Young Writers Society

The walk up to the mansion felt longer than she remembered. Maybe the fantasy-adventure weekend had taken more of a toll on her than she thought. Or maybe it was having to deal with Tula now that was draining her a bit.

It wasn't like it was bad living with her. Tula was just... angry. And that was hard to be around.

It kind of felt like living with a moody teenager, even though Tula was older than her. At least, Clandestine thought she was, but she wouldn't have known from the way Tula acted. The poor woman hadn't really grown up in a lot of ways. She wondered if Tula ever had anyone there for her in a way that mattered. Clanny knew she could've been in a really similar spot if she'd just made a few different choices in life, too.

But it was whatever, really. Clanny wasn't responsible for her. She was just trying to be kind, even if Tula didn't appreciate it at the moment. She supposed that was the part that was tiring.

That, and even after a whole never-ending battle with a bunch of mushroom people, she still had a full room of animals to take care of.

Now, don't get her wrong. She loved them. She cared for them. And she gladly did all the stuff they needed that they'd missed in her absence - like cleaning, clearing litter-boxes, bathing, feeding, and all of that. But she was just one person, and while it'd been manageable at the start, with her being so physically exhausted, she was feeling pretty spent.

People didn't seem to realize that having pets - especially that many - was kind of like a full time job.

Okay. Maybe a part-time one.

Heck, she was multi-tasking at the moment, anyway, since she'd brought Jumbo with her for a walk. Which he was enjoying thoroughly, by the way, judging from his big fluffy tail wagging.

When she finally made it to the entrance of the mansion, she didn't know why she felt a little nervous.

Natalie had spent a lot of time with her the past week, and it had been really nice. They'd cooked together, they'd had nice conversations, went shopping, and spent time with her and her pets. Natalie was so personable and asked so many questions, listened so well, and happily shared about her own life and children. She even taught her piano - building off the basic building blocks Alan had given her.

Clanny would never tell Alan, but Natalie was a better teacher. It was helpful.

But with all of the good moments they shared, for some reason Clanny felt like maybe she shouldn't be presumptuous.

Hesitating on approach, Clanny stood awkwardly, looking down the pathway that led to the base floor of the mansion where all the guests were staying. It was still pretty early. Maybe Natalie wasn't awake yet?

No. This was silly. This was just... just old insecurities and stuff, coming up again. She was afraid Natalie would be upset for some reason, but that didn't make any sense. Right?

Clanny held her hands together in front of her, biting her lower lip a little as she tried to give herself a moment to work through this little emotional bump in the road. It was kind of distracting, though, when Jumbo pulled away and started walking ahead.

She'd had him leashless because normally he was pretty good at staying closeby. But he was...

"Hey!" she called out, running after him.

Ack. Jimbo was going up to Alistair. It looked like Alistair was smoking on a bench or something. Clandestine didn't make it in time, though. Jimbo was already sitting in front of Alistair, drooling with his tongue lolled out, and looking at the poor guy expectantly for pets.

Clanny ran up, clicking her tongue in chastisement. Jimbo knew what it meant, and he dipped his head in apology, retreating to her side.

Hands on her hips, Clanny caught her breath for a second after her brief sprint.

"Sorry about that," she said. "He doesn't usually do that."

Previously slouching, Alistair sat up straighter, setting his hand holding the cigarette on his lap. "All's good. It's fine," he said stiffly with a weak shrug.

Clanny flashed him an apologetic smile, patting Jimbo's head in appeasement. He wagged his tail, content.

"I um," she started, realizing the previous anxiety and awkwardness was still lingering, and she didn't really know how to shake it. "Yeah. I interrupted your morning moment, didn't I. Should I um -- is anyone inside awake? Do you know if-- cause I'm looking for your mom is all."

Well that could've come out nicer. Oh well. She smiled again, trying not to seem so unreasonably nervous.

Alistair hesitated, glancing between her and the mansion's entrance a few times. "Uh." He turned towards the bin next to him, tossing the cigarette in. "No, you didn't interrupt my morning moment. I'm just..." Back flat against the bench, he wrapped one arm on the top of the bench, pressing his lips together into a half smile and fluorish of his hand to say, "Chilling."

He pressed his lips even tighter together, closing his eyes for a brief moment as he lightly shook his head, continuing. "But... yeah. My mom's inside. Probably in her room or the lobby."

Clanny nodded, finding herself holding her thumb in front of her again as she cast off a glance to the main doors.

Gosh, this was so... she had no reason to be nervous. It made no sense! She pressed her lips together and then looked back at Alistair. Maybe she just... needed a few more moments. To calm down and be a big girl again. That was okay, right? She wasn't in a rush.

"Can I sit with you?" she blurted.

Alistair didn't answer right away, blankly staring at her. "Uh." He dropped his arm on top of the back of the bench, broadly gesturing to the open bench. "Sure, yeah."

Clanny let out a sigh of relief and hurried to sit down on the bench with a comfortable space between them. She leaned back for a second before deciding that did not help with the tightness in her chest and instead leaned forward, putting her hands on her knees.

"...You feeling okay?" Alistair asked more quietly, watching her with open concern.

Clanny pinched her eyes shut.

"I don't know. I think. I'm just anxious. I don't know why," she said.

He softly hummed. "Does this happen a lot for you?"

Clanny pouted a little, leaning more so she was hugging her arms.

"It's been a little while," she answered honestly. "It normally... I don't know. I usually feel like this if I'm..."

She hesitated, not sure if it would be oversharing to say.

"Sometimes stuff happens that reminds me of some... some stuff in my childhood, I guess. But I can't think of anything that triggered it today," she said quietly.

A pause.

"I don't know if that's too much to say," she added softly.

"No. No, that's not too much," Alistair said more quickly and assuredly. He paused, quiet for a moment. "Sorry. I was just thinking of a good response. I didn't want to say anything insensitive." He glanced at her. "It's one of those days, huh?"

Clanny nodded. "I guess so," she said with a sigh.

Jimbo came closer, sticking his head between her knees. She appreciated it. She held his head in return.

"Yeah. Shit sucks sometimes." Alistair sighed. "I sometimes get that too. I don't know what brings it on." He weakly shrugged. "Maybe there isn't really any trigger. I don't know."

Clanny idly scratched under Jimbo's ears. She looked over at Alistair, watching him for a moment, noticing the cigarette was gone before he'd finished it.

She wondered if that was why he smoked.

"Have you been up long?" she asked.

"Is twenty minutes long?" he asked dully.

Clanny shook her head. "No," she said. "I've been up a lot longer than you have, then."

Alistair hummed, bowing his head to the side to adjust his cap. "So you're a morning person. That's unsurprising."

Clanny tilted her head at him, pinching her brows a bit with a faint amused grin.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.

He innocently shrugged. "Just saying. Must be nice to wake up and be full of so much energy."

Clanny let out a huff through her nose. "I mean, I spend most of it making sure all my animal buddies are okay," she said, patting Jimbo's head.

"Let me guess." Alistair loosely estured towards Jimbo. "They're all morning creatures too."

"Not all of them actually!" Clanny said, raising a finger. "The elderly cats like to sleep in. I just set their food out for them for when they wake up."

"Well, yeah." Alistair waved his hand up in the air. "They're cats. They sleep for like eighteen hours a day."

"I don't think I've ever slept that long," Clanny said. "But it sounds like it could be nice."

"Can confirm. It's nice." Alistair slouched back on the bench, sighing. "Maybe I'll go back to sleep after this."

"Really?" Clanny asked. "You can just do that?"

"Mhm. It's my magic to sleep on command," he deadpanned.

"Wow," Clanny said, raising her brows. "That's a nice super power. Insomniacs must be jealous."

Alistair gave her a funny look, though she didn't know what warranted it. "Yyyyyeah," he drew out, biting back an amused smile. "Let's go with that."

Clanny tilted her head a bit. Had she missed something?

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked.

He huffed out a faint laugh, shaking his head. "No," he said with a small smile. "I'm just teasing you. I was being sarcastic."

Clanny smiled, feeling a little embarassed, but she let the feeling wash over her and away.

"Oh," she said, happy she'd at least made Alistair laugh. "Well. I'll try to um. Match that, then. Sarcasm."

She gave a little salute.

"Nah." He waved away the salute. "Just be yourself. If sarcasm isn't your thing, no need to copy that." Alistair shrugged a shoulder. "No promises that I won't stop being amused, though."

Clanny's head sunk a little between her shoulders, feeling a little more embarassed at that, but she tried to shrug it off with a small smile.

"Okay," she said. "I'll just be myself, then. Easy enough."

Alistair nodded, and a short lull passed between them. But this time, Alistair spoke before she could.

"So, uh," he began. "You said you were going to see my mom?"

Oh. Right.

Clanny scratched the side of her face.

"Yeah," she said, a little quieter. "Um. Just since I haven't seen her since the whole... you know. Do you think she'd like that?"

"Right..." Alistair brushed at his knee, unfocused. "Yeah, she wouldn't mind. She seems to like you." He hesitated, glancing back at her. "You doing okay, though? That event was..." He grimaced. "Rough."

Clanny frowned a little bit.

Honestly, she hadn't really had a chance to think about it. When she'd gotten home, she really only had the energy for grabbing some food, taking a shower, taking care of the animals... and then she'd conked out. This was the morning after all of that. She felt like she'd almost forgotten.

"It was kind of weird how it all didn't feel real," she said quietly. "And yet I still feel as tired as I'd expect to be if it was."

A beat.

"And it... was," she said.

"Yeah. 'Tired' is an understatement," Alistair replied with a sigh.

"It felt kind of weird, killing all those creatures," Clanny said softly. "Like, I know it was all part of the 'test,' but... even with my job we don't kill monsters without a cause."

She sighed, hugging Jimbo's head. He tucked it up under her chin.

"And I know there's self defense and there was the prize and all that. But why put creatures in a situation where their purpose is to die? In real life a lot of monsters can live in the world and have their own little system apart from human culture. It's only when it runs into ours in a harmful way that we intervene. But this felt like they were scared. Brought to us just to fight. I don't think they wanted that..."

She pressed her lips together, looking over to Alistair with an apologetic squint.

"Sorry," she said. "No one really thinks about the monsters. I know people come first. I just think it was all really unfair. I wish I could've figured out how to speak to them all and fix things peacefully. I wish I knew how to talk to monsters too."

Alistair was quiet for a moment, rubbing his thumb over his knee, taking in her words. "I don't think there's one easy solution or right answer here, but..." He weakly shrugged. "Maybe it starts by asking yourself who the real monsters are. In those creatures eyes, we're the monsters."

Alistair sighed, slouching to his side, elbow perched on the arm of the bench. "Easier said than done, though," he muttered.

"Especially when a giant mushroom creature is about to crush your friend," Clannt said.

"Maybe it's a fear response. Or they're protecting their weird mushroom family." Alistair adjusted his cap, brows furrowed as he squinted into the distance. "Are mushroom people even real, or...?"

"Not gonna lie," Clanny said. "Most of those creatures I've never seen before, and I live in monster city. If I had to guess, someone created them from a petri dish for this."

"Nice," Alistair said blandly. "Cool to create life to kill them off for worldwide entertainment."

"Does that make me a modern day gladiator?" Clandestine asked, looking up at the sky.

"Oh god. Don't give the DMV any ideas," he groaned.

"Oh. I forgot they're listening," Clanny mumbled. "Supposedly. Though they don't really give me that much attention, I don't think. I'm just the animal girl. I feel like I've only been on the fringes of all of the... well, it feels dismissive to call it 'drama.'"

Alistair hesitated, shooting a few uncertain glances her way. "Who says you're 'just the animal girl'?" he asked.

Clanny blinked, looking at him in a bit of confusion.

"I mean, no one's really said it like, to my face..." she said. "At least, not here. I kind of just assumed..."

Well now this was awkward.

"I guess it's just me saying it," she admitted quietly.

"...Well." Alistair said a bit stiffly, slowly sitting upright, back flat against the bench. He brushed his fingers over the arm of the bench, attention mostly fixed on the patch of flowers in the nearby garden. "I think you have a lot more to offer than just 'animal girl.'"

Clanny let out a huff through her nose, smiling softly.

"Thanks," she said. "I'd like to think so too."

She paused, wishing she could form a compliment in return for Alistair, but she realized most of what she knew about him was from his mom, and not actually from Alistair himself. Probably best to wait on that so she could say something genuine from what she saw, and now just what his mom told her in her own words.

So she went with a joke instead.

"And you have more to offer than being a 'good sleeper,'" she said.

Alistair had used the natural lull to drink from a blue krokerade drink, but upon hearing the joke, he loudly spat out the drink, spraying the liquid in a mist in front of him. Flustered, he turned away to cough into his elbow, gasping for air between choked coughs.

Clandestine let out a bark of a laugh in surprise. Did she make him laugh? Or did he just choke?

"Oh my gosh, are you okay?" she asked through laughter.

"Yup," he rasped out, coughs dying down as he melted in his seat. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"If only you have a super power to not have drinking problems," Clanny said.

"Oh my god," Alistair muttered, hand covering his face as he sunk lower into the bench.

Clandestine let out a giggle, feeling a little pleased with her own joke but a little sorry it was at Alistair's expense.

"Sorry, sorry," she said, lightly patting his shoulder. "I'll give you a moment to recover."

"I'm..." Alistair cleared his throat, stiffly sitting upright again, sighing as he squinted at the flowerbed again. "Recovered, yeah. It's, uh..." He took off his cap, setting it on his lap so he could push back the hair sticking on his forehead. "I hate the weather here. How does anyone tolerate it?"

Clanny let out a huff through her nose.

"You dress right and stay hydrated," she said matter-of-factly. Then looked at his whole outfit up and down.

All black. No wonder he was dying.

"Neither of which you're really doing at the moment, mister 'wearing-the-color-that-absorbs-the-most-heat-possible,'" she said.

Alistair sighed, tilting his head backwards as he stared blankly into the sky. "I only brought one shirt that wasn't black," he said with no enthusiasm, "and my brother stole it from me."

"Well if it's breathable shirts you're needing," Clanny said. "You could borrow some of mine."

A beat.

"They're not girly ones, I mean, like I have tons of big unisex t-shirts and stuff," Clanny offered. "So long as you don't mind graphic tees."

"I..." Alistair flicked his eyes towards her a few times, pausing. "Uh." He slowly lifted his head again, sitting straight and staring dead ahead of him, cheeks flushing-- probably from the hot summer temperature, since he admitted he was heating up. "Um, yeah." He casually set his elbow on the back of the bench, opposite of Clanny. "Sure. Yeah."

"Okay!" Clanny said with a smile. "I can just drop them off later. Unless you're like, dying of heat stroke right now. You know what, drinking water might be a better first step actually."

She pointed at his non-water-beverage.

"That's probably not helping, to be honest," she said.

"Hey," he said with a shrug of his shoulder. Then deadpanning, "It's got electrolytes."

"And like, 50 grams of sugar probably," Clanny said.

"Oh no," Alistair said with no enthusiasm. "I'm dying."

"Melting, is more like it," Clanny teased.

"Yup." He popped the 'p' sound with his tongue, idly playing with his cap before setting it back on his head, backwards this time. "Melting," he murmured in agreement.

Alistair was kind of funny. Being all moody, and stuff. She was glad she'd paused to talk to him, too. She was feeling a lot better now that she'd had a good laugh.

Sitting up straighter, she set her hands on her knees. Jimbo, still with his head between her legs, also sat up straighter in turn.

"Walk?" he asked.

She patted his head.

"Yes, but just a short one," she said. Jimbo wagged his tail. Clanny turned back to Alistair.

"I think I'm ready to go inside now," she said. "Thanks for talking to me. Do you want to come with?"

He glanced at her uncertaintly. "You're going to see my mom, right?"

Clanny's smile faltered a little bit, unsure if he was asking because it'd determine whether he came or not. Was this some invisible trip line? Or maybe it was nothing.

"Yeah," she said.

Alistair glanced at the entrance, gaze lingering for a long moment, hesitating but seemingly considering the invitation. "Maybe... it's best if you go by yourself," he said slowly, turning back and offering a hint of a smile. "But, I mean. I'll probably see you again before I leave. Right?"

"Yeah," Clanny said, getting to her feet. Jimbo wagged his tail even more, already postured to go. "Because I've gotta bring you shirts you can actually breathe in. Will you be around here later today?"

"Oh, uh." He glanced around him. "Like, here? This bench?"

"I mean, I don't know," Clanny said with a little laugh and a shrug. "I guess I could just text-- well, nevermind, I'd need your number for that. If you'd be cool with exchanging them and all I guess."

Alistair stared at her for a long moment, processing. "Uh." He slowly nodded, slowly drawing out a, "Yeah..." He cleared his throat, nodding again, more quickly this time. "Sure, yeah. For t-shirt delivery service, I guess."

"Cool," Clanny said, pulling out her phone and pulling up the contact app to an empty form before handing it to him. "I'll text you my name so you know it's me."

Sitting on the mat of the gym, Alistair fell on his back, letting the sweat on his shirt slick up against the cool mat. He had been going through his daily weightlifting reps, but today he was dead tired, too sore and achy to continue.

Maybe it was because he was sweating any water he was taking in, which was... admittedly, not a lot. Or maybe it was because his diet was shit. Or maybe it was because he was in hell. Who even knew?

Stifling a satisfied moan, Alistair bent his arm to place behind his head, pulling out his phone from his pocket to turn up the volume to the max setting to play on his Beets since a Bad Rabbit song queued next.

Rolling to his side, Alistair set his head at the crook of his elbow, bending his arm so his fingers grazed the top of his head. He sighed, pushing his hair back, slick with sweat. With his free hand, he relaxed the edge of his phone against he mat, pulling up the text that Clanny sent him a few hours ago.

Clanny wrote:Clandestine Summers!"

Alistair wondered if maybe he should have texted his name back, especially since people often misspelled his first name, but... well, the window of opportunity passed, so he'd roll with it.

Still... maybe he should have said something...? Or...

Yeah, okay, so maybe he was overthinking this. But how could he not? Here he was, minding his own damn business, and some nice looking girl-- who his mom adores, no less-- comes along with a dog, opens up about some things, and, yeah, so they had a moment. As in, a real convo. That was cool. That was nice. She was cool.

What the hell did she mean by 'you have more to offer than being a good sleeper'? That couldn't have been a dirty joke, right? It was a clean joke? Because he had joked that he could sleep on command? She wasn't that innocent, right? Then again, it seemed that she didn't pick up his sarcasm... multiple times.

And 'if only you have a super power to not have a drinking problem'? That felt like a dry, edgy joke, which he did enjoy. But also. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe she wasn't actually making a dark joke that his dad was an alcoholic ass. How the hell would she even know that? Plus, she didn't see him get wasted. Right? No, he stayed sober the whole time.

Well. Okay. Not the whole time. But he hadn't gotten wasted.

No, this was just an innocent joke because, again, he made a comment about his choice of drink. Which was krokerade. Yeah, that was probably it.

Okay, but she also flat-out told him that he could borrow her clothes? Bruh.

How the hell was he supposed to receive that? Honestly, his brain completely emptied at that, and Alistair didn't even remember what exactly he said. He was just trying to make sense of all of all this... attention.

What'd he do to make her so... interested? This felt so out of left field, especially when she so casually offered her number.

Honestly, he shouldn't have used more brain cells and been more analytical about this in the moment. He shouldn't have taken her number. Because...

Oh my god, he thought to himself. I'm going to regret this.

He could see it now. Andy was going to see the footage, because, well, of course she would, and all contestants were being followed and recorded like they were lab rats to be studied. Andy was going to cry that he took Clanny's number, was probably cheating on her, blah blah blah, make him feel guilty for no damn reason because literally nothing happened, and then he'd apologize and affirm her, and she'd feel better, and then he'd sit with her for the whole night, leaving in the morning. Same shit, different person. Every single time.

Well, at least he had the privilege of being thousands of miles away from her, only able to hear her on the phone. Though... this felt much more like a downside, since he did love Andy, and was always so relieved after they fought, when they'd lay in bed, and she'd set her head on his chest, and he'd idly play with her curly hair, and they were content.

That was assuming that the fight resolved itself on its own, though. There were plenty of times when it... didn't. And Alistair could quietly admit that, yeah, maybe being so close to one another wasn't always so great.

But god. Take away the proximity completely, and all of this felt... hollow. Exhausting, mostly. God, being in love should not be this hard, but sometimes, she really tested his limits.

The song roaring in his ears suddenly paused, but before Alistair could question it, Andrea's upbeat ringtone filled his ears, her name and selfie picture taking over his phone screen.

Nice. Apparently she could read his mind now or something.

Slowly, Alistair sat up, staring at the screen. He should take this. Yeah. Why was she even awake? If he was doing his timezone conversion correctly, this was before she went to work.

A small pit of dread filled his gut. She wasn't going to say anything good, was she?

Yeah. Okay. He should take this. She was so upset at him the other day when he denied her call, and he'd rather not make this any worse than it needed to be.

Hesitating, he answered the call, setting his phone down since his headphones had a mic. He barely had time to think of a greeting since she immediately opened up, loudly yapping in his ear in Argent. Grimacing, he lowered the volume.

"Heyyyyyyy baby!" Andy's voice boomed through, high-pitched and too-sweet, already laced with a passive aggression Alistair was used to. "Hey, I sent you pictures an hour ago. Did you see them? I think you'll really like them!"

"Um," he stammered, swiping down from his phone to check his notifications.

Lo and behold, she sent several Snoopchats. And she only really used that app for one reason. He felt his face warm up as he flipped his phone around, leaning back on his palms.

"No, not yet," he said casually. "Maybe... later, though. I'm at the gym right now."

"What? Baby, why won't you open them? I put in all the effort to send them to you," she whined. "Please just take a look! I want to hear what you think!"

Alistair glanced around, noting that this room had cameras too. Yeah, of course it did. Could the DMV hear conversations too? Maybe he was being paranoid. He wasn't a contestant, so there was nothing to be worried about on his end.

Still. This did not justify him to willingly walk into an obvious thirst trap. From his own girlfriend.

"I will, don't worry," he said gently. "I'm sure you look great. You always do."

"No, but babe," she continued to whine. "I left a surprise in there. You have to see it!"

"I will," he affirmed, deciding to not mention that they were probably all surprises. "Hey, what are you up to today? It's early over there right now, right?"

"Ugh, yeah," she said. "It's soooo early. I woke up just to call you, though. Because I love you so so much!" And then she made a "mwah" kissing sound over the phone.

Alistair sat up straight again, brushing his hand over his knee, just over his black gym shorts. "I miss you too. Sorry I stayed here longer than we thought. I should be coming home soon, though."

"Do you really mean that?" she asked in a higher pitch.

"Yeah, of course," Alistair affirmed. Though he felt it in his soul that she was about to slap him with some petty statement.

"Well I find that really hard to believe, baby," Andy said, and he could hear the pout in her voice as anger started to seep into her tone. "With you flirting and screwing other girls on television!"

Aaaaaaaaand there it was. The real reason why she called. He sighed, falling flat on his back again with a soft thud.

"I mean," she went on. "I can't believe it! People know we're together and you just take this number from some Snow White chick where everyone can see? God! You have no idea how embarassing this is for me."

"Andy," he called gently when she took a split second to breathe after her spiel, but of course she kept on going.

"Me personally! I've been such a loyal and devoted girlfriend to you and then you joke about screwing this girl and you went along with it! How could you do that to me? You're borrowing her clothes? You have her number now? What, are you guys sleeping together every night now too?"

"Andrea," Alistair called again more firmly.

Finally, she stopped enough for him to speak. But he could hear her tearful huff on the other end.

"What?" she snapped.

"I love you. Okay?" he went on. "No one else. I'm not sleeping with anyone else. I'm not seeing anyone else. I'm not flirting with anyone but you. I'm devoted to you. Because I love you. Alright?"

"Really?" Andy said through tears Alistair could swear were conjured just for this moment.

Regardless, he went on with, "Yes. Really."

Predictably, Andy sniffled, and her tone shifted once more. "I love you too, baby," she said softly. "I love you sooooo much."

Alistair took a deep breath, glad that they didn't need to draw this out. Because, again. Nothing happened.

"And you should really look at those pictures I sent you," she said suddenly, as if the choked up sound in her voice disappeared in an instant. "I got highlights in my hair and they're super sexy."

Yyyyyeah. That was definitely what she wanted him to see.

"Yeah, okay, I will," he said again for the third time. "Hey, I'm going to go back to my reps. I'll talk to you later, okay? Get ready for work, or get a little more rest. I'll see you soon."

He didn't wait for her reply, quickly tapping the red button to end the call. Now even more tired, Alistair sprawled on his back, letting out a stifled groan.

He felt his phone next to him vibrate, but he didn't have to look through them to know that it was Andy sending him a slew of texts. Ignoring them for now, Alistair picked up his phone to resume the song, once more setting it to maximum volume.

Now he just needed to find energy to continue his work out. That, or go back to his room, shower and change, then eat a depressed burrito. Either option sounded fine.

Phone in hand, Alistair idly scrolled through Andy's texts, swiping them away one-by-one. When the phone vibrated in his hand again, he half-expected them to pop up under Andy's name, but then quickly sat up straight when he realized it was from Clanny.

Clanny wrote:Shirt Delivery for You

Clanny wrote:where u at?

Feeling a spike of anxiety, Alistair glanced around the gym, grasping for an answer. He thought she'd give him a heads up, but here they were. He sighed again, rubbing his face, then decided to tackle this cordially without making it weird. Andy did plenty of that.

Alistair wrote:I'm at the gym rn but can meet you later?

She responded back quickly.

Clanny wrote:fo sho no worries

Clanny wrote:just text me when ur free i guess! im just at the plaza chilling

Alistair thought about hurrying up, showering then meeting her at the plaza so he didn't keep her waiting. But at the same time, he knew how this would be perceived by Andy, and he didn't want to upset her more than he already had. Especially over something as stupid and harmless as shirts, because apparently Clanny was dead set to give him non-black shirts so he didn't die of a heat stroke.

Alistair took some time to think about it, then decided to send her another text.

Alistair wrote:Might be a while

Alistair wrote:Do u want to leave it somewhere? Can pick up later

Alistair wrote:Sorry I just don't wanna have you waiting on me

Clanny wrote:lol sure i dont mind but if u prefer that thats cool

Clanny wrote:im going to hide them behind the flower pot outside the bakery. they're in a paper bag

And then there was a photo. Of said bag, behind a pot of flowers and her hand in it making a thumbs' up.

Alistair couldn't help but bite back a snicker. This was strangely comical. This whole exchange played out like a drug deal.

Alistair wrote:Nice hiding spot

Clanny wrote:thanks jimbo found it

And what followed was a blurry pic of Jimbo's nose in the camera. That was it. Just a blurry nose. Or maybe it was just a blob of color. Who could even tell.

Amused, Alistair clicked off his phone, sliding it back in his pocket.

Well. He wasn't sure he'd wear these shirts, but... after picking them up, he really didn't have an excuse to complain about the heat, did he?

For the first time, Kazimir had the thought that maybe something was genuinely wrong with him.

It wasn't the first time the thought had passed through his head, of course. He'd heard it all the time growing up. From his dad. His mom. His teachers. Peers. Everyone around him, really, was always asking him what his problem was, usually when he did something "stupid." Frankly, Kazimir never thought he was really that stupid, just smart in a different way. Maybe ways people didn't understand.

Normally, that kind of stuff didn't bother him. He'd brush it off, it'd be whatever, and it was fine. Back to living life, not a care in the world, just enjoying it for what it was.

But that was getting hard to do when he was alone most of the time.

Okay, that wasn't entirely fair. He knew he was part of the problem. He'd hung out with Megan almost the whole week, and that was of his own choosing. And the weeks before that, he'd used videogames as a way to avoid Hendrik and Robin, mostly. But he hadn't realized how quickly it'd made him disappear.

At least, that was how it felt when he was actually thrown into an event with everyone else, and Megan wasn't around anymore.

Maybe it was just Hendrik who made him feel alone - because whenever Hendrik was there, Kazimir felt like a child, not an equal. He was certainly treated like one, even though he wasn't that much younger. And it felt like everyone else kind of treated him the same way.

Sure, he had fun with Clandestine. That had been nice, for the minute it lasted. Before he was assigned to lookout duty.

Alone.

And of course, even in the battle of all things, he ended up with Hendrik. Not really out of his choosing, either.

Kazimir let out a sigh, patting the mound of sand in front of him with a sense of defeat. He only had a few more days before Megan would be sent home, and he wanted not to waste them, but ever since he'd been back from that crazy weekend, he just felt...

