gently. “You were running on so many different gears back then, remember? It wasn’t sustainable.”

Joly reluctantly nods. He doesn’t like to think about how little he took care of himself back then, too busy with so many feelings. With failing to manage so many feelings.

“It makes sense, to me, at least,” ‘Chetta muses, “that it would feel like you had more momentum and more, how did you put it, hope?” he nods again, “back then. You had to have more momentum to keep going and avoid all those feelings. And when you couldn’t any longer…that’s when things came to a head.”

Oh yes. Joly remembers. He remembers Bossuet announcing that he was going to ask Musichetta on a date, not long after she’d started regularly coming to Amis meetings, at the tail-end of one such meeting, and Joly had literally just collapsed on him. Combeferre had said if Joly didn’t go home and get some rest that evening, he would make him go to the hospital. In his weakened state, it was impossible for Joly to argue with both Combeferre and Bossuet. He still tried.

Bossuet had taken him home. Joly, somehow (this part he remembers less clearly) had managed to deliriously confess not only his feelings for Bossuet, but his confusing feelings for Musichetta. And, surprise surprise, things had vastly improved from there. Thank god for running yourself into the ground so your emotions rise to the surface? I guess?

Anyway, when they finally did approach Musichetta to ask her on a date, Bossuet and Joly did so as a packaged deal. And now here they are.

They both turn towards the tell-tale sign of Bossuet’s key in the door with wide smiles on their faces. Their boyfriend stumbles into the flat, and almost manages to drop all the delicious Thai takeout he is holding, but he doesn’t. 

“Hello, my lovelies,” Bossuet gasps, as he goes about setting the food down and setting the table, “ready for some dinner? I’ve been slaving over a hot stove all day!”

Musichetta plants a sweet kiss to the top of Joly’s head. “Maybe think of it that way, my love,” she says, and rises to greet Bossuet. 

Joly reclines for an extra moment more, because there are few things he loves more than seeing Bossuet and Musichetta together, then finally stands.

She probably has a point , he thinks, and helps himself to the steaming food. Bossuet tells a truly terrible dad joke, and ‘Chetta laughs so hard she almost spills water out her nose. I will try to think of it that way .

And besides, what kind of wild twenty-year-old hopes could compare with this, the real thing?

Chapter Text

If you kiss me/will it/be just/like I dreamed it…

Marlene likes to think she has good gaydar. And she does. An average success rate of 9/10. Often picking up on the fruit vibes before people do within themselves (James, mostly).

But.

All that vibage goes right out the window the moment Marlene like likes someone. Which, when you think about it, is pretty homophobic. What good is an almost fool-proof gaydar if it can’t help Marlene shoot her shot? Helping her friends through gay crisis is all well and good, but what about Marlene’s personal gay crisis????

Like when Pandora introduced Dorcas Meadowes to the friend group, saying, “This is Dorcas, she’s the coolest person you’ll ever meet, don’t make me regret telling her she’ll like you folks!”

Like when Dorcas Meadowes smiles.

Like when Dorcas Meadowes sat beside Marlene when Lily and Pandora were hosting brunch, and Marlene couldn’t hear a thing anyone said over the ringing in her ears.

Like right now, when Dorcas Meadowes is walking into the bookstore/cafe Marlene has been using as a haunt while she works on her latest project. With a very, very dignified squeak (ask anybody), Marlene ducks between the rows of shelves near the very back of the store, praying to the heavens that Dorcas did not see her. Marlene needs to strategize a plan.

Dorcas is a drummer in a band that tours, and she also owns her own music studio. She regularly shows up to friend-group outings in nine-inch platforms, of which she has a pair in almost every shade you can think of, she told Lily once. When she can’t show up to friend-group outings, she Facetimes in from exotic locals across the world. She speaks French (she and the Blacks can get going and then no one can follow). She has a Latin minor from university - never did Marlene think a female drummer could get more sexy, and then she shocks Marlene by teaching her some Latin. The only thing sexier than a rock star is a rock star with a secret nerdy side. Not that anything about Dorcas is a secret. She is honest, and clever, and will tell you you need a new haircut that better frames your face in the nicest way possible. She is sarcastic as a rule, and sweet when someone is in pain (everyone was frozen that time Barty got a voicemail from his dad for the first time in six years, saying his mom had passed away. No one knew what to say, except Dorcas. She’d held a catatonic Barty, and told him that his mom probably was only able to go peacefully because she’d forgiven Barty for not being able to make it work with his dad). Who does all that?

