LSS: Before the Wave Breaks

This wasn't it... was it?

In the dim restaurant light, Alan lifted the note closer to his face, squinting at the address that was written with Conway's neat cursive. No, this was definitely it. This was where he was supposed to be. So why was it so...

His gaze drifted across the restaurant. Soft candlelight flickered on crisp white tablecloths. Gentle piano notes drifted through the air, mingling with the occasional murmur or quiet clink of cutlery. In the cozy corners, a few couples sat close, leaning into one another.

"My friend," Conway's voice warmly greeted from behind. He briefly patted a hand to Alan's shoulder. "You're early."

"Oh. Conway. Hi. Hello," Alan greeted back through a faint laugh, offering a smile as he turned to face him. "I don't go to this side of town often, so I just wanted to make sure I was at the right place."

He couldn't help but steal another glace into the restaurant, still taken by pleasant surprise that this was the place he picked. Not that it was bad. Just... unexpected.

"Well, to the right place, you have navigated," Conway said with a grin. Fingertips brushing Alan's back, he swept his other arm inward as invitation. "I hope this atmosphere doesn't feel too audacious." There was a hint of timidity in his next smile. "An old friend of mine highly recommended the place, and I figured there's no time like the present to finally try."

"Oh, no, not at all," Alan assured with an appreciate smile. He strolled inwards, following Conway's gestures and steering towards an open booth in the corner. "Thank you for setting this up. The venue is quite charming. If the present is a gift to cherish everyday, then I'm glad to be here celebrating it with you."

Following Conway's cues, Alan slowed to a stop in front of a cozy table equipped with candles, ornate menus, a bottle of red wine, and two wine glasses. He slid into the booth, the fleeting thought passing by that this place had to be expensive, but he shoved it aside. Tonight wasn't about that.

Before taking the seat across from him, Conway picked up the bottle of wine and gave it an assessing look over. "So, Alan," he said, turning another grin his way as he opened the bottle, "how has the present been treating you?"

"Quite well these days, I think," Alan said with a thoughtful hum, watching as Conway tilted the bottle and poured out the first glass of deep red wine. "Busy, but that's nothing new. It's been a pleasant summer so far." He smiled gently. "What about you?"

Conway hummed. He carefully twisted the bottle to prevent dripping and slid the glass over to Alan. "Busy. As you say, nothing new under this sun." He then poured for himself.

"I have a hard time believing you have nothing new," Alan said, a slight playful smile tugging at his lips as he idly traced the base of the wine glass with his forefinger. "You strike me as someone who regularly takes up new projects."

Setting aside the bottle, then taking his seat, Conway picked up his glass and peered over the rim with an unreadable yet focused smile. "And you continue to impress with your level of perception."

Alan huffed out a laugh, sliding his wine glass closer, but not quite picking it up yet. "In that case," he began, voice colored with curiosity, "what's your latest project?"

The man hummed his dissent as he swallowed. "Classified, unfortunately. As it pertains to my work, which the public is not yet privy to."

With a tilt of his head, Alan lifted his glass and held it in the air. "I don't think you've mentioned where you work," he said with a soft hum. "I'm assuming it isn't at the gallery, then."

"Not at the gallery," Conway echoed in easy confirmation.

Alan thought about asking further, but it seemed that Conway didn't feel comfortable sharing. He quietly smiled in response and brought the rim of the glass to his lips.

The scent hit his nose before the taste. From its pleasant fruity aroma that vaguely resembled plums, Alan thought this would be a sweet wine, but it was quite the opposite. The wine was bone dry, deep, and incredibly bold.

Conway set down his cup, smile taming as he fixed an attentive look of his own on him. "Could you expound on, 'quite well, you think'?"

Alan slowly set his glass down, slightly taken back that these words were what he held on to the most. Though, at the same time, Conway had already proved himself that he heavily paid attention to the invisible details.

"Well..." he said through a faint, self-conscious laugh. "I suppose life could be better. But, that's probably just my inner perfectionism coming out. Most things could be better, like music, writings, art." He vaguely gestured to the side. "Life."

"Is there more to it?" Conway asked, tone intrigued, yet not specifying.

Alan sat up straighter, setting an arm to rest on his lap. "Um," he stammered, suddenly finding himself at a loss for words. "...I don't know. I don't think so." He awkwardly huffed out a breath of air, folding his arms on top of one another. "It's not that important. I think it's just increased stress from school, especially since it's performance season right now."

"I'd argue that it is important," Conway gently disagreed. "If your art is your life, and you seem to only ever find dissatisfaction wherever you look, it's worth examining more closely."

"I don't know if I'd say that I'm dissatisfied," Alan said with a shake of his head.

"But most things could be better?" Con repeated with an arched brow.

Alan fixed his gaze into the flickering flame of the candle between them, furrowing his brows. "I guess..." He idly rubbed his thumb against the rim of the glass. "Well, I'm not dissatisfied. But I'm also not..."

Words failed him. He trailed off, suddenly unable to meet Conway's patient gaze, feeling oddly exposed.

"...satisfied," he finally said quietly, forcing himself to look up. "Does that make sense?"

Slowly nodding, more in thought than apparent agreement, Conway tilted his glass Alan's way. "Concertmaster, right?"

"Oh. Yes," Alan answered, fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass. "Officially as of last season for the university orchestra."

"A remarkable achievement," Conway said, lips quirking in the briefest of pleasant grins. The flash of admiration in his eyes quickly gave way to something quieter, more subtle. His tone turned understanding as he then offered, "Makes complete sense, I think."

Alan smiled sheepishly, weakly swirling the base of wine glass against the tablecloth. "Ah." He smiled more broadly. "I've been meaning to tell you: I randomly came across your friend recently. Agnes, right?" He hummed in thought, watching Conway closely for a reaction. "I wasn't close enough to say hello, but it was a pleasant surprise to see her nonetheless."

This wasn't exactly true. In fact, Alan completely lied. He hadn't seen Agnes at all. But with increased confidence, having nothing to lose, and Conway having proved that he was meticulous and observant-- he wanted to see what he would do with this false information.

Although Alan didn't question it at the time, the dichotomy of Agnes and Conway's interaction at the art gallery puzzled him. Conway was charming, brilliant, thoughtful. Agnes may still be a complete stranger to him, but she was blunt, crass, and disinterested. She seemed an unlikely companion for the art gallery, a jarring contrast to Conway's refined presence. Curiosity burned within him, wanting to know more. Especially because she already knew him as "That Alan."

Head tilting, Conway quirked both brows in actual surprise. "This wasn't at the gallery, was it?" he asked with a huffed laugh.

Alan shook his head. "No, just passing by on the streets. I don't think she saw me, but I also didn't grab her attention." He quietly tapped his finger against the table. "Maybe I'll wave her down the next time I see her."

"You absolutely can," Conway said with another amused grin. "She's not likely to remember you, however. Not from only two minutes of seeing you, anyhow."

"Ah, I presume she is neither a face nor a name person then," Alan hummed. "Understandable."

"Better at names," Conway said, gesturing a hand at him in agreement, "far more technical, ahm." He idly scratched at his chin in thought. "Objective thinking, I suppose."

Alan curiously tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

Conway drew out a contemplative hum, absently tapping the rim of his wine glass with his other hand. He settled for, "Avoids extrapolation. Takes what she is given."

Sitting straighter, he pushed his glass to the side and pointed with both open hands toward Alan. "We find deeper meaning in things, regardless of whether or not there is any apparent meaning to glean from the surface to begin with. The criminally simple painting where we met, for instance." He shifted his hands to point at the space just beside Alan. "Agnes agreed with me the painting of the dot was a waste of space, but for no reason aside from the apparent lack of invested technical skill and effort. She found no purpose of a largely empty canvas in a prestigious art gallery. The peculiarity didn't seize her thoughts, prompt her to look at things more broadly."

Conway leaned an elbow on the table, and pointed just his right hand at Alan. "You, however..." He turned his palm to the ceiling in a small, conclusive shrug, a faint grin of approval playing at his lips again.

Alan flushed his back against the booth, hands resting on his lap. "What about me?" he asked self-consciously, suddenly feeling open and exposed under his studious gaze.

His smile only broadened a little with a hint of amusement. Instead of answering, he pulled his wine back in between them. "Art is representative of life," he said abruptly. "So, what else in your life informs your medium?"

"But what fuels art?" Alan asked instead, his turn to push his wine glass to the side. "If life is art, then that question ought not to be ignored, don't you think?"

Conway leaned back again, pleased with the slight redirect. "How would you answer, then?"

Alan leaned forward, brushing up against the table. Softly smiling, he placed his hand over the left side of his chest. "The heart," he said earnestly, locking eyes with Conway. "A vessel of emotions that remember our lived experiences. It is the heart that fuels passion, inspiration, love. These emotions breathe life into art; without it, there lacks complete purpose and soul." He dropped his hand on the table, adding in a more measured tone, "And without soul, the very essence of art would be stripped away, devoid of life entirely. There wouldn't be a purpose to live."

Eyes likewise fixated on Alan, Conway's pleasant grin remained unchanged. Though his gaze seemed ever sharper in that moment. Meticulously turning over Alan's every word, analyzing and maybe even scrutinizing.

"So what is in your heart?" Conway asked seriously. "What kinds of passions bleed into your performances?" His gaze narrowed almost imperceptibly, and he pondered aloud, "Passion and inspiration can be driven by different emotions. You chose love in particular. So, I suppose the question I should be asking is who is in your heart."

Alan broke into an amused grin, raising the rim of the glass against his lips to swallow a sip of its rich liquid. "You speak bold questions, Conway," he said, voice tinged with playfulness. "And even bolder claims." Lowering his glass, Alan tilted his head, gaze intensifying. "Fitting for a man of bold spirit."

That sparked another entertained smile. Tilting his chin up, Conway raised his glass in playful toast. "It takes one to know one."

Alan lifted his own glass, palm pressed against the base of the bowl. "I take it that you're a romantic," he mused. Then added with a downward tilt of his chin, "It takes one to know one."

Conway's eyes glittered, his smile turning utterly charmed. "Guilty," he confessed with a laugh, "but you can't tell anyone."

"I can keep a secret," Alan said with a pleased smile. He brought the rim of the glass to his lips, drinking the wine's richness.

Conway's question was an easy one, but it was answer that Alan didn't like to take lightly. He was sure Conway could relate, especially if they had similar sentiments on art, romance, and love.

"Someone is in my heart," he answered fondly, gently setting the glass down on the table. "Lara and I have been madly in love together for two years now. I didn't think soulmates existed-- that was, until I met her."

Brimming with nostalgic adoration, Alan's chest swelled as he reminisced their first encounters, eyes shining with affection. "It was difficult to not see her shining soul brightening a room with her very presence. We may not be perfect, but we are perfect for each other, and that is enough. Time stands still when we are together, basking in each other's company."

Alan rambled on, feeling himself getting carried away, but he often did when it came to the topic of love. "I can listen to her voice for hours on end. I used to hear a simple song, but with her laugh alone, she took my broken melody and made my song a symphony."

In his mind's eye, he saw the silver ring nestled in his dormitory's desk drawer, waiting to filfill a future promise. Alan continued on, "I would like to spend the rest of my days with her, proving to her how much she means to me. She is not simply the love of my life, but life itself. I only wish to see myself through her eyes and strive to be the man she believes I am."

As he intently listened, Conway's dazzled smile settled back into his usual cryptic grin. His discerning gaze never wavered. "The kind of love starry-eyed poets have dreamt of since the first dawn. Yet a very select few have ever managed to attain in the ensuing ages."

Alan brushed his thumb against the rim of his wine glass, dreamy smile spreading. "That's right," he said softly. "I can see myself marrying her someday."

Conway hummed, his smile disappearing. "And yet," he began, but stopped himself short.

Alan sat still, feeling his own smile fading. "And yet?" he echoed uncertainly, unsure of what to make of the unfinished conjecture.

With another hesitation, Conway shrugged a shoulder and finished, "And yet... You're not dissatisfied, but you're not quite satisfied either? With your art."

Alan stared at him blankly as his words hung in the air. "That's a different stream of dissatisfaction," he assured. He paused, not quite liking how that word landed. "Or, at the very least, a different stream of not being satisfied."

Conway cast him a doubtful look. He quickly relented, however, with a chirped, "Very well, then." He lifted his glass again, declaring, "To yours, the perfect love," then drank more of his wine.

Why did he get the sense that Conway was filtering himself for his sake?

Alan hesitated, weakly lifting his glass in turn. The glass hovered in the air in front of him, in suspense. "Do you..." he ventured uncertainly, studying Conway's face intently, "...not think the love is perfect or good?"

Slowly, Conway set his glass back down, steely blue eyes turning serious once more as he deliberated an answer. Eventually, he picked up his glass again, letting the question hang unanswered between them.

Alan dropped his eyes to the flickering candlelight, tuning out the soft melodies of the piano. The words that Conway hadn't said were much louder in comparison.

He didn't want to answer. Why? Did Alan say something that caused him to cast doubt on his love with Lara? Conway didn't even know Lara, so why did this bother him? And why was he bothered so much that this bothered him?

This wasn't about Conway or his unsaid opinions. But in the heavy silence that followed, he didn't know how else to move forward.

Perhaps too ungracefully, Alan lifted his wine glass and swallowed a few gulps instead.

Enthusiasm returning anew, Conway set aside his now-empty glass and finally turned his attention away from Alan. "Ah, wonderful timing!" Lifting a hand to wave down a server, he put on another pleasant smile. "Order whatever piques your interest. My treat."

Alan was quick to shake his head, appreciative smile returning. "Oh, no, no," he assured with a quiet laugh. "You don't have to do that. I appreciate it, but I can pay for myself."

"Nonsense," Conway warmly insisted. "I invited you out, after all. Let me do this for you."

"I know, but it's really quite okay--"

"Alan," Conway said, easy grin sustained but his tone turning more firm, "it's really no trouble at all. Let me pay for you."

Alan faltered, dropping his gaze to the table and softly smiling in gentle defeat. "Alright," he said quietly, finally fixing his attention to the menu for the first time. "Thank you."

Now that the window had been fixed for some time, sitting in the living room with Shane's family was starting to feel normal again. The pattern that had been disrupted by that bullet was falling back to rhythm, and more and more often the three of them would find themselves moving to the parlor after dinner once night had fallen. Tonight, Shane was reading the book his parents had brought him back, his mother was having tea while reading from the newspaper, and his father was on the couch next to her, lightly napping with his head on her shoulder. He'd been reading once too, but Shane had seen his gaze go more and more out of focus with sadness until he was no longer looking at the paper. His mother had murmured to him that he should get some rest, and he'd relented, letting his eyes fall shut and his breathing slow.

Shane had always admired the way the two of them made each other so at ease in the other's presence. Until a few weeks ago, he hadn't known what that was like for himself. It felt reassuring, to find aspects of their healthy relationship in his own. He recognized that kind of peace.

A knock came from the back door, soft enough that he would've thought he'd imagined it if his mother also hadn't looked up. They met eyes, and then his mother smiled and gestured to his sleeping father with the newspaper to say she couldn't move. Shane nodded understandingly, setting his book on the coffee table and getting to his feet.

Why the back door, he wondered as he quickly walked over. How lost was this person?

The answer made itself obvious as he opened it up.

The man standing in front of him was taller-- by at least six inches. Shane tilted his head back to look up at his face, and was shocked to find it so familiar and so foreign at the same time. Undeniably, he was looking up at Jordan, but Jordan's features had sharpened. His soft cheeks had lost their youthful fill, and his dark hair - once kept long past his shoulders - was cropped short against the sides of his head. The lankiness of Jordan's limbs was gone, filled out with muscle and broadened shoulders. Hanging around Jordan's neck, however, was something that hadn't changed.

Two necklaces. One with a blue stone, and one green.

Shane knew which one was set aside for him.

Jordan's expression was already drawn tight with sorrow, but the moment he met Shane's eyes, a tear already began to fall down his cheek.

"Please forgive me," Jordan said with trembling lips before Shane could speak a word. "I've been so, so wrong."

Shane's heart broke-- no, shattered completely-- all at once.

Forgive? Forgive? What in the world could've gone wrong to make his little brother plead for forgiveness the minute he returned? Shane was racked with guilt. His parents were too. And hearing that Jordan had found something to blame himself for brought tears to his eyes instantly.

He held his arms open, hands shaking, praying he'd take it.

Jordan's lips parted, like he was going to say something, but he quickly closed his mouth as tears flooded his eyes. Shane recognized the look of surprise, as if Jordan hadn't been expecting a warm welcome. Somehow, that broke him even further.

Jordan fell forward into Shane's arms, hugging him in return and burying his face into Shane's shoulder. Shane hugged him tighter than he ever had before, feeling warm tears fall down his cheeks.

"You don't need forgiveness, Jordan," he choked out in a whisper. "None of us could ever blame you for any of this."

Jordan tried to say something, but Shane couldn't understand it. Jordan's cries broke with a loud sob, and he hugged Shane harder.

At this point, Shane doubted whether he was ever going to be able to let go.

"Mom! Dad!" he shouted through a sniffle, even though they might be able to hear Jordan already.

There was a sound of hurried shuffling in the living room, then racing footsteps from behind him.

"Jordan?" his mother called, her voice catching between syllables.

"Jordan," his father breathed in a voice already hoarse with a forming sob. His eyes were glistening when he appeared next to Shane, wrapping the two of them in a tight, strong hug. His mother immediately did the same when she joined them a moment later.

Upon being embraced by their parents, Jordan seemed to collapse completely. Leaning into their arms, Jordan's sobs grew louder as he desperately tried to hold them all.

"I'm sorry," Jordan began to rasp between cries. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, no," their father whispered, saying exactly what Shane was thinking, as he pressed his head against Jordan's. "Don't be."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," their mother added in a wavering tone.

It took Jordan some time to work through sobs before he could manage words again.

"I shouldn't have tried to run," he finally said between shaky breaths. "I didn't know what I had. I didn't know what I'd lose."

"You have us," Shane whispered, hugging him tighter as he let out an unrestrained sob. "You'll always have us."

He didn't know how long the four of them were there for, huddled together on the back porch, all of them crying. After what felt like a lifetime, Shane's father loosened his hug, but only to lean and kiss the top of Jordan's head.

"Can you stay a while?" he rasped out.

Jordan nodded, finally pulling away to rub at his face, now raw from tears. Shane let go, too, but he really didn't want to. Neither did his mother, who kept a hand on his shoulder, like he might vanish if she moved away.

"Let's go inside," she invited quietly, wiping at her eyes.

They led Jordan through the Cypress-- had to lead him, because he'd never been here. The four of them went back to the living room, but instead of retaking their old seats, they all took the couch, with Shane and Jordan in the middle and their parents on either side of them.

Shane couldn't wait this long. He leaned over and hugged Jordan again as soon as they sat down, tears still flowing openly down his face. Jordan eagerly hugged Shane back in return, holding him close as he too, began to cry once more.

"You're not mad at me?" Jordan asked hoarsely.

"Of course not," Shane whispered. "You're alive. How could I be mad? That's all I've ever wanted."

"I just thought since-- because I was too afraid to--" Jordan sniffled. "I didn't mean to hurt you guys this way. I thought I'd ruined everything."

Their father placed a hand on Jordan's back.

"Will you tell us why you were afraid, Jordan?" he asked softly, in a still-raspy voice.

Jordan pulled a hand away so he could wipe his eyes and nose with his sleeve.

"I thought I'd already ruined your lives enough," he said tearfully. "It's-- it's my fault Shane wasn't able to follow. I froze his feet to the ground. I-- I didn't mean to but I was so scared that he'd get--"

Jordan's voice hiccupped, and he rubbed his eyes harder, clearly suppressing another sob.

"And then when I-- when I finally got out," he said, his voice wavering with each word as he pushed through. "All I could imagine was bringing hunters right to your house, and you'd all get killed. And I couldn't be the reason you guys died. I couldn't."

What Shane didn't know to say was that if Jordan hadn't trapped him in the ice, he would've been in danger-- but not for the reason Jordan thought. He would've made himself a problem the minute they would've gotten caught. He'd have given them no choice but to put him down, because as long as there was still a fight left in him, they would not be laying a hand on his little brother. Maybe neither of them would've lived if Jordan hadn't done that.

"You didn't ruin our lives, Jordan," his mother said, looking at him with pleading, glistening eyes.

"But you guys took me in," Jordan said, looking to his mother with a heartbroken plea. "And then I got so -- so confused, and angry, and I -- I threw it all in your face, and I got myself caught. You didn't ask for any of that."

"You didn't run because you didn't love us," Shane said quietly. "You were scared something would happen to us because of you. What you didn't see is that we signed up for everything with you, and that includes the risks-- because having you in our lives is worth all of it."

Jordan's voice squeaked.

"Even now?" he rasped, barely audible. "Even after I put you through all of this?"

"Even now," Shane said, blinking away more tears as he hugged him tighter. "Especially now."

Jordan fell apart in front of him. Breaking into a sob, Jordan curled down and leaned into Shane, resting his head on Shane's shoulder. Despite Jordan having outgrown Shane in size-- gods, how had he grown so much without him being there to see it-- there was something about the action that reminded Shane of moments they shared when they were younger: Jordan always knew he could seek comfort in Shane. And though, when Shane used to hold him then, Jordan had been smaller, the space between his arms still felt just right to hold him now. Some things never changed.

"I missed you guys so much," Jordan cried. "I love you. I love you still. So much."

"We all did too," their father whispered, leaning in to hug them both again. "We love you more than we could ever say, Jordan."

"I love you too, dad," Jordan said, his voice breaking. Shane heard his father let out a quiet sob.

"We loved you every day and every hour," his mother promised, joining in on the group embrace. "We'll love you for the rest of time."

"I love you too, mom," Jordan squeaked out. Shane could hear the relief in Jordan's voice in being able to say it.

"I love you," Shane whispered into Jordan's ear, as a lump formed in his throat.

"I love you too, Shane," Jordan said, pulling Shane in tighter.

They all cried themselves dry of tears-- when there were no more, they went on sniffling and shuddering, still holding each other close. At last, Shane's father rubbed Jordan's back.

"You know," he said softly, in a voice that was still hoarse with emotion, "the three of us never finished the cake we had for dessert. Would you like to help?"

Jordan looked up to Ray, his eyes raw from tears but somehow lighting up at the mention of cake. Something about it felt so endearingly in character, and there was a spark of hope in Shane's heart that, even after all of this time, maybe not as much had changed as he thought.

Jordan was still his little brother. And his little brother loved sugar.

"I can help..." Jordan said with a meek nod.

"Good," his father said, patting his back. "Because it's chocolate cake."

Jordan flicked a tearful but strangely hopeful face to Shane.

"He's right," Shane said with a laugh, the sound of it still raw. "There's plenty, too."

Jordan smiled weakly. There was still a lingerin sadness in it, but a genuine happiness and relief met his eyes.

"I'll help you finish it off then," he said with a small laugh, mixed with a cry.

Shane smiled sadly, squeezing him closer for a moment before letting him go.

"Let's get some plates," he said.

Ever since he'd been assigned a babysitter, life had gotten quiet. James drew back from leaving the manor when it wasn't necessary. He didn't sneak out anymore, now that he'd done all he could to get arrangements in place. Caspar had let him know, quietly, that Eve had been informed about Kirk as they put together a team. She wouldn't bother reaching out to him directly anymore until it was time to go, which would leave a little less than a month still remaining.

It was underwhelming how quickly things had quieted down, but for a minute, things were almost normal.

Almost.

His life was far from it, but this was a pocket of normalcy. One in which he could breathe. One he wanted to appreciate for its simplicity, knowing it wouldn't last.

Deidra was outside the barn today. She didn't seem to care for horses, and she was reasonable enough to be convinced into giving him some space when it was a private matter: even if it was just with his horse. He was grateful for it, but he couldn't help but feel like despite having a constant presence, he felt more isolated than ever. The few times he'd spend with the rest of the King's Hand or Shane in the interim had felt empty. There was a level of sincerity missing when there was an observer; a representative of Carter, always present.

Apologies hadn't brought him back his independence. He was beginning to wonder if Carter suspected more than just a slow degradation of his character and public image... but he'd given Carter nothing to suspect.

He'd been careless in some ways, but not in regards to Carter. Carter only saw what he wanted Carter to see.

Mostly.

James brushed out Billy's mane slowly, working through every little kink gently. Billy was content, standing beside James in the stable with his head hung low, nibbling on the feed in his bucket. The moment would've lasted had the very back barn door not creaked open.

The sound was soft, and subtle. He'd have missed it if the bright daylight hadn't come in with a door-shaped stream, highlighting a tall shadow.

The light disappeared quickly, though, as the door was shut behind the visitor. James expected it to be another stable boy, or someone else at the estates coming for their horse -- but his hypotheses were shot down as Eve came running around the corner, freezing when she locked eyes with him over the door of the stall.

Something was wrong. Eve was breathing hard. It was clear she'd been running around nonstop in the midday heat from the flush of her face, and the pallor of her hands. Her long hair was pulled back in a braid that was slowly falling apart, and it left James to wonder just how long she'd been running around Ruddlan, and what for.

He didn't have to ask to get his answer.

"Where's Kirk?" she asked, marching over to him with hastening steps.

"He's not--" was all he got out.