Different.

Maybe it didn't matter. His problems weren't big like everyone else's. The prospect of dying, losing loved ones, friends, or the hope of going home weren't things he'd even had on his radar amidst all of this. He'd kind of just been there. In the background, while everyone else's lives were catching fire. At least, that's kind of what it felt like.

It wasn't like he wanted his life to suck too. He just wanted someone to notice that it was happening at all.

"Bah," he said, smashing the half-build sand house under his hands when he messed up on the roof. And he hated that it made him feel worse, because it reminded him of Lyall. Probably the only guy who thought about him. Sometimes. Kazimir wondered if Lyall thought about him as much as Kazimir thought about Lyall.

Letting out a long sigh, Kazimir slumped forward into the sand.

He'd come out here to try to rebuild the "City of Angels," but it'd already been half washed away by the tides. What remained of it was in shambles, and if he were a more poetically inclined man, he might see some meaning in it.

Trying not to mope too much in his own stupid feelings, Kazimir pushed himself up from the ground, wiping the sand off his face. When he could look up again without getting sand in his eyes, he saw someone entering the little alcove from the edge very quietly.

It was... Eve.

That was her name, right? Kazimir didn't think he'd ever actually spoken to her before. He only hear her talked about. She hadn't been talked to.

Eve looked around, kind of like a deer in the headlights when they made eye contact.

"Hi," he said.

"...Hi," she peeped back, glancing at the path she was wanting to take, though seemed unsure of how to proceed.

"I don't think I've talked to you before," Kazimir confessed aloud.

"I..." Eve stood straighter, clasping her hands together in front of her. She shook her head, then calmly affirmed, "No. We have not."

"You sound different than I imagined," Kazimir said.

Eve stared at him, opened her mouth to retort back, but then snapped her mouth shut again, deciding against it. Kazimir didn't really know what that meant.

"I just thought your voice would be lower for some reason," Kazimir explained. "But your voice sounds fine anyway."

"...Thanks." Though, the word didn't express much gratitude. Eve cleared her throat, nodding. "May I pass through? I won't disturb your..." She gestured to the sand castles.

"City of Angels," Kazimir said. "Though no one lives here anymore. There was a flooding problem."

Eve stared blankly at him again. "A flooding problem," she echoed.

"Water," Kazimir said, pointing to the ocean.

"...Right." She glanced at the ocean.

"I've been trying to fix it," Kazimir went on. "But I don't know if I want to anymore. It took two people to make last time."

Eve crossed her arms, gaze still focused on the shore. "Well, you're building your sand city too close to the shoreline. High tide comes in every night."

Kazimir looked to the ocean, then back to Eve. She was smart. Knew about the tides.

"What creatures live in your sand city?" she asked, turning back to him. "Crabs?"

"Sometimes," Kazimir said. "When they burrow in the sand. I've found a few of them. I don't know if they like sand homes, though. They're not like people in that way."

"Have you considered placing shells as furniture?" she asked. "Hermit crabs would like that."

Kazimir stared at her, his mind slowly processing this revelation.

"That's a great idea!" he said with a smile.

"But," she gestured to the dryer side of the beach, "do that after you rebuild over there."

Kazimir looked over to the patch of sand, fresh, unworked, and untouched, further from the shore. If he did that, he'd have to start over completely. And then he definitely couldn't get it done alone.

"Do you want to help me?" he asked, looking back to her.

Eve hesitated, stiffening a little. "On... rebuilding your sand city?"

"Yeah," Kazimir said, smiling a little. "It sounds like you have a good idea for decorating. And maybe this time we won't have to rebuild anything since it won't get destroyed."

"Oh. Um..." Eve wrung her hands together. "I don't know. I'm not very good at building sand castles."

"Okay," Kazimir said. "I can build, you can make them look pretty and have shells."

She hesitated again, glancing at the half-destroyed City of Angels. "There's a lot to rebuild..."

"I mean, you don't have to," Kazimir said. "If you don't want to stay the whole time. I don't have plans or anything, though. I told Meg I wanted to just. Um."

Hm. Maybe better not to explain everything.

"Build," he said. "So, do you want to?"

Eve hesitated again, hand now tightly gripping her tote bag as she glanced to the City of Angels, to the shore, to the dryer sand further away. Then nodded, slowly. "Okay," she said quietly. "I can help, at least for a little bit."

Brightening, Kazimir felt a rush of excitement at getting to have some company. Especially someone like Eve, who didn't get out much. But she was going to hang with him! Haha.

"Yes!" he said, jumping to his feet. He ran over the sand to the patch she'd picked for a new city, carrying some wet sand with him. "I can show you how to build them, too. It's really not hard."

And so they got to work. Kazimir felt a similar happiness to what he felt the last time - the joy of creating, making something together, coming up with new ideas. Eve's brain worked differently than Lyall's. She was more artsy. Took note more on how things looked than how they were structured, but Kazimir knew how to fix those kinds of problems. In the end, their city was turning out a lot prettier than the last, and it honestly looked more like a city, too. The buildings looked more like buildings, and they were build for creatures like crabs instead of fake mini-people.

Kazimir paused on working for a moment halfway through their "museum" building, shaking some of the sand off his hands.

Though, there was sand all over him at this point, so he didn't know why he bothered. Eve had sand all over her, too, but she somehow managed to keep it to her hands and overalls. Kazimir had it all over his shirt and face and hair. He couldn't remember how that happened.

"I think I'm getting kind of hungry," he said.

Eve was bent over, sculpting the root of the largest castle with ridges and shapes. At his comment, she glanced up, slowly pulling away. "Do you want to stop?"

Kazimir hummed. "Not yet," he said. "But we can rest for a second."

Eve flicked away the wet sand from her hand, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. She peered over their new creations, satisfied. "We built a lot," she murmured.

"Yeah," Kazimir said with a smile. He reached over and patted her back in congratulations. "We have!"

Eve offered a half-smile, gesturing to the assorted pile of shells next to her. "I've collected some shells over the past month while I go on the morning walks, when the tide is low. It feels right to use them for your crab city, though."

"That way they get to become homes for creatures that use them," Kazimir said. "Instead of empty shells."

Eve nodded, brushing away the sand from her overalls. "Yes. We're providing humanitarian aid." She paused. "Crabitarian aid."

Kazimir snorted. "That sounds funny. Crabitarian. Like vegetarian but just crabs."

Eve slightly smiled again-- softer and more sincere this time. She gazed down at nearest castle. "Why did you want to build this?" she asked.

Kazimir felt his smile from laughter fade, not really sure why the question felt different than the rest of their conversation from before.

"I guess I just thought it'd be cool," he said.

"But..." Eve glanced behind them, where the previous City of Angels laid in ruins. "Why sand castles?"

"Because there's a lot of sand," Kazimir answered.

Eve stared back at him. "Okay," she said with a slight furrow of her brow. "But there's also a lot of ocean, and air, and grass, and dirt."

"I don't know how to build with those," Kazimir said. "Do you?"

"Maybe not build. But there are other interesting hobbies relating to those words." Eve nearly set her hands on her lap, clasping her fingers together. "For ocean, there's swimming. Air, there are kites. Grass and dirt-- that's gardening. All of which are hobbies that scale higher on longevity."

Kazimir felt his heart drop a little, but he didn't know why. He looked down into the sand, and at the grains coating his hands.

"Was it a bad idea?" he asked quietly.

Eve was quiet for a moment, watching him with consideration. "No," she said softly. "I don't think it is."

Then what was wrong?

"Sorry. I didn't mean to imply that it was," Eve quickly added on. "It's just... unconventional. So I'm trying to understand."

"I didn't really care how long it stayed," Kazimir said. "I just thought it would be fun to make. Do all creations have to be forever? Can't something be fun and cool, and it's okay when it's gone?"

Eve was quiet, now rolling an empty shell between her fingers. She glanced at Kazimir, then held out her hand, offering the shell to him. "I think, maybe, you'd like one of these, too."

Kazimir looked down at the shell.

It was shaped like a cone, and it had swirling ridges to the point at the end. It looked like maybe, at some point, a hermit crab lived in there but left it behind for a bigger shell. It was small, and black, and it still had a shiny sheen in the sun while dry.

Kazimir picked it up, rolling it over in his hand to feel it, the texture, and then held it in his closed hand.

"I will keep it," he said.

Eve smiled a little wider, soft and bashful. She nodded in acknowledgement, taking in a deep breath. "Do you want to continue building?" she asked.

"Yeah," Kazimir said, putting the shell in his pocket. "Let's keep building."

Per their friendly agreement, Lyall found his way to James's new cabin after dinner with Vik and the Alvaro twins. Though undecided-- apprehensive, even-- on what to divulge about their... misadventures once they parted ways during the last leg of the event, Lyall at the very least wanted to hear how it went for James. It was of course a success, but he wanted the full story on the journey.

After double checking the rows of cabins to ensure everyone's placements by process of elimination, he tapped his knuckles to the door. A tell-tale thumping grew louder until it stopped behind the door, and it opened to reveal James. Lyall half expected him to look like a human highlighter again, but instead, he was wearing black and grey. James offered a faint smile as he pulled the door wider.

"Hey," he said. "Have you eaten anything yet?"

Something about seeing James again-- back in regular civilian-wear, and cleansed of all evidence of the horrid fantasy event-- hit Lyall at once with relief and something vaguely unsettled.

Not unsettled, actually. But the sheer normalcy of their present made the past several days feel that much more distant and surreal. As if none of it ever happened.

Absently pressing his nails into his palm, Lyall lightly grinned back. "I have, thank you."

"Okay, cool," James said, stepping back so Lyall could come in. "You cool with just going to my room then? I don't know who's all coming in and out this evening."

Lyall nodded once as he ducked in. "That will work splendidly."

James closed the door behind them and led the way upstairs.

Notably, the small dog Buster was not present. From which Lyall felt he could reasonably deduce that Hild had brought him out somewhere, well enough before his arrival.

Expectations were nonexistent. Lyall just presumed he'd find James's room in a similarly disheveled state as his last visit. Most of the furniture was different, and the punching bag in the gym corner looked brand new and untouched.

The DMV must have taken full advantage of the contestants' absence, then.

Lyall gravitated toward the desk by the wall upon entry. "How're you feeling?" he asked, leaning back on the desk. "Were you able to get some proper sleep?"

"I actually was," James said with a small nod, taking a seat on the rug that spanned a portion of his room. He pointed over to a beanbag in the corner. "If you want it," he said, in reference to seating options. "How about you? Did you sleep?"

With a quirk of both brows, Lyall obliged and wandered over to the other corner. "That is good," he said warmly. "A rarity."

He spun on his heel, then flopped back unceremoniously over top of the shapeless bag. He frowned slightly as it seemed to partially swallow him upon contact. "I slept most of the day away, so yes. Quite nicely, too."

James hummed,tucking up his legs.

"I'm feeling okay, by the way," James said. "In answer to your first question. I mean, it's with all things considered --" he shrugged slightly, inclining his head to the side. "A night of good sleep helps a lot of things. And it's relief to no longer have myself or my friends in mortal danger. So. Can't complain in that regard."

Lyall folded his arms with a small hum of his own. "Yes. Absence of mortal danger certainly improves a situation." A pause. Then he added honestly in a murmur, "The worst is probably over, then."

James's and Cyrin's powers already evolved. The event had to have been the catalyst for everyone else-- or at least, the DMV threw them into it with such hopes. Lyall will now have to check whether or not it worked.

James's expression fell a bit at that, and he turned to the floor soberly.

"I... hope so," he said. "But it's not something I can be sure of."

"I'll ensure it," Lyall countered, stronger than intended. He inwardly winced, then tried again in a softer voice, "The worst is over."

James looked up to Lyall with a sad look in his eyes, but he nodded.

Lyall sighed quietly, sinking deeper into the ridiculous beanbag... thing. It hardly qualified as a chair.

"Is it too soon to ask how you did it?" he inquired, peeking over the puffed edge of the beanbag at James.

"Got the star, you mean?" James asked.

"Yeah."

"No," James said. "It's not too soon. It was... a bit underwhelming, actually. Not because the challenges weren't dangerous or terrifying in nature, but because it was all passed off to others. Different pairs and groups split off each time another monster appeared to take care of it so the rest of us could make it to the top. It was noble, but it was also just teamwork. The last creature in the way was a massive star-shaped... creature. It was like something out of a dream, really. Connie was the one who urged me to grab the actual star - the prize - before combat escalated much. And once I did, I think we were all sent back rather instantaneously."

Lyall slowly nodded as he listened. Expression turning mildly perplexed at the mention of a star-shaped creature. Only mildly, though. To be frank, he was nearing Shane's shortage of shocks to give at this point.

"That's certainly in line with the abruptness with which we found ourselves back 'home'," Lyall murmured, applying air quotes with his fingers. Then folded his arms over his middle again with a sigh.

"So... a creature? Shaped like a star?" Lyall pured his lips. "Was it... like a star-fish? Or flat and lacking any defining features like a drawing?"

James reached down and started drawing in the fuzzy carpet with his pointer finger a traditional, five-pointed star. In the "top" point he drew what was maybe a face. It was hard to tell. Carpet wasn't the best tool for drawing.

"It was three-dimensional," James said. "I would put it somewhere in the uncanny valley."

Lyall scrunched his nose as he pictured something more like a star-fish in dimensions, but with human skin and facial features plastered over where James had depicted them to be. "It sounds too bizarre to even be a Nye-native creature."

"Frankly, I don't think it's native to anywhere," James said. "But... that's just my opinion. I honestly hope it doesn't exist anywhere else."

Lyall nodded, inclined to strongly agree.

It maybe raised ethical questions over the matter of somehow manifesting a creature, purely for the sake of destroying it. But he shoved the thought away-- all that mattered was that everyone made it through. More or less intact.

More or less.

Eyes fixed on the ceiling, Lyall clenched his hands. The image of Casper Bridger's fist momentarily blinding him flashed to the forefront of his mind. He dug his fingers into his palms where Tula's blades had pierced through, yet left no trace.

"How did things go with you?" James asked after a moment. "I assume Tula made herself known eventually."

"I caught sight of her, yes," Lyall confirmed evenly. He cast James a small smile. "I see how you made lieutenant, by the way. Excellent distribution of manpower and skillsets. Strategically brilliant."

James's response to the compliment, however, was deep concern, as his brows pinched together.

"So... what happened?" James asked.

Hm. Figures.

"We struck a deal," Lyall answered simply. "In exchange for her cooperation, I imparted on her some physician's knowledge and wisdom." He paused, staring long and hard at the ceiling. "That psychopath should not be anyone's primary caregiver."

There was a long silence.

"I know," Lyall said hastily, throwing both hands skyward, "it's all highly suspect! And that's a gross understatement. I just don't know how else to emphasize how disturbing her psyche is. Words can't sufficiently describe!" He jabbed a finger James's way. "If she so much as looks at you the wrong way, please. Say something. I have no idea what she's going to do with the information I provided, but there's no way in this island hell it will ever serve anyone in a positive manner. And I don't know what I could do about it humanely, but there's a way to deal with this somehow. She can't be allowed to stay here."

And again, a long silence.

"Did she hurt you, Lyall?" James asked softly. His sincerity and tender concern were disarming.

It made Lyall's indignance and righteous anger falter momentarily. Just a split second.

"It was a literal war," Lyall scoffed, "and she was not an ally. Of course we fought. Injuries were dealt, on both ends."

James delayed once more.

"When I was in the studio for the interview," James finally said. "They showed some of the footage of your encounter."

Lyall trained another blank look on the ceiling. He slowly pushed himself upright to finally look at James directly. Then leaned his elbows on his knees as he hid his face in his hands.

"...Of course they did," Lyall muttered.

"I think it's fair that you know I know," James said quietly. "I also understand if it's too soon to talk about. But I'm here, if you ever want to. Or even if you just want to... be. That's fine, too."

Ducking his head, Lyall ran both hands over his hair. "There's not much to talk about," he mumbled. "It happened, I healed myself, the event is over."

"I wish it were that simple," James said softly. "But I know you wouldn't say the same to me if I were in your shoes."

Lyall was about to argue. Counter somehow with something. He wasn't sure, honestly, he was just... more ticked off than anything.

"It's different," he eventually said, unable to help the slight edge of his tone. He waved both hands. "I know, this isn't the Suffering Oolympics or anything, we're not supposed to weigh our own hardships against those of others, and everything else that follows that level-headed logic--"

No, he was missing the point. Get back on track.

Lyall angrily clenched his hands again. "This shouldn't have happened to you, and shouldn't be allowed to go on for anyone else," he concluded. "You have to understand, this is why I signed the contract, why I agreed to any association with this hellish institution. Something has to be done to prevent any further damage, someone has to stand up to the psychopaths running this shitshow."

"You're right. And it shouldn't have happened to you, either," James said softly.

Why was he so hung up on that? They already established this.

Huffing irritably, Lyall flopped back in the stupid beanbag "chair". "It shouldn't have," he agreed with a flippant wave of his hand. Then huffed out a sigh through his nose. "I just... hate that I didn't see it happening to you sooner. That they cornered you, and made you feel as though you had to suffer in silence. I..."

Failed. As a friend. As a fucking doctor. Was it not his duty to see the signs? To act? To protect, to heal?

"Doctor" truly was the wrong profession for him.

"It's not your fault," James said gently. "I know you care, and it means a lot that you do. But it's not your fault that it happened, or that you didn't see it. No one expects these kinds of things to happen. It's not something you can prepare for. It really isn't."

And now his own reactive-ness was forcing James, a man who had served and suffered for the sake of others far beyond what could be considered fair, to offer comfort instead.

Lyall really ought to learn how to just keep his mouth shut.

So he let the next silence stretch out. Gather his wits about him, think more clearly.

Comparison was an inevitability.

The temporary ability to heal wounds, and leave no traces of any harm done, was now an experience Lyall could actually, physically relate to. And, by gods, was it such a difficult thing to wrap his head around. There was something so deeply undermining about it.

And James had lived with this kind of biologically bizarre phenomenon basically his entire life.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Lyall shifted to lie on his side, and face James again.

"How do you do it?" he asked quietly.

"Do what?" James asked, just as quiet.

"How do you..." Lyall gestured up and down at him with a hand. "...live with it. Constantly having any and all hurt just... physically erased? Like it never happened, but it did."

James nodded in understanding, looking down into his lap as he visibly took a moment to prepare his answer.

"It's not easy," he said. "I imagine it's different for other people. They aquire scars, pains, and injuries that stay, or take time to heal. I imagine having a reminder of it can be difficult, but it's different when you don't have any evidence. I guess... it helps me in some ways in the short term, to not linger on things too closely. But the memories of what's happened still remain. And I think even when the physical pain is gone, there's still a level of pain that needs to be addressed that goes deeper than that."

James let out a small sigh, tucking up his legs and holding onto his knees.

"Historically," James went on. "I haven't been great at doing that. But it's something I've been trying to grow in over the past two years in particular. I think it starts with awareness. It's... a challenge, sometimes, to just let myself feel how I feel about it - without trying to dismiss it, bypass it, correct it, or ignore it. But when I do, I find it helps me to... well, integrate my pain into my experience instead of letting it define it. There's no way to make it as if nothing happened. So I have to learn to live with it in my head and my emotions - even if my body's moved on. It honestly takes a lot of patience and processing. And support."

After a short pause, he added: "But I know that's a lot to take in. So I'd just focus on the first thing: let yourself feel how you feel, and let people in in the process."

Lyall stayed quiet a moment, trying his best to take it all in. He furrowed his brows with concern.

"Who have you had for support here?" he asked, hoping that he'd had someone on the island.

"Well, it's been hard, since... usually it's been my family, but I haven't been able to contact them," James admitted quietly. "But I'd say Shane, Hild, Eve, Connie, and you have all come around me in different capacities, and that's helped greatly. Clarity, too."

Averting his gaze to the wall behind James, Lyall nodded. "Good."

Right. Another in the long list of problems: the matter of isolation from family. Lyall added that to his to-fix list. For another time.

Lyall exhaled slowly, letting go of some of the tension he held in his frame. "A huge relief to hear," he murmured, flicking his eyes back to James with a weak smile.

"What about you?" James asked.

With the briefest hesitation, Lyall answered, "Cyrin. And Alan." He gestured towards the former soldier. "Yourself, of course."

He stopped short of adding his sister to that list. He couldn't muster the audacity to lie, and didn't want to open up conversation about how he lacked the nerve to face her anymore.

"Sounds solid," James said with a faint smile.

Lyall managed a brief half-grin before turning over to look up at the ceiling once more. "Do you ever need... outlets? To let off some of that internal pressure?"

James let out a loud huff of air.

"Lyall, you've seen my room," he said.

Chuckling dryly, Lyall conceded, "Alright, yes."

"I'm not saying it's the greatest outlet, but. Exercise generally helps me. You know. It flushes out the cortisol and all the other junk," he said.

"That should be a medical term," Lyall couldn't help but lightly tease. "'Other junk'."

"Eh, I figure I don't have to list it since you obviously already know," James said.

"Yes, thank you," Lyall hummed with another hint of amusement, "for sparing me the tedium."

"I also," James added after a bit of a pause. "Write poetry and music sometimes. It helps more with putting language to things."

That took a moment to fully register.

When it did, Lyall shot upright again, eyes lighting up a little when he remembered: "That's right, you mentioned not long after our arrival."

"That was like, a year ago, now," James said.

Lyall huffed a wry laugh this time. It truly felt like an eternity.

"Well, a second mention has certainly piqued my interest now," he said. Then relented, "But I know that can be a deeply personal thing, so I won't push to see it." A pause. "Though I'd really like to."

"Maybe one day," James said with a small shrug. "If you're in the mood for a really sad song."

For some reason, this first conjured up the mental image of James as a soulful blues singer. And he couldn't help but quietly snort. Then silently concede, the man could wear the look well.

"I'd love nothing more," Lyall replied sincerely.

James smiled faintly, looking to the floor in a manner that was almost shy.

"Well... yeah," he said. "Someday, then, I'll share one with you. But we should play music together again, too. I know we only managed to do it once, but. It was nice."

Casting him a warmer, endeared grin, Lyall agreed, "Absolutely. I'll hold you to both those things." He patted himself down. "You have a pen?"

James blinked. "Uh. Sure," James said, getting up and walking over to the desk in his room. He fished a pen out of the drawer and tossed it to Lyall.

Clicking it five times, Lyall sat straighter as he jotted down on his palm:

- music w/ james
- ask again abt james original music
- lift family ban

He clicked the pen three more times as he mentally dug for anything else pertaining to his friend that he had to prioritize.

James stood over Lyall for a moment while he scrawled, but he eventually withdrew and sat on the carpet again. Satisfied with his list, Lyall tossed back the pen with a chirped, "Thanks."

Sliding off the beanbag "chair" so that he was lying on the floor, using it as a pillow instead, he slung one arm over his middle and held up his notes-wielding hand to let the ink dry.

It felt perhaps presumptuous-- especially since Lyall couldn't tell what the DMV had planned for the last half of their testing period, if he'd be able to make good on his own grand promises, or if he'd end up letting people down-- but he was willing to take James's word on the promise of maintained friendship.

Burying any hesitance, Lyall wistfully went on, "We should continue to meet up for music after this whole nightmare is over. Perhaps make a week-long holiday out of it, actually. I'd love to get acquainted with your family. See for myself from hence the noble, talented James Hawke hails."

"I think they'd love to meet you," James said. "You'd have to put up with meeting a lot of animals, too, though. Larrel won't let you avoid it."

Lyall sighed with exaggerated despondence. "I'll gladly grin and bear it," he said warmly.

"You're also obligated to meet my horse," James added. "Elliot. He will demand acknowledgement."

"For you, I will give my due diligence," Lyall agreed, already mentally preparing himself for it.

James smiled a little warmer. "I'd like to visit your family, too," James said. "I know I've met two of them, now, but if the door is open for visiting both ways and it works out, I've always wanted to see Fjelstad. Traveling is always better when visiting a friend, anyway."

Knowing Hild and Vik already only really left Geoff. Though, Lyall supposed he could reach out to his aunt again. Maybe.

"That would be lovely," Lyall said sincerely. Then remembered: "Oh, though it is entirely possible we won't be back there for long. There are plans to migrate out of there soon after this summer."

"Well, I'm more interested in seeing you than any place, so that doesn't matter much to me," James said.

Nodding slowly, Lyall turned his gaze back up to the ceiling. Because truly. It was that visually interesting. How could he not.

"I have made some plans for what life will look like after this, though," James went on after a pause. "Once the DMV is over."

Lyall folded his hands and crossed his ankles. "Do tell," he said with open intrigue.

"I've talked with Shane about some options, and he offered me a job in Aphirah," James went on. "I'm going to take it. I'll be his personal bodyguard."

Casting James a surprised look, Lyall stared quietly with both brows quirked as it slowly registered. Then broke out into a brighter grin.

"And," James added. "There's good benefits. Health insurance. And also getting to be with Shane."

Lyall sat up to properly answer, "That is fantastic news!"

The man could get distance from the whole political upheaval he... single-handedly caused. A restraining order on his ex probably wouldn't be necessary anymore-- which served James because he was so reluctant on the matter. And he could finally get himself a good damned therapist.

And then, of course, the benefit of being close to a dear friend. The physical distance from family again wouldn't even be an issue since he'd be working for literal fucking royalty.

James smiled a little wider, and he seemed genuinely happy at Lyall's excitement.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm actually pretty excited about it. I still plan on visiting my family for a bit after all of this, but then I'll be on my way to Aphirah once I get things in order."

"It's an incredible opportunity," Lyall agreed. "You should be!"

And, a bit selfishly, he couldn't help but be excited that he'd be able to visit two friends in one trip.

"In honesty, I wasn't sure if I had any positive prospects for finding a job after all of this," James said. "So... getting to work for a friend on top of being offered a stable job is really more than I could've hoped for. It gives me something to look forward to. Even if all of this in the interim is interrupted with... challenges."

Lyall hummed as he leaned sideways on the beanbag again. "Challenges," he echoed quietly, unsure if he meant mental, physical, or DMV-related. Or all of the above. Or something he missed entirely.

"You know," James went on. "Things like climbing rainbow mountains to free people from this prison, being tortured, or turning pink."

So, option D. All of the above.

Lyall dropped his gaze to the floor, falling quiet for a moment.

"I'm going to do what I can to mitigate that," he softly promised.

"I know," James said, lowering his voice as well. "I'm grateful for it. Really."

Well. Gratitude was not warranted just yet.

"It's... difficult, for me," James went on. "To step back and let others help. I'm used to having to look out for myself, so this is a welcome change. It's just taking getting used to."

Lyall's next, close-lipped smile was one of sympathy. "That's alright," he warmly assured him. Then, softer, added, "You don't have to fight alone anymore, James."

"I know that now," James said. "And I'm growing more grateful for it everyday. We're doing this together. The same sentiment goes to you, too, Lyall."

Lyall's smile faded naturally a bit. He found it... rather a relief, actually, that James knew.

Bowing his head, Lyall murmured, "Thank you," really genuinely quite grateful.

James reached over, extending a fist. Quietly huffing a laugh through his nose, Lyall obliged and bumped fists with him.

"On the subject of working together," James said as some kind of seamless transition. "I know it's a subject of contention, but I want to talk about Tula."

Settling back, Lyall sighed quietly. "Alright," he relented, "give me your thoughts."

James sat up, lifting his hands with his palms forward.

"Bear with me," James prefaced. "As I suspect I have an uncommon opinion in this matter."

"Oh, dear," Lyall mumbled.

"What I mean to say is," James said. "I want to give Tula a chance."

Lyall blinked. "A chance," he repeated dubiously. Quite certain he already understood, but wanting to be doubly sure.

"What Tula displays are very clear signs of psychopathy. I don't disagree that a professional would diagnose her as a psychopath, either, but I'm also aware that the behavior is likely a result of parental neglect as well as some genetic predispoitions. Do I think Tula has done some awful things? Undoubtedly. Does she need to take responsibility for them? Without question. But I don't think she's at all acheived the necessary level of emotional maturity and self awareness to do so. My first suggestion would be to plug her in with a professional, but, seeing as that's not likely to happen on this hellhole - I think she's at least worth the attempt or repeated attempted of unprofessional guidance before we label her a lost cause. I have a hunch that if she were to just have a strong moral center as a guide - who could be genuinely invested in her and patient in her immaturity - that she could become a very different person. For the better."