Who is able to join a friend group cemented through the horrors of high school, years after the fact, and fit like a glove? The most miraculous woman in the world, that’s who!

But, despite all her honesty and her wonderful conversation starters and her nose piercing, Marlene still has no clue if Dorcas is gay. It’s embarrassing! She has a reputation as the gaydar expert!

It’s embarrassing how much Marlene wants Dorcas to be gay. As if that’s the only barrier to Dorcas being attracted to Marlene. 

“Marlene?” a silky voice asks, and Marlene’s pulse jumps. She’s been found out! And she’s still strategy-less!

She rises from her frightened crouch to see Dorcas coming around the far end of the aisle.

“Ah,” the other woman says, with a bright smile, “I thought I saw you come back here! How are you?”

“Hi, uh, Dorcas.” Marlene gulps for air. “I’m…ok. How - h - how are you?”

Christ. Marlene once went home from her favourite lesbian bar with three different women at different times in the same night, but one unexpected run-in with her friend/crush turns her to mush.

“Better now!” Dorcas chirps. Her dark eyes positively sparkle. “Do you wanna grab some coffee? I realized it’s hours past noon and I never had lunch, and I’m starving.”

Lunch? Are you insane? You are not prepared for this, Marlene! You’re wearing your ugly sweats!

“Yeah,” Marlene rasps, “I would love lunch. Lunch is…good.”

Christ almighty.

“So,” Dorcas asks, once they’re in front of the chalkboard menu on the cafe side of the shop, “what’s good here?’

Marlene looks at her, surprised. Dorcas bites her lip, and it’s a struggle for Marlene’s eyes not to snag on the motion.

“You told me this is your current haunt while you work on the gallery exhibition, so I thought…you’d know, ‘cause you come here a lot.”

“Oh. I’m surprised you remembered that!” Marlene tries to laugh off some of the awkwardness. After a beat, Dorcas joins in.

Focus, McKinnon, focus!

“I love the watercress and egg salad sandwich?” she offers, but Dorcas makes a face. “Okayyyyyyy, other options…um, the soup is pretty good, but the best soup is the squash, and that’s not what they have today. Oh! The yoghurt bowl is pretty good. And not too pricey, considering.”

“Sounds tasty,” Dorcas muses.

You sure sound tasty…AGH! Brain, why are you like this?!?

“I usually get the focaccia, they put all sorts of fun stuff in and on it.”

Dorcas purses her lips.

Eyes up, McKinnon!

“Then I’ll get that too!” she declares. “What is good enough for Marlene McKinnon is good enough for me!”

Well. That goes straight to Marlene’s head. If only it didn’t go to her heart as well…

They sit, and chat, and eat as well, when they remember between all the chatting. Once Marlene gets over her earlier awkwardness (and the fact that she tripped and almost lost her focaccia when Dorcas locked their elbows together to walk over to their cutesy table), she’s able to be her infectious self. Even the thought that this is the first time she and Dorcas have hung out one-on-one doesn’t break her stride now. It’s not about seduction, like chatting up the girls she does in bars. It’s just about being as Marlene as possible. Dorcas seems to like it, Marlene being all…Marlene. She laughs that throaty laugh. A lot. That lights Marlene up from the inside more than any alcohol or club. 

(Once, Marlene makes Dorcas laugh so hard, her sweet tea shoots out through her nose. Some of it lands on Marlene’s yellow sweater, but they’re both laughing too hard to care).

“You did not!” Dorcas gasps, pretending to be scandalized.

“Oh, but I did. I did totally hit on James’ mom the first time I met her…and the second, and the third, and the - ”

“Excuse me,” a tired voice says from behind Marlene, “I’m really sorry to interrupt, but we’re going to be closing soon, and I need to do your dishes and wipe down the table.”

Instantly, Marlene and Dorcas are on their feet at once. Nothing worse than inconveniencing retail/restaurant staff by daring to use their establishments for too long.

“Thanks for letting us know,” Dorcas says, while Marlene just yelps, “Yep, thanks!” because she was in the middle of talking about hitting on an older woman. An older married woman. But, god , if you met Euphemia Potter, you would understand.