"We need Kirk now," she fiercely ordered -- which left world of implications left unsaid, had he time to think on them -- but she kept going. "Something's gone wrong with his formula. Something's wrong with Bo. We -- we thought it was just one of the normal side effects but we don't know what's happening. He was -- he was fine and he just -- no one can even go near him. He can't control his magic. Bo can't control his magic. You have to tell me--"

In the middle of her panicked, continuous stream, James set aside his brush and slowly opened the stable door. When he firmly set his hand on Eve's shoulder to ground her, her words stuttered to a sudden stop, and her brows twitched together with increased worry.

He understood. Kirk was developing and anti-serum for lumshade, and he'd needed a mage to test it on. Caspar's friend, Bo, had volunteered. The experiment was going wrong.

"He's with Shane," James said.

He didn't need to know the full story. She'd already told him enough.

"Where's Shane?" Eve snapped back, eyes still swimming with worry.

James pulled his hand away, glancing over at the main entrance. Deidra was--

"Your guard's unconscious," Eve said before he could even draw attention to the liability. "But not for long. We don't have a lot of time."

James's eyes shot back to her.

"You--"

"Lumshade," Eve said, her voice tense and desperate. "We need to go. Now."

James decided he'd have to figure out a way to explain how this happened later, but, inevitably, it was going to have to be his fault. He couldn't have any of this leading back to Kirk or Shane, and especially not Eve.

So, it was best that they left now, then. Before this caught up to all of them.

"I'll lead the way," he said, pushing open the barn door. "Did you ride?"

"My horse is outside," Eve said, already darting her way back the way she came.

James only nodded, and, wasting no time, he took Billy's lead and led Billy out towards the back barn door. With a sweeping motion, he slid the door open with a heave, and it rolled out of the way with a heavy thump. Eve was already climbing atop her saddled horse just outside the stable - telling him what he'd already suspected: she'd ridden out here with little preparation. Hopping on top of Billy's bare back, James clicked his tongue and began to ride off.

For better or for worse, he was dressed in regular clothes. But he'd worry if he got recognized later.

They rode at a quick trot until they made it through the estate gates, and from there they had to ebb and flow with the traffic of the city streets. He could feel Eve's impatience whenever they had to slow down for people on foot, but there wasn't much James could do about the ride to the city center. They were getting there as fast as they could.

Eve's former stoic composure had crumbled in light of this emergency, and where before, he'd only felt the icy cool of her stare, now he could feel her anxiety piercing through the back of his head. Worry made her hands tight around her reins, and she carried the tension in her clenched jaw. Any time he glanced back at her, her eyes were glued to him, urging him to keep going as she followed.

It wasn't ideal to interrupt two people on a date, but today was an exception. He just hoped Eve and Shane had truly cleared the air enough for this to be...

Well, he guessed it didn't matter. Stakes being what they were.

When he broke into the city park, he was at liberty to ride faster. Taking the side-trails, he scanned the grassy fields for Kirk and Shane and spotted them under a large willow, lying in the grass. Halfway within closing distance, Kirk was already getting to his feet and helping Shane up beside him.

James pulled Billy to a stop at the edge of the tree. A breeze rustled the hanging leaves around them as Eve's horse came to a more abrupt stop beside him.

"Something's wrong with Bo," James said.

Kirk's eyes went wide. Without a word, he hurried up to James, and James extended his hand, pulling him up onto the horse.

"Who?" Shane asked in urgent confusion, brushing himself off as he looked at the three of them with wide eyes.

"We'll explain when we get there," James offered as he turned Billy around.

Eve gestured for Shane to get on her horse.

"I'll lead the way," she said tensely. "We need to hurry. He could be getting worse."

Shane clearly had a million more questions, but he clamped his mouth shut, quickly climbing up onto the horse. James wished he could've offered more context, but Eve moved her horse forward the moment Shane held onto her, and with that, they were moving.

She took a lot of shortcuts through the city: ones James didn't know about, but took note of. Wherever they were going, it wasn't within the city walls, and it took them thirty minutes to reach the West Gate. It should've taken them fourty. When they finally left Ruddlan's walls was when Eve really picked up the pace, and they began to speed down the road for miles.

If Eve had offered Shane any explanations, it had been drowned in the rush of travel and the pounding of horse hooves. Dirt and sand kicked up behind them as they broke past sand and rocks into the dry forest northwest of the city. The trees grew thicker and reached taller as they rode further in, breaking away from the main road into soft-traveled deer paths until they were traversing land that looked untouched.

James recalled the hideaway bunker he'd first met Bo and Eve in, but he knew they weren't going that direction.

Wherever they were going... it had to be their main base of operations. It wasn't somewhere he expected to be so soon, and he wasn't sure if Shane was supposed to be in tow, but he had a feeling Eve wasn't thinking about the implications of her company.

She was trying to get help to Bo as fast as she could. Which meant that things were looking desperate.

Just as the ride began to feel long, Billy grew tired, and James's legs grew sore, they finally began to slow their pace again. This time, James expected to see no signs of life: and he didn't, until Eve leaped out of her saddle, and a groan came out from the earth in front of her.

The earth began to move on its own. Like ground scraping away from a giant's hand, an opening was dug out in exact lines, revealing a swirling stairwell that wound deep below.

The invisible hand that carved the opening soon made itself known in the form of a mage: a young, brown-skinned man with tan-toned clothing. He made no introduction as he rushed past Eve with a nod and took the reins of her horse. Kirk hopped off behind James, and James followed suit, leaving his horse with the nameless man as Eve wasted no time hurrying down the steps. Shane was only a moment behind, fueled by the same urgency as the rest of them despite the apparent bewilderment in his eyes.

James was at the back of the line, watching Eve, Shane, and Kirk's heads bob until they'd descended the world's longest flight of stairs onto flat ground. The light of the day had completely faded as they entered a bare, open room that looked fortified by cut slabs of stone. Firelight flickered across every wall and several branching halls, lined with sconces and ceiling-lamps. The entryroom looked empty for all but a lone brown wolf running in from the southernmost hall.

"Who the hell brought him with--?" the wolf started to speak uncannily.

James stared.

Two reasons: first time seeing a werewolf speak in wolf form. Also: he didn't know if the werewolf was referring to him or Shane, who looked a little uneasy at the words. Perhaps it didn't matter.

"Where's Bo, Robin?" Eve snapped, cutting him off before more could be said.

Robin, the werewolf, huffed through his nose but didn't object further.

"Locked him in the back--" Robin began.

Eve stormed forward, leading the way. Robin fell into hurried pattered steps beside her. Kirk was right behind them.

"I don't think anyone should get close to him," Robin said. "Renerre has volunteered to help give him anything just in case--"

"Kirk, do you have an antidote?" Eve asked instead, shooting Kirk a fierce gaze.

James followed behind with Shane, but his steps began to slow as he felt a strange buzz of energy. The hairs began to raise on the back of his neck, and something in the air felt charged. It tasted metallic, and the further down the hall they went, the more he started to feel... dizzy.

Eve, however, only stopped in her steps when Robin cut in front of her.

An old woman approached from deep down the hall. Her long, white hair billowed behind her, but it looked like it was near-standing up from the electricity in the air. She laid eyes on Kirk, and then Eve.

"I will lead the scientist to him," the woman said. James could only assume she was the Renerre that Robin spoke of.

Something about her presence was... haunting. In an awe-struck way. James didn't know why.

"I'll go with--" Eve began, but this time, it was she who didn't get to finish her sentence.

Renerre lifted her hand. "You will stay," she said simply. "Take your friends back to the lobby. Just in case."

Which was by no means comforting in her parting, but Kirk didn't look back as he hurried alongside Renerre, closer to the source of the charged energy.

If Bo's magic had really become uncontrollable like Eve said, then that meant Bo was a lightning mage.

A very powerful one, at that.

Eve stood stiffly in the hallway, helplessly watching Renerre and Kirk until they disappeared through a door at the end of the hall. James was about to speak when Robin nudged the back of Eve's knee with his nose. No words were said, but Eve jolted, shook her head, and nodded to herself as she darted the opposite direction - back out the way they came.

James glanced at Shane.

"So, Bo is--" James began.

"He doesn't need to know who Bo is," Eve sharply cut in to look over her shoulder without breaking pace.

James lifted his hands innocently. "He already knows about the experiments," James said.

Eve came to an abrupt stop, this time whirling around entirely to face them. She gave James an intense glare of disapproval, but when she turned to look at Shane, her expression quickly shifted to helpless desperation.

"Kirk told him," James offered on Shane's behalf. So Eve could direct her anger at Kirk instead.

Kirk could handle it, he was sure.

Eve's jaw tensed. "He said he could keep a secret," she said lowly.

"He can," Shane insisted quietly. "Look, I don't know half of what you've brought me into, but-- this is important to him. If he didn't think I was completely safe to tell he wouldn't have told me."

Taking in a sharp inhale, Eve clearly was reaching a tipping point. She pinched her nose and turned away, nodding as she dropped her hand back to her side.

"Alright," she said simply, though her tone was measured, and she clearly didn't think this was alright. "But not here."

Her eyes had drifted behind them, and as James looked to follow, he saw two pairs of heads poking out of doors they'd just passed in the hall. Two people on either side.

A woman with curly hair. Another woman with large earrings. And then--

Hang on a second. He recognized those two.

Weren't they the ones at the tavern--?

Suddenly Eve grabbed his arm and pulled him forward. She wasn't someone he expected to be very strong, but she must've used all of her might, because she grabbed both Shane and James and ran with them out into the entry room. They ducked into the east hall, and she only let go of them to open a door before shoving them both in.

"Was that Cyrin Bridger--" Shane started to say.

"That was the man who punched me," James added.

"They were with him!" Shane exclaimed. "They pulled him away from you!"

Eve slammed the door shut behind them and pressed her body against it, out of breath and frazzled after having using her strength to drag them inside.

"Will everyone just -- sit down!" she sputtered. "We can't talk about this like this! There's too much --"

Her words devolved into a grumble as she brought her hands up to her face and then sharply paced over to a desk, taking the seat behind it. Taking a sharp breath, she tugged off her hair tie that barely kept her braid together and heavily dropped her arms on the desk, clearly trying to keep herself from losing her cool.

"Kirk has been developing an anti-serum for lumshade," she started more calmly before either of them sat down. "You know this. Bo is the man who's been his voluntary test subject for the experiments."

"And he's... having a dangerous reaction?" Shane asked quietly.

"The anti-serum is intentionally designed by Kirk to block the effects of lumshade," Eve said wearily, leaning her elbows on her desk. "But for unknown reasons, it seems to have interfered with the specific part of the mage's brain or nervous system that allows them to control their magic." Tension spread in her jaw as she said more evenly, "It is as if magic has leaked out of him, unable to be contained. He has lost the ability to control his own magic."

Shane nodded quietly, processing. James glanced back at the door. Somewhat reluctantly, he finally pulled up a seat from one of the chairs at the edge of the room and sat.

"He'll fix it," Shane said firmly. "No invention exists without failed versions."

"Yes," she said sharply. "And it is by incredible random chance that he is testing his prototype on Bo. A weaker mage would have died."

Shane's eyes widened with a mix of fear and sadness. With a glance James's way, he solemnly bowed his head and pulled up a chair beside him, sitting down slowly and heavily.

"Will he be okay...?" Shane asked quietly, more unsure.

"I don't know," Eve spat with her jaw set stiffly. She kept her eyes on the desk then added more softly, "We'll find out."

There was a longer pause that hung in the air as the three of them felt the gravity of the situation. James couldn't bring himself to break the silence. His head was too busy spinning with the information he'd already been given. He was worried for Bo. The man he'd met before seemed strong, and undoubtedly a force of nature when his magic was channeled. He had also proven to be very kind and grounded - a true friend to Caspar, and one he would imagine Caspar would hate to lose. He could only hope that Bo really was as strong as Eve said if he was able to hang in this long.

He also couldn't help but wonder if they were in any danger still being on the base, but if others were within loose vicinity of them, maybe things would be fine. Fine enough, at least.

James could feel Shane's gaze drift over the two of them, still asking unanswered questions as Eve ran her hand over her forehead, turning her fingers to her hair to brush out tangled knots. Still shaken, it seemed like she was now merely attempting to keep her hands busy, biting her lips to prevent herself from further speaking.

James looked up to Shane, and though Shane didn't voice it, he could hear Shane wondering.

Yes, this was the resistance.

James glanced at Eve.

"He knows about the heist," James admitted, figuring it was better to get it out now, while she was present, instead of her finding out sometime after the fact.

Eve's eyes shot up to him, turning hostile as her mouth fell agape with shock and offense. Her hands stopped abruptly in their combing and fell back to the table, almost smacking it.

"And who else have you told?" she asked accusingly, voice low. "Does all of the King's Hand know, too?"

"Only Shane," James answered steadily.

The look she gave to Shane turned pleading. She was looking for comfort now, it seemed. And support: validation that her concerns were founded.

Shane looked down uncomfortably.

"It was only because I saw something suspicious that I wasn't supposed to," he said. "He wasn't being loose-lipped."

"Saw something," Eve said, clinging to the part Shane probably hadn't intended. She looked to James with dissapproval. "So he was being careless. What did you see?"

"Not careless," Shane said defensively.

Eve glanced at Shane, but her narrowed gaze turned more pressing as she turned it to James.

"He came by unexpectedly and saw some plans I was putting together for the trip to come," he said, deciding it best not to dig into details. To put her worries to rest, he added: "I offered the information as a friend--"

"And if someone else had dropped by unexpectedly," Eve cut in. "Then what?"

James let out a weary sigh.

"I've been much more careful since," he said.

"There's nothing to be mad at him for," Shane added.

Eve shot Shane a look that could only be described as betrayal, but she completely deflated, not pressing further. Hoping to turn this conversation in a more productive direction before it fell apart too completely, James decided to bring up something that had been on his mind ever since he'd spoken to Shane about the heist.

"I think Shane would be the perfect person to get involved when the cargo comes into Ruddlan," he said.

Shane's eyes lit up with excitement. Eve's betrayed gaze darted to James.

"No," she said firmly, without hesitation.

"Wait--" Shane faltered. "What? Why not?"

"For the sake of his safety, Shane will not be involved," Eve said to James, before looking to Shane with a desperately pleading expression. "Shane," she said, far softer. "This is far too dangerous. What with your family in the spotlight as it is, and -- consider that authorities still don't know why the Blue Suns are targeting you. You don't need another potential target on your back. Getting involved in this would only bring you more trouble."

"Eve," Shane said in disbelief. "Are you being serious? Tiberius is giving up his life as he knows it, you've been working in the mage resistance, Jordan's been in hiding for years, but I can't read some books?"

James cast Shane a subtle side-eye. He didn't know who Jordan was, but Shane's overall argument was... difficult to dispute. Eve's expression fell even further, revealing the overwhelming worry behind her adamant refusal.

"It's not that. Shane, I don't doubt you," she said, now openly pleading. "I just -- Shane, please..."

Her lips pressed together tightly, and James had a feeling there were things she wanted to say, but wouldn't in his presence. He dropped his eyes to the floor.

"Something like this, Eve?" Shane said quietly. "This could be my life's purpose. And I'm tired of being kept on the sidelines, watching my life go by. Everyone close to me is playing a part, and my life isn't any more than theirs. I want to take action, too."

"I don't want you to get hurt," Eve said, dropping her voice to match Shane's.

"If he's only reading--" James tried to say.

And at this point, he should've learned Eve wouldn't let him speak. She cut him off again as if he hadn't even spoken.

"Are you sure you want to be a part of this?" Eve asked. "You need to know if this is something you really want. This is no small decision, Shane."

"I'm certain," Shane said firmly. "I want to do this."

Eve took in a deep breath and nodded, briefly shutting her eyes as she accepted Shane's decision.

"Alright," she said again - even though it was once again clear that she did not think it was alright, but she was respecting Shane's desires. "We will discuss at a future time about what your involvement will look like. You do not need to be brought in until much later, but-- if you are already involved in the plan, I can provide updates to you individually. Just--"

A sudden surge of energy pulsed through the air, catching all of them off guard as a prickle danced across their skin. James's hair stood up on end for a moment before it was as if the air was sucked out of the room. The brief burst of energy was gone, and the air went still.

The base went quiet.

James and Shane's heads slowly turned to the door. James flicked his eyes to Eve, searching for a sign of worry. It was no surprise that he found it. Her brows were pinched tightly as she sat with her eyes fixed on her office door.

There were a few seconds of tense silence before Eve pushed herself to her feet abruptly.

"Shane, please keep an eye on Tiberius," she said as she crossed the room, passing by Shane as she bee-lined for the door. There was a second of hesitation before she opened the door gingerly and peeked out into the hall.

James chanced a glance Shane's way. The expression on his face was split between hope and fear.

Nothing changed for almost a minute. Eve stood staunchly in the doorway in waiting. No one said a word until they heard the pattering of paw-steps hurrying down the hall.

Robin.

"He's winding down," Robin said as he came into view in the doorway. Eve pulled the door open fully.

"They've got it under control," Robin said. "Kirk was quick with an antidote. I guess he already had a prototype in the works. Bo will be alright. His magic's under control again."

Eve let out a sigh of relief, and James finally let himself take a breath. Shane's expression melted away into full relief.

"Can I see Kirk?" Shane asked softly.

His voice showed that he hadn't just been worried for Bo. James, too, was relieved that the implication was Kirk was also still standing.

Robin's wolven head tilted to the side, assessing Shane for a moment before nodding.

"Yes," Robin answered. "Follow me."

With a grateful nod, Shane quickly got to his feet and joined him.

"Wait-- Shane--!" Eve began anxiously.

But Shane was already moving with Robin.

Eve watched Shane run off with Robin with eyes wide. She reached out as if to stop Shane from leaving, but stayed with one hand on the doorway and the other on the door handle.

James didn't feel the same sense of freedom as Shane to leave, but he didn't know what to do with the tension that remained in his absence. James sat still in his chair but grew increasingly uncomfortable as Eve set her gaze on him as if she were trying to make him dissappear with her mind. Her lips were pressed into a thin line as her gaze turned practially seething. Her bitterness was palpalble, but instead of speaking, she only narrowed her eyes at him.

He knew at this point that he had long since fallen from her favor, and there was no hope of recovery. So it wouldn't hurt to break the silence.

"I'm going to assume you'd prefer to still not be on speaking terms," he said quietly.

It was evidently the wrong thing to say. Eve drew herself back into the office quickly and shut the door. Her furrowed brows knit together tighter as she turned her accusing glare on him with an even greater intensity.

"This is your fault," she seethed, pointing at him with tensed fingers. "First you force your way into the resistance, and now you meddle in my personal life? I told you to leave me alone. It was a simple ask: you needed to stay as far away as possible. But now here you are, selfishly pulling Shane into your own goals of pitiful self-redemption. You also heavily involved Kirk, knowing how intertwined he and Shane are."

She glowered, venomously glaring at him. "Shane was never supposed to be involved! You carelessly put him at risk as a ploy to save face and feel better about yourself."

Eve began to pace across the room. Her berating was turning to a rant.

"You failed to respect my simple boundaries," she accused sharply. "You knew that I wished for you to stay away from me, and instead you started attatching yourself to the people close to me. Your whole act of innocence is deplorable. Winning the favor of my inner circle will not change my mind about you, Tiberius. You may fool others, but I see right through your pitiful act."

She stopped on the other side of her desk, standing with her hands flat against the surface as she put the desk between them. Likely as a buffer.

"You told Shane to use him against me," she said cooly. "You may be taking advantage of our mending connection, but I refuse to let you drive a wedge between us just so you can get your way."

James helplessly listened until she finally came to a stop, frowning at him deeply. He knew that she was inclined to think the worst of him, but it felt almost bizarre to hear the leaps and assumptions she was making. He and Shane had befriended one another before they even knew of her existence in Ruddlan. For James, before he knew of her existence at all. He wasn't trying to use Kirk or Shane to get at her, but he had a feeling she wasn't going to listen to a word he said, nor would she listen to reason coming from him.

He didn't know what else to offer but apologies.

"I'm sorry," was all he got to say, though.

"No!" Eve interjected, as her hatred bubbled up again. "No. You are not sorry. You haven't been sorry this whole time, Tiberius. You have never been sorry. You are a charlatan. A liar. Someone who talks about sorrows despite committing atrocities. You are led by guilt rather than innocent truth. Do not lie to me."

Her stare bored through him. Though a question hadn't been asked, he felt like now, she was demanding an answer from him.

There was nothing he could say to change her mind. He took a deep breath.

"I don't expect to ever make amends with you," he said steadily and quietly. "And if you've decided what you think of me, I will make my peace with it."

Eve's expression turned cold and steely as she stood up straighter to look down at him.

"Then I am glad we can come to an agreement," she said. "Because I will never change my mind. Just like how you will never change your character."

That stung. And at the same time, the sting felt familiar. Eve was not Ingrid, nor Carter, and yet she cut him just the same: somehow she'd found out where it hurt most, and James didn't know if she'd merely been lucky, or if he was just that transparent.

Yes, he'd been hoping to change. He didn't have much hope, though.

James felt any fight left in him flee as he looked down to the floor, tired of defending himself to a wall that wouldn't budge.

"Okay," he said barely audible.

Eve's brows furrowed tightly.

"That's all you have to say for yourself?" she asked sharply. "'Okay?'"

Defeated, James hung his head low. "I know when I've lost," he said faintly. "I don't want to turn this into a game of insults. Nor do I want to harm you."

The sentiment meant nothing, though. Eve only heard what she wanted to hear.

"This is not a game," she said cooly. "And you are not harming me. I simply wish for you to not be involved in my life in any manner."

"But I already am," James said helplessly.

"But you shouldn't be!" Eve said, voice tinged with frustration.

James only lifted his head to give her a withering look. He couldn't change what already was: they'd met, their paths had crossed, and now they were intertwined, at least for as long as it took to complete this task in front of them.

"You shouldn't be," Eve said again, sounding more and more desperate. "You can't be."

And James wished he could understand her, but all he felt was tired.

"Will you at least tolerate my presence until this mission is seen through?" he asked wearily.

Eve brought her shoulders back, setting her jaw once more as she turned her eyes back to their icy stare. The tension was drawn in her body with every sharp angle.

"I already am," she said. "But not by choice."

How nice.

"You may not be choosing," he said slowly as he finally rose to his feet so he could look her eye to eye. "But I am."

Eve's icy stare locked onto him with cautious suspicion at first, but as their eyes met, he watched her brows slowly soften, and twitch back together as she visibly processed the subtext in his words. He didn't mean to imply anything more than his voluntary involvement; and some of that was with her in mind, but he realized afterward that if she read into it too deeply, it was possible she'd hear something more and think he'd overstepped.

He expected her expression to land on anger, but instead, her cheeks began to flush a light pink. Fluttering her eyes, she quickly looked away and marched around her desk, dropping the conversation entirely.

She cut to the door.

"Follow me," she said in a faint mutter, and James decided it'd be best to obey. He silently follow into step behind her, letting her lead them back the way they'd gone before they'd been turned away.

This time, she walked all the way to the back room, where the door now hung open. Before they even entered, James could hear the chatter filling the room to the brim: and it wasn't a large room to begin with. It looked like a hospital room, set up with a few beds and curtain partitions that had been pushed aside. Shane was with Kirk, pulled away some feet as the two of them spoke privately. Portions of the floor and the bed Bo was sitting on looked charred, but they were muddled by the mess of people covering them, crowded around the man's bed as they talked over one another. James recognized those in the room as the ones he'd seen before: Renerre, the two women, Cyrin Bridger, and the man from the tavern.

Eve pushed through them all, making her way to Bo.

The one-eyed man looked haggard and weary, and his clothes looked tattered - possibly from his own magic. A blanket had been thrown over his legs as he sat back on the bed, and the first thing Eve asked of Bo was about his well-being.

James stood back by the doorway, feeling now just how out of place he was in all of this.

These people were friends, some family, and he was just a stranger who'd been brought in at a last choice to help find Kirk.

He began to tune out the voices of everyone around him, glancing back into the hall.

Was he allowed to just... leave?

He knew he wasn't welcome, and he felt like his mere presence was imposing. Just as the urge crept on him to slip away while no one was looking, though, he noticed the old woman: Renerre.

She was sitting at the edge of the room, watching it all.

But in particular, she was watching him.

Uneasy under her unwavering stare, he hesitated, glacing over his shoulder once more. Just as he looked back, he unintentionally met Bo's gaze. The man had looked past Eve, into the doorway, and now James's presence was known.

"Oh," Bo said, speaking up louder, which made James cringe inside. "Hello, Tiberius."

There mere mention of his name caused everyone around Bo to whirl around. Two of which already had daggers drawn. Cyrin, apparently, was one of them. The man who'd punched him in the tavern spoke first.

"Ginger wafer?" the tall man spat.

James blinked slowly at the apparent nickname.

"The face I punched but ass I didn't yet kick?" the man asked threateningly, already stepping forward.

Had Bo not raised to his feet just as quick, the man would've closed the distance. Bo stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.

"Hendrik," Bo said, identifying the man as he pulled him back. "No beating him up. I think it's about time I catch you all up to speed."

Bo looked to Tiberius.

"Come on in. We'll explain together."

It didn't rain all that often in Ruddlan. But when it did, it made up for the dry periods. Shane had once heard it explained as warm clouds being able to retain more moisture for a longer period of time before releasing it all at once-- first it was one drop, then a second, and suddenly the world seemed more water than air as the heavens opened in a matter of seconds. The storm had caught him and Alan by surprise when they'd been walking around after another concert, and Shane had had to holler over the deafening crash of raindrops that they could take shelter at his home. Neither of them had wasted a minute in running through the already deep puddles, and after nearly losing his grip on the slick key, Shane had gotten the two of them inside, but not without them both getting drenched first.