James then put his hands together in front of him, pointing them at Lyall in a steeple.

"I'm aware of the risks when I say this, but... let me try," he said. "I want to talk to her."

Lyall actively fought the very strong urge to sigh very loudly at him. Because of course James would plead the case of a literal psychopath who Lyall was fairly certain was an unproven murderer in at least three countries.

He wearily scrubbed a hand over his face as he gave it a fourth, fifth thought. Because he knew James was right. Second chances were leaps of faith. Giving the benefit of the doubt. A thing seperate from deservedness. In which Tula was suffering from a severe deficit. Deservedness deficit, that was.

And to be completely honest, James might even be better equipped to extend a helping hand than an actual licensed therapist, should the madwoman lash out at any point. Both in regards to the physical hazards she posed, and the strong moral compass that James detailed. The man was basically a mountain. Unshakeable in morality. Unwavering in loyalty.

Lyall himself felt unworthy of it. So who was he to condemn anyone else?

So, it was with a long, reluctant sigh that Lyall relented with a muttered, "I won't try to dissuade you. It's entirely up to you, my dear friend."

James smiled very faintly.

"Then I'll follow through on it," he said. "But I'll keep you in the loop."

"That does ease my concerns a bit," Lyall replied, inclining his head once more.

Just by a little. And, again, James had his vote of confidence. Lyall simply feared the worst that could come of Tula's calculating, volatile nature.

"I don't expect much fruit to come from one conversation alone," James added. "So I'm going to give it some time. But like I said. I'll keep you updated. Especially if things escalate - which I hope they won't."

"It's within the realm of possibility that it will," Lyall uttered. "Would it be alright if I monitored your interactions with her?"

James blinked slowly, looking at Lyall with confusion for a second before realization seemed to sink in.

"...Remotely?" he asked.

"Unless you think my physical presence could still be condusive to any semblance of making progress with her?" Lyall suggested.

James hesitated, then quickly shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't think that would be helpful."

"Right. I didn't honestly think so, either," Lyall agreed. The asked again, more clearly this time, "So, would remote surveillance be uncomfortable for you?"

James pressed his lips together. "I mean... it's not much different from what already happens almost every day," James said. "I just value respecting people's privacy. If Tula did feel free to be more vulnerable I wouldn't want that kind of openness to be violated by the false pretense of privacy."

To be honest, Lyall was less concerned for Tula's sense of privacy, and more for James's wellbeing.

"Fair enough," he relented anyway. "Just... know it's an option, if you anticipate any conversations with her to go poorly."

"Alternatively, I could just page you as a fall-back, since my phone's still dysfunctional," James said. "If things go awry."

Lyall snapped his fingers. "As an aside, I'll try and get you a functional one, ASAP. Key word being: try." He gave a one-handed shrug. "Anyway, sure. That works."

"Thanks," James said. "It'd be nice to text people again. It's been a bit challenging - communicating without one. Makes me feel older than I am."

"The paging system definitely doesn't help that," Lyall said with a grin.

James let out a huff, but said nothing more.

The short lull that ensued gave Lyall a moment to recall that the pagers were his sister's idea.

Which lead him to wonder, what the logic behind the new rooming situations was. He and Alan, for instance, were allowed to stay within the walls of the same cabin. As were James and Shane. And Hild and Eve likewise found themselves sharing a house again.

Outside of them, though, there seemed to be less evident rhyme and reason with the groupings. Like. Hendrik was tossed into the same place as Stravos-- which unfortunately lead to the former soldier basically rooming with Lyall, Alan, and Leilan as well, since that was where Alexander had been placed.

Lyall pursed his lips as he glanced off in deeper thought. Which was cut short when--

"There is... one more thing I wanted to talk to you about," James said, breaking the long silence.

Blinking himself back to the present, Lyall furrowed a curious brow. "Go for it," he said, flopping onto his back again and idly tapping his toes.

"It has to do with Hild," James said.

Lyall froze.

"I want to ask her out on a date," James said.

"A date," Lyall echoed simply, eyes still fixed skyward.

"Yes," James said.

"That's..."

Good? Wonderful?

This had to have been... mutual. Which. Lyall knew Hild had taken a liking to James.

Had there been enough time for a connection to grow? Was this the best environment in which to initiate a romantic relationship--

Alright, slow down. He could come up with all the reasons to doubt this would ultimately work out. As if he himself wasn't wading through this with far less finesse than those as steady as Hild and James would. So Lyall could hardly judge.

He was allowed to have slight concerns though, right? Especially considering James's military career taking quite the spectacular nosedive, as well as his continued current plights here. Like, that which pertained to Tula.

Mere association with James spelled out all sorts of trouble.

...All things that Hild was more than likely fully aware of herself. And she was grown, her own person. Lyall could have all his own opinions on the matter, but it was ultimately Hild's decision.

And Lyall didn't personally dislike the man. He was rather fond of him.

So he eventually settled for a simple, "Alright."

James was quiet for a moment.

"I know it will change things," James said. "In part. But I wanted to let you know because you're both my friend and her brother, and I do care what you think. If you have any opposition to it, I'd like to hear it."

Lyall let out a breath. "I don't have any actual opposition to it." He sat up, knees drawn up and his arm propped over them, eyes trained on the door. "I think you two could... really work quite well together."

James let out a huff throug his nose.

"I hope so," James said. "But... I'm very content to take plenty of time discovering that or not. It's just a date, for now. I don't think I'm in a position to rush anything, and I don't think it would be wise either. I just would rather make it more official, since... the interest is there."

Yes. Very practical. Logical. It all made sense.

"You don't strike me as someone who would rush this sort of thing," Lyall said. "And I know Hild wouldn't either."

He wasn't entirely sure what else to say, really. Give his approval? A glowing vote of confidence? He was just the brother whose own romantic life was a mess. What weight did his opinion carry?

"Really, I just wanted to let you know so you heard it from me," James said. "But also I want you to know that even if something more becomes of it, I still really value your friendship, and I don't want that to change."

...Oh.

Lyall nodded. "Thank you," he said slowly. "I. Appreciate that." Another, slightly more confident nod as he managed a genuine smile at James. "Truly." He tilted his head down to run his hand over his hair. "Our friendship won't change for it, I promise."

He'll merely need time to. Think on it. Let it fully sink in that both of his siblings were reaching new levels of independence. Which was good. And it did change some things fundamentally.

But it was fine. These were good changes!

James smiled softly.

"Good," James said.

Lyall managed a slightly brighter grin. "I'm glad for you," he offered sincerely. "I'd say you'd be damn lucky if she says yes, but. It really has less to do with luck, and more to do with the fact that you're both extraordinary people who are quite well-suited for one another."

"That's quite high praise," James said. "But I know you mean it, so. Thank you."

Humming warmly, Lyall bowed his head with a small flourish of his hand in response. Then jabbed a finger James's way as he added half-playfully, "But seriously, you'd be damn lucky to date her."

James lifted up his hands in playful surrender as a genuine smile spread across his face. "I know, I know," he said with a full smile. "She's a remarkably wonderful human. I won't deny this."

"And you best not forget," Lyall said with mock stern-ness.

James pointed to his head. "Steel trap," he said with a grin.

Lyall huffed in amusement. "Good."

Truly. It was good. Lyall was genuinely happy for them. And that should've been the end of it.

Thus, the inexplicable, vague sense of... defeat was entirely unwelcome. And he despised that he couldn't shake it.

Lyall had to do better.

Well. Alright, in fairness, the DMV needed to stop hurtling everybody toward seemingly-certain death basically every other day. But really, this feeling of inadequacy had been following him well before these trials.

Anyhow. The main point here was, the fact that he'd spent so little time with his own brother throughout most of visitor week was unacceptable. So, before even this extended time ended, Lyall had to put in his all.

Vik had picked a school-- which happened to be where Hild already was. Geoff was prepping to likewise pop out for the Talian coasts. And Kaya... Lyall really didn't have anything else keeping him back in Fjelstad.

The family, however, was going to need the proper funds to sustain two big moves. And Lyall couldn't reasonably request pay if he hadn't even properly begun work here.

So how did he determine to accomplish all of this at once, dear viewer? Well, that was simple. He'd invest most of his waking hours into his family and friendships, then use the later hours of the evenings to more seriously plan for testing.

Was this sustainable, one might ask? No, of course not. But this was only a short-term solution, seeing as there were only a few more days to visitor week. And the third day of lacking sleep would be just short of when hallucinations may occur. He could probably, albeit a little unreasonably, swing it.

It wasn't quite an ungodly hour yet. But Lyall felt the pull of sleep, drowsiness weighing on his eyelids and shoulders. He blamed the beers and pizza. Per happy happenstance, or less-than-divine intervention, one of the coffee shops in the plaza was still lit up inside. So he took a very crucial detour toward physical self-destruction and veered onto the cobblestone path that led through the heart of the island.

Just as he was about to cycle through the same torrent of thoughts for the thirteenth time, Lyall slowed when he caught sight of a figure seated across from the fountain. The lamplight helpfully outlined what would otherwise be invisible to the naked eye at this darkened hour, since this figure happened to be Alistair. Who seemed to prefer wearing only all shades of tar, even as he lost an exorbitant amount of electrolytes and bodily fluids to this harsh tropical heat.

Picking up the pace, Lyall added one more crucial detour to his path of ultimate productivity. He waved his arm in a wave and offered a broad smile as he called out, "Alistair Alvaro!"

Attention grabbed, Alistair stared at him across the fountain, growing stiffer. Lit cigarette in one hand, he offered a weak wave with his free hand, slowly sitting up straighter and glancing at the bench space next to him, as if he was already preparing for Lyall to come over and chat.

Well, Lyall hadn't hoped to catch him so off-guard. If Alistair didn't seem up for sustained chats, he was willing to keep it brief. He had work to do, anyway.

Though that thought dissipated when Alistair softly called out to him with a simple, "Hey," setting his elbow on the arm of the bench and relaxing his posture.

Offering a faint yet sincere smile, Lyall eased his pace as he came up alongside the bench. "Good evening," he replied, matching his tone. Then gestured to the empty space in silent query. "A fellow late owl, I see."

"Yeah." Alistair glanced back at him with apparent hesitation, before continuing with, "Uh. What's up?"

Taking the space at the other end of the bench, Lyall kept his own posture neat. Not quite relaxed, but not about to take off at a moment's notice either.

"Could I trouble you for a smoke?" he asked, a bit dryly.

Alistair didn't react right away, only casting him a curious glance. "Sure, yeah," he murmured, pulling out a half-pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He offered the box, tilting it so he could grab a stick.

"Much obliged, mate," Lyall hummed as he, perhaps rather presumptuously, took two. Silently reveling in the utterly flat look it earned him, he stashed away one in his sweater pocket, then leaned back as he lit the other at the tip of his finger.

Alistair huffed out an amused puff of air, but if he had any further comments about him taking two cigarettes, he didn't further comment. Instead, during an exhalation of the smoke, he said, "Mages sure like to show off they have magic with a light of a cigarette."

Fighting the vague urge to bristle, Lyall merely cast him a curious glance. "I'd gladly take a lighter, if you felt so inclined."

"Up to you," Alistair said with a shrug. "Doesn't seem like you need it, though."

Lyall shrugged, and took a long first draw. Closed his eyes as he savored the sweetness. Then he breathed it out again through his nose.

"Vik talks endlessly about you," he eventually said after a stretch of silence.

Alistair glanced at him again, taking in his words. He settled his gaze on the fountain, tapping on the cigarette, sending ash to the ground. "Yeah," he said softly. "He's a good kid."

Smiling in fond agreement, Lyall glanced sideways at him. "And you're a good friend. It hasn't been long, but he quite values your company." He looked ahead again, taking in a clean breath. "And, it's not why anyone makes friends-- or, it shouldn't be, but anyway... It means a lot to me. That he has someone like you."

Especially since Lyall himself had consistently failed to fill that role.

He took another long drag to bury the thought.

Alistair was quiet for a moment, taking in another inhalation of the cigarette. He kept the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds, exhaling with a long sigh. Leaning back, he propped his elbow against the back of the bench, smoke billowing from the stick.

"Well," he began nonchalantly, "I guess someone's gotta look out for the little man, especially since the DMV is trying to kill everyone."

Lyall sighed wearily at that. "Especially since that," he murmured.

"Vik asked me for my gamer tag," Alistair muttered. "I didn't have the heart to tell him I don't really play anymore. I guess he'll be dragging me back to a console."

Thankfully, 'gamer tag' was not a totally foreign term. Thank you, Kaz.

Lyall hummed a laugh at that. "I don't think he'd be disappointed if you were honest."

"Yeah, I know." Alistair tapped the cigarete again. "I guess this is you hearing me admit that I also don't mind it, then."

Lyall lifted his cigarette to his lips again. "Superb," he said with a gentle smile, before taking a puff.

There was another lull of silence, but it was short-lived, since Alistair went on to say, "Alan also talks endlessly about you." He idly rolled the cigarette between his fingers. "You're a good friend, too."

Inclining his head in acknowledgement, Lyall briefly wondered what Alistair knew or saw of them. Probably far more than anyone ever needed to see, if he'd been keeping up with the program.

The lull of silence lasted even longer this time, especially since Alistair took in another long breath. From the side glance that he cast Lyall's way, it was obvious there was more in his mind. Lyall waited.

"This probably goes without saying," he finally said, readjusting his position on the bench, "but..." Alistair hesitated again, gaze settling back on Lyall. "Look after him, will you? Especially since my mom and I leaving."

Lyall glanced sideways at him again. "Of course." He let his gaze drop to the cobblestones under their feet, letting his arm hang over the side of the bench to tap his own cigarette. "He's... a top priority. He'll always have someone in his corner."

"Yeah," Alistair murmured in agreement, slouching back against the seat. "Everyone can use someone like that." He paused, casting Lyall another brief glance. "I hope you have someone in your corner, too."

Lyall felt himself grin faintly. "Yeah. I do."

The recent memory of Alistair's phone call during dinner came back to him. Followed by Vik's concerned comments and rambling after the brothers broke off into pairs post-pizza.

"Same to you," Lyall added quietly.

"Yeah," Alistair with a faint smile. "I do."

Lyall nodded. "Good." He took a shorter breath. "You'll be heading back quite soon, right?" he said. "What'll you do when you're back?"

"Mhm." Alistair took in another long breath, cigarette length now almost being too short to use. Still, he kept it between his fingers, quietly tapping away the ash. "Probably the same stuff," he went on, weakly shrugging. "I'd have to talk to both Alan and my girlfriend about it, but maybe he'll move in with me again, so there's that. But that won't be til the end of summer. I'll probably keep floating through life when I get home sooner. You know. The same old shit, nothing major."

Hm.

Lyall pondered mentioning his intent to more seriously invite Alan to the States with himself.

Then opted for a blunt, "What'll you do about the girlfriend shit?"

Alistair hesitated, casting him a look. It was one of amusement, with a slight furrowing of his brows and a subtle smirk. With a few shakes of his head, he sat up straighter, eyes set on the rubbish bin a few yards away. After stamping out the embers, Alistair tossed the butt of the cigarette towards the bin with remarkable aim, landing inside.

Satisfied, Alistair sat back, elbow propped against the back of the bench again. "Nothing," he answered matter-of-factly. "'Cause Andy is always up to girlfriend shit."

Lyall hummed in understanding. Maybe it was shit, but it still something.

"You deserve better," he murmured.

Alistair scoffed. "You don't even know her."

Lyall scoffed, louder. "I don't need to know her. I have enough data."

"From..." Alistair raised a brow, loosely gesturing a hand towards him, "one interaction?"

Yes, Lyall knew it was an entirely new level of forward.

"From my brother," he defended anyhow. "From your brother. From you."

"Well, add this to your data pool then," Alistair went on, voice thick with sarcasm. But instead of landing on a sarcastic joke, he went on to say, "I love her. Sure, we have our issues, and she drives me insane sometimes, but I'm with her for a reason." He sighed, tilting his head back. "Don't judge, man. Life's not that simple."

Lyall lifted both hands in relenting. "You're right. Life is convoluted. Love, more so. And it covers a multitude of sins. But the fact remains." He draped an arm over the back of the bench, and wiggled the cigarette between his fingers. "You can love a thing, but that doesn't make it good for you."

Alistair deeply sighed. "Yeah," he muttered. "I know..." He paused, and with his elbow perched on the arm of the bench, he hung his head to the side to run his hand through his hair.

"Man." Alistair sighed again, long and deep. "You sound like my brother."

Huffing another stream of smoke out through his nostrils, Lyall tilted his head in a shrug. "Quite the compliment. Though, I'll concede, you have a point. I don't know her. So I'll spare you any further judgements."

Alistair huffed out air through his nose, bouncing his knee up and down as he idly set his head against his palm. "So..." His knee sat still for a moment, but then resumed its bounce. "What are your plans when you leave this hellhole, assuming you're still alive?" He paused, glancing at him. "You're at a transition point in life too, yeah?"

"That's quite the assumption," Lyall said with a dry grin. "That we'd survive." He hummed a bit tiredly, wondering how much Alistair knew about his. Transition point. "Quite a bit of change on the horizon," he confirmed. "I, ahm..."

He hesitated, idly tapping his fingers against the back of the bench.

This was as good a time as any. The opportunity was wide open. Handed to him on a silver platter. This didn't have to be weird.

"I think I'll ask Alan to move to the States with me."

"Oh." Alistair's knee stopped bouncing again as he slowly processed the sentence, only furthering with a pleasantly surprised, "Huh."

In a rare instance of feeling unsure and rather awkward himself, Lyall took another slow drag as he glanced off.

"Well..." Alistair drew out a sigh, sitting up straight again. He loosely gestured his hand out in front of him, barely putting effort into the movement. "Like I said, I think the States is overrated. But." He shrugged. "Alan seems to want to move back. I'm sure he'd say yes. Would be a nice new change for you guys."

There was a strange sense of... actual relief with that answer.

Lyall was going to just unpack that later.

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Nice, thank you." He winced slightly. "That's a plan. Post-hellhole."

"That's assuming you're both alive by then," Alistair affirmed, voice light. "A big assumption."

Lyall huffed a laugh. "Yes, presuming then," he agreed, grateful for the return of some levity.

"Damn." Alistair relaxed his posture, straightening his leg and shifting in his seat. "He'd probably be a way better roommate with you than he ever was with me. Life's unfair."

Lyall grinned. "How is he as a roommate?"

"Does Alan clean?" Alistair began, tilting his head and weighing the question with his hand in front of him. He angled his fingers down. "Yes. But." With a half-shrug, he loosely gestured to Lyall. "Only when he wants to. Which... isn't a lot."

Lyall felt both brows raise with mild surprise. "Oh, really?" Looking ahead again, he lifted his cigarette to his lips. "I feel as though I'm constantly warring for the privilege of dish duty with him."

"Yeah, well." Alistair tsked, leaning back with his elbow draped over the back of the bench, shaking his head with a faint smile. "Wait til you've known each other for a while and he gets sick of seeing your face."

Crossing his ankles, Lyall furrowed a brow. "That's an inevitability," he answered smoothly.

"But don't worry. He'll also go on cleaning rampages when he gets on a mood." Alistair pursed his lips in thought. "Which... is a lot. So, it evens out."

Lyall huffed with amusement. "I've seen one such instance thus far."

"When are you going to ask him?" Alistair asked after a lingering pause.

"I'm hereby giving myself a seven day deadline," Lyall answered.

Obviously, with the hope and intent to ask sooner, since their time here was short. And though he wanted for it to come up naturally, he also wasn't so willing to sit on it for too long, lest he think himself out of it--

Alright, settle down. It was just a query about rooming together, not asking for his hand in marriage or anything.

Alistair softly hummed. "Alright," he said with a faint nod. "Well." He cleared his throat. "Thanks for letting me know."

Lyall inclined his head. "Sure. Of course."

Alan wasn't big on having too many apps on his phone, but he had to admit: the apps helped immensely with organization.

Still in bed, he groggily scrolled through his to-do list that he wrote up half-asleep last night, mentally putting together plans in his head. First, he'd check in with his family, spending ample time with them since they were going to head home at the end of the week. Then, he'd spend time with Hild, because it had been a while since he stopped by, and he really did want to know what was going on in her life. After that, he would truly take some time for himself, packing food to eat at a scenic viewpoint, then take a walk by the shoreline during golden hour, letting the water lap over his toes.

There was a lot he had to think about. A lot he had to reflect upon.

Alan glanced at the balcony, where it was a little over a week ago that he had jumped out of. And next to the balcony was a neatly-folded sheet of paper that contained Shane's sweet poem. And next to that was a dainty stationery envelope with floral embroidering from Maria that Alan hadn't opened yet. And under that was a stack of notes that Alan feverishly wrote a few weeks ago, detailing plans of starting a new life and giving up on music.

There was a lot to consider.

Rolling over to his side, Alan opened up the app with live locations, zooming into Alistair's pin first, realizing he was still in the mansion. So, probably still sleeping. Curious, Alan panned over to Lyall's pin, noticing that he was in the plaza. He was likely hanging out with Vik, especially since he had mentioned that he would be more deliberate with his time spent with him this week.

Which Alan respected, of course. He felt the same way about his own family.

But Lyall had to understand that Alan also wanted to be more deliberate with him.

Alan had loosely planned to discuss this with him this morning, but no problem; they lived in the 21st century. He opened up his texting app, deciding to initiate plans for this evening with a bit of banter with his best friend.

Alan wrote:Sad. You got up before me, and now I'll have to eat breakfast without your dazzling presence. Whatever will I do?

There was only a short delay in Lyall's response.

Lyall wrote:Alas, you shall remain deprived until my return. I shan't be much longer here, though, and thus in time for our regularly scheduled brunches.

Lyall was so over-the-top sometimes. So naturally, Alan decided to follow suit.

Alan wrote:Much obliged, dearest friend. I shalln't eat with heart-wrenching agony.

Alan wrote:However, consider: dinner instead of brunch? Yay or nay?

The next pause was slightly longer.

Lyall wrote:Sorry, I needed to briefly confirm first with Merriam-Woobster the affront to the Common tongue that is "shalln't".

Lyall wrote:Therefore, you shall be denied a proper response until you right your wrong, good man.

Excellent. Lyall played right into his trap.

Alan wrote:*you're

Lyall wrote:I'm blocking your number.

Alan wrote:Before you do, make sure to write on your hand that I'm meeting you at 8pm at the plaza fountain. Be there so I'll'nt perish without you.

Lyall wrote:First, grammar jail for you.

Lyall wrote:Then dinner, as an acceptable form of further retribution.

Okay. That was everything Alan had on his list. The day was planned.

Now he just had to start it.



Arm extended so his palm could stabilize himself against the ceramic shower wall, Alan let the cold water wash over his hung head, watching the water fall and collect by his feet, taking with it the sand, dirt, and grime for the day. He took in a few steadying breaths, wet hair clinging to his face, mind lost to roaming around this dazed space.

The water cascading against his ears sent white noise ricocheting in the enclosed space, briefly reminding him of his evening walk through the shore. Brief memories flashed across his eyes, trudging through the sand, barefoot, sand in toes, warm evening sun glazed over the ocean, the gentle sounds of the frigid water waving in and out.

He remembered bending down, picking up the cool wet sand, letting it slip between his fingers. Staring down at his hand now, Alan half-expected to still see sand sitting on his palm, but instead was met with fresh shower water striking his palm, surrounded by white ceramic walls.

He wasn't at the ocean, despite the memory feeling so vivid. He was showering, thinking back on his day, grasping on to what was important.

Truly, what was important. There were so many things he had to consider. So many things he was putting off because they didn't concern others, and they didn't concern the now.

And Alan knew he couldn't keep ignoring his problems. They were going to circle back eventually. But he was feeling an undue pressure bubbling inside him, and he didn't like what he could become if he didn't... release.

Although he had already profusely apologized, Alan had to admit... punching Lyall felt good.

Of course, the fact that he hit his closest friend was an awful feeling, but the act itself felt good. And Alan had enough self-awareness to know that, although this was one way to release himself, he didn't want to venture down this path. He didn't want to choose the path of violence, of physically taking his unmet needs out on others.

He had seen first-hand the damage that it could inflict. And Alan did not want to take that path. He refused to take that path.

There had to be others.

As with anything, the first step Alan had to take for himself was to be aware. He was aware he had to do something; he just wasn't sure what. Still, he had a feeling that he first had to acknowledge his problems.

There was a lot. And he spent a great deal of time going through each one of his personal issues during his walk, simply listing and accepting that they were problems. Some were more difficult to swallow than others, especially ones that pertained to himself, and Alan did wonder if he was being overly self-critical or if there was truly something wrong with him.

He would never know if he never asked for a differing opinion. Though, Alan hated that whenever he asked for an opinion from someone, they would often share their response through a lens that he was this perfect angel who could do no wrong.

And that was what he told Lyall, wasn't it? Almost word-for-word?

Awareness and acknowledgement was the first step. And now that his own darkened, projected image was staring back at him, grinning... he could not not be aware of his own undoing.

His own private desires, his hungry appetite to destroy his life's personal pillars he spent so long building up. He aspired to be someone he wasn't, someone he thought he never should be.

Alan kept asking himself the same question, over and over.

Who was he?

And again, he didn't have an answer. But he was getting ahead of himself here.

Finally, he stood up straight, realizing he had stayed under the water for so long, his fingers were already pruning.

There was a lot to consider, but Alan had to be realistic. These things took time. And he could work on himself, day-by-day, but he had to be realistic about this. He had to pick one thing to work on, then consistently work on it, grow from it, then learn. And then he could repeat the process with the next subject.

There was one subject that felt manageable, especially because this felt the most remediable, and was also the most tangible.

Shane.



Alan did send Lyall a reminder text an hour beforehand, though he had a feeling that it was not needed, since Lyall was dependable and a man of his word. If someone were to expect him at a certain place and time, he would surely be there-- especially if he already agreed upon it. The sentiments went both ways.

It was an ordinary week day, but Alan did put a smidge more effort into this meetup. Just a smidge. As in, he was more deliberate this time in what he wore and how he presented himself, down to the scent of his cologne. Black slacks and a simple, textured gray button-down was what he settled on, with the sleeves neatly folded to his elbow.

It was now 8pm, with the final minutes of twilight, the soft glow of the plaza lights illuminating over him. Alan had barely made it a minute before their scheduled time, and it was when the bell tower struck eight that Alan realized that Lyall was approaching, well-dressed as usual. He'd donned dark beige trousers, and a black sweater over a dark crimson button down, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. And his hair was once again tamed into calmer waves and swept back.

Alan led the way, already having a place in mind. He was tempted to keep this a surprise, but it was truly only dinner; it wasn't like they were on some grandiose date. So. Alan didn't mind sharing.

Honestly, Alan didn't understand how the plaza economy worked, since it seemed like only the places they'd truly go to were ever open and staffed. Then it begged the question: did they even really choose the place to eat at, or did the DMV choose for them?

At least, that was what Alan was thinking when they sat down at a small rustic table outside, conveniently by warm lights and a heat lamp. It was a homey, inviting spot that focused on heartwarming comfort foods-- which was exactly why Alan wanted to come here, since he recalled Lyall mentioning that he preferred the quality and familiarity of traditional comfort foods in a relaxed environment over high-class dining.

"I hope you did your time," Lyall said with a slight grin, "for all the criminal grammatical atrocities you committed just earlier today."

Alan huffed out a laugh, fingers on top of the base of his wine glass, slowly spinning it. It was only wine, but he was strangely tempted to drink all of it in go, then order something more strong. But he fought the urge, instead considering a proper response since he could never turn down an opportunity to banter.

"Request," he said innocently with a half-shrug, "denied." He smiled, sitting up straighter and crossing his arms on the edge of the table. "What have you been up to today, anyways? What ever could be going on in the world of Lyall Ashlund?"

Leaning forward, Lyall picked up his own glass and idly swirled the wine for a moment as he hummed. "The usual, by this point," he answered. "Quality time with family. Mostly at the amphitheater today, since Vik's been dying to play together again. Yourself?"

Alan made a mental note to check in on Vik on his own time, especially since he had been getting the sense that Vik wanted to have an unforgettable and memorable summer playing with everyone. He was glad that he could spend time with his siblings, but Alan had a feeling that he wanted something a little more involved.

It wouldn't be easy, considering everything that had happened earlier this week. But if anyone could bring everyone together to share their love of music even during the most troubling times, it was Alan.