Oh well. At least Dorcas for sure knows Marlene is gay (if the multi-coloured mullet didn’t give up the ghost ;) ). 

“I can’t believe it got that late,” she says to Dorcas. They make their way to the exit as quickly as possible. “They close at six.”

“Oh my God, it can’t be six already!” Dorcas checks her watch (she always wears a watch, and she changes the chain every day to match her outfit. Marlene can’t think of anything she’s ever been that devoted to. But she could be devoted to Dorcas, if Dorcas would let her…) “Oh my God, it is!”

“Time flies when you’re having fries,” Marlene chuckles weakly. She is sorry their impromptu lunch is coming to an end.

Dorcas fixes her with a suddenly intense stare. It’s as if someone has turned the temperature up two degrees. “I thought the saying was: time flies when you’re having fun.”

Marlene swallows.

“Because I had fun . After you.” Dorcas holds the door open for Marlene to step outside, and Marlene gets to watch her arm muscles (hello drummer) shift under the sheer sleeves of her shirt. God have mercy.

She’s racking her scrambled brain for something to say. Dorcas beats her to it:

“Why did you run away when you first saw me?”

Any success Marlene has had in formulating a response is rendered useless. What the fuck is happening? Why did Marlene DO that, why???????? She’s so hot! Her brain wails. She’s so put-together and kind and charming! I can’t handle that. Especially when I am the complete opposite.

The first thing Marlene did this morning was smoke a joint, and then she rolled out of bed to respond to emails from Mary about the new gallery exhibition on her couch. Dorcas doesn’t look like she’s rolled anywhere, ever, in her life.

“Um. I - ” Marlene tries again, “Well, you see - ”

Dorcas sighs. “Please don’t try to lie, I saw you at your table and then you saw me walk through the shop door and ran away.” She sounds so despondent. Marlene immediately wants to punch her past self for making Dorcas feel that way. “If you didn’t want to see me, I get it, but I would rather you just be honest,” Dorcas continues. “There’s nothing I hate more than when people don’t tell me they have a problem with me.”

“I don’t have a problem with you!” Marlene blurts.

“You don’t?”

“The opposite.”

“The opposite…so…you like me? Is that it?” Dorcas frowns. “People don’t tend to run away from people they like.”

Marlene’s heart is about to fly out of her chest, it’s beating so hard. She would like to smooth out Dorcas’ frown with her hands, but she’s going to settle for trying with her words.

“I definitely like you, Dorcas. Too much.”

I have dreams every night about kissing you (too much?)

“Too much?” Dorcas muses. “What…” And then her face clears, frown and all, and Marlene’s running heart drops into her stomach. Dorcas understands. What now?

Dorcas smirks. “I knew where you ran off to hide from me right away, because Mary told me you’re researching Pict myths for the gallery marketing, and the myth section is at the back of the store.”

Marlene gapes at her. “I mean, yeah, that’s true, but how - ”

“I remembered this because I keep a little notebook of fun facts about you and what you like so I can always have something fun and interesting to start up a conversation with you.” Dorcas says this all matter-of-factly, like it’s simple and not going to KILL Marlene. Dorcas keeps shifting her weight in her platforms, though, and the simple fidgeting gives her away.

“I do this, Marlene, because I like you too much too.”

“Have I died and gone to Heaven?” Marlene blushes when she realizes her mouth has moved on its own accord, but Dorcas laughs that laugh that makes butterflies ignite in Marlene’s stomach.

She gathers all her courage, while Dorcas is still laughing, and reaches out to take her hand. Her hands are calloused from her drumsticks. She stops laughing, and smiles at Marlene, sure and sweet, with a hint of suggestion. Marlene’s already red face is set on fire.

“You know, Dorcas,” she says, “our surprise lunch date took the whole afternoon, and now it’s dinner time.”

“Mmm,” Dorcas hums, eyes glinting, “would you look at that?”

“So, perhaps…you would like to go to dinner with me?” The words come out in a jumbled rush. “It could be our first, proper, planned date, if you would like.”

Dorcas raises the hand not holding Marlene’s to her face, and Marlene DIES to feel those calluses on her sensitive skin. Dorcas raises an eyebrow. It turns Marlene’s knees to jelly. And then, Dorcas’ gaze drops to Marlene’s lips, and the rest of Marlene is jellified as well.