With a bit of reeling amusement, Shane looked down at the floor beneath them. The tile and welcome mat were already glistening with the water dripping off their hair and clothes, which were plastered to their skin.

"Can I interest you in a towel?" Shane asked with a slight laugh, wiping away the drops on his face. "And maybe a warm drink, so we don't get pneumonia?"

Alan peeled his glasses away from his face, setting them down on the nearby table. He flicked the water from his hands and rubbed the water away from his face, pushing back his sodden hair. He looked vaguely ridiculous, like a drowned cat, but Shane was sure he did too.

"That's nice of you, but I think I'm good," Alan started to say, but then pursed his lips as he attempted to straighten out the wet sleeves that clung on to skin. "Well..." he said with a faint laugh, wringing the end of his shirt. "Maybe getting dry and warm wouldn't be so bad."

Shane smiled a little, walking to the kitchen as fast as he could without slipping. He was aware of the trail of water he left behind him, but that would have to wait. "Coffee, tea, or chocolate?" he called.

Alan hummed, trailing behind and stepping around the puddles, which only created even more trails of water. "A tough choice, but I have a feeling the coffee selection is very strong in this household, so I'll have to go with that."

Shane grinned slightly. "That it is. Coming right up."

As the coffee brewed, he ran to the linen closet, grabbing the fluffiest towel there for Alan and another one for himself. They'd probably ruin the furniture if they sat on it, so the two of them stood in the kitchen, bundled up and shivering in their towels. At least the stove provided some warmth.

"I don't think I'll ever be dry again," Shane confessed through chattering teeth.

"It's absolutely pouring," Alan said, his words completely muffled as he vigorously dried his hair with the towel. Now with mussed hair, he draped the towel over the counter and leaned against the skin. His fingers worked at unbuttoning his wet shirt while his gaze fixed on the window where fat raindrops pelted the glass. "I'm glad you lived nearby so we could take shelter, though."

A roar of thunder punctuated his words, seeming to rattle the glass panes. Shane jumped a little. So did Shrimp, who he could hear meowing distressedly from somewhere in the house.

"And we made it inside not a moment too soon," Shane murmured, watching the raindrops attack the window for a moment before looking at Alan worriedly. "It might go on a while. Does your family need you back?"

Alan shook his head, wrestling his arms free from the clinging, waterlogged shirt. "No," he said, bunching the fabric into a sodden ball. He held it over the sink, twisting and wringing it for water to drip down. "I mostly come by to see them on weekends. I'd love to see them everyday, but they're quite far from the school." He offered a smile over his shoulder. "I'm good to stay until the storm passes. Thank you for asking, though."

Shane nodded, patting his hair dry fervently with his towel, although it felt like it was of little use. Water was still dripping into his eyes, and he had to blink it out every few seconds.

"You said you had a big family, right?" he asked curiously. "It sounds like they're very important to you. Did you spend a lot of time with them all before you moved out?"

With a dramatic fluorish, Alan shook off the remaining droplets of water from the twisted shirt. "Oh, yes," he said, a fond grin softening his features as he draped the damp garment over the counter. He leaned his bare back against the sink, snagging the towel to rub away the water from his glasses. "I have a very big family, and they mean the absolute world to me."

Alan let out a content hum, sliding his glasses back onto his face. "My immediate family is small, though. My father lives in the Kingdom, and my mother and twin brother lives here in Ruddlan. I also have aunts, uncles, and cousins here as well. They all live in the South End." A wistful smile crept into his voice. "I try to go out to visit when I can, but lately that turns out to be about once a week. I'm hoping I'll have more time to go over when the performance season winds down, though."

Shane smiled softly, stepping through the puddles to hover a little closer to the counter and listen attentively.

"They sound great," he said gently. "I've wanted a large family like that-- mine's more distant for the most part. A special, close-knit community so close by sounds lovely." He paused. "You've spoken about your parents, but do the rest of them support you in your musical endeavors?"

It was possible they didn't-- if they were the kind of family who didn't value music as a career path, which would be upsetting. On the other hand, if they were overly supportive, it could mean they'd pushed him into that path themselves.

"It is lovely," Alan affirmed with a soft smile. "Though, family is special no matter the size and distance." He bent his elbows back to perch on top of the counter. "But yes, they do support me in my musical endeavors, for the most part. Especially my parents." His smile broadened, pride evident in his voice. "It wasn't entirely intentional, but I think there's something really special about keeping tradition and pursuing a similar path that your family took."

"There is. I'm glad you find passion in it," Shane said warmly. "I can tell they matter a lot to you. Speaking of parents-- I don't know about yours, but mine want to meet you sometime. My dad wants to meet the friend who he told Mr. Legatto he's known for ages now."

Alan chuckled, pushing back the damp hair from his forehead that clung stubbornly to his skin. "Of course, especially because I'm sure Legatto will ask me about your father the next time I step in. I must be prepared with an arsenal of our heartwarming tales." He smiled wider. "But in all seriousness, yes-- I'd love to meet your parents." He gestured across the kitchen. "Especially since this is their home too, after all."

"They're great people. You'll be sure to make many memories after just a few minutes in their presence," Shane promised, before looking out the window with concern. "They were supposed to get back soon, but I hope they're inside. This storm has bad timing-- I was thinking I'd do stargazing tonight, like normal. But even when the rain stops I doubt it'll clear up in time."

Alan quietly hummed in thought. "Tomorrow will probably be clearer, at least," he offered. "The clouds will even clear up with the passing of the storm. Hopefully it will be a good night to do your stargazing then."

Shane hesitated, frowning a little. "I mean, it might be a better night for it," he said. "But I make a habit of it tonight."

Alan tilted his head with piqued curiosity. "Is there a special reason to form a habit to stargaze on this particular night?" he asked.

Shane shifted, fidgeting with his towel distractedly as he tried to buy himself some time to answer. As of a few days ago, that was suddenly a difficult task where it hadn't been before.

"I'm sorry," Alan said gently after a few beats of silence, straightening up. "You don't have to answer that if you don't want to."

"No, it's okay," Shane said quickly. "I'm fine answering. I just needed to think about how to do so. I-- I trust you."

Alan nodded. "Okay." He glanced towards the dining table. "Do you want to sit? Or are you still drying off?"

Shane looked down at himself. The extent to which he was still dripping wet was almost comical.

"...I might as well still be standing in the rain," he admitted.

"Standing it is, then," Alan said with a smile.

Shane offered a faint grateful smile that lasted for a couple seconds before it slipped away. He dropped his gaze to the towel in his hands.

"I stargaze on the first of every month," he said slowly. "Choosing what day of the month was arbitrary, I guess-- but it matters to me that it happens monthly. I had a... close friend, who I don't really know anymore and who left my life very suddenly. Because I didn't know where she went, I started watching the stars more closely, wondering what they looked like for her from wherever she was in the world. It's served as a time to reflect on my own for a while now."

He didn't want to complicate the story by saying he'd since found Eve. Was this whole habit about to become pointless, now that her location was no longer an unknown, and her view of the night sky had actually been the same as his for the last two years now? He didn't know if he wanted to let it go. It helped him to just... feel and let his heart truly ache without supressing it on a regular, predictable basis.

Alan's features softened as he fixed his full attention on Shane, taking in every word. "That's such a thoughtful gesture, Shane," he said softly and sincerely. "The sky connects you two together, no matter the time or distance. Though I hope, one day, it won't be the sky that connects you two, but the physical closeness of your bond. But until that happens, I hope you'll continue to make the time to sit with your feelings and reflections as the stars and moon shine back at you."

Shane smiled faintly in return, looking back up at him. Alan was more right than he knew. Although he and Eve weren't quite there yet.

"Thanks, Alan," he said quietly. "I hope so too. I guess you're right-- there's no reason not to do it tomorrow. And I can always get it right next month."

Just then, the smell of freshly brewed coffee hit his nose. Eager to fuel up, Shane moved towards the coffee pot. It was a bit late for it, and Kirk would've teased him if he knew, but it was worth the feeling of finally getting warm again--

He slipped. The tile of the kitchen was slick with water puddles, and his shoes lost their grip on the floor. With startled fright, Shane bowled into Alan, knocking him off balance as well.

He caught himself on the floor before his head could collide with the tile or with Alan, arms outstretched--

Fuck. Fuck.

A shockwave of pain spread up his left arm, like his nerves had gotten struck by lightning. His hand was on fire. It was all Shane could do to suppress the scream on his lips, clenching his jaw so that no sound-- not even the hiss he could feel forming between his teeth-- could escape.

And as if it couldn't get any fucking worse, he'd pinned Alan down in the fall, with his head lying on Alan's very shirtless chest. He tried to scramble away, but the tiniest movement of his arm sent another wave of agony through him. Shane sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

Dazed, Alan released a muffled groan as he rolled his head, his hand finding his way to tangle his fingers through Shane's hair. "Are you okay?" he wheezed a little too late.

Moving was apparently out of the question, so he had to speak. But Shane knew that if he opened his mouth, he wouldn't be able to get a word out. His vision was going white and spotty, and he couldn't think straight.

Defeated, he gave in and let out a faint, very pained whimper.

"Hey, hey," Alan's voice cut through the haze, gentle but urgent. He sprang upright, hands anchored on Shane's shoulders to keep him steady. "Shane. Are you hurt?"

Shane first nodded, then fervently shook his head no. A groan escaped his lips as he gingerly cradled his left hand to his chest.

"Did you hurt your hand?" Alan asked with growing concern.

"No. Yes. But no," Shane finally managed to hiss, shuddering.

"Do you need to go to the clinic? We can get you on a carriage to the Ashlund Clinic. They'll take care of you, I'm sure of it."

They would have pain meds there. But all Shane wanted to do was curl up into a ball like a wounded animal right here.

"I don't need to go," he said, voice strained.

"Are you sure?" Alan asked with increasing worry, still holding him steady by the shoulders. "If you broke your hand, we need to get you immediate medical attention."

"I didn't," Shane said through clenched teeth, taking a grunted breath. "I'm already injured. I have been for sixteen years."

Alan didn't comment further, but the worry was still present in his eyes. Slowly, Shane sat up on his own, trying to ground himself enough that he could at least speak in fuller sentences. The pain wasn't ebbing, but he was starting to be able to think around it.

"Someone broke my hand when I was nine," he said faintly. "And it didn't actually heal."

He realized he would've said anything to not have to go to the clinic right now-- or even just not to move again. It didn't even occur to him to consider that Alan might be indifferent to the source of the pain. And suddenly the words were spilling out.

"It was only some bully. Some other kid with a lot of aggression-- why he was that way, I don't know, but he liked to take it out on the quiet kids who couldn't fight back. He crushed my hand underfoot and threatened to kill my cat-- who was just a tiny kitten at the time-- if I told anyone." Shane drew in another sharp breath, attempting to blink away the spreading white spots. "Which-- I should've known he couldn't really have done. But when you're nine, and you're hurt and scared, you don't think about these things. You just do as you're told and hope that keeps it from happening again."

He needed to get himself under control. Shane counted five seconds quietly, breathing in for the first two and out for the last two.

"I... stayed quiet for a full week," he said, more hushed. "I shut up entirely and faked being uninjured. My parents were worried sick, but I was too afraid to explain. When they finally got it out of me, they got me checked immediately, and the doctors called it a malunion. It could've been fine if I'd said something and gotten it treated rapidly, because they would've reset the bone, but by that time the bone had already started to heal while misaligned. There was nothing to do about it."

The white spots were shrinking and Alan's face was getting clearer now, but with a bit of a start, Shane realized he was shaking. His voice might've been too.

"I'm not saying this for pity," he said quietly. "I just don't want to go to the clinic. Can you-- can you please just stay here instead?"

Alan then closed the distance and pulled Shane into a gentle hug, arms encircling Shane's back to create a blanket of warmth and safety between them. He left a pocket of space between their chests, mindful of his injured hand. Shane felt his heart clench as he returned it with his uninjured arm, tears that were only half from pain springing to his eyes.

"Of course, Shane," Alan said gently murmured in his ear, barely above a whisper. His thumb brushed against Shane's back, softly rubbing as a subtle, grounding motion. "I hear you. I see you. And I will stay with you."

Shane squeezed his eyes shut tightly as the first tear slid down his cheek. He drew in a rattled breath. Through the distraction of the pain, through the child-like panic still coursing through him, there was something else. He thought it might've been relief-- relief that he'd been able to admit to something ugly without the other person shying away. He clung onto that ember of hope and trust.

"Thank you, Alan," he whispered.

Kirk and Shane returned to the Hawking home like any other normal day, but James's return to the manor was somber. By the time the panic was over, his presence was explained, and the whole of the resistance at the Ruddlan Base was updated on his plans, it was late. He was exhausted from the repetitive conversations, the questions, and the barely-bridled hostility from most of those in the room. Some had been more cordial than others, but it was clear he was still unwelcome, even if Bo, as their leader, tried to set an example of being "accepting."

It didn't give him a lot of hope. He was beginning to get the feeling that starting over anywhere was going to be impossible.

And he had so much to wade through until then. Returning to the manor felt like walking into an ambush he expected to happen. He just didn't know how, or when.

Deidra had been left unconscious outside the barn. That was the last thing she'd remember, and the last thing Carter would've heard.

Gods, this was becoming overbearing.

The ride back into Ruddlan had been long. When he'd finally stabled Billy, things were quiet. The barn was empty of any servants, and there was no evidence of a struggle left behind where Deidra might've been.

Eve had gotten her by surprise.

James had been rolling through different explanations the whole ride over. Could he pin this on the Blue Suns? They were already suspected of causing trouble with the Hawkings, and at the neighboring home to theirs, as well. Perhaps because of the lumshade dart, it could be justifiably explained away as one of many attacks within the estate.

The only problem was, James hadn't been faced with any danger. He could say that he'd run away from an assailant, but then he'd have to create a fictional assailant and send the militia on a wild goose chase. Besides, that kind of lie wouldn't win him more freedom either, with Carter's guise that this was all for his "protection." It's just justify watching James. It would prove Carter's point.

James slowed as he approached the manor, stopping on the front steps with anxious anticipation.

The air was thick and humid. It was nearly midnight, but it was still unbearably warm. James knew that he smelled of sweat from riding half the day away. There was no covering that up.

Taking in a deep breath, James came in through the front door, using the key. He tried to enter as silently as possible, guiding the door on its hinges with just the right amount of pressure to keep it from creaking. He shut it behind him, slowly turning the handle so the lock settled silently back into place. The air inside the manor was considerably cooler, but somehow just as thick.

James held his breath as he tip-toed across the floorboards. By now, he knew which ones were guilty of creaking. He chose his steps carefully, passing by the door to the basement half-wishing Caspar was awake to greet him, if only to have the safety blanket and buffer of his presence to whatever awaited him. If anyone was waiting for him.

When he made it to the hall, it was empty. There was no night guard by the door, and though the absence should've been a relief, it only made James more nervous.

Carter would've dismissed them. He only would've dismissed them for one reason. He wanted to handle this himself.

Clenching his jaw, James snuck up to his own bedroom door, resting his head against it with tension pulling on every muscle.

He was so glad that after his mistake with Shane, he'd entrusted all damning evidence into Caspar's posession. There was nothing in his room to find except a jacket with too many pockets. Pockets, that now had nothing in them. For now, at least.

Pushing down the dread in his gut, James opened the door.

For a split second, he was about to sigh in relief.

Then he saw Carter, sitting at the desk, turned to face him. The lamp on the desk was alight.

Just great.

James stepped in and closed the door behind him. What was he in for this time? A lecture? Another punishment? Was Carter going to put him in time out, now? Whatever it was, James was already tired of it.

James looked to Carter expectantly. Waiting.

"I've been worried about you," Carter said after too many seconds of drawn out silence, staring at each other.

So they were starting with this again. False pretense, and pretending this was all because Carter cared about him. It was getting harder and harder to believe, and still, James found a part of him wanted to. He bristled and finally let out the sigh he wanted to, despite finding no relief in it.

"Just let me explain," James said lowly.

Carter pursed his lips and shook his head.

"No. You don't have to. I understand," Carter said. "I've been too harsh on you. This is my fault."

James blinked.

What was this... some kind of fake-out? He shifted his weight unsteadily.

"I spoke with Ingrid and Hellen today," Carter said. "And they share your grievances. Despite your being irresponsible, they both agree that you deserve your freedoms. You're a grown man and to treat you as less so is demeaning."

A beat.

"I still think it best you have Deidra with you during the day," Carter admitted with a shrug. "But at night is overkill."

James stared at Carter, and the temptation to roll his eyes at him was almost unbearable. He instead rubbed his face with his hand and sighed. He didn't want to deal with this anymore. He didn't know what to say. It wasn't like he had a choice.

"Sure, Carter," he said wearily. "That... sure. I don't care anymore."

Which he regretted saying, because Carter's head tilted questioningly.

"You think I'm not merciful?" Carter asked.

James pressed his lips into a line.

That wasn't the point, and Carter was putting words in his mouth that weren't there. This wasn't about Carter easing up on the privacy violations.

"I don't want to do this again," he said softly.

He wished he could leave, but he didn't want to take this out into the rest of the manor where everyone would hear it.

"Do what, Tiberius?" Carter asked. But his curiosity felt forced.

"Fight with you," James confessed quietly, stepping back by the door.

Carter's expression morphed from focused and pressing to something more searching, like he was trying to get in James's head. He got to his feet and took a step towards James, leaving the space of a few feet between them.

"It doesn't have to be a fight," Carter said more gently.

But the tone put James on edge. He knew Carter too well. He always tried to get James's defenses down before he pulled the knife.

"Then we should part ways now," James said, weaker. "It's late anyway. I'm sorry you stayed up waiting for me."

Carter didn't move for the door like James had hoped.

"Where were you?" Carter asked instead, staring intently up into James's eyes.

It was a simple, straightforward question.

"I went for a ride," James said.

"For the better half of the day, I know," Carter said.

James didn't let the silence that followed egg him into giving more information, but he could feel Carter's intent gaze intensifying.

The seconds dragged on, and James glanced back at the door.

"You're probably tired," James tried again.

"Just for a ride," Carter said more firmly. "But you left so quickly. What had you in such a rush you had to render Deidra unconscious?"

Who said he left quickly? Deidra wouldn't have been aware of that.

So. At least one of the servants on the estate was a snitch. If not more.

"You know, Carter," James said lowly. "I get to have a private life, without you in it."

Carter narrowed his eyes.

"No matter how much you want to control me," James added.

And he could feel Carter's mind calculating - trying to figure out what James was hiding, if anything, and how to find it. He could see Carter's head already swirling with theories because Carter used to voice them to James about everyone else. He was always evaluating, always paying attention, always trying to think ahead.

"So it's a woman," Carter said.

And for however much of a reach it was, all it drew of James was hissed: "Oh, fuck you."

James crossed the room, shaking out his hands as he went around the bed, because frankly, he felt safer with a physical barrier. Carter clearly didn't feel the same, because he followed, stopping only at the corner of the base board to lean on it with one hand.

"Does that mean I'm right?" Carter asked.

"You lost the right to that kind of information a long time ago," James said in a low growl, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned against the wall.

Carter huffed, twitching his head in indignation.

"That so?" he asked. "Remind me of the day."

Which was rich, coming from him. As if either of them would forget.

"Do you really not want to fight?" James asked. "Or are you just trying to get me to start it?"

"Oh, Tiberius," Carter lilted with a too-casual, too-teasing tilt of his head. "When have you not?"

"Get out of my room," James snapped, settling his glare on him.

Carter instead sat on the edge of the bed. "You have a bad habit of making things difficult from the start," Carter said. "Maybe we should start over."

"Where are we starting over from?" James asked. "Ten minutes ago? We'd have better luck if we went back ten years."

Carter's teasing grin froze stale, and his eyes glazed over with something simultaneously wounded and volatile. James hadn't meant to dig that deep; it'd spilled out of him. Something in Carter's voice wavered.

"Do you really resent me that much?" Carter asked quietly, leaning off the bed.

James didn't know how to answer honestly.

He flipped the question back around.

"Do you?"

Carter's brows drew together as he dropped his eyes to the floor.

Neither of them answered. But the silence said it all. It was a truth that had been growing for some time, but it hurt more to have it exposed, without all of the posturing, and the performance for everyone else. An invisible knife twisted into James's side that made him ache, and something about the sharp pain felt real.

With arms still folded, he dropped a hand a little lower, over the twinge in his ribs.

"I never blamed you for it," Carter said, looking away to the side of the room, eyes still downcast. "You did what you had to do."

Gods, James wanted to believe him.

"I may have let fear get the better of me," Carter said. "But I never stopped caring for you."

He paused.

"You've always been like family," Carter said. "Still are. I guess I thought... I just imagined, after everything we've been through, that you'd be at my side after all of it. I thought our friendship would grow stronger. But it just feels like I've lost you."

James's heart sunk into his gut, and he leaned further against the wall. The pain in the side of his lungs felt like it was starting to radiate. He didn't know why all of this felt so wrong. Everything about this whole year had been wrong.

Carter was saying everything he wanted to hear: but that was just it. It felt like Carter was mirroring his own emotions, but didn't have any of his own. James had already expressed those same sentiments in different words, however subtly. It wouldn't be a difficult conclusion to make.

What made it hurt all the more was, despite how many times Carter turned everything he said back around on him... he still wanted to believe Carter. He wanted to believe this was real. He wanted to believe Carter was still the same kid he met all those years ago.

Simple. Smart. Lonely. Looking for a friend.

But maybe James had only seen those things because he didn't know what else to look for. If Carter hadn't been seven years older, maybe James would feel like there was more of a level playing field. But as it stood... James met Carter when he was eleven.

Carter had been seventeen, just on the cusp of adulthood.

James hadn't realized quite how much he'd withdrawn into himself until Carter approached again, and James had no more space to go back anymore. His back was pressed up against the wall.

"You won't let me in anymore," Carter said, softer. "What must I do to regain your trust?"

James shook his head. No. He didn't want to do this again. He didn't want to be disappointed. Again.

"I'm sorry," Carter said. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"Sorry for what?" James shot back, his voice tighter than he anticipated.

His throat was knotting.

"Sorry," Carter said slowly, as he set his hand on James's shoulder. James tensed.

"For taking you in, when you were a rain-soaked boy on my doorstep," Carter said all too tenderly for the way it made James's breaths hitch, and his body freeze up.

James couldn't form a thought, nevermind words.

"That's what you wanted me to say," Carter said quietly, lightly dragging his hand down James's arm. "Wasn't it? Since you're determined to think I'm heartless."

James's stony glare finally began to crack against his will. His brows drew together, and the ends of his mouth curled downward.

"Get out of my room," he said, this time in a pleading whisper as tears began to prick at his eyes.

James watched all of the empathy seep out of Carter's expression, and it turned to a cold indifference.

"I still want you on my side," Carter said lowly.

But it was too late for that. Carter's grip tightened on James's arm. James threw his arms out to shove him -- but Carter grabbed James's sleeve and threw him into the bed so quickly and forcefully that James bounced off of it like a richocheted bullet and landed on the floor.

His head bumped the base of the bed's frame on the way down, and James groaned as his head immediately began to protest to another injury with dizzying throbbing. James threw his arms up too late to catch or shield himself from further blows that didn't come.

Carter stood over him at his feet.

"Think about what loyalties you care to keep, Tiberius," Carter said cooly.

The image of Carter was spinning.

"I expect you to be more honest the next time we speak," Carter said. "Unless I really have lost the closest thing to a brother I've ever had."

And as if that wasn't enough, Carter turned to leave, content now that he had the last word. James was too disoriented to get up before he heard the door shut, and when he finally managed to crawl up onto his bed, he felt himself collapse with his face to the sheets.

Hot tears fell into the covers, and James stifled the cry at the back of his throat.

He couldn't wait for this summer to be over. He couldn't wait for everything to be over.

It was just one more box in the bedroom, tucked away in the corner. The lid was slightly ajar, and one of his jackets spilled out from digging through the day before. It was otherwise unsuspecting and harmless.

Lyall stared it down from the comfort of bed. However innocently it sat, it cast from its corner a strange feeling of dread. He still hadn't been able to bring himself to really address it, and it'd been a few weeks since moving in.

He flipped over, turning his back to it - it wasn't like it could go anywhere - and quietly watched his love spruce up for the day. The closet door behind him was fully open, putting on full display Lyall's still-empty half of it.

"It's the weekend," Lyall spoke up with a grin in his voice. "Surely you could go in just a little later?"

Santiago shook his head, slotting the buttons of his ironed work shirt. "I've been late too many times this month, Lyall," he said, a gentle rejection to his invitation. He slid his gray suit jacket away from its hanger, sliding in his arms.

Only three times, Lyall thought. Maybe four. He didn't press the matter, though. It was more than reasonable to not stretch the good graces of Santiago's editor.

"Do you think you can hang your closet items today?" Santiago asked as he straightened out his jacket, gaze fixed on the abandoned box.

Slipping out of bed, paying the stupid box no mind, Lyall sleepily padded up to him and brushed his fingers to the lapel of Santiago's coat. "I shall certainly endeavor to do so."