Humming again, Lyall actually knocked back the contents of his glass like a shot and set it down. Amused, Alan smiled a little wider, watching him with curiosity.

"The better question," Lyall went on, turning a slightly broader grin up to the sky in thought. "What, if anything, made you laugh today?"

"Hm." Alan gingerly picked up his wine glass, tilting it slightly towards Lyall. "We go one layer deeper. The even better question to your question: what about your day went so badly that you feel inclined to chug a whole glass of wine?"

Lyall huffed a laugh as he folded his arms on the the table. "A question with which to counter yours: did something have to go poorly?"

Alan considered the question. He was certainly no stranger to social drinking, though outside of parties, there hadn't been many instances of excessive drinking just because. Softly humming, he twirled the wine glass between his fingers once, then decided, fuck it, Lyall drinking this in one go felt like vindication of his earlier urge.

Swinging back the glass, Alan drank it quickly in a similar manner. "My brother made me laugh today," he answered, setting the empty glass on the table next to his as he sat back on the chair with a smile, attention fixed on Lyall again. "That's an easy question, though. He's a funny guy, so it's not hard to laugh around him."

Still leaned forward, Lyall grinned softly back. "Good." He quietly drummed his hands on the table. "Yes. The few times thus far I've had the good fortune to talk with him, I rather appreciate his sense of humor."

"Well, Alistair might seem a little distant from the distance, but that's because you're not close to him." Alan smiled playfully, shrugging a shoulder. "It's cliche to say as twins, but he really is my other half. So, since we're friends, I'm sure you'll have no problems getting closer to him."

Alan decided now wasn't the time to mention that, despite this logic, they didn't really have any mutual friends. But that was beside the point.

"I wouldn't mind that," Lyall said. Tilting his head, he absently tapped the rim of one of the wine glasses. "It's evident he's a good man. And he's." He vaguely waved a hand in a small shrug. "Real."

Curious, albeit a little confused, Alan tilted his head with a slight furrow of his brow. "What do you mean?"

Lyall blinked, grin turning mildly bemused as well. "Ah! Right, we, ahm, had a chance to chat a short while recently. Got better acquainted." With his finger on the edge of his empty wine glass, he nudged it aside and waved for their waiter's attention. "And Vik adores him, which speaks something to his character."

Alan softly hummed, tapping his finger against the table. It was oddly nice to hear that his brother was being acquainted with the other Ashlunds. He wondered if Alistair and Hild have ever met, though he didn't know how well they'd mesh together.

"He does mention Vik a lot," he agreed, smile growing. "I think it's nice that the two of us are good friends, and the two of them are on track to being good friends too. It's a mutual brotherly and friendly bond."

Lyall grinned a little brighter. "Now, do we call this fate-ordained, or mere coincidence?"

Alan couldn't help but grin back, appreciating the callback from their first week together. It was too bad that they never did answer the speed dating questions together, though at the same time, he wouldn't change a single thing.

He innocently shrugged, grin lingering. "Good question. You tell me, soulmate."

Humming, Lyall rested his chin in his hand as he playfully narrowed his gaze at him in contemplation. "You know," he began lightly, expression relaxing into a slight grin again, "I think I've learned to look at life through a slightly rosier lens lately. Because I'm actually inclined to lean toward fate-ordained."

Well, that was something Alan could repeat in his head later, when he had more time.

"That's interesting," Alan said with a curious tilt of his head, setting his hands nearly on top of each other. "I think I've learned to look at life through a slightly more realistic lens lately. But, even so..." He turned away for a second, pursing his lips in thought, then returning his gaze with a warm smile. "Strangely, I'd have to agree with you that this was fate-ordained."

"Then so it must be," Lyall said, eyes alit as his grin broadened.

Alan fixed his gaze on him, smile lingering, taking a moment to take in the moment.

Neither of them were idiots. There was something being exchanged between them, but right now, Alan didn't want to overthink it. Just appreciate the moment for what it was, since it felt right. And that was enough.

Lyall's attention snapped over to the fast-approaching server. The fondness in his expression was quickly replaced with affable politeness as he requested a couple of old-fashioneds. A respectable choice for the two of them.

"So, why a dinner?" Lyall eventually asked a short moment after the wine glasses were replaced with whiskey glasses. He leaned back, drink in hand, and chin tilted up with a curious quirk of his brows. "Why the switch from a brunch?"

This time, Alan leaned forward, elbows on the edge of the table as he rubbed his finger against the condensation of the glass, distantly focused on the orange tint of the liquor. "In short, I needed some more time to think about some things. A lot of things, actually. But..."

He paused, knowing what he needed to talk about next, but not really sure how else to bring this up without it being too uncomfortable. And so Alan picked up the drink and brought it to his lips, hoping that his cursed high metabolism would digest the stupid alcohol in time, because he could use the liquid courage.

Glass again empty, Alan bit down the bitter taste, sliding the cup away.

It was time to rip off the bandaid and talk about Shane.

So, the old-fashioneds were in fact serving them now. Something in the way Alan determinedly guzzled his drink told Lyall that this upcoming conversation was going to be, simply put, a doozy.

After finishing his drink, Alan sat at the edge of his seat, hanging his head lower so he could stressfully run through his neat hair. He was obviously troubled, hesitating to say what was truly running his mind. It was obvious in his expression, his mannerisms, actions, his undue focus on the nearby fireplace. Something was troubling him.

Alan was generally a more careful mental processor. Lyall sat straighter, giving him his undivided attention while he quietly waited for the words to come to him.

"I was hoping to talk to you about it, actually," he said more quietly after a long pause. He sighed, softly groaning as he buried his face in his hands, already seeming defeated. "It's about Shane," he finally finished with a mumble, hardly audible through his hands.

Lyall blinked. Oh.

It was his turn to take a big gulp of whiskey to steel himself.

"Alright," he said, setting the glass down and folding his hands together on the tabletop, "hit me."

To which Alan responded in kind by leaning forward, forehead softly hitting the table. "That's it," he groaned. "I don't know what to do."

"That's." Lyall tilted his head, unable to help his vaguely amused grin at his dear friend who was, for all the world, sulking. "Alright," he prompted simply, preparing a mental paper to take notes on another potential thought dump. "What about Shane?"

"Just... you know," Alan mutered, head still concealed on top of the table. He mumbled some more sentences, but they were incoherent.

Lyall had to huff an actual laugh this time. "I'm sorry, but I don't. Mind reading is sadly not on my repertoire."

Alan deeply sighed again, letting out a frustrated groan as he finally shifted himself to sit up straight again, hands rubbing his eyes under his glasses. "Lyall," he called impatiently, as if he was scolding him.

"Alan," Lyall retorted with a hint of teasing in his voice. Perhaps enjoying this a bit more than he should.

He did have an idea of what was going on. Distancing, for one. The whole... Alexander situation wasn't set to repeat itself, but the fact remained: it happened to begin with. Which meant something was deeply unresolved, perhaps on a deeper level than even Shane.

But, more to the current point: distancing.

Lyall needed more data to conclude anything further.

"Joking aside," he added, "you'll have to give me something more to work with. So." He curled his fingers inward in beckoning. "Out with it. What specifically is troubling you?"

Even through a hand, Alan was openly pouting, clearly dismayed with apprehension at the subject he brought up. He quietly slid the glasses off his face, folding the temples inwards before setting it in front of him, now more comfortably able to lean in and sink his cheek against his hand. Lyall took the briefest second to memorize his facial proportions, sans glasses obstructing his features.

"I don't even know if there's even anything specific. It's just... I don't know," he said more quietly, distantly poking at his empty glass. "I've been thinking about some things since we came back from that weird event. He texted me the other day, but I haven't responded back, and it's been eating at me. Especially because I had already prepared myself to not talk to him. Just, let him go. That was best for both of us. I decided this after reading about what the damn world thinks about us. Which, by the way..."

Perking up with a spike of annoyance, Alan sharply turned towards the corner camera on the edge of the ceiling, feigning a smile and giving a pointed middle finger as he looked straight into the lens. "I don't fucking care if they listen."

Angling his head, Lyall started to follow Alan's wry smile cast toward the camera, but frankly. He had to keep his eyes fixed on Alan. He found an odd sense of joy in seeing his usually affable friend casually offering such a rude gesture.

Satisfied, Alan slumped back in his chair, jaw tense. "Is that, uh..." Pout returning, sunk deeper in the chair, almost like he was melting. "Is that enough detail...?"

Lyall nodded. "Yes. I, ahm." Time to reflect this back to him in a clarifying way. After he drained what remained of his drink.

"Alright, just so I understand this clearly..." Lyall squinted up at the ceiling just above Alan's head. "You were ready to simply let your connection with him..." Looking Alan in the eye now, he steepled his hand on the table with finality. "...die. As an act of mercy? Due to the undue pressure of the outside world's scrutiny. Am I missing anything?"

"No. I mean..." Suddenly springing up straight, Alan sat up neatly on the edge of his chair, clasping his hands together with a dead serious look. "Yes. Sometimes, it's time to let a good thing die. And... that's fine. Just..." He weakly laughed, unclasping his hand to thud his palms against the table. "Just so happens that I slept with a famous political figure, and now he likes having me around, but he doesn't really know me. But hey, that's irrelevant, because apparently us being together could solve world peace or whatever. I don't even know."

Oh. Hm.

Alright, well Alan's behavior as of late made a little more sense now. There was likely more to that. But this angle... From this angle, it was that breed of irrationally vindictive, emotional response that usually lead one to play right into others' (usually uncharitable) assumptions.

"That's a lot of importance to place on a personal relationship," Lyall said, contemplative and empathetic. "Which isn't really anyone else's business to begin with."

"Yeah. That." Alan nodded, but from the way his frown and furrow of brows deepened, it was obvious there was more to it. He took a deep breath, back to slouching over the table, his cheek pressed up against his forearm.

"He wrote me a poem last week," Alan continued on, sounding even more defeated.

Oh, dear.

"And..." Alan softly groaned, turning his head to be hidden in his arms again. "I told him I loved it."

Ah.

Well... fuck.

No wonder Alan wasn't able to immediately face all this. It was an ungodly amount of stressors and presuppositions to pile onto someone right out the gate. And now some real damage had been done.

A particular detail that Lyall was getting hung up on, though, was a particular internal narrative that cropped up quite often. A silent, but very real and very deadly, mantra that was playing on repeat. Underscoring practically the entirety of Alan's life.

"When you say 'it's irrelevant'," Lyall carefully prompted, "do you truly believe that?"

Despite being so fidgety the entire conversation so far, Alan didn't move, nor verbally replied. His face hidden, it was hard to tell what he could be thinking. But the silence was telling. Lyall's heart sank.

He pursed his lips as he considered possible responses. A sincere affirmation of Alan's intrinsic worth always resulted in a shut down, and they kind of needed to not shut down right now. And straight-up logic often ricocheted off him like in a game of squash.

Nodding slowly, Lyall decided to take a calculated risk and thus concluded, "You're a dick, then."

Alan didn't react right away. And then, slowly, he perked up, lifting his head to frown and squint at Lyall, aghast. "What?"

Good. That got his attention.

"You heard me," Lyall doubled down. "A grade-A douche."

Alan stared at him with confused disbelief. "A wh--" was all he managed to sputter out before sitting up straighter, still leaning in to skeptically narrow his eyes at Lyall. "Are you..." He swirled a finger in the air, faintly laughing from the absurdity of the sitation, until he gestured at Lyall and finished with, "Okay?"

"May I explain why?" Lyall asked innocently. Perhaps enjoying the look of shock on Alan's face a tad too much.

"May you explain why you just called me a dick and a douche after I cracked open to tell you about my very real, very totally not stressful situation with Shane?" Alan said with indignance, scoffing with offense. His hand landed on the table with a thud as his stare turned flat. "Yes. Please. Explain."

It took every fibre in Lyall's being to not even so much as snort aloud.

"Alright." Sitting straighter, Lyall spread both hands in a sort of shrug. "Let me reframe with this~"

He pointed to the right side of his own head and began, "Anyone telling you in any way that your wants and needs don't matter, are assholes." Twisting around, he pointed to the other side. "And anyone merely neglecting your wants and needs are either too thoughtless or too weighed down by their own personal matters to spare the thought. The latter group isn't pertinent right now, however." He circled his hand back to his right side. "Because you fall into the former."

Alan's indignance slowly faded away as the words sunk in, but still, he stared at Lyall with a frown, silent for a few seconds. Until he gave in, sighing and shaking his head. "You are insufferable," he muttered, poking at the table.

"And I stand by my original declaration," Lyall said, voice softening as he smiled with some true sadness at his beloved friend. "Don't be a dick to yourself, Alan."

"I know... I know," Alan said softly, still refusing eye contact as he kept his gaze on the table, wiping away the condensation left behind from the glass. "I'm not... trying to. It's not like I'm doing this on purpose."

"The damage done is the same, though," Lyall gently countered. "It's an easy trap to fall into without even sparing it a second thought."

"I know," Alan said more firmly. "I already know all this. So why..." He sighed, defeatedly turning away and again supporting the weight of his head with his palm before quietly finishing with, "Why is it so hard?"

Lyall felt a sharp pang in his heart. Because he knew in this moment, they'd finally hit the root issue.

In a saddened murmur, Lyall answered, "Because you've believed in that lie for far too long."

Wordlessly, Alan slowly sunk back onto the table, arms crossed on top so his head could perch on top. His expression was hard to read, which was unusual since he was usually fairly open, but it was clear that he was deeply contemplating and processing his words this time.

Thank gods.

Hopefully it wasn't too soon to double down on "douche".

Lyall let the conversation rest for a few moments, gave Alan time to process first. Glorious, short-sighted slow-cooker that he was.

Then Lyall took in a breath and piped up again, "If you're up for it..." He reached across the table and poked Alan's arm. "...there's still the matter of douchery on the table."

"You're right. I am a dick, and I am a douche," Alan said with a hollow voice, unmoving. "Especially with how I treated Shane. But is that so bad, if that's who I am?" He took a heavy deep breath, his whole chest moving with the inhale and exhale. "I don't know. I guess I'm still trying to figure it out."

"Exactly," Lyall said encouragingly. "Now--" He paused. "Alright, the matter of semantics first: you're acting like a douche. I don't want the wrong mantra stuck in your head now, so let's try and keep that straight."

"But what if I want to be the douche, all the time? What does that make me?" Alan paused, tensing up. "A villain?"

Tilting his head, Lyall studied him curiously. Now caught a little off-guard himself. "...Is that what you really want?"

"I don't know what I want, Lyall," Alan murmured. "But I know I don't want this life."

"Which life?" Lyall further prompted, folding his hands on the table.

To which Alan stubbornly reiterated, "This one." He sighed. "You know. A life that's so perfect, I can't possibly be unhappy. Where I have a family that loves me, friends who care about me, a partner who adores me. Where I excel, produce, love, entertain, provide. What if I don't want it?"

That...

Was a good question.

Lyall wanted Alan to find meaning and purpose and love, all on own his terms. He'd spent so long living on practically everyone else's terms-- something that Lyall truly understood quite deeply. Alan deserved the chance to say more freely that he didn't like cheese, or to answer his own favorites questions without needless crypticness and deflection, and to find a happy existence free of impossible standards, and the weight of his entire world-- his family-- bearing down on him...

While it was a labor of love, to fully support those in one's innermost circles-- it was still a labor. An ugly truth pertaining to some sacrifices-- made especially wretched-feeling when made in the name of loved ones.

"I think," Alan continued on, voice lowering, expression still stony, "I would rather not do that at all. I would rather move across the world away from anyone and everyone I know, living with no shelter, no expectations. I'd rather die from temporary highs of illicit drug use than live everyday knowing my life was an unfulfilled lie. I'd gladly enjoy the thrill of jumping off a plane not knowing if my parachute would deploy, if it meant I could feel something other than the dull monotony of life, where I am doomed to wilt in mediocity, never amounting to anything, because I would rather inwardly implode than go against the grain."

Lyall wasn't sure whether to laugh for the sheer absurdity of his extremes, or to... cry? He wasn't sure where that came from, but he most certainly would not be doing that.

He had to stare blankly at his friend momentarily. Merely taking in his utter insanity at the moment.

"And I've thought about this for a while. For... I don't know. The past few years, maybe, was when it began," Alan continued on, still dead serious. "Just fleeting thoughts. Thoughts to leave. To do something different. Something. But I ignored them. And now..."

Alan stifled a weak laugh, shaking his head and rolling his head to sit up again. "You probably think I'm crazy," he said with a mirthless smile, picking up his glasses again, holding it between his hands. "I think I'm crazy."

Lyall couldn't tell how his own face looked right now. If the unprecedented mix of bewilderment yet complete understanding and apprehension and relief all somehow showed at once, or if they appeared in a series of flickering expressions across his face. So he hoped Alan just. Didn't put on his glasses again yet.

"Is that such a bad thing, though?" he eventually asked, putting on a faint, curious grin.

"To... what? Be crazy?" Alan said skeptically.

Lyall just shrugged a shoulder. "I mean... yeah. Why's that a bad insinuation? Being crazy?"

"You're the doctor," Alan said with a soft scoff, finally setting the glasses back on his eyes. He focused his gaze on Lyall, finally truly giving him his attention. "I'm sure you've met a fair number of crazies and can attest why they have a bad insinuation. Hell, there's a literal crazy insane person roaming this island right now."

Lyall felt his grin turn wry. "Do you want an honest answer to that? I'm warning you, it's not a short one."

"I've asked you plenty of times what you really think of me," Alan said with sudden defense. "You don't have to hold back."

"I'll use my good discretion and keep it short anyhow," Lyall insisted flatly. "'Crazy' having a bad reputation stems from not knowing how to live with it." He pointed Alan's way with his chin. "So long as it doesn't negatively interfere with the lives of those around you, I personally don't see the problem with... 'crazy'."

"Well, it's too late for that," Alan murmured. "I'm pretty sure my 'crazy' is going to affect Shane. Or will."

"It has," Lyall confirmed. "But, you can at least spare him further hurt by possibly letting him off the hook?" He gestured between the two of them. "Honestly. Face-to-face. Because Shane deserves that much, right?"

Alan weakly nodded. "He does. But..." Sighing in exasperation, he sunk back against his chair. "He's sensitive. I'm pretty sure if I have an honest conversation like we are having now, I'd... I don't know. Break him. I think it'd be easier if I fell on my own sword, took blame for the problems I caused, and pass my actions off as me being a dick. I don't really care how it's received."

Lyall nodded his understanding. "That would be easier," he agreed. "Because it's not honest."

"I prefer to look at it as silent mercy," Alan said with a shrug. "The truth hurts, sometimes."

"It certainly does," Lyall said somberly. "But... Alan, he's going to have to face rejection sometime in life anyhow. And merely biding time shouldn't come at your own expense."

"Okay. Okay, fine." Alan folded his arms against the edge of the table, suddenly dead serious. "So, what? What do I say, exactly? How do I be honest and not completely crush him?"

Lyall almost answered. He already had a list of potential ways to approach such a delicate matter, with mitigating damage on the forefront of his mind. Even the things that could be said as reassurance if it started to look bad.

Almost.

"Beyond," Lyall started slowly, angling his head the other way as he watched Alan closely, "not being an absolute asshat about it... How much of his response is your responsibility?"

"Well, then," Alan muttered with a stifled smile, "now it's my turn to ask you if you'd like to truly know. I'm fairly sure you'd think less of me if you do know everything."

Lyall quirked both brows. He realized just then that Alan must not have seen the staged admission.

More importantly though...

The sudden appearance of the word "villain" had grabbed Lyall's attention in a vice-like grip. It was of course a point of concern-- that that was how Alan felt, somewhere in a hidden-most corner of his heart. But Lyall couldn't shake the steadily growing sense of intrigue that it raised.

Alan didn't want to hurt anybody. He never had, and never would-- thus he never could truly be a 'villain'. Even if that was what he said he wanted.

But they were finally able to fully acknowledge the ugly side of human nature that people for the most part found too troubling to face head-on-- that Alan himself didn't seem to fully register earlier on just this summer.

Lyall wanted to further this. Alan needed to play it out. Needed to see that, though this ugly side wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, it didn't have to define him.

Tilting his chin up, Lyall challenged, "Try me."

Blinking away the remants of a car in flames and waking to a room that still had the lights on, Shane focused a dead-eyed stare on the ceiling.

Right. He'd drifted off while in thought and hadn't gotten ready for bed, so he was exactly as he'd been last night-- lying in bed with the same clothes on, hands folded over his chest like he had a bellyache, head tilted back to the ceiling. There were only two differences, which were probably closely related. His right leg was numb, and Shrimp had fallen asleep over his shin there. The cat was too far to pet, but his presence was nice at least.

Shane took a deep breath, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, then wearily sweep his fingers back through his hair.

It felt like it was going to be a bad day today. He never knew why he thought that. But if he thought that, in his experience, he was usually right about it.

He moved on autopilot for the next few minutes. He gently scooped up Shrimp without waking the cat. He drew the curtains shut. He stood in front of the mirror and rubbed at the dark circles under his eyes. He flexed his hand to make sure it didn't hurt-- it didn't. And when that was done, he slumped into his desk chair, setting Shrimp on his lap.

He needed a break. And not one of this kind, an island "getaway" that was going to bleed dry his vacation days from here to the end of time. An actual, peaceful rest where he could actually... work on himself or something. Not just get worse or fathom a new depth to rock bottom. Just space to heal and actually think about these things.

It was never going to happen. So he had to make do with where he was resigned to be at.

Shane rested his chin on his hand, picking up a pen just to absent-mindedly flip through some memory readings. Dull, dull, dull. All of it was dull.

There was no concrete solution to... this. His mental situation or whatever it was. He couldn't go see a therapist or other professional about it without extreme risk of it being found out, and there was federal law barring him from medicating if he was ever to hold office. Even the little slip he'd made that James had followed up on warranted some degree of public suspicion. If he was ever asked if he wanted to die sometimes, he'd have to look them in the eye and lie through his teeth. And he might be asked. He'd be surprised if he wasn't.

So, where the world was concerned, the answer was denial. But was that good for him?

Probably not. It probably never had been, if he'd been quietly keeping this to himself for a while and he still felt like this.

Shane closed his eyes with a defeated sigh.

The ideal solution? ...That would take a world that would allow him to step away for a time. A world that wouldn't be appalled if he admitted that yes, maybe he did need help. A world that was more interested in helping him and others in the same boat heal than in holding them in shame. And that wasn't his world, nor his country. It wasn't even true on the scale of his House.

He didn't like it at all, but if he didn't want to break, he might have to bend. That meant purposely losing himself to his House's will, kneeling as their servant to all their wishes and demands, without letting himself get in the way. If he was the cog in the political machine they all wanted him to be-- a cog they wouldn't have to replace-- maybe he'd get away with staying alive for the sake of his duty. It would all be possible, for the low, low price of killing his heart.

It was a smaller death.

But I don't want that, Shane thought desperately. I don't.

...He didn't have to choose one way or the other yet. He wasn't going back to his House for another two months. Maybe he could hold off on deciding what to do with himself for a short while.

And then with perfect, terrible timing, his phone vibrated on the desk with a call from Flint.

Shane didn't even react for a few moments, only watching as it kept buzzing feebly.

What was this about? Flint should have been calling him less and less, not more. They were running out of reasons to talk, if they were growing apart at this rate. This was like a boss calling him off the clock.

Maybe he could just not answer. But just in case there was some kind of national emergency, he was probably required to pick up. Even on vacation.

Steeling himself, Shane took the call and pressed the phone to his ear.

"I'm out of office," he said flatly before Flint could get a word in. "Do I need to start billing these hours?"

"You mean I can't contact you for a whole two months?" Flint asked, tone already sharp.

"It depends whether I'm on the phone with my uncle, or the Head of my House," Shane said.

There was a pause. When Flint ever stopped talking on the phone, it created a silence so empty, it had the effect of making it seem as though there was nothing on the other side of the call.

Finally, Flint spoke up again. "I'm calling with an update. I wanted to let you know the Department of Justice has filed an Aphiran lawsuit against the DMV for the harm that came to you during the special episode."

So he was calling as Head of House, then. Shane slumped back in his chair, unwilling to express how disappointed that made him, even now.

Of course it was a compensation issue. The House didn't care that it was him on the line, they cared about the tedious process of replacing a Heir and having to go through the endless vetting, hearings and confirmations that they'd done for him just a few months earlier. They'd cared when it had been his parents. Apparently, they couldn't find it in them to care when it was him.

That left him a second-class citizen in his own body. Him, and the Heir. One who was to be protected above all else and one who people wished wasn't there so it wouldn't get in the other's way.

Did the heart have to die so the body could live?

"The process is slow. They'll fight it, and it'll take some time to reach its end. Don't expect it to be over before the end of the summer," Flint said.

Shane closed his eyes. "Fantastic."

Another pause. It felt like he was alone again.

"Do you mean anything more by that?" Flint asked at last.

Shane huffed. "Oh, if I were there in person, you would be telling me exactly what I mean, straight from your thesaurus of emotional adjectives. You'd be explaining to me that I was bitter, stung, grudging and distrustful. But I guess if you take me out of the room and you don't have your magic to rely on, you have no idea at all what I'm feeling or thinking."

"So at the moment, you are those four things?" Flint asked.

"Yes. That was also the least important point of the paragraph," Shane said impatiently.

Flint sighed. But although Shane waited for him to go on, there was no reply. For quite a while.

And it dawned on Shane that maybe Flint didn't know what to say.

That was rare. When was the last time that had happened? Well, he could go on.

"I wish it wouldn't kill you to say something like, I don't know, you're glad I'm okay," Shane continued, a small, warm spark of anger flaring up in his chest. "I'm not with the Department of Justice. I don't care about charges being pressed or courtroom arguments over contract clauses on liability. I don't need to know about that. I'm a family member of this House, and I'd like to feel like it some of the time."

"Shane," Flint said wearily, and Shane closed his mouth, listening carefully. "My relief for your well-being is implied."

"Not very strongly," Shane retorted. "I don't know where to look for it."

More silence. He wondered if Flint would get around to filling this one.

"I don't care much for the way you care for me, Flint," Shane said quietly. "Whatever it is. I didn't stop being your nephew and start becoming your colleague four months ago."

The silence went on. Seriously, was Flint there or was he just trying to make this worse--

"Have you checked the news today?" Flint asked matter-of-factly.

The ridiculousness of the casual, abrupt change in subject caused Shane to laugh out loud. "What?"

"Have you checked the news today?" Flint repeated.

The volume of his laugh had caused Shrimp to stir, and Shane rested his hand on the cat's back apologetically. "I heard you. I just have no idea why you think that's a relevant question."

"It would be wise if you did," Flint said unhelpfully. "It pays to stay updated."

Shane facepalmed, closing his eyes wearily. "You're not even trying to hide that you're dodging this."

"Just check it." Flint's tone was tired, impatient. "Go to any of our newspapers. You'll find it helpful."

Shane clenched his jaw to keep thoughts from translating into words. It was the least Flint could have done to confirm the existence of some remaining familial tie, however weak or threatened. Even defensiveness against his words would have helped. But the brushing off of comments he'd been holding onto out of worry left him little hope.

He couldn't be losing everything. He couldn't be.

But maybe he was.

"Very well," Shane said quietly, vaguely aware that he was distractedly petting a more alert Shrimp.

"Good. Best of luck."

And with that, his phone released a pattern of low beeps, indicating the call had ended.

Shane pulled it away from his ear, staring at it in disbelief. It wasn't like Flint wasn't prone to hanging up at times that didn't make sense. But this time... He didn't know. It felt different than the calls Flint ended just to get the last word on something. Rather, it seemed like Flint had run out of words.

He couldn't remember if that had happened before.

Defeated, he set his phone back on his desk, as Shrimp nibbled lovingly at his sleeve cuff. So, he had to check the news. It wasn't like he had anything better to do-- coffee could come afterwards, and Alan didn't seem to have answered his text, which was a whole other thing, so there was no one to reply to. Whatever Flint wanted him to find, it probably wasn't the only big news story of the day, so he had to hope he'd know it when he saw it.

Shane opened his newspaper app for the Aphiran Herald, letting the headlines of the day roll in. For a few swipes of the screen, stories caught his eye. Concerns over an apparent sting operation that led to a group of magic users being arrested, some bitter remarks Kaja made over an Americhihuahuan policy decision, the House of Loyalty remaining the subject of constant controversy-- all of it interesting, but nothing that seemed like the news.

Then his eyes narrowed at a headline: After Investigation, the House of Courage Reports its Main Suspect in the Mystery of Shane Hawking's Amnesia.