“Can I?” Dorcas breathes.

Instead of answering, Marlene crashes their lips together. 

The world around them freezes, and then bursts back into technicolour. Marlene is falling, or maybe flying. Dorcas’ lips and her spicy perfume have Marlene losing all sense of anything. That’s probably why she cups Dorcas’ face with her hands and starts using teeth. Dorcas doesn’t seem to mind, if the wobbly sigh she lets out is any indication. 

It takes them a while to remember oxygen is a thing. When they finally do part, Marlene only moves away the barest inch; she can’t bear being any further than that.

“Does that mean you would like to go to dinner with me?” she whispers.

Dorcas laughs, nods, and kisses her again, just for good measure.

Chapter Text

Will it patch your broken wings?

Simon gets it into his head one morning to make scones for Penny because she has come down with a frightful case of the flu. Dr. Welbelove swears it’s just a Normal sickness, and that rest and some cough medicine is all that’s required. That doesn’t stop Simon from fretting, and Baz was fed up with him stalking around the apartment, so now Simon is over at Penny’s playing nursemaid. He thinks Penny will be very impressed and grateful if he manages to make the scones he wants.

He’s rooting around the back of one of the far kitchen drawers for a spatula when Simon’s fingers brush over a folded piece of paper. That probably shouldn’t be in there , he thinks, and pulls it out. Simon thinks nothing of unfolding the paper, and doesn’t think anything more when he makes out Penny’s spiky, impatient handwriting. But then he gets to reading what it says:

Things to do to help Simon:

1. Hugs (because he liked clinging to Baz after the Humdrum) Note: always make sure to ask. Try to do this more, even though you don’t like hugs.

2. Get a recipe for scones. Only make an allotted amount each time, otherwise Simon will get scurvy from just eating scones.

3. Stock that instant ramen he likes, even though you don’t like the smell. 

4. Always be sure to ask if he wants his wings spelled or adjusted in any way. Make clear that it is always his choice. Note: research dragon wing-care and flying capabilities.

4.5 ADDENDUM (post America trip): Simon can fly! Make sure he finds spaces he can fly without being seen. Spells? Magical areas?

5. Keep in touch with Dad about dead spots and their healing. Report to Simon only if he says he wants to know (consult with Baz when this may be).

6. Be aware of how much magic you’re using around him, but don’t let on you’re being aware, because he’s smart and he will pick up on you being weird. This may be something that could be increased and changed with time.

The list goes on and on and on. It’s on lined paper. Both sides used. Simon sees things like check on Niamh and Agatha , remember the anniversary of Ebb’s death is coming up and Si may want to commemorate , remind Simon to get more wing-flap shirts made , and maybe take some of the fancy sweaters Baz buys him to get fitted too, for a present .

He doesn’t read it all. He can’t - not quite halfway through, Simon realizes his eyes are blurry with tears. He swipes at them, trying to keep them from dotting the page, but it’s hard to tell how successful he is ‘cause he can’t really fucking see and his fingers are wet. What he does see is that the very last item on the list, number 35, is starred multiple times in red ink. All it says is:

35. Tell Simon I love him frequently, so he knows (you can’t assume he knows all the time). 

Simon does eventually finish his scones, after he finishes crying like a girl, and when he brings a steaming plate into Penny’s room, she lights up, as he expected she would.

He sets the plate down on her bedside table, and bends to gently kiss her forehead. Penny makes a disgusted face, as he also expected she would.

“Back, Simon, back. Back! I’m sick, you don’t want to catch what I’ve got.”

“Yes, because everyone knows the common flu can be contracted through forehead skin.”

Even with a kleenex up her nose, Penny’s eye-rolls are impressive.

“Thank you,” Simon whispers, and she looks back at him.

“What for?”

Simon shrugs. “Just. Thank you. And I love you, too.”

Penny squints at him. “You look like you’ve been crying. Have you been crying?”

Simon shrugs again. He’ll tell her when she’s feeling better. Maybe.

“You don’t think I’m dying, do you? Because I’m not, that would be ridiculous.”

Simon laughs. “I don’t, Pen. Just wanted to be sure you know I appreciate you. I know…” he clears his throat around some of the remaining emotion, “I know things were rough there, for a while.”