Santiago relaxed under his touch, features softening as he looked into his eyes. He brushed his hand against Lyall's bare shoulder, fingers softly rubbing against his skin to say goodbye. "I'll be back in the afternoon," he murmured, voice low but tender.

Grin turning utterly affectionate, Lyall cupped his face and stroked his thumb over the subtle curve of Santiago's cheek. He let a beat of quiet pass between them, if only to drink in the way the sun caught on Santiago's lashes, the tangerine morning light warming his usually sharp grey eyes.

Santiago was determined and duty-bound. Intentional with his time, which Lyall always admired rather deeply. He felt compelled to bid him goodbye with an "I love you".

Leaning in, Lyall lovingly murmured instead, "You look dashing," and briefly pecked him on the lips.

When he drew back, Santiago followed to let the kiss linger for a second longer. Pleasantly surprised, Lyall soaked in his unspoken affection. Then let go of his jacket and watched Santiago stride out to directly face his day.

Lyall stood in the quiet that followed. He glanced over his shoulder at the half-packed box in the corner. Then threw on some clothes and hurried out to address the living room instead.



Despite its incomplete state, the bedroom was merely the eye of the storm. Weeks' worth of Lyall's efforts to integrate into Santiago's corner of the world was still strewn across the rest of the flat. The place was by no means presentable. Fueled by coffee, a plain slice of bread, and the anticipation of an imminent guest, Lyall pattered about trying to rein in his mess.

Santiago had the patience of a saint, only on occasion gently prodding for Lyall to try and tackle at least one isolated area. Amidst the new, ever-growing pile of interview notes, Lyall found it increasingly hard to focus on one task. Even though Santiago added to his daily workload to support both of them for the time being, he also quietly picked up Lyall's slack in the background of everything, tidying whatever fell directly in his paths to the best of his ability.

However deeply Lyall fell down his own passion projects, he still felt his mess looming over him. Today was the day he was going to finally brute force his way to fixing it.

"Personally, I think the boxes really bring the place together," Alan mused, unsolicited, when he arrived with no warning of a drop-by visit. "It really adds to the geometric brutalist aesthetic that Santiago seems to enjoy." He paused, thoughtfully humming before adding, "Could use a splattering a color to brighten the place up, though. Unless you also like the grayscale."

Lyall had told him to get comfortable instead, and Alan took it literally. He draped himself across three boxes in a row lined up against one another, feet dangling over the edge. A pillow cradled against his head as he gazed up into the ceiling, lost in thought.

Straightening, arms full of his writing supplies from his bedroom desk at the clinic, Lyall cast him a vaguely amused look. "I'll concern myself with minute details such as color palettes after I finally put necessities in order, thank you."

He dumped the writing supplies on top of his interview notes, scanning the flat for an appropriate spot. There was a small secretary desk by the window.

Alan turned his head towards him, eyeing the box. "Are you sure you don't want help? Seems that you could use a second pair of hands."

"One pair is sufficient," Lyall absently insisted. Crossing the room, he opened the desk drawer. Already filled - minimally, of course, and with precision. Per Santiago's preference. He then folded down the front of it to assess the inner compartments. Similarly filled. Adding Lyall's own things would change his system, which Lyall was hesitant to do. He closed it all up again to think of a new solution.

"Well, you seem awfully stressed for something that should be enjoyable," Alan said with a smile, playful teasing in his voice. "You know you can always count on others to help you."

"I'm not stressed," Lyall countered, reassessing the flat, "only thinking."

Alan waved a finger in the air, drawling out, "That's a sign you're stressed."

Lyall frowned slightly, but didn't comment.

Well, the side table holding the vase in the corner also had a drawer. As he passed the window for it, a gathering crowd with messily-scrawled signs caught his eye. A few of them called for criminal trial reform; most of them demanded the mayor's withdrawal from the upcoming election. Something compelling about true democracy.

"Maybe you could think out loud, then?" Alan prodded, cutting into his thoughts.

"Sure," Lyall chirped, "I can entertain." The drawer was empty, aside from a letter opener. That could simply move over into Santiago's desk, which made more sense anyway. "What did Barlowe think of my King's Hand report?"

Alan rolled his head back to stare into the ceiling, bending an arm back to support his head. "It went fine," he answered dully. "She doesn't really comment on the reports. I'm not sure what she thought about it." He glanced back with a slight smile. "I thought it was well-structured, though. Thank you for writing it."

Lyall scoffed as he arranged his things. "A shame she doesn't actually give feedback," he said sympathetically. "No wonder you were lost on direction."

Alan shot him a flat look. "I wasn't 'lost on direction,'" he spat with offense. "I would have handled it just fine, but you insisted that you do this for me."

"You're right, I'm sorry," Lyall said with no real remorse. He shut the side table drawer, considered that box finished, and shooed at Alan with both hands to move on to the remaining three boxes beneath him. "And you breaking down on the bathroom floor was you 'handling it just fine'."

"I did not break down," Alan said defiantly, squinting up at him, unmoving. "Need I remind you that you were being unnecessarily nosy that day? You were the one who overreacted."

"It's fine," Lyall relented, raising his hands in surrender, "we shall forever remember the moment very differently. My accuracy is infallible, so I rest assured in my personal account." He set his hands on his hips. "Now move."

Alan stared up at him, lips pulled back with agitation. "No," he said stubbornly. "I'm comfortable, and you didn't want my help."

"Fine, I want your help," Lyall monotoned. "Help me by moving your ass."

"I'll consider it if you ask nicely."

Lyall pursed his lips. "Please move your ass," he snarkily amended.

"Denied," Alan chirped with a flippant fluorish of his hand. "Try again."

"Screw you."

Scooping both hands under Alan's back and legs, Lyall unceremoniously dropped his stubborn friend to the floor. Alan landed on a side with a satisfying thud, his indignant, "Lyall!" cutting through the air.

"Alan," Lyall said with bright thanks in his tone, and dug into the box under the pillow without further ado.

Alan scampered to sit up, glasses slightly jostled from the fall. As he straightened them, he cast Lyall a dismayed look, utterly displeased. Frankly satisfied and without an ounce of shame, Lyall ignored him as he stacked some books into his arms and made his way to the book shelf. Which looked half empty, but he knew Santiago's precise and strange organizational system also applied here. He squinted at the titles, trying to determine if it was alphabetical by author or title.

Alan shuffled behind, but not without a thud. A few book had been plucked out of his box, only for one to be clumsily dropped to clatter against the floor. Alan quickly bent down to gather the fallen book, rushing out to follow Lyall towards the bookshelf.

"How did you get the details for the King's Hand, anyways?" he asked behind him, slotting in the books without a thought of organization. "They were quite specific and detailed."

Lyall cast him a quick grin, oddly pleased knowing that Alan actually read the report. "I have my ways," he said with a playfully feigned air of mystery, promptly taking the newly-placed books back out.

"Fonzi?" Alan prodded, sliding another book into the shelf.

With his free hand, Lyall smacked at Alan's and took that one from the shelf too. Alan pulled back, scoffing in offense.

"Mr. Heart, yes," Lyall grumbled. He shifted Santiago's books around, before placing his own books with far more intention. "He honestly makes it too easy. Have a drink with him here, offer a sympathetic ear there, and boom. He rants about frustrations, I get all the glorious little details of their tactical weaknesses as individuals and a collective."

Alan reached up to set the the remaining stacked books on the barren top shelf, no longer bothering to slot them in upright. "How much of your free time did you spend on this?" he asked.

"I told you, it was easily obtained information," Lyall said in answer, glaring up at the out-of-reach texts. He stood on his toes, and just barely managed to brush the very edge of the bottom-most book. It wasn't enough to pull them back down.

"Do you need help?" Alan mocked, wearing a knowing smile.

"Gods damn you," Lyall said matter-of-factly, opting to ignore it for now with a defeated droop of his shoulders.

"So, how many hours a week did you spend on the report?" Alan asked again, reframing the question.

"Who keeps track of that," Lyall said dismissively, turning back to the boxes.

Alan drifted over his shoulder. "Rough estimations are fine. If not time tracked, then do you recall how many visits you had with Fonzi?"

"A few times," he answered with a vague, noncommittal shrug.

Lyall considered his doctor's bag in the second box. Should that be in the kitchen, or the restroom? The bedroom? Somewhere easily accessible from any given point within the flat. Where was the center-most part of the place? He slowly circled the living room with the bag under his arm, creating a mental diagram of the apartment layout.

"Lyall," Alan called gently across the room, hovering over his box of wall decor that Lyall hadn't yet touched.

Slowing to a stop, Lyall blinked owlishly at him.

With deliberate care, Alan extracted the top canvas poking out of the box. His fingers traced the edge of the frame, admiring it with a fond smile. "Have you reduced your hours at the clinic?" he asked.

"Significantly," Lyall confirmed. The colors of the framed canvas drew him closer to admire it from beside his friend.

It was comprised of impressionist-like lines and dots, an artful symphony of all perceivable colors that beautifully protrayed the likeness of three different plants. It was Lyall's favorite decorative piece, from the keeper of his favorite bookstore in South End.

"All hours?" Alan pressed. Canvas against his chest, he angled the frame to face Lyall directly as he moved, holding the edges steady with both hands.

Lyall let him do as he pleased with the painting - he trusted Alan with its placement. The oil pastel piece reminded him of his actual potted plants that he had neglected to decide on official placement for. His basil, for instance, could actually sit on the secretary desk for the necessary hours of daylight. With an "oh!" he backtracked to the window and picked up the pot from the floor.

"Lyall," Alan laughed with fond amusement. He leapt to stand on the cushion of the sofa, canvas still in hand. "Did you hear me?"

"Hm, what?" Pausing in his careful angling of the pot - he wanted the sun pattern on one side visible from the front door - Lyall twisted around to look curiously at Alan.

"Did you reduce all your hours at the clinic?" Alan asked, once again reframing the question.

"Oh." Lyall turned back to his basil plant. "Yes."

Hence, he couldn't convince Santiago to arrive late for work anymore.

Should the sun be centered, or off-set, actually? He brushed his fingers over the bands of stucco and basket-weave texture of the clay, trying to decide how much negative space should be visible.

"What do you think of this?" Alan suddenly asked, interrupting his thoughts. He peered over his shoulder for Lyall's approval, gesturing towards the colorful painting that now hung over the sofa.

Lyall's gaze skimmed over the plain, beige canvas now sitting on the floor, to the lively likeness of the potted plants that had replaced it.

"Gods, yes," Lyall declared with open approval and relief. "Some fucking color."

Alan chuckled, gesturing vaguely to the room. "You live here too, you know. Nothing's stopping you from bringing as much color in here as you want."

Lyall scoffed. "Good one." He moved on to place his lavender. "I live here, but it's still a shared place, Alan. I can't usurp all stylistic decision-making on him." He placed the lavender beside the basil, then meticulously angled the intricate rosemaling of the glass outward too. "He likes what he likes."

Instead of hopping down from the sofa, Alan instead collapsed into the cushions with a theatrical flair, sinking into the seat. "You both love each other, so you love what he loves, and he loves what you love," he said with a vague wave of his hand, crossing his legs over the foot rest. "And since you love the color, I'm sure he would too."

His fittonias still sat on the floor, likely displeased for the neglect. Lyall picked it up to admire the cracked terracotta teapot he repurposed for it. Then plucked a llama-shaped statuette from the second box and placed both on the empty table in the sitting room. Satisfied with his progress, he then dropped back onto the sofa beside Alan.

"To be determined," Lyall joked, sinking lower into the cushions to prop up his heels on the table. "Nothing's permanent until he personally approves it."

Alan tilted his head questioningly. "Why seek his approval?"

Grinning, Lyall mirrored his head tilt with open confusion. "What?"

Lyall barely had time to process Alan's question before his friend was in motion again. Like a cat sprawling out in a beam of sunlight, Alan twisted on the sofa, laying horizontally. His head landed on Lyall's lap, one arm raised to drape over him.

"You need a break," Alan murmured under him. "I'm trapping you here so you don't move."

With an exaggerated, put-upon sigh, Lyall let his arm fall across Alan's chest. "I accept my fate. I'm done thinking."

"Then I'll leave you with one last thought," Alan said triumphantly, poking his chest.

"Nooo," Lyall whined, tempted to swat the pillow at Alan's face, "no more thoughts."

But of course, Alan continued: "You don't need anyone's approval to show you love them. And." He smiled fondly, pulling away his poking hand to also rest across his own chest. "Thank you for looking after me. It really does mean the world to me."

Lyall idly drummed his hand on Alan's chest, watching the afternoon light glint off the silver band on his finger. Then he let it rest, briefly glancing over Alan's still-unclaimed hand just beside Lyall's.

"Of course," he said lightly, casting him a genuine smile in turn. Adding, sincerely and without a second thought, "You're my best friend, Alan."

In the next beat of comfortable quiet between them, Lyall was tempted to adjust Alan's still slightly askew glasses.

A quiet patter that he knew as Santiago came from the main hallway. The door's lock turned.

Panic struck Lyall. He instinctively threw Alan off from the sofa entirely. He barely registered Alan's disgruntled exclamation as he bounded over the table himself to assume an unassuming stance on his feet.

Door swinging open, Santiago appeared in the doorway carrying two full paper bags with his family shop logo stamped on it. Confused, he sauntered in, slowing to a stop by the kitchen when he noticed their positions.

"Lyall," he greeted with neutral affection. Then his eyes drifted to Alan who had just perked up, seating on the floor. He turned his back on him, lowly greeting, "Alvaro."

"My love," Lyall greeted with a bright grin. He made a beeline for him to take half his load and peck him on the cheek.

"Hi, Romero," Alan said with too much enthusiasm. Still on the floor, he lounged against the body of the sofa, elbow perched on the cushion over his shoulder, a picture of calculated nonchalance. "Nice to see you again."

Santiago cast a vaguely baffled look over his shoulder, but did not otherwise comment. He brushed his arm against Lyall's back as he passed him to unload a bag.

Lyall set the bag on the island in the kitchen to disassemble. "Of course you fit in a grocery trip, all the while remaining punctual as ever."

"I met with my family," Santiago answered, already beginning to organize the contents set on the counter. "I do have to go in to work again and stay later, though."

With a hum, Lyall folded down the emptied bags.

Santiago met with his parents and brother every once in awhile. Mostly for the simple reason that they asked him to. Duty-bound, Santiago would always agree and visit.

Not expecting a very long answer, Lyall asked, "How are they doing lately? It's been awhile since I last saw them." To which, Santiago gave the usual rundown. Parents were fine, brother was fine, shop was fine. His mother's birthday was coming up, which Lyall made a mental note of. He'd have to join next time to bring her a gift, his well-wishes, and a healthy portion of fun. The Santiagos were perfectly pleasant and amicable, but Lyall felt they could use a little bit more fun.

Now with the kitchen cleared out, Santiago slung his work bag over his shoulder. His eyes drifted to the sofa where Alan now sat with studied casualness, a book propped open in his hands.

"How was unpacking?" Santiago asked, fixing his attention back on Lyall by the doorway.

Lyall trailed closely after him, slipping both arms around Santiago's waist. "We made good progress," he answered, trying not to think of the ignored box still in the bedroom. "Books, shelved. Plants, in order." He gave him a quick, light kiss on the tip of his nose, grinning when it predictably softened Santiago's gaze. And added with a sillier grin, "Llama, on sentry duty."

Alan vaguely remembered Above a Midnight Sun.

He traced the worn spine of the literary classic, memories flickering in his mind. Primary school felt like a lifetime ago. It was a time when he was young, rebellious, and naive. Disinterested in learning about subjects that he felt were not applicable in his life, he hardly took his classes seriously and just only passed by doing the bare minimum.

He did remember this story being placed on the summer reading list during the year he dropped out, though. Something about a lunar eclipse, a romance drama turned tragedy. Alan didn't care to read it at the time because the language was outdated and overly formal.

Of course Lyall would like this dusty book enough to read it.

Alan was acutely aware of Lyall and Santiago chatting by the doorway, exchanging hugs, kisses, and whispered goodbyes. Ordinarily, he would have reveled seeing others in love. But in the comfort of their own home, he felt a bit like an intruder watching from the outside.

Burying his nose deeper in the book, Alan was determined to give them space and privacy to be overly affectionate in private. Or at least, he tried to. It was difficult to not tune them out when the book he held were as dry as rocks. His ears strained, catching snippets of whispered endearments and the soft sounds of kisses.

Seriously, Lyall? Why did he have this book?

Alan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, scooting down the sofa to find a more pleasant spot. He heard vague mention of talks relating to the newspaper clippings that Lyall wrote for RADICAL, but it was undercut with rustles of affection that Alan once more turned away from.

His gaze wandered to the window. Protesters gathered just outside, demanding for Barlow's resignation. There was a certain kind of irony in knowing that the protests were happening outside the home of the writers who wrote the newspaper articles that catalyzed the protests.

Alan snapped to attention when the door creaked open. He shut the book, quickly calling, "Oh hey, Romero?" to grab his attention.

Santiago stood by the doorway, doorknob in hand. He cast Alan a half-miffed look-- which he often did whenever he called him on a first-name basis, but he had stopped correcting him at this point.

"Question for you," Alan continued, fingers pointing upwards towards the newly hung canvas. "What do you think about this painting?"

Santiago's eyes drifted upwards, brows furrowed with mild confusion. Lyall beside him fixed an attentive look on the side of Santiago's face.

"What about the painting, specifically?" Santiago asked, words slower and more deliberate.

"I was wondering your overall thoughts about it," Alan continued with a shrug, smiling innocently. "Do you like the composition and the vibrancy of colors?"

Santiago took a moment to study the painting, but then turned to Lyall instead, ignoring Alan. "Do you like it?" he asked.

Idly rubbing Santiago's back, Lyall tilted his head, putting on a show of contemplation. "It's a nice spot," he answered with an easy grin, "but it could go anywhere."

Santiago mirrored the gentle tilt of his head. "Am I hearing a yes?"

"Yes," Lyall softly conceded, expression melting into fondness, "I do like it."

Santiago cupped the edge of Lyall's jaw, angling his face to face him directly. "Then I do, too."

Smile positively brightening, Lyall pecked him on the lips. "Don't work too hard, love," he said, both his soft thanks and fond farewell in his voice.

"Bye, Romero," Alan added, lifting a hand for a farewell wave-- but Santiago had already shut the door without another glance of acknowledgement.

"You cheeky pest," Lyall said, immediately turning a teasing grin his way.

Alan grinned back, leaning his elbow against the armrest. "Like I said," he began matter-of-factly with a swirl of his hand, "he loves what you love, you love what he loves. No permission needed."

Waving him off, Lyall picked up the little llama from the table and lightly tossed it to Alan with a playful, "Don't drop it," as he passed. Determinedly, he set himself about to unpacking again.

Alan caught the llama with both hands, inspecting it closely between his thumb and forefinger. "Things between you two seem well," he commented, twisting the figurine around in different angles. "Really well, it seems."

Head buried in his things, Lyall gave a muffled huff of amusement. "Things are very well, thank you for noticing."

Alan hummed faintly, finger tracing over the intricate etches of the carved llama. This object popped with personality: a whimsical oddity in comparison to Santiago's basic, neutral preferences. A llama inside a gray apartment may as well be symbolic of their relationship, too. Lyall was a lively, animated fire that shined brightly in Santiago's cool, steady night.

Alan couldn't help but wonder if his friend was unfairly comparing himself and adjusting to the darkness when he was meant for bigger, brighter futures.

He set the llama back on the end tables, resting on top of Lyall's copy of Above a Midnight Sun.

"If things are very well," Alan began, sitting up straighter and giving Lyall his full attention, "then why were you worried he wouldn't like your items?"

Peeking up over the edge of the box, Lyall cast him another uncertain grin. "Excuse me?"

Without re framing the question, Alan repeated more amicably, "If things are very well, then why were you worried he wouldn't like your items?"

Shrugging, Lyall set on the floor beside him a little standing clock and a matching llama figurine, wearing colors of opposite of the one on the table. "He has," he started slowly, spinning a hand in circles to urge on the right words, "an aesthetic for as long as either of us have known him."

"But you do too," Alan added gently.

"I'm adaptable," Lyall said flatly.

"And he is too," Alan stubbornly countered, clasping his hands together on his lap.

Sitting back on his haunches, Lyall raised both arms in a broad, incredulous shrug. "What do you want from me, Alan? Yes, turns out he's fine with it. You were right, and it's a non-issue." He quirked both brows pointedly, urging him to drop the subject.

Alan kept his gaze fixed on Lyall, features softening. Lyall was right; this was a non-issue. But it was also a conversation.

"I don't want a lot of things from you," he said more slowly, more deliberate, voice gentle. "What I want from you isn't necessarily what I ask of you."

This only earned him another confused head tilt.

Alan slipped his feet to be set firmly on the floor, sitting up straighter. "But in this case, what I want and ask of you are harmonized: I want and ask you to express yourself more freely-- whatever that looks like to you, no matter the company." Alan searched his eyes, adding more softly, "That's all."

Lyall's brows furrowed. Then his expression turned flat once more when it seemed to click for him. "Trust me," he said, tone plain and dismissive again as he leaned back down into the box, "I'll let you know what I really think when I think it."

Which was not the point. This wasn't even about Alan.

"I know," Alan said steadily. "I know you will." He shifted his weight beneath the cushion as he tried to word this in a way that would make sense for Lyall's dense self. He settled on a more blunt approach by directly asking, "But do you do the same for Santiago?"

Huffing more irritably, Lyall sat back again, hands moodily clapping down onto his lap. "What are you trying to say, Alvaro," he demanded, voice dangerously even. "Out with it."

This was a touchy subject. Was he pushing too far?

"Okay," Alan murmured, thumb rubbing against the fabric of the armrest. "What I mean to say..."

He didn't want to upset Lyall. Genuinely, Alan was so happy for him. He loved that he was in love, and he loved seeing him in love. He didn't want him to think any different. Lyall truly had Alan's support until the end of times. He was by no means trying to offend or cast doubt.

"Lyall," he called more firmly, sitting at the edge of his seat, meeting his eyes. "You're a fucking mess." He smiled, gesturing openly towards him. "But you're a beautiful mess. Maybe things seem stressful or tense right now, and maybe you're worried about how others see you-- but from where I am right now, I see you as someone burning with warm passion. And I've never seen you happier."

A series of emotions flickered across Lyall's face as he spoke. From agitation to offense, to a hint of beginning to understand, then back to mere confusion. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Could you, for once," he said, without any heat behind it, "just try to make some sense."

Alan scrubbed his hands over his face, unsure how that could have been misinterpreted. "What about that doesn't make sense?" he grumbled, rubbing at his face.

"I don't know." Lyall shrugged both shoulders. "Perhaps the dissonance between 'beautiful mess'- which doesn't exist, by the way - apparent normal levels of stress, and passion and happiness or whatever." He waved both hands, as if trying to physically move along the conversation now as he punctuated with a harder, "Save it."

Alan threw a hand in the air before accusingly pointing at him, palm up. "I'm trying tell you that I care about you," he said more concisely. Lyall really needed him to spell out sentences, devoid of any emotional sentiments whatsoever.

"Then don't be so cryptic and Magiavellian about it," Lyall shot back.

"I'm not--" Alan scoffed in offense and a wild waving his arm. "I wasn't trying to! I was being perfectly clear!"

Lyall waved dubious circles around himself. "Did I indicate anywhere on my face 'I read you loud and clear'?"

Alan hastily stood on his feet, both hands splayed in front of him. "Lyall," he called evenly, head tilted downward towards his friend. "You're blowing this out of proportion. You're right: this is a non-issue. I'm not trying to offend."

"Sodding hypocrite," was all Lyall grumbled in response as he tried shooing him away.

"I'm not sure why you're upset with me. What did I say?" Alan pressed.

"Nothing that made sense!" Lyall insisted, scooping up the trinkets on the floor and hopping upright.

"I make perfect sense!" Alan yelled towards the ceiling. "I said I care about you!"

"Well you don't have to be an ass about it!" Lyall yelled back.

"How was I an ass?!" Alan asked indignantly, voice raised.

"I get it, alright?!" Tossing aside the things in his arms, Lyall aggressively poked at Alan's chest. "Mister Musical Romantic has the perfect love life, just dripping with every conceivable saccharine sentiment under this sun!" With a more forceful jab, he pushed Alan back, nearly causing him to stumble back onto the sofa. "The perfect love for the fucking ages. Well, I'm sorry we can't all have the 'perfect love'. But what I have with Santiago is real, and will actually fucking last. 'Til death do us part." Stepping back, he threw his hands skyward to keep from physically taking out his anger on him again. "Now fucking back off!"

Alan couldn't believe this. This was why Lyall was upset? Because of--

"Are you jealous of me?" Alan asked incredulously. "That's what this is about?"

Turning away, Lyall scoffed a bitter-sounding laugh, but Alan stepped up and forcefully grabbed hold of his shoulder.

"Answer me," Alan demanded lowly, grip tightening, leveling to meet his eyes. "Don't turn your back on me."

"Get over yourself!" Lyall barked, shoving at him again. But Alan's death grip was insistent.

Alan clenched his jaw, his free hand violently reaching across to grab a hold of Lyall's other shoulder. He held him in place, desperately trying to keep him still, even as Lyall fought him with a frustrated growl, refusing eye contact.

Alan wanted to search in his eyes for answers he didn't understand. But most of all, he wanted Lyall to search his and see the hurt that hid behind them.