Shane blinked.

What?

You know, James would've thought that his door had been broken again when it flew open and hit the wall beside it. Like some miracle, he'd actually still been asleep, and he jolted up out of his bed to see Shane running in, full of panic.

"What's wrong?" he slurred quickly, only half awake as he started to crawl out of his sheets.

Shane didn't answer right away, cradling Shrimp to his chest as he closed the door behind him. His phone was in his other hand, but James couldn't read the screen yet. He turned back to James, eyes still wide.

James squinted, reaching around to the side-table until he found his glasses. Trying to blink away the morning fog in his eyes, he put them on and tried again.

"Flint called," Shane said quickly, passing over his phone to James. "He told me to check the news."

James took the phone, his eyes clinging first to the headline.

"After Investigation, the House of Courage Reports its Main Suspect in the Mystery of Shane Hawking's Amnesia"

Oh, shit.

The House of Courage, ever since it announced its suspicion last week that the memory of their Heir, Shane Hawking, had been purposefully tampered with, has been busy with backing up its claim. Now, the House has followed up through a press conference with Flint Hawking, the Head of House and the uncle of the young Heir, and named the person they suspect to be responsible: Dante Weylin, a DMV employee and manager of the show Island Magic.

The news that Shane Hawking had his memory altered such that he no longer remembers his ex-fiancee, Alexandra Harlow, came as a shock to the world, and this turn of events is even more astonishing. Weylin, who acts as the grounds manager for the DMV's reality show that the Heir is presently starring on, is also a magic user with the ability to see and transfer memories with other people through eye contact. Although the nature of his powers would allow him to do what the House has accused him of, it is unknown what motive Weylin would have against the Heir. The trial process is expected to be delayed until the end of August, as Weylin will not be permitted to respond to questioning or a summons for a trial until the Island Magic season has run to completion.

James stared at the screen, frozen for a moment as he let it all sink in.

"Dante...?" he finally said, honestly still yet to process the implications.

There was no way this was the full truth. Dante was a part of the DMV, sure, but this was Flint's doing. James knew that. It had to be. Maybe Dante had been involved in some way, but this all just screamed of a set-up.

His heart sank.

"That's what they're saying," Shane said quietly. "I don't understand. He and Flint don't have any connection, that I know of, and..."

He trailed off, looking back down at the article again.

"It doesn't add up," he finished softly.

"No," James said seriously, handing Shane's phone back to him. "It doesn't."

He took a moment to lift up his glasses, rubbing away the irritation from his eyes. This wasn't good news to wake up to, but he was glad he knew as soon as possible. This would change things.

"Have you ever spoken to Dante before?" James asked, before realizing that was a stupid question.

Of course that memory would be erased. Because Shane didn't remember his memory being erased in the first place.

Shane frowned. "On the island? Yes, a couple times. Never for very long, though."

Still. Dante had to have been feeling something when they did. Maybe that's why their conversations were never very long. Aside from the fact that Shane wasn't exactly going out of his way to talk to much of the staff.

James rubbed his face again.

This wasn't going to end well for Dante, was it? He was a scapegoat. James knew it. Shane knew it. Even if he had erased Shane's memories - which was entirely plausible - there was no way he did it willingly. James didn't want to believe that. He had to have been put up to it. Flint knew too much to have not been involved.

"This just came out today?" James asked.

Shane reached over to scroll up on his phone to the headline again. "While we were asleep," he said. "Around noon in Kejvan Standard Time."

James sighed.

"This... did you just find out?" he asked.

Shane swallowed, looking back up at James. There was still a flash of urgency and panic in his eyes.

"Yeah," he said. "Flint called me with other news, and while I was going off on him a bit, he just... changed the subject abruptly to ask if I'd checked the news today. I hadn't yet. He didn't even tell me what to look for, just... insisted I checked and hung up."

Yeah, that sounded like Flint.

"Likely to avoid actually talking about it," James muttered, sliding his legs off the side of his bed.

"He seemed like he didn't want to tell me," Shane said quietly. "Or like he couldn't figure out how to do that, so he avoided it instead."

James hummed. Okay. Probably better to put off judgements, then, especially since he wasn't present for the conversation to pick up nuance. But still, he imagined it would've been better for Shane to hear this from Flint directly.

Alas.

James took a moment to just sit on the edge of his bed, but then patted beside him for Shane to sit. He was kind of just standing there, cradling Shrimp and his phone anxiously. With a bare, grateful hint of a smile, Shane sat down next to him, setting Shrimp between them. The cat, unaware of the problem or its implications, happily loafed on the bed.

"What a way to start your morning," James mumbled.

"And before I even had any coffee," Shane agreed quietly.

"A modern day tragedy," James empathized, petting Shrimp between the ears. It earned him a happy purr.

Shane looked back down at his phone, reading the words again for another moment before he turned it off.

"You've spoken to Dante too, right?" he asked quietly. "You agree this doesn't sound like him-- or like the full story?"

"I don't think it's the full story," James agreed. "I don't know him well, but I know enough that he wouldn't have been involved out of his own desire."

"Then was he..." Shane pressed his lips together. "Blackmailed? Coerced?"

"I don't know," James said, looking at Shrimp absently as the cat leaned into his touch. "I don't want to make any assumptions without a conversation."

Shane nodded distantly, looking at the ground again.

"I think that would be an uncomfortable, awkward conversation if I've ever had one," he said.

James looked over at Shane.

"Probably," he said. "But... I didn't mean you, really. I think I want to talk to him."

Shane blinked, meeting his gaze. "You do?"

"If his situation is what I suspect it to be," James said slowly. "Then... I may be able to relate to him. At least, in some ways."

Shane's gaze saddened a little bit. He was silent for a few moments before he patted James's hand over Shrimp.

"You might," he agreed quietly. "Just... be careful. We don't know what this is all about yet."

James couldn't help but smile, just a little. "That's what I intend to find out," he said.

Slowly, Shane leaned over slightly to rest the side of his head on James's shoulder. James could feel the depth of the breath he took.

"Thank you," Shane said, like he was missing the words for something more.

James was content with it, though. He didn't feel like more needed to be added. Thank you was enough, and James understood what it meant. He didn't feel the pressure to respond, either, and was comfortable letting a long silence pass while Shane rested against his shoulder.

It was early. There was no rush.

He waited until Shane withdrew on his own, sitting up and petting Shrimp again. The cat perched his head on Shane's thigh like he too was trying to lend comfort.

James let out a sigh.

"You want that coffee now?" James asked.

"Yes," Shane said decisively.

And so they did.

Shane left for a moment while James got dressed into something more decent, and then the two of them joined each other downstairs for their usual morning coffee. James had about ten bagels and 20 pieces of bacon before Hild came down, ready for their usual run.

Bidding Shane goodbye, James took another bagel for the road and went on his usual run with Hild, this time taking the longer route around the Island's edge.

Though he did think about asking her on a date when the run was near-over, he couldn't help but feel like it was the wrong time. If not for her, then for him.

The news that morning had him preoccupied, and he'd rather have that conversation when he was able to give his full attention. He wasn't exactly in a hurry, and Hild wasn't expecting it either, necesarily. So yeah. It could wait a day.

Let that breathe, deal with the Dante situation first.

Not that James expected to solve anything, of course, but... yeah. He needed answers. Wanted answers. Shane could use them, too.

So, after parting ways with Hild with a very energetic puppy back at the house, he made his way up the hill, finding his way back to Dante's house.

It was strange, in hindsight, that their last interaction was when he threw up on the beach and Dante took him in for a second. Yeah. Kind of weird to relive that memory while he was walking up to the door. He cringed inwardly at himself in remembrance of his heightened paranoia only a few weeks ago.

Maybe he should apologize for that. Or maybe he should save the apology for after he "sussed things out," as his sister would say.

Bracing himself for a potentially intense conversation, James knocked on the door.

For a few minutes, he waited there, listening to the silence. Then the door creaked open, revealing Dante. He still had his sunglasses, but was without his usual clipboard. He seemed to stand... stiffer than usual. More tiredly, too. Usually, he had a rather relaxed composure, but that was nowhere to be seen today.

James felt his heart sink, already sensing the pain and tension Dante was carrying.

"James," Dante greeted. His tone was still genuine, but he sounded wearier, even uncertain and hesitant. "How can I help you?"

"...I'm sorry," James said, but he wasn't sure why that was the first thing to come out. It just felt right. Maybe it was what he thought he'd have wanted to hear. "I don't believe it was your fault."

Dante opened his mouth, but he must have been at a loss, because he closed it again after a moment.

"...Oh," he said finally in a lower tone, sounding very much like he wasn't expecting this.

James felt a pang of guilt, realizing he'd caught Dante off guard.

"I..." he said. "Could we talk?"

He knew it was a bad time. Any time would be a bad time, but especially the morning of. He could have waited - but he was already here.

Dante glanced into the cabin behind him. After a moment, he looked back at James, nodded, and stepped aside while saying, "Please come in."

James dipped his head as he walked in, quickly scanning the room for the sturdiest looking piece of furniture. Left unsure, he decided it'd be best to just stand or sit on the floor.

Dante didn't move for a seat either, though, instead opting to stand near the door. The signs of his discomfort were a little clearer now, with the way his head seemed angled down at the ground and his arms were folded over his chest.

James knew that Dante avoided eye contact for other reasons. But this was more than that.

"I know this is sudden, and if you'd like me to go, I can," James said, wanting to give Dante an out. "But I saw the news this morning, and it reeks of a set-up."

A pause. Dante looked up, saying nothing for a moment.

"I don't think I'm wrong," James said.

Dante pursed his lips, clearly weighing his words. The calm assertiveness, the cordial but removed professionalism seemed all gone. All he saw was someone very, very tired who still had a lot of weight on their shoulders.

"I don't know what it is for sure," he said lowly, "but I'm going to need a very skilled lawyer."

James let the sadness and empathy meet his eyes.

"I know a guy," he offered softly.

Dante let out a sound that was halfway between a hum and a sigh, sliding up his sunglasses for a moment to tiredly run at his eyes.

"It'd make more sense if you didn't want to share who," he said. "You have a right to be angry."

James huffed faintly. "I'm still angry," James said. "But that anger -- it's not directed at you. Doesn't mean I like what you did - if you did in fact do it. But I don't think you wanted to. And honestly, I want you to prove me right. Because I really don't believe you're that kind of person."

Dante was silent for a minute, lowering his head again. His face was hard to read, mostly blank. The air seemed to hang still and heavy with some unnameable feeling, like the tension in a bowstring just before it was released.

"I did do it," Dante said quietly at least. "And I didn't want to. That would be Flint Hawking's intention."

James knew it. James fucking knew it. He had to take a second to reign in the righteous anger and vindication that flared up inside of him, forcing out a long sigh as he lifted a tight fist to his brow, resting it over his eyes for a moment.

"So it was Flint," James murmured, dropping his hand to his side.

God, he still hated that it was. Because Flint was Shane's uncle. His only goddamned living relative decided to mind-wipe him. What kind of a fucked up relationship was that? He felt so bad for Shane. He hated it for him.

"Did he bribe you? Was it blackmail?" James asked.

Dante frowned deeply at the two b-words.

"No," he said firmly, then sighed. "No. It wasn't either of those." He shook his head. "World governments have got connections with the DMV, and can generally 'borrow' one of us if they have a purpose for our magic. It's most often not suspect-- it's usually done in the public eye, especially if it's good publicity-- but I'd be amiss to say it's always done in the name of good."

Dante rubbed at his face again, somehow looking even more weary now.

"About three months ago, I got one of those borrowing summons to Aphirah," he said. "I wasn't told what it was for, just to be there and be there fast. I was wary, but I didn't have enough information to do anything about it, since I couldn't make a formal objection if I had nothing to object to. So I went where I was sent. It was to a hospital in Starlight City. I didn't know what I was expecting, but I certainly didn't expect Flint and a bunch of Aphirah's secret service there."

Dante paused.

"I almost would've preferred they at least try bribery or blackmail," he said. "But they skipped past those steps and brought out the guns first."

"Fuck, man," James said before he could filter himself.

"Yeah," Dante muttered, a trace of bitterness in his voice. "Yeah."

"I'm so sorry, Dante," James said quietly.

Dante looked down at the ground again.

"I'm not saying this to avoid your anger," he said. "You're still allowed to have a portion of that rage directed my way. I don't like what I did, and I'm not trying to justify it or pass the blame. Just... maybe you see why I did it."

James nodded, letting a moment of sober silence pass as he set his hands in his pockets. Mostly as a sign of peace.

"I understand," James said. "You were put in a difficult position. Not everyone has the privilege of getting to stare death in the face and say no."

Dante huffed faintly, but it was humorless.

"I suppose not," he said.

"I don't blame you for doing what you had to," James said. "But I hate that it happened. I respect you making space for me to feel how I feel... but I also empathize with you. And I wish you weren't going through this."

All because of stupid Aphiran politics that wouldn't allow for Shane to step away and get the help he needed. All because they couldn't just let Shane be struggling and give him support. All because they had to force him into a position and a shape for everyone's convenience at the price of Shane's own memories. As if there were no other options.

James shook his head.

"I fucking hate politics," he said.

"Me too," Dante muttered. "And I hate what it does to people."

"Agreed," James said.

And for a moment, he just stood there - letting himself feel the weight of the situation. On Dante and Shane's behalf.

Eventually, he broke it.

"Did you want my lawyers' number, by the way?" he asked. "I was serious about that."

Dante sighed quietly. "I might get back to you on that. For now, I won't be saying anything about it on air. My right to remain silent and self-incrimination protections effectively end the moment I set foot on Aphiran soil for this."

James nodded. "Understood."

Dante took a deep breath through his nose.

"I take it Shane's seen the news too," he said quietly.

"Yes," James said, softer. "He has."

Dante nodded, swallowing thickly.

"I know you're not the one to say this to," he said. "But I really am sorry."

James looked up, but had to remind himself not to meet Dante's eyes. Instead he looked at Dante's chin.

"I know," James said softly.

And yet again, another long silence passed between them, as the air in the room grew thick with sadness, grief, and regret. It was a feeling James knew well, but didn't want to break it.

It needed to be felt.

"I could..." Dante started to say in a soft, hesitant tone. "I could give it all back. It'd be up to Shane. But I think it'd be more damaging than if he'd never forgotten in the first place."

James didn't like that he agreed, but it made sense. It was one thing to have all of those memories and emotions build up over time. That was, in some ways, more bearable. But to know and feel it all at once, knowing where Shane was already at? It could become too much. Even James didn't think he'd want to subject himself to that if he were in Shane's shoes. Not unless he felt ready. And Shane...

He wasn't ready. James really didn't think he was.

"I think you should wait to tell him that," James said softly. "For when he's ready to talk to you. Right now... he needs time to process. Having that added on at the moment may be unhelpful."

"Right," Dante said quietly. "His uncle..." He trailed off. "Well, Flint's far from the only thing happening here. I'd be surprised if he was ready now."

James nodded. "I don't think he's even had time to mourn the loss of the memories," James said. "Or process the weight of their absence. He only found out a little over a week ago."

And so much had happened since.

"That's very recent," Dante said. "I don't know whether it's better or worse that it wasn't sooner. Flint always knew he'd find out before long." He shrugged, frowning again. "You can't keep something from someone with psychometry forever."

James wished it wasn't just about the psychometry, though. And good grief, he wished Shane could've learned about it any other way. Alexandra showing up and pushing him into the water was arguably one of the worse ways.

"I didn't know you were able to take people's memories," James decided to say. He only knew about the possibility of seeing them through eye contact.

Dante hummed quietly. "I can transfer them, yes. But I'm not able to erase anyone's memories. It's a bit like a conservation of matter law-- you can change some things about a memory, like who it belongs to, but you can't destroy it."

James blinked slowly.

"So... you're saying you can give them back, because the memories are yours, now," James concluded.

"Right," Dante said, pursing his lips. He didn't sound thrilled about that fact.

"That's... I'm sorry you have to hold that," James said.

Dante's expression saddened a little.

"Other people's pain isn't easy," he said. "I wish that was something that could actually be taken away with this. But I knew all Flint was going to manage in the end was multiply pain and split it between two people, not subtract it from one and add it to another."

"So... you get the emotions, too?" James asked. "Not just the memories?"

Dante nodded faintly.

Damn. Dante really got handed the shittiest lottery ticket in life, didn't he? Apologies didn't feel like enough. How was Dante even managing? God, and now he was looking at a long life in prison, of all things.

"These past few months have been hell for you too, haven't they?" James asked softly.

Dante huffed a wry, humorless chuckle. "Yeah," he said quietly. "That feels accurate."

"And of course the DMV has you involved with all of this," James said. "With Shane here, too."

What - just to rub salt into the wound? It had to have been emotionally exhausting.

Dante scowled again. "The strange thing is that wasn't even on purpose. It was all coincidence. They didn't know what Flint wanted with me either, and they're probably only putting it together just now. So I can only curse my bad luck."

Okay. So the DMV didn't know everything. For some reason, that was a relief, what with the Trieu's foresight.

"Well... I know what it's like to have bad luck," James murmured. He let out a sigh and stood up a little straighter. "And -- for the record. I... I won't share any of this with anyone outside of your permission. I know how these things can be."

Both legally, and emotionally.

"Thank you," Dante said quietly. "You can tell Shane any and all of it, of course. Just do try to do it behind closed doors."

"I'll find somewhere away from cameras," James said with a nod.

Dante nodded, and for a brief moment, it looked like he managed a faint, sad smile.

"I hope this isn't out of place for me to say," he said, "but you're being a very good friend to him, James. And I think that's something that will help him immensely. If something feels hopeless, don't beat yourself up with worries that you're not doing the right thing. Your heart and intentions are exactly where they need to be."

James felt his shoulders drop a little.

No, it wasn't out of place. Just unexpected. He knew that Shane was in a rough spot, and he really cared about him. He knew that having a friend helped, but he wasn't doing it just for that. He actually really enjoyed Shane. He was a good friend in return, too.

There was something about Dante's encouragement, though, that felt like it went deeper than that. It wasn't just the simplicity of relationships helping people out of dark places.

Dante knew[i] what Shane was feeling. Didn't he? Maybe not at present, but certainly the emotions he'd taken a few months prior, and now carried with him. Dante probably knew better than anything the emotional state Shane was in. Or [i]was. And could be again.

It made James sad to think about. Pained for his friend. For Dante, too.

He did wish there was more he could do. But all he really could do was be present. And be a friend.

He looke down, nodding slightly.

"Thanks," he said. "I hope you have friends like that too, to walk with you through this."

And, stepping out on a limb, he added: "And... if you ever want to talk, even if only to process some things others may not understand... my door's open."

"That wouldn't be terribly professional," Dante said, but his tone was grateful nonetheless.

"I don't think you have to be in a situation like this," James said.

Dante huffed in faint agreement. "I guess there's no guarantee I'll have a job after this summer anyway."

"Could be a blessing in disguise," James joked. "You wouldn't have to work for the DMV anymore."

Dante let out a more real-sounding chuckle. "That would be a mercy."

"At least it's something to look forward to," James said with a weak smile.

"That it is," Dante said, mirroring the faint smile. It slowly fell from his quickly-sobering face as he added, more softly, "Thank you. My door remains open too."

"And then he [BLEEP]ing hung up," Shane deadpanned, flopping his arms out at his sides as he stared up at the ceiling from where he was lying on his back on the floor of his room. "He's so fond of that. Why is he always trying to get the last word?"

"Mmh," Leilan agreed, half-absorbed in petting Shrimp's head. The cat was sprawled out next to him on Shane's bed, which he was reclining on, and it felt a little like every scene in a movie with a therapist where they sat on a leather couch and nodded wisely while taking notes on a clipboard. Leilan didn't have a clipboard, but he did have a cat, which was way better in his opinion. "And how does that make you feel?"

Shane huffed, waving around a hand. "I don't know. I wonder if he's just desperate to get the last word on everything. He's butted heads with my mom and lost enough times that he could've decided he needs to start winning for once."

"Maybe you should hang up on him sometime," Leilan suggested. "Turn the tables."

"I did." Shane let his hand plop to the ground again. "Same call where James and I confronted him over Alexandra and he gave us the runaround. I just got tired of it."

Leilan couldn't help but latch on to the thought that it still felt so strange for Shane to be calling Alex by her full name. No one did that-- except for Flint, who had always stubbornly refused to call her Alex. It had irked her, and Leilan knew that even now, it would probably annoy her to hear Shane doing the same. But that wasn't something worth mentioning.

"Well, good for you," he said sincerely, rubbing the cat's soft back fur. "You know I love Flint too, but he could stand to learn a little. Maybe starting with being less of a control freak."

"He literally tried to control my memories," Shane said, a defeated tone in his voice again as he stared through the ceiling. "The very things inside my head. How do you move away from that?"

"I don't know," Leilan said honestly. "But he can't be in denial forever. He has to realize eventually that it's not working for him."

That, and Flint would have to see this was threatening to tear Shane away from him. Leilan knew that was something that scared both of them, but Flint was the one who had to do something about it. And if he didn't do it soon, the House could stop being a home to Shane.

There was a knock on the bedroom door. At that, Shane lifted his head up.

"Shane?" James's voice called. "You home?"

"I'm here," Shane called back. "Leilan's here too. You can come in."

The door opened, and James stepped in, barefoot, in joggers, and a very bright orange t-shirt that said: "This is My Nice Shirt." It made James's hair look more... orange.

"Hey, James," Leilan greeted, sitting up a little and waving a hand at him. "Nice shirt."

James looked down at his shirt as if he'd forgotten what he was wearing, then looked up with a little smirk and a snort.

"Thanks," he said, walking over. He stopped near Shane's head on the floor, looking down at him. "Having floor time?"

"Yep," Shane said. "You're welcome to join. This floor is big enough for the both of us."

Pursing his lips for a moment, James nodded, and then sat down on the floor beside him.

"I just got back from talking with Dante," James said.

Looking more attentive and serious now, Shane craned his head a little more.

"How did it go?" he asked.

"It went fine," James said. "It's... sad, though. The situation he's in, right now."

James scanned the room for a moment.

"Have we double-checked for bugs since the renovations?" he asked.

"...Bugs?" Leilan asked, but Shane was already standing up.

"I'll make it a triple-check," Shane said, pressing his palm to a bookcase, then moving to read his desk.

"I did a thorough sweep of my room the other day as well," James said. "But yeah. Doesn't hurt to check again."

Baffled, Leilan watched as Shane went around to get a reading on every surface, slowly putting it together. Again? Did they just have security concerns, or...

"...Were you guys previously bugged in your cabin?" he asked slowly.

"Yes," James answered, still seated on the floor. "I think we discovered them within the first... two weeks, was it? It feels a bit like an eternity ago, but, they were planted by Tula originally. Can't be too careful, though."

Leilan balked, caught completely off guard. "Seriously?"

"It's one of those things that sounds absurd, but honestly, at that point we were all like 'this might as well happen to us'," Shane said, pulling his hand away from a light switch.

"It doesn't sound absurd, it is absurd," Leilan said, appalled.

"You sweet summer child," Shane said kindly.

Well. He'd never heard that from Shane before, so it seemed like he was going to learn something.

"Honestly, the bugging wasn't as bad as a lot of the other bullshit we've gone through," James said. He then lifted a finger. "Like the ominous singing puppets. Or the animate pumpkins with carving knives."

"How could I forget the pumpkins that carved back," Shane muttered as he moved on to his dresser.

"Yeah, I half-turned into a wendigo for that," James said. "I don't know if that part was put on air."

Leilan blinked. "No. Definitely not. None of that."

"Great," James said. "Figures. I guess I'd rather that not be publicized worldwide anyway."

"Same here," Shane said, turning and scanning the room before dusting off his hands. "Okay, triple check complete."

"Great. Sorry to dump all of that on you, by the way," James said, leaning over to look at Leilan. "I think we've both hit the point of coping with dry humor. It must be a lot to take in."

"It is," Leilan admitted after a moment, as Shane laid down on the floor again. "But from the sounds of it, it seems like there are bigger problems than my ability to comprehend such problems."

"Duly acknowledged," James said with a nod. "And... not entirely wrong." James turned to look down at Shane again.

"Since the room's clear, I suppose I can brief you on the conversation," James said. "But--" and he looked back up at Leilan again. "This has to stay within these walls. It's private information."

"I understand," Leilan said. "I won't pass anything along. Consider this an NDA."

"Good. I'll hold you to it," James said with the faintest hint of a grin. "So, do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

A beat.

"You know what, nevermind that. It's more like potentially bad and then worse news," James amended. "This is a morally messy quandry."

"I feared as much." Shane rubbed his face. "...If it's all bad, maybe just start where it makes sense to start?"

James hummed for a moment, and then nodded.

"Well, it turns out that Dante did, in fact, take your memories. But he didn't do it willingly. He was brought into the situation blindly, with no warnings, and once he arrived he was threatened to do so at the risk of his own life," James said. "And sworn to secrecy."

Leilan's eyes widened. Threatened? But that would mean...

"And... yes," James said. "Dante confirmed that it was Flint who arranged it."

Leilan didn't believe it. Almost didn't. Flint was plenty of things, but violent was not one of them. But determined? Practical to the point of ruthlessness? Focused on what he thought he should do? Those things were all true.

He looked to Shane, trying to read his face. His friend had gone back to staring blankly at the ceiling, but he thought he spotted a trace of sadness in his eyes. His heart sank a little for him.

"This wasn't on the island, was it?" Shane asked faintly. "It couldn't have been."

James shook his head. "No," he said softly. "It was soon before."

Leilan furrowed his brow, trying to recall what Shane had been doing for that time. He'd... well, he'd been grieving Ray and Gwen, processing the end of a long term relationship, and trying to get used to the responsibilities of an Heir. In short, it had been a lot. He'd been reaching out all the time, but he'd hardly ever noticed any real change for Shane. Except for that five day period where he'd heard absolutely nothing from him.

"How soon before you got here?" Leilan asked slowly. "Was it two months?"

"Dante said it was three months ago from now," James said. "So... two months prior to the DMV."

That seemed just a little too uncanny to be pure coincidence.

"There was a period of time in early April where I didn't hear anything from you for several days, Shane," Leilan said slowly. "It was weird, but when you finally got back to me you seemed just fi-- just like your normal."

Shane frowned. "When I finally what?"

Leilan glanced at James concernedly. James frowned in return, matching the concern.

"You didn't return my calls or texts for four or five days," Leilan said slowly. "I eventually asked Phoebe and she said she heard you were on some trip. When I did hear from you again, you didn't actually call attention to the time that passed, but I didn't think all that much of it."

Shane shook his head.

"I don't remember traveling in April, or ghosting you," he said. "Key word, remember."

"That... must be when it happened, then," James said softly.

Shane's forehead had creased, like he was trying to remember something. Leilan had never seen him try to remember something that hard.

He had to squash a flutter of panic.

"It must have been," he said quietly. "Dante's account would agree."

So what had Flint been doing during that time? Why did it take that long? Had there been a trip at all, or had Shane just been missing? He had more questions than answers again.

"I don't know why it would have taken five days," James murmured softly. "That seems... a long time."

"A little time makes sense," Leilan agreed. "But not that much."

Shane's shoulders slumped a little.

"I never gave it any thought, but now that I'm trying, I think I can't remember anything from most of that first week," he said quietly. "Even the days leading up to that feel blurry."

"He must have had the memories of that whole week removed," James said quietly.

"But was that..." Shane shook his head. "Necessary? That would've affected a whole lot, including my job performance."

James looked up to Leilan with a brief flash of sadness and concern again.

"Flint apparently thought it was," James said.

Talking about Shane's uncle in this way felt new and wrong to Leilan. Sure, he and Shane had complained about Flint to each other plenty, but it had never been anywhere near this serious. It felt like he was half-waiting for one of them to add that the grievances were all in good fun. But no one was going to say that today.

"Flint does what he thinks is necessary," Leilan said. "He surely had a reason that outweighed a temporary loss of productivity."

James looked down to the floor. Shane covered part of his face with his hand. Neither looked to be in good morale.

Leilan took a deep breath.

"How's Dante?" he asked softly. "He must have a lot going on too."

"He's... hanging in there," James said. "He's got a lot to work through, now."

Of course. Plenty of people had done their best at redesigning it-- including Gwen and Ray-- but the Aphiran justice system remained terrifying. Going up against Shane's House was an especially difficult uphill battle. One that Leilan didn't think Dante could win.