Penny’s face softens. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Simon turns to leave her to her rest. “Eat your scones,” he says as he leaves.

“I will, thanks, Si. Oh, and don’t forget to take your cashmere sweater with the wing flaps to the dry cleaners!” she calls after him.

“I won’t!” he calls back, and grins.

Chapter Text

Standing in your/cardigan/kissing in my car again/stopped at a streetlight…

There was a boy waiting for Cath outside her dad’s car.

She and Levi had argued about how she was getting back to campus for her second year, because Levi wanted to drive in to pick her up, but Cath kept saying her dad wanted to drive her out - mostly, she wanted to make the use of their last time together to make sure her dad was feeling good before she and Wren left again. But, eventually she had caved, because she missed Levi, even if that was hard to admit to other people.

They compromised; Levi was meeting them at one of the bus depots on the edge of Omaha and they would head out to campus from there.

“Well, well, well,” Levi drawled, as Cath hoisted herself out of the car, “if it isn’t my favourite sweater fan.” He held out his arms in invitation, and Cath jogged over to give him a big, glorious hug. It was like sinking into a hot bath Wren had poured for her, full of love and warmth (sometimes she disgusted herself with this sappiness, but most of the time it was nicer to give over to being in love. Very Carry On Baz of her).

“Someone really handsome gave me this cardigan,” Cath teased. “Too bad he isn’t present and accounted for."

Levi just smiled, and chucked her softly on the chin with his fist. “Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi, yourself,” she whispered back.

“Hey, Art!” Levi called, over the top of Cath’s head, “You need a hand with anything?”

“Should be good, thanks!”

Cath only felt slightly bad that her dad was hauling her bags and her lamp into the bed of Levi’s truck, because she was busy charging up on Levi-ness. She felt starved of him, and it brought her back to those first few months of school and all the granola bars she was trying to convince herself were keeping her nourished. Summer in Omaha with less Levi had been as dry as an oat bar. 

But now, here they were. The minute Cath’s dad was in the rearview mirror, she was going to make sure Levi knew just how very much she had missed him. Yes, her stomach was twisting itself into knots at the thought, but they were at least familiar knots, and they continued to get less complicated the more Cath focused on what was really important (eg. what she wanted to do to Levi).

It didn’t take her dad very long to load the truck, Levi did end up breaking away to cave and help her dad, which was both a blessing and a curse. Cath was excited. Cath was nervous. She couldn’t wait to get started. She wanted to save every nice moment to hold on to later, when the anxiety got too much (because it would, at least for a moment. It always did).

“Now, I know I don’t need to tell you to stay out of trouble,” her dad said, wrapping Cath in one of his bear hugs.

“No.” She was muffled by her face in his shoulder.

“In fact, you could stand to have a little more trouble, Cath. Remember 90210! It’s chock full of life lessons, that one.”

“Mmmm hmmm. Bye, Dad.”

Art smiled. “Bye, Cath. Love you. Have a good semester.”

Cath swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. It was just catching up with her that her dad wasn’t walking her into her dorm this year and helping her set up. He didn’t need to, she and Reagan were pretty set from last year, but still. But still.

“Love you too!”

Levi came over from where he was standing a respectful distance to drape his arm over her shoulders. They watched her dad drive away.

“He winked at me when he was talking about you getting into more trouble,” he said.

“Sounds like my dad.”

“I wish it sounded like mine.” 

They laughed and got into Levi's truck, which already felt so much like coming home that it quieted the remaining knots in Cath's stomach. Her heart was very full. So full, it was almost easy to slide over the seats, before Levi buckled his seatbelt, and straddle him.

“Well, hello , Omaha!” Levi grinned, wide, and Cath felt it down in her stomach with all the knots. “Didn't know I was getting this kind of reunion.”

Cath kissed him. It was better than any homecoming, except maybe reuniting with Wren. 

“Not with my dad outside,” she said breathlessly, “but now that it's just us? Hell yeah.”

“Hell yeah,” Levi mimicked, and laughed, and kissed her some more.

It took them a while to get on the road. And it took them even longer to get out of Omaha because Cath made Levi pause at just about every stop sign to get a kiss.