And so the hurt leaked out in his voice instead.

"You really think I have the 'perfect love'?" Alan repeated, heart wounded that Lyall would even think such a thought. "You think what I have isn't real? That we won't last?"

The questions, the open hurt, made Lyall freeze in his grip in an instant. Alan felt the tension spread across his body. He forced himself to just barely loosen his grip on his shoulders, feeling that he may be hurting him.

"Answer me," Alan demanded firmly, volume dropping. "Look at me."

There was a long hesitation before Lyall could bring himself to finally listen to him. Looking up, he met Alan's eyes with deep remorse in his own.

"I didn't..." Lyall dropped his gaze back down.

"You did," Alan corrected, never once averting his gaze as he held him steady. "And I want to know why. I want to know why you think this."

"It's fine," Lyall weakly insisted, "you're fine. You're right, I'm--"

"I want to know your thoughts, Lyall," Alan cut in, voice firm but gentle. "I want to know your reasons."

Wrenching Alan's hands from his shoulders, Lyall forcefully pushed at his chest once more. "It's fine, Alan. I'm wrongly comparing because I'm fucking jealous, alright?" He stepped back, eyes fixed on one of the side tables. "Now go home, you've helped plenty."

Alan stood still, letting the silence hang uncomfortably in the air between them.

Lyall didn't want to say. He even over corrected to keep from offending him further. That may be the case, but Alan was not offended by the words. He was indifferent to the idea that his love for Lara was not real, perfect, or meant to last.

It was not the idea that offended him; it was the notion that Lyall thought this.

Alan followed Lyall's gaze, standing stiffly in the quiet room that did not belong to him.

"I don't think I'm in love with her," he confessed out loud, voice barely above a whisper.

Eyes snapping back up, Lyall stared at him in stunned silence. Delayed, Alan followed his orders, drifting towards the door.

"Alan," Lyall called urgently, hastily following after, "the fuck? You're not in love with her-- What?"

Alan swung the door open, but was yanked away from it by the back of his shirt. Agitated, Alan fought back, viciously swiping at his hand. The door slammed shut on him, and he was forcefully turned back around.

"When did this happen?" Lyall demanded, gripping him by his arms.

"Let go of me," Alan growled, attempting to shake free. "I thought you wanted me to leave!"

Throwing his weight forward, Lyall shoved him back against the door, pinning Alan's wrists to his chest. "Not when you drop a fucking bomb like that!" he argued. "Now when the hell did you decide this?"

"I never decided anything," Alan wheezed, writhing against Lyall's body pressing against him, trapping him in place. "That's not how love works!"

"Yes," Lyall sternly countered, "that is how love works, Alan. It's a choice."

Alan tensed his jaw, energy waning. With a downward tilt of his head, he steeled his stony gaze towards Lyall, whose face was inches away from his own. "So that is how you love, then?"

Lyall blinked at him in disbelief. "Well, you chose her, didn't you?"

"You didn't fall in love with Santiago?" Alan asked instead as a redirect.

"You fall into infatuation, you mince-minded man," Lyall snapped, his focus unshakeable for once. Tone softening just a bit, though his grip never relented, he went on, "You choose to build love overtime."

Alan shook his head, refusing to believe this. It wasn't true. He knew this to not be true.

"No, Lyall," he said firmly. "You can't build love out of nothing. You can't choose to love someone if there was never any love at all."

"You--" Letting go, Lyall aggressively paced away, shaking his fists with another frustrated sound. "You are impossible. You never listen!"

Unbelievable.

"I never listen to you?" Alan echoed, angrily stepping after him, drifting behind. "You never listen to me!" Absolutely exasperated, he pushed Lyall forward, causing him to stumble a bit. "You haven't since the beginning of this conversation!" he finished, voice raised.

With a feigned laugh, Lyall whirled around and shoved back at him. "I listen to you more than I ought to!" he barked in his own defense.

"No, you don't!" Alan seethed, pushing at his chest with the emphasis of the word. "You never listen to me!" He pushed him backwards again. "You never answer my questions!" And again. "And most of all..." One final push, but with both hands and double the force, sending Lyall crashing against the wall. Alan loomed over him to finish spitting in his face, "You never let me enjoy you!"

His back pressed against the wall, Lyall stared up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. Looking for all the world like a cornered animal, and at a complete loss for words.

Alan shook his head, having heard enough. Without another word, he turned on his heel, door in sight. He forcefully swung open the door, letting it slam on his way out. In a frenzy, he hurried across the hall, through the stairwell door, down the stairs. Stumbling from seething anger, Alan skipped two steps at a time, nearly losing his footing multiple times.

Alan knew what he had to do.

He had to breakup with Lara, today.

Lyall perched on the edge of his and Santiago's bed. Home, but feeling all sorts of Out Of Place. His heart and head were left in turmoil. An absolute fucking mess. No, Alan, it did not feel beautiful.

He closely watched the half-packed box still looming in the corner, as if it too would suddenly pounce with judgements and unsolicited opinions and ugly, confusing mixes of emotions. He couldn't hide his mess anymore, not when it spilled across Santiago's entire apartment like this, exposing him.

It was stupid, but Lyall was avoiding the living room. He couldn't stand it anymore. He and Alan argued there, Lyall said things he couldn't take back, set his friend off with careless, frustrated accusations.

The door slamming behind Alan rang in Lyall's ears. The sound filled his head, the irresolution of it crowding out his ability to even think anymore.

The front door re-opened in his mind's eye, revealing Santiago laden with the groceries.

Light glinted off the ring on Santiago's hand.

There'd only been mere inches of space between Lyall's engagement ring and Alan's unspoken-for hand.

Alan's eyes had gazed up at him with such warmth, just seconds before Santiago's return. It sparked something intense in Lyall's chest.

Lyall hated him. He never hated Alan more than he did now.

Alan was a selfish asshole, and a hypocrite, and a fucking liar. Told Lyall to do one thing - then turned and always did the exact opposite himself. Double standards.

Lyall was sick of standards. He was sick of clawing his way up to mediocrity. He was sick of getting by. He was sick of never feeling like he was enough. Couldn't stand it when one of only three people in his life he felt he could truly, deeply depend on, finally turned to break down their friendship since childhood by casting doubt on the love of Lyall's life. The love Lyall chose for himself.

In the kitchen, there was quiet activity as Santiago returned for the evening. Lyall sat straighter, drawing in a sharp breath to recompose himself.

"I was thinking steak marsala for dinner," Santiago greeted as he unloaded the contents on the counter. "Pasta or rice?"

The question, delayed, registered as Lyall scrubbed both hands over his face. Glancing over his shoulder, he had a sliver of a view into the kitchen from where he sat. "Ahm, your pick, darling," he absently called back.

"I have no preference," Santiago replied without losing his focus. "You pick."

Lyall genuinely didn't have a preference either. "Rice is good," he answered back.

Santiago's quiet bustling about continued without another word. Determined, duty-bound. Slipping out from the darkened bedroom, Lyall lingered by the door to watch him work.

He loved Santiago. He loved his steadiness. It made their love dependable.

Screw Alan and his perfect fairytale romances. Screw him and his irrational feelings.

Not giving the mess of the living room a second glance, Lyall marched out into the kitchen to turn his fiancé around by his hips and, cradling his face in both hands, dove straight into an earnest kiss.

Between breaths, Santiago breathed out his name, pleasant surprise washing over his softened features. Neglecting the groceries on the counter, he wrapped his arms around his shoulders, surrendering himself to the intensity of the kiss.

Rice be damned.

Taking him by the hand, Lyall determinedly lead his fiancé into the darkened bedroom.

"You're a beautiful mess," Alan's stupid voice insisted faintly from the back of his mind as he hastily undressed.

Sure, fine. Lyall was a fucking mess. And he could handle it lying strewn all across their shared apartment. He could handle exposing himself to the man he promised himself to. Their love could withstand some messiness.

He guided Santiago back onto the bed, just barely registering his soft murmurs. Lyall started at the base of his neck and worked his way up.

"Love isn't built, Lyall."

What a load of starry-eyed, naive bullshit. Alan clearly was not familiar with phrases like "love is a bridge" or road, or whatever. And bridges and roads didn't just magically sprout from feelings.

What Lyall had was tangible. He knew this, because he was holding it right here, right now. He was pouring everything he had into it - hips, hands, tongue. His mind, his soul - everything.

"You can't build love if you don't feel it in your heart," Alan urged again.

The feelings were the byproduct, and the heart without the head didn't know what it wanted.

This was love.

"You never let me enjoy you."

His lover pressed a hand to his shoulder. Breathless, Lyall yielded to his featherlight touch and laid back for him. Closed his eyes, let himself melt as his love's lips trailed down his chest.

Alan the fucking know-it-all didn't know everything. He was wrong, he didn't have the full picture. Lyall knew how to surrender himself to love. He simply never made a spectacle of himself, touting his "perfect love" all over the city, because he wasn't trying to overcompensate for it.

This was love.

"Love is felt."

Their fingers slowly laced together. The matching silver band on his lover's finger pressed into Lyall's palm. It was warm, like the image of his hand beside Alan's that was still impressed on his recent memory.

"What do you feel?"

Lyall threaded his fingers through the softness of his love's hair, just at the nape of his neck.

He could hear his own voice arguing over the most outlandish topics as he brushed his fingertips to the back of Alan's head, through the ends of his soft hair, in that godsforsaken restroom.

"Are you in love, Lyall?"

A warm, slender hand brushed over his waist. Lyall let it pull him closer, draw him into the safety of the partitioned corner of the clinic.

This was love.

"Who?" Alan softly prompted in his ear, with the same tenderness as when he sleepily bid him goodnight in the patient bed.

Lyall was drowning in his kiss. Fireworks burst behind his eyelids, exploded in his chest. Warmth and lightness and pure fucking color bloomed like a full garden in their wake.

He'd just fallen madly in love for the first time - and the only time, since - with his best friend. But Lyall at the time had convinced himself it was the drinks they weren't yet allowed to have. That it was only a stupid crush, a fleeting feeling when they drunkenly kissed for some stupid bottle game. It wouldn't last. Feelings weren't supposed to last.

Breaking the kiss, Lyall fell back to catch his breath, to momentarily steady his mind while it spun with the sheer pleasure.

"Say my name."

He fluttered open his eyes. But it wasn't Alan's face hovering mere inches from his own. Lyall stared up into Santiago's steady gaze. Everything that they'd built up came tumbling down in an instant.

He loved Santiago. Not once was that ever untrue.

But Lyall was deeply, madly in love with his best friend.

Santiago then laid back beside him. Lyall kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, mind now racing with the revelation.

"Where did this come from?" Santiago asked fondly, fingers cradling his jaw.

Lyall didn't even know where to begin. The argument? The messy apartment? From the very beginning, well before Alan ever introduced them to each other?

There were a thousand ways to say this. A thousand other, better times to say it. But Lyall had spent ten whole years of his life trying to fool himself. Ten years wasted. And, frankly, the thought of wasting so much as another second on this intricate lie made him sick.

With nary a second thought nor recovered breath, Lyall suddenly declared, "I want to break up."

Santiago froze, fingers locked in place. "What?" he breathed out.

Lyall couldn't bring himself to look Santiago in the eye anymore.

"I..." His voice failed him. His skin began to crawl where Santiago's tense touch lingered, so he threw himself upright to stare at the light of the kitchen.

"I haven't been fair to you," Lyall uttered to the door. "We need to break up."

Features hardening with alarm, Santiago sat up straight, his chest fully turned towards Lyall. "What are you talking about, Lyall?" he asked more firmly, tension growing in his words and body. "Why are you saying this?"

Lyall scrubbed his face with both hands, trying to scrub away the shame that gnawed more incessantly than ever at his gut. He tried thinking of better ways to say this, but he'd already started literally the worst fucking way imaginable.

Free expression, right?

Santiago deserved honesty, and Lyall ought to be honest for both their sakes.

Letting his hands fall to his lap, he angled himself to face Santiago, despite the instinct to backtrack at the shock on Santiago's face. He drew in a breath, and managed a shaky but entirely earnest, "I genuinely love you. I care about you, deeply, and only ever wanted the best for you."

He almost lost the gumption to finish the thought, because it sounded so juvenile and stupidly romanticized on paper. But he tore the cold, hard truth out from under years' worth of not facing facts, and looked Santiago straight in the eyes as he quietly confessed, "I'm just not in love with you."

Santiago's cold shock melted into soft betrayal. A tense silence hung between them.

Santiago had always been a man of quiet intensity and self-assurance, not one to break eye contact first. But in the midst of the quiet and tense silence that separated the space between them, he broke free from their shared gaze first. And that hurt in a different way, Santiago not being able to bear looking at Lyall anymore.

"What's his name?" he asked lowly, the evenness of his voice just barely clouding the muted hurt.

Lyall hesitated for a long, painful second, unsure what a right answer looked like. Moving to let his feet touch the floor, he stared at the curtain over the window, as if he'd find an answer there. Or at least the gumption, because he knew the answer. It was just... still hard to face it, and all that it implied.

Especially since that reason had only just stormed out on him mere hours ago.

Lyall got up and started to deftly pull himself back together. Just enough to leave in semi-decency. He finally answered in a hoarse murmur, "Alan."

The back of Santiago's head softly thudded against the backboard - it was such a resigned sound. He released a soft, deep, steady breath before asking, "How long?"

Gods, now Lyall just felt like a fucking idiot. He screwed his eyes shut and confessed, "A decade."

He wasn't sure what Santiago looked like, what mix of terrible emotions that he wore on his face. Or didn't. Lyall fixed his gaze downward as he fumbled with his belt.

"When did you realize?" Santiago asked after the silence drew tenser.

"Just..." Lyall slowly worked the ring off his finger, hands shaking slightly from the lingering effects of the high he no longer felt. "Just now."

He finally brought himself to look over his shoulder at Santiago. Still in bed, he had reached a steely resolve, settling into quiet acceptance. There were still muted notes of shock, betrayal, and defeat that swirled inside his colorless eyes.

Gingerly, Lyall set the ring on the night stand. It settled with a heavy thunk in the dead silence between them. "I am sorry, Santiago," he whispered, "truly."

Santiago closed his eyes, his chest rising in a silent, pained inhale. "I loved you, Lyall," he said evenly, jaw clenched tight. "And perhaps always will." He turned his head towards the door, their eyes meeting one last time.

His eyes were awash with only one emotion now: heartbreak.

"I hope you find what you're looking for," Santiago finished quietly.

Lyall let his fingers brush the shining symbol of their broken commitment, before dropping his hand at his side. With a grief he couldn't hide settling in his own countenance, he quietly held his gaze.

"I wish you the best, too," Lyall answered softly. Then finally turned for the door. "I'll clear out my things tomorrow."

"No need," Santiago replied. "I'll stack your items by the door. Come by tomorrow to pick them up. Place your key in the kitchen when you finish. I'll be at my family's tomorrow, so you have the full day."

His fingers hovering over the door handle, Lyall slowly curled them in. He had to fight down a swell of sorrow in his chest as he realized just how empty his hand looked without the ring.

So this was it, then.

He let out a low, shaky breath. "You will always be dear to me, Santiago," he whispered, easing the door shut behind himself. "Farewell."

For the second time, Alan nearly crashed into a moving horse carriage when crossing the street. Protesters rioted and lined the main streets, congesting traffic elsewhere. It was especially difficult to focus when he was seeing red.

Lyall absolutely infuriated him. He frequently rejected his kindness, his sincerity, his candor. Alan didn't understand what he wanted from him. He was always so difficult. His stubborn ass refused to confess what he truly felt, refused to accept help or support, and refused to stray from a complacent path. And here Alan was, trying to keep him company, trying to lift his spirits during times of stress, trying to satisfy him in any way possible.

But the obstinate ass refused! What did Lyall do instead? Mock, annoy, and scrutinize him! Gods, that man infuriated him to no end!

It was supposed to be simple. Lyall was unhappy with work; Alan coaxed him into his passions. Lyall disliked time apart from Santiago; Alan coaxed both of them individually to open a dialogue about moving in together. Lyall disliked having to ask for permission to express himself; Alan coaxed him to communicate his desires more openly.

But did that happen? No! Lyall blew up on him, accusing him of having a fake love ridden with flaws that doomed any promise of a future. He didn't even fucking know that Alan already knew that! And yet, he spat in his face, claiming that love wasn't felt, but made.

Absolute bullshit. Alan knew this was false. This was why he didn't love Lara anymore. How was he supposed to build a love when there was never any love at all? He couldn't keep doing this. He couldn't do this anymore.

He loved the idea of love, but he did not love Lara.

If Alan did not break up with her today, he was sure he would grow to resent her. He already felt the beginnings of resentment bubbling inside of him whenever he woke up beside her in bed, avoided kissing or holding her, and left without saying goodbye. Neglect only enabled more neglect until Alan found himself no longer enjoying being in her company at all.

This morning, he realized that he preferred to spend his afternoon not with the woman he almost asked to marry, but instead with an infuriating, aggravating, stubborn ass of a man who frustrated to no end.

With her, he was not living; he was existing. And Alan wanted to live.

He had to break up with Lara. Now.

Lara's spare key scraped against the lock as Alan burst through the door, pacing inside with wildly darting eyes.

Lara was sitting on the couch, but she jumped upon his entry, dropping the book she was reading in her lap.

"Alan," she said, sitting up straighter. "Is everything alright?"

"Lara," he greeted in turn, closing the gap between them. He crossed the room in brisk long strides, the spare key to her apartment held out as an offering. "Take this."

Lara froze for a moment. Her mind visibly spun into confusion as her hand slowly reached up for it. The realization hadn't fully sunk in as she took the key into her hands. Her brows were pinched in confusion.

"Your key?" she asked softly.

Alan turned away, kneeling in front of the book case. "I left a few books here," he murmured, fingertip tracing the worn leather spine of his music theory textbook. "But if you wanted to read them, I can leave them here for you."

"I'm... I'm sorry," Lara said, her voice going quiet like a mouse. "I don't understand. What's going on?"

Alan stood up, only holding the singular book. "Actually, keep everything else. I don't need it." He glanced towards her room. "And the chair, too. The clothes, you can throw out. Donate or throw out anything else." He paused, staring down at the book. "On second thought," he murmured, setting the book flat on the shelf, "you can keep this too. I'm sorry to bother."

Lara shook her head quickly, getting to her feet with a frenzied sense of desperation.

"What are you saying?" she asked. "Are you -- are you leaving? Where are you...?"

"I'm leaving," Alan affirmed, firmly meeting her gaze. "I'm not coming back. For both our sakes, let's not contact each other again."

Lara's mouth fell agape, and her wide eyes stared at him in dumbfounded shock. She was like a wounded animal, beginning to tremble.

"What...?" she asked. "Why?"

Alan straightened his frame, hand placed against the corner of the shelf. "Do you really want to know why I'm breaking up with you?" he asked as a warning.

Lara's eyes began to water.

"You're breaking up with me?" she repeated in a whisper, and her voice cracked.

Alan sighed, eyeing the direction of the door. Lara's apartment was oddly shaped that he had to enter through the kitchen to leave, which meant she now she stood in the way.

"You are a good person, Lara," he said while she softly cried in his wake. "But it's best for us to go our own ways, now."

"I don't understand," Lara squeaked through tears. "Did I do something wrong?"

Alan shook his head. "No. You did nothing wrong."

"Then why?" she asked again. "What changed?"

There was no tension in his frame. Finally, he could relax. Standing still in the ensuring silence, Alan met Lara's eyes, freeing himself from the shelf.

"I don't love you," he said, the confession leaving his lips sending an excited spark of freedom in his heart.

Lara's lips trembled, and she fell to sit back on the couch.

"For how long have you felt this way?" she asked, barely audible.

Alan had been coaxed by both Conway and Lyall to tell the truth and speak from the valid part of his heart. And so Alan did, calmly responding without filter, "I have never loved you."

Lara's mouth quivered.

"Not at all?" she asked with a suppressed cry.

"No," Alan confirmed. And the freeing feeling returned upon realizing that he didn't feel sorry at all.

"Then what was this all for?" Lara asked, pushing down another sob. "Why -- why did-- why me?"

This was unproductive. The truth would only wound her.

"I think it would be best for both of us if I leave now," he said calmly, striding past her. "Goodbye, Lara."

Alan reached for the door, fingers curled around the cold doorknob. As he pulled the door shut behind him, the sound of Lara's choked sobs sliced through the air. He did not glance back as the door clicked shut, officially having closed this chapter of his life behind. Pressed against her apartment door, he took a deep breath, taking a second to note how he felt.

Exhilirating freedom...

No. There was something else, too.

Alan's heart raced, beating loudly against his chest. A dizzying wave of conflicting emotions rammed against his body. A buzz of an elated thrill was mixed with remorseful guilt and shame from the the outcome of the scandal. He felt simultaneously invincible and vulnerable, caught between two polars who refused to acknowledge each other.

He could be both. He could be both.

Alan had to tell someone. He had to tell them what happened. He had to reveal that he broke up with Lara. He was starting a new chapter, now. What could that look like? He had no fucking clue. It was time to find out.

Lyall? No. Not Lyall. He wouldn't see him. He wouldn't listen. He wouldn't understand.

Alistair? No. He was absorbed in his own dilemmas. He always supported him. He wouldn't understand.

Other names cropped up. His mother? Too gentle. Father? Too far. Tomas? Too dense. Rose? Carter? Shane? Aisling? Yenessa? Sebastian? Lori? Penn? Mina? Vincent?...

On and on and on, he listed each name in his head, listing each familiar friend he knew. Alan knew they wouldn't understand. They wouldn't get it.

Still leaning against Lara's door, Alan suddenly perked up, cold realization halting every emotion spinning over his head.

There was one person who would. This person understood him. Listened to him. Saw him.

Alan hastily peeled away from the door, racing down the cobblestone path towards the Upper City and once again almost getting run over a carriage.

He had to see Conway.



"Con!" Alan called, urgently rapping his knuckles against the door of his home. "Conway!"

He was here only yesterday, drinking wine and chatting about art. Their time spent was pleasant, bleeding late into the night. Chairs flushed next to each other, Alan was far too absorbed listening to his nuances of the controversies of the social reform policies and politics that were relevant due to the ongoing protests. The night had gone quite long, and Con had offered for Alan to stay the night, but he instead went home to Lara.

He wished he hadn't.

"Con!" Alan called again, knocking louder.

The door unlocked and swung open with silent urgency. Conway, sharp and unharried looking, glanced over him with brows furrowed in confusion. "Alan? We're not set to meet until tomorrow." Confusion morphed into concern when he caught sight of the bag slung on his shoulder. "Are you unwell? You look troubled."

Alan pressed his hand against the open door, peering past him inside. "Can I come in?" he asked.

With quiet questioning in his eyes, Conway stepped aside and swept an arm inward as invitation. Alan hastily stepped inside, tossing his bag to the floor. It clattered, sliding across the tiled floor. Easing the door shut, Con trailed after, sharp eyes watching him as closely as ever.

Alan whirled around at the other end of the entryway, palms facing up with open admission. He blurted, "I told Lara I had never loved her."

Straightening up with Alan's bag in his hands, Con's brows shot up in surprise. "...Just like that?" he asked, slowly setting the bag aside on a bench by the front door.

"Was it wrong?" Alan asked hurriedly, heart rate quickening. He needed to know answers.

"Why don't we sit first?" Con gently suggested. "This is a lot for you, I'm sure."

Alan shook his head, pacing towards the kitchen. "I don't regret it," he affirmed over his shoulder, nearly running into an armchair from the temporary lack of spatial awareness. Agitated, he shoved the armchair out of his way, sending it skidding a few inches. He needed to get to the kitchen without anything getting in his way.

"Alan," Con called after him more firmly.

"The chair was in the way," Alan muttered, peeling away.

"The chair was there first," Con countered easily. Pulling him back by his shoulders, he repeated, "Sit down."

Alan pushed off, attempting to prying his hands away from him, squirming in his grip. Grip turning to iron, Conway whirled him around, then effortlessly forced him down into the armchair he displaced. Alan initially resisted under his grip, but relented when he sat heavily onto the stupid chair.

"Sorry," he mumbled, sinking into the chair. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Con answered evenly. Letting go, he then leaned over Alan with his hands on either arm of the chair, locking him in. "Start from the beginning. Tell me what happened with Lara."

Alan deeply sighed, heavily leaning against the armrest. His gaze fell upon the kitchen, wondering if he needed to eat. Or drink. Or anything else.

No. He had to tell the story. From the beginning. Con deserved to hear the full story. He trusted his opinion. He would know what to think.

"First of all, I wished I didn't go back to Lara last night," he muttered. "I should have accepted your offer to spend the night."

Con tilted his head, flashing a quick amused grin. "While I'm oddly flattered, that doesn't really explain anything."

"I woke up this morning realizing I wanted to spend my time with anyone else. Anyone!" Alan sat up straighter, jaw tense. "Can I pace, or should I remain seated?"

"Will pacing help you articulate more clearly?" Con asked, looming over him.

Alan nodded, glancing down at Con's wristwatch to his right. "Yes," he answered, "it will."

Inclining his head likewise, Conway straightened and physically gave him the floor of his living room. Nodding his thanks, Alan hopped to his feet, gathering momentum with each new step.

"Anyone else," Alan repeated again, pacing down the living room. "I wanted to spend my time with anyone. Not Lara. So who did I choose?" He stopped by the window, a mirthless laugh escaping his throat.