"Yeah," Leilan agreed quietly. "He has a couple months to figure it out. Hopefully the DMV won't throw him to the wolves either."

The look on James's face clearly expressed his doubts for the DMV's concern for Dante's well-being.

"I guess it depends how valuable he is to them," James said.

"He's..." Leilan paused. "He's a good worker with unique magic, is he not?"

James nodded. "His magic is unique, for sure," he said. "If that alone merits preserving him. Though that's a depressing thought."

It was. Leilan found himself frowning slightly.

"I was under the impression that they valued their people through such a lens," he said. "Being all about magic and such."

"Right," James said, sounding a bit absent. He let out a sigh.

Leilan looked back to Shane, who was still staring distantly upwards, like he was trying to watch the sky through the ceiling. So they each had more on their minds than he did. It made sense. They'd been thinking about this for over a week, and he'd still been uncertain about whether what he heard about Shane was actually true until the latest news broke this morning.
But it still felt strange to be almost out of the loop.

He sighed as well.

"This is bleak," he said. "There's not much to do."

"Besides pray that Dante gets the best lawyer in the world, I suppose," James said. Leilan wasn't sure if it was a joke or not.

"And that Flint doesn't," Leilan said.

James put his hands together as if in prayer, closing his eyes. "God, give Flint's lawyer bad dreams and bad ideas. Also make them incompetent. Amen," he said.

"Amen," Leilan and Shane said together.

"Well, I guess we've done all we can do, now," James said. "Do you both feel like brooding for longer, or should we do something else?"

Leilan took a glance at Shane.

"I could use some food," Shane said, not looking away from where he was staring. "And possibly more coffee."

"The coffee part is debatable," James said. "But definitely food." He patted his stomach.

Shane pouted a little. "Why debatable?"

"Do you not already have enough caffeine in your veins to kill a small horse?" Leilan asked.

"Caffiene addiction," James said simply, pointing at Shane.

"You're both cruel," Shane groaned.

James let out a stifled chuckle. "I'm just saying, it'd probably benefit you to drink some water for once."

"Water's so old-fashioned," Shane said, but he was starting to sit up. "That's what people had before they discovered coffee."

"Water literally keeps us alive, Shane," James said with a smirk.

Shane pouted with mock childishness, and the sight of it made Leilan laugh. His friend then moved to playfully shove James away, but James didn't move an inch. Instead, Shane merely pushed himself off James, sliding away by about a foot.

That made James burst into a fit of airy laughter. Leilan joined in.

"Yeah, yeah," Shane groused, but his dimples flashed in his cheeks with a smile as he got to his feet.

James's laugh lingered in the air for a moment before he recovered, getting up to his feet as well with a heave. He patted Shane's back as he stood up.

"Okay, let's go get you some food and water," James said. "If you get both of those first, we'll reward you with coffee."

Shane looked at Leilan pleadingly.

"Sorry," Leilan said, scooping up Shrimp as he stood. "I'm with James on this one. Coffee is not a lunch."

"Mean," Shane muttered, as they all walked out of his room and down the stairs for some real food.

Lyall wanted honesty? Alan could give him honesty. True, unadulterated honesty, without the frills of bullshit and feel-good pleasantries. The most wretched and vile thoughts that Alan had locked away to rot in the darkness, vomited into the open air, exposed for someone to hear for the first time.

Lyall kept telling Alan to be himself. But he had to understand: what if being himself wasn't good? Who was he, if he was not allowed to explore the dichotomy of being himself while also being a hazardous risk to others' well-being?

He wanted honesty? The truth? The crazy?

Well, fuck. Alan would give this to him, then.

But it wouldn't be his fault if Lyall became wary or, god forbid, tried to fucking "fix him".

"Alright." Alan patted down the sleeve of his shirt, giving this some thought, squirming in his chair. "Well, let's see."

No. This wasn't right. They needed... something else.

Springing out of the chair, Alan hurriedly got to his feet, dashing to the corner bar and ignoring all impulse control as he reached over and snagged a handle of vodka. Lyall quirked both brows at this, a mix of surprise and curiosity.

"We're postponing dinner plans," Alan announced, only giving the bottle a half-second glance to make sure it was mostly full and weighty in his hands. Already headed for the exit, he ushered for Lyall to follow. "We're going on a walk."

The door falling closed behind him, then opening again was indication that Lyall following after him was slightly delayed.

"Where to?" Lyall asked with a bewildered huff.

But instead of answering, Alan dived right into his earlier question, briskly walking towards the grass and trees away from the familiar cobblestone paths and safety of light.

"I came to this island with zero expectations," he began. "I came straight from my hike and still have a lot to unpack-- still do, honestly-- but wanted to spend my time with a few select people in a totally new environment." He gestured to Lyall, pointing the tip of the bottle towards him. "One of those people was you, Lyall. And another one was Shane."

The name left a sour taste in his mouth. Shane, who so idolized Alan like he could be his savior to save him from the oh-so-terrible path of being a rich and famous prince of a whole damn country. Shane, who so admired him, like he was a celestial being who oozed in raw romance and talent, a complete saint in the harsh reality of the world. Shane, who was so sensitive that Alan frequently had to walk barefoot around him with shards of glass poking out from the floor, careful to not say the wrong thing, else he bring disappointment to the whole damn world.

There was so much pressure. It swelled in his head, this idea of being so perfect like that was all he was fucking good for.

Somewhere along the way, Alan had thrown away the cap of the vodka bottle. His brain was working slower than his senses, lagging behind. And that was when he tasted the raw burning sensation of the vodka against his tongue, swallowing the unpleasant liquid straight from the bottle by the mouthful.

"And?" Lyall prompted simply, following close behind.

Feeling like he was about to choke, Alan had to pull away the bottle, suppressing the burning desire to violently cough since his throat burned from the vile liquid. It hurt, but it also felt so good.

Still briskly walking to Nowhere Land, Alan glanced down at the bottle, realizing with horror and fascination that he had guzzled a whole third of it in one breath. He had always been a heavy weight, but this? This would certainly test his limits. And he didn't have any intention of stopping yet.

"And," Alan went on, hastily shoving the bottle into Lyall's hands. "Shane and I spent a lot of time together-- again, not bad. But it was all..." Alan frowned, circling a finger in the air, trying to find the right phrase. "Built up."

Fumbling with the bottle at first, Lyall took a tentative sip before inquisitively echoing, "'Built up'?"

"Built up!" Alan repeated more loudly, throwing his hands in the air with a huff. He continued to march through the soft grass, eager to move away from the artificial lights and fakeness of everything. This whole damn island.

His mind was running a million miles a minute, and Alan didn't care to consider his words and tone like he normally did, continuing on with the story he was telling. That he had to tell.

"It built up to boil over during Ooktoberfest, when we fucked the whole night. Whatever. It was whatever. But I'm pretty sure I made him fall in love with me, Lyall. My fault, right?"

Alan shrugged innocently. "I suppose that's what happens when you suddenly see everyone in a new light, and I couldn't control my animalistic urges to make sweet love with him all night, whispering in his ear, calling him my life, my soul, my heart, my everything." He frowned, adding in, "My love," in Argent, vageuly aware that Lyall was learning Argent. For whatever reason.

Lyall kept a steadier pace beside him now. "Oh, shit," he murmured, brows raised as he took a larger gulp of the vodka.

Alan repressed a groan, not able to stop the flat look he gave him as he stopped beside him to steal back the bottle, prying it away from his hands. "Which, by the way, you did a shit job at talking to me the morning after. But that's beside the point."

At that, Alan resumed his brisk walk, taking in another swing of the vodka. God, it was vile.

Lyall frowned deeply in offense. "I beg your--!" Then stopped himself short to draw in a long, loud, steadying breath through his nose. Then eventually relented, tone even again, "Carry on."

"It doesn't matter anyways," Alan huffed out, beelining towards the thick of the trees. The darkness. Away from everything. "Shane has a sensitive soul. It doesn't matter if you did or didn't do a shit job. I'd have done a shit job at talking to him regardless, because someone's gotta give, and of course it's going to be me."

"For... fear of assassination, right?" Lyall asked slowly, furrowing a brow.

He deeply sighed, glancing at the bottle of vodka, squinting at it and holding it close to his face, barely able to see in the darkness that it was halfway full.

Maybe they could finish this tonight. Alan was already feeling his heart beating faster, louder, the alcohol entering his veins.

"No," Alan said simply, barely having time to point the tip of the bottle towards him before Lyall smoothly slipped the vodka from his hand.

"Why must it be you, then?" Lyall prompted, curiously tilting his head as he folded his hands behind his back, hiding the drink with them.

"Why are you drinking?" Alan asked instead, frankly, offended that he took the handle away in such a manner.

"Because I want to," Lyall answered flatly. "Now answer my question."

"Because I want to!" Alan huffed, annoyed that they were having this conversation. He decided to dismiss Lyall entirely, waving him off with his hand as he pressed on further into the darkness. "Maybe I want to tell him what he wants to hear. I don't want him to feel rejected. That's not my intention."

"So you don't want to be the 'villain'?" Lyall prodded pointedly.

"What? That's not--" Alan stumbled, catching himself just in time for him to realize he'd have rammed right into a tree trunk that was inconveniently in the way. Which he only realized was there because he had a hand on it, its coarse texture piercing against his skin.

"No," he said more calmly, grimacing as he shuffled away, more wary of his surroundings despite seeing jack shit. "I don't want him to feel rejected. It's called 'being nice.'"

Lyall's hand brushed over Alan's arm, and that was enough of an invitation for Alan to firmly hold on to him, grabbing his hand to steady himself when it felt like he was two steps away from tripping again. One hand tightly holding Lyall's, Alan firmly set another hand on his shoulder to steady himself, taking in shallow breaths.

"You want to avoid causing any hurt, then," Lyall concluded, gentler.

"It feels like I'm lying to him," Alan murmured, then shook his head, turning away. Because even in the dark, he could feel Lyall perceiving him. "No. I am. I am lying to him. I keep telling him that I want him, I want to spend more time with him, whatever. At the same time, I also asked him to pause on any romance until after the summer, and there have been stretches of time where I actively avoid him. And I keep thinking-- do I even want this? Or am I just..."

Frustrated, Alan let out a defeated groan, letting go so he could crumple onto his knees on top of grass. He keeled over, the top of his head bumping against Lyall's knee. Alan sighed, tightly closing his eyes as he wrapped his fingers around the blades of grass, feeling slightly more grounded now that he was... well, on the ground.

"I feel like I'm delaying everything in my life, and I'm getting tired of it," he finally muttered in defeat.

Lyall stood steadily in front of him. He ghosted his fingertips over Alan's hair as he let the quiet of the woods around them gently settled over them.

"You need closure, Alan," Lyall said softly.

"I know. I know," Alan said with a sigh, opening his eyes, but not yet moving from his position. He sunk more of his weight against Lyall's leg, the alcohol making his head feel too lightweight and unsupported. "I don't know what to do."

After another pause, Lyall's weight shifted away ever so slightly, and Alan had to bring his hand out of front of him catch himself from falling. Hunched over the ground, Alan felt...

Honestly? Pathetic. But it was time he learned his place.

This was where he belonged. Outside, in the dark, on the dirt, outcasted for the slew of lies and deceit. It was time he finally embraced this.

Warm hands slipping underneath Alan's, Lyall slowly lifted them up from the grass and firmly held them up between them. He knelt on one knee in front of him, then sank down onto both.

"Alan," he whispered.

But Alan couldn't bring himself to respond, instead fighting the urge to, maybe, go deeper into these mysterious woods so he could sleep for another one hundred years.

But he was done running away.

Distant, he stared at their hands, feeling oddly warmed by his touch. Though, Lyall was always a source of radiant warmth. Silent, Alan brushed his thumb against Lyall's knuckle.

"You have to be honest," Lyall said, steadfast and compassionate. He tilted his head down in an attempt to catch his attention. "With Shane." Then gave his hands a gentle squeeze of emphasis. "For yourself."

Alan was so thankful for the fermented potato poison coursing through his body. Something about the way Lyall was saying all this made him want to shut down, to close the book and not return to the chapter. But instead he let his stuffy mind make the decisions for him, and his mouth moved faster than his brain.

He leaned in, head perched on top of Lyall's shoulder before deciding he would now use him as a pillar to lean against. "I don't want to," he said with stubborn defiance.

"I know," Lyall hummed, a bit of a cheeky smile in his voice, "I know."

"Then why do you keep..." Still hunched over Lyall, Alan fumbled one hand away from his grip so he can weakly bump his fist against his other shoulder. "Why do you keep giving me advice I won't follow?" he mumbled.

Lyall let out a quiet huff by his ear, bringing his freed hand up to rest on the nape of Alan's neck. "'Cause I want better for you," he answered quietly, slowly carding his fingertips through his hair.

And just like that, the urge to run away... disappeared. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

Alan wanted to be closer.

Knowing that he was only proving Lyall right, Alan moaned in response, letting go of his other hand so he could sloppily wrap both arms around Lyall, hugging him tightly to ensure that he wouldn't be anywhere else but here in his arms. Hand still on the back of his head, Lyall brought his other arm around Alan's back, holding him securely to himself.

Alan took in a breath, pressing his palms firmer against his back, tucking his cheek against the side of his neck. "I want better for you too, damn it," he muttered.

Lyall actually scoffed at that. "What's that supposed to mean?" he mumbled, a mix of confusion and mild amusement.

What did that mean? God, it hurt so much to think rationally. Because the one singular thought that came to the forefront of his mind was the thought of losing his best friend to the clutches of evil glowing seaweed trying to drown them in some undisclosed cave.

Why was he thinking of that right now?

For a brief second, Alan recalled the way he held Lyall, especially during their last minute of breath. Of Alan remaining calm, holding Lyall, being a steady presence during a time of fear and uncertainty.

Much like Lyall was doing to him now.

And then it dawned on Alan: this was how he could help Lyall. This was it.

All other thoughts emptied as a new directive wormed in his mind: today was the day he was going to teach Lyall how to swim.

In all his years, in every educational institution, through all socioeconomic strata Lyall had the good fortune to venture into, he'd never met someone nearly as unpredictable, brilliant, idiotic, and downright insufferable as Alan Alvaro.

It had to have been the wine, the whiskey, and the vodka that made time blur between embracing his beloved ass friend tightly in the darkened woods and standing hand-in-hand with that same friend, mere paces away from the ledge of the plaza's public pool. Lyall wasn't sure how Alan got him here.

To express this bewilderment, Lyall sharply looked over and said, "What the ever loving hell?"

But Alan paid him no mind, bent on some invisible logic that the moment was right for swimming, because he was already unbuttoning his shirt. "Today I'm going to teach you how to swim," he said with fierce determination, putting all his focus on undoing a singular button. "You promised you'd do this."

"I did not," Lyall retorted, crossing his arms and tilting his chin up defiantly. "You only said you wanted to teach me."

"No, you definitely promised," Alan insisted, halfway through on unbuttoning now. "That way, we'll both know what to do the next time we wake up from a flooded cave."

Libel. Falsehoods! Lyall was quite certain he did not promise.

"That," Alan went on, pointing to him with an open shirt, grinning, "and I'm not losing you to something as trivial as water." He lightly shrugged, peeling out of his button-down, setting it aside next to his glasses. "So, strip. We're going swimming."

Lyall gawked at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the sheer audacity. "I refuse," he said, emphatically shaking his head.

"To strip?" Alan hummed. "That's fine, I guess."

Lyall started to turn away. "It will have to be. Because this isn't happening."

Alan immediately scooped up his hand, barring him from leaving. "Ly-alllll," he pleaded.

"Alannnn," Lyall groaned, long-suffering. He tried twisting out of his shockingly iron-like grip-- or perhaps the holy alcoholic trinity had simply weakened him. "No."

Alan pouted, reaching out to take his other hand-- firmly at first, but then gentle in his grip as he smiled and lifted both hands between them. "Please?" he asked, voice saccharine.

Lyall refused to give in. He knew his resolve would quickly crumble if he so much as glanced over Alan's stupid face, so he tilted his head back to stare moodily at the stars instead.

"Well." Alan dramatically sighed, lowering their hands and pulling away. "Don't say I didn't ask you nicely."

Lyall only had time to twitch a brow in momentary confusion.

Oh, wait--

Snatching him up in both arms, Alan held him tightly against him and leaned back to let gravity do the rest. Lyall let out a shocked yelp as the two tumbled into the water.

Despite the tropical climate, the pool felt horrid like an ice bath. It rushed around them, briefly blocking all of Lyall's senses. He blindly shoved at Alan and twisted around until his feet found the floor.

They broke the surface in the same moment. Lyall, gasping for air as he frantically pushed his hair from his eyes. Alan, unphased by the water, was already next to him dripping wet. He rubbed off the water from his eyes, squinting at him, hand on his shoulder.

"Well?" he said expectantly with a smile. "How does that feel?"

"You--" With a hard glare, Lyall pushed him away again. "You pest!" He hastily tugged his sweater up and over his head. "The one night I wear one of the nicer ones..." He waded back to the edge and spread his sweater out over the pavement to let the chemical-ridden water run off the wool.

"Not my fault you move slow," Alan teased with a grin, flicking water at his face. "It looks good off you." He paused, turning away with a slight frown. "I meant to say on you. Anyways..."

Lyall stared blankly at the line of lounge chairs in front of him.

Suddenly, Alan dove under the water, his underwater image a blur with movement. Lyall whipped around and pressed his back against the side of the pool, watching closely with open suspicion. A long ten seconds passed, Alan wrestling with himself underwater the whole time. It wasn't until he resurfaced to the edge that Lyall realized he had used to time to take off his pants, since he tossed it towards the chairs. Whipping back around, Lyall trained his eyes on the chairs again.

"Alright," Alan said, smile in his voice as he drew closer. "Are you ready?"

"To leave?" Lyall said, voice cracking with utter indignance. "Quite!"

He started to haul himself out. Cold hands grabbed onto his hips and pulled him backwards, back into the water. Lyall twisted to face him again with an affronted squeak.

"To swim," Alan corrected with a grin, hands still gripped around his waist. "Okay, hold on."

"You hold on, sir!" Lyall objected, too flustered to know what to do with his own hands for a moment.

"Lyall," Alan called with a stifled laugh, pulling him in front of him and wrapping both arms around his waist. He led the way, waddling to the deeper end of the pool, pushing Lyall along for the ride.

"Alan!" Pressing back against Alan's chest, Lyall swore under his breath as he put on the brakes. "I still have..." He struggled to find a way out of this, then lamely finished: "...shoes."

Thankfully, Alan stopped moving forward. They were at the middle of the pool now, and deep enough for the water to reach Alan's neck. Which meant Lyall wasn't able to find a firm footing. So he desperately gripped onto Alan's arms to hold himself steady.

"Do you want to take them off?" Alan asked with an amused smile.

Tilting his head back to rest on his friend's bare shoulder, Lyall drew in a long, loud breath through his nose. Breathed out to five.

Another breath in. The water pressed in on his lungs. Trying to crush him. He breathed out to five.

Breathe in. No more dinner plans. Just not-dying in the pool beside his best friend who was practically naked. Breathe out.

His heartrate was off, wasn't it. If stupid Alan wasn't holding him so damned close, maybe Lyall would be able to focus better on the not-dying part of this not-date. And why was the ridiculous man so damn cold to the touch all the time? Why would he undress in that case? And why were shoes and socks so uncomfortable when wet? Why couldn't Lyall get a fucking grip--

"Would you feel better if we were by the edge?" Alan suddenly asked, cutting into his thoughts. He quietly hummed, slowly glancing at the shallower end of the pool, gesturing towards it with his chin. "Maybe over there?"

"Yes," Lyall answered quickly, hating how small his voice sounded to his own ears, "please."

And, like a gentle current, Alan slowly carried him back in toward the shallow end. Once he found his footing, Lyall was quick to break from his embrace. He unsteadily fought with both the water and his own shoes, stumbling back until his legs hit something under the water. Some sort of curved seating built into the corner of the pool.

Perfect. This way one might take death sitting down.

As he plopped his soaked shoes and socks off to the side, Lyall was vaguely aware of Alan taking the space beside him. Then he was keenly aware of just how close beside him he was. Still largely undressed.

"Good evening to you," Lyall abruptly bid him, making to drag himself out of the water again.

"Wait, Lyall." Alan quickly grabbed his hand, pulling him back towards him. Based on his loose posture and how unfocused he seemed, Alan was obviously quite inebriated-- but the same damn sincerity in his next question still shined through. "Can you stay?"

It made Lyall freeze. Again. As always. Taking in a shakier breath, he allowed himself to be pulled back. The epitome of graceful sobriety, Lyall plopped down and, delayed, righted himself after bumping Alan's shoulder. He made sure to keep at least three inches between them.

Even though Alan kept on scooting closer, ignoring all respectable boundaries. Lyall didn't have the energy to move away again.

"Why," he demanded, keeping his eyes trained at the distant far end of the pool.

"Hm?" Alan innocently tilted his head, his arm flushed against his, attentive gaze trained on Lyall.

It was all... so distracting. So Lyall turned his gaze off to the side.

"Why this..." he waved a hand in the air, then let it drop back to his lap with a small splash. "...chemical-filled death trap."

He couldn't help sounding moody. But, frankly, he felt he had a small right to be. They'd agreed upon dinner instead of brunch, and instead ended up here. Where Lyall had neither brunch nor dinner.

"Oh..." Turning back towards the water, Alan tilted his head towards Lyall, shifting his weight to lean on him ever-so-slightly. He repeatedly bumped his foot against his underwater. "I didn't want to lose you again," he answered wistfully. "This feels preventable."

Lyall at first scrunched his nose because, yes. This situation was perfectly preventable. By simply not tossing him into the water!

He found himself mentally too preoccupied with Alan's foot brushing his to retort as much. The water created a distorted image.

How did this look to the outside world? Could they see their feet too?

"I don't know," Alan continued on with a soft hum, still rhythmically bumping his foot against his, leaning even more against Lyall. "I wouldn't want to live in a world without you. And it'd make me sad to know that you'd have been okay if you knew how to swim. I don't know..."

His foot movements abruptly stopped, and Alan sighed, head drooping until it rested against the side of Lyall's head. "I'd just miss you. Especially because it'd be preventable," he finished with a murmur.

Lyall felt his lingering frown fade away completely. He sat silently, letting the words sink in fully. The sentiment created a strange mix of feelings that made his heart feel alit like a fire cracker, and yet the pit of his stomach weighed down. Because. Mortality.

"That," Alan continued, "and you said you want better for me. So..." He softly hummed. "It made sense to me. To want better for you, too. One pool at a time."

"Next time with more of a warning, then?" Lyall asked, wanting to turn to look at his friend, but not daring to move when Alan was still practically glued to his side.

"I did warn you," Alan replied with a defensive edge. "How could I have given you even more warning?"

"No," Lyall shot back, "no, you baited and switched on me. Luring me out with dinner and booze and... feelings, and then." He swept his hand swideways demonstratively. "Chucking me into the pool! No, that was not a sufficient warning."

Alan giggled, nearly placing all his weight against him for a moment.

"And now you're laughing at me!" Lyall added with an indignant pout, swaying with Alan's shifting weight.

Still leaned against him, Alan brushed his fingers against Lyall's hand, and as if this was when he realized Lyall had hands to begin with, Alan excitedly scooped up his hand underwater, lifting it up to expose in the air. He held his palm with both hands in front of him, intrigued. Lyall was only able to concentrate on their hands momentarily-- Alan's eyes, alit with curiosity, were far more interesting.

"I'm not laughing at you," Alan murmured, but didn't elaborate any further, changing up the angle he held Lyall's hand as he studied it.

Lyall felt himself crack a quick, amused grin as he watched Alan. He wiggled his fingers, then curled them around Alan's to shake their joined hands.

"Yes, you are," he countered, without any real heat. "Laughing at my misery, which you've set upon me on all fronts."

"I am not," Alan said distantly, cupping his other hand around Lyall's to sandwich them between his. He paused, humming. "I forget why I laughed. But it wasn't at you."

Lyall hummed with lingering doubt. With Alan's right hand held the way it was over Lyall's, he twitched his fingers, idly rubbing his knuckles against the scar on Alan's palm.

"I can never tell," Lyall murmured, "what the bloody hell is going in that big, vaccuous brain of yours at any given moment."

His playful half-prompt was met with only the quiet sloshing of the pool water around them, instead of any real answer. Which was answer enough. Sort of. Either too many thoughts to immediately decide where to being, or absolutely none at all.

Lyall turned his head, finally looking fully at Alan now. His friend's expression seemed relaxed. Despite the absence of his glasses, his eyes were intensely focused on their hands.

In Alan's moment of distracted quiet, Lyall took the liberty of studying his face while they were in such close quarters. He mentally traced over every edge of his profile. Studied the angle of his brow, the straight edge of the bridge of his nose. Followed the subtle curve of his cheek, measured the sharpness of his jaw. He could probably also count his lashes too, if he wanted.

Was this too close? It felt... right. So Lyall gently pressed his weight back against Alan too, silently determining to count his lashes another time.

"What is going on in that big brain of yours?" he asked again, voice softening as he turned his attention back to their hands.

Alan didn't respond right away, rubbing his thumb against Lyall's, otherwise unmoving. From the way he maintained his contemplative expression, a flurry of thoughts must have been rummaging through his mind, filtered even through his inebriated state of mind.

But it seemed that the second question that prodded for his honest thoughts was enough to pry away what he was truly thinking, because Alan finally softly answered with: "I was wondering if kissing you would feel different."

And that was more than enough to delay Lyall in responding this time.

It didn't do any of that cliche shit, like his heart skipping a beat, or butterflies in his chest, or heat rushing to his cheeks. None of that. Just.

Just made the world slow down around them. Disappear, almost. He didn't hear the pool water anymore. Didn't even feel cold. Lyall just fixed his attention on how their hands felt warm together. Wondering if the curves of their palms would fit into each other as nicely as this felt.

Then he couldn't help but wonder, too...

How different would Alan's lips feel compared to Kaya's?

Brow furrowing, Lyall felt dismayed by the thought. Disappointed in himself. How could he compare? Was his heart that calloused and shallow?

Still. The thought latched onto him. He couldn't shake it. Couldn't muster the will to condemn himself for it.

Lyall focused on their hands again. He outstretched his fingers, gently dislodging Alan's right hand. Then slowly, carefully, turned his hand and loosely slotted his fingers in between Alan's. Just brushing the sides of his fingers against Alan's.

"We can find out," he finally answered, voice just above a whisper.

With delicate movement, Alan gingerly pressed his fingers in the space between Lyall's, flushing his palm against his as he curled his fingertips downward, not quite closing in all the way.

"Should we?" he whispered back just as soft, the two words holding more weight in words unsaid.

Normally, Lyall would feel let that weight ground him again, then come up with a thousand reasons as to "why not" and talk them both back out of this. But he was so sick of it. His life constantly being governed by the why-not's.

So he closed his fingers fully over Alan's hand first, softly answering instead, "I want to."

Alan followed suit, curling his fingers all the way down, pressing his fingertips against Lyall's knuckles. And that was when Lyall's stupid heart skipped a fucking beat. He hated how juvenile it sounded. He loved how good it felt, how what he wanted finally aligned with what felt right.

Finally, Alan pulled his body weight away from Lyall to sit more upright, now turned to him with a sobering expression. He stood still, eyes set on Lyall, waiting to catch his attention.

Turning his head, then angling his chin up, Lyall slowly drew his gaze over him. Fully taking in the sight of his dear friend, sitting beside him in nothing but his pants. Without glasses, with enough alcohol in his system to strip boat varnish, and absolutely no inhibitions to show for it.

Alan was fucking insane. And Lyall had never adored him more than in that moment.

They both searched each other's eyes, the reflection of each other staring back at them. Until--

"I want to, too," Alan whispered back.

He gradually leaned in, drawing closer until his warm breath touched his face. Lyall tilted his head so their noses only brushed against one another. Helping close the distance until their lips found each other, gently pressed together.

Lyall felt like a broken record. Only able to think, over and over again, how this felt so fucking right. How they belonged like this. Cold, and wet, one in too few clothes, and one in too many. Both utterly ridiculous, and maybe a little pathetic, but very much as them as they could get.

Alan's kiss was gentle, it was sweetness. It was everything a kiss should be. It felt familiar, even.

And short-lived. Alan drew away first. Silently, but with a soft, seemingly content smile. Lyall watched as his friend then turned his gaze back down to their entwined hands, and they let another silence stretch out between them.