Chapter Text

You know I miss you…

Jesper has grown to appreciate the qualities of a quieter house - the Slat was very rarely quiet, and if it was, something had likely gone terribly wrong. He’d never had much of a track record for staying around in quiet places (his university dorm, his father’s farm), so coming to like the peace that the current owner of the Van Eck mansion brings to the place (and to Jesper) is impressive growth. He’s not shy about telling people so.

But just because Jesper has grown to like and respect the quiet ambience of a healing house, that doesn’t mean he wants it all the time.

“We’re hosting a dinner party!” he calls in delight, and bursts into the music room. Wylan is lying on his back on the large rug in the middle, tapping out a rhythm on his vest buttons.

“Oh,” he says, sitting up with a bemused smile. “That’s…nice. Did you want to run it by me first?”

Jesper puts on his most dashing grin, which he knows from experience works very well on Wylan. “Can we please host a dinner party, treasure of my heart?”

Wylan blushes, but holds Jesper’s gaze in challenge. “And who are we inviting to our dinner party?”

“Oh, only our nearest and dearest. How about: the King and Queen of Fjerda, the city’s most profitable Barrel boss, a slave hunter, your mom, and my dad?”

“No Queen of Ravka and her consort?”

“Eh,” Jesper flutters his hands around his face, then graduates to fluttering them around Wylan’s when that’s not enough for his excitement. Wylan sputters, but lets him get his jitters out. Ghezen, Jesper is a lucky man. He may just have to make sure Wylan knows that Jes knows how lucky he is tonight…Alright, sure, but focus, Jesper!

“She probably wouldn’t say yes.”

“Probably not, no.”

“Let’s host a dinner party,” Jesper whispers in Wylan’s ear. “Let’s host a dinner party and get our chaotic group of friends together and celebrate.”

“Yes, yes, I know it’s a good idea. Let’s plan it tomorrow, though.”

Wylan stands, so Jesper stands so he can be beside him and take his boyfriend’s hand, just because.

“Why tomorrow?” he asks.

Wylan starts leading him to the door of the music room. “I think you’re going to be busy doing other things tonight.”

Never let it be said that Jesper doesn’t catch on quickly. Nor that he doesn’t have a brilliant boyfriend. 

“Sir yes sir !”

The dinner party, as it were, is pretty quiet, all things considered. Kas is still picking at his food while Inej sits and murmurs quietly by his side. It’s amazing to Jesper to see how relaxed his old friend is with Inej there, and in a mercher’s house of all places (never mind that the mercher is Wylan). If you squinted at Kaz out the side of your eyes, he might look more like a boy spending time with his friends than a terrifying Barrel boss. Inej is also the most content Jesper has ever seen her, with the sparkling spirit  of purpose in her gaze, though she wobbles a little when she walks because she is more used to sea than land at this point. Kaz always watches her with something soft in his black eyes (you have to look for it very carefully, but Jesper is an expert in looking). He wonders if he would be jealous of Inej, in another life, but he also thinks he wouldn’t want to give this one up to try and find out. He likes this one where his friends are learning to be soft and his boyfriend doesn’t have to learn to be as hard as the rest of them once were.

Nina and Hanne, though neither of them look like who they’re supposed to, are chatting with Wylan’s mother. Nina seems to be overjoyed to be back around people she can be herself with, but it’s weird to see her and not see the Nina Jesper knows and loves. It’s a phantom reminder of having two Kuweis around. He shudders. Jesper doesn’t know what Hanne looked like before adopting the form of the Fjerdan crown prince. Nina  watches her move about the room with a painfully careful zeal that reminds Jesper not everyone Nina loves can be here. They all observed a moment of silence at dinner for Matthias, but everyone is still acutely aware that someone is missing, even Jesper’s dad.

Wish you were here, buddy , Jesper thinks. May Djel keep you .

Speaking of Colm, Jesper turns and finds his dad holding out a drink to him. Wylan is now guiding everyone back to the table for dessert, and Inej and Nina immediately start poking fun at Kaz for not finishing his main course before the last one is served.

“It’s nice to be back in the city,” Colm says to his son. “Never thought I could say something like that, especially since last time…”

“...last time you were part of an international plot where people got arrested and killed and kidnapped?”