"I chose the worst person," he continued, pace quickening. "Lyall is infuriatingly stubborn. I didn't even have an agenda! I simply wanted to spend time with him! He's going through a lot of stress, and--" Alan threw his hands in the air, facing an empty wall. "He won't stop thinking! That's how it's obvious he's stressed! But he refuses to acknowledge it!"

Settling onto the loveseat, Con arched a brow. "The one you've referred to as your... best friend?" he asked slowly.

"Yes," he uttered. Alan heavily sat down, realizing only after sitting that he had chosen the side table as his new seat. "Him."

Con hummed his understanding, waving for Alan to continue. And so Alan did, but not without springing back to his feet, the wild energy coursing through his body.

"I didn't say anything bad," he went on, pacing the opposite direction. "I thought it was the opposite. I complimented him!" He paused, grimacing. "Okay, I also called him a fucking mess, but I followed up in clarifying that it was a beautiful mess." He whipped his head towards Con. "And that's not a bad thing. Right? It makes sense?"

Con shrugged a hand. "I don't think messes are always bad, no. They're part of life."

"So there are good messes?" Alan pressed. "And bad ones?"

"Yes," Con affirmed more certainly, "but the distinction is oftentimes hard to find."

"But surely you know. You can tell them apart. Right?"

The man offered a quick grin. "We share that unique discernment, don't we?"

Alan knew it. He knew Con would understand. He fucking knew it.

Exhaling a breath of relief, Alan continued while pacing down the room. "All I did was point out that he ought to express himself more. He didn't need to ask for permission to do that. Don't you agree?"

"Of course," Con confirmed, like it was obvious.

Exasperated, Alan stood in front of his giant leafy plant with drooping leaves, swatting at it when the leaf brushed against his head. "Well, he insulted me in response!" he huffed, storming away after giving the plant one last proper slap. "He told me his love was real and mine wasn't. The nerve of that man! Was it out of jealousy? At first, he refused to answer, but then he admitted to it at the end. But I know that isn't the truth. He keeps telling me I don't tell him anything, but it's him who tells me nothing!"

"This is understandably infuriating," Con offered sympathetically, then gestured a hand to his plant with a grimace. "But, please, don't take it out on the fig tree."

"Sorry," Alan muttered, but he wasn't sorry. He paced towards the window again, craving sunlight. Maybe he, too, could stand tall and leafy like a fig tree. "I don't understand his definition of love. He said love is built. But--" Alan gestured accusingly towards Con's outdoor plants outside. "It can't! You can't build love if you don't feel love!" He vigorously shook his head, perching on the edge of the windowsill. "I don't understand," he muttered, sinking into his newly claimed seat. "Does that mean he's not in love with Santiago?"

"Well, what do you think?" Con urged him. "Clearly, you have a better grasp of your friend's current reality than he does at the moment."

Alan leaned back against the window, releasing a heavy sigh. "I don't know..." He rolled his head to tilt towards the ceiling. "I'm pretty sure he is. I just don't understand why he's not comfortable being himself. Why does he hold back? And..."

Alan sharply closed his eyes, all the memories of Lyall's ornery and moody moments flooding into his mind. The constant deflecting, the constant pushbacks, the constant subtle ways he revealed that he was watching him. It was like Lyall wanted to oversee his life, but he didn't want Alan to touch his.

"Does he do that to me, then?" he said, voice quieter. "He's always so irritable and testy with me. I don't know... Maybe I don't even know him anymore. I don't know. He's my closest friend. I've known him for so long. I've seen him adapt to other people, other people he loves. But I don't want him to be cranky around me. I've even asked him why he's always like this, but he never has a response for me. I don't get it. What did I do wrong? What do I need to change? I don't understand."

Alan sighed deeply, burying his head in his hands. His heart hurt. Ached.

He wished times were simpler between them again.

A broad, steady hand slipped over his shoulder, resting at the base of his neck. "If I may?" Con asked, his voice suddenly close again.

Alan peeked at him through his fingers, sitting still. "I'd like to hear your thoughts," he confirmed softly.

Conway nodded, expression serious. "I think the answer is fairly clear, actually." He tilted his head down to Alan's eye level and murmured, "Your friend is taking you for granted."

Alan froze, hands slowly dropping to his lap. "What?" he breathed.

"Well, think about it," Con said. "You only ever invest in him. Your time, energy, your affection. And it seems that he doesn't even give you so much as a 'thank you'." Glancing behind himself, he pulled over the side table and perched on it himself. "He never listens to you, which indicates he doesn't value your opinions or insights. Lashes out, even, when you're only being honest." He shrugged a shoulder. "He doesn't appreciate you the way he ought to."

"I...." Alan shook his head. The words deeply stung as it was a feeling he had felt before, but this couldn't be true. Alan refused to believe this was intentional.

"Lyall does say 'thank you,'" he assured. A pause. "He just says it in ways not said out loud."

That was how Lyall showed love. It wasn't by words; it was by action.

"He does appreciate me," Alan continued, more earnest. "He does value what I say. He just..."

His gaze dropped to his hands wringing together. Alan loved who Lyall was and would never ask him to change. But he wished, just once... He wished he could hear how Lyall actually felt about him.

Not with sugared words. Not with lighthearted jokes. Not with loving insults. Not with physical affection. Not with knowing smiles.

He wished Lyall would stop holding back and freely express himself around him.

"He doesn't say it out loud," Alan said quietly.

Con gently shook his shoulder for emphasis. "But he should. You've been nothing but a kind, supporting friend. That should not go unsaid."

"Just because Lyall doesn't express himself out loud, doesn't mean he doesn't care about me," Alan said more assertively. "It doesn't mean he takes advantage of me."

Lifting his hand in relenting, Con yielded, "That's just my outsider's perspective."

Why was Lyall so irritable around him, then? And only him? He didn't understand. How would that benefit him in anyway?

"Anyways, that was a long way to say that he played a part in today's events," Alan continued, not wanting to think too deep about Con's opinion on Lyall. He trusted Con, but he trusted his instincts on Lyall even more. "He confirmed that I have been building love. And I knew that is not truly the way to love someone, because..."

His gaze dropped to his hands again, wondering if his heart would leap out of his chest and fall into his palms. "Because that was how I loved Lara," he finished softly.

Conway's hand rested on his shoulder again, gently rubbing comforting circles with his thumb. "So, you were only honest with her?" he concluded.

Alan tightly clasped his palms together, brows furrowed. "What do you mean?" he asked, voice just barely above a murmur.

"I could tell from just the moment you first mentioned her to me," Con explained. "You fell into infatuation with her, not love."

Alan froze, the statement slowly sinking in. Lyall had alluded to this too. Was this true? Was he not in love, but instead infatuated?

"How can you tell the difference?" he asked softly, shoulders sagging in defeat.

Fingertips brushing down Alan's shoulder, Con eventually let his hand drop to the edge of the table where he was perched. "From the way you spoke of your art," he said simply, gesturing to Alan's left. "You told me the heart is at the core of everything. It fuels life with emotions, and the emotions are the engine to the art." He moved his hand to Alan's right. "You alluded to your artistic career being underscored with this unplaceable sense of dissatisfaction, even though on the surface it is received and perceived as successful.

"Your art is fueled by your life, Alan," Conway explained patiently. "But discontentment with your art must indicate deeper discontentment in your life, where your muse in particular lies. Thus..." With a subtle flourish of his hand, he silently prompted for Alan to draw the next natural conclusion.

Alan gripped his hands against his knees, a knot tying in his stomach. It hurt to hear, but he so badly needed to hear this. He so badly needed to feel something outside of the cold indifference that his life had amounted to.

For so long, Alan played the tune of other people's songs. If the song required gentle quiet, he played gentle quiet. If the song required brisk energy, he played brisk energy. For so long, he silenced his own song, humming the tune others wanted to hear from him.

The dissatisfaction wasn't only about Lara.

"I felt free after leaving her," he confessed quietly, eyes set on the leg of the table.

"Just another nail in that coffin," Con said reassuringly. "You needed to let her go, Alan."

Alan shook his head despite agreeing. "I've never felt this thrilled. I've never been this exhilarated by a new chapter before. I no longer feel dissatisfied."

Con offered him a brighter, understanding smile. "And I'm glad to be able to share in this new chapter with you. To see you shake your old life, embrace who you always have been."

Alan glanced up with a soft smile. "Thanks for listening. I didn't know who else to turn to who would also understand."

"Well, that is a complete shame for them," Conway chirped. "That all this time, they haven't noticed the brightness of your soul right under their noses. You have a highly passionate heart, and an intense creative streak that can and ought to shine far brighter than they've ever allowed." He took up Alan's hand and gave it a fond shake of emphasis, eyes turning serious as he instructed him, "The world is your canvas, Alan. Impose your will, your personhood, upon it."

Alan locked his gaze on their hands, Con's hardened calloused palm flushed against his own. "I can," he said quietly, then added more assertively, "I will."

Tilting his head down, Con caught his eyes again to look at him with fondness. "Good. And I'm more than happy to help support your journey, in whatever ways you need."

"My journey," Alan echoed, meeting his gaze. "What does that look like? Where do I go from here?"

Con's hold on his hand remained steady as he playfully tilted his head in a show of thought. "If you're out a place for the night, you don't have to actually go just yet."

Alan hesitated. "I don't want to impose..."

"You won't be," Conway warmly assured him. Rising to his feet, he lightly tugged on Alan's hand. "I have an empty spare room, in want of a guest. It seems you brought some belongings already. But whatever you don't have, just ask for."

Alan followed his lead, up onto his feet and down the hall. "Are you sure?" he asked anyways for good measure.

Conway cast him an easy grin over his shoulder, his teeth glinting in the shadows, away from the sunlit window. "I would enjoy nothing more."

With only half a mind to think and his heart in turmoil, Lyall decided on the walk back to the family home that he ought to sneak in through a window. Just to keep from causing a fuss downstairs in the lobby, or trying to tiptoe his way through the corridors of the upper level.

What he failed to account for was the new resident of his former room: Hild.

Perched on the windowsill, mid-swing of his leg inside, he stared at her like a stray critter caught rooting through the garbage. She stared back from the desk next to the window, like a hunting creature in shock at its very first catch.

When he made to clamber back down, she wordlessly reached over and dragged him inside. Where he was prepared for a scolding, he only received a worried, searching look. He tried brushing it off, but she, of course, caught within seconds a missing key component: the engagement ring.

And, putting two and two together, Hild silently pulled him into a tight embrace. Hanging his head over her shoulder, he clung to his dear sister.

The mental image of Santiago, alone in his apartment full of both of their belongings and no one to hold him for comfort, haunted Lyall. Possibly even made the onslaught of quiet tears even worse.

He hated that he was the reason Santiago was alone.

Hild gently urged him to rest. Lyall didn't fight her.

He hardly slept. And when he was awake, he actually couldn't find the energy to fill his hands with busywork.

His siblings poked their noses in on him frequently. Viktor explained Mum would've too, but had steadily declined in the past weeks. So Lyall bit the bullet and visited her instead.

He remembered just how much he loathed the smell of her room - sickness, laced with smoke from old habits she couldn't kick, and heavy perfumes in a prideful attempt to cover both.

He thought he'd hate the pity in her eyes even more. But when Mum set aside her book and held open her arms, ready to receive him with love and shared heartache, he actually found himself thanking the gods for the time they had left. Without an ounce of shame, he curled up small within her comforting embrace. She held him tightly, murmuring quiet affirmations and affections into his hair.

The latter half of the week, Lyall felt himself slowly but surely start to shake off the grey.

[bo comfort, he is very calm, warm, support presence.]

Tove was ecstatic to have him back, so he sat in for some of her tea parties when he was more sure he wouldn't bring with him a storm cloud. His brothers had missed practicing with him, so Lyall took over the piano for a few sessions with them. Hild had taken up baking more consistently, so Lyall found himself spending more time in the kitchen in that half-week than he had probably his entire life.

He was not "better" by any means, and he still thought about those he didn't have constantly. And it would take awhile, because Lyall genuinely believed he had something real with Santiago. But the heartache of leaving felt just a little easier to bear when he was in his family's company, and finally allowing himself to draw comfort from them.

So, when the week quietly drew to a close, Lyall finally felt ready to face head-on his next biggest challenge: talking with Alan.



The roommate - Emile? Emmette? Didn't matter - was just as helpful as Lyall predicted him to be. Which was, hardly at all. Especially since Alan was apparently so repelled by him that he refused to even leave any belongings in the room. So the bespectacled, nasaly likely-still-a-virgin hadn't even really seen hide nor tail of either Alvaro twin since Remus's party.

With a huff, Lyall moved on to Alan's bandmates. None had seen him in a little over a week. Odd, since Alan had scheduled practice a few times every week. Not to mention another upcoming performance in the park for a Goulon-inspired festival. Thanking the musicians for their time, he promised to keep them posted on Alan's whereabouts.

By dusk, he followed old routes from his and Alan's days of delinquency back to the old Alvaro family home in South End. Which was where the search really took a turn.

The minute he was ushered in, the Alvaro cousins had swarmed him with nosy questions about his life. Matias shooed them away long enough to help him sit down with Alan's mother. Natalie was thrilled to see him, but her face fell with deep worry when Lyall asked about Alan's whereabouts.

Though Lyall was slowly losing his own mind over this, he determined he just needed about a day or two to really hunt Alan down, find the idiot, and bring him back before his absence stretched on too long. And by then, there wouldn't have been any need to cause any of his family worry. So, he kept up a breezy facade while things were still normal in the Alvaros' corner of the city.

"Have you talked to Lara, darling?" Natalie asked, soft worry dotting her voice. "I have been meaning to pay her a visit again. I'm sure Alan is with her. He absolutely adores her."

"I actually haven't yet," Lyall admitted, "I figured they're not usually home earlier on in the day anyhow." Flashing her an appreciative grin, he stood and gave her a quick, affectionate squeeze. "I can drop in on my way home, not to worry."

"Oh, darling..." She wrapped her arms around his back into a warm embrace, taking a deep breath. "Please keep me updated. Okay?"

"Of course!" He gave her a chipper peck on the cheek and said easily, "You'll be the first to hear, I promise."

Then he fought his way back through the horde of endearingly pesky cousins to face likely the last person to see Alan's face: Lara.



So... visiting the ex-girlfriend of the man he called best friend, and now subject of his infernal affections, went about as well as one would expect. Especially since Lyall had yet to confirm she could actually be considered an ex now.

"No," Lara said sadly at the door, her face falling at the question of Alan's whereabouts. "He left a week ago."

Which. Lyall had to swallow down a disappointed sigh at. Because this was the least helpful response he could've hoped for. He really was going to have to scour the entire city by nose, wasn't he?

"He didn't take any of his things," Lara went on. "Are you here for them?"

Lyall tried not to take too many milliseconds blinking owlishly at her. "Yes," he said, momentarily unsure of what tone he should be striking right now, "I am."

Lara looked somehow disappointed by his answer, but bowed her head and opened the door to let him in.

"I'm... assuming you knew before me," she said softly as Lyall stepped in.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Lara," Lyall replied instead, softening his voice. "I won't be long."

He made a beeline for the box of the bastard's things.

"Did he... did he tell you why?" Lara asked.

Oh, gods, no. Do not ask him these things. Lyall was not prepared for damage control of this kind.

"Sorry, I know, I shouldn't ask," Lara said, hugging herself and looking to the floor. "I just... he left in such a hurry, I thought... well I thought something had happened. I don't know. All he told me was..."

Well. Something had happened.

But Lara didn't finish her sentence. Instead she pressed her lips into a tight frown and hugged herself tighter.

Lyall slid the box off the table, biting back a curse when he noticed it was mostly full of books - no thought given to even weight distribution - and there was an identical box behind it full of clothes. Again. No thought to even weight distribution.

"I guess I just thought, as his best friend, you'd know if... if he meant it," she said, her voice clearly hanging by a thread. "When he said he never loved me at all."

Damn.

Damnnn...

Dammit, Alan!

Sliding the box of books back on the table with a grunt, Lyall turned and faced Lara directly.

For a split second, he saw Santiago's sadness in her eyes.

"I didn't know he said that to you," he murmured.

"He-- he broke up with me," Lara said, her voice breaking as tears crested her cheeks. "He didn't tell you?"

"He didn't tell me he'd be a dick about it," Lyall clarified. Then winced, and hastily added, "Pardon my strong choice of words."

Lara dropped her gaze to the floor.

"It's fine," she murmured.

The resignation in her face compelled him to step a little closer, and offer something more thoughtful and sincere.

"It's not fine," he said softly, tilting his head down to catch her eyes. "I don't really understand his reasoning either, but I can tell you this much: you deserved a far more compassionate ending to a two year long relationship. And I am so sorry that you were denied that much."

Lara nodded, but didn't meet his eyes.

"Yeah," she said tearfully. "Me too."

Nodding likewise, Lyall stepped back again. There was only so much he could do.

Turning, he took the box by its edge again. Then paused, wondering if Lara might have an inkling of where Alan might have gone.

He thought better of it. She was in rough shape as it was.

Too bothered to let the packing methods slide, though, Lyall pulled both boxes closer to himself and hastily began switching the contents between the two vessels. Miss Lara remained quiet as she waited, which. Lyall thanked the gods for. Anything more, and he was sure he'd muck it up again.

As she closed her door behind him, he offered her a sincere, "Take care, Lara." Then struck back out onto the streets of Midtown. Nowhere closer to finding Alan, and now burdened with the stupid man's things. Fabulous.

In a rare moment of weakness, Lyall actually considered hailing a wagon. Night was upon him, and the clinic was still a ways off.

No wait, he should drop off Alan's things--

No, if the fucker wanted his stuff back, he can make the trek up to the clinic.

As he seriously contemplated once more braving the company of a beast of burden to help bear the books, something familiar tinged at his senses. Something sharp and foreboding, that raised the hairs on the back of Lyall's neck.

Alan's friend from the art gallery.



It was well past dark. And Lyall was staked out by a stranger's house. This was his life now.

He'd abandoned the boxes by Lara's house with a quick mental note to get them back later. If they were still there. Whatever, it was just clothes and books. Those were replaceable. Alan was not.

That said... The fence was taller than Lyall, and one of the boxes would've helped him clear the difference. Maybe... From a greater distance, so as to not cast upon himself suspicion, he assessed the bottom of the fence. Perhaps he could... dig under?

This was stupid. Insane, even.

But he was determined. Alan's scent was strongest within the perimeter, and he swore he heard his voice from within the house.

So were Conway's scent and voice, though.

Lyall actually hadn't met this Conway fellow face to face yet - which was actually part of why he felt unease at the very concept of the man. Alan never made a point to try introducing them, which was very contrary to his normal pattern. He knew Lyall appreciated people just as much as he.

Moreover, Lyall wanted to know the people Alan considered himself close with.

Furthermore, he wanted to know the people Alan very suddenly, within such a short timeframe, felt comfortable enough staying over for a night with.

Approaching the fence once more, Lyall rubbed his hands together with determination and the quick justification of, "Consider this a proper introduction."

Then, crouching down on all fours, leapt and caught the top of the fence with his paws. He scrambled over and hopped down, keeping his head low and tail tucked as he trotted along the fence to the side of the house.

Take note, dear reader: Lyall had absolutely no plan.

Between the gate of the fence, and the backdoor of the home, Conway's scent had weakened. So, hopefully that meant he'd left recently. And maybe would be out for the night? Wishful thinking, probably. Lyall accepted this, though, and tilted his nose and ears skyward to the balcony's edge.

Could he make it? It was much higher than the fence.

Scanning the darkened yard, he made out the silhouette of something that looked climbable. After a quick false alarm wherein he panicked and shoved himself under the doorstep, he switched back upright and dragged a hefty iron-wrought table directly beneath the balcony. Then stood on the table, hands set on his hips as he pondered his life choices up until this point in time, and finally made the leap.

Back on his paws, he frantically tried squeezing himself under the railing. No dice. Only his nose fit. One of his hind legs slipped off the wall. Desperation increasing ten fold, he scratched more ferociously as the wooden deck.

Fuck him, this was not going to end well.

The sound of the balcony door creaked open. The familiar scent of his friend exploded in the air, presence confirmed when Alan peeked his head over the railing.

"Lyall?!" he spat, aghast.

"Fucking help me!" Lyall hissed back, his grip on the deck already sliding.

"What the fuck--" Alan started, but then stopped short, shaking his head with a low mutter. "Okay, hold on."

He stretched an arm over the end of the railing, snatching Lyall by his scruff and forcefully hoisted him over the balcony. Without warning, Alan dropped Lyall to the ground, visibly seething. Hopping up to his paws, Lyall shook off the needless aggression.

"What are you doing here?!" he said as a loud whisper.

"What am I--" Lyall barked up at him. "What the fuck have you been doing here? For a whole week?!"

Alan scrunched his nose at him, already irritated. "You've been following me?" he said flatly.

Lyall bristled at just how dense Alan still was. "I come back to find, not only have you completely neglected all other obligations, but you also quite heartlessly broke things off with Lara with hardly an explanation--"

Alan groaned, turning away. "Come inside," he growled. He stepping in but slammed the door shut behind him despite the weary initiation.

Lyall stubbornly sat on the balcony, tail whipping in complete offense. From within the threshold of the house, Alan cast him another utterly flat look through the glass of the door. With a half-roll of his eyes, he threw his hands in the air and turned on his heel, leaving the room.

Stupidly, yes, Lyall wondered if causing a ruckus would get Alan to come back...

Ears flattening, he threw his head back and lost his ever-loving shit on the balcony.

It only took three flat seconds for Alan to burst back into the room, furiously slide open the door, and leap with both arms outstretched. In one swoop, he grappled Lyall around his middle and rushed back inside, closing the door behind him.

Livid, Alan lifted him at eye level and shook him by his furry torso. "What are you doing?" he hissed. "You're in your wolf form!"

"No shit!" Lyall sniped back at him, slapping his paws over Alan's forearms as he dangled from his hands.

"Are you trying to get caught?" Alan asked with annoyance, shaking him even more vigorously. "What's gotten into you?!"

The fucker--

Shake him once, shame on Lyall. Shake him twice?

Twisting furiously in his grasp, Lyall nipped at his arm in retaliation. Sputtering with indignance, Alan recoiled, inadvertently dropping him. Lyall just managed to land shakily on all paws.

"What the hell has gotten into you?!" Alan yelled, wiping away the saliva on his arm.

Shifting back to stand on two's, Lyall was able to better level the dick with a glare of his own. "I could ask the fucking same of you!" He threw his hands outward, pointing to the walls of the room. "Why aren't you back home with your family?"

Alan pressed a hand against his face, fingers sliding under his glasses to rub at his eyes. "You are so annoying sometimes," he muttered, then threw the same hand his way. "I'm going to ignore that you're practically stalking me right now. My life is none of your business."

Lyall cut in with a scoff. "Stalking? Alan, you literally disappeared from all social circles for an entire week!" Stepping up to Alan, he jabbed a hand at his chest. "I was fucking worried!"

"It's just one week, Lyall!" Alan groaned, swatting away his hand. "It's not the end of the world!"

"Leave a fucking note so I know that next time," Lyall growled in his face.

"Oh, so you can yell at me again?" Alan shot back, feigning a smile. "That went so great last time. I'll keep that in mind."

"I didn't--" Lyall clenched both hands with an incoherent sound of frustration.

Rein it in. He could have a civilized conversation with an asshole.

Tempering his tone, he started again, "Why are you here?"

Alan waved a hand, averting his gaze. "I choose to be here," he answered evenly. "Not held against my will, if that's your concern."

"Alan," Lyall said, sternness giving way to a hint of pleading, "just answer my question."

Alan sighed, sobering gaze fixed on the door. "It doesn't matter how I answer," he said with a lower voice. "Nothing I say even matters to you." He turned his heel, bent on leaving the room.

Lyall blinked, too taken aback by the sting of the accusation to stop him at first.

"Alan," he called desperately, hastily following after, "that's not true!"

"What do you want to hear, Lyall?" Alan said over his shoulder, passing the doorway. "That I broke up with Lara? I quit school? I'm fucking other people?" Trodding down the hall, he tilted his head towards the high ceilings, reaching towards it and yelling, "It never matters what I say!"

With each new indifferent declaration, a fresh wave of concern hit Lyall full force.

Quit school?

Sleeping around?

Lara, Lyall had to find out about just hours ago.

Focus. These were the symptoms of a deeper problem.

"What you say does matter, Alan," Lyall retorted firmly. "In fact, I'd wager you have a far greater impact on others than you've ever realized your entire life."

The words fell on deaf ears. Alan hastily rounded the railing and descended down the stairwell.

Raising his voice to be heard around the bend, Lyall steadily chased after him. "The orchestra, for instance," he went on. "You made a commitment to perform with them, gave them your word. They count on you, Alan! You're the concertmaster, for gods' sakes, and you've left them hanging all week!"

At the bottom of the stairwell, Alan swung around the corner and marched ahead, unreacting. Lyall swung after him, breaking into a trot.

"Then there's Lara," he said with increasing anger. "You were a downright asshole to her, and the girl's been left in utter shambles. It would've hurt her either way, but damnit Alan. Really?" He threw his hands toward Alan's retreating back in an incredulous gesture. "Just tear her apart, then flee the scene? Fucking coward's move!"

Once again, Lyall was met with retreating silent indifference.