It felt like the kind of moment where they should say something. Lyall couldn't think of anything, though. Not yet, anyway. So he quietly pored over every detail of Alan's face again, closely watching for any indications of how he felt now.

But Alan had always been an open book, his soft smile affirming the tender moment they shared. He lifted their hands upwards, brushing Lyall's knuckles against his lips, closing his eyes as he took in a deep breath.

With the ghost of a fond smile tugging at his lips, Lyall watched him closely.

Nearly every box had been checked off, from the build-up to when their lips exchanged. The elevated heartrate, the anticipatory buzz in his gut, the bursting stars behind his eyelids when they actually kissed, the way it sent his mind into a pleasant tizzy. It struck him as fascinating that it...

"...It wasn't that different," Lyall mused under his breath.

Alan paused, then opened his eyes again, slowly glancing at him with a quizzical raise of a brow. He slightly lowered their hands, asking, "From what?"

"From..." Lyall dropped his gaze down to the water between them, as if he'd find the right words down there. He shrugged a shoulder. "Any of my exes."

He paused. Realizing how that sounded, and trying to find the common denominator by which to explain. He then offered, blinking distantly in realization, "Like, how it went with women."

Processing, Alan openly stared at him, lowering their hands until it rested between their laps, right on the surface of the water. Hesitantly, he glanced to the other side of the pool, then back at Lyall, until he finally settled his gaze straight ahead, unfocused.

"You've..." Without prompt, Alan twisted his ankle around Lyall's, intertwining their dangled legs underwater before continuing on: "...never been with a man?"

"I..." Something in the way Alan prompted made Lyall feel a strange spike of embarrassment. He glanced off to the other side, letting the quiet answer for him.

"Well," Alan went on before the silence could drag on. He bumped shoulders with him, tilting his head forward to try to catch his gaze again. "You're right. It's not really any different." He softly hummed, leaning back. "Men are generally more prickly, I guess."

Lyall wasn't sure what to do with this information. He supposed it made sense?

"Am I your first?" Alan suddenly blurted out, now his turn to turn away.

Just as Lyall found the gumption to look directly at him again. It was plenty implied, but it felt worth answering aloud, "Yes."

This time, the silence stretched on. Lyall was tempted to disentangle, he was so unsure of how else to proceed.

It was like Alan read his mind, because he slowly peeled his leg away from Lyall's, keeping still in the water for only just a moment before he went back to rhythmically bumping his foot against his.

"Kissing you did feel different for me," he said softly, weakly pulling their hands on top of his lap. He sandwiched Lyall's hand with his free hand, brushing their knuckles against the ceramic tiles underwater.

Lyall blinked at the wide expanse of water in front of them. Idly, he fidgeted with his hand, brushing his thumb up and down along the side of Alan's index finger. "Different how?" he murmured.

"I... don't know," Alan admitted quietly, head tilted downward to stare at their hands again. "I truly wanted to kiss you. Inspired, even."

Truly wanted to? As in... Alan hadn't wanted to kiss someone else before?

How was it so different here that he felt... inspired? As if this was some fucking romance novel--

Oh no.

Nooooo...

Gods, Lyall was playing right into Mister Romantic's patterns. As the fucking leading romantic interest. Because the stupidly sweet and strangely loaded admission of "inspired, even" made Lyall's heart actually swoon, and his face flushed with intense heat. He couldn't articulate, couldn't even think straight--

Pressing his eyes closed as he lifted their entwined hands to his forehead, Lyall actually snorted. Because, surprise! Turned out, he wasn't as straight as he thought-- as he'd hoped himself to be.

Just like half of the earth's entire population, Lyall was completely rendered a pathetic mess for this man.

So this was what Alan was doing now. Sitting on the pool next next to his best friend he just shared a kiss with, at god knows what time, with his head feeling too light from the-- how many shots did he have again?-- with him only wearing his boxers as stand-in swim trunks... But that didn't matter anyways, since Lyall was still fully dressed, albeit soaked.

What did that mean, anyways? To kiss?

No, stupid question.

What did it mean to be someone's best friend? How did that even differentiate from a romantic partner? Was it not the same? Only separated by physical intimacy? So partners were best friends who kissed? And friends were partners who didn't kiss?

In that case, where the hell would friends that kiss fall?

Alright. Maybe he wasn't sober enough for this. Now he was thinking about friendship. And kissing. And Lyall.

Which... Alan hadn't even begun to fully process that Lyall hadn't ever been with another man. In any way. Ever. Not that it mattered. It didn't. Or did it?

Actually, you know what they needed? Real food. That sounded great right now. Maybe continue where they left off at the restaurant, or go somewhere else, or...

It didn't really matter, honestly. Just as long as he was in the company of his good friend. Who occasionally kissed. Maybe.

Willing himself to stay present, Alan hesitantly turned back to Lyall, who hadn't commented any further outside of a snort-slash-scoff, hiding his face with their lifted hands. It sounded like a dismissive sort of reaction, but he didn't really read into it, far too hung up on a different detail. Because...

Was Lyall... blushing?

His cheeks were flushed with an intense shade of red, face partially concealed with the placement of their intertwined hands. His mussed hair collected by his face, shiny ringlets curling towards his eyes, drops of water collecting at the ends. His body was stiffly shaking, shivering under the white collared shirt that clung to his skin, nearly transparent, like a second skin to be shed.

He was cold. It did feel like a cold night, and Alan fought the urge to remedy this, bringing him closer, or maybe do something more logical, like get out of the water, find shelter, cozy under a blanket. Together. Somewhere.

It was only a fleeting thought, because Alan was far too preoccupied with keeping his full attention on Lyall, focusing. Noting how, even when he was trying to hide his face, he couldn't hide the heat rushing to his face, nor the self-conscious, almost shy smile pulling his lips.

Oh my god, Alan thought to himself, openly staring. I find my best friend cute.

No. No no no no. This was way too cliche, even for him. Too cheesy. Alan hated cheese.

Yes. They did both want to kiss. And yes. Alan could openly admit that it felt different. But--

He felt his own face flush with warmth, his heart rate beating out more blood. In a moment of panic, Alan ripped his hand away and kicked himself off the bench to splash back in the water, letting the cold water completely submerge him.

There was something about cold water that felt so refreshing.

Sinking to the bottom, Alan held on to a conveniently-placed bar to keep himself from floating away, deciding to just... stay here. See how long he could hold his breath. Re-calibrate. Sober up. Reset.

Even though the chlorine stung, Alan opened his eyes, taking in the blurry calmness of the artificially blue water. He noted how the overhead lights cast its reflection onto the bottom of the pool, its hexagonal shapes weaving in and out with the gentle turbulence. There was splashing and rough movement of the waters where they just sat, followed by a gentle stillness, indicating that Lyall had moved.

Alan wasn't going to take long. He just needed a little time to think. Somewhere quiet, where he could hear himself think with no distractions. Because Lyall was far too big of a distraction. Alan needed to think.

Hair floating by his eyes, Alan resisted the urge to groan, instead biting his lip and gruffly pulling his hair back with his hand, fingernails digging into his scalp.

Logically... well, Alan could see how much of a reckless mess he had become.

How many people had he kissed on the island? Three? Three and a half, if he counted Hild? No, he didn't count Hild. But why didn't...? No, that didn't count.

How many people had he slept with on the island? Two? Yes, two.

But it could be three...

How many people had he slept with this summer?

Alan recounted the random trail mates he met along the way, the men and women he shared a tent with that night, the comparison of those he saw once versus multiple times. It was getting confusing to nail down exact numbers.

God, what the hell was wrong with him? This wasn't normally him. Or was it? Maybe he wanted to "explore himself" more since that was also apparently a breaking point for Maria. Since that was so important to her. Well, what the hell, maybe this was important to him too. Was it?

No. This wasn't important. It wasn't. Or was it? This wasn't supposed to go this way. God, it wasn't supposed to be this way. This was supposed to be a plain dinner date with-- wait, no, not a date. This was supposed to be a plain day with his friend. A night with his friend. As in, a night spent eating. Food. Which they didn't eat. But they could! They could eat. Later. Not now. Because right now... right now, there were supposed to be talking about--

Shane! This was supposed to be about Shane, damn it!

How did they derail so fast? They were talking about him. Then Lyall had to be insufferably analytical and see through his soul like he was a damn ghost. Of course he turned the conversation around on him. So of course Alan had to turn it back.

And so here they were, at the pool, totally at right state of mind after all that excessive drinking.

Well, fuck Lyall, and fuck his logic. Alan was going to turn this all back to his original plan. The original topic. The subject that actually mattered, because it was the most pressing and was the most urgent.

Lungs burning and screaming for fresh air, Alan kicked himself back to the surface, using what little breath he had remaining to yell, "Lyall!" Gasping and sputtering for air, he heaved in breaths and sloppily pushed his hair back, blurried vision scanning the seating area until it locked on to Lyall.

Alan froze, taking only a brief second to process that he was seeing more exposed skin now that Lyall had finally undressed, his wet shirt and pants now longer sticking to his damp skin.

But that wasn't important.

"I was wondering if you'd drowned," Lyall began, a hint of bewilderment in his voice.

"What the hell do I do about the situation with Shane?" Alan blurted out, still gasping for air as he latched on to the side of the pool bench, peering up at him. "We've been talking for hours, and I still don't know what to do!"

Sitting on the ledge with his feet in the water, Lyall stared blankly at him in response. Then visibly blanched in alarm.

"You-- I--" Leaning away, he raked his hands over his hair, eyes wide with bafflement. "Alan!"

Alan didn't know what warranted it, exactly, but he felt mild embarrassment as he turned away, tracing the edge of a ceramic tile on the seating edge. "What?" he muttered.

"I." Lyall threw his hands skyward. "We're both fucking idiots," he uttered.

Then sternly went on, emphasizing with chopping motions of both hands, "I'm done. That's it, that's all I had. And there's clear conflict of interest now-- Well. Maybe still beforehand, but most certainly now, without a shadow of a doubt! Do you have any idea how that'd look?"

Alan felt like he was missing something. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe his head was far too gone to process that. Or maybe Lyall knew something he didn't. Or maybe he was in denial. He didn't know.

"Wh--" His voice felt weak, so Alan started again, now with more unclear confidence. "What do you mean?"

That earned him another intense look, as if Alan was the one losing his head. And honestly, maybe he was.

"What do I..." Lyall threw his hands out to the sides in an aggressively exasperated shrug.

"Alan!" He pointed both hands at his own chest with a barked, "I like you! Thus, any outsider--" He flung an arm outward, probably to point at whatever cameras were fixed on them. "--looking in could easily misconstrue my intent by my weighing in any further!"

And just like that, Alan's brain completely blanked. He stared back at Lyall, only hearing the three words, the "I like you" echoing in his head again and again, imagining it coming from Lyall. From his best friend. From someone who truly saw him. Understood him. Perceived him.

But he didn't need to imagine it, because it was the reality he was living in now. That both of them were living in. Right now, in front of each other. In each other's presence.

As the seconds ticked by, Lyall's exasperated frown was steadily replaced with a look of apprehension.

"Fuck," he hissed, sounding panicked, "I." He looked at a complete loss for what to do. "Fuck."

Reaction. Movement. Words. Alan had to get a grip on himself.

He felt his heart rate increase, heat pulsing through his throat first, then his arms as he hastily splashed in the water, lifting himself up on the seated ledge where Lyall was perched. Dripping wet, Alan ignored the cold shiver of the night air that tickled his skin, kneeling next to his friend with his hand on Lyall's knee to steady himself. He desperately wishing his vision wasn't so impaired so that he could make out more than his befuddlement. From the way he creased his brows, Alan wondered if he was still anxious, but he didn't want him to be. He had no reason to be.

"Lyall," Alan called, voice low and shaky, having to heave in shallow breaths since his chest tightened against his lungs.

Twisting around to face him directly, Lyall leaned back with his hands planted on the pavement behind himself. "Alan?" he murmured tensely, brows knit together as he searched Alan's face.

With a shaky breath, Alan closed his mouth, absorbing himself in their locked gaze. His cunning green eyes that followed him these past couple of weeks, watching him, protecting him, adoring him. These fucking green eyes that Alan found so fucking beautiful.

"You drive me fucking insane," he said through an airy breath, throwing himself over Lyall so he could slam him down against the pavement and cup his face, kissing the ever loving shit out of him.

Winded, Lyall drew in a sharp breath through his nose as he deepened the kiss. His hands quickly found their way to Alan's waist, pressing their bellies flush together. It was all one big, sloppy blur. Hot and heavy, hands aggressively searching one another, rolling against the wet cement, away from the water.

Alan lost track of time, of space, of the situation. He felt like he was close to drowning in Lyall's heavy kiss multiple times. And maybe he had drowned. Drowned and entered heaven. Or maybe it was all in his head.

They rammed up against the legs of a lounge chair, sending the chair screeching backwards. With a heavy breath, Alan blurrily blinked and squinted up, realizing the sleeve of his shirt was dangling down from the chair, brushing against his head. Staring at it, he moaned, grabbing Lyall's wet curly hair by the fistful so he could pull him away from kissing his neck.

"Lyall," he called, already feeling like he was slurring his name together. "Maybe we should go home."

Stubbornly, Lyall dove back in, planting his lips on Alan's collarbone. "We should," he agreed breathlessly between kisses. "Decency and whatnot." He trailed down his chest.

"Yeah..." Alan set his head back against the cool cement, taking in a shuddered breath. "We should get up. Right?"

Lyall finally came up for air, leaning over him so their eyes met. "A good idea." Then he passionately kissed him just under his jaw. "Brilliant."

"Lyall," Alan moaned, deciding to give up on the idea completely as he pushed Lyall aside so he could roll on top of him again, dictating the kisses.

Privacy. A concept that didn't exist on this island.

And, frankly, Alan stopped caring. He didn't care if the world saw him for who he was.

Because Lyall did.

And Alan had to admit: it felt so fucking good.

Blearily blinking open his eyes, Lyall found himself facing a cheery, early morning sky. It felt early, anyhow. Or maybe that was just the splitting headache talking.

Damn, how many times had he sworn off drinks by this point? Two? Three? He couldn't say anymore. He just knew that this was going to be the last time, for sure... Well. Probably not, actually.

Breathing in deeply, he carefully tightened his hold on Alan. This was the second time within the span on a few days that they awoke in this position... And the third? Thus far since they arrived here.

Alan felt warm in his arms. At rest, his full weight on top of Lyall. Skin on skin.

Lyall's gaze skyward turned apprehensive. They didn't... Right?

He lifted his head, slowly, careful to keep from jostling Alan awake. Then dropped his head back down with a quiet huff of relief. They didn't.

Though, they did drink rather heavily. Which probably lead to poor judgement? No. It. It definitely did.

Lyall tensed again when he fully registered: they were lying together, out in the open, clothes strewn all over the pool area. The night came back to him in full, vivid detail. The chill of the open air, the heat of Alan's lips and skin. Any and all good sense lying forgotten in a dark corner somewhere, alongside the half-empty bottle of vodka they'd shared.

"Alan," Lyall murmured, voice tight.

His friend's breaths stayed soft and steady, warm on Lyall's chest.

Lyall was hit by the sheer amount of... pleasure derived from their time spent in each other's embrace, as well as a prickling feeling of regret.

Lyall could count the amount of times he felt real regret on one hand. By gods, was he seriously swearing off alcohol this time.

"Alan," he whined, lightly shaking the man on top of him as he made to sit up, "it's morning."

The man was deep asleep, but the movement was enough to finally stir him. He softly moaned, rolling his head towards the other side of Lyall's chest, settling into a more comfortable position.

Unable to get up without tossing him off entirely, Lyall turned his head to urgently scan the pool area. The island had more than enough early risers to happen to stumble across this compromising-- nay, scandalous scene--

The cameras! Where were his clothes? Out of reach. Go fucking figure!

Lyall fucked up. They kissed, and it made his mind go batshit insane, and he let it go too far, it was far too soon. The breakup was only, what? A week ago? A little more?

Fuck. Kaya was still on this cursed island prison! What if she had seen them? She could have seen them. The thought alone was enough to finally push him to action.

Muttering a string of curses, Lyall grasped the side of the lounge chair and shimmied sideways. He twisted around at the same time to carefully deposit Alan onto his side on the chair. Then he slipped his other arm out from under his slumbering friend.

The gentle calling and shaking didn't wake Alan, but the jostling did. The movements sent him stirring on the chair again, and with fluttering blinks and squints of his eyes as he focused up on him, he murmured, "Lyall?"

Once he successfully disentangled, Lyall flung himself up to his feet with nary an explanation. Only biting out another series of swears as he gathered his clothing, which reeked of chemicals. His hair had to be an absolute mess, and still coated in dry chlorine, ugh--

He meant to prepare last night for a meeting with Eve today. Where was his watch? Didn't matter, it was later in the day, anyhow.

Anyhow. The fact remained, he was not prepared for said meeting, since he never got around to that prepping last night. How was he going to explain himself? She had access to all island footage, and took full advantage of it too. He could already feel her stony, judgmental glare boring into his very soul.

"Damn you," Lyall muttered, yanking on his trousers. "Damn you and your... soulful brown eyes! Alluring words like a siren's call-- I was set to work after our date-- Not-date."

He growled frustratedly as he shrugged his shirt back on, fumbling with the buttons. He folded down the collar as he turned back, and scanned for his sweater.

Alan had fully roused, perched on the side of the chair with a gaze that contained a mix of amusement and concern trained on Lyall.

"Good morning to you too," Alan said with a sleepy smile, finally getting up on his feet.

But instead of stopping at the end of the line of lounge chairs to fetch his glasses and clothes that sat on the last chair, he stopped a few chairs away to scoop up Lyall's scarlet sweater. With both hands holding it in the air, he watched it unfurl, briefly scanning its condition before neatly draping it against his arm, now approaching Lyall.

Lyall wanted to stop and appreciate his best friend in this moment. He really did. That stupid little grin, still only half-awake; his expressive eyes despite the early hour; his soft, adorably tousled hair that Lyall distinctly recalled raking his hands through--

Focus, dammit!

He picked up Alan's clothes and pocketed his glasses, then marched back and tossed the shirt over his friend's head.

"I'm sorry," Lyall murmured hastily, starting to tug on the trousers, ", I'm sorry. Gods, I fucked up. Big time." Then froze when it hit him: these were still Alan's trousers in his hands.

Alan was quiet, watching Lyall with great hesitance as he smoothed down the folds of his button-down, then slipped his arms through the sleeves. "About what?" he asked gently.

"About--" Lyall blindly tossed Alan's trousers onto the chair for him, then spun around in urgent search of his own. He flung his hands out in exasperation when he spotted them by the pool's edge. "Grah!" He stalked away from Alan, frankly unable to face him right now.

The assertion of their being not-idiots was highly debatable. But surely Alan still had in mind just how recent the break up was too. How did this look to him? As if Lyall was desperately trying to fill some emotional void with a mindless fling with his best friend? Like he was that heartless and crass with others' emotions?

No doubt, the outside world was already seeing him for what he really was: deeply, inherently wrong.

Alan pattered behind him, nearly running to catch up so he could place a hand on Lyall's shoulder and swivel around him, now fully alert and awake. His shirt was still unbuttoned, and although he wore his trousers, it appeared he only merely slipped his legs through them, since his belt loosely hung out. With the buttoned shirt fully open and untucked, and his hair a mess from the amount of times Lyall had swept through it last night-- this was the least put-together Lyall had ever seen him.

Scrubbing both of his hands over his eyes, Lyall whirled back around to hide the tinge of heat in his face when his mind helpfully reminded him, that he himself was the cause for it.

Get a fucking hold of yourself!

"Okay, slow down," Alan said calmly with assurance in his voice, plucking out his glasses that Lyall had tucked away in his pocket.

He slid them back on his face, eyes now fully focused on to Lyall. Now with full clarity, Alan took a deep breath, worry creased in his brows. Dainty fingers grabbing his chin, Alan gently tilted Lyall's head so he could look at him.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly.

"No--" Fighting the urge to melt, Lyall pushed away his gentle touch and ducked around him to retrieve his own trousers. "Yes. Peachy. I have to--"

Gods, he had so much to attend to, so much to catch up on.

Dante, or any staff member. For papers. Uh, studying materials for contestants--

No, Eve might be the better first contact for the day. She judged him no matter what, so it didn't matter if he approached looking like this.

No, Viktor before anybody. He deserved first priority. He was Lyall's goddamned brother.

Thus, Lyall couldn't appear looking like this. He had to clean up first. But this was around the time Hild was up and about for her and James's runs--

Were they out already? Nearby? Lyall frantically pulled on his trousers, hopping as he went, and clumsily tucked in the hem of his shirt. Good. Decency.

Though, with last night, he really... Ugh. Decency was rather a lost cause now.

Focus. Vik. Spend time. Then meeting with staff to prepare everyone else for the last stage of the DMV. That way they could all move on with their lives.

But, there post-island things he had to consider too. Like, moving Vik to the States. Ensuring Geoff was set up too.

James was taken care of, because he would be switching continents entirely. But still. Maybe Lyall could hunt down that Haddon fellow...

Gods, Lyall still had to figure out timing in suggesting to Alan to--

Was that even an option anymore? Now that Lyall had fucked this up too--

"Lyall," Alan called softly, suddenly cutting into his thoughts. He had been hovering nearby the whole time, waiting. And now, fully put-together and dressed, but with clear concern in his eyes. "Maybe we should get some food together. What do you say?"

Turning, Lyall carefully took his sweater from Alan's hands. "No, I have to be ready to meet with Vik," he answered bluntly, hastily tugging the sweater on over his head as he walked past Alan again.

Then he paused, quickly scanning the area. Wait. Which way were the cabins again? Well. He'll get somewhere sometime, he supposed.

Lyall just picked a direction and, passing Alan yet again, headed blindly for that somewhere sometime. Again, wondering if he might run into Hild and James. Dreading it, even. Hoping he didn't.

When did James say he was going to meet with Tula? Lyall knew the former soldier preferred taking point, free of hovering, but he couldn't help but worry.

Dear gods, what if Tula saw anything?

Lyall picked up his pace.

"Hey," Alan called, diligently following after him, keeping up with his steps. His ever-worrying gaze set on him never ceasing to leave. "Can we talk first? You're upset."

"I assure you," Lyall said, the flare of paranoia creating a harder edge to his tone than he hoped, "I am not."

"Is it me?" Alan asked anyways, voice quiet, with an edge of hurt.

And that cut through every panicked thought. Putting them on pause long enough for Lyall to whirl around and fully face his friend now.

"No," he answered firmly. And frankly terrified, now that he seemed to have sent the wrong message.

He wanted to offer more comfort. But his head was still spinning violently from the hangover and barrage of fear. He couldn't offer his own hands to ease Alan's hurt, because they were far too unsteady. Alan deserved steadiness.

It was too much. Everything flew so far out of control, and it was all Lyall's fault.

"How do you still not get it?" Lyall blurted, voice raised with anger. "The problem is me. Anytime something went wrong before, it was because of me. Anything that has gone wrong now--" He threw a hand in the direction of the mansion. "--like with Kaya? Why my family had to move so far north, that we're practically in the wilderness, haven't been able to get a leg up in society--" He hit his hands to his own chest. "--has been because of me!"

He knew how he looked. He knew he shouldn't be meeting Alan's hurt with anger. But Lyall was put together wrong from the start. He couldn't get anything to go the right way, even if he killed himself over it. He'd manage to do something wrong, and fuck everything up for those remaining.

So he might as well remind Alan, this was what Lyall truly was. Cynical. Selfish. Monstrous. Inherently wrong.

Lyall stepped closer, plastering on a tense smile. "Want to know why Viktor adores Alistair? Nothing as poetic or pretty as fate or destiny-- none of that. It's because Alistair is a far better man-- a better brother, than I'll ever be. Because he's at least there for him. And where am I? Putting in another late night at a failing clinic, or off desperately trying to bail out a relationship with a big fucking hole in the hull as it slowly sinks beneath me.

"And you want to know why I really haven't been able to tell Hild that I love her?" he said, letting his hands drop to his sides. "Because, I can fake good communication all I want. But I'm a fucking coward when it really matters. I can't risk telling her I love her, would move heaven and earth and all nine spheres of Hell for her, because I can't face the possibility that she won't say it back to me. That I've done too many unforgiveable things to deserve it anymore.

"Hell, I wasn't even there for my own mother when she was on her deathbed! Ill, for months, wondering what the next big mess her first son had cornered himself into this time." Smacking his hand into the other, Lyall practically screamed, "What was so fucking important, that he couldn't even spare a moment to say good-fucking-bye?!"

That final confession rang in his ears at deafening volumes. Standing directly in front of Alan, Lyall stood dead-silent. Out of breath, and out of confessions to spill.

He was selfish. He was monstrous. He should be offering his best friend reassurance. How could he dare goad his best friend back into the temporary, surface comfort of a self-sabotaging, narcissistic failure?

"You deserve someone who isn't me, Alan," Lyall went on, voice dropping to a rough murmur. He stepped back, drawing in a shaky breath. "Not even two days of vaguely considering the now-real possibility of us, and I've already fucked us up." He raised his shoulders in a helpless, pathetic shrug. "I can't do anything right. Not when it matters. So, I'm sorry."

Another step back, to put distance between this man and the inevitable doom he'd face in standing by Lyall.

"Not that it happened," Lyall said, voice low yet firm. "I have many regrets, Alan, but you could never be one of them." He sighed, glancing off as he idly tugged at the hair on the back of his own head. "I only regret the timing."

Maybe it was melodramatic, but he had to confess, needed Alan to really understand: "I regret me."

Silence had never felt so delicate. And he'd never felt so terrified to try to break it.

Breaking the stillness, Alan took in a shuddered breath, long and deep. Then, without warning, lunged forward, wrapping his arms over the top of Lyall's shoulders, bringing him in for a tight embrace. With one hand digging into his hair and the other firmly pressed against his back, Alan pulled Lyall closer, chest moving with his body as he took in another deep, shaky breath.

Lyall held his hands firmly at his sides, fighting the desire to hold Alan in return.

The seconds ticked on as Alan gripped him tighter, his fingertips digging into his shirt and scalp. He ducked his head over his shoulder, and at the same time, impossibly brought him even closer and tighter against him, squeezing him hard. And Lyall was so fucking weak. He leaned his cheek against the side of Alan's head and brought his hands up to gently press on his shoulder blades.

"You are worthy, Lyall," Alan whispered faintly, lips brushed against his ear as he tangled his fingers into the roots of his hair. "You are worthy of love."

Bringing his arms fully around him, Lyall clung to him like a lifeline. He tucked his nose into the crook of Alan's neck and repeated in a thick murmur, "You don't get it, Alan. Something's wrong with me."

"Lyall," Alan called softly, almost sounding pained. "You treat others with so much love and care." He pressed Lyall's head to lean more heavily against his own, finally whispering, "I wish you can see what I see. Then maybe you'd give this love and care to yourself."

Lyall was out of arguments. As ever, Alan managed to baffle him into speechlessness.

"You may not consider your actions as acts of love," Alan went on, "but I do. I see it when you endlessly worry about Hild and Vik, only wanting the absolute best for them, adoring them in the shadows, discreetly setting them up for success. I see it when you sink into a deep emotional depth with Cyrin and James, offering a dependable steady hand no matter the hour or circumstance."

Alan slid his hand downwards, fingers detangling from Lyall's hair so they could instead press against the nape of his neck, thumb brushed against the edge of his jaw. Drawing in an unsteady breath, Lyall let himself melt a little with the tenderness of his touch.

"And most of all," Alan continued on, still a hushed whisper in his ear, "I see it when you're with me. In every waking minute I'm with you, you're overfilling with love. It may be quiet, but it's just as beautiful. Just as real. Just as deserving. And most of all..."

Alan squeezed him tighter, softly kissing the edge of his cheekbone right next to his ear, finishing off with: "Just as worthy."

Lifting a hand to cup Alan's cheek, Lyall closed his eyes as he carefully pressed their cheeks together.

The matter of worthiness... He himself could no longer judge. He was tired of constantly weighing his virtues against his faults, trying to decide his own worthiness for himself. Because just when he thought he knew the answer, either another success of another failure would suddenly pile on, tipping the scales on him yet again.

"Hey," Alan called gently, loosening his grip, but not quite pulling away. "Can you look at me?"

Letting out a quiet breath, still feeling so exposed and wretched, Lyall withdrew. His hand still holding Alan's face, thumb brushing over his cheek. He leaned back just enough to finally look his best friend in the eyes again.