Because of my foolishness , Jesper thinks, but doesn't say. It would make his dad sad, for one, and for two, Wylan has forbidden Jesper to blame himself unduly in the house (his boyfriend can be quite bossy, when he wants to be! Not that Jes is complaining…)

His dad shocks Jesper’s socks clean off by laughing in his face. “Well. Yes, and no. Some of that was the fun part of last time. Except for…” they both pause and smile at each other sadly, thinking of Matthias. “What I actually meant about last time,” Colm continues, “was how sad and angry you were.”

Jesper boggles at his dad. “Um. Da. Have you seen the company I keep?” Jesper gestures to where Kaz is glaring as Nina and Inej take turns taking bites out of his brunsviger cake. “I’m the happy one! I've got a hot boyfriend and a mansion to live in! Not much to complain about, do I?”

Colm is not impressed, and gives Jesper a look to make sure his son is aware of it. “I'm glad you think so, son. As long as you're being honest with yourself, and with your young man. He's a good sort.”

Jesper swallows the swell of pride and emotion that crests like a wave in his chest. Wylan is the best sort. Somehow untarnished by the same city that has chewed and spat too many of them out without a care. Somehow still wanting someone like Jesper by his steady side. 

“I'm trying, Da,” Jesper says. “He makes me want to try. And you do too.”

“How are your Fabrikating lessons going?”

Jesper swallows again. He's a little uncomfortable with this conversation topic, but he's trying to mean what he says these days, so he tells his dad over dessert how the lessons are going (well enough, it seems. At least they're not like university courses).

Colm is the first one to call it a night, before they all retire to the music room for some shenanigans. Wylan’s mother leads them through a few lovely songs before also heading up to bed, and then things begin to get properly rowdy when it's just the youngins’ remaining. They sing many a bawdy tavern song, and Inej actually teaches them some sea shanties she has learned. But soon, they all find themselves winding down as well.

Jesper looks around the room, belly full and heart content. Nina and Hanne are in their own lovebird world in the corner. Inej has pulled Wylan aside, and they seem to be having a serious conversation in low voices. Half of Jesper wants to go over there, but he knows if they wanted him to be a part of the conversation they would have called him. Then, he catches Kaz’s eye over near the door. Kaz inclines his head in a way that suggests he wants Jesper to join him. Jesper’s heart thuds. Though he doesn’t want Kaz’s romantic affections, and doesn't think he ever truly did, being singled out by Kaz still manages to feel like being struck by lightning.

“I'm leaving,” Kaz rumbles, as soon as Jesper is in earshot, and Jesper fights to roll his eyes. Of course. Kaz would be the only one unable (cough, unwilling) to stay the night.

“Alright,” Jesper says, because he doesn't want to fight his friend on this. “Be safe, Boss.”

Kaz grins, sharp and feral. “Shake the habit, Jes. I'm not your boss anymore.”

Jesper merely shrugs. 

“Thank Wylan for having us. It was…nice.”

“It was my idea.”

“It was a good idea.”

Kaz turns to go, and Jesper thinks that will be all, but then Kaz says something else and Jesper just about expires. “Thank you, Jesper.”

Jesper's throat works through the unexpected emotion. Before he can figure out what to say, Kaz is gone.

“Kaz said thank you to me,” he whispers to Wylan later, as they curl up into bed.

Wylan blinks, startled. “What for?”

“For the party, I think.”

“Oh.”

They’re both quiet, for a moment.

“It was good to see…everyone,” Wylan says.

“Yeah.” Jesper shuts his eyes against the sudden press of lovely tears, re-living Inej’s voice shouting shanties, Nina explaining to Hanne what goes into the Kerch dishes, and Wylan’s mother telling Kaz she likes his haircut and everyone else laughing. Wylan and Hanne dancing, because they both learned proper court dances. Kaz magicking away the silverware and Wylan catching him. Nina and Inej going off in the kitchen to gossip, and Wylan and Kaz suggesting fun haircuts Hanne could try out as the King of Fjerda. Colm grinning, telling stories about a kid Jesper to anyone who will listen. And Jesper himself. Jesper in the centre of it all, whirling around all his friends, fuelling his soul for when they inevitably have to leave again.

“I really missed them,” Wylan whispers.

Jesper kisses both his cheeks, and his forehead, and then, finally, his mouth, to drown out his sleepy chuckles.

“Me too.”