Lyall's mind raced, trying to find something that would set him off.

"Your cruel take on a breakup was the least of it, though," Lyall practically yelled at the back of Alan's head. "For two years, I watched you disappear into that relationship. You stood right in front of me, but I still couldn't see you. All I saw was a fucking facade. That wasn't you!"

This was a bad, bad idea.

Of course Alistair didn't want to get involved. Getting involved meant danger, and Mireya had enough danger in her life.

But here he was, neck-deep in her mess. He had chosen to help Mireya out of being in a tight spot (he hated his stupid heart), packed up her shit into boxes (he now hated the color blue), and then shuttled her belongings to the resistance's "secret base" (he hated that term) outside of this cursed city (he also hated it here). And now? He was listening to the most ludicrous plan he'd ever heard from her.

This was madness. Pure, unadulterated madness.

He hated madness.

Alistair's finger twitched, desperate for distraction. He had been smoking way more recently since the whole dragon bullshit journey, and even more now that Mireya was causing him to grow gray hairs.

"Tell me your plan again," he said in her now-barren apartment, hand perched on the windowsill with a lit cigarette. "From the beginning."

"Sure," Mireya said. "It has twelve steps and is designed to make you quit that shit."

The nicotine did ease his nerves, but by gods, she tested him sometimes. "I meant your batshit crazy plan of infiltrating the Gallery," he clarified flatly.

Mireya snorted. "So I can quit a fucking gang, but you can't put down a cigarette?"

Alistair sighed heavily with resignation, his shoulder sagging as he lifted the cigarette to his lips. He inhaled deeply, letting the familiar burn soothe his frayed nerves. Exhaling a plume of smoke out the window, he flicked the spent cigarette outside. The short-lived calm was already fading as he slumped against the windowsill, a bone-weary exhaustion overtaking him.

"Now," he said tiredly, rubbing the side of his face, "can you tell me?"

"Alright," Mireya said, looking happy as she leaned her head back against the wall. "Genius, master plan, here it comes for the fifth time."

It had only been twice, and she'd skimmed over a lot of it. But sure.

She cleared her throat, crossing her legs and sitting up a bit first. "I'm going to enter the Gallery just like any other day," she said. "I'll be using a different door than normal, a less obvious one. It's in an alley, a door you would assume is just the back door to a business's kitchen-- hey, bet you didn't know Bruno's Famous Seafood was actually a gang front this whole time--"

"The fuck?" Alistair sputtered, realizing that by buying takeout for Aisling at the seafood joint, he had been indirectly supporting a fucking gang. Gods. Was nothing in this damn city untainted?

"--so it's going to smell a bit like old crab out there, but whatever," Mireya added unhelpfully. "Anyway, I'm supposed to act all natural and whatever, just there to do my thing. Definitely not carrying enough gasoline vials to refill every lamp in this city in my bag." She waggled her eyebrows while Alistair bit down his horror. "Anyway, then I start pouring a trail around the back halls that no one goes through and where a fire won't be noticed until it's already pretty large. Then boom! I start it with a match. End of story, almost."

This was a spectacularly awful idea. Alistair fought the urge to reach into his pocket and pull out another cigarette, instead thinly echoing, "...Almost?"

Mireya grinned. "See, there's one part I still need. I need to make it out and away from the flames before anyone figures out what's going on. This is where you come in."

Alistair stared at her, unmoving. "What?" he said flatly, the words slowly sinking in.

"You're my getaway rider!" Mireya said brightly. "I could really use a guy waiting nearby with a horse who's ready to move at a moment's notice."

"No," Alistair blurted out, sitting upright and vigorously shaking his head. "No. No. This is a bad idea."

Mireya pouted. "You don't want me to get cooked well done, do you? Come on! You're part of the plan now."

"Mireya!" he scolded, his nerves gripping a hold of him again. "Fuck! No, this is a bad idea! I'm not doing this!"



Why the fuck was Alistair doing this.

"Mireya," he seethed through his teeth, standing under the godforsaken Bruno's Famous Seafood sign. Feeling the nervous shakes return, he once again fought the urge to light another cigarette as he uttered for the tenth time, "This is a bad idea."

Mireya yet again pouted, patting the mane of a very dark horse who was looking at Alistair like he meant violence.

"Don't say that. You'll hurt Horseradish's feelings," she objected.

Alistair pulled his lips back, biting his tongue to not say anything stupid while they were so fucking close to the Blue Suns base. He slowly blinked, tilting his head downwards as he spat out, "Horseradish?"

Horseradish let an angry whinny. Because of course he did.

"See, now you've offended him," Mireya scolded.

"Mireya, why the fuck--" he sputtered out, once again biting his tongue. He needed to calm down. How the fuck was she not freaking out?! Instead, Alistair opted to wildly gesture at the fucking horse named Horseradish. "Are you taking this seriously?" he hissed.

"You can see that this is a very serious horse," Mireya said.

In response, Horseradish stared daggers into Alistair's soul.

Listen, I don't want to be here any more than you, asshole, Alistair thought to himself as he dumbly stared back at him.

Mireya had not explained where this demonic horse had come from. When he'd asked where she'd gotten it on their way over here, she merely said that she had "acquired" him. Maybe it was best not to know any more.

"See, you're already bonding," Mireya said. "Which is good, because your job is basically just to make sure he doesn't wander off. Easy!"

Alistair stared at the reins in her hands. "Can't you just, oh, I don't know, tie him up somewhere? Or put him in a stable? You know, like a normal person?"

"I don't have time to untie a rope or run to the nearest stable, Alistair, I'm going to have a fire and the entirety of an angry gang at my back," Mireya said matter-of-factly.

Tension coiled through Alistair's frame, but not just because of Mireya's words. Horseradish leaned in, hot breath tickling his neck as the beast's nostrils flared, taking in his scent. Grimacing, Alistair tried to lean away, but not in time for the fucking demon to drag his slimy tongue across his neck, leaving a trail of viscous saliva.

"Oh my gods," Alistair groaned with dread, fearing that this was what his life had become: to shovel griffin shit, babysit licking horses, and become a dragon.

"He likes you," Mireya said eagerly, even though Horseradish very well might be considering eating him. "Okay, so I'll be back in twenty minutes sharp. You'll smell the smoke about a minute before I burst out that door. Here is a watch to keep track--" She shoved a pocket watch in his hand, before reaching back in her bag with a grin he knew to be deathly afraid of by now. "--and this is your backup plan!"

The thing she placed in his hand was nothing less than a stick of fucking dynamite.

"What the fuck?" he spat thinly, no longer able to hold back his panic. Absolutely distressed, he held the stick out, not sure what to do with it now that he was holding it. He couldn't just drop it! What if it-- "Mireya, what the fuck?" he blurted out, desperately trying to plead with her. "Mireya!"

"Don't worry! I put some matches in your pocket when you weren't looking!" Mireya called, already on her way to the door when that was not what he was worried about.

"Mireya!" he called as a last attempt to plead with her, but it was too late. She already disappeared behind the door, leaving him alone with a haphazardous plan, a horse who wanted to eat him, and literal fucking dynamite that could kill everyone on sight.

"Oh my gods. Oh my gods," he said under his breath, immediately checking his pocket to see if she did, in fact, manage to sneak matches in his pocket. Seconds passed as he stared dumbly at the match sticks, trying to understand the implication.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with this?! Light up the dynamite? Why-- no, how the fuck was he supposed to do that without killing himself or others around him?! Fuck! He never lit dynamite before! He wasn't some goddamn soldier!

Gods fucking dammit, Mireya!

Alistair steeled his nerves, knowing this was not the time to smoke and calm down. Absolutely not. Not while he held a weapon of destruction. Gods dammit!

The next twenty minutes went by agonoizingly slow, especially because Horseradish kept glowering at him.

Oh, fuck this horse, judging him for pacing because he felt like he was going through a withdrawl or having a nervous breakdown. Maybe both. After all, he only just heard that his abusive ex girlfriend was murdered, he was destined to become an almighty dragon that lived to a millennia, and his closest friend was not taking a deathly plan seriously at all! Fuck!

Alistair hated all of this. He hated horses, he hated fire, and now he hated the smell of crab that stunk the air around him.

Twenty minutes had gone by already. Why didn't he smell smoke?

He was losing his damn mind, counting down the seconds on this tiny pocket watch she slapped into his hand. It was now five after.

Gods. Fuck! Something went wrong, didn't it? Of course it did! Mireya had no back up plan! She didn't listen to him when he kept saying this was a bad idea! What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Wait? Go inside? Either option sounded terrible!

Oh, wouldn't it be so great if he had magic right now to flex his divine godness? Oh yeah, that would be so much more useful than stupidly standing around with dynamite and a judgemental horse.

And so Alistair stared at the door, seriously contemplating the suicide mission.

If he died, he didn't have to be a dragon, yeah? So going inside and risking death with a death weapon had silver linings?

Fucking hell! He wasn't cut out for this shit!

His thoughts were brought to a complete halt when he heard something click behind him. A metal object jammed into the back of his head, pushing through his hair and scraping his scalp. His breath hitched, heart stutering.

"Don't move," a woman's voice ordered, her words dripping with venom.

And suddenly, just like that, Alistair was back in the very real, very sobering reality that he was in a very dangerous part of town. His pulse thundered in his ears as he froze, staying very still and doing what he was told to keep the intruder calm.

"I don't--" was all he had time to say before a sharp pain exploded across his temple.

The world tilted. Suddenly, he was on his back, staring up at Horseradish's long face. The fucking horse seemed to hold a mix of pity and judgement, as if saying, "Well, maybe if you were more useful, you wouldn't be having this problem, huh?"

Fuck this horse, was his last thought before darkness swallowed him whole.

There was that pain again.

Alistair quietly groaned, rolling his head against cold, unforgiving pavement. Everything hurt. His head was killing him, a dull throb pulsing behind his eyes. And--

Wait. Pavement? Where the fuck was he?

His eyes fluttered open as consciousness crept back into his vision again. Blinking back the headache-infused dots that danced across his sight, Alistair realized very quickly-- and with a sinking feeling of dread that dropped into his stomach-- that he was not at home. Panic surged through him as fragmented memories flashed in his mind.

Mireya. Blue Suns. Getaway plan. Horse. Fail. Danger.

The unsettling reality filled him with a shroad of dread. Swallowing hard, Alistair forced himself to focus. He had to push through the fog of pain and panic clouding his thoughts and instead take stock of his surroundings.

He was sitting-- no, crumpled-- in a small, cramped cell that was fit for a singular small person, or maybe himself if he had no limbs.

Cage. He was in a fucking cage, like he was some feral animal. The space to his left wasn't enclosed or occupied, but to his right and ahead stretched a sea of identical cages, each one holding a different person.

It was quiet. Too quiet. There was no movement.

Alistair shifted cautiously, his joints protesting as he maneuvered into a less agonizing position against the cage bars. His eyes darted from face to face, desperately trying to make sense of this living nightmare.

The other prisoners seemed... sleepy. Really sleepy, like they were caught in some sort of waking dream, their eyes glazed, unfocused, and disturbingly vacant.

Who were these people, and what were they doing here?

A sudden clatter shattered the silence. Alistair instinctively shrank bank, making himself as small as possible in his glorfied pet carrier. Heavy footsteps stomped along the pavement and echoed ominously, growing closer. Through the cage, he caught a glimpse of a figure kneeling beside one of the cages.

Has to be a Sun, his panicked mind raced. I'm in some twisted Blue Sun pet shelter for wayward humans. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Biting his tongue to keep from crying out, Alistair watched with horror as the guard roughly grabbed the prisoner's arm. The glint of a syringe caught the dim light before it plunged into the prisoner's unresisting flesh. Ice flooded Alistair's veins.

Oh, gods. Lumshade. The Blue Suns were drugging everyone here with lumshade.

Why were all these people here? Why were they being drugged? Were they mages? And more importantly, what did this mean for him?

He didn't have the privilege to ponder these terrifying possibilities for long. The sharp sound of approaching boots on stone caught his attention. Alistair's muscles locked as the guard loomed before his cage. The metallic scrape of a key in the lock was hardly heard above his racing heart.

The cage door creaked open. Before Alistair could even think to move or say anything, a vicious kick connected with his knee. Pain exploded through his leg, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth.

"Get up," the guard snarled, voice devoid of any humanity whatsoever.

So, this was what it was like to be trafficked, then.

Utterly powerless, Alistair did what he was told, stumbling down the hallway without another word exchanged between them. The guard was a mountain of muscle and menace, looming over him. Alistair swallowed his questions, knowing they'd likely earn him nothing but bruises. With his hands now tied and bounded together, he was completely defenseless, not knowing where he was or where he was being taken.

Forcing down the pain radiating from his abused knee, Alistair shifted his focus. He couldn't fight, he couldn't run-- but he could observe. He etched each passing turn and face they passed into his mind.

The hallway opened into a tacky mockery of an art gallery of some sort. It wasn't quite the hoity-toity atmosphere that pretentious art galleries held, instead more of a crass display of wealth and power. Specifically, Alistair felt like he was walking inside some millionaire kingpin's mansion who wanted to flex their hoarde of money by displaying excessive gaudy art, furs, and stones along their golden wall so everyone who passed it could think, "Wow, this person sure has a lot of money! And they would probably would kill me to keep all of it, too!"

This was definitely the Blue Suns. Gang members prowled the corridor, their trademark Suns tattoos in various states of completion on display. Their fleeting gazes were sharp with distaste, curiosity, or boredom.

Yeah, I don't want to be here either, he thought to himself as he tried to pinpoint where exactly he could be.

Oh, gee. Who on Nye would hoard this much wealth, house this many Blue Suns members, and hold a disgustingly amount of gaudy style?

Fucking hell. He was at Sparrow's headquarters.

After many winding turns, they halted in front of a large ornate door. Still not giving him any clue whatsoever about the hell was happening, the guard knocked against the door three times, heavy and deliberate.

"Let him in," a man's calm voice called behind the door.

This guard certainly knew how to follow orders, because as soon as the door cracked opened, he was unceremoniously shoved inside. Alistair stumbled in, nearly losing his footing. He barely had time to glance over his shoulder before the door heavily shut behind him, leaving him inside with...

Alistair grimaced, eyes catching the man behind the mahogany desk. A sinking feeling pressed against his chest because his gut knew who he was facing.

"Glad to see you're on your feet again," Sparrow said, sitting on a leather armchair at with a too-wide smile. "I heard you took a nasty hit to the head."

In all honesty, Sparrow's tasteless style definitely suited him. He wore an eerie grin that was unnaturally wide, but Alistair was far more unsettled by his teeth. They were so white, Alistair had to squint to not be blinded by them. But the crime lord's piercing green eyes grabbed his attention next, which bore into his very soul like a snake before pouncing for his meal. Perhaps one day Sparrow would one day shed out of his skin and molt. Or maybe he already did, since his skin was as smooth and clear as a baby's ass. It was like he was a fifty year old wearing the skin of a thirty year old. It was uncanny.

Alistair flitted his eyes towards the person to Sparrow's right. A freakishly tall, unnaturally pale woman loomed over them with her arms crossed across her chest, glaring daggers at him. Which was awfully fitting considering she was equipped with a Sparrow-edition snakeskin belt that held an obscene number of knives for her to not be a psychopath.

Alistair pulled back his lips as an awkward silence hung in the air, which was mocked by the consistent tick of the grandfather clock. He shifted uncomfortably on top of the tasseled rug, acutely aware of how the oversized gaudy furniture and art pieces seemed to crowd in on him, making the office feel even smaller and constricting.

"Why am I here?" he finally asked, voice laced with obvious exhaustion.

Given the situation, a detached part of him wondered at his own lack of panic. Maybe it was because he may be victim to a concussion bestowed by a knife-wielding psychopath. Or perhaps he was banking on dying so he wouldn't have to deal with being a dragon and living in the hell of life for a thousand more years.

"A very sensible first question," Sparrow agreed, gesturing at the seat across the desk from him. "Please, have a seat."

Because his hands were tied and he wouldn't be able to pull it out for himself, the woman marched around and sharply yanked the chair away from the table. Her glare communicated what Sparrow's easy tone didn't-- this was an order, not a request.

Well, Alistair wasn't going to question that. He was gods tired and could use a proper sit anyways. And if the chair was laced with spikes or poison? Well, fuck him, then.

And so Alistair heavily sat down, his still-tied hands settling onto his lap as he stared at Sparrow expectantly. The minute he did, the woman shoved him back towards the desk. His full weight was in the chair, but she had no problem pushing him so far forward that his ribs rammed into the edge. Alistair wheezed as a muffled pain spread across his chest, instinctively reaching out to grip the edge of the desk.

This was fine. Absolutely fine. Not a big deal. A blunted strike upon his temple, a rough kick against his knee, and forceful shoves forward? Whatever. He was used to taking a beating, anyways.

Shaky knuckles turning white, he managed to push himself away just enough to be able to breathe and talk to this snake, especially considering the guy seemed overjoyed to be having a conversation with him.

"You're here because you were found loitering suspiciously outside a door, with a horse and a stick of dynamite," Sparrow said, with pleasant curiosity in his voice. "Isn't that right, Pia?"

"Wouldn't say he was suspiciously loitering, sir," Pia growled, and he recognized her voice as the woman who had caught him by surprise. "More like waiting around like a pathetic, abandoned puppy."

"Well, there's more than one side to every story," Sparrow said, turning a charming smile back to Alistair. "What would you say you were doing out there, dear stranger?"

"I wish I fucking knew," Alistair moaned distastefully, grazing his hand across his chest to help it recover from this equally-tacky interrogation tactic. "I don't know why the fuck I'm here or what I'm doing."

Sparrow raised an eyebrow, amused. "Are you prone to uncontrollable bouts of wandering around downtown while carrying dynamite? I would assume most people doing such a thing usually have an intent for it."

"Sorry, chief. Let me try to remember," Alistair muttered, elbows propped on the desk so he had more room to massage his throbbing temples. "I think I might have a concussion. Someone slammed something against my head... But." He squeezed his eyes shut, more vigorously rubbing his temples now. "Okay, it's coming back to me now. I was ordering crab at Bruno's Famous Seafood. Yeah... With my horse, because I buy a metric ton of crab, so it's nice to get the extra help in carrying it." He faintly hummed, opening his eyes to settle his gaze on Sparrow again. "Does that help?"

"How kind of your horse," Sparrow said, unfazed. "So sad he wandered off."

"Damn," Alistair sighed, folding his arms on top of each other. "That is sad. I just got Horseradish, too."

Sparrow smiled, but there was something about it that showed he was messing with Alistair just as much as he was with him-- and that he was getting bored of this game.

"Well, that's a lovely story, but I hope you won't mind this other presentation of events," he said, leaning back slightly in his armchair. "You were not, in fact, unaccompanied besides your horse-- but were joined by one Mireya Kaltrina, waiting outside for her while she pitifully attempted to set fire to the Gallery." He paused. "Does that sound familiar?"

Alistair stiffened, tensing his jaw. This wasn't an interrogation; this was an unfair fight, one that he was doomed to lose. This cult leader wanted to see him squirm.

"What did you do to her?" he asked hoarsely, now more deliberate about his words.

Sparrow's grin flashed wide again, the white of his teeth far too charming for the malevolence behind it. It was like the glow of an anglerfish.

"You're concerned," he mused. "That rules out you being a hired hand. Not surprising-- you didn't accomplish much."

"Listen, I don't want to cause any trouble," Alistair said evenly, his fingertips digging into his arm. "This is a case of being around the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever conspiracy you're thinking of-- I promise you, it's not that at all. I'm nobody important, and I'm not trying to cause any harm here. I just happen to know Mireya."

"Wrong place at the wrong time," Sparrow repeated. "That's an interesting way to describe standing outside a major gang hub with an explosive in hand and a horse to escape with as your friend prepares to send everything up in flames. You see, the sad thing is--" He smiled woefully. "I'd love to believe you. But I just can't."

Alistair barely registered the pain from his fingernails digging deeper into his skin, nearly piercing it. "I don't know what you want me to say," he said hollowly. "I don't know anything, but you don't believe me. You've already settled on your own truth."

"If you're really so clueless," Pia spat, "maybe a knife would jog your memory."

Sparrow's gaze flicked calmly to the knife-wielding psycho as he raised a hand.

"Now, now," he said. "We're not playing that game just yet. He hasn't given us reason to thus far. Isn't that right, Mr...?"

"That's right," Alistair said instead, pulling back his lips to feign a semblance of a smile. "No knives are needed, because stabbing me would only make me tell the truth, which is nothing, because I don't know anything either."

Well, that felt strange to say out loud. Espeially the stabbing part.

"Listen..." Alistair just barely caught himself in time to mock Sparrow by instead calling him Finch. "Sir," he said instead, sighing with resignation. "I'll cooperate. That's no problem by me. Like I said, I'm not trying to cause trouble." He vaguely waved his tied hands towards him. "I've seen Mireya's tattoo, but I've never once made that my business. I don't care what you all do here. I'm not trying to cause trouble. I just want to get out of your way. That's all."

"A very kind sentiment," Sparrow said. "But unfortunately-- and this is very upsetting to me-- I can't let you go."

"Shocking," Alistair muttered with only slight regret.

Sparrow let out a laugh. "You understand, then. I didn't get here by being negligent or letting people fall through the cracks. And regretfully, I've made enough mistakes for today. Mireya has gotten away, which means you cannot."

"What do you want to hear?" Alistair asked tiredly instead, sighing.

Sparrow smiled. "What were the two of you hoping to accomplish?"

"I told you," he replied wearily. "I wasn't trying to accomplish anything." Releasing an exhausted sigh, Alistair scrubbed his hands over his face, maneuvers limited due to his bounded hands. "I don't know, boss. Mireya is a fucking anarchist. She must lost her damn mind. I don't know!" He desperately splayed his fingers outwards towards Sparrow. "She must have randomly wanted to blow shit up. I tried to stop her, but does she listen to me? No! She never does."

Irritated with visible frustration, Alistair scratched at his neck, getting more agitated by his constrained movements. "I told her that whatever cracked up stupid plan she had was absolutely fucked. I told her that it was a bad idea to blow shit up! I don't know, man! She just told me to trust the process! I don't even know how I got here!"

Sparrow's smile remained artifically frozen in place, but the look behind his eyes had hardened into something more sinister.

"You may be able to lie to me about yourself," he said calmly. "But not about Mireya. She may be an anarchist, yes-- but she's intensely loyal. That's something I've made sure of. And however spontaneous she may be, she would not direct her desire to start destruction towards us so easily. That reason is all I'm after. There's nothing else you can tell me that I don't already know."

"I don't know!" Alistair replied panickedly, practically begging as he threw his clasped hands in the air. "Maybe she was looking for blue dye, or, fuck! Money? Weapons? I don't know, it could be anything! Maybe it was workplace drama? I don't know, man! I don't know anything! I never do! No one tells me shit!"

Sparrow watched him for several more very tense seconds that he seemed to have no trouble drawing out. When the excruciating pause was finally over, he sighed sadly, as though Alistair had personally upset him.

Oh nooooooooooo. Such terrible news. How dare he upset a crime boss who threatened him with torture.

"Well, then," Sparrow said. "This is disappointing. I had hoped you'd be more open, but it's possible you just haven't been here long enough. You need some time to weigh the cost of not being honest, and I have more important things to attend to. You may be having company soon."

"I don't know what you want from me, man!" Alistair blurted out, growing anxious. Just how long was he going to be in here? "I've told you everything!"

"If you have, by some off-chance," Sparrow said, with a look to Pia, "it's your job to convince me. Let's see how determined you are to keep repeating this story, time after time."

Alistair clenched his jaw, dread slowly coiling around his chest like a venemous serpent. His heart boomed against his chest, growing in speed as his mind instinctively considered the implications. The eyes of the snake were hollow and empty, devoid of any empathy whatsoever. There was no reasoning with him, through logic or emotions. Sparrow was hungry for a very specific tale, willing to carve it out of his flesh if he had to.

Alistair would never reveal the ties with the resistance, but what would he say under a knife? What would he say if there were a gun pointed at him? How far would Pia go to pressure him to collapse with the truth?

He didn't know. But he did think he would collapse.

Just not with the truth.

Pia grinned wickedly as she marched around to the door, pulling it open. The same sun who ecsorted him here roughly grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him up.

"See you soon," she sing-songed.

Fuck.

What a month.

Shane let the night air fill his lungs as he tilted his head back to the sky. Above the warm, sickly haze of gas lights, stars peeked through a ocean of inky black. Ever since missing this last month due to the storm, he'd made sure he'd take this one extra seriously. And here he was, all alone, with too much to think about.

Two months since meeting the King's Hand and Alan. Five weeks since starting to date Kirk. Four weeks since hearing about Tiberius's plan to steal from the king. One month since reuniting with Eve and Jordan. One week since saying goodbye to his parents again. His life was suddenly full of dates and events when previously he couldn't find a thing to say he was doing. But he didn't hate it. In fact, it felt really nice to have...

Purpose.

Shane leaned back against the porch railing, propping his chin up on his hand and resting his elbow on his knee.

He wished he could've told the version of himself from three, two, even one year ago that things had gotten better for him. He knew hope now. There was something new to drive him each day-- the joy of finding new things to adore about Kirk, the determination of being the best help he could be to the resistance, the chance to reconnect with Jordan and Eve and mend what was lost. It would've all been unthinkable to him back then.

If Shane dared to think it... it might not just have been his situation that had gotten better. He'd gotten better. And all it had taken was a few friends in his life, new and old, who made him decide he wanted to get better again. They'd pushed him to go looking for and hold onto hope.

Now that he had it, Shane didn't plan to let it all slip through his fingers another time. And he fully intended to keep the people he had.

It really was a beautiful night.

Eyes still on the sky, Shane felt something sting his neck. It was another of those pesky insects, flying or crawling, that the Desert Sands were swarmed with. Having lived for most of his life in either cold Lettera or the temperate Western Isles, Shane had been shocked by the variety of mosquitoes, spiders, fire ants and more that abunded closer to the tropics. He'd developed quite the aversion to bugs over the last few years. He swatted at the air to drive it away if it was the winged sort, then slapped his neck in case it was still there.

But there was no buzzing when he shooed around him, and when he felt his neck, he didn't find an annoying insect, but something small and tipped poking out of his skin.

Frowning in confusion, Shane reached at it, carefully taking it out with a quiet hiss at the sting. Some kind of... animal quill, maybe? A cactus spine, even though those were on the far end of the garden?

A look at it told him those guesses weren't even remotely close. It was a small metal pin with a capped end and a sharp tip on the other. Turning it over, Shane felt the metal was sticky with something. Not his blood-- it hadn't punctured him deep enough for that. No, this was from before it hit him.

He was holding a blowdart.

Before Shane could think any further, someone strong had grabbed him from behind. A hand clapped over his mouth, muffling the shout he let out, while an arm snaked around his chest and trapped his arms to his sides as he was pulled backwards. Shane tried to scream again as he flailed and thrashed in their grasp, but it only came out as a muted, desperate grunt. In a panic, he kicked the person grabbing him in the kneecap, and he heard a huff from them, but their iron grip didn't loosen.

"Come on, before he makes too much noise," a voice hissed in the darkness of the garden.

"He won't stay still!" the person holding him snapped in a whisper. "It takes a minute!"

Shane's foot shot out, colliding with a flower pot of violets on the porch. It toppled over, smashing loudly, but it wasn't going to be loud enough. It was too late for anyone to be up listening. The best he could do was create signs of a struggle.

He kept squirming, trying to worm his way free while striking out at the next pot over, but as his leg started moving, it was like all the energy evaporated from his body in the space of two heartbeats. His foot collided with the pot with barely any force whatsoever, only managing to cause it to lean against the railing. His muscles felt like they'd been replaced with lead.

Even as he felt his mind slowing, his last thoughts were ones of panic.

Who were these people? What had they done to him? What were they still planning to do?

The person holding him from behind was ignoring his weakening attempts to get loose and was now hauling him off the porch. Shane tried to shout uselessly one last time, but he felt dizzy with a wave of exhaustion. The last thing he heard was the crunch of his captors' footsteps over the gravel garden path before his vision turned a brand new shade of black.



The air was stale.

It was the first thing Shane noticed-- his first waking breath felt too shallow, almost dirty somehow, and he felt the need to immediately take another. But that didn't help either-- it felt just as empty as the one before.

Something was wrong. No, something else was wrong in addition to the many things he already knew were wrong.

Shane realized he was lying down on his back in a narrow space-- he felt his arms press against walls on either side of him. The surface felt grainy, like unsanded wood. He opened his eyes and was greeted with pitch black-- if not for the right walls, he might've wondered if he was floating in a completely dark void.

He tried to sit up-- and barely moved at all before he hit his head on another wooden barrier.

Shane immediately dropped back down and froze. That was... it wasn't, was it?

Heart racing, he slowly raised a hand to touch the space above him. He felt the wood just a few inches away from his face.

No. No. No.

In disbelief, Shane dropped his hand. He was in a box. A perfectly, although none too spacious, human-sized box. He didn't know with certainty from the inside, but he knew in his gut that this was a coffin.

He turned on his side as much as he could and then attempted to shove his shoulder against the lid. It didn't even budge. Something, whether it was a lock or a physical item placed on the lid, was keeping the coffin firmly shut, and he wasn't going to be able to open it when he still felt weak from whatever had been in that dart.

He needed to call for help. But gods, he couldn't breathe. This coffin seemed airtight. His panic was already causing him to subconsciously breathe faster-- he couldn't waste air by screaming.

Shaky with fear, Shane kicked at the lid, hoping to make some noise. Then kicked again. And again. Then he waited, frozen and cramped in the dark, silently pleading that someone might come over and check what was happening.

But nothing happened.

Shuddering, Shane closed his eyes as he tried to suppress the feeling that the walls were closing in on him. He could die here. If it wasn't suffocation, it would be something else. He'd been taken in the middle of the night: he had no idea how long he'd been passed out for, and he might not have even been noticed yet. He might be impossible to find. There might be no one who could help him.

He didn't dare sob-- the empty feeling in his lungs, like he was half-holding his breath, kept him from it-- but his eyes pricked with tears.

Was he doomed for this to happen, when he'd just realized how badly he wanted to live?

Suddenly the entire world shook. Shane let out a surprised, high-pitched whimper as the box he was in lifted up several, then tilted, then started being hauled none too gently down some direction. The coffin bounced with every step of whoever was moving him, and Shane shrank back, suddenly regretting the decision to call attention to himself.

No one was here to help him. He was on his own. Trying to seek help might only make whoever had put him here more angry at him.

He heard the creak of a door opening, the sound muffled through the wood, and that was his only warning before he was suddenly tipped into a standing position. Shane's head hit the lid with the movement, and he grimaced, tempted to press a hand to it even though he couldn't reach.

There was an odd metal rattling sound-- a key turning in a lock-- before the lid swung open to reveal dazzling brightness.

Shane blinked, nearly blinded after being stuck in the dark coffin for this long. No one waited for him to adjust, though. Before he knew to resist it, he was being ripped out, his hands were pulled behind him, and he was lifted as though he were weightless cargo.

"On the table," a voice said.

Shane was dropped-- maybe even tossed-- on a hard horizontal surface, which briefly winded him. But he didn't even care, because the next breath he took was fresh and clean, and the air almost tasted sweet. He wasn't suffocating anymore.

The relief was short-lived, because a moment later, he felt his arms pulled to lie along his sides, and cold metal closed around his wrists and upper arms. Panicked, Shane tried to sit up, but found he could do little more than raise his head.

"Leave us," the same voice-- a man, sounding calm and authoritative-- said.

The door opened and closed as whoever brought him in filed out. The details of the room were finally becoming visible again.

Shane found himself squinting up at a face peering down at him with a grin so wide it seemed to take up half of his vision. The man leaning over him was on the pale side, with wavy curtains of brown hair falling to his shoulders. His eyes were intelligent and green, and he looked no older than thirty, even with the short beard and mustache. Something told him he was older, though. Shane knew he'd never seen this man before, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was familiar.

"Hello, Shane," the man said pleasantly. "Care to take a guess about where you are?"

Taking a deep breath and shivering, Shane took a look around the room.

It was a small space. The walls held the most frightening collection of objects he'd ever laid eyes on: knives, maces, syringes, hammers, even guns. That, along with the table he was chained to, told him something that made his heart flutter with fear; this was a torture room.

Shane had the feeling this man was asking more broadly, though. And there was only one group in Ruddlan who had shown violence towards him. Even though he didn't know what he'd done to earn it.

"You're the Blue Suns," he said.

Impossibly, the man grinned even wider.

"I suppose it can only be us when you're taken from your back porch in the middle of the night," he mused.

"Well, you aren't exactly known for throwing pleasant dinner parties," Shane muttered.

The man laughed. Shane didn't like the sound at all.

"It's not part of our reputation," the man said. "Could be one day. Until then... well, you're most likely wondering who I am. You may call me Sparrow."

Despite his fear, Shane frowned. Whatever name he was expecting, it wasn't that.

"I'm not calling you a nickname," he said.

Sparrow raised an eyebrow. "It's not a nickname."

"Ah," Shane murmured. "Sorry you got stuck with that, then."

Sparrow stared at him. For a long moment, Shane desperately wished he'd just held his tongue. He was manacled to a table in room that could kill him in more ways than he could imagine with a maniac. He wasn't in a place to be talking back.

But then Sparrow smiled again, as if the moment never happened.

"You're a sharper talker than I heard," he said. "I've been watching you. No offense, but I didn't expect this from you."

Shane's mouth felt dry.

"You've been... watching?" he asked quietly.

Instead of answering right away, Sparrow idly walked over to the wall, a casual gesture that made Shane freeze. But when he plucked an item off it, as easily as picking the best apple off a tree, he took a hammer.

A hammer? It wasn't what Shane would've thought of as the most frightening choice. But now that he didn't know what he meant with it, his blood ran cold.

"You should be flattered," Sparrow said, tome light and mocking. "Have you ever felt so completely alone, feeling like whatever you did, no one would be around to see it? Well, you haven't been lonely. We've been keeping tabs on you for a long time-- and it's gotten much easier since you moved to our backyard."

Shane clenched his jaw. If he had been watched, it would've been apparent he was alone the vast majority of the time. The dig was subtle, but it stung.

"Sorry to disappoint," he said, "but my life's not very interesting. I think you've been wasting your time."

"Oh, no," Sparrow said with a laugh. "On the contrary. It's all led up to this."

"What is this?" Shane asked pointedly.

He shouldn't have asked. A knife-- not from the wall-- was in Sparrow's other hand in the blink of an eye, and before Shane could even draw a panicked breath Sparrow pressed the tip to his right wrist and slashed upwards. Shane screeched, more out of shock than pain, as Sparrow sliced a cut all the way up to his elbow, carving through the fabric of his flannel. As Shane watched, stunned, Sparrow sliced off a piece of his now very bloody sleeve and dangled it aloft, looking at it smugly like it was a prize he'd won.

Dread and nausea coiled into Shane's stomach.

"This," Sparrow said, "is where the Hawkings pay."

Blood was oozing out from his arm, slowly pooling on the table. Shane felt delirious from the shock of it.

"I hope you mean my ransom," he muttered.

Sparrow let out another laugh.

"You're not up for ransom," he said. "I've already taken the liberty of informing your parents, though. I sent a letter and a lovely arrangement of flowers to give my condolences ahead of time so that they'd get it the same night you disappeared. I made it clear I would not be parting with you for money, unfortunately."

He'd sent flowers. Shane felt cold.

"You plan to kill me," he said quietly.

Sparrow grinned. "That's the plan. Plans are flexible, however, so I haven't decided when I'm going to do it-- although it won't be today. Don't be too relieved. You may find yourself wishing I was faster with these things."

Shane could not stop the shudder that rippled through him. His forearm and side were disgustingly sticky, and he thought he'd be smelling the metallic tang of blood forever.

"Why?" he whispered.

"That's a great question for me," Sparrow said, with a wicked smile Shane didn't like at all. "And an even better one for your father."

Shane's heart ached at the mention of him. At the same time, the words held a flame to his anger.

"Well, that's too bad, because you don't seem to plan on letting me see him again," he said sharply. "So I only have you to ask."

"Unfortunate," Sparrow agreed, as he set the knife down and laid the bloody fabric over it. "It's almost more fun to keep you in the dark and leave you to wonder why you're the one to pay the price for a crime you never heard of. Almost. It's too tempting to let you know that your father, my brother, is a dirty traitor who will rue the day he turned his back on me for a better life that I got no share in."

Shane's thoughts stalled before they started again, faster than before.

From where he thought that was going, he'd just heard your father and my brother as different people. But Sparrow was only talking about one person. He was saying... No. That didn't make any sense.

"My father doesn't have a brother," he said slowly.

Sparrow laughed. "If you really know so much about him, then what's his bachelor's name?"

Shane opened his mouth, expecting to have a quick reply. It was then that he realized-- he didn't know. He wasn't sure if he'd ever known.

How did he not know this?

"Come on," Sparrow said pityingly. "You can't have seriously thought he was a Hawking all his life, could you? He had a different last name before that."

"I--" Shane seethed quietly. "It's never come up."

"Really," Sparrow said, sounding almost offended.

"Really," Shane said. "Maybe most people know, but there's no hard reason for it to ever be mentioned. My parental grandparents are long dead, and I only ever learned of them by their first names."

"That they are, dragons bless their souls," Sparrow said mockingly, and Shane got the feeling that didn't bother him at all. "Are you seeing how deep this runs yet? How much you've had hidden from you?"

"All I see is a very fragile man with no purpose in life but to hurt people and hope it makes him feel better," Shane snapped.

Sparrow's smile widened, but in a very, very dangerous way. The way his delighted expression hung there like a mask made Shane's bones turn to ice.

"Oh, it does feel good," Sparrow said. "Maybe you need to learn something about betrayal."

And before Shane could process what was happening, Sparrow lifted the hammer over head with both hands and swung it down onto Shane's left hand.

It made every bit of physical pain Shane had felt in his life-- short of the moment itself that his hand had broken-- seem trivial and insignificant. Shane screamed with all the force in his lungs, trying to shrink away from the blow, but the manacles kept him in place. He couldn't escape this. His eyes immediately filled with tears, and for a moment he was convinced the pain was going to make him throw up.

How? How had Sparrow--

"You're probably wondering why I knew to hit you there," Sparrow said evenly, as a tearful whimper racked through Shane. "As much as I'd love to, I can't take credit for discovering it. Your friend Alan was kind enough to teach me that one."

The air vanished from Shane's lungs. He rasped in a deep breath, doing in his power not to pass out as his hand burned with agony.

"Alan?" he croaked out through another moan of pain.

"Imagine my delight when I go to Barlowe to ask whether she could task a spy to learning your weaknesses, and she tells me she already has one on the job," Sparrow went on. "Alan was very helpful. A lot of the imformation in his report was irrelevant-- you were right about not being a very interesting person-- but there were a couple things he wrote that made everything almost too easy. One being that you have a serious injury on your left hand that has refused to heal for years, and the other being that the first of every month, you'll sit outside to watch the stars on your back porch, unattended. It made it easy to grab you without even having to plan a break-in."

Shane's head was spinning dizzily. The pain kept his thoughts from sinking too far into the horrified realization that was now spreading in from the back of his mind.

Of all the people he'd met and opened up to this summer, Alan was the only one to have heard of both of those. It was impossible to deny. And yet there was an ache inside screaming at him that Alan would never do this.

Or would he?

"I'll send him a personalized thank you message after this," Sparrow added. "It couldn't have been done without him."

A loud sob escaped Shane. He wasn't sure which kind of pain it stemmed from anymore.

"You need to think on everything," Sparrow said, malevolent smile returning. "When you come out of that coffin again, I want to hear every word of your wretchedness and misery. I hope you admit to me the depths of your hopelessness and describe each and every way you are suffering. I hope you confess how much you wish for death, and that you accept there is no deliverance coming. You will die here, away from everyone you've ever loved, and the few who want to help you will be powerless to save you. This is the end, Shane. I hope you loathe yourself every minute of it."

Speechless, Shane blinked up at him through tears. He didn't know how to respond to this kind of hatefulness. Not when it went so much farther than any other cruel word he'd had spoken to him.

This man, who he'd never met before, utterly despised him and his family. And he was determined to make them all suffer.

Shane wondered how long he'd hold up for.

"Get comfortable in that coffin," Sparrow said, ripping the metal bindings off his arm. "It'll be your final resting place one day."

Two hours of sleep wasn't enough, but it was what James got. Breakfast that morning was awkward, and silent. Fonzi was gone -- somewhere with his summer fling, presumably, over night. Kirk was also missing, but no one questioned his absence since he'd started spending nights over at the Hawkings'. James knew that his absences were just as often related to his experiments, but he never knew which it was.

Hellen and Ingrid had drawn closer together in weeks past, and when they were together, no one else seemed to exist. That left Carter, and even he didn't bother attempting polite conversation before he excused himself for a date.

Carter had started pursuing Hild, but James couldn't spare more energy to think on it.

Honestly, he was glad it took Carter away more often.

When he escaped the manor for that morning, Deidra was his shadow -- but he was beginning to ignore her presence. He only offered a goodbye to Hellen before aiming to hit the stables again and meet up with Caspar, who was already there. Unfortunately, a few steps out the front door had him met with an obstacle in his path.

A cat.

Shrimp had to have escaped the Cypress, because now he was in the Moonlight Kingdom Manor's front yard, meowing loudly as he darted up to James's feet, apparently eager to find a familiar figure. James knew that Shane's parents had only just left for Lettera a few days ago -- so it was possible Shane wasn't up yet to let Shrimp back in, or discover his escape.

Leaning down to meet Shrimp, James scratched under Shrimp's head.

"How'd you get out, now, hm?" he asked softly.

Shrimp continued to chirp loudly. It sounded like Shrimp wanted something, but James couldn't quite tell what. If he had to guess: it was food, or access to the indoors again.

"I suppose we better return home, then," James said, picking up the cat in his arms. Shrimp's meow turned into a "mrrp" as he was bundled in James's arms, but when they stopped at the Cypress's front door, Shrimp got antsy.

James set Shrimp down at his feet and knocked on the door, but instead of waiting for the door to open, Shrimp weaved around James's legs and then darted off to the side, circling around the house.

James sighed as he glanced at the front door, but then broke off to run after the escaped cat.

Shrimp led him all the way back to the backyard, and James's steps began to slow as he realized something was wrong.

He stopped when he almost stepped on a broken shard of a terra-cotta flower pot on the ground. His pause caused Shrimp to get away, but James didn't move. Instead, he looked around, searching for the broken pot it might've come from; but there was nothing. No other remains were left of the pot. There were no flowers on this side of the house, nor pots present to hold them.

It could be nothing, but something pricked in his gut that told him he knew better.

Wherever this shard came from, it must have flown a good distance. But from where?

More hesistant, James continued his approach around the back of the Cypress with careful steps. He glanced back to see Deidra hanging back, watching him with neutrality until she met his gaze.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"I don't know yet," James said.

But maybe.

Alerted, Deidra approached with him, keeping a few feet of distance as James now led the way around to the back porch. There, James finally saw the source of the pot's missing piece: a toppled flower pot, shattered to pieces. Soil was scattered everywhere, and the flowers had fallen out almost completely. The roots barely clung to the dirt.

Something had knocked it over violently.

The pot beside it had likewise been knocked over, but had been spared the force of breaking. It leaned against the railing, and it looked like something or someone had run into it. It had lost a lot of leaves.

Most alarmingly, though, the back door was left ajar.

He knew Shane well enough that especially after the shooting, that was something the Hawkings never did since.

James wasn't sure where Shrimp had gone off to, but then he saw a fresh trail of soiled paw-prints coming out of the scattered soil, leading inside.

Just at the base of the door, however, there was a stone: intentionally placed, and taken from the backyard's decor.

Underneath it was a small piece of paper.

As James knelt down beside it, he saw that there was no note. Just a symbol.

A Full Sun.

Ripping the paper out from under the rock, he glanced back at Deidra but offered no explanation as he rushed into the house.

"Shane!" he called down the hall, running down into the kitchen.

No sign of him.

James ran to the front room. The only thing in there was the end of the trail of paw-prints, where Shrimp had perched on one of the seats. When James entered, Shrimp meowed again, but James didn't stop to give the cat attention this time. He turned and ran upstairs.

Every door was unlocked, but every room he burst into was empty.

"Shane!" James called again as he pounded back down the stairs.

"What's going on?" Deidra asked as James jumped over the stair's railing and propelled himself into the study. Kirk had mentioned a basement. A cellar.

"Shane's not here," James said when he slid to the cellar door.

Deidra hung over him for a moment before looking around.

"Would he be out?" she asked, sounding skeptical.

James threw the cellar door open and shoved the piece of paper into her hands. She'd seen him grab it, so she knew where he found it. He didn't have to explain what it meant, and the solemn silence in reply told him that she understood.

James climbed down into the cellar with no luck. He scoured every corner, every hiding spot, every crevice. Nothing else was left behind but an empty home.

Shane had been taken. Kidnapped. The Blue Suns had him, and no one knew why.

If they'd tried to kill him before, why take him now? What did the Suns want with him?

When James came crawling back out of the cellar, Deidra was already scoping out the house for herself. Shrimp came back around, meowing loudly once more. James hurried into the kitchen to meet the cat's need and found the cat's food in a cabinet while Deidra followed him in from the front sitting room.

"Notify the militia," James ordered.

Of course the Blue Suns waited until Shane's parents were out of town. And then they waited until the militia stopped guarding their home, too. Things hadn't gotten better. They'd just waited.

James cursed under his breath as he poured cat food into a bowl and set it on the floor. Shrimp came running up with his tail happily aloft, blissfully unaware of the nature of his owner's absence.

"I'm assigned to--" Deidra started to say, but the withering, pointed look James cast her was enough to drive her into silence.

It did not matter. Shane was more important.

"I'll tell them," she said. "The Captain will act quickly."

"Make sure to send a messenger to Shane's parents," James said. "They left two days ago. They shouldn't be too far out."

Deidra nodded.

"I'll find Kirk," James said.

And Eve.

"Don't disturb the scene any more than you have," Deidra said. "The Captain will want to investigate."

"I won't," James said. Because he didn't plan on returning to the Cypress until Shane was in it.

And gods, did he hope Shane was still alive for that to happen.



"The Suns have kidnapped more than just Shane," Bo said from the corner of Eve's crowded office. "If we're going to break into the Gallery, we're going to be putting our whole team at risk. I refuse to go in blind."

The room was stuffed full. Most of the people in it, James had only spoken with a few times, if any at all.

Eve sat behind her desk with a man named Jordan at her side, with Shrimp in his lap. It was only today that James learned Jordan was Shane's long-lost brother who'd only recently been renunited to the family. It must have been indescribably jarring to have welcomed a son home only to have Shane disappear weeks later.

Filling the rest of the room was a team of people James was only vaguely aquainted with. Tula, Hendrik, Mel, Raj, Robin, Cyrin, and Bo were all ones he'd met; the only new one was a young woman named Mireya, sporting blue hair, and looking perhaps the guiltiest of them all.

As a former sun with her tattoo visible on her arm and a friend of her own personally captured by the Suns, she bore the weight of this heavily.

Kirk, too, was keeled over in his seat under the pressure. He held his face in his hands beside James, and there was only so much James could do to offer support in a situation that was beginning to feel impossible the more they talked about it.

"The problem is we don't know enough of the Gallery's layout," Bo said. "We can't waste time scouring it for Sparrow. We need to know where we're going."

Everyone had already agreed that their energies needed to be focused on taking out Sparrow. The ensuing chaos and lack of leadership could be used to get in with a second team to extract those who'd been captured.

But the first team... was just Bo.

James didn't know what kind of mage he was, but no one in his company questioned whether he was qualified to go in alone. Only that they needed more information before he could.

"I could map it out for you," Mireya said. "But I can't go back now, and I won't know where they're holding Shane, or anyone else. They haven't let me in that far."

"You said there was a note left behind, right?" Bo asked, looking up to James.

"Yes," James answered. "But there was no note left for ransom. Only the Blue Sun's insignia."

"Not all ransom notes carry demands," Bo said. "If they left a note, it's because they want us to know who did it, and they want to be found. I imagine they want Shane's parents to reach out, but the Hawkings aren't here right now."

"And that could take days," Eve cut in. "We can't afford to wait that long."

Jordan nodded in agreement beside her, but his adam's apple bobbed uncertainly.

Emotions were high in the room, and James could feel it. His own worry was amplified by those around him -- but he tried to push it aside for Shane's sake.

If they were going to get Shane out, they couldn't be falling apart. While the militia were opening their own investigation and scouring the Cypress for clues, they had a potential in to see Sparrow, the leader of the Blue Suns's right in this room. They knew where his hideout was, and where Shane would be kept. Bo and his team had enough intel to already point to the right place. They just needed an in.

"What if Kirk and I demanded a meeting with Sparrow?" James asked.

Heads snapped up towards him. Kirk lifted his head and sat up slowly.

"The suns would know that Kirk and Shane are partners," James continued. "And they'd know Shane and I are friends. The Suns don't have any reason at present to suspect our association with the resistance. If we went in, it could be under the guise of negotiating terms for Shane's release. We can agree with whatever they are, leave, and tell them we'll return with their request in hand. But instead, we can return with your team, and an informed plan for how to get in."

"You're suggesting you and Kirk engage in false negotiations so you can use the opportunity to see the inside of the Gallery for yourself," Bo repeated back to him, more succinct.

James nodded. Kirk looked between them.

"If we lose you," Eve said to Kirk. "We lose the anti-serum."

"Clarity could always continue the work without me," Kirk said soberly.

"What about Tiberius?" Robin asked, looking up to Bo with a questioning glance. He was in his wolf form, seated at Bo's feet.

Bo turned to look at Tiberius.

"I'm replacable," James said.

He hadn't meant for it to sound as coarse as it had. He felt the tension in the room rise, but he sat up taller, taking in a deep breath.

This wouldn't be his first time running into an unfair fight with the odds stacked against him, and it wasn't his first time having to put his life on the line for a friend. He didn't need a smoke-bomb to back him this time. It was worth it for Shane, and all of the others the Suns had held against their will.

James wasn't in charge of the rescue, but he could handle a recon mission.

"I won't agree with you," Bo said steadily. "But I do think you two would be the best suited for the task. Kirk, I believe you already know of somebody who could send the suns a missive on your behalf to demand a meeting."

Kirk nodded.

"Wilson Song," Kirk said.

"Then let's write up that letter," Bo said. "We don't have time to waste."