Upon eye contact, Alan immediately lit up, a full, dazzling smile breaking as his eyes searched his. Lyall couldn't not melt further. Smile somehow turning even more radiant, Alan gently brushed the curly strands of hair out of Lyall's face.

"Tell me this," he began, his thumb brushing away the bits of dirt and grime that clung on to Lyall's cheek. "If I told you that there was something wrong with me, and I was unlovable..." Palm pressed flushed against his cheek to cup, Alan met his eyes again, still with the same sincere smile. "What would you say to me?"

Though tempted to deflect, or redirect, or even just let himself get lost in Alan's incandescence-- mostly because Lyall could see now where this was headed, but also, how was his friend so fucking beautiful? He let out another, more tired sigh as he dropped his forehead to Alan's shoulder to hide his face in defeat.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled again instead, "I'm being a fucking idiot..."

Alan hummed, brushing back a stubborn ringlet of hair that kept sticking up despite multiple pats. "That's what you'd say to me?" he mused. "That's not very nice."

"No," Lyall whined, "I'm--" He huffed as he looked up at Alan again with a frown. "You're insufferable."

"Answer the question, dear," Alan said with an amused smile.

Lyall groaned softly in relenting. "I'd tell you..." He sighed one more time for good measure. "You are perfectly imperfect. Real. More than worth cherishing." A beat of quiet. "And you're a dick for ever thinking otherwise."

Alan huffed air through his nose, smile warming as his eyes shone with endearment. He rubbed his thumb against Lyall's cheek, angling his head down and leaning in to press his forehead against Lyall's.

Though only to say, "Don't be a dick to yourself, Lyall."

Angling his chin up, only slightly so that the tips of their noses brushed, Lyall felt himself crack a faint, fond grin as his heart softened under the warmth of Alan's gaze.

God, he fucking loved this idiot.

"I'll try," Lyall promised softly.

"You may regret the past version of yourself," Alan went on, pulling away just so he could sweep back Lyall's hair with both hands, "but you don't have to regret the version of yourself today." He smiled, setting his hands on his shoulder. "Let's get breakfast, Lyall."

So yesterday was... well, nothing went according to plan, but Alan wouldn't have changed a single thing. He had been flip-flopping for weeks, back and forth, over his priorities, to-dos, and schedules. But maybe, just maybe, it wasn't meant to be.

Maybe, just maybe, he was meant to:

• have a casual dinner with a friend go awry after discussing next steps about how to move forward with a prominent princely figure of the world that he accidentally romanced and wooed;
• lose his mind, dramatically rant about how much of a bad boy he was, then impulsively skip dinner so he could guzzle down a half bottle of vodka while marching into the darkness of the woods;
• feel worthless and small and pathetic even in the darkness, then crumble from a few raw words said by his best friend, leading him to tightly hug him in the wilderness, vowing to want better for him too;
• strip to have a drunken impromptu midnight swimming lesson at the plaza pool because the thought of losing his best friend to drown again made him sad;
• express the fleeting thought of what it would be like to kiss said best friend, then go on to realize that said best friend actually liked him, like this was some high school drama;
• passionately kiss best-friend-who-liked-him-who-he-maybe-liked-back for some undisclosed amount of time, wet in their underwear, skin rubbing against one another, hands searching each other's bodies, waking up cuddled on a chair;
• proceed to hear his panicked best-friend-who-he-made-out-while-nearly-naked blurt out a pile of regret and insecurities that selfishly sent an anguished shiver down his back because hearing him talk negatively about himself like that pained him.

Maybe the beautiful chaotic mess of his life wasn't so bad after all.

That was neither here or there. What was important right now was that he was with Lyall, who was in a particularly sensitive spot right now, which made Alan's heart ache with empathy.

He had told Lyall what he wanted-- needed-- to know. But Alan knew it wasn't enough. Words helped, but for something on this scale, this depth... Lyall deserved something more. Something bigger, more meaningful, heavy with more weight.

Lyall needed action. Someone to be there for him, especially because he was always trying his best to be there for others. Always worrying, always taking up space in his mind...

Lyall had been carrying so, so much. Too much, especially for one person. The weight of the world rested on his shoulders... From his family, his job, people on this island. A lot of people were depending on him, and Lyall was far too hard on himself, only seeing failure and rejection where hope and love blossomed.

Guilt plagued Lyall's soul like a disease, and it weighed heavy on Alan's heart that he only realized this now. For a long time, Lyall was hiding. Pretending. Concealing the guilt and shame that consumed his body, building pressure day-by-day. He believed that he wasn't good enough for others. That he would only disappoint them. That he was doomed for abandonment.

For Hild. Vik. Alan. The others on this island.

For his mother.

Now that he was bursting from the pressure, Lyall's apprehension was apparent. And with this intense apprehension about others inevitably rejecting or leaving him, about believing that it would always be his fault... it was no wonder Lyall believed it would be easier to not open his heart for the world to see. Even though Alan firmly believed his heart was a beautiful treasure to be cherished and shared.

And that was the important part to share first: that Lyall was deserving and worthy of love. Alan felt like, for now, this was an appropriate level of comfort and affirmation to give. He wanted to give him so much more, and he was sure he would-- but only when Lyall was ready. After all, he was not someone to accept a pile of comfort unsolicited, though Alan wished he'd stop being so stubborn and just accept it.

Naturally, after the comfort of affirming validation, came the hard part: real growth. And real growth didn't happen without real conversation.

Alan made a mental list of subjects to talk about:

[list][*] wanting to express verbal love to Hild, but being afraid of not receiving it back-- even though Hild had privately expressed frustrations to him that she wished he was more present in her life, leading to a vicious self-fulfilling prophecy;
[*] wanting to be a better brother for Vik as well, but firmly believing he was not good or worthy enough for the role, instead burrowing himself into a self-deprecating hole of undeserved misery;
[*] the root of the issue, as confirmed by Hild: Lyall was still greiving his mother's passing, and it was apparent in his tormented voice, thick with anguish and severe regret.

Alan was committed to helping his friend find love and happiness, but that had to come from himself first. This list was only the surface of everything discussed, but Alan felt that they were the most important.

Family was so important-- to him, and to Lyall. Alan wanted to remind him of that.

And his heart hurt for his friend. Or... whatever they were. Friends? Lovers? Though, if Alan was being honest, sometimes it felt like he hardly knew the difference.

Admittedly-- and this paled in importantance in comparison, but-- Alan did have his own string of mild anxiety waking up. Mostly all relating to growing self-awareness that he was playing into the same damn pattern from his limited weeks here. This time, however, it was like the roles were reversed; Alan had a taste of his own medicine, knowing what it felt like to possibly be on the receiving end of his reckless actions.

Because, after all... Lyall had been carrying so much, and he had just broken up with Kaya. It was all so, so recent. And... Lyall loved her. And from what Alan gathered...

Well, Lyall didn't strike him as someone who could just "get over" someone, especially someone he loved.

So where did that put Alan?

Obviously, Alan wasn't assuming the stereotypical "romantic love" at this stage of their growing friendship. It was all platonic. Supposedly. Whatever the hell that even meant. Still, he would be remiss to say that he also didn't expect nothing to come from this, because he truly deeply cared about Lyall, and it would be a great loss to not have him in his life.

Though, Alan wasn't that naive. He was very well aware that people often sought rebounds after long-term relationships. Hell, he himself even experimented with this concept, since apparently it was supposed to help... or something. And maybe it did for some people. Maybe it did for Lyall. Because...

God dammit. What if Alan was the rebound?

Sitting cross-legged by the trunk of a large willow tree across from his calming friend, Alan laid out the assortments of bakery items that they were able to procure from the very limited places open at this godforsaken hour. Apparently, the DMV had all control on this island and knew which places they would go to at whatever times, but they didn't open up breakfast at 4am. Go figure.

A singular stand with grab-and-go items were available, though-- along with a sign detailing an apology saying their morning bakery was still under maintenance. In any case, Alan was able to lay out a few paper bags with an assortments of day-old breads and bagels, along with spreads and cut fruit. It was almost comical how absurd this breakfast was, but at this point, this felt like the only normal thing that happened to them the past 12 hours.

Water had helped the splitting hangover headache he woke up with, but Alan was hoping that eating to cure his ravenous hunger would help too. Regardless, he remained committed to prioritize this much-needed conversation, because Alan didn't want this to slip through the cracks.

"How are you feeling, anyways? Hungover?" Alan asked, taking a big bite of sourdough bread that he finished buttering. If he wasn't constrained by the space of his mouth, he felt like he could inhale the whole loaf in one breath.

Lyall huffed a dry laugh. "Quite." He bit off a good chunk from his bagel. "You?"

"Better now that we're eating. Which..." Alan pointed the loaf towards him. "We need to finish that dinner sometime. Someday."

"Yes," Lyall answered with a slight grin tugging at his lips, "you owe me."

Yeah. That, Alan did. Among other things.

He wondered what was the best way to bring up the topics pressing against his skull. Alan frequently waited until the right moment, but he was worried that if they didn't mention these topics sooner rather than later, then they'd never talk about it. About his family. About how Lyall disliked himself. About them.

Funnily enough, Alan felt like this was all so much harder than the dreaded talk he planned to have with Shane later today, but these were two entirely different situations.

Or maybe it wasn't...? He'd have to think about that another time.

The two of them were ravenous, clearing the line of baked goods fast. Alan almost felt bad that they had skipped dinner. Almost. Because feeling bad implied regret, and Alan wouldn't change a single thing about their night.

Now sitting with crumbs between them, Alan noted through the sleepy tendrils of the willow tree how the beginnings of dawn was finally sliding its way through the sky, now a deep shade of blue. Honestly, Alan could go for another meal, but it was time that they ended their long day. They should go back and rest.

They should. But he wouldn't. Not yet.

"You're impressively logical and analytical," Alan said out of the blue, deciding to dive right into some thoughts he had been reserving. "It's an amazing strength, to be so consistently reasonable, rational, practical..." He turned his gaze to rest on Lyall, offering a small smile. "But it can also be your flaw. To be stuck in your head, overthinking everything, internalizing mistaken facts. It's difficult to strike a balance. Though, I must add: I don't think you're doing anything wrong." Alan faintly shrugged. "This is just a part of who you are."

Slumping back against the tree, Lyall gazed up at the brightening sky with a quiet hum. "Just as much as your big, altruistic heart is a part of who you are." He shrugged a shoulder, casting Alan a slight grin. "Overflowing with care, but at the expense of your own wants and needs."

Alan smiled wider, following his gaze up at the sky as he felt strangely touched despite already hearing different variances of these sentiments. For some reason, it felt different now.

"Well," he hummed casually, "you're wrong."

He paused, remembering what Lyall said during his spiel. You deserve someone who isn't me.

"About earlier." Alan turned back to Lyall, hoping to grab his attention again, to be able to hear and see the honest sincerity in his next words. "I deserve someone who is honest and real. Because if it's perfect..." He felt his smile grow as he finally caught his eyes. "Then I don't want it."

Lyall's gaze warmed at that. Then he looked askance with that same hesitant, shy smile from last night. Alan was glad the smile could make another appearance so that he could truly commit it to memory; this time, while sober.

"You somehow manage to be insane," Lyall huffed with some humor, "yet also consistent." He looked back, casually snatching Alan's hand up in his own. His eyes intently fixed on Alan's as his grin naturally faded, no doubt with a new slew of thoughts.

Curiosity prickled, Alan decided to prod, asking a similar question Lyall asked him last night: "What's running through your head?"

Absent-mindedly, Lyall gently rocked their clasped hands back and forth in the grass. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brows as he thought. Then asked, "What did you mean by 'truly wanted to this time'? As in." He glanced down at their hands. "Wanting to kiss."

That...

"That's on your mind?" Alan blurted out, frankly appalled that Lyall was thinking of this small detail. Or maybe that wasn't the right word. Something.

Huffing, louder this time, Lyall threw his free hand skyward in indignance. "Like." He let out a put-upon sigh. "There's something I'm not understanding about it. The emphasis on the 'wanting'. I realize it's more than likely that I'm reading way into it-- and I assure you, I'm not trying to really... compare myself to anyone else. But I want to know: have you not truly wanted to kiss someone before?"

Oh. So this was not what Alan expected that'd talk about at this hour, so soon after hearing Lyall's distressing spiel, but... well, fine. At this point, he was just going to roll with whatever disorganized mess they found themselves in, both in situations and topics. Even though Lyall was much more of a scatterbrained conversationalist than Alan was, but he admittedly found that endearing, since it did keep things interesting.

"I mean... no, not when you make it into an encompassing blanket statement like that," Alan huffed, feeling weirdly defensive. He pursed his lips, slightly narrowing his eyes at him. "You make it sound like I've been held against my will for all other times."

"Well--" Lyall lifted his free hand in another mildly disgruntled shrug. "No, I'm not trying to make it sound like anything. But. You see my point of confusion?"

"I don't know. I feel like it makes perfect sense to me," Alan muttered.

Now a bit exasperated, Lyall pressed his lips into a thin line at him. "It doesn't to me."

Alan dramatically shrugged, throwing up his free hand. "Well, what about it doesn't make sense?"

"You said..." Sitting upright, Lyall leaned closer to poke his chest for emphasis. "'Truly'." Another poke. "'Wanted'." He shrugged again and quirked both brows pointedly. "Why that distinction?"

Alan's expression turned flat. He stared at him, unamused. "I don't know," he replied blandly. "Maybe because we didn't really date?" Frowning, he turned away, still feeling strangely dissatisfied with that answer. And so Alan dug deeper, thinking out loud. "Like. You know." He flourished his hand out in front of him, as if the answer was right in front of him. This was strangely hard to articulate.

"No, Alan," Lyall sassed in the lull. "No, I don't, in fact, know."

"I--" Alan cast him an even flatter look, having to relax his jaw so he wasn't visibly pouting. He sighed, trying again. "So you date someone. You go through dates. You know what that is, right?" He angled his head down at him. "Dates?"

"Oh, har," Lyall drawled, using their entwined hands to lightly shove at Alan's shoulder. "Smartass."

"Well, when you date someone," Alan went on anyways, pretending Lyall didn't know, "eventually you have to commit. And, you know. Kiss." He shrugged. "We didn't really do that. So. It... felt different."

Still, that didn't really sit right with him. The answer felt incomplete, though Alan didn't know why, exactly.

"Fine," Lyall conceded after a moment, "sure. Nothing on this island hell really goes traditionally, I suppose." More gently, he bumped their hands to Alan's leg. "What else made it feel different? As opposed to, whatever else it was that you were thinking of?"

"I..." Alan fiercely stared into the grass, trying to pull the right words out of his head. It felt impossible, for some reason, like the answer didn't exist. "I'm not sure. I guess..." He lowly hummed, deciding to take on a different perspective. A new approach, to make this feel less impossible. "Well. Kissing feels like a next milestone to check off. Something to be done in a relationship, between romantic partners. But with you-- last night--"

Alan squirmed uncomfortably on the grass, casually angling his head away to pay extra attention to the few flowering weeds poking out through the grass. This felt strangely vulnerable to talk about.

"It, um... didn't. Feel like that," Alan finished, knowing this was a terrible explanation, but it was the best he had at the moment. He shrugged weakly, still turned away. "It felt... natural, in a way that never was before."

There was another long moment of quiet, and Lyall gently squeezed Alan's hand. For some reason, this made Alan more nervous, and he found himself talking before thinking again.

"Have you always wanted to kiss another man?" he blurted out, feeling like this was an important question.

"I--" Lyall quietly sputtered, caught off-guard. "Well." He fidgeted with their hands again. Then sighed as he tilted his head back against the tree. "Why does talking to you about this feel like a fucking high school drama. God..."

"I'm just trying to understand," Alan said, not able to resist the same cheekiness that Lyall gave him just a few minutes ago. He was about to deliver another sarcastic remark, but turning back to Lyall, the words left his head when Alan realized that Lyall was... blushing.

That felt rare. Lyall, blushing. Or being embarrassed. About what, Alan wasn't sure. He was far too focused on remembering this moment.

Refusing to make eye contact, Lyall stubbornly stared up at the leaves overhead. Then meekly hid his face behind their hands as he quietly admitted, "I told Cyrin I thought him attractive during Ooktoberfest." He sank lower against the tree. "I don't know, maybe I usually just. Shut down any further thoughts before they go too far? Maybe. So who's to say, really, until this island."

Alan hummed, nodding along. "Well." He shrugged a shoulder, forcefully lowering their hands so that they no longer concealed Lyall's face. "Cyrin is a good looking person. I agree."

"Well, yes," Lyall huffed. "But so are you, and plenty of other guys I've known throughout life. So, why the crisis now? Or have I always had this... attraction, but misidentified it as admiration of some other characteristic, thus inadvertently sparing myself the trouble? Or... Bah!"

Alan couldn't help but smile a bit from endearment, tapping his forefinger against Lyall's knuckle. "You may have always felt this way but took more time to identify your feelings," he said gently. "That's alright. Everyone's journey looks different. What's important is that this is a part of who you are."

With a quiet groan, Lyall leaned over to hide his face against Alan's arm. "Sure, yeah," he mumbled. "Journeys and personal discovery, and whatnot..."

With a soft smile, Alan lightly bounced his arm, jostling Lyall. "You don't have to have all the answers now, but I'm glad you're feeling more of yourself now, Lyall," he said sincerely, then paused in thought. "I disagree with the term 'crisis,' though, since that implies something negative. This is more like... a new beginning, full of wonder and possibilities."

"It felt like a crisis," Lyall mumbled petulently.

"Yeah, well," Alan huffed back. "This whole island is a crisis."

"Damned island hell," Lyall agreed in a mutter. "Mucking things up."

Well. This felt like a terrible segue into something Alan wanted to talk about, but he had to clarify.

"Lyall," he began carefully, watching for his reaction. "You don't think I'm-- we're--" He lifted their hands. "--a crisis?" Alan lowered their hands, knowing there was a lot of unsaid words here, but for now he finished it with a higher-pitched, uncertain, "Do you?"

Lyall's attention snapped up to Alan's face. The open annoyance was replaced with something softer in an instant.

"No," he answered firmly, pushing himself upright. He gave Alan's hand another, tighter squeeze, and scooted closer to intently hold his gaze.

"You and I?" Resting his hand on the nape of Alan's neck, Lyall bumped their foreheads together. "We're an absolute mess. But it's... so rare and beautiful and good, and I wouldn't want us any other way."

Alan closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. He agreed with Lyall. He did. But at the same time, he felt like he had to be realistic. He didn't want to live a lie. He didn't want either of them to live in a lie.

"I hear you," he said softly. "And I agree. But..." Alan trailed off, trying to find the best way to explain this insane mess of a situation.

Lyall's hand shifted to warmly cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his ear in silent encouragement. And it did help. Strangely, a lot. To find the confidence to say something more off-putting.

"You did just break up with Kaya," he went on, voice a faint mumble as he leaned against Lyall's hand. "And with you mentioning that you're only now realizing you like other men, well..." Alan averted his gaze, and then went on, barely audible: "I just can't help but wonder..."

Was this real? Or was Lyall using Alan to fill a missing void in his heart?

"Wonder what?" Lyall gently prompted, a tightness to his voice.

"Are you using me as an experimental rebound?" Alan finally uttered, hating how sharp that question felt. But he had to know. He had to know the truth.

Lyall's thumb stopped just on the edge of Alan's ear. He let out a slow, quiet breath that sounded almost resigned.

"I know it looks that way," he murmured, "and I am so sorry, Alan. I didn't want our first kiss to happen like that--"

"No, no, it's fine," Alan said quickly, prying himself off to lean away and be able to get a full view of Lyall. To prepare for a much needed, but difficult conversation. He took a deep breath to resolve himself, firmly setting his hand on Lyall's shoulder as he met his gaze. "I promise you, that doesn't bother me," he said assuringly. "You said it best: I only regret the timing."

Still sitting leaned forward with chin angled down, Lyall attentively stared up at him through a mess of curls. "It's only been about a week since things with Kaya officially broke off. And, you're right, the timing of my finally acknowledging a new kind of attraction conveniently aligns with that and... us."

Breaking eye contact, he dropped his gaze to the ground. "I know how it looks. But I swear, it's not. It's strange, and... feels wrong, but I don't actually..." He bit his lip in hesitation before going on in an even quieter voice, "I cared for Kaya. And I will always care and want the best for her. But I don't actually think very much about her."

With a slight crease of his brows, Alan tilted his head as he kept his gaze on him, taking in his words. Truly letting it sink.

He didn't think about her. As in... for the past week? Or... for a while?

Recognizing the pain in his friend's eyes, Alan reached out and rubbed Lyall's knee, silently coaxing him to continue. He was listening.

"It's wrong," Lyall repeated, "but I think, more than anything..." He looked up at the sky with irritation, at himself. "Why is this so hard?" He met Alan's eyes again, finally biting the bullet and decisively explaining, "Honestly, we were already well distanced, well before the island. And the relationship truly died when I gave her the ring. So it felt like... a release. Of some sort of internal pressure when she found the gumption to do what I was too scared to do myself for a year."

The memories of Lyall talking about Kaya came rushing back. Of them, talking about her after their speed dating match, in which Alan prodded for details about the woman who had captured his heart. Of them, talking about her at the pier, at which Alan asked how he knew that she was the one. Of them, talking in his room, at which Alan insisted that he do not read the poem Lyall half-crafted for her, because it must come from his heart alone.

Now with the perspective that that their relationship had grown stale, using the stoned ring as a life support to keep their relationship alive... it changed everything. The rosy-tinted lens turned into a darker hue of blue.

And Alan was realizing: this was not just about Kaya. This was bigger than her.

Lyall had poured so much of his love, time, and energy into a relationship that died a long time ago. And yet, he continued to blame himself for not being there.

Heart swelling with empathy, Alan quietly set his remaining free hand to be flushed against Lyall's, now both their hands sandwiching each others. He met his gaze, unable to hide the deep sorrow and heartache that filled his eyes, his mind, his body.

"I promise you," Lyall went on, voice tightening with desperation, "you are far more than an experimental rebound. You're my best and closest friend, above all else. I want you in my life. I want to cherish you, and lavish you with love in all the ways you deserve and want--"

Alan leaned in, interrupting his spiel to embrace him, wrapping his arms over his shoulders as he brought his head close to his chest. "It's okay, Lyall," Alan assured softly, mussing with his wild, frizzy mess of hair that he adored. "I believe you. You don't have to prove it to me. I don't need to hear your affirmations. You've said plenty. Your heart is in the right place, and I believe you. This is enough. You are enough."

With a fond smile, Alan swept back his chlorine-crusted hair out of his face, realizing that this was the most raw, most defenseless, most bare he had ever seen Lyall. Thoughts spilling out of him, with wild hair and pool-laden clothes, walls crumbled down. He had been hiding behind a towering wall for so long, and Alan was both sad and happy for him: sad that he felt the need to hide for so long, but happy that he could finally see his true, beautiful, lovely self.

And as much as he wanted to hold on to him and keep this to himself, he wanted Lyall to thrive. To show him off and let the world see him for who he truly was, too.

"I hear you, and I believe you," Alan went on, reiterating this point, because he really wanted Lyall to believe this himself. "I believe in you, and I believe in us. I choose to be here, and hearing you also choose to be here is enough. I appreciate the context, because I truly want to know everything about you, but you don't need to feel like you must explain yourself to me. I know the timing isn't perfect, and from the outside, this all looks messy, and problematic, and unconventional. But I want to listen to my heart, and my heart says to stay here with you." He dipped his arms around his shoulders to gently squeeze him. "We'll figure this out with you, Lyall. Together. I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right by your side."

Bringing his hands up to press over Alan's back, Lyall leaned against him, tucking his head under his chin. "Damnit," he muttered, shoulders shaking with an emotionally thick laugh, "I wasn't done."

He squeezed him tighter, tilting his head up to pepper his face with kisses. Alan closed an eye as his range of a kiss attack came too close to his vision, and he had to hold back an amused chuckle, feeling like Lyall was a puppy Alan was holding back.

"Getting to know you, to really see you these past weeks, Alan." Cupping his face in both hands, Lyall pressed a slower, gentler kiss by the corner of his mouth. "Has been such a pleasure and an honor. I don't know what I've done to deserve it. But I cannot wait to endlessly discover you. To find our places in this world, in each other's company--"

Of course Lyall would turn the topic around to be about Alan, so naturally, Alan had to shut him up by kissing him on the lips. Lyall was right there; how could he not take this opportunity?

Lips gently pressing his, Alan savored the moment, feeling Lyall melt even more in his embrace. Satisfied and deeply amused, he pulled away, touseling his hair even more, tangling it between his fingers. "You talk too much," he mused with a fond grin, "but also don't talk about yourself enough. It's quite a paradox."

Lyall hummed, "Rich, coming from--"

"Me," Alan finished, knowing he was going to say this. "I know."

Chuckling softly, Lyall pecked him on the lips again. "You brat."

Alan searched the depths of his eyes again, a sliver of confidence growing in his heart to say the tiny thought hiding in the recess of his mind. There was one more thing he wanted to mention. One thing he didn't want to ignore.

"I do have a request to ask of you, though," he began, leaning away just a tad so he could leave some space between them, setting the scene for a more serious conversation.

"Yes," Lyall replied, "anything." Still cupping his face in one hand, he gently slid the other down his neck to rest on his shoulder.

"Can we..." Suddenly feeling a bit awkward, Alan slightly turned his head away, eyes set on the tree's leaves billowing in the breeze. "Well." Alan pried away Lyall's hand against his cheek, scooping it into both of his hands so he could stare down and focus on it.

"Honestly, I sometimes feel like this island has truly made me lose my mind," he dead-panned, deciding to start with context first. "Something about the fakeness of everything has made me so unstable, swinging to extremes." He furrowed his brows, clutching onto Lyall's hand even tighter before muttering, "It was just a couple days ago that I rammed my fist against your jaw..."

Delayed, Lyall snorted and squeezed his hands in turn. "How could I forget," he said in a murmur that actually sounded fond.

"Yeah, and it's just..." Alan lifted their hands so he could bond their fists against his head. "Yeah. Okay. So I can get a litle impulsive. I can lose my cool. That happens." He let out a long-suffering sigh, slowly lowering the hands. "I've done a lot of stupid shit. And maybe I'll keep doing stupid shit, I don't know. But I swear, I'm not this crazy." He frowned, feeling like he was trying to convince himself more than anything. "At least, I sure hope not," he muttered.

"Regardless," Lyall gently cut in. He rested their hands on his knee, and gingerly grasped his chin to tilt his eyes up again. "Your request?"

"...Lyall," Alan called softly, searching his face for a hint of... something.

That, maybe, Lyall was unsteady. Not receptive to hear something possibly negative. That whatever Alan said would disappoint him, or that he'd react negatively, and Alan would be left to pick up the pieces, gluing them together, undoing the damage he had caused. The damage of his honesty.

But there wasn't anything he could find, even in this open vulnerable state. Even if Lyall was like him, who appeased others in expense of himself. Just in a different way.

"Alan," Lyall murmured in answer, his eyes earnest and his warm touch steadfast. "I mean it when I say, anything."

"I..." Alan thickly swallowed, resisting Lyall's touch to turn away again, steeling his nerves so he could blurt out: "I want to slow down."

He understood the irony of it, considering Alan was often the one who rushed into things, especially when it came to romance. But he didn't want to be impulsive, he didn't want to be rash, and he didn't want to rush.

Not when it meant risking something good. Someone he didn't want to lose.

"I feel like I've made a lot of stupid, rash mistakes while I've been here," he went of quietly, just barely above a murmur. "And I'm still trying to figure out what I want or don't want. So, I just want to make sure..."

A little uncertainly, he angled his head back towards Lyall, gauging his reaction despite dreading it.

Tilting his head, Lyall met his eyes with nothing but warmth, offering a quick, deeply empathetic smile. He let go of Alan, but only to pick up both of his hands in his again.

"Then we'll slow down," he said softly.

"Is that alright with you?" Alan asked, just as soft. "It doesn't upset you?"

"Of course it's alright with me," Lyall answered, gentle but emphatic. He settled back in the grass in front of him, his hands still holding Alan's. "Believe me, I don't want to rush this either."

Alan squeezed his hand, taking in a deep breath that flooded his body with relief. There was a lot they needed to cover, but they didn't need to unpack all of this now. They had plenty of time. Neither of them were going anywhere.

And if neither of them wanted to rush this-- whatever this was...

Then they had all the time in the